When Wicked Craves (24 page)

“Get dressed,” he said. “We need to beat the sun.”

“How are we getting there, anyway?”

“We’re flying.”

“Gee, great. Another chance to get thrown out of an airplane. Lucky me.”

“Serge has a plane that he has kept unknown to the Alliance. We should be able to travel undetected.”

“Who’s going to fly it?”

“I will.”

She squinted at him. “That means you have to sit in a cockpit and look out a window.” She pointed out the window. “In case you forgot, the sun’s going to eventually rise.”

“The windows are of the same material as these.”

She nodded. “And you can really fly?”

“Hundreds of years provide ample time to advance one’s education in a number of areas.”

“You’re talking old-fashioned again.”

“Perhaps you affect me that way.”

“Some women bring a man to their knees with only a glance. I make them talk all hoity-toity. It’s a gift.”

“Or a curse,” he said, pleased to see her mouth twitch with the joke.

“I’ve already got one of those,” she said. “Trust me when I say that I don’t need another.”

Her brow furrowed, then cleared as
she turned to look out the window.

He knew her well enough now, though. Something was on her mind. “The nightmare?”

“Sorry. It just left me feeling antsy.”

“It was just a dream.”

She met his eyes in the reflection. “I would have thought a man like you would be more open to the idea that dreams have power.”

“I am,” he said, then pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “But not if the dreams upset you.”

She moved away from him, focusing on the window instead of the man.
Making
herself focus on the window, because, dammit, all she wanted to do was cling to him. To stay in this apartment with the blue moon forever suspended in the sky. Her whole life, she’d managed to deal with what she was, but somehow with Nicholas, she’d lost the ability to cope.

She wanted him, and she couldn’t have him, and she wanted to rage against the injustice. But there was no one to rage against. No one except herself, because she’d been stupid enough to open her heart, telling herself silly lies about how all she wanted was sex. All she wanted was to feel a man’s touch.

She’d been a fool. She wanted more, so much more, and it pissed her off that she couldn’t have it no matter how hard she wished.

“Petra?”

She turned to him and conjured a forced smile, hoping he couldn’t see her pain, because he would try to soothe it, and right then she didn’t think she could take the kindness. “The sun will be up soon. We need to go.”

“There’s something we need to do first,” he said, then headed toward the kitchen. She followed, her curiosity growing when he began pulling an odd assortment of things from the cabinets. “Dump these out,” he said, handing her three plastic soda bottles. “Keep the caps, but rinse them well.”

She complied, knowing he had a purpose even if she couldn’t see it yet, and also knowing that it was important they hurry.

“When you finish that, take the tinfoil and make a dozen or so small balls.”

“Right,” she said. She finished the bottles, started on the balls, and couldn’t hold her questions in any longer. “What are we doing?”

He turned to her, serious. “Making bombs.”

She glanced down at the crumpled balls of foil, then back up at Nicholas. “Whatever you say.”

“This apartment has protections,” he said, “and we had no indication of any Alliance flunkies approaching, and all of that is good. But I’m not inclined to trust our good luck to continue, and when we leave, I want us prepared to defend ourselves.”

“You’re a vampire,” she said, because she’d seen over and over again in her work the kind of damage a vampire could do.

“So I am,” he said. “But you’re not. And if there are several waiting to ambush us, even my skills will be insufficient
to ensure our safety. So I intend to go into the mix as well armed as possible.”

“We could go as mist. Not all the way to Paris, but just to the airport.”

He shook his head. “No. You were too weakened the last time.”

“But I drank from you.”

“To cure damage already done.” He looked at her, and the heat in his eyes nearly brought her to her knees. “No. I won’t risk you that way. Not if we have a choice.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “So we make bombs.” She looked at the stuff he’d pulled out onto the counter. The foil, the soda bottles, toilet bowl cleaner, some flour, a cigarette lighter, even the box of condoms.

“Fascinating what chemistry can yield, isn’t it? Refreshment,” he said, pointing to the soda bottle and flour. “Pleasure,” he added with a nod to the condoms. “It’s all about the mixture. All about the proportion. In many ways, chemistry is a metaphor for life.”

“So you know all this chemistry and science stuff, but you ended up being an advocate.” She finished with the tinfoil balls and climbed up onto a stool to watch him work. “What’s up with that?”

“If you’re done, maybe you should concentrate on a weapon of your own.”

“What?”

“Fire,” he said. “You managed during our escape because of adrenaline and focus.”

“I did?”

“I’m quite confident. What you want to do is practice honing the focus so that you don’t need the adrenaline.”

“Oh.”

“Go on,” he said.
“I’ve got a few more minutes with this before we’re ready to go.”

Since he insisted, she tried, focusing on her hand as she tried to conjure a tiny, whirling fireball.

Nothing.

“Talk to me while I do this,” she said. “Answer my question. How’d you end up being a lawyer type?”

“You’re assuming they’re mutually exclusive,” he said. “But what is chemistry but the process of finding balance in the universe, and what is the law but the process of finding balance in society?”

“Okay,” she said, her eyes on her palm, her mind on the fire. Calling. Bringing. “But?”

“But nothing. I realized after a while that although that axiom is true, there is also a fundamental difference.”

“Yeah?”
The earth, the sun, the power …

“Chemistry is precise. Two hydrogen and one oxygen atom always make up water. But the law fluctuates. It falls out of balance. Within the law there is room to maneuver, and after I was offered the chance by Tiberius to study the shadow law, I learned that I had a gift for those maneuvers.”

“Skirt the law, walk the line,” she said.

