C
HAPTER
4
“
G
o the hell home, Janté. You've pulled an unnecessary Governight for the last time. I can't afford for you to flame out.”
His boss's order still bouncing in his head, John Janté stormed out of one of the computer rooms at the European Organization for Nuclear Research, aka CERN, aka home of the Large Hadron Collider. Furious, he tromped his way to the train station.
“
Scheisse.
” John Janté loved his mother tongue of French, but some days, only the abrupt sounds of vulgar German would do. Already it was April, but winter had yet to release John from its merciless, hopeless grip.
In November, Lance had abandoned John for the second time. Despite several months of teasing e-mails, three weeks ago, his delicious Dracula had disappeared.
He slung his wrist through the strap of the train from CERN to his apartment in Geneva. The gleaming clean metal surfaces used to cheer him, reassure him about the industry and efficiency of his coworkers. Today, as he had for the last six months, he dug his chin into his chest in an attempt to remember the warmth of a vampire's touch.
As a system administrator, his job was to ensure that the computers that processed the petabytes of data ran like the well-tuned engine of a Shelby Mustang. Since his return in November, he spent sixteen hours a day working. Work was going better than ever.
This crazy burnout-inducing schedule had not been lost on his manager or his coworkers. Of course he couldn't hide it. What had John been thinking when he hired into an organization full of the world's brightest people?
Despite the tough love of his fellow sys admins, John's broken heart had sapped his vitality and optimism.
John exited the train, not noticing the feminine glances sent his way. A short walk through the village and he would be able to log on to work remotely.
He was sure his vision of two loves in his life had been a true Seeing. It had been so clear: the three of them laughing so hard they sloshed red wine all over his pristine sheets.
More fool him. Another cosmic joke. The uncharacteristic bitterness hunched his shoulders and forced his eyebrows into painful furrows. Despair had infiltrated his soul. It tore at the mortar of his very being.
The scents of warm bread, baked fruit, and herbs interrupted his cold and dark thoughts. His favorite bakery, the one he used to visit every day, was open. Ever since he'd returned from the United States, he had been working too late to purchase fresh bread. Fresh brioche and decadent pastries tempted him from the shiny glass window. The crusts gleamed, shiny from their egg wash. The rounded tops of blushing apricots reminded him of a sensual woman's breasts. A mille-feuille dripped custard down its flaky layers, reminding him of creamy, sticky feminine arousal.
He swallowed.
The lamia owner curled her snake tail at him, motioning him to come in.
What the hell? He would dare seeing people he used to talk to every day. He had nothing to lose.
As he opened the door, a rosemary aroma warmed his winter-weary nose. The snake-woman held a fresh
chausson aux pommes
in one hand, tempting John with the apple slices tucked into a fresh puff pastry.
“Free for one of your smiles, my friend.” The lamia waved it under his nose. Cloves and cardamom set his mouth to watering. The still-warm pastry knocked a chip from the ice coating his heart.
John's lower lip curved as much as it could.
“Good enough.” She shrugged and handed over the hot fruit delicacy. “Winter is lifting,” she commented.
The woman's snake-hair stretched to soak in the stronger sunlight.
“How can you tell?”
His baker merely smiled. “Snakes always know when the sun returns.”
Normally, he would have flirted with the charming woman, but today, he took his indulgence and exited as fast as he could. Not even her beauty could unlock his hurt.
But her gift certainly was delicious. John licked his fingers clean, his step ever so slightly lighter.
A blast of sulfur and the crash of a body hitting trash cans ruined the first pleasure he'd had in months.
“What the hell?” he snapped as he rounded the corner into a dark alley.
Hell
was an appropriate word. Four Fallen Angels, disguised as skinheads, kicked the life out of a fallen man.
The victim groaned and rolled over. John recognized Harley Ramsey, one of the preeminent physicists at CERN. He'd been short-listed for a Nobel Prize this week.
White hot outrage broke through what pleasure had only cracked. John could no more walk away from an innocent in pain than he could lick the outside of his elbow.
His depression disappeared, replaced with the certainty of his true identity. He was a Guide. Fallen Angels were his to school.
Unthinking, John sprinted into the alley. He grabbed the closest Fallen by the collar.
“Stop this!”
