Dracula's Secret: Blood Wings, #1 4l3237

Dracula’s Secret Blood Wings #1 By Linda Mercury

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Second Edition

Table of Contents

Title Page

More Fiction by Linda Mercury:

Non-Fiction

Dedication:

Copyright:

Prologue | Wallachia | November 25, 1431

Chapter One | Portland, Oregon | Halloween Night, Present Day

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven | Berlin | April 1945

Chapter Eight

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve | July 1813 | The Peninsular War

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen | July 1988 | Danville, Illinois

Chapter Twenty

Bucharest | December 1476

Chapter Twenty-one | November 1

Chapter Twenty-two

Lyons, | August 1980

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six | London, England | The Lyceum Theatre | 1885

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Epilogue

Chapter One

Author’s notes

Digging around in Primary Sources.

More Fiction by Linda Mercury:

Dracula’s Secret Dracula’s Desires Dracula Unleashed Predator and Prey (short story) Vamping It Up Curse of the Spider Woman

Non-Fiction

The Little Sexy Workbook

Dedication:

To the memories of my mother and my grandmothers: Janet F. Smith, Evelyn Closs, and Edna Green. And, of course, to The Charming Man.

Copyright:

Linda Mercury Cover Design: Leah Kaye Suttle Http://LeahSuttle.wix.com ISBN-13: 978-1534840256 ISBN-10: 1534840257 All rights are reserved , including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without written permission, except in the cases of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please the publisher. Linda Mercury at: www.LindaMercury.com [email protected] This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictionally and are not construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. First published July 2012 Second Edition June 2016

Prologue Wallachia November 25, 1431

She swam in an ocean of blood. The exhausted, dark-haired mother howled in pain and freedom as the crown of a baby’s head emerged from between her legs. The woman panted and heaved, thrashing her sweat and gore-drenched body from side to side. Snow mixed with thunder and rain lashed the tower of the family castle, chilling the already icy room. Vlad Dracul crouched at her feet, his face stiff and set under his moustache. His outstretched fingers curled into fists and opened again as he waited for the infant to emerge. Blankets, rags, and a pot of steaming water at his elbow kept him company. His jaw clenched with every echoing scream and his shoulders tightened with every ing moment. Not even the usual rushing of the river below covered the cries of Cneajna, his wife. The violent storm outside had prevented the midwife’s presence. Earlier in the night, the mother had demanded that only Vlad remain with her as the pain worsened. No one defied Cneajna, even as water and blood rushed down her legs and painted her body. Vlad knew, however, that the women of the castle waited in the downstairs chamber, ready to help if he called. He was absurdly grateful for their nearness. Fearless in the face of death, Vlad had nearly fainted at the sight of his wife in labor. The smell of the birth blood that saturated the bed roiled his stomach in ways a festering abdominal wound never did. Another contraction. She pulled the ropes tied to the fur-lined headboard of the

birth bed. The wood groaned under her strength as wave after wave of labor shuddered her body. Vlad’s heart winced at his woman’s pale, sweating face. Another scream shook the room and Vlad saw the first peep of a black-haired head. Under the power of the mother’s undulating body, a tiny, angry face emerged. After what seemed endless pushing, the wrinkled, red-coated baby escaped into the father’s hands. As he took the messy, wet infant, he frowned in disappointment. “A girl,” he said, his voice carefully neutral and quiet. The baby’s chin and chest were coated in blood and water. “Let me hold her before you do what you must.” Anger and failure visible on her face Cneajna held out her arms. Even on the edge of collapse, she remained matter of fact as always. She knew what would have to be done. Her tight mouth told Vlad that she very much did not approve. No need to say more. The eldest, Mircea, at four, was vulnerable as their only son. The House of Basarab desperately needed heirs. Vlad needed strong arms to defend their home from the encroaching Ottomans. Not a daughter. Vlad’s frown deepened. The thought of exposure upset his wife, but they could not expend the time and energy on a girl. Alliances, dowries, protection, another mouth to feed. He held his hands out for the child. Reluctantly, his wife handed her over. Then it happened. The baby stared him down with an enraged gaze. A tiny but strong fist wrapped around his middle finger. Fingernails the size of a pea pricked his skin. The little girl knew what he planned. This child would survive exposure and find a way to take revenge on any who wronged her. A strange shiver ran down Vlad’s back. Minutes old, still wet, and the infant’s will was a force to be reckoned with. Vlad did not want to be on the wrong end of a twisted Oedipus story. In order to prevent ruin, they would have to do something unexpected.

He wiped the blood from the baby’s face and contemplated the wild idea blooming in his head. Vlad prided himself on being practical, but this verged on the insane. It had to be done, though. He touched a gentle finger to the little one’s already strong chin, silently sealing the deal between them. The Dracul family would raise this child instead of killing her, and in return, she would not destroy them. Vlad handed the baby over. “We keep her?” Surprise and pleasure warmed his wife’s voice. “Yes.” Vlad congratulated himself on his good decision. The mother placed the baby’s head at her breast. Milk sprayed the newborn in the face before tiny lips latched on. Smiling, his wife nursed their new son. “We will raise a boy, then?” Cneajna could always read his mind. Vlad twisted his back, first to the left, then the right. Bones thunked together and he sighed in relief. For a quiet second, they smiled at each other, in accord once again. The moment didn’t last. She shouted his name, and he rushed to help with the afterbirth. Long, slippery minutes later, he gently wiped her body with warm rags. Finally, he was able to embrace his exhausted wife. As they lay together on fresh bed furs, watching their new son eat, they tested Vlad’s idea for flaws. “What if we are found out?” he asked. “Have we ever feared failure?” Fierce as always, his wife didn’t even look up as she defied fate and charted a new destiny. “No one else can ever know. Not even our other children.” He nodded, pleased. How this woman suited him. Vlad touched their son’s soft forehead and kissed his wife’s bare shoulder. “Very well, then. I will name him Vladimir.”

Chapter One Portland, Oregon Halloween Night, Present Day

His sun pierced her night. Valerie Tate stopped dead at the sudden stabbing pain and clapped her leather gloved hands over her sensitive eyes. She’d been running full speed from rooftop to rooftop in an effort to by the clogged holiday traffic between her and her destination. Portland’s nighttime rain had merely cloaked her progress instead of slowing her down. The flare of light, brighter than a magnesium bomb exploding in her face, now left her stunned, blind, and helpless. Anyone looking out over the skyline could see her. Not something she wanted. She crouched, one foot poised over the lip of a building’s crown. One wrong step and she’d fall off. It wouldn’t be a fatal drop, but it would certainly slow her down. Better to risk being seen up here, prancing about like some crazed musical number, than sprawled out on the pavement in the middle of the Halloween crowd. Valerie probed the skin on her face. Unlike with magnesium and direct sunlight, she hadn’t blistered or burned in response. Good. That would have ruined her evening’s plans. Much depended on her appearance not gathering too much attention. Blood seeped from under her eyelids in response to the too-bright shine. Under the cover of her palms, she blinked away the achingly intense spots floating before her vision.

How could this happen? Once, a magnesium bomb had detonated next to her. Even as her skin peeled back, she had kept going. Nothing broke her concentration during a mission. Six hundred years of killing had taught her well. Shock gave way to curiosity. Curiosity then unraveled her single-minded determination. She wiped the tears of blood off of her face and carefully squinted against the glare that surrounded the figure below. As her vision cleared, she saw him, surrounded by the aura that had halted her. What was he, this man three stories below her, innocently checking his text messages on a silver BlackBerry? As her eyes adapted, she studied him with all her undead senses. Not soap, not cologne, but his essence was the second thing that struck her. The aroma of cloves, sweet and hot, rammed up her nose like a fist, overwhelming the car exhaust and excrement odors rising from busy Burnside Avenue. The fiery smell transformed her anger into something far more complicated. Hunger beyond blood clenched her stomach and parts below. Startled, she stood. She licked her teeth, swallowed her desire, and studied his face. The endless Northwest autumn drizzle plastered blond hair to his skull. He glanced up from his little machine, obviously aware that someone watched him. To Valerie’s surprise, he found her, even up high with her black clothes against the black night. She locked her knees against a shudder when she saw his blue eyes. Not any shade of blue, but the color of icy seas under the full moon. Even covered in worn jeans and a frayed but high-end sweatshirt, his broad-shouldered body made her mouth pucker, ready to kiss. A generous bulge in his pants caught her attention, lewdly contrasting to the brightness of his innocent shine. It didn’t make sense. His perfect, confident posture and chiseled, patrician features marked him as the kind who should be swinging a tennis racket on some blue-blood tennis court. Why this strong of a reaction to this man on this rainy night? She had sworn off sex for more decades than she cared to . Thousands of handsome, wellbuilt, and brave women and men had ed in front of her over the years. The most she’d felt was a few flickers of interest. Now, her thighs flexed against

the hot kernel between her legs. The headlights from a bus lit him up even brighter. And she saw his true nature. A warrior, home from the front lines, sick of violence but caught in it. That eyesearing shine was not innocence, for lines of hard-won worldly knowledge bracketed his sensually shaped lips. Exhaustion creased the corners of those extravagantly gorgeous eyes and lived between his eyebrows. Instead of purity, he lit the night with the ferocity of his spirit. He turned away from her to face the door of the building behind him, denial in every line of his body. Valerie sucked in an unnecessary breath of cold, clove-scented air. Only the best of humanity had that shine: people who were dedicated to making the world better for everyone, not just themselves. She’d seen that glow in such disparate people from Mother Teresa to a pubescent boy protecting two toddler girls from a rapist in Rwanda. This one had a Higher Calling. Bad news. Higher Callings meant certain failure to their vehicles. She exhaled. Poverty still ran rampant in Kolkata. Rwanda still seethed with heart-rending pain, even though Valerie killed the rapist and saved the children. Valerie twisted her lips at the memory. He’d tasted terrible. There simply wasn’t enough mouthwash in the world to get rid of that foul aftertaste. Worse, those well-meaning Higher Calling fools always tried to suck her into their causes. Those idiots dared to claim her fight, her redemption, was less worthy than their dreams. No promise of sunshine was worth that risk. The steady rain cooled her arousal. Time to go. The moon broke through the patchy cloud cover, illuminating the night. Disregarding gravity’s pull, she leaned forward. It was too short of a drop to

concern her now that she could see. Darkness lay against his purity like rotted fruit on snow. Valerie’s own darkness quickened at what those throbbing spots revealed. Her damned soul laughed at the irony. It was inevitable now. This man had secrets of his own. Things he thought no one could forgive. Just like her. As though he couldn’t help himself, he glanced over his shoulder at her. His own up and down glance caught her as surely as a wasp in hot tar. She knew what he saw—a slender woman dressed in an expensive black coat and tros. Red lipstick, pale skin, nails painted in dark burgundy. Gray suede designer shoes, from some outrageous but already forgotten New York store. Feminine, dark, and very upper-class. This illusion would allow her to penetrate the security around tonight’s target. ion sucked at her skin the moment he touched her with extended senses. The man was able to search her aura? Her nipples tightened into tight pearls. The heat stroked and clung to her, ratcheting her arousal higher. Only fierce willpower kept her from an orgasm. Two could play this game. She returned his brazen, searing stare. When she lowered her eyelids and softened her lips, he shifted to the balls of his feet. How could this be? Very few humans could probe secrets the way paranormal beings could. What was he to have such extraordinary powers?

Chapter Two

balance: $15 .00” His bank’s electronic reminder system was just too damn efficient sometimes. Lance Soliel shoved the offending BlackBerry in his pocket. He’d never understood the temptation to kill the messenger, but now he wanted to throw the cursed thing into the wall. It would make such a satisfying crash of tiny electronic parts. Such behavior would not, however, make money magically appear. He rested his elbows on his scarred desk and dropped his tired head to his hands. By 5:00 P.M. tomorrow night, the Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter would close its doors forever. He’d been so sure he could save this place and the fragile hope it nurtured. Failure felt like a small animal chewing on his guts. Frustration and disappointment led to anger. The stale air in his cramped office smothered him. Lance wove through the piled boxes of old paperwork, the broken chairs, and the dead computers until he emerged into the main room of the shelter. Somehow he and his staff had managed to scrape enough funds together for dinner tonight. Homeless people dressed in ragged army surplus jackets and dirty camouflage pants served themselves plates of lentils, rice, and onions. When the shelter left, the building itself, now a faded reminder of an elegant past as a luxury hotel, would most likely be sold for expensive condos. Smiling through his teeth at everyone, he pushed through the usual olfactory combination of unwashed bodies and industrial cleanser to reach the front door and blessed fresh air.

He would rather be back in Afghanistan, being shot at, than dealing with this horror. No money meant no food, no blankets, no toothpaste for sweet God’s sake. The private trust that the founders had left behind to run the mission had been bled dry by decades of mismanagement. And by mismanagement he meant embezzlement. For some reason, that left the public reluctant to invest in the homeless. Lance’s gonzo fund-raising tactics had only delayed the inevitable. He had cut his salary to a symbolic $1.00 a year, relying only on his veteran’s benefits for living. He used volunteers instead of paid staff. Even the well-publicized Pirate Ball last April hadn’t bought them enough time to find a stable income stream. Only a miracle would save them. Lance was clean out of miracles. “Hey, Father,” Jay, one of his regulars, called out from the sofa in front of the television. Lance waved, momentarily cheered by Jay’s greeting. Being on the street was hard. Lance knew that. Somehow, Jay always managed to smile, even when his only warm bed was about to go away. Tirelessly, Lance’s little phone chirped at him again. He sighed and pulled the damn thing out as he exited the building. Letting the cracked front door swing shut behind him, Lance breathed in the wet air. His courage shored up, he opened the phone. Just a low battery warning, thank God. Relieved, he raised his face to the sky. The ageless crescent moon hung suspended over the city, white, cool, and serene behind its cloud cover. The dignified buildings across from him sported damage, but still stood proud. Old claw marks from the Riots added to their stately air the way courage enhanced a woman’s beauty. What could he do to keep his life’s work open? He caught movement in his peripheral vision. A dark-haired woman watched him from the roof opposite. A gust of wind pushed her long coat away from her body. Even in the dark and the rain, he could tell it was quite the body. Her businesslike air was belied by a hip thrust to one side, a sensual contradiction to the way she perched.

That hip action could get a rise out of any heterosexual man with a pulse. Lance’s own pulse reminded him of his sexual appetites. Down, boy, he thought. Because holy burning tears, here was his downfall. If she made one move toward him, he would never be able to resist her. His breath came a little faster. He must resist. He’d fought so hard to eradicate lust from his pile of sins. Giving in to it would only delay his ultimate goal of attaining lost grace. If he saved the shelter, he could forgive himself for all his mistakes. He would be worthy of mercy. Denial was a knife in his gut, but Lance set his teeth. He turned away from the woman on the roof. Wait. What was she doing on the roof, anyway? As though he was a puppet and she pulled the strings, he looked over his shoulder. Opening his senses, he let her in. Lance Soliel and the woman stared at each other as traffic eddied between them. Sweet God, he wanted her teeth on him. Lance’s destruction was better looking than he’d ever hoped for. Lean body, deadly eyes, and each ear adorned with three enormous diamonds. She’d taken long enough to find him. At age thirtyeight, he’d despaired of ever finding his woman. The darkness of her aura combined with her unnatural grace told him something he didn’t want to know. She was a vampire. Since World War II, vampires, once populous city creatures, had been hunted until they were nearly extinct. She had to be here as part of the Twelfth Annual Paranormal Citizen’s Conference. Even though it started in two days, Portland already buzzed with a wide variety of beings. Lance ed the posters around town. They had prominently included the well-known vampire Radu Tepes. Mr. Tepes, Dracula’s younger brother, led a so-called civil rights group, the

Consortium for Concerned Citizens, commonly called the CCC. Lance cynically thought the CCC was long on rhetoric, but short on action. He wiped the rain from his eyes. Not even the few brave or drunk souls wandering in front of the shelter distracted either of them from their staring match. Her black aura blended into the night. Then a flicker of gold against the inky depths bade him to look deeper. Deep inside her, a light burned, like a lone candle in an abandoned mansion. Hope still lived. Buried deep, nearly dead, a part of her yearned for salvation. Lance could no more turn away a penitent than he could flap his arms and fly to heaven. He was strong. He would defeat his temptation. He would lead her to her Higher Place and help her achieve the peace she wanted. Damnation, his body refused to stop hardening.

Chapter Three

His cold gaze warmed and probed deeper. Surprise punched her in the stomach the minute his eyes narrowed and dropped to her mouth. He saw what she didn’t want anyone to see. He knew exactly what she was—one of the very few surviving vampires. No neighborhood at night held terror for her. Who was he, this man who saw what no one else did? Her heart answered her. He would be her lover. Something hard and cold inside her softened, relaxed. A delicious languor crept over her limbs, easing her ever-ready battle stance, loosening her neck. She could have him here on her rooftop and naked in less than ten seconds, buried inside her within thirty if she stopped to kiss him. Maybe she’d hold the kissing for round two.... No. No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. As fast as she could, she pulled her tight control around her body. Valerie was the master of her life, not her long-dead and unreliable heart. She was not about to go through that fuss again. Someone like her, damned, undead, ridden by her vengeance, should have nothing to do with a man like that. She hitched her black dragon-embroidered coat higher on her shoulders, ignoring the wooden stake’s weight strapped to her shoulder holster. Tonight’s work called for stealth, not bullets. Music blared for a moment as the doors to some bastion of costumed party-goers opened. “And stay out!” a bouncer ordered. Valerie caught the quiet “Drunken fools” tacked onto the end of the order.

A swarm of ten well-fed human males swaggered out the door. The heavy haze of too-ripe testosterone and cheap beer around them told Valerie they were in their very early twenties. A twenty-something woman leaned out of the bar’s door behind them. Her Halloween costume was a maze of straps and flounces. Valerie had no idea what it was supposed to be. Made bold by the presence of the enormous bouncer, she exposed her breasts to the boys. “You’ll never be man enough for these!” she slurred, jabbing a finger in the air. With that, she covered up and stumbled back into the bar. The leader of the pack moved in. The bouncer blocked the doorway. “Keep moving,” he warned them. Interesting, but this had nothing to do with her. Packs of young men were problematic for her. Valerie wiped the water from her brow. Best to go. She turned her chin, ready to leave, her heart relieved and sad, when her goldenhaired god’s posture sharpened. He took on the intensity of a crouching lion. She followed his gaze to see impending disaster. Two ragged werewolves, obviously homeless, sat on the wet sidewalk, holding cardboard signs. Like a lion on the hunt, he was already on the move. The men paused by the wolves. An unnecessary fight in three, two, one.... “Fucking animals,” the leader yelled. “Get a job.” Valerie thinned her lips ever so slightly. Human nature never changed. “Break it up,” her man ordered, his mature musculature wedging through the still-weedy humans. Swell. An ordinary do-gooder with an unusual aura and unusual powers. He was nothing to her, nothing that should delay her. Valerie twitched her collar higher around her neck, shaking off the rain. Her legs wouldn’t move.

Valerie’s war-weary mind automatically wagered the odds. The underfed werewolves shivered, wet to the skin in the unending, penetrating Portland drizzle. The mortals were fit and sleek, shiny in their expensive rain gear. Even a starved juvenile werewolf still had the strength of five humans. Mature and fit werewolves topped out at eight. Vampires were the top of the food chain, so to speak, with the strength of ten. She rubbed her chin, already knowing the sad outcome of this scenario. The well-meaning fool would try to make warring species into friends. He’d go through the predictable steps of avoiding violence, say something kind but stupid, and then get chewed up in a slaughter of epic proportions. Those boys wouldn’t respect anyone who couldn’t beat them. Of course, no one human could defeat them all. He would go down. The werewolves would attack, the humans would die, and the streets would erupt in violence. Those with a Higher Calling were doomed to failure. That was the way of the world. Valerie shook her head. Her deadline pressed at her. But how could she abandon such a bright soul to that depressing fate? Despite his distraction, that dazzling aura still caressed her. Valerie closed her eyes for the merest second. This was the closest she’d come to the sun in over six hundred years. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it. Her skin prickled pleasantly in its fiery hold. The bulkier of the wolves lifted a lip to reveal sharp white teeth at the crowd. The boys ignored the warning. “Demons!” One boy jabbed his index finger toward the pair on the ground. “Freaks!” Another aimed a kick at the smaller of the wolves. He rolled out of range. The weres lumbered to their feet, folding their signs in massive hands. The boys shuffled back an involuntary half step. The crowd that had rambled up and down the street just a few seconds ago managed to disappear into the drizzling air.

Some humans still had a sense of self-preservation, even if these children didn’t. “We don’t like your kind here. Get out,” the largest boy said, gathering his pack’s courage. The crew firmed their line. “You tell ’em, Chad.” A weaselly voice snickered from the back. “Lollipops,” the alpha werewolf rumbled, fur sprouting on his face. “Tasty, soft vanilla lollipops.” Valerie relished the waves of dread that the boys generated. She licked her upper lip in anticipation. All that young, hormone-laden, alcohol-rich blood. The gang was ripe for plucking and sucking. Her stomach growled. Groups of young men were so tasty. The herd flushed at the derisive that the predatory races used for humans. Forget the fact that only vampires hunted people. Forget that nearly fifty years ago in Prague, mortals and paranormals signed a treaty not to hunt each other. Those did nothing to stop the primitive fear of being eaten. “Get out of the way, Father Soliel.” The second werewolf raised himself to the balls of his feet and nudged her dream man away. “These bigots need a lesson.” Like their single-shaped cousins, the shape-shifters’ hair lifted in threat. The humans shuffled, but held their ground. Father Soliel? A priest with that body? Well, damn it. Priests and vampires were a very bad mix. He could kill her with a simple hand gesture. But light was such a wonderful temptation. The man had to have a death wish, or he wouldn’t be in the middle of this cluster-fuck. Her curiosity, as always, kept her from walking away from what would surely turn into a species riot. “Yeah, Lance,” the boy named Chad singsonged, trying for derisive and ending up with juvenile. “Go away.”

“I have nothing better to do tonight,” Lance answered blandly. His voice came easily to her supernatural hearing. The place between her thighs tightened. Oh, something that husky and sexy should be illegal, Father-What-a-Waste. Her stupid heart jumped. Her brain ruthlessly quashed it. Pay attention, she chastised herself. Chad, his white face shining against the murky rainy night, shoved the priest with his full youthful strength. Valerie tensed her shoulders. If the man went down, the werewolves would attack and win. Anyone suspected of being supernatural, or even a sympathizer, would be hunted and butchered. Amateur Van Helsings would crawl out of the woodwork again, undoing all her careful work. Valerie stood on the precipice of the slippery roof, ready to jump, declaring her intentions despite her preference to stay uninvolved. Soliel held his ground against the pressure, his arm relaxed as he scratched his chin. As surely as if he shouted, his chilly-eyed glance warned her to hold still. “Chad, can it.” The mild onishment startled Valerie. She would have broken the boy’s arm for daring to touch her. Who knew that someone could convey so much authority with so much peace? Valerie saw the subtle shift of Chad’s feet. The boy clearly didn’t understand the difference of the calm before a tornado and ivity. The fool was preparing to shove Lance again. Valerie shook her head. Looks like Chad would learn some manners tonight. Even as she lifted her foot to jump down to them, the priest did something miraculous. Moving vampire fast, Lance’s hand swung from his chin to Chad’s crotch. His scarred knuckles snapped into the teen’s groin with the force of a sledgehammer. Eyes nearly popping out of his head, Chad dropped to the ground, clutching his testicles before anyone else saw what happened. An amusing whimpering groan rose from each of boys in the pack. Chad writhed on the grubby sidewalk, unable to breathe. What delicious entertainment. One of Valerie’s carefully plucked eyebrows soared to her hairline. Since when

could humans move like that and hit that hard? She blinked the rain from her eyelashes. As Chad gasped for air, Father Soliel finally faced the mortals, turning his back on the two werewolves. His face remained mild, even slightly bored. “Play elsewhere.” The humans froze. Preparing for a fight, the werewolves went up on the balls of their feet. Father Soliel’s perfectly composed expression didn’t change. One of the boys squared his shoulders to defy the good Father. The rest shifted in place, ready to attack. Three seconds would get her there to fight on the priest’s side. The werewolves would be able to keep her from draining the boys dry. Groups of young men were so damn tasty; she really couldn’t stop with just one. Her thigh muscles bunched, ready for her own attack. Chad vomited in the gutter. His posse sagged. The onlookers moved on. Valerie relaxed. Seemed no one else wanted their testicles mashed. Defeated in one move, the boys gathered up their leader. As he retched over their shoulders, Lance spoke to the werewolves behind him. “You want a place to stay tonight?” “Shelters don’t let us in.” Lance pivoted on his heel. Jerking his thumb at the building behind them, he said, “This one does now. This one should have years ago. Come on.” He walked to the front door and opened it. With that, the gangly weres disappeared from the rain and through the battered door of the shelter. The blue-eyed priest looked over his shoulder at her, their gazes locking one more time. He held the door and tipped his head toward the inside, inviting her to in a bold move.

Chapter Four

Fuck the funding. Fuck those bigoted jerks. Fuck everyone who threw two underage kids out to rot in the street. His shelter might have fifteen dollars left to it, but it was going down in a blaze of glory. For tonight they would have a shower, food, and a dry place to sleep. He spared one last glance at the vampire, backlit against the skyline. She shifted from foot to foot as though confused. Lance understood. Changing one’s path was not easy. She’d come or not. Right now, he had work to do. The off-kilter front door stuck momentarily as he shut it. One werewolf touched Lance’s arm, dragging his attention toward the deathlystill mission interior. Every human face in the place stared at Lance and the boys, some pale with fear, some red with anger. People he’d known for years felt threatened by two wet, hungry children. This wasn’t like facing down the teenagers outside. He took a long, smooth breath. His mortal staff and homeless clients versus paranormals; caring for everyone against fear of the unknown; shared solace against the primitive fear of the Other. He couldn’t raise his fists to concepts. “Father Soliel. Are you sure about this?” Worry creased the teenager’s forehead and his voice cracked. “We should go, say you were just letting us use your john.” Without looking away from the human audience, Lance asked, “What are your names?” “Josiah. And this is Jeffrey.” He nodded toward the smaller wolf. “We’re

brothers.” His whisper shook the silence. “How old are you?” “I’m fifteen. Jeffrey is twelve.” Lance met Jay’s eyes and asked the wolves, “How long have you been on the street?” Jeffrey coughed and shivered as Josiah answered. “Two years. Our dam was killed by our human neighbors. She’d been gutted along with the rest of our pack.” Josiah’s voice turned far too old. “The courts let them go. No body, no crime, you know.” The mortals dropped their eyes in shame at the words hanging in the steamheated air. Some scuffed their feet, their faces chagrined. Every single one of them knew the rest of the story without being told. The boys had been left without resources and harassed by angry humans until they had no other choice than to hit the streets. “Josiah. And Jeffrey.” Lance raised his voice so the entire shelter could hear him. Let the whole city hear him. “We can do better than this.” The world held its breath as the species eyed each other. The tension broke as Jay came forward with a blanket. “Come on, kids. The bathrooms are over here.” Lance didn’t wait to see the light of a new civil rights movement dawning in everyone’s eyes. He glanced toward the street again. The vampiress had landed six feet away. Lance felt a jolt all the way down to the floor at seeing her up close and in the light. She was long and dark and sleek, a sword unsheathed. Her eyes were like a cheetah’s he had once seen in a zoo—cautious, aloof, with sadness in their depths. What put that look in this woman’s eyes?

FASCINATED, VALERIE jumped from her rooftop and across the street to land several feet away from the building. “Are you really a Father?” the youngest werewolf, Jeffrey, challenged. “Will you try to exorcise us?” “I’m a former army chaplain. I’m not active anymore. The name just stuck.” Lance stuck his hand out. “Nothing’s wrong with you.” Jeffrey sniffed at the man’s fingertips, suspicion pouring from him. The boy did not extend his hand, but his face changed from wariness to consideration. “Come on, Jeff,” Josiah ordered. The boy obeyed, stealing glances at Lance as he disappeared toward the back hallway. She pursed her lips at the renewed tingling in her nethers. Not Catholic. Not even currently ordained. She let her gaze linger on Not Father Soliel’s throat. How very promising. Valerie tipped her head as Lance studied her. The mission lit him from behind, brightening his nimbus. Her nostrils quivered at the clove-scented heat blazing up from his elegant, lean form. The intensity of his expression held her. The people behind him in the shelter broke from their frozen places and moved about the place, affording them a moment of privacy in the middle of their chaos. He was gorgeous. Even the sick yellow sodium streetlight couldn’t erase his high cheekbones and navy blue eyes. His full lower lip summoned her to kiss and bite. His worn shirt framed his chest and rippled belly. Lost in a fog, she barely ed licking her lips when she saw a line of flesh above the waistband of his low-slung jeans. Like a leisurely lion, he walked toward the open door. One long fingered hand touched the door as he leaned in closer, his eyes locked on her. The world shrunk. Those strong, scarred digits slid, lazy and slow, down the edge of the door. His thumb hooked through his belt loop. He cocked his hip in masculine invitation to look and appreciate. The grace of him sent an unfamiliar shudder through her breasts. Its power rocked her back on her heels. In all her

long life, had she ever felt an erotic blow like this? Her body wanted to know how those fingers would feel. Her own cold fingers caressed the pit of her neck, little by little trailed down her torso, unthinkingly drawing his gaze to her breasts, then to her belly and hips. A tiny smile lifted the corners of his serious mouth. Just a little closer and she could touch all that. Just a little closer, and her past wouldn’t matter anymore. “Won’t you come in?” he invited her, knowing fully what she was. The squeal of brakes snapped her back to reality. A news van careened down the street toward the shelter, hot on breaking news. She dragged her gaze back to his eyes and lifted her chin. Water ran down her cheeks. No one touched her. Such was the price of her penance and she gladly paid it. Fantasies be damned. Ignoring a strange tug under her breastbone, her gray shoes glided forward, leaving the glowing figure behind to face the barrage of questions alone. She really needed to kill someone tonight.

Chapter Five

The crash of a breaking window in front of her interrupted Valerie’s progress. By Lucifer’s scaly eyebrows, what now? Exasperated, she blew her bangs off of her forehead. All she had done was cut through this forgotten, garbage-strewn path in order to reach her evening’s true destination, the Governor Hotel. A trio of baseball bats clattered to the ground in front of her. Male laughter echoed against the sides the small alley. As she neared the mouth of the uneven age, an unpleasant sight greeted her. The boys from earlier tonight snickered as they reached through too widely spaced bars into the display windows of a pawn shop. Two pulled out watches and rings and shoved them into their various pockets. One grabbed for a guitar, but couldn’t quite reach it. The leader, Chad, stacked video games in his arms. Obviously, they decided to work off their frustrations from being denied their earlier prey. Valerie shook her head. Petty larceny. If you’re going to break the law, do it big. A curse tightened her mouth. She refused to be slowed down again. She picked her way over the bats and kept walking, intent on her task. Then they saw her. The pack exchanged glances. Like a beast with four heads, they looked her up and down, lingering on her breasts. The excitement of theft changed to something darker and more violent. They dropped their ill-gotten goods on the ground. With the lazy superiority of youth, they followed and circled, trapping her between them. “Well, hello there, honey,” Guitar Boy purred. Chad reached out and touched her hair. The other two, the watches and rings boys, sneered as she pushed his hand away.

“You lookin’ for a good time, darlin’?” Chad propped his fist against the old brick building, blocking her in with his arm. The rest tightened their circle, like hyenas crowding a wounded zebra. Anger and lust from his skin teased her nostrils. Their smell and movements telegraphed their intentions. As a group, they moved, boxing her in. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No one to come to her rescue. They would throw her against the wall. She would reel, stunned. The boys would start off with a little light brutality, moving on to rape. They needed to recover face from their earlier defeat. Predictable. A slow, knowing smile curled her lips. Bullies were always good for a giggle. Killing them would take hardly any time. That was her problem with young men. Once she got started, it would be so hard to stop. Like humans and their potato chips. “If I were looking for a good time, I hardly think you are the ones who can give it to me.” She infused her voice with a warning. Would they be bright enough to sense it? Unlikely. They possessed absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Chad shoved her shoulder viciously, driving her toward the rough brick. Valerie smiled, her fangs still sheathed. Time to reinforce the priest’s lessons. First, don’t fight a battle with insufficient intelligence. Second, never underestimate your opponent. Third— The air cracked as Valerie’s hand whipped out from behind her. Before the moron could blink, the boy was draped from her effortless grip on his throat, dangling like a piece of wet string. Shock stilled them. “What are you?” the smallest croaked.

She disregarded the question. There was more important schooling to on tonight. Like her third point. “No. No. No.” Valerie punctuated each word with a twist of her wrist, shaking the boy in the still-damp air. “Never touch without a lady’s permission.” The taller of the watches and rings boys snatched up a fallen baseball bat. “Let him go!” He swung for her head. Valerie caught it with her free hand. A quick end-for-end-toss and she shoved the bat into her attacker’s gut. He doubled, gagging. “I said no, gentlemen. I meant it.” Like a teacher, she folded her lips for emphasis. What would it take to get through to these idiots? “Chad?” Guitar Boy stammered. “Is he alive?” She felt Chad swallow against her fingers. “So far. It won’t take much to kill him.” Call her shallow, but a taunt always made her night. Valerie stifled a chuckle. “Still want to give me a good time?” “You would do that?” Watches and Rings stammered, his eyes so wide the whites showed all the way around. “Are you really that stupid?” Annoyance made her fingers contract, ever so slightly, on Chad’s tender neck. “Ma’am, please,” Chad whined from his constricted throat. “My dad’s rich. Just let us go. You can have anything you want.” “We won’t tell nobody nothing,” Guitar Boy pleaded. “That’s more than you offered,” she sneered. She held Chad out at full arm’s length. “Why should I be more generous than you?” She turned him so he could look at her face. Her lips curled back in an ironic smile, showing her fangs in blatant aggression. She hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. After she killed her target, she would make more time for play. One of them whimpered, “Holy shit, she’s a vamp!”

“They are all dead,” another protested. “She’s a fake.” Valerie couldn’t help herself. She laughed. His friends lacked courage. At the sound of her amusement, they turned and ran, expensive sneakers slapping against the asphalt. One by one, they disappeared into the safety of a traffic-clogged street. Sweet, sweet music to her ears. “So.” She set him down, met his frightened eyes with her own cold gaze. Time for this young man to face a truth. “Here you are. Alone. In the dark. With someone stronger and more dangerous than you. What will you do?” She put her hands on her hips, awaiting his response. He puffed his chest and spread his legs, claiming more space on the sidewalk. “Hey, lady, look, my dad works for Radu Tepes. I’ve even met him on our yacht. I know things. You can’t hurt me. That’s against the law.” Chad swaggered a step closer. “Kill. Killing is against the law,” she reminded him of the most salient fact of the International Treaty. “Feeding does not count as killing, especially for my kind, who does not feast on flesh.” “I don’t consent!” he wailed. A glimmer of sunshine teased the corner of her eye. The priest had eluded the press long enough to follow the boys. So much for a barely legal snack. Instead, she decided to reinforce her lessons. “I can be very persuasive.” She lowered her eyelids in exaggerated pleasure. Chad cringed when he looked into her eyes. If he’d been a dog, he would have tucked his tail and ran away yelping. Valerie could barely keep from smirking. Stupidly, he tried another tactic. “Come on, lady. I’m sorry. My dad can fix this, really he can. Just let me go.” This was just too much fun. “Are you bargaining with me, young man?” Valerie took her voice down to a dangerous growl.

Even though he topped her by a good five inches, he cowered. Desperation crossed Chad’s face. He threw the world’s worst punch at her face. She caught his fist. Panic drained his skin of all blood and crossed his eyes. Chad blacked out and landed on the sidewalk. Not amused with his poor showing, she let go. Valerie stroked her chin. He had to be good for something. But what? Almost-sunlight kissed her skin, loosened muscles in her throat and chest. Surprise jolted her. Lance was here. Somehow, he’d escaped the press and his shelter and found her. He walked until they were face-to-face over the boy’s body. For an eternity, Valerie and Lance watched each other over Chad’s still body. Despite his blazing aura, his eyes stayed frosty, until they dropped to her mouth again. Blue fire lit in their depths. They were complete opposites. He was touched by holiness. She was awash in gore. No wonder ion flared. She ran her tongue across her lower lip. He smiled, turning his expression into lazy sensuality. He leaned in toward her. Valerie’s stomach fluttered like a virgin’s at his first kiss. Chad groaned. Lance pulled back, his eyes cooling, an expression of serious regret on his face. Glancing down at Chad, he sighed. Despite his attraction to her, she knew he cared ionately that she not harm the idiot who lay at their feet. No eating from someone who couldn’t give consent. Tonight, Valerie could afford to be generous. She nodded once, acquiescing to the priest’s wishes. A corner of his mouth twitched wider in acknowledgment of her capitulation. A smile would undo her resolve, just when she was so close to her endgame. She

spun, coat billowing behind her, and leapt to the roof of the building above them. Distance was the only answer.

