Ravenous

Chapter 12

The sun's last death gilded the belly of the clouds, darkness rising like water over the downtown streets. Alessandro strode toward Omara's hotel, making plans. It was early for his kind to rise, just dark enough for comfort, but he loved this hour when the night was new and the sidewalks jammed with life. Even after hundreds of years, he needed that sense of a fresh start.

He ran across the four-lane street, dodging cars. The line for the movie theater spilled over the curb, forcing him to swerve. When he regained his path he stopped cold, nearly forcing a skateboarder to run him down. Fixated on a new sight, Alessandro barely noticed.

John Pierce of Clan Albion was parking his silver-gray convertible down the street. All Alessandro's loathing of the vampire surged in, followed by a rush of curiosity. Why is that worm on the streets at this early hour? Usually a waster like Pierce would still be in bed.

Alessandro melted into the mouth of an alleyway that ran between two stores. Behind him was all Dumpsters and mildew, before him a panorama of bright lights and hustle. As usual he stood on the threshold, part of neither scene.

Oblivious to surveillance, Pierce checked his hair in the rearview mirror. His suit was pale gray, probably hand-tailored, if one judged by the fit. The vampire was dressed to kill.

At first he thought Pierce might be visiting Omara, but Pierce walked the other way, hands in his pockets, and turned the corner. Alessandro prowled after him.

Am I wasting time? Am I suspicious simply because I despise him? Maybe, but not so long ago Alessandro had been obliged to behead Pierce's brother. The execution had been a sign of the changing times. Stephan Pierce had beaten a local mechanic to death for ruining the engine of his Jaguar. Once, whipping or beating a peasant would have been an acceptable response to poor service, but for better or worse, times had changed.

Clan Albion hadn't. In their arrogance they barely acknowledged their own queen, much less the authority of human police and judges. Nevertheless, human law demanded the execution of Stephan Pierce for the wanton murder of the mechanic. The trial—with mortals only, as no supernatural accused stood before a jury of supernatural peers—had taken no time at all. The sentence was death. The condemned had the option of staking by a human or, as a nod to cultural sensitivity, beheading by one of his own species. Stephan Pierce had chosen the latter. Alessandro and his sword had taken care of business as soon as the paperwork was filed with the courts. As Queen Omara's representative, that was his duty.

He had no illusions that the whole sordid episode had taught Clan Albion a damned thing.

Pierce led Alessandro to a five-star luxury hotel. The lobby was a wonderland of marble and objets d'art. Without glancing to either side, Pierce went into the adjacent lounge.

Perhaps the place was meant to be romantic; it was dark enough to make Alessandro grateful for vampiric night vision. Round tables were encircled by high-backed black leather couches that sheltered the patrons from general view. Fairy lights draped clumps of artificial palms, spangling the gloom with flecks of blue and white. A tasteful jazz track grooved in the background. Alessandro ghosted through the lounge, listening for Pierce's voice. It didn't take long. He was sitting by a window, greeting a human woman. Who was she to get a vampire playboy out of bed before full dark? Alessandro's curiosity doubled.

He sat behind an oasis of palms and ordered his usual red wine. His table was across the aisle from Pierce, but he had to slouch and angle himself to see past the enfolding arms of the tall, curved leather seats. The illusion of privacy worked both ways—it might be hard to see Pierce and his woman, but they had not noticed him. Score one for 007, Undead edition.

The woman was young, with bleached hair falling past her shoulders. She wore a scanty dress of electric blue that sparkled in the dim glow of the fairy lights. Not quite pretty, not quite a coed, but similar enough to the murder victims that he took notice.

Pierce was looking at her with the avarice of a lover.

What exactly is going on here? Vampires courted humans, and vice versa, but only in the vampire clubs, where such behavior was expected. There were two reasons: One, it kept the bald fact that vampires fed on blood out of the public eye. That was one of the unspoken conditions of their truce with human law. Two, Omara wanted to be the first lady in the heart of all her favorites. If this was a romantic encounter, Pierce was running a terrible risk.

