Shadows on the Soul

  For protection from that memory, she’d have pledged her very soul. Perhaps she had.

  “I think I’d like to go lie down for a while,” she said, hoping Eli would just let her go home and be alone with her thoughts.

  But having Eli understand her so well was a double-edged sword. He met her eyes, and she saw a hint of anger in his gaze, though his voice when he spoke was soft and gentle.

  “You’re hiding something from me, Jezebel.”

  She raised her chin a notch. Eli was a living, breathing lie detector, at least where she was concerned, so she didn’t bother to lie. “I never promised you full disclosure. You said I could start here with a clean slate, and I intend to hold you to that.”

  He fixed her with that penetrating stare of his, his eyes eerily like Gabriel’s. It took all her willpower not to look away like a guilty child.

  Finally, he shrugged and offered her a hand up. She didn’t think she was in any danger of collapsing again, but she let him help her anyway. He didn’t let go immediately.

  “When you’re ready to talk to me, I’m ready to listen,” he said.

  Inwardly, she cringed. He’d been nothing but kind to her since the moment she’d met him. Gabriel had painted him as some kind of sanctimonious, holier-than-thou power monger, and she’d come to Philadelphia fully prepared to hate him and to enjoy whatever revenge Gabriel planned. It hadn’t taken her long at all to see how distorted Gabriel’s view was.

  “Thanks, Eli,” she said. Her voice was a bare whisper. She was afraid it would shake if she spoke out loud. She knew now she wouldn’t enjoy Gabriel’s revenge, and that she’d loathe whatever part she had to play in it. But she’d made a promise to her maker. He’d held up his end, and she’d be damned if she’d renege on hers.

  But then, if she believed her family, she’d been damned from the moment she was conceived, so what did one more sin matter?

  2

  CAMILLE STEPPED OFF THE plane in the Charles de Gaulle Airport and tried to feel something. Anything.

  She should be excited to return home after a four-hundred-year exile. Overwhelmed by the new experience of flying in an airplane. And downright terrified of her reception by the current Seigneur of the region, whoever that was.

  Instead she felt nothing. Empty inside. Broken.

  She followed the tide of mortals as they moved like sheep through the airport halls, and she was no different from them, a mindless animal at the mercy of those stronger than herself.

  Her lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. There was some core of emotion in her, a well of bitterness she’d only just begun to tap. But was that emotion enough to sustain her immortal life?

  Of course, that wouldn’t matter if the Seigneur took exception to her arrival. If she could have contacted him and requested permission before coming, she’d have done so, but she hadn’t the first idea how to go about locating him. Easier to boldly enter his territory and let him find her.

  In reality, she wasn’t sure it would be an unmitigated disaster if he killed her. Ever since that dreadful evening when Gabriel had revealed the extent of his powers, when she’d realized how devastatingly helpless she was in the face of her own son’s anger, she hadn’t been the same.

  At first, she’d lived from day to day in a welter of fear, wondering if Gabriel would turn his ferocity on her. If he chose to kill her, it would not be a quick and merciful death, of that she was sure. But over the last few weeks, that fear had faded into numbness. When he’d left her nominally in charge of Baltimore while he went to Philadelphia to confront Eli, she’d known she couldn’t stand to be there when he returned.

  Glamour eased her through customs without need of identification, and she took a taxi to the Hôtel de Crillon. It was almost sunrise, and though she was easily old enough to walk in the daylight, exhaustion weighted her shoulders. Some of that was no doubt due to hunger.

  Gabriel insisted she feed only on the mortals he brought her, and he made sure she was miserably hungry by the time he brought them. She could have fed the moment he left Baltimore, but she’d been too busy arranging her hasty trip. The cab driver would have made a perfect meal—young, quite attractive, and smart enough to be frightened of her from the moment she slid into his cab—but she was sure the Seigneur would frown upon her making a kill without his permission.

  When she lay down to sleep on her sumptuous bed in the hotel’s best suite, Camille thought she sensed a hint of contentment in her core.

  She was home. And even if she died here, at least she would have seen her homeland one more time after Eli and Gabriel had robbed her of it.

  Smiling faintly, she let her eyes drift closed and slept.

  JEZ PACED THE LENGTH of her apartment, unable to sit still although her constant restless motion left her limbs sore and achy.

  Ever since she’d left Eli’s, she’d been waiting. She glanced at her watch and groaned. It was three in the morning, which meant she’d been pacing for almost four hours. For the millionth time, she forced herself to sit down.

