Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn (9 page)

“Racketeering has never been able to locate the casino or positively identify the operators, as every victim has been found dead within days of filing a police report,” Garcia said. “However, in each case the victims who came in contact with the casino’s owner gave a description of him that matches that of the man who sent the flowers to your lady. The only name the casino owner used was ‘Dutch.’”

“My darling Samantha doesn’t gamble,” Lucan said as he took his
sygkenis
’s mobile phone out of his pocket, and began scrolling through her call history. “In fact, she refuses to purchase so much as a lottery ticket. Did she investigate the murders of any of the victims?”

“No. In each case, the medical examiner ruled out homicide,” Garcia told him, and reluctantly added, “They all committed suicide by hanging.”

A crack appeared in one of the windows as Lucan turned on him. “They hung themselves within days of making reports to the police, all of them, and this was not considered murder? Your colleagues are feeble idiots, Captain.”

“I am in agreement, my lord.” Garcia sounded just as disgusted. “But these cases were never sent over to my department, so I first learned of them only tonight.”

In no mood to replace every glass door in his study, Lucan forced back his anger. “So why does he pursue my
sygkenis
? Not to gain access to what the police know about his victims.”

“He could learn that by romancing any records clerk,” the
tresora
said. “I worry his intentions may be more personal in nature.” He nodded toward the mobile. “There is a text that came in for her an hour ago that you should perhaps read.”

“Oh, he texts, does he?” Lucan returned to the main menu and pulled up the text messages sent to Samantha’s phone. He found one from an unfamiliar number sent just after midnight, and opened it. “He writes, ‘The flowers are only the beginning, my lovely. Meet me tonight at the Turtle’s Nest, eight p.m.’ His lovely, is she? Does he think she’s some common tart to be had with a few posies?” He closed his fist, crushing the mobile into a handful of twisted components.

His fury ebbed as unexpectedly as it had come over him, and Lucan regarded the small heap of twisted components that had once been Samantha’s mobile. “Garcia?” He looked over the desk at the
tresora
, who had gone to his knees and held his arms over his head.

“My lord.” Garcia stood, shedding small showers of shattered glass as he did. He picked one dagger-shaped shard from the back of his hand and calmly wrapped a handkerchief over the wound. “This may have nothing to do with your lady at all. This Dutch could be using her to get to you.”

“Then it is working,” Lucan said flatly. “What more can you tell me?”

“The Turtle’s Nest was the name of a dockside café a mile south of Bahia Mar, but it went out of business some time ago. There are no other businesses operating from that pier.” He started to say something else, and then subsided into silence.

“Now is not the time for discretion, Captain.”

“Couples have been known to make use of the place,” Garcia admitted. “When they cannot afford or acquire a motel room.”

“Indeed. How very deliberate a choice.” Lucan went to his shelves, reaching through the shattered door to extract a book, which he handed to the
tresora
. “It is yours,” he insisted when Garcia hesitated. “You have more than earned it.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Garcia brushed some glass from the book before tucking it under his arm.

Lucan studied the ruins of his bookcases. “Ernesto, have you ever considered Samantha to be . . . fickle?”

“No, my lord.” The
tresora
sounded genuinely surprised. “Even when she was human, my lady was completely dependable. In fact I have never worked with so reliable or dedicated an officer.” His expression changed. “She would never trifle with this mortal, my lord, or any other male. You must know that. This Dutch means only to bait you, or do her harm. I can arrange to send a female decoy to meet him tomorrow night, and have men waiting to take him as soon as he shows.”

“No, Captain.” Lucan smiled. “You will leave this Dutch to me.”

Chapter 8

D
espite the brightness of the morning sun, Jamys insisted on personally escorting Chris to the private car waiting to take her home for the day.

“For the record, this isn’t my idea,” she said as her driver, Melloy, came around to open the door for her. “Someone needed my parking spot for his new Ferrari.” She rolled her eyes up at the penthouse suite.

