Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn (3 page)

“From a mortal?” One of the strange Kyn, a bullnecked beast with spiked brassy hair, offered her a sneer. “What can you do, Pearl Girl?”

“
That
sounds like the instigator,” Jayr said.

One that thinks he’s a poet, too.
Chris imagined biting into a lime, and let her expression match its sourness. “My name is Miss Lang, sir, and I
do
whatever Lord Alenfar
wants
. What is that?” Before anyone could answer, she walked between the men, scooped up the tattered paper, and scanned it. “This is an official summons from the high lord. What’s it doing on the floor?”

One of the
jardin
warriors nodded at the visitors. “They tore it down before we could see it.”

Another visitor said something ugly in another language.

“He says we took it from them,” the
jardin
warrior translated for her, “before they were done with it. But they cannot understand the summons.” He nodded at the spike-haired visitor. “Only that one speaks English.”

“Is that all?” Chris sighed and eyed the summons. “It says, ‘From Richard Tremayne by the Grace of God High Lord of the Darkyn, Chosen Ruler of the Realms, Territories, and Jardins, Defender of Truth and Eternity, to Our right trusty and well-beloved
seigneurs, lords and lady paramount, and warriors sworn, Greetings.’” She lifted her head and regarded the visitor’s only English speaker. “You can tell them that would be the high lord’s way of saying ‘Hi, everyone.’”

“I told them what it means,” the spike-haired warrior said.

“Good—then you should have no problem translating the rest of this for your friends.” She skimmed the first page, reading out loud the important parts. “He writes, ‘The Scroll of Falkonera, stolen of late by our enemies, has been recovered by the guardian Helada.’ Sounds like the thieves fell victim to its death curse. Too bad for them. He mentions the ages, and how he commissioned the smith Cristophe Noir to forge the scroll, and so on and so forth.”

“Go to the end and read, Miss Christian,” one of the
jardin
warriors urged. “The bit about the jewels.”

“Jewels, jewels.” Chris skipped ahead to the final paragraph of the summons. “Here’s something. ‘We therefore are well pleased to offer, for the elimination of this grievous threat, recompense to any oath-bound warrior of the Darkyn who should carry out a search to locate and secure the three gems. To he who successfully concludes this mission and delivers unto Us all three emeralds, We shall immediately grant the title of suzerain and rule of the territory of Ireland, including all present rights, properties, weapons, guards, warriors, and servants apportioned to the Irish
jardin
.’” She barely controlled a wince. “‘Given at Ì Àrd this first day of November in the nine hundred forty-fifth year of Our reign—’”

“Aye, all of Ireland for the jewels,” the spike-haired visitor crowed, interrupting her. “I’ve told that to my brothers as well. In but a handful of days it shall be ours.”

“This is not your territory,” a
jardin
warrior said. “It is
ours
to search.”

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Chris had to raise her voice to be heard over the angry mutters from the rest of the men. “This territory belongs to Lord Alenfar, and he decides what happens here. All requests to search for anything will be made to him.” She turned to the visitors. “If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the suzerain, as he prefers to manage any problems involving visiting Kyn. Although I will warn you, he takes a very hands-on approach.” She described Lucan’s ability to shatter bones and rend flesh with a single touch before she said to the spike-haired warrior, “Make sure your friends understand exactly what I just said.”

As the spike-haired warrior sullenly translated her words, the visiting Kyn lowered their weapons, and after a moment the
jardin
warriors did the same.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to take care of the master’s business with Mr. Turner.” She nodded at their swords. “Lord Alenfar doesn’t allow sparring in the tunnels, and besides that, stronghold visitors are required to disarm upon arrival. You may leave your weapons here; Mr. Turner will take very good care of them.” When none of them moved, she took out her mobile from her pocket and held a thumb over the keys. “I can call the suzerain and have him come down here to explain his policy to you. Personally.”

The spike-haired warrior translated one final time, and the visitors grudgingly moved one by one to place their blades on the counter.

