Harlequin Nocturne September 2014 Bundle: Beyond the Moon\Immortal Obsession (40 page)

Chapter 13

S
he was not prepared for the breathtaking sight of Christopher St. John in the hotel's ambient light. She had to speak to keep from beating at him with her fists over the chaos he was causing with her resolve.

“I have a funny feeling that your voice speaks to me inside my head,” she said.

“The voice of good conscience, I hope,” he returned.

“If this leads to those girls, I'll be the first to let you know.”

He nodded. “My car is waiting, as promised.”

“If the place we're going is around the corner, I'd rather walk.” She really needed a blast of chilly London air to cool her off.

Acquiescing, St. John moved aside without touching her, though she was sure he'd thought about it. Worse yet, she had. He had donned a fresh shirt and a black leather jacket, brought to him by the chauffeur of his car, no doubt.

“I hope there aren't any gangs roaming around tonight.” Her tone was harsher than she would have liked. Self-defense, she guessed. St. John was staring at her mouth, at the blood she tasted on it.

She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

“I can assure you those same monsters won't be here,” he said.

She felt a stir of air on the side of her face when he waved off his driver. The car he'd alluded to was a black Mercedes. St. John, himself, was a streamlined Ferrari.

He wore expensive clothes and had a chauffeur, and had never actually mentioned what he did for a living. She hadn't thought to ask. Big reminder: she knew nothing about him, and her skills as a journalist were sadly lacking whenever he was around.

Taking a quick visual sweep of the street turned up an uncomfortable lack of people. The incident in her room remained a silent undercurrent between herself and the man beside her as they walked.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The hotel is called Germand
.
”

The deepness of St. John's voice was similar to a smooth caress between her thighs. Her mouth wasn't the only body part feeling bruised as she pulled those thighs together.

“Inside, there's a private area where local businessmen and dignitaries often go,” he explained.

“Dignitaries? What would four college girls be doing in a place like that?”

“They would have to be invited.”

Madison stopped walking. “College girls? That doesn't sound right.”

There wasn't any point in explaining about her instincts and how they worked, especially since her initial instincts hadn't been wrong about him. But she knew something. The place St. John was taking her to was
off.
Just hearing the name of that hotel gave her shivers. The Germand wasn't right, somehow.

“Do you go there?” she asked.

“Never.”

Somehow, that made her feel better. When St. John walked on, Madison followed.

“I take it someone saw the girls there?” she said.

“They stayed at the hotel for a couple of nights.”

Madison stopped again, perplexed. “Are you kidding? Why hasn't that come out?”

St. John turned around to face her. “Maybe they were broke, flattered, and it was an offer too good to refuse. Maybe their parents never told them about the possible perils of accepting attention from strangers.”

“The people working there didn't come forward to talk about it, or provide what may be an important detail in the case?”

“The staff at that hotel are notoriously discreet.”

“They're also withholding information from an investigation.”

“You know sometimes things aren't completely black or white, Madison. However, they did tell me, when pressed.”

When he brushed up against her, meaning to urge her forward, unexpected jolts of electricity shot through Madison. Although she kept walking, she gave St. John a sideways glance.

Did he also feel the heat burning between them?

Planning to say something about that, she stopped abruptly, as if someone had yanked on her arm. Scanning the dark street, she was caught off guard by a distant voice. Not St. John's voice this time, but a thin voice, sounding tired, and strained.

Madison forgot to breathe. She felt her face drain of color. She recognized that voice.

“Stewart?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

* * *

Seeing Madison spin, St. John dropped all semblance of calm and reached for her. Pulling her with him, he backed toward the building.

“It's my brother,” she said. Her face was as white as paper. Her eyes had taken on a haunted cast.

Stewart Chase, damn the beast, had found his sister.

And his own decision not to get close to her again had just blown to pieces.

“It's Stewart,” Madison insisted. “He's here.”

The new vibration ruffled across St. John's skin with a recognizable chill. It was her brother, all right, but again, not the same one she was expecting, and Stewart had the fangs to prove it.