“You will return tonight?” The dark shades Jamys wore gave him a teen heartthrob look, but his voice rasped with weariness.

“Sure.” She climbed inside, a little startled when his hand supported her elbow. “See you later.”

Chris forced herself not to look back through the rear window at him, but as soon as the limo turned the corner, she slid over onto her side and thumped the soft leather seat cushions with her fist.

“You okay back there, Lang?” Melloy asked over the intercom.

“No. Yes. Not really.” She sat back up and lowered the partition window so they could talk without using buttons. “Melloy, why do we work for these people again?”

“Well, they pay us a ton of money, and we have all kinds of job security,” he suggested. “If you’re a night person, the hours are good. If someone wants your parking spot, they lend you me and the limo.”

“Anything else?”

He thought for a minute. “They don’t sparkle or get you pregnant with a life-sucking fetus.”

“Amen, brother.” Chris laughed.

Peter Melloy was one of the youngest
tresori
to serve Lucan, and had the unusual advantage of being born and raised in America. While he could behave with the same dreary formality as the European
tresori
, and was as fiercely loyal as any of them, he had a wry sense of humor and a much less slavish attitude toward the Kyn.

“So you and the new guy seem pretty tight.” Melloy, whose parents served the Atlanta
jardin
, had not pledged himself to Lucan until a year after Jamys’s prior visit. “Got some history going on there?”

“If a couple weeks count, which they don’t.” Chris rested her arms against the back of the front seat. “Did you hear about the high lord’s latest summons?”

“My parents called right after it was delivered to Suzerain Scarlet.” He grimaced at the rearview. “Can’t talk about it, though. Official
tresori
business.”

She waved a hand. “Don’t sweat it, Melloy. Padrone Ramas called me about it last night. I know the council doesn’t want the high lord to get his paws on the emeralds.”

Melloy perked up. “He told you that? Lang, you know what this means?”

I’m totally screwed.
“I’m trustworthy?”

“No, you’re in. You’re going to be one of us.” He grinned. “So where are you getting your ink?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” She couldn’t confide in Pete, but she wondered what he would make of her dilemma. He’d tell her to follow the council’s orders, naturally; like all
tresori
, he took the secret side of his oath to keep the Darkyn from destroying the mortal world very seriously. “But if the paperwork goes through, I’ll probably do the back of my shoulder.
If
I can find an ink shop that offers general anesthesia.”

“How can you be afraid of needles?” Melloy sounded perplexed. “You volunteered to serve the Kyn.”

“Sam didn’t have the fangs when I met her.” Chris sat back and closed her eyes. “I was grandfathered in.”

As Melloy drove her across town, Chris thought through her impossible situation. She knew enough about Richard Tremayne to suspect the council was right on the money with their orders; once he had the emeralds, the high lord would definitely use them. As cold and ruthless as he was, he might even set up his own private immortal-army-making factory. From there the only thing that kept the Kyn in check—the fact that they couldn’t reproduce or otherwise make more Kyn—would be a nonissue. Then the mortal world would be in serious trouble, because Tremayne would be focused on things like wiping out the Brethren, establishing new territories, and taking control of governments. He wouldn’t worry about silly little details like who was going to
feed
his armies.

Burke had told her that in order to maintain their strength, heal spontaneously, and use their abilities a healthy Darkyn had to consume a minimum of three pints of human blood per day. Wounded Kyn required much more, often as much as six to eight pints. While the immortals had trained themselves not to kill the humans while feeding, Kyn who had experienced any type of blood loss often became ravenous.

Wounded Kyn could not be trusted to adhere to their practice of not killing humans. If they took too much blood all at once from a donor, a strange psychic reaction, known as thrall and rapture, caused both to lose consciousness. The Kyn fell into thrall, which Burke had described as a sort of state of suspended animation that could last as long as a week. The human donor also slid into an irreversible coma—what the Kyn called rapture—and always died within twenty-four hours.

