Blood Kiss (23 page)

T
hree hours later, Craeg was in the front passenger seat of a Hummer. Or nearly leaning out of it was more apt: As Butch drove him and Axe away from the training center's underground parking garage, Craeg was bent toward the windshield, trying to make sense of the strangely blurry landscape.

“We got bad weather?” Axe asked from the back.

“Nope,” the Brother replied as they came up to an enormous, elaborate gate system that was like something out of
Jurassic Park
, all twenty-foot-tall concrete with huge metal bars and barricades that had to have electricity running through them.

Yeah, cuz the Brothers had already proved how they loved to play with that shocking shit.

Craeg shook his head. “You guys don't fool around with the security, do you.”

“Nope.”

As they progressed through the thickly wooded territory, they came up to a series of stop points that grew gradually less and less fancy and obstructive. The last one was little more than something you'd find on an abandoned farm, a rickety “old” thing that turned out to be deliberately constructed to appear that way.

So smart.

When Butch finally emerged from a clearing and took a left onto a paved road, the bizarre blurring of the landscape magically resolved itself. But it was weird, Craeg's eyes adjusted easily; his bearings did not. Were they heading west? East?

“You know where I live, of course,” Axe muttered.

Butch shot a dry look into the rearview. “No, not at all.”

The drive to wherever it was took about forty-five minutes, and all Craeg got out of the trip was a sense of how little he knew about Caldwell. Having spent his pretrans life at home with his mother, he hadn't had the chance to get out all that much after his transition—because the raids had happened a mere six months later. And then following the carnage, after he had watched his mother and sister die and proceeded to learn firsthand about his father's death, he'd gone through a period of intense crazy . . . then settled into a numb working schedule that had paid the bills and allowed him to find some shelter away from his parents' house.

He hadn't been back there since he'd cleaned everything up and buried the females of his bloodline along with the remains of his father—which he'd brought back from the aristocrats' house.

God, his father. He'd loved the guy—and to find out that a male of such worth had died because a bunch of
glymera
types had locked him and every other servant and worker on the premises out of the safe room?

And people wondered why he hated those rich bastards.

“You want us to wait here, Axe?” Butch asked.

Craeg shook himself and saw that they'd pulled up in front of. . . .

It was fucking Hansel and Gretel's house. That was the only comparison he could pull out of his ass. In the glow from the Hummer's headlights, the cottage was as quaint as a postcard, all whitewashed with a high peaked roof and curlicue woodwork under its eaves that was as intricate as lace.

“You,” Craeg blurted. “You grew up in
that
?”

“Yeah.” Axe popped his door open. “What's the fucking problem.”

“Screw it, we're coming in with you,” Butch
announced as he killed the engine. “Mostly because I want to see all the Hummel figurines.”

Craeg was going to stay in the SUV, but then figured, That's right, fuck it. What else did he have to do with his time?

Axe led them around to a side door that he unlocked with a copper key. As he went inside, the beeping of an alarm sounded, but that didn't last as he shut things off at a keypad mounted on the wall.

When the guy hit the lights, all Craeg could do was blink like a cow.

“Holy Mary, mother of . . .” Butch muttered.

“He thought she was coming back, 'kay?” Axe bitched as he tossed his keys on a spectacular slab of butcher block. “He did this for my mother.”

Craeg had never seen so many red and pink roses in his life: The walls of the quaint kitchen were covered floor to ceiling with a paper dominated by the flowers and the green vine they were apparently growing on. And what do you know, the drapery over in the alcove and around the window over the kitchen sink was the exact same pattern.

“You stay here,” Axe muttered. “I'll be down with my goddamn bag.”

The guy's heavy footfalls sounded through the house, the thunder going up to the second floor and then drifting down from the rafters above.

“Look at this woodwork,” Butch said, as he ran his hand over the carved molding around one of the doorjambs. “Incredible.”

