Worthless: New adult paranormal romance (Age of Blood Book 2) (7 page)

Nine

She looked like a million dollars, which was probably what the stuff she was wearing cost, give or take. The dress had been paired with Louboutin’s, ruby drops and a choker from which a fist size dark red stone dangled.

“At least, it’s not diamonds,” she said, and the woman who’d come in to do her make up all but choked.

“Woman, if you’re worried about the cost, you should wish you were wearing mere diamonds. I know my shit and
that,
” she pointed at her throat, “belongs in a museum. That’s Drake legacy; I’ve seen illustrations.”

Oh goodie. Not only did she have to worry about not falling on her ass because of her fuck-me heels, and saying the right thing in front of ultra-important vampires, she also had to ensure that the national treasure she wore didn’t fall, get stolen, damaged...

“Chill,” Michael said, appearing at her door, like every single time she started to freak out.

She turned and froze.

Fucking. Hell.

The man was wearing a tailored three piece tux that made him look like candy; to make things worse, he’d also decided that today had been the right time to cut his hair.

She liked the long hair – it seemed casual, giving him the appearance of a musician or a poet, perhaps. Now that it was cropped shorter and combed back severely, there was nothing approachable about him. He looked like he belonged at the top of the world.

He crossed the room to stand right in front of her, and took her hands – something that she’d gotten used to in five short days. For some reason, although it was a well-rehearsed move, they were trembling now, when he lifted them to his lips. 

He smirked against her skin and pulled her after him until they were facing the golden full-length mirror next to her window.

Cece gasped out loud. Bloody hell, she hoped the make-up genius was getting paid well for this; she looked like some sort of ethereal power, completely flawless, with intense smoky eyes and all. Strangely, her scars completed the picture, sending a message along the line of
try and hurt me. I will win
.

More shockingly, she fit in next to Michael. Just the right height – she reached his chin, with her heels on – just the right dress, too.

“You fit in next to me because of what’s inside the dress.”

Right now, she was really wondering why the hell they weren’t bumping uglies, and hoping against all hopes that he’d somehow missed that thought.

“I’m a gentleman, precious. No comment.”

Michael Drake wasn’t one to fidget, but he may or may not have been restlessly tapping his fingers against his leg as they arrived in front of William’s home. He hadn’t set foot in the tower since they’d left the previous week, and since, he’d threatened his brother’s fiancé – that meant that on top of expecting a conspiracy and a murderer on the loose, he also might have to deal with a family feud.

A small, soft hand grabbed hold of his, before squeezing it and suddenly, everything was right in the world. He smiled at Cecilia. 

Ignoring the queue gathered in front of the building, he walked right towards the door and Jessica, his brother’s best soldier, pushed the glass doors open to let them right in.

The service would have been impeccable if she hadn’t been chanting
you’re a freaking asshole
in her mind, looking right at him to let him know she meant it.

Great. William had apparently given his guys a briefing.

It was going to be a long night.

They crossed the hall, heading towards the ball room; his brother’s staff had exceeded themselves; dim lighting, candlelight, fountains spilling champagne and blood. The guests would eat it up.

“Your highness,” a server said, offering his tray with a tumbler full of something that smelt too much like B neg for his liking.

“James,” he called out, fetching the guy’s name out of his mind, “can I ask you one favor, man? I could do with some A positive or O positive, if you’ve got it.”

The servant and the gorgeous woman on his arm were on agreement, both of them thinking that he’d probably hit his head pretty hard; but James remained quite stoic as he bobbed his head and went out to the kitchen.

“What?” he smiled, turning to Cecilia.

Her bemused expression was adorable.

“Those are the most common blood types. They are…”

“Easy to get hold off, easy to drink, comforting. I don’t like unusual food, I don’t like expensive alcohol, and I sure as hell don’t like weird blood. I’ll tell you a secret,” he added. “They don’t either.” 

He gestured to the whole crowd.

“Don’t you see how they sip it slowly? If it was a good old O, they’d down it in one go. They are new blood, the equivalent of nouveau riches – desperate to fit in. They believe drinking the right thing is part of the deal.”

She opened her mouth and closed it, so he answered the question she wouldn’t ask:

“Yes, I’d love nothing more than to bite you. You smell delightful.”

She didn’t believe a word of it; yet there was a little something poking its head. Hope.

How messed up was it that she wished to be appetizing to a vampire?

“William. And Mark, and Jessica, and everyone I’ve ever encountered.” She didn’t say Vincent out loud, but it was clear that he was actually first in the list. “They all love Fay’s blood.”

“William certainly does, yes. He’s easily bored; AB neg pleases him because he hasn’t had it often. As for the rest, they prove my point. They’ve all had the opportunity to try Fay, and yet look at her.” 

She’d arrived just at the right time, next to her fiancé, perfect in a short dress she’d pared with boots, edgy leather jewelry and a new short pixy hairstyle.

She wasn’t just beautiful, she was also annoyingly different, not even trying to fit in.

