Chapter One
In her cynical, somewhat jaded view of the world, Laurel Mayfield found it ironic that the only people she could currently trust were dead.
Unlike the skulking man who'd been following her for three blocks, the souls in the graveyard forty feet ahead didn't pose any kind of threat. Other than a serious case of the creeps, she was under no illusions about her safety in their cold, quiet presence. Not so the man behind her, and she tried once more to deter him.
“I said, that I'm meeting someone”, she snapped over her shoulder. Her rigid, dismissive posture hadn't dissuaded him like she'd hoped. The sharp crack of her heels on concrete sounded like the retort of distant gunshots.
“C'mon, baby. That's a lie and we both know it.” He drawled the words around the end of a cigarette. The cadence of his boots striking the ground never changed, but sometimes when she dared to glance back, he was closer. Other times he was a quarter block away. The eerie sensation made the fine blonde hair at the nape of her neck stand on end. It seemed like he could bend the laws of reality and spatial relationship and that the echo of his footsteps was only for show. Laurel reassured herself that it was nothing more than a trick of light and shadow.
“There ain't no one around,” the man said with sadistic languor. Baiting her.
She couldn't argue that. On the fourth of December, when the city should have been bustling with pedestrians and shoppers, there wasn't another person in sight. No cabs trolled the boulevard searching out fares. Instead, all that surrounded her were rows of abandoned buildings and the cemetery that sat between them.
Resisting the urge to run, she maintained a fearless facade and glanced back with what she hoped was an intimidating glare.
Breathe, Laurel. Breathe.
His leather jacket hung open down the front, a dark stain marring the white tee shirt beneath. The short spikes of his hair were skewed at rakish angles like he'd finger combed it until the style wore out. An overhead streetlight cast a gleam off a heavy piece of metal jutting from the waistband of his jeans and the knowledge that he carried a gun only heightened her fear.
It was the look in his eyes though, that chilled her. Hungry, cold.
Lifeless.
An uneasy weight of silent understanding now existed between them; she knew he was stalking her, and he knew she was afraid. Predator to her prey, he tested her boundaries, looking for weakness. Whatever smart reply she might have made vaporized into thin air. Shuddering, she gathered the red wool coat a little tighter around her body and cast her gaze around in desperation looking for an out … anything.
There.
Among the headstones to her right, a flicker of motion drew her attention. It took her a second to pick out the man standing next to a headstone. The dim light of the moon through the trees was not enough to illuminate his face, but he seemed well groomed even from a distance. Salvation in a tall, broad-shouldered frame.
A metal sign that read Sperling Cemetery arched over a rusted entrance gate, and Laurel's stomach knotted with tension as she fumbled with the latch. Every second she delayed getting in, the man closed the gap between them. She could feel him homing in. Desperation and fear made her impatient. The latch didn't want to give.
She shot him a cold look and knew by his sardonic expression that he wasn't fooled by her bravado.
He was almost on her.
“My husband, see?,” she said, gesturing toward the shadowy figure standing near the headstone.
The man didn't look convinced at her attempt to shake him. He flicked his cigarette end over end into the gutter.
With her heart in her throat, she threw her hip against the gate and it swung inward with a loud creak. She stumbled forward-- and right up against muscle so solid it might have been marble. Expensive, masculine cologne tickled her senses. Covering a gasp with her fingers, she drew back and glanced up. A red silk tie contrasted with a pristine white dress shirt, all of it framed by a tailored suit in black and topped with a long coat in charcoal wool. He had a handsome profile, striking blue eyes and jet-black hair combed away from his face.
How had her 'husband' gotten there so fast?
“Darling, I was beginning to worry. I trust you had no trouble,” he said, playing into her charade.
She realized two things when he spoke: first, he had a deep, rich voice, pleasant yet rough around the edges. He had an accent but the moment was too tense for her to place it. The second thing she realized was that he had somehow heard her white lie. Smoothing a nervous hand down the front of her coat, she snapped a look at the other man.
