Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn (13 page)

Why had he imagined her shouting his name when she was sleeping so peacefully? It had not been a memory or some fancy of his imagination; he’d heard her as clearly as if she had screamed his name in his ear.

Jamys went to the bunk, where her scent bathed the air and told him that she had been asleep for hours. He saw that she had been so tired, in fact, she had simply dropped on top of the covers. He reached for a blanket that had been left folded atop a chest, shaking it out before bending down to drape it over her. He hated the thought of waking her, and decided against it as he reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. He could give her—

Jamys please Jamys help me Jamys find me—

Jamys fell to his knees, blinded and deaf to everything but the bellowing storm that came roaring into his mind. It was as if he had been swept into the heart of a tornado, and as he fought to hold on to consciousness, he heard inside the terrible winds her voice and his name, distant and ragged, as if Christian were calling to him as she fought for her life.

Christian.

I’m here. Jamys, hurry.

Now Jamys felt the psychic barrier between them, as tall and wide as the wall of a fortress. Another Kyn had entered their dream and was using ability to prevent Jamys from reaching Chris’s mind. Without hesitation he threw himself at the other immortal’s barrier, battering it with his thoughts. At first it held fast against him, but as he continued to pour his power against it, he felt it flex and then grow thin. Just as he gathered himself for one last barrage, in his mind appeared a panel of smooth stone that changed from solid white to an opaque gray, and showed on its other side Christian, who stood beating her fists against it.

Such determination for such an untried warrior,
another voice said, and the strangeness of it crawled through Jamys’s mind like a swarm of hungry, burrowing insects.
In the face of eternity, will you be as steadfast and valiant? Would you kill her to save a hundred, a thousand, a million?

No,
Jamys thought, lashing out in pain and rage at the other alien mind.
I would die so that she might live.

Save her, and you are lost. Kill her, and then perhaps you both shall live.
The other immortal’s power abruptly vanished.

Jamys!

He caught her in his arms, and they fell together through the voice and the wind and the darkness. Jamys landed on his back with Christian thrashing blindly on top of him.

“I have you.” He closed his arms around her, holding her still until she opened her eyes and stared down at his face. “I have you.”

She looked up and all around at the boat’s cabin before she collapsed against him. “Oh, God.”

Jamys cradled her as he sat up, turning her so that he could hold her as he braced his back against the frame of the bunk. He felt as weak as if he had not fed for a month, and it took all his self-discipline to stifle the tremors vibrating from his very bones.

“I thought I was having a nightmare.” Chris shifted, tucking herself into the curve of his arm. “What was that?”

“Not a dream.” The rapid beat of her heart distracted him; he could hear it humming through her limbs. Wherever they touched, it pulsed beneath the thin silk of her skin. “It felt like the nightlands.”

“That’s where you go when you sleep?” She shuddered. “I’d rather stay awake for eternity.”

Exhaustion and hunger made his fangs emerge into his mouth. “Sometimes it can be frightening.” He needed to put her aside, moor the boat, and leave her to hunt. And as soon as his head cleared, he would.

She lifted her face from his shoulder. “But I thought the Kyn were the only ones who could cross over into the nightlands. Why was I there? Jamys, your eyes.”

“Forgive me.” He eased her off his lap and tried to stand, and was vaguely alarmed to discover he could not. “Go to the helm, Christian, and take care of the boat. I will rest now.”

She ignored him and pressed her fingers to his neck. “Damn it, you barely have a pulse.”

Jamys felt her move away, and his body responded with a sluggish flow of need. That he couldn’t act on it was his only relief. He would rest through the daylight hours, and when he woke, he would hunt.

The unyielding wood made a poor pillow, he decided, until he felt warm hands lifting his head onto something much softer.

“You’re a lot heavier than you look.” Cloth slid from beneath his cheek. “Well, Burke said not to let it show.”

Her words made no sense to him, but he smelled her blood spill into the air a moment before a drop of it touched the corner of his mouth. Jamys tried to turn his head away, but her hand prevented it.

