When Wicked Craves (34 page)

“I’m quite sure I can manage to keep you alive,” Ferrante said, though Nick thought he looked a bit worried. “Of course my methods might prove unpleasantly constrictive when extended over the centuries. If you find them too unpleasant, I’m sure a medically induced coma would work just fine.”

“You bastard,” she whispered as Nick searched for something, anything, that would get him out of Serge’s grasp—and hopefully kill Ferrante in the process. Right then, he wanted nothing more than to see Ferrante dead.

Dead …

He thought about what he and Petra had discussed once, about how it seemed as though she was a conduit between Serge and an unknown.

Well, that unknown had made itself known in a very big way.

But what if it was more than that? Not a conduit, but a full-fledged connection. A symbiotic relationship.

If Petra died, Serge was cured. Petra created Serge. Ferrante created Petra. Or created her curse, at any rate.

Did that mean that if
Ferrante
died, Serge was cured? More than that, did it mean that
Petra
was cured?

Dear God, it made sense. He had to be right.

It was hardly a perfect plan. For one thing, he could only assume that Ferrante had stopped the aging process, not made himself indestructible. He would continue to live so long as no one cut out his heart or put a bullet through his brain.

Nick couldn’t be certain that was the case, but it was a fair assumption.

Still, even if they managed an attack on Ferrante—and how the hell they would manage that under the circumstances he didn’t know. Unless the attempt succeeded with absolute perfection, Ferrante would surely kill both Nick and Kiril right then, and Petra would be at his mercy.

But if it worked …

He craned his head, trying to see Kiril, but his vision was blocked by lab equipment.

“Petra,” he called.
“It’s Ferrante. It’s Ferrante as much as you.”

Her forehead crinkled, and he realized that she didn’t know what he meant. Ferrante did, though. Either that or he was simply hedging his bets, because he snarled out an order to Serge. “Kill him.”

And right away, Serge’s hands tightened on Nick’s head.

“Stop!” Petra’s cry filled the room, and to Nick’s amazement, Serge stopped. He remembered the way she’d managed to make Serge stop at the graveyard. And recalled what Ferrante said about her bloodline playing a part in controlling the monster.

“It’s the magic,” Nick called. “Focus. Keep your focus tight. It’s the only way to compensate for his years of practice.”

From behind the force field, Petra clenched her hands into fists at her sides as Ferrante, his face red with fury, muttered under his breath, urging Serge to hurry up and kill Nicholas.

Petra was amazed that she had any control over Serge at all, but the effort was exhausting her, and she wasn’t sure how long she could keep it up.

She had to do something else, and Nicholas’s words echoed in her mind: It’s Ferrante as much as you.

Oh dear God, he was right! He had to be!

She glanced toward her brother and saw that he was moving. She cried out for him, screaming loud and sharp, and then alternated, silently focusing her energy on Serge.

As Nicholas had said, she thought of it as conjuring fire. Pulling it up. Focusing. Holding.

Pushing Serge back with her mind and calling for Kiril with her voice. Over and over, until she feared it wasn’t working and he wouldn’t wake. And then—“Petra?”

His voice, low and groggy, had her almost sagging in relief, but she didn’t let up the mental chant to Serge.

Stop. Don’t. Stay.

“Wind!” she cried aloud.

Her brother, thank God, understood.

It started slow—too slow, she feared—but before she could alter her chant and beg him to increase the wind’s fury, he did so himself. Papers whipped around the room, faster and faster as the wind kicked up and up, a
tornado gathering at the center among the five of them, the tight wind dark with dust and debris.

And then bits of debris came flying out.

A book, surging across the room to batter Nicholas. A broken beaker, barely missing him.

“No!” she cried, but she couldn’t say more, not and keep up the chant, and if she didn’t keep up the chant then she would be the reason Nicholas died, not Kiril.

On the far side of the windstorm, Ferrante stood firm, his hands out, as if he was gathering magic. That was exactly what he was doing, she realized, and if he gathered enough, he’d be able to override her inexperienced control over the monster, which now stood, frozen immobile by the warring commands being thrown at it.

