Moonlight and Diamonds & The Vampire's Fall (16 page)

Chapter 17

B
efore heading into the office, Blyss unlocked the door to the acquisitions closet, which was a small room where she stored all items received before placing them in the gallery. It was built like a safe, with two-foot-thick walls and a digital keypad that was supposed to reset the password every day, which she got updates for on her mobile.

On the night of the Marie Antoinette exhibit, she had slipped in early, replaced
Le Diabolique
with a fake and then placed the real diamond in her desk drawer until she knew she could return later with a dupe. Someone who could carry the diamond out of the museum without a clue.

Stryke was no dupe. But he had, unfortunately, served a purpose. Too well. She never could have anticipated the diamond being stolen from him at the wedding. Or that those who had taken it would be demons.

“Such a mess,” she muttered as she stepped into the dark room and flicked on the lights. A Rembrandt sat upon an easel waiting for next weekend's showing. In the center of the room, sitting under a glass case on a pedestal also made of glass, sat...

“Where is it?”

She lifted the glass cube and set it on the floor. Bending before the pedestal, Blyss examined the empty platform, her eye searching for fingerprints. She'd worn black gloves when replacing the real stone with the fake.

Someone had stolen the fake?

“They must have thought it was the real thing. More demons?”

She stood and pressed a hand to her chest. What the hell was going on? And who had gotten into this locked room with no noticeable signs of forced entry?

She turned and inspected the lock and the interior door frame. Pristine. No scratches in the metal sheathing. Her eyes took in the small room from every corner of the ceiling, down the walls and along the baseboards. There were no security cameras. She hadn't felt them necessary in this safe room. A vent near the floor was too small for anyone to access.

Unless they could shape-shift.

Blyss gasped on her own breath. A demon had been here. Had to have been. She sniffed the air, then cursed her inability to detect minute scents that Stryke or any of her breed might do with ease.

Closing the door and marching down the hallway toward the office, she cursed loudly. She did not like losing control. Someone had taken that away from her when the diamond had been stolen at the wedding. And again when stealing the fake.

Alone in the gallery office she paced, hands to hips, her high heels angrily clicking the marble floor. She couldn't call the police. To report a stolen fake? The last thing she wanted was police involvement.

She had planned this carefully. The event featuring
Le Diabolique
had not been announced to the public because she'd never intended to go through with it. Lorcan was the only one she'd needed to fool. And she had. He hadn't asked after the diamond since the night of the showing.

“This should have been so easy.”

Could Edamite be behind this? Then why had he insisted she find the diamond and bring it to him?

No, there must be another faction of demons who were also after
Le Diabolique
. How had anyone, beyond Ed, gotten the information that her gallery was to display the diamond?

She sat before the desk and scanned the acquisitions files for the past few weeks. She had been the one to receive
Le Diabolique
. It had been delivered via courier, from the back of a black Mercedes. Such a private delivery method was often utilized with valuable works that the client trusted only to his closest employees.

The courier had unlocked the titanium case from around his wrist and walked inside the gallery. She'd handed him the bill of lading to sign and had signed it herself. In turn, she had signed a form from the courier and...

“Where did I put that form? I did get a copy. It was a yellow piece of paper and had the owner's monogram on it.”

She'd noted the elaborate monogram, but at the time, she'd been so nervous about receiving the valuable item she hadn't taken time to really look at it, to determine what letters were woven into the monogram.

She'd become accustomed to overlooking things. Her expectations for all things fine and luxurious had blinded her to details. She could spot a bottle of Krug fifty feet off, but to really say what the label looked like? No clue. Louboutins were a no-brainer. The red sole! But as for the actual design on the main part of the shoe? Just glimpses here and there.

And a sparkling ten-carat diamond always caught her eye, but the setting was never important.

“I can't find it. Maybe Lorcan hasn't transferred it to the digital files.”

Her assistant went through the paperwork every few days. And where was Lorcan, anyway? He hadn't called in sick. He simply hadn't shown up for work. Could he be on a bender? She had suspected him of excess drinking or a drug problem because his eyes were often red and puffy and he always had an excuse for a missed morning.

