Nightwalker (10 page)

“I don't know.” She shrugged as if her strength were nothing.

“But I do. We would be in the belly of that serpent shifter at this moment if you had not intervened. You truly amaze me.”

She brightened at the compliment, and her eyes twinkled. “That makes us even. You saved my life at the airport, and I kept Snaky Jakey from eating you
alive.” She gave him a winning smile. “Enough about me. What about you? You told me you were old, so spill your real age.” She looked bluntly at him.

He ran a finger around the lip of his mug and said, “That is a prying question.”

“Well, if talking about it bothers you…” Her voice trailed off as she finished the last piece of chicken.

He frowned at her. “It doesn't.”

“Then you won't mind telling me.” She shot him an all-too-unyielding look.

“I suppose you will not stop asking until I reveal it.”

“You know me too well.” She batted her beautiful eyes at him, enjoying this excessively.

“I was a gladiator in Rome.” He watched her face for a reaction.

Her expressive eyes widened in disbelief. “You serious? Like BC serious?”

He nodded.

“Did you fight in the Coliseum?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use a trident and a net, or a sword?”

“Trident.”

“Wow! That must have been a horrible existence.”

He nodded, feeling his facial muscles hardening around his lips. “Most of the gladiators during my lifetime eventually ended up vampires.”

“Why?”

“It was their only way out, and Raithe was their keeper. He sent them from one hell to another.” Striker heard the hatred in his own voice.

“How long did he do this?”

“Centuries, until he got bored with it.”

“So he turned you?” she asked, her expression softening with compassion.

“Yes.” The warmth of the coffee cup drew him, and he cupped both hands around it, feeling the heat seeping through his fingers.

“If he's your maker, do you have to obey him?”

He laughed bitterly. “Do not believe what you see on television.”

“I don't.”

He let his gaze bore pointedly into her face.

She amended her statement. “Okay, maybe a little. Other than popular culture and rarely running across them in my line of work, I don't know much about vampires. They're not in my quilting circle.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling, making her whole face glow with life and beauty.

He smiled, and it warmed him all over—no,
she
warmed him all over. “Good. I would keep it that way.”

“You don't sound like you like your kind very much.”

“I have lived too long and seen what they can be come. So I guess you are correct—some vampires disappoint me.” Flashes of humans, chained like animals, dead and dying flooded his mind. He felt almost self-conscious about her having seen the depravity of some vampires.

They lapsed into silence, and the waiter paused and looked down his nose at her and asked if she wanted dessert.

She ordered a cheese course, crème brûlée and tarte tatin. The waiter shook his head; she grinned at his back
and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I'm beginning to like French waiters.”

Striker watched her dive into the bread, butter it and eat a large piece before she said, “Surely as your maker, Raithe must hold some power over you?”

“None.” Striker's lips lifted in a sardonic smirk. He guessed that wasn't completely true. Raithe was the only person in the world who could rouse him to murder.

“At first?”

“Yes. I was his child.” He drew out the word through clenched teeth.

“But now?”

“He hasn't been able to influence me for a thousand years. Other than enemies, we are nothing to each other.”

“So, what was your human name?”

“You mean the one I was born with?”

“Yes.”

He contemplated the question for a long moment, staring down into his cup. There was no reflection, only the watery image of the canopy flapping overhead. It was like his memory, thousands of faded pages. “It has been so long. I've had so many names since then.” He thought hard, then finally said, “I remember now. Domidicus.”

“Nice Latin name.” As a way of explanation, she said, “I took Latin in high school. It actually comes in handy sometimes, but obviously not in Paris.” She waved to the customers around them speaking rapid-fire French.

“True.” He nodded, unable to take his eyes off her.

“What do you remember about your life as a human? How did you end up a gladiator?”

He felt himself drifting back through those ancient
memories. “I was a physician in Rome. A nobleman died under my care, and my penance was the ring.”

“I'm really having a hard time picturing you as a healer.”

“I wasn't very good at it, obviously,” he said, his voice flat.

“You look more like a dangerous and polished predator now. That should heal your ego.”

“Tremendously.” He cocked a brow at her and sipped his espresso, eyeing her over the cup.

“Were you married in Rome?”

“No.”

“Did you have a family?”

He ignored her question and looked so hard into her eyes that she squirmed a little in her seat. Then it hit him. He knew why she looked familiar to him. “I have it.”

“What?”

“Who you remind me of.”

“Who's that?”

