Duncan (38 page)

As unlikely as it seemed, he’d fallen in love again. He’d loved his wife dearly, though the memory was so old and distant, it was as if it had happened to someone else. But he could still recall the scent of her powder, the touch of her hand as she rubbed his shoulders after a hard day. She’d been a good woman who deserved better than he’d been able to give her. And far better than the end he’d brought her to.

But he wasn’t that man anymore. No one, man or vampire, would touch his woman ever again. Emma was his, and he would fight to the death to protect her. Of course, Emma would probably bite him again if she knew his thoughts. She wasn’t a shy flower to stand behind and let someone else fight her battles. No, she’d want to stand at his side and fight their enemies together. And that was better. Because the world was a terrible and treacherous place, and it comforted him to know Emma would be there to face it with him when he woke every night.

Emma gave his shoulder a final lick and lifted her head. “What are you thinking so hard about?” she murmured, kissing the bite she’d been suckling so eagerly.

“Only that I love you, Emmaline.” He rubbed his chin against her wet hair. “Will you stay?”

She grew still. “Stay?” she asked, her breath warm on his torn flesh. “You mean tonight?”

“I mean forever.”

Emma lifted her head to look at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Duncan?”

He met her gaze evenly. “Stay with me, Emma,” he repeated. “Be mine.”

She nodded wordlessly, tears running down her cheeks. “Okay,” she whispered, then blew out a frustrated breath. “That wasn’t very poetic of me.”

“Poetry is overrated,” Duncan commented. He stepped back and lowered her slowly, letting her slide down his body until her feet were firmly on the floor.

Emma sighed, resting her forehead against his chest. The two of them stood there, listening to each other breathe, until Emma said, laughing, “I think I need a shower.”

“Yes, well,” he tugged her under the water which was still running, although noticeably cooler than it had been. “I was
trying
to shower when you molested me.”

“Me? You started it,” she murmured absently, running her hands over his abdomen, which clenched automatically beneath her fingers. She looked up at him and winked.

Duncan groaned. “Let me at least finish washing up. If I’d have known you were this insatiable, I’d have—”

“What?”

“Fucked you into unconsciousness
before
I showered,” he whispered against her ear.

“Duncan!” she gasped, but she didn’t pull away.

It was a quick shower, but only because Emma declined his offer to wash away the remnants of their lovemaking between her legs. “We’ll never get out of here, if you do that,” she said, slapping away his hands. “I’ll be a prune.”

“A most attractive prune, however,” he said gallantly. But he stepped out of the shower and began to dry off while Emma finished. He had pulled on a pair of sweats and was waiting with a big towel when she emerged a few moments later. Wrapping it around her, he scooped her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom. She lifted her arms to circle his neck, then sighed wearily and rested her head against his shoulder.

Duncan had already pulled the covers back and now laid her down on the fresh sheets. Placing one knee on the mattress next to her, he finished drying her naked body, then pulled the covers up and leaned in to kiss her tenderly. “Sleep, Emma. I’ll be near.”

She grabbed his hand when he went to stand, her eyes already half closed in sleep. “Where will you sleep today, Duncan?”

“With you, Emmaline. This house is better suited to my kind. I’ll come back here to you.”

She smiled, rubbing her cheek against his hand before releasing it and curling up under the blanket. She was out in moments, without any help from Duncan, although he’d been prepared to nudge her into sleep if necessary. He had a prisoner to interrogate. The man who’d set fire to the residence, and who’d clearly intended to kill Duncan along with a few of his vampires, and perhaps Emma, as well. It was not a task Duncan looked forward to, but it was something he would do and do quite well, because nothing was more important to him than the safety of Emma and his people. But somehow he doubted his beloved Emma would admire his skill when the human began screaming for mercy.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Duncan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall of the small, barren basement room. He’d pulled a t-shirt on over his sweats and added a pair of black Nikes, but he hadn’t bothered with anything fancier, because he’d fully expected to be burning the clothes before the end of the night. He’d also expected to be facing a quivering lump of terrified humanity, begging for its life. Instead what he had was a puzzle.

