Let it be known that I am an insufferable tease, and I apologize for nothing ;)
No, but seriously, all jokes aside - there's a method to my madness when it comes to this presently unresolved sexual tension. V&F will snap soon enough. Just need to wind them up a bit tighter, first.
CW: sexual references
Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 14
Constant Craving
"The footage you're seeing is coming to us live from the old factory district on the edge of the east side," the female news anchor announced, but the gravity in her expression seemed rather contrived, as if she had become numb over time to the horrors humanity had to offer.
Antón Bernardini, however, perked up at the announcement. He reached for the remote to the television to increase the volume a little, eyes fixed on the wreckage he was witnessing. The blood factory that had been an alliance target just hours ago was now completely engulfed in flames, the bright orange and yellow having managed to spread to some of the other buildings surrounding, despite the storm that now thundered over Budapest.
"It remains unknown whether or not this was purely an accident or a malicious act of arson, but we've received word from an inside source that there are bodies housed within the burning building. If these souls met their true death by the flames or by some other nefarious method, we can't say. But we'll be certain to keep you updated on any further developments as more information comes in."
"Thanks, Pam," a male anchor replied. "And now we go to Judy for the weather. That's some storm we're having!" This served as Antón's cue to lower the volume again.
The Italian unleashed a nervous sigh as the news report blended in with the background noise of a Scarlatti sonata and the rain that continued to pour just outside. He sincerely hoped that the events at the blood factory had been successful. With no word and little to go on when it came to the current media coverage, it left the man more anxious than he would have preferred to be.
Vladislaus would call in and report sooner or later, he told himself. All would be well.
Before he could alleviate his own sense of unease further, there was an unexpected knock at the front door that nearly had him jumping out of his skin. A quick perusal of the feed from a security camera had him moving with inhuman speed toward the foyer to answer on the second knock that came a little more impatiently.
His expression was one of pure delight, as he discovered none other than Vladislaus and Francesca on his front step. The two looked as if they had crawled out of hell itself, both soaked to the bone and stained in blood that thankfully did not appear to be their own. He picked up a faint hint of what stunk of exhaust somewhere on their persons and a quick glance to his left had him noticing the silent motorcycle that had been propped up against the wall of the house, hidden behind an overgrown shrubbery.
"Miss Chase! What kind of trouble did you get him into this time?" he inquired with a teasing grin.
"Nothing I didn't ask to get into," Vlad answered on her behalf. "I'm afraid this isn't a social call. We seem to have run out of fuel and I was hoping you might have some stored away that we could borrow."
"And here you used to mock my affinity for emergency preparedness. Yes, I do believe I have a gas can you could use."
"We would be most grateful," Frankie chimed in. "And while someone goes to fetch it, may I borrow your phone? I'd like to check in and make sure my brother is all right."
"Your brother? Whatever happened?" the Italian called out as he disappeared for a moment into the darkness of the house. "They just started reporting the blaze maybe ten minutes ago, but it seems the media have nothing to go on as of yet. All they have footage of is an aerial shot of the old factory district up in flames." He returned with a folded up tarp, proceeding to spread it out over the floor, particularly over the rug nearest the stairs.
"They're probably waiting for word from the palace," Frankie answered a little bitterly. "Want to make sure they spin this just right." She turned to Vlad. "I take it Basilio made it out alive?"
"He slipped out during the chaos, yes," Dracula confirmed. "Although if it makes you feel any better, after dealing with you, he certainly had a more difficult time of it."
"I wish that made me feel better," the woman confessed.
Antón returned to the front door shortly thereafter with a phone and a beckoning arm.
"Please come in and stay on the plastic. Don't need the pair of you ruining my floor. I just had it waxed."
When the couple was safely inside, Frankie quickly called Carmen's, grateful that Vesper had answered the phone after the first ring.
"Hello? Vesper! Oh thank God… Have they returned yet?... They have?... Only just. What's going on? How is everyone?... Mr. Leinhart and I were detained but we'll be there as soon as we can. I promise... How's Rémy? And Raul?"
As Frankie quietly took in the girl's report, Vlad used her moment of distraction to turn his attention over to his friend.
"What happened?"
"It was a trap," Dracula explained, voice low.
"And what about the infected hemo?"
"Barely taken care of just before we were ambushed. To own the truth, we're lucky Basilio was in a chatty mood, or we would have lost far more numbers than we did."
"Any losses of note?"
"The key players will still live to fight another day, although this botch job could very well set us back."
"Why do you say that?"
"Negative press. It's what she's afraid of," and he motioned with his head in Frankie's direction. "Apparently, the alliance isn't the only revolutionary faction in the city."
"I could have told you that," Bernardini replied, folding his arms across his chest. "They've been split on account of methodology for years now. The alliance," and he looked in Miss Chase's direction briefly to indicate which alliance he was referring to, "is the only one that still actively tries to eschew the more violent route – when it can be helped, anyway. Their top priority has always been the people and their safety, which is why they take such care during their demonstrations. It's also why they have had your Miss Chase writing so much these last months. They seek to empower the people with knowledge so they can make informed decisions, whereas the other factions opt for the more brusque approach – we know what's good for you better than you do. The alliance isn't perfect, but it's a lot less ego-driven…"
"Why am I only just now hearing about this?"