But not immobile for long.

She was running out of time.
Nicholas
was running out of time.

A few feet away, Kiril shifted to look at her, and this time she saw the jealousy on his face unshielded. And the desire.

Oh dear God.
She finally understood. It was more than a brother’s love she saw in his eyes. It was the love of a man for a woman, and the realization made her shudder with sadness and despair.

“
Kiril, no!
If you love me, no!”

He blinked, his expression confused. “You love him?”

Tears streaked her face. “I do. Please, Kiril. I do.”

He turned away slowly, as if in a trance, and she kept up the mental chant against Serge, infusing it with all the hope she had in her.

A knife burst from the tornado, heading straight toward Nicholas.

She screamed out in agony and frustration, but then its trajectory changed and Kiril was using the wind to hurl it straight toward Ferrante.

“You will not!” Ferrante howled, lifting his arm. Pointing the gun.

Pulling the trigger.

The bullet shot out, the report deafening.

And then Kiril was on the ground, and the tornado was fading, and Petra was certain that all was lost.

“It’s over,” Ferrante said as she frantically, tearfully, took up the chant again, trying to counteract his order:

“Serge,
kill
.”

But then a final gust of wind burst through the room, shooting shards of broken glass toward Marco. One lodged in his throat, and he fell, the gun falling from his hand as he staggered backward to grasp at the glass even as the wind died … and as Kiril died with it.

But still, Serge held Nicholas.

And Petra realized that although her brother had managed a final assault—a final attempt to help save the man she loved—he hadn’t managed to kill Marco.

Serge remained a monster.

Held above Serge, Nick saw their chance. “Have him drop me,” he called to Petra.

With Marco injured, it should be easier for her, but Nick could see the fatigue on Petra’s face. And now that Serge had no warring commands controlling him, his own monstrous urge to rip and destroy was coming out. Nick could feel the hands tighten, and he called down,
yelling Serge’s name. “I’m your friend, dammit. If you’re in there at all, Serge, it’s Nick!”

He had no idea if it worked, but he did know he wasn’t being ripped in two, so that was good.

Across the room, Marco lay in a pool of blood. But he was still breathing. Worse, he was crawling.

The gun.

In the force field, beads of sweat gathered on Petra’s forehead, her hands clenched at her sides.

Silently, he urged her to hurry.

And then, as if she’d pulled into her all the magic she could find, she boomed out a loud, imperious command. “Drop him!”

Serge did, and Nick scrambled toward the gun, Serge behind him.

Nick tossed himself forward, his fingers almost grasping the weapon, but Serge grabbed his leg, pulling him down, still inches from the gun.

“No!” Petra screamed. “Serge! Stop!”

The hold relaxed. Nick jerked his leg free. He had the gun and in seconds he was up. In seconds he fired.

And he put a bullet right between the eyes of his old friend and mentor.

Marco was dead.

It had worked.

Behind Nick, Serge collapsed to the ground.

And on the far side of the room, Petra cried out.

Nick raced to her, then found the controls that operated the force field.

“Petra,” he cried, and then hesitated before pulling her into his arms.

“It worked,” she said, smiling through tears. “Killing Marco—it cured me. I can feel it. I can tell.” She slid into his arms and held him close as he stroked the back of her hair. “It worked.”

They stayed that way for an eternity, until Serge stood and came to them. Nick looked up at his friend. This wasn’t the creature that’d destroyed Dirque and Trylag and so many others. But neither was it the same old Serge. The scent of him was different. His skin was different. And Nick tried very hard not to fear what else might be different.

“Thank you,” Serge said, focusing on both Nick and on Petra.

“Serge,” Nick said, then stopped, unsure what else he wanted to say.

“I must go. The Alliance seeks me for my crimes.”

“That wasn’t you,” Petra protested.

Serge faced her square on. “Wasn’t it?”

“Stay,” Nick said. “We’ll get you back to New York. I’ll get this worked out with the Alliance. You don’t need to be out there. Not now.”