He studied her face as if seeing it for the first time. He could not believe the resemblance. “You're the spitting image of Calliope.”

“Calliope?”

“My sister.” Sadness crept into Striker. He hated remembering his past—especially the early years. It was the reason he had a hard time recalling his first name and why he had tried to wipe away those memories.

“You loved her?” Her eyes held his.

“Love?” He paused over the word, trying to give it meaning in the horrifying chronicles of his life. Love was something he had given up on long ago, but he
felt it now, that sting when he thought of his sister and parents. The thoughts of them still poignant and painful, like having his mind dredged with a pitchfork. Striker's fingers inadvertently tightened around the cup, and it shattered.

He watched the dark liquid drain down his fingers and hand, not feeling the hot fluid. No, all he could envision was the bloody face of his sister. Raithe standing over her mutilated body, smiling his innocent yet wicked grin, an expression of an egotistical god who held the power of life and death, and he always chose death.

“Oh, golly!” She reached across the table and dabbed at the spill with her napkin.

Her touch brought Striker out of the memory trance, and he took the napkin from her, holding her hand a little longer than necessary. “Thank you,” he managed to say, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.

He drew back, and the bleak hollowness that had kept him alive for eons settled back over him. He felt comfortable there, alone save for himself and his need for revenge. With methodical strokes, he wiped his hand and the cuffs of his jacket.

“Are you okay?” She laid her fingers over the back of his hand.

“Quite.” He absorbed her skin's heat, allowed it to seep into his stone-cold body. It somehow anchored him to the moment, oddly soothing the savage part of him that wanted Raithe's blood.

Then her phone rang and spoiled the sensation.

T
akala felt his fingers grasping lightly at her own as she pulled her hand back and reached inside her coat pocket. She was glad for the interruption, because she wanted to haul Striker off somewhere private, hold him and kiss him and make the rawness and isolation she'd seen in his eyes go away.

“Excuse, me,” she said, without looking at the number. “I need to take this.” She leaped up and walked out of the patio and onto the sidewalk. “Yes.” She watched the cars pass by as she spoke.

“Takala.”

She heard Akando's voice, and her stomach dropped to her knees. She slapped the phone shut and was about to stuff it into her pocket when it rang again.

“Don't hang up.”

“Why?”

“Because I've been thinking.”

“Really? I thought the only way you could think was with your dumb stick.” A low blow, but he deserved it.

“Takala, I mean it. I don't want to lose you.”

“Too late, bucko, you already have.”

“No, Takala, I'm certain that was a fluke. I'd been drinking. I picked that chick up at a bar, and I couldn't get rid of her.”

“Ever heard of the words ‘Get out'? ‘Leave'! ‘Vamoose'! ‘Scram'!”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don't. You would have kicked me out if you didn't want me there.”

“It's not that. It's just…”

At his hesitation, she said, “What? Spit it out.”

“Well, you're never around much, always working on a case. I got lonely.”

“I saw you when I could. You know I have to work.”

“I know, but it wasn't enough for me.”

“For once, be honest. I thought it was my scaring you that turned you off. Now you're saying I needed to spend more time with you. Which is it?”

“You caught me at the wrong time when I last talked to you. I'd had too much to drink. Didn't mean what I said at all.”

“I don't have time to listen to this.”

“Please, Takala, I love you.”

“For how long? Until the next bimbo comes along?”

“I swear, I'll be faithful.”

Takala couldn't stand the groveling tone in his voice. It caused her insides to churn. Just hearing his voice put her back in the car talking to him while another woman shared his bed. He was crushing her into pieces. “Don't call back.”

She slammed the phone closed and stared up into the bright sunlight. She felt like screaming at Maiden Bear, the bringer of white magic, to give her some insight into the male mind. A road map. Anything, so she wasn't floundering around. When she got home, she was going to the prayer cave and wasn't coming out until she felt enlightened when it came to men.

She ground her teeth together and was about to turn, when hands touched her shoulders. She whipped around to look into a pair of fathomless purple eyes, inches from her.

“He doesn't love you.” There was an enraged look on his face she had never seen before.

“You heard us?”

“I couldn't help it.”

“I can't deal with this right now. I'll meet you at the car—and please tell them to put the rest of my meal in a to-go bag.”

Takala hurried to the car, not looking back. She felt Striker's gaze boring into her back and didn't care. She just wanted to curl up somewhere with her sisters and talk to them. But she couldn't call them, because they'd ask why she was in Paris and she wouldn't be able to lie to them. No, she had to endure this alone—no, not really alone. She had Striker to talk to. That was a joke. She couldn't open her soul to a vampire she just met. Maybe she already had. She shook her head and jogged the rest of the way to the car.

