Shadow Rising (19 page)

So bloody what?

He downed the vodka, put it on the small table with an angry little
smack
, and leveled a cool stare at Vlad.

“I’ll need the use of your library. A car. Any contacts you have who might be useful, particularly those who’ve had dealings with the Grigori. As I told you, this Oren wasn’t the only encounter we’ve had in the last couple of days. And I owe the one who’s still alive a garroting.”

“Mmm, the one who knows where Sammael is,” Vlad replied, frowning.

“And killed Thomas Manon. Drake’s mad as hell. Some people are saying the House of Shadows is responsible.” Damien shook his head. “Sloppy, pathetic work. He doesn’t want to own that. None of us do.”

Vlad chuckled, and Ariane’s voice, soft but perfectly clear, drifted from the couch.

“He’s protecting Sam.”

Both men turned to look at her. Ariane had pulled her gaze away from the window, and she looked exhausted, Damien noted. He started to tell her she’d be going to bed immediately after getting to Vlad’s, but then bit his tongue. She could do as she liked. It was no affair of his, as long as she wasn’t risking
his
life.

And yet he found himself studying the shadows that had appeared beneath her eyes, silently clucking over her like an old hen.

“Of course he is,” Damien said. “I told you this didn’t seem like an abduction. Manon knew something, or
he thought he did and was poking around in places he shouldn’t have. That big bastard took care of the problem. And if you and I had looked a little closer, I would guess we would have found a file or two missing.” Damien rolled his shoulders, wishing the tension would go away. “Unfortunately, the question of why a Grigori ancient would go to ground and kill to stay there, along with what looked like
another
Grigori ancient who you say you’ve never even seen, remains to be answered.”

“It truly is a pity Mormo isn’t well,” Vlad murmured. “She can see things none of us can.”

Ariane looked as though she wanted to say more but seemed suddenly uncertain. He wasn’t surprised. It had been a hell of a night, and she didn’t know Dracul from Adam.

“Go ahead and ask him whatever you like, kitten. Vlad’s trustworthy enough. Mostly because he’d rather be locked in his library than interact with people he could betray you to.”

Vlad’s brow arched, and Damien gritted his teeth. It wasn’t the casual endearment, he was sure, so much as the gentle tone he’d used with her. To say it wasn’t a tone he used often would be a massive understatement. It seemed to work, though, as Ariane spoke.

“In your research… have you ever heard of something called the Rising?” she asked.

It was a question Damien didn’t quite understand, and Vlad looked to be in the same boat. He shook his head slowly, thoughtfully.

“No. I don’t believe so. But that doesn’t mean there’s no mention of it in some book or other I have. Why? Is this something the Grigori speak of?”

Ariane looked troubled. “No. Just something Oren mentioned. Before.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as though steeling herself against the memory, and then looked at them again.

“I’ll have a look in your library, too, if you don’t mind. Even if it turns out to be nothing.”

But she clearly didn’t think so, Damien thought, watching her relief as Vlad graciously invited her to make good use of whatever he owned that might help. He mulled the term over. Rising? It sounded like another mess waiting to happen. He would do some checking himself. On his own. While Ariane was firmly, and safely, ensconced in Vlad’s library. The mansion was as solid as a fortress, and just as well guarded.

He wasn’t cutting her out, he reasoned. But some things were better done solo. And if that had the added benefit of keeping the woman from the sort of bodily harm she seemed to attract like a magnet, well…

It was all for the better. She could get some rest. And he could get some air, some space… something.

At the pretty thought of Ariane poring over some dusty tome, warm and cozy in Vlad’s library, Damien found his mouth curving. The tension in his shoulders finally began to ease.

If I’d lived, I’d have wanted someone like her as my mistress
, Damien thought, thinking of how empty he’d often found his town house in London after returning from a night at the gaming hells.
I’d have tucked her away, given her everything, a bit of sunshine for when I most needed it…

More memories, Damien thought, shoving them away the instant he realized he’d lapsed into some stupid fantasy
again. He’d had no mistress, only whores. His town house had been taken apart and sold by his disgruntled creditors once his father had announced Damien’s “death.”