"Being so close with the ring leaders, I assumed you knew."
But their conversation was cut short as Francesca finished up her call, returning to the gentlemen who quickly put an end to their whispering.
"How is your brother?" Dracula asked her.
"They've only just arrived. Vesper said that Carmen had to drain him in the van on the way over to get the poison out. She seems certain he'll make it, though how she knows such a thing is beyond me."
"I trust her judgment," was all the man said, ignoring the curious expression coming from his friend. "And the werewolf?"
"It doesn't look good," she replied, handing the phone back to Bernardini who very delicately removed a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the smears of blood from the device as inconspicuously as he could. "We should hurry back."
"Not looking like that," Antón interjected, motioning to the pair of them. "How you haven't managed to attract the attention of all of Budapest looking like you just crawled your way out of hell is nothing short of miraculous. I insist you both clean up before you depart."
"There's no time for that," Frankie insisted, but the Italian would not be dissuaded as he moved over to a cabinet and began to fetch a pair of nondescript clothes.
"You'll waste more time getting caught by the authorities if you don't heed my counsel," the man answered resolutely. "There is a shower up the stairs and down the hall. Leinhart can show you. You can take turns or shower together for all I care, but I really must insist. Just leave your soiled things in the sink and I can dispose of them after you've gone."
"Wait… why would we have to share a washroom? What happened to the one adjoining your chambers?" Vlad inquired suspiciously. Although Antón's expression belied any mischief on his part, there was a subtle twinkle in his eyes that Dracula was incapable of missing.
"Issue with the plumbing," the meddling Italian fibbed. "Now the both of you go upstairs and wash up while I take care of your mode of transportation," and he placed the set of clean clothes in his king's hands since he was less a mess before departing.
Vlad and Frankie exchanged a series of looks before the former resigned himself to his friend's well-intentioned interference, motioning toward the stairs.
"Come. If we don't, we'll never hear the end of it."
"Is there a reason why he has clothes for me on hand?" she asked him with an arched expression as she checked the sizing to verify that they'd fit.
"Antón has a terrible habit of sizing one up upon first acquaintance. I've learned not to question it."
She examined the tag on the generic sports bra in search of the cup size and had to suppress a smirk.
"He's good. I don't know whether to slap him or commend him for the foresight."
Vlad laughed quietly, but said nothing on that point as they both removed their filthy shoes before making their way up the stairs. He guided her into the spare bedroom where the supposedly only working bathroom resided and then placed the clothes Antón had given them on the counter near the sink before switching on the light. Sensing the rustling of Francesca somewhere behind him as she began to disrobe, he cleared his throat and turned his back to grant her some privacy, deciding to start the shower for her in an attempt to be useful.
The sound of the rapidly heating water only dispelled a small part of the silence between them, but it did nothing for the tightening knot in his chest as he got a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. The woman had lifted her soaked tank top up and over her head, now tossing it into the sink.
"Let me know once you finish and I'll… go next," he answered a little awkwardly, his usual eloquence escaping him when he had turned to find her standing in front of the doorway in little more than a bra and her soaked pants, which she was now trying to peel off of her legs.
A previously flaccid part of his anatomy perked up at the sight of her newly revealed flesh, smooth and supple. He actually had to swallow to relieve the sudden dryness of his throat.
"There's no time for that," she replied with a huff as she finally freed herself from her pants, dropping them into the sink with her soiled top and socks.
Then her panties dropped to the floor around her ankles.
He somehow managed to look away when she reached behind to unclasp her bra.
"We can take turns under the water. There should be enough room for both of us," she explained, walking past him as her fingers made quick work of her braid. She delivered the instructions without any sign of discomfort or clumsiness, but he could tell by the way she was avoiding looking directly at him that the intimacy of the situation was not lost to her.
"Are you sure?" he asked after she had stepped around him to approach the now steaming shower, reaching one hand in to check the temperature before adjusting it. He could hear the gravel in his own voice, the strain almost as poignant as the semi-erection now in his trousers. He made sure to at least keep that out of her line of sight.
"I'm not the first naked woman you've seen, right?" she asked teasingly, sending him a sidelong glance.
Dracula had often prided himself on being the epitome of self-restraint and cool detachment in situations such as these, but for some reason Francesca's words, coupled with her abrupt nakedness and now open hair, had him struggling to rein his lust in. Every inch of his body felt hard, rigid, and his cock was no exception. He turned to look at her with baited breath as she moved about with the confidence of one who was perfectly comfortable with her body, and that poise and sense of self-assurance only seemed to make her all the more appealing to him.
Of course, the perfect proportions of her breasts and ass helped as well.
God have mercy…
Vladislaus was a man of few regrets, but one of his darkest and most secret had been that because of the brevity of their encounter in Venice all those centuries ago, he had never actually had the chance to see what she had looked like underneath that deep indigo blue gown she had worn, once upon a time. Instead, he'd been left to imagine her out of her clothes, and like any red-blooded male, his imagination had risen to the challenge enough times to sate concourses of fantasies. But now…
He had to swallow again, his mind quickly emptying of thought as his eyes devoured her.