 

Takala watched as Striker pulled the car into the alleyway of the La Montague Hotel. A laundry truck
and food-service vehicle sat in the delivery bay, and he parked behind them.

They hadn't spoken since the Akando incident, and she broke the quiet bond between them. “Why are we going in the back?”

“Culler is staying in the penthouse, and I don't want to ruin our cover. We'll take the back stairs.”

“Any activity from her?”

“Hasn't left her room.”

On cue, a parking attendant in burgundy and gold livery came through a door and walked to the car. The guy looked human and unremarkable except for a pot belly that hung over his trousers. Takala wondered how Striker managed to coordinate the minions who took care of his needs.

Striker exited and handed him the keys. He spoke to him in French.

Takala got out and grabbed her overnight bag and her to-go bag from the backseat. She followed Striker through a door with an exit sign over it, hearing the parking attendant drive away.

They walked up six flights of stairs in silence, Takala lagging five steps behind him. His movements seemed stiff, and she knew he was brooding. Well, she didn't need advice on love from a vampire who couldn't remember what it felt like.

When they reached the next level, he held open a door and waited for her to go through first. His eyes were so dark purple and distant, she couldn't stand it any longer. She said, “Okay, I'll listen to what you have to say.”

“No, I overstepped my bounds. I should not have eavesdropped on your conversation.”

“It's okay. Tell me what you want to tell me.” Now he was making her want to hear his advice.

He strode beside her, looking straight ahead. “It won't help matters. You are not receptive to constructive criticism.”

“I take it as well as the next guy.” She leaped in front of him, blocking his way. “So tell me.”

His eyes bored into hers with that soul-stealing look of his, as if he could reach down inside her. “He is not right for you.”

“No man is.” She hugged her carry-on tightly to her chest.

“Love will find you when you are not looking for it.”

“Can you get any more cryptic?” She rolled her eyes.

He blinked, a sure sign he was annoyed and struggling for patience. “Did you set your sights on this Akando, or did he court you?”

Takala wanted to say Akando hit on her first, but she had gone after him with her feminine guns loaded. She had loved him—or so she'd thought. But there was no use lying to a guy who could read her mind, so she said, “No, I went after him.”

“Have you asked yourself why you feel so insecure that you need to be in a relationship, even if it is only one-sided?”

“You heard what he said. He said he loved me.”

“He says that now, because he lost you. He doesn't love you. He only wants you as a possession. Once he gets you, he'll pursue his passions elsewhere.”

“Thank you for your insight.” Takala heard the
material of her carry-on stretching and popping, and she had to stop squeezing it.

“You want honesty, I offer it. Has it been this way with all your relationships?”

“They end badly. I push them all away or something,” she said, forcing out the truth. “I think it's going okay, then wham-o, they break up with me, and I'm standing there hitting my head against a wall.”

He touched her chin, running his hands along her jawline. Takala felt tingles shoot down her neck, and she gazed down at his tie, no longer able to make eye contact. She felt suddenly light-headed, her legs and arms prickling like they had gone numb and the feeling was just returning. The jet lag was really taking over.

He stared at his hand as if realizing he was touching her, and he stepped back and said, “You are looking for love and acceptance. You have abandonment issues. Until you accept that you are worthy of love and you do not need to force men to love you, you'll not find happiness in a relationship. You will only drive men from you.”

Had Takala wanted love so much that she pushed all men away? Was he right? She didn't want to admit it, but he could be. He wasn't being smug about it. He looked pensive and sincere, and he spoke with the authority of two thousand years of living experience. It was hard facing her own character flaws, hearing it from a stranger, a heartless vampire. He could be wrong about Akando. He had said he loved her. But hadn't he cheated on her?

She swallowed hard and said, “I'll think it over.” She fell back in at his side and they walked to Room 723.

He pointed at the door and handed her the pass card. “This is your room.”

She felt a tinge of disappointment that they weren't sharing a room, but she didn't say that. Logically she knew that was a horrible idea, but her body was disagreeing with her. “Where is your room?” she asked, hoping it was in a different hotel, a safe distance away.

“Across the hall.”

Takala gulped and looked at the door to 724. It was about four steps away. Great!

“Now rest. I'll wake you before sunset.”

She turned to say thank you, but he'd already disappeared, the door behind her shutting with a final click.