There had been no bit of sunlight. And now there never would be. He had only moonlight, as silver as Ariane’s hair.

His plan to work solo the following night went off more smoothly than he could have hoped.

Though he had never been an early riser, Damien managed to be up right at sundown, dressed and groomed in record time and then quickly fed by a pretty mortal employee who was also in Vlad’s stable of willing blood donors. It only bothered him for a moment when he realized that he felt no interest in her beyond a meal, where under normal circumstances she was the sort he would have lured off into a corner and dallied with.

He was preoccupied, after all. But nothing could dampen his enthusiasm for the night, and all that he would accomplish now that he was free to do as he pleased. Ariane might be irritated at being cut out, but she wasn’t the one with the contract. And besides, once he discovered something truly useful, she’d be thrilled, impressed, and everything she ought to have been the first time she’d met him, instead of just barely escaping death.

It was a grand plan.

It was also, as of four hours later, a near-total bust.

At the stroke of midnight, Damien stood in the library of the Dracul mansion. A library that, he noted with annoyance, did not bear any trace of Ariane curled up like a bookish miss. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the wall of books in front of him without
truly seeing a single title. He replayed every dead-end conversation in his head, trying to think of something he’d missed. Even his calls to his contacts back in Charlotte had yielded nothing. Both that city and Chicago were as debauched and undead as usual. His experience with the murderous Grigori seemed to have occurred in a vacuum.

No one else seemed to know such a creature existed.

“You’re back early.”

Damien didn’t bother turning at Vlad’s voice. “Yes, I suppose I am. I decided to come back when my abysmal luck was topped off with a phone call from my employer who is, shall we say, not happy. Not with the dead Grigori, not with my having been chased by the dead Grigori, not with the head Grigori responsible for the recent jackassery, and not with the female Grigori who Drake has agreed, very grudgingly, not to mention to the head Grigori. Because unless he gets an apology from Sariel, some assurances, and most importantly, compensation for my near-death experience, the contract between the House of Shadows and the Grigori is broken and done. Yet I must continue to work, most likely without pay.” He inhaled deeply, then tipped his head back. “So this is how it ends for me. Afflicted with a plague of Grigori. If anyone else around here grows wings, I’m going to stab them in the head and light them on fire. I’ve had it.”

Vlad chuckled softly, and Damien finally turned to look at him.

“That didn’t drive you off? Well, hell, I’m losing my touch.” Curious, he glanced at the leather-bound volume in Vlad’s hand. “Doing my work for me, are you? I certainly hope so.”

Vlad’s mouth curved in a small smile, but there was a hint of frustration in it.

“No. I can’t find any mention of anything called the Rising. I’ve gone through a couple of my oldest volumes already, but the term doesn’t even ring a bell.”

Damien shrugged off the disappointment. The Dracul was normally like a bloodhound with obscure bits of vampire history. “Maybe she misheard him. Maybe he was just having her on before he, you know, burst into flame.”

“I don’t know. It’s odd for me to feel young as a vampire, but this is one of the times I wish I had the years that Mormo and Arsinöe do.” Vlad shook his head. “And asking either of them about this is impossible, for different reasons.”

Damien watched as Vlad moved to the wall and slipped the book back onto one of the many shelves lined with priceless volumes on everything from vampire history to modern literature. His friend seemed tired and preoccupied, both of which were unusual. But then, it was nice to know he wasn’t the only one.

Restless, Damien shifted on his feet and then leaned against the back of one of the chairs scattered about the room. Some of it was undoubtedly the unsuccessful evening thus far—the one faintly promising bit of information would have to wait until tomorrow to be checked out, and he
loathed
waiting—but there was more to his mood that he didn’t really want to examine closely. He didn’t know quite what was happening to him, but he suspected that this was what Drake had always meant when he said a Shade was “losing the edge.” After which Drake generally had that Shade quietly disposed of.

“So your contract has been broken without explanation or apology from the Grigori. Interesting. Even Sariel
would normally try to make amends for one of his men attempting to kill the hired help,” Vlad said. “The House of Shadows is nothing to be trifled with.”