“Right now you need it more than I do,” she chided softly. “Go on. Drink.”

Her command was his wish, and the undoing of all his resolve; his lips sought the source of the blood and covered it. The taste of her made his fangs stretch out, eager to penetrate and take more, but to spare her more pain he used the last dregs of his strength to only suckle at the small wound.

Even that thin flow poured life and strength into him with astounding speed. Soon he brought up his hands, expecting to feel her forearm beneath his lips and instead grasping the tight muscles of her thigh. He raised his head to look at what she had done to herself, and saw a small wound marring her flesh, high up on the inside of her thigh. She had cut herself for him.

Her hand stroked over the back of his head, gently pressing as if to urge him back to the source of his delight. He ran the flat of his tongue over the wound, gathering the bright red beads that had welled there, and heard the soft sound she made. He could smell the arousal darkening her body’s scent, and followed it until his mouth found the edge of her panties. The sharp points of his fangs easily sliced through the flimsy fabric, and he peeled it back from the pretty flower of her sex.

“Oh. Boy.” Her fingers curled into his hair. “Burke didn’t mention this.”

He looked up at her flushed, startled face before he deliberately pressed his mouth to the center of her dark curls. “And this?”

“Not a word.” She watched him through drowsy eyes, and when he used his tongue to part her, she shivered. “Jamys.”

He drew back a little to take in the fragrance of her desire, and look upon her hidden beauties. If she were his, he would take her away to some sultry deserted island where they would never have to wear clothing, and he could look upon her and touch her and take her whenever he wished.

Jamys put his hand over her to feel her heat against his palm, and her hips moved so that her damp mons rubbed against his skin. He eased two fingertips between her folds and found the slick entrance to her body, which instantly clenched around him in reaction. He could feel her tension in her thighs and the tightening of her belly, but when he glanced at her face, he saw only longing and excitement.

“Do you like that?” he murmured.

“No.” A dimple appeared in her cheek. “I love that.”

Slowly he pushed his fingers deeper, penetrating her sheath and filling her soft, wet channel. When she tightened again, he put his mouth against her, stroking her open with his tongue and rubbing the small, hooded nub of her clit. Like a pearl it swelled and emerged, satiny-soft, pulsing along with her heart.

As he lavished long, slow strokes of his tongue on her, he used his fingers to play within her, turning them in a rhythmic glide against the fluttering, grasping grip of her body.

This was how she would feel on his cock: hot and wet, tight and trembling.

The thought of fucking her that way made his muscles knot and his hips jerk as his fangs shot out into his mouth, and then she convulsed, scoring herself on the sharp tips as her body spasmed.

The taste of her sex and her blood released all the dark wanting inside him, and Jamys thrust his fingers in and out of her, harder and deeper with each roll of his wrist, driving her from one peak to another as he rode her with his mouth and tongue.

Her hands fisted in his hair, and she curled over, bringing his mouth to her lips. The carnal explosion of that kiss brought him to the edge, but it was the feel of her hand reaching into his trousers that sent him over. The moment she touched him he groaned and shoved the head of his straining penis against her palm, and released the first aching stream of his seed.

“I have you,” he heard her sigh.

Chapter 12

S
am looked through the two-way mirror at the suspect sitting in the interrogation room. A tanned, somewhat overweight man in his early forties, he wore an off-the-rack business suit, a wide and rather ugly yellow tie, and a fake Rolex. “
That’s
our killer.”

“Alleged killer.” Garcia glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. “He’s Eugene Gates, forty-three, divorced, no children. A pharmaceutical rep. Couple of speeding tickets.” He handed her the arrest report. “He gave the desk sergeant a bloodstained diamond necklace, but hasn’t offered a motive.”

Sam looked past him at Jonah Massey, who stood just outside talking with one of the janitors. “What’s he doing here?”

“I want Massey in there with you.” Before she could reply, Garcia shook his head. “The DA wants a full confession on videotape. That means two officers present, my lady.”

