Nightshine: A Novel of the Kyndred (41 page)
Read Nightshine: A Novel of the Kyndred Online
Authors: Lynn Viehl
Tags: #Romance, #Paranormal, #Fiction
Matthias read the print. “I think this is an invitation to talk.” He returned it. “Are you going to accept?”
“I don’t know.” He tucked the card away and glanced at the islanders, who had gathered in one of their circles on deck to silently commune with one another.
“The time ahead will not be easy for them,” Matthias said. “To avoid unwanted attention, we must separate and settle them in different locations. From what Charlotte has told me, they have never before lived apart from one another.”
His comment made Samuel consider an alternative. “Perhaps they don’t have to.”
Still yawning from the ridiculously long nap she’d taken on the jet, Charlie stepped out of the terminal and surveyed the waiting limo and the uniformed chauffeur. “Looks like we’re right back where we started, Sam.” As they walked over, she peered at the smiling face of the driver. “Hey, I know you. James, right? How’s the lung?”
“Working perfectly, thanks to your care, ma’am.” He touched the rim of his cap before his expression sobered and he regarded Taske. “Sir, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what happened on the bridge that morning. If you want my resignation—”
“Not in this lifetime, Findley, or any other.” Taske pulled the driver into a careful bear hug before resting a hand on his shoulder. “You still look pale. Are you certain that you’re well enough to drive?”
“I won’t be running any marathons for a while, sir,” Findley admitted ruefully, “but I can manage the drive home.”
Once they were on the road, Charlie felt a fresh surge of apprehension. “You never told me exactly where home is.”
“I own several properties here and abroad, but I spend most of my time at Tannerbridge.” He picked up her hand and frowned. “You’re cold.”
She nodded. “I’m a little clammy, too. Nerves.”
“You’ve survived a sniper attack, an abduction, the island, and the American media,” he reminded her. “All with the courage and fortitude of a tigress. I’m sure you can manage a visit to my humble abode.”
“If the abode were humble, which it’s not,” she guessed. “No one names a duplex or a town house or a double-wide trailer.”
“My parents were sentimental.” He rubbed her hand between his. “Don’t be afraid. If you hate it, we’ll leave and find a nice, quiet hotel.”
She hmphed. “Now you’re trying to distract me with sex.”
A groove appeared in his cheek. “Is it working?”
“Could be.” The foot of space between them became unbearable, and Charlie unbuckled her seat belt to shift herself over onto his lap. Once she had her arms looped around his neck and her face tucked under his chin, she sighed. “Tell me about your bed.”
“It’s a custom-built double king.” He bent his head to whisper, “With silk sheets and a down feather duvet. They smell like sunshine.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes. “Forget the hotel.”
Findley drove for more than an hour, leaving behind the city for the back roads through the country, where the forests seemed to march on forever. Now and then she would see a private road leading off through a gate, most crowned with a curving sign proclaiming the property’s name in elegant letters: Emerald Acres, Hudson’s Folly, Feathersound.
“Feathers don’t make any sound,” she grumbled to Samuel as Findley turned and brought the limo to a halt before a towering pair of gates fashioned out of wrought iron to resemble a bridge.
For a moment she felt a spike of terror, until she saw the forms of the diminutive couple walking hand in hand over it.
“My parents met on Tanner Bridge,” Samuel said, tightening his arms around her. “But I’ll have it taken down today, if you like.”
“No, that’s okay. Not everything that happens on a bridge is bad.” As the gates opened and Findley drove through, she glanced back before meeting Samuel’s worried gaze. “We found each other on one, remember?”
The drive stretched another two miles before they reached the main house on the estate. Charlie eyed the stately brick structure, which was too large to be called anything but a mansion. A slim man stood waiting by a gigantic, merrily splashing bronze fountain, its pool-size basin edged with dozens of petite red rosebushes. As soon as the car stopped he came to open the door.
“Welcome home, sir.” He turned to Charlie. “I’m Morehouse, Miss Marena. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His British accent made her scowl. “I bet you’re the guy who came up with those evil chocolate-cherry scones that Sam e-mailed the recipe for.”