"Ha ha. Very funny," was all he could think to say in reply to her previous mockery, only just managing to conjure up enough wryness in his tone to belie his true feelings.
But then she paused, turning to look at him more fully. There was scarcely a shred of timidity in her blue eyes as she caught him gawking, no trace of judgment.
When his gaze finally did manage to tear away from the flawless roundness of her bottom and back to her face, she smiled just a little, nodding her head in answer to his earlier query.
"Then hurry up and get in," she replied casually before disappearing behind the frosted glass of the shower door.
Vladislaus made quick work of disrobing, though not too hastily as to avoid appearing eager. After getting his cock to be less insistent, he slipped into the steam filled shower with a degree of caution, not wishing to alarm.
But then he noticed the way her damp skin glistened beneath the spray of the water and it nearly undid him. He had to suppress the groan of approval building in his throat, fighting to appear unaffected by the woman in her current state.
However, that was proving to be damn near impossible.
Her eyes were closed as she tilted her head back, working her fingers through her dark brown hair as the blood that still stained her flesh washed away in crimson rivulets over impossibly smooth and unblemished flesh. He had seen multitudes of both naked men and women in his centuries of existence, countless beings of exquisite beauty and peak physical perfection. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her – naked and wet.
Fuck.
His eyes raked over her slowly this time, appraising, careful not to miss a single detail, and when he was done in his preliminary examination, he found that there wasn't a single part of her that he would change – every curve and line was just as it should be. And that dragon brand over her breast… he had to tighten the leash on his lust to keep from purring his pleasure at the sight of it. And her nipples – hard as diamonds. The sight of them made his mouth water.
Frankie seemed to have sensed the weight of his stare, her eyes now open. She trembled ever so faintly as if in surprise at his closeness.
Her fingers fell slowly from her hair as she in turn took him in for just a fraction of moment.
While filthy and bloodstained, his magnificence was unmatched, his perfectly sculpted form leaving her temporarily stunned. She had heard the rumors of the dragon's beauty, of his incomparable appeal and unparalleled sexual prowess, but seeing what he usually concealed behind meticulously tailored suits and an inspiring sense of self-restraint sent a flood of warmth between her now tightly pressed thighs.
Every bit of him was roped with hard muscle. His broad shoulders led to impressive biceps and veined forearms; his toned torso to a delectable v-line between his hips – not too bulky, not too lean. That goldilocks zone of male perfection. Her eyes flicked downward for just a fraction of a second to see what lay beyond and it left her unconsciously licking her lips.
Holy Mary mother of God…
Desire had her cheeks flushing as she closed her eyes and pressed her mouth shut before some vulgar exclamation of approval could leave her. But the image of him was already seared into her retinas, cauterizing her gray matter, and for just an instant, she could have sworn she felt her undead heart flutter in her chest.
Well-endowed didn't quite do justice to what hung proudly between his hips.
Just the mere sight of it, even in its neutral state, had her swallowing hard just once. Guy could split a girl in half with that thing… It took everything in her to keep her gaze on his face when she opened her eyes again.
Desperate not to make this more tense or awkward, she cleared her throat so his gaze would return to hers.
"Here… let's switch places," she suggested with sudden timidity and she stepped to the side to make room for him, her back against the slick tile wall.
Evidently, she had underestimated the capacity of the shower. Despite their best efforts to avoid invading each other's space, they still managed to brush against one another in passing, slick skin gliding across slick skin.
The interaction sent a shiver through Frankie's body as she quickly reached for the shampoo to busy her trembling hands. Now under the spray of the water, Vlad began to lather himself in suds, the act leaving Frankie so enraptured, she momentarily forgot that she was even staring, fascinated by the mere sight of the water sluicing down his chiseled features. Her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth, tempted to follow those trails eagerly on its own.
To make matters worse – or better, her mind couldn't quite agree on the subject – the man did absolutely nothing to hide himself from her, as if he were perfectly cognizant of the picture he presented and had little desire to interrupt her study. Frankie's attention was brief in the grand scheme of things, but even after she had turned her back to him a little in order to give him some privacy (but mostly just to keep herself from staring), it did nothing to quell the heat blooming in the very heart of her naturally chilled body.
Her mind frothed luxuriously with every licentious thought, memory, and fantasy she had had of the man as she worked the shampoo through her hair, desperate to ignore the telltale ache that was now steadily pulsating in her core… or how indecently wet her cunt suddenly felt.
What had she been thinking, inviting him to shower with her?
The fantasy of him pinning her to the slippery tile wall with his body while his mouth fell over hers in hunger sent a tremor through her sex that only served to deepen the soft flush in her cheeks. She could only pray that the steam and aroma of the shampoo and soap was enough to mask the scent of her arousal.
A minute or two later, they switched positions once more so Frankie could wash the lather from her hair and skin. The silence between them was pregnant as the pair had taken to avoiding eye contact altogether now, though both would steal glances occasionally; Frankie in particular now incapable of tearing her eyes away from the de Chacier lion branded onto his chest a couple of inches below his collar bone.
