VII
Enter Standard Disclaimer Here.
New York
1999
Lucian padded soundless after his prey, admiring the lush curves of her buttocks that were barely concealed by a piece of siren red cloth that had the audacity to call itself a dress. In the crushing throng of drunken New Year's revelers, she hadn't noticed him—yet. He paused to relish the pleasure of walking uninhibited in the upper world. Guerilla warfare and solitude grew wearisome after six hundred years. His manner of dress may have adapted with the times, but his long, wavy brown hair and light dusting of facial hair was his own. He hoped his prey did not have a preference for clean-shaven men.
It mattered little how he looked. After the embarrassing outbreak of war, and then Tannis' exile, Viktor had gone through a great deal of trouble to destroy any clues to his appearance. He, like any other of this world's dictators, knew that if one was to control information and knowledge, then it was far easier to manipulate the minds of those under them.
Lucian shouldered his way through the sweaty crush of humanity and hailed the bartender for a beer, eyes scanning the upscale club. The throb of music pulsed around him, punctuated by faint bursts of raucous laughter and shouted conversation. For all its slick, pseudo-sophisticated façade, a twenty-first century club was no different than a sixteenth century bordello. His prey made a circuit around the room, a calculated saunter exaggerating the sway of her hips and the voluptuous curves of breast and hip, all poured into that provocative little dress. She tossed her mane of loose blond hair over her shoulder, long eyelashes thickened with mascara batting over clear grey eyes. His were not the only pairs of lusting male eyes to look upon her. She disdained the attentions of lesser males. She needed something stronger. Something potent. He sensed that—scented it—in her. She would find her way to him. Immortals as old as he learned to be patient.
Lucian nursed his beer, affecting a certain mixture of aloofness and predatory awareness that drove human women wild. It wasn't long before a sumptuous redhead sidled up to him, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.
"Hey, handsome."
Lucian smiled slightly, one long canine glinting wetly in the fluorescent red light from the bar. His gaze wandered over the redhead. The shapes of her pleased him, but his reaction had little of the visceral heat of the blond. The prey in question was immured at the bar, surrounded by three would-be suitors. Every handful of seconds, she would glance his way. Lucian returned his attention to the redhead.
"Hey yourself. What is your name, beautiful?" he asked. The redhead's tongue grazed her glossed lips before she spoke.
"Cindy. Cindy Prescott. What's yours?"
"Luke," Lucian answered, "Luke Wolfe." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his prey had dismissed her gaggle of suitors and was dancing this way.
"Hmm, Luke. I like that name. Wanna dance?" Cindy purred, brushing his hand in a subtly seductive way. His prey slid in between him and Cindy, her succulent mouth upturned in a devilish grin.
"Babe, I'm so glad I found you. You wouldn't believe the line for the little girls' room!" her hand alighted proprietarily on Lucian's forearm, casting a venomous glare at Cindy that clearly stated 'Get lost, bitch.' Lucian shrugged a little at Cindy's furious face and stroked his prey's chin, delighting in the satiny texture of her skin.
"I was beginning to think I'd have to come in after you," he drawled, capturing her gaze, feeling the subtle quickening of her breath. He pushed off from the bar and draped a lazy arm around the curve of her hip. He shrugged at Cindy and she flushed with outrage and stormed off. Lucian chuckled, not releasing his hold on his bold prey. She didn't object, but settled that fine bum more firmly against his thigh.
"Was that really necessary?" he asked. One perfect brow lifted.
"I had to think of something to get that little tramp with her tacky dye job away from you."
"And what if I was perfectly happy with her tacky dye job?" he shot back. She rolled her eyes, pouting her lips adorned with a glossy coat of lipstick to match her dress.
"Oh, please. You've been staring at me ever since I got here." Lucian smiled, secretly surprised that she had detected him.
"Caught me. What do we do now?" His hand slipped a little, wandering from the small of her back to the backside he had been admiring. She twisted out of his embrace, grinning catlike at him.
"Well, Luke-"
"How do you know my name?" he asked. She shrugged.