Chapter Six

Valerie sprinted toward her final act of contrition, the very last duty of her redemption. A quick leap over a crumbling ledge and she landed, sure-footed and determined, on the next building. Death was coming for Radu Tepes. This final execution would at last free her from her burdens. After all her delays, she possessed only a three-minute window of opportunity for his assassination. A clever man and an even cleverer vampire, he’d surrounded himself with an enormous entourage of attorneys, assistants, and hero-worshipping interns. Valerie was clever, too. Three minutes was more than enough time to do what she needed to do. She reached the roof of the scalloped white building in mere seconds, not even stopping to ire the Arts and Crafts styled architecture. The rain stopped as she dropped onto the roof of the hotel, giving her a perfect view of her surroundings. Her tiny remnant of hope said it was a sign that her fortune favored her actions. Reporters of all kinds surrounded the hotel where every VIP in the PNC world was staying. Police and private security swarmed the hotel, keeping the peace. Dropping her head like a bloodhound, she sorted through the confusion for Radu’s scent, a distinctive blend of the sulfur of corruption with a hint of basil. Even her hardened stomach churned at the combination. Sulfur for Radu betrayed all who came near him. Basil because he had once been great. Following her meticulous plan, she spider-climbed down from the roof toward his sumptuous suite. When Radu entered the room, she would stake him. By the time his dust dropped, she would be long gone. She could disappear for once and

for all. His ashes would finish her duty to eliminate all those vampires who had collaborated with the Nazis. A lifetime ago for mortals, but to her, it felt like yesterday morning. Despite Radu’s claims to have been a part of the French Resistance during the Second World War, Valerie knew exactly what he’d been doing. Dracula had been head of Hitler’s paranormal corps, and Radu had been his number one double agent. Dracula was already dead. Valerie knew that for a fact. She had arranged his death, and with her usual precision, guaranteed it had been seen by the world. Excitement tightened her throat. This was it. With Radu’s death, she would finally be free. Minutes ticked by. The door remained locked. Nothing happened. The full black clouds gathered together and dumped buckets of water over the city. She’d failed. She had failed. Red rage hazed over her vision. Wet and angry, Valerie dug her nails into the wall. With this last kill, her redemption at long last would have been complete. A crowd shouting Radu’s name turned her head. Below, the traitorous vampire stood before a white stretch limousine. Fans screamed as he waved to them. Radu held his arms out, palms flat, and with a pulsing motion, he quieted them. “Father Soliel has made great strides toward equality for our paranormal citizens. I will the vigil outside his shelter in a gesture of solidarity with his brave act.” The crowd went insane. The wall under her nails shook with the noise.

Her lip curled in skeptical appraisal. Radu Tepes? ing someone else? Not possible. Valerie shook the rain off her coat and watched the car nose into downtown traffic. The only person Radu Tepes wanted in the press was himself. His vanity demanded that no one share his glory. Swallowing her disappointment, she slithered her way along the roof, tracking the limo. Logic cooled her anger. Radu was scrambling in Lance’s wake. When he scrambled, he got sloppy. Sloppy meant she would get another chance. All she had to do was wait for the younger Tepes to make a mistake. He would fail at whatever he was hastily planning. After all, she knew Dracula’s brother better than anyone else. Radu was her brother. Valerie was Dracula. Since her birth, she had been raised a man. She had dressed like a man, fought like a man, loved as a man, and taken revenge as a man. Earned unending notoriety as a man. For centuries, she had hidden her body, kept her secrets close, closer than even her wife and brothers. Every action in Vlad’s life had been in the name of order, chastity, stability, regulation. Everything from war against the Ottomans to enforcing her rule of law in Transylvania to ing Napoleon and Hitler stemmed from her drive to bend the world to her vision of peace. Vlad Tepes, the Impaler. Dracula. Valerie Tate. Once her brother was dust, her past would no longer control her.

Chapter Seven Berlin April 1945

Awoman’s scream pierced the hallway. “In here! Over here!” Sergeant Andrei Okopnik yelled. The echo of the scream still vibrated the Reich Chancellery walls as the Soviet squad skidded to a halt in front of a heavy wooden door. The sergeant spared a quick glance over his shoulder as the men got into formation. The photography crew, lugging their bulky equipment, followed gamely after the soldiers through the dust and gunsmoke-filled air. The largest corporal kicked the door off its hinges. Battle-hardened troops ran in. Rifles cocked, they covered every inch of the devastated room. At one time, this space had been cozy. A small fire still crackled in the oversized fireplace and a perfectly faded red Persian carpet graced the cold floor. But now, the long overturned table and knocked-down bookshelves offered too many places for an enemy to hide. The steady, quiet drip of blood warned the squad’s war-weary nerves. “Who’s in here?” Okopnik barked. A low gasp answered him first. Then a young woman with an old-fashioned cloche hat peeked from behind the table. “Was?” she whispered. “You speak German?” He’d picked up some in their advance. “Ein bisschen.” A bit. She grabbed one edge of the table. The soldiers tightened their grips on their

weapons. Everyone watched her with narrowed eyes as she struggled to her feet. Unspeakable horrors had taught them even a pale woman alone could threaten an entire squad. She stood. As the highest rank there, Andrei looked her over, missing nothing. The misbuttoned shirt, the skirt twisted to one side, her stockings hanging from a garter strap. Wobbling in her scuffed heels around the obstacle course of the room, the woman swallowed as she saw all the guns trained on her. Her gaze focused on the sergeant and sharpened at his uniform. Caution squeezed Andrei’s shoulders. Something cunning lived behind those dark eyes. “I killed one of the monsters.” Her hand steady, she pointed toward the table. Blood tattooed her arms and one side of her face. “What’s your name?” “V-V-Valerie,” she whispered. “What will you do to me?” Okopnik jerked his head at a private. The boy, with a cautious tread, flanked her to look where she pointed. His eyebrows rose. “He’s very dead,” the youngster reported. Indicating the rest should watch the woman, Andrei walked over, his weapon at the ready. A man’s body sprawled on the faded carpet. Inhumanly long canine teeth stuck out from his mouth. Hands with clawlike yellowed nails clutched the fireplace poker shoved through his chest. Dracula’s trademark enormous diamonds, three to each ear, sparkled amid the blood. If a corpse could look surprised, it did. “You did this?” he asked, cautiously iring. “Yes, just as you got here,” she answered, her voice shaking. “He vas going to bite me, drink my blooood,” she slurred her words into a mockery of cinema vampires. She pointed to a fallen desk nameplate with the name “Tepes” inscribed in bold brass.

“He was Dracula!” Her voice broke on the last word. She buried her face in her soiled hands. Blood smeared over her features. The photography crew shoved through the door. They were in place and clicking madly as the body decomposed. One by one, flashbulbs exploded, making everyone blink and jump as the fragile glass crashed to the floor. For what seemed the millionth time, Sergeant Okopnik watched the quick decay of a dead mythical creature. As different as they were, they all died the same. First, the flesh collapsed, like a balloon losing air. The first time he saw this, he vomited. Now it was nothing. Next, the bones, still covered in skin, lost their rigid edges. Not until the skin peeled back, though, did the bones crumble completely, leaving only dust. Finally, the diamonds dropped to the floor, uncomfortably untouched by the wreckage. This was the first complete decomposition the Allies managed to photograph from beginning to end. Finally, concrete proof that war hadn’t driven the soldiers mad. The sergeant motioned for his men to stand down as the cameras clicked around them. “Myths are true. Dogs with men’s eyes, men with the eyes of bears, women with snakes for bodies. Such beasts are everywhere. But you knew that, didn’t you? You worked here.” “Yes. I was his secretary.” She tipped her chin at the remains. “I was a fool,” she whispered. “But you fought bravely at the end,” the private chimed in. iration shone from his face. “How did you kill him?” Her jaws worked for a moment. A blush ran under her pale skin. “He didn’t expect me to fight back. He laughed when I picked up the poker. That made me angry.” She stumbled over her words. “It’s all such a terrible blur.” Her lips trembled. The sergeant nodded. “It’s often like that. But you did what you had to do.” He gestured to two men. “Escort the vampire killer to the holding area.” She flinched at the title.

One of her escorts patted her arm. “Don’t worry. We will treat you well, little warrior.” The iring private sifted amongst the ashes. “Here.” He held the earrings out to her. “To the victor belong the spoils.” She took the emperor’s ransom in jewels in her stained hands and held them to her bosom. “Thank you.” “You must go,” Sergeant Okopnik said. “It isn’t safe here.” Halfway out the door, she turned around and looked at her liberators. “Don’t let them cover this up. Show everyone!” She yelled to the flashing camera. “Dracula is dead. And now the world knows it!” The devastated homes and forests of ran wild with Allied forces and escaping Germans. Shadow Creatures ruled the ruins of Europe after sunset. Vlad Dracula himself, rather herself, emerged from the coffin-sized depression she had dug out from under an old farmhouse. Pressing her lips together, Vlad forced herself into brassiere and skirt and blouse and waited until the resentment at the discomfort ed. Instead of binding her small breasts, she had to accentuate them. I am a woman now, she thought as she struggled with the straps of the bra. My name is Valerie. All those years of wanting to experience female life and this was what she got? Three days of being a woman in wartime taught her more than a mortal lifetime of being married. If she hadn’t been a vampire, she would have been raped five times already. Valerie habitually smoothed her now-gone moustache. The prickly stubble under her fingers reminded her of yet another loss from this war. Damn. She needed a shave already. She searched her clothing and the ground around her bed. No razor. Annoyed, she sat back on her knees. Lucifer’s bloody knuckles, how many more things could happen? Something pinched underneath her breasts. Valerie tugged at the unfamiliar band that dug into her back. How could women stand this hideous bondage? But she bowed to her choice. Her own survival beat any other concern.

Blood blisters had formed and scabbed over Dracula’s feet in the first days after her escape from the advancing Russians. The unfamiliar high-heeled shoes rubbed and twisted her feet and ankles in torturous ways. By day, she hid from the sun in rubble. After three days of wandering more or less southwest, she still had no plan other than basic survival. Vlad hated not having a plan. Bullets whizzed over her head. She hit the ground, cursing under her breath. The whole point of dressing like a civilian was to live, not to get killed by triggerhappy humans. A few German soldiers dressed in their tattered Wehrmacht Heer uniforms, ed through the wreckage. They weren’t even soldiers. They were children, barely past eight winters, carrying rifles bigger than they were. Unseen in the unstable ruins, Valerie cocked her ears at their whispered conversation. “There must be food somewhere.” The lightest of them scrambled over and under the bombed-out village. Cement dust and wood splinters hung in the air like deadly snowflakes, attacking the little militia’s unprotected eyes and lungs. Their coughing and sneezing accompanied endless watering eyes. The debris groaned and creaked under their stumbling steps. But the determined children did not stop their scrounging. She wouldn’t be surprised if they were caught in a collapse. “We will not surrender.” The littlest spoke with fragile bravado. The oldest nodded. “The Führer would want us to defend our homes.” Vlad ground his –her-teeth as she crouched in the woods. Damn it. She would not fail her new identity. Despite being starved, orphaned, and homeless, they still believed. Why did they not see what she had seen? Poor fools. Their Führer had betrayed them. The war had been lost when the idiot insisted on invading the Soviet Union. What was the point of having the most experienced military minds in the world on your side if you didn’t listen to them? She shook her head in ed disgust. Any of the advisors with the intelligence of Lucifer’s curly eyebrow hairs warned the Führer that campaigning in the wintertime was a suicide

mission. The children tossed wreckage aside, worsening the dust, until they were defeated by the fragility of their small bodies. They moved on, leaving Valerie alone with her angry thoughts and her search for a razor. Disgust fueled her strength as she tossed rocks and building remains aside. Vlad had been disgusted with the war even before the disastrous Operation Barbarossa. Dracula’s high profile and carefully trained Shadow Corps had been used for cannon fodder, not for the infiltration and sabotage missions they were best suited for. Hitler’s mythical military genius was all the excuse the High Command needed to override the expertise of the German army. “War has changed since your day, old man,” so-called advisors retorted when Vlad demanded answers about food supply and fuel allocation. “The Jewish-led Bolsheviks will fall quickly,” another answered when questioned about the wisdom of invading the Soviet Union in December. Valerie tossed a solid oak table thirty feet to the side. She had been very happy to drain those two dry before faking her death. Even the premise behind the invasion was flawed. Eliminate thirty million Russian natives in order to make space for the Germans? That idea never went well. During the planning stage of the invasion, Vlad began to commit small treasons. He ordered his special forces to cooperate with the Allies. Hundreds defected to the British and Americans in order to help against the idiocy of this poorly run war. The fortunes of the North African and Italian campaigns turned on the strength of Dracula’s forces changing sides. Under new orders, giant sharks and angry kraken destroyed Japanese warships and planes. Dracula’s Shadow Corps quietly and stealthily used their might to change the face of Europe. What happened to those troops next was anyone’s guess. Vlad’s stomach growled. Obviously, dinner was next.

A man wearing a poorly fitted shirt and tros wandered into her line of sight. Through the haze and the moonlight, she recognized him. Yet another of the lickspittles of the High Command. She sprinted across the moonlit path and snatched him before he saw her. Tucked in her hiding spot, she jabbed her fangs deep into his grimy neck. A far cry from her preferred luxury, but very satisfying. Sucking her breakfast completely dry restored her skin to its previously smooth condition. His boots fit her well enough. And even better, he carried a razor. Before, Vlad had always been grateful for his hirsute appearance. His Eastern European genes had blended to give him a beautiful black moustache. Nothing hid a woman like facial hair. But now? Hundreds of posters with Dracula’s face littered the ground and any standing walls. Anyone, even a woman, who resembled this visible symbol of the Reich would be staked before questions. Until the news spread of his ‟death,” her life depended on keeping her moustache under control. She didn’t dare slip. Too many people knew what Dracula looked like. She’d given press conferences, posed for pictures, recruited openly in the mortal world. She’d been so arrogant in the assumption that the Germans would win and order would prevail over Europe. Valerie shaved by feel under the dappled leaves. She would not give in to shame. The past was gone. Time for the future. First order of business: get out of and preferably, completely out of Europe. Perhaps South America. The people were said to be lively and tasty there. Lively and tasty? She paused the razor at a shocking thought. Her secret had prevented the usual string of lovers that vampires and men could have. She’d always sublimated sex into overwhelming violence. But perhaps, just perhaps, now she could experience pleasure? She always wondered what it would be like to have a penis in her mouth. Rumors told of it being delightful.

“Shit.” She touched the slice under her nose. The cut healed quickly, but now she understood years of complaints about the complexity of female grooming. How she missed her flamboyant moustache. It required so little care. Pleasure. Wicked indulgence of her every fantasy. A decadent tingle awoke her nipples. Vlad tucked the razor in her pocket and left the woods. She sniffed the spring night air. A troop of well-fed American soldiers camped down the road. If she ran at full speed, she could reach them in an hour. That would be a fabulous start of her new, more sexual future. Americans were not only oversexed, they were ridiculously protective of women, as well. She could travel with them, play with them, and feed herself at the same time. Vlad the Impaler, Dracula was dead. Valerie, no last name yet, had no idea where she was going or what she would do. Not for the first time, her life ended. Now was the time to rise again. As she ran through the night, thinking on orgies of blood and sex, she barely noticed the sign reading NORDHAUSEN. As she reached the American encampment outside the city, the reek of cold mass murder rose from the very soil. It wasn’t the peppery scent of battle or the urine stench of premeditation. Instead, the rot of corruption, decay, and waste obliterated everything. Bodies on litters left the town in an ant trail of misery. Curious, she skirted the 104th Timberwolf Infantry camp. When she reached the center of a work camp, she stopped cold in the middle of the scurrying medics and soldiers. Two seconds ago, Valerie would have said nothing about warfare disgusted her. Had she not killed and killed often? Her native urges toward peace on the edge of pike left nothing untouched. Until now. Unnoticed amongst the devastation, she wandered the site. Corpses stacked like

firewood filled abandoned machine shops and stairways. The fabulous rockets Hitler bragged about to her had been built here. The Führer hadn’t mentioned the dead and nearly dead spread like fallen leaves. Feces, intestines, flesh, and bones didn’t merely decorate the concrete. The bombing had literally pounded the waste into the floor. Her boots squished as she walked through row after row of bodies. Once, she breathed in. The stench of decay made even her battle-hardened nose close in on itself. Cold fury propelled her to the middle of the death camp. Her own death count numbered in the hundreds of thousands. The anger that scraped up the back of her shoulders made no sense. A dim memory from her human days came back to her. When she ruled, her towns were safe for the law-abiding. Vlad Dracula killed thieves, criminals, invaders. Not the people who built her weapons. She turned a slow circle, taking in the pain. Those who stocked the Dracul family’s armory had been pampered, fed, and encouraged. What she saw here would never have happened under her rule. Professional soldiers knew the risks. Criminals knew the price of their actions. Even those pressed into war knew that death wasn’t personal. When each met their doom, it was merely the business of warfare. Any who met Vlad the Impaler’s justice knew the rules of the game they played and the roles each took on. Adolf Hitler had promised Dracula, “Bring your kind to me. When I win, all crime and disease will be gone. Isn’t that what you’ve worked for your whole existence? You already rule the supernaturals, but you could rule even more by my side.” A half-decayed head rolled by her feet. Oh, yes. It was what she’d wanted all along. And Dracula had delivered. Oh, how he’d delivered. And this is what they were

doing with the power she gave them? She knelt in the dirt and shit and bowed her head. Let Dracula and Hitler stay dead. Vlad’s reputation from his mortal life had been greatly exaggerated. Impale one or two people for a well-deserved punishment, and suddenly Ottomans on pikes lined the roads. This travesty outstripped even the most outrageous tales about her. And she was partially responsible. Every ounce of honor she’d ever possessed demanded she make reparations for these horrors she’d unknowingly allowed to happen. But what penance would be appropriate for this disgrace? The only answer was service to the helpless. She found a die in the dust—a knucklebone, actually, marked with pips. She knelt amid the bodies and rolled it. Six. Sixty years, then. Vlad promised herself sixty years to serve the victims of this horrific crime. “Miss? Miss? Are you all right?” A young American soldier, his hands and uniform covered with other people’s gangrene, knelt in front of her. “I’m a medic. Do you need help?” Valerie met his war-weary brown eyes. “No.” She took an unnecessary breath. She would have to breathe to maintain her façade. “But I can help.” “Come with me.” The boy was too tired to question how a woman came to wander the camp alone. She was here and she was able-bodied. For two years, she helped the Allies clean the camps, moving from MittlebauDora to Dachau to Sobibor. All over and Poland she studied the wreckage of lives. The waste revolted her. All the labor and energy the guards and commanders had put into the camps could have been used on the fronts, perhaps preventing the Germans’ defeat. The

tortured and the dead Jews could have been productive laborers instead of starved and ruined. Disgust ruled Valerie until a strange new emotion, pity, stirred her dead heart. In 1947, the UN formed Israel. It was a clear signal of what she had to do. Valerie lied on her application and ed the newly formed Israeli Army as a trainer. Safely hidden now in her new gender and identity, she hunted the vampires she’d made, destroyed every collaborator she’d used. One by one, they found themselves on the receiving end of her tools of the trade. The small new country was riddled with holy ground. She endured the endless pain and weakness as part of her penance. Through it all, Valerie vowed she would never allow these horrors to happen again. Because she planned to execute every murderer herself. Only then would she allow herself to experience life as a real woman.

Chapter Eight

Twenty-four whole hours had ed since Lance Soliel’s radical act and Radu Tepes still couldn’t wrest the media attention back to himself. He had a plan, though. If it hadn’t been for his dignity, he would have sprinted down the Governor Hotel’s luxuriously patterned carpeted hallway toward his private meeting room. Instead, he forced himself to advance like conquering royalty through the throngs of shouting press and onlookers. “How do you feel about the Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter and its new, integrated services?” one asked louder than the others. “This is wonderful news,” he replied. “I am now meeting with my staff to best decide how to Father Soliel in his quest for greater social ability.” As he reached for the suite’s doorknob, his gaze fell to a flake in his carefully buffed thumbnail. Quickly, he pulled a sleek platinum PDA out of his suit jacket’s inner pocket. A fast “Schedule manicure” note on the screen and he secreted the device back before any mortals could see. “Would you ask Father Soliel to be your vice president when you throw your hat into the ring?” Excitement tightened his lungs. For the first time in his long life, he was poised to get exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. “You know that I don’t wear hats.” Radu gave the reporter a mysterious smile. “If you would be so kind as to excuse me now.” Radu threw open the heavy white painted wood door. Lucifer below, he loved the Governor Hotel. Of course he enjoyed the large, old-fashioned windows, perfect furnishings, and the lavish rooms.

Mostly, he loved the quick service. Two minutes ago he’d asked for a private conference space, and now he had it. There was no way he could be seen having these conversations in his fabulously press-friendly terrace suite. When the news of Lance Soliel’s actions broke, Radu’s advisors, Joe Carter and Ben Trask, had suggested the CCC and the shelter work together to expand their mutual goals. Radu refused. He was tired of being Number Two, of being someone else’s partner. It was his turn. No showboating priest was going to steal his limelight. It merely meant he had to scramble to contain the situation. Radu didn’t like scrambling, but it was a necessary evil. He closed the door behind him and smiled at the solitary person waiting for him. The rest of his staff had orders not to show for another three minutes. He had a situation to exploit. Radu needed perfect deniability. Straightening his crisply ironed blue Oxford shirt, he faced his hand-picked supernatural. Roger Corbetti, his unofficial enforcer, sprawled in a chair. The big were-tiger had served Radu well in the past. “Roger, the Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter has integrated. This throws my plans into complete disorder. In less than a day, this priest, Soliel,”—the name tasted terrible on his tongue—“has managed to upstage the entire conference. I just got asked if he’d be my vice president! The media has called him the greatest proponent of civil rights since Martin Luther King, Jr. That is my title.” He jabbed his finger into the air, outraged. “Yes, boss.” Roger stood up, ready to get to work. As a man, Roger was built like a tank, broad shoulders tapering down to a firm waist. Unthinkingly, Radu smoothed his hand down his own flat stomach, making sure nothing sagged. Radu pointed at the were-tiger. “Later this evening, that bastard is going to give a press conference at the Hollywood Theater.” Roger growled eagerly under his breath. “I’ll be there.” He was a man of few

words. The shape-shifter escaped through the open windows so smoothly that no one even got a photograph of him. The so-called priest wouldn’t stand a chance. Only a vampire could beat the were-tiger’s strength. Radu knew exactly where all the vampires were. Right now, the three left in the world were in this hotel. Himself, Joe, and the third.... Well. Umar, Radu’s were-hawk advisor, escorted in a vampire with a shaved head, layered punk rock shirts, ragged jeans, and stained combat boots. When the door closed behind Umar, leaving them alone, the younger vampire sat and put those horrible shoes on a round table’s pristine tablecloth. In the quiet elegance, he looked like a black eye on a beautiful woman. “Why have you brought me here, Randall?” Radu narrowed his eyes at Anthony O’Neill. His last surviving spawn never failed to rebel. Some nonsense about being Irish. Or French. Or it could be the circumstances of Anthony’s making. But Anthony’s past made him valuable. A risky choice but necessary. “You know I go by my name again.” Radu waved his hand, avoiding looking at the damaged nail. Anthony shook his head. “Something wrong with the old manicure?” he asked, his disdain ripe in the air even though his tone was polite. Angry, Radu gathered his powers. Time to remind his rebellious child who was in charge. A tiny hole appeared in Anthony’s throat. A pinprick at first, but Radu drilled his determination into the bald man’s flesh. A bead of blood pooled and spilled away from the tear as Radu’s concentrated willpower penetrated like an ice pick into Anthony’s undead body. Blood dripped down Anthony’s black T-shirt. As the wound deepened, the drip turned into a fountain, eventually soaking into his ragged jeans.

For long moments, he kept his eyes locked on Radu, defiant until the puncture reached his spinal cord. A little more pressure to the spine, and Anthony would be beheaded. And finally dead. The Irishman closed his green eyes, giving in. Radu smiled. He loved the rush his power gave him. Anthony futilely wiped at the mess left of his throat. It would heal in its own sweet time. Another reason why Radu loved the Governor? They were so good with cleaning up blood. “Someone you know very well will be at the conference. You are to discredit her.” Radu snapped off the order. Beaten and dripping gore, Anthony bowed his head. “Anything else?” he asked. “No.” The Irishman headed toward the door. Even though Radu’s child was under seventy, he moved like an old, old man. The young vampire quietly left the room. Radu narrowed his eyes. He was suspicious of Anthony’s quick capitulation. His slippery make never gave in this easily. There had to be a catch. He’d find out soon enough what Anthony’s game was. The younger vampire couldn’t keep his master out of his head for any length of time. In the most basic , a vampire created another by feeding a human blood and tears. Even though vampires wept tears of blood, the transformation needed both substances. Radu had never bothered to find out why. No one ever mentioned how individual each Change was. When Radu had dripped his fluids into Anthony’s reluctant mouth, the struggling man had bitten Radu’s fingers. Some of Anthony’s saliva had mixed with Radu, creating an unusual mental bond between the two. Radu could control Anthony’s behavior. Conversely, Anthony knew just what was going on in Radu’s head.

As a result, each knew just how much the other despised him. It was an uncomfortable co-existence. After Anthony left, the third known vampire in the world crossed the threshold into the meeting room. From a chance meeting in a smoky bar in Paris, Radu had founded the CCC with Joe Carter back in 1969. Ever since then, Joe had been Radu’s advisor and attorney. The handsome black vampire was a valuable asset, but Radu knew little about him. Radu occasionally wondered who Joe’s maker had been, but Joe never told. Unusual. Radu dismissed the thought when Joe spoke. “Governor Green on the phone for you again.” “What does he want?” Radu countered. “He is curious about your choice of vice president.” “What state is he from, again?” Radu couldn’t keep all of them apart. Seizing power in the old days in Europe had been more violent, but certainly more straightforward. “Wisconsin. He’s a wildly popular governor with a very unpredictable populace.” Joe’s memory was always useful. “Very well. I’ll take it.” Joe reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gold and red iPhone. Radu took the slim machine and did not thank his advisor. Face bland, Joe left the room as Radu greeted, “Hello, Governor Green!”

Chapter Nine Immersed in the heady scents of rage, hot blood, and popcorn, Valerie scrutinized the turret-decorated walls of the Hollywood Theater. Protestors of all shapes and kinds crammed the forty blocks between the theater and the shelter. The entire city swam with the electricity of lightning-fast change. People still in their Halloween costumes chanted along with parents and sleepy-looking children. Silent and serious, Valerie tucked herself against the wine shop across the street. In twenty minutes, the delicious Father Lance Soliel would speak to the world on his decision to allow werewolves into the Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter. Valerie unconsciously licked her lips at the thought. “Demons, go back to hell!” a female protestor shouted near Valerie’s sensitive ear. Valerie ignored her. A man in a black kilt yelled back, “Everyone deserves equal rights!” What a sweet darling, she thought fleetingly. His misplaced chivalry momentarily warmed her. As the mob swallowed him and the woman again, Valerie looked to the west. The crowds were too packed to allow age for Radu’s white limo. It squatted like a malicious albino Gila monster amongst the swarming mass. A phalanx of security and police escorted her brother through the noise and chaos into the building. Valerie didn’t care that she was witnessing history. Yet again. She just wanted to get on with her undeath. In order for that to happen, she had to kill Radu. In order to kill Radu, she had to get into the theater. Police covered every entrance. Not just human police, either. From shapeshifters to giant animals, all were out in force. An enormous were-spider skittered by. Several squirming silk bags filled with angry, squirming protestors dangled from her abdomen. Not even a vampire could sneak through that much security. The only way in was straight through the barricaded front doors. This

would not be easy. She shrugged. What about tonight had been easy? It was rapidly getting more difficult. Right in front of her, an older human brandished a broken bottle at a crying little girl wearing pink ribbons. “Keep her away from me!” he shrieked. Her curved baby nose morphed into a bear’s snout as she howled for her mother. A policewoman wearing leather gloves reached for the toddler, but another screaming human got in the way. Lucifer’s blood, Valerie thought, save her from stupid mortal antics. If the child got trampled, she would never get inside to finish her job. Impatiently, she snatched the child up by the straps of her overalls. When the cub wailed in fear, Valerie slung an arm under the diaper-stiff denim and held the girl against her shoulder. Unthinking, she patted the heaving back in ancient, soothing rhythms of comfort. A muscular brown-haired woman frantically waved her beefy arms over the heads of the crowds. Valerie nodded, silently telling her that her child was safe. “Everything is fine, little one. I see your mother.” The little girl rewarded Valerie for her good deed with renewed sobbing and a mucus-laden nose in her lapel. She automatically hitched the child closer as she evaluated the crowd between her and the mother bear. The mood was getting ugly. The crowd had started on the path of becoming a mob. Disagreements turned into shoving matches. An older woman holding a sign reading GOD HATES DEMONS shoved into Valerie’s path. She jabbed two gnarled fingers in the child’s back. “Be gone, you disgusting hell-creature!” she screamed, her breath a disgusting blast of sour old milk. The baby screeched louder. By Lucifer’s dirty fingernails, what was wrong with these humans? Valerie thrust two fast fingers in the woman’s solar plexus and pressed past her as she bent double. But the drama didn’t end there.

Across the street, someone picked up the man’s broken bottle and waved it in the mother bear’s face. She raised a claw-tipped hand and roared. Valerie mentally slapped her forehead. Why did people knowingly get between bears and their cubs? Were they completely devoid of self-preservation? Before all hell could break loose, the spider’s webbing zipped overhead. Inescapable, sticky ropes trapped the threatening bottle. The crowd quieted as the spider pulled the man away from the bear. Valerie nodded in approval. Obviously the were-arachnid had superior strategy sense. “Mama!” the baby wailed. Now that the coast was clear, Valerie could act. She rubbed the small bear’s back. “Do you like to fly?” she whispered in the tiny, furry ear. Curious big brown eyes met hers. “Wha?” Valerie smiled. “Zoom! Go zoom?” “Zoooooom!” the child crowed and flapped her arms. Valerie swung the toddler down, and then lightly tossed her through the air. The girl flew through the air over dozens of heads. The policewoman caught her with strong, steady hands. Tears turned to happy cries as the mother and cub reunited. The policewoman shot Valerie a quick salute of thanks. Before she could respond, Radu and his coterie broke through to the barricade. The police reached for the door handles. Time to go. Valerie slithered to the front of the crowd. If she moved fast enough, she could take the high ground and kill Radu from a distance by using her stake as a dart. Finishing him here, in front of the authorities, would get her arrested. Or staked. Not pleasant choices. The police opened the doors to escort Radu in. Now was her chance.

Unleashing her full vampiric speed, she slipped between the police, around her brother, past the barricades, and into the theater before anyone could see her. No other supernatural being moved as fast as a motivated vampire. “Windy tonight,” one of the police said. Radu frowned, but didn’t comment. He obviously didn’t believe any other vampires survived. The others murmured assent, but by then, she was deep inside the theater. Valerie shook with motivation tonight. A few more minutes and Radu would be dead before the cameras started rolling.

Chapter Ten

Lance perched on the hard edge of a red velvet theater seat, elbows resting on his knees, staring at his one-page statement. Usually he enjoyed the charming interior of the turn-of-the-century theater with its three movie screens and narrow balconies, but not tonight. The black and white of the paper in front of him absorbed all his concentration. This speech sucked. It sucked like a universe-swallowing black hole. It sucked like a giant sucking thing. But it was the best he had. His shelter needed him back twenty minutes ago. Jane, the assistant director, had called with panic in her voice. Nothing ever rattled Jane. Every homeless PNC in the city, frantic for food and a dry floor, had mobbed the shelter. Tempers were flaring in the dining room. More desperate suck. Worse, he’d have to speak on the stage. In front of cameras. Sweet God. The air stirred around him, raising hard-honed instincts at the base of his neck. Without looking, he dove toward the sticky cement floor and tucked into a somersault. He came up in a fighting crouch only to get caught in the gaze of the vampiress he so yearned to possess. His inconvenient desire would not leave him alone. His future stood before him. No longer pale, controlled death on two legs, but flushed, her eyes sparking with some strong emotion. It didn’t matter how she got in, Lance thought. The woman was here, and barely two feet away from him. She was hardly conventionally attractive. Her cheekbones jackknifed away from her narrow face. Those deep-set hazel eyes and thick eyebrows gave her a

serious, shadowed expression. Black hair, brushed severely away from her high forehead, revealed a widow’s peak and dainty ears, each one adorned with three diamond earrings. A hard kind of beauty. Lance knew the truth of the cliché of beauty hiding danger. Her gaze traveled his body, boldly checking him out like a man would look at a woman. Something hotter and badder replaced the anger in her eyes. Her ion ignited his. She licked her lips, staring at him like he was the most delicious thing she had ever seen; water in the desert, soup to a starving prisoner, coffee ice cream with hot fudge on a bad day. Her desire hit him like a warm slap of water. Only once had any being ever before looked at him with such blatant lust. His penis thumped against the constraint of his zipper. Seeing his bulge, a lewd, knowing smile tipped her face into wicked pleasure. Her hip cocked to one side, exaggerating the curve of her. Unthinking, Lance hooked his thumbs into his front belt loops, framing his crotch. “Can I help you?” he offered, his voice calm in comparison to his arousal. He would never forget her first words to him. “I should kill you. You complicate my life.” A slight accent gave her voice a hypnotic, dangerous lilt. At that moment, Lance knew that she had let Chad live as a favor to him. Why would she do that? He’d find out eventually, but for now, he had more important things to learn. He ambled closer. “You should. Then I wouldn’t have to give this speech,” he countered. She moved in enough for him to smell rosemary and incense. He reached to pull her closer by her belt loops. The doors opened and the floor thundered with the pounding of feet. Radu Tepes’ entourage entered the room. Camera lights flooded the room.

Breaking eye , his woman swung around, her black coat swinging in her wake. The wings of a gold dragon spanned from shoulder to shoulder, gleaming against the soft fabric. He watched it fly away as she disappeared upstairs. She’d left him to the dubious mercy of the press.

Chapter Eleven

In the upstairs hall , Valerie sighed in exasperation at her behavior. How could she delay herself again? How could someone nearly six hundred years old act like a—what was the word she wanted? Dorky. A dorky, hormonal teenager. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Control yourself, she warned her clit. Arousal wasn’t new. For Lucifer’s sake, she was over six hundred years old. But sex was easy to sublimate. She’d always been more violent than sexual, even as a human. To be Freudian about it, Eros hadn’t been on her radar. Thanatos, Death, was her companion. A response like this, after all these years, embarrassed her. She set her jaw. Sex on toast or not, she came to kill, not to tease out Lance’s spicy scent from all the others in the crowded room. An aching spot between her legs proved her a liar. Lance started his speech, but she refused to listen. She propped her hips against the rough plaster of the building, tucking one knee up and tipping her head back to look at the dim ceiling. No tears, she demanded of herself, even as her eyes tingled in threat. She couldn’t risk her secrets. Too much depended on Dracula remaining dead. She also knew damn well that lovers wouldn’t stay with a furtive, untrusting partner. How could she afford to follow this fragile, erotic promise, delightful as it was? The resident ghost floated past. It nodded and continued its rounds. Everyone Valerie loved died. Usually by her own hand. She had no choice. It was time to pull herself together and finally finish Radu. She silently stalked to the balcony to listen to Lance’s lion’s tongue voice

capture the world. “Tonight, I did not make history. Tonight, I did not change the world. I am not a hero, nor am I a devil. We are all fallible. We all suffer. All of us need a place to sleep. “Tonight, I only did my duty to those who hunger and thirst, who need a place that is warm and dry. If you look into my past, and I know you will, you will see that I have done many things, for good and ill. I will tell you this now: Sometimes life lets you make up for your mistakes. “If I have angered you with my actions tonight, I consider that the price I have to pay for the wrongs I have committed. “If fear holds you, let it go. If fury consumes you, be at peace. “Good night.” At his words, Valerie’s knees, always so reliable, buckled. Silently, she landed on the floor. Something hot and alive kicked in her chest, almost as if she’d swallowed a rat whole instead of drinking it. She touched her curled knuckles to her breastbone, half expecting her heart to beat. Its stillness shocked her. The heat spread throughout her body, her limbs shaking uncontrollably. Her eyes itched, her throat tightened as if a garrote choked her. When she rested her head in her cold hands, her shoulders heaved. The press conference went on, but she heard no more, not even when her brother spoke and the crowds left. A shudder shoved her against the wall. If there was any mercy left in the world, she silently begged, please don’t let her fall in love. She couldn’t take it again.

