Everlasting Desire (4 page)

Getting to his feet, he wandered around the room. It was totally feminine, from the pale yellow walls, flowered sofa, and colorful throw pillows, to the knickknacks on the mantel and the fancy curtains at the window. He stopped in front of a bookshelf and spent a few minutes perusing the titles. Her taste ran to mysteries and romances, neither of which appealed to him.

He was about to turn the TV on again when a muffled cry reached his ears. Megan!

A thought carried him up the stairs to her room. The door was locked, but he had yet to come across a lock that could keep him out when he wanted in.

A whisper of preternatural power opened the door, and he stepped into her room. A quick glance showed it was just as feminine as the living room. The walls were pink, the carpet a deep mauve. Flowered curtains hung at the single window. A matching quilt in colors of pink, mauve, and forest green lay folded over the foot of the bed. An antique dresser stood against the wall opposite the bed; a small desk occupied one corner, the seat cushion on the chair covered in the same material as the curtains.

On silent feet, he made his way to Megan's bedside. She looked incredibly young and innocent lying there, her hair like a splash of reddish gold silk across the flowered pillowcase, the blankets pulled up to her chin. Of course, everyone seemed young and innocent when compared to him and the life he had led, he mused ruefully. No one could do the things he had done, see the carnage he had seen, and remain innocent.

Megan moaned softly. Caught in the throes of a bad dream, her body moved restlessly beneath the covers.

“Megan.” He whispered her name as he toed off his boots. After stretching out beside her, he drew her body against his, one arm holding her close while he lightly stroked her hair. “It's all right, darlin'. I'm here. No one will hurt you,” he promised. Not even me.

Still asleep, she quieted at the sound of his voice, and then she snuggled against him, her body warm and soft and oh, so alive. And in that moment, as her scent enveloped him, he knew that, for better or worse, he wanted more from Megan DeLacey than her life's blood.

He stayed at her side until a familiar tingling along his spine warned him of dawn's approach.

Rising, he pulled on his boots, then rained featherlight kisses along the alluring curve of her slender throat. A thought took him to the theater parking lot where they had left her car the night before.

Taking time to drive her car home was cutting it close, he mused. He parked her car in the driveway, left her keys on the kitchen table, then slid behind the wheel of the Jag and put the pedal to the metal.

She was sweet, he thought, as he sped toward his penthouse. So sweet. And one day soon, she would be his in every way that mattered.

It was near midnight when Rhys transported himself to his second lair. The house was little more than an empty shell. Except for three large, tan leather sofas and a couple of overstuffed chairs, there was no furniture in the room. No pictures on the walls. No lights save for a large wrought-iron candelabra. A medieval sword hung over the fireplace. The grip was made of wood covered in shagreen leather. It wasn't merely for decoration. Rhys had used it on more than one occasion. He had, in fact, used it to take the head of the vampire who had recently betrayed him. Rhys used the house as a meeting place to conduct vampire business; on occasion, he took his rest in the walk-in pantry that had been converted to serve that purpose, but not often. There'd been a time when he'd kept a Mastiff to guard the house, but someone had poisoned the dog and he hadn't gotten around to finding another one.

Tonight, he had called a meeting of the West Coast Vampire Council to see if any of the members had information on the killings in the East. A rogue vampire was bad news for all of them. He didn't summon the Council to LA unless there was trouble of one sort or another brewing. And the killings in the East smelled like trouble. Big trouble.

While waiting for the Council to arrive, he let himself think of the night past. He had held Megan in his arms until just before dawn. It was a testament to his self-control that all he did was hold her when his body had urged him to take her while she slept, while his hunger had urged him to feed. Monster he might be, but to take advantage of Megan while she slept was unthinkable. Tempting as she was, he wouldn't defile her in such a despicable way.

He tucked thoughts of Megan safely away as the members of the Council arrived.

Five members of the Council had been destroyed not long ago. Damon had been killed by Erik Delacourt. Saul had been destroyed by Daisy. Tina and Craig had been terminated by Daisy's brother, Alex. Rhys had destroyed Mariah for her betrayal. News of her destruction, which had been slow and painful, had spread quickly through the vampire community, a warning to others who thought to betray him.

Rhys surveyed the remaining members of the original Council. The handsome vampire with dark, slicked-back hair and a thin mustache was Rupert Moss. He reminded Rhys of a young Valentino. Rupert kept his lair in Idaho.

The tall, angular vampire with wispy gray hair and pale blue eyes was Nicholas. He had been turned when he was in his late seventies, something Rhys had always found a little creepy. He could understand why humans didn't want to die, but to be immortal at seventy? What was the point? Nicholas spent most of his time in Arizona.

Julius Romano was a California boy who had started dealing drugs in high school. Of medium height, with brown eyes and short brown hair, he had been turned when he was twenty-three. A red-and-black snake tattoo ran the length of his left arm.

