When Wicked Craves (6 page)

He knew Luke well. Actually, he’d tried to kill the bloodsucker in Munich almost six centuries ago, and that hadn’t exactly gone off as planned. He’d paid
the price back then at Luke’s fists, and had continued to pay the price over time, bending over and taking it whenever Luke needed a favor. Frankly, he was getting damn tired of it, but Luke was not a man you wanted to cross.

“Is that relevant?” Tiberius asked.

“Might be,” Tariq said. “Luke’s mate works at Division. Montegue must have had help on the inside. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit to find out that Sara Constantine’s knee-deep in this shit. Hell, she may even know exactly where Montegue’s taken the girl.” He smiled, thinking that maybe, for the first time, he had Lucius Dragos by the balls.

“You do what you need to do,” his uncle said, as Tiberius stood tall and silent, frustration rolling off him in waves. “Use whatever resources you need, conscript whatever personnel you want. But you find Petra Lang,” Dirque continued. “You find her, and you end this.”

Her middle came back first, then her lungs, and she gasped in air, suddenly starved for oxygen. Her arms and legs came next, and although she was aware that she was being put back together, it didn’t seem strange. Probably because she’d never actually felt like she was apart.

She had no idea how much time had passed, and the small, windowless room gave her no additional information.

In front of her, Nicholas pulled off his hood, wincing as the movement irritated the knife wound in his chest.

“You’re bleeding. Do you need … you know … to feed?” As a private investigator in the shadow world, she’d worked with vampires for years, but that didn’t mean she understood the various ins and outs of their nature. All she knew for sure was that he wouldn’t try to feed off of her—wouldn’t pull her close and press his lips to her neck. Not unless he wanted to become the monster.

He didn’t even glance down at his wound. “I’ll live. How are you doing? The mist can be disorienting for a human.”

The mist.
She remembered, except it wasn’t a memory as much as a dream, something wispy and unreal and utterly provocative.

They’d been twined together, body to body, blood to blood. The only time her body—albeit not her flesh—had ever touched anyone other than her brother, and even with him she’d only held hands, and the pleasure of contact had been overshadowed by the torment of the blue moon.

Try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything specific about the contact with Nicholas, only the hint of sensation upon a breath of memory. Her essence remembered, though, and the heat that coursed through her made her wish all the more that she’d been aware throughout the transformation.

“Petra?”

“I’m fine. A little fuzzy,” she added, the lie meant to cover the burst of unfamiliar sensations.

“I apologize. It’s not the ideal way for a human to travel.”

“You got me out of there. I’m hardly going to question your methods.”

She squinted at him, suddenly intrigued by Nicholas as a man, and not merely an advocate. For more than a month she’d met regularly with him as he’d briefed her case. She’d noticed his good looks—because how could you not? And she’d been impressed by how damn smart he was. But she’d never thought about what it would be like to touch him. What would be the point?

Her life was her life, and she’d learned to live with it. Having to go grocery shopping in the middle of the night when the crowds were thin. Avoiding opening night at the movies. The unyielding precautions, the constant awareness that even a gentle caress was impossible. All part of the parcel that made up her life.

Most of the time she didn’t mind it. Didn’t even think about it, really, except sometimes late at night, when she couldn’t sleep, and the dark stretched out in front of her. Then she wondered what it would be like to share her life with someone else, someone other than her brother. Someone who’d chosen to be with her. Who loved her.

Someone who could touch her, and whom she could touch back.

On those nights, she’d hug her pillow tight and think about what she did have. A brother who loved her. A house with a flower garden. A job she was good at.

And a long list of sorcerers and witches to track down one by one, with the fervent hope that one could remove her curse. Fight magic with magic. Bury it. Hide it. Change it. She didn’t care, as long as she was free of it.

So far, she’d found no one with magic strong enough to change her.

Until she did, she wouldn’t think about men.

That had been her creed since puberty, and although she sounded like a commercial for a fish-without-a-bicycle philosophy, it really was the truth. Men weren’t on her radar. She hadn’t let them be on her radar.