Blyss dialed his number but the phone didn't ring. Instead she got a canceled-number recording.

“Weird.”

She had a sneaky feeling she'd never hear from Lorcan again. Had he been in on it? Who was Lorcan Price? She'd thought him merely human. Could he possibly be a paranormal breed? But what? Thanks to the pills she took, she had no way to sense a fellow paranormal. Was it possible he'd been in on the placement of the diamond from the get-go? Could Lorcan be demon?

Had
Le Diabolique
specifically been delivered to her with the hopes it would be stolen because...

“Why?” Blyss asked herself. “It doesn't make sense. Unless Thrash is involved. But then he would have never needed me to steal it in the first place. I don't understand this.”

It was as if someone had expected her to take
Le Diabolique
and wanted to make it easy. And with no police investigation to hamper or bring suspicion, then she got off free.

As did the person who had ultimately arranged for this heist in the first place.

That person had to be the one who sought to release the demon from the stone. Yes?

“Makes weird sense.”

Then again, why not simply keep the stone and not go through the process of handing it to her gallery? What if she had never agreed to steal the diamond? This made so little sense!

Blyss grabbed her purse and locked up. She hadn't located any clues here. Instead, she'd found only further questions. And a missing fake. Should she call Stryke? He was out with her brother at this moment trying to track
Le Diabolique
. She couldn't provide him any additional information that would help that search.

She'd wait for him to return and tell him her suspicions.

And then she'd tell him again that she loved him. Because more and more she believed what she'd said almost by accident earlier.

There was something about Stryke's kiss that wouldn't allow her to turn away. To instead seek a man who would offer her riches, vacations or false compliments. She wanted Stryke's kiss. Because it tasted like him. Because it tasted like something fine she could never possess. Because it tasted real.

And more and more, she craved real.

* * *

“Who is that?” Stryke asked.

A beautiful redhead in a tight black lace dress strode toward the three men. She wore heels high enough to make a man jump for mercy. And her breasts vied to escape the low neckline. Well, well.

Kir whistled. “I've always loved blondes.”

“Blonde? She's a redhead,” Stryke muttered with growing interest.

“Gentlemen,” Ed said quietly, and with a distinct warning, as he squeezed the river water from his shirt hem. “That's not a woman. The Saint-Pierre idiot just called up the Dark Prince.”

“Ah shit.” Kir straightened and looked aside to avoid seeing what he knew was illusion.

Those who looked upon Himself saw an image of their greatest temptation.

“What do you mean?” Stryke asked. “She looks like Blyss, but instead with red hair.”

“Now is no time to be racking up brother-in-law points,” Kir hissed. “Get a whiff of the guy.”

Stryke inhaled, expecting some sexy perfume, and instead got a nostril blast of the worst sulfur ever. Hell. He
had
called up the devil Himself.

Heh. He'd called up Himself.

Now, to get down to business.

“Who the hell are you?” The gorgeous woman stood with hands on hips looking too painfully delicious. Her bright green eyes, framed by lush black lashes, took in the trio. Her tongue dashed out to lick red lips. Everything about her was so wrong. “I know the demon Thrash and Kirnan Sauveterre.” Her gemstone eyes fixed on Stryke and her teeth actually glinted, as if in a TV commercial. “But you don't belong in Paris.”

“I'm Stryke Saint-Pierre.”

“Ah.” The woman smirked. “I remember a thing with your grandfather Eduoard Credence Saint-Pierre. Something about his daughter, too. Kambriel...” The name sifted from the woman's lips with such lustful reverence Stryke shuddered.

He'd heard about Kambriel's unfortunate stumble upon Himself after moving to Paris to
find herself
, and how the devil had fallen in love with her and seduced her out of her wits. She'd been lost for months in a trippy sort of head game, a virtual slave to the Master of Darkness, until Johnny Santiago had come along and rescued her.

Stryke needed to keep a cool head when dealing with this Demon of All Demons. And that was something he was expert at.