"I tell you, it was the strangest old place," the woman was saying. "And the client… well, he hated it. I think if he could have, he would have sold it right out from under his girlfriend, but, like, she owns the place, right? All I could do was look around and estimate a listing price."

A stab of shock zinged down Alessandro's spine. He remembered Holly's remark about Ben selling the Carver house if he could. Is she talking about Ben Elliot?

"What an unusual situation." Pierce had the woman's hand in his, stroking his thumb over her fingers. His tawny hair and sculpted profile had the same cruel, feline beauty that had won him lovers and enemies since the time of the Tudors. "What did you do next, Miranda?"

She gave a tiny shrug. "I faxed the estimate to him, but I doubt I'll ever hear back."

"No?"

"If the girlfriend's smart, she'll hang onto the property. In a few years that oceanfront area's going to double in price." She gave a derisive laugh. "You never know—she might bite. And, y'know, Ben's a pretty persuasive guy."

That is Holly's house! Is he insane? No witch would ever sell her family home.

"I like the way you think." Pierce lifted her fingers to his lips, dusting the buffed nails with kisses. "A cool business head is one grace that will never fade."

"And I have one tight little portfolio." She preened beneath the warmth of his flattery, sipping a pale green martini with her free hand.

I should kill Elliot. But indulging that aggression was pointless. When she found out about Ben's plans, Holly would want that pleasure for herself. An amusing thought, except she will be hurt by this piece of stupidity. Then I will kill him, and, unlike Stephan Pierce, I know how to cover my tracks.

Alessandro impatiently waited for them to get back to the discussion about the house, but now they were making calf's eyes at each other. Come on, come on, I have things to do. He pulled out his phone, texting Omara to say where he was, and that he was leaving if Pierce did nothing illegal in the next sixty seconds. He left out any mention of the woman. Another man's bedroom escapades were his own affair.

Then Pierce slipped a ring off his left index finger and depressed a button hidden inside the band. Alessandro nearly dropped the phone. He hadn't seen one of those ring gadgets for years.

From where he sat he could just barely see a sharp, needle-thin barb spring from the top of the carved gold. Miranda held out her hand, the fingers curled in a gesture of languid supplication. Pierce jabbed the tiny blade into her wrist, holding it above his wineglass. Her only response was a short, silent jerk of pain.

Blood dripped and trickled into the wine, but still Miranda made no sound. Her head lolled forward, and then she tossed her hair back, baring her throat. Gradually she began to shudder, gripping the table hard as the venom on the blade took effect. "Oh!"

"Easy, darling." Pierce chuckled.

It was fortunate the high-backed seats hid the pair from almost every angle—none of the human patrons could see what was going on—but Alessandro could see it all. The muscles on Miranda's neck corded as poison raced to her nerve endings on crest after crest of pleasure. The blood ran faster, splashing the sides of the glass with a transfixing scent and sound. The tiny noises she made, the merest catch of breath, nearly pushed Alessandro over the edge.

"Enjoying the show?" Omara slipped onto the couch beside him, leaning over to kiss him full on the mouth. He hadn't seen her coming, but then Omara was a mistress of surprise. Alessandro gripped her tiny waist, feeling the slide of her thigh against his. She had fed, the stolen warmth rising from her cinnamon flesh like perfume.

"Pierce just pulled out a bleeding ring," Alessandro murmured in Omara's ear, strangely unmoved by her touch. Usually she knew how to arouse him, but the queen's lips seemed stale after the kisses he had shared with Holly.

Omara slithered away, straightening the lapels of her elegant pantsuit. Her hair fell in dark sheets around her, diamonds shimmering at her ears and in the notch of her throat. Her attention was fixed on the neighboring table, her eyes growing wide as she took in the tableau.

Her nostrils flared. Jealousy, thought Alessandro. I guessed right. She wants to keep Pierce for herself.

"And here I thought the best vintage I could get was a perky cab franc. I never dreamed the locals were on tap." Omara glared at Pierce from under her lashes, almost as if willing him to look and see her there—but the object of that scathing stare was oblivious. "Interesting that he should be using one antique artifact, when we pursue a murderer who uses another."