Its presence intrigued her, pleased her even.
For over three hundred years, Frankie had resented Mariella Bernardini for marking her as though she were Dracula's property, as if she were some possession that could be bought and sold on a whim. But seeing a similar mark upon his flesh sent a surge of gratification through her person, perhaps even a twinge of greed. They weren't blood-bound – nor could they ever be – but he was still technically hers, just as she was technically his.
The prospect of owning the great Vladislaus Drăculea had more appeal in that moment than it had had in the whole of her existence.
Usually, it was Vladislaus who did the possessing. The mere suggestion that it could be she and she alone that could rule him, body and soul… there was some dark part of her that liked the idea, even if it was doomed to remain only a fantasy, thanks to the condition of her blood. But still, she mused silently to herself, what a fantasy.
As she finished rinsing the suds from her hair, she noticed a set of other markings that marred his otherwise flawless skin – seven thick lines, roughly identical in size and shape cut across the upper part of his left arm close the curve of his shoulder.
"What are these?" she found herself asking without even realizing it.
Vlad glanced over at her, briefly startled by the sound of her voice and the unexpected touch of her hand. Realizing what she was referring to, his previously neutral expression grew more solemn.
"They're binding marks."
"Like a blood-binding?" she clarified. "But I thought those were supposed to be on the back of the neck or between the shoulders along the spine…"
"That is normally where they would go."
"So why are these here?" and she touched them again, thinking nothing of it.
"The types of marks you're referring to are typically reserved for couples… mated vampires joined together by the blood rite," he explained, his tone sizzling, the man apparently not so unaffected by her greedy eyes. "A similar binding can also take place between a person and their adopted progeny, since our kind is incapable of procreation, although that's certainly never stopped us from trying," and he added that last part with a cheeky grin to distract her from the sorrow he was certain was in his eyes.
His attempt to divert her, however, proved fruitless, as her expression took on an appearance akin to that of understanding.
"Your children," she whispered, oblivious of the way in which he was now looking at her as her attention returned to the scars on his arm. Her touch grew in confidence the more she studied the scars, the faces of the Dracul Sânge appearing in her mind with each line she traced with her finger.
Ezekiel.
Jack.
Louise.
Alessia.
Niklaus.
Tempest.
Henry.
The memories of the man's surviving heirs gently flooded to the forefront of her conscious mind as she saw through their eyes the nights these marks had been made, the words spoken, the promises bound in blood. Recalling the collective anguish of those remaining five as they shared the details of their predicament when it came to their separation from their father was also evoked and with that remembrance, she became cognizant of a profound sorrow that was now radiating from Vlad's person.
He made no effort to stop her touch. Unbeknownst to her, it was the only thing soothing the familiar ache in the center of his chest as he remembered the names and faces of his lost children. When Frankie removed her hand, he managed to turn his head, in search of her gaze.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said softly, an exquisite distress in her eyes that he could not account for, and yet it left him deeply gratified. If anything, the compassion in her gaze made him feel – for just a moment – less alone in his grief.
As if it had a mind of its own, his hand rose, fingers lightly brushing against those precious lips of hers with a kind of thoughtfulness.
A mere look or touch from this man had the power to pacify any anger or suffering she may have felt, but little did Frankie understand how similar it was for him. The loss of the Dracul Sânge was still so very fresh in Vlad's mind, the memories of that fateful evening when he had lost his children forever burned into his mind: their collective fear, the inexplicable pain, the sorrow… and then nothing.
He had been inconsolable that black night and the weeks that had followed, the mere insinuation of their existence, even to this day, proving almost too much to be borne… except when Francesca was near.
Something about the way she held his gaze just now, how her expression seemed to communicate that she understood his suffering in a way no one else had been able to comprehend – it granted him the comfort that had eluded him for decades.
Her presence was like a soothing balm, and the bewildering sense of tranquility he experienced in her company had him holding her chin lightly with his fingers now as the tension between them deepened and his head leaned forward just a little, indicating his intentions. Clearly he had not been the only one affected by their present situation. In fact, the longer he held her gaze, the more heated those blue eyes of hers seemed to become.
When she made no move to stop his advance, he began to dip his head down slowly, inching closer to her breathless lips.
But before he could kiss her, the moment was interrupted by the loud ringing of a phone somewhere beyond. The sound of Antón picking it up and answering the caller with a jovial tone carried throughout the small townhouse, unintentionally breaking the spell between them.
Realizing what had almost taken place, the pair immediately distanced themselves as the awkwardness from earlier returned and in an effort to appear productive, Frankie began to ring the water from her hair.
"You go ahead and finish up in here while I dress in the bedroom," she insisted, trading places with him so she could slip out of the shower. "I'll meet you downstairs when you're done."
He only offered her a nod before the frosted glass of the shower door shut behind her, obscuring her from his view.
By the time they left the Italian's, there was a break in the rain that lasted just long enough for them to make it to Carmen's without getting drenched. Vlad pulled into the underground parking garage beneath the building with Frankie's arms still secured around his waist, their eyes moving in unison to the empty van in the corner, the stench of blood overwhelming. Vesper hadn't exaggerated when she had told Frankie that Carmen had drained Rémy on the way home. The amount of crimson that saturated the floor of the silent vehicle was alarming.
