Twice Bitten (3 page)

So I’d made the trek from my second-floor room to the Sparring Room in the basement of Cadogan House. Lindsey, a fellow House guard and my bestest vampire friend, had joined me so we could learn how to better protect ourselves from Chicago’s special brand of vampire crazy.

We hadn’t expected to get a peep show in the bargain.

“Dear God,” Lindsey said breathlessly as we stepped into the Sparring Room. We stopped at the edge of the tatami mats that covered the floor, lips parted and eyes wide as we surveyed the sight before us.

Two vampires in the prime of their immortal lives moved across the floor, muscles flexing as they grappled, bare-handed, in attempts to throw the other down. They were sparring without weapons, no swords or steel, using hands and feet, elbows and knees, and the extra physical bite of being vampire.

And they were half naked. Both were sparring barefoot and shirtless, wearing martial arts-style white
gi
pants, the gleaming gold disks of their Cadogan House medals around their necks.

Lindsey’s gaze was locked on Luc, Captain of the Cadogan House guards. Luc was a former cowboy turned vampire soldier, complete with broad shoulders, fuzzy chest, and curly, sun-streaked hair that he suddenly stopped to push out of his face, muscles tensing as he moved.

Across from Luc was his opponent: Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House and the three-hundred-ninety-four-year-old vampire who’d brought me into the world of the fanged—without my consent, but admittedly because my other option had been a speedy death. He stood a little more than six feet tall, and the top half of that six feet—the long, lean line of flat stomach and high pecs, along with the trail of blond hair that dipped down from his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his pants—glistened as he swiveled for a roundhouse kick.

Luc, I think, was supposed to be playing the attacker, but Ethan was doing a fine job of holding him off. For all the Armani suits and supermodel-good looks, Ethan was a skilled warrior—something I’d been forced to remember when I’d swung my katana at his throat a few nights ago.

As I watched him fight, goose bumps pebbled my arms. I assumed my blue irises were shifting to silver as heat began to rise through my body, the fire fanned by the sight of Ethan in motion, dipping and weaving and spinning as he faced down his opponent. I wet my lips, suddenly bloodthirsty even though I’d had convenience blood, bagged by our supplier, Blood4You, less than twenty-four hours ago. And, more important, I’d taken blood directly from a vampire only a week ago.

I’d taken blood directly from him.

He’d fed me during the final chapter of my transition to vampire, when I’d awoken with a thirst so strong for blood I would have killed to get it. But I hadn’t needed violence. Ethan had offered his wrist willingly, and I’d taken full advantage, watching his eyes silver as I took the nutrition that somehow sealed my transformation to predator, to vampire.

I smoldered as I watched him, his muscles shifting and flexing as he moved with the slinking grace of a panther. I could have justified the warmth in my belly, called my reaction a consequence of my now fully functioning vampire biology, the result of watching a predator in his prime, or a Novitiate’s attraction to the Master who made her.

But that didn’t do Ethan Sullivan justice—not even close.

He was almost too handsome to be real, with blond hair framing a gorgeous face, cheekbones that New York models would pay for, eyes that shone like chips of emerald. Six feet of golden skin stretched taut over muscle, and I could attest that all six feet were equally perfect. I’d caught an accidental glimpse of Ethan as he was satisfying his former mistress, who’d betrayed him to join Celina’s band of merry evildoers.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that he was the top of whatever food chain we belonged to—not when you watched his long, lean lines moving across the room.

Not when you watched the tiny bead of sweat that was slowly—ever so slowly—tracing its way down the middle of Ethan’s flat abdomen, one brick of muscle at a time, just threatening to slip into the waistband of his pants.

To be sure, Ethan felt the attraction as well. He’d offered to make me his mistress even before Amber decamped to join Team Desaulniers. We’d shared a couple of kisses, but I’d managed to resist taking him up on the rest of his offers. Ethan wanted me, without doubt. And I wasn’t stupid enough to argue his attractiveness, which was undeniable.

But Ethan was also completely infuriating—slow to trust, easy to accuse—and still not entirely sure how he felt about me. Not to mention his baggage: his smug sense of superiority and his willingness to use those around him, including me, to meet political goals. There was also the fact that our last kiss had occurred less than twenty-four hours before I’d broken off my fledgling relationship with Morgan Greer, the vampire who replaced Celina as Master of Navarre House. I’d walked away from that kiss with fire in my blood and guilt in my heart.

Surely I could find a relationship with a better concoction of emotions. Once I had that thought in mind, my rationality returning, my blood began to cool.

“It should be illegal for smug vampires to look that good,” Lindsey said, clucking her tongue.

“That is so true,” I agreed, thinking a little less hotness would make my relationship with Ethan a lot simpler. I lifted my gaze away from the fighting vampires to scan the rest of the room. The balcony that ringed the Sparring Room was filled with vampires, men and women. The women, and a few of the men, stared at the action below them, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed, all of them enjoying the sights below.

“On the other hand, they’re the ones creating this pec-tacle.”

I slid her a glance, arching an eyebrow. “Pec-tacle?”

“You know, like spectacle”—she paused to point at her breasts—“but with more dude nipples. Do you disagree?”

I returned my gaze to the Master vampire who was currently leaning over to pick up a
bokken
, a wooden practice weapon, from the mat. Muscles clenched and tensed as he moved, nipples pert on his chest.

“Far be it from me to disagree,” I said. “They have created quite a pec-tacle. And when they put it out there like that, they can hardly expect us not to look.”

Lindsey gave me a nod of approval. “I don’t know where the bravado comes from, but I like it.”