The average human body held about ten pints of blood, and donors needed six weeks to recover from losing even one pint of that. An army of Kyn wounded in battle could theoretically wipe out an entire village in a single day.

She could explain all that to Jamys, who she was sure would understand. But would it stop him from giving the emeralds to Richard Tremayne? Would he care enough about the safety of the mortal world to sacrifice his chance at becoming a suzerain and having his own country to rule? And what would the council do to her for revealing their intentions to a Kyn?

How do I ask him to choose me over the emeralds? They’re his future; I’m not.

Melloy dropped her off in front of her apartment building, and waited there until she waved to him from the third-floor landing. She’d originally sublet the apartment across from Sam’s, but once her cop neighbor had turned Kyn, she’d offered the place to Chris.

Sam had insisted she was doing her a favor. “The rent’s paid through the end of the year, and by then I might change my mind about living with Lucan.”

Chris hadn’t been as worried as her friend. While the homicide cop and the immortal assassin’s relationship had gotten off to a rocky start, anyone who saw them together felt instant, grinding envy. Chris suspected that alone they’d both been sleepwalking their way through life, definitely too wounded by the past to trust anyone. As a couple they’d woken up and started living again. Before she’d watched Lucan and Sam fall for each other, she’d never thought of love as something that could heal; in her experience it was more like a wrecking ball.

It doesn’t have to be that way with me and Jamys.
Chris took out her keys.
We could make it work, I know we could. I just have to show him how much he needs me, and what a great
tresora
I’d be. After I ruin his chances of ruling Ireland, or I disobey the council and destroy my future.

She really needed a third option. And an aspirin.

Once inside her apartment Chris turned to secure the three dead bolts Sam had installed, when she heard a knock, and opened the door to see Jamys standing outside.

It took two tries for her to find her voice. “How did you get here?”

“A cab. I followed your car.” He glanced past her. “May I come in?”

“Why? Sorry. Of course.” She stepped back, and absently dropped her purse on the fussy little antique cherry table she’d bought with her first
jardin
paycheck. “If you needed me for something, you could have called. I’d have come straight back.” He didn’t say anything. “Okay, well, ah, come on in.”

Chris flipped on a few lights as she led him to the living room. Sam had told her to do whatever she liked with the old furniture, so she’d begun gradually replacing it, donating most of it to Goodwill as soon as she’d bought what she wanted to put in its place. A wonderful old wingback armchair, still clad in faded floral tapestry, took the place of Sam’s recliner. The anonymous department store lamps had been sacrificed for four smaller, porcelain versions with glittering bead-fringed shades. She’d sold Sam’s still serviceable bedroom set to a new neighbor looking for something cheap for his guest room, and splurged on a gorgeous four-poster in black oak and bedding of white satin.

Sam’s battered sleeper sofa had been the last to go, making way for Chris’s most expensive buys: an outrageously curvy, completely indulgent long chaise upholstered with soft rose velvet, and a matching settee. Both held an assortment of small pillows and bolsters covered in satin, silk, organza, and velveteen.

Jamys moved around the room, inspecting the old piano shawls Chris had hung as window treatments and the fancy baker’s rack that held her television and DVD player. “I do not remember it looking like this.”

“Over the years I got rid of Sam’s old stuff and bought new old stuff.” She watched him reach up to touch a gleaming blue crystal star hanging from the curtain rod. She felt a little embarrassed by her ever-growing collection of shaped, colored lead crystals, which she had suspended by fishing line over every window in the place. “When I open the blinds, the sunlight shines through them and makes little rainbows on the walls.” Which made her sound as deep as a six-year-old.

The air seemed a little stuffy, so Chris reached for a pack of matches and lit a gardenia-scented pillar candle by the chaise. She’d been looking forward to snuggling down into the pile of pillows and letting Linkin Park sing her to sleep; now she’d have to drive Jamys back to the stronghold. Unless . . . “Is the cab waiting for you downstairs?”

“No.” He released the crystal and looked at her. “What you have done here is very attractive. It is not what I expected.”