Francesca was off the bike the moment it pulled to a stop as she quickly made her way over to the car to make sure her eyes hadn't deceived her. She wore her concern openly, by no means disturbed that Vlad was still nearby, undoubtedly observing her as he turned off the motorcycle before dismounting.
He called her name once, his voice pulling her out of the mire of her thoughts and she turned her head to look back at him, standing near the stairs that would take them to the main level of the establishment. His extended hand beckoned her and she returned to his side without a word as they ascended together.
The chaos within Carmen's was immediate, blood trailing from the garage to the main floor and leading in a number of different directions as the wounded were tended to. The sound of weeping could be heard from the kitchen and Frankie felt her chest tighten as anxiety threatened to dismantle her façade of calm. Vesper's was the first face they came across as they made their way down the hall.
"Frankie!"
The woman was quickly embraced.
"Where's Rémy?"
"He's in the war room with Carmen. He's going to be okay."
The relief that washed over Francesca was overwhelming and all at once, and she released a heavy sigh as her gaze found Vlad's. His expression was fairly sedate, frosty blue eyes attentive as he took in her pleasure. There was something about his countenance and general lack of surprise that made Frankie think that perhaps he had played a hand in her brother's survival, but she couldn't ask him now. At present, she was just grateful the last surviving member of her immediate family would live to fight another day.
Before she could take a step forward to see the recovering Rémy herself, her name was spoken in a broken voice and her attention shifted to that of Lyra, the female having just emerged from the kitchen. It took Frankie all of two seconds to realize what had happened to Raul, the bloodshot whites of her best friend's eyes and the rusted tear stains on her cheeks all the evidence she needed. And just like that, her moment of relief grew spoiled with a sensation akin to survivor's guilt.
"Oh, Lyra… I'm so sorry," was all she could think to say and Vesper stepped out of the way so the distraught redhead could fall into Frankie's waiting arms as another round of weeping overtook her.
A single look in Vlad's direction told him all he needed to know and he nodded once in understanding of Francesca's silent request, making his way alone to the war room to check on her brother as she comforted her best friend.
He discovered Rémy laid out on the conference room table, pale to the point of looking sickly and gray, though the wound he had sustained had thankfully closed. Chase's mouth was stained in liquid scarlet, his lips parted and eyes screwed shut as his head moved slightly back and forth as if he were dreaming, Carmen's name uttered occasionally in distress.
The woman of the hour was seated in one of the chairs; the vicious bite on her wrist slowly healing as she quietly nursed a bottle of hemo, eyes stormy and brow furrowed, her attention so wholly fixed on Rémy, she hadn't even noticed Vlad's entrance until he spoke.
"It will take perhaps twenty-four to forty-eight hours before he heals completely from the effects of the poison, but he should be his old self again in no time," he announced, making his way over to the table.
Carmen never acknowledged that he had spoken, though he noticed out of the corner of his eye the way in which her grip on the bottle tightened somewhat, her knuckles starting to go white.
"From the amount of blood I saw out in the garage, I'd say you drained him within an inch of his life," he added.
Still she said nothing.
"And judging from his current state, he took a lot from you."
Rémy muttered Carmen's name under his breath again, eyes still closed.
The sound seemed to make the woman uncomfortable, which only made her more irritable.
"He wouldn't stop," she said at last, voice icy and low. "I had to snap his neck to get him to let go of me."
"Who could blame him? Not only did you practically bleed him dry, your blood is surprisingly delectable."
Carmen stood abruptly, the bottom of the bottle slamming down on the table as she got in Vlad's face, those brown eyes glowing gold in her rage.
"This isn't what I wanted," the woman hissed at him. "You knew this would happen! That bleeding him would send him into a frenzy the second my blood touched his lips. You knew what that would do – that it would create a temporary connection between us, a connection with emotional side-effects."
"Don't feign innocence," was his even reply, the man betraying no signs of concern or even remorse in the face of her fury. "You knew the risks just as well as I did, and I did tell you that you could have fed him someone else's blood. You're the one who chose to ignore reason for the sake of your unrequited affection…"
But his smug gloating came to an abrupt halt when Carmen smacked him hard, not caring if this man was her king or not. Even his darkened expression in the face of her abuse barely fazed her. If anything, the faint reddening of his cheek made her feel better.
"And this is the thanks I receive for saving the life of your best friend's brother."
"I saved his life," she corrected, daring to point her finger in his face. "Not you."
"Actually, it is my blood staving off the effects of the poison that still lingers in his system, madam; not yours. Your sacrifice is akin to merely a blood transfusion. Nothing more."
"You are despicable!"
"Perhaps, but I am not to blame for your selfishness. You could have had him feed from someone else, but you did not. He could have bled someone else dry and forgone this entirely…"
Carmen huffed in her frustration. Arguing with him on this was absolutely pointless, so she distanced herself, arms folding over her chest defensively.