"I heard the tramp say it on my way to rescue you. I'm Andy, by the way. Now, as I was saying, there are two options. One: we dance, we drink, we talk about all the boring stuff, what you do, where you live, if you have a cat." Lucian chuckled, enchanted by her easy charm and nonchalant seductiveness.
"And the other?" he prompted. His prey's grey eyes glinted. She sauntered close, bracing her hands on his hips to lean close. Her breath was warm against the shell of his ear and smelled of something sweet.
"Or . . . we skip all that and you come up to my place. It could be the end of the world. Don't you wanna spend it having fun?"
Andy lived in a penthouse in one of New York's ritziest skyrises. The private elevator hummed and then the heavy metal doors whisked open to reveal a room of sterile, austere design—all glass, chrome and granite. Andy strolled in, her tall red heels clicking on the black tile. Lucian trailed after her, agreeing to a glass of wine, shucking off his leather jacket. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion.
"Where is your husband this evening, Andy?" he asked, casually untucking his black shirt from his jeans. The wall of windows offered a fine view of the glittering city, the noise and crush of revelers so far away, like a dream.
Andy didn't miss a beat.
"Rome. For business. He's in stocks and all his investors are freaking out about the Y2K thing." She snorted derisively, handing him his glass.
"It's just a silly number!"
"I agree. I pity him. A life spent in fear is a life wasted." Lucian saluted her and swallowed some wine. It slid like cool silk down his throat, stoking a fire in his belly.
He saw the predatory glint in Andy's eye and Lucian had time to set down his glass before she was all over him with hot lips and greedy hands. The flavor of her mouth was sweet and heady, like the wine. It sank into his mind and inflamed him. Her hand slipped under his shirt and caressed his chest and belly, the other stroking the bulge in his jeans. His fingers tangled in her hair, then danced down her back and found the zipper to her dress.
A quick tug on the tab and she was twisting and undulating from the dress like a snake shedding its skin. Beneath the dress she wore a lacy scrap of cloth over her breasts—and nothing else. In the faint light of the city behind him, her skin glowed like pearls and opals.
"Naughty girl," Lucian murmured, fingers tracing the cleft of her buttocks, dipping low to tease the folds of her sex. She gasped and purred under the onslaught of his fingers, clawing at the fabric of his shirt. He withdrew his fingers reluctantly to speed up the process. He peeled off the shirt, and stepped out of his jeans. His erection jutted against the soft skin of her belly. Andy made an awed sound of approval and milked his length with knowledgeable hands. A ragged groan emanated from deep in his chest and Lucian caught her up in his arms, intent on carrying her to the bedroom he had glimpsed.
"No, no . . . let's do it here. Against the window," she urged breathlessly. Her tongue darted out and caught a drop of sweat pearled at his temple. Lucian braced her back against the glass and positioned himself at her entrance, rocking back and forth in delicious teasing caresses as she whimpered and writhed for more of him.
"Please . . ." she gasped. Lucian plunged inside, embraced by wet, pulsating heat.
"Wrap your legs around me." The command was harsh and guttural, but she obeyed with a subtle flex of inner muscle that drove him out of his mind with lust.
Lucian set a blistering pace of pounding muscle and rude, swiveling strokes. They spoke in only the most primitive of languages, with grunts and cries, fragments of words tearing from fevered minds and swollen lips. Her climax washed over him in greedy spasms again, again . . . and again.
His own released roared in his ears and he clawed at the turf of her hair, tearing the wig free. A silky coil of black rippled down her shoulders. He grasped handfuls of it, yanking her mouth down to his as he came in shuddering spurts.
"Sonja," he whispered against her lips. Her cool hands framed his face.
"Lucian."
xx
The New Year found the two of them drowsing in their king-size bed, her head against his shoulder and he toying with her hair. The roles of predator and prey were a potent aphrodisiac for both of them, and kept the sex life spicy throughout the centuries. However, Lucian was always the one to break the illusion. He didn't want to make love to Andy, Ginger, Tracy or Olivia; he wanted Sonja, his mate.
