“Besides,” she said, giggling, “if you really did try to tell me everything, I’d probably die of old age before you got halfway through.”
Steffen smiled faintly. Grace put a hand on the floor beside his head to prop herself up and leaned forward enough that her hair grazed his cheek.
“You look sad,” she said, softer now. “And so far away. Where have you gone?”
Reluctantly, he turned his face toward her. She bent lower to place a gentle kiss on his lips before whispering, “Come back to me.”
When she kissed him again, he responded and put his arms around her, but a part of him remained distant. Grace settled onto his chest, and he lay there, passive, answering the way her mouth moved but doing nothing more.
It felt strange to take the lead. She was used to him sweeping her into the vortex of his desires as he’d done earlier that night and every other night they had spent together. Now that his passion was not making her head spin, she found her own was quieter, more patient. Grace nuzzled her cheek against his, brushed her lips along the edge of his ear, and kissed her way back to his mouth, coaxing him with intimacy rather than urgency. His arms tightened to hold her more securely against him, and he made a small sound of pleasure that encouraged her to go on. As arousal spread through her, she opened his mouth with her tongue.
He raised his head when she sat up, and disappointment flickered over his face before he saw her untying the belt of her bathrobe. His gaze moved to her breasts as the robe fell away, and his hands followed, making her gasp and arch into them. Reaching down the length of his body, she found he had already begun to swell, and he groaned at the feel of her fingers closing around him. His hips lifted as she stroked him into a full erection.
The feel of him filling her hand wasn’t enough. She turned, and he murmured a protest when her breasts moved out of reach, but the protest died as soon as her breath fanned over his thighs. She closed her lips around the tip of his cock, sucking gently. She took her time, working her way down by increments until she had all of him, and when he nudged his fingers between her legs, he found her wet. It felt so good to slide her mouth up and down his shaft that she almost took him over the edge before realizing how close he was. She forced herself to draw back. She wanted him somewhere else when he came.
He didn’t complain this time, just watched as she rose to straddle him. Delicately, she drew his foreskin down to bare the sensitive head, and lowered herself until she could trace it all around the slick folds of her sex. He was trembling when at last she sank to take him deep inside.
“Sit up,” she urged. “You’re too far away.”
Steffen’s stomach muscles flexed, lifting him high enough that he could plant his hands on the floor and use his arms to keep himself upright. He was still angled back a few degrees, so she closed the distance, wrapped her arms around him, and rested the side of her face on his chest. A low growl vibrated there.
Was this how he felt when he took her? Pleasing himself on her body and giving pleasure in turn? Her movements were self-conscious at first, but soon she lost herself in the sensations and rode him hard, digging her fingernails into his back.
“I’m not going to last,” he whispered.
It brought a fierce smile to her lips. Grace changed the rhythm to a slow, circular roll that made her deliciously aware of the hard length of him filling her. She tensed from head to toe, forgetting to breathe as the pleasure built. Inner muscles tightened.
“God!” he cried out through gritted teeth.
It hit her all at once, so hard she screamed and jerked against him. Steffen threw his head back and let go.
Aftershocks twitched through them for several moments. As the last tremors faded, Grace took in deep breaths, and with each exhalation she relaxed a little more until her muscles turned to liquid. Steffen eased onto his back and pulled her with him. He was himself again, taking control, placing her where he liked. She let him turn her onto her side so he could spoon her from behind. The feel of that big body wrapping itself around her made her hum with contentment.
Into her hair, he murmured, “Thank you.”
Chapter Eight
In answer to your question, my first child was a warrior who fought like a demon and partied like a madman. My second was a psychotic sadist of a woman. That was some five hundred years ago, and I am no longer the person I was then. If I were to create another, what would I choose now? Someone intelligent, with a passion for life that is tempered by self-discipline. Someone whose thoughts and opinions are worth hearing. Someone like you, when you were human.
—Steffen Scott, letter to James Morgan, c. 1632
Angie walked off the ferry at the little town of Kingston on the Olympic Peninsula and crossed the street to a restaurant that served Northwest cuisine, mostly seafood and game meats, reflecting the cultural heritage of the region. Her dinner date awaited her at a table next to the window, looking out over the ferry terminal. He appeared to be a man in his mid-forties. His dark hair was shot through with strands of silver, and a few character lines marked his forehead. The gold-brown color of his eyes should have been warm, but they were too distant to be called that.
An hors d’oeuvre was already on the table: steaming hot mushrooms stuffed with crab and lightly breaded. He must have ordered it when he saw the ferry approaching, so it would be ready for her. A glass of white wine waited as well.
“James.” She smiled and bent to kiss his cheek.
“Angel. It’s good to see you.”
“You, too.”
There was no plate on his side of the table, just a large wineglass filled with opaque red liquid, warmed to body temperature. As she settled into her seat, he picked it up and took a sip. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have a favor to ask.” She helped herself to one of the mushrooms, and the burst of flavor made her close her eyes and hum with appreciation.
“Name it,” he said.
“It’s research for my dissertation. I’d like to focus on the Fallen, but material is scarce. Have you heard of the Journals of Iphra-El?”
“They were sold in a private auction a couple of years ago, if I recall.”
“Could you find out who has them and possibly get me access?”
His eyebrows rose a fraction. “That is a tall order. I’m flattered you have such a high opinion of my capabilities.”
“Don’t try your false modesty on me.” Angie's lips quirked up at the corners. She knew he had agents all over the world. No one was better at gathering information and making things happen behind the scenes. In his human life he had been the spymaster for King Stephen of Blois, though that wasn’t what they called it back then. The vampire who’d turned him was a sovereign who recognized the value of his skills and had the patience to wait until James got his newly acquired hungers under control. It paid off. For nearly a century, James provided him with information and opportunities beyond his wildest dreams. Now, he served the Covenant. And his own agenda.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed, “but I cannot promise anything.”
