On the Hunt (31 page)

His eye fell upon Cat. His scowl fell away. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Leaping from the bed, Cat raced toward him.

Yuri grinned and opened his arms.

She hit him hard, his body as tangible to her now as it had been in his dreams. Sobs erupted from her chest as she hugged him tight.

 

 

Yuri wrapped his arms around Cat and squeezed her lithe form against him. “Shhh,” he crooned when she burst into tears. “It’s okay, Cat. Don’t cry.”

Her breath coming in harsh gasps, she wept into his chest. Her hands fisted in the back of his shirt as she attempted to burrow even closer.

“Come now,” he pleaded when she continued to sob. Easing back, he cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look up at him. “Why the tears?” He drew his thumbs over her wet cheeks, wiping away the moisture. “I didn’t suffer, if that’s why you’re crying. And . . .” Dipping his head, he brushed a gentle kiss over her lips. “We can be together now. We won’t ever have to settle for dreams again.”

She curled her small hands around his wrists. “I thought I’d lost you.”

He frowned. “Surely you knew I would come to you.”

“I
hoped
you would, but it’s been so long.”

“What do you mean? I just died yesterday.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What?”

“I just died yesterday. In the battle at the mercenary compound. I wanted to come to you as soon as it happened, but . . .” He swallowed hard. Moisture burned the backs of his eyes. “I heard them say the explosion took Stanislav and tried to find him. Or rather his spirit. I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Did you?”

He shook his head. “There were so many other spirits released during the battle. I see why you never stayed after I slew the vampires when you joined me on my hunts.”

She nodded.

“When I didn’t find Stanislav on the battlefield, I thought I might find him at some of his favorite haunts.” He grimaced. “Bad choice of words, I suppose. But it took me a while to get the hang of thinking where I wanted to go and ending up in the right place. When hours passed and I couldn’t find him, I assumed he had crossed over or whatever it is spirits do when they don’t linger here. I knew you would be anxious to see me—”

“Yuri,” she interrupted. “It hasn’t been hours. Or a day. The battle at the mercenary compound took place weeks ago.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“You died weeks ago.” New tears rose in her eyes. “I thought . . .” She shook her head. “When you didn’t come to me, I thought I’d lost you. I thought that, like Stanislav, you’d crossed over.”

“No,” he murmured, stunned that so much time had passed. Drawing her to him, he rested his cheek on her hair. “No. I would never leave you, Cat. I love you. I’m sorry.” He hugged her tighter. “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have looked for Stanislav beyond the battlefield without coming here first had I known . . .” He shook his head. “For me, it feels like only hours have passed.”

She nodded. “It was the same for me when I disappeared after Zach did whatever he did with that blast of power.”

Yuri glanced around the room. “No wonder my things are gone.”

“Dmitry came and collected them.”

Sorrow filled him at the thought of his Second. “How is he?”

“Grieving. They all are.”

Yuri felt the same sorrow, knowing he would never be able to speak to his friends again.

Well, except for Marcus, if he could convince his friend to abandon his no-communication-with-spirits rule.

“Did Marcus tell you what happened?” he asked.

“Only that you had been killed in battle and didn’t suffer. He didn’t go into any details.”

Good. Yuri didn’t want her to know he had been decapitated after he’d been rendered unconscious.

She raised her head. “
Did
you suffer, Yuri?”

He shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I didn’t feel a thing,” he was able to tell her with complete honesty. “One moment I was fighting mercenaries, and the next I found myself standing amidst the smoldering rubble of the armory.” He grimaced. “I didn’t realize I was dead until one of the network soldiers walked right through me. I can’t tell you how furious I was that I had let one of those mercenary bastards get the drop on me.”

At last she smiled. “I’m sure you were.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “And then,” he told her softly, “I was filled with such joy, Cat. Such excitement. Because I knew we could finally be together. No restrictions. No limitations.” He pressed a gentle kiss upon her lips. She felt so real to him now. As real as she had in the dreams. “I couldn’t wait to get back to you. Had I not heard Alexei say Stanislav was dead, I would have been here sooner.” He frowned. “At least, I
think
I would have. I still can’t believe weeks have passed instead of hours. Did it really take me that long to figure out how to go from place to place?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

He smiled. “And I’ll never leave you again.”