"Why must I be the one to look ridiculous for our fantasies, hmm?" Sonja asked, dangling the blond wig in his face. She had already removed the contacts, complaining that she could scarcely see in them, her keen vision finding minute cracks and warps in their design. Lucian rolled on his side, pressing the heat of his stiff male essence against her hip.
"You hardly looked ridiculous, my love." Sonja hummed, rolling on top of him, her white teeth glinting as she smiled.
"That's what I love about you, Lucian. You always know just the right thing to say."
Much later, she grabbed a hank of his hair and pantomimed snipping it with her fingers.
"It's the style to wear it short these days." Lucian carefully extracted her fingers from his hair and kissed them. It felt so good to touch her. How long had it been since they'd been together? Ten, fifteen years?
"Have you noticed, my love, that I'm not very fond of change? I like my hair how it is." Sonja's eyes, her own beautiful hazel, glinted with humor.
"In fact, my love, I have something of the sort. But take care not to fall asleep. You might wake up bald." Lucian laughed, but nervously touched his mane of hair and made a concerted effort not to slip further into somnolence. Sonja reached for her laptop and checked her email for the thousandth time.
"Nothing from Salem? Or Xavier?" he asked, kissing her shoulder. Sonja slammed the laptop closed.
"No."
Lucian heaved a sigh. As a slave, he had never dreamed of being a father. And after Xavier, he never dreamed that Sonja would quicken again with his child. But she did—during the Seven Years' War on this continent. Vampire women did not menstruate, and thus, there was no perceivable way to predicts periods of fertility. Xavier had been their miracle. Salem had been a gift from heaven.
"She'll check in. She always does." Lucian tried to comfort her—noting the prickly tension that began to gather around his wife. Presently, their gift from heaven was a moody delinquent bumming her way through Asia. It had been a solid century since all four of them were together, and Lucian quelled a surge of blistering anger at his children for making their mother worry so.
"I know she will. It's Xavier I'm worried about." Lucian frowned. The kind of pain their son was in was not a sort that Lucian knew any way to cure.
"I'm worried about him too. But on the war front, we should be able to move more freely."
At this quick swerve in topic, a blatant attempt to lighten the mood, he earned a sweet smile that lit soft warmth in his chest.
"That's true. Amelia is always the most lax on security. Which reminds me, have we checked in on Tannis recently?" Lucian studied the dark ceiling as he pondered.
"Not recently, no. We've an outpost nearby. I told the men there to check on him every couple years. I haven't heard any reports. Why?" Sonja smiled, eyes glinting.
"Just an idea for a new weapon." He knew better than to be fooled by her deliberately light tone.
"What weapon, my darling? We've been fighting in our fur and it's worked well enough." Sonja purred and stretched out next to him, as languid as a cat. Lucian rested his head on the palm of his hand, placing a possessive hand on the curve of her hip.
"Think the sun. In a bullet." Lucian's eyebrows lifted.
"UV rounds? How clever."
Once he had mused how much Viktor would regret turning a warrior such as Sonja against him. She had never given him cause to doubt this assumption.
"I love you."
Years dawned and died, seasons changed, he had said it in a thousand different ways in a thousand different languages. But this was fixed point in his universe. The playful banter fell from her face into that expression of vulnerability and tenderness that she only gave him. She leaned close and kissed him, long and sweet and slow, like a flower unfurling.
"I love you too," she whispered.
XXX
Seattle's fine, driving rain made lighting his cigarette nearly impossible. Shielding the lighter with his cupped palm, intermittent orange sparks flared and finally the spectral tendril of flame wavered to life. He sucked in a quick drag and sweet smoke curled in his lungs. He tucked the lighter back into the pocket of his leather jacket and made a show of shivering under the onslaught of a biting wind. Humans were frail creatures, the slightest breeze sent them scurrying into central heating. And their health protocols had him cooling his heels in the fucking rain.
