Black Magic Rose (3 page)

Finally alone, Sofia followed her usual routine, changing her clothes, cleaning out her lunch box, and preparing dinner. She had planned to grill a steak, which meant she’d have to go outside.
 

She flicked on the deck light and stared out into the backyard. She couldn’t see him, of course. Finding him would be like plucking a single snowflake from a snowball.
 

She pushed the slider open and walked to the grill, throwing side-glances over her shoulders as she went. Where was he? She hated that
they
could sneak up on her with no warning at all. She turned on the grill and went back in the house.
 

When she returned to cook the steak, she smelled that mix of leather and soap. She closed her eyes and inhaled. He certainly did smell clean and manly. Nothing wrong with that,
if
he were a man
and
alive.
 

She threw the steak on the grill and stomped back into the house, glaring in the direction of his scent.
 

With one wall made almost entirely of glass, the chalet-style home her parents loved made it nearly impossible to find a place to relax without feeling like eyes were on her. After dinner she organized the bookcase, dusted, vacuumed, and finally decided to take a bath. There was only one window in the bathroom, and it had curtains and blinds, both of which she pulled tight.
 

After that, she snuggled up in bed wearing her fleece jammies. She rarely wore this much clothing to sleep, but she wasn’t risking exciting “the guard.”
 

“Cool, comfortable, and dead or hot and sweaty, but alive. I’ll deal with the sweat,” she said, straightening the blanket.

She lay in bed wondering what the vampire outside her house was doing and whether he was staring into her room watching her. Frustrated, she rolled over and pulled the blanket up over her head, willing herself to sleep.
 

Nearly an hour later she was still awake and annoyed. Giving up on sleeping, she grabbed a book and her itty-bitty book light. But before she’d read more than a page, she was sound asleep.
 

*****

Dragomir Petrescu watched. He listened. He inhaled. Nothing. No one. Not even a small animal stirred in the woods.
 

The night was so quiet he heard Sofia breathing inside her bedroom. Even, relaxed respirations. She slept.
 

Good
.
 

He’d agreed to help Jankin because they’d been friends for more than six hundred years. When he received the call, the doctor told him it was a top priority and that he’d trust no one else for the job. The worry in Jankin’s voice brought Dragomir from the front lines in Italy where Bas Dubh was attempting to build a stronghold near Rome, using the multitude of tourists to fortify its army.
 

Dragomir smirked. He’d been duped. His old friend had played quite a trick. He admired Jankin’s skill. Telling Dragomir the job was very dangerous and only a master vampire of his caliber would be mentally prepared to handle this adversary was genius.
 

He shook his head. His own arrogance had been his downfall. He should have known nothing that exciting could possibly occur in Wooddale. And now, he was stuck. He’d agreed to take the assignment, sight unseen.
 

A man of his word, he would never renege on his promise, in spite of his fierce desire to see Kiernan MacDonald dead. He was sure Jankin had bet on this, and it jerked his chain something fierce.
 

The recent uptick in attacks on innocents angered Dragomir. If Rome hadn’t been in the same situation, Dragomir would have noticed the trend occurring in New England, and he’d have come on his own, though he’d have gone where the action was, not come to one of the sleepiest towns in the region.
 

Since joining The Alliance in 1412, Dragomir had fought in many wars and lost many an ally on the battlefield or in the pursuit of Kiernan. The damn vampire hid behind his army, never fighting his own battles, but letting the members of Bas Dubh do it for him.
 

The ravages of war haunted his memory. There was no escaping the echoes of the screaming men and women, those who died and those who lost someone in the fight.
 

War taught Dragomir that all issues were black and white. Good versus evil. Light versus dark. And letting your mind wander to what ifs was the same as questioning your entire reason for existing. Pointless and confusing.
 

It was Jankin who understood Dragomir. He’d been the only one to offer his hand to the warrior, the only one to thank him for his sacrifice. Jankin was one of a very small group Dragomir trusted, even cared for.
 

So here he sat at—he glanced at his watch—0321, in a tree in the backyard of one Sofia Maria Engle, the unwilling, angry woman in need of guarding.
 

Half Italian, half Scottish, one hundred percent American. Only child, born to parents later in life. Age twenty-five, father died. Age twenty-six, mother died. Has a passport but has never left the country. Under the delusion that “human resources practices” can be applied to vampires and werewolves.
 

Dragomir chuckled. He’d had to research the term “human resources,” having never heard of it. Leave it to humans to count themselves among their own resources, and then design a job for someone to hold their hands. He shook his head.
 

It wasn’t the actual profession he liked. He had no use for namby-pamby “support” of employees. Subordinates should do as they were told, whatever was asked of them without complaint, and be happy to have a job. They should be even happier to have a master to ensure their safety.
 

He did however like the idea of “human resources.” Vampires needed human resources. He’d never formally considered humans as resources, but they certainly were. And quite necessary at that.
 

He drummed his fingers on the branch and sighed. He estimated the temperature at about thirty-eight degrees, wind at about eight knots. Clear skies. Dry, not a hint of humidity in the air.
Small blessing.
 

At the very least it wasn’t raining.
 

Sofia moaned. His fingers froze. He listened. The sound of fabric brushing fabric came to him. She yawned, and then her breathing returned to the slow, even respirations of a sleeping woman.