“I never planned on creating the ultimate chick cave,” Chris admitted. “In the beginning I wanted more of a Victorian Goth look. You know, black velvet, scarlet brocade, gilt everything. But for some reason whenever I went shopping and had to choose, I was more drawn to the soft, frilly female stuff.”

“There is nothing wrong with it,” Jamys said. “I like that you are so . . . female.”

“Good, because I like that you’re not.” A flutter of panic made her grope for an excuse to retreat. “Um, why don’t you sit down? I’ll be right back.”

Chris hurried through her bedroom into her bathroom, where she locked herself inside.
What are you doing, flirting with him? What happens when he finds out you agreed to help him only so you can find the emeralds? Do you think he’s going to like you for being such a good liar?

She hadn’t lied to Jamys exactly; she just hadn’t explained why she wanted to help him find the gems. Even if she wanted to confess all, Padrone Ramas had slapped a gag order on her; she couldn’t tell him anything. Or she could, and say ta-ta to her one shot at being named and recognized with a status among the Kyn.

“Christian?” Jamys called through the door, making her jump a little. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll be right out.” Chris went over to the sink, splashed her face with cold water, and straightened her blouse before walking out into the bedroom. Jamys stood beside her dresser and was admiring one of her seashell-covered keepsake boxes. “Jema has a case like this for her photos.” He opened the lid to reveal the bundle of papers inside.

“I just keep junk in mine,” she said quickly. “Old notes, mostly. Some of them are from you.”

He glanced at her. “You save my e-mails?”

Every single one of them, even though she didn’t have to because she had read them so often she had them all memorized. “I don’t have that many friends who write to me.” Disgusted with herself, she went over and closed the lid to the box before she glared up at him. “The truth is, all of the notes are from you. I don’t have any other friends who write to me, so I like to save them. It’s stupid, I know—”

He pressed a fingertip to her lips, effectively silencing her. “I, too, have saved all of your e-mails.”

Chris felt her heartbeat stutter. “Are they in a box on your dresser?”

“I keep them hidden away in my armoire.” He traced the top of her cheekbone. “You are exhausted.”

“So are you.” Which reminded her. “Why did you follow me home?”

“I wanted to know why you have changed so much. And I did not wish to stay in the suite alone. I think I have spent too much time by myself.” His voice took on a tired rasp. “May I stay? Only to rest until sunset.”

She nodded, and drew him over to the bed. “I’m probably going to pass out the minute my head touches that pillow, so if you need anything, shake me a couple times.”

He didn’t reply until they were curled up together under her puffy comforter and she had just begun to drift off. “I have everything I need.”

* * *

Jamys dreamed of blood and pain, and the girl who had saved him from both.

The first time Christian had brought him to her apartment, he had been wounded, bleeding. He had wanted to tell her he could clean up by himself, but after dragging him into the bathroom she had taken out a small first-aid kit to treat his wounds.

“You’re a mess,” she muttered as she dampened a pad and began cleaning the streaks of dried blood from his face. “You shouldn’t have left your blades back at the club. I know you guys are all about the honor and stuff, but that was dumb.”

He raised his brows.

“Don’t get all Kyn on me,” Chris told him. “She could have blinded you.” She finished wiping his face and carefully pushed aside what was left of his hair to look at the wound. “It’s closed, but it’s not healed. You need blood.” She began rolling up her sleeve.

Jamys caught her arm.
No, Chris.

She glared at him. “It’s part of my job.”

I will not feed on you.

“The honor thing is getting really old and tired now.” She yanked down her sleeve. “I keep some bloodwine in the fridge for Sam. I’ll get you a glass.” She stalked out.

Jamys stood and looked at his face in the mirror. Luce’s blade had hacked off most of the hair on the side of his head; he was lucky not to have lost an ear. He searched through the kit until he found a small pair of scissors and went to work on the rest. By the time Chris returned with the bloodwine, he had filled her small trash can with cuttings.