Hungers of the Heart Page 6

  Jez went to stand with the two fledglings as soon us Drake let her go. She rubbed her wrist absently and refused to meet his gaze as the other two closed

  -auks around her. He felt like a bastard. So much for his wishful thinking that somehow he might “fit in” among Gabriel’s Guardians.

  “I’m sorry I have to be a hard-ass about this,” he said. “I’m just trying to keep us all safe.”

  Inc laughed nervously. “Hey, after Gabriel, you’re in old softie.”

  Harry gave a halfhearted bark of laughter, but Jez didn’t seem amused. She might have been about to light into Eric, but just then, the doorbell rang.

  Despite what that ring portended, Drake was thankful for it. “It seems our guests have arrived,” he said. “Jez, can you at least pretend to forgive me while they’re around?”

  The look she shot him was not even remotely friendly, but she nodded anyway.

  ***

  AFTER HER LITTLE “chat” with the Seigneur Faith wasn’t surprised that she got her own room in their hosts’ house. She supposed Armand thought she’d have a better chance of seducing Drake and getting Ii un to spill all his secrets during pillow talk if she didn’t have a roommate. Armand, Charles, and Lily I tad all merited rooms on the second floor. Faith and I lie “lesser” vampires of the entourage were rele­gated to the third floor along with the mortals. The others grumbled about being housed in servant” quarters, and grumbled even more that Faith got room to herself.

  Feeling like a puppet dancing on the end of the Seigneur’s strings, Faith left her unpacking for lat”' and slipped down the stairs to the first floor, looking for Drake. She found him in a comfortable-looking den, complete with wide-screen TV and plush, over­stuffed chairs. A room from the twenty-first century, in sharp contrast to the absurdly garish receiving room.

  Unfortunately, Drake was deep in conversation with the female Guardian, Jezebel, their heads bent together, their voices low, and anger flashing in both sets of eyes. Faith cleared her throat softly to let them know she was there, and they both instantly clammed up and moved apart. Jezebel gave her a contemptuous once-over, then flounced out of the room in a huff.

  Feeling almost unbearably awkward, Faith looked at Drake and found her voice trapped somewhere in her throat. He raised one dark eyebrow in inquiry.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

  She swallowed past a lump of fear in her throat and moved farther into the room. “Armand tells me Guardians drink only animal blood,” she said, then cursed herself. Hardly a seductive conversation topic, but she’d never tried to seduce anyone before. Actu­ally, for the last six years, she’d been trying with all her might not to attract any masculine attention. Clearly, she had no idea how to go about such a thing.

  Drake’s lips twitched into a tense smile. “That’s true, for the most part.”

  “For the most part?”

  He crossed some of the distance between them, and she had to fight an urge to retreat. There was a predatory expression in his eyes that reminded her of Armand. His nostrils flared, as if he’d caught a whiff of her sudden, irrational fear of him.

  “I don’t’ he said, and his smile went from tense to -wolfish. He took another step toward her, his fangs descending.

  Dammit! Had Armand known that when he sent her on her mission? She gritted her teeth. No doubt he had. Such details rarely escaped his notice. It wasn’t possible to see from a vampire’s aura whether he was a Killer or not, but Armand would not have set foot in potentially hostile territory without ad­vance research.

  “Why do you ask?” Drake asked, circling her like a shark.

  Faith sucked in a deep breath. Like any predator, he could sense fear, and he knew from her reactions that she was weak and vulnerable. Doomed to be prey to older, stronger, more ruthless vampires as long as she refused to kill.

  She swallowed past her fear. Despite his aggres­sive display, Drake would not dare harm her when his house was swarming with vampires many times his age. He was no doubt angry about his lack of power and had latched onto making her squirm as a way to reassert himself.

  “Because I haven’t fed, and I’m hungry,” she said, though in fact she had fed before leaving France and would not need to do so again for at least a couple more days. She was pretty sure she could choke an­other meal down for a good cause.

  Drake stopped circling, his brows drawing to­gether in puzzlement. “You’re not asking my permis­sion to hunt in Baltimore, are you? Because that’s something I will never allow.”