"It still doesn't change the fact that I can't deal with this right now," and she motioned to Rémy who was still muttering her name with a newfound twinge of desperation, as if he had sensed the distance she had placed between them. She raked her bony fingers through her hair in an attempt to steady her nerves. "I just…. I can't."
"You're going to have to, madam, because the two of you, Miss Chase, and young Vesper are due to leave for France before the end of the evening," he reminded her.
"Well, then there's going to have to be a change of plans," Carmen announced. "You're going to go in my place."
His brows shot up to his hairline.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You are going to France."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because it'll give Rémy time away from me to get my blood out of his system so by the time he returns, it'll be like it never happened. And, more importantly, it'll give you time alone with Frankie – which you both desperately need."
"Oh, so it's okay if you meddle, but I get assaulted without provocation when I do it!"
"I slapped you because you were being an ass!"
"Francesca will never go for this plan of yours," he pointed out, purposefully changing the subject back to the matter at hand. "She'll see through your manipulation the second it leaves your lips, but it'll be I that gets pushed away in retaliation…"
"Oh, she'll agree to the plan," Carmen insisted. "And she won't push you away, either. Believe me. The fact that you're still standing after what happened earlier this evening is testament of that."
"What makes you so confident?"
But before the woman could elaborate, their private conference was interrupted when Frankie suddenly entered the room.
"How is he?" were the first words out of her mouth as she eyed her brother. The hard lines in Carmen's face softened when Rémy muttered her name again.
"A little worse for wear, but otherwise okay."
"Vesper told me what you did for him. You saved his life, Carmen," and Frankie wrapped her arms around her friend's neck, pulling her into a tight hug. "Thank you… I know what you did wasn't easy."
The Spaniard glared in the direction of Vlad's resurgent smugness, but she returned the embrace.
"I'm just glad we could save him. Besides," she answered in good humor when Frankie released her, "now he owes me one."
"I'll be sure to remind him when he's more coherent. You really took the reins at the factory, Carmen. I don't think the majority of us would have made it out alive had it not been for your leadership. I'm proud of you."
"How is Lyra holding up?" she then asked, strategically diverting the subject away from herself.
"She's grieving with the rest of us, but she'll be ok. I asked her if she wanted to come to France with us to get away for a while, but she insists on staying behind. Claims she wants to keep busy, but I think we both know what she really desires is revenge."
"I don't blame her. Speaking of France…"
"I'm wondering if we should just cancel," Frankie interjected all of a sudden. "Or at least postpone our departure, maybe shorten the trip altogether. With everything that's happened, I don't like the idea of just leaving like this."
"That's why I wanted to talk to you. I still think you and Rémy should go."
"But what about you and Vesper?"
"Vesper needs to go as well. That poor girl has been surrounded by enough death for one day. I want her far away from all of this while we start doing damage control."
"So you're not coming anymore?"
"No. My place is here. Besides, would you really trust the fate of the alliance to rest on the shoulders of Danny, or Lyra on the warpath?"
"Fair point. But you'll have Mr. Leinhart here to assist," and she looked to Vlad.
"Actually, I was going to recommend he go in my place."
Frankie's eyes snapped back to Carmen, brows furrowing in confusion.
"What? Why?"
Yes. Why? Dracula's eyes seemed to ask the Spaniard, yet despite his goading, she held herself remarkably well.
"With Rémy in his present condition and you having just come out of blood-rage, I'd feel safer for Vesper's sake if someone else went with you as a precaution."
"Carmen, I'm fine," Frankie insisted, a little affronted. "Believe me, my demon and I have had enough blood to last us a while."
"Yes, but you can't guarantee that, Frank, which is why I want you to take Vlad with you."
"It's unnecessary…"
"He's going with you, and that's final, Francesca."
The look Frankie sent her friend was borderline acidic, but she pursed her lips into a thin line, knowing that arguing with the woman would be pointless. To think she accused Lyra of being on the warpath.
"I still think we should consider leaving at a later date."
"No, you will leave tonight as originally planned," Carmen interjected. "You forget that the Spider has positively identified your brother as the ringleader. The second Basilio finds out that you two are not just connected, but related, and sends that information over to Augustine, it's over, Frankie. He will come after you and if he can't get to you, he will go after the people closest to you and we're in enough shit already as it is."
"I know that, but this is running away, Carmen."
"No it's not. It's a tactical retreat."
"Semantics."
"You're going to France and you are staying there for the full ten weeks and that's the end of the discussion."
"What discussion? We haven't discussed anything!"
"This is the plan: you, Vlad, Rémy, and Vesper will leave Budapest within the hour. Danny, Lyra, and I will stay behind to do any necessary damage control with the inevitable fallout because it's going to happen. It's just a matter of when. Lyra will get in touch with Jacob to alert the other rebel factions so they can go on the defensive."
"Lyra has been through enough for one evening," Frankie interrupted.
"She's not the only one," the dark-haired woman snapped impatiently, the way in which Rémy continued to whine her name softly starting to crack her steel façade. "Yes, it sucks that we lost friends tonight, that she lost Raul, but we don't have time to mourn right now. Basilio and Marcus are going to come after us with everything they've got and if we're not ready, more lives will be lost because of our negligence. We picked a fight with the Spider by going after his interests. Yes, we were successful in wounding him tonight, but he's going to hit back. We have to prepare ourselves for that."
