When Wicked Craves (23 page)

The monster didn’t like that. Didn’t like being on display. It growled, low in its throat, an expression of its extreme displeasure, but it had learned. It had changed. And it did not rage against the walls. It no longer had to.

Instead, it loped to the glass, then peered out at the weren. It pressed its hands against the glass, felt the substance begin to melt away. It had touched the floor, the walls, the metal of its bed with no effect. But the glass, made of sand heated and re-formed of the earth, shifted beneath its hands to do the monster’s bidding.

Rand stood silent, not noticing the approaching danger.

The monster threw its arms out to the side and roared, letting the universe batter it, letting it feed the monster with the knowledge of what was out there. Of what the monster could take from this world.

Kill.

The command rang through its head, harsh and unrelenting.

Kill. Tear.

Destroy.

It tilted its head, letting the earth speak of the monster’s power. This earth that had nourished the monster, that had given up her power for it to become.

It saw, and it knew that it was time to leave. Time to grow strong.

Time to revel in the glorious scent of spilled blood and the bitter taste of ripped flesh.

Once again it pressed its hand to the glass. This time, however, it didn’t hold back.

The glass shifted under its touch, growing weaker, until with one massive punch shattered glass filled the room.

The weren was already through the steel door and into the antechamber, trying to trap the monster in this next ring of hell, but the monster would have none of that. It leaped, catching the weren and dragging him to the ground, the door still open.

Immediately, the weren shifted, his features elongating, transforming into the man/wolf hybrid that the monster had seen before. Memory curled around the monster, distracting it, and the weren took advantage, attacking with intense strength, trying to contain the monster in the room that would become yet another cell if that door closed and locked.

No.

It reached out—not with its hands, but with its power.

It reached out, and it took what the weren was.

And as it did, the weren collapsed, its wolven form disappearing as the monster’s own hands elongated, tufts of fur rising at the wrists.

“No!”
On the ground, the weren protested, but the cry was feeble.

The monster ignored it, then loped through the door, and closed it tight behind him.

It was in a cavernous room, and it tilted its head, testing the air, finding the scents of both power and food in the room to the left.

It raced in that direction—and the moment it crossed
the threshold, a woman scurried backward, her face contorted in terror, even as a vampire rushed forward.

The monster met the vampire head-on, knocking him back, sending him flying up against the far wall, as the woman—
Lissa
—screamed, crying out Rand’s name over and over.

The monster turned, wanting to stop the sound as much as it wanted to share her gifts. The unique powers of a succubus could prove useful.

It took a step toward the girl, and fell to the ground as the vampire tackled it.

The monster roared, reaching out, reveling in its own power as the vampire’s grip weakened.

It stood, sending the vampire tumbling to the floor. Its muscles tightened, ready to destroy the vampire that had dared to attack it. From the cell, the weren cried out for his mate, but she stood still, too terrified to call back.

“Serge,” the vampire said.
“Sergius.”

The monster froze, confused, as it drew in the strength of the vampire, the rush of power muddling its thoughts.
Lucius.

“Serge,” the vampire said again, his voice weak, drained. But the monster was no longer listening. The command once again filled its head, an unrelenting pulse.
Kill. Kill. Kill.

The monster listened, and understood where it was to go. Who it was to find.

Not the vampire. Not today.

Then it took one last look at the vampire before loping away, using the vampire’s own power to transform into mist, and disappear from sight.

They made love throughout the night. Wild and frenetic, softly and sweetly. Her body tingled, aware of each touch, each caress. Aware, even, of every glance her way. She felt alive and sensual and deliciously seductive.

It was nice, which was pretty much the world’s biggest understatement. It was amazing. Mind-blowing. Absolutely perfect.

She could get used to it.

Except, of course, she couldn’t. For her, this kind of thing happened once in a blue moon, just as the saying said. And that reality was neither comfortable nor easy.

She shifted, pushing the melancholy thoughts away, then stretched out beside Nicholas on the floor, her body twined up in the blanket that now tied her to him. “Take me dancing,” she said. “Someplace loud and crowded. The kind of place where you can’t move without jostling into some other person.”

“Dancing?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” She sat up. “I’ve never been.”

“I don’t think now is the appropriate time. Out in public. Us being fugitives. Probably best we lay low, don’t you think?”

She did, though she didn’t like to admit it.

“I just want to get lost, you know? I’ve never felt that—the pulse of music, the press of bodies.”

“No? Well, we’re not going to hit the New York nightlife, but I think I can arrange a suitable alternative.”

As she watched, curiosity warring with amusement, he got up and moved naked to the far side of the room where a technical center that rivaled anything NASA boasted lined one entire wall. After a few false starts and one moment of ear-piercing feedback, Nicholas managed to make music, and the room filled with something fast and retro and oddly familiar.

After a moment, she recognized it, and started laughing so hard she couldn’t stand up.

After another moment, she took his hand and started bouncing to the frenetic strains of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

“Appropriate,” she said, as the song died out. She drew in a breath, winded from dancing wild and naked in front of Serge’s windows. She sashayed closer. “But maybe something a little slower?”

He trailed his finger down her shoulder, over the swell of her breast, and then around her waist, before pulling her close.

As if in answer, the deep, sultry strains of “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” filled the room.

“You want slow?” Nicholas asked, pulling her tight against him. “I give you Barry White.”

“Perfect,” she said, laughing as she threw her arms around his neck. “Even better than a night on the town.”

“I will take you out,” he said. “You want to go clubbing, I’ll take you there.”