He didn't bother with the gate; instead, he hopped over the fence with more agility than she could believe. Laurel felt a fresh prickle of fear and unconsciously tightened her hand on the sleeve of her 'husband's' coat.
“No trouble, h … honey.” She almost choked on the endearment. “I … my fitting at the costume shop for the masquerade took longer than I thought.” As she stammered out her reply, she pressed once more against his chest; her bulwark against the approaching –
Well, he had been approaching. The gun-toting stranger stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her rescuer with eyes the size of dinner plates. Something wary and hesitant replaced the malicious gleam he'd worn while he was taunting her. Laurel could have sworn the man looked...afraid. She glanced up at her pretend husband, trying to understand what brought on such a sudden change.
He wasn't doing anything but standing there looking at her would-be attacker. It was his expression that had caught the man up, she guessed. She could see why.
His eyes – it must have been a trick of the darkness – were blazing like blue gas-flame, except they were anything but warm. Laurel repressed the urge to shiver. His strong features were hard, intimidating. When he moved it was a subtle upward tick of his chin toward her pursuer.
Get lost.
In periphery, because she refused to look away from her 'husband', she saw the other man put his hands up like flags of surrender and backtrack over the fence. Relief swept through her, though she had the odd impression that something beyond her understanding had just taken place.
It wasn't a new sensation. Ever since her arrival in Sperling Pennsylvania four months ago, there had been a handful of strange instances she couldn't explain. The whole town seemed...off. With a population of less than twenty thousand, two main thoroughfares that intersected with the quaint downtown area, it should have been an ideal place to live. Or visit, as was her case.
So far, the charm was offset by the oddities.
Glancing down at her with unreadable eyes, the stranger removed his hand from where it lingered on her arm. “Forgive me. I thought it would lend realism to your charade.”
“I'm sorry about that – oh, no, that's fine. It was great of you to play along.” Laurel thought she detected amusement in his expression. She still didn't know how he'd heard her or appeared at her side so fast and chalked it up to distraction.
“Don't apologize. I was pleased to help,” he said, before pausing to add. “It's dangerous to walk alone in the city at night.”
His accent was British. But it was not quite the same as any British accent she'd ever heard. She took a step back when she realized she was standing against him and smiled.
“I'm coming to find that out. I guess cabs are in order in the evening.” It was an effort to look away from his face but curiosity got the better of her and she glanced at the headstone he'd been standing near. She had trouble making the lettering out at this distance and squinted. William Roberts-- That was all she had time to read before he slid into her line of sight, effectively blocking her view.
“But I've interrupted your visit,” she pointed out.
“I assure you, he is not going anywhere,” he said with dark humor. “I think he would have approved of your presence here. He had a particular fondness for beauty.”
Laurel glanced up with a quiet laugh and blushed at the compliment. She wasn't used to the kind of sincerity she heard in his voice or saw in his eyes. Most of the men in her recent past had turned out to be liars or worse. Much worse. “Well, thank you.”
“I'm Sebastian,” he said, watching her with unveiled interest.
“Nice to meet you, Sebastian. I'm Laurel.” She stuck out her hand. Where she came from people shook like they were working a water pump, firm and vigorous. Her natural, inquisitive nature surged to the fore now that the immediate danger was past. Laurel was nothing if not resilient.
Instead of grasping and shaking, he enveloped her hand in both of his larger ones. The effect bordered on sensuous.
“The pleasure is mine. Perhaps you will allow me to escort you the remainder of the way to your destination.” He released her hand and instead offered out the crook of his elbow in escort.
On any other man, the gesture might have seemed trite. On Sebastian it was … authentic. It suited him somehow. Touched by the intimacy of his voice and the offer to see her safely home, she broke the mesmerizing eye contact-- he had the most unusual eyes—and tucked her fingers under the bend of his arm.
And here she thought chivalry had died long ago.
“Thank you, yes,” she said, treading carefully in her heels over the uneven grass as he led her toward the gate and out onto the sidewalk. “Sometimes I get the feeling, when people talk to me about this town, that they know something I don't. I mean, Chicago and New York and all the big cities have a lot of crime, yet I always get the distinct impression there's something more here. Different. Did that ever strike you when you first arrived?”