“I’m trying it on,” I whispered back, which was true. The transition to vampire hadn’t been easy—psychologically or physically—but I was beginning to get the hang of it. I’d essentially gone through the physical change twice, since the first time around hadn’t quite taken. (Ethan, in a fit of guilt, had drugged me through the first transition, which apparently forestalled the complete change.) That was on top of my move out of the Wicker Park brownstone I’d shared with my former roommate—and former best friend and nascent sorceress—Mallory, and into Cadogan House. I’d managed to hold my own when dealing with my parents and their fusty friends, a step I’d taken at Ethan’s request when we were trying to keep vampire raves out of the press. And, not counting the two times I’d faux-battled Ethan, I’d managed to subdue Celina approximately fifty percent of the times she’d come looking for a fight, which wasn’t awful, as batting averages went.

With that excitement under my belt, here I was, a new vampire in the historic position of Sentinel, guarding the House against creatures both living and dead. I’d gone from graduate student to vampire fighter nearly overnight. And now Noah Beck wanted to be the one to capitalize on that.

“Merit.
Merit
.”

Although Lindsey said my name at least a couple of times, it was the jostling that finally did it, breaking me from the memory of my meeting with Noah and bringing me back to the Cadogan House Training Room, to Lindsey, who’d nudged me with her shoulder to get my attention, and to Ethan, who stood before me, hands on his hips, shoulder-length blond hair tied back, one eyebrow arched condescendingly. Luc was nowhere in sight . . . and all eyes were on me.

“Um, yes?” I asked.

The vampires snickered.

“If you’re finished with your daydreams,” Ethan said into the silence of the room, “perhaps you might consider joining me?”

“Sorry, Liege,” I muttered, and stepped out of flip-flops and onto the mats, sheathed katana in hand. I was already in my training ensemble—a black sports-bra-type top and yoga pants.

I followed Ethan to the middle of the floor, very aware that dozens of vampires were following our movements. He stopped, turned to face me, and bowed. I did the same.

“It is important,” he began, loud enough for all to hear, “that you be prepared, should the need arise, to fight. And to master that fight, you must first master the steps. As you also know, our Sentinel hasn’t yet mastered the art of sparring. . . .”

He paused just long enough to give me a pointed look. So sparring wasn’t my thing. I was good at the Katas—the building blocks of vampire sword fighting. I’d been a ballet dancer, and there was something very dancerly about the moves. They were positions, forms, steps that I could memorize and practice and, by repetition, perfect.

Sparring was different. Having grown up with my nose in a book, I had no experience at fighting beyond a couple of experimental kickboxing classes and a few run-ins with Celina and her assorted minions. I knew my weakness. I spent too much time trying to think
through
the fight—trying to find an attacker’s weaknesses, to exploit them—while at the same time trying to keep from
overthinking
the fight. That had become even harder in the last week, as I’d worked with Luc to keep the cacophony of smells and sounds that threatened, post-change, to overwhelm me, down to a dull roar.

“But her work with the Katas is unparalleled.” He arched an eyebrow at me—half challenge, half insult—and took a step backward. “Sentinel,” he said, his voice lower now, the order just for me, “Katas, if you please.”

“Liege,” I said. I lifted my sword with both hands, my right hand on the handle, left hand on the sheath, and moved my hands apart, unsheathing it with a quick whistle of sound, light glinting from the polished steel. I walked to the edge of the mat and placed the lacquered sheath on the floor beside it.

Then, with all the confidence and bravado I could muster—easier now that I’d been asked to join a secret corps of vampire warriors—I returned to him, faced him, and gripped the katana in both hands.

“Begin,” he ordered, and took steps backward, giving me room. There were seven two-handed Katas and three more single-handed moves. Those were new to me. But I’d been practicing the traditional Katas since I’d become a vampire, and, frankly, I wanted to show off a little. In the week that we’d been working together, Ethan had seen me practice the Katas only in traditional fashion—one Kata at a time, my movements timed and precise. But that wasn’t all I could do. . . .

I bladed my body, katana poised before me. “Fast or slow?”

He frowned. “Fast or slow?”

I smiled cannily beneath my fringe of bangs. “Pick your speed.”

“Vampires?” he asked aloud, but his gaze on me. “Fast or slow?”

There were “slow” stragglers, but the majority requested “fast.”

“Fast, it seems,” he said.

I nodded, centered my weight, and moved. The first kata brought the sword arcing across my body, then returning to the center position. The second was a downward strike. The third and fourth were combinations. The fifth, sixth, and seventh were combinations with spins and parries.

In traditional form, when the focus was on precision and control, each Kata took ten or fifteen seconds.

But done fast, I could work through the entire set in twenty seconds. I’d learned speed from my former trainer, Catcher, a sorcerer with a penchant for katanas and sword fighting. (He was also, not coincidentally, Mallory’s boyfriend and my grandfather’s employee.) Catcher demanded I practice the moves over and over, thinking repetition would force the muscle memory. It had—and it had allowed me to use my increased vampire strength, speed, and agility to push the forms into a single dance of movement so quick my body blurred with the speed of it.

After I’d challenged Ethan in our second duel, he decided he needed to supplant Catcher as my trainer. But he didn’t know how much Catcher had taught me. . . .

I finished the seventh form, spun to a stop, sword between my hands, perpendicular before my body. The lights above us caught the gentle curve of the steel, the entire room suddenly silent.

Ethan stared.

“Do it again,” he said, his words barely audible, a glint in his eyes. I didn’t mistake the glint for lust. Although the chemistry between us was keen, Ethan was unambiguously, ubiquitously political—always maneuvering.

I was a weapon.

I was
his
weapon.

That glint? Avarice, pure and simple.

“
Liege
,” I said, tilting my head in acknowledgment and returning to the beginning position.

I completed the moves again, sword arcing perpendicular to the floor, slicing downward, an across-and-up combination, then the arc-and-spin combinations, the backward thrust, the overhead strike. I ended in the final position.