Chapter 18
“You have three minutes, before I snap your neck.”
In the privacy of his hotel suite, Radu pursed his lips at Roger. Blowing this assignment, being arrested, and having the Consortium post bail gave the media too much to talk about. Nothing should distract from his announcement tomorrow.
He adjusted his cuff links before tapping his fingertips together. Governor Green of Wisconsin had been most persuasive, but the governor of Nevada was due to call in ten minutes. In between Roger and that phone call, Radu had five minutes to do something about Soleil.
The battered were-tiger stiffened, and then ran his hand through his bloodstained hair. His mended eyes remained focused just above Radu's eyebrows. “A vampire jumped in.”
Another vampire? Another one lived? Surprised, Radu tilted his head. This was most unanticipated. He'd lost so many of his undead family. The possibility of another stirred his curiosity.
“What did he look like? Did he say anything?”
“She. Dark, skinny, smelled familiar, but I couldn't get a good read on her. Too much blood.” He took a sip from the take-out coffee cup he'd carried in with him.
Either Roger was a complete idiot pausing in the middle of the explanation that might save his life, or he really,
really
loved coffee. Impatient, Radu circled his hand in the air. The excitement about this revelation could tip media attention back in Radu's favor.
Reinforced with his caffeine, Roger laid out the events in a clear, concise fashion, concluding with “Said something about him being under her protection. I've never heard of such a thing, boss, have you?”
He finished with five seconds on his clock.
Radu leaned back and looked at the blacked-out skylight in the ceiling. “Only in the old, old days. We once cultivated humans like farmers did cattle.” He shook his head and steepled his fingers. “For some reason, mortals didn't like that. There were no female territory holders.”
A few keystrokes on his slim laptop and the document he wanted appeared.
“Corbetti, I am e-mailing you a list written in 1815. At the Council of Vienna, I inventoried all known vampires. I want you to study it, tell me if you recognize any. By sunrise, I want to have on my desk a revised plan for dealing with your target. Understood?”
Roger nodded and his posture relaxed. “What about the charges?”
“Umar and Joe will take care of them,” Radu said. “We'll avoid going to court. As far as the press is concerned, we are ensuring that you, a PNC and a stranger to us, are getting a fair trial in human courts. You will be found under the influence of human drugs. Understood?”
“Yes.” Roger scuttled to the door and exited as Umar entered.
The tiger refused to make eye contact with the were-hawk lawyer as he slunk out of the room.
“I miss the old days,” Umar Mernissi sighed as he helped himself to a glass of sparkling water.
“I know. Killing the help was satisfying, but it really is much too expensive now.” Radu shrugged. “Do you have anything we can use?”
“Mr. Soleil certainly moved around. He graduated from high school in Illinois and he's an Eagle Scout. Of course”âUmar ran his fingers around the circumference of his glassâ“I had to call a former staffer in Illinois government. She opened some closed records.”
Of course. Illinois politics, Radu thought. The confidential information must have cost dearly, but would be both accurate and timely.
“And?” Radu prompted, annoyed. Umar was rarely so slow.
“Until ten years ago, Lance Soleil supported a patient at a private nursing home in Chicago's west suburbs. But never visited.”
Curious. Radu checked his watch.
Five minutes to the governor's call.
“Umar, leave me.” He waited until the graceful Arab left, and then dialed his phone.
Radu's fame unlocked doors, even ones that should stay closed.
“Why, yes, Dr. Daniels, I am
that
Radu Tepes.”
The time difference to Illinois meant he got the sanitarium just as the diurnal beings arrived, fresh and rested.
And chatty. Radu rubbed his forehead. He only had three minutes left.
He paused long enough to check his reflection. Everything still looked good, even at this late hour.
As he licked his teeth, Radu waited for the effusive Dr. Daniels to finish talking. Who knew that he'd inspire a lamia to go to medical school?
Radu cleared his throat and interrupted. “Pardon me, Dr. Daniels. I hate to rush you, but my time is limited. If I may? Thank you. The reason behind my call is I heard of a former patient of yours, one John Janté.”