Apparently today her radar had decided to fight back.

The mist. The twining had awakened something in her, and she didn’t know how to shut down what was now churning inside her. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“Lie down,” he said, his brow knit with concern as
he examined her face. “You’re still disoriented from the poison and the transformation.”

She shook her head, determined to find her center. “No. I’m good.” She lifted her eyes to meet his, felt a small shift in her gut, and pushed past it. “Where are we?”

“Safe,” he said. “Right now, that’s all you need to know.”

“Excuse me?” Irritation bubbled inside, and she urged it on. Annoyance and anger were familiar and easily handled. “I’m happy to be alive, don’t get me wrong, but how do I know I didn’t just go from being their prisoner to being yours?”

“You’re not my prisoner,” he said.

“Fine. Then talk.” There were about eight bazillion things she needed to know, not the least of which was how she was supposed to live once the entire weight of the Alliance pressed down on her. Because they
would
come after her. The shadow world did not sit idly by after it was screwed. And Nicholas Montegue and Petra Lang had just screwed them big time. “At least let me get in touch with my brother. Everything else can wait.” It was a simple request, and one she expected he’d grant easily.

He didn’t.

“Later.” He nodded toward a cot that stood in the corner, a blanket folded neatly on top. “I need to see to things. Wait here.”

“I don’t think so.” She moved forward, intending to get past him, to get out of this tiny little room that was only slightly less claustrophobic than the holding cell she’d so recently been occupying.

He reached for her, and she jerked away instinctively, realizing as she did that his hands were still gloved, and she was still covered head to toe in the prison-issued bodysuit.

“Dammit,” she said, that stupid, knee-jerk reaction twisting her up inside more than it should. But it wasn’t just the fact that she’d flinched. It had been one long, horrible, emotionally trying day, which even though it ended up pretty damn awesome in that she was still alive, was still freaky enough to mess with her head.

Yes, she was beyond thrilled to have been rescued, but she wasn’t a woman who hid in dark rooms, and she sure as hell didn’t want to be someone else’s burden. She’d played
that
role her whole life, too. And although she knew that Kiril loved her, the fact that their grandmother had bound her twin to her—made him her protector until the curse was lifted—troubled her more than she had ever confessed to him.

She drew a breath, steadied herself, and decided to try the fly-and-honey approach. “You could have told me, you know. Doesn’t seem fair I spent all of last night thinking that I’d be pushing up daisies right about now.” She meant the words, but she said them with a smile and a lilt to her voice. No accusation there. Just friendly and chatty. She knew how to charm. It was one of the reasons she was good at her job.

“If I’d told you, they would have changed execution theaters at the very least. Worst-case scenario they would have pumped poison into your holding cell. As soon as the Truth Teller latched onto even a hint of trouble, you’d be dead, and this would be all over.”

“And what is this exactly?”

“Sergius.”

She frowned, thinking of the vampire she’d destroyed. “What about him?”

“He’s alive.”

The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she sat gingerly on the edge of the cot. “Oh dear God.” She drew in a breath, her thoughts a wild rush. “But how? There was a fire. I heard all about it. The ME confirmed that Serge died in a warehouse fire.”

“Staged,” Nicholas said. “Luke and I took some of his flesh and we burned the place. He’s here, Petra. But he’s not really Serge anymore.”

She swallowed. “You saved me because you’re looking for a cure.”

“A rose for the lady.”

She drew her fingers through her hair and concentrated on the floor. “But I already told you during the hearing prep that I don’t know how to lift the curse. Hell, I told him the same thing before I touched him.”

Her words were absolutely, 100 percent true. But what she didn’t say was equally true. She might not know how to lift the curse and free herself to touch without harm, but she did know how to cure Sergius.

Sergius would be free the moment she was dead.

But no way in hell was she telling Nicholas that. He might have the face of an angel, but at the core he was a vampire. And a vampire wouldn’t think twice about killing to get what he wanted.

She stifled a shiver, then looked up to meet his eyes. “There’s no way, Nicholas. I’m sorry, but there’s just no way.”