He frowned down at the human guard sitting across the table from him. The man’s arms were handcuffed behind his back, but other than that he wasn’t restrained. And he wasn’t particularly frightened, either.

“My lord?” the man asked, his wide eyes guileless and confused. “Has something happened?”

This man had dragged a welder’s propane tank from Alaric’s construction site in the east wing, rigged it to blow like a small bomb right beneath Duncan’s second floor office suite, then splashed paint thinner in a line from there to the main stairwell. He’d then walked calmly out of the house through the kitchen door in back and returned to his regular perimeter patrol, leaving plenty of time for his usual check-in. There was no question of guilt; they had security video both inside and out from the motion-activated digital feed Miguel had set up as soon as they moved into the house. Once the cameras were triggered, the images were sent to a control center in the house down the block from Victor’s old residence. It was the house Miguel and Louis had lived in while preparing for Duncan’s takeover of the territory, the same house they were now
all
living in until either the old residence was repaired or new quarters were found and secured.

And yet, despite this incontrovertible evidence, the guard seemed to remember none of it. He
still
should have been afraid, however. Even if he’d done nothing wrong, he should be terrified to find himself handcuffed and facing Duncan as his inquisitor.

 “Mister Daniels, isn’t it?” Duncan asked finally, although he knew the guard’s name.

“Yes, my lord,” the man said readily. “Clint Daniels.”

“Tell me, what’s the last thing you remember before you were brought here?” Daniels shook his head woefully. “Being handcuffed, my lord,” he said, seeming confused. “I was standing by the main gate entrance, keeping the spectators out during the fire, and then Jackson Hissong showed up and had one of the guys put these on me.” He tried to lift his hands behind him, but they were looped over the back of the chair and he grimaced. “I don’t understand, my lord. What’s happened?”

“May I touch you, Mister Daniels? It’s not necessary, but it will make things easier.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Duncan’s frown deepened. Clint Daniels obviously had nothing to hide, or at least nothing he knew to try to hide. A suspicion took root in Duncan’s thoughts, making his gut clench with both anger and foreboding. He straightened away from the wall and circled the table, aware of Miguel stiffening to attention behind him as he drew closer to the prisoner. Duncan placed his hand on Daniels’s head, automatically brushing the man’s hair off his forehead in a comforting gesture as he inserted himself effortlessly into the human’s consciousness. Daniels’s emotions rose to Duncan’s awareness first, and what he found only confirmed what he’d noticed a few moments ago. Clint Daniels was worried and confused, but he wasn’t frightened. And he damn well should be.

Duncan dug deeper, seeing the house fire through Daniels’s eyes, the crowds outside the gate. The crowds Duncan had avoided by taking his midnight stroll along the river with Emma. The thought of Emma, and the danger she’d so narrowly avoided, renewed his purpose, and he burrowed into Daniels’s thoughts without compassion. He was as careful as possible, but he needed the truth.

Duncan closed his eyes and focused. He saw the surface memories, the same ones Daniels had related to him, the bewilderment when Jackson Hissong had ordered him handcuffed, but nothing more than that. He delved deeper, forcing Daniels to remember. The human began to tremble. He groaned, his legs thrashing, kicking against the table as if trying to escape. Duncan saw the barrier then, the wall someone had erected in this man’s memories, someone skillful enough to do it without leaving the human a drooling idiot. This wasn’t Victor’s work. He’d seen the way Victor had scrambled Violet’s memories, the hasty patch that left her bewildered and unable to function. No, this was the work of someone far more skillful and patient. Someone who’d thought ahead, who’d set it up so Daniels could set his trap and resume his duties without a hitch. If it hadn’t been for Miguel’s cameras—something only Duncan and a very few others knew about—they probably would never have known who set the blaze. That it was arson, everyone knew by now, even the human fire investigators. But they might never have traced the act back to this man.

Daniels began to weep, heartbreaking sobs that choked his voice as he apologized over and over again, the expected fear finally saturating his emotions. “I didn’t know, my lord. I never would have—” His voice broke again as the sobs took over.