“I’m afraid I am.” Morehouse looked a little flustered. “I’m sorry if you didn’t enjoy them.”
“You see this?” Charlie patted her hip. “At least ten pounds of this is your fault.” She grinned. “So, you got any more stashed away in there?”
Morehouse suppressed a smile. “I’ll serve them with your tea this afternoon, madam.”
“I know you want to give me a tour and all,” Charlie murmured as they followed the house manager inside, “but I need a shower, and you to scrub my back. And my front. And anything else you feel like scrubbing.”
Samuel’s eyes darkened. “I would be delighted, but I do have something to show you first.”
She sidled up against him. “Is this a fast something?”
“If we stay inside,” he said.
While Morehouse took their cases up to the master suite, Samuel led Charlie through a bewildering labyrinth of magnificent rooms to a long, wide atrium. Glass skylights provided sunny light and glimpses of the sky, while a wall of French doors offered a panoramic view of the gardens beyond the main house. “Wow.” Charlie stopped and smiled as she looked out at the maze of flowers, arbors, and trees, and the ring of picturesque cottages in the distance. “This is gorgeous.” Her eyes shifted as a man and woman came walking out of a bower of sweet peas, their arms around each other. “Uh, your gardeners are really friendly.”
“They are.” He sounded amused.
As the couple walked into the sunlight, the woman’s neatly trimmed red hair blazed, and the man’s dark skin glowed like melting chocolate.
“Tlemi and Colotl.” Charlie turned to stare at him. “What are they doing here? I thought Matthias was going to take them to his farm in Tennessee.”
“I persuaded him to bring them here.” He gestured toward the cottages. “As you can see, I have more than enough space, and they’ll have the time they need to adjust to our culture, learn English, and decide what they want to do with their lives.”
“That’s really great.” Charlie saw Pici and Ihiyo joining the other couple. “Wait. How many of them did he bring?”
Samuel smiled. “All of them.”
“So you’ve basically adopted twelve grown-up kids.” She tucked her arm through his. “It’s going to be a lot of work, and probably cost you a large fortune.”
“Luckily I’ve made several.” His smile slipped. “If my wealth is still an issue, I’ll give it all away tomorrow. I have everything I need now.”
“You are a crazy man.” She squeezed his hand. “But there might be others like them out there. We can’t help them if we’re living in a one-room apartment on my salary.”
“What about you?”
“You mean, do I want to live in the mansion or the one-room apartment?” She pretended to think. “You know, I really need to see this bed.”
He bent his head and kissed her before guiding her around. “Right this way, madam.”
Epilogue
A
nyone hoping to get a table at the most popular French restaurant in Manhattan usually had to make reservations six months in advance. The food at D’Anges, however, was rumored to be well worth the wait. So it was odd that on the night of September 29, passersby noticed that the front of the restaurant remained dark, and every table stood empty. The only explanation had been taped to the front door: a small white sign that simply read, CLOSED 9/29 FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION.
nyone hoping to get a table at the most popular French restaurant in Manhattan usually had to make reservations six months in advance. The food at D’Anges, however, was rumored to be well worth the wait. So it was odd that on the night of September 29, passersby noticed that the front of the restaurant remained dark, and every table stood empty. The only explanation had been taped to the front door: a small white sign that simply read, CLOSED 9/29 FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION.
“They’re late.” In the restaurant’s kitchen, Rowan Dansant-Meriden glanced at her watch. “The snapper bisque won’t be fit to eat soon.”
“Then we will serve it chilled.” Jean-Marc, the owner and head chef of D’Anges, as well as one of her lovers, took off his apron before he ran a soothing hand along her tense back. “You do not have to do this.”
“What, leave Samuel alone in their clutches while I hide in the kitchen like a girl?” She made a rude sound. “I don’t think so.” She glanced over at Charlotte Marena, who was having a laughing discussion in Spanish with their pastry chef. “Hey, Maggie, stop distracting the kid from his work. He’s got to finish those champagne éclairs.”
“Lo siento,”
Charlotte said, bumping shoulders with Enrique before joining Rowan and Jean-Marc and glancing at the clock over the sous-chef’s station. “They’re late.”
