Bloodcraft (19 page)

“Physically, yes. Emotionally, I don’t know. I feel shattered inside, like I’m coming apart into a million pieces and I can’t stop it.”

They stared at each other in silence until Angie cleared her throat. “I’m going with you. Back to Paris.”

Victoria shook her head. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous. And what about school?”

“It’s orientation next week,” she said. “And plus, if there’s some mega-supernatural war erupting in Europe, I’m pretty sure that school isn’t going to matter once this shit hits the rest of the non-humans back the United States.”

“Angie—” Victoria began.

“I’m doing it. You need me. You’re emotionally vulnerable and I know you trust these witch leaders, but I don’t. Everyone wants a piece of you because of what you can do, and I’m the only one who can protect you.”

“How?”

Angie tapped the side of her head. “I can see what they are and what they want, remember? You don’t know who to trust and I’m going to help you with that.” She shook her head decisively. “Nope, it’s settled. I’m going with you and there’s nothing you can say about it. Trust me, the witches will be thrilled to have an Aurus in their midst, but I am there for you, no one else.” She smiled. “And I’ve never been to Paris, so there’s that.”

Victoria threw her arms around her friend, the prospect of returning to Paris suddenly no longer so daunting. “Do you know how much I love you?”

“I do,” Angie said. “But promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“You’ll rethink this thing with Christian. You two belong together and you’re far stronger together than you are apart. You always have been. And if you’re right about a war coming, then you two will need each other more than ever.”

“But the Witch Clans want me to lead them.”

“Then lead them,” Angie said with a grim smile. “But on your terms.”

TWELVE

The Price of Power

Within seconds, Lucian and the warlock teleported to another dark greasy alley that mirrored the one they had just vacated, and Lucian gasped as his body regulated to the transfer. The warlock started moving toward the west end of the alley and Lucian followed, straining his ears to see if he could determine where they were. A few sentences in French caught his attention. They were still in France, he guessed, Paris even. The smells were the same. He expanded his awareness. From what he could tell, they were on the northern edge of Paris, near Saint-Denis, one of the northern suburbs infamous for its crime rates.

Lucian suddenly wished he had fed before going on Kristos’s fool errand. He also wished that he could communicate with Lena, but she was bound to Christian, not him. And since he was known for disappearing for hours on end, she wouldn’t think twice about his absence. Lucian felt exposed, but he hadn’t become as powerful as he had by being cautious or scared. He gritted his teeth—if he were going down, he’d take as many of the creatures with him as he could. He followed the warlock to a crumbling stone church covered in demonic looking gargoyles. He blinked and swore that one of them twisted its gruesome stone head to mark his approach.

“Wait here,” the warlock said as the heavy studded doors opened to admit them.

Lucian nodded curtly, his face impassive as the doors shut behind him. The inside of the church had been gutted except for the stained glass windows, which cast colored puzzles along the dusty floor. It was quiet and empty, yet Lucian knew that it would not be. They were there in the silence, hiding in the darkness. His skin crawled as the sensation of danger intensified.

The warlock returned and crooked a finger for him to follow. Leaving the vaulted main room, they descended down a stone staircase. The air was not musty, which made Lucian think that this was a passage that was used often. Again, he felt that prickle of awareness along his senses as if hundreds of eyes were watching his progress. As yet another wooden door slammed shut behind him, Lucian was well and truly trapped inside the den of the enemy.

They arrived in a large underground chamber nearly double the size of the upstairs room. His eyes shifted across the space, noticing the long table standing at one end and what looked to be a blood-soaked marble altar on the right side. He couldn’t help himself. Self-preservation rose within him. His fingers shifted into claws, his teeth elongating at the threat that pressed on all sides of his body. A feral change overcame his face as the beast inside surged forth. Dark magic shifted in the space and he readied himself.

“Calm yourself, vampire,” a laughing voice said. A laughing
female
voice. “You will not be harmed.”

“You’re a woman,” Lucian burst out as the owner of the voice came into view. She was stunningly beautiful and tall, almost as tall as he was. Her hair was the color of flame, her eyes like ice chips. Clad in a voluminous gown of pale silver, she exuded sexuality and confidence. Power, too. He could feel it emanating from her like a wave of heat. Lucian knew that she was old and she was strong. He was no stranger to magic and he could feel the very air pulsing in response to her presence. “I thought all warlocks were men.”

“Most assume the same.” She smiled, her teeth white and perfect. “We do not discriminate by gender. Warlock is simply a misunderstood term. I am Freyja.”

Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Norse?”

“If you wish.” She waved a hand, indicating the stone-faced warlock who had transported him at her side. “Roan says you have something you desire to share.” They were the only three in the room, but Lucian was not foolish to believe that they were alone. He was already supposed to be dead and the only way out of this trap would be to use his tongue. Freyja indicated that he should sit as she strode to the end of the long table. “What is it?”

“Did you give the order to kill me?” Lucian asked instead, following her lead and sitting as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

A smile shifted across her lips. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are a chess piece, Lord Devereux. Although it appears that you have now advanced from pawn to knight and that intrigues me.” She crossed long shapely legs, the soft material outlining the sleek silhouette of her thighs, and leaned back in her chair. Lucian felt something respond deep in his nether regions as the electricity crackled between them. In another world when she didn’t want him dead or he didn’t want to rip her head off, he could see them engaged in another kind of discussion—one that included this very same table along with considerably less clothing. He’d rarely had dalliances with other supernatural creatures, but for her he’d make an exception. Lucian shifted forward in his seat, letting his eyes flare, and was rewarded with a tiny quirk of her eyebrow as the chemistry between them climbed another notch.