This new turn of events was a fine mess. Finding her brother would seal the lid on Madison's coffin. She'd know for sure about vampires and Others, and was in a convenient position to expose them, if she didn't attempt to take matters into her own hands first.

Ninety-nine of the immortals comprising the Hundred weren't killers, but they would act to protect their own, if it came to that. Only one of them was a cold-blooded murderer. He wanted to find that one. Especially now, before that killer found the next Slayer.

He tightened his hold on Madison to keep Stewart Chase's presence away from the woman who wanted it most, surprised that her twin had been able to locate her so quickly, when Stewart had only recently been turned.

He hoped that Stewart wasn't so far gone yet that he'd harm his sister, though he'd harm her enough just by showing himself.

Go from here.
He sent a silent message to Stewart.
You will hurt her more if you stay.

“He called to me. He's here.” Madison was twisting in his grip. “Where is he? Why doesn't he come out?”

“You may have only thought you heard him.”

“Bullshit. I can
feel
him.”

“Come on.” St. John led her quickly to the sidewalk. “The hotel is just there.”

Shaking her head spread crimson curls that were now a blatant contrast to her colorless face. “Help me,” she said. “Help me, St. John. Christopher. Please.”

Maybe the
please
did it. Possibly it was the stricken look on her lovely face, and the way his heartbeat entwined with hers. He was one of the most powerful creatures on the earth, but in that moment, as Madison's eyes met his, he felt powerless to resist her.

“If it is your brother, he can follow,” he said, fisting his hands to keep from taking what he wanted. Madison's mouth. Her body. Her innocence about the existence of monsters.

Due to what he had become such a long time ago, he also selfishly wanted her soul. Because only with her soul surrendered, could he truly have her, truly protect her.

“One thing at a time, Madison. Possibly that one thing will lead to another.”

He could almost guarantee that it would.

The Germand's doorman eyed them solemnly, then bowed his head and stepped aside. St. John took one more look over his shoulder, at the street, where Stewart's vibration was like broken glass along his neural pathways. The man had been changed, bitten by the wrong sort of vampire. The Ancients hadn't cared overmuch about the aggressive young American attorney knocking at their door, or what he might have had to say about bartering for their help with the missing girls.

Stewart Chase, in his current incarnation, was a wild card, an anomaly, and still killing vamps. At least for the present.

“I don't like this place,” Madison said, balking just past the door.

St. John hardly heard her. It wasn't her brother now who had drawn his attention.

He sniffed the air, and swore beneath his breath. Outside, nearby, more visitors were coming, the likes of which St. John hadn't sensed for quite some time. Monsters he instantly knew the feel and taste of. The atmosphere stank of their imminent journey here. The fabric of the night was shifting to accommodate them.

Surprised, St. John looked from the street to Madison, with real concern. Blood Hunters were on the prowl. Fanged invaders were on their way.
Nosferatu,
an ugly name that made most immortals cringe.

Along with the scent, a full picture appeared in his mind, and the image was damnable. This new plague wasn't coming to London for the sport of killing humans. Not if there wasn't an army of them.

Another spike along his nerves told him these monsters had to be coming for him, personally. There was no other reason for letting a few select Nosferatu loose in a city, other than having a target of consequence. Outside of his search for the traitor among the Hundred, and more and more vampire kills, there was nothing out of the ordinary going on.

The thought stopped him cold. His cover had to have been blown. His commitment here had been compromised.

Having found the whereabouts of a Blood Knight, someone had sent Nosferatu to find him. Creatures notorious for prying secrets from other vampires in the most gruesome of ways would hope to peel back the pieces of his golden vow in order to reveal that vow's source.

Grotesque in the extreme, warrior Nosferatu were strong, mean and driven. They were the minions of a strong master, their Prime, and were vampiric hit men of the worst kind. Soulless hellhounds, bent on destruction. Though a small number of them couldn't take him down, the damage they would inflict on London streets while trying to find him could bring long-hidden secrets into the open. Innocent people might be slaughtered by the dozens. Mortals could finally find out what else walked among them.

Who had done this?