  She shook her head, wondering if he really thought he had the power to “allow” the delegation to do any­thing. “I’m not a Killer. I was hoping you could pro­vide me with. . . what I need.”

  He looked at her with infinite skepticism. “You must take me for a complete idiot.”

  She huffed out a sigh of frustration. Why had she expected him to believe her? She could count on one hand the number of vampires she’d met who had re­sisted the lure of the kill—and most of those she had met today, in Drake’s receiving room. Why on earth would he believe a vampire in Armand’s entourage would have refrained?

  “You don’t have to believe me,” she said. “You could just humor me.”

  He raised one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I suppose I could, Miss. . .

  “Just call me Faith. No need to be formal.”

  “All right, Faith. Come on.” Without looking to see if she followed, he strode out a door on the opposite side of the room.

  Faith hurried to catch up. He led her down a long corridor that opened into a barren kitchen. “Grab a glass,” he ordered, pointing at a cabinet as he opened the refrigerator.

  Faith bit her lip, wondering what on earth she was doing here. She wasn’t a seductress, and Drake didn’t exactly seem to be open to flirting. Not that she’d tried yet. Sighing, she reached into the cabinet and pulled out a glass.

  Drake emerged from the fridge with a stoppered green glass bottle in his hand. She forced herself to approach as he uncorked the bottle.

  “You’re not French,” he said, pouring her glass halfway full with thick, preserved blood.

  “No,” she responded. Her nose wrinkled at the medicinal smell of the stuff. She realized it was a mistake when he scowled at her.

  “I suppose you prefer it hot from the vein,” he said. “As I do.”

  She shook her head and raised the glass to her lips. “No.” She gulped down a swallow” and practically gagged at the taste. She couldn’t help making a face, no doubt cementing his conviction that she was a Killer—and a liar. “Armand keeps livestock on his estate, so I’ve never had to drink preserved blood be­fore.” She forced down another slug and shuddered. “This is truly foul stuff.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Another of his wolfish grins. “The others mix it with milk, which I’m told makes it even more revolting.”

  “Why would they do that?” she asked, startled.

  “They feel that making the task of feeding unpleas­ant will reduce the chance that they’ll be tempted to kill.” He stepped toward the refrigerator. “Shall I add some milk to yours?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” she said hastily, sure he hadn’t ex­pected her to say yes. Unwilling to admit she didn’t really need to feed, Faith took another sip. She dis­tracted herself from the nasty stuff by giving her re­luctant host an assessing once-over. No doubt about it, he was east on the eyes. She especially liked his night-black hair, textured by a hint of curl. The well-defined muscles of his chest were a pretty attractive feature, too.

  Drake grinned at her too-obvious gaze, turning so she could take in the rear view. Supple black leather clung appealingly to a tight, rounded butt, and some­thing fluttered low in her belly. The flutter faded as soon as she noticed, and she wondered—had it really come from her, or had that been a touch of his glam­our?

  He turned to face her once more, an expectant ex­pression on his face. She looked at the glass of blood and deci
ded she couldn’t bear another swallow.

  Drake folded his arms over his chest and leaned that scrumptious butt against the counter. “Well?” he prompted.

  She blinked. “Well, what?”

  “I gave you the deluxe tour,” he said with a sweep­ing gesture that indicated his body. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks, and she was tempted to toss her drink in his face. But no, she was supposed to be flirting. It was a good sign that he would make such a remark. So why did she feel so dreadfully awkward? She couldn’t even force herself to answer his taunt one way or another.

  “So,” Drake said when it became apparent she wasn’t going to answer, “where are you from? I al­ready know it’s not France.”

  “I’m originally from Virginia’ she said, staring at the floor. “I took my sister on a vacation to Paris, and.. .“ She let her voice trail off.

  “Your sister,” he mused. “That would be Lily?”

  She nodded. Lily had been all of ten years old at the time, had witnessed the attack that had forever changed both their lives. All because Faith had al­lowed herself to think with her hormones.