Craeg went to the carved table and sat down in a delicate chair that made him wish he hadn't eaten so much
for First Meal. Looking at all the workmanship on the crown moldings and doors, on the cabinets, on even the sills of the windows, FFS, he discovered that it all formed an organic pattern that echoed the vines of the wallpaper, twisting and turning elegantly and beautifully around fixtures and entries/exits. Varnished with a clear coat, the maple or pine or whatever it was glowed as only fine wood that had been finely worked could.

“The rest of the rooms have to be like this,” Butch said as he leaned out of the kitchen. “Yup. This is a masterpiece—”

Axe reappeared with a black duffel and a backpack. “On to the next—”

“Did you father do all this woodwork?” Butch asked.

“Yeah.”

“He was a fuck of a lot more than a nothing.”

“Can we go now?”

“Wait,” Craeg cut in. “Your father was a woodworker? Mine was a floor layer.”

“Oh, yeah?”

There was a pause as the pair of them locked eyes. “Did he die at Endelview?” Craeg bit out, naming the estate that had been raided that horrible night.

Axe's dark expression went straight to pitch-black, in a way that made his tattoos seem sinister. “Yeah.”

“Mine, too.” Craeg searched the male's face, wondering how much he knew about what had gone down there. Shit . . . it was horrible to realize that he'd handled the body of the guy's father. Someone else had done the notifications to surviving family members, though. He'd been finished at that point. “Bad night.”

“Yeah.” Axe cleared his throat and looked away. “So can we go?”

“No,” Craeg cut in. “You two stay here while I go to my place. I'll be right back with my gear.”

“You're not taking much, then,” Axe drawled.

Craeg got to his feet and headed for that door again. “Don't have much.”

The Brother called out just as he put a foot on the back stoop. “If you don't return here in twenty minutes, you're out of the program.”

“I know,” he muttered. “I know.”

•   •   •

As the bus trundled to a stop, Paradise picked up her satchel and got ready to shuffle out of her row.

“So are you coming to my house?” Peyton asked as he got to his feet. “We still have two hours at least, and Anslam's coming to hang.”

Ducking her head so he didn't see the flush on her face, she pretended to look for her phone even though she knew where it was, in the pocket of her parka. “I want to be home for my father.”

“Annnnnd that would be dawn,” he pointed out as he put his tinted glasses on. “Two hours from now.”

Okay, fine, but no matter what time it was, she wasn't about to own up to the fact that all she wanted to do was watch the hands of the clock on her bedside table make their way around until the big one was on the twelve and the little guy was on the seven.

“Sorry, I have stuff to do. Call me?” Shit, she actually didn't want him to, not today. “I mean—”

“It's cool.” Peyton turned to Anslam. “You ready for some bong hits?”

The other male shot a snarky smile over. “Always and forever.”

As the pair of them went down the aisle, she shook her head and moved out of her seat. Guess some things were back to normal—and it was funny, with all the stress of the training, she couldn't really blame Peyton for wanting an escape that felt good. Maybe that's what she was doing with Craeg?

Talk about addictions. The way she felt around that male, when he looked at her, touched her, kissed her, was so amazing, she could see herself getting hooked on the
buzz—thus the whole counting-down-the-hours thing. The trouble with all that, however, was that he wasn't something that could be bought and consumed like pot, or ice cream, or wine. He was a separate, independent entity, and it was funny, the fact that he'd chosen to be with her, even if just over the phone, was part of the high.

He was picking her. Out of anyone on the planet—

Paradise stopped in the middle of the aisle. Something had fluttered to the ground and she picked the thing up with a frown. It was a picture, an old-fashioned Polaroid type, the kind with the glossy square in the center and the white matte part that was small around three sides and big at the bottom so you could hold it and write on it.

The image was so blurry it was indecipherable, something red and pinkish with stripes.

“Peyton, really,” she muttered.

God only knew what he was doing while he was high. He'd been known to rock some crazy, psychedelic stuff and try some really weird things—which, of course, he delighted in telling her about.

With the image in her hand, she shuffled down to the exit, thanked the
doggen
driver, and then opened her mouth to call for her buddy. He'd already dematerialized with Anslam, though, so she put the photograph of his bedspread, or his carpet, or his bathrobe, or his frickin' martini in her pocket.

“Did you help Craeg with his little problem?” Novo said from the shadows.