He stopped after they’d only gone a few feet, gazing down at her with an expression she couldn’t read. Using a finger, he uplifted her chin, not quite making contact with her skin. If he wanted all of her attention, he had it.
“Nothing can be discounted here. Suspend your disbelief when you walk these streets,” he said.
The almost-touch sent a rash of goose bumps over her skin. Despite his calm demeanor, Laurel sensed there was a serious warning behind his words. Something he wasn't quite telling her. That elusive suggestion of darker, sinister things. A flood of questions rushed to the end of her tongue. Before the first one could fall from her lips, he changed the subject with smooth redirection.
“Where are we going then? Your home?” He led her once more into a casual stroll.
Laurel found it hard to be disappointed when she was so distracted with his presence. He exuded a powerful air of confidence and something...else. Something she couldn't put her finger on. Maybe the strain of the night was getting to her.
“It’s just a couple blocks down." She gestured ahead, filing away her questions for later. “That big, eerie manor that the owner turned into a bar. It’s called Mystique. I have a room on the second floor.”
She didn’t notice the black limousine that purred along the street a half block behind them. What she did notice was the strength in the arm that she held onto and the security she felt just being near him. While they walked, she stole glances at his face.
“Mystique. I know the place,” he said. “You stay there? I visited several nights ago.”
“Really? Yes, I live there. It's convenient since I also work there. You must have come by on my day off. I would have remembered you.” The truth was out before she could stop it. Laurel smiled and tucked an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
“Neither would I have forgotten you,” he said, looking pleased by her remark. “A man was working. James I believe his name was. The other time I came by, a woman named Pepper waited on me. What work do you do there, Laurel?”
Every time he said her name, a hot flush prickled her skin. She cleared her throat, wondering over her acute reaction to everything he did. Everything he said. Her smile deepened for his compliment. She adjusted her fingers under the bend of his elbow, noticing how he applied slight pressure to bring her hand closer to his body.
“Ah, yes. James and Pepper are my co-workers. Actually, I've known Pepper a long time,” she said, not paying a lick of attention to traffic at the intersection. He prevented her from stepping into the street when a car ran the red light and zoomed past. Across her body, his arm felt like a band of steel, immovable, protective.
She felt a strange twinge of pleasure that he so selflessly sought her safety. Raised to be self sufficient and independent, things that served her well in a world where she'd learned to rely on herself, she nevertheless liked his automatic caution. She studied his profile until he moved his arm and offered his elbow again. They shared a long moment of eye contact while she tucked her fingers and let him escort her to the other side of the street. She picked up the disrupted thread of conversation.
“I'm a hostess. Incidentally, I wasn’t fibbing when I mentioned my costume. Mystique is having a masquerade ball in a couple weeks and I was just coming from a fitting.”
“A masquerade? What will you be dressing up as?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you that. What if you decide to attend the masquerade? Then you’d know who I am.” She flashed him a teasing smile before an idea struck. “Do you think you’d attend an event like that?” she asked, glancing at his shoulders. Laurel had no trouble imagining him in all sorts of costumes.
With care, he removed his arm from the grip of her fingers and put it around her. He seemed amused. “Is that an invitation?”
Laurel released his arm and discovered she liked this new arrangement, the closeness it implied. A delighted stroke of laughter followed his question. She looked at him with a playful glint from the corners of her eyes. “It is. I think it would be highly improper to allow your wife to attend alone.”
The blocks fell away under the steady, unhurried cadence of their feet. Buildings gave way to a patch of open land, the flat acreage dotted with a few oak trees. A swath of forest flanked the large, two-story manor that looked better suited to a horror movie than a bar.
Sebastian rumbled a laugh. “Highly improper. No man would allow his wife to masquerade without him,” he said. “A masquerade, then.” He seemed to accept the idea like a connoisseur accepts a first sip of fine wine, rolling it slowly, thoughtfully, across his palate. “And how will I know you unless you tell me your costume?”