Rising onto her toes, she slid her arms around his neck and took his mouth in a scorching kiss.

When his heart began to slam against his ribs, Yuri broke the passionate contact in surprise. “I can feel my heart beating.”

She grinned. “I know. I can feel mine, too. I can’t explain it.”

He kissed her again, loving the feel of her, the taste of her, so happy to be with her. Lifting her, he encouraged her to wrap her legs around his waist and prepared to topple her onto the bed.

“Wait,” she whispered.

He groaned. “It’s been weeks.”

“For me. But only a day for you.”

“I know. Far too long.” His body already burned for her.

She laughed. “Put me down. I want to show you something.”

Grumbling a bit, Yuri lowered her feet to the floor.

Cat took his hand and backed away. “Come with me.”

Arching a brow, he smiled. “Where are we going?”

She tugged him through the door and out into the hallway. Eyes sparkling, she led him upstairs, through David’s empty study, and pulled him through the wall.

Squinting, Yuri threw up a hand and winced as bright sunlight struck him.

Cat stopped and stood, smiling up at him.

Cautiously, Yuri lowered his arm. The sun’s rays washed over him, bringing a startlingly tangible warmth.

No pain. No burning. No blistering.

“It can’t harm me now,” he marveled, holding out his arms and basking in the brightness he hadn’t been able to enjoy for more than a moment or two in centuries.

“No,” she confirmed, her brown eyes alight with love. “It will never hurt you again.”

Yuri grinned, then leered as inspiration struck. “Have you ever made love outside with sunlight stroking your bare, beautiful body?”

Shaking her head, she backed away. One step. Two. “No.” He began to stalk her. “Do you
want
to make love with sunlight stroking your bare, beautiful body?”

She nodded, a playful smile toying with her lips.

His body hardened with anticipation.

Her hands gripped her skirts. “But you’ll have to catch me first.” Yanking the material up to her knees, she spun around and took off running.

Laughing in delight, Yuri raced after her.

My design—an ultra-black slip dress with an asymmetrical hem and beaded bodice—hung on the model’s thin frame like a sad sack, the elegant fabric catching on her angled hip bones and concave belly. I wished she would eat a sandwich, not just to do my design justice but because my stomach was growling and if I was going to have a nibble, I’d like to do it on someone with whom I couldn’t floss my fangs. But I suppose all in all it was a good thing that this little pale wisp of a girl didn’t whet my appetite in the least. I may have been six thousand miles from my home and my job at the Underworld Detection Agency, but I was still under Class-V contract, meaning if I even punctured a breather’s vein—even just for the tiniest sip—I’d be tossed out of UDA on my ear and without dental coverage: A real bitch when you’re a vampire.

The Underworld Detection Agency was my home, and what protection the agency offered—medical, dental, afterlife insurance for when one comes back to life, just to name a few—was indispensable and one of those things that made this country great for both one’s life and afterlife.

And as long as we’re being perfectly honest, it would be a whole hell of a lot harder to remain undead and unnoticed if I happened to occasionally nip the vein of those under my employ. I hadn’t maintained my breather façade for a century plus by playing fast and loose. I sipped from blood bags rather than bodies and welcomed the beet smoothie craze—so much easier to hide a Big Gulp full of B Neg amongst all the other red-tinged cups. And, thankfully, my flawless, porcelain-pale skin was considered wear-sunscreen-chic rather than get-a-pulse passé out here in the fashion mecca that is Manhattan.

Though I had called San Francisco home for the better half of a century, I had gotten a bit of the wandering feet last year when I entered—and won,
natch
—a fashion competition out here. Granted, the win wasn’t as sweet as it could have been as my competitors had the uncanny ability to drop out of competition by dropping dead, but that’s really neither here nor there. Long story short, it’s been a year and I’ve returned to the runways and maiden forms and put on my fashion designer hat once again. Hence the frustrated frown at the walking stick bug wrapped in haute couture before me.

I was considering a comment—maybe a nip here or a hem there to give the model some shape—when my cell phone pinged. I glanced down at the little pink alarm clock that bounced around my screen announcing that I had just two days to shape up everything and get my show and my models runway ready to expose Drop Dead Clothing to the world during New York’s famed Fashion Week.