“Your vampire compulsion does not work here,” Roan snapped.

Freyja’s eyes flashed. “Leave us.”

Roan did as she asked, staring with malevolence at Lucian the entire way past. Lucian was not cowed by the warlock’s antagonism. He let his smirk show, remaining idle in his chair.

“He does not like you,” Freyja commented. “None of my people do. They know what you are capable of. There aren’t very many people in Paris who haven’t heard of the infamous leader of the House of Devereux. Your methods are … notorious.”

“And you?” Lucian asked with a lazy smile. “What is your opinion?”

A vaulted eyebrow. “Of you?” Lucian nodded and Freyja stood, closing the gap between them. She slid a hip on the edge of the table inches from him and leaned down. The scent of her—warmth and spice—curled around him. Freyja’s fingers trailed along the collar of his black coat. Her voice was husky. “I think, Lord Devereux, that you are hanging by a very thin thread. Either you are lying about the existence of Le Sang Noir and trying to avoid your very real execution, or you are telling the truth and want something in return.” Her voice lowered, as did her fingers, trailing down button by torturous button. “So what is it that you want?”

Lucian’s eyes did not leave hers, despite the sheer torment of her fingers. His entire body felt leashed, as if held on some invisible string connected to the lightness of her touch, seeping through layers of brushed wool and silk. “Amnesty.”

Her hand settled into his lap and Lucian inhaled sharply. “Come now, Lord Devereux. Surely you do not expect me to believe that is all you want. I can smell it on you—your desires, your cravings, your need.”

“Power,” he bit out, the slight pressure driving him to distraction.

“At least you were honest this time.” She eyed him, the grip of that diamond gaze almost as powerful as that of her hand. “What are your terms?”

Lucian stood swiftly, closing the gap between them. His hand curled around her hip as he attempted to turn the tables in whatever game she was playing, but before he could even draw a breath, a bolt of energy threw him on his back several feet away. She eased off the table, standing to face him. He crossed the room in the blink of an eye, but as he reached her, she teleported out of his grasp.

“Did you think it was going to be that easy?” Freyja laughed, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Trust me, Lord Devereux, I know everything there is to know about you, and while you are correct that a diversion between us would be … interesting, I assure you that I am not like your usual conquests.”

Lucian fought a wave of humiliation, his desire turning to acid in his blood. Either he’d been incredibly transparent or she’d read his mind. She had played him like a fiddle—seducing him with her words and her eyes and her hands, and he’d been careless, caught up with lust like an errant schoolboy. He snarled and shifted toward her. Freyja wasn’t slow in confronting him. He dodged a second bolt of energy with inhuman speed and spun to avoid another.

Rage and desire surged through him as the maddening scent of her filled his nostrils, mingling into an explosive cocktail that fired his blood. Games or not, he wanted her. He grinned and charged, keeping his gaze on hers. Magic users moved with their eyes, not with their bodies. He ducked beneath a fire spell, spinning like a cyclone toward his head, and rolled until he was only a few feet away. The air around her shimmered as she teleported once more, but Lucian closed his eyes, following the magic surge with his vampire senses and spun backward. When Freyja reappeared at the far end of the room, he was right there, his fingers closing about her slender—oh, so beautiful—throat.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked, pressing her into the heel of the altar at her back and taking pleasure in the scrape of her shoes on the floor. His eyes slid to the pulsing vein at her neck. Her blood would be rich, he knew, from the magic that flowed in her veins. He could smell it rising in tantalizing wafts with each stroke of her pulse. His teeth lengthened in automatic visceral response.

Freyja smiled at him, her mouth shaping an incantation that made a wild rush of vivid green fog surround them in a haze. The wisps of mist cut into his skin like touches of pure sunlight. Lucian didn’t flinch, even though they burned his flesh raw. He was used to pain—it focused and motivated. He pressed closer until his mouth was inches from hers, so close that he could taste the warmth of her exhale. Her eyes widened even as he felt her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips … with excitement, not fear.

His thumb slid along the taut column of her neck and he licked his lips slowly and deliberately. “And I assure you that you know nothing about me.”

Lucian stepped away, releasing her throat and watching the acid fog flicker and recede. He steeled himself and held his transformation at bay, his features returning to normal as his vampire strength healed the blisters on his body. “Now that we have that out of the way, shall we proceed to business?” A smile crooked her lips at his arrogance, but Lucian was done with the games. “I offer you information on Le Sang Noir in return for destroying the Vampire Council. You get what you want, and I get what I want.”

“And what is it you think we want?” she asked, signaling to an invisible servant. Within seconds, another warlock appeared with two glasses—one filled with a clear liquid in a flute and the other golden colored in a whiskey glass. She took the first and the man approached him with the second. Lucian shook his head, refusing the drink. He wanted all his wits about him.

“War,” he said as the servant melted from the room. “You want the witches and the vampires to destroy each other so you can be rid of your two greatest enemies.”

She eyed him over the rim of her glass, her eyes shadowed. “If you are correct and that happens, there won’t be much left for you to inherit.”

“Whatever is left, I want it. Those are my terms.”

Freyja nodded. “Tell me who she is.”

“I want your bond.”

“You have it.” She strode forward and grasped his forearm. Lucian felt the surge of energy binding her word to their agreement and had to restrain his sense of triumph. His strategy worked. “Now divulge your information.”

“Why do you want the witch from the prophecy so badly?” Lucian asked, his eyes narrowing. Something in the warlock’s tone was anxious, fretful even. “For power? With her on your side, you can have absolute control.”