The Vampire King (21 page)

A while ago, he had magically formed the cellar around her, threatened her again with a showing of his fangs, and then disappeared up the stairs and through the door. Now he was back.

Evie turned away from his tall outline and stared straight ahead at the dim, dank gray of the concrete room. She heard his footsteps descend the stairs to her level and every muscle in her body tensed.

“I may not be able to read your mind, but I can hear your heart, Evie. You’re afraid of me.”

“Congratulations. You must feel like a real man.”

Evie heard his footsteps draw near, slow, and stop a short foot away. “I’m curious,” he said. “You’re immune to vampire powers. I wonder how you would do against warlock abilities.”

Evie didn’t even have time to fully contemplate what he could mean by that before he was grabbing her roughly by the front of her shirt and lifting her off of the ground. She made a small squealing sound and her fingers automatically wrapped around his wrist, but of course he was much stronger than she was.

Her back slid against the stone wall behind her until she was at eye level with him. “Did you know that a warlock can make his victim feel anything he wishes her to feel simply by touching her?”

Oh no,
she thought.
Here comes the pain. God I hope I can take it.

His gaze narrowed and his blue eyes took on an otherworldly cast as his magic spread out from him and she could feel it ooze over her. The air grew warmer, thicker, as if charged with humid electricity. But that was all.

Nothing else happened. There was no pain. Only the cold of the wall behind her seeping through her clothing and the ever-present threat in the blue of her captor’s eyes.

Finally, his lips spread in a smile. “It’s as I thought,” he said, his words, his voice so close, they abraded Evie’s nerve endings. “You’re immune to that as well.” Very slowly, he allowed her to slide back down the wall until she was standing on her own two feet again.

Evie had the sudden urge to shove at him, to kick him in the balls, to head butt him in the nose – anything that would make him step away from her. But he was relatively calm at the moment, and any violence she showed him would only anger him. She knew damn well she couldn’t really hurt him.

Charles released her shirt and curled his finger beneath her chin. Evie stiffened. “It’s fortunate I didn’t waste time attempting a spell on you at the safe house,” he said. “It clearly wouldn’t have worked.”

He stared long and hard into her eyes, and when Evie tried to look away, his grip on her chin tightened. “It does make me wonder,” he said, almost conversationally, “what kind of blood it is that runs through your body. You’re obviously not entirely human.”

That was what Roman had told her. And though the man touching her at the moment made her feel queasy, she had to admit that she was curious about herself as well. It had been swimming beneath the surface of her consciousness since she’d seen the vision of Charles and his murder victim. Why had she seen it?

She had grown immune to Roman’s mind-reading abilities, apparently in addition to other vampire powers. And now a warlock’s magic was failing against her as well. It was a strange dichotomy of emotions that were evoked within her. The truth was, she felt a little empowered to have this ability against vampires and warlocks. But she was also scared. Because she didn’t understand
why
.

Was she about to turn into some kind of monster? Had she been one all along?

“I think I’ll take a taste,” Charles said then, completely focusing her attention on him once more. His smile broadened, his white fangs glistened in the light from the doorway, and all of a sudden, he was moving back, grabbing her hand, and shoving her long sleeve up her arm.

At once, Evie tried to pull away. But Charles moved with blurring speed, and she cried out as his fangs sank cruelly into the veins in her wrist, digging deep and holding tight. He pulled viciously, causing her blood to rush through torn skin to meet his demand.

Evie tried to push him away, but he was a vampire. He had been doing this for so very long, it was second nature to him to waylay the efforts of his victims. He simply grabbed her free wrist, pinned it to the wall behind her, and moved his body so that it pressed against hers.

She whimpered as he mercilessly pulled again. She closed her eyes, just hoping that he wouldn’t take so much that he killed her.

I’ll have to remember this
, she thought faintly.
There is no pleasure in this. I’ve been writing it all wrong.

It seemed like he drank forever. The pain in her wrist throbbed and spread, enveloping her hand, her fingers, and her arm to her elbow. Her heart skipped a beat, fluttering in her chest. Her legs felt weak once more.

Finally, as nausea once more churned in her gut, her captor decided he’d had enough and slowly pulled his fangs from her wrist. Evie’s eyes flew open and her teeth gritted with pain. She whimpered; it
hurt
. Her skin clung to his teeth, ripping fresh tears in her skin until they were finally free and all that remained behind were two gaping holes that oozed precious blood.

Evie looked from the bleeding arm he still held in a fast grip to the face of the man who had wounded her. His inhuman eyes throbbed between blue and red, and her blood painted his lips. Every muscle in his body was held taut, the vein in the side of his neck stuck out, and his expression was one of great effort. His grip on her other wrist tightened as well, grinding her bones, and Evie could feel the hard evidence of a different kind of need where his body pressed hers into the wall.

“You…” he said, his voice quaking, “taste like untapped power.”

Evie held her breath. Terror, cold and heavy, sat inside of her like a rock.

“I would like almost nothing more than to finish you right now,” he growled. His voice had gone gruff with what she could only imagine was hunger or lust or something in-between. “But then there’d be nothing left for D’Angelo to lose.”

And with that, he released her, shoving her hard against the wall. Evie’s head bumped the stone, but she caught herself and remained upright even though her legs felt like jelly. Gingerly, she wrapped her fingers around her wrist above the dual puncture wounds he’d left. They continued to bleed, rivulets of crimson staining her hand and dripping off of her fingers.

Charles’ gaze followed the rivers of red. “We’ll have to do something about that,” he said as he appeared to get himself under control once more. “The downside of being immune to magic, sweet heart, is that it won’t heal you either.”

Evie glared at him. “So this open wound in my body is
my
fault.”