Fashion bloggers, hipsters, and celebrities everywhere were eagerly awaiting the debut of my whole collection. Right now, Drop Dead dresses were one-of-a-kind rarities which made them absolute necessities for everyone who was anyone who was (or wanted to be) in the public eye. I had a cult following that was growing by the social media minute, and I relished it. There was another cell phone ping and I glanced down again, grinning at the jumping icon of a sparkly pink stiletto—a new post by one of the foremost fashion insiders, probably popping up to gush about the sneak peek of a dress earmarked for a big celebrity—hush hush on the name, darlings—that had been “leaked” online. Little heart-to-heart: It was leaked by me, and the dress, though incredible, wasn’t the one that would premiere on the red carpet. While the leaked dress was to be adored, the premiere dress was created to be worshipped.

I popped my finger over the icon and frowned at the dress that graced the top of the page. It was nice, but it wasn’t mine. And if I had a breath I would have lost it when I read the site line:
New Mystery Designer Debuts a Stunner!

My stomach rolled over and I felt my upper lip roll up into a disgusted snarl.
Fairy hands?
First of all, fairies are bitches—don’t let Walt Disney fool you. I worked with a clutch of them back in San Francisco, and if you ask them to do the simplest thing, like make a photocopy (which is far easier than laying a perfectly straight whipstitch, I assure you), you got nothing but grief and eventual retaliation from the whole lot of them. And second of all, who created this so-called masterpiece?

I scanned the rest of the article, willfully skipping over the stitch-by-stich narrative of the “it” dress just looking for a designer name. There wasn’t one.

I was positively seething. My dress gets shown up by a no-name off-label? Impossible!

I Googled the “mystery designer” and there were a slew of similar blogger articles:
Who Is Under the Hem? Mystery Designer Steals Show! Under the Hem and Under Cover!
And as there always is from an event that is very specifically “no photography allowed,” there was a cameraphone snapshot of the dress. It was slightly blurry and shot from the side, but even with the blemishes of the photo, the dress was unarguably stunning. It was skillfully draped, the dauphine fabric bias cut and sewn perfectly. Mossy green wasn’t the right description of the color; it was closer to a deep ocean green sewn through with slick thread that looked like it was spun gold.

Spectacular.

I squinted at the model. She was in profile, her features blurred by the lighting. But she looked familiar.

I cocked my head to get a better view of the model on my runway; her name was something weird and exotic like Bathsheba or Honeydew, which made me that much more certain that she was probably an Anne from Nebraska who had parlayed her string-bean body and half-dead eyes into a high-paying career stomping down catwalks and staring vacuously into camera lenses.

She was the model in the picture.

I felt my jaw tighten and squelched down a low growl.

“One minute, please,” I said, beckoning the model over. A puff of her perfume reached me before she did: It was something flower-scented, pungent and cloying enough to make my stomach churn. She followed behind the flower explosion, wide eyed and spacy looking, and I considered offering her a sandwich. Instead, I turned the phone toward her. “Is this you?”

She used her impossibly long, slender fingers to pull the face into focus and smiled thinly. “Uh-huh.”

“Who were you wearing?”

She bopped her head from one side to the other, and my annoyance—and a pounding ricocheting through my skull—was growing.

“It’s new. It’s called Under the Hem.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, trying to visualize puppies or snowflakes or bald monks—whatever it is that is supposed to bring you back to center. “I know the name of the line. It’s the name of the designer I’m after. Who is it?”

The model chewed her swollen bottom lip. “I don’t know. No one ever told me.”

“Well, who dressed you? Who gave you the dress?”

Narrow shoulders went up to her ears. “I don’t know. It was on my rack when I walked in. I was supposed to wear Stella, but the organizer just said this is what showed up instead.”

I studied her for a half second, decided that the vacuous look on her face wasn’t an act, and sent her back to my runway, still trying to stifle a snarl. I was incensed that this mystery designer was stealing my fanfare, and I couldn’t help but feel betrayed by a model whose name I hadn’t bothered to learn.

There were three models in my studio; each one would be wearing two of my dresses for my Fashion Week debut. As I looked around at them, most already dressed in their Drop Dead attire, I gave myself a little pep talk—the dresses were gorgeous, the show was two days away, and the models were lovely. Everything was falling into place.