Paradise turned as the bus headed off, stones crackling under its tires. “You lied about all that.”

“Did I?” The female smiled in the cold moonlight. “I don't think I did. And I was right, wasn't I. He needed you, and only you.”

With a flush, Paradise remembered Craeg's body up against hers, his arousal pressing into her belly.

Not a little problem, she thought to herself. Not at all. It was big, and thick, and—

“Well?” Novo prompted.

“That is none of your business.”

“So prim, so proper. S'all good, though. Glad you kids had a good time. That's what life should be about—and I figured that you guys wouldn't get it together without some help.”

Paradise had to laugh. “You do not look like the matchmaking type, Novo.”

“I'm branching out.” The female shrugged her strong shoulders under her black leather jacket. “That's why we're all here, right?”

For a split second, Paradise was tempted to invite the female over. She'd never actually had a true friend. In the aristocracy, your social position determined who you were allowed to be seen with—and God knew none of the cousins she had had to make small talk with had been of much interest to her. Plus you couldn't trust them. Females like that were competing for a limited group of highly desired males—which made them as cutthroat as a school of piranha.

It was
The Bachelor
times a hundred.

Besides, Novo kind of knew about Craeg, and that made Paradise feel less like she had anything to hide—and the female certainly seemed sexual enough to have had some experience in the seduction department. Maybe a lot of it. Opening her mouth, Paradise—

Remembered where she lived.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” she mumbled.

“You're not pissed off at me, are you?”

“No, I'm not at all.” As she blushed, she was glad it was dark and the tree canopy cut out most of the moonlight. “I'm kind of grateful, actually.”

Novo pulled another one of those shoulder squeezes of hers. “Have a good rest of the night and day. See you tomorrow.”

Paradise lifted her hand. “Bye.”

When she was left alone, she let her head fall back and looked at the stars. Then she moved her satchel to
her chest, wrapped her arms around it and dematerialized herself.

Re-forming on the lawn in the exact place she had the night before, she was hoping to feel a little less foreign in familiar territory.

Annnnnd that would be a big fat Nope.

Striding up to the front door, she felt just as much distance as she had the night before. This time, though, the separation was tied to Craeg.

You know that ache you've got right now? The one between your legs? I'm going to show you how to take care of that by yourself. And you're going to make me come when I listen to what it sounds like.

Just the memory of his deep, husky voice saying those words turned her body into a blast-furnace—to the point that she wanted to take her parka off even though it was forty degrees. And yet at the same time, she looked up to all those glowing windows—and wanted to vomit. The idea that she was going to get on the phone, and probably end up naked, while a male who her father wouldn't approve of walked her through it all? In the room she'd grown up in? While her father was in the house? Females like her weren't supposed—

“Oh, fuck that,” she muttered as she started walking for the door.

Life was too damned short, and Craeg was too damned hot for her to waste time feeling guilty when she was doing nothing wrong in the larger scheme of things.

Remember, she told herself. You're never getting mated. You're free.

“I
lied.”

As Axe spoke up, Butch looked across the rose-and-vine kitchen. The male was leaning against the countertop by the stove, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted down so that there were great shadows where his deeply set eyes should have been.

“About what.”

It took the guy a while to answer, and Axe passed the time fiddling with the row of black hoops that went down the outside of his ear. “The key. In the office.”

Andjustlikethat, Butch went on full alert—not that he showed it. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

Axe rubbed under his nose, and Butch banked that tell for future reference.

“Where did you get it?” the guy asked.

“A friend gave it to me.” Like he was going to come out with the dead female stuff before he needed to play that card? “A good friend.”

“You're not supposed to share them. It's against the rules.”

“So if I go there, will I get in trouble?” Butch asked on a flier.

“I dunno. Depends on the night. If you're wearing a mask, you might get away with it. I've never brought anybody, but the policy is plus-one as long as the guests adhere to the rules. Also, you accept responsibility if they don't. That's how you get kicked out.”

“How long have you been a part of it?”

