Monster (A Cassidy Edwards Novel - Book 1) (10 page)

An appetizer only—well a large appetizer.

Tasty.

The woman shifted and stood up a little unsteadily. Her face looked a little green.

I felt the usual guilt and sent her a mental apology.

“
Non è possible!
” she called out to the men. “I think I’m getting sick.”

They looked up, concerned.

I stepped back as one of them joined her. He passed right by me. Middle-aged. Educated. Cultured. As he reached over to offer her a steady arm, I took advantage of Tabitha’s invisibility cloak—who wouldn’t if they were starving?—and brushed my hand against his chest, carefully positioning myself in a way that Lucian and Heath couldn’t see me.

The cultured archeologist tasted like a fine wine—or what I imagined a fine wine to taste like—rich and thriving with bold flavor. It was all I could do to keep from tapping more.

The man heaved a sudden sigh. “You know, I’m feeling a bit drained myself,” he admitted with a dry laugh. “Maybe we should call it a day. Must be the heat.”

Fanning themselves, they headed to one of the white tents as the third archeologist gamely tossed his tools into a crate and followed. They didn’t take much convincing. In moments, they’d all decided to go. We watched as they left the dig, exchanging friendly banter over where to eat.

They’d scarcely left before I was keenly aware of Lucian’s breath on my neck. I suppressed a shiver.

“How did you make them leave?” he whispered in my ear.

His lips were close. So close. Had they brushed my skin? Was he playing cat-and-mouse again? As hungry as I still was, I almost purred at the thought. I turned, but just at a right enough angle to brush my shoulder against his chest in a little flirtation of my own.

His dark-lashed eyes narrowed. He hadn’t missed the move. But most significantly, he hadn’t stepped back.

I lifted a brow, a challenging one but with a suggestive tilt, and our eyes locked.

Sizzle. Again, it was like invisible energy erupting between us. What was it? It could be addictive.

“Cassidy,” Tabitha broke in.

Lucian averted his eyes then, and the sizzle vanished.

Shelving game-playing for later, I glanced over to where Tabitha had dropped her arms and unrolled her eyes. Clearly, she possessed some special kind of radar that enabled her to detect the most inopportune times to interrupt.

“What?” I asked, trying not to let the annoyance and hunger taint my voice. Yeah, I’d gotten a few bites in, but it wasn’t enough to put much of a dent in my foul mood.

“How 
did
 you make them leave?” she asked warily.

“I didn’t,” I boldly lied. “It was mere coincidence.”

Lucian wasn’t buying it. He folded his arms and peered down at me, the line of his lean jaw, tight. He was still a shade too close to me.

But before my hormones could start dancing, I pulled up short.

A touch.

Someone had just reached out and touched my mind. It was as real as if someone had just tapped me on the shoulder. Instinctively, I glanced over the wall back up at the old stone-and-timber house. It came from there; there was no doubt. Something or 
someone
 was there, reaching out to me.

Ignoring everyone, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, analyzing the scents swirling in the air.

I could still smell the three archeologists walking away, down the narrow alley.

A cat on the nearby roof.

A few rats, birds, and various other small animals in the surrounding trees.

Ricky in his bottle.

Of course, still no hint of an aroma from Lucian, Tabitha, or Heath.

And then, there it was.

For the briefest of moments, a strong, unique scent. Old—like the perfume of an antique leather book. Aged—but with a thread of death woven through it.

A Chosen One.

I gave an involuntary jerk. I’d never smelled another Chosen One besides my mother.

My eyes flew open, riveting on the house, and my every instinct was on alert.

“What is it?” Lucian’s deep voice murmured in my ear again.

I brushed him curtly aside, intent on focusing on the Chosen One. I started to approach the house, but I got no further than three steps before my attention was seized by what lay under my feet.

I was standing on them!

Even buried, I could smell them. I’d probably missed them before because they emitted no mana. They couldn’t. They hadn’t eaten in centuries. But now, directly under my feet, I could pick up their scent, the sick, cloying perfume of death. Also the scent of the Chosen One apparently hiding in the house. It was strong. So strong that it was unnerving.

I shivered, feeling as if the cold, clawing fingers of Death had suddenly crept up from the soil to reach out and wrap around my ankle, solely with the intention of sucking me down to join the others.