“Thank you. You have a few contacts among the Fallen, don’t you? I need to find some willing to let me interview them.”
“I can arrange introductions, but an interview will be difficult. The effect they have on humans is…overwhelming.”
“I’d be grateful for any advice you could give.”
James took another drink, a longer one this time. He would have fed earlier, she knew, but wondered whether he was still hungry. Not that she needed to worry. James was one of the most well-controlled vampires she had ever met.
“The Fallen are motivated by desires of the flesh,” he reminded her, “and have no sense of morality or ethics. They will not respect your boundaries. Even a few moments with one is enough to render you helpless, so you must consider how far you are willing to go in the pursuit of knowledge.”
A waitress interrupted to take her order. Angie requested salmon with a huckleberry glaze and a side salad of mixed greens, then turned her attention back to the stuffed mushrooms. The wine went very well with them. How did James know what to order? He hadn’t tasted wine in over seven hundred years.
“They can’t seduce everyone they meet,” she protested. “There must be many people who come into contact with the Fallen and don’t end up in bed with one.”
“True. But the Fallen is the one who decides this; the human has no choice in the matter. You are a beautiful woman. I have no doubt what the decision would be.”
“Now who’s the flatterer?”
“And who is being falsely modest?”
Angie chuckled. “It may be a moot point. If I can’t get the material I need on the Fallen, I’ll focus on elves instead. You have contacts among them, too, yes?”
“More than among the Fallen, actually.”
“And you could arrange something?”
James frowned. “Yes, but be careful, Angel.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Elves are a different matter. They will want something in return for helping you, and you’ll have to be very cautious with your negotiations. In fact, it would be best if I went with you.”
“Always watching out for me.”
“Always.”
They looked at each other, leaving unspoken his reasons for such devotion to her well-being. Neither had said anything about it in years. There was no need.
The waitress brought her food, and Angie took her time savoring it while James told her what his child, Vanessa, had been up to lately with her work as head of the Covenant’s Enforcement Committee.
“It disturbs me,” he said with a sigh, “to see how this work is changing her. But the nature of our kind is such that only the most extreme tactics will be effective, and she is determined to succeed.”
“Does she see what it’s doing to her?”
He nodded. “I taught her to be self-aware. She knows, but she considers it a sacrifice worth making.”
“She would.”
If it weren’t for Vanessa’s fiery dedication to the Covenant’s ideals, Sarah Miller would still be a slave.
Chapter Nine
Vampires are born ravenously hungry for blood, death, and violence. They have no self-control. Thousands of years ago, to prevent our young from annihilating the human population, havens were formed, in which older vampires undertook to teach and discipline them until the fledglings were able to exercise restraint. As humans became more dangerous to us, this teaching expanded. For the last few centuries, we have taught our young how to avoid outraging the human population to the point that they become the hunted rather than the hunter—in other words, how to do as they wished without getting caught.
—James Morgan, author of
Guide to Vampire Havens
Sarah Miller
Twelve Years Ago
It started like any other party. Sarah had lost count of how many she’d attended. How long had she been a slave to this enclave? Months? Years? The parties were thrown every week or so, and by now they all blurred together.
Alaric, the vampire in charge of the slaves, took them out of their dungeon for showers, party clothes, and the usual fussing with hair and makeup. They were all too thin, with shadows under their eyes and hair dull from lack of care. It took some work to make them presentable. A taste of the blood helped. Sarah still bore the marks of her last beating, something that happened regularly now that they had no other way to control her, so she received more blood than the others. It left her feeling strong and whole, yet so sick inside she could hardly bear it.
The party had been under way for a couple of hours when Sarah and the rest of the slaves were brought from the cellar and displayed to the dozen or so guests. Strings of tiny bulbs lit the warehouse the enclave had converted into their private fortress. Rugs and pillows were scattered over the concrete floor, and furniture was arranged in groups to encourage conversation. The guests sipped their hors d’oeuvres, glasses of blood Isabelle had poured from bottles and warmed in a microwave. As the crowd of predators turned their attention to dinner, one of the newer slaves began to cry. This incited a great deal of interest. They started to argue until Antonio, the leader of their little flock, decided which of the guests should have the pleasure of her fear. The winner led her away, triumphant, and proceeded to torment her on one of the couches while the others watched. Sarah just stared at the far wall. They wanted a reaction, something to titillate and make them feel powerful. Refusing to give it was the one small act of rebellion she had left.
A tall, athletic female walked up and studied her. Sarah paid no attention. Out of her peripheral vision, she had an impression of a black leather vest that showed off muscular arms, tight leather pants, and hair dyed as yellow as a school bus.
“This one looks interesting,” the vampire mused.
“You think so?” Lily, a petite Asian who had recently joined the enclave, shrugged. “I think we’ve broken her. But her blood is still good.”
Jacob, who had been watching to see that all the guests were taken care of, joined them.
“She is sweet,” he agreed, “but she’s almost used up. I don’t think there’s much left.” He tapped his temple meaningfully.
The yellow-haired vampire grinned. “She’s the least broken of them all. There are feelings down there, locked away where she thinks we can’t get at them. Do you have a private room where I can work on her? Give me a little time, and when I bring her out you’ll see plenty of reaction.”
Lily narrowed her eyes. She shared a look with Jacob, who smirked and gestured to a set of stairs that led to what had once been offices for the warehouse.
“We use that for storage,” he told their guest. “It’s quiet enough. Feel free.”
The vampire took Sarah’s arm and led her away. Her grip was firm but not particularly rough.
Sarah hid a grim smile. This creature was in for a rude surprise if she thought she could get past Sarah’s walls. She’d hidden her feelings so deep, even she didn’t know how to find them anymore.