Chris almost said “thank you” before she swiveled around to face Turner and tap the invoice with an impatient finger. “Now, about this ammunition back order. I checked the terms of the bid, and according to paragraph seven on page fourteen, if the supplier can’t deliver on schedule, a penalty charge of . . .”

As she complained about the problem she had already solved upstairs, Chris kept her back toward the men and watched Turner’s dour expression. A moment before she became convinced that they’d seen through her act, she heard the sounds of heavy footsteps moving into the corridor.

“Are they gone?” she whispered to Turner.

“Aye.”

Chris sagged against the counter. “Thank God.”

Jayr chuckled over the earpiece. “Nicely done.”

One of the
jardin
warriors went over and slammed shut the door. “You’re a clever girl, Miss Christian.” He nodded toward her jacket. “Your pocket is chiming.”

“Damn.” Chris took out her locator, which displayed an electronic dimensional map of the stronghold. A blue light flashed in the reception room on the third floor. “Mr. Burke must be back from the airport.” To Jayr, she said, “I have to go, my lady. I really appreciate the help.”

“Tell Lucan about this skirmish and the summons,” Jayr said, and then added, “When he’s in a gentle mood.”

“I will, my lady, and thank you again.” She switched off the mobile and removed her earpiece, and saw that the
jardin
warriors had also left. “Mr. Turner, you might want to talk to Aldan about scheduling our guys with the new guys for some quality time in the warriors’ circle. And while you’re at it, arrange for some interpreters for them.”

He nodded. “I believe I’ll close the armory for the rest of the night as well. Lass,” he said when she turned to leave, “what you did charging in here was very brave, but very foolish. None but that no-necked blowhard could understand you. One jab or swipe of the blade, and they would have done you in.”

“You’re right, I’m human, and blades are not our friends.” She bent to pick up one of the swords, and carefully placed it on the counter. Only then did she give him a wink. “But it worked.”

Chris hurried back to the elevator, apologizing to Aldan when he tried to stop her. “I’m needed in reception, guys, TTYL.”

As she pressed the button for the third floor, Chris heard Aldan ask, “Tee-tee-why . . . what?”

“’Tis a modern spoken code,” Glenveagh drawled. “It means she will converse with you anon—”

Once the doors closed, Chris used her mobile to text Sam about the new arrival in reception—Burke always personally notified Lucan—and then walked around in a circle as she shook her hands. For the most part she’d outgrown the really horrible panic attacks of her teenage years, but every now and then anxiety would start trying to creep back into her head, a silent rat that wanted only to gnaw at her confidence and composure until her brain turned to Swiss cheese.

Once she’d made enough money, Chris had gone to a therapist and paid three hundred bucks to have herself tested. The shrink had wanted to know why, but she’d lied and said it was for her job. A week later she’d gone in to get the results.

“You’re a little depressed,” the shrink had told her as she handed over the typed report. “Of course I can work with you on that.”

“Of course.” As long as she forked over more hundreds, which she didn’t have, so that was a nonissue. “But I’m not psychotic, schizophrenic, bipolar, paranoid, or in any way a danger to myself or others.”

The older woman smiled. “No, you’re not.”

“That should make my boss happy.” Chris skimmed the first page. “What’s this part about anxiety?”

“You’re a very confident, polished young woman . . . on the surface.” The shrink’s eyes dipped to the cross-shaped bulge under her T-shirt. “We all wear masks, Miss Lang, in order to project what we want the world to see about us. Most of the time it’s an idealized version of our true selves. In your case, however, I have gotten a very strong impression of a completely artificial persona. One you’ve been constructing and perfecting for some time now. And it’s not a mask; it’s a full-body costume. One I believe you wear to cover the fears that threaten your ability to function.”

Chris got to her feet and held up the report. “Can I take this?”

The shrink nodded. “You paid for it. Miss Lang—”

“Not interested,” Chris told her before she walked out.