Chapter Twelve July 1813 The Peninsular War

Vlad Dracula brooded as he kept watch over the small French campsite. The army floundered ever since Napoleon left the Spanish Peninsula five years ago. Every day, guerilla fighters and poor decisions combined to decimate the troops. The English General Wellington’s victory at Vitoria today shattered the army. Morale was in the sewers. Even better, Dracula had offended ’s Marshal Soult with a suggestion for a counterattack via Roncesvalles. The marshal had summarily kicked Vlad out of the army. Vlad eased his body onto a fallen log and set his bottle of blood and rum on the ground. Radu, Vlad’s own brother, had sided with the British. Vlad frowned at his dusty boots and stained uniform. And now he was dirty. It was enough to dampen anyone’s spirits. He took a slug of his sweet and salty drink. Getting drunk was the perfect solution for tonight’s disasters. A faint rustle disturbed the scrub beside Vlad. He turned his head disinterestedly. “Hello, darling.” A doe-eyed woman emerged from the shadows. Her enormous diamond earrings, his wedding gift to her, caught the moonlight. Vlad’s heart caught. He’d pierced her ears himself on their honeymoon. The diamonds were to ensure that she never went hungry, never had to rely on another for anything. She’d never taken them out.

Inexplicably cheered at her well-being, Vlad smoothed his hair and stood to face his former wife. “What do you want, Ilona?” “Radu wants you dead, my husband,” she said, her formerly luminous eyes sad, lonely, and completely frozen. “He’s heard of your plan and your ejection. We cannot afford you loose on the battlefield.” She circled him. He countered her movement. “I’m already dead.” Vlad managed a weak joke to cover his heartbreak at seeing his wife again. “Forgive my lack of precision.” She allowed a brief smile at the reminder of their old banter. “But my master demands your dust.” “The brat sent you to do his work for him again.” Vlad let his disgust through. She shook her head, her face regretful. “Radu controls me.” “I see.” He stopped. He faced her. “Radu truly chose well. No one could compare to you. No one ever has.” She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly not trusting his gentle words. Her skin glowed like a pearl in the night. Vlad ed the taste of her mouth under his and the headiness of their ion in their younger days. He had broken her maidenhead with his ivory erection, bringing them both ecstasy over and over on their wedding night. He could still see her wet, writhing body underneath him, the wine-colored stain on the bedding. Vlad had held those small, firm breasts in his hands, learning her pleasure. She had even cried for him when he hinted of his treatment under the Ottomans. Radu knew that Vlad couldn’t raise a hand against his former beloved. He put his hands on her shoulders. “We were happy once. I cherish those memories.” Ilona put her hands on his waist in reply. “I always loved you,” he whispered.

“No, Vlad, you didn’t.” She shook her head sadly. “If you had loved me, you would have told me your secrets. You liked me well enough, though, and that counts for something.” His frozen heart cracked at her disbelief. The only person he’d trusted didn’t believe in him. Nevertheless, he needed her caress one last time. “Come to me.” He held out his arms. They touched foreheads, a sign of affection from long ago.

“I am sorry,” Vlad whispered. She didn’t look up. “As am I.”

He felt the telltale tightening of her back as she clasped the stake behind her back. His knife sliced through her clothes and bodice to her heart. The diamonds dropped soundlessly to the ground as her ashes and dust floated away. Vlad knelt, coated in his wife’s remains. He could never forget her, and never forgive Radu for taking her away from him. In honor of his love, he stabbed those earrings through his own lobes. They would never come out, for he could never forgive himself, either. Dracula would not risk his heart again. The memory of her forehead on his, the feel of her dust falling on his hands, allowed no other beyond manipulation and feeding. Ilona, his only love, was dead by his own hand.

Chapter Thirteen

Lance escaped by the theater’s back door. Protestors blocked the front, but the rear alley was clear. Lance ran through the dark rain past a Dumpster, trying to reach his car before he was noticed. His scalp tightened in a familiar and very unwelcome way. Something nasty was about to happen. A flicker of movement to his left warned him. As he turned, an enormous tiger padded out of the cold drizzle toward him. The calculating gleam in its goldgreen eyes said this was no escapee from the zoo. It crouched, the muscles in its haunches bunching. Ready to spring on him. As they sized each other up, Lance realized something very important. He didn’t want to die. Lance held his left hand out, signaling the were-cat to stop. “What ” The cat sprung like a freight train, slamming him back first against the unyielding ground. Momentarily paralyzed, he saw massive jaws opening to sever his neck. Hail saved his life. A sudden downpour of stinging ice pellets distracted the tiger. Lance heaved a breath and pushed against the ground. Those evil teeth missed his throat as the tiger’s perch shifted from under him. Before the tiger could regain his aim, Lance thrust a finger into one golden eye.

Blood and fluids splattered over his hands. Four-inch fangs sank into his shoulder. Sharp teeth sliced to the scapula. The body-searing pain just stiffened his lips and firmed his resolve to live. A blessed Gerber II knife fell from his sleeve into his hand. He shoved the black anodized blade into the tiger’s ear. Man and beast roared at each other as Lance twisted the knife and struck again. Razor-sharp claws ripped through his leather jacket as the animal jerked back from the blow. Blackness crept around the edges of Lance’s vision. He wasn’t going to make it. From above, a gold dragon flew through the gloom. As gray suede shoes crashed heel first into the tiger’s back, Lance saw his lady in black, her embroidered coat settling around the tiger. Blood fountained from Lance’s shoulder as she forced the animal to the street. The vampire landed with her feet firmly planted on the tiger’s body. A quick tremor, then it shifted underneath her. She fell to the pavement. An enormous bloody baby-faced blond man landed on top of her. He reached for her throat. A cluster of protestors, still chanting “Kill them all, kill them all,” walked past the alley. Lance, the vampire, and the were-tiger froze in their gore-drenched tableaux until the last one ed. The second they had ed, the vampire punched the tiger right in its ruined eye. Lance clapped his free hand to his shoulder as he squirmed for his firearm. As the tiger roared in pain, she jabbed for the were-tiger’s remaining eye. The shifter flinched away but kept squeezing, trying to break her neck. As she scrabbled to poke his other eye out, the click-click of Lance’s handgun broke the fight. Both of them halted in mid-movement. “Let her go,” Lance ordered, his nine millimeter steady in his slick hands. The were-tiger raised his paw-like hands.

“Face down on the ground. Put your hands on the small of your back,” he ordered. Slowly, the other man lowered his bulk to the street. “What were you doing?” Lance demanded. The shifter pressed his lips together. “He came to kill you.” The Dark Lady raised herself to her feet. Her hair billowed in the wind and rain. Blood coated her hands and arms. Surrounded by her black aura and the black, wet night, she looked like a goddess of battle. Her sensual voice danced on the air and coated his skin like a bottle of truly expensive cognac. The type one avoided, even if they could afford it. Because one taste and nothing else would ever satisfy again. It warmed him in all the wrong places. Those wrong places thumped as she whipped off her thick leather belt. How he could feel any arousal with his blood pumping out of his shoulder, he didn’t know. Nevertheless, there it was. A minor miracle, no doubt. She knelt down. A few swift moves and she’d bound the attacker’s hands behind his back. Knee planted in his kidney, she finally looked Lance over. Her eyes narrowed as she took in his damage. “You need stitches.” A quick reach into her pocket and she tossed a perfectly starched white handkerchief toward him. He shook his head and stepped back, keeping his weapon clear. Like a dove, the cloth fluttered to the ground. “I heal quick.” Despite the stereotype of the controlled, centuries-old being, the lack of reflective mirrors until twenty years ago meant PNCs had lousy poker faces. Though they controlled every muscle, not being able to see what your face was doing meant emotions twisted as they saw fit. Lance liked what he saw on her face. She stared at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks pale in hunger and despair. Then she licked her lips. A ferocious sexual attraction ran from his throat to his gut and buried itself in behind his testicles.

He knelt down and looked in the tiger’s ruined face. “Why did you try to kill me?” The tiger said nothing, but flashed a cold look of complete contempt at Lance. Usual PNC chip on the shoulder. Typical. Irritating. The vampire leaned against the wall, her teeth bright in the gloom. “He reeks of Radu Tepes.” The tiger flinched and shrank into the broken pavement. A puzzle piece clicked into place for Lance. Mr. Tepes had been uncharacteristically silent during the press conference. Instead, Radu had merely given a short, meaningless statement about common goals. The CCC had been the major media star before tonight. In every report on the conference in both national and international news, Tepes’ image had been used as the background picture. He had hinted over and over at a major announcement. Now the CCC was below-the-fold news. Lance narrowed his eyes. The Consortium for Concerned Citizens, a wealthy, influential, international operation, wanted Lance dead. He stood, his eyes on the vampire’s red, shiny mouth. Not the doom he was hoping for. Pushing off the wall, the woman gave a twisted smile. “I do believe we have something in common to discuss.” The next puzzle piece sprang into clear focus. She wasn’t in Portland for the conference. She was here for the CCC’s frontman. The fire door clanged open behind them. A policeman looked out and saw the mess. “Hell,” she muttered.

She squeezed his arm once, hard, then she released him. “Come back to me,” he hissed. Her black coat twirled around her, and as she disappeared, she whispered, “Lucifer couldn’t keep me away.”

Chapter Fourteen

Could she have been any more careless? Valerie hunched her shoulders against the sopping rain as she crouched on the theater’s roof. She’d failed again. Two failures in one night were not acceptable. How could she let herself how she’d murdered her own wife? How could she follow Lance instead of going after her brother? Radu was already safe in his limo by now. She’d lost her chance at her release by interfering with the tiger attack. Everything she’d worked for since 1945 had brought her here tonight, and she’d blown it. Twice. She was throwing her redemption away for challenging eyes and an unusual aura? Disgust had her pinching the bridge of her nose. Soliel did nothing but hinder her from her brother’s well-deserved death. The priest had distracted her, she told herself. Delayed her. Turned her clit into a pulsing knot of need. She shifted, rubbing her swollen labia against the seam of her pants. The smell of cloves and musk and blood on her hands made her mouth water. Unthinking, Valerie licked her index finger. At the first taste of Lance’s blood, her nipples burned and her mouth tingled, as though she’d sipped from the sun. Whatever he was, his blood blew her mind. She sucked the entire digit into her mouth. Dignity and thinking were abandoned as she desperately chased down every smear of the intimate fluid on her hands. His taste lingered on her tongue, more stimulating than a triple espresso in plasma with a brandy chaser. It flew through her body like cocaine, but better, healthier, stronger, bringing her an amazing sense of well-being and peace. As though her darkest deeds were not beyond the capacity to forgive. She bit her lip. No tears, she had to remind herself again. Draculs did not cry, specially male Draculs. Both of her parents had beaten weeping out of her. Valerie swallowed her tears, instead giving herself over to the heat of his blood.

She tightened her thighs, massaging her clit against her panties. An orgasm teased but remained elusive. Valerie refused to lie to herself anymore. She wanted more. She needed more. If she didn’t get more, she’d go insane with wanting. How could she stay away from her light-bringer? When was the last time she had felt hope? Valerie’s earrings seemed to drag at her. How could she survive if she were responsible for another lover’s death? If she lost this one.... No. She would not fear failure. Radu wasn’t going anywhere, she told herself. She could kill him anytime. Blood like this only came along once in a long lifetime. She tucked her soaking wet hair behind her ears and looked down at him. From her vantage point, Valerie could see Lance had spoken truly. He healed fast —vampire fast. His bare chest shone in the rain and the streetlights as the wounds closed. He leaned against the building, waiting on yet another person to take his statement. Cameras and reporters lined the yellow police tape. An idea hovered on the edge of her consciousness as she watched the torn tissues knit together. Radu wanted him dead. She wanted Radu dead. Radu or his man would come for the priest again and next time, be better prepared for the man’s unique talents. The only sure way to catch her brother would be to stay very, very close to one Lance Soliel. He would be her irresistible bait in an unstoppable trap. It was a perfect plan. She settled her coat around herself. Rigid self-honesty forced her to it this plan was concerned with having more of his delectable body than Radu’s death. May Lucifer’s home have mercy on what soul she might have.

AT MIDNIGHT, THE POLICE left with the tiger, one Roger Corbetti, in custody. The firemen rinsed away the last of the gore, coiled their hoses, and left. Valerie stared down at Lance as he inspected his weapon. His shoulders drooped. The way he shifted his feet suggested exhaustion. He looked utterly edible. This mortal intrigued her. Everything from his wicked bright aura to his guarded eyes to his exquisite handling of a pistol fascinated her. Purity and danger, all tied up in one perfectly shaped package. He pulled out his little phone. “Jane? Yeah, I got delayed.” Whoever Jane was, she wasn’t his lady. Despite the darkness spotting his aura, he wasn’t the sort to give one woman the come-hither when he was committed elsewhere. “No, I did not get attacked by a lion.” Jane said something indistinct in reply. “It was a tiger.” Valerie twitched her lips at his deadpan delivery. Funny guy. “Oh, thank God.” Fortunately, Valerie was too old to twitch at the Holy Name. “I’ll come in after some food and sleep, since things have calmed down. You rock, girl.” He hung up. No more waiting. Though the crowd had disappeared, a few die-hard photographers remained. Valerie narrowed her eyes. How could she arrange privacy for her plans? A gentle push from her toes and she dropped from the rooftop. Soft as a leaf, she landed behind the paparazzi.

One by one, she hunted them. Before the war, she would have cut their throats or broken their necks. Before the war, she would have fed royally. Now, though? She had to be careful. The first fell from a strike to the carotid. The next she hit at the base of the skull. One by one, she dropped them to the ground unconscious. The hunt was almost as satisfying without the kill. Valerie set aside her disappointment. Even with the eight photographers’ slow, healthy heartbeats in her ears, Lance’s clove-laden breath and pulse overrode her hunger. She walked up to him. “Excuse me.” He turned at her voice. His blue eyes sharpened when he saw the people out cold. Those eyes made her clench her thighs. Arousal took her clit in its hard embrace. “Yes?” he answered. Lucifer’s claws, the man’s voice rubbed up and down her skin like a supple tongue, rising gooseflesh under her breasts. “You do heal fast,” she murmured approvingly. The possibilities of a fast-healing lover had her licking a fang behind her lips. “Seminary’s good for something.” He held out his hand. “Lance Soleil, Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter.” His arm stayed in the air as she studied his face. She had a bad track record in love. Could he survive her? Could she survive losing him? He didn’t waver or look disconcerted at her reluctance. Lance just waited, poised on the balls of his feet for whatever happened next. His body told her he’d take her down as comfortably as shake her hand.

What the hell. Even unlife was too short for everything she wanted. “Valerie Tate.” She stepped within his brilliant aura and clasped his hand with hers. His constantly moving glow kindled a long-dormant flame in her icy chest. It caressed her endlessly, exciting her even more than his smell. His calloused, firm hand wrapped her in warmth, enthralling her. To be a vampire meant to be cold and, despite the mythology, outside of society’s good graces. Warmth, once found, was not easily given up. “My apologies.” She withdrew her wayward hand and put it in her pocket, away from trouble. “May I escort you home?” Lance’s eyebrows went up, but his face remained calm. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled on a pair of gloves. “Why?” Liquid heat slid down her breastbone to her center. Red leather creaked and flexed around long, clever-looking fingers. She shuddered at the thought of those digits in delicate places. This could be the worst idea of her existence. It could also be the best.

Chapter Fifteen

Her shudder opened a floodgate of heat to his penis. Testing her reactions, he smoothed the glove over his hand one more time, stroking slowly, teasingly. She wetted the bow of her top lip with her tongue, the tips of her fangs showing. Her gaze lifted to his face. Lance let the corner of his mouth lift when she touched the side of her breast. She teased him back as she slid her hand down her waist and finished at her hip. Satisfaction at her responsiveness poured into his veins and made his crotch twitch and swell. Danger excited him. How many respectable women had he dated before discovering it? Ironic how those poor ladies had thought a former military chaplain would be a safe, undemanding lover. He put his hand in his pocket, drawing attention to his arousal. Her nostrils flared and she flushed. With the extra color, her bearing transformed from rigid control to sensuality. He wanted to see her lying on his bed, her face relaxed, her tight body limp from overwhelming pleasure. Their gazes met. He could tell she read his intentions when she sucked in a breath. He had to have her. More than that, he needed her. Her darkness calmed the exhausting force that drove him. Lance ambled forward, his gaze locked on her lips. He clasped her hand, caressing his thumb over the thin skin of her wrist. Her eyes stayed on him as he wrapped his other hand around her neck and, pulling her to him, touched his lips to hers. Her mouth surprised him. Such a starkly beautiful woman shouldn’t be so soft and plush.

For a few wild seconds, she stared into his eyes, seeming to assess his sincerity. Then, slowly, deliberately, she closed her eyelids. Her hands wrapped around his back and held on as she opened her mouth and let him in. He kissed her again and again, learning her mouth. Vampires didn’t taste of old blood or decay. Valerie, at least, tasted resinous and earthy, like rosemary. Like sex outdoors on a blanket under young redwood trees. Their lips separated just far enough for him to look into her heavy-lidded hazel eyes. The hungry look on her face made his cock swell even harder until he ached to be inside of her. She scratched at his nipples with her short nails. He hissed as he pressed into her touch. “More,” she whispered. He clasped her chin with one hand. Clasping the other around her waist, he pushed her against a wall. Lance smiled as her eyes widened. He had his own gifts of strength. Grabbing her ass, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed against her hot crotch against his thumping erection. Their teeth clicked in a fierce kiss. His hands kneaded the firm flesh of her bottom. Even through her pants he felt her muscles flex and quiver. She growled and slid her hands under his leather jacket. His next powerful thrust had her raking her nails down his back. Lance offered no quarter. Neither did she. They fought for dominance with kisses. She couldn’t overpower him. He met her, strength for strength, stroke for stroke, then matched her, and finally controlled her. They broke apart. As they stared into each other’s eyes, he panted into her mouth. She took the unnecessary air into her lungs. Vampires didn’t breathe, except to speak or scent. Oxygen, like alcohol in

humans, made them euphoric, light-headed, and uninhibited. The undead hated being out of control. Her pupils dilated until the barest ring of hazel held. What would she do? Valerie dug her hands into his hair. “More.” Lance laughed and complied. She doubled the speed of her strokes against him. He kept pace until their hips pounded like thunder in the night. The orgasm surprised them both. She screamed into the wet night air as she thrashed against his chest. One of the unconscious journalists groaned, shattering the intimacy. “There’s a motel down the street,” Lance ground out when Valerie opened her eyes. “Yes.” He entwined their fingers together and tugged her toward the seedy hotel.

Chapter Sixteen

Too many emotions ruled Valerie as she gripped Lance’s firm, leather-clad hand. Arousal, protectiveness, excitement, and something yet unnamed quivered up and down her spine. His solid, muscular body and his hot clove scent made her light-headed. Her logical, strategic mind flailed in the fog. An older, more fearless part of her, the part related to her bold, wild-hearted mother, stepped forward for the first time since Radu had claimed Ilona. When they reached the hotel, she whipped out a key. “I was staying here anyway.” She led him toward a first-story room around the back of the building. As the door clicked open, she flung him onto the king-sized bed. They needed to be on a horizontal surface right now. Hangers rattled on their exposed bar as the headboard banged against the wall. Lance laughed as he landed on the randomly colored bedspread. His smile transformed his face from severe to boyishly cheery in a heartbeat. She couldn’t help but chuckle as he bounced lightly on the slippery cover. “C’mere, you sexy thing.” He curled his finger to her, beckoning and delicious. Time stretched as they grinned at each other. An indescribable, nearly audible click of perfect attunement resounded in her head. Astonishing. When she was with him, she had a sense of humor. They would not only be amazing lovers; this would be a friendship for the ages. Together, they were more than two sinners in search of redemption. They were an unbeatable team. Was it truly possible? His light gave her hope and softened her guilt. Perhaps she was forgivable. The room, previously smelling of disinfectant and thin blankets, now transformed into a steamy and exotic lair.

A hot eagerness filled her chest. Unable to contain herself, Valerie grabbed two fistfuls of his jacket and pulled herself on top of his chest. Their mouths met. He tasted like spice, like ion, like sweet, hot blood. She could live off his kisses. They filled her more than revenge, than penance, even more than anger. His mouth threatened everything she was. Valerie shuddered. Who would she be without those things? She needed to take back control before she completely lost herself. She nipped at his lower lip, her teeth hard and aggressive. He didn’t fight, but he didn’t surrender, either. Instead of meeting force with force, his kiss held out against her aggression like a strong tower ignoring the temporary battering of a storm. He drew the tip of her tongue into his mouth. She moaned hard enough to shake her entire body. The warm sucking sent a delicious languor over her. As he framed her cheeks with those strong hands still wrapped in leather, Valerie’s muscles turn from icy and rigid to warm and pliant. They touched lips again, taking their time. Slow, wet kisses pulled at her nethers. He ran the velvet of his lips over her fangs. Electric shocks fired up her skull. He buried his face in her neck and bit at her veins even as he held her still. Valerie turned her head into his hand. She nipped at Lance’s glove when he licked the small sting of his blunt teeth away. If she could hurry him, she’d keep her self-identity intact. He wouldn’t look inside of her and see any more of what she hid. Lance rolled her underneath him, pinning her to the bed. He luxuriously stretched to take off his gloves, not removing his mouth from her collarbone. She leaned back and captured a wrist with a tight grip. Hooking a fang around a fold in the leather covering his middle finger, Valerie tugged and sucked until his glove peeled off of him. Her mouth undressed his hand in a slow striptease. She heard his heart accelerate as the glove surrendered to her oral prowess. After all, a vampire learned a few things ing her mouth after a few decades.

She tossed the glove onto the bed. He caressed her lips with the thumb of his now-naked hand. Valerie stifled a moan at the first feel of his bare skin. His heat and purity flowed through her like a river of lava. How could a mortal be as fiery as one of the Ardent Ones, those who stayed Above? With his other hand, Lance touched the top button of her coat. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” he murmured in her ear. His words were right, but his voice sounded as though he were talking through a dark tunnel. A vague sense of something missing sent a whisper through her fog of arousal. Can’t I do better than a quick and sleazy one-night fuck in a run-down motel? Don’t we both deserve better than this? If I’m going to risk everything, let’s do this right. Startled, Valerie pulled back. Bereft of his warmth, shivers trembled over her lips. She leaned in and touched their foreheads together, trying to master the unexpected emotion. This was business, nothing more. She shouldn’t lie to herself. “Something wrong?” Lance moved his hands soothingly over her back. The shivers subsided. “Are we in a hurry?” she asked simply. Time stretched before her like taffy. If he withdrew now, there would be no future for them. No friendship, no sex, no warmth, nothing. Valerie would go her way, he’d go his. She’d kill Radu, and keep running to find peace of mind until she ate garlic just to end everything. He’d get killed by his opponents. The world would be a poorer place. Lance’s eyes warmed even further. “I have all the time in the world,” he answered. She licked her upper lip and wrapped their fingers together. His palm was warm, strong, and calloused. The feel of the rough skin encouraged her. These were the hands of a courageous man, not someone untested by suffering. Those hands on her breasts would feel amazing.

She needed to get away from the temptation of the bed. “Let’s go outside.” Valerie held out her hand and pulled him to his feet. Lance grabbed his discarded glove as he rose. He grinned at her, a little goofy, like a modern teenager. “I do like a girl who lets me hold hands on the first date.” Valerie understood the urge to giggle. She told herself that she was letting Radu’s spies know right where their prey had landed. Yeah. Sure. Just what she intended.

Chapter Seventeen

“I have all the time in the world,” Lance said. For her, he did. When she smiled, she looked like a child introduced to violence at a too-young age. The woman had stories underneath that vampiric mask. He wanted all of them. He would have all of them. Tonight, she had saved his life, spared the life of a delinquent, and she had not gone through with the assassination of Radu Tepes. Whatever sins she had on her, underneath, she wanted to do right. Lance smiled at her tenderly. Saving a vampire would be the perfect crown to his checkered career. Lance let her pull him off the bed and out of the shabby hotel room. The night had turned cold once the rain had stopped. His breath steamed in front of them. He conveniently forgot that she might want his stories, too. His dreams were no one else’s business. Once outside, the vampiress gestured to a covered automobile that hid in the shadows. “Would you like a ride?” she asked, her lips still swollen and her voice still husky from their desire. She whipped the canvaslike material off and twirled it like a matador’s cape. Not a drop of water hit Lance, the car, or her. Show-off, he thought. Then sheer vehicular lust overwhelmed everything. The black Shelby Mustang crouched on the pavement like a rare predator. This sweet machine was the pinnacle of all muscle cars, the most legendary of engines combined with perfect design. And he was about to get in it. There was no way he was going back to

work just yet. “She’s a ’67?” He touched respectful fingers to the glossy black paint over the hood. The white Le Mans stripes decorating the hood shimmered in the outdoor lights of the motel. “’66.” The smooth skin around her eyes crinkled, giving her a mischievous air. She was planning something. With a sly smile, she said, “You want to drive her?” “You would let me behind your wheel?” He slapped his hand over his heart and staggered, feigning a heart attack. A creaky, unpracticed laugh escaped from the vampire. What a beautiful noise. She pulled out keys, complete with a battered leather Mustang fob, and dangled them in front of him. They chimed like church bells in the dark. Her smirk revealed still-extended, wickedly delicious fangs. His mouth watered at the thought of those 350 vintage horses under his fingers waiting for his command. A vague memory from his youth told him the Shelby could go from zero to sixty in 4.5 seconds. This was every car-crazy boy’s fantasy, hot babe included, right here in front of him. “No need to ask me twice.” He snatched the jingling keys from her hand. Their eyes met. Watchfulness swam in those dark depths. She was testing him. His awareness slid up a notch. The wrong move from him and she’d take that gorgeous car and disappear from his life. That would suck. So. No wrong moves. Like his mama taught him, Lance unlocked the enger door. Like a gentleman in a tuxedo, he gestured toward the pristine interior. Valerie gracefully descended into the seat and he gently closed the car door. She reached across and pulled the lock on the driver’s side. So far, so good.

Getting in to the leather seat, he ran his hands reverently over the instrument before adjusting the seat and the mirrors. He tugged at the waist-only seat belt. It stuck a little before unspooling. Obviously hadn’t been used much. Once he clicked the buckle, he stretched his fingers. Time to practice everything he’d ever learned about restraint. “She’s a beauty. Does she have a name?” he asked. “Ilona,” Valerie replied, her head lowered as she fastened her own seat belt. He cocked an eyebrow. Ilona. Dracula’s wife, famous for her betrayal and death at her husband’s hands. Interesting. What would cause a woman to embrace that story? “Are you going to drive her or just fondle her?” She winked, but her purring challenge couldn’t have been any clearer than a glove across the face. Lance winked back at the waiting woman. Smooth as feathers, the key slid in the ignition. After an awed moment listening to the engine’s dangerous song, Lance shifted and backed out. For a moment, he let the car cling to the safety of the quiet lot, then turned the wheel and applied gas with a whisper touch. Ilona rewarded his care with a pleased growl. He sensed Valerie’s smile. A quick peek over at the enger seat showed her fingers slowly unclenching from the door handle. Lance’s hand hovered over the radio. “May I?” “Sure.” Massive Attack’s low and throbbing bass came out of the speakers. Lance turned the music down until it matched the beat of the engine, letting the sound wrap them in a cocoon of dark and dreamy sensuality. He took them out of the city and into the surrounding darkened farmland and forest. Portland’s light pollution fell behind them as they plunged into the dark, dark night. Ilona ate up the miles toward Lance’s destination—a park carved into the side of the bluff overlooking the city and the valley below. Glancing over, he smiled when he saw Valerie’s nose crinkled in pleasure. Their

gaze held for a second. She broke first, turning away to watch the trees fly by. The Shelby and he were a team, taking Valerie through both the tight curves and wide sweepers with confidence and restraint. Lance refused to scream the tires, even drunk as he was with the joy of driving something so fast and powerful. His hands caressed the car’s controls. He took them higher. Up they climbed to the crest of the low mountain to the park’s gravel lot. Turning off the car, he opened the door, walked around the hood, and opened the enger door. She awkwardly put her cool palm in his and let him help her out of the seat. “Over here. You’ll get a great view.” He led her to the low stone fence that circled the parking lot. “Have a seat.” Touching the small of her back with his fingertips, he sat on the wall on her right. Time to start digging into her past. “What brings you to Portland?” He sent his opening shot over her bow. She shifted on the wall. Lance thought she would refuse to answer, then her mouth relaxed again. “The conference brings me to town,” she answered. The polite blandness of her tone was meant to discourage. After all, who would reveal their innermost thoughts, especially illegal ones, to someone they had just met? Lance pressed her anyway. “Are you going to reveal your presence? The world thinks there are only three vampires left.” She shook her head. “I like my anonymity.” The vampire tilted a flirtatious look from the corner of her eyes. “How long have you lived here?” Ah! A counteroffensive. Lance disregarded it. “This year’s conference should be particularly exciting,” he probed. “I understand that Radu Tepes is going to make a major announcement.”

Faster than a snake, she blinked at the other vampire’s name. Lance saw the movement anyway. Solid confirmation that she didn’t like the man. He shifted tactics. He would get her to tell him what she was doing. “Why did you say the tiger smelled like him?” Lance asked. “Why did you let those werewolves in?” She leaned back, and propped herself with her arms on the fence top behind her. Her smirk said, “Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs, kid.” This was going nowhere fast. Maybe she knew an interrogation when she saw one. Lance recalculated his strategy. Perhaps she would respond to him answering her question. He matched her posture, leaning back and sprawling his legs out. The vampire licked her lips. After a quick glance at his crotch, she dragged her gaze back to his face. “Well?” she asked. “It was the right thing to do.” She hinged forward at the hips and rested her elbows on her knees. “Of course it was.” Her wet hair rustled against her gold dragon as she looked over her shoulder. If Lance was feeling charitable, he would call the expression on her face “cynical.” His earlier exhilaration drained away, leaving him tired and aching. “I have nothing to lose. The shelter runs out of money”—he checked his watch —“in nine hours. All this fury over a meaningless action.” Her head drooped as she studied the rocks beneath her shoes. “It has meaning.” Absently, she touched a sparkling earlobe. “One night’s sleep, then everyone’s back on the street.” Lance shook his head, hiding his resignation under his matter-of-fact tone. “Doesn’t matter.” Lance heard her take a harsh breath.

“No. It matters so much that Radu tried to kill you tonight,” Valerie started, then paused. The moon gilded them in glimmering silver as she rotated to straddle the rock fence. Lance’s scalp tingled. This was important. “How can you be so certain of that?” She tapped the side of her nose. “That tiger reeked.” “You know him that well?” “Well enough to know that he won’t stop until he gets what he wants. He wants you out of his way.” A cold pale hand touched his knee. “I will help you if you help me.” “Oh?” He studied her. So many undercurrents with this woman. “I have unfinished business with him. If I become your bodyguard, we can kill two birds with one bullet.” Killing two birds. Instead of answering, Lance played for time. As though his hand moved without his conscious will, it reached over and stroked her throat. She shivered when he traced the curled rim of her ear and touched the large diamonds. Fascinated by her responses, he kept touching her. A single finger down the side of her jaw to her pointed chin made her close her eyes and clench the stone hard enough to crack the granite. She tipped her face to the moon and swallowed as he ran that finger down her pale throat to the pit of her neck. “And what exactly would my bodyguard do?” he murmured. She turned, her face a whisper away from his. “I’d never leave your side. Everywhere you go, I go. I sip from your cup. I eat from your plate. You’ll never be without me.” Lance’s belly tensed. There was more to her words than either of them wanted to acknowledge. He slipped his hand under her jacket and shirt. The cool bare skin of her back

goose-pimpled under his touch. His hands explored the tender skin of her quivering belly. This woman was like no other. His carefully banked arousal woke and demanded they finish what they started in that bed. She continued, unknowing of his thoughts. “And when he makes his move on you, I make my move on him.” Lance’s ardor chilled. So much for distraction. On the surface, she wanted him to tempt the CCC into carelessness. Under the surface, she meant to kill the famous vampire. Lance’s shoulders tensed as though she was about to whip out a pistol and go hunting right now. Being involved in a murder, even tangentially, would destroy his chance at atoning for his sins, something Lance had worked for since he was eighteen. Anger heated him back up. Even worse, assassinating Radu Tepes would start a world-wide revolt. The high-profile vampire was personally a jerk, but he was also a symbol of PNC dreams and aspirations to wealth, prestige, and political power. “Killing him would be a disaster,” Lance bit out. “Killing him would end a blight on the earth,” she retorted. Lance looked at her from beneath lowered lids. “Do I have to spell it out? “Even if you kill him in secret, you’ll be found. The death of a vampire, especially Tepes, will call out an international manhunt. Every PNC on the planet will be questioned. Most will be detained. There will be no due process, there will be no understanding of the nonviolent species, there will be torment, pain, and lynching unseen since the depths of Jim Crow.” At his words, she uncoiled herself from the wall and paced, her face resembling carved marble in the moonlight. Her perfect posture stiffened even more and her upper lip twitched upward. Ruthlessly, he continued. “First, you’ll make a martyr of him. Then you will start a massacre. No.” He shook his head. “There will be war.” He described the conflict he saw in his head.

The surviving PNCs would band together to object to mob justice. They would unleash their fury at not being able to marry whom they wanted, to being second-class citizens. The humans would push back, right into a fully blown race war that left the world’s human population decimated and PNCs demonstrating the teeth of their own justice. He would be ripped to shreds by the very werewolves he took in. Lance shook himself free of the scenario he described. “All that will come true,” he continued. “If you want to stop Tepes, he must be disgraced.” She frowned and shifted her weight. After a long pause, she said, “He sells himself as a hero. He was a double agent in the war.” Lance jerked in surprise. “Can you prove it?” Either she was lying to convince him, or she knew secrets no one knew. “No.” She tossed her head in disgust. “All the documents had been destroyed.” Convenient, but for now, it didn’t matter. Lance placed his hand on hers. “What would be worse for him? Death? Or humiliation?” Her eyebrows lifted. Lance could see thoughts chase themselves behind her eyes, assessing his logic. He waited, though his not-yet lover thought faster than he anticipated. The corner of her mouth tipped up. “Talk to me.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Y ou have three minutes before I snap your neck.” In the privacy of his hotel suite, Radu pursed his lips at Roger. Blowing this assignment, being arrested, and having the Consortium post bail gave the media too much to talk about. Nothing should distract from his announcement tomorrow. He adjusted his cuff links before tapping his fingertips together. Governor Green of Wisconsin had been most persuasive, but the governor of Nevada was due to call in ten minutes. In between Roger and that phone call, Radu had five minutes to do something about Soliel. The battered were-tiger stiffened, and then ran his hand through his bloodstained hair. His mended eyes remained focused just above Radu’s eyebrows. “A vampire jumped in.” Another vampire? Another one lived? Surprised, Radu tilted his head. This was most unanticipated. He’d lost so many of his undead family. The possibility of another stirred his curiosity. “What did he look like? Did he say anything?” “She. Dark, skinny, smelled familiar, but I couldn’t get a good read on her. Too much blood.” He took a sip from the take-out coffee cup he’d carried in with him. Either Roger was a complete idiot pausing in the middle of the explanation that might save his life, or he really, really loved coffee. Impatient, Radu circled his hand in the air. The excitement about this revelation could tip media attention back in Radu’s favor. Reinforced with his caffeine, Roger laid out the events in a clear, concise

fashion, concluding with “Said something about him being under her protection. I’ve never heard of such a thing, boss, have you?” He finished with five seconds on his clock. Radu leaned back and looked at the blacked-out skylight in the ceiling. “Only in the old, old days. We once cultivated humans like farmers did cattle.” He shook his head and steepled his fingers. “For some reason, mortals didn’t like that. There were no female territory holders.” A few keystrokes on his slim laptop and the document he wanted appeared. “Corbetti, I am e-mailing you a list written in 1815. At the Council of Vienna, I inventoried all known vampires. I want you to study it, tell me if you recognize any. By sunrise, I want to have on my desk a revised plan for dealing with your target. Understood?” Roger nodded and his posture relaxed. “What about the charges?” ”Umar and Joe will take care of them,” Radu said. “We’ll avoid going to court. As far as the press is concerned, we are ensuring that you, a PNC and a stranger to us, are getting a fair trial in human courts. You will be found under the influence of human drugs. Understood?” “Yes.” Roger scuttled to the door and exited as Umar entered. The tiger refused to make eye with the were-hawk lawyer as he slunk out of the room. “I miss the old days,” Umar Mernissi sighed as he helped himself to a glass of sparkling water. “I know. Killing the help was satisfying, but it really is much too expensive now.” Radu shrugged. “Do you have anything we can use?” “Mr. Soliel certainly moved around. He graduated from high school in Illinois and he’s an Eagle Scout. Of course”—Umar ran his fingers around the circumference of his glass—“I had to call a former staffer in Illinois government. She opened some closed records.”