Whoever it was knew about him, and also knew him well enough to figure that he might barter to keep the lives of the people in this city safe. They might assume he'd trade information on his origins, in return for saving the city from a bloodbath.

With an uncharacteristic uneasiness, St. John focused on Madison. Her back was rigid. She fought to maintain an outward appearance of calm when that calm had been stripped from her.

He hoped to God she wasn't picking up on his own tenseness with her up-and-coming Slayer sensitivities. He had pledged to protect her from the darkness, but the presence of these particular monsters, sent for him and spiraling closer, was about to change everything...if he didn't find them first.

In order to save the woman at his side, the only way for him to help her, and so many others now, would be to get clear of all of them and, when the freaks arrived, go after the abominations coming after him.

Someone else would have to watch over Madison in his place.

A nosy detective, maybe.

Madison had pleaded for his help, and he couldn't oblige. He couldn't allow her, or any other innocent, to get in the crossfire of an old feud.

A shock of cold pain between his shoulder blades made him turn. He scanned the room. Apart from the oncoming wave of fanged creatures, this hotel had also been compromised. A noticeable heaviness lay on the air. Shadows hid in the corners. Something sinister had just occurred here.

“I'm sorry,” he said to Madison. “We have to go. I shouldn't have brought you here. It's no longer safe.”

The stricken expression on the face of the woman with whom his soul had braided told him she awaited an explanation that she would never get. He had to remain here, and face what lay in this hotel's shadows before doing anything else. It took a monster to fight a monster, with any hope of success, if that's what the atmosphere of the Germand indicated.

Anxiously, he grabbed hold of the clerk behind the desk and hauled the poor man onto the shiny oak surface. Peering into that man's worried face, he said, “Get her back to her hotel. Now. Safely.”

As the man emphatically gestured for Madison to follow him, another presence filled the room—a green velvet haze that looked for all the world like a patch of lush, verdant grass with the promise of a snake hiding in it.

“No need to scare the pants off the poor devil,” Simon Monteforte said in a voice rivaling the night's chill as he fastidiously wiped a drop of crimson liquid from his mouth. “I will see to Miss Chase, personally.”

“The hell you will,” St. John replied.

Chapter 14

“R
un!”

The silent command beat at Madison's ears, compelling her to obey. She had never been so frightened.

Looking back and forth from Christopher St. John to the gaunt, sober-featured face of the man she had earlier brushed past in the doorway of Space, she immediately picked up on the strain in the room.

Without waiting for what might happen next, knowing only that she had to get away from that ghastly hotel and the scary apparition in green, Madison turned and sprinted through the open doorway.

No one stopped her.

She ran as if her life depended on it, pretty sure that it did. The quickly covered-up grimace of distaste that St. John hadn't been able to hide from her as he faced the gray-haired man provided the impetus for a fast getaway. Instead of answers to the questions she'd started out with, new craziness had piled up.

That man in the hotel had blood on his chin.

At the end of the short block, where a sharp turn led to her hotel, she realized she was no longer alone. Static pulled her fine hairs to attention. Goose bumps arrived in droves.

Her legs faltered, feeling unnaturally heavy and weak. Without hearing anyone coming, she knew someone was there. The hotel clerk? Another gang of creeps bent on harassing tourists near the long line of popular hotels?

The word
run
replayed over and over like an echo in her overworked mind, in St. John's voice, forcing her to put one foot in front of the other. The entrance to her hotel was only a few yards away, but she ran as if the sidewalk were composed of ankle-deep mud, each step labored and hard-won. Not enough air got into her lungs to make breathing count.

Tired of this crap, disgusted with weakness, she made herself move, and skidded on a damp section of concrete. She broke her fall by bashing the building's wall with her right shoulder, and she cried out. A hand covered her mouth. An arm wrapped around her waist.

Her fear multiplied, though she hadn't lost her wits this time. Using her teeth to try to free herself, Madison bit the palm of the hand covering her mouth, hard, hoping to do damage.

The acrid taste of blood, hot, thick, made her gag, but it also gave her more anxious energy. She kicked out behind her with nearly useless legs, and felt one kick connect.