"Carmen's right," a voice called out from the doorway and Vlad, Carmen, and Frankie turned to see Tristan now entering the room. "We will need to move quickly if we hope to hold our position against him and Augustine. We will work in tandem with the alliance and we will keep each other safe."
"What about Isabella?" Frankie asked.
"My sister doesn't get a say in this," he informed her, his words blunt. The werewolf then returned his attention to Carmen. "I think it would be prudent if you stayed in the south side with us until things calm down."
"Thank you for the offer, Tristan, but we aren't going anywhere."
"Will you concede to having werewolf sentry added to your security then?"
"Tristan, your people have already sacrificed enough on our behalf as it is," Frankie insisted, but she was ignored.
"I agree to your terms," Carmen announced and they shook hands.
"Good."
"Do I get any say in any of this?" Frankie interjected, making no effort to hide her displeasure.
"No, you don't," the Spaniard replied. "In fact, I think it would be prudent if you left as soon as possible while it's still early enough in the evening."
"But…"
"Danny! Can you come in here please? Vlad, help Danny carry Rémy out to the sedan in the garage. I'm going to tell Vesper to get her suitcase," and then she started to leave.
"Carmen!" Frankie called after her, but to no avail, as the woman departed shortly after Danny arrived to assist Vlad in carrying her brother out of the room in silence.
The room emptied fairly quickly until only Tristan remained with her, though the man said nothing as she openly huffed her displeasure, muttering an oath under her breath before recognizing that he was still there. The irritation in her expression smoothed out when she noticed the way the werewolf prince was presently clenching his jaw. In her own moment of selfishness, she had neglected to see the pain he was clearly in; yet despite the loss of his best friend, he had persisted, putting the needs of others ahead of his own and it made Frankie feel ashamed.
Yes, being all but banished to France with her brother felt like a punishment in that moment. If anything, it felt like running away, but she knew in her gut that it was the right thing to do. She just wished there was another way.
Oh, if only this night had gone differently.
With a heavy sigh, the tension in her shoulders began to dissipate and she turned to face the lycan more fully.
She almost asked him if he was all right, but thought better of it and instead merely spoke his name – tone full of inquiry and concern. He made no move to look back at her. His eyes were fixed on the nothingness in front of him, the pain in his expression continuing to deepen the longer they stood there alone and in silence. Frankie took a step toward him, reaching out with her hand to rest it on his arm as she tried once more to get his attention, but still he stood there, unblinking, as if he were privately recalling the death of his friend; this towering, powerful man with tears starting to brim at his lower lash line.
"Did he suffer much?" was all she could think to ask.
Tristan nodded shakily, continuing to relive the horror in his mind. She squeezed his shoulder before stepping in front of him, taking his cheek in her other hand to bring his eyes to hers.
"I'm so sorry, Tristan."
"The fault is mine entirely," he said with a trembling voice, the tears now tumbling down his cheeks and over her hands, which cradled his face. "I should have listened to you. I should have…"
But his words dispelled into little more than a shuddering breath as she stood up on her tippy toes to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. He was unreceptive to her embrace at first, just standing there, silent and in shock before the familiarity of her closeness and the solace he had so often found there had him hugging her back. When she didn't pull away, he tightened his hold just a little possessively when he recalled that she was no longer his, that her intended was still nearby.
"I want you to promise me something before you go," he whispered into her hair. She pulled back a little to look at him, palms resting on his flushed cheeks.
"Anything."
"When you get to France, make sure Alayna gives him the grand tour."
Frankie nearly laughed at that, her amusement bringing a smile to his face as they both enjoyed their private little joke, even as her own tears began to well in her eyes. She knew perfectly well what this was.
Tristan was saying goodbye.
The affectionate kiss he then placed on her brow confirmed it.
Their rueful smiles waned, but still his lips lingered on her forehead for a while longer, his large hands resting comfortably on either side of her neck, thumbs gently tilting her head upward.
"Don't go easy on him, Frank," he breathed, his voice so quiet, she had to strain to hear him. "You make him work for you, understand?" and he pulled back so he could look at her as he said the words. "You give him nothing until he proves he's worthy of you."
Francesca smiled, hands resting on his chest as she looked up at him.
Even after all these years, she could still read him.
They both knew that France was going to change things – her uncle's home had a habit of doing that with all of her relationships. And now that Vlad was joining her, she wouldn't be able to deny the inevitable for much longer.
Frankie said nothing in regards to his final request, but she did take his hand in hers, pressing her lips to his palm one last time in gratitude for his goodness and for his unspoken support.
"Goodbye, Tristan," she said, and then she turned and left the room.
Marcus Augustine drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair as the other council members in attendance waited with baited breath, each awkwardly stealing glances at the single empty seat at the table – the designated spot of Krisztian Sokolov. The man had vanished three days ago without a word and though it was normal for him to go missing from time to time, and even more regular for him to be late for council summons, it was very unlike him to ignore them entirely… especially in such a situation as this.
"So no one has seen or heard from Krisztian at all?" Augustine inquired with disbelief. "Not a word? Not even a whisper?"