It also meant she couldn’t use
l’attrait
to compel the suspect to tell her the truth. “Massey,” she called, and was momentarily distracted by the hamster-wheel squeak of the janitor’s wheeled bucket as he pushed it out of sight down the hall. “Can you run a video camera?”

Massey ducked inside. “In my sleep.”

“Then you’re in charge of taping and typing.” She handed the clipboard off to him.

Inside the interrogation room Sam pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table, noting the complete lack of reaction from Gates. The suspect, who seemed content to continue staring at a long scratch in the table’s Formica top, didn’t even twitch when she went through the introductions.

“Mr. Gates, I’m Detective Samantha Brown.” Sam turned the chair around, straddled it, and nodded at Jonah. “This is Detective Jonah Massey. Have you been informed of your rights?”

Gates nodded slowly.

Sam breathed in but didn’t smell any taint in the air that might indicate the man was stoned or drunk. “Sir, I’ll need you to answer me with verbal replies.”

“Yes, I’ve been informed of my rights,” he told the scratch. “I murdered Noel Coburn.”

Gates spoke in a monotone. That, combined with his vacant expression and lack of body language, suggested he was mentally handicapped, was in a state of shock, or had been sampling his wares a little too liberally.

“We’re going to videotape this interview, Mr. Gates. What you say in this room will definitely be used against you in court. Do you understand, and consent to that?”

“Yes.”

Sam nodded to Massey, who switched on the camera and recited the time, the date, and their names for the record. What she needed to do first was see if she could shake Gates out of his parrot act. “What’s your middle name, Eugene?”

He looked up at her as if expecting her to provide a hint. When she didn’t, he frowned and thought about it. After thirty seconds, he said, “Victor.”

“Do you know what day it is?” After he answered that just as slowly, she sat back and studied his face. He had the remains of a summer tan, but it had taken on a yellow cast, and the skin around his mouth and under his chin looked loose. He smelled of soap, and his clothes were clean, but his fingernails looked as if he’d been digging in the dirt for days. “What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

He licked his lips with a dry tongue. “Nothing.”

“How about dinner last night? Lunch yesterday?” Before he could answer, she asked, “When was the last time you ate anything, Eugene?”

It took him a full minute before he replied, “Three days ago.”

Massey whistled. “That long, huh?” A candy bar landed on the table in front of Gates, and when Sam glared at Massey, he shrugged. “The guy’s probably hungry, right?”

“Hungry.” Eugene reached out with his cuffed hands to pick up the candy bar. “Right.” He tore off the wrapper and crammed the entire bar into his mouth, closing his eyes as his cheeks bulged and he chewed.

“If he chokes on that, you’re writing up the reports,” Sam told Massey. She waited for the suspect to swallow before she said, “Mr. Gates, I can get you some real food, if you want.”

“Real food.” He nodded, and seemed unaware that tears were rolling down his face.

He’s been starved.
Sam felt an unwilling sympathy for the man. “Before I order a meal for you, I’d like you to tell me about the last time you saw Noel Coburn.”

“The last time . . . was in the garden.”

“Was this your garden?”

He shook his head. “She made it for us. She was nice. She kept us in the garden as long as she could.”

Sam frowned. Murder suspects could invent all kinds of imaginary reasons to be found temporarily insane at trial, but Gates didn’t seem to be phonying it up. “Eugene, have you been using some of the stuff in your sample case?”

“No.” He turned his right wrist back and forth, jangling the cuffs and a bracelet around his wrist.

Sam leaned over and tugged back the end of his jacket sleeve. Gates wore a MedicAlert bracelet, and when she turned over the oval tag, she saw a list of serious allergies to substances that included opiates. “Did anyone else give you drugs?”

“No.” He stared down at his bracelet. “Gold.”

The bracelet was the classic MedicAlert red and silver on a silver chain, so he wasn’t talking about that. “What’s gold, Eugene?”

