Shadow Rising

It was a grand plan.



It was also, as of four hours later, a near-total bust.



At the stroke of midnight, Damien stood in the library of the Dracul mansion. A library that, he noted with annoyance, did not bear any trace of Ariane curled up like a bookish miss. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the wall of books in front of him without truly seeing a single title. He replayed every dead-end conversation in his head, trying to think of something he’d missed. Even his calls to his contacts back in Charlotte had yielded nothing. Both that city and Chicago were as debauched and undead as usual. His experience with the murderous Grigori seemed to have occurred in a vacuum.



No one else seemed to know such a creature existed.



“You’re back early.”



Damien didn’t bother turning at Vlad’s voice. “Yes, I suppose I am. I decided to come back when my abysmal luck was topped off with a phone call from my employer who is, shall we say, not happy. Not with the dead Grigori, not with my having been chased by the dead Grigori, not with the head Grigori responsible for the recent jackassery, and not with the female Grigori who Drake has agreed, very grudgingly, not to mention to the head Grigori. Because unless he gets an apology from Sariel, some assurances, and most importantly, compensation for my near-death experience, the contract between the House of Shadows and the Grigori is broken and done. Yet I must continue to work, most likely without pay.” He inhaled deeply, then tipped his head back. “So this is how it ends for me. Afflicted with a plague of Grigori. If anyone else around here grows wings, I’m going to stab them in the head and light them on fire. I’ve had it.”



Vlad chuckled softly, and Damien finally turned to look at him.



“That didn’t drive you off? Well, hell, I’m losing my touch.” Curious, he glanced at the leather-bound volume in Vlad’s hand. “Doing my work for me, are you? I certainly hope so.”



Vlad’s mouth curved in a small smile, but there was a hint of frustration in it.



“No. I can’t find any mention of anything called the Rising. I’ve gone through a couple of my oldest volumes already, but the term doesn’t even ring a bell.”



Damien shrugged off the disappointment. The Dracul was normally like a bloodhound with obscure bits of vampire history. “Maybe she misheard him. Maybe he was just having her on before he, you know, burst into flame.”



“I don’t know. It’s odd for me to feel young as a vampire, but this is one of the times I wish I had the years that Mormo and Arsinöe do.” Vlad shook his head. “And asking either of them about this is impossible, for different reasons.”



Damien watched as Vlad moved to the wall and slipped the book back onto one of the many shelves lined with priceless volumes on everything from vampire history to modern literature. His friend seemed tired and preoccupied, both of which were unusual. But then, it was nice to know he wasn’t the only one.



Restless, Damien shifted on his feet and then leaned against the back of one of the chairs scattered about the room. Some of it was undoubtedly the unsuccessful evening thus far—the one faintly promising bit of information would have to wait until tomorrow to be checked out, and he loathed waiting—but there was more to his mood that he didn’t really want to examine closely. He didn’t know quite what was happening to him, but he suspected that this was what Drake had always meant when he said a Shade was “losing the edge.” After which Drake generally had that Shade quietly disposed of.



“So your contract has been broken without explanation or apology from the Grigori. Interesting. Even Sariel would normally try to make amends for one of his men attempting to kill the hired help,” Vlad said. “The House of Shadows is nothing to be trifled with.”



“Yes, well, maybe he would have tried to make amends if I were something other than a cutthroat gutter cat. But as I am, most highbloods would tend to see me as… disposable. Except you, of course,” Damien said with a smirk. “You’re terribly progressive.”



Vlad gave him a baleful look as he moved to settle himself in an oversized, well-worn leather chair. “No, in your case, I just seem to be a glutton for punishment.” He crossed his legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee, and considered Damien for a moment. “Speaking of progressive attitudes, I’m surprised you didn’t head straight in to check on your new partner.”



Damien’s eyes narrowed. He’d been waiting for the barbs to start. “Touché. She’s lying in wait for me somewhere, I suppose? You wouldn’t be looking so amused if she wasn’t.”



Vlad smirked. “I suppose you’ll find out, won’t you?”



Damien blew out a breath and studied an oil painting of some castle or other on the far wall, waiting for the subject to change. When Vlad just continued to stare at him, Damien fixed him with a glare.



What?



“You’re awfully touchy about Ariane, you know,” Vlad said, tilting his head and regarding Damien with interest. “Why is that, do you suppose?”



Damien groaned. “Don’t look at me like that, Vlad. I’m not interested in being studied. You make me feel like one of those bugs that’s been run through with a pin and mounted on cardboard.”