Of course. Illinois politics, Radu thought. The confidential information must have cost dearly, but would be both accurate and timely. “And?” Radu prompted, annoyed. Umar was rarely so slow. “Until ten years ago, Lance Soliel ed a patient at a private nursing home in Chicago’s west suburbs. But never visited.” Curious. Radu checked his watch. Five minutes to the governor’s call. “Umar, leave me.” He waited until the graceful Arab left, and then dialed his phone. Radu’s fame unlocked doors, even ones that should stay closed. “Why, yes, Dr. Daniels, I am that Radu Tepes.” The time difference to Illinois meant he got the sanitarium just as the diurnal beings arrived, fresh and rested. And chatty. Radu rubbed his forehead. He only had three minutes left. He paused long enough to check his reflection. Everything still looked good, even at this late hour. As he licked his teeth, Radu waited for the effusive Dr. Daniels to finish talking. Who knew that he’d inspire a lamia to go to medical school? Radu cleared his throat and interrupted. “Pardon me, Dr. Daniels. I hate to rush you, but my time is limited. If I may? Thank you. The reason behind my call is I heard of a former patient of yours, one John Janté.” Who knew that with only a little prodding, hero worship could override patient privacy? Umar shook his head at the lamia’s words tumbling through the receiver. “A most unusual case, Mr. Tepes. Mr. Janté came to us in 1990, suffering from PNC-caused wounds that refused to close. Then in the course of a week about,

hmm, nine years ago perhaps, he healed unexpectedly and completely. Very mysterious. But wonderful.” The doctor chuckled. “He moved to Europe, finished college, and I believe he works in Switzerland. We never did figure out what cured him or what was wrong with him. A medical miracle.” Victorious, Radu ended the call with a minute to spare. “Father Soliel,” he addressed the ceiling. “I have your weakness.” He pulled a nail buffer out from his drawer and went after that cursed thumbnail. One last glance at his watch. The Nevada governor was now two minutes late, even though he had Umar’s number as well as Radu’s. That simply wouldn’t do for someone who wanted to be his running mate. He picked up the phone again and dialed Wisconsin. “Governor Green? How would you like to be my vice president?”

Chapter Nineteen July 1988 Danville, Illinois

Mutt had Jeff, Laurel had Hardy, John Janté had Lance Soleil. They shouldn’t be friends. John’s family emigrated from when he was eleven. Three years in the States and John still exuded Gallic temper, excitability, and a Frenchman’s charm. Lance prided himself on his marijuanainduced calm. John was staunchly Catholic. Lance was a lapsed Episcopalian. But Lance’s sophomore year had changed everything. Lance’s summer had been spent growing. Towering over his classmates at six feet, the first four weeks of school consisted of paying back all the insults he’d swallowed since third grade. Now he was in control. “Look at the shrimp.” Lance nudged his locker mate, Bill. “You’d think he owned the place. Let’s show him who rules here.” John continued down the hall, his clear green eyes untroubled by Lance’s threats. Lance fumed. He towered over John by six inches. “Hey, asshole!” he yelled. A quick shove and he had the frog’s full attention. John’s first punch broke Lance’s nose. As blood spurted down Lance’s blue Tshirt, the second fist blacked an eye, rocking Lance back and into the lockers. Dazed, he slid to the floor, holding his nose. Before the teachers could even convene to interfere, John stood over Lance. Some sort of gold necklace around John’s neck distracted Lance. “Ridiculous American, are you going to do something so stupid again?”

Holding his broken nose, Lance just stared up at the black-haired, compact fury ahead of him. “Answer me, you moron.” John’s liquid accent turned Lance’s already hazed brain to mush. “I guess not,” he answered. “Very well.” A bloody hand reached down. “Is that the latest Badger comic in your backpack or are you a complete waste of air?” The wrestling coach shoved his way through the crowd. “You two! We’re going to the principal’s office right now.” The wide man hauled them by their shoulders down the stairs and into the Danville High School istrative offices. Mr. Fairchild, an enormous former semiprofessional football player, crossed his hands over his still-hard stomach. “Fighting in the halls? I’m sadly disappointed, gentlemen.” Shaking his bald head in mock despair, he reached for the canoe paddle over his head. Lance, his nose still dripping, cringed. John lifted an elegant eyebrow. “As am I, Mr. Fairchild. I had heard so many things about your so-called excellent American education system, yet I see that bullies run rampant throughout your halls.” His upper lip curled in perfect, European disdain at the canoe paddle. “And I see where the students learn their manners.” The wrestling coach coughed. The principal’s secretary clutched her throat. Mr. Fairchild’s lips thinned as he met John’s cool gaze. For long moments, the office echoed with the faint sound of running feet out in the hall. Slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched, then the other. His entire face contorted until the man leaned forward, snorting and hooting until his face turned red. “Gentlemen,” he wheezed. “This is the best laugh I’ve had for years. Thank you.” From then on, Lance followed where John’s perfect body led.

John disapproved of the pot. “Lance, think of the ladies. Would you kiss someone who tasted like that? Puh-leeze.” He rolled his expressive green eyes. Lance quit. John approved of studying. “Lance. Conversation? Ever hear of it?” John’s raised eyebrows sent a profound message. Lance got better grades. John, the smoothie, knew how to talk to girls. “Lance. The ladies. Look them in the eyes and let them finish their sentences. Would you date a self-absorbed clod?” The stiff forefinger to Lance’s sternum got the point across. Senior year, Lance asked Theresa Madden out on a date after staring at her chest for two years. Astonishingly enough, she had really pretty eyes and fascinating stories of her childhood living in Egypt with her news correspondent mother. Lance never felt as complete as he did on the nights when he, Theresa, and John sat on John’s parents’ sofa and watched horror movies. The heady combination of Theresa’s Love’s Baby Soft and John’s Old Spice warmed his soul. Last month, they finished their Eagle Scout projects. Last week, they graduated from high school. Today, they reveled in their first of many planned camping trips before Lance went to the U of I at -Urbana-Champaign to study electrical engineering and John went back to Paris to study international law at the Sorbonne. “Come visit me, my friend. You will love Paris.” Lance started reading guidebooks. And right now, John led him through the woods at Forest Glen Forest Preserve; they were like a mismatched Hansel and Gretel. The world, for all it was messed up and screwy, was ripe and beautiful and safe, theirs for a few hours. Danville remained a human-only refuge from the hordes of non-humans flooding into the bigger cities in Illinois. Chicago actually had a lamia librarian in one of the city’s library branches. The state buzzed with the scandal. The citizens of Danville felt smug and secure in their corner of the state.

Lance and John spiraled out from their tidy camp by the riverbank for hours, talking, hiking, and picking up trash. At one point, they posed for a photo in front of their favorite river crossing. Lance’s new camera’s self-timer worked like a charm. They continued on until John stopped dead. His nose shot up in the air. “What’s that?” Lance’s sense of smell had always been less than stellar. “What’s what?” he asked, futilely sniffing. “Honeysuckle. It’s the wrong season,” John said, and crashed through the underbrush, his nose leading the way. Soon he was out of sight. Lance shook his head and obediently trotted after his friend. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. “What the hell is that?” John stood in front of a mound, at least eight feet high on the far side, with a gentle slope facing them and a strange curved cave in the middle. Orange-red honeysuckle, the exact color of Theresa Madden’s pussy (a fact Lance had only discovered last weekend), covered the edges of the cavern. A trickle of water reflected back from the deepest depths of the fissure. Lighter pink flowers ringed the entrance, spreading out to wreath the entire mound in hot, arousing color. His mouth watered at the sight. Just as his cock responded to the earth’s invitation, a shiver of foreboding ran down his neck. His forebrain reemerged from the sensual haze. “Man, we should go. This gives me the creeps.” A pussy belonged on a whole woman, not made of soil and unattached to a living, feeling body. “You lack curiosity, mon ami,” John retorted. “You have the merit badge in botany. You tell me—have you ever seen anything like this before?” John circled the mound, gently brushing the sweet blooms. He sniffed his fingertips, obviously relishing the lingering scent on his skin. “John, seriously. I mean it. Let’s go. We should tell the Rangers. Not only is the damn thing not in season, honeysuckle’s invasive. It needs to be controlled. Ripped out.” The urge to run made his feet itch.

“Oh, no.” A feminine voice sighed from beneath the flowers. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” The boys froze. Despite the lack of wind, the top of the mound shivered. Like a waterfall, the quivering ran down the incline, then even more improbably, ran back up to the top. Eerily, slowly, the vines twined together. The trumpet-shaped flowers clustered together, melding and melting to form flesh. Curved, narrow lips puckered and opened. A soft sigh curled a body as flowers braided together to create eyelashes and eyelids. They knotted into a woman’s nude body. The woman reclining on the peak turned her head to look at them as her reddish gold hair slithered around her shoulders. Green eyes took them in. The boys stared at her big pink nipples on top of her full, round breasts. John smoothed his shirtfront. Lance stared at the flawless white skin with a healthy blush of rose on her cheeks and belly. She was truly angelic, beautiful enough to make the boys forget they had just seen flowers make a woman. She stood. Curved hips and slender legs propelled her down the slope toward them. The curly pubic hair matching the hair on her head didn’t conceal the enticing slit of her pussy. The warm scent of aroused woman and flowers filled Lance’s veins. Ferocious desire beat back any good sense he’d ever had. Theresa Madden’s trembling legs and vulnerable eyes disappeared from his memory. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, Lance rationalized. Besides, who could ask an eighteen-year-old boy to turn down a willing woman? Somewhere inside, a voice of innocence wailed its death in betrayal. Lust drowned it out. “Well, hello, ma chérie.” John’s voice got that low French burr that all the women loved. “We wouldn’t dream of harming you, not at all. Won’t you forgive my easily worried friend?” Her dreamy, heavy-lidded gaze flicked over Lance, lingering on his crotch. A

dimpled hand touched her throat, drawing attention to her perfect skin and tempting breasts. A shudder of something that wasn’t lust made him want to run. “John, I don’t know...” “I’m sure you can make it up to me.” She breathed each word, like a woman climbing to orgasm. The husky syllables fed the fire in Lance’s blood until his penis thumped against his fly. One petal-soft hand wrapped around each boy’s neck. The touch of her fingers made Lance’s nipples stand up and rub against his Metallica T-shirt. Her body radiated sun-hot, burning through his clothes. It was too much. Lance had to reach down and adjust his trapped erection. As one, the boys flanked her, their own hands landing around her waist. She pulled them to her body. “Show me your goodwill?” Her lips moved in toward John’s face. Porn had never looked like this. Watching those wet tongues meet and slide against each other fired him into orbit. As she sucked John’s tongue into her own mouth, Lance moaned. The shivers of concern barely ed anymore. The woman epitomized temptation. As he watched her lick down John’s neck, the thought of those soft, puckering lips around his hard penis sent a bolt of hunger down his gut. His fingers traveled up and down her spine and cupped one silky, resilient butt cheek. Hot, smooth skin greeted him. His hands caressed the baby-fine flesh of her ass as he slid closer and closer to her cleft. She tipped her head back and sighed in pleasure as both males clasped her breasts and plucked those bubblegum-pink nipples. John tucked her against him, wrapping his arm around her narrow waist. Lance curled against them, ignoring John’s compact hot body pressed against his side. Instead, he nipped at the woman’s gleaming throat as John slid a denim-clad thigh between her naked ones. They watched her writhe and grind against it. Her sexual fluids gleamed on the blue jeans as she rode John’s leg. Her mouth screwed up into a tight oval as she moved faster and faster until she tossed her head back and howled. The scent of flowers and sex doubled at the sound. Lance’s shoulders stiffened with the struggle to stay put.

Her eyes fluttered open, her irises even darker and dreamier. Lance wanted to throw her on the ground and rut into her like a wild beast. He wanted John to watch him with iration. He wanted to watch John fill her mouth, fill her hands with hardness. He wanted to see if they could both fit in her, make her fall apart over and over again. “Oh, you sweet boys,” she sighed. A tiny growl underscored the sound. As he watched her move that supple, moist, pink mouth again toward John’s throat, a voice screamed in his head, “Run!” Grabbing John’s T-shirt, Lance yanked them away from the woman’s grasp. Claws gouged into his jeans, tore fabric and skin from hip to waist. The pain cleared his head. Horror and shock froze his stomach. The nose-curdling smell of blood chased away the last of the desire. He staggered under the hurt, still clutching John’s clothing. The move kept her teeth away from John’s jugular vein. Instead, John shoulder shredded under multiple rows of scalpel-sharp teeth. Bone showed through the slashes as his blood splattered over Lance’s torso. His scream rang through the forest as he fell to his knees, clutching his mutilated arm. Their erotic partner melted into her true, putrefied form. The petal-fresh skin decayed into rotten leaves hanging off dark bones. Her skeletal legs landed on the ground, clawlike toes digging into the fresh green grass. Her skull’s mouth opened wider than a football in a satisfied grin and a worm-riddled tongue licked John’s blood off her lips. Green tendrils sprouted from her body where the drops landed. “Delicious. I won’t go hungry for a long time after you two.” Her voice sounded like the grating of a stone sarcophagus lid against the base. Lance gathered John up against his uninjured side. “Come on, man. Come on. We gotta run.” They stood, ing each other. John pointed to the left. “The river,” he gasped. “That way.” That horrible mouth grinned wider. “Yes, run! Give me the chase!”

John staggered, trying to stanch his wounds with his bare hands, but the blood still poured. The pain radiating from Lance’s back told him that they could never outrun the creature. Lance despaired. They would die and be devoured by the carnivorous plant. No one would find their bodies until it spit up their bones. Their parents would wither and be miserable. Their friends would hike in here and get caught just like they did. No one would be safe. He would die a virgin. The monster stalked closer and closer. This wasn’t fair, he fumed as she crouched to spring. That clarity of anger saved Lance’s life. As she leapt at John, Lance kicked. Years of hiking and soccer gave Lance damn strong legs. His hiking boot caught her in the ribs. With miraculous aim, he found the weak spot below the arched breastbone. Crying out, she landed heavily on the ground, winded. John pulled away, found a stout branch on the ground. When she took to her feet, John swung with all his strength. The wood phased right through her body. “Fuck!” John screamed as he caught himself from overbalancing. Lance could see John’s strength fading. A dreadful rumbling giggle escaped the plant-woman. “We could have done this the easy way, but your friend had to listen to his God-given sense.” Lance’s fingers snagged a rock and he hurled it at the beast’s head. It landed three feet behind her. Something snagged on the panic in his brain and he knew the answer. “Man-made material,” he yelled at John as he risked getting closer to those terrible pointed snapping teeth. The composite soles of his boot landed on her hip hinge. The impact jarred his knee, but her spine snapped back and forced her body to the ground.

When she regained her feet, the leg hung strangely from her pelvis. John kicked out too. His blow dislocated her other hip. She dropped, whimpering like a plant in hot water. The still-human leaf-green eyes begged them for mercy. Lance nearly stepped forward to ease her, but then he saw John collapse to his knees. Blood soaked his entire side, plastering the other boy’s shirt and jeans to his body. John could die from that wound. All that was good and pure in Lance’s world would die with him. Lance needed John. Who would he be without his friend? Sure knowledge from somewhere filled Lance’s brain, driving out the panic. Without hesitation, he landed his heel in the middle of the plant’s spine. Bones cracked and shattered, splitting her body in two halves. Her legs stilled and crumbled, leaving behind the cloying scent of dying honeysuckle. As Lance raised his foot for another strike, she flattened to the ground, trying to melt into the soil. Lance stumbled and missed, dropping to his knees. She laughed. John crawled forward and grabbed her wrist. Her greedy face brightened and her tongue reached for John’s blood. Lance rolled, trying to right himself enough to stop her. “I don’t think so,” John gasped. Turning white with the effort, he planted his own boot on the wiggling tongue. She was trapped. Heart pounding, Lance spun on his rear. His foot flailed in the air and landed perfectly, cracking the bones and grinding the heart underneath. “Please, don’t!” she screamed as the flowers on the mound wilted and died. Weak, skeletal fingers clutched at his pants leg until she completely disintegrated. As the flowers and bones decomposed, he lit the spores on fire with the matches in his back pocket.

When he stood, the mound collapsed, just like the skeleton of the creature, leaving a den full of human bones and rotten clothes. Triumphant, he turned to John. Five days later, Lance stood by John’s parents as they committed John to the home. The brightest brain in Central Illinois couldn’t handle the shock of the blood loss. The damage reverted the best of them back to the intellectual equivalent of a potty-trained one-year-old. He lied to his best friend’s mother and told her they’d stumbled onto a werebear’s den. As he placed a picture of Paris on the wall of John’s new room, the by-now familiar shame, guilt, and anger filled him as he itted in the privacy of his own head that danger was beautiful to him. He yearned for corruption. Those yearnings destroyed his best friend. His destiny had revealed itself. Every teenaged boy ached to discover that he had powers to change the world. Lance had that power. He was stronger, faster, and smarter than any mortal alive. His brain could access unwritten knowledge, his body told him of imminent danger. He lied over and over, telling people that the encounter with the fictional were-bear had given him these gifts. With every lie, his shamed soul withered even more. Desperate to forget John, Lance ed the army. With his enhanced speed and strength, the Rangers snapped him up. He learned to recognize and refine the warning sense he’d felt that day. He specialized in interspecies combat, subspecializing in post-traumatic stress disorder treatment. He then served in the Middle East, putting everything he had learned to use. At the end of his tours, he was sick of death. He wanted to protect instead of kill. The Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter had given him a reason to put one foot in front of the other. He never went back to Danville. And he never, ever spoke of John again.

Chapter Twenty

Valerie parked the Shelby in a quiet alley behind the shelter. The clock on the tower read 3:00 A.M. No wonder Lance slept, his head tucked against the door of her car. Damn, he was adorable. She pursed her lips and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Nocturnal PNCs, both homeless and not, surrounded the faded building in a protective cordon. No one and nothing could that circle without a thorough inspection. “Wake up.” His shoulder felt warm and solid as she tapped. Her hand lingered and caressed. “We go in through the side door. It’s safer.” He yawned. “No. The front. I won’t hide. Not here.” Double damn, he sounded good even half-asleep and being too heroic for his own good. If she were the assassin, this would be the perfect ambush. Hide amongst the other PNCs, safely camouflaged amongst his own kind, then strike. Of course, that tiger hadn’t proven to be the sharpest fang in the mouth. Odds were that Lance was completely safe. “Through the front it is, then.” She let him out of the car. A pair of three-headed dogs emerged from the silent ring of her people and escorted them past the news crews. The blisteringly hot lights blinded her. She hissed and tossed her arm in front of her face, blocking both Lance and herself. “Father Soliel, where have you been?” “Why are you covered in blood?” “Did someone attack you?”

“No comment,” Lance stated flatly. The dogs snapped powerful jaws near the reporters, keeping the microphones at a respectful distance. The lines opened for them, as neatly as paper splitting skin. No one spoke, no one asked for his autograph; instead, everyone scrutinized him with eyes both worshipful and afraid. The hounds led them to the entrance in complete silence. Valerie opened the door and looked inside, searching for threats. A blue-eyed, red-haired pixie mix looked up from a rickety card table masquerading as a receptionist’s desk. A folded piece of paper taped to the table announced the girl’s name was Jane. “Can I help you?” Her elf-cute smile had white lines of strain around the corners. Pixies were the harbingers of great joy. They should not have this kind of depressing knowledge in their big, round eyes. “No.” Disgust at the world shortened her response. Valerie glanced around the main room. No wonder Jane was stressed. Every inch of the shelter teemed with desperate mortals and even more desperate PNCs. A family of giant rats huddled in under the water fountain. A human mother and her infant were crammed directly behind Jane’s chair. Multicolored serpents coiled around the tall exposed rafters. A whiff of horse told Valerie that a centaur roamed the halls. Those with belongings clung to their bags as though embracing their Beloved. Nervous glances told the story of strained nerves. Volunteers carrying blankets and food picked their way through the throng. Tense, but stable. She ushered Lance in. “Father! I am so glad to see you.” Jane’s face opened in relief. The adorable girl nearly overset her table as she shot to her feet. “Good to be back. What have you got for me?” Business as usual for now. Valerie turned away from their greeting to study her charge for the night.

The shelter had once been a luxury hotel, complete with huge ballroom and meeting spaces. A window, decorated with plaster flowers and molding, opened into a large kitchen and dining room. Two long hallways straddled the kitchen. Signs in several languages announced the locations of the bathrooms, the firstaid room, and pointed to offices and beds upstairs. The baby fussed at the same time that Valerie smelled dirty diaper. The mother picked her way through all the bodies toward the right back hallway. A sign WOMEN’S BATHROOMS told Valerie her destination. On the other side of the large room, the centaur pushed himself off the wall and stretched far too casually. Bastard, she thought. The horse-men sexually preyed upon human females, considering them easy targets. There would be none of that on her territory. She shifted her weight to intercept him. Before she got two steps, a viper uncoiled itself from the roof . It dangled in front of the centaur and stretched its jaws. Needle-sharp teeth, as long as Valerie’s forearm, blocked the horse’s path. Casually, it tapped the centaur’s bare chest with its forked black tongue. That settled that. One of the other snakes, an enormous constrictor, flicked its tongue at Valerie in a wink. Nothing would get past them. Now was a good time for a little recon. “I’m going to look around,” she murmured in Lance’s delicious- ear. He nodded once and went back to work. The open, high-ceilinged room with its tall windows was not defensible, Valerie thought as she picked her way through the piles of people and PNCs. The ratio was about 60 percent PNCs to 40 percent human. Interesting. Lance said they were out of money. She could tell. Cracks marred the onceglossy marble floors. Too-old windows rattled in their frames. The blankets looked thin. The sofas and cots had seen better days. This place offered refuge to her kind when no others would. The hungry faces around the room challenged her to who she really was. A good ruler

protected and sheltered the helpless. Dracula had once tried to be a good ruler. Sure, a bit extreme, but... The skin around her piercings burned like fresh wounds. She touched her earlobes, half expecting to feel blood. Instead, the diamonds scorched her finger. She yanked her hand away. What in the name of Lucifer’s gilded horns was this? The hubbub of the shelter melted away. Valerie smelled Ilona’s distinctive perfume; wood smoke and lavender overlaid with Vlad’s own rosemary. Her wife was dead. Could she forgive herself for surviving? Could she let these precious stones, her wedding gift to Ilona, serve some other purpose than her own mortification? Valerie pursed her lips and sought out Lance in the crowd. Unwillingly, she smiled, warmed again by his aura. The golden glow calmed her even more than the thought of fratricide. Could vampires get Vitamin D deficiency? It didn’t matter. Ilona would have wanted her life to mean more than punishing misery. The earrings pulsed heat again and again. The rocks had been intended to keep Ilona from poverty, from helplessness, from depending on another’s goodwill. Like these despondent beings jammed into this groaning building. She blinked herself back to the present. Money. Tucking herself into a dark corner, Valerie removed all her earrings. The metal settings cooled as they dropped, one by one, into her palm. She hadn’t seen them loose in so long. Her fingers caressed the faceted surfaces one last time. She curled her fist shut around them. “Excuse me.” She stopped a human volunteer carrying a basket of paper to Jane’s table. “Do you have an envelope?”

“Um, sure. Here.” The Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter wouldn’t need money for a very long time. Lance raised his head when the back of his neck itched. An older woman with untamed gray hair and enormous silver Berber jewelry pushed her way through the front door. Her tidy tweed suit and sensible winter coat contrasted with the red Birkenstocks on her socked feet. She furled her umbrella with a flamboyant flourish as she looked around the shelter as though she owned it. Age had not withered what once had obviously been a shockingly beautiful face. Ridiculously long eyelashes rimmed silver eyes. No jowls decorated her square, determined jaw, and she walked like a woman who knew her worth. She looked like an entitled, privilege-addled white woman. Lance froze inside when she hustled herself to Jane’s desk. “Are you Lance Soliel?” Her smoke- and bourbon-infused voice carried easily over the room’s bustle. Manners were important. She might be useful, Lance reminded himself. “Yes. How can I help you?” “I’m Glenath Tempesta. I thought you might like someone to help out.” Lance hissed air in between his teeth and thrust out his hand. “A pleasure.” Glenath Tempesta was a legend. At the tender age of twenty-one, she’d been a freshly ordained radical minister. Instead of ministering in slums like her peers, she’d single-handedly formed the council for the famous Treaty of Prague. Five years later, she and her mixed-race assembly produced one of the great documents of diplomacy. Every race of Shadow Children promised to control their appetite for human flesh. Humans promised to control their aggression. She’d laid the groundwork for PNCs to own property, vote, go to school, get modern identification papers. This aging hippie made the modern world possible. Humans and PNCs worked next to each other, had children together, and both agitated for equal rights. More or less.

“I have some experience in dealing with these situations,” the bishop said. Jane looked as though a choir of angels had descended. “Oh, ma’am, if you could!” Lance held his hand up to stop Jane. He didn’t really want to talk to the media any more. “My deepest gratitude, Bishop, but aren’t you booked up with the conference? I understand you have a presentation to the schools in the morning, and you give your opening speech in less than thirty-six hours,” Lance objected. Glenath snorted. “I think we can arrange a videoconference with the school assembly. Right now, there are more important things to worry about.” She swept Lance with an assessing perusal. “Namely, we need to get you cleaned up. Dried blood is a good look on you, but not on camera.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’ve avoided interviews all night and it’s not doing you any favors. You need to...” Her voice faded as realization hit him. He cracked his neck with a resounding snap. Glenath Tempesta was in the same town as Radu. Just this past June, the retired churchwoman publicly announced her dissatisfaction with the CCC’s stance on pursuing laws allowing interspecies marriages. It was the first major break between the two main international influences on policy. She had called their ‟take it slowly” plan “a shameful, cowardly, and pathetic denial of the reality of life.” The global media had plastered Radu’s humiliated face all over the world for months. This was Tepes’ reason for being here. He wasn’t interested in furthering the CCC’s so-called agenda of peaceful integration. He wanted to even the score. Lance pinched his nose. At least she’d be safe here in the shelter. For now.

VALERIE PULLED IN FRONT of Lance’s quirky cottage. Time to get under a roof. They didn’t have long before the sun rose. This area of Portland was known for its colorful houses and Haight-Ashbury vibe. All the homes had tall bushes and stately trees surrounding them, providing shade, privacy, and far too many places for prowlers to hide. Two night hags hung from Lance’s trees, watching the small green house and the street with the intensity of a polar bear waiting for a seal to emerge. A flashbulb went off. Even as Valerie spun to locate the source, one of the hags dropped from her perch. Gliding on bat-silent wings, she snatched the camera and flew away. The photographer raced after her, brandishing a fist and cursing. She laughed with the species’ crazed screech all the way down the block. A few dogs barked, but no one even looked out the window. Perhaps the photographers were getting to the humans, too. Valerie shrugged as she circled to the enger door. Lance called to his unconventional watchdogs. “All okay, Betty?” The hag’s leader gleefully waved at Lance. “Most fun I’ve had since we moved here, Father,” she crowed back. “Thelma and Louise are watching the shelter.” “Betty, meet Valerie Tate. She’ll be staying tonight. Veronica will be back when she finishes playing with her food.” “Bloodsucker.” It wasn’t a compliment. Valerie waved and flashed a huge false grin. “Pleasure to meet you.” She pointedly turned her back and hoisted her duffle out of the backseat. Lance coughed, obviously covering a laugh. He walked her to his front door and handed her his keys. As she unlocked the dead bolt, the heady aroma of spices and frankincense

wafted out to greet her. His house smelled like High Mass and sex. A rush of moisture swelled her labia. Then she opened the door. An ornate, bejeweled Jerusalem cross blasted her eyes with radiating holiness. Five feet high and bright gold, it dominated the little foyer. Its power kicked Valerie as hard as a horse. Ordinarily, the barrier against entering was a null sensation, a feeling of blankness. The holy symbol actively resisted the supernatural with its brightness. Valerie turned her face away, trying to adjust her eyes. Lance rubbed his body against hers as he crossed the threshold. Such a wicked tease. She ground her hips against him as he ed, reveling in the way his eyes turned hot and dreamy and half lidded. He kissed his fingers and touched them to the center of the cross. “Come into my parlor,” he whispered. “Stay the night.” The ward disappeared. Valerie edged her way past the cross. Some mischievous spirit from her youth made her grope his behind. His aura was constantly in motion, warming her and touching her even under her clothes. Every time she moved, hot sparks of excitement prickled her skin. Her vagina fluttered. “You’re asleep on your feet.” “Aren’t vampires supposed to watch people sleep?” he countered, locking the door behind them. Valerie snorted before she could stop herself. “Only vampires with no selfrespect.” He kissed her, soft and sweet. “Stay.” “Oh, yes,” she whispered against his cheek. His golden stubble brushed against her lips, a pleasant rasp.

Lance yawned against her neck. “Sleep with me.” She stepped back and shook her head. “I’ll patrol.” “Betty and Veronica are on it. But if you insist. You’ll want something to read.” Crossing to a walnut bookshelf, he handed down a thick, red leather-bound book with the words The Treaty of Prague: the Anatomy of an Insurrection embossed in gold on the spine. “You might like this.” She held the tome as he shuffled down the hallway, stripping off his shirt and dropping it on the floor behind him. Shoes, socks, and jeans landed like a trail of bread crumbs in the forest leading toward his bedroom. She watched him go, an eyebrow winging up to her hairline. Like she was going to pick up after anyone but herself. “Wake me before you sleep,” he mumbled. “I want to kiss you good morning.” With that, he fell asleep. What a sweet boy. Not every vampire lost it under the sun. She could even last nearly a week without sleep. Speaking of which. Frowning, she prowled around his single-story cottage. Every window was already locked, every door to the outside had double dead bolts. This mortal took his security seriously. She nodded with approval. Poor security led to disaster. Beyond his everyday measures, he had superior paranormal defenses. The hags were obviously protective and more than capable. The cross would be a difficult, though not impossible, obstacle for any supernatural being to overcome. The legends of how consecrated ground and religious relics stopped the socalled Unnatural creatures in their tracks held a kernel of truth, but not in the way humans expected. Valerie reached through the pulsing barrier. Her fingers hovered just above the center of the cross. She and her kind were not forbidden the comfort of faith. Had she not spent her entire mortal life fighting for the Catholic Church? She shook her head. The irony of that had not been lost on her. Rather, the unity, harmony, and loss of ego represented by religion painfully

countered the inherent chaos that sustained a PNC’s existence. Vampires and the others were created during Lucifer’s rebellion. They had been created by The Maker to keep the wayward Fallen Angels company, not made in tender contemplation like mortals. If a supernatural were willing to bear the pain of every cell crying out in confusion, they could cross any threshold they wanted. Take what you want from life and pay the price, she thought, and turned away from the foyer and its dangerous contents. Duty fulfilled, she noticed his décor. In the living spaces, he liked color. Original paintings lived in real frames over a crimson leather sofa. Throw rugs softened the scuffed wooden floors. Handmade oak bookcases cradled a messy assortment of books stacked any which way. One butter-yellow wall sported a locked gun rack with gleaming rifles and handguns. A pole arm and a sword leaned against it. Her warrior came with his own armory. Some framed documents caught her attention. An honorable discharge of one Lance Soleil from the Army Rangers brought a smile to her face. They could compare war stories. His chaplaincy and seminary credentials completed the story of his education. Off to one corner, nearly hidden on top of a bookcase, a framed picture lurked in the shadows. Gently, she lifted it, careful not to disturb the dust. A very young Lance and another boy posed in front of a rocky river. She peered at the darkhaired teenager. Intelligence and keen awareness showed in his eyes and his cocky grin. He was shorter than Lance, but no less potent in his sexual appeal. She touched the glass over that dark-haired tempter’s mouth and put the photo back in its corner. One final glance at the picture, then she sat down with the book Lance had handed her. In two minutes, she tossed it on the wooden table and went in search of a different read. She’d lived through all that. What did he have that she hadn’t experienced? A cracked book at the very bottom of the bookshelf finally drew her fingers. Fallen Angels: A Literature Review, written by Josephine O’Neill, the most famous hunter of Dracula’s Paranormal Corps.

Josephine had been a powerful woman. Valerie hadn’t known that her honorable enemy had written a book. A variety of sources (Appendix Four) document the story of Lucifer’s pride. All these sources have only one point of agreement: God cast Lucifer and his allies out of Heaven for daring to challenge the Divine Order. None of them comment on the Divine’s capacity for forgiveness. Are the Fallen damned forever? If so, what does that say about the belief in an all-merciful, allpowerful, loving Higher Power? Early myths (Cone, Smith, et al, Appendix Five) tell the story of a loophole in the banishment from Heaven. If those who rebelled were willing to ride the Wheel of Life and to serve the lowly beings that God had created, they could learn the humility necessary to offset their sin of Pride. The earliest known version of the Fall (Papyrus 1079, informally called the Eviction Notice, Appendix 1) gives tantalizing hints that some of that Host have attempted the redemption. One intriguing age hints that the nascent angel is sent a guide to encourage the Fallen toward right action (Eviction Notice, plate 2). The Eviction Notice implies that penitents are stripped of their memories from their previous existences until they survive a cathartic event (Appendix 3), usually around eighteen years of age. At that time, they learn of their previous choices. If they survive the revelation, they come into semi-angelic powers; health, speed, heightened strength. They can be identified by a glowing aura and a weakness for desire. The Eviction Notice also hints that the Angel’s Rebellion created Paranormal Citizens (historically called the Shadow Races in older texts).

...As The Creator made the angels for harmony, the creatures of fear were made for times of chaos and transition.

(translation Cone, Smith)

It is not mentioned if any Fallen have succeeded in their tasks, or if they preferred to Reign in Hell rather than Serve on Earth. She closed the cover, suspicious. The aura, the powers. Could he be? Had Mother Teresa or that boy in Rwanda been Fallen Angels on the wheel? Valerie drummed her fingers. This could be very bad. Or very good. She had pleasant memories of angels.

Bucharest December 1476

Vlad splashed through the shallows of the Dambovita River. The Angel of Death followed. Enormous black feathered wings opened wide and stirred the air. Tattered gray robes never touched the ground. “Come, Vlad Dracula. Time for your judgment.” “I will not leave this earth until my revenge is complete.” Vlad bared his teeth even as he his legs trembled with the strain of remaining upright. “Salih still lives. I will not yield.” Death hovered. “Your revenge comes with a price. A very high one.” “I will pay it.” Death floated above the water. The wind from its wings rippled the river. “You will know nothing but darkness. You will eat nothing but the most precious of fluids. You are cast out from Divine consolation. And know this: your revenge will not be complete until you face what you fear the most.” “I fear nothing,” Vlad scoffed. Icy cold glittering hands held Vlad’s face. “Then be damned.” A guttural moan drew her down the dark hallway. Curiosity alone had her following him into the bedroom. She had to know. Was he a Fallen? If so, his bedroom would tell her. Did anything more reveal a person’s innermost

self as their bedroom, their most vulnerable place? She glided to the doorway, looking in, but refusing to let herself enter and touch. It certainly wasn’t desire that made her look. He wouldn’t be worth anything sexually until he got some sleep. Stark was the only word that came to mind. Ignoring the almost expected surge of moisture between her legs at his rich clove scent, she studied the room. A simple wooden dresser held his keys, wallet, and holster. The queen bed, a plain platform of blond wood, boasted a low shelf with tissues, lip balm, and a glass of water, but nothing else. No lubricant, no girly magazines, not even a book. Even the bedspread was plain white linen. No photographs or artwork on the white walls. She’d seen monks’ cells with more sensuality than this bedroom. Penance rode Lance Soliel like a crazed jockey. Valerie watched his aura swirl as he slept. The black at the pit of his soul pulsed and hissed with the pride and wrath of the original sinners. She pressed her fist to her chest. Lance Soliel was a reincarnated Fallen Angel. Lance Soliel understood everything there was to know about redemption and temptation. Valerie Tate, formerly Vlad Dracula, had found a true mate.

Chapter Twenty-one November 1

The invigorating aroma of rosemary teased Lance awake. A buzz of low-grade arousal tingled his nipples and cock. Valerie must be here. He rolled over and opened his eyes. There she was, standing in his doorway. She had changed her clothes during the night. Faded blue jeans clung to her gently curved hips. A gray sleeveless T-shirt concealed her breasts, but it hugged her lean frame like jasmine on the fence between two lovers. Her black hair shone like a raven’s chest. She wore no makeup, no shoes, no jewelry. She looked like a virginal eighteen-year-old Italian girl about to buy her papa a cappuccino. Until he looked into those dreamless hazel eyes. Lance was no fool. He knew that she had not changed her mind about killing Radu. At best, she was humoring him until she got within staking distance of the other vampire. Best to keep her busy, then. “Sunrise?” It couldn’t be. The light against the wall was too bright, too high for a late-fall dawn. “Been and gone. It’s noon.” The woman leaned her shoulder against the plaster wall and tucked her fingers in the front pocket of her jeans. The gesture drew his sleepy gaze to her flat belly and the V at the top of her legs. He stretched. Her eyes glazed as the sheet draped down his body. It caught on his pubic hair, both hiding and revealing the shape of his hardening penis. Her words finally penetrated his brain.