A metro bus coughed and screeched to a stop nearby and Xavier exhaled smoke through his nose, watching an elderly couple disembark, their heavy coats and orthopedic shoes screaming 'tourist.' The man deployed a red umbrella and they huddled under it, waiting for the next bus. The man squinted at Xavier from behind horn-rimmed glasses. Something about the way he stood, the way he looked him in the eye told Xavier he was ex-military. Lying low during a war with the vampires had given him time to learn—he had served in a dozen different military branches across the globe.
"Miserable weather, isn't it?" he asked. Xavier shrugged, clearing ash with a quick flick of his fingers. He hadn't spoken to even his family in weeks; there was no way he'd deign to speak to this blood-bag. The man persisted, gesturing to his cigarette.
"Those'll kill you, you know."
Xavier uttered a bark of laughter. It sounded rusted and ugly. He hadn't much cause to laugh lately. He sucked another drag. His kind was immune to human diseases such as cancer and emphysema.
"I'm Immortal," was his laconic rejoinder as he blew a warm draft of smoke in his direction. The man snorted.
"You think you are, Son. But it'll catch up with ya. Trust me." Xavier rankled under the casual use of 'Son.'
I was ancient before your grandfather was born, human!
He snorted, crushed the spent butt under his heel and stalked off. A bedraggled string of brown hair fell in his face and he tossed his head. Father kept his hair at a ridiculous length, past his shoulders. Xavier had inherited that thick mane of dark brown hair, but kept his at a more manageable length at his chin.
No doubt Xavier's parents were on cloud nine in New York tonight, having wild reunion sex in their skyrise. Xavier shuddered, this time having nothing to do with the weather. True, his mother looked like a runaway supermodel and his father had a body that made most gym rats green with envy, but the thought of his parents having sex was a disturbing one even after centuries of witnessing them in their love bubble. That made him think of Rachel and his already poor mood sank into true depression. He wouldn't think of her and the Prague disaster tonight. Too many miles and years separated them now.
The combination of the miserable weather, the late hour and the holiday meant most streets were deserted. Of humans, anyway. He paused deliberately under an overpass, lighting up another cigarette. The taste of nicotine was sharply bitter, searing his taste buds. Vampires preferred to ambush from a height, like a panther. He could smell the Death Dealer; feel the prickle of watching eyes that calculated, crunching data. Being the first vampire-Lycan hybrid had its rewards. Xavier knew the instant the vampire decided to attack. Perhaps it was the faint flutter of his long leather coat, or the faint metal click of cocking his gun. Either way, the vampire didn't get a chance to squeeze off a round. Xavier pivoted, snatched the vampire out of the air, and snapped its spine over his knee like a stick of kindling.
The orange ember of his cigarette tip blazed in the inky darkness. The vampire's body made a faint splash as Xavier tossed it into the drainage ditch. The sun would finish it off before any of the humans dragged themselves out of bed tomorrow morning. Being a hybrid had its drawbacks too—he had known how to kill for a very, very long time. Xavier bent and picked up the Death Dealer's pistol.
A nice Glock.
He opened the chamber and shook out the bullet. Standard silver rounds. Xavier shoved the gun into the back of his pants, shrugging his coat over it. He finished his cigarette and headed for the subway. Raze needed to know about the Death Dealer.
XXX
Sonja squinted down the sight of her gun, freshly loaded with Tannis' new bullets—she could handle them with the aid of lead-lined gloves. Satisfied that the gun was clean and loaded, she shoved both pistols in their holsters within the voluminous depths of her leather coat. She remembered with some fondness the days when she would strap on mail or plate armor and sheathe a sword at her hip. Even up to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when firearms were unreliable and slow, Sonja had fought with a sword. Her speed could overtake her prey before they had time to reload. She missed the weight of it, the eagerness of a blade made by a master smith in a true warrior's hands.
Guns were sloppy and impersonal—a human weapon.
"We're ready, Sonja," Sabaas said.