Vlad smiled faintly. “I’m interested,” he said, “because sneaking off like a naughty schoolboy is usually beneath even you. It’s almost as though you want her to become disgusted with you.”



“Oh, honestly. That,” Damien replied, “is easily enough done without any effort on my part.”



Vlad shook his head and made a disapproving noise. “You know, I’ve noticed that you tend to expect the worst of people, and even less of yourself. It’s an interesting strategy for living.”



“It’s also an excellent way of avoiding disappointment.”



“Hmm.” Vlad’s voice was mild as he changed the subject, as smoothly as any psychiatrist. Damien had to fight off a sudden wave of panic. The hell he wasn’t being studied.



“Why didn’t you take Ariane with you tonight anyway? You seem to have found her unusually useful thus far, considering I’ve never seen you willingly work with someone before.”



Damien rolled his eyes. “What is this poking at me? Maybe I’m just on Grigori overload. Leave me be, Vlad.”



“You’re not the only one who’s had a rough week, Damien. If you thought about it at all, you might realize that I was not visiting the Empusae for pleasure. You’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood for your usual line of bullshit,” Vlad said, impatience creeping into his voice along with a more pronounced Eastern European accent.



It was a warning, Damien knew. He’d been told that the Dracul only went full Transylvanian when he was very pissed off, out of patience, or both. He’d never actually seen the normally cool vampire go off, but he’d heard enough stories to know he never wanted to.



“All right,” Damien grumbled. “A simple answer, then. I thought Ariane might be useful, yes. But hell if I know what to do with her now.”



Vlad snorted. “She seems lovely. A trusting soul. Beautiful, of course. And far too good for you. No wonder you’re terrified of her.”



“Oh, indeed. You know what a fearful creature I am. It’s the curse of having such a wounded inner child,” Damien replied blandly.



When that earned him nothing more than a long, hard stare from eyes that had gone the pale, gleaming blue of arctic ice, Damien heaved a sigh, walked to where Vlad was sitting, and flung himself onto a comfortable velvet couch the color of cabernet.



“I thought you’d be tired of psychoanalyzing me by now,” he said. “And the matchmaking bit is just tiresome. Come on, let’s drink. I’m in a mood.”



“You usually are.”



Between Vlad’s cool stare and the stiff aristocratic bearing, Damien had an uncomfortable flashback to some of the less pleasant heart-to-hearts he and his father had had long ago. Somewhere, up on the next floor and not at all far away, he heard the warm sound of Ariane’s laughter. He picked his head up, would have pricked his ears in that direction if he’d been in his other form. Every sense immediately shifted toward her, hungry for more of her. The hours he’d spent away from her might have been months.



Too late, he remembered how closely Vlad was watching him. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d tried. And still he couldn’t keep himself from asking the question.



“She’s feeling better, then?”



“You’ll have to ask her if you want to know,” Vlad said, his voice giving away nothing of what he was thinking.



Damien shifted uncomfortably. “Did I say I wanted to know? I’m just wondering how quickly she’ll be nipping at my heels again. Though truly, I doubt she could worsen my luck at this point.” He shook his head, letting his frustration show. “No one has seen that creature who tried to string me up. No one. He’s a massive bloody winged vampire! How is that possible?”



“You’re so used to finding them strange that you fail to appreciate their stealth,” Vlad replied. “I’ve often thought they are only seen when they want to be. Consider: They’re an ancient bloodline, and yet Ariane is the first confirmation of the fact that they have wings. Even living in the desert as they do, that’s a difficult fact to conceal for so long. The Grigori are frighteningly disciplined.”



“More like just frightening,” Damien muttered. “Ariane is the only marginally normal one I’ve ever met, and it sounds like she was an outcast. Bloody fools.”



Oh hell, had he just said that out loud?



Vlad’s mouth curved up into a razor-sharp smile, and it wasn’t exactly unfriendly, though it put Damien a little in mind of a great white shark. “Damien. For someone who professes to be so self-aware, you’re being awfully stupid. Anyone with eyes can see you want this woman.”



Damien fought back a grimace. He hated being told how he felt. Especially when the other person was right. So he forced nonchalance. “I’m not so old I’ve lost my appreciation for the sight of a beautiful woman, it’s true,” Damien said blandly. “But that’s hardly newsworthy. You seemed quite enamored of her yourself last night.” The mere memory of it had Damien’s jaw tightening.