“It’s all right, Clint,” Duncan said gently, smoothing a hand over Daniels’s bent head. “It wasn’t your fault.” He continued to stroke the human’s head as he worked, replacing the memories with ones of his own. It was a shame. This man had been a loyal employee, a fine guard. If Duncan had gotten to him first, this never would have happened. But there hadn’t been enough time; too many crises had hit all at once. Duncan had never found the time to check each and every one of the daytime guards for time bombs like this, and to add defenses to their minds against casual intrusion.

He sighed and released Daniels’s mind, easing the man carefully forward until he was slumped on the table, fast asleep.

“Uncuff him,” he told Miguel. “Does he have a family?”

“No,” Miguel said, unlocking the cuffs and rubbing the human’s arms briskly to restore circulation. “He’s one of those I brought with me from the West Coast. A good man, my lord.”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed wearily. “A good man someone tried to use against us. Someone got to him, Miguel. A master vampire we’ve somehow missed.”

Miguel shot him an alarmed look. “Could it be someone we’ve already met? Like that artist Erik, or his partner, Brendan?”

But Duncan was already shaking his head. “No. Neither of them is a master vampire. It’s someone we’ve overlooked,” he reiterated.
“Damn it all!
As if I don’t have enough on my plate already.” He looked away in disgust. “All right,” he said matter-of-factly. “Send our friend here back to California, give him a good job. None of this was his fault.”

Miguel nodded. “What will you do now, my lord?”

Duncanhuffed a bitter laugh. “Wait for whoever did this to show himself. He knows that I’m aware of him now, and that I’ll be looking for him. Better for him to act than to wait for me to find him. He’ll make his move soon enough, and we’ll be ready when he does.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Duncan stripped away his clothes, feeling sullied despite the fact there’d been no real violence necessary tonight. No blood, anyway. What he’d been forced to do to Clint Daniels’s brain was a violation, but at least the human was still functional, still able to live his life as before.

He dropped the t-shirt on the floor and crossed to the big bed where Emma slept. She breathed deeply, evenly, her heart a steady pounding that drew him like a magnet. He slipped into bed next to her and pulled her into the curve of his body, half hoping she’d wake. She didn’t. She simply smiled in her sleep and curled up against him, her soft lips touching his chest in a dreaming kiss.

He felt the sun lurking below the horizon. There were only minutes left until daylight stole his awareness. He tightened his arms around Emma, buried his face in her warm, silky hair and closed his eyes.

* * * *

Emma woke feeling more rested than she had in weeks. At least until she opened her eyes to a dark room in a strange house. She had a bad moment then, before it all came roaring back—the fire, the wait to see if Duncan and the other vampires were still alive, the shower . . . She smiled at the memory, running her hands over her body, feeling sexy and desired and very, very female. Duncan was asleep next to her, his breathing slow and steady—maybe a little
too
slow, now that she thought about it. If she hadn’t known he was a vampire, she’d have been worried. Her thoughts froze and she rolled over quickly, grabbing her watch from the bedside table. It was late, little more than an hour until sunset, but still daylight for now, which explained the heavy drapes and darkened room. She turned to stare at Duncan. He wasn’t just asleep. He was
asleep.
Well, this was a first—one of those moments in a relationship that you never forget. Of course, she was the only one who’d remember it, since Duncan, while not actually dead, was certainly dead to the world.

The ringing of a cell phone had her jumping from the bed to answer it before it woke Duncan. About the time her feet hit the carpet, she realized it didn’t matter. The house could come down around Duncan and he wouldn’t wake up. As a matter of fact, the house
had
nearly
come down around him yesterday, and he’d slept right through most of it. As far as she knew, anyway. She’d have to ask him about that.

But the damn cell phone was still ringing. Emma flipped on the bedside lamp. The light was barely enough to keep her from running into anything while she followed the ringing sound to her phone. Except it wasn’t hers. It was Duncan’s. She stared at the caller ID. Cynthia. Who the hell was Cynthia?

Feeling somewhat guilty, she glanced over her shoulder at her sleeping lover, then answered the phone. “Hello?”

Silence. Then, “Who the hell is this?” a woman’s voice demanded.