Take that, prick!

Whoever held on to her didn't seem to notice the kind of injury a well-placed high heel could inflict. Her attacker made no sound and no other move, other than to try to suppress her maniacal energy with one strong arm around her and the hand that kept her from shouting.

Madison refused to give up. Though each struggle required more effort than the one before, she gave it all she had. But it had been a very long day, and she was running out of steam.

An image of four college girls filled her mind, each of them caught in an iron grip on a dark street far from their home. Had their lives ended like this, in fear and useless struggle? She'd be damned if she'd become one of them.

With one last concentrated effort, she again bit the hand covering her mouth. As the blood from that bite ran down her chin, the last remnants of her energy finally failed. She could no longer lift an arm or a foot, open her mouth or fight back.

“Stop fighting, mad one,” a whispered voice commanded.

Flailing, Madison felt herself slip, felt the darkness of her surroundings close in...until she became one with the night.

* * *

“Ah, my dear St. John,” Simon Monteforte said in a voice as dark as the paneled walls. “You'd prefer she takes to the streets alone, without my assistance?”

“Out there, she stands a chance,” St. John replied, wanting to follow Madison, and having to carefully hide those feelings.

“You think so?” Monteforte remarked.

St. John didn't bother to nod. He wasn't sure how he could maintain his camouflage with any of the Ancients if he were to test Simon Monteforte's fealty here, among so many of them.

The sound of Madison's heels on the sidewalk had grown faint. He found it strange that nothing else seemed to matter to him at that moment, except getting to her.

“Hurting her would make a mess of things,” he said to Monteforte. “There's no reason to do so.”

“Yet you brought her here, a place off-limits to most mortals.”

“For information about those girls.”

“Ah, yes. The missing girls,” Monteforte said.

“We can't afford to have another one go missing, Simon. All eyes are on this city already. Haven't you noticed?”

“The other Americans may turn up yet, and then they can all go home and leave us to our own...pleasures,” Monteforte said.

“Madison Chase must be with them when they go.”

“I suppose you'll see to that, in spite of your earlier pledge?”

“My allegiance lies with maintaining our society and its secrets. Madison might be a nuisance, but is no threat. Getting rid of her won't help any cause.”

“Your tune has changed, I see. I find that most interesting, St. John.”

“My tune hasn't wavered since I first arrived in London,” St. John corrected. “When our goal was to exist alongside the mortals in peace.”

“In that, I believe we have fared well.”

“Until now, when too many missing people are stirring up public sentiment against those in charge of this city.”

St. John took his time with the final question. “Where are those girls now, Simon?”

Monteforte grinned, showing crimson-stained fangs. “You think I know?”

“I believe you might.”

“You give me far too much credit, St. John.”

“Or else not nearly enough.”

In that moment, as the comment left his lips, St. John realized fully that Simon Monteforte was the one he sought. The reek of the immortal's indiscretions sat in this place like another layer of haze. Without the crowd and scent of hundreds of mortals in the club to mask it, Monteforte's foulness was readily apparent.

St. John stared at the Ancient who had to have known his secret identity for some time. Monteforte had unleashed the hellhounds. Did Monteforte imagine those hounds could take a Blood Knight down?

Something else drew his attention.

A prickle of fear twitched the thread tying him and Madison together. It was Madison's fear.

Monteforte was formidable, and needed tending to, but St. John knew he was needed elsewhere. Something had happened to Madison. He had to go to her.

He spun for the door, not bothering to stop when Monteforte called out, “You feel the new darkness on the wind, St. John? Does it whisper your name?”

Free of the weighty Ancient's presence, and out of the building at last, St. John opened his senses. Sniffing the air, he grunted a curse. That new trouble Monteforte had mentioned now tore at his senses as if it had been magnified by the Ancient's recognition of it.

The trouble in the wind hadn't yet arrived, though it was too close for comfort when his strength was needed elsewhere.

The people of London would be lucky if they stayed off the streets in the hours to come.