“Yes, well, maybe he would have tried to make amends if I were something other than a cutthroat gutter cat. But as I am, most highbloods would tend to see me as… disposable. Except you, of course,” Damien said with a smirk. “You’re
terribly
progressive.”

Vlad gave him a baleful look as he moved to settle himself in an oversized, well-worn leather chair. “No, in your case, I just seem to be a glutton for punishment.” He crossed his legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee, and considered Damien for a moment. “Speaking of progressive attitudes, I’m surprised you didn’t head straight in to check on your new partner.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. He’d been waiting for the barbs to start. “Touché. She’s lying in wait for me somewhere, I suppose? You wouldn’t be looking so amused if she wasn’t.”

Vlad smirked. “I suppose you’ll find out, won’t you?”

Damien blew out a breath and studied an oil painting of some castle or other on the far wall, waiting for the subject to change. When Vlad just continued to stare at him, Damien fixed him with a glare.

What?

“You’re awfully touchy about Ariane, you know,” Vlad said, tilting his head and regarding Damien with interest. “Why is that, do you suppose?”

Damien groaned. “Don’t look at me like that, Vlad. I’m not interested in being studied. You make me feel like one of those bugs that’s been run through with a pin and mounted on cardboard.”

Vlad smiled faintly. “I’m interested,” he said, “because sneaking off like a naughty schoolboy is usually beneath even you. It’s almost as though you
want
her to become disgusted with you.”

“Oh, honestly. That,” Damien replied, “is easily enough done without any effort on my part.”

Vlad shook his head and made a disapproving noise. “You know, I’ve noticed that you tend to expect the worst of people, and even less of yourself. It’s an interesting strategy for living.”

“It’s also an excellent way of avoiding disappointment.”

“Hmm.” Vlad’s voice was mild as he changed the subject, as smoothly as any psychiatrist. Damien had to fight off a sudden wave of panic. The hell he wasn’t being studied.

“Why didn’t you take Ariane with you tonight anyway? You seem to have found her unusually useful thus far, considering I’ve never seen you willingly work with someone before.”

Damien rolled his eyes. “What
is
this poking at me? Maybe I’m just on Grigori overload. Leave me be, Vlad.”

“You’re not the only one who’s had a rough week, Damien. If you thought about it at all, you might realize that I was
not
visiting the Empusae for pleasure. You’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood for your usual line of bullshit,” Vlad said, impatience creeping into his voice along with a more pronounced Eastern European accent.

It was a warning, Damien knew. He’d been told that the Dracul only went full Transylvanian when he was very pissed off, out of patience, or both. He’d never actually seen the normally cool vampire go off, but he’d heard enough stories to know he never wanted to.

“All right,” Damien grumbled. “A simple answer, then.
I thought Ariane might be useful, yes. But hell if I know what to do with her now.”

Vlad snorted. “She seems lovely. A trusting soul. Beautiful, of course. And far too good for you. No wonder you’re terrified of her.”

“Oh, indeed. You know what a fearful creature I am. It’s the curse of having such a wounded inner child,” Damien replied blandly.

When that earned him nothing more than a long, hard stare from eyes that had gone the pale, gleaming blue of arctic ice, Damien heaved a sigh, walked to where Vlad was sitting, and flung himself onto a comfortable velvet couch the color of cabernet.

“I thought you’d be tired of psychoanalyzing me by now,” he said. “And the matchmaking bit is just tiresome. Come on, let’s drink. I’m in a mood.”

“You usually are.”

Between Vlad’s cool stare and the stiff aristocratic bearing, Damien had an uncomfortable flashback to some of the less pleasant heart-to-hearts he and his father had had long ago. Somewhere, up on the next floor and not at all far away, he heard the warm sound of Ariane’s laughter. He picked his head up, would have pricked his ears in that direction if he’d been in his other form. Every sense immediately shifted toward her, hungry for more of her. The hours he’d spent away from her might have been months.

Too late, he remembered how closely Vlad was watching him. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d tried. And still he couldn’t keep himself from asking the question.

“She’s feeling better, then?”

“You’ll have to ask her if you want to know,” Vlad said, his voice giving away nothing of what he was thinking.