She had gone to the library, however, and borrowed every book she could find on anxiety and how to deal with it. Which was why she now imagined herself as the center of a lotus flower, drifting delicately on a pool of still water. As she tried to float, she remembered the mantra of affirmations she was supposed to say out loud along with the visualization.

“My thoughts are quiet; my mind is clear. I am in control of my emotions, my decisions, and my life. I am filled with confidence. I am blessed with friends. I am rich with hope. I am starting to sound like a bad Hallmark card. Or someone who has taken too many happy pills.” So much for the mantra. She really needed to get a new meditation book from the library on her next day off.

Once the doors opened, she stepped out and walked toward the reception room, but stopped in her tracks as soon as she saw the teenage boy standing with Burke in the hall.

The Kyn lord standing beside Burke, Chris absently corrected herself. Jamys Durand hadn’t been a teenager since the Dark Ages.

She had written at least two hundred private posts on her LiveJournal with a thousand minute details about Jamys, so she noticed the changes first. His black hair, which she’d envied and adored, was no longer in that devastatingly edgy who-gives-a-shag; he’d let it grow out so long he now wore it tied back in a ponytail. Under the time-burnished brown leather of his jacket his shoulders and upper arms showcased some serious new muscle, as did the white tee he wore under it. As he handed a scroll to Burke, the front of his jacket opened a few inches more, flashing his now beautifully sculpted abs. His hands looked rougher, harder than she remembered, and he’d left off wearing the gorgeous old ring with his family’s crest in silver. Her gaze drifted down the long legs, which the fitted cut of his plain black trousers showed to be more powerful than lean now. No, now he looked like he could run a couple of New York City marathons before breakfast.

She saved his face for last, not that she needed to ogle it. The young, handsome features were just as she had kept them in her memory: the black slashes of his eyebrows, the angular symmetry of his cheekbones and jaw, the imperial nose, the full, almost passionate mouth that rarely smiled but always made her think of kissing. When other mortals looked at Jamys, they saw a boy, because he had been a teenager when he’d made the transition from human to Darkyn, and like his body his face would be forever young. But Chris saw more; she saw the shadow of the man he would have been, lurking just beneath the surface. A big, dangerous, definitely scary man, exactly like his father.

Chris saw his head start to turn toward her and darted around the corner out of sight. She covered her mouth with her hands, trying at the same time to take in some air, but her lungs were already full and waiting to exhale. She couldn’t remember how to breathe for a full five seconds.

Why is he here? He can’t be here. I’m not ready.

She’d expected time to plan and prepare, to buff and polish herself, to show him what he’d been missing for the last three years. She’d never be gorgeous or heart-stopping—Chris had accepted that long ago—but she’d grown past cute and quirky, and had been carefully cultivating an Audrey Hepburn–Winona Ryder look that made the most of what she had. She’d given up on Goth and gone for sleek and chic, and had an entire wardrobe of the right looks, all of which were now sitting at home in her apartment.

I can’t let him see me like this. I’ll bore him to death at first sight.
The silver chain around her neck sawed against her skin, and she looked down to see she was clutching the cross through her blouse so tightly the edges bruised the insides of her fingers.
Or he’ll think I’m crazy.

Like an answer to her prayers, her mobile buzzed in her pocket. She rushed to the end of the hall and stepped inside the freight elevator, closing the doors before she answered it. “Christian Lang.”

“Miss Christian? It’s Connie.” Burke’s receptionist sounded nervous. “I have a video call from Italy waiting on hold.”

“Then you’re costing them a lot of money, Connie.” Chris frowned. “Are they calling for Lord Lucan?”

“No, miss. It’s for you.”

Chapter 3

Penthouse Suite

Alenfar Stronghold

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

“W
hy are you dressed and out of bed?”

“I have to go to work.” Samantha Brown smiled as the scent of night-blooming jasmine crept into the bathroom where she stood brushing her hair. “And they don’t let me do my job in the nude.”

