When Wicked Craves (15 page)

“Mother Earth. Same as all witches. The earth. The universe. Power of nature.” She lifted a shoulder. “Whatever.”

“Power of the earth,” he repeated. “Maybe we’re not as different as you think. Perhaps we have the same point of origin.”

“God?” She spoke the word as if she’d just blurted out the most amusing of jokes.

“Do you believe in God?” he asked, curious despite himself about the way this female thought.

She exhaled, managing to make the simple puff of air sound like
hell no.
“Not in a benevolent god, that’s for sure. Look what he’s done to me.” She crossed her arms and looked at him. “You?”

“I remain undecided.”

“Yeah? I would have thought after all these years, you would have picked a side. Or maybe it’s not that interesting a question to you anymore?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, does it really matter?” she asked. “For someone who’s going to live forever, I mean.”

“That’s the same as saying that simply because one won’t experience something that it holds no value. I would argue that your premise is unsound.”

“You would, huh? I have a feeling you’d argue about a lot of things.”

At that, he had to laugh. “Yes, well, you would be right about that.”

“Bring it on.”

He was tempted. It had been a long time—too long—since he’d gotten lost in the joy of arguing the nature of the world simply for the sake of arguing, but now was not the time.

He stood.

“Hey, wait a sec. You were going to tell me how we’re the same. Obviously the God guess was wrong.”

He knew he should go. That he should let her sleep. That he shouldn’t get too used to losing himself in conversation with this woman.

He sat anyway. “I wasn’t speaking of God. Not like you meant, anyway.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head. “What? That shadow mythology? The bit about the two brothers?”

“There were three, actually,” he said. “Three brothers from another dimension who crossed over, and then
did battle among themselves. The third was the strongest, and the other two coveted his power.”

“They killed him,” Petra said. “Yeah, I remember this now. I heard some of those stories when I was doing a job a few years ago.” She pulled her feet up onto the seat and hugged her knees. “You believe all that?”

“Not word for word, but is it any less possible than vampires or werewolves?” He conjured a smile. “Or soaring thirty thousand feet above the ground?”

“Okay, you win. For the sake of argument we’ll say it’s all true. Family feud among the big guys, just like Zeus getting all gnarly with the Titans. But what does it have to do with me?”

“Legend says that the brothers buried the third in the earth after draining his power. But they didn’t destroy his body, and the corpse housed its own raw power.”

“Black magic,” she said. “Voodoo and all that stuff. It’s supposedly from the earth.”

“White magic, too. Power is power; all that changes is the way it’s used.”

She was nodding, her expression suggesting that she understood what he was saying. Believed it, even. “So all this Mother Earth stuff. It’s really Father Earth? Or Big Brother Badass Earth?”

He cupped his chin to help suppress a laugh. “Something like that.”

“It does make some sense. Kiril’s gifts focus the air, mine focus fire.” She rolled her eyes. “When I can make them work, that is. And my curse …” She trailed off, her forehead creasing in thought. “If it comes from the earth, too, then that would mean—”

“That would mean that you turned Serge into nothing
less than a force of nature. And a pretty damn pissed-off one at that.” He frowned as he spoke, realizing he’d just put voice to a theory that had been growing quietly in his mind.

Petra’s eyes were wide. “Wow. You really think so?”

“I don’t know,” Nick admitted. “I’m just articulating a hypothesis.”

“If it’s right, though, then we really are going to the right place,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“To find an alchemist. Because isn’t alchemy all about the earth and elements and stuff?”

Nick grinned. “At its most basic, yes.”

“Well, that’s what I’m saying. If my curse is earth magic and Serge is some earth monster, then getting help from an alchemist really does make sense. Maybe he can do with science what no sorcerer has been able to do with a spell.”

“You doubted my plan?” He added a tone of mock shock to his voice.

“Actually, no,” she said. She tapped her temple. “Considering what you’ve got going on up here, I’m not inclined to doubt you. Not about alchemy being the way to go, anyway.”