His eyes met hers. “Hell.”

Massey uttered a soft, urgent sound, and when Sam looked at him, he made a swirling motion with his finger beside his temple.

Sam felt inclined to agree with him, but she had to press for details before they could write him off as a potential nutcase. “Eugene, what was the name of the woman who kept you in the garden?”

“Whore.” He lunged across the table at her, trying desperately to claw at her with his hands.

Sam stood and moved out of reach, and just as quickly as he had attacked, Gates subsided back in his chair. “Why did you kill Noel Coburn, Eugene?”

His face reddened as his voice returned to the flat monotone. “He owed me money and he wouldn’t pay. So I killed him.” He looked up at her, his eyes hard and ugly. “You whore.”

“Hey,” Massey said. “Watch your mouth.”

Sam watched his face. “How did you kill Coburn, Eugene?”

He stared at her, his expression confused. “I tied the rope around his wrists, and held it when . . . when . . .”

“When what?”

Gates bent over, his face darkening to purple as he tried to open his jacket.

Sam hurried around the table. “Massey, call for a rig.” She loosened the knot in his tie and popped his collar. “Now. He’s having a heart attack.”

Massey ran to the wall phone as Sam released Gates from his cuffs and lowered him to the floor. He looked up at her, his eyes wide as he tried to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth.

“Starting CPR.” Even as she began compressions, Sam knew it was hopeless; she could smell the rot that had already begun to seep into his scent.

Fifteen minutes later Sam stood and watched as the responding paramedics lifted the gurney holding Gate’s draped corpse and wheeled him out of the room. She followed them to the hall, where cops from other departments had come to stand in clusters of twos and threes to watch the body being removed.

As Sam walked past them, she heard one of Dwyer’s old buddies mutter, “Another notch for her nightstick.”

“What did you say?” Suddenly Massey was there, in the jackass’s face, and he looked ready to shove the old-timer through the wall.

Sam stopped and tugged at Massey’s arm. “Forget it.” She glanced at the blustering cop. “No marks on your nightstick, huh, Dave? Keeping it stuck up your ass is working.”

As the other cops snickered, Massey backed away with insulting slowness, and then walked with Sam to see the paramedics to the elevator.

“I didn’t know how much shit you put up with. You’ve got to dodge it all the time,” he said as soon as the doors closed. “But you never report it. Why?”

“Dave Kernan has already racked up two internal suspensions since January,” she told him, “and since he’s managed to alienate or lose all the friends he had in the department, he can’t afford a third. He’s only about eighteen months away from retirement.”

“Fuck his retirement,” Massey said promptly. “He’s an asshole.”

“True. He’s also got two mortgages, an old crap Caddy that really needs a transmission job, and a wife on an insulin pump.” She regarded him. “As for his nightstick, he’s shoved it so far up his ass you can see the top of it when he yawns.”

Massey grinned. “Now I get you.”

As they walked back to the squad room, Sam noticed a bucket and mop sitting by the stairwell exit, and stopped. “Your pal the janitor needs to learn how to clean up after himself.”

“Sorry, what janitor?”

She eyed him. “The one you were talking to right before we questioned Gates.”

“I wasn’t talking to anyone. I don’t even know any of the janitors.” His scent radiated truth. “You sure you saw me?”

“You were standing out in the hallway, talking to the guy, right over there.” She strode to the spot where the janitor had been standing, and breathed in deeply. She could smell hot metal, and beneath that a trace of something cold and green. Just as she had another time before, but where?

The hallway dimmed as a voice came into her mind.
This is nothing to concern you. You will forget it.

Sam couldn’t move. The thing in her head held her somehow, and she could feel it sifting through her memories even as it erased them. She couldn’t stop it—and in a minute, she suspected, she wouldn’t want to—so she focused on what it was.
Are you Kyn?

I am like you. A guardian.

No, you’re not. I don’t freeze people’s bodies or rummage through their brains.