Alessandro studied his queen. Her pupils widened with Desire as she watched the couple, energy gathering around her like a storm. Then she gave an elegant shake, flicking it off like chance rain, but the anger stayed, simmering low. Alessandro sipped his wine, keeping quiet.

"I am fascinated by the possibilities here. Rings, tokens, antique hunting rituals. He plays at sorcerery from time to time. Could John Pierce be our murderer?" She said it with relish, as if the novelty of solving a crime were delightful, or perhaps she simply wanted Pierce's head on a platter.

"The murders were the work of the changelings. I'm sure of it," he said. I can't believe I'm defending the worm.

"Who is to say that they acted alone? Stealth and planning have been beyond them in the past. It would make sense if there was a proper vampire in the mix to do the heavy thinking."

Would Pierce work with changelings? He wasn't sure. "What do you want to do?"

A bitter look crossed Omara's face. "Bring John to me. And his food."

John, is it? How close are they? Alessandro bowed his head. Poor bastard. "As you wish."

Alessandro slid off the black leather of the couch, grateful to be released from its claustrophobic embrace. The noise level in the lounge had risen, but he saw only the wait-staff flitting to and fro. The patrons were all invisible, tucked into their private, high-backed havens.

When he reached Pierce's table, the wineglass was empty, dribbles of red clinging to the insides. The vampire had his mouth to the wound on Miranda's soft white wrist, licking it clean. She was watching, her face flushed from venom and fascination. Slowly she raised her eyes to Alessandro's, the look in them a pitiful blend of terror and adoration. She stood on the road to death, and was high on the view.

An addict. A rich one.

Alessandro had seen that look too many times to count, but once in a while it still staked him where he stood. He slapped the back of Pierce's head, none too lightly. The vampire lifted his mouth from Miranda's wrist, lips curling to show fang. That shot the pretty-boy image all to hell.

"What?" Pierce snarled.

"The queen wants a word with you both." His glance took in Pierce's meal. "Now."

Pierce sat straight, wiping his mouth on the restaurant's damask napkin. It left a scarlet smudge. "Where?" Panic.

Alessandro indicated Omara's table with a facetious sweep of his arm. The queen was peering around the edge of the couch, a come-hither smile flickering on her lips. Pierce swallowed hard. The lines in his face spoke of dread, but he would be dignified about it.

Pierce waited while Miranda rose and steadied herself. She seemed light-headed from venom and the loss of blood, but the wound on her wrist had closed. Vampire saliva had healing properties, all the better to keep a food source from wasting precious fluids.

When he returned to his seat, Alessandro saw that Omara had ordered a bottle of cabernet and fresh glasses. The server, nervous in the company of vampires, fumbled the corkscrew and barely managed to draw the cork without opening a vein.

Impatient, Alessandro took the bottle away from him. "I will pour. You may go."

The man fled, leaving Alessandro in the role of waiter. He filled the glasses while they waited for Omara to speak. The queen regarded Pierce as if he were an incontinent dog.

"So, John," Omara began, "you have chosen a very elegant hunting ground. Very public. Very full of prominent city leaders."

Pierce did his best to look coy. "No laws have been broken, my queen. It was not a hunt, but a meeting. Fully consensual, I might add. Ms. Anderson and I are already well acquainted."

The queen was unimpressed. If she had a tail, it would have been lashing. "My rules are simple, Pierce. Humans are easily upset. If you're going to feed in their territory, get a room."

Miranda leaned forward. "But I'm not upset. John knows what I like. The thrill is doing it where we might be seen."

Omara looked almost shocked; then her face hardened to fury. Awkward silence grew rancid. Omara lunged across the table, grabbed Pierce's wrist, and yanked the bleeding ring from his finger. He gasped in pain, but the queen paid no heed. She thrust the ring under his nose. "These old ways are gone! How dare you flaunt your bloodlust? Would you bring this peace we have forged with the humans crashing down upon our heads?"

Pierce flushed pink, his cheeks hot with stolen blood. "I broke no laws. She asks for it."

"You broke the spirit of our pact. We can feed, but no one wants to see the thing done. To them we are nothing but foul leeches."