Facing the direction of the odor of the Nosferatu in the distance, St. John bared his fangs. The unearthly sigils carved and seared into his back were speaking to him in whispers and undulations that confirmed the rightness of the direction of his thinking. Under all of their noses, Simon Monteforte had become a servant of the Dark.

But that wasn't all, certainly not the worst of things. He could no longer sense Madison. She must have lost consciousness. The thread had gone lax, even as his sigils rippled.

* * *

Madison opened her eyes, blinked, but saw nothing. She was on her back, on a cold floor.

Sheer fright made her sit up. With darkness enveloping her, and a loss of all direction, a wave of dizziness made her stomach heave.

Flipping onto her hands and knees, she strained for a couple of clear breaths. What she sucked in wasn't pleasant. The air was filled with particles of dust, decay and the awful smell of something rancid.

Crawling on all fours, she tested out her surroundings, afraid of what she'd find. She rotated in a full circle, unhindered. That was good. A start.

The floor wasn't concrete, so it couldn't be a sidewalk. The ground beneath her had the coolness of slick ceramic tile, with grooves in regular intervals. She counted four large tiles by crawling forward and backward and feeling with her fingers, and more tiles to her right and left. She was indoors, then, on a floor. Her attacker had left her, without bothering to tie her up.

“Stupid bastard.”

Her searching fingers found something soft that gave her a start. She backed up, sliding over the hard floor on bare, throbbing knees. Nothing happened. No one pulled her back.

Inching forward again, she reached out, closed her fingers over the soft object. No bad consequences presented themselves.

Sitting back on her heels, Madison pulled the object through both of her hands. A sweater?
Yes.
Long-sleeved, loosely woven and smelling faintly of perfume.

Her heart gave a gigantic thump. Waiting in silence, she half expected her attacker to laugh, and sighed with relief when no laughter rang out.

Crawling farther, the silence creating pressure in her ears, Madison found another item that felt like a canvas bag. Fumbling, she wrenched the bag open and moved her hands over more fabric. Another sweater, and a pair of jeans, easy to identify because of the unique smell of the denim. With further scrutiny, she concluded that whoever owned these clothes was small-boned, thin.

Excitement made her heart lurch. Clothes meant that either she'd been tossed onto the floor of someone's residence, or someone had been here recently.
A young woman.

Her mind spliced that information together, driving Madison to her feet. Again, she waited for danger to strike and said in astonishment and relief when it didn't, “Okay.”

Since she was free to move about, she might also have the freedom to leave this place.

With the sweater grasped tightly in one hand, and the other hand held out in front of her, Madison shuffled forward. She found a wall, and next to it the arm of a chair.

The smell of decay grew stronger. Gagging, Madison felt around, paused, recoiled when breathing became difficult. The object in the chair was large, stiff, cold and unmoving.

It was a body.

Swallowing a scream, she backpedaled with her pulse exploding, then she dived forward again, refusing to lose the wall. Maybe there was a door or a window in that wall.

Hand over hand, with the sweater dangling from her fingers and the blood pounding in her ears, Madison felt her way across the room until she found a crack. Tracing the crack, she discovered a doorknob that turned in her hand.

Breathless, frightened, she took a cautious step forward and felt the chill of fresher air on her face.

* * *

St. John strode through the night, alert, determined.

Stopping on the side street bordering Madison's hotel, he glanced once at his surroundings, then looked upward. Gripping the building's brick exterior with both hands, he began to climb.

Madison's window was open. Knowing immediately that she wasn't in that room, he hauled himself in, landing agilely on both feet. As the skin prickle of warning washed over him, he closed his eyes to process any new scent that might overlap hers, and snapped his fangs in frustration over not finding any.

The room was just as he'd last seen it. Some of Madison's things were spread out on the bureau, personal things he wanted to touch.

The doorknob to the hallway rattled. St. John turned his head, and gathered to spring.

The door opened slowly, but no monster stood there. On the threshold was one of the men from Madison's network, wearing a startled expression and a wrinkled shirt.

“Who the hell are you?” that man demanded.

“I might ask you the same thing,” St. John replied, unfisting his hands.