  Gabriel would either come to her, or he wouldn’t. Worrying about it would do no good whatsoever. She took slow, deep breaths through her nose, closing her eyes and willing herself to calm.

  Calm. Yeah, right!

  After five minutes of keeping her ass in the chair, she sprang to her feet once more. She rooted through her purse until she found her pack of cigarettes, then lit one and took a long drag.

  Her nose crinkled in disgust. Damn, these things smelled bad to a vampire nose! And the nicotine had about one tenth of the effect it had when she was mortal. But one tenth was better than nothing.

  “And here I’d thought you’d given up that nasty habit.”

  Jez shrieked and whirled, the cigarette flying from her fingers. It would have landed on the couch—and possibly lit the thing on fire—except Gabriel’s power stopped it in mid-air.

  The cigarette rose until it was at her eye level, and the lit end collapsed in upon itself until it went out. A thin tendril of smoke snaked from the snuffed end; then the cigarette dropped harmlessly to the floor at her feet.

  Jez stared at it, her heart thrumming in her throat. She knew full well that avoiding eye contact wouldn’t protect her from her maker’s glamour, and yet she never could resist trying.

  As she kept her eyes pinned on the cigarette, Gabriel’s silver-studded boots came into view. She reached out tentatively with her senses, but she couldn’t “feel” him there like she could anyone else, vampire or mortal. Her vampire senses insisted she was alone in her apartment, despite what her eyes told her.

  “I’ve had more enthusiastic greetings,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

  She swallowed her fear and looked up at him. The sight of him was like a soft punch in the gut, stealing the air from her lungs.

  Even with the scar that slashed across his left cheek, he was a treat for the eyes. The lines of his face were sharp, angular, made more so by his hair, which was a nearly white blond that he wore in stiff spikes. He had stopped aging the moment he reached adulthood, so he looked as if he might be the same age as Jez—maybe even younger. His eyes, though … They were not the eyes of a young man, not with that peculiarly flat, cold look to them.

  His lips twisted into one of his nasty smiles, the look in his eyes not changing a bit.

  Jez frowned. No one should be able to read any expression save menace from that face, and yet she knew there was pain behind the menace.

  “If you wanted a more enthusiastic greeting,” she said, “you could have tried coming to the door instead of sneaking up on me and scaring the shit out of me.”

  He shrugged and grinned. “More fun this way.”

  She sniffed. “If it’s so much fun, then don’t get pissy when I don’t fling myself into your arms in welcome.”

  He blinked a couple of times. She knew for a fact that he wasn’t used to anyone, mortal or vampire, talking back to him. But she’d been talking back to her elders ever si
nce she went to live with her grandmother at age ten. She wasn’t about to change her ways for Gabriel, or let him intimidate her.

  At least, she mentally amended, she wouldn’t let him intimidate her too much. She’d need a lobotomy not to be intimidated by him at all.

  He pushed away whatever chagrin he might have felt and gave her his version of a friendly smile. “And if I’d come to your door, would you have flung yourself into my arms?”

  She couldn’t help laughing, a dry little chuckle. “I’m not really a throw-myself-into-a-guy’s-arms type of person. No offense.”

  His smile looked a tad more genuine. “None taken.” He looked her up and down, starting at her face and working his way down to her feet. He nodded his approval. “You look well.”

  She stifled any number of retorts. He had some sort of Pygmalion complex where she was concerned. He’d insisted she let her hair grow out to its natural blond instead of the jet-black dye job she’d had. He’d removed all her piercings, and had actually sliced the tattoo off her arm while she’d been unconscious during her transition from mortal to vampire. Considering his own wardrobe choices—which tended toward black leather and silver studs and chains—she didn’t know why he was so fond of her demure new look. Her Gram would laugh herself sick to see Jezebel looking like a school teacher.

  “Eli’s been very good to me,” she said, knowing just how that statement would be received.

  Gabriel’s eyes hardened. “I sincerely hope you aren’t considering breaking our agreement.”

  There was no mistaking the threat in his voice. She spoke anyway. “You lied to me.”

  He looked both startled and offended. “I did not!”

  “You made Eli seem like this wicked, evil old man who doesn’t care about anyone. And he’s not like that at all. He’s—”

  Gabriel moved so fast she didn’t see his hand coming until it was wrapped around her throat. The grip was firm, but he wasn’t choking her. Not yet, anyway.