“The point is to try and ferret out who's who,” she explained with candor. Her eyes traced the breadth of his shoulders once more. “Although I think you might be a little distinctive.”
He leaned down and murmured close to her ear. “I would know you anywhere.”
Laurel nearly caught her heel in a crack on the concrete. An involuntary shudder wracked her body and she sought his gaze when he raised his head. After a moment, wondering if he felt the same strange gravitational pull, she gestured to the curving drive that led up to the manor. Dismayed to find they had already arrived, she said, “Home sweet home.”
He stopped with her at the end of the drive and glanced at the house. A thoughtful look crossed his face. From his trouser pocket, he produced a card and offered it to her. “If you need or want anything…”
His words trailed away but hinted at the unspoken intimacy between them. An intimacy that should not have existed after so short an acquaintance.
Laurel let go of his elbow and took the card, examining the front and the back. Did she need or want anything? Several things came to mind, all of them revolving around him. “That’s very generous of you, Sebastian. Thank you for your help earlier and for walking me home. I enjoyed your company.”
“Likewise,” he said, inclining his head.
Good night.”
“Good night, Laurel,” he said.
She smiled, tapping the card against her fingers, and stepped around him. Laurel walked toward the broad stairs leading to the doors of Mystique, bemused by her reaction to him. Halfway there, she glanced back.
Sebastian hadn’t moved an inch. He watched her with an intensity—or was it her imagination?—that made her heart beat just a little faster.
Her heels clicked up the steps and she opened the heavy door, twisting a look back to find him still standing at the end of the drive. She waved, repressing the strong urge to run to him, and closed the door. What was wrong with her? Laurel couldn't recall a time any man had affected her like this. She exhaled a breath she didn't realize she was holding and stood there another full minute before heading deeper into the manor.
The inside of Mystique, with its heavy wooden architecture, soaring beams, decorative archways and thick molding had always intimidated Laurel. A broad room spread out from the foyer, the furniture eclectic and sporting an array of fabric on varied surfaces; silk, velvet, tapestry. A long bar sat at the other end of the room, opposite a row of tall windows overlooking the U shaped driveway. If a home could ever seem brooding, this one fit the bill precisely. She imagined it harbored old, dark secrets, and if the walls could talk, bleak tales of conspiracy and murder would spill forth in haunting detail.
Laurel navigated her way through square tables, most of them empty. Several customers were tucked into private booths against the walls, their conversations too low for her to make out. Making a beeline for the counter, she arrived with a girlish grin for the bartender.
“Hey, Pepper. Slow night?” she asked.
Pepper greeted her with a questioning arch of her pierced brow. “What's got you in such a good mood? And yeah, it's dragging tonight.”
“Who said I'm in a good mood?” Laurel didn't bother to try and hide it. Pepper had a sixth sense about that kind of thing anyway.
Pepper scoffed. “It's that glow you're wearing.”
Laurel laughed and tucked Sebastian's card into her pocket for safekeeping. “What? I'm not glowing. You've been inhaling too many alcohol fumes.”
“And don't even try to tell me it's from the cold. So spill it,” Pepper demanded with a 'gimme' gesture of her fingers. She had no shame butting right into the thick of things.
“Somehow, I knew you'd pry it out of me. But no, this stranger in the graveyard-- you know the one stuck between the buildings a few blocks down? He helped me out when some guy started following me. Went along with this crazy charade I made up about being my husband. I mean, I never thought he'd actually hear me. And then walked me here. He did that whole elbow offering thing, too. Like you see in the movies.” Laurel leaned a hip against the edge of the bar and regarded her childhood friend with frank fondness.
Pepper was the anti-Laurel; skin dressed in tattoos, face punctuated with steel and spikes and bars. Her black hair, scraped back into a ponytail, had tiny ribbons of electric blue dyed in.