Who knew that with only a little prodding, hero worship could override patient privacy? Umar shook his head at the lamia's words tumbling through the receiver.
“A most unusual case, Mr. Tepes. Mr. Janté came to us in 1990, suffering from PNC-caused wounds that refused to close. Then in the course of a week about, hmm, nine years ago perhaps, he healed unexpectedly and completely. Very mysterious. But wonderful.” The doctor chuckled. “He moved to Europe, finished college, and I believe he works in Switzerland. We never did figure out what cured him or what was wrong with him. A medical miracle.”
Victorious, Radu ended the call with a minute to spare.
“Father Soleil,” he addressed the ceiling. “I have your weakness.” He pulled a nail buffer out from his drawer and went after that cursed thumbnail.
One last glance at his watch. The Nevada governor was now two minutes late, even though he had Umar's number as well as Radu's. That simply wouldn't do for someone who wanted to be his running mate. He picked up the phone again and dialed Wisconsin.
“Governor Green? How would you like to be my vice president?”
Chapter 19
July 1988
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Mutt had Jeff, Laurel had Hardy, John Janté had Lance Soleil.
They shouldn't be friends. John's family emigrated from France when he was eleven. Three years in the States and John still exuded Gallic temper, excitability, and a Frenchman's charm. Lance prided himself on his marijuana-induced calm. John was staunchly Catholic. Lance was a lapsed Episcopalian. But Lance's sophomore year had changed everything.
Lance's summer had been spent growing. Towering over his classmates at six feet, the first four weeks of school consisted of paying back all the insults he'd swallowed since third grade. Now he was in control.
“Look at the shrimp.” Lance nudged his locker mate, Bill. “You'd think he owned the place. Let's show him who rules here.”
John continued down the hall, his clear green eyes untroubled by Lance's threats. Lance fumed. He towered over John by six inches.
“Hey, asshole!” he yelled. A quick shove and he had the frog's full attention.
John's first punch broke Lance's nose. As blood spurted down Lance's blue T-shirt, the second fist blacked an eye, rocking Lance back and into the lockers. Dazed, he slid to the floor, holding his nose. Before the teachers could even convene to interfere, John stood over Lance. Some sort of gold necklace around John's neck distracted Lance.
“Ridiculous American, are you going to do something so stupid again?”
Holding his broken nose, Lance just stared up at the black-haired, compact fury ahead of him.
“Answer me, you moron.” John's liquid accent turned Lance's already hazed brain to mush.
“I guess not,” he answered.
“Very well.” A bloody hand reached down. “Is that the latest Badger comic in your backpack or are you a complete waste of air?”
The wrestling coach shoved his way through the crowd. “You two! We're going to the principal's office right now.” The wide man hauled them by their shoulders down the stairs and into the Danville High School administrative offices.
Mr. Fairchild, an enormous former semiprofessional football player, crossed his hands over his still-hard stomach.
“Fighting in the halls? I'm sadly disappointed, gentlemen.” Shaking his bald head in mock despair, he reached for the canoe paddle over his head. Lance, his nose still dripping, cringed.
John lifted an elegant eyebrow. “As am I, Mr. Fairchild. I had heard so many things about your so-called excellent American education system, yet I see that bullies run rampant throughout your halls.” His upper lip curled in perfect, European disdain at the canoe paddle. “And I see where the students learn their manners.”
The wrestling coach coughed. The principal's secretary clutched her throat. Mr. Fairchild's lips thinned as he met John's cool gaze. For long moments, the office echoed with the faint sound of running feet out in the hall. Slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched, then the other. His entire face contorted until the man leaned forward, snorting and hooting until his face turned red.
“Gentlemen,” he wheezed. “This is the best laugh I've had for years. Thank you.”
From then on, Lance followed where John's perfect body led.
John disapproved of the pot. “Lance, think of the ladies. Would you kiss someone who tasted like that? Puh-leeze.” He rolled his expressive green eyes.
Lance quit.
John approved of studying. “Lance. Conversation? Ever hear of it?”
John's raised eyebrows sent a profound message. Lance got better grades.