“What is it?” I vaguely heard Lucian ask again.

At least a dozen. No. More. They were alive—well, as alive as Chosen Ones can be.

I glanced over at Heath. He didn’t appear to smell a thing.

So much for the werewolf olfactory system.

Lucian’s quick fingers corralled my jaw and forced my eyes to meet his. In them, I could see yet another unspoken version of the same question he’d been asking.

Wordlessly, I dropped my eyes to the ground.

He understood at once. His pale eyes flashed. “How many?” he asked, his voice growing lethally soft. “One? Two? More?”

The Chosen Ones beneath my feet had begun to stir, apparently sensing me in return. I felt as if I could almost hear their voices asking for my name.

Abruptly, images flashed in my mind: Men and women, dressed in medieval garb, screaming, as mobs descended on them to brick, stake, and bury them—deep, very deep.

Startled, I took a step back. I had no doubt where the images came from. Even bricked, staked, and buried, they were still alive. They were calling out to me as if I were one of their own. It was disturbing. My mother had never communicated with me in that manner. I hadn’t even known it was possible.

Lucian caught my shoulder, giving me a bit of a shake. 
“How many?”
 he demanded impatiently.

Unnerved, I moved away from the bodies beneath me. I’d detected at least eighteen different scents. I added a couple to be safe. “Twenty,” I reported hoarsely. “And they’re awake.”

Lucian arched a skeptical brow. Ok. Skeptical was an understatement. He flat out didn’t believe me. Contempt crossed his handsome face. “There is no record of that many. It was five, at the most,” he replied in a cutting tone.

“Record is mistaken, then,” I said, irritation flaring up in an instant.

Good. I was glad Lucian was behaving like an arrogant jerk. It made me mad, and at the moment, I’d rather be mad than unnerved.

Again, I felt the touch from the house, but this time, an image accompanied it.

A man in a kilt. Tall. Ruddy. Strong. A chest made of stone. Biceps of steel. Long, brown hair fell down his massive shoulders. Lips … tantalizing. His green eyes—a green so deep in hue that it looked fake—it perfectly matched the green color in his kilt. They were compelling, those eyes, and in them, I saw the distinct spark of laughter.

I shook my head and stepped back, breaking the connection—if that’s what it was.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I announced, suddenly wanting to be gone. Clearly, I wasn’t prepared to deal with a couple dozen vampire-empaths.

Lucian grabbed my hand. “What did you see?” he asked.

I jerked my hand free. “Nothing,” I snapped.

He was just one warlock. Even I knew he wasn’t much of a match for the ancient force awakening beneath us.

Heath had morphed into his werewolf form and had begun to dig the ground with his enormous paws.

“You’re not going to reach them that way,” I muttered at him. “They’re too deep.”

Heath kept digging.

Lucian shot me a cynical look that just made me want to slap his handsome face.

“She speaks the truth,” Tabitha spoke for the first time, once again coming unexpectedly to my aid. “There were always rumors about the number of his clan. It is foolish to doubt her. We haven’t a moment to waste. Dark approaches, and he’ll be back to protect his own.”

A shiver coursed through me. 
He
. He who? He in the house? A kilted vampire?

Heath paused his digging as the fur along the ridge of his spine rose. “I smell them now,” he said then. “She’s right. There are many.”

Lucian didn’t find it necessary to apologize for doubting me. Instead, he just sent me another cynical look.

As critical of me as his expression was, I couldn’t help but notice his suave features and how they juxtaposed with that of the primitive, ruddy man in the green kilt, his image still burned into my brain. Lucian was sensual yet, at the same time, scorching hot. Captivating. Devious. Clever. As handsome as Sin. Primitive, like the vampire, but in an entirely different way.

I watched as Lucian’s carved lips curled a little and came closer to me. “What is it?” he asked, his eyes impaling mine.

I shook my head. I had to leave this place. It was dangerous. I was being pulled in too many strange directions.

I didn’t answer.

I merely walked away.

The Truth About Night Terrors

Heath caught up with me before I reached the tourists milling about in the piazza just one street away. Stepping out of his wolf form, he slouched against the rough stone exterior of a small Venetian mask shop, a large closed sign in its window.