Blonde and blue-eyed, Laurel had no tattoos, preferred feminine clothes over the black Pepper perpetually wore, and the only piercings she owned were the two in her ears for earrings. Nevertheless, the girls understood each other on a fundamental level. Both born in the same small town in Kansas, Laurel grew up around boys and machines and was known to fight back when pushed into a corner. Pepper had been fighting one thing after another her whole life.
"Yeah, really? You don't see that very much. Especially around here,” Pepper said.
"No, never. Maybe I just don't know the right men.” Laurel made a derogatory noise in the back of her throat. That was the understatement of the decade.
Pepper snorted. "You don't have a lot of luck where they're concerned. Even I've noticed and you've only been here four months. Oh hey, that reminds me. Kyle called again.”
Laurel pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. “I really wish he'd stop. He won't take no for an answer.”
"He's getting real pushy. Even threatened to show up here, and I told him that I'd call the cops the second he walks in the door." A brief look of hostility crossed Pepper's face before she broke out a grin.
The thought that Kyle might actually follow through made Laurel uneasy. She'd met Kyle Weller two weeks after her arrival in Sperling. At first, he'd seemed like a normal, hard-working young man with goals and ambitions. Their dates, and she'd only gone on three with him, had been typical and fun. Then his ugly, obsessive tendencies started to show through and Laurel put an end to their acquaintance.
That's when the real trouble began. Late night calls, showing up when she went out, surprising her in the store. He'd come by Mystique twice but James, the other bartender and all around nice guy, had chased him out. Now he was putting the heat on again and Laurel wasn't sure how to handle him.
Pepper's infectious, toothy smile distracted her and she reached across the bar to 'beep' the woman's nose. An action that made Pepper recoil and swat her hand.
“I hate when you do that,” Pepper complained.
“I know. Why do you think I do it?”
“So what about this guy, huh?” Pepper changed the subject with a smug, crooked smile.
“He's pretty hot.” Laurel had to call it like she saw it. “And way out of my league. But it's nice to dream.”
Spilling out of the booth, the last three customers got to their feet. Two men, one woman. Laurel glanced over when Pepper did and gave the trio a polite smile. She wasn't on duty, but that didn't mean she couldn't be cordial.
The woman, a red-head with eyes so dark they looked black, returned a curve of her lips that didn't seem exactly friendly. In jeans and leather, with skin so pale it looked milky, she wore heavy boots to her knees and seemed too thin to be healthy. Laurel wondered if she imagined the strange grace or the almost feral aura she exuded.
One glance at Pepper's expression told her she hadn't.
“Have a good night,” Pepper called to the group.
The woman walked over to the counter, three stools down from Laurel, and set her empty glass on the bar. “You can count on it.”
“Night,” Laurel added. She followed the group toward the door with her eyes and glanced back at Pepper when they were gone.
“Some odd birds in this town,” Pepper said with a decisive arch of her brows.
“You can say that again. You'll be all right down here? I think I'm going up to get some sleep.” Laurel shook off the odd sensation and stepped away from the bar.
“You bet. Get some sleep. Hey, we should hit the movies next weekend.” Pepper snapped at her with a rolled dishtowel.
Laurel swerved out of the way just in time. “You're on. See you tomorrow.”
An elaborate staircase led up to the second floor and she took the stairs to the landing with one hand on the banister. Two great halls went left and right at the top. A large set of double doors straight ahead led into an expansive ballroom where the masquerade would eventually be held.
Laurel turned left and stopped in front of her door, unlocking it with a key she fished from the pocket of her jacket. Closing it behind her, she engaged the deadbolt and the chain. She always locked herself in, even though Pepper sometimes liked to make late night raids. Something about the creaky old house set her nerves on edge.
All in all, the upper rooms of the mansion were large, with big walk in closets and intricate crown molding. The employees were responsible for their own furniture and it was obvious, at least to Laurel, that she was the less privileged of the lot. One bed, a pathetic nightstand with the paint chipping off, and several cardboard boxes made up the entire contents of her room. She'd gotten creative, or maybe it had been an act of rebellion, and lined up the boxes so that she'd have a flat surface to use as a 'dresser' top.