Charlotte said, bumping shoulders with Enrique before joining Rowan and Jean-Marc and glancing at the clock over the sous-chef’s station. “They’re late.”
“Come on.” Rowan linked arms with her. “We’ll go keep the boys company.” She looked back over her shoulder. “If you feel the urge to change, I left some clothes for you upstairs.”
Jean-Marc chuckled and blew her a kiss.
The women left the kitchen and went around the corner to the private room reserved for the chef’s table, a weekly event that Manhattan’s most devoted foodies would do anything to attend. Tonight only two men sat at the long glass table, and both were completely engrossed in a laptop showing a football game.
“Who’s winning?” Rowan asked.
“Green Bay,” Drew said absently. “Rodgers is merciless tonight.”
“For now. The Patriots will have no difficulty coming from behind,” Samuel assured him before he smiled up at Charlotte. “They’re late.”
She sat down beside him and helped herself to one of Rowan’s delicious
amuse bouches
. “Second thoughts, maybe?”
amuse bouches
. “Second thoughts, maybe?”
“Payback,” Drew said. “We made them wait first. For months.” The sound of the front doorbell made him straighten. “At least they don’t hold a grudge.” He switched off the laptop and stowed it under his chair before he shrugged into his jacket.
“I’ll show them in.” Rowan sauntered out.
Samuel took Charlotte’s hand in his. “Genaro is dead, Kirchner is in prison, and Delaporte has destroyed everything that might expose us.”
She smiled a little. “You mean, stop worrying about something as simple and easy as meeting the vampires whose DNA was used to change us into superhumans.”
“We were created to hunt them down and kill them,” Samuel said softly. “I think we can hold our own.”
They both looked up as Rowan returned with three strangers. One, a broad, scarred-faced man with light eyes and an impassive expression, surveyed the room before stepping to one side. Behind him a petite, chestnut-haired woman stood beside a man who could have been Jean-Marc Dansant’s twin brother.
Samuel rose to his feet. “Welcome, Mr. Cyprien, Dr. Keller, Mr. Navarre.”
“Monsieur.” Cyprien inclined his head, and then studied Charlotte and Drew for a moment. “We are happy that you finally agreed to this meeting.”
“It’s Alexandra,” the woman said to Samuel. “And we’re not that happy. You wouldn’t even tell us your names.”
“I believe you already knew some of them.” Samuel gestured toward the empty chairs at the other end of the table. “Please join us.”
“We assume you can’t eat food,” Rowan said as she brought a bottle of wine to the table. “Can you handle a little overpriced merlot?”
“Thank you, no.” Cyprien took the seat directly opposite Samuel’s, but lifted his hands from the table an instant after touching it. “This is made of copper.”
“Yes, it is.” Drew took a penny from his pocket and flipped it into the air, where it hung suspended as it stretched out and became a miniature dagger. “So are most of the fixtures in this room. Which, by the way, I will not hesitate to use to skewer your immortal asses”—the little dagger flew across the room and buried itself in the wall behind Cyprien’s head—“should you try to help yourselves to some takeout.”
Alexandra burst out laughing. “God, you guys are smart.”
“We are not interested in feeding on any of you, monsieur.” Cyprien held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “We wished only to meet our progeny.”
Charlotte scowled. “We are
not
your children.”
not
your children.”
“Technically, no, you’re not,” Alexandra agreed. “We can’t have kids.”
Everyone looked over as Jean-Marc entered the room. “Ah, you have arrived. I must go soon, but I thought . . . I would . . .” He trailed off as he stared at Cyprien’s face.
“Mon Dieu.”
“Mon Dieu.”
“Guess whose DNA you got,” Rowan drawled.
Cyprien rose and slowly extended his hand. After a moment, Jean-Marc took it in his own and began speaking to him in their native language.
“Does he fuss at you for leaving your clothes on the floor?” Alexandra asked Rowan, who nodded. “Some things
are
genetic.” To Cyprien she said, “Quit talking in French. It’s rude to the English speakers, which is everyone else but Phillipe.”
are
genetic.” To Cyprien she said, “Quit talking in French. It’s rude to the English speakers, which is everyone else but Phillipe.”
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