“What about her?”

“I don’t see any scars on her.”

Cecilia rolled her eyes at that.

“Vampires just take a little sip, pretend to like it and leave her alone.” He lowered his voice to have an excuse to speak just against her ear: “That’s because AB neg is fucking disgusting.” 

He was exaggerating, but if it meant getting his girl to beam at him like that, he’d do it every day.

“You’re lying, but I appreciate it.”

Damn.

“So what, you’re also psychic, now?”

“I may not read minds, but I do have some experience reading faces. You were saying what you perceived as the truth up until that point. Then, your eyes looked up, towards the right – quickly, but that was you reaching out to the left part of your brain. The creative part. So hence my conclusion: you were lying.” 

Michael wracked his mind, scratching his scalp to speed up the process… but no. He had no recollection of anyone ever putting him on his ass like that.

He’d always known she was smart, and strong, and pointblank beautiful. He just hadn’t had any reason to think he might want to hire her as an intelligence analyst.

“You,” he pointed to her face, “are going to stick to me and observe. Stuff the Aspirant job. Right now, you’re my secret weapon.”

She grinned and nothing had ever seemed more important than ensuring that she did it every single day.

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything suspicious,” he replied, pulling her hand to head towards the dance floor, where he started to sway to Tracey Chapman.

Having her so close to him was a delicious torture.

“The West European Coven should arrive any time and as one of their members has been murdered, there’s a good chance of some hostility, either from them, or more than likely, from whoever started this – the suspect wouldn’t have flown to NYC without reason. And let’s not forget Daniela.”

“Let’s not. Who’s Daniela, again? No, I got that one. She wanted to be Queen, right? So she’ll probably turn up in a dramatic outfit with barely any stitch of fabric, and wearing a headpiece that couldn’t honestly be called anything else than a crown.”

“Come on, no one would be tasteless enough to do…” Cecilia did a little turn to change their position, making him face the entrance. “Oh.”

Daniela stood in front of the door, in a skintight black number cut off midriff, mid-thigh, mid-boobs and pretty much mid anything. And yes, she was most definitely wearing a bloody crown on her dramatically high hairdo.

Michael was proud to say that he somehow managed to
not
laugh out loud.

Once he’d recovered from the sight, he concentrated on her, expecting to find her mind clouded, just like Agnes.

“We have a slight problem,” Michael frowned. “She isn’t guilty.”

Daniela was very proud of herself, with good reasons. Her mind screamed quite smugly just what part she’d played in her contact’s scheme: the scapegoat.

When his faceless enemies hidden behind cloaks had come to her, she’d pointblank refused to have anything to do with their scheme.
I wish you well,
she’d said,
but I refuse to break the law.
They’d asked to use her factory, she’d smiled and said that business was another matter altogether, knowing full well that Michael would suspect her, and leave it at that.

Dammit.

“I need you to get out of here,” he told Cecilia, pulling her towards the door.

If Daniela felt safe to reveal that much now, things would unfold any minute.

He stared at William until his brother caught his eye, and sent him the most meaningful look he could muster, gesturing to Fay.

Dammit, why the heck couldn’t he just speak in other people’s minds like they did in X-men?

Thankfully, his brother got the gist.

One last glance around the ballroom revealed Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. It didn’t matter in any case; she could take care of herself.

“What’s happening?” Cecilia asked just as William and Fay joined them out of the building.

“Daniela isn’t behind this mess, whatever it is – and she wanted me to know now,” he explained, walking faster, heading across the street, towards Central Park. “Something is happening. Something big. You can’t be here. Same for Fay – and we need to get as many humans as possible out of the building without making it obvious.”

“On it,” William replied, grabbing his phone just as a humongous, earth shattering, soul grinding shift in the air exploded behind them.

The others just turned towards the Drake Tower, but Michael bent in two, holding his head between his hands; it felt like his brain was getting crushed.

There was an unnatural sphere charged with golden particles on top of the building, and when it touched the roof, it started disintegrating it so quickly half of the tower was gone by the time the screams started.

Witchcraft. This was witchcraft, and, warning or not, there was no way this could come from any clan other than the White’s. He’d never seen that kind of consuming magic before.

All of a sudden, though, the progression of the destructive force halted. It wasn’t gone, not even slowing down – it was as though something had blocked it at the fifteenth floor; the golden glow was still pushing down so hard it sounded and felt like an earthquake.

“Fay?” Cecilia said faintly.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I swear I don’t know!” she yelled, frantic.

But she was doing something. Her hands were extended in front of her, palms up, emanating silver white energy.

Michael had the biggest migraine of his five centuries in the works, but he forced his reluctant sense to peek at her mind.

He froze, not exactly sure whether what he read was a great thing, or a frightening one.

“You aren’t doing anything. The White Witch is using you as her conduit.”

He could hear her voice murmuring spells; there were others in the background – every white sister was in on that one.

Good, you’re listening,
he heard clearly.

The voice shocked him because it sounded… young. Like, middle school kinda young.