Once the domain of corporate executives, the top two floors of the Alenfar Building had been renovated into luxurious penthouse accommodations. Wraparound panels, made of specially reinforced safety glass, provided stunning views of Fort Lauderdale, from the skyscrapers that soared into the skyline to the west to the wide ribbon of shell-speckled amber sand to the east that bordered the gilded jade edge waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

Three years ago Sam had never imagined living in a high-rise penthouse. The salary she made as a homicide detective had barely covered her living expenses and the rent for a small apartment in a decent neighborhood. It didn’t bother her; she hadn’t joined the force to get rich.

Sam was still a cop, although everything else had changed. Including her life, which thanks to her bioengineered DNA and a transfusion of vampire blood was now virtually immortal.

She tried not to think too much about that, or the fact that the man who had saved her life was one of the deadliest creatures on the planet.

As Sam gathered up her straight, dark brown hair with an elastic band, a shadow loomed behind her, and huge hands covered by black velvet gloves reached around to unfasten the waistband of her trousers.

“I’m only working a half shift,” she said as she straightened her ponytail. “So I’ll be home in a few hours. Stop that.”

Cool, wickedly talented lips drifted down the side of her throat. “Call in sick.”

“My boss is a
tresora
, and he knows I don’t get sick.” She shrugged into the leather straps of her shoulder holster. Feeling the pointed edges of his
dents acérées
against her skin made her sigh. “No biting. You’ll get blood on my collar and I’ll have to change.”

“No.” He nipped the lobe of her ear. “You won’t.”

“Lucan.” She turned around to face six and a half feet of naked, aroused male, and let him gather her against the front of him. Mainly because it helped block the incredible view to the south.

Not that the view to the north was any less impressive. A lion’s mane of corn silk hair framed the heartrending, impossibly beautiful face of a fallen angel. The thin, almost cruel line of his mouth balanced the outrageous splendor of his features, while his ghost-gray eyes simmered with sensual knowledge, as if the man could provide every pleasure ever dreamed by a woman.

Which he could, something else she didn’t need to dwell on right now.

“I want you, and I love you,” she said, putting her hand against the broad muscular vault of his chest, “but if you make me late for work again, I’m going to hurt you.”

“Hurt me exactly how?” His golden brows rose. “Your gun is still over on the nightstand. You don’t carry a blade. Clouting me on the head will only bruise your knuckles.”

“I heal fast.”

“So do I.” He brushed his lips over her ear, lowering his voice. “I know. You can bite
me
.”

It wasn’t only the suggestion that sent a shivery thrill through her. Just the whisper of his breath on her skin made her throat tighten and her insides ache. If they had been a human couple, by now they probably would have settled into a comfortable, routine relationship. But even after six years, looking up into Lucan’s silver eyes made time rewind, as if this were the very first time he’d touched her.

It delighted her. It worried her. More than anything, it
baffled
her. “Are we always going to be this intense?”

“One can only pray.” One velvet-covered fingertip traced the full crescent of her bottom lip. “It’s the same for me, love,” he murmured. “I can never have enough of you.”

A discreet chime from the door in the front foyer effectively broke the spell, and Sam eased out of Lucan’s arms. “That’s probably Burke.” She whisked a kiss against his jawline before she slipped around him and went to retrieve her gun and jacket. “I’ll see you later.”

“Samantha.” He waited for her to look back at him. “If you’ve not returned by midnight, I will come and get you.”

That he would. Lucan didn’t make threats; he made promises.

As Sam had suspected, Lucan’s
tresora
stood politely waiting in the foyer. “Hello, Herbert. How’s it going?”

“Very busy tonight—thank you, my lady.” Burke darted a look past her before he asked, “Has the suzerain risen yet?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s up.” She took hold of his arm. “Why don’t you come downstairs with me for a few minutes. He needs some time to . . . settle down.”

Burke winced. “Much as I wish I could, my lady, I must relay news. A group of Kyn has just arrived from Europe and they seek an audience with our lord.”