The clothes in her closet were all sale items or from second hand stores. These were the sacrifices she made to get to where she really wanted to go; New York City.
Pushing away from the door, she walked to the edge of her bed and picked up one of three magazines lying on the comforter. The pictures were glossy and chic. Sophisticated. These were the same type of pictures that had wooed her away from her hometown and away from her doting parents. In Salina Kansas, she'd been a farmer's daughter, tired of the small town life. Tired of small towns, period.
She wanted to get lost in a maze of skyscrapers and endless rivers of humanity, wanted to hear the buzz of life at every hour of every day. She craved bright lights, Broadway, the famous and the infamous-- or notorious.
Sperling was only a stop over, a place to reconnect with Pepper, who'd moved here a year before to see an aging and ill aunt. Best friends since childhood, they had plans to leave for New York together when they'd saved a modest nest egg and could afford their own apartment.
Bringing her fingers to her nose, she smelled the expensive cologne lingering on her skin from Sebastian. The material of his suit had been so fine. She wondered what he did for a living, what kind of a house he called home. He seemed such a man of means. Controlled, austere. Maybe a lawyer or a small business owner.
Tossing down the magazine, she unbuttoned the red coat and peeled it from her shoulders. She laid it over the corner of the bed and pulled her abused, old cell phone from the pocket. Kicking off her stilettos, she thumbed through the menu for the voice-mail.
She had three messages:
Laurel, it's really great of you to return my calls. Pick up the phone! Jesus. Kyle hung up before he could really get a rant going.
Hi honey, it's mom. I was just calling to check on you. You didn't sound so good when we talked last. Call me when you can. Laurel smiled. It was too late to call her mother back tonight. She made a mental note to do it tomorrow after work.
You're really trying my patience, you know that, girl? No, I mean it, Laurel. This is like the tenth, shit I don't know how many calls that you've ignored. I-- She cut Kyle off that time and deleted all the messages. The only one that mattered was her mother's.
She flopped down diagonal across the mattress, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she was going to do if Kyle decided to make an appearance at Mystique.
If you need anything...Sebastian's offer slipped through her mind. Like an unbidden whisper, she heard his voice as clear as if he was standing right next to her. Of course he wasn't, but Laurel had a good imagination and for the next two hours, she put it to excellent use.
Sebastian had watched the world advance from the era of kings and courtiers into this age of technology. He had seen all but the most remote places on earth. Of men, he had seen the darkness of their cruelty and perversity, and the shining nobility of their goodness. Crawling along the underbelly of human society, he had met every manner of creature from a princess of the Fae blood, to packs of man-wolves, to the ancient mummies who preyed on mortal society.
There was so little left in the world to surprise him.
It was not so much that Laurel had surprised him. He knew women, mortal and immortal alike. Beautiful women. There was never a shortage of them flocked around his kind, looking for the danger and excitement they could glean from mingling with predators. It was his response to her that surprised him, the way the scent of her quickened his blood and haunted him with strange familiarity.
When she walked away from him earlier, he had to restrain the urge to stop her. To turn her around and sweep her into his limo. His instinct to protect her surged so strong, so powerful that he’d had to stand there with his hands clenched until it passed, gaze boring into the wood of the closed door between them.
Over a woman.
A mortal.
It wasn't precisely a vampire law that they not involve themselves with mortals. Most of his kind realized the futility in such a relationship.
Vampires could and did live in mortal society, blending in with their human counterparts in order to preserve the secret of their existence. Many, of course, found their food source in the sweetness of human flesh and blood. Some even made vampire thralls or servants from mortals they found particularly deserving.
Intimacy between vampires and humans was another thing altogether. Some of his brethren found themselves attracted to mortality, though most--like Sebastian--understood that crossing the line was both dangerous and fruitless. Still, he could not deny that there had been … something. A sense not unlike déjà vu that created a low-level, electric thrum each time their eyes met.
“You have been preoccupied since your return.” Isabella’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts. His sister in blood, she was one of the few people who would have dared interrupt him unannounced. Sharing a maker and subsequent centuries together had erased the need for formality between them.
