When Temptation Burns: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 6) (40 page)

It was a solid guess. Cluny didn’t stand on a direct route to London. So if the hybrid had come here, it was probably for a reason. And Cluny was most famous for its abbey.

They stopped first at a small house near the abbey where the monks gave shelter to travelers. They entered in stealth, found a crossbow and a blade beneath the bed of a sleeping soldier, and left in silence. That was the unfortunate part of transforming to travel. Their weapons could not transform with them.

“The abbey is huge. How will we find him?”

“He will be in the central tower,” Tiberius said, his voice as firm as his jaw. “He will wish to feel small so that when he moves on to kill, he can prove that he is powerful after all.”

She took his hand and pulled him to a halt, then pressed a soft kiss upon his cheek. He’d told her of the horrors of his youth and she knew that had left him with an understanding of the madness that could stem from both power and servitude. Sometimes the depth of that understanding scared her. Sometimes it mystified her.

But when they entered the central tower, some of what he’d spoken of became clear to her. The room was enormous, the ceiling reaching higher than any she’d ever seen, as if it were trying to reach God himself. Even with all her power—even with immortality looking back at her—she felt as small and weak as a child.

“Come,” Tiberius said, pulling her into an archway. “We wish to see him before he sees us.”

They’d barely eased into the shadow of an archway when the telltale sound of footfalls echoed. She tensed,
uncertain whether it would be the hybrid or a monk moving about the abbey before matins.

She knew the answer soon enough, smelling the creature even before seeing it.

Without having a stake dipped in silver, they had to move quickly. A wooden arrow through the heart would kill a vampire, but not a hybrid. Their plan was for Caris to shoot it through the heart even as Tiberius raced forward to lop off its head. If her aim was true, the heart-shot would at least prevent it from changing—though Tiberius would still be forced to deal with the tainted blood and the hybrid’s incredible strength.

It was moving closer … closer …

She readied the crossbow, felt Tiberius stiffen beside her. “Steady,” he whispered, his voice pitched so low only she could hear it. “Do not fire unless you are sure of the shot.”

Waiting was a painful thing, like a serpent coiled tightly around her chest. And when the hybrid finally came into her range, it was even closer than she’d anticipated. She adjusted her aim, said a silent prayer, and let the arrow fly. It was as if she’d launched Tiberius as well. He flew from the archway, his blade swinging.

And then everything happened so fast that it seemed to her addled mind to move in slowed time. The arrow penetrated and the hybrid howled, a pained, horrible sound that echoed through the massive tower. Tiberius leaped, but they hadn’t counted on the hybrid doing the same thing. Its legs were powerful, and it bounded up and over Tiberius. Though the upward thrust of his sword caught the beast’s thigh as it leapfrogged over the vampire, that wound did little damage to the already injured beast.

It landed in front of Caris and she backed away, wishing for her knife, trying desperately to load another arrow despite knowing that it would do no good. It was too close, and vile blood was pumping out, making its clothes smoke and disintegrate. Though she dodged to the left, she knew it was futile, and she readied herself for the pain of melting, burning flesh.

But it didn’t come. Instead she felt the pain of a kick to the ribs as Tiberius shoved her out of the way, taking the blow instead. He yelled in agony as the hybrid’s blood burned the shirt off his back, cutting into the already deep scars left from his years in the mines and the gladiator ring.

As she rolled to safety and looked up, she saw him execute a perfect spin, leading with the blade, his face a grimace of pain and determination. And then the hybrid’s head was on the ground, its body dropping to the floor. Tiberius stood over it, like Perseus with the head of the Gorgon.

“It is done,” he said, and then collapsed beside it.

She hurried to him, pulling him out of the way of the expanding pool of blood, then helped him roll over so she could get him out of the burning, smoldering clothes and soothe his back with holy water from the altar.

“My love,” he said, as he clutched her hand in his. “It is dead. The last hybrid is dead, and we will survive.”