Charles laughed, the sound harsh in the cold cellar air. “A vampire’s bite heals instantly on his own,” he informed her, “so long as the victim is not immune to the magic.” He held up his right hand, palm-up, and there was a brief flash. When the light diminished, a roll of bandages remained in his hand.

“Come here,” he commanded.

Evie’s instinct was to tell him to screw himself and stay where she was. But he’d already bitten her. If he wanted to do her more harm right now, he would do it whether she obeyed or not. Plus, she was bleeding and he had something that would help that bleeding stop. So, what was the point?

She came forward and he smiled triumphantly. Then, with practiced skill that reminded her of just how old his kind were, he commenced wrapping her wound. She hissed slightly when he finished, ripped the gauze away from the roll, and applied pressure to wrist. Blood stained the white wrappings and she instinctively tried to pull away.

This time he let her go.

“You could have just
magicked
the stupid gauze onto my arm,” she accused through clenched teeth, cradling her arm.

“True,” he admitted calmly. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to torture you so.”

Evie glared at his back as he turned away from her to make his way to the staircase that led from the basement once more. “Enjoy the respite, Evie,” he said as he climbed them one at a time. “Because it’ll be short lived.” He glanced at her over his broad shoulder, and she caught the glint of hungry eyes. “I’ll be back soon for the other wrist.”

Chapter Twenty

It had been a very long time since he’d received a visitor in his own home. In his own realm. The meetings of the Thirteen took place in the mortal world, and it was there that Thanatos had last seen the man who approached him now.

It was not only the rarity of this situation that struck Thanatos, it was the nature of the man who approached. Of the thirteen figures who sat at that particular table, the man Thanatos watched right now was quite possibly the last that the Phantom King expected to walk through his door.

The visitor was tall and broad-shouldered, and in the harsh desert light, his notably handsome features were white-washed. The wind brushed by, sending dry dust into the air and tumbling a Russian Thistle across the empty expanse. Wind chimes hanging from Thanatos’ porch tinkled against one another, the sound lonely and lost.

Thanatos, known by Thane to those closer to him, looked back down at his bike, finished tightening the screw he had a handle on, and then dumped his wrench into the tool box beside him. He wiped his palms on the front of his jeans and stood.

His uninvited guest made his way toward the small, weathered garage and Thane watched him come. There was a measured grace to the man’s step and an aura of absolute power surrounding him, but his normally pitch-black eyes were glowing red – and his fangs were showing.

Roman D’Angelo had clearly seen better days. His dark suit was of the finest make, Thane knew, but the tie was missing, the suit coat was open at the waist, and the entire outfit was smeared and dotted with blood. The effect was that he appeared a little like James Bond fresh-from-the-fight, but for the fact that he was obviously a vampire.

“I’ve come to ask for your help,” D’Angelo said as he made his way across the threshold of the garage and into the shade. “One of my own has betrayed me and killed an innocent.”

Thane’s stormy gaze narrowed. “You forget who you’re talking to. I know all about the mortal woman your vampire killed.” He turned away from the other king and gave his bike a once-over. “I dealt with her just yesterday.”

D’Angelo fell silent, seemingly contemplative. His power brushed against Thane’s, rather more unchecked than it normally was.

Thane straightened and glanced at him over his broad shoulder. “The last time you came to my home, you were looking for a woman you thought you loved.”

“Ophelia,” Roman acknowledged, shadows crossing his handsome face.

Two hundred years ago, Roman D’Angelo had come into Thane’s realm in search of a woman who had apparently died before her time. Since Thanatos ruled over the spirits of people who had died wrongful deaths, D’Angelo assumed she would be under his care.

But she wasn’t. Thane had told the king of the vampires as much, but D’Angelo didn’t believe him. And it was clear from their limited interactions since then that he
still
didn’t believe him, even after all this time.

“Right,” said Thane, allowing the silence to stretch for a moment. He looked away again and knelt to examine his rear disc brakes. “I can’t imagine you’ve come all this way now because you want me to give you the woman who was just killed.”

There was a pulse of power behind him, and Thane closed his eyes against it, as the contact was just a little painful. He wasn’t certain whether D’Angelo had meant to do it, but either way, it wouldn’t be good to let on that it had affected him.

Thane placed his hand against his bike’s frame to steady himself. He felt as if the ground beneath his feet tilted a little. The wind outside died down, the air thickened, and for the first time in eons, he felt stunned.

“Your queen.”

Roman D’Angelo’s gaze didn’t falter. His energy pulsed as if in time with his heart. Thane had never seen him in such a state. If he’d actually decided to take a queen, that would explain a lot, especially if someone had absconded with her.

But three thousand years ago, Roman implemented a law that forbade vampires from creating other vampires out of mortals. Was his queen also an Offspring? Or was he breaking his own law for this woman?

“She is not one of us,” D’Angelo stated, clearly having gleaned the surface thoughts from Thane’s mind.

The latter then
, Thane thought, feeling more stunned by the moment. The implications were enormous. If Roman D’Angelo was willing to break his own law for a woman, then it meant he truly loved her. And if it was possible for a man as old as Roman to find someone he cared for that much, then maybe it was possible for others with blood just as ancient. Like Thane.

“We have much to discuss Thane, but not now,” said D’Angelo. “You know I will never find Ward in that realm, not in time.” Roman came forward, closing the distance between them. “But you and your Animes can.”

The spirits of those who had died wrongful deaths became
Anime
, animated energy that was sometimes angry, often desperate, and always forlorn. After a certain amount of time, the energy dispersed and was reabsorbed by the universe. But until this happened, they lingered, and every once in a while, this energy was so strong, it was tangible.