“Hey. It’s ok,” he said, offering me a friendly smile. “You don’t have to run. It’s cool.”

“Not running!” I swiftly rebutted. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to a hippie werewolf at that moment.

I was about to stalk way, but then I checked myself. With Ricky still drunk in my pocket and out-of-service, I might, instead, be able to mine Heath for a bit of useful information. It was worth a shot.

As it turned out, he was an easy lemon to squeeze; it wasn’t long before the information flowed, and I made a mental note never to share anything on the QT with him.

“It’s a mass plague-victim grave dated from the Middle Ages,” he babbled in answer to my opening question. “Back then, they thought vampires spread the sickness by chewing on the deceased’s shrouds, you know, when they rose from the dead. The gravediggers would put bricks in their mouths to stop them.” He chuckled a little and added, “Can’t chew with a mouthful of bricks, eh?”

Judging by the number of bricks that I’d seen scattered around the dig sight, the medieval folk had apparently exercised an overabundance of caution.

“And 
Ramsey
?” I prompted, asking what I really wanted to know. “Just who is 
he
?”

“Oh, it has to be Dorian,” Heath spilled at once. “Dorian Ramsey. The Scottish bloke that ruined the Rowles. Lucian’s been looking for him a long time. Thinks he’s finally found him.”

Dorian Ramsey. It was a fitting name for the image of the man in my mind. So, the Chosen One lurking in the house was the green-eyed, kilt-wearing vampire who was responsible for the curse set upon the Rowles. I wasn’t really surprised. I guess on some level I’d already guessed that.

I suddenly could relate to Lucian’s mania. His archenemy had been uncovered—the man who’d brought his family to ruin. It also explained Tabitha’s dire warnings. It wasn’t going to be pretty if all eighteen or twenty of Dorian’s clan members were unleashed all at once upon Venice.

Heath was still babbling away, but I wasn’t listening.

I kept seeing Dorian’s captivating image in my head. He’d reached out to me. But why? Did he think I was a Chosen One?

After a few moments, I tuned into Heath’s rambling to discover that he’d somehow digressed the conversation into the realm of meditation and how it affected performance in running marathons.

My stomach growled, and I made my mind up at once. I didn’t know what lie ahead, but I knew one thing. I would have to be healthy and on top of my game.

It was time to eat.

After making my perfunctory excuses to Heath, I exited the side alley and plunged into the crowded streets of historic Venice. The sheer number of tourists was staggering. People jostled, pushed, and shoved everywhere.

I smiled in open relief. At last, something was going my way. No one noticed me as I worked my way through the crowd, briefly touching here and there. I fed longer than usual, but I was hungry. This time, it took a lot to sate my appetite.

Several times, I saw Tabitha and Heath waving at me from the fringe of the crowd. I pretended not to see them. Once or twice, I saw Lucian. I figured he’d be furious when he finally caught up with me.

I was wrong.

He was beyond livid.

I’d just helped myself to a scrumptious treasure-of-a-man with a black baseball cap and a Yankees jersey when I saw a newsstand.

The photo on the front page captivated me. I’d always thought vampire bodies never aged, staked or un-staked, but I’d guessed wrong. The body in the picture was severely decayed; the skeleton, more than half exposed. Part of it was swathed in a rotten, dirt-colored shirt and the other, a faded kilt with the slightest tint of green. The bottom jaw and most of the teeth were in a shambles, likely broken by the brick that was shoved into the vampire’s mouth. Oddly, the wooden stakes in the chest and knees appeared to be almost in perfect condition.

It had to be Dorian Ramsey—and he was certainly a far cry from the image he’d shared with my mind.

I scanned the newspaper headline, but the words were Italian. I only recognized one word, 
vampiro
.

“What game are you playing now, spell-finder?” Lucian’s cool voice whispered across the back of my neck. His temper must have mellowed as he’d crossed the piazza.

I shivered. The man had a thing for necks. Maybe, not unlike a vampire, he knew my neck was my weak spot.

Spinning on my heel, I looked up at his grim, hard mouth and fiery eyes.

“I did my part,” I challenged. “I found them before they could set traps for you.”

“No, you’re not done,” he disagreed. “Follow me. We have only a few hours before sunset.”