42
THE REASON
It was the snow dream again. The blood. The bitter cold. The dead wolves. But it wasn’t Sasha who waited for her, howling mournfully for his fallen friends. This man was blond, and blue-eyed, yes, but that was where the similarities ended.
He stood in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by fallen wolf bodies – bodies she recognized now: the sweet, lanky omega, the fearless alpha female, the betas who’d snuggled up beside Katya at night to keep her warm. God.
The blond man’s hair came nearly to his waist, caught in the fierce wind, trailing over his shoulder and streaming to the side like a banner. His cloak was a thick, shiny black fur; it looked like real sable. Beneath its edge, she glimpsed the tops of shiny leather knee-high boots.
He stared at her, and reached with one pale, elegant hand to push his hair back from his eyes. Everything about him spoke of decadence, and wealth. A projection of power she couldn’t quite pin down with words.
He walked toward her, not smiling, but his expression pleasant all the same. He looked young…but as he drew closer, she realized that wasn’t a correct impression. He could have been thirty…or a hundred. Ageless. Smooth, unblemished skin, but an aura of experience around his eyes she’d never seen on a young man. I’ve seen things, his gaze said. The smirking curve of his lips said, And done things.
“Hello,” he greeted, his accent vaguely European. “You must be Ekaterina.” He smiled then, and her stomach clenched when she saw the sharp points of his canines.
Vampire.
She remembered what Sasha had told her.
A very old vampire, Nikita had said. He’s locked up somewhere, but he likes to visit. A ghost or something, I don’t know.
A prince, Sasha had said.
“And you’re Val,” she said.
His smile widened and he bowed with a flourish, flinging one arm out behind him, the cloak fluttering. “Prince Valerian at your service, madam,” he said, straightening, blue eyes dancing. “Second son of Remus; heir to Transylvania; brother to the Impaler. Generally loathed. That’s me.”
“God,” she whispered, before she could stop herself, and he laughed.
“Flattering.”
“No, I meant…Sasha told me about you. A little.”
“Ah, my friend Sasha. How is he? I haven’t been able to contact him.”
He was so…pleasant. She guessed she’d expected him not to be.
“He’s fine.”
His mouth continued to smile, but his eyes took on the sort of calculated coldness she’d seen in more than one guilty suspect. “So he told you about me, then? Come on, Sasha,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “And after I was so helpful.”
“You’re the reason I’ve been having these dreams,” she said, realization dawning. Nikita and Sasha had been in New York for over a decade now, and she’d been here her whole life. Why make contact now? Why would the bell suddenly ring? If she could forge some kind of psychic link with her great-grandfather, why hadn’t it already happened? Because they’d needed a means of connecting, and this man – vampire – Prince Valerian, was the conduit. “You’re who connected me with Nikita.”
His gaze returned to her, smile pleased. “As clever as you are charming, it seems. Yes, I’m the reason.”
Her heart started to pound. Getting caught up in the business of immortals made sense given that she was related to one. But this felt like being singled out, like being used. “Why?”
He shrugged, sable-covered shoulders lifting. “It’s like I told Sasha. Everything everyone does is about power.”
“Yeah? Why would you want power over me?”
“I don’t. I just needed to arrange a conversation with Nikita – he’s terribly hard to get hold of. I thought knowing about you might be a little bit of an incentive.”
“Incentive to do what?”
“Ugh. I forgot you were a detective. All these questions.” He leaned in close to her, close enough she should have felt the warmth of his breath on her face – but she didn’t. At this distance, his eyes were composed of layered bands of different shades of blues, from the jeweled tones of Caribbean waters to the gray of hammered steel. “Because,” he said, low and sinister, “I’d like very much to get out of this goddamn box before my uncle gets here.”
Son of Remus.
Which, if true, would mean that his uncle was…damn, she should have paid better attention in history class.
“Gets where? Where are you?”
He pulled back, smile slipping. “I expect you’ll find out soon enough. Everyone will. It’s starting.”
“What is?”
“The end of the world.”
And then she woke up.
~*~
She sat up with a gasp.
They’d left the lights on, and her living room was a puddle of comforting, golden light. She was too hot, sweating, clothes clinging to her skin, and she kicked at the blanket over her legs.
Too late, she realized the movement would wake Lanny, who cracked his eyes and grunted a wordless question.
“Sorry, sorry.” She turned and put her feet on the floor, braced her elbows on her thighs…and then put her head in her hands for good measure. She felt unmoored, hungover though she hadn’t had anything to drink.
Her heart pounded loud enough to interfere with her hearing. She was dimly aware of a rustling as Lanny sat up and settled in beside her; she saw his foot bump up next to hers, noted the hole in his sock, the little peek of toe it afforded.
She jumped when his hand landed in the middle of her back.
“Sorry,” she said again, letting her hands fall to dangle between her legs.
Her rubbed her back a moment, wide circular passes of his palm, his calluses catching on the fabric of her shirt with quiet sounds. “What was it this time?” he finally asked.
She turned her head to look at him, Valerian’s name on her tongue, and pulled up short. The couch had pressed a woven pattern into his bristly cheek. His eyelids were heavy, eyes dark and warm as fresh coffee. Hair mussed, sticking up in cowlicks on one side. Tired, sick, scarred, rough around the edges. He wasn’t classically handsome…but he was beautiful.
“I don’t wanna talk about that,” she said, voice coming out rough.
He nodded, cupped the side of her face, leaned in and kissed her.
How long had she dreamed of kissing Roland Webb? Since that Thanksgiving with his family? No, before then. Maybe that first day, when he’d looked young, but grimly determined, holding out his hand and looking her right in the eye, not at all afraid of having a female partner. Back then, it had been an unacknowledged shiver down her back: he’s sexy; I like his broken nose. But that was the sort of shallow thinking everyone experienced. No, she’d wanted to kiss him, really kiss him, for a while. The kind of gut-deep longing that hurt. She’d thought it would never happen. But now…
It was sweeter than she’d expected. Softer. He was careful and gentle, not pushing, just touching.
She gasped out of sheer surprise, and he froze, lips hovering over hers. Uncertain. So sweet. The big bad boxer, so achingly, tenderly sweet.
“Oh, Lanny,” she murmured, and touched his face.
“Are you–”
“Don’t stop.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Their second kiss was firmer. Bolder. He teased her lips open with the tip of his tongue, and then licked between them. A slow flex. Somehow careful. Like she was the one about to break, rather than him.
Trina eased back just far enough to meet his gaze, trying not to look at the way his mouth was wet from kissing, marveling at the way his pupils were blown.
She’d meant to be teasing, but her words came out soft. “Are you always this way?”
His brows slanted down. “Like…” A blush crept across his cheeks. “I’m trying to be – you know, I mean – you’re not just–” He was flustered, and it was precious. “You’re not just some chick I met at a bar,” he finally got out, scowling and blushing furiously. “I’m trying to be respectful, damn it.”
She bit her lip and tried not to smile. Failed. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“I’m not sweet.”
“You’re very sweet.”
“Oh yeah?”
She laughed.
He caught her around the waist with both arms, dragged her up into his lap, and kissed her for real.