“More refugees.” Lucan appeared beside Sam, his big frame clad in black trousers and a full-sleeved white shirt he was still fastening. “Does Cyprien intend to send to my doorstep every immortal made homeless by the Brethren?”

“I cannot say, my lord,” Burke said. “But I am happy to report that Lord Jamys Durand has just arrived from North Carolina.”

“Thierry’s son?” Lucan stopped buttoning his shirt. “Why has he come to me? His father made no mention of a visitation when last we spoke.”

“He did not provide me with any details, my lord, but he travels alone.” Burke glanced at Samantha. “He also asked to see you, my lady.”

“I’ve really got to run.” Sam checked her watch. “Tell Jamys I’ll catch him later.”

As Sam took the elevator down to the first floor, she wondered how many of the Kyn refugees Lucan would be expected to absorb into their
jardin
. Since the Brethren had stepped up their efforts to drive the Kyn out of Europe, hundreds of the immortals had crossed the Atlantic seeking sanctuary from their American counterparts. Michael Cyprien assigned unoccupied territories to a select few suzerains he trusted, but the majority were sent to existing
jardins
, where nearly all were added to the ranks of the household or the garrison. Now and then old grudges between the American and European Kyn made absorption impossible, which forced Cyprien to send along those who could not be placed to the seigneurs in South America, Asia, or Scandinavia.

From what Burke had told Lucan yesterday, this group of fifteen had come from the same
jardin
on the border of France and Italy, and were the survivors of a Brethren attack that had killed their suzerain, his household, and most of their garrison. Like the others that had come before them, for a time they’d probably be short-tempered, self-defensive, and prone to acts of stupidity. Lucan had been sending the ones he wanted to keep down to the island he owned in the Bahamas, where his seneschal, Rafael, would work with them until they were ready to be integrated with the rest of the stronghold’s garrison.

Sam didn’t care to get involved in
jardin
business, but this latest group had shown up with little warning. Something seemed off about this, enough to make her reach out and press the button for the third floor.

She’d just have a look at the new guys and then head in to work.

Inside the reception room Sam glanced at Lucan and Burke, who had arrived ahead of her, before she scanned the faces of the visiting Kyn. Collectively they should have resembled a mob of male models waiting for a photo shoot, but centuries of training and working as warriors and guards had developed their musculature to brutal perfection.

“Suzerain Lucan, I am Vander, appointed by Seigneur Cyprien as leader of these men.” A man who vaguely resembled a punk-rock bull stepped forward and bent forward, bowing so low his bristle-brush hair nearly touched the floor. “My brothers do not speak English, so they wish me to thank you for granting us an audience. If I may, I will make known to you the names of my companions.”

Lucan took his time silently assessing the group before he finally inclined his head, and Vander began the formal introductions.

Burke left Lucan to join Sam. “My lady, Lord Durand awaits in the next room, if you have a moment to greet him.”

“Yeah, I do.” Sam’s mobile beeped, and she unclipped it from her belt and checked the screen, which displayed a homicide call from dispatch. “No, I don’t.”

She debated whether to tell Lucan, but her lover was in the process of admiring a neck chain with a glittering gold medallion hanging from it. Visiting Kyn always brought expensive gifts as tribute, which Sam considered unnecessary and even a little silly. Lucan, on the other hand, had been universally despised by his kind before he’d become a suzerain. While he always pretended not to care about the show of respect, Sam knew it gave him a lot of satisfaction.

As her phone beeped again, Sam made a face at Burke. “I’ll say hi before I go, but would you mind asking Chris to keep Jamie company until I get back? Last time he was here, they became pretty good friends.”

Burke nodded. “I’m sure Miss Christian will be happy to look after Lord Durand.”

The
tresora
escorted Sam to one of the smaller meeting rooms, where the scent of warm sandalwood colored the air. It came from Jamys Durand, who was standing at the window and looking down at the sea.