Sonja nodded and scrutinized the three she had chosen for the raid. With Sabaas, there were two relatively young Lycans, changed during the upheaval of the First World War, Rolf and David. All three looked calm and seasoned. Sonja wished Lucian was going with them. But Singe had notified him of a possible Corvinus descendant and he had left for the Old World with the dawn of a new millennium. Sonja and her men were headed for a Lycan outpost in Brooklyn. There had been reports of Death Dealer activity nearby.
The incongruity of the soft music in the skyrise's private elevator amused her as the four of them did final inventory of ammunition and auxiliary weapons. She caught Sabaas's eye and the corner of his mouth lifted.
"Any word from Xavier?" he murmured. A thorny knot of emotion threatened to rob her of her warrior's glacial calm. The only hint of her displeasure was a faint twitch of muscle in her jaw.
"He checked in with Raze a couple weeks ago. A Death Dealer attacked him in Seattle." Her tone was flat, colorless. She didn't mention that she had learned this third-hand from Lucian. Damn it, that business with Rachel was fifty years ago! He was drifting without thought or purpose, just as Salem was. And Sonja was powerless. She could not fight her children's demons, no matter how much she wanted to.
You would think a millennium-long war would be enough to capture their attention!
"Odd that the Death Dealers would be so active during Amelia's reign," Sabaas remarked.
"Yes. Very odd," Sonja said, suspicion underpinning her tone.
The elevator lurched to stop and the four of them slipped out into the frigid night. Armed as they were, they couldn't risk taking human transportation and being noticed. Sonja could run the distance without difficulty, but her Lycan companions were not so inclined. An hour later, they at last reached the post, a liquor store in a seedy strip mall.
Something was wrong.
The neon sign was sputtering, only the 'L' and 'Q' remained illuminated. The bars over the windows were buckled from the inside. The door was busted in, creaking ominously on rusted hinges. Sonja jerked her chin in an eloquent gesture and Rolf and David melted into the night, creeping around to the back entrance. Sonja plucked her pistols from their holsters and Sabaas hefted his shotgun. An unspoken command flew between them and Sabaas hung back, a frown twisting his narrow features. Sonja nudged the door open with her shoulder, keen eyes peering into the gloom.
"Sergi? Antonio?" Sonja hissed, drawing in a quick breath. She could smell the wet, heavy smell of Lycan, and blood. Lots of it. Sabaas crept in behind her, his boots crunching on broken glass. Stumbling feet and ragged, hiccupping breathing caught her attention. Sonja blurred to the rear door leading to the supply room. Rolf burst through the door, silver discs peppering his chest.
"Run," he wheezed, then collapsed with a bloody gargle.
"Get down!" she shouted to Sabaas.
The world exploded into light and noise. Death Dealers burst from behind racks and from under counters. Sonja measured the odds: seven against two. She had had worse. Sonja took several long strides and then slid on a film of spilled liquor across the scarred linoleum, yanking Sabaas down to the ground beside her, dodging a blaze of gunfire. Bullets whizzed through the air, the faint light given off from bursts of powder enough to give away their position. The noise was deafening. Glass shattered, spilled liquor filled the air with its sting. With Sabaas for cover, she leapt up and squeezed off two quick rounds. The UV bullets did their work, if the screeching cries were enough to judge by. A smattering of wet thuds caught her attention. Sonja turned to find Sabaas flat on the ground, wounds dotting his chest.
"No!" Sonja said. A burst of machine gun fire cut her off and she ducked behind a rack. She had to get to him fast; maybe if she pulled out the silver, he could regenerate . . . There was no time for pain, or worry. She swallowed hard. The rage was gasoline on a fire, blazing through her body. She blurred behind a Death Dealer, snapped his neck with one hand. She turned, shot another in the gut, watched him fall over and writhe to ash with surge 0f a dark pleasure. A black figure braced a foot on Sabaas's body and emptied a clip into him. A snarl escaped her lips. There was no coming back from that.