“Something like that. Now,” his voice lowered. “Keep your focus. Draw it up. And push.”

She tried, pulling and drawing and then—
Poof!
A tiny fireball erupted above her palm, fading just as fast as it had appeared.

“I did it! Holy shit, I did it!”

“I never doubted for a minute. Control. That’s the key.”

“And how do you know so much about it?”

“Some vampires’ daemons live close to the surface,” he said. “Trust me when I say that I understand control. And that I’ve mastered it.” He swept his hand, indicating the countertop, now littered with homemade pyrotechnics.

“Very cool,” she said. “These are bombs?”

“Explosives,” he said, pointing to the soda bottles filled with toilet cleaner. “And smoke bombs,” he added, this time pointing to the condoms blown up like balloons, filled with flour, and tied at the ends.

“This is the kind of thing you used when you got us out of Division, isn’t it?”

“Similar,” he said. “I had access to more precise ingredients and the luxury of choosing what I wanted to create. The Du Yao Yan Qiu that burned your eyes was a modification of an ancient Chinese poison bomb.”

“Temporary poison,” she said, unable to suppress the wish that he’d taken the Tribunal members out once and for all.

He flashed a crooked grin, obviously understanding the direction of her thoughts. “I had a few deadlier options at hand, just in case I needed more firepower.”

“Really? You would have really killed Alliance members?”

His expression was hard and unyielding. “To save Serge? Of course. Without hesitation, without doubt.”

Petra swallowed, but nodded, hoping he couldn’t see her discomfiture. Because right then all she could think of was what she’d known back when he’d first taken her
from Division: that if Nicholas knew her secret, it would be she—and not the Tribunal—who would die by his hand.

Dirque paced the living room of the home he kept in Los Angeles. A fortress, really. Two acres in Beverly Hills, with an eight-foot fence surrounding the property, and armed Alliance soldiers guarding the perimeter. Possibly overkill for one with his innate power, but in light of Tariq’s latest report, he felt that caution was advised.

Sergius alive.
By the gods, surely that couldn’t be possible.

Not that Dragos was admitting it—Tariq had made that clear in his report. But they both knew that Lucius Dragos knew how to keep his own counsel. If he didn’t want a thing revealed, then it would not be revealed.

But whether Dragos admitted it or not, Tariq’s theory made sense. Serge had disappeared from the crime scene after the girl had changed him, as had Montegue and Dragos. The vampires had testified that they’d subdued the monster in a warehouse, that there had been a horrific fight, that the building had burned, and that Sergius had been caught in the conflagration.

The evidence had supported the story, and after the Division 6 medical examiner tested remains from the scene and pronounced that the DNA in fact belonged to Sergius, the search for the monster had been suspended.

Dirque snorted, wishing he could be more disgusted with Division for its shortsightedness and lack of imagination. But he’d been just as guilty. Even knowing the
prophecy, he still let his guard down. Allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security simply because of the identification of partial remains and the lack of a bloody path ripped across the city.

But there would be no bloody path if Montegue and Dragos had managed to subdue and confine the creature.

Where?
That was the question. Where the hell was the monster? And what was it like now?

No monster created by the Touch had ever lived so long. Undoubtedly the beast’s strength had increased, but had it developed reasoning ability? Was it still wild and uncontrolled? Or had it learned the art of stealth, such that it no longer cut a bloody swath through the land? If so, the monster had become even more terrifying than before.

He was tempted to call Tariq back and have him lead the search for the beast, but he tempered the impulse. His nephew’s focus was on tracking the girl, and with regard to Petra Lang, nothing had changed. A living Sergius might be a threat to the Alliance, but at the moment all the evidence suggested that he was locked up tight. And while Montegue and Dragos might be searching for a cure, Dirque already had one—kill the girl, and Sergius would be free.

Slowly, he tilted his head to the side, replaying his own thoughts:
Kill the girl …

He frowned. God, what a fool he was!

Tiberius might not be able to get in touch with Montegue, but Dragos undoubtedly could. All Dirque needed to do was get the message to Montegue.
Kill the girl, free your friend.

Within minutes, the girl would feel Montegue’s knife at her neck. She’d slump to the ground, dead and gone. The threat of the Touch would disappear, and Sergius would return to normal. He’d undoubtedly be executed as a rogue vampire, but at least he’d be himself.

He crossed the room to the phone and was reaching for the handset when he heard a loud
thump
in front of the house. He abandoned the plan to call Tiberius, and rang the guardhouse instead.

There was no answer.

Fingers of dread crawled up his spine.

Trouble.

The thought had barely formed in his mind, when a loud
crack
echoed through the room and the thick, wooden front door came flying in.

A creature stood in the gap, part man, part wolf. And yet not weren.

Serge.

Dirque swallowed, and for the first time in his very long life, he truly understood the meaning of fear.

Kiril moved through the darkened room, pushing furniture toward the walls, making room for what he had to do. How many hours had he spent in this room? Lost in his fantasies, his stories?

He’d never done anything with them, just shoved them into a drawer, letting Petra see only the tiniest portion of what he’d crafted in his imagination.

She’d told him over and over he should submit his stories to magazines or anthologies, but he never had. He never thought he was good enough, even though his teachers had told him he had a gift, and Petra had always said the stories made her laugh and cry.

It was the rejection he feared, he knew that. He who wasn’t afraid of anything. Who knew exactly what he wanted and was willing to sacrifice so much to get it.

And now he’d lost the most important thing in the world to him—Petra. She was everything to him. Sister, yes. But so much more. She was his heart, and he’d lost her, and it was killing him. How much worse could rejection be?