“Then what?”

“Is Ferrante going to help us? Back in Los Angeles, I had the impression you two had a falling out, and—”

“He’ll help us.” He spoke firmly, intending to stop the conversation in its tracks. Petra, however, didn’t take the hint.

“How can you be so sure?”

He wanted to drop it. To smother her with platitudes
and end the conversation right there. But she deserved to know whom they were searching for—and why their one, best hope might tell them to take a flying leap. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “But as far as I know—as far as anyone knows—Ferrante is the only one who ever achieved one of alchemy’s ultimate goals.”

“Immortality.”

Nick nodded. “And with immortality comes the concept of the universal panacea.”

“A cure for anything. So either he’s got a formula that will cure me—”

“Or he has the expertise to find a way.”

“And you worked with him?” she asked.

“He was my mentor for many years.”

“And then something bad happened,” she said, leaning forward, obviously interested in his story. “And you haven’t talked to him in hundreds of years.”

“That is a very accurate summation.”

“So what happened?”

Nick closed his eyes, fighting the pain of those memories, the horrors of the past rising up to taunt him. He’d never spoken of it to anyone, not even to Lissa.

“It’s okay, you know,” she said, sounding both reassuring and matter-of-fact. “We’re in this together, right? And think about who you’re talking to. As bad shit goes, I’m a walking worst-case scenario.”

“I betrayed him,” Nick said, surprising himself with the words. “I betrayed him in the most horrible of ways.”

She looked at him, and he was certain she was looking at the vampire, not the man, and at the daemon inside. “How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If this guy’s going to blow us away with a shotgun if we even get near him, then, yeah, I think it matters. You said ‘everything,’ and ‘everything’ isn’t just me, me, me. It matters.”

“The why of it doesn’t,” Nick insisted. “But yes, it’s quite likely that he will be less than thrilled to see me. He should have no reason, however, to harm you.”

She pressed her lips together, and he braced himself for an argument. “Why Paris?” she asked, the question taking him by surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

“You betrayed the guy, and then you two parted ways. How do you know he’s in Paris? Alliance connections? Have you been keeping tabs?”

“He stays under the radar, actually, though I’m sure the Alliance could find him if need be.”

“Then how?”

“He remains human, and he lives in the human world. But he’s immortal, and so must reinvent himself every generation or so.”

“Right. Fake death. New name. What of it?”

“A few centuries ago, I sought him out.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I wanted to apologize for the past, and to see if we could make amends.” He realized how stiffly he was sitting, and forced himself to relax.

“Why then?” she asked, and he was struck once again by how perceptive she was. Because that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Why then, indeed.

“Nicholas?”

“Because I understood then how it felt to be betrayed.”
To have someone he trusted turn on him. To have someone he loved destroy so much that was sacred to him. He’d understood … and he’d hated himself all the more for the deep loss that must have accompanied the horror he’d brought upon Ferrante.

“Someone betrayed you,” she said, her voice low. “So you found Ferrante?” she asked, and he was grateful that she didn’t ask about the nature of the betrayal. “How?”

“He had traveled, remaking himself in various countries, but in every place he would make himself available for certain humans.”

“Alchemists?”

“No. Once he discovered the secret, I don’t believe he wanted to share.”

“Who, then?”

“Sorcerers,” Nick said. “Humans who practiced black magic. They would come to him seeking help with spells or concoctions. He would guide them, help them find rare ingredients, that kind of thing.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“My connections are varied and broad, both in and out of the shadow world. As a PI, surely you can appreciate that.”

“You keep your finger on the pulse,” she said. “Got it.”

“I asked the right questions, met the right people, and learned the protocol for getting in touch with him.”

“Which was?”

“A chalk mark upon his tomb in le Cimetière de Passy.”

“His tomb?”

“As you can imagine, he has died many times.”

“So you make a mark and then come back the next day to pick up a message about where to meet him.”

“Exactly.”

“Very James Bond. Did it work?”

“To an extent. He saw the mark. He responded.”