Takala used the card key and stepped inside. Why did she feel as if she had somehow connected with Striker? That advice. She would have resented anyone else telling her that, but she felt bared to the bone when she was talking to him, raked over the coals. He could be right about her. A scary thought, indeed.

She walked into the bathroom, found her toothbrush and paste and brushed for a good ten minutes. Then she turned on the shower and disrobed. She needed to bathe, crawl into bed, and hope that he was wrong about her. But she had a gut feeling he was right. And it was her mother's fault. All of it. This woman of whom she couldn't let go. What if Lilly was her mother? All signs pointed to it. Striker had warned her about Lilly. Takala had all but decided to let it go, not tell Lilly a thing.

Still, she couldn't go home without making sure Lilly was safe. She wasn't about to let her mother get caught in the crossfire between Striker and Raithe.
No, she couldn't allow that. She'd have to find a way to warn Lilly and get her to safety. But after seeing the handiwork of Laeyar, she was torn between stopping him, possibly finding a lead to Raithe and helping Lilly. Raithe needed stopping; she was on that wagon, but not at Lilly's expense. She just had to pick the right moments and make them both happen. Somehow.

Takala stepped into the hot shower, and as she soaped up her body, the memory of Striker kissing her came back full force. She groaned, trying to force it away, but it was impossible. He had kissed her twice. The first time on the plane seemed like a dream, but bits of it came to her, the shiver of excitement, his will forcing her to succumb to him. The second time in the bar she had given in to her passion and she had wanted more. No denying it. She craved a taste of the danger she felt, that overpowering sense that he would devour her whole. She'd never experienced that with a guy. Never. It was always her passion that consumed the guy she was with. What would it feel like to make love to a vampire who felt more desire than she could even dream about? Thoughts of it sent chill bumps through her, and she turned the water to a hotter setting.

 

Across the hall, Striker listened to Brawn and Katalinga updating him on Culler's movements. Thanks to the cleaners, Katalinga was her normal, healthy, efficient, accommodating self.

“She ordered room service twice and hasn't moved,” Katalinga said, staring down at her phone with her cat eyes.

“Called anyone?” Striker asked.

“No,” Brawn added.

“Very well. Keep up the good work, and no slip-ups.”

“Right, sir.” Brawn couldn't draw his gaze from Katalinga's butt as they left his room.

Striker made a mental note to switch the partners. Sexual attraction among agents was dangerous, not to mention it ruined their efficiency. If he was going to track down Raithe, he needed all his agents working at one hundred percent.

He found himself drawn to the door, mesmerized by what was going on in Takala's room. He could hear her taking a shower, her uneven breaths, the pounding of her heart, sense the temperature rise of her body. He imagined standing in the shower with her, touching her, the sweet scent of her damp clean skin. This was torture. He had told his staff to put him across the hall from her so he could keep an eye on her. But he could have left that to his agents and stayed in the B.O.S.P. safe house in the Châtelet area of Paris.

He kept a casket there with his homeland soil in it. He could have slept very soundly miles away. He should have been prudent, but he wanted to stay close to Takala. He couldn't trust her not to get in his way or do something stupid like let Culler know that he was watching her. He had to keep her under control, and he couldn't trust anyone else to do it.

Takala's strange resemblance to his sister plagued him. He had tossed that painful image of his sister away long ago, but Takala had dredged it up. And he was feeling again, experiencing the painful twitches of having loved his family, like needles being sewn through
his heart. Takala, with her beautiful proud face, was a constant reminder of that bittersweet time in his life. He wanted no reminders of love. None. He just wanted Raithe.

He ground his jaws together and walked to his overnight bag. He pulled out a plastic pouch. The freeze-dried blood looked like the color of liver. He made a face at it, then poured cold water from a pitcher into the bag. He kneaded it with his hands, thinking of the sweet scent of Takala's blood.

This desire for her was becoming an obsession. He had to end it. Here and now. Perhaps that was another reason he'd taken this room: to prove he was above wanting her. He put the bag in the microwave, hit forty-five seconds. It beeped, and he took the bag out.

He raised the pouch to his lips, bit the bag, sucked it down in gulps. The metallic stale taste didn't come close to fresh blood, but it kept him alive. He retracted his fangs and tossed the empty container into the recycle bucket, then loosened his tie and fell back on the bed.

He could hear the shower stop. He envisioned her naked body wet, the pulsing of veins, the sweet taste of her mouth. He rolled on his side and stuffed the pillow over his head.