“Shit!” He scrambled with the blanket. “The shelter —” “All taken care of. Glenath is there, running things more competently than any general. She’s got everyone and everything eating out of her hand. I’ve sent her a bottle of bourbon. No sign of the tiger.” She tilted her hip in a blatant erotic challenge. James Dean had never been Lance’s type before, but her attitude lit a growl in his throat. “We have a problem,” he finally said. “Other than you’re being hounded by the press, your shelter is being swarmed by every homeless being in a three-county radius, and a crazy vampire wants to kill you?” The husky note in her voice made all his problems sound like a seduction. “Nope.” He threw the pillow back to reveal his pulsing erection. “This is the problem.” Finally, he was ready to party. Valerie had been waiting all night to claim him as her own. Lance ran his hand up his thigh to his balls, rolling and displaying them, and she suddenly couldn’t care less how long he had slept. His blue eyes shone with green tints, like the center of a fire. As Lance beckoned her, his gaze holding hers as surely as if he had a knife to her face, she knew that what was about to happen would change her in ways she could not predict. Valerie knelt on the bed, consenting to everything. She refused to close her eyes. She would fully embrace her destiny. And as his lips touched hers, she opened her mouth and let that angelic fire sweep through her. Lance’s mouth was warm and sweet, coaxing and demanding. If I had a soul left, I’d sell it for a lifetime of this. Her hands came around his shoulders and held on. He tipped his head and

stroked her tongue, turning the kiss hot and lewd. Valerie shivered and felt her long-buried sexual aggressiveness erupting from its own grave. She clasped him to her. Lance held her face in his hands, careful of the soft skin of her cheeks. Her bones had a curious delicacy to them, as if death lightened her. If she had been any more serious in life than she was now in death, Lance didn’t want to know. The wet, enthusiastic point of her tongue flicking his brought him back to the present. The clutch of her hands on his shoulders signaled desperation. He nipped at her lower lip. “Are you in a hurry?” He landed a soft kiss on the side of her mouth before she could overtake him again. Lance had escaped death last night. He wanted his lovemaking to linger. “Do you have to catch a train?” He licked her ear. At his words, her shoulders softened. When their teeth met in another deep kiss, she moaned. He moaned back. The sounds vibrated between them until his penis throbbed in time to their beat. She clutched at his back, her hands running up and down his spine until she reached his backside. The man owned a perfect ass, muscular and round, fitting her hands, filling her palms with fire. She took that hot butt and squeezed hard, forcing him against her. Using her hold as leverage, she twisted and shifted until he completely covered her, his crotch riding against hers. He looked like an avenging angel above her, his hair haloed in the light. Lance shook his head and thrust hard, shoving. The seam on her pants rode against her clitoris, sending silver-hot bolts of sensation up her body. “Ahhh!” She threw her head back and bared her teeth, the muscles in her neck twitching. He eased back as she tried to force him against her. Valerie’s eyes popped open and she frowned.

“Come on,” she protested. Lance shifted against her center and pulled back, a playful tease. “This isn’t a race. Sex is a dance, a story, music even. We have all day.” He lowered himself back on top of her. “So, give me your lips.” A hot blush rose up her cheeks at his rebuke, gentle as it was. She obeyed and flicked her tongue at him. He smiled and kissed her. Even after his onishment, she still wiggled and squirmed under him, trying to get him to speed up. Poor girl. Just couldn’t give up control for anything. One would think she hadn’t had sex in years. He ran a finger down her neck, enjoying the way she whipped her head around. Her body wasn’t cold, more room temperature. Her skin shivered at the simplest caress as he experimented with touching her exposed skin. He finally slid his hand down to her breast and bit his own lip at her uninhibited howl. His erection tried to burrow through her clothes. Instead, he yanked her shirt up to her collarbone and swallowed at the sight of her small bare breasts. Perfect mouthfuls, he barely had time to think before action took over. Her pink nipples fit against his palate like they were made for him to suck. “So warm,” she hissed between gritted teeth. “So damned warm.” Her face twisted up like she was in pain. Lance nearly faltered, but the way she pulled him against her crotch told him that she was in the throes of something she didn’t expect. She pulled her shirt all the way off. Before it cleared the bed, she dragged her nails down his back. Slowly, slowly, he dragged the tip of his tongue from nipple to nipple, tracing figure eights across her breastbone, licking hot stripes over and over her breasts. Her fingers clawed at his back as he teased and flicked her left nipple over and over. How could a man of God be such a tormenting devil? Every attempt to wrest control ended up with her still on her back. Every grappling move she made, he countered, while he kept touching her, licking her, stroking every millimeter of her skin.

Slivers of panic shoved into her brain, fighting the sensual fog. No human should have been able to do that. “I can keep up with you. Imagine what we could do if you stopped fighting and played with me,” he murmured in her ear before he caught her lobe between his teeth. Goose pimples chased down her neck at his breath and touch. His golden aura rolled around her. His voice felt like silk against her sensitive nerve endings. The promise in his words froze the panic, had her opening her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, her gaze trained on his face, she reached down between their bodies and undid the snap on her pants. He shifted aside as she dragged the zipper, tooth by rasping tooth down to its base. Her knuckles grazed his impressive erection, hot against her center. Somewhere deep inside, she knew how a woman would do this. Feminine power, unfamiliar but delightful, filled her as she lifted her hands over her head and braced them against the wall above the bed frame. Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he leaned back on his heels. She puckered her lips ever so slightly at him as his warm fingers tugged her naked. He eased them down her hips, kissing his way past her black boy-cut panties. Cool air met her skin as he pulled her slacks all the way off her body and tossed them to the floor. Lance lifted his eyebrows at the sight of the fine dark hair on her legs. Defiance had her lifting her eyebrow right back at him. The transitory fashion of body shaving held no sway over her. “Is there a problem?” she challenged. “Not at all.” He ran his palms up and down her legs. He smiled. “Just getting acquainted.” Making good on his words, he leaned over and dragged his lower lip over the inside of her calf. She closed her eyes at the hot glide forcing the hair against the grain. It ever so slightly tickled. He drove her mad for what felt like hours as he introduced himself to every nook and cranny of her. Her fingers shredded the

sheets as she fought with her dominant impulses to let him set the pace.As she spread her legs and let him in, the pleasure rewarded her a million times over. Lance fitted the head of his penis inside of her, chewing on his lip at the clench and flutter of her tiny muscles against his swollen cock. A vampire should be cold everywhere, but she was hot inside, hotter than any human woman he’d ever known. He knew her now: cold on the outside, white-hot on the inside. Her nails clenched on his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his hips before he could thrust. The muscles in her thighs trembled, but she stayed still, waiting for him. Inch by fiery inch, they ed fully. He looked up from the enticing sight of their bodies and saw tears of blood leaking from the corners of her eyes. His elbows took his weight so he could wipe her tears with his thumbs. Red smeared over her forehead and temples. “Hey,” he whispered. “Are you okay?” “Don’t stop,” she rasped back at him. She flexed her thighs and forced him into her even farther. “If you stop now, I will rip your ears off and string them up over my bed.” Her tongue flickered around her fully extended fangs. He pulled out and thrust back in. “Threats are so sexy,” he ground out. She rippled and clutched him to her. Her strong arms held him fast as she looked him in the eyes and whispered, “Ride me.”

LANCE ROLLED TO THE bed. Lying on his side, he wiped the pinkish glitter of Valerie’s tears and sweat off of her face with his thumb. “How are you doing?” She turned onto her side to face him. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know. Lance couldn’t keep the smug grin from his expression. Was there anything in the world like the face of a sexually satisfied woman? Her hands wiggled free from between their bodies and she gave him a long slow stroke down his back. Her hand stopped. “What’s wrong?” Valerie opened her eyes. “You have scars?” she asked, tracing the ridge of skin. “What, you want to see them?” he asked, startled. His few lovers, the ones who hadn’t been scared off by his calling or his knowledge of the supernatural, had been either disturbed or repulsed by his scars. Valerie nodded and pushed him over. She crawled, naked and sticky and smelling of sex and blood, on top of him. She started at his neck, touching and pushing the skin around. “You’ve been bitten?” She poked at a knot above his collarbone. He was surprised she had taken him so literally. But she was a literal sort of woman, after all. “No. My friend pushed me off a fence,” Lance answered. She kissed the white skin. “I’m glad you’ve not been bitten.” She found the smooth lines that crossed his forearms. “You attempted suicide?” She frowned at the direction and pattern. “You attempted suicide badly?” Lance snorted. “No. That was Afghanistan. Some night hags had taken up residence in the caves and objected to having to make room for us.” She touched these scars with her soft cheek.“What happened?” “They live outside.” He grinned at her.

She stared into his eyes. Whatever she saw satisfied her, for she nodded and moved on. She found the tiny indent on his stomach. “And this?” “Appendectomy.” Lance smiled inwardly at her frown. Scars for her must only mean conflict. Healing left scars, too. She placed a kiss low on his belly, right above his pubic hair and continued down his body. “These?” She placed her hand on his thigh. “The tiger, last night,” Lance said. Valerie nodded again. She looked down to his feet and traced the Alpha and Omega tattoo there. A slight wisp of steam came up from her fingertip. “So you are always walking on holy ground?” she asked, blowing on her finger. “Something like that.” He took her hand. “You shouldn’t have touched it.” She shook her head. “I will not be afraid of any part of you. Roll over.” Lance snorted in amusement and rolled over. She kissed the back of his neck. He shivered from the of her cool lips. She perched on his buttocks. She laid her hand on the stripes and gouges that decorated his upper arm. “What happened?” “My very first run-in with a supernatural,” he muttered into the pillows. She stroked the matching claw marks on his other arm and traced them as they wandered down to the small of his back. Lance held still, letting her touch soothe his torn flesh. “Will you share this with me?” “I got caught out after dark by a were-bear.” She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Do not bring lies into this bed. Not after what we just shared.” Her sex-soft

voice chilled with disdain. The lie was so old; he’d forgotten it wasn’t the truth. He shifted, went for the distraction. “Are you done looking at my flaws yet?” She sat back on his bottom. “Once, I saw a statue from Greece,” she said, so softly Lance could barely hear her. “The marble had been damaged like this”— she put her finger in the largest of the gouges—“but the sculpture was so beautiful, it looked like the artist had put them in on purpose, and it merely added to the glory of the figure.” Lance craned his neck to look at her. Their gazes locked. She was leaving something very important unsaid and he wanted to know what it was. He opened his mouth, but she was faster. “How did you get them to accept you into the armed forces?” He grinned, a gleam in his eye at the memory. “I got up on the recruiter’s desk and did push-ups until he let me in.” She laughed. “How many did you end up doing?” “About 300.” Lance rolled over onto his back and boldly rubbed against Valerie. “Ready for round two?”

Chapter Twenty-two

The unnamed man was short, unshaven, and dark circles of exhaustion ringed his eyes. Salt-and-pepper hair stood in unruly peaks. His rumpled suit needed a good pressing. And every heterosexual woman over the age of puberty stared as he marched swiftly through the Portland International Airport. Not one of them approached him, despite his sensual, heavy-lidded eyes and the assured grace of his movements. They all recognized a hunting panther with no time for diversions. And every one of them, from the heated schoolgirl to the respectable matron, wondered what it would take to be on the receiving end of that kind of focus.

THE EXHAUSTED FRENCHMAN leaned against the padded backseat of his taxi. Less than twenty-four hours ago, the international news had broken the story of a homeless shelter in the States integrating peacefully. Less than twentythree hours ago, John Janté booked a patchwork of flights, and now he was here, in Portland, Oregon. True to the stereotype, it was raining. He didn’t know why he had come; only that it was of dire importance. John chewed on his necklace’s chain as he closed his eyes and tried to relax. “Where are you going, sir?” the driver asked as she closed her door. “To the paranormal conference, yeux bruns,” he answered, ing the woman’s soulful brown eyes. A barely hushed giggle made him smile internally. How long had it been since he had enjoyed some quiet time with a lady? Working at CERN left very little time for entertaining. He shifted on the cloth seat, trying to ease his tired legs. “Traffic is bad,” she informed him. “The conference has been overrun in the last day.” He’d forgotten the American love of automobiles. The drizzle spangled the metal bodies surrounding him as everyone inched along the highway. Exhausted, John touched the backs of his fingers to his eyelids. “That is fine. Please wake me when we get there.” This is going to be an adventure, he thought. He leaned his hot face against the cold window and let himself the past. The plant woman had stolen years from John. But she had given him an unforeseeable gift. Once the digestive enzymes cleared from his body, his immune system that was left was what his doctor called “turbo charged.” John now healed at an accelerated rate. He couldn’t even get drunk, as his liver oxidized alcohol at lightning speed. Fortunately, he also shook off jet lag in hours instead of days. All he needed was a few hours of sleep....

“This is as close as I can get, sir,” his driver said before he could nod off. “The police have closed the streets.” John tipped his driver, hoisted his backpack, and weaved his way through the streets of Portland. The cool moist air woke him and the walk invigorated his mind. He ticked off the observations he’d made on the hours of his flights. Fact: Lance was in danger. Fact: Lance was keeping company with a mysterious lady. Her cautious, beautiful eyes were both familiar and fascinating to John. Just from the few images he’d caught of her hiding in the background, John wanted to bite her lips. John caught a whiff of seductive hot chocolate. He detoured into a small café. Also, caffeine had no effect on him. Dammit. He could really use some. A quick visit to the bathroom for a change of clothes and some deodorant, and John was ready for both his chocolate and his thoughts. Conjecture the first: If she fascinated John, Lance was surely and completely besotted. The first sip crossed his lips as smoothly as a woman’s sweet fluid. He vaguely heard someone beside him sigh. Conjecture the second: The pallor of her skin and her dangerous eyes insinuated that she was a previously unknown vampire. Conjecture the third: Since so few vampires currently existed, and the ones left were much higher profile—how could anyone miss Radu Tepes and his lawyer? —she must be the vampire killer. Rarely did PNCs turn on each other. What would cause such aberrant behavior? His inner eye wandered to the memorized image of the dark vampire. Lovely bone structure and an incredible sense of style. Too few women knew how to dress anymore. Once upon a time, vampires had been secretly hired to be the mannequins for the fashion houses. They had the stamina for the hours of

fittings. A strong, fearless woman with experience and stamina. One already attached to Lance, who never had had the courage to embrace the attraction between himself and John. This vampire would hardly allow such cowardice from a lover. John licked the chocolate from his upper lip. She would most certainly demand that Lance it his heart. His imagination dared to visualize Lance and the vampire with him in his apartment in Geneva. They’d need a bigger bed, he thought, before closing the door on that dream. Too bad the vampire only had eyes for Lance. Those eyes. Her lovely eyes. Her lovely, sexy, deadly, dangerous eyes. He took a sip of the rich hot chocolate and choked. John knew who she was.

Lyons, August 1980

John choked on his hot chocolate. “You hunted vampires, Nana?” He knew he shouldn’t have followed her into the small attic space, but she’d made such a huge thump. And Great-Grandmother was old. John’s mother had trained him to keep watch over Nana and stairs. Nana looked over her stooped shoulder, not bothering to hide the crossbow she held in one wrinkled hand. A quarrel still quivered in the yellowed man-shaped target with fangs hand-drawn on its smiling mouth. As the chocolate dripped down John’s chin, she set the weapon on the floor. “I was a hunter, the best in Europe,” Josephine O’Neill Trudeau said. “I hunted the Nazi Paranormal Corps, up until the 1970s.” Her proud expression softened at his dropped jaw. “Go downstairs, John. I’ll be right there.” John never could what happened next, but when he shook himself to, his nana, a fresh cup of cocoa, and a cedar chest swam into focus. Her face was creased and slack, but her eyes burned with an unending fury. “A vampire named Randall killed everyone in our family during the war. For some reason, Dracula stopped him from killing me.” She caressed the chest, her face still wondering after all the years. “Dracula told me how to beat a vampire even though I am human. He said he wanted a fair fight when I came for him.” She opened the chest. “Drink, child. You’ve had a shock.” John numbly drank his cocoa. Tacked to the inside lid of the cedar were dozens of crumbling newspaper photos, grainy old pictures, and sharper pictures from the 1970s. All were of Radu Tepes and Dracula.

“I vowed I’d kill both the murderer and Dracula. But I was so young, I can’t his face well. I think he was this Radu character, but according to all sources, he was a hero of the Resistance. And Dracula supposedly died in Berlin.” Her voice plainly said she doubted that reality. Nana had cracked. Everyone knew that Dracula was dead. “Uh-huh.” She studiously ignored his eye-rolling. “Dracula survived. I have proof.” The chest yielded a scrapbook album. Yellowed pages crinkled as she flipped to the famous pictures of the death of the architect of the Shadow Creature Corps. There was a photo that John had never seen before. A woman in a bedraggled skirt stood to the far side of the frame, her mouth open in a shout. “The eyewitnesses insisted a woman, Dracula’s secretary, killed him. She then disappeared.” She turned the page to reveal another picture, a rare one of Dracula drilling his corps. Instead of his usual impeccable uniform, the famous vampire wore fatigues. Mud blotched his aristocratic features. And his mouth was open in an undignified shout. “Look at this.” He compared the two images. Thin face. Wide eyes. Slender body. A certain tension of the shoulders and arms. “Dracula escaped as this woman.” He knew as surely as he’d never taste better cocoa in his life. His nana nodded, her lips tight. “Where is he, then?” “I don’t know. I have hunted for decades.”

“It must be really hard to pretend to be a girl,” John said. “He must have become a man again.” “I have a theory.” She smoothed the photos flat on the table. John’s spine tingled the way it did before a pop quiz. “I think Dracula always was a woman.” For the second time in a half an hour, John snorted chocolate out his nose. Laughing and coughing, he wheezed, “Good one, Nana.” “Look again,” she said sternly. She wasn’t joking. John rolled his eyes and laid the pictures next to each other. He’d stare at them and pretend to go along with his nana’s delusions and... Then he saw it. The graceful ear with mostly hidden diamond studs, the too-thin moustache, the delicate jawline and throat. “How?” he whispered. “How did she do it?” She closed the scrapbook. “As far as I know, this is the only surviving photo of Dracula from this angle.” John was young, and enamored of heroics. “Should I kill her for you, Nana?” “No, darling.” She tucked a wayward piece of hair behind his ear. “The time for killing is past. Your grandmother and mother work too hard with Bishop Tempesta for things to go back the way they were. But if you find her, tell her I knew.” As John solemnly nodded, the contents of the chest distracted him. A dazzling array of weapons greeted his eyes. The sheer number of stakes, knives, crosses, pistols, and boxes of bullets stunned him. A glimmer of gold to one side caught his attention. As if in a daze, he dug for it. A gold medallion inscribed with a pair of wings nestled into his hand like a loving dog searching for petting. It was beautiful. Everything from the finely detailed feathers to the tiny rubies around the circumference called to him.

“Grandmother?” He held the disc up to her. “What does this mean?” She sat next to him and placed her hand over his. “That you are a Guide to a Fallen Angel.” “You’re joking,” John said. Everyone knew that Fallen Angels didn’t exist. Nana smirked in a way that made John decidedly uncomfortable. “Soon you will meet the person you are to help.” “How will I know that?” he challenged. “Well, from everything I’ve seen, you’ll want to slug him right in the face the very minute he opens his mouth.” John rubbed his hands against his face. Lance Soliel, ex-chaplain, soldier, and Fallen Angel, was fucking Dracula. Merde. Getting the two of them to move in was going to be a challenge. Good thing John liked his life complicated.

Chapter Twenty-three

The first day of the Twelfth Annual Paranormal Citizen’s Conference was lovely beyond compare. Graceful green glass towers soared above the twelve thousand people surging around the Oregon Convention Center. The rain-scrubbed building gleamed under the winter sunlight. An unfamiliar sense of optimism bubbled under Valerie’s surface composure. All those people working for the betterment of the world. What a beautiful thing. Or perhaps she had just experienced the best sex of her entire existence. Either worked, Valerie decided. She sat shotgun in the armored Town Car carrying Lance to the conference. Traffic edged forward as slowly as a dying man reaching for water. As reverently as a nun working her rosary, Valerie’s fingers traced the bandolier of M84 stun grenades in her lap. “You’re the bodyguard. Here. Guard us.” Lance had pulled the crowd-control devices from his gun cabinet and shoved them into Valerie’s hands. “Don’t kill anyone,” he warned as he took her stakes and pistols from her. He didn’t want her to use any of her usual weaponry, even after they had bonded over her personal arsenal. He was so cute when he tried to save people. She twisted in her seat to glance back at him. His icy blue eyes held warmth and ion as he met her gaze. The nasty black splotches on his aura had lightened to a soft gray. His clove aroma radiated calm control. She puckered her lips into a kiss. Lance blew a kiss back. The ache between her legs throbbed in memory of his touch.

Don’t kill anyone. Silly man. She faced forward again. Lethal weapons were strictly forbidden at the conference. She knew better than to carry deadly hardware into a delicate situation. All she needed was the sharpened pencil in the breast pocket of her boringly conservative blazer and slacks. One fast strike to the heart, and Radu would be swept out with the trash. Her redemption would be over and she could start her life. The first thing she would do is throw this drab outfit in the trash. The thought of Radu’s death did not fill her with the satisfaction it used to. She felt Lance’s gaze on the back of her neck. Finishing Radu would end her time with Lance. His Higher Purpose would not allow for her preferred finite solutions. He would leave her, but at least he’d be alive. The thought was cold comfort, colder than the metal of the grenades under her hands. The driver slowed even further as they neared the VIP entrance. The sight that greeted Valerie made her very glad Glenath had insisted on the car. Any discussion of PNC rights brought the crowds. Huge crowds. Loud crowds. Angry crowds. She automatically sniffed as she held the door for Lance. Repulsively smelly crowds. Valerie regretted testing the air for Radu’s presence. Fortunately, odor was the only assault. The convention center’s security, the Portland Police, and the Oregon State Police hustled their tight asses to prevent violence between the arguing groups. Strong bodies moving under tidy uniforms gave her chills, always had. Valerie clenched her buttocks. Down, girl. One day of relentless, overwhelming sex and rampant desire rode her harder than revenge. As she closed the enger door, one of those tasty-looking state troopers met them. “Father Soliel? This way, please.” Valerie’s stomach growled quietly as they waited in the elevator. The nice young man would have been a much better breakfast than her quart of animal blood.

Lance placed his hand on the small of her back. Her hunger subsided. Their security escort led them through a quieter upstairs hallway toward elegantly simple meeting rooms. The convention center strained at the seams with luminaries from around the world. All species, all colors, all sizes roamed the building and inspected the fabulous art and the largest pendulum Valerie had ever seen. Lance whispered in her ear, “Amazing.” She nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself. No way could she tell him it was like this in Paris after the war. Everyone had mingled, celebrated, and shared. So many secrets between her lover and herself, she thought. The policeman left them for more demanding duties after they were safely inside. Lance adjusted his tie as every one looked at them. Valerie assessed the occupants for threats. Some of the most dangerous beings in the world were in this room. The most dangerous one of all approached. Glenath Tempesta wore a royal blue velvet jacket, a long, multicolored skirt, and clanking heavy silver jewelry up and down her arms. Valerie didn’t know it was possible for a non-predatory species to smile that large. “About time you got here.” She linked arms with Lance and pulled him into the room, aiming right for an enormous werewolf surrounded by his enforcers. Valerie touched her pencil. This was about to get problematic. Vlad Dracula knew that werewolf. Once upon a time, Dracula had been the head of the European Shadow Creatures. Lucifer’s scaly elbows, she’d been a sucker for high-profile, paperwork-heavy positions. “Ah, Luc. I would like you to meet a new friend. Luc Breton, Lance Soliel. Luc was my fellow conspirator for the Prague conference.” “You bring another human amongst us, Glenath.” The Great Wolf, the head of all European paranormals, lifted his lip to show ragged canines at Lance. Luc always had been an ass.

“Get over yourself, Luc,” Glenath snapped, clearly exasperated. “We don’t have the time for this.” Luc shook Lance’s hand with bone-crushing force. Lance smiled pleasantly and pressed back. Luc’s heavy eyebrows flickered upward slightly, and his grip relented. “Well met, Soliel.” Typical alpha wolf behavior, Valerie thought. Luc hadn’t changed since he had taken over. Poor Luc was always over-compensating for being compared to Vlad. Speaking of Vlad, Luc had met him on a number of occasions, even tried to kill him more than once. Valerie bit the inside of her lip. Luc might notice her resemblance to her former self. Sometimes thinking about her past gave Valerie a headache. Vlad was a man, but Valerie was a woman, but they were both her. Him. Whatever. Pronouns sucked. “Always a pleasure to meet a friend of Glenath’s.” Luc’s gaze traveled over, then down to Valerie. He frowned. “And you are?” Valerie bristled. The tall bastard actually looked down his nose at her. That upstart pup needed a lesson in humility. Her own lip started a trip up her fangs. The air in the room chilled as Luc’s hair fluffed out. “Don’t be an ass, Luc. She’s Lance’s bodyguard,” Glenath answered, commanding Luc’s attention and defusing the situation with easy grace. “The usual death threats, blah blah blah. It gets boring, really it does.” The bishop led Luc and Lance away from Valerie. “I wanted to talk to you two about...” They wandered off, leaving her to watch their backs. Or rather, Lance’s backside. Prime real estate on that boy, she thought. The very next chance she had, she would show him how vampires could suck cock. Not breathing was good for some things. She didn’t have a chance to enjoy her thoughts. Radu and his coterie swept into the lounge like Louis the XIV and his courtiers. Her shock erased the erotic thoughts. For a moment, she’d forgotten her own mission. Instead, she had started thinking like a real lover. No, no, no. Lance was her bait, nothing more.

Valerie pursed her lips when she saw young Chad Trask walking amongst the consultants and bodyguards. He really was connected in high places. Radu’s trajectory would take him within five feet of Valerie’s position. He didn’t even notice another vampire in the room, let alone recognize his brother. The boy had always been nose-blind. Reluctantly, she removed her pencil from her pocket. Getting past his bodyguards and friends would be child’s play for someone trained in the art of sneak attacks. A quick jab and she’d be done. Just then, Lance removed his suit jacket and laid it over his arm. The white dress shirt clung to his broad shoulders and skimmed down to his narrow waist. His perfect, round ass clenched as he shifted from side to side during his conversation. His aura glowed so sweetly, too, illuminating the room with his charm and purity. Her labia ached in sudden excitement. She dropped her pencil back into her pocket. Lance was right. This was the wrong time and place to kill her deceitful brother. After all, vampires had all the time in the world. The next ten minutes took for-fucking-ever. Lance, Glenath, and Luc talked until Valerie wanted to stab herself with her own pencil. Being in the same room as her brother was killing her. Finally, Lance broke away from the little tête-à-tête. He nodded toward a quiet, inconspicuous corner where a VIP bathroom was discreetly located. Valerie guarded the door, her hands dangling easily at her sides, as Lance locked himself in. Chad Trask oh-so-casually drifted away from Radu’s group toward Valerie. He studied the artwork on the wall next to the bathroom. “What are you doing here?” Chad hissed out of the corner of his mouth. Inwardly, Valerie snickered. Outwardly, she said, “Trying to catch peeks of men urinating.” “Are you spying on me? I should...” Chad’s hands curled into fists.

“I have bigger fish to fry than a half-assed delinquent,” Valerie replied calmly. “But if you really want to solve this with violence, I would more than enjoy it.” She cracked her wrists and let her fangs completely distend. The boy gasped. “Let’s dance.” Chad just stared, frozen. Arousal pumped off of him. His excitement fed the heat thrumming through her veins. She parted her lips, deliberately ran her tongue over a fang. He trembled at her gesture, his gaze locked on the movement. His dress slacks swelled as he stared at her mouth. That clarified a thing or two for Valerie. “You want a strong woman, don’t you?” She circled him until he pressed against the wall. “Don’t be ashamed of wanting a woman with power.” He swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed under his peach fuzz stubble. Valerie leaned in, bracing her arms on either side of him, close enough to kiss or bite. He smelled of ripe, sweet testosterone and youthful pheromones. A heady mixture. She inhaled, long and deliberately, telling him without words that his offer of himself pleased her. The boy stared at her mouth, caught in the lure of danger. She opened her lips, letting him look his fill. Chad ran a quivering finger over her fangs, around and around. A soft moan reverberated in the back of his throat when the sharp tip dragged against his flesh. A surge of hunger made her shake. No question he was willing now. He was practically begging for her to bite him, right here in front of everyone. She could nearly feel the hot slide of blood down her throat. Vampires weren’t monogamous by nature. Every instinct she had suppressed for six hundred years screamed at her. How she wanted to sate her raging desire for more ion. Chad closed his eyes, surrendering.

The toilet flushed. They both straightened. The two of them stared at each other as the sound of running water washed away their temptation. “Don’t be stupid. Run away. Find yourself a nice girl with a wild streak and forget you ever thought this,” she breathed in his ear. “You keep on this path and you won’t like yourself.” Chad looked into her eyes. What he saw there made him nod. He ducked under her arm and tried not to sprint across the room. Valerie watched him go, her fangs subsiding. The bathroom door opened. “You okay?” Lance asked, his blue eyes icing over with concern. He smelled more delicious than anything she had ever imagined. “Never better,” she replied truthfully.

RADU WAS A MASTER MULTITASKER. He was capable of listening to Joe at the same time he observed Chad and the other vampire’s little interaction by the lavatory. That was the one who had interfered with Lance’s demise. Since Roger had disappeared, Radu knew he had to take care of his own annoyances. Get rid of her, and he’d quickly be rid of Soliel. Perfect. “And Puff the Magic Dragon really is the perfect metaphor for foreign policy, don’t you agree, Mr. Tepes?” Joe droned on. Radu nodded wisely, completely lost in thought. “Absolutely, Joe.” Soon, it would be time to get better acquainted with his other lawyer’s son. But for now, he had bigger prey.

Chapter Twenty-four

Radu Tepes smoothed his silk tie as Glenath Tempesta wrestled with her microphone. Eager anticipation tingled through his fingers. His party had been seated at the front of the enormous ballroom, right by the stage. His perfect view more than compensated for the typical convention-style chairs he was forced to use. He wanted to see every single expression on Tempesta’s face today. The woman teetered on the edge of her destruction and she didn’t even know it. He smiled in unadulterated delight. This was it. Joe, Umar, and Ben Trask chatted amongst themselves in blissful ignorance of Radu’s plans. He had arranged every component of what was about to . Unfortunately, Lance Soliel and his mysterious vampire sat two rows back and to his left. Radu grudgingly itted that the former chaplain could dress well. Instead one of his ubiquitous, tattered long-sleeved T-shirts, Soliel looked sophisticated and debonair in a navy pin-striped English-styled suit. The vampire wore a surprisingly unremarkable gray jacket and slacks. Vampires were a flamboyant people. She couldn’t be anyone he’d ever known. Such boring clothing was not done. One simply couldn’t have everything all at once, he mused, refusing to give in to disappointment. Not today of all days. The building buzzed with excitement and nerves. Unable to resist, he tuned his sensitive hearing to eavesdrop on the bishop’s last moments before he ruined her. What was she saying in her innocence of her fate? The woman was muttering in her usual cranky way. “Learn to fucking spell.” She glared off to one side. Radu craned his neck to see what disturbed her. A group of mortals held a homemade banner that read:

HUMAN RITES ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN ANEMAL RIGHTS. Simply atrocious. Radu mentally rolled his eyes in agreement. Really, if you care about something, do it with some style, he thought, caressing his perfect nails with his fingertips. “Please don’t swear,” Glenath’s manager automatically responded. “Do you have the speech I prepared for you?” The poor man looked nervous. Working with Tempesta couldn’t be easy. “Sure thing, Daniel.” The woman brandished her famous leather-bound notebook carved with the perfect replica of Rodin’s Gates of Hell. Radu did appreciate the former bishop’s sense of humor. Too bad that wouldn’t save her. She marched to the podium like she was going to war. Her burgundy leather Birkenstock clogs propelled her like a couple of jet engines. How could the woman wear such ridiculous shoes? Radu had once thought it a charming eccentricity, but now it simply highlighted her lack of polish and sophistication. His own custom-made Italian lace-ups gleamed with the soft shine of handdetailed calfskin. The crowd erupted into the tedious hurricane of boos and cheers that always accompanied Glenath. She tossed her untamed waist-length, pewter-gray hair over one shoulder and waited for the noise to die down. She leaned an elbow on the birch lectern and cocked a hip before starting in on her opening speech. The large-format television screens broadcast her image throughout the building as though she were a rock star. “Opening speakers are supposed to welcome people. Here’s my welcome for you. Welcome to the Twelfth Annual Race Riot.” The crowd froze. Radu had to give the woman props. She did know how to start with a bang. Glenath gripped both sides of the podium and growled her next words into the silence. “I’m not going to blow sunshine up your collective asses. This is scary shit.

People ask me if I was afraid when I walked up to the Great Wolf, Luc Breton. Yes, I was. Hell, he nearly ate me. Still got the scars to prove it.” She pulled aside the neckline of her jacket. Ragged, still livid lines crisscrossed her throat. That must have been messy. Radu’s mouth automatically watered. “But fear is bullcrap.” She jabbed a finger in the air. “You face your fear. You talk to it. Trying to deny it or make it go away doesn’t work. Instead, you just get so scared, you can’t spell.” This was too delicious. Glenath would be facing her greatest fear in just a few moments. Radu schooled his expression into one of intent interest when he saw a camera swing his way. She paced to the front of the stage. “I want this summit to be about facing the deepest, darkest thing you are afraid of. That might be a werewolf. It might be a human. Hell, it might even be me.” Her gaze scanned the crowd. Radu smiled again. “Living in fear sucks. Stop wasting your life.” Time for her signature line. “Bring it.” “And here it comes,” Radu promised under his breath.

THE WARNING HAIRS ON Lance’s neck trembled. He clicked to full alert, adrenaline flooding his muscles. “What?” Valerie whispered over the audience’s applause. “What do you see?” “Something big.” Something even worse than honeysuckle that walked. He searched the room, desperate to prevent disaster. Surely his sly minx of a lover wouldn’t choose this time to assassinate Radu. He narrowed his eyes at her. He knew exactly what kind of damage an innocent sharp pencil could do. “Don’t look at me,” she hissed indignantly. She was gorgeous when she was irritated. He was light-headed crazy about her. Momentarily distracted by her anger, Lance tilted his body at the waist, bending to brush a kiss over her high cheekbone. She lowered her eyelids over her suddenly sultry hazel eyes. A wild shouting roar interrupted them. As one they rose, fists already clenched. Like a devilish magician, a bald man materialized on the stage next to Glenath. “What the hell?” Lance asked. “Anthony?” The bishop sounded like a baby seal just clubbed in the head. Her hand fluttered to her chest. “Is that really you?” They both tensed at the naked vulnerability in the woman’s voice. “What the fuck did you do, Radu?” Valerie muttered. She touched her pencil but didn’t pull it. “He was an innocent, you bastard,” she whispered. “Stop this.” Without looking at each other, Lance and his woman shoved their way through the agitated audience toward Glenath. Faster than a forest fire, the man evaded the advancing security. For someone so muscular, he moved like a flame. He snatched a microphone from the podium

and cut in front of Glenath. He threw an arm out to silence the roar. Lance tightened his jaw. Anthony, whoever he was, moved like Radu Tepes. “I kill that pig now,” Valerie hissed. She aimed her pencil like a javelin at Radu Tepes. “See you in hell, fratele.” Lance grabbed her arm. “No!” he ordered. He could not allow cold-blooded murder. Teeth and claws bared, she shrugged him off. Then Anthony spoke, breaking off their fight. “My name is Anthony O’Neill. I am a vampire. Today, I step forward to advance the cause of civil rights for all. I must expose the hypocrisy of human leadership. This situation can no longer be allowed to stand.” Blood beaded on his face. Anthony dabbed a blue silk handkerchief across his forehead, wiping his sweat. “Thirty years ago, Glenath Tempesta and I secretly married.” He paused as the audience roared in disbelief. “Her superiors in seminary demanded she renounce me. She caved. Not once has she acknowledged my existence or the importance of our bond, nor has she given me the courtesy of a divorce. I’ve kept my silence for these many years out of respect for her and her accomplishments. But I can no longer stand to be her dirty little secret.” Glenath collapsed, dropped off the stage, and landed in Lance’s arms. Anthony whirled, leapt, and vanished into the dark night. The room erupted in flashbulbs, questions, hands waving, and screams.