"And yet you accepted my offering the other night."

Omara's eyes widened with irritation. "That was our own ground, where we rule. This is the human realm, where I come to flatter and amuse the day-dwelling potentates. This is where I cozen and beg for every scrap of legal protection for our kind. You will not shatter my efforts with your idiot games!"

And you will not betray me. The words were unspoken, but Alessandro heard them all the same.

Pierce fumed, muscles bunching beneath his elegant gray suit. "Those 'idiot games' are our traditions, my queen. Would you so easily discount our honored past?"

Omara jerked as if slapped.

That's enough. Alessandro lashed out a hand, snatching the collar of Pierce's jacket. "When the queen speaks, you do not question."

Pierce moved to strike, but Alessandro caught his wrist. Miranda covered her face, her breath coming in frightened sobs.

Calmer now, Omara picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. "Easy, my champion. Let him go."

Reluctantly Alessandro uncurled his fingers. Pierce slid back into place.

"You do not like this new world, John?" Omara asked softly. "You miss the old ways of terror and mystery?"

The anger was still there, but with a degree of pain as well. Pierce had wounded Omara, and that surprised Alessandro. Interesting. She was vulnerable to the worm.

Pierce ducked his head. "I do miss the past. It is so much harder to survive now."

"You could always get a job," Alessandro said helpfully.

"But he has," Omara said, her voice dark. "Dare I guess what you are about tonight, John? You were charming this pretty businesswoman. She has what you need: blood and money. In other words, you've gone for the oldest profession of all."

The last words were steeped in disgust. In reply Pierce gave her a look charged with sexual heat and defiance. "So what if I have? Women like Miranda appreciate my skills."

Alessandro snorted. "You're a gigolo."

He saw the word sting. Pierce lolled back in his seat, putting his hand on Miranda's bare knee. His leer showed fang.

Omara leered right back, but made it terrifying. "Does she taste good, John? She smells of diet pills and carbonation."

Pierce grimaced with embarrassment as Omara grabbed the girl's arm and sniffed the inside of her wrist, lingering above the freshly-closed wound. "I grant you her skin is beautiful to look at, like alabaster touched with rivulets of lapis. Sadly, you can't judge a vintage by its label."

"Hey, I don't swing your way!" Miranda protested, trying to twist her arm away. She whimpered beneath Omara's crushing grip, anxiety banishing the haze of the venom.

The queen's honey-gold eyes turned as hard as agate, her lip lifting to show the tips of her teeth. "You dare to tempt us with your snow-white flesh. Now you will do what you're told, meat."

She dragged her tongue along Miranda's inner arm, sucking a little where the veins rose beneath the skin. A human heartbeat passed. In that moment Alessandro saw the naked hunger in Omara's face, the veil lifted from a millennia of carnage. He knew that appetite of old, had seen it in the queen's face time and again. He felt it in his own flood of arousal. His saliva began to run.

Alessandro heard the low, almost inaudible growl of Pierce's territorial protest. The air grew heavy with threat.

Miranda shot Pierce a look of wild panic, the truth slamming her with the force of a train. She finally wrested her arm free. "Omigod, let me out of here."

Surprise! We We monsters! Alessandro thought dryly.

Pierce touched her shoulder. "Miranda, please don't go."

The mere command was enough. Miranda froze, cradling her arm. "What do you want me to do?" Her voice was small and hushed. The sound of a venom-slave. No will of her own. No future beyond the next bite.

Pierce shot a glance at Omara. The queen nodded. Pierce turned back to his human. "Go upstairs now. Go on. Get up."

Miranda rose. Pierce stood as well, handing Miranda her purse and kissing her lightly on the cheek. "Go upstairs to the room. I'll meet you there as soon as I can."

Alessandro watched the woman retreat, the sway of her hips in the electric blue dress almost, but not quite, worth a moment's distraction. Junk food.

"Well, John, I wonder what other secrets you've kept from me?" Omara asked icily. "There have been some curious incidents in Fairview of late."

Pierce gave her a bewildered look.