Harley groaned in pain. Angry, John stepped forward. The skinheads lifted their chains and two-by-fours. “I don't think so, shrimpy.”
John smiled, his heart full of fire again. He'd not wanted to punch someone in the nose this badly since sophomore year in high school. Fabulous.
One of them swung at John, and he heaved the false skinhead into a metal fire door. The Fallen tumbled over the cobblestones, and his head cracked against the unyielding surface. Ash drifted in the suddenly silent air.
What the fuck? Since when were angels so easy to kill?
The three remaining angels' jaws dropped as they watched the ash drop.
“It's
him
,” one breathed in awe.
A painful moment later, John stumbled and tripped against a cobblestone himself. His cheek was already rising in a bruise, but the nearest Fallen had a broken nose and a split lip. John shook out his hand. This was harder than when he was fifteen. Inspired, he tossed a fistful of dirt into his opponent's eyes.
The Fallen screamed and grabbed at his face, dropping the knife. John pounced on it. He pulled the Fallen's arm behind his back. The joint teetered on the edge of dislocating.
John placed the knife against the other's kidney. “Step away from Harley, or this one dies.”
The three undercover agents of Lucifer exchanged a series of glances. At some wordless signal, the one in John's arms shoved himself backward onto the knife. Wet ash splattered over John's jacket.
Stunned, John gaped at the Fallen that approached him. “What is this?” he asked in French.
“Please, man, you gotta help us,” one of them whispered.
“We want to go home.” The other looked over his shoulder as though expecting Lucifer himself to pop up like a jackin-a-box.
“You want to die?” John asked. This made no sense.
“But you gotta make it look good, okay?” the first one whispered. “Or he'll catch on.”
“He who?” John whispered back. “What's going on?”
“The man below.” At John's widened eyes, the Fallen's voice deepened. “We want out. You're our ticket.”
Before John processed what the other man said, a familiar voice called out.
“May I join the fun?”
A blast of rosemary confirmed the identity of the speaker. His vampiress had returned! The sky seemed to ring with the powerful notes of the “Hallelujah Chorus.”
The Fallen glanced behind them. When they saw Valerie with knives in her hands, their expressions turned worshipful.
“Impale us, favored one!” In a rush, they dashed their chests on her weapons. Their bodies collapsed, and like fireworks, ash fell in a graceful chrysanthemum pattern.
John met Valerie's confused gaze.
A slight pink blush decorated her high cheekbones. Her magnificent hazel eyes still shone with secrets, but happier ones. Her black coat framed her pregnant figure.
Wait, what?
Vampires couldn't get pregnant.
Valerie's first words struck him dumb. “Are the Fallen getting dumber every day? It's like they want to die.”
“Ah . . .” John took in Valerie's remarkably rounded figure.
“Yes. You can say it. Knocked up, preggers, enceinte. Take your choice. Come on; let's get this guy to the hospital.”
John called the emergency number while Valerie attended Harley's contusions. “He's going to be just fine in a few days. He's part were-hippo. His skull is remarkably intact.”
Eventually, the ambulance came and left. What seemed hours later, the police finished their reports. Only then did John place his hot hand on Valerie's hard stomach.
“How did this happen,
chou
?”
“Not a clue. I was hoping your family records might have some insight. Let's get out of here.” Valerie sniffed him. “And please tell me that bakery has éclairs.”
John's heart's door opened, and spring burst into bloom inside of him.
Who cared what the Fallen were up to when love enfolded him so very securely?
C
HAPTER
5
M
axwell swallowed his drool as he cut into his breakfast kipper. The Rebels stripped themselves of all earthly pleasures when they left in their huff. No taste, no sex, no scents beyond those that suited the theme of Headquarters. In refusing to serve humans, none shared the joys of that work.
The Highest had warned them what Lucifer and his friends would be losing, but it seemed so unimportant then. Over eons, even profound memories of pleasure faded beyond recall.
Dressed in the form of Mina Harker's father, his salivary glands worked double time remembering the divine brews of the Angel of Fermentation. Shaking with anticipation, Maxwell placed the first bite of his first meal in his ravenous mouth.
The smoky, salty fish blended perfectly into the baked egg that streamed across his plate like the Milky Way. The delights of the flesh were more than his deprived soul could handle.