“When the curse is lifted,” she said.

He pressed a kiss against her ear. “Or the next blue moon,” he whispered, his soft breath and sensual tone making her tremble as much as the idea of being in his arms years from now when an extra moon filled the sky. It wasn’t the kind of thing she usually let herself think about. But tonight … well, tonight she would let herself believe in miracles.

They danced for hours, their bodies moving in time with the music, in front of the windows overlooking the city, in the shower with water sluicing over them. Danced, and made love, and when her body couldn’t handle it any longer, she fell asleep in his arms, feeling warm and utterly content.

At least until the dreams started.

Her mother, screaming out her name.

Her father, reaching for her.

Nicholas, stroking her skin, then changing. Shattering and shifting. Changing into something horrible. Something vile.

Except it wasn’t him. It was Sergius. And suddenly he was sinking into the earth. Disappearing. And Petra was breathing a sigh of relief.

And then he was rising back out again, full of purpose, full of the need to kill. And he stormed over the earth, ripping off limbs, tearing off heads, until all Petra could do was stand in a pool of blood that grew deeper and deeper and—

“Petra!”

Nicholas. Not shattered. Not dead.

“Petra! Wake up.” He shook her. Gently at first, then harder. “Wake up, dammit. Wake up!”

She blinked, realized he was holding her, then scrambled
away, her heart pounding in fear even as her mind ordered her to calm down, telling her it was a blue moon, she was fine, she could touch, it was fine.

Slowly, Nicholas came to her, then gently hooked his arm around her. She closed her eyes and leaned against him. She’d pushed him away on the plane. Now she wanted him. Wanted him, and wanted the comfort he could give.

“He needs to kill,” she said, realizing the truth of her words as she spoke. Somehow, she knew exactly what Serge would do. “Nicholas, oh God, it’s like he’s compelled to rip and tear and kill and—”

“Shhh. He’s locked up. You had a dream, and it’s horrible, and we’re going to fix it. But right now, he’s locked up tight.”

She nodded. “Right. Right.” But somehow she couldn’t stop shivering.

“I’ve got you,” Nicholas said, stroking her hair. “We have plenty of time before sunrise.”

“Will you hold me?”

“I am holding you,” he said. “And nothing’s going to make me let go.”

“The sun’s going to rise in just a few short hours,” Petra said. She’d been pressed up against him, her warmth easing through him. Now she sat up, and the shock of cold air from her departure made him shiver.

He pressed a hand to her shoulder, and she covered it with her own, then stood. She went to the window and pressed her hands to the glass. He turned on a light, not
because he needed it to see, but because he wanted to see her face reflected in the glass, and with the room darkened he could see only the sprawl of Manhattan.

Right then, he cared nothing for the city or the view. He cared only for her.

He flipped the switch, and she flinched, then brushed her eyes with the pad of her thumb, as if she realized what he’d done and intended to reveal nothing.

“Now I have two reasons to dread the sun,” he said.

Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath, then she turned to him. “Are we staying here for the day?”

“No.” He stood and began to pull on his clothes. “We need to get to Paris.”

“Of course.” She looked back out the window. “Do you really think he’ll help us?”

Nick stepped up behind her and clasped his hands around her waist. “You mean will he help me.”

She nodded.

“It’s a fair question after what I did—what my daemon did. But Serge’s rampage is a lot like that, and I think—I hope—that he will want to help us stop that kind of carnage from running loose in the world.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“He will,” Nick said, with all the certainty he could muster. “I truly believe that. Marco has a scientist’s mind, and you’re something unique, Petra. Despite the history between Marco and me, I think he will want to help us, if only for the selfish reason of studying you.”

“Great,” she said, but she was smiling. After a minute, though, the smile faded. “It’s hard not to be too hopeful.”

“I know. Come here.” He pulled her into his arms
and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He didn’t want it to, but his heart twisted. He’d touched her, so intimately. And though it was unexpected, she’d touched him. Him, Nicholas Montegue, who knew how to manufacture the illusion of desire. Somehow, he’d gotten caught in the real thing, and the burden of it weighed heavy and unfamiliar upon his shoulders.

He’d desired many women for their flesh, for the sweet pleasure of their company, but to truly desire the woman? That he had not experienced since Lissa.

Until now.

Rationally, he thought that he should be pleased to know that his heart hadn’t shriveled up and died. But he wasn’t pleased. He had no need to pursue intimacy. The world had much to offer, and the pleasures of the intellect could fill the gaps of a thousand lifetimes.

He used to believe that utterly, and he’d gotten comfortable with his routine. One night, one woman, with repeats only when both parties fully understood the score. Nothing that would foster intimacy. Why would he want it, when the last woman he’d let close had betrayed him and then beat the shit out of his heart?

So was it any wonder that the way Petra had wormed her way into his mind troubled him? Especially since Petra was a one-night woman by definition. There would not be another blue moon this year. Perhaps not even next, or even the year after that.

He would not touch her again soon—but dammit, he wanted to.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He realized he let her go, and was now jamming his arm through the sleeve of his shirt so hard that the material
was at risk of tearing. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Good to know. Of course, if this is fine, I’d hate to ever see you truly angry.”

“I’m sorry. I’m … frustrated.”

“Me, too.” Her smile was both sad and sultry, and he felt guilty for speaking to her at cross-purposes.

“The way you feel beneath my fingers will be forever burned in my memory,” he said. In saying the words, he hoped only to make her feel better, but as soon as he spoke, he knew the words were true.