This so-called “mystery designer” would be old news by Tuesday.

I went back to watching the photo shoot, sitting in my little director’s chair, sipping a fresh pint of O Neg from my Starbucks thermos. Everything was going to be fine.
Everything is going to be just fine
, I chanted to myself . . . even while a little spark of anger started at the base of my spine and gained fire with each passing moment I watched the exchange between my model and my photographer.

It wasn’t that I hated models or felt a twinge of jealousy each time one of them slipped into a piece of haute couture that slipped through my fingers—well, that could have been a little bit of it—it was that I hated the way this one was pouting and thrusting her nothing-there hips in the direction of my boyfriend—not boyfriend, I refused to commit—male associate, who snapped every frame and didn’t seem bothered in the least by the drab way she modeled my art.

“Stop!” I snapped, throwing up my hands.

Pike, a deeply bronzed, muscled god of a man who pissed me off in all the right places, pushed himself up from his photographer’s squat and sighed. “What now?”

“She’s wearing that dress like a hanger,” I seethed to him, and then, over my shoulder, “No offense, sweetheart, you’re a dream, really. Take five.”

The model nodded and stepped down from her perch, picking her way toward the craft services table where she probably had the other half of her breakfast grape stored.

“She’s all wrong. The dress, the design—Drop Dead Clothing is supposed to be sensual and sexy. It should make your pulse race and your body hum when wearing it. The model should be sexy and curvy and”—I cut a glance toward Bathsheba/Honeydew—“not look like a baton wrapped in silk shantung.”

“I think she looks fine, personally.” Pike flipped through a half dozen digital images of the girl posing like a praying mantis. He was clearly entertained by the hip-out, pouty look, hip-in, pouty look the girl had mastered, and that made my blood—well, whomever’s blood I was currently digesting—boil.

I don’t consider myself a jealous person—seriously, I’m adorable—and after more than a century on this earth you learn that jealousy is a wasted emotion. Breathers are manipulated easily enough without me having to get all red-cheeked and huffy every time my beau looked at another lady. But this wasn’t just any old beau. This was Pike, a delicious, carved, tropical coconut of a man, and though I’ve dated my share of beautiful men in the past, he was quite possibly the most beautiful. That skin, that hair, those eyes that were so intense and deeply dark that they could look through a girl and right into her soul if she had one.

Like me, he played the elusive card, which was as frustrating as it was sexy. After a brief but torrid affair that included a few deaths and dangerous situations last year, I had gone back to San Francisco and Pike had gone back to shooting photo essays. We tried to call, text, or make time for each other, but it never seemed to work. At such a great distance that was fine. The closer we got proximity wise, the more I felt the incessant need to bury my fangs in and never let go.

But, as is the case with every godlike breather dropped down from heaven, there were problems. Bird problems, mostly.

See, I hate birds.
Hate
them. It has nothing to do with my being a vampire or having an affinity toward bats or spiders or whatever foul creature modern media was intent on making you believe we like, it’s that they’re
birds
. Hollow boned. Flying rodents. Beady eyed with sharp little beaks just the right size for gouging out eyeballs.

Yes, I’m immortal. Yes, should my eyeballs be gouged out any which way, it wouldn’t take but a few minutes to grow them back into perfect peeper form. But seriously, who wants to have a freaking bird gouge out their eyeballs? Not me. So, no birds.

Pike, on the very distant other hand, is a bird person.

Literally.

While my pre-vamp bloodline included a mansion in Paris and an education that centered around aristocracy and the arts, Pike was born in the island sunshine of Maui, where he learned spearfishing, probably the hula, and that his bloodline and his ancestors leaned more toward the winged.

Yes, I’m a hundred-and-twelve-year dead French ingénue, and he can shapeshift into a bird at will.

Oh, like you don’t have a cross to bear.

But right now it wasn’t Pike’s penchant for poultry that was ticking at my last nerve; it was that vapid model, two days until Fashion Week, and a clothing line that was more stunted than stunning.

I chewed on my bottom lip while Pike reached out an arm to me. “Relax, pecksie, everything is going to be fine. The pictures look great.”

“The girl or the clothes?”