Flavor exploded through his being like an orgasm. Not that he'd ever had one, but this had to be what it was like. The appendage between his legs twitched. Perhaps he could test that hypothesis later in the evening.
Mina Harker had created an alternative London, a little pocket in the folds of the multiverse, in order to create a haven for her damaged mind. She had populated it with imaginary family members, servants, shops, and parks as well as televisions, modern fashion, and electricity. As befitting a Victorian-style home, though, she had filled it with colored wallpaper, the textures of lace and velvet, and every form of knickknack available. His team was nearly helpless in the wake of such sensory overload and it was their first hour of the mission.
In this beautiful, detailed world, Radu Tepes had never ruined her life.
“Is the fish not to your liking, Father?” His so-called daughter, seated across from him at the long, ornate table, watched him with confused eyes. “You are eating so slowly.”
Rather than reveal his secret gluttony, Maxwell changed the topic.
“I have received news that might be too much for your heart. But I cannot keep it from you,” he said, keeping in role as the concerned parent.
Here was the crux of his mission. Lucifer had ordered a trap for Lance Soleil. Threaten his Guide, his best friend, and almost lover, and the angel would fall right back to where he belongedâriding the endless movers in the airport of futility instead of bringing light and hope to those who were lost. If John Janté's life couldn't pull Lance out of hiding, then nothing could.
Mina's hand fluttered to the slight slope of her left breast, the very picture of the fragile, protected Victorian daughter. Blue veins throbbed under her cheesecloth-translucent skin. Her already big brown eyes carried dark green circles around them, revealing her weak heart and poor circulation.
No one really knew what Mina Harker really was. She slept at night and went out in the sun. She ate food. Her gap-toothed smile revealed no fangs.
Like a vampire, however, she loved ostentation. She wore a necklace of pink pearls larger than Maxwell's thumbnail. Her earrings dangled down the full length of her neck, encrusted with more pearls, diamonds, and some colored stone he couldn't identify. Her hair swirled around her face in a sixties-inspired updo; her shoes were some high-heeled objets d'art.
“What is it that I should know, Father?” Mina asked.
“I found your husband.” Maxwell dropped his answer like a dead body in the middle of the breakfast table. She choked into her monogrammed linen napkin at his casual tone.
“How?” she demanded, anger shoving color into her face.
In answer, Maxwell pointed a remote at the ornate sideboard. A carved panel rose, revealing a state-of-the-art flat-screen television.
The screen blinked into activity.
“Today, a French citizen in Geneva heroically saved the life of Dr. Harley Ramsey, a prominent physicist at CERN. One of Dr. Ramsey's coworkers, a system administrator named John Janté, interrupted an assault on the black scientist by a group of known white supremacists.
“The alleged attackers have disappeared. Dr. Ramsey is in good condition at an undisclosed hospital.
“Our viewers may remember Mr. Janté from his part in the role of discrediting American vampire Radu Tepes last year. This is the only statement Mr. Janté had to give.”
The dark-haired Frenchman appeared on the screen, a large purple bruise swelling his eye and cheek to grotesque proportions. He waved away the cameras as he mounted the steps to an apartment building in downtown Geneva. “It was nothing. You'd all do the same thing, too. Good day.”
Mina's eyes flashed an unholy color.
“Him!”
She shoved herself away from the antique table. Her hands gripped the marble edge. As she moved toward the television, Maxwell saw shallow indentations in a perfect rainbow of fingerprints. Not as strong as a vampire, but something else altogether.
Something guttural and violent roughened her childish voice. “He destroyed my Maker. Bring him to me. Alive.”
Like an ice cube in boiling water, the brutal passion disappeared back into her body. Her elocution smoothed back to properly educated speech. The raging beast inside of her dissolved into a proper Victorian lady with a weak heart.
“Yes, please.” She dabbed at her lips with a monogrammed linen napkin. “I feel faint. I must rest.” Gesturing with a limp hand, Mina ordered the housemaid to follow her mistress upstairs.
Maxwell leaned away from the table, the food smelling less wonderful. He and his team exchanged nervous glances. Something dreadful boiled beneath Mina's fragile surface, something that could foul up their plan.
What had Radu Tepes done to this woman?