Sonja leapt over the counter, and started toward the Death Dealer. Two more burst from the supply room; Sonja pivoted and fired two shots from both guns. She kept track of the last on her periphery, heard him reload his pistols. Sonja finished her spin, leveling both guns in the face of the one who killed Sabaas.
It was a she.
And she was nearly a mirror image of Sonja herself.
Selene.
Twin pairs of ice blue eyes met with an almost electric surge of convoluted hate.
"You killed my men. You'll pay for that," Sonja swore in ringing tones.
"You killed mine. That makes us even," Selene quipped. The stalemate grated on Sonja's nerves. Her finger exerted the slightest pressure on the trigger. Her jaw clenched. The weight was off. Shit, was she out of bullets?
"You seem to know me. But who are you?" Selene demanded. Sonja arched a brow and tisked in mocking disappointment.
"Very poor manners, Selene. How many vampire traitors do you know?" Recognition flickered in Selene's coldly beautiful face.
"You," Selene snarled.
"So you've heard of me," Sonja observed, sidling a half step to the right, glancing at Sabaas out of the tail of her eye. Holes dotted his face, his dark eyes rolled back, mouth slack. He was thoroughly dead. The blind, frigid fury behind it was stark. Sonja had used no more than two rounds in the vampires she killed. Selene had emptied clips in a frenzy of rage.
Selene stared unblinking down the sight of her pistol, full mouth flattened into a hostile line. Sonja shifted another step and Selene matched her; they circled each other like master fencers, each word a testing flick of blade.
"Viktor told me about you. Most think you met the true death long ago. But Viktor told me to be vigilant," Selene spat in her low, brooding voice, fangs flashing. Sonja uttered a bark of laughter. This poor twisted child was more Viktor's slave than Sonja had ever been.
"Oh, I'm sure he did. What else did he tell you, little Selene?"
"He told me that you fornicated with animals and betrayed your own kind."
Disgust sat ill on Selene's delicate features, but the blazing hate in her eye seemed very comfortable. A faint tug of pity touched Sonja's heart. She knew what it was to twist her mind and body into a semblance that pleased Viktor. Selene kicked Sabaas' inert form.
"Was he your Lycan lover?" she sneered. Sonja's eyes flashed.
"We suffered through many hardships together. He was my friend. Not that you would know about matters of the heart."
"A vampire doesn't need a heart."
"Spoken like a true puppet. Viktor trained you well."
"Don't speak of Viktor to me!"
"Ah, ah," Sonja said, shaking her head and taking a half step forward, "what did I say about those manners? We can be sworn enemies and civil, can we not?" Sonja tilted on pistol, revealing the faint blue fluorescence of the clip casing.
"A fascinating breakthrough, aren't they? UV rounds. The sun in a bullet. I could kill you with one shot. And what do you have there? Silver? Those would only sting."
Any human, and most Immortals for that matter, would be shaking in their boots under such a silkily worded threat. But not Selene. The only evidence that she was not perfectly calm was the slight tremor in her gun hands, the faintest widening of her eyes. Sonja mustered a kernel of grudging respect.
"Why don't you? If you are who you claim to be, then you are centuries older than I. Why not do it and go back to your fucking den?" Selene challenged.
"I want you alive, Selene. I want you alive to see the truth," Sonja replied cryptically, blazing with conviction.
Open your eyes! See Viktor for what he truly is!
"You know what I think?" Selene drawled, smirking in an irritatingly superior fashion.
"By all means, think for yourself," Sonja shot back.
"I think you're out of bullets."
"Let's find out, shall we?"
"Gladly."
They fired in the exact same nanosecond. Both Sonja's guns clicked empty and she twisted, swift as thought, but one of Selene's bullet grazed her shoulder, the other flew through her leather coat. She didn't wait for another exchange, but flew from the liquor store with all the speed accrued in her eight hundred years.
xxxxxxxxxx
A/N: Ok, so how many of you were kinda pissed when Lucian was picking up chicks at the bar? I personally couldn't bear it if Lucian and Sonja had an 'open' relationship.
What do you think? Like it? Hate it?
R&R