0344. No change in weather. No disturbances in the area. No reason for a vampire to sit in a tree.
 

He jumped to the ground without rustling a leaf. After a leisurely stroll of the perimeter, he found himself under Sofia’s window again.
 

Jankin had to have known this would be the world’s most boring assignment. How could he have possibly believed she needed a guard the likes of Dragomir? Surely Osgar or any one of Cader’s security team could handle brushfires and a silly female with lofty ideas for making everyone hold hands and get along. Maybe there was intelligence to lead Jankin to believe Sofia needed the attention of one of the most highly skilled vampires in The Alliance’s ranks. Intelligence he’d neglected to share.
 

The simple idea that he had been a friend of her family would not have caused any interest in her on Kiernan’s part. Unless Bas Dubh thought she was Jankin’s. His own descendant.

Dragomir raised an eyebrow.
 

There had been rumors. Nothing confirmed. Could it be true?

He scaled the wall, pulling himself onto the roof, then walked to the peak. Tossing his leather duster aside, he scanned the property once again. Nothing.
 

After securing his weapons, with bat-like precision he dropped over the edge of the roof to hang upside down outside Sofia’s window.
 

She lay curled in a little ball, hardly any part of her visible with all the pillows and blankets tucked around her. A tiny light illuminated the left side of her face. Shiny black hair, auburn highlights. Creamy skin. Freckled, small, upturned nose. Eyelashes long enough to brush her cheeks.
 

She certainly resembled Jankin with the same almond-shaped green eyes and thick black hair as his.
 

She stretched and moaned, then snuggled further into her cocoon of blankets.

He inhaled. Her scent wafted in the air stronger than he’d expected.
 

How’s that?
 

Intrigued, he studied the room.
 

Carpeted floor. Sand-colored walls. One chair with blanket, far corner. Plant—Peace Lily to right of chair.
 

Bathroom at the rear, towels hanging on hooks. Hairbrush on counter. Four lotion bottles lining wall. Glass shower stall. Tub with jets.
 

Black bra, panties, and stockings folded on bureau. Suit hung on hanger over door. Shoes placed beneath.
 

Two lamps—one on each nightstand. Queen-sized bed. Four, five, six, seven, eight pillows.
 

He shook his head.

Southern wall: fifty percent glass.
 

Northern wall: bathroom, closet—walk-in.
 

Eastern wall: two smaller windows—bed placed between.
 

Western wall: door, stairwell.
 

His eyes darted back to the eastern wall. A window was cracked.
 

He inhaled. Sweet. Flowery.
 

Dragomir rolled the aroma across his tongue, tasting her essence, memorizing her scent. Her fragrance, soft and sweet, hinted of flowers. Just a mild breath of something floral.
 

He smacked his lips, focusing on the one aspect.
 

Green. Clean. Gardenia?
 

He sucked his tongue
.
 

No. And not dahlia or jasmine.
 

He inhaled
.
 

What is that?
 

He worked his way toward the edge of the roof, inhaling and focusing with each movement.
 

Petunia?
 

Sniff.

No.

When he reached the window, he chuckled.
 

Sofia had pushed the window up a quarter inch, allowing her scent to flow into the night air, a sweet invitation. But she’d tried to safeguard the opening. Rosary beads hung from the window lock, the crucifix dangled in the opening.
 

Dragomir tapped the cross and watched it swing.
 

Silly girl. Jankin has a great deal to teach you.

He inhaled, filling his lungs with the sweet, intoxicating berry-scented air. He enjoyed the aroma, but the floral undertone continued to elude him.
 

Rose?

Sniff. Sniff.

No. Too sweet.
 
 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Dragomir’s head snapped up. He flipped onto the roof, landing in a crouch, fangs descended, a knife in each hand.
 

“Planning to kill me?” Osgar asked. He stood at the edge of the woods, grinning like he’d just caught the biggest fish of his life.
 

“Your skills have improved,” Dragomir said, replacing the knives into the sheaths strapped to his forearms and regarding the werewolf he’d grown to think of as a son and friend.

The wolf had matured in the past six years and not just physically. At just under six feet three inches, he now stood almost eye-to-eye with Dragomir, and his movements, even in a relaxed state, were graceful with an edge of savage power. With Dragomir’s guidance, Osgar had developed from the skinny teenager into a rugged leader, moving up the ranks of his pack to become an alpha. Dragomir took pride in this.
 

It was Dragomir who taught Osgar the ways of the sword and to be cunning, ruthless if need be to outsmart and outwit the other wolves. Dragomir swore to ensure Osgar’s knowledge of strategy and skill. It was a pact every master made with his wolf—teach them all they need to know to become the strongest, most powerful in their pack, protect them, discipline them.
 

It was a fair exchange. During the day the wolves protected their masters. The symbiotic relationship was necessary for both groups.
 

Dragomir picked up his coat and, noting the brightening horizon, wondered how long Osgar had watched him. “She has slept the morning hours without incident. No one has breached the perimeter.” He dropped to the ground, slipping into the coat when he landed.
 

“No one but me has breached the perimeter. Or really, no one but me has let you know he’s breached the perimeter.” Osgar’s grin widened. “Still hasn’t let you in the house?”

“No.” Until that moment Dragomir hadn’t been bothered by the lack of access, but now the limitation was an annoyance.