Rhys had appointed four new members of the Council shortly after he'd destroyed Mariah.

Adrianna made her home in New Mexico. She was fire and ice, that one, with her flaming red hair and cold blue eyes. She had a penchant for diamonds and furs and was rarely seen without one or the other. She had been a vampire for one hundred and fifty years, and she reveled in it. Rhys didn't like her and he didn't trust her, which was why he had brought her into the Council where he could keep an eye on her. If there was one thing about women he was certain of—it was that the female was always deadlier and more cunning than the male. Mariah had been proof of that.

Mark Winchester resided in Montana. He was a good-looking kid, with his wheat-blond hair and dark brown eyes. Winchester had been a year younger than Rhys when he was turned. Built like a Mack truck, Winchester had been a college quarterback in mortality. He had been turned by an admirer after a football game. Fifteen years later, he was still bitter about having to give up football, but there was no help for it. After all was said and done, there were only so many excuses he could use for constantly missing practice and day games.

Stuart Hastings made his lair in Medford, Oregon, where he had once been a renowned surgeon. He hated what he had become. Rhys couldn't blame him. For a man whose sole reason for living had been saving lives, becoming one of the Undead seemed like a cruel trick.

Seth Adams had been a Union soldier during the Civil War. He would have died at Gettysburg if a hungry vampire hadn't found him, bleeding and near death, on the battlefield. Adams resided in Washington.

“So,” Adrianna said, looking bored, “why have you called us here?”

Rhys told them as succinctly as possible about the killings in the East. “Have any of you heard anything?” he asked, glancing around the room. “Winchester?”

“What?”

Rhys shook his head. “Stop texting, and pay attention. I asked if you've heard anything about the killings in New York.”

The kid shrugged one big, burly shoulder. “Nah.”

“What about you, Adrianna?”

“Nothing. How do you know it's a vampire?”

“I know.

“I had an e-mail from an old friend who lives in New York,” Rupert said. “He heard the report on a police scanner and went to the scene. It was definitely the work of a vampire. Neat. Clean. He was positive that an old one was responsible.”

Rhys nodded. An old one. There were a number of aged vampires on the East Coast. Of course, that didn't prove anything. Few vampires stayed long in one place. “What about you, Julius?”

“I haven't heard anything, but I say we stop sneaking around and join up with whoever it is.”

“I'm not looking for a war,” Rhys retorted. “I've had enough of that. Nick?”

“I haven't heard anything other than what was said on the news, but to my way of thinking, there's no point in worrying about it now. Unless the rogue comes here, I don't see how it concerns us.”

Rhys swept his gaze over the Council. “We've lived under the radar for quite a while. I'm older than any of you. I remember what it was like to be hunted by hysterical mobs wielding scythes and torches. It isn't something I want to experience again.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Nicholas said. “What do you want us to do?”

“For now, just keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear of anything the least bit suspicious, tell me immediately. The last thing I want is a bunch of humans running scared. They might be weak and sometimes stupid, but they're persistent when they get their tails in a knot. One more thing, there's a new hunter here in LA.”

“Anyone we know?” Nicholas asked, and then frowned. “It's not that Blood Thief, is it?”

“No,” Rhys said, grinning, “it's not her.” Those who knew Daisy had good reason to fear her. In spite of being young and a woman, she had been a force to be reckoned with.

Rhys remembered Daisy well. He had been at rest here, in the pantry of the meeting house, minding his own business, when her brother, Alex, had attacked him. The two of them had been locked in a life-and-death battle when Daisy burst into the room and hurled a bottle of holy water at his head. Rhys had howled in pain and fury as the water burned his skin. With murder on his mind, he had whirled around to face her. He could only imagine how frightful he must have looked, with his eyes glowing like hell's own flames and his fangs dripping with her brother's blood. But it hadn't slowed her down. With a wild cry, she had pulled a stake from her pocket, lunged forward, and driven the damn thing into his chest. Had her hand been steadier, her aim true, she would have destroyed him on the spot.

Funny, how things never turned out the way you expected. He had fully intended to avenge himself on the Blood Thief and her brother; instead, they had become reluctant allies. But that was all in the past.

His gaze rested briefly on each member of the Council. “All right, you all know what to do. Now get out of here.”

Tomás Villagrande strolled through the streets of New Orleans admiring the lacy iron balconies that fronted so many of the buildings, the Spanish moss that hung from the branches of the trees, giving them a somewhat gothic look that appealed to him.

In the old days, the city, founded in 1718 under the direction of Jean Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville, had been known as
La Nouvelle-Orléans.
Tomás had walked its streets then, too.

The city had changed much in 292 years.

He had not.