FBI agent Alexis Martin knows that vampires exist—because one of them killed her sister. Assigned to investigate a series of bizarre homicides in Los Angeles, Alexis believes the murders are the work of rogue vampires—perhaps even the monster responsible for her sister’s death. Now she finally has a chance for retribution. Even better, Alexis receives unexpected help from a sexy stranger as hungry for rogue blood as she is.

Serge is a centuries-old bad boy who stays off the grid—keeping his secrets, his hunger, and his heart safe from exposure. A new breed of vampire that feeds off other shadowers, Serge finds sweet torture in Alexis’s arms. Loving her is a chance to be free from the hiding, the loneliness, the secrecy. But the truth about what he is, and what he’s done, may banish him to the dark confines of his own private hell—and destroy the beginnings of their love.

The two vampires moved with steady purpose, the low fog curling around their ankles as if the oily darkness of the moonless night were caressing them. And why wouldn’t it? Hadn’t Sergius often embraced the darkness, drawing it close like a lover, letting it wrap around him, smothering him even as it soothed him with its warm familiarity?

And yet he yearned to be free of it—unbound from the pinch of the dark. That was why he’d come tonight, because he’d heard rumors about this witch. About her extraordinary powers. How she could heal. How she could make people whole.

People, perhaps. But what about vampires?

Her gifts might not extend to his kind. More than that, she might refuse to help him. He shoved the possibility aside, burying it beneath a blanket of false optimism. No matter how poor the odds, he had to try. The burning inside him had become so violent—so
raw
—that he had no other options. Because if he couldn’t ratchet back the darkness, it would certainly consume him. And once that happened, Sergius would be gone forever, lost inside an inky black void filled with only the scent and taste of blood.

“There,” Derrick said, grabbing Serge’s arm and tugging him to a halt. He tilted his head back, his nostrils flaring. “Can you smell it?”

Sergius glanced sideways at his companion, noting the harsh gleam in his eyes and the hardness of his jaw. He forced his thoughts aside, afraid that Derrick might somehow discern his true purpose merely by glancing at his face. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let the night wash over him. The magnolia trees were in full bloom, and the cloying perfume of their blossoms battled with the more woody cologne of the cypress and pine trees that dotted this stretch of land upriver from the Vieux Carré. He caught the scent of the Mississippi River, the coolness of the water coupled with the fetid tang of decay. And beneath it all, the pungent, heady smell of death.

“War,” Derrick said. “It’s as if the stars have aligned for our pleasure, bringing death and chaos along with the approaching Union fleet.” He sighed. “I haven’t dined so blissfully well since the British blundered into the colonies. Although, no. We feasted well in 1812. Do you recall?”

“How could I not?” Serge replied, the memory bringing a fresh wave of decadent hunger. They’d spilled much blood those nights. Had practically bathed in the sweet, metallic liquid. At the time, Sergius’s daemon had roared in ecstasy, powerful enough to battle down Serge’s petty protests and hesitations. Strong enough to take over until Serge lost himself in the warm, glorious wonder of fresh blood, only to claw his way back to the surface days later, heavy with self-loathing and furious with his inability to suppress the daemon as so many of his kind had managed to do.

The daemon lived in all vampires—a bone-deep malevolence that emerged from the human soul when the change was brought on. But some vampires were able to successfully fight it, to regularly battle it back down
until their human will took precedence. Serge did not count himself among that fortunate group. His daemon ran high and wild. Pushing. Craving. Battling Serge’s will with such persistence over the centuries that he inevitably succumbed, sliding into a bloodlust that caressed him as sweetly as madness.

How he envied those of his kind who had learned to either tame that vileness, or at least conjure the strength to suppress it. He longed for the mental clarity that accompanied being in charge of his own body and mind.

He’d been fighting his daemon for almost two millennia now, and its power still humbled him. Even now, his daemon was rising at the mere thought of blood.