“I refuse to believe that,” he said. “As should you.”
He took a step toward her, and she forced herself not to recede. “Think about it. I was born more than seven centuries ago. You escaped death after your body dissipated into mist. And once upon a time, men without so much as a compass climbed into small wooden boats and sailed across oceans. We’ll find the answer, Petra.”

We.
Nice thought in theory, a little bit harder in practice. She didn’t really do “we” all that well. She hadn’t had much practice in that department. Not unless you counted Kiril, but he was her brother, her twin, half of herself if you believed some of that mystical nonsense about twins and magic and curses. “I need to call Kiril,” she said. “Not later. Now. He’s got to be going out of his mind wondering what the hell has happened to me.”

“Most likely he believes you’re dead.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the Alliance damn sure isn’t going to tell him otherwise. Do you think they’re going to announce an escape? No. They’re going to look quietly for you. They’ll use a small team so that word doesn’t leak. And if they find you they won’t be dragging your ass back to prison. They’ll execute you on site and all the paperwork will show it happened today in a small theater in front of the Tribunal witnesses. You want to get the target off your back, you help me lift your curse.”

“Turn me into a woman who’s not a dangerous entity as defined by the Fifth International Covenant?”

“Exactly. Take away their reason for executing you.”

“I’m all for that,” she said. “And Kiril can help us. He’s powerful.” She glanced at Nicholas, and saw the power in him, too. The power, and the determination to see this mission of his through.

And that was another reason she wanted Kiril with her. She wanted her brother watching her back if Nicholas ever found out the truth.

“He is. And that kind of power can be tracked.” His stern expression softened just a little. “I’m sorry, Petra. But if you think about it, you know that I’m right.”

“No. No, I don’t.”

He looked at her hard, so hard he seemed to be looking right through her. “Petra,” he said, his voice coming from far away. “You know I’m right.”

“You’re right,” she said, although she didn’t know why she was saying it.

Or, yes she did. She was saying it because it was true. He was right. It made sense, and he’d put the plan together and thought it through—had days and days to plan and think, and she was only now getting sucked in. Of course her reactions were knee-jerk. But if she would just step back, she’d see how much sense he made. “Right,” she repeated even though she didn’t really want to say that at all, and deep down inside she was calling herself a fool and an idiot and a weak-minded liar.

“I’m going to go out now, but I’ll be back.”

“I’ll wait,” she said placidly, then sat on the cot and smiled up at him, all the while wondering what the hell she was smiling about.

She watched as he left the room. Then the sharp click of the lock snapped her back to herself and she launched herself across the room and pounded on the thick steel door, furious that the low-down, cheating vampire had actually resorted to getting into her head and poking
around in her mind simply to win an argument. “Dammit, Nicholas Montegue! You let me out of here!”

He wasn’t going to, though, and she didn’t bother pounding for long. Instead, she went back to the cot and stared at the door, just waiting for him to return.

Just waiting to show him that getting inside her head was the very last thing he wanted to do.

Sara Constantine looked up as Tariq paused in her doorway, but there was no fear in her eyes. Not even the slightest flicker. And that annoyed Tariq even more than the fact—unproven, but damn near certain—that she’d aided a prisoner’s escape.

In front of her, a poltergeist rose from one of the guest chairs, then turned his attention to the doorway as well.

“Tariq, right?” Sara said. “With RAC? How can I help you?”

So she hadn’t heard. That would explain the lack of a reaction. He stepped into the office. “I’m no longer with RAC,” he said. “I’m on assignment to the Alliance.”

“Oh?” Still no fear, but there was a wariness in her voice that made him happy. He stepped farther into the room, signaled for the creature at his left to step into the doorway—and into Sara’s line of sight. “Morain here is a Truth Teller,” Tariq said. “I’m not sure if you’ve made his acquaintance before.”

“What do you want, Tariq?” She gestured to the piles of papers spread out over her desk. “I don’t have much time.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t.” He crossed to her desk. “Step aside, Constantine. I need to review your keystroke log.”