“He said no.” Her voice lay flat and heavy.

“Essentially, yes. I went to the meeting place, and he didn’t show.”

“He was watching, and when he saw it was you, he blew you off.”

Nick didn’t bother acknowledging the truth of what she said.

“So what makes you think he won’t say no again? Assuming he’s even still in Paris and checking that tomb.”

He considered the value of presenting himself as the optimist, and knew that she would see right through it. “To be honest, I hope that he will be intrigued by your presence with me. Either because you’re a beautiful woman, or because the stories of who you are and what you’ve escaped from have not only reached him, but interested him.”

“In other words, we’re going to follow some set of instructions we pick up off a grave, and then stand stupidly around some Parisian corner while an immortal alchemist checks us out and decides if he wants to give us the keys to his clubhouse?”

“That would be a fair summation, yes.”

“Dangerous,” she said, eyeing him with narrowed eyes, as if daring him to disagree. “We’re fugitives, remember? What if he’s hooked up with the Alliance?”

“I think it’s worth the risk.” He hesitated, and then,
because he truly wanted her opinion, asked, “Do you agree?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I do. But keep your spidey sense turned on, you know. Just in case.”

“I’ll be wary of even the slightest tingle,” he said, but his mind wasn’t on his words. Instead, it was on the girl.

“Hey, did I lose you?”

He shifted, and realized that time had passed, and that he’d been watching her, thinking about her cleverness and her instinct for self-preservation. He stood abruptly, driven by the need to be alone and clear his head. “You should get some rest,” he said.

Her brows lifted. “Wow. That was out of the blue.”

“I intend for us to use all of the night. With your human constitution—”

“So now you’re handling me? Great. I’m not that fragile, you know.”

“You really don’t like anyone taking care of you, do you?”

She looked at him hard. “You’re not really interested in taking care of me. You just want to find a cure for your friend.”

And with that she pushed her seat back and closed her eyes, leaving him to face the unexpected fact that although her words would have been true when they had started this journey, he couldn’t deny that things had changed.

And that was one hell of a remarkable thing.

“Something’s going on with Serge.”

Lissa snapped her head up as Rand walked into the conference room, his notebook computer open in his hands. “What? What is it?”

He lifted the computer, as if words weren’t an adequate answer and he had to show her. He set the thing down in front of her, then stood behind her so that when he bent to put his hands on the keyboard, his chest pressed against her back. She closed her eyes, comforted by the feel of him against her. Everything was going to hell around them—Serge a monster, Sara arrested, Nicholas and Petra on the run—but no matter how horrible it got, she knew she could find comfort in Rand’s arms, and she was grateful for that every day.

“See?” he said, tapping the screen. He’d opened the monitoring program and was running the video feed from about half an hour prior. She watched, heartsick, as Serge stormed about in the cell, clawing at the concrete wall and banging on the glass. The walls were littered now with nonsense words written in his own blood, and over and over again the number three, scrawled on the wall with no apparent context.

He loped and ran and slammed and raged throughout the small space, everything about him screaming violence.
The way he moved, the way his eyes flashed, the way he ripped into the food that was lowered into his cell, not the least bit affected by the sedatives hidden in the meat.

“What am I looking for?” Lissa asked.

“Coming up,” Rand said, as they both watched Serge stand in front of the insanely thick glass wall and beat his palms upon it. The volume on the computer was turned most of the way down, but still Lissa could hear Serge’s animalistic wails, and they ripped straight through her heart.

“Do we have to watch? It’s so—”

“Here.”
He pointed at the screen, and Lissa sucked in a breath. The camera had caught Serge in the middle of a horrific frenzy, beating at walls, ripping apart the carcass that was the remains of his lunch. He was wild and angry, and then, suddenly, he wasn’t.

He simply went still and stood there, motionless, in the middle of the cell. A moment passed, then another, and he looked down at his body, then held his hands out in front of him.

And then, through the speakers, Lissa heard the coarse, whispered voice asking, “What the hell?”