Yet you jail and question your suspects.
The voice sounded amused.
You know Death so well, Samantha. You have devoted your life to the study of it. Yet you remain blind to the gifts it has given you.

I can see fine, pal.

Then look upon what you never saw.

The hallway outside Homicide shifted into the penthouse suite at the stronghold, where she could see Lucan sitting outside on the balcony. A blanket fell from either side of the oversize rocking chair he occupied, and as she walked to him, she saw the limp bundle he was holding in his arms, and her own white, still face pressed against his chest.

He looked exhausted, his handsome face almost as pale as hers, but he sat and rocked her like a baby as he watched the sun rise.

Burke walked past her, a silver tray with a glass of bloodwine in his hands. “My lord,” he said softly. “Has there been any change?”

“None.” Lucan didn’t even glance at the tray. “I want nothing. You may go.”

Burke bowed and turned to leave.

“Herbert.” When the
tresora
returned, Lucan looked up at him. “If she dies, I fear my sanity will not survive it. Under such circumstances I expect I will lay waste to anything that steps in my path. Rafael mentioned to me that you are a marksman.”

Burke’s throat moved as he swallowed and nodded.

Lucan handed him a pistol. “I’ve loaded it with copper rounds. One to the head to slow me, and the second to the heart to finish it.” He bent to press his mouth to Sam’s brow and tuck her in closer to him. “If you would, carry the weapon at all times.”

Something glistened in Burke’s eyes. “I will, my lord.”

Samantha tried to reach out to her lover, but the balcony vanished, and she stood again in the hallway, still frozen in place.
Why did you show me that?

When he tells you that you are his life, daughter, you should know the true meaning.
The voice grew more insistent.
What the mortal said during your questioning is not important. You will dismiss it.

She smiled. “I can do that, sure.”

Return to the stronghold now. He’s waiting for you, my lady.

“My lady?”

Sam shook off what felt like a vague daydream about Lucan as she turned to Garcia. “Sorry, what did you say?”

The captain frowned. “Were you able to get anything out of Gates before he died?”

“Nothing important.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m going to head back to the stronghold. He’s waiting for me.”

* * *

Chris had never used her no-limit
jardin
credit card to buy much more than office supplies, and briefly worried that Lucan had canceled it, but the agent had no problem putting through the charges for the rental car.

“You’re all set,” the agent said as he handed her the keys to the black Lexus. “May I ask why you chose Enterprise for your rental needs?”

“You picked me up at a dock. The only other people who do that are sailors.” She winked at him. “I’ve already got a guy and a boat.”

She drove from the rental agency to the nearest cluster of shops, where she bought a warm jacket and comfortable shoes, along with two weeks’ worth of casual wear and lingerie for herself, and some trousers and dress shirts for Jamys. After brooding over a pair of ripped jeans that she loved but wasn’t sure he’d even wear, she added them to the pile.

One of the salesgirls intercepted her on the way to the cash wrap. “Excuse me, but I would love to show you something special.”

Chris glanced at her overflowing pushcart. “I haven’t bought enough stuff already?”

“Oh, no, it’s just, well, you’re perfect for this unbelievable dress we have in Petites.” She glanced at a thick-bodied overdressed woman rummaging through a nearby rack. “We don’t get many petites in here.”

Chris glanced at her watch. She had left Jamys sleeping in the cabin, and the sun wouldn’t set for another three hours. “So show me this dress.”

In the Petites section the salesgirl went to a rack of holiday dresses and removed a sleek, shimmering black sheath that looked as if someone had slashed it with scissors.

“I know it looks like crap on the hanger,” the salesgirl said quickly, “but it’s totally different on. It was made for someone with your figure.”

Chris looked down at herself. “I have no figure.”

“Yeah, which is why I’m kind of hating your guts right now,” the girl admitted.

Chris chuckled as she took the dress and headed into the dressing room. A few minutes later she came out and went to the nearest full-length mirror, where she saw a gorgeous stranger wrapped in long, slinky ribbons of black.