"Not since he checked in with Basilio a few days ago, my lord," Councilwoman Sonya explained penitently.
Their leader allowed the tension to build for just a moment longer before he smacked the top of the table, sitting up.
"Fine. We'll deal with him later. Let's get down to business."
But before they could even begin, the double doors to the room were thrown open abruptly, the guards which had been stationed at the entrance now fumbling on the floor as Basilio – the man of the hour – marched around them. The Spider's eyes were filled with fury, his impeccably tailored suit ruined, several wounds he had sustained on his face and neck area still struggling to heal from the looks of it.
"Everybody out!" he barked when the eyes of the council fell upon him, and the man pointed the silver tip of his cane in Augustine's direction. "Except you."
When nobody made a move to depart, he repeated the order, his rage echoing off the stone walls of the spacious chamber, but it was only when Augustine nodded his head, giving the others permission to leave, that the audience began to depart. When the two men were at last alone, Basilio removed what appeared to be a photograph from his inside coat pocket and he held it up menacingly in the air, eyes glowing.
"When you requested my allegiance, I had a specific list of demands that came with my loyalty. I'm adding one more thing to that list," and he threw the photograph down onto the table, the paper floating a little until it landed somewhere in the center, just out of Marcus' reach. "I don't care what the bitch's name actually is, and I certainly don't care how you do it, but I want this Madame Nemo dead. That she-devil has been a thorn in my side long enough! I want her ashes on a platter, Augustine; do you hear me? I want her gone!"
"Since when did you get so riled up over a pesky journalist?" Marcus inquired mockingly, eyes still fixed on the infuriated vampire before him. "I'll admit her charming little articles are a nuisance, but nothing to get so agitated over."
Basilio slammed his fist down on the table, the force of the blow causing the oak to crack beneath his hand.
"I can handle a normal vampire, but this cunt is more hellion than undead. I want her taken care of. I'm not doing anything more for you until the bitch is dead!"
Augustine, more amused than perturbed by the criminal's wrath, finally reached for the photograph, his expression pure stoicism.
"Are you going to explain what happened at the blood factory this afternoon? I have a PR mess on my hands, Basilio. You said you would take care of the rabble quietly."
"I underestimated Chase. It won't happen again."
"It most certainly will not," he replied coolly before finally glancing down at the paper in his hand.
It was a screenshot of some footage from a security camera in one of the Spider's brothels, and though the quality left something to be desired, the face that looked back at him send a violent chill through the man's body, all the way down to the very marrow of his bones. His stomach turned and his chest tightened.
No… he thought defiantly, eyes widening with disbelief. No, it can't be.
But it was. He'd recognize that face anywhere, those razor sharp eyes, those cheekbones.
So Francesca de Chacier was still alive and well, then… and living right under his nose, no less.
He studied the picture more closely, old memories flooding his conscious mind and his thick brows began to furrow over his darkening eyes, his reaction to the photograph catching Basilio's attention.
"You know her, don't you?"
Marcus's expression took on something akin to disgust as he placed the printed image back onto the table, face down, before sliding it away from his person. He said nothing.
"Well? Who is she?"
Augustine called for Councilman Ildar to reenter the room. The man bowed deeply the moment he crossed the threshold.
"Fetch the witch's journal for me from the archives. You know the one."
"Yes, sir," and he departed.
Basilio waited for Marcus to explain himself, but he never did and it made him impatient.
"I asked you a question, your majesty," he bit angrily.
"And you shall receive it shortly, I assure you," Augustine replied, standing. "But while we're waiting, I'm afraid that I must inform you that I cannot give you what you seek."
"Can't or won't?" the Spider challenged.
"Can't."
That caught his attention.
"Why ever not?"
"Because this particular bitch cannot be killed. Believe me… I've tried."
"That's ridiculous! Even the oldest of nosferatu have at least one mortal weakness."
"True, but this one," and he tapped the picture with his finger, "has proven entirely immune to all of the known methods."
"Impossible! Did you try dragging her into the sun? Pumping her veins with werewolf venom? Bleeding her dry? Dousing her in holy water?"
"Bathing her in liquid silver? Tearing out her heart and removing her head? Peeling the flesh from her bones and burning her alive over a pyre of white oak? Yes. Believe me, I got very creative and none of it worked," Augustine answered with noted irritation. "No matter what I did, the woman somehow survived."
Basilio gripped the back of the nearest chair, seemingly unsure if he should be impressed or terrified.
"Then what do we do?" he asked. "This woman, or devil, whatever she is – she's involved with that pesky alliance. They may as well have Dracula on their side!"
"If we're not careful, he'll soon follow if he finds out who she is."
"What is that supposed to mean? What is she to him?"
Before Marcus could answer, they were interrupted by the return of Ildar, although the man appeared rather uneasy… not to mention, empty-handed.
"What is it?" Augustine asked, immediately noting the way in which the councilman lingered close to the exit.
"It's not there."
"What? What do you mean it's not there?"
"There's been a break-in in the archives. They're gone. All of Mariella's journals are gone."
*cue me doing my best Verona impression*
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