“Why are you after
Le Diabolique
?” he asked the Dark Prince. “Don't you have enough power in this realm? And why unleash another überpowerful demon to torment the humans? You'll get their souls soon enough.”

“Insolent!”

If getting sucker punched by a sexy woman wasn't humiliating enough, landing the wall face-first and feeling his nose crunch was. Stryke swallowed blood, grinned and spun around. But, expecting to face off against a gorgeous woman, he abruptly halted his charge when before him stood Himself in his true guise.

The Demon of all Demons was formed all of black muscles and sinew, towering four heads higher than Kir, the tallest of the three men. His shoulders were as wide and bulky as a Barcalounger. Glossy black talons scythed out from the ends of his fingers, putting all horror-movie villains to shame.

At his temples were huge ebony horns just like a matador's nightmare. The demon's red eyes glowed above a haughty stretched-leather smirk that revealed an imperious glint of fangs.

“Now,” Himself said in tones that cut like ice down Stryke's spine. “What is this about
Le Diabolique
? I banished the demon Xyloda into that stone centuries ago. Why do you think I would want to bring that bastard out?”

“Because the lair to perform Xyloda's releasement ritual is set up below your Club l'Enfer,” Stryke said.

Himself cast a steaming gaze toward Edamite, who, still dripping with river water, bowed his head and stepped back. “I have no intel, Your Darkness,” the demon muttered.

Finding his courage, Kir stepped up beside Stryke. “It's true. We saw the lair. Four demons of the twelve required for the blood sacrifice have already been captured. Surely more have been acquired since we've seen the place.”

Himself coiled his meaty hands into fists. Behind him, the river Seine actually steamed, mimicking the dark lord's boiling anger.

“We're trying to stop the release from happening,” Stryke said, finding his stance and not fearing another hit from Himself. He was still swallowing his own blood from the punch, but at least he was standing and had his wits about him. “If you're not involved, then tell us who is, and we'll take care of it.”

“You'll take care of it?” Himself tilted his head at him, the horns moving dangerously close. One slice from those could take off his head or half his body. “You, a frail werewolf, and his idiot cohorts? Of what value does it serve you to stop Xyloda's release?”

Stryke splayed out his hands before him and offered, “I like my world as demon-free as possible.”

Edamite coughed.

Himself sneered. Steam hissed from his black nostrils. But he did not move toward Stryke for another punch.

“So your heroic quest has nothing to do with the tasty bitch who can't decide if she wants to be wolf or human?”

Stryke lifted his jaw. “It has everything to do with Blyss. And she's happy with what she is right now.”

“You don't know her very well, boy.” Himself eyed Kir up and down and then Ed. “I will not tolerate Xyloda's release. I will end this right now. But the three of you won't escape without proper recompense. I will ensure those who stole
Le Diabolique
are aware of exactly who wished their plot foiled.”

Kir and Stryke exchanged looks that said “can't we get a break?”

“That's for the comment about the world having fewer demons,” Himself said to Stryke. “If that is all, then, gentlemen, I'll be off.”

“I'll go with you,” Stryke said, pausing the Dark Prince. “To stop the demons from releasing Xyloda.”

Himself tilted his head, considering the offer. “You watch too much television, werewolf. This isn't a supernatural buddy episode.”

“Yeah, but I sure as hell wish it was. At least then I'd know a happy ending waited for me. I need to finish what I've started. I promised Blyss I'd take care of matters between her and Thrash regarding that diamond. And until that big black stone is found, it's dangerous.”

Himself blinked, and when he eyed Stryke this time his corneas were black around the red irises with a slit of black in their centers. “Your offer amuses me.”

The demon king clapped his hands together once, and Stryke suddenly stood in a dark chamber carved from dirt and limestone. Torches lit the vast space, and when he took in his surroundings he found the twelve cages were all filled. And he wasn't sure what number, exactly,
denizens
equaled, but he guesstimated a good twenty to thirty demons standing to one side of the room, each of them lifting their heads to eye Stryke and Himself.