“Since before the raids. That's where I had my bender when . . . you know, the shit with my father went down. The humans there, they never knew—still don't know—
what I am. So many different kinds of freak there—they just figure I'm a vampire poser.”

“When was the last time you went?”

“Three or four nights ago. I didn't know how things were going to go with the training program. Figured it might be my last time for a while.”

Which was about the time the girl had been found on Safe Place's lawn.

“What are you into?” Butch rolled his eyes. “And before you think I'm coming on to a student, I'm perfectly happily mated to a female I'm fully aware is too good for me—this is just to make conversation because we got nothing better to do until what's-his-face gets back.”

Axe's affect loosened up, his body, too. “I like to make them submit.”

“Men or women?”

“Both.”

“You and V would get along just fine then. Although he's a one-female guy now, too.” Butch stretched his arms over his head until his spine cracked. “When are you going again?”

“When's our next night off?”

“Will you take me and show me around? So I don't embarrass the shit out of my buddy who gave the key to me?”

“You just told me you were happily mated.”

Butch shot the guy a don't-be-stoopid. “I like to watch, asshole. It's not cheating if you don't get your hands, your tongue, or your dick involved.”

Axe nodded like he respected that logic. “Yeah, I'll take you. But only on a masked night. If you fuck up or
get a case of the pussies, I don't want it traced back to me.”

Butch thought back to a certain night with Vishous, that night when there had been certain revelations made after Butch had . . . done some things that had needed doing to his best friend.

“I can handle myself,” he said dryly. “Don't worry.”

The sounds of heavy feet on the shallow steps to the side door announced Craeg's re-arrival.

“That was fast,” Butch muttered as the male came in with only one ratty duffel.

“Told you,” Craeg replied. “I don't have much.”

•   •   •

Marissa came home early because she had a headache. And no, not one of Trez's migraines, just a dull thumper behind her eyes that made it difficult to concentrate, hard to read documents on paper, and impossible to focus on a computer screen.

Mounting the stone steps to the mansion's grand entrance, she figured out what was wrong: She'd skipped First Meal and had worked through the snack that was served every night at midnight at Safe Place.

“Dummy,” she said as she entered the vestibule and looked into the security camera.

When the lock was sprung, she walked into the grand foyer and smiled at Fritz. “I'm awfully sorry to trouble you, but may I please have something to eat?”

The ancient
doggen
clasped his hands together and all but swooned, sure as if she had handed him a winning lottery ticket or the most perfect birthday present ever given to anybody.

“Oh, mistress, yes! May I get you eggs and toast? A sandwich? Soup? Something more substantial—”

She laughed a little. “Surprise me?”

“Right away! Yes, yes, right away!”

The speed with which he left and the bounce in that
step suggested he had many more centuries left in him, and that was a good thing—

“Oh, heeeeey, gurl.”

She turned to the billiards room. Lassiter was leaning against the open archway, a bowl of popcorn in his hand, a giant-bag, leopard-print Snuggie covering about seventy percent of his torso, his strong, bare forearms and bare legs showing at its hems.

“Hey there . . .” She frowned as something dawned on her. “Are you wearing anything under that?”

“Of course I am.” He threw a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “You wanna watch some tube with me? Right now I got a whole lot of
MacGyver
on, but I'm willing to be flexible.”

Marissa opened her mouth to say no, but then figured, What the heck. She was just going to have a little snack and wait for Butch to be done at the training center. She'd texted him that she was off work early, and he'd hit her right back, telling her to sit tight; he'd be back in twenty, thirty minutes, tops.

“Sure.”

“Niiiiice.” The angel straightened. “What's your poison, TV-wise?”

As he turned around, she let out a squeak.

Because she was staring at his bare ass.

“What's wrong?” he asked, all concerned.

Covering her eyes, she said, “You told me you had something on!”

“A jockstrap. Duh.”

At that moment, Fritz appeared next to her with a tray laden with so many covered plates that he might as well have been feeding Rhage.

“Ah . . .” Marissa rubbed her eyebrows, that headache back in full force.

“She's eating in here,” Lassiter called out. “And yes, Marissa, I'll put my damn jeans on.”

“Thank you, baby Jesus,” she muttered as she entered the game room.