  “Armand killed the man who made me. And he hook me and Lily in.”

  “And how is it that you’re not a Killer?”

  “My maker told me I could survive on animal blood, and I found it was true. For reasons of his own, Armand has allowed me to indulge what he considers itty eccentricity.”

  “I see.”

  He didn’t believe a word she said, but she could hardly blame him. She would have been equally skeptical in his shoes.

  If Armand had wanted someone to seduce information out of Drake, he should have sent Marie, who no doubt would have achieved an invitation to his bed by now. Of course, Marie wasn’t exactly subtle. Or smart. She might have gotten Drake to bed, b her chances of charming useful information out him were slim.

  “What do you really want?” Drake asked. “It wasn’t the blood,” he finished, indicating the full glass with a jerk of his chin.

  She shook her head. She was not a seductress, an even with the carrot of her own and Lily’s freedom dangled before her nose, she wasn’t about to becor one. So she’d have to settle for being herself—fn to a fault.

  She met his eyes. “Armand thinks you know where Gabriel is. He wants me to seduce you and see if can convince you to talk.”

  Drake laughed, standing up straight and uncrossing his arms. “Wow. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting.” He reached for her glass and tossed contents down the drain.

  She found herself laughing as well. “No, I guess not.” She did a quick psychic scan of the area make sure there was no one listening in on them. She stepped closer to him and dropped her voice.

  “No matter what he might say, Armand is under orders to bring La Vieille Gabriel’s head.”

  Drake’s eyes widened, and he fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Why indeed? Her mouth seemed to be won independently of her brain. She rubbed sui1 sweaty palms on her pants legs, but her brain fir caught up with her and she smiled faintly. “I guess I’m in trying to play both sides. If you and your master come out on top, I don’t want you to see me as one of them.” She pointed at the ceiling to indicate the dele­gation.

  “Gabriel’s not my master,” Drake said with some asperity.

  She gave him a knowing look, and Drake visibly bristled.

  “He’s my boss. There’s a difference.”

  “Uh-huh,” she agreed. Let him cling to that illu­sion if he liked. She’d wager as a member of Ar­mand’s entourage, she’d met more vampires than Drake had ever known, and there wasn’t a hint of democratic spirit in any of them. They ruled by pure tower and fear. An employee could choose to dis­obey a boss. A lesser vampire had no choice but to hey his master unless he wanted to die.

  “So Armand is your master,” Drake said, no doubt trying to get a rise out of her.

  She winced—she couldn’t help it. But the answer was is inescapable. “Yes. He is, In every way?’ Her throat tightened on the words, and she remembered the feel of his mouth on her breast as she sighed in pleasure under the influence of his glamour.

  There was a moment of leaden silence. Then Drake reached out and touched her arm briefly. His hand dropped back to his side as if her skin had burned him. “I’m sorry’ he said, not looking at her. “I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Nei­ther he.” Oh yeah, she thought. This is the best seduction a tempt ever. Tell the guy what you’re up then suggest you ‘re sleeping with someone else.

  She shook the thought off. It was time to cut F losses and regroup. “I should go now.” She forced something between a smile and a grimace. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Drake’s only response was a brusque nod he before he turned back to the sink to rinse the bloody glass. Faith slunk away.

  ***

  CHARLES CLOSED THE door to his room and wondered how much sound would travel through these walls. Armand had the room next door, but a quick psychic scan told him Marie had joined the Seigneur. Surely that meant he would be distracted for a while, wouldn’t overhear anything he shouldn’t.

  Hating himself, Charles pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the private number La Vieille du Nord had given him. She answered on the fifth ring.

  “You have an update for me, monsieur?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” he said, the honorific tast­ing sour on his tongue. Having never risen in the ranks, Charles had had very little occasion to speak with her, being completely beneath her notice. How he wished it had stayed that way!

  “Well?”

  “We’ve taken up lodging at the Master’s house, though Gabriel has made himself scarce. Apparently, Brigitte warned them we were coming.”