RADU HID HIS SMILE behind his hand. Despite Anthony’s resistance, Tempesta’s influence on public opinion was completely neutralized. Only one more obstacle.

LANCE GATHERED GLENATH’S limp body to him. “Call an ambulance,” he shouted at Valerie. “I have her.” Valerie spit out a guttural curse, her fangs sharp and angry. “I could have prevented this.” She yanked the BlackBerry out of his inside breast pocket, tearing a few threads on her way. Lance staggered under her swift movements. “We don’t have time for a tantrum,” he snapped back, cradling the bishop. She snapped her teeth, but looked over his shoulder. “Damnation. Look sharp.” Multiple news teams bore down on him like radio-controlled missiles. Valerie and Lance were trapped between the stage and the oncoming press. Valerie pushed back, but there were too many. Glenath’s unconscious form dragged Lance down, even with his augmented strength. His arms shook. “Get us out of here,” he told Valerie. “Give her some air, you vultures,” she growled. “Mr. Soliel. One question.” “Father, we want to know...” “Is Bishop Tempesta alive?” “Will she be all right?” “I heard you abandoned your childhood friend to life in a sanitarium. How can you live with yourself?” A voice boomed above all the others. “Tell us the truth about John Janté.” Shock immobilized Lance. His poleaxed face flashed over the huge television screens circling the room. Valerie took both Lance and Glenath in her arms. Still stunned, he barely ed her death-defying jump out of the ballroom.

RADU CARESSED HIS MENDED thumbnail. Part Two went down as smooth as a knife edge. Time for Part Three. He wedged through the mayhem. Joe, Ben, and Umar flanked him as he ascended the stage. “Attention. Attention, everyone! Please, calm down.” He held his arms out, palms down, in a pacifying motion. The crowd settled to an uneasy silence. “I wasn’t planning on speaking today. But I feel compelled to address every one of you. “For ages, humanity and PNCs treated each other as enemies. The myth of our origins, that Lucifer created us in his Fall, is highly entertaining, but false. It is time we created a new reality. I have found the best way to integrate the world in a peaceful fashion.” He adjusted his tie to draw out the tension. “The Consortium for Concerned Citizens has a glorious past. I first met with Joseph Carter and Umar Mernissi in 1969 to help form what would become the landmark Paranormal Citizens Act. For the youngsters in the audience, I’ll remind you of the pertinent details. Any Shadow Creature who wanted to live in the United States, and didn’t have a criminal record, was able to apply for citizenship. In the course of three years, we got government IDs, gained the ability to serve in the military to serve our country, and even received the privilege of paying our taxes. Every country in the world soon followed suit, especially the taxes part of the equation.” Radu allowed his lips to curve as he paused for the laughter to die down. “Yes, there have been setbacks. We have fought amongst ourselves, fought and died and eventually found our way to this fragile peace. “Since that time, all beings on earth have learned to live together, work together, and to our surprise, found our children playing together. This makes me look forward to a time of no more fear or hate between species. We have made allies and friends amongst those who fear us. We have learned more about each other since World War II than in all previous centuries combined. Knowledge has replaced ignorance.

“Education has always been the key to combating bigotry. We need to see more positive images of PNCs in our media. We need to become more involved in the world’s stage. To further this goal, I am proud to announce my candidacy for President of the United States.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Could Radu’s day get any better? “I bring hundreds of years of experience as varied as bringing order from complete anarchy to rebelling against totalitarian regimes. I am not running as either a Republican or a Democrat, but as the head of my new Unity Party. “And I am pleased to announce my running mate, Wisconsin Governor Nicholas Green!” Brandy snifter in hand, tie undone, shirt collar unbuttoned, Radu posed in front of the flat-screen television set in his hotel room. Frantic clicking from the paparazzi on the roof of the next building told him they nailed the perfect shot he’d composed for them. He sipped his post-meal spirits and focused on the television. Clip after clip of that confounded woman fainting onstage at today’s opening ceremonies rolled past. Radu changed the channel to see Joe humiliating Lance Soliel on national television. “Mr. Soliel is a coward who lets others pay the price of his carelessness. John Janté was mauled in an encounter with the paranormal that Mr. Soliel started and spent several years in a nursing home. The poor souls who are depending on his actions to herald a new age in civil rights will be sorely disappointed.” He’d not heard from Roger yet, but it seemed that loser had failed. But this was a minor sour note compared to the rest of today’s accomplishments. Those words would never get old. And Soliel never did appear to rebut the challenge. He took a drink as the next channel revealed an anchor discussing Tempesta.

“This is a tale of an ambitious, lustful, deceitful woman taking advantage of a vampire’s connections to make a name for herself, then dumping him when he no longer served her purposes.” The Brandy de Jerez swirled around Radu’s fangs as he smiled. Nothing could ruin his pleasure of this evening. He changed the channel just in time to see himself on-screen again. “Radu Tepes reacts to the collapse of his one-time ally, Glenath Tempesta.” Could he look any better? Leaning forward, Radu studied his image. Perhaps changing the shade of his pocket square. He toasted the screen. “To a perfect night.” A scratchy voice interrupted his thoughts. “The night isn’t done yet.” Radu whirled. Annoyingly, brandy sloshed onto his tros. Another vampire stood on his balcony. Lean and pale, her hazel gaze pinned him to the floor. Her face seemed so familiar, but Radu knew of no woman who carried the family resemblance. Her glossy red lips drew his attention away from the wet spot on his pants. Had he slept with her? Valerie stood in the shadows, her fist over her chest as she watched Radu watch the television. He looked the same as he ever did. Her brother had always been the good-looking one. The lingering odor of expensive hair products made her twitch her nose. Radu had always been vain. She gritted her teeth against a long-buried memory to no avail. His sweet baby smell and the feel of his little toddler fists in her hair overwhelmed everything. He loved to have Vlad catch him, swing him around, and settle in for a pony ride on his big brother’s back. Radu had been an adorable baby, good-natured and playful. Being a big brother had been Vlad’s greatest joy. There wouldn’t have been

anything she wouldn’t have done for her baby sibling. Mircea was older and caught up in being their father’s heir. Vlad finally had a playmate. Vlad decided he would tell Radu the truth when the boy was old enough. Then their father sent them as hostages to the Ottomans. Valerie skipped the memories of her experiences. When Radu returned years later, he had become greedy, sneaky, proud, and vicious. Proud herself, Vlad kept her secret. Radu was vain, yes. Stupid, no. Radu knew Vlad hid something from him, and the rift between them widened into an imable chasm. Until the Second World War. Secrets saved Valerie’s life. They also ruined it. For a moment, she ached for the few times they had cooperated. The years he’d been her double agent in the French Resistance had been a bright spot in their contentious relationship. Too bad Lance hadn’t seen the importance of this act. Too bad his mortal sensibilities were too fragile to do what had to be done. Now was the time to play her cards. “The night is still young,” she said as she drifted onto his hotel room’s patio. “Excuse me?” Radu asked, casually reaching to the small of his back. A stake appeared in her hand. “Don’t try it,” she warned. “I saw you at the conference. Who are you?” Now that just stung. Valerie didn’t move, but inside she snorted. How many centuries had they stared at each other and he didn’t recognize her just because she wore lipstick? Guess her female disguise really was that good. “I have an offer for you,” Valerie said. He looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, the photographers? They found something better to do.” Valerie advanced two steps. Killing him would be so easy now. No witnesses, no noise, and her penance would at last be over. Dracula would finally be free of his sins. Her fingers clenched on the stake. No. She wanted Lance more than she wanted Radu dead. “You’ve got what you want. Let Soliel live.” Radu lowered his chin. A younger human would call it a “get real” look. “Now why would I do that?” He feigned a relaxed stance. Valerie could tell he was trying to sound neutral, but his contemptuous sneer couldn’t be contained. Stick to the plan, she told her rising temper. But oh, she yearned to teach him a lesson in humility. “I will let you live.” Radu stared into enigmatic hazel eyes. “Why?” She simply said, “Because I wish him to live.” “A trade. My life for his.” “Yes.” Lucifer’s fingernails. What was he, Captain Obvious? “I am the last of the old ones.” Radu swirled the brandy in his glass. “I can make more and hunt you down.” “Making a vampire is tiring and difficult,” she retorted. “There is a one in ten chance of a potential surviving. By the time you create an army, I’ll be long gone.” She shrugged in a way that did not disturb her stake’s aim. “I could kill you now. Your legacy will make you a hero. Your lieutenants might even carry on your ambitions.” “My ambitions are my own,” Radu replied. He took a long drink of his brandy. “Why don’t you me? We could use someone of your drive.” He gestured to

his empty room. “And planning skills.” “I like his vision better. Do we have a deal?” Radu extended his aura to look at hers. The woman’s sins were as dark as any Radu had seen, but a core of guilt lay in her heart. She really did have an inflated sense of her self-importance. What kind of obsessed idiot thought that killing someone else would ease her conscience? Obviously, the kind of obsessed idiot who thought all PNCs had to pay for the crimes of the past. “Lighten up,” he murmured. “You are not the most damned creature. The Fallen still rule in hell, not you.” She smiled, her mouth a little grim. “So speaks one as full of pride as can be.” “And you aren’t?” Radu thrust the purple of his aura against her blackness. “Isn’t it pride that fuels this quest to kill your own? The humans have done a fine job bringing war criminals to justice. You think them so incompetent that only you can wash away the crimes of our people?” He snorted. She looked away, conceding his point. “Do we have a deal?” she repeated. Radu raised his glass in a toast and turned his back. “Do as you will.” A swish of black and she disappeared from the balcony.

SHE’D DONE IT. A whole new undeath stretched in front of her, as clean as fresh snow. For the first time in her entire existence, she had nowhere to go, nothing driving her. Her clothes would no longer get ruined by blood, ichor, and body parts. Valerie stretched her back and stared at the distant night sky. The dark called her; deep and mysterious and whispering of secrets it could teach her. There were more lands to see, more skies to look at. She’d never been to Tibet or China. She could go back to Turkey and Albania, see the lands of her youth and find peace of mind. Nothing held her. Except whom she wanted to hold her. Who said she had to be alone when she traveled? She lowered her body onto a convenient park bench and let the light rain cool her face and throat. Young lovers of all kinds walked past her, some laughing, some quiet, all holding hands. A female human in dreadlocks and tattoos caressed her lamia partner’s cheek. The lamia, dressed in a tidy pink twin set and pearls above her brightly colored snake tail, giggled and kissed her mortal. Their easy affection spurred Valerie’s envy. She wanted that. She wanted that with Lance, that stubborn, luminous, Higher Calling man. After all, he’d been right. Killing Radu was completely unnecessary. She did not have to live in the shadows any longer. Valerie turned her back on the dark to walk back to the warmth of the city, toward Lance’s bright soul. Redemption left her feeling something new. Hope. Time to celebrate. Valerie examined the headless body in front of her. This might be the most

difficult thing she had ever faced. She touched the pit of her neck, the rest of her petrified by the sight. The dressmaker’s dummy, dressed in exquisite sunset orange European silk and cream-colored lace, paralyzed her. Lucy’s Mystery was a tiny, unassuming, and thoroughly intimidating lingerie store. Inside, mirrors on top of pink and gold fabric lined the walls. Fat bunches of vermilion ribbon substituted for crown molding. They’d never be able to get blood out of that white carpet, either. She shook her head at her militaristic thinking. Time to act. The vampiress pushed the door open. Let him live. She would let him live. Furious, Radu paced out to his suite’s balcony. This vampire had eliminated hundreds of their species and thought she controlled the moral high ground? The sheer arrogance of her actions lent Radu’s legs extra power. “Fuck it.” He spider-walked his way to the roof of the building, hoping the rain and the lights would give him perspective. The television still blared below him. “Father Lance Soliel is about to make a statement to the press concerning the accusations leveled against him today.” His rage gave way to curiosity. Radu squatted on the overhead rails covering his balcony. What could the man possibly say to get out of the predicament that Radu had created? “The real question that today’s events have raised is not one of the perfection of the individual, but the perfection of the idea they champion. “You may disapprove of what I do or have done. You may disapprove of what Glenath Tempesta did in the name of love. Does that mean that the goals of peace and equality are forfeit?” Lucifer’s leathery wings, did this human not know how to give up? Radu flicked

a pebble at the street below. His frustration sped it into the concrete, embedding it under the surface. “We have breaking news. A man calling himself John Janté has come forward, claiming that our information about his illness is incorrect. Mr. Janté?” What. The. Hell? Radu swung off the roof into his room. This could not be. A suave and relaxed Frenchman smiled easily at the cameras. “As you can see, I am perfectly unharmed.” “Do you deny you spent years in a nursing home?” The interviewer had the shark eyes of a reporter on the trail. “Of course I was injured in that long-ago attack. Recovery was not easy, but Lance always assisted my family in the expense. And since I earned a Ph.D. and am now a systems engineer at the premier research facility in the world, no one can say I suffered any permanent damage.” No. No. It was not possible. The human was supposed to be crippled and disfigured. Not an impossibly debonair Dean Martin look-alike. Frantically, Radu changed channels. There had to be something left of his triumph. “For our viewers’ information, Mr. Tepes can appear in dim sunlight. According to renowned vampire expert, Dr. Constance Brodhacker, Bram Stoker’s Dracula is an excellent general description of most vampiric powers, allowing for individual differences, of course...” Radu choked on his brandy. That book. That fucking book.

Chapter Twenty-six London, England The Lyceum Theatre 1885

“W ell, look at him,” an usher mocked. “There’s a swell toff slumming.” Late-working Bram Stoker walked to the door of the business office and scanned the street full of arrivals to see Faust tonight. The usher jerked a thumb toward a man wearing a very expensive evening jacket and tros. An ermine-lined cape draped from his shoulders. Perfectly polished boots flashed against the brick. Bram looked down at his own serviceable, scuffed shoes. He shuffled his feet. The man escorted three scandalously clad beauties out of a carriage. Each woman was a different color and size, each more notorious than the other for their unashamed antics. A heady mix of roses and musk hit his nose all the way inside, and Bram knew their powered décolletages radiated the sensual brew. The men in the crowd stared at the women’s barely covered breasts. The more modestly clad, respectable women turned and ignored the little ménage. The decorated entrance could barely contain their combined glory. Their glittering pride filled Bram’s eye, and for a moment, he yearned to be that beautiful, that ired. And he despaired, for such elegance was surely beyond ordinary mortals. The usher’s disdainful snort broke his reverie. “Like two-year-olds, they are.” Bram shook his head to clear it. In light of the other man’s cynical assessment,

Bram studied the quartet more closely. The man cast off his gleaming cloak with the kind of flourish that only comes from long practice. As the luxurious garment fluttered toward the floor, a harried manservant dashed to catch it before it touched the floor. The cringing run told Bram that the servant’s hide depended on not letting that white fur touch the ground. The women loaded their own cloaks—one mink, one snow leopard, one tiger— onto his arms until he looked like a pile of furs with legs. The servant tried to wend his way to the cloakroom. The lovely mulatto woman in her bold orange dress minced past a shy-looking younger woman in an elegant white gown. A quick twitch of the courtesan’s elbow, and the girl’s red wine cascaded from her bodice to hem. The blond prostitute pushed her way to the front of the refreshment line, leaving a trail of disgruntled patrons. The tallest of the three, a full-blown brunette with the largest bosom, bent over until her breasts threatened to escape and pulled her skirt up to reveal a delicate ankle dressed in sheer silk. Diamonds on her shoes drew everyone’s attention to her action. Still outside, the debonair man watched their antics until an annoyed pinch between his perfectly formed eyebrows told Bram trouble brewed. Faster than Bram believed possible, the well-dressed man tripped the servant, forcing him to drop his burden of costly pelts. A riding crop appeared in the gentleman’s hand. The air in the theater stilled as he slammed the leather five times into the servant’s back. As he put the crop away, the room stared in silent shock. A magnificent dowager, impeccably dressed and respectable, turned her back on the outburst and the sobbing servant. One by one, the crowd cut the shining quartet. Finally the servant gathered his now-muddy burden and stumbled to the cloakroom. Shunned, the man and his seraglio entered their box seats. Bram stroked his chin thoughtfully. This one loved being the center of attention. Every move, every word made sure he never left the eye. The women, normally the cause of all comment, were merely planets to reflect the glory of his sun.

Bram foretold a long evening of whispered demands from the spoilt party to compensate for their vanity being crushed. For a long time, he’d wanted to write a story of such a man. And here was his character, right in front of him. At the end of the night, Bram pushed open the theater’s back door. It had been, indeed, an exhausting show. Fortunately, Bram had been able to stay in his office and take notes on his new character. The poor ushers hadn’t been so lucky. The entire staff had heaved a collective sigh of relief when the frightful foursome finally left. Papers safely in briefcase, he closed and locked up the rest of the theater. Time to head home. Hooves clopped and echoed right outside the backstage entrance. Bram froze, then opened the door a tiny crack. In the alley before him, a carriage the color of old blood stood on the street. One of the two large black horses shifted from leg to leg, but no driver held them. A long, low groan pierced the night. The carriage door swung open silently on its hinges. The selfish man from earlier stepped out. Wiping his lips with a pristine white handkerchief, the vain man offered his hand to the mulatto woman. She emerged, her gown wrinkled beyond repair and bosom fully exposed. Bram ran his finger under the too-tight collar of his shirt. Tugging at her bodice, she gestured to the other two. The blond and brunette women exited the vehicle. They clustered on the street, giggling and kissing each other. The man ed them in the lewd acts, his hands roaming their high breasts and tight nipples. Bram’s eyebrows rose to his hairline at the shocking sight even as his tros constricted his arousal. The women clustered around the man, making pleading gestures. He shook his head. They displayed their charms even more freely, lifting their skirts to show him their quims. He shook his head again. Sighing, the women slumped. Each pulled her dress over their magnificent bosoms. The gentleman reached into the dark interior of the carriage and pulled out a pile of wet blankets. Carelessly, he tossed the roll onto the street. The sodden heap bounced and

thudded against the building. The women stuck out their lower lips as he shooed them into the carriage, but they slowly ducked back inside. Nothing signaled the horses, but they stepped out in unison. The smell of blood accompanied the driverless carriage past Bram’s hiding place. A final giggle pierced the night as the horses clopped away. As the last echo melted, Bram left the safety of the theater. Stunned, Bram slowly walked to the roll of blankets. He twitched a corner back and gasped. The man servant lolled against the wool, his shirt undone and his open pants crusted with semen. His penis was missing, the wound jagged as though a bear had bitten it off. His glistening mouth lolled open like a man caught mid-orgasm. Blood crusted from bite marks covering his neck, chest, wrists, and groin. He was also completely dead. The night after the fun at the theater. Radu suckled from one of his maids as the clock struck six. The dear thing had come to build his fire when he woke a little early. He’d sat her on his first erection of the day and pierced her areola with his teeth. Blood poured down her nipple and into his mouth as he fucked her. Her little noises excited him further. Her hot mortal vagina quivered around his cold cock. Like mother’s milk, her hot blood warmed his empty stomach. He sucked harder. Oh, how lovely human heat was. A knock interrupted his pleasure. “What?” he demanded, furious his breakfast had been interrupted. His butler’s muffled voice came through his bedroom door. “One Mr. Stoker to see you, sir. He claims to be from the theater and to have something of value for you.” At least his brides still slept in their downstairs quarters. They normally disliked

his fun with the female servants, but today they couldn’t complain. The sport they’d had last night with the footman should keep them satisfied for a few days. “Tell him I’ll be down in half an hour. Show him the study.” He licked the maid’s breast clean and adjusted her clothes. The wound could close quickly with the help from his saliva. Before she completely recovered, he shoved her into the hallway. A quick toilette and he sauntered into the study. A serious-looking bearded man with cautious eyes watched him enter. He carried a brown paper wrapped parcel tied with string in his hands “Mr. Stoker, is it?” Radu sat at his mahogany desk, refusing to offer his hand. His blood ran from princes. He had no need of social niceties to a tradesman. “Mr. Turciful. How do you do? I manage the Lyceum Theatre.” Radu steepled his fingers. “What brings you here?” “I am here to offer you a trade.” The human placed the package precisely in the center of the desk’s protective blotter. Uninvited, he sat in the leather chair opposite the desk. The scent of blood wafted up from the package. Feigning disinterest, Radu cut the string and unwrapped the paper. Inside a box, a bloodstained oilcloth protected an oblong object. A quick flick, and his former servant’s shredded penis lay in plain sight. “I saw everything last night, Mr. Turciful. Give me what I want and I will keep your secret.” Radu rose, his fangs expanding. He stepped from behind the desk, letting Stoker see what exactly he baited. “What’s preventing me from killing you right now? I have no need of anything you might have to offer.” He braced his arms on the chair and blew blood-laden breath in the other man’s face. Unworried, the other man crossed his legs and looked directly into Radu’s eyes. “If I do not leave your door within two minutes, unharmed and whole, the street

urchins I hired will burn your house down. You should pay attention where you feed. They notice when their friends disappear.” Radu walked to the window. A cluster of ragged children stood in the rain. Kerosene-soaked rags lined the foundation of his home. One of the dirty children saw him. The outrageous infant tossed a two-finger salute. Another waved a lit lantern. The rest, an entire army, perched in various locations around the street, watched the house like vultures. Two minutes was not enough time to kill Stoker and all the damned children. The theater manager had done his research. Radu was boxed into a corner. Not turning away from the window, he ground out, “What is it you want, Stoker?” “I want a great book, Mr. Turciful. And you are going to help me achieve it.” An unusual offer. Radu was curious. “Call off your miniature army, Stoker.” The next evening, Stoker arrived, a carpetbag full of paper and ink. The butler showed him into the library where Radu waited, reading the evening’s news. Stoker sat, pulled the writing desk close to him, and asked, “Tell me, Mr. Turciful. How did you become a vampire?” Radu put the paper aside. “When my brother, Vlad, returned from the Ottomans, he was dead inside. We didn’t know how dead he truly was. Many years, he hid his secret, but then he bit me as well as his beautiful wife, Ilona. The change drove me to the woods for years, but I found my way back. We’ve played cat and mouse since.” Bram scratched his chin, leaving ink in his beard. “But not all people who are bitten become vampires. Your servant is most certainly dead.” “Ah! Therein lies the fiendishness of Vlad’s deed. Whenever a vampire bites, he can offer a choice. If a human tastes a vampire’s tears and blood, then he crosses over into the night. Vlad forced his fluids into my mouth after biting me. He did the same to my beloved sister-in-law.”

The lie still tasted delicious on his tongue, like blood mixed with honey and whiskey. Radu sat back and stared into the fire. “Ilona and I wandered the world. Vlad killed her while in Spain as he served under the human monster, Napoleon. I still miss her.” Bram shook his head. “Only fitting that someone as horrible as your brother would serve with Napoleon.” For weeks on end, they spoke of vampires and vampirism. “What brought you to England?” “Money and a woman, what else?” Radu sucked on his cigar and blew smoke rings. A sip of blood and brandy chased the smooth flavor down his throat. “I have made it my life’s work to enter into great empires. I lived with the Ottomans in their glory. I lived in Spain under Philip II. After the Armada, I returned home to live quietly. But I got restless.” Another puff on the cigar to revive the sandalwood taste on his tongue. “When I saw how mighty the English had become, I sent for a barrister. His fiancée is the absolute image of Ilona. I came to find her and make her mine, for she had married the wrong brother all those years ago. Now is the time to make things right.” “How will you do that?” Bram asked, scribbling wildly. “Her intended is a boring sort. He didn’t even resist my ladies. I am anything but tedious. I will show her ion.” “Will you turn her?” “Slowly. It’s more pleasurable when you give a different fluid with each bite. I’m thinking of bringing her best friend along with us, so she won’t be lonely when we move back to my homeland. She will love its wildness.” Radu slammed the lukewarm brandy. The alcohol did nothing to haze the stillpainful slice of betrayal from Stoker.

He had loved those months. Never had he experienced someone wanting to know about him. All his life, his family fawned over Mircea and Vlad, the elders. Radu had been a surprise, an afterthought. His parents sent him away, then rejected him when he returned from the Ottomans. And after Mircea died, blinded and buried alive, Vlad sat on the family’s throne. After all those centuries of being the youngest, he finally got his due. Attention was sweeter than any blood he’d ever tasted. Three months into their interviewing, Radu and Stoker walked the streets at night. “We are difficult to kill. Beheading. A stake to the heart. For some, the sun, but it does not harm me.” Stoker nodded and puffed on his pipe. A charming if strong scent of apple tobacco momentarily overwhelmed the ripe smells of London. “The Host?” he asked. Radu involuntarily shuddered. “The mention of it causes me pain.” “My apologies. I would like to clarify something you suggested earlier. Can you truly control animals, change shapes, and fog our minds?” “We each have different talents. I can shift into a large dog. Ilona could make herself nearly invisible. My brother charmed people into thinking he sincerely wanted to help.” The aroma of rosemary caused the hair on the back on Radu’s neck to stir. That meant only one thing. “Vlad is near,” he hissed. Speak of the devil, he thought. His despised older brother stood in the doorway of a drinking establishment. He was dressed in black formal tailcoat and waistcoat, white shirt and bow tie and narrow tros. His black moustache was thinner than fashion dictated, but suited his narrow face. He carried a top hat in one white gloved hand. Radu bared his teeth. Stoker looked a little pale. Vlad placed his hat on his head and nodded with cold politeness.

“Leave London,” Radu snarled. “This is my place.” Vlad tipped his head. “Merely ing through. Where are your manners, little brother? Introduce me to your guest.” At least the bastard was leaving town. Radu stood down. “Mr. Bram Stoker, may I introduce you to my older brother, Vlad Dracula?” Radu ground out through tight lips. “A pleasure.” Vlad’s lazy voice made it sound like it was truly was a pleasure to meet the other man. How did Vlad always manage to seduce everyone he met? Radu turned to Stoker and nearly hit the roof at the gleam in Bram’s eyes. “How do you do, Mr. Dracula. What a fascinating name.” And then the thrice-damned writer went and named that beautiful character, based on Radu, after his cursed brother. That fucking book should have been Radu’s book. Radu should have been famous. Not Vlad. Radu should have had people yearn to be like him, not his traitorous brother. Instead, Radu played second fiddle to his own damn legend. It wasn’t fair. Radu threw his brandy at the sliding door, shattering the delicate crystal. Fuck the vampire murderer for ruining his night. Mere humiliation wasn’t enough for the handsome, charismatic mortal. Radu would settle for nothing less than death for the man who dared to oppose him. His chivalry would allow him to show the old woman mercy, allow her to live out her life merely disgraced and shunned. But against men, he had no such limits on his behavior. Lance Soleil would finally die and by Radu’s own hand this time. Radu knew just how he was going to do it. The cursed bastard would be finished by sunrise tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lance’s nose sent an urgent message to his cock . You really want to wake up now, his cock told his brain. When a man’s cock spoke, the man was wise to listen. He opened his eyes, peeled his face off his desk pad, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. Surprise. He had fallen asleep in his office after his press conference. Today had been a brutal day. Lance rubbed his aching breastbone and fully woke. He was alone. Again. He’d opened his home to a hardened killer, thinking he could fan that spark of hope inside of her into a blaze. Rather, the moment she dropped Glenath with an EMT, Valerie had ditched him without a word. She’d walked away, never once turning back. He should have known better. Self-disgust helped mask the hurt. His penis thumped, demanding attention. The room smelled of a heady combination of jasmine, roses, rosemary, and hot woman. “I see you are awake.” Valerie’s voice swirled around him like melting sugar. What in sweet God’s name was she doing here? “You came back,” he said. “Why?” “You were right,” she replied. A click and his office lights came on. She walked out of the shadows. His lover looked like a goddess of pleasure. Red ribbons crisscrossed her narrow

torso, teasing him with glimpses of her pearl-colored flesh. A triple tier of black feathers draped from her hips, just barely long enough to hide the intersection of her long thighs. A single red feather dangled from a red ribbon down to her knee. It swayed as she walked to his desk. She planted her hands on the cluttered surface and leaned forward, teasing him with a view of her breasts encased in the satin bands. Her pointed nipples pressed against the tight fabric. “I had an epiphany,” she purred in a low, aroused voice. “Want to hear about it?” Lance felt the corner of his mouth curl up in pleasure. “Certainly.” Later, he promised himself. Later he’d asked her where she went and what she was doing, but for now? He was not about to look a gorgeously wrapped, nearly naked vampire in the mouth. Valerie gave his rumpled appearance a languid once-over. “Go take a shower.” Lance rested his hands against the shower wall. The blistering hot spray hit his chest and trickled down his body. He closed his eyes and reveled in the soothing steam. When a cool mouth closed over his cock, he couldn’t be blamed for his surprised yelp. Her low evil chuckle shook his body. Valerie pushed him against the wet shower wall. The warm, hard tile against his back and butt contrasted with her wet body plastered against his chest as she sucked him like he was O-negative on legs. He looked down to see her loosen her lips from his penis, lick her way down, down, down, until she was catching water drops as they traveled down his testicles. Her tongue tickled the sensitive flesh of his scrotum as she drank. Lance grabbed the base of his cock. “Stop that,” he hissed. “Or I’ll come right now.” Another wicked, triumphant laugh and she stood, leaning in to press her body against his. His arms whipped around her. Her skin felt like wet satin under his hands, a maddening soft-strong drag against his nerves. He nipped and sucked on her lower lip, preying on her mouth. A pleased moan answered him. Despite her

leanness, the swell of her ass yielded under his gripping hands. Lance devoured her, his once-sated cock eager to take her again and again. Ravening erotic hunger gave him the strength to lift her up, rub against her hot, juicy opening. He wanted to kiss her until those lines on her face smoothed out and her mouth curved in languor. The image of her ecstasy just a few hours ago haunted him. He wanted to watch her come undone under his fingers until her fangs fully extended and she screamed down the moon. He wanted to bury himself deep inside until they could no longer tell whose heart beat and whose did not. His cock nudged at her pearly gates. Heaven itself yielded no pleasure like her joy. He wanted not to be falling in love with her. She pushed away from him. He scowled. “Put your legs around my waist,” he ordered. An enigmatic smile teased her lips. “Wait.” Faster than he could think, Valerie twisted and slithered in his grip until she balanced on her hands, upside-down on the slick surface of the shower room. With the shower pouring down her, she swallowed his cock as sweet as butter. Lance’s knees buckled at the suede-smooth glide of her tongue against the sensitive shaft. His head tipped back under the cooling spray and clunked on the wall. He’d forgotten one very important thing. Vampires didn’t breathe. All the dirty locker room jokes in the world didn’t prepare Lance for the reality of Valerie’s mouth on his body. Lance clutched her legs and held on like she was his angel.

Her fangs tantalizingly grazed the corona of his penis, just enough to tighten his thighs. Her mouth sucked him even harder when his legs shook. She made a pleased sound, the vibration nearly crossing his eyes. When her throat massaged his head, he bit the inside of her thigh. “Ah ah ah,” she gently scolded. Vampire fast, she reversed until she knelt in front of him. “Be good.” To reinforce her will, she braced one pale arm against his belly and embraced his erection with her mouth. The water ran cold. Valerie cursed with her mouth full and spun the taps, even as she kept sucking. Occasionally, she’d clench him in her fist as her busy strong mouth licked and suckled his balls. This was better than heaven. Lance stiffened as a slick finger touched his pucker. She pulled back and looked at him. Her eyes seemed less shadowed, less pained as her pink tongue circled his slit. The tip of her index finger nestled against the tension in his anus. “I want this. I like this,” she murmured. “May I have it?” They stared at each other a long moment. Should he yield? What would he lose if he acquiesced? What would he gain? She held still, waiting on him. Lance read no judgment in her eyes. Could he trust her with what he had denied? With what he’d always wanted? As though sensing he was at a crossroads, she slowly, slowly, licked the underside of his rod, her gaze never leaving him. Her soft lips kissed the very tip of his penis with a tenderness he suspected she rarely showed.

“The only wrong is being afraid of pleasure,” she whispered. “But I will not judge you.” Deliberately, Lance closed his eyes. She was strong enough to... “Do it,” he whispered back. Slowly, slowly, she sucked him back and forth as his ass unfurled around her gentle pressure. Lance’s brain melted as her skin touched him intimately, as he opened to let her in. Anal pleasure felt like nothing he’d imagined. Nothing scratched, nothing tore as she slid her wet finger inside of him. Instead, smooth firmness rubbed at his previously untouched walls. Then, her mouth, gentle this time, wrapped around his cock. An unexpected wiggle in his behind, and stars shot behind his eyelids. He jerked. She smiled up at him, her face relaxed and dreamy. “This is so good.” Valerie’s grin turned wolfish as she crooked her finger and pushed. “Oh, you have no idea.” His free hand stroked the hair at the back of her neck. He shifted her until their lips broke apart. She growled, low and angry. “Easy, baby. Let me catch my breath.” Valerie bit his lip. This time, he met her more than halfway. His lips seduced and cajoled, making her want to lean and cling.

Disgust at her weakness warred with her excitement at the idea of not being in control. But being in control was too deeply ingrained. She wrapped her arms around him and rolled until she sat on him. Vaguely, she wished for her luxurious furs, but they waited for her in Jerusalem. They would go well in Lance’s sterile bedroom. “Hey!” Lance clasped her wrists. “Slow down.” “No.” She broke his grip, wrapped her hands around his head, holding him still, and plundered his mouth. Valerie held him down, biting and nipping at him until their teeth clashed. She pulled back, retracted her fangs, and kissed him again. Once she was satisfied with the taste of his mouth, she held his face more gently. Maddened by the wait for his recovery, she closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. His scent intoxicated her, ruined her judgment until all she wanted to do was drink him down. This close to him, she licked up a heady mixture of spice, arousal, and the sweetness of a pure soul. Like opium, she had to have more. Like opium, her bones melted and her flesh quavered. Unlike opium, this addiction she never wanted to break. Her tongue led her across his face, down his neck, to his collarbone. She slowly continued down his body. Each pore demanded her complete attention. Valerie wanted all of him. His heady aroma had her detouring for his arms. She savored the thin skin of his inner elbow. She rubbed her face over his waist, enjoying the contrast, the glide of his soft body hair. Drugged as deeply as she’d ever been, she dragged herself back up his body to lap at his lips more. Lance clenched and relaxed his hands on her hips, kneading at her flesh. She rode him like a horse, flexing her thighs and hips over and over his already hard cock. Eager for more stimulation on her ignored clitoris, she rolled him over until he was on top. “Yes,” he hissed between gritted teeth, and rocked them.

She wrapped her legs around his butt and ground up to him. The pressure against her pussy sent a surge of moisture down her channel, soaking them. “Oh, yeah, that’s it, baby,” Lance whispered. He braced his hands on the floor and gave her a long, slow stroke. Excitement pulsed, shoving her toward orgasm. The tip of his erection caught her just right. She could barely keep from biting him as the crest shoved her over. She moaned, and through her drooping eyelids, saw an eager smile on his face. Lance buried his face between her legs. “I’m gonna suck you right down, baby,” he purred. “I want to taste you so much.” Valerie deliberately relaxed to the floor. So few lovers did this with any style, but she was sure Lance would make it good. Slow and gentle, he teased her naked thighs wide with hot, openmouthed kisses. She spread for him, loving his murmurs of appreciation at her pubic hair, her swollen pussy lips. He wrapped one arm around her thigh, giving him access to her labia. At the first stroke of his soft, clever tongue, she groaned and surrendered. On and on he stroked her. Valerie felt her fangs expand as he sipped her hard clit, drank from her sopping vagina. When his fearless tongue caressed her anus, she howled and bucked against his face as an orgasm sent her flying into space. Completely naked, Lance propped himself up on his elbow. “Come here, honey.” He patted the floor next to him. She faced him. Her eyebrow lifted at the sight of his chewed-up shoulder. “I see you’re sleeping with a lamprey.” “Yep.” He winked at her. “She was great. You should have been there.” That rare sweet smile skittered across her face. Obviously embarrassed, she rubbed her cheek against the towels on the floor. A faint purring sound reached his ears.