Beside him, Derrick threw his head back and laughed, undoubtedly anticipating the glory of the kill. He shared none of Serge’s hesitations and experienced none of Serge’s guilt. They had traveled together on and off for years, and Serge knew that it was almost time for them to part ways. Being with Derrick only stoked the hunger that burned deep within him. Tonight, though, Serge had his own purpose for joining Derrick.
The witch
. But that was not a purpose he intended to share. He knew only too well that Derrick would neither understand nor approve. Like Serge, the younger vampire had a daemon that clung close to the surface. Unlike Serge, Derrick was more than happy to fan the flames of its appetite.

“How far?” Serge asked.

“Just down that lane.” Derrick thrust his hand out toward the left, indicating an overgrown dirt road. There was no moon, but with his preternatural vision, Serge could clearly see the once white plantation house, now gray and in disrepair. And not because of the war thrumming around them and threatening to subsume
this genteel property, but because of neglect, pure and simple. The occupants of Dumont House had priorities other than the upkeep of their family’s homestead. The Dumonts were vampire hunters.

“They may not all have gone on the hunt,” Serge said. According to Derrick’s sources, the Dumont men had ridden earlier, intent on their goal of attacking a vampire nest hidden within the tombs of the St. Louis Cemetery that bordered the Vieux Carré.

“I hope they didn’t,” Derrick said. “Nothing would please me more than to drain them dry and leave them to rot in the cotton fields. Nothing, that is, except doing the same to their women.”

An unwelcome trill of pleasure shot up Serge’s spine, brought on by the inescapable truth of Derrick’s words. There was pleasure in pain. Pleasure in the release of blood. In letting the daemon rage free and surrendering to the power of its foul appetite. Pleasure, yes. But torment, too.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Derrick said.

“I’m savoring the feed.” The lie came smoothly to his lips, and he knew that Derrick would not doubt him.

Derrick laughed, low and hearty. “Ah, my friend. So am I. Look—one of the slaves making rounds.” Across the clearing, a dark figure moved. An elderly male carried a single candle, the flame protected by a bowl of glass. He walked swiftly, his head turning to and fro, and Serge couldn’t help but wonder if the slave had sensed their presence. But surely not. The inky night was impenetrable to human eyes. Undoubtedly he feared for the safety of the menfolk in the city, and was ill at ease with his obligation to protect the women in the big house.

Beside him, Derrick stood as still as a statue. “You hesitate?” Serge asked. “That old man would have made a tasty appetizer.”

“Let him live and suffer from the knowledge that he had no way to protect the females.” He turned to Serge, eyes dancing with mirth. “Besides, I prefer the flavor of blood that’s not quite as aged. Come on.”

They strode boldly to the house, then rapped hard at the heavy front door. At first, there was no sound from within; then Serge heard the light tread of footsteps. A woman. He imagined her in a loose gown, breasts full and unbound by a corset, her lithe limbs naked beneath the thin material. Immediately, his body tightened and the daemon twisted within, ready to take and taste. And oh, by the gods, wasn’t that so very tempting …

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door, and for a moment there was only the tremulous sound of a woman’s breath. Then the stern clearing of her throat, as if she was bolstering her courage. “It’s late. Who’s there?”

“We come to warn your men,” Derrick said, thickening his accent. “The Yankees approach, and they mean to occupy this property. Is your husband home?”

“Who are you? I don’t recognize your voice.”

“The brothers Wilcox, ma’am,” he lied smoothly. “We’ve ridden hard from Metairie Ridge to warn your pa. Please, this plantation can’t fall. Not with its proximity to the river, the train, and the main road. Let me speak to your menfolk.”

Serge caught the scent of her hesitation. The rumors of the Union’s impending arrival were as thick as the famous New Orleans fog, so Derrick’s story was wickedly credible. More than that, he’d used the Wilcox
name, referencing the two brothers who were known to be well-placed Confederate supporters. A risky proposition if the woman knew the men personally, but brilliant if she believed.