A thought took him to the French Quarter, his favorite part of the city. He strolled down Bourbon Street, which was virtually unchanged from days gone by and was still the center of town. Rows of townhouses and cottages lined the sidewalks, many with elaborate wrought-iron balconies, flagstone courtyards, and bubbling fountains.

The first floors of many houses had been turned into commercial enterprises, with living quarters upstairs.

No matter the time of day or night, the streets in the Quarter were always crowded. Tourists quickly learned three things about this part of the city—the bars never closed, the food was spicy, and there was music everywhere. Jackson Square was another area that bustled with activity, a place where fortune tellers, jugglers, musicians, and artists gathered to perform and sell their wares.

A thought took him to the Garden District, which remained one of the city's most popular and picturesque areas. The houses, done in magnificent Victorian, Greek Revival, and Italianate styles, were beautiful, timeless. The Garden District had originally been the site of a plantation, but later it had been sold and subdivided into lots for wealthy Americans.

Leaving the Garden District behind, Tomás thought briefly about the young man he had dined on earlier. He had left the body of his victim atop a stone angel in St. Louis Cemetery #1 where it was sure to be found. By morning, the citizens of New Orleans would be in a state of frenzy, as were the sheep in New York and Chicago and a few other cities where Tomás had left evidence of his presence with the bodies he had left behind. The word “vampire” would travel the length of New Orleans before dawn.

Thanks to Anne Rice, New Orleans knew all about vampires, he thought with a grin. Some of the most popular tourist attractions were the vampire tours, including a stop at something called the Vampire Tavern. Tomás had, in years past, appeared to one tour group or another. He had let them see him as he truly was, with his eyes glowing red and his fangs extended, and then vanished from their sight. It was always good for a laugh. Yes, it was entertaining to stir up the masses from time to time, though he had changed his mind about urging those of his clan to come out of hiding and prey openly upon the populace. It had been an idea born out of the dreariness of his life.

A full-scale war, once started, was difficult to curtail, even for one as old and powerful as he.

He thought of the body he had left behind in St. Louis Cemetery #1. The cemetery, located eight blocks from the Mississippi River on the north side of Basin Street, and one block from the inland border of the French Quarter, was the city's oldest and most famous burial ground.

Tomás grinned ruefully. Only in New Orleans would graveyards be considered places of interest. Since the city itself was built on a swamp, the deceased were buried in above-ground tombs. The cemeteries had come to be known as “cities of the dead” due to the elaborate sculptures and decorative artwork that adorned the crypts and mausoleums. Many of the tombs were well maintained; some were surrounded by decorative wrought-iron fences, others were little more than piles of crumbling red brick. The tomb of the fictional vampire, Louis, from
Interview With a Vampir
e had been located here. It was rumored that Anne Rice had purchased a tomb in #1 for her eventual use.

There were those who considered the cemetery to be located in a bad part of town, since it bordered the Iberville housing projects. On the plus side, the New Orleans Police Department was practically right next door. Still, wise tourists didn't visit the place alone, didn't stay after dark, and certainly didn't carry anything of value with them.

Marie Laveau, the legendary “voodoo queen,” was buried in the cemetery. Even now, long after her death, believers and nonbelievers came to visit her tomb, where they performed an act most thought odd. First, they left a gift—either of food, money, or flowers—for her spirit. After that, they turned around three times, and then inscribed an
X
on her tomb in hopes of receiving blessings in the future.

Tomás had met Marie on several occasions. Both of them. Few people knew that when the first Marie Laveau retired, her daughter, who had also been named Marie, took over. Both had been tall, statuesque women, with curly black hair, flashing eyes, and reddish skin. Back in the 1800s, people of all colors and classes had sought Marie's help, whether with ordinary, everyday problems, or affairs of the heart.

Marie wasn't the only famous person buried in the cemetery. It also held the remains of Bernard de Marigny, a French-Creole playboy who had introduced the game of craps to the United States.

He paused on Bourbon Street to listen to a little Dixieland, his foot tapping to the music as he scanned the crowd. He wasn't looking for prey now, at least not the kind he dined on. His gaze came to rest on a raven-haired beauty with bright blue eyes and the kind of complexion that used to be described as peaches and cream.

When her gaze met his, he inclined his head. Unable to resist the compulsion in his eyes, she walked toward him, slim hips swaying. He assured her she had nothing to fear as he slipped his arm around her waist. Young men were for relieving one's hunger, and he took them quietly, quickly. But young women. Ah, how he loved the taste and smell of young females. Before killing them, he often made love to them, giving them pleasure before he thrust into them one last time, before he drank the last drop.

A thought took them to the Ferretti, which was moored in the harbor. He gave her a tour of the yacht, and she was suitably impressed, and then he took her into his bed, where he impressed her several times before the sun came up.