Stupid? Alessandro wondered. Or just a very, very good actor?

Omara was impassive. "We need to speak in private."

Alessandro saw Pierce turn sheet-white. He glanced at the queen. She was studying Pierce with a wistful expression. Normally a private audience with Omara meant punishment. Here Alessandro wasn't sure what would happen, and he didn't like mysteries where the queen was involved. She was unpredictable enough.

As if to illustrate his thoughts, she made one of her mercurial shifts. "Alessandro, come."

She rose. He followed her. Pierce stayed behind, tossing back one glass of wine, refilling it, and then drinking that, too.

Omara stopped close to the entrance to the lounge.

"Are you sure you want to see him alone?" asked Alessandro.

Omara gave him a veiled look. "That is what I wish."

He stifled a curse. "Do you truly think he's mixed up with our enemies?"

"Or perhaps a vapid, self-involved twit. Or both. Leave it to me." Omara's tone brooked no further argument. "Despite what I said earlier, the bleeding ring is not evidence of anything but poor judgment. However, it is a good excuse to frighten him into confessions."

"What about the woman?"

Omara gave a slow smile. "John must learn to share. Do you have any idea who she is?"

"A Realtor. I overheard their conversation. Holly Carver's lover is trying to sell her house. Idiot bastard."

"A fool indeed. A witch never parts with her home." Omara's brow contracted. "Wait a moment. Did you say your little witch has a boyfriend?" Playfully Omara wound her finger in one of Alessandro's curls. "You are in her life, you admire her, and yet she loves another? How does that happen?"

Dangerous territory. Alessandro shrugged. "You are my queen."

Omara gave a rueful, lopsided smile. The expression was unusual for her. "You fear my jealousy, so you aim to please. Not a bad plan, except you're a pathetic liar. I may be your queen, but I do not rule your heart."

Alessandro opened his mouth, desperately trying to think of something to divert her thoughts from Holly. But Omara caught his chin in her fingers, and shut it. "I see the look in your eyes when you speak of your witch. You try to hide it, both for her sake and for mine. Your loyalty does you credit."

This was a softer side of Omara than he had ever seen. He didn't trust it.

She went on. "Your witch should be falling at your feet, and not those of another. You are my sword arm and defender of my honor. My champion should be adored."

Dangerous territory. "But the lady has some say, does she not?"

Omara rolled her eyes. "You're hopeless. Put some effort into winning her over. Try wearing something besides black. Women like a bit of color." She patted his cheek. "And see to it that you get her assistance. Soon. She should be raising the dead for me by now." She looked at her watch. "I have to go."

"Be careful of Pierce."

"He is the one who should have a care." She pursed her lips. "I'll call you later."

Alessandro bowed as she left. Get her assistance. If Alessandro's favors bought that aid, so be it. He was for sale, even at the cost of Omara's monumental jealousy.

Emptiness yawned inside him. One day his disappointment in Omara would swallow his loyalty. She was an excellent queen, but there was little in her that was human enough to love.

He had to check on Holly. He rang her home, then her cell, but got no answer. Not a big surprise. She often turned off the phones if she was working magic. But, just to be sure, he called her grandmother.

She gave Alessandro a full report. He was stunned.

Ben had left Holly? Idiot. Up until the business with the house, Alessandro had always tolerated Ben. On some basic level he just didn't present much of a challenge. But she was having dinner with Detective Macmillan. Why Macmillan? She'd met him only once. Why the sudden interest?

And why was Macmillan making advances now, when he should be paying attention to his job?

This new development was worrisome on many levels. The detective was different from Ben Elliot. Macmillan was a man of action and authority. He counted.

Alessandro started toward the door. He couldn't just let this slide. Rival, he thought, every instinct alert. Maybe he couldn't be with Holly the way he wanted to, but he was damned if he was giving her up to Macmillan. Not until he was convinced that Macmillan was the better man.

That would be never.

Holly is mine.

Halfway out the door, he paused to survey the spacious lobby and the upscale boutiques that lined its perimeter. He remembered the queen's words. Try wearing something besides black.

Alessandro strode to the adjoining mall with grim purpose.