“You’re a sensualist.” She abruptly stopped. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” He ran his hand down her body in a long, slow caress. Her eyelids lowered slightly in at the sensation. “You love your senses. Why do you hide that?” Valerie rolled away. Amused, he petted her belly in a lulling rhythm. He was just about asleep when she whispered, “I’ve never had friends. If you ever need anything, any time, a place to stay, someone killed, you let me know.” Absurdly touched, Lance kissed her forehead. “How about calling the hospital to check on Glenath? She needs a friend now.” Why couldn’t the man ask her to do something easy? Valerie tossed one of Lance’s shirts on over her nudity as she silently searched for the telephone. Talking on those ridiculous little machines never failed to creep her out. She found the cordless handset. Where the hell was the phone book? What in Lucifer’s name was she going to say to the little bishop? Someone knocked on the front door. What the fuck was anyone doing up at this ridiculous hour? Without waiting for an answer, whoever it was let himself in. Valerie knew she had locked it. “Lance?” A luscious French accent gave her a frisson of unexpected awareness. Nevertheless. “Stop right there, asshole.” Valerie blocked his path. Who had the unmitigated nerve to break into Lance’s house? Why didn’t the hags stop him? “How did you get in here?” she demanded. Uninvited, the man walked right up to her. He wore his clothes with the casual confidence of a Frenchman. Combined with salt-and-pepper hair, sensual eyes,

and an American swagger, he was a real head turner. His apple scent mixed with Lance’s cloves, turning the already steamy house into a sexual bakery. Valerie caught herself licking her teeth. She pursed her lips to hide the motion, but it didn’t stop the spark of attraction from lighting her clit. The light caught up to the man—half his face shadowed, the other half bright. No. That was his aura. Unusual. And somehow familiar. He was the boy from the picture. “Allo, my petit chou. Lance always did keep his spare key under the third rock of his walkway.” “I am neither cabbage nor pastry,” she replied, bringing her fist up warningly. “Don’t come one step further.” “John?” Her lover stood in the bedroom’s doorway. As though he moved through molasses, Lance shuffled toward them. She read joy in Lance’s first flash of body heat, then pain in the narrowing of his lips, despair in the cooling of his skin. But desire and hope mixed into a rich patchouli fragrance. Who was this Frenchman to call up such a complex reaction? Valerie kept herself between Lance and the stranger. Neither of them noticed. One shocked step at a time, Lance made his way across the room until he stood facing the man named John. “Is it really you?” Even though Lance’s voice was controlled, surprise and guilt bled through. “Ex-boyfriend?” she interrupted Lance. “It’s complicated.” Lance waved a hand in the air to indicate a very long story. “Always is,” Valerie retorted. “Lance.” The stranger’s mouth flexed ever so slightly, as though he were suppressing a smile. John reached a hand toward Lance’s shoulder.

Valerie gripped John’s wrist. “I must search you.” To her surprise, he didn’t flinch at her very thorough pat down. No weapons. She kept her opinions on his endowments to herself as she stepped away. “Now,” she allowed. As one, Lance and John exchanged very amused, very male glances. Lance grasped John’s arm in a seemingly casual gesture. “We must talk.” John spoke first. “I am fine, my brother.” John swept Lance with a quelling look. Valerie smelled the challenge and arousal shimmering off both men. Then John dared to turn that brilliant gaze to her. “I see you’ve done well for yourself.” A hint of Paris made his voice erotic and caressing. “You are very pretty, mon coeur.” Unconsciously, Valerie swung her hip to one side before she caught herself and straightened. She was with Lance. End of flirtation. A dangerous, knowing smirk crossed his lips before John focused on Lance again. Lance looked down to John’s feet. “I failed—” “Shut up, moron,” John interrupted affectionately. “It’s not always about you.” Just like that, the men exchanged a lopsided grin and exchanged back-pounding hugs. Valerie shrugged. Might as well get some dinner while they were doing the male bonding dance. She poured a generous dollop of cola into a beer stein. Sheep’s blood gurgled from a take-out container into her mug. She took a deep quaff. Blood and Coke, her favorite. “Come on. You can stay in the guest room.” Lance had thrown an arm around John’s smaller body. John nudged Lance with an elbow as they faced Valerie. “Who will come hold me if I have bad dreams? The flights here were truly nightmarish. Won’t you

help me, petit chou?” John’s puppy-dog eyes were a triumph of adorable manipulation. Boys. Valerie deliberately licked her drink from her upper lip. They both focused on her mouth with laserlike clarity. She circled a fang with her tongue and stretched like she’d seen women do for ages. Her breasts pressed against the thin cotton fabric of Lance’s shirt. The men’s eyes blurred with desire. Her nipples peaked. She inwardly smiled. This could be so much fun. “You seem the competent sort. I’m sure you can handle anything that pops up,” she purred. With that, she turned on her heel and walked away. For the first time, she let her hips sway back and forth in the timeless rhythm that had been beaten out of her when she was still a child. A glance in the mirror revealed Lance and John’s gazes nailed to her ass. Not too bad on the sexy repartee for someone so unpracticed. Lucifer’s forked tongue, the tease certainly had gratifying results.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Special Agent Su Tanaka finished her day of upholding the law by being mistaken for a catering assistant. Ben Trask, the famous attorney, had opened his spacious multimillion-dollar home to the entire CCC to celebrate Radu Tepes’ presidential candidacy. Hundreds of beings packed the house, eating the excellent food, and drinking the abundant alcohol. A live band, fronted by an athletic Elvis impersonator, shook the hand-polished river rock walls. A double grand staircase embraced each side of the great room. Heirloom, pale blue silk upholstered sofas and lounges offset the wood and stone architecture. Her entire life’s earnings couldn’t cover the price of the Modigliani that hung over the enormous fireplace. Sparkling clean twelve-foot-tall windows led to a triple-story deck that overlooked the water. Smiling, dark-jacketed staff carried gold-and-platinum trays of exquisite canapés and frothy cocktails. The gingerand-honey-glazed salmon had been nearly orgasmic. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gone into law enforcement. No one she knew had parties like this. “Hey, cutie.” A drunken guest propped one arm on the wall next to Su’s head. He tried an appreciative smile, but it came out as a lopsided leer down her modest white blouse. He was too inebriated to notice the straps of her shoulder harness peeking out under her jacket. “Nice to meet you, but I have work to do.” Su gave him a polite smile and ducked to escape. Someone being smashed and rude was no reason to draw her weapon. She preferred to do her job quietly. The man blocked her escape with his round torso. “Oh, babe, I’m sure the kitchen can do without you for a little bit.”

His breath carried the too strong licorice odor of absinthe. Su hated licorice. “Come on, show me what they say about Jap girls is true,” he wheedled. His free hand shoved past her jacket and grabbed her left breast. Su’s mouth pinched into a hard line. First, her breasts were already swollen and sensitive from PMS. Second, the idiot mistook her for the only other Asian in the house—who was Thai, not Japanese. Third, said catering assistant was the only person to make sure that Su had eaten. Truly angry, Su felt absolutely no compunction about tromping on his foot. Hard. “Hey!” he slurred. “No need to be a bitch!” That was enough. She ground her sensible heel back and forth. “Ow! I’ll get you fired for this,” the man hissed in her face. She opened her jacket enough to show her weapon. “I look forward to it.” He paled and wandered off, muttering dire threats. Su shook her head. It might get her in trouble, but it was worth it to see him hobbling away in his now scuffed Spanish leather loafers. She didn’t think she had broken any bones. One small justice had been served tonight. She hadn’t foreseen the ambushes on Soliel’s and Tempesta’s reputations today. Su rubbed her itching, tired eyes. She needed sleep and by yesterday. But self-flagellation called her to a double shift. She wanted to know who had planned those attacks. A nasty suspicion niggled in the back of her brain. Every instinct she had said that the person responsible was here, in this house, tonight. She smoothed her hair and climbed the polished teak stairs to overlook the enormous living room. Elvis managed a particularly difficult gyration. The women screamed at his pelvic prowess, drowning out the music and conversation. Su nodded in appreciation. How he’d managed that move without dislocating something was damn impressive. Everything looked safe enough for her to jot notes on what she had observed this evening.

PNC Affairs reported to the Hate Crimes unit. As part of that team, her job tonight was to assist in building Radu Tepes’ security. No paranormal had ever run for president before. His number of death threats had already tripled from the usual number. Attempts on his life were not a matter of if, but when. Tonight, she was to observe what sort of unique needs this candidate had and then coordinate with the Secret Service. She clicked her pen and scrawled.

Track sales of silver over the next few months. NB: silver is Tepes’ major weakness.

Su twirled her pen as she watched Radu Tepes’ gaze follow a woman’s backside as she walked past. Too bad the vampire had been talking to a highly influential female philanthropist. By the expression on her face, that was one wealthy backer that Tepes wasn’t going to get.

Use male agents. Tepes is easily distracted by women.

Tepes. Could it be? Who would have the most to gain by ruining the other leaders of the civil rights movement? She leaned over for a closer look at his face. The younger Mr. Trask ed her corner on his way to the garage. Su saw his gaze flick to her epicanthic folds as he reached for the doorknob. Instead of the familiar look of disgust, he lowered his head and blushed as he brushed past her. Huh. Interesting, but not pertinent. Pink Floyd’s “Mother” came out of her pocket. She let it go to voice mail, promising herself she’d call her mom later.

Tomorrow. Maybe. She stuck her pen in her mouth and gnawed in a futile attempt to quell her nicotine craving. The party was going strong. People freely entered, exited, and wandered the grounds with very little oversight. She frowned. In this crowd and with this noise level, anything could go wrong. Hell, Tepes could slip on the stairs and break his fool neck and no one would know until they found the pile of ash in the morning. Special Agent Williams interrupted her brooding. “Soliel and Tempesta are both safe, and I’m here. You can go home now.” “Thanks.” Su skedaddled. As soon as she could, Su beat it outside for some cooler air. Cigarette smoke hung over the usual huddle of die-hards. Damn. Her jaws twitched. Her bass guitar was going to get a heck of a workout tonight. Serious funk was the only antidote for withdrawal. The crunch of studded tires on asphalt caught her attention. A glossy vintage limousine slowly pulled away from the curb, heading for the road. The custom CCC plates told her just who was in that expensive drive. How she wanted to push her fist right through Radu Tepes’ smug face. Being an adult sucked. She refused the urge to flip off the car. Su was in for a surprise. The mysterious Umar Mernissi looked out the open window of the car. Their eyes met and her stomach dropped to her knees at the shock. In photos, the CCC’s legal advisor didn’t stand out. Radu Tepes was simply too charismatic to see past. But in person? Mr. Mernissi was gorgeous, the most stunning man she’d ever seen. Arabic black hair framed a high forehead. Dark eyebrows set off sensual, sleepy, bedroom

eyes. The cream banded collar of his garment set off his chai-colored skin. His mouth begged for her kiss. Sexual fire gathered at the tips of her breasts. Unconsciously, her hips slowly rolled against the unyielding surface of the building. At that moment, she knew the only reason Radu Tepes was the head of the CCC was because it suited Attorney Mernissi. The man simply radiated power. His gaze traveled up and down her body, taking in her conservative skirt and leather trench coat. As the car rolled slowly past her, the tiniest smile appeared on his moist lips. Even as the window rolled up, he watched her until the tinted glass hid him from her stare. Her thighs trembled around the heat in her clitoris. “What the hell was that?” she asked herself, gripping the butt of her pistol so hard she left marks on her palms. She could not be attracted to someone like him.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The vampire really did have a world-class backside, John thought. She would look lovely moon-bathing on the French Riviera, especially if they could talk her into a thong. A nice satin in royal blue would flatter her ivory skin. The south of would be where the three of them would honeymoon, he decided. Valerie would go for the idea but he had to convince Lance. The guy could be so conservative. “When will you two be moving to Geneva?” he asked. “I’ll need time to find us a new apartment.” Lance gaped like a koi fish searching for food. Secretly amused, John waited for Lance to catch up to him. The poor lad never could understand how John knew what Lance wanted before he figured it out himself. Lance coughed. “Well, I—” The sound of breaking glass signaled something about to go wrong. “What the fuck!” John shouted. Life slowed like frames in an Oliver Stone film. A huge tiger hung in midair, talons bared. The cat body-checked Lance across the room. Even before he landed, Lance’s 9 millimeter was in his hand and aimed down the snarling throat. The dinner-plate-sized paw checked Lance’s weapon arm, skittering the weapon wide. Even as he was thrown to the floor, Lance’s right fingers flicked toward the tiger’s eyes. The cat automatically flinched. John scrambled for the gun, avoiding thrashing back claws.

Lance’s right forearm smashed into its snout. Blood spurted, bright and metallic in the night. Faster than the were-tiger could move, Lance’s right hand continued on its path, hooking the tiger’s forelimb. Adrenaline speeding his reflexes, John picked up the pistol. A black wind blew through the room. Slender white hands grabbed the tiger’s legs and snapped a back femur. Involuntarily, the assassin shifted to human form. Valerie’s inhumanly strong arms held the were-tiger in an inescapable choke hold. A few more centimeters and she’d break his neck. “Stop!” John ordered. “Do not kill him.” “What?” his vampire hissed. “What?” Lance bit out. The blond hanging in her arms snickered. “Chickenshit.” “In a way.” Unperturbed, John switched the safety back on and set the gun down. He couldn’t believe that John and Valerie didn’t think to question the would-be killer. “Radu sent him,” Valerie growled, shaking the man in her arms. “You can’t prove that,” the tiger growled through his constricted throat. “We don’t need to,” she laughed. “I twist, and no body. No body, no crime.” “How many humans have used that disgusting defense to excuse their violence against your kind?” Lance shot back. “I’m a vampire,” Valerie spoke slowly, as though speaking to a very dim person. “We do expedient.” Oh, for heaven’s sake. These two would never get anything done without him. John crossed his arms. “The time for thoughtless killing is past,” he interrupted. “If we let him live, he will have to explain to his master that he failed.”

“Again,” Lance supplied helpfully. Valerie met John’s eyes, reluctant respect in her gaze. “Radu will not take this lightly.” The tiger hung in Valerie’s arms, his eyes shrinking back into his head. Seems he had prior experience with Radu’s displeasure. John shrugged. “If you truly fear him, she can kill you now, clean and easy. If you would rather have your own life, say something.” Silence fell and stretched as the night shadows grew longer. “I want out.” The tiger sighed. John nodded to Valerie. A wrench too fast to observe, and the vampire stood over a corpse. She had snapped the tiger’s neck. Together, they watched the body decompose until a pile of dust drifted to the hardwood floor of Lance’s front room. “Where did you learn to negotiate with night creatures?” She sounded surprised at the turn of events. “The playing fields of Eton,” John quoted, suddenly tired of the waste of lives. “What?” He’d confused the poor woman. “The Sorbonne, of course. Don’t be dense.” He sat on the floor, touching Roger’s remains. “At least he died with his heart at peace,” Lance said. “He tried to murder you.” Valerie looked out the broken window at the defiant hags in the trees outside. How dare they endanger Lance’s life? Fury had her jumping out the window. Before Lance could say anything, she was

up the tree and in Betty’s face. Her knuckles tightened on the lapels of Betty’s dirty old corduroy jacket. Veronica attacked from behind, her claws ripping Lance’s shirt off of Valerie’s back. “Get off,” she sneered, shoving the second hag off the tree without even looking. Veronica screamed as she fell. She landed with a heavy splat. Valerie bared her fangs and dug them into the Betty’s batlike ear, one of their few vulnerable spots. Disgusting stale blood welled and dripped down Valerie’s arms and back. “Are you a fool?” Valerie barked into the sensitive organ. “He could have died!” “Better dead than in bed with a vampire,” Betty yelled. Red rage blurred Valerie’s vision. The dirty hag claimed to care for Lance. This contempt would not be allowed to stand. “Your jealousy would have killed him,” Valerie hissed. “You leave, disappear. In return, I will not destroy every hag in the state.” “You would start a war for him?” Fear and curiosity gave Betty’s voice a slight quaver. Valerie ripped the leathery ear off and spit it into Veronica’s face. “I would raze the earth for him,” she promised, her voice low and deadly. Betty turned a pleading face to Lance who stood in the broken window. “Do you know what she’ll do to you? You will not thank her for saving you in the end.” His face was a study in frozen betrayal. John stood to the side, his own expression disapproving and disappointed. “I know who I will trust,” Lance replied flatly. “Leave me.” “Please,” Betty and Veronica begged in unison. “Go.”

Crying and torn, the hags flew off into the night. When Lance and Valerie’s gazes met, Valerie’s stomach shivered. Damn. Love really did make a fool of a woman. John and Lance watched the night hags hobble off. Rain began to drizzle as they veered away from his house. His ever-startling friend sighed and said, “I shall return to Europe in a week. Start shipping your goods within two. I’ll have us moved into our larger apartment by the time you sell your house.” What was it with John? Lance shook his head. “Are you crazy?” “Sane as ever. Besides, you know better than to argue with me.” Lance was saved by his unlisted cell phone ringing. Thank God for small mercies. “Hello?” “Father Soliel? It’s Chad Trask. Could you meet me at my family’s boat? I overheard people wanting to kill you.”

Chapter Thirty

Chad Trask watched his sorrows swim in his glass of Grey Goose. His girlfriend had dumped him this morning when he’d refused to take her to the conference. He replayed the scene in his head. “Why not? I want to work in DC and you won’t even introduce me!” “Honey, you’re pretty but you’re just not DC caliber,” Chad had answered. He didn’t know why she’d walked away. He was just being honest. The bottle gurgled another double shot over his melting ice cubes. At least he had been able to escape from Radu Tepes’ post-announcement party in his parents’ house to the Trask family sailboat. The house had gotten too hot and stuffy. The yacht was cooler and quieter, a good place for a sensitive young man to nurse a broken heart. He swirled the glass. Another drink blurred Chad’s memory just enough to light his self-righteous indignation. What had happened to her sense of humor? It was just a bit of fun. Anything to keep thinking of the vampiress who had ripped open too many corners of his mind. Chad wallowed comfortably in his oppression until the door from the top deck opened. For a moment, Chad stared blankly, then he dropped his glass. The vodka sloshed across his suddenly numb fingers. Through the years, the forty-five-foot yacht had hosted many parties, some up to fifty people. It had never felt as crowded as it did right now. Because Radu Tepes, candidate for president, stood right in front of him. Chad

had never been alone with Mr. Tepes. He wasn’t even sure the vampire knew who he was. The closer Radu came, the better looking he got, Chad thought hazily, until he focused on Tepes’ expression. That famous face radiated a cold eagerness. Everything in Chad’s body clenched. The bloodsucker sat down at the table, trapping Chad between the hull and the undead. Radu crossed his arms and smiled. Chad shrank into his seat behind the dining table. “Mr. Trask.” Mr. Tepes smiled. It looked like it should reassure him. Somehow, Chad wasn’t reassured. “Your future president needs you.” “I thought you couldn’t enter someplace you weren’t invited.” Chad tried for bravado, but his teeth chattered at the air of menace. “You’ve never been on the boat before.” “But I was invited, Mr. Trask. Your father told me I was welcome anywhere, anytime.” He was in deep shit. Chad cringed. “What do you want?” His demand came out as a whine. “I saw you at the conference today.” Radu’s smile grew toothier. “You were in deep conversation with a certain woman.” “I’d just met her,” Chad lied. “I don’t know anything about her.” “Don’t fib, Chad. No one likes a fibber.” Chad’s knees knocked together under the galley’s table. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find a way to wiggle away. Radu Tepes leaned forward. “You know the vampire that protects Father Soliel. Bring them both here.” “I don’t know how to her,” Chad answered, too scared to lie.

“Then bring him here. She will follow.” “Why should I call them? You have more reason than I do.” He had forgotten how fast vampires moved. A breeze ruffled his hoodie. Then his BlackBerry rested on the table between them. Radu pushed the phone into Chad’s hand. “Be creative. You seem the smart type.” “No,” Chad repeated. He didn’t know what the other man wanted, but it couldn’t be good. Radu’s beaming face made Chad’s ass clench even harder. Chad hung up his cell phone, his sprained wrists shaking. “Father Soliel is on his way. I’ll just head out now.” He zipped his red sweatshirt up around his newly bruised face and made for the cabin door. If only his family had docked at the popular Riverfront Marina, he would have been safe. But no. His father insisted on having their own dock downstream on the river. “More private,” he’d often stated proudly. Like privacy was so fantastic. In reality, Chad knew his father had wanted to show off their affluence. Too bad money couldn’t protect him now. Chad refused to rub his damaged skin as his shaking knees managed to climb the stairs to the top deck. Nearly everyone went their entire lifetime without meeting a vampire. How’d he manage to meet two? He was nearly out the door when Radu appeared in front of him. The vampire took his arm as though they were lovers. “I lied,” Radu whispered seductively. “I have another use for you.” Chad landed against the far wall of the main cabin. Before Chad could breathe again, Radu had slapped duct tape over Chad’s mouth and forced him into the smallest of the cabins. As the door slammed shut, Chad feared he’d never see his family again. A wave of anger screwed his resolve to the sticking place. That jerk might kill him, but at least Chad would go down swinging.

He rolled on the carpeted floor. Three nights ago, he’d brought Melody to the boat. They’d split a bottle of wine in this very cabin. He’d thrown out the condoms, but the corkscrew should still be... Yes. Right there, under the bed. He twisted as best he could and tried to reach it with his hands behind his back. Radu opened the door. “Forget about escaping, child. I can hear you.” Chad slumped against the bunk. Radu gave him yet another smile that was supposed to be comforting. The man really needed to work on that, Chad’s panicked mind said. “Never fear, infant. I won’t kill you. I’ll keep you when this is done.” Chad groaned against the tape. At least his brain had shut up. “You’ll love it.” The vampire’s voice deepened, turning his words into an enticement. “No more worry. No doubt. No problems with police. I will take complete care of you. All you have to do is amuse me and supply blood. You will be able to do what you want. My money and influence will guarantee the best parties. The best drugs.” Chad swallowed. Radu bent over until Chad thought the vampire would kiss him through the tape. “I’m going to be president. There are many advantages to being a good friend of the president.” Radu touched Chad’s neck with disturbingly tender fingers. “You’ll be untouchable. Anything you want, you can have, as long as you give me what I want.” Chad floated away on the fantasy of Radu’s voice. He could see his future in that rarified world. Anything he wanted, at any time. No responsibilities. As much pussy and booze as he deserved. “Chad, here try this.”

“Oh, Chad, I just love this shirt on you....” “We’d love to have you over, Chad.” “No problem, Mr. Trask. Please drive carefully.” Radu’s voice broke into his vision of the life he wanted. “Think on it, Mr. Trask. I doubt you’ll get a better offer.” Radu left the cabin and locked the door. Through the walls, Chad heard the vampire’s soft footfalls. “Right on time. You’re mine now, Father Soleil.” Eyes shut, Chad shuddered. Maybe the price for that promised life was too high. Lance parked Ilona six blocks away from the Trask home. He and Valerie heard Elvis rocking the jailhouse all the way down the street. The multimillion-dollar mansion splashed light over the entire neighborhood. The singing and chattering shook the sidewalk under Lance and Valerie’s feet. She frowned as they byed the house for the dock. “I have a bad feeling about this.” “Good thing you’re my bodyguard, then. I heard that nobody is as fast as a vampire.” “You’ve got another death threat. Don’t be frivolous.” Valerie shook her head as they approached the Trask sailboat. “Boat. More like a yacht,” she muttered. “You disapprove of luxury?” Lance retorted. His girl who drove an outrageously expensive car? “That’s different,” she muttered. “Look at this thing.” It floated in the water, a gleaming blue and white ship fit for a prince. “My car at least is useful. Let me go first.” Valerie led the way onto the top deck. Four silver knives flew through the air. Valerie staggered as they pierced her chest. The meaty thuds threw her into the water, blood streaming ribbons into the night.

“Valerie!” Lance dropped to his hands and knees. All he saw was a drifting of dust on the surface of the water. Before grief could begin its journey through his heart, iron-hard hands threw him onto the deck of a boat. Even as he scrambled his feet underneath him, darkness spiraled through his vision. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was Radu Tepes’ famous gleaming white smile.

Chapter Thirty-one

Newsflash. Knives hurt . Like Lucifer’s claws plunged into her very flesh. Silver knives? Hurt worse. Writhing in pain, Valerie sank into the frigid water. The toxic metal burned like acid crawling inside her body, preventing her healing ability from mending her shattered collarbone. Her body screamed at every movement as the silver rasped against the raw ends of her bones and muscle. It wasn’t just dumb luck Radu hit her. He’d always been a superior marksman. And she’d been stupid, thinking he’d listen to her warnings. Thinking that the danger to Lance’s life had ed. She had to save him. Her blood gushed into the water as she sank to the bottom. She had to get the damned things out or she would die of silver poisoning in minutes. And then what would happen to Lance? She had to get those knives out now. A wooden chopstick was trapped on the bottom of the lake. She plucked it from the current and shoved it between her teeth. Silver knives hurt, yes. Getting silver out hurt even more. The combined taste of pollution, her own blood, and silver nearly made her gag. At least she still had her driving gloves on. Her hands didn’t burn as she grasped one handle.

She bit down on the stick at the feel of the cold metal exiting her fevered flesh. Try as she might, a bubbling groan escaped. Hot pain shot down her arm and through her chest. Long seconds ed as her hands slipped on blood, but finally she pulled the first blade out of her body. One by one, three more daggers landed on the murky bottom. Surfacing on the far side of the lake, she spit out the splintered chopstick. Now she had to find Lance. Pain. Waking. Lance rolled over with a grunt. Sticky blood pooled on the rocking deck below him. “Yoummf okeh?” Chad’s muffled whisper bounced in around Lance’s scrambled brain. “Chad?” Lance’s neck hurt. His hand came back bright red. He’d been clawed but good. “Fether?” Chad’s gagged voice cracked. Lance shoved a pillow from the bunk against his wound. The pressure brought him some respite. He unzipped his saturated leather jacket. “Ugh.” Blood poured out of his chest like water flowing from a hot spring. This was wrong. He should have healed any wounds by now. Chad choked on sobs at the sight. “I’m coming, Chad,” Lance wheezed. “Hold on.” He grabbed one end of the tape over Chad’s mouth and yanked. It was too much. Lance ed out. Where was her lover?

Valerie dragged herself to the other side of the shore. Sopping blood and water, she climbed up the rocky incline to the paved bicycle path. Radu would not escape her wrath. Not this time. The silver’s paralyzing grip was slowly and painfully shutting down her muscles. Her legs refused to move. Her legs buckled and she landed, face first, on the blacktop. Valerie threw her head back to the cloud-covered moon and snarled. She clawed forward. A bicyclist screeched to a halt. “Miss?” A jogger stopped and reached for her arm. “You okay?” Another six inches dragged underneath her broken body. Lights and voices blurred into a spiral around her. “I’ve got a first-aid kit. You call the cops,” the bicyclist ordered the jogger. Her nails dug into the cold pavement. Four more inches toward Lance. Damn these fitness-crazed Portland people, exercising in the early-evening dark and cold rain. “She’s a vampire!” The cyclist’s voice seemed very far away. Oh, give that one a biscuit. Three inches ground against her face. Gravel dug into her cheekbones. Her arms were numb. “What are you doing?” asked the shocked jogger. Fresh blood under her nose brought her eyelids up. “Come on, here, smell it, that’s a good girl.” A familiar voice and gentle hands guided her head toward a bleeding forearm. As always, Valerie refused to die. Her tongue found the blood and she latched on. Hot apple-laced nourishment filled her mouth, even as her vision went dim. The top of John Janté’s head nearly blew off as the woman sunk her fangs into

his wrist. The Internet was filled with fantastical descriptions of a vampire’s bite, of the soaring, orgasmic pleasure, of the intimacy and beauty of this infinitely powerful being sucking for its very existence. In reality, it hurt. He clenched his jaw even as he gathered her closer, protecting her from the soft rain. “Does anyone have a coat?” he asked against hope. “We need to warm her.” Her soaked clothes would give her pneumonia if he didn’t move fast. Someone whipped off a fleece jacket and tucked it around the two of them. “I didn’t know that vampires needed that,” the jogger said. That’s right. Undead. Relief relaxed his shoulders. No problem with normal infections. In response to his mood change, her feeding softened. Once the initial snake-bite feel wore off, the pull of her mouth was not unpleasant. In fact, it was kind of sexy. Her red-stained lips puckered and sucked and a low moan escaped her mouth. For all the world, she sounded like she was enjoying a spectacular meal. How very flattering. “Is she going to live?” the bicyclist asked. “I think so.” He’d known something was wrong the minute the two of them had disappeared down the street. The call stunk of deception, and if John had not frightened Lance off, then his friend would have thought of this. John shook his head in self-disgust. The jogger misunderstood his gesture. “Hey, she’ll be okay. Let’s see what’s going on.” He pulled Valerie’s jacket to the side and recoiled. “What the hell happened to her?” Swollen, livid wounds decorated Valerie’s chest. Hot red-purple lines of deadly contamination radiated around each hole, tracing the pattern of her veins. Through her skin, her collarbone sat at a strange angle. “Silver, I think,” John answered.

The blood hit her system. Like a flower closing in slow motion, the infection receded. Her clavicle shifted back into position. Her ribs curved properly again, and the red lines disappeared as they all watched. “That’s...kind of gross,” the woman said, her voice fascinated. John’s stomach would have churned, but he felt quite peaceful. Perhaps it had to do with her hand gently caressing his left nipple. Tingles spread down his chest to his groin. All he wanted to do was get her someplace more private. “She’ll be all right now,” he told the crowd. “You can go.” “How do you know so much about vampires?” the jogger challenged. John’s head wobbled back and forth. His neck felt so loose and comfortable. “Do any of you Josephine O’Neill Trudeau?” “The famous hunter?” the teenager asked. The vampiress seemingly didn’t hear, but her foot twitched away from John. The woman was riddled with tells. “She was my great-grandmother. I’m very well informed about vampire habits,” he reassured the teen. He pointed to the now-disappeared lines of infection. “Now that the silver is gone, she will heal.” Oh, Nana, John thought, if you could see me now, saving the one who saved you. “Have you lost too much blood?” the motherly woman with the umbrella asked. “I am fine.” He smiled reassuringly. Valerie detached from John’s arm and gave a tired thumbs-up. “Thank you for your concern,” she told the people surrounding them. She blinked heavily and rubbed her eyes. The group finally dispersed as she scrambled to her feet. John asked, “Did you ever meet my nana?” “No.”

Her pupils constricted. This woman was a terrible liar. Encouraged, he chatted and held her still as she swayed back and forth. “She said that Dracula himself taught her to kill vampires. He wanted a fair fight when she came for him. Too bad he died before she came for him.” Valerie could see her calculating the width of the river between themselves and a sailboat moored to the north. The current had carried her south, but not too far. “My great-grandmother was a very strong woman,” he continued conversationally as she knelt and started to draw a diagram in the mud. “You telling me this for a reason?” she snapped. “I’m working.” “Just that I have a familial weakness for strong, dangerous women.” He winked at her, just to see what would happen. Her eyes widened before she narrowed them again. “You should have a familial weakness for killing my kind.” Her gaze wandered around his face, flickering to the air around him. “Oh, no. Nana knew the time for vengeance had ed.” John glanced at the river. “You’ll need a take-off velocity of—” “You can do that in your head?” she interrupted. “Of course.” “Show-off.” She picked John up and swung him onto her back. How invigorating to be handled by someone so strong. “What are you doing, my petit chou?” John asked. “Don’t call me that,” she said absently as she shifted weight from foot to foot. “I am going to save Lance. You are going to run to my car and stay out of sight.” “Of course,” he blithely lied. “Here goes everything.” John felt the powerful muscles in her back and buttocks strain as she sprinted toward the water. As she leaped across the river toward the sailboat, John rode

her like the magnificent steed she was.

Chapter Thirty-two

Wrath thrummed hotly in her veins. Her fangs extended so far they hurt. Sliding her tongue over the tips didn’t ease the pain. Only the sight of Lance unharmed, only his touch would cool these flames. Then she would kill her brother for daring to touch the human she protected. Nothing less than death would satisfy her. She could see Radu through the oversized portholes in the cabin. The last of the love for the child who had ridden on her back fell away like sand on dry skin. Even his attempted destruction of her hadn’t killed that affection. The promises she made to herself crumbled like piecrust under the stress of her fury. “How the hell are we going to get on the boat?” John’s whisper broke her rage and brought her back to their hideout on the shore. The party in the Trask house continued as loud as ever. Damnation. She’d forgotten that little detail. “I don’t know.” “If we can get me on board unheard, I can invite you,” he offered. “Let’s try.” She braced herself as he climbed on her back again. His body heat lit an uncomfortable fire of awareness in her nipples. Valerie bit her lip and began her silent spider crawl under the dock to the boat. She would steal onto the boat, kill her brother, free Lance, and move on with her life, leaving this aberrant behavior behind. The thought had her clamping her jaw hard against the tearing sensation in her chest.

The overwhelming ocean of fury crashed down the fragile barriers of new teachings and new habits. Hundreds of years of taking what she wanted, of violence and anger and hatred and selfishness smashed everything she thought she had wanted for these brief days. Death was her constant companion. And he had missed her. Valerie would hunt her brother down. And when she found him, she would impale his still-writhing body on a telephone pole. Dracula was back. And she was taking no prisoners. Valerie and John reached the gangway for the yacht. They crawled to the topside and flattened themselves to the wet boards. Out of curiosity, she reached out to touch the invitation barrier. And nearly overbalanced into the water. The barrier wasn’t there. “What the fuck?” John breathed in her ear. Time flashed before her eyes. “You and yours are always welcome here, Mr. Tepes,” said a man who could only be Chad’s father. Valerie shook her head. “Thank Lucifer that people are stupid. Go back to the car and wait.” John nodded. She kicked off her boots as she prepared to board the boat. The rest of her clothes dropped and floated away. She would get in right under Radu’s nose. Legend told of vampires shape-shifting to mist, bats, or wolves. The truth, as always, was far more complicated. The longer a vampire lived, the more powers she mastered. The most difficult, the most exhausting, the most deadly was shadow walking. A vampire could

move anywhere, in any direction, across any distance, as long as a shadow lay there. Requiring perfect concentration and every ounce of physical strength, a vampire almost always died of starvation after the first attempt. That was a very important almost. Vampire lore told of two successes. A Chinese vampire in the twelfth century attempted the act first, defying all odds to reach his lover held captive in a horrible prison. Unfortunately, he went so mad with hunger that when he rematerialized, he drained her dry before recognizing her. A Russian Jew vampire used it to escape the pogroms in the nineteenth century. More justly, she landed in a group of secret police. Now there was a third. Succeed or die. Save the sun or let Radu extinguish all she held dear. She liked the odds. Then she would gorge on Radu. Another vampire was the greatest feast of all. Formlessness carried nothing. Janté floated next to her, his eyes half-closed and his mouth curving at her nudity. Unconcerned, she finally let her consciousness float away. The darkness seeped into her. As she let go, every cell in her body disengaged. Her entire mass compressed and lengthened like hot iron under a hammer. Stretching so thin hurt badly, like being sliced open with ice. Only her willpower held her consciousness together.

Chapter Thirty-three

“D o you know what I want, Father?” Lance tensed against the tape that held his wrists and elbows behind his back. His chest wounds broke open. His shoulders screamed at the stretch. Defeated by the limits of the human body, he slumped back against the hull in the main salon of the sailboat. Chad burrowed underneath a chair, curling himself into a tiny, unnoticeable ball. Radu Tepes leaned his buttocks against the backgammon table and crossed his ankles. Unhurriedly, he reached into his inner jacket pocket. Chad whimpered. Radu gave a smug smile and pulled out a cigar. Aromatic smoke filled the cabin as Radu posed and puffed. The vampire intended to project the image of a king lounging on a throne. Instead, Tepes looked like a preening, overconfident jerk. Lance curled his upper lip into a sneer of disgust. In response, the vampire blew a smoke ring into Lance’s face. He refused to look away. Radu would lose this test of wills. It was a small consolation, but it was all Lance had left. Radu broke first. With one hand, he pulled Chad out from his hidey-hole. The boy hung limply in Radu’s grip, gone beyond terror into white-faced, sweating shock. Sharp white teeth descended toward Chad’s carotid artery. Radu dragged the sharp tips across the trembling skin, taunting Lance with his helplessness. Radu touched Chad’s ear with his tongue and sighed as though he tasted of exquisite wine.