“It’s still not too cold if you want to go for a swim,” Sam said.

“No bathing costume.” Jamys smiled as he came to bow before her.

“Oh, cut that out.” Sam pulled him up into a hug before she drew back and took his hands in hers. “You’ve been working out, kiddo.” She patted some of the new muscle bulging under his sleeve. “And I’d love to catch up, but some idiot killed someone downtown and I got stuck with the call. I’m sorry, but would you mind hanging out with my girl Chris until Lucan frees up? You remember Chris, right?”

“Yes.” Jamys’s dark brown eyes gleamed. “I remember.”

“Excellent. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” She kissed his cheek. To Burke, she said, “Call if you need me.” She hurried out to the elevator.

* * *

Chris made herself walk, not run, through the club to Burke’s office. For three years she’d immersed herself in learning how to be the perfect
tresora
. Burke had taught her everything about protocol, from how to properly greet a visiting lord (with extreme politeness and deference) to getting rid of unwanted human groupies (with a little eucalyptus-based ointment under the nostrils and a quick trip into the outside air). Lucan’s men had helped teach her the defense tactics every
tresora
was expected to know, and she had practiced with every weapon she could handle in the armory until she could use it with complete ease and deadly accuracy. She’d even learned how to tolerate blood loss on a regular basis, just in case one of the Kyn needed to use her in an emergency.

From the beginning Burke had warned her that hard work might not be enough. “Being a
tresora
is more than a position of trust and employment. It is a bloodline obligation, handed down to each generation of a
tresoran
family. I am the thirty-eighth Burke to serve the Darkyn.”

“Back in the Dark Ages, they had to go out on a limb and trust the first Burke, right?” When he’d nodded, Chris said, “Then I’m going to be the first Lang.”

For Chris, being a
tresora
wasn’t only about being with Jamys. For all their superpowers and immortality, most Darkyn held on to their medieval mind-set, and as a result often had trouble coping with the modern world’s demands. Chris intended to change that. All of the immortals had to stop living like
Lord of the Rings
extras and learn how to drive, operate computers, and use smart phones. The
tresori
—most of whom were trained in Europe—also had to stop worrying so much about protocols and instead pay more attention to practical matters like securing reliable alternative sources of blood, consolidating and improving the business fronts that concealed the
jardins’
existence, and developing more allies among the local businesses, government, and authorities.

Once she was a
tresora
Chris would never again have an ordinary life, but she was willing to trade that to be with Jamys and help protect him and the rest of the Kyn. Someday in the future she might even earn her own spot on the
tresoran
council, where she would make decisions that would enhance and safeguard the Darkyn’s future.

For now she’d be happy with simply being named a
tresora
, which had turned out to be much more complicated than she’d expected. Burke had helped her prepare her original petition for recognition, and sent it off to the
tresoran
council, which had sent back a long list of requirements Chris had to accomplish under Burke’s supervision before her petition would be considered. So for three years she’d studied and practiced and acquired the skills necessary to satisfy the padrones who ruled over all
tresori
. She hadn’t stopped until Burke had crossed off the last item on the list, and transmitted his final progress report on her to the council.

Chris had never wanted, or worked so hard for, anything in her life. They
had
to say yes.

There was only one thing she hadn’t told Burke, the council, or even Sam. As soon as she became a
tresora
, Chris had no intention of giving her oath of loyalty to Lucan. Instead she’d planned to offer her service to the only Darkyn she wanted to spend the rest of her life with: Jamys Durand.

Naturally she wasn’t supposed to be in love with the Darkyn lord she wanted to serve, she thought as she absently fingered the shard of glass. Burke had explained it to her before he’d agreed to help her train.
You must understand what our masters desire from us: absolute loyalty, unshakable trustworthiness, and unwavering devotion to their protection and well-being. The Darkyn have great affection for mortals, and often form close relationships with their
tresori
, but our bodies are too frail and our existence too brief to make us suitable life companions. They cannot permit themselves to love us.