Sebastian turned the leather chair away from the window.
“Isabella.” He tacked on a subtle smile that never reached his troubled eyes. “Forgive me. I had a call to return.” It was not a lie, but they both knew it wasn’t the whole story.
Rising, he indicated a chair, watching as she approached.
Isabella came forward, her regal bearing more pronounced by the ethereal grace all their kind possessed. She was, as ever, the embodiment of elegance and poise. Her dark hair was secured into sleek knot at the nape of her neck, and the sophistication of her black dress suggested a label on par with Dior or Donna Karen.
Sebastian waited until she was seated before resuming his chair behind the mahogany desk. His study, a theme of dark wood, rich leather furnishings and tasteful antiques matched a motif seen throughout the mansion.
“How was your visit to the graveyard?” she asked.
Sebastian didn’t miss the slight strain around her mouth, but neither did he call attention to it. He knew she mourned William in a different way than he did. She had never been able to bring herself to visit the graveyard with him in all these years, despite that he made an annual pilgrimage of it.
Strange that he attached such human significance to what remained of their maker: ash and a box now rotting beneath the dirt. A reminder that though his kind were immune to many things, they were not immune to the hopelessness that had eventually led William to greet the dawn. He had, he wrote in his final letter to Sebastian, simply grown tired of the business of being immortal.
“There was an incident. A young woman was being harassed and I intervened on her behalf.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair as he spoke, loosening the Windsor knot at his throat with a practiced tug. He and Isabella shared a prolonged glance. It was a dance they had perfected over time; reading the things that went unsaid.
“I hope she was not hurt," Isabella said. She phrased the question like a comment, but in either case he knew her interest was in his mood rather than the event itself.
“She was not injured. I saw her home. -- I trust things here have been quiet?” His graceless topic change was enough to make her curious, or so he thought when her gaze sharpened. But he was unwilling to discuss his strange reaction to Laurel when he had not made sense of it himself.
“Sara is here. She and Bernard have been playing chess for the last two hours," she said. "And Caleb returned an hour ago from his visit with Luceph."
He smiled faintly at the first and arched a brow at the second piece of information. "I will see Caleb shortly. Does he say Luceph has a handle on the trouble in New York?"
"He did not speak of it. I assume so, considering he has come home." Isabella rose from her chair. After a brief pause, she asked, "Was she mortal, this young woman?"
"Yes." Sebastian clipped the word and leaned back in his chair, looking out the window. He didn't tell her that he had left the mortal in possession of his private number, for reasons even he couldn't name. Only that he hadn't been able to let her go without some thread--however thin--to connect them.
He felt Isabella's searching stare, knew she wanted more information. His silence on the subject spoke volumes.
"I will send Caleb in," she said and turned to leave the room.
"Thank you, Isabella." Sebastian forced his mind away from thoughts of Laurel to business at hand.
As his liaison, Caleb had gone in his stead to speak to Luceph Saminigo, the current Prince of North America. Recent outbreaks of vampire violence in New York had been vicious and bloody and Sebastian, Prince of the European territory, liked to stay informed of any serious uprisings. His maker, William, had once ruled North America and Sebastian felt a keen sense of duty to preserve William's legacy.
The opening and closing of the door drew his attention away from the window and his thoughts.
“My Prince.” Caleb bowed his head in deference as he entered and Sebastian rose to clasp hands with him.
Not unlike Sebastian, Caleb was dressed in a well-tailored black suit with a silk tie the same moss color of his eyes. Both men stood several inches over six feet, but Caleb's build was leaner and less muscled in comparison to Sebastian's.
Observing the pleasantries, Sebastian poured two crystal tumblers of scotch and pushed one across the desk toward where Caleb sat in the chair Isabella recently vacated. When they were both seated and had sampled the fine single-malt, Sebastian wasted no time in addressing business.
"Caleb. Tell me how Luceph is." Sebastian regarded the man across the desk with sharp intensity. Although they did not share a maker, they had apprenticed under William together long years before and there was little need to stand on ceremony.