John, the smoothie, knew how to talk to girls. “Lance. The ladies. Look them in the eyes and let them finish their sentences. Would you date a self-absorbed clod?” The stiff forefinger to Lance's sternum got the point across.
Senior year, Lance asked Theresa Madden out on a date after staring at her chest for two years. Astonishingly enough, she had really pretty eyes and fascinating stories of her childhood living in Egypt with her news correspondent mother.
Lance never felt as complete as he did on the nights when he, Theresa, and John sat on John's parents' sofa and watched horror movies. The heady combination of Theresa's Love's Baby Soft and John's Old Spice warmed his soul.
Last month, they finished their Eagle Scout projects. Last week, they graduated from high school. Today, they reveled in their first of many planned camping trips before Lance went to the U of I at Urbana-Champaign to study electrical engineering and John went back to Paris to study international law at the Sorbonne.
“Come visit me, my friend. You will love Paris.”
Lance started reading guidebooks.
And right now, John led him through the woods at Forest Glen Forest Preserve; they were like a mismatched Hansel and Gretel. The world, for all it was messed up and screwy, was ripe and beautiful and safe, theirs for a few hours.
Danville remained a human-only refuge from the hordes of non-humans flooding into the bigger cities in Illinois. Chicago actually had a lamia librarian in one of the city's library branches. The state buzzed with the scandal. The citizens of Danville felt smug and secure in their corner of the state.
Lance and John spiraled out from their tidy camp by the riverbank for hours, talking, hiking, and picking up trash. At one point, they posed for a photo in front of their favorite river crossing. Lance's new camera's self-timer worked like a charm.
They continued on until John stopped dead. His nose shot up in the air. “What's that?”
Lance's sense of smell had always been less than stellar. “What's what?” he asked, futilely sniffing.
“Honeysuckle. It's the wrong season,” John said, and crashed through the underbrush, his nose leading the way. Soon he was out of sight.
Lance shook his head and obediently trotted after his friend. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
“What the hell is that?”
John stood in front of a mound, at least eight feet high on the far side, with a gentle slope facing them and a strange curved cave in the middle. Orange-red honeysuckle, the exact color of Theresa Madden's pussy (a fact Lance had only discovered last weekend), covered the edges of the cavern. A trickle of water reflected back from the deepest depths of the fissure. Lighter pink flowers ringed the entrance, spreading out to wreath the entire mound in hot, arousing color. His mouth watered at the sight. Just as his cock responded to the earth's invitation, a shiver of foreboding ran down his neck.
His forebrain reemerged from the sensual haze. “Man, we should go. This gives me the creeps.” A pussy belonged on a whole woman, not made of soil and unattached to a living, feeling body.
“You lack curiosity,
mon ami,
” John retorted. “You have the merit badge in botany. You tell meâhave you ever seen anything like this before?” John circled the mound, gently brushing the sweet blooms. He sniffed his fingertips, obviously relishing the lingering scent on his skin.
“John, seriously. I mean it. Let's go. We should tell the Rangers. Not only is the damn thing not in season, honeysuckle's invasive. It needs to be controlled. Ripped out.” The urge to run made his feet itch.
“Oh, no.” A feminine voice sighed from beneath the flowers. “You wouldn't do that to me, would you?”
The boys froze.
Despite the lack of wind, the top of the mound shivered. Like a waterfall, the quivering ran down the incline, then even more improbably, ran back up to the top. Eerily, slowly, the vines twined together. The trumpet-shaped flowers clustered together, melding and melting to form flesh. Curved, narrow lips puckered and opened. A soft sigh curled a body as flowers braided together to create eyelashes and eyelids. They knotted into a woman's nude body.
The woman reclining on the peak turned her head to look at them as her reddish gold hair slithered around her shoulders. Green eyes took them in. The boys stared at her big pink nipples on top of her full, round breasts. John smoothed his shirtfront. Lance stared at the flawless white skin with a healthy blush of rose on her cheeks and belly.
She was truly angelic, beautiful enough to make the boys forget they had just seen flowers make a woman.
She stood. Curved hips and slender legs propelled her down the slope toward them. The curly pubic hair matching the hair on her head didn't conceal the enticing slit of her pussy. The warm scent of aroused woman and flowers filled Lance's veins.