The corner of Serge’s mouth lifted. “Worried about what I am now, Nicholas? Don’t be. I’m more than I was before. But I’m not a plague upon the earth, and my daemon sleeps. Give me time. I will return.”

“Serge—”

“Good-bye, Nicholas,” he said, and then he turned and walked out of the lab.

“Should you let him go?”

Nick considered the possible responses. He could run after Serge and beg, but unless Serge wanted to stay, he was going. And because of the hematite, Nick was in no
position to fight him. What would be the point, anyway? “It’s okay,” Nick finally said. “He’ll be back.”

She nodded, and for a moment, they simply looked into each other’s eyes, both overwhelmed by everything that had transpired.

Then slowly—so very slowly—she pressed her palm to his cheek.

A shiver ran through her and a single tear spilled down her cheek. Nick brushed it away with the pad of his thumb, and before he could pull his hand back, she caught it, and pressed her face against his hand.

She looked up at him, and he trembled from the depth of emotion he saw there.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” she said. “Forever.”

Petra lay naked in bed, her body twined with Nicholas’s, flesh upon flesh, so intimate that when she closed her eyes she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.

Heaven.

The Ritz Paris was huge and beautiful, wonderfully appointed, but Petra didn’t much care. The bed was firm, the sheets were clean, and room service was awesome.

As far as hotels went, those were her only current requirements.

Beside her, Nicholas shifted as he woke up, now fully healed from the hematite dust. He propped himself on his elbow and smiled at her. “You look beautiful.”

“I have bed head,” she countered, and leaned over to kiss him, taking it slow and savoring the feel of her lips against his. “You’re going to have to deal with it, because I’m not getting up.”

He stroked a hand down her side, over the curve of her hip, and she practically purred. “Really not a problem.”

She sighed. It had been a full week since she’d been freed from the curse, and the first two days had been a whirlwind of official activity. She’d been checked out by Division 18 and Alliance doctors and scientists and pronounced curse-free, which she already knew, and immortal, which she hadn’t been sure of. She’d told the medical team about the elixir that Marco had put in her
drink. They’d found traces of it in his lab, and a series of magic and scientific tests had confirmed that the elixir—in combination with her magical bloodline—rendered her immortal.

Amazing, but she supposed she had to thank the murderous freak for giving her a very long life with Nicholas.

She ran her bare toes up Nicholas’s calf.
Forever.

She liked the sound of that.

“I got a text from Luke a few hours ago. Gunnolf’s being fitted for a prosthetic today.”

“Good,” she said. She wasn’t feeling all warm and fuzzy toward the werewolf, but in the end he and Tiberius had come through for her. All charges had been dropped against her and Nicholas. She was a free woman. It felt pretty damn good.

“Are he and Sara coming for the funeral tomorrow?”

“They are. Sara’s hearing was yesterday and all charges were dropped. They said they’d see us at the service.”

Petra had debated whether to take Kiril’s body back to the States, but in the end she’d decided to stay in France. His favorite author was French—Flaubert—and she thought he’d like it here. The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, just after sunset.

Nicholas stroked her cheek. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “It’ll get easier.”

“He loved you, and in the end he proved to you just how much.”

“I know.” Although she hadn’t told Nicholas just how much Kiril had loved her—because that was Kiril’s secret that should die with him—Nicholas was still right that Kiril had acted out of love. She only wished she’d
understood how he felt earlier, wished she hadn’t completely missed all the signs. She would have tried to help him. Tried to break all the binds between them, and not just her grandmother’s spell.

But it was over, and in the end, her brother had saved her life and Nicholas’s. And that was one hell of an epitaph.

Rand and Lissa were coming, too, and Petra and Lissa had already planned the world’s most massive shopping day in Paris. She’d never had a girl’s day, complete with a massage, and she was looking forward to it with almost absurd anticipation.

She rolled over and spooned up against Nick, then sighed with pleasure as he curled his body around hers, the sensation familiar and yet still deliciously new.

She closed her eyes, warm and safe and happy.

But underneath it all, she felt something else. Faint stirrings. Hints of unease.
Serge?

She frowned and slid off the bed.

“Petra?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I want to see Paris.”