As Fritz set the tray up on the bar to the left, Lassiter pulled the Levis on and flopped down on one of the sofas that faced the enormous screen mounted over the fireplace. “FYI, if I get chafed, it's on you.”

She went over and took a seat on one of the padded stools. “FYI, my mate is due in here at any moment. So you just saved yourself a whoop-assing.”

Lassiter pointed the remote at the TV and called up the cable schedule. “Psssh, whatever. I can take him.”

“Doubt it.”

“Actually, I got nothing better to do for the rest of tonight. Think he'll want to fight? I could use the exercise.”

Marissa laughed at the hopeful tone as she sat back and let Fritz pop the
cloches
off the plates and describe, with all the precision and elegance of a Nobu waiter, what was being served.

“Thank you so much,” she murmured as she picked up her fork and tried the rice pilaf. “Mmmmm.”

She wasn't going to eat even half of it all, but that never seemed to bother the butler. Then again, to him, the joy of serving was the very best job satisfaction he had.

“Oh, my God,” Lassiter said, jerking upright. “I can't believe it.”

“What? And if it's a
Beaches
marathon again, you can forget it.” She rubbed the center of her chest with her free hand. “I'm
not
watching anyone die even in two dimensions.”

There had been more than enough of that. Dearest Virgin Scribe, what if they couldn't find out anything about—

“It's
Melrose Place
. I love this epi—it's where Kimberly went psycho.”

“Wait, wasn't she always psycho?”

“Well, yeah, but this is where she takes the wig off and you see the scar. Easily one of the most significant and influential scenes in television history.”

“And to think I assumed that was, like, the human lunar landing or something.”

Lassiter glanced over. “Wait, those rats without tails made it to the moon? You're kidding me. They can't even decide what time it is, clocks always flipping back and forth from season to season. And then there's their health bullshit, eat this, you'll live longer—no, strike that, it'll kill you, so you need to do this. Internet trolls. Asshat preachers and politicians. And you know, don't get me started on potholes. Why don't they fix the roads?”

Marissa threw her head back and laughed. “You don't even drive. Or care about any of those things.”

The fallen angel shrugged, his gold piercings and chains gleaming like sunshine with the shift. “Just repeating what they talk about on the evening news.”

Marissa shook her head with a smile. And she was about to ask him what exactly he did aside from sunning himself each noontime if there was no cloud cover, and taking up space on that couch in front of the TV—but then his eyes flicked back to her and they were dead serious. As his gaze returned to the big screen, she realized he'd picked up on her mood and was doing his best to help her out of it.

“You're okay, Lass,” she said softly. “You know that?”

“I'm more than okay. I'm amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing,” he sang out. “So does this mean I can put you down for a dozen of my calendars?”

With any other person in the house, she might have been tempted to laugh it off as a joke. Him, though? “No, you can't. I don't even know what they're like, but the answer is no.”

“Fine, half a dozen,” he tossed back. “They're only five bucks. I have to cover printing costs. Good news?
There was no photographer expense—I took the pics with my selfie stick.”

She lowered a forkful of chicken back to her plate. “You actually made a calendar of yourself.”

“Why do you think I had my pants off.”

“Lass. Really. You took twelve naked pictures of yourself—”

“Jockstrap. I was in my jockstrap, remember. I just did December's by the fire. I am so hot, it is flat-out stupid.”

Marissa passed an eye around the room and shuddered at the number of things he'd probably put his naked ass on before settling for the hearth in front of the banked fire. “What gave you this idea?”

He rolled his eyes. “We've only got how many nights left in this year? I need to get 'em back from Kinko's before December thirty-first.”

From out of nowhere, she had an image of some poor human in a FedEx Office branch getting an eyeful and a half of the mostly naked fallen angel.

Without warning, she started to laugh so hard, tears came to her eyes. The good kind of tears, that was.

And as she gave herself up to the angel's ridiculousness, Lass just sat there on the couch, staring up at
Melrose Place
, a sly, quiet smile on his beautiful, deranged face.

What an angel he was, she thought to herself. A total angel.