Ferocious desire beat back any good sense he'd ever had.
Theresa Madden's trembling legs and vulnerable eyes disappeared from his memory. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, Lance rationalized. Besides, who could ask an eighteen-year-old boy to turn down a willing woman? Somewhere inside, a voice of innocence wailed its death in betrayal.
Lust drowned it out.
Â
“Well, hello,
ma chérie.
” John's voice got that low French burr that all the women loved. “We wouldn't dream of harming you, not at all. Won't you forgive my easily worried friend?”
Her dreamy, heavy-lidded gaze flicked over Lance, lingering on his crotch. A dimpled hand touched her throat, drawing attention to her perfect skin and tempting breasts. A shudder of something that wasn't lust made him want to run.
“John, I don't know ...”
“I'm sure you can make it up to me.” She breathed each word, like a woman climbing to orgasm. The husky syllables fed the fire in Lance's blood until his penis thumped against his fly.
One petal-soft hand wrapped around each boy's neck. The touch of her fingers made Lance's nipples stand up and rub against his Metallica T-shirt. Her body radiated sun-hot, burning through his clothes. It was too much. Lance had to reach down and adjust his trapped erection.
As one, the boys flanked her, their own hands landing around her waist. She pulled them to her body.
“Show me your goodwill?” Her lips moved in toward John's face.
Porn had never looked like this. Watching those wet tongues meet and slide against each other fired him into orbit. As she sucked John's tongue into her own mouth, Lance moaned. The shivers of concern barely registered anymore.
The woman epitomized temptation. As he watched her lick down John's neck, the thought of those soft, puckering lips around his hard penis sent a bolt of hunger down his gut. His fingers traveled up and down her spine and cupped one silky, resilient butt cheek. Hot, smooth skin greeted him. His hands caressed the baby-fine flesh of her ass as he slid closer and closer to her cleft. She tipped her head back and sighed in pleasure as both males clasped her breasts and plucked those bubblegum-pink nipples.
John tucked her against him, wrapping his arm around her narrow waist. Lance curled against them, ignoring John's compact hot body pressed against his side. Instead, he nipped at the woman's gleaming throat as John slid a denim-clad thigh between her naked ones. They watched her writhe and grind against it. Her sexual fluids gleamed on the blue jeans as she rode John's leg. Her mouth screwed up into a tight oval as she moved faster and faster until she tossed her head back and howled. The scent of flowers and sex doubled at the sound. Lance's shoulders stiffened with the struggle to stay put.
Her eyes fluttered open, her irises even darker and dreamier. Lance wanted to throw her on the ground and rut into her like a wild beast. He wanted John to watch him with admiration. He wanted to watch John fill her mouth, fill her hands with hardness. He wanted to see if they could both fit in her, make her fall apart over and over again.
“Oh, you sweet boys,” she sighed. A tiny growl underscored the sound.
As he watched her move that supple, moist, pink mouth again toward John's throat, a voice screamed in his head, “Run!”
Grabbing John's T-shirt, Lance yanked them away from the woman's grasp. Claws gouged into his jeans, tore fabric and skin from hip to waist. The pain cleared his head. Horror and shock froze his stomach.
The nose-curdling smell of blood chased away the last of the desire. He staggered under the hurt, still clutching John's clothing.
The move kept her teeth away from John's jugular vein. Instead, John's shoulder shredded under multiple rows of scalpel-sharp teeth. Bone showed through the slashes as his blood splattered over Lance's torso. His scream rang through the forest as he fell to his knees, clutching his mutilated arm.
Their erotic partner melted into her true, putrefied form. The petal-fresh skin decayed into rotten leaves hanging off dark bones. Her skeletal legs landed on the ground, clawlike toes digging into the fresh green grass. Her skull's mouth opened wider than a football in a satisfied grin and a worm-riddled tongue licked John's blood off her lips. Green tendrils sprouted from her body where the drops landed.
“Delicious. I won't go hungry for a long time after you two.” Her voice sounded like the grating of a stone sarcophagus lid against the base.