  La Vieille made a low sound that made the hairs on the back of Charles’s neck stand on end. “My girl is a clever one and will no doubt make as much trouble as she can manage. But she won’t outsmart you or the Seigneur, will she?”

  He swallowed hard. “No, Your Excellency.”

  Charles had abandoned his faith in God long ago, hut tonight he would pray nonetheless. Please God, let us succeed. Don’t cast me in the role of Judas.

  Because if they failed—if Brigitte or Gabriel eluded them, or if Brigitte was killed—the only way Charles could save his own life was to turn the man who’d been his best friend for more than six hundred years over to La Vieille du Nord. Armand’s would be a fate worse than death, but to ensure himself immu­nity from her terrifying wrath, Charles would do anything.

  By showing him how low he would sink to protect his own hide, La Vieille had eaten away a piece of his soul. And even if he never had to betray his friend, he would hate her—and himself—for the rest of his im­mortal life.

  5

  DRAKE RETIRED TO his borrowed bedroom at the crack of dawn, though at his age the daytime sleep wouldn’t take him for another couple of hours. He didn’t want to run into another member of the Euro­pean delegation, and the Guardians had all suc­cumbed to sleep already. He sat on a comfortable chair in the corner of the darkened room, watching as dawn began to glow around the edges of the heavy blackout curtains.

  Try as he might, Drake couldn’t imagine the cur­rent situation ending well. Not if the delegation was under orders to kill Gabriel. Drake might not have any personal attachment to the Killer, but he knew for a fact that Gabriel’s death would destroy his fledgling Guardians. Drake might be powerful enough to bully them into following him in the short term—that remained to be seen—but he wasn’t arro­gant enough to believe he could do so indefinitely.

  Eli could control his Guardians with wisdom and reason; Gabriel could control them with his iron fist; Drake could manage neither.

  He grimaced, wondering if he was lying to him­self. Once upon a time, during his mortal days, strik­ing terror into the hearts of men had been his sole reason for e
xistence. He’d beaten men bloody, bro­ken bones, even killed in his role as enforcer. There hadn’t been a soul in Five Points who hadn’t feared Johnnie Drake. But terrorizing fellow gangsters— cutthroats, hooligans, and murderers all—had barely tweaked his conscience. He couldn’t imagine treat­ing Eric, or Harry, or, God forbid, Jezebel like that. And without that ruthless authority, he would not control them for long.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the enig­matic note that had purportedly come from his maker. Smoothing out the wrinkles in the crumpled piece of paper, he stared at it and tried to decide if it could really be Padraig’s handwriting. His gaze drifted to the phone that sat on a nightstand beside the bed. To find out if it was really Padraig, all he had to do was call.

  With a grunt of frustration, Drake crumpled the paper again. If Padraig was alive, and if he wanted to talk to Drake, then Drake didn’t dare make contact. Violent, cruel, and severely lacking in conscience, Padraig nonetheless possessed boundless charm and charisma, and he could persuade a scientist that the moon was made of cheese if he thought there was some advantage to be had in it.

  No, Drake didn’t dare risk falling undem maker’s sway once more. Already he felt the insidious influence of Padraig’s charm. Hadn’t he found himself thinking that the note somehow Padraig had forgiven him?

  Drake let out a little bark of laughter. Padraig forgiven him? It was Padraig who’d condoned murder of a fifteen-year-old innocent. Drake never asked for, nor wanted forgiveness for his in ordination when he’d tried to stop it.

  Knowing he should throw the slip of paper in trash and have done with it, he nevertheless left it, ting in a crumpled wad on the side table. Then tried to force his mind to shut down as he undressed and slipped into bed.

  ***

  HE WOKE TO the sound of a shrill, feminine scream.

  ­Elsewhere in the house, doors slammed and footsteps pounded. The screams continued. Still half asleep, Drake leapt from the bed, shoving his legs into yesterday’s pants and not bothering with a shirt. He yanked his door open and stepped out into the hallway. The screams were coming from downstairs, and Drake emerged just in time to see the Seigneur practically fly past, fully clothed and groomed as he’d been up for hours, which maybe he had.