“Please don’t,” Chad whispered. “Hush, child,” the potential president murmured. “I want my people to have the power humans deny us.” He dipped his fangs into Chad. Two red dots bubbled to the surface. The vampire licked them, the crimson obscene on his mouth. “Supposedly, we are citizens. We obey the laws we agreed to. We submitted to taxation and mortal istration of government. And in return, we are underpaid. Undereducated. Unable to defend ourselves against the predations of your kind. Refused legal protection. No matter the crime, we are the first accused.” Never breaking eye with Lance, Radu took another sip from Chad. “I was going to kill you outright, Father.” Radu’s tone turned the honorific into a slur. “But instead, I’ll turn you. You will obey me while I remake the world.” The vampire dropped Chad on the table and approached Lance. Lance kicked against his bonds but only managed to knock himself over to the floor. Being bitten would be a disaster. He’d never attain his redemption. He’d never die. No more rides on the Wheel for him to save his soul. Anger fueled his head slam into Radu’s nose. Tepes didn’t even blink as his nose knitted back into shape. “Pathetic.” Radu held Lance’s chin in an unbreakable grip and forced him to expose his neck. “Hmmm. I thought your lover would have marked you. Not as bad-ass as she thinks she is. Don’t worry. This won’t hurt a bit.” Sulfur made Lance’s stomach flip in disgust. Radu lacked Valerie’s clean rosemary smell. He closed his eyes against his doom. An ear-splitting roar burst the glass in the portholes. “Lucifer!” Radu jerked back from Lance’s throat. Shards sprayed the room as Valerie, naked and dripping, materialized from the shadows. What miracle had saved her? Lance’s chest leapt in astonishment, then

fear. Valerie’s face was as cold-as-bone. Hollow cheeks turned her sensual face into a death’s head. This was unstoppable blood lust. Her enormous fangs plunged into the other vampire’s neck. This was not the civilized, erotic feeding portrayed in movies. She glutted on Radu like a rabid bear tearing a village apart. Tepes kicked and punched with skill and speed, but nothing shook her off his neck. Radu’s blood ran down her chin and dressed her bare breasts. “Valerie!” Lance cried out from under his tape. His lover would drain Radu if she didn’t stop. Lance alone had to stop this bloodbath. Chad was ed out on the table. He flopped closer an inch at a time. Under her mouth, Radu turned an ugly shade of ashen gray and slumped bonelessly to the floor. Valerie did not miss a single swallow as she lay down, pinning him underneath her. Radu’s hand flopped futilely between the two of them. But pushing her off was not his plan. A telescoping silver baton punched through Valerie’s hip with a sickening crunch. Valerie screamed. She screamed until her voice broke. Her limbs jerked uncontrollably like a lizard dying on a skewer. Her spasms forced her off Radu and onto her back. Her hands lit on fire as she tugged on the base of the baton. The spike rammed its way diagonally from her collarbone through her body. Her flesh charred black and repulsive green smoke filled the room. Blood spouted obscenely to the ceiling, covering everyone in gouts of fresh crimson. Sick to his stomach, Lance struggled harder. She’d never screamed in pain before. “My trap worked,” Radu coughed. His throat was a ravaged mess. The flesh squirmed around the slashes, already filling in the damage. “Everyone knows he has a guardian angel,” he taunted. “You thought I wouldn’t be ready for you. I can’t believe one so powerful would be so foolish. I daresay you are almost as strong as I am.” Radu gloated over Valerie as she writhed like a pinned bug. A movement flickered in corner of Lance’s eye. John crawled through the galley door into the main cabin. What was he doing here?

John’s entrance interrupted Lance’s strategy to roll into Radu’s feet. His longtime friend grabbed Chad by his hoodie and shook him awake. “Shhhh,” he silenced the frightened young man. John pressed the Shelby’s keys into Chad’s hand and shoved him through the door. Chad slipped away, unseen by the preening Radu. John winked at Lance and silently removed scissors from his back pocket. The heavy shears easily cut though the tape on Lance’s elbows and wrists. He flexed his arms, bringing sensation back to his hands. Again, John reached behind him and magically produced a chef’s knife. “He’s old and strong,” he whispered. “Go under the breastbone and up to his heart. Don’t cut through his ribs.” Radu removed a bowie knife from a forearm holster and laid it across Valerie’s throat. “I don’t care who you are. How does a beheading sound?” John threw an empty Grey Goose bottle at Radu. The container hit him squarely between the eyes and slammed the vampire back a step. Lance kicked Radu right in the kidneys. John hissed at him and stabbed the air with an imaginary knife. How could he explain to John that he couldn’t kill Radu? As Radu staggered under Lance’s attack, Valerie lashed out with her free foot. Her strike hit him in the chest and Lance rolled Radu to the floor. “Stay down, little brother,” Valerie growled as she struggled against her spike. “Lucifer help me, I’ll impale you before the night is through.” The room froze. The three men stared at the vampiress. The spray of blood over her erased the difference between masculine and feminine. Lance compared the two undead. The same high, slicing cheekbones. The same strong chin. The same tilt to the eyes. The same build. The same love of order and control and impalement. Clear as day, the resemblance between Radu and Valerie burned itself on Lance’s eyes.

No. No, no, no. It couldn’t be true. Dracula didn’t die in Berlin. But it was true. Knowledge flooded the cabin with a horrifying stillness. Valerie sagged on her poisonous spike. “Fuck.” Radu’s dropped jaw shut with a click. Bile rose in Lance’s throat. How many lives had this woman ruined? Once again, he’d fallen for evil. He would save her only in order to give her over to the World Court. He would guarantee that she was made to pay for her thousands of crimes. A splinter of sanity returned to Valerie’s eyes. “Get out.” Her voice shook from the silver eating her from the inside. Only her age kept her alive at this point. “This is between my brother and me.” The unhealing holes in her body gaped at them. John gave Lance a long, considering look. His hand curled around a piece of wood, holding it like a makeshift club. “Quelle surprise,” he said into the dripping quiet. “The lady is not what she seems. Like all of us here.” Lance’s lip twitched at John’s chastisement. His sins made hers look like a child swiping a penny from her mother. Shame followed hot on the heels of his previous self-righteous satisfaction. He wobbled to Valerie. It was not his job to determine what was forgivable and what was not. His role was to serve, not rule. His shoulder blades itched at the thought. She wouldn’t be dying if he’d not panicked over John’s honesty, if he had paid attention to the stress in Chad’s voice in his phone call, if he’d listened when Valerie expressed her concerns. He owed her.

Chapter Thirty-four

Glenath Tempesta slapped out the drum line for “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” against her hospital bed railing as she researched how to stop Radu Tepes. She polished her reading glasses and pursed her lips as she scrolled through her notes. In between blood tests, a battery of scans, and a worrying diagnosis of severe anemia, she’d constructed an elegant, simple, and airtight trap for her tormentor. A private room went a long way toward helping her concentration. That and her roommates had complained about her drumming and never-ending phone conversations. Too bad they were such tight-asses. All she needed was someone willing to testify against Radu Tepes. Anyone who had ever witnessed him being less than perfect was long missing. Even as she chatted to the new shift nurse, her brain chewed away on the problem. Tepes had no friends, acquaintances, or co-workers that predated 1969. Except one. Everything hung on what happened next. She picked up her phone and dialed the Governor Hotel. The moon broke between rain clouds and gilded her view of the hospital parking lot. “Anthony O’Neill’s room, please.” Glenath pinched the bridge of her nose as the call transferred. This was just groovy. Two stomach-churning hours later, hard knuckles rapped on her closed door. She smoothed her hair, adjusted the collar on her hospital gown, and called for him to enter. “Thank you for meeting me, Anthony.”

Her husband bowed, his hand over his heart. “Hello.” Always a gentleman, she thought. An old-fashioned gentleman who wore combat boots, a studded dog collar, and sported a new eyebrow piercing. “Radu must hate that.” She nodded at the large gage curved barbell as she extended her hand for a shake. “It’s why I did it. Small rebellions are all that are left to me.” His eyes turned a luminous green as he studied her body under the thin hospital gown. Her coochie twitched at that expression. Obviously, the magic was still there. No time for that today, she told herself sternly. He nipped on her index finger. She licked her lips. “Stop that. I have a plan.” He sucked her fingertip for a moment, then set her hand back down on the bed. “I always want to hear your plans, beautiful girl.” “I can break his hold.” Anthony dug a fang into his lower lip. The bond of a master over his child ran deep through mind and body. She’d refused to do it before. The process inevitably killed. But her research had yielded sweet fruit. She’d found a loophole. One corner of her mouth curled in a smile both triumphant and rueful. Radu Tepes would be ruined by morning.

Chapter Thirty-five

Satan’s curled toenails , this was not Valerie’s night. Silver clogged her throat and petrified her body for the second time in an hour. The poison burned like a thousand suns, eating her from the inside out. One’s intestines were not supposed to feel this way. Not even a massive blood infusion would save her now. Dust was her destiny. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Lance hovered above her, fury heating his normally artic eyes. This might be the last time she saw those eyes. Her hand merely trembled by her side when she tried to touch his bruised cheek. Her toes lost all sensation. She had to tell him not to be afraid. Her chest spasmed. So this was love. The exotic combination of desire, trust, and faith warmed her. Even though she was about to crumble to dust, her love would always be near him. His face furrowed into grim lines as he rolled up his sleeve and produced a chef’s knife. “You’re going to live.” A little flutter of something—could it be joy?—lightened her heart. He loved her. Peace replaced her centuries of wrath. Death was coming to claim her, but she finally knew love. It was worth it. “God help me, Dracula, you’ve got some explaining to do.” Her stomach sunk like cold lead. And that, then, was fear. Fear that he didn’t love her. Fear that he would betray her. Fear that her sins were so huge that he could never forgive her. Death would be welcome. Before she could properly think, his blood poured into her mouth. Her tongue automatically flickered to drink the salty fluid. Damnation. She would live.

The blood filled her throat and she swallowed. Valerie blinked hazily as vast opalescent wings unfurled from Lance’s back and wrapped around her. Such beautiful wings. Lance’s blood burned her throat as she swallowed. Violent cramps torqued her body away from his arm. Smoke rose from her mouth as she rolled to her side. Her stomach spasmed as if Lucifer had dug his claws into her midsection. Weak as a new blade of grass, she curled around her mangled body. Her flesh writhed as though octopi wrestled beneath her skin. Hot and cold spears ran through her body. Lance’s angelic blood fought with massive silver poisoning, leaving her shuddering on the boat’s blood-soiled deck. “What have you done?” she croaked through her ruined voice. “You are killing her!” John pulled Lance off and pushed him into the wall of the cabin. Valerie’s French was rusty, so she wasn’t entirely sure what came next, but it had something to do with Lance’s thoughtlessness and ended with “You incredible moron!” She staggered to her hands and knees, intent on escape. Her stomach roiled and cramped, making her retch. If she were to die this way, she wanted to be alone. She checked the room. Radu was still out cold. Lance and John grappled in the crowded cabin. Lance burned like the sun, his earthly form overridden by celestial glory. John held his own, though, against one of the Fallen, his aura flaring like a volcano. Valerie felt as naked and raw as though her skin had been flayed. Her secret betrayed, her love rejected, and her body infected by an angel’s blood. What was going to happen to her? What would she become? She twisted against the contagion in her veins, exhausted and weakened. The world darkened. A familiar set of black wings entered her vision. Death had finally arrived. This night, her greatest fear revealed itself to her.

Love. Love would destroy her.

Chapter Thirty-six

Lance shot into the sky, leaving a trail of clove-scented ozone behind him. Three long wing feathers drifted in the wet night air to land on the deck. John shook out his hands and blew on his skinned knuckles. “I hate this part.” Death sat next to Valerie and patted her thigh with skeletal fingers. Her body shuddered at the odd warmth in her old friend’s hand. Cautiously, she knelt and picked up one of the feathers. Her fingers didn’t burn as she ran them over the strong, soft vane. Death’s hooded head lifted to watch them go. “What do you hate?” she asked, her mind a numbed blank. Death gestured to the cold sky. Rain spangled Valerie’s eyelashes, turning light into dancing prisms. She blinked. It wasn’t the rain putting on the show. Stars fell in glittering silver showers until they wrapped around the flying men. Each sparkling point resolved into a winged figure, some shaped like humans, some shaped like the most fantastical beasts. The susurration of millions of feathers drowned out the rain. “My obnoxious brethren,” Death stated simply. “There’s a reason I spend all my time around humans.” “Why are your wings black and his white? You are not Fallen.” Death’s inhuman mouth smiled in the depths of its cowl, showing large teeth the color of black Tahitian pearls. The oddly charming expression sent a tiny frisson of amusement through her misery.

“Our wing colors denote our tasks, not our station.” She could swear she heard, “Curious monkey,” as Death unleashed its own wings and effortlessly soared to meet the Host. Valerie rubbed her aching breastbone. This beauty was Lance’s lost family welcoming him home. She exhaled. How quickly she had found and lost love. Lucifer below, love sucked. Her mind churned to think of anything else besides how much she hurt. John gathered her in his arms. “My petit chou,” he crooned in her ear as he rocked her back and forth like a colicky child. A sliver of consolation eased her desolation. Like a test tube in a centrifuge, Lance whirled in space. Green fire seared away his crime of pride, leaving him a shell of what he had been. Enormous, obsidian chunks of damnation fell away. Even bodiless, the process hurt, like surgery without anesthesia. Pride fell away, an ugly, sterile block of misery. Self-righteousness, pride’s child, followed. Fear clung on. Would he be able to regain his position? A new certainty let him ignore the fear, and like a dying leaf, it floated into the sparkling darkness. Yes, the firmament answered. Out of the stars, musical voices twittered around him. “He’s been so good. Let’s give him a little hit,” one giggled. “Oh, now that will be fun,” another sang. “Let’s see how he handles it.” Something cool and calm poured between the fissures, filling the empty places within. Whatever it was, it ended the clinging to what Lance had known. Everything fell.

Chapter Thirty-seven

“Y ou made me,” her brother rasped into the ruins of the cabin. Radu’s voice sounded like it had been dragged from him with fishhooks. The boat reverberated with the raw emotion revealed by her brother’s deepest truth. As always, he provided the ideal distraction. She focused on Radu’s petulant face and snorted in disbelief. “You made yourself,” she snapped, letting her anger show in her teeth. “I was trapped and chained. You drank my blood, licked my sweat, tasted my tears. You forced the Change on Ilona. And you blame me?” “You got everything.” Radu pounded on the floor, shouting over her. Indignation trumped her self-pity. Dying or not, Valerie would defend herself. “The Ottomans loved you. You weren’t tortured. The world thinks you are a hero. I am hated.” Radu’s bitter tone turned caustic. “All the attention, all the fame, that fucking book! Even the best girl. And all that time you couldn’t even fuck her properly.” Once a boil was lanced, nothing stopped the flow. “All anyone wants to do is talk about you. That’s all I ever hear. ‘Vlad this. Vlad that.’ ‘You stay here. Vlad will take care of it.’ On the battlefield, the soldiers all loved Vlad. ‘Vlad is so much better with swords. What’s wrong with you?’ ‘Radu, you’ll wear Vlad’s armor and be the decoy.’ All so you could sweep in and save the day.” Radu clapped his fist to his chest. “Everyone loved you. I was disposable.” His voice broke. Valerie wept to see her beloved baby brother so devastated. “I loved you. You were the reason I fought so hard.” “Liar.”

Now that just stung. “You are my brother! If anyone found out about me, you would be a target for our enemies! I had to protect you.” Radu shook his head, his gaze traveling over her blood-clad body. “You lie. How many people knew and laughed behind my back?” “Only Mother and Father knew. I swear it on Ilona’s dust.” “And why have you been killing our kind off?” Before she could answer, his face lit with sure understanding. “Ahh! It was the camps, wasn’t it? You always did prefer nice, straightforward death.” He shook his head. She coughed and spit out blood. “I cannot let that horror go unavenged.” “You cannot go unpunished for murdering us. It has always been forbidden!” Valerie’s gaze locked onto Radu. He was her only family. He was the only one left who understood her. Everyone else was gone. Their parents, their wife, all the other Shadow Creatures who had walked the earth six hundred years ago— all were dead. The dead shaped the present. The living created the future. John found a blanket under a chair and wrapped it around her. His affection melted her. She wanted a different future than endless fighting. Valerie reached out her blood-soaked hand. “You are my brother,” she said. “There is no more to say.” The wrinkles around Radu’s eyes relaxed. His mouth, usually tight with pressure, bloomed into a smile of true joy, like all the innocence and delight in the world had been laid at his feet to share with all. “Vlad.” Radu closed his eyes, unheeding of the blood down his face. “Let me come home.” Their fingertips touched.

The siblings clasped hands, their broken hearts showing in their faces. “I could never kill you,” Valerie whispered into his ear. “I could never let you go. You were my reason for living.” “Vlad.” Radu wiped the blood from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “What the hell were you thinking?” “The war changed me.” “Let’s work together.” Radu clenched his sister’s hand tightly. “Come with me. the CCC. The world is almost ready.” Her eyebrows pinched together. “Ready for what?” “Ready for us to flourish,” Radu coaxed. “Humans say we cannot marry whom we want, that we are unfit for governance. Us! With hundreds of years of history behind us, they say we cannot bring justice? They have the nerve to say that we are monsters and unclean when their sins are more frightening than anything we could arrange.” He held his bleeding hand to her mouth for her to lick. He smiled. Another vampire’s blood would heal her faster than anything. “You’d have to be announced as something other than Dracula. Perhaps as my niece?” She shrugged. Who she was remained immaterial. She had to heal. “We will bring proper order to things,” he whispered. “The mortals have made a terrible mess. We must rule them. Vlad. Let us work together. We were unstoppable before.” Before. Before. Valerie ed limp bodies lying in a clearing in Lyons. Little Josephine O’Neill dragged into horror by Radu’s carelessness. Dr. Mengele’s gruesome laboratory. How Radu took time and resources away from an already-losing war. She never would have had to wear a brassiere. She could still have her

moustache. She would have ruled Europe, then the world, but Radu had frittered away their opportunities. Radu held her hand tightly, victory spreading over his features. The humans stared at her. Radu hadn’t changed. But she had. She had to choose. Either be owned by her past, by whom and what she had once been. Or see where this new road led her. With Lance, she had no more secrets. No more mission. Radu’s sins were not for her to judge. Dracula’s secret was no more. Her past no longer owned her. This was liberation.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Afinal whiff of cloves nailed her feet to the tilting boat. One spot disengaged from the swirling mass above and dove for the earth. The air whistled like an incoming buzz bomb as the speck hurtled closer and closer to earth. Soon, Valerie saw the tiny figure of Lance skimming through the air. The waves built to a wild chop. Valerie stumbled before she regained her footing. Her solar plexus twitched at the sight of his clothing plastered to his defined torso. Desire didn’t care about sore ribs or even broken hearts. She would want him until she ed to dust. The choppy water smoothed. The Host wheeled above them like crows after a battle—so thick she could see nothing else. Not the stars, the moon, or even the houses on the other side of the lake. The Creatures defied description. Angels were not bound to a single physical form. A swirling shimmer of stardust coalesced into Lance. His huge and glorious white wings spanned the length of the yacht. He’d even kept the worn T-shirt and jeans. An enormous obsidian-bladed sword hung from his back. Soul-freezing blue eyes had been warmed with knowledge of infinite comion. No sin was too great for his understanding. His aura pierced her even more sharply than the first time she’d seen him. This time, Valerie let the tears flow unchecked. Radu cupped his hands over his eyes. The gathering of the Handmaidens proved too painful for him. With a yelp, a black-furred dog ran into the night. John wrapped a muscular arm around Valerie’s waist. Her skin shuddered as Lance hovered above them.

A drop of hope fed her love until it spread like an octopus in open water. No more playing it safe. He already knew all of her secrets. Time to risk declaring herself. “I love you,” she said. Lance embraced her. John flanked them until he placed his hand on her waist. “I love you,” Lance answered. John caressed her cheeks. “Chérie.” The sun and the moon they were. The light needed the dark or all life would scorch beneath its glare. John wrapped his arm around her waist and gently tugged. Slowly, Valerie let him draw her close. His warm body fit hers as neatly as pieces of rope being tied together. A subtle whiff of apples eased the tightness of surprise in her throat. “Well,” John said, unruffled as ever. “This makes moving even easier.” “I do have work to do before I you,” Lance replied, his voice not produced by vocal chords but by knowledge slotting into her brain. “I will find you.” “I’m glad to see you finally learned your lesson,” John replied. Lance enfolded them both with his strong arms. Heedless of her sore body, Valerie bent her neck until they all touched foreheads.

Chapter Thirty-nine

“B reaking news from the Twelfth Annual Paranormal Citizens Conference. Glenath Tempesta is about to give a speech. Last seen on her way to the hospital after collapsing two days ago, the former archbishop was recently accused of conduct unbecoming of a High Church official. She has returned to the conference to give her rebuttal. And here she is now.” Glenath swept past that nice Angela Block, Anthony following on her right side. His black trench coat brushed the reporter’s dress as they ascended the podium together. Glenath sat, grateful to hide her shaking knees. Her Berber jewelry shot disco lights over the room. Anthony stood behind the microphone. Glenath dragged her gaze from his fine behind. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press. I have an addition to my previous statement.” He leaned forward as the room hushed. “I was in the French Resistance. On a July night in 1944, my mission was to drop weapons and food in a secret location for a cell of fighters stationed in Provence. “But we were betrayed. And of the thirty who were supposed to collect the delivery, one survived the Nazi ambush. I saw who the double agent was.” Only the click of camera shutters broke the stillness. “Modern histories have made much of Radu Tepes’ heroic anti-Nazi activities in . The truth is that he was there at the order of his brother, Dracula. Radu gave the Resistance a vampire of their own, earning our trust and feeding information back to Berlin. “He turned me that night, rather than kill me, as punishment for surviving. I have

been his thrall ever since, barely hanging on to any shred of who I was. The only time I’ve been myself was when I was with Glenath Tempesta. Today, she helped me break his hold for once and for all so I can tell the truth.” Hands flew into the air like ravens in a storm. Shouts echoed from the ceiling. Another riot broke out at the conference.

Epilogue

Iam not pregnant.” Valerie set down her blood and Coke and glared at Glenath Tempesta and Anthony O’Neill. It had been a very productive and pleasant working dinner at Lance’s former house until Glenath had to barge in where she wasn’t wanted. Valerie crossed her arms over her sore breasts. The pressure on her tender nipples made her wince. “We are here to discuss the shelter’s next move, not my personal life.” Glenath and Anthony merely exchanged a knowing glance and continued to hold hands. How could they sit there at what was now Valerie’s table and smirk at her like that? It’s not like Valerie had had a personal life for the last three months. Glenath gestured with her wineglass. “‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,’” the smart-ass little bishop quoted. Her thick silver bracelets clanged together as she toasted the sky. “Thank you, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” Considering it was her fifth glass of wine, Valerie was surprised Glenath didn’t slur more than she did. Anthony snorted into his stein of lamb blood. Miraculously, no droplets splattered his face or his white T-shirt. Radu’s children were always ridiculously neat. Glenath swapped her hazy gaze to him. “Thanks for the , honey.” The woman had the nerve to sound affronted. Valerie wrested the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Doyle was a twit. No matter. I am not having a baby.” Glenath sat back in her chair, not the least bit intimidated by Valerie’s temper. She smoothed her paisley smock and shook her head. “No vampire has fed from an angel before. No one knows what you are anymore.”

Valerie internally winced. Trust Glenath to remind her of that painful fact. Lance never returned. John had gone to Switzerland, even though he kept in constant . Despite her growing friendships with Glenath, and Anthony, Valerie had been abandoned. She cracked her neck and finished drinking her dinner. Pregnancy was inconceivable. Literally. “Vampires don’t ovulate,” Valerie stated flatly. “I’m a vampire. And that is final.” A wave of blood and Coke rolled up her esophagus to the back of her throat. Valerie pressed a hand to her stomach as she dashed to the bathroom. Lucifer below, bile was disgusting. She sat on the cool tile floor, trying to comprehend what was going on. Nausea had plagued her for two solid weeks. Her entire body was swollen and tense. “Vampires don’t vomit, either,” Anthony said as he and Glenath crowded into the small room with her. Obviously her nephew had no sense of self-preservation. She bared her teeth. “Don’t push me, kid.” He didn’t look the least bit intimated. “I’ll clear the table. You two figure this one out.” He shook his head and left the bathroom. Glenath watched his ass move under his jeans as he walked away. Yes, yes, it was a very nice ass, Valerie thought, but it wasn’t the ass she wanted. “What in Lucifer’s hairy nuts am I supposed to do?” Valerie demanded of Glenath. “Take a pregnancy test? I might be messed up, but at least I still don’t urinate.” Glenath shook her head, suddenly less combative. “I’ll take a Look.” The bishop had the ability to See secrets. A baby would certainly be a secret, seeing as Valerie didn’t know about it. She didn’t want to know about it. Valerie raised a lip to bare a fang. “I’m not pregnant. Nothing to look at.” “Are you scared?” Glenath’s voice revealed no anger, just comion. Once, Valerie would have said nothing frightened her. That was then. Now, she had grasped true love and lost it. Nothing in the world, not blood, not torture, not even garlic, hurt as much as that still-bleeding wound on her heart.

Her gaze swept what she could see of Lance’s former home, now littered with paperwork and her personal items. She hadn’t even taken down the Jerusalem cross, preferring its distracting pain to the endless hurt she experienced when she was alone in Lance’s bed. No lies, she had promised herself. Not even with this. “Yes, I am afraid.” Valerie held her voice flat. She might be afraid, but she still had her pride. “But I cannot continue not being willing to face the truth.” “You are a most unusual woman.” Glenath sat back, astonishment on her weathered but still stunning face. “I think I’m about to get more unusual.” Valerie pushed herself away from the toilet and stood. “Look inside of me.” Being under Glenath Tempesta’s searching regard was not unlike standing inside Lance’s warm, sunlit aura. Valerie shut that thought off with ruthless desperation. She was not going to linger on that wayward angel. Glenath met Valerie’s eyes. Valerie knew the answer before the words came out of her friend’s lips. “Congratulations. It’s an angel.”

The story continues in Dracula’s Desires.

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Chapter One

What in hell was a Fallen Angel doing in Geneva, Switzerland? That caustic brimstone stench could warn a city of half-dead humans with nose colds busily shoveling manure, let alone a solitary vampire minding her own business. Valerie Tate set aside her ancient manuscript about vampires and looked out her cheap hotel room’s filthy window to take stock of the newcomer. Aching from yesterday’s long drive from Amsterdam to Geneva, she put her hands on the small of her back and stretched, counterbalancing the weight of her six-months’-pregnant stomach. She wasn’t interested in being a mother, but her curiosity demanded that she see what happened. Right now, an emissary from Lucifer was happening. The Fallen appeared as a handsome young man. His sleek swimmer’s build combined with pale skin, and cornflower blue eyes gave him an innocent, wistful air. If he’d been human, she would have contemplated the taste of his blood. Unfortunately, his aura was a sickeningly depressing shade of beige. He had no ion, no flavor. He was a follower. Valerie preferred fiery men. A man like Lance Soliel, whose aura crackled with ardor, whose hot mouth and hotter intellect had captured her dead and frozen heart. Her eyes stung with tears. Lance’s angelic blood and her subsequent pregnancy had weakened her. Not physically—she was still as strong as ever. In fact, Lance’s painful gifts had increased her powers. But it had humanized her as well. Now she wept. Wept! A six-hundred-year-old vampire crying at the slightest provocation? She had executed her own wife without a single moan. Now, she whined like a hungry puppy when she ed how Lance left her behind. That was nothing compared to her past.

She drew back her arm to punch the thin wall by the window, sick of her fragility. As her fist arrowed to shatter the cut-rate plaster, she regained her selfcontrol. Her knuckles lightly tapped the faded gray of the wall. Stop it. Six months of her pathetically weak will letting her think of what she no longer had. That was then. This was now. Lance wasn’t worth any more of her time. There was a Fallen Angel to watch. She had to stay focused. In addition to his dull aura, his overly neat, shiny Italian suit and highly fashionable skinny tie betrayed his vanity. The high-end narrow jacket emphasized his sensual build. Honesty forced her to it that the Angelic Host didn’t exactly have what could be called fashion sense. All that gleaming white could get old for the flamboyant sort. His lack of originality told Valerie that this was not one of the Fallen who had chosen to ride the Wheel to redemption. He had remained loyal to Lucifer. In short, Lucifer’s cannon fodder. His slow ramble toward her dilapidated room did not reveal any danger. He might be insipid, but he also might be good for a laugh. The dusty gravel cracked and rolled under his feet. His suit rubbed against itself, the expensive fabric shushing in a pleasing fashion. He was making sure she knew he was there. If he’d been coming to kill her, he would have materialized in her room and destroyed her as she lay resting. As the Fallen neared her door, his innately chaotic nature tugged at her alreadysensitive nipples. Paranormal beings had been created to keep the Fallen company. Perhaps this one came to provide solace for her heartbroken state, one lost creature to another. She wouldn’t love him, but at least they would understand each other. Besides, she had heard the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. She doubted it, though. Since the 1400s, Valerie had bared herself to only two lovers: her wife, Ilona, and then Lance. Each of them had destroyed her, freezing her emotions with devastating regret and fear. Sadly, she set aside any thoughts of a distracting seduction.

As he neared her door, he reached inside his suit jacket. Like a magician pulling a chainsaw from a top hat, the former angel drew a pistol the size of Valerie’s forearm. Valerie raised an eyebrow. Or he could be the universe’s stupidest assassin. She assessed her situation. Him: Older, meaner, with the advantage of calling high-powered backup. Her: Pregnant, tired, hungry, pissed-off, and trapped in a small enclosed space. The odds were bad. Just the way she liked it. “You do love me!” the fetus crowed, making its voice known for the first time. Obviously, angel blood bred true. What other being would worry if its mother loved it? “Shut it, kid. I’ve got a moron to take care of.” Valerie could attack the would-be killer, disarm him, hurt him in ways not even Lucifer could imagine. She could dig her hungry fangs into his neck and feed on his immortal blood. Her claws could rip his brain out of his skull. He was stupid, slow, and careless. Even as ungainly as she was now, she would completely dominate him in hand to hand, until his limbs were scattered from the North Sea to the Mediterranean. “Stop wasting time,” the growth inside growled. “Kill him and get us out of here.” Valerie spared an approving thought toward her uterus. Perhaps this child was a Dracul as well as an angel. Reaching into the back waistband of her pants, she drew her much more practical firearm. Her spine tall with family pride, Valerie Tate shot the world’s dimmest Fallen Angel right in the head.

Author’s notes

Obviously, I took wild liberties with the legend of Vlad Dracula. Once I conceived of the idea of Vlad born a woman, I pursued the history of this shadowy person. Pardon me as I misquote a brilliant Ursula K. Le Guin saying, “If you want to write speculative fiction, you only get to change one thing.” Well, I changed one thing and ran with it. Before I go any further, I want to discuss how historical research gets done. Historical research is mostly done from written sources. The three main classifications of sources are tertiary, secondary, and primary (historians are not known for creative classification names). Tertiary sources are the most common and the most easily accessible. A tertiary source is one that is not written in the period in question. Tertiary sources discuss current research and current attitudes about that particular topic or time period. Tertiary sources include text books, book reviews, timelines, and encyclopedias. They are very useful places to start research. Secondary sources are still written out of period, but refer to period sources. They are often specialized books, dissertations, or theses that look at available period evidence about a person, place, thing, or idea. They are a good place to grasp a complete view of a culture. They also vary greatly in quality, complexity, and scope (this is where you use book reviews and abstracts to determine which one). A primary source is a source created at the time you are studying by a contemporary of the action or person. They are scarcer and more difficult to understand, but a whole lot more fun to work from. Examples are coins, inscriptions, buildings, portraits. And yes, copies and accurate photographs are primary sources, too.

Secondary and tertiary sources are often blended; they have pictures, quotes, graphics, and facsimiles of primary sources in them. This is extraordinarily helpful - you can get feel for a primary source without having to find it in its entirety. Frequently, primary sources are published in collections or in thematic arrangements with introductions. Primary sources are not limited to written material; paintings, coins, carvings, artifacts (surviving physical evidence), tapestries, buildings, and photographs and photocopies of any of these are primary sources. The best and hardest way to write history is from primary sources. The further away a text is from the original actions, recorded by contemporaries, the deeds and thoughts recorded lose their freshness and immediacy. Secondary and tertiary sources are often the cause behind the "history is boring" reputation. After all, novels are exciting for their attention to detail, their focus on action and consequence. History is the story of murder, betrayal, love, greed, tenderness, and lofty dreams for humanity. Well- researched, well-written history is "edge of the seat" exciting and explains where modern attitudes and problems came from.

Digging around in Primary Sources.

Now you have your sources , primary and otherwise, all laid out. Now what? What criteria do you use to select which ones you wish to consult? For an example, I will use a famous case of really bad sources and a vicious historical hatchet job, namely, King John I of England (I know this story is about Dracula. This example does have relevance. Be patient!). The best structure for an evaluation uses the classic "who, what, when, where, and how" criteria. Here's how to apply these questions to a primary source. Who? Who created it? A monk? An adversary? A hagiographer? An irer? A satirist - hey, are you taking a sarcastic book seriously? (I've done that. It's very embarrassing.) The only contemporary chronicles for King John for whom we know the authors are Gervase of Canterbury and Ralph of Coggeshall. There are scanty anonymous annals from monks from Dunstable, Worcester, and Tewkesbury, and the abbes in Margam in Glamorgan and Waverly in Surrey. When? When did they write it? Are they a contemporary of the person or action? Did they write it later using their memories or rumor? John of Wendover wrote his stories after 1226. Matthew Paris began plagiarizing Wendover's stories starting in 1235. King John died in October 1216. John's son, Henry, did not take the throne until September 1217. Does something about those sources look funny to you, too? What? What did they create? A book, artwork, or an object? What kind of condition is the item in now? What purpose did it serve? Roger of Wendover very honestly

stated that his book was not a history; he wanted an effective foil for sermons against various sins. Where? Note that there are regional and temporal differences in climate of opinion. Also, different geographical climates preserve things better than others. So we have wonderful artifacts from dry climates like Egypt, but few from moist climates like SubSaharan Africa. , books are destroyed in a particular pattern as are scrolls and pottery. How? Did the creator use eyewitnesses? Other s? Is the littered with unsubstantiated rumor? A good question to ask is how good is the rest of the source. Roger of Wendover's "chronicle" of King John is full of stories that noone would take seriously. He writes of a washerwoman who broke the Sabbath to work and was exsanguinated by a small black pig for punishment. He writes another story of a loaf bread that because it had been baked on Sunday, ran with blood when it was to be sliced.

"There is one, (it is eighteen pages long) about a peasant named Thurkill from the village of Twinstead in Essex, who, in 1206, was led through the realms of Purgatory by St. Julian. As Wendover tells it, the story has many realistic touches, from the man's name and place where he lived to precise details about the torture chambers of the underworld: in one, for example, stand cauldrons of inky water so bitter that if a piece of wood is thrown in the bark instantly peels off. It is a grim and lively story; but is it true? Wendover certainly seems to think it as authentic as his stories about John; and it is difficult to see on what grounds historians should reject the former while accepting the latter." Warren. P. 11

Now, what if don't have a smoking gun" like the King John example? What if you just feel uncomfortable ing that source? Many historians are nervous about basing a text on controversial "primary sources". Historians will tell you to do another search to see if you can find any sources to supplement, replace, or confirm the references you are using from these sources. The citation

will have more authority if you are able to back up your point with multiple sources. The historiography for this section is based on W.L. Warren's book, King John, published in London by Eyre & Spottiswoode c. 1961. I highly recommend it. Now, about that Dracula person. Even the most cursory look at the secondary and tertiary sources on Vlad Dracula shows a stunning (or tedious, depending on your personality) number of resources on how bloodthirsty and cruel this particular historical figure was. To find out where they got their information, I did what every self-respecting historian does. I checked their bibliographies for their primary sources. This is what I found. Vlad Dracul II lived from 1431-1476. No sources survive from Vlad himself (despite it being commonly reported that he was highly educated and literate). This includes any of his legislative acts. No sources survive from his brothers, father, wives, other relatives, or even friends. The only primary source that is contemporary to Vlad's life is in the Monastery of St. Gall, in Switzerland. It was written by an unknown author in 1462. The manuscript gives a number of anecdotes about Vlad (thirty-two, according to the translation I read). The translator claims that six of those thirty-two stories are confirmed by other sources, but does not name those sources. The stories discussing Vlad's crimes against humanity were not verified by other contemporary sources. The Russian and German documents that discuss Vlad's preference for disemboweling animals, etc., etc., etc., date from 1490 at the earliest. The woodcut portraits of Vlad date from 1488 and 1491. The famous oil portrait comes from the second half of the 17th century. Which, I might point out, is nearly 200 years after he died.

Many scholars make much of the oral transmissions of the folk tales of Romania. Unfortunately, I was unable to find any analysis of these stories by anthropologists or historians that would confirm the accuracy. Folk tales often are multipurpose stories - they could be cautionary tales or money makers to fleece the unsuspecting. I've not seen any studies done of where the folktales agree with the primary sources. For example, contemplate the relationship people in the United States have with George Washington. The old cherry tree tale has been discredited, but how many of us still it and tell it? What all this boils down to is very simple: We don't know that much about this historical figure. So as a result, I felt like I could play with this person; bring my own interpretation to the story of Dracula. After all, my outrageous idea seemed to fit right in with the rest. :) I hope you enjoy Valerie’s story. I'm sure that I've missed a lot of information on the historical Dracula. I look forward to hearing from others who want to share their research with me. Linda Mercury