"He seems to have scoured New York clean of the trouble makers. At least the worst of them." Caleb stretched out his legs and rested his hands on his belt. "I saw little evidence of any uprising."
"Good. I wasn't looking forward to offering my services." The offer of aid, no matter how well intended, was always tricky. It suggested a Prince was too weak to take care of his own territory and that was an invitation for trouble.
Caleb laughed. "Yeah, well. Luceph assured me that he had it under control. He even invited you to come to New York at your leisure."
Sebastian knew he would have to make an appearance at some point, no matter how casual the invitation. One Prince did not turn down another's request for a visit. When it came to politics, vampires and humans were not so different.
"Perhaps after my trip to Madrid," Sebastian said. Despite that he retained heavy ties and business interests in Sperling, not to mention his maker's estate, Madrid was the city he ruled the entire European territory from. It was a city he had come to love and his control extended deep into the human governing body, though he pulled those strings from the shadows.
Caleb nodded and stood up, tossing back the last of his scotch before placing the tumbler on the desk. "I'll let him know closer to the time you'll be leaving."
"Excellent. Thank you, Caleb." Sebastian watched the man depart the study. Swiveling his chair, he regarded the evening beyond the windowpane. Inevitably, his thoughts swerved back to Laurel.
I will not see her again, he resolved that night.
I will not see her again, he resolved the next night.
On the third night, when--against all rationality-- he still could not get the vision of her summer sky eyes from his mind, Sebastian decided to act. He must have imagined the electricity between them and when he saw her again, that white-hot current would be gone.
Sebastian stalked from the house where his blood-kin were seeing to their amusements. Outside, he drew a useless breath into his lungs and, turning on his heel, melted into nothingness. The shadows embraced him like the arms of a comfortable old lover, and he used their cool seclusion through which to travel.
He crossed the distance between his estate and Mystique in several shifts. When he arrived, it was by no means conventional. All was dark in the upstairs hall when he emerged from the shadows. He stood for a moment, unseen and silent, reaching out with his senses so he could locate her in the maze of rooms.
It didn’t take long. His senses were sharpened past the point of mortal understanding, honed by immortality and centuries of use. He used them all to find her: by scent, the distinct rhythm of her heart, some innate knowledge that defied explanation.
Instinctual, animalistic. A hunter seeking his prey.
She was asleep when he entered her room. His sudden presence unsettled the air currents, making the sheer curtains in the windows dance delicately on their rods. Otherwise, nothing betrayed him in the darkness.
He approached the bed, a predator on the prowl. His black Armani blended well with the shadows, and even if it hadn't, he would not be seen unless it was his will to be seen.
Laurel.
She lay on her side, her pale hair unbound and strewn across the pillow. He saw the straps of something pink and feminine arching over her bare shoulders. Her hands were folded beneath her cheek like a child, her mouth parted as though she awaited the kiss of some dream-inspired lover.
So vulnerable in sleep.
His gaze traced the line of her feminine jaw, dipped down the contour of her neck. With a touch far too subtle to awaken her, he caught a blond tress on his fingertip and swept it back so it would not obscure his view of her face. Her throat.
Using the same fingertip, he followed the curve of her skin to the pulse that throbbed at the side of her neck. He let it rest there as he stared at her through the darkness, his eyes reflecting cool blue fire. Hunger stirred, waking like a dragon somewhere deep.
His curse, his salvation.
It was more than a hunger for her blood -- a thing he could only admit here, in the blackness of her room. He wanted to taste her mouth, sift his hand through the silk of her hair. The skin on the round of her shoulder looked like satin in the dark, and he glanced his palm across it on his way to trace a fingertip along her bottom lip.
Frustration rose keen and sharp in him. Both because he hoped to discover that his reaction to her three nights ago had been an anomaly, and because he could not act on the desires she roused in him.
Madness.
His hand came away from her and tightened. With a last, lingering glance he turned and departed the room as silently as he had entered.