  He leaned into her, eyes boring into hers, freezing her so she couldn’t move a single muscle. “Don’t presume to tell me about my father,” he said. His breath smelled like fresh blood. “I’ve known him for five hundred years. You’ve known him for three months. He is not the saint he paints himself to be.”

  Anger had tightened his fingers. If she were mortal, he might have left bruises on her throat. As it was, his grip was merely uncomfortable. His eyes held a hint of madness, the pupils night-dark in the center of those gray-green irises. His breath quickened, flooding her senses with the scent of his kill. She tasted that scent on the back of her tongue, and she recognized it.

  She spoke without meaning to, her head reeling from the scent and taste of human blood. “Your breath tastes like the woman you killed this evening.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. In a movement that was almost reflexive, he shoved her away from him. Hard.

  A squeak escaped her lips as Jez suddenly found herself airborne, heading toward the wall at high speed. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact, but it never came.

  Her breath coming short and ragged, she opened her eyes.

  She hovered in the air, just slightly off the floor and about six inches from the wall Gabriel had flung her toward. She looked up and met his eyes, only to find that his impassive shield was back in place. He lowered her gently back to the floor, his power steadying her when her knees threatened to give.

  “My apologies,” he said in a very neutral voice. “You startled me.”

  She let out a shaky breath. “I guess we’re even, then.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  She concentrated on her breathing, on slowing that frantic pulse. “You startled me when you snuck up on me,” she explained. “Now, I’ve startled you. We’re even.” Although she hadn’t nearly flung him into a wall in reaction to her surprise. She supposed that, considering Gabriel’s nature, she was lucky he’d caught her before she hit.

  His gaze pierced her. “No, we’re not even, my dear. And I believe we have much to talk about.”

  He gestured toward her sofa. With a sigh of resignation, she brushed past him and sat down. She had a feeling this was going to be a long, uncomfortable conversation.

  DRAKE WAS IN THE mood for some female companionship, so after a brief evening patrol, he stopped by one of his favorite haunts, a quirky little bar known as the Underground. Located on Walnut Street, the bar was in a basement directly below a terribly respectable antique dealership. An interesting contrast, though the establishments were rarely open at the same hour.

  Decorated in a London Underground motif, the bar billed itself as a “pub,” complete with dartboards and a wide selection of imported ales and beers. But it was the bar’s strangely diverse clientele that Drake found so appealing.

  No one looked out of place here. Descending into the smoky darkness, Drake saw college-age, just barely legal kids, yuppies in business attire only slightly modified for a night out, punks who would have usually hung out almost exclusively on South Street, and everything in between. There was almost a sense of magic in the place that made it into a true melting pot. Of course, as a vampire and a Killer, Drake was just as much an outsider here as he was anywhere else.

  The weather had finally grown too warm for his trademark black leather pants and jacket, but the moment he stepped inside, he felt feminine eyes locking onto him. He wore faded denim jeans that fit snugly, but comfortably, and a plain white T-shirt, but even without the leathers he had no difficulty attracting feminine attention. He cultivated a refined bad-boy look that seemed nearly irresistible to the opposite sex, and he enjoyed the attention. He made his way through the crowd toward the bar, ordering an exotic beer that he wouldn’t drink.

  By the time the bartender popped the lid off the bottle and set it in front of him, a busty brunette had sidled up to the bar beside him. He smiled faintly as she feigned indifference, ordering her own beer and keeping her eyes focused on the mirror behind the bar. Rarely did he have to make the first move in a place like this.

  He took a furtive look at her out of his peripheral vision, playing the game, pretending he didn’t know she was interested.

  What he saw surprised him. Usually, the first women to approach him would be the local floozies, the brazen females who were cruising for one-night stands and nothing more. Either that, or they’d be the desperate types attempting to drown their sorrows in booze and sex. He preferred his companions sober, and while he wasn’t in any position to offer a long-term relationship, he usually wanted—and got—more than one night.

  The woman beside him looked to be in her early thirties, and while her clingy knit blouse showed her ample bosom to its best advantage, she was otherwise dressed relatively demurely in a pair of loose-fitting khaki trousers. Definitely not floozy attire. And she didn’t have that wild-eyed look of the desperate ones, nor had she yet drummed up the courage to speak to him.

  The Underground never had live music, but the jukebox was always playing full blast, and there was a small area clear of tables that served as a tiny dance floor. There was a moment of near-silence as the music changed, then a twangy country ballad started up. Most of the bar’s patrons groaned or rolled their eyes, and the crowd on the dance floor thinned. While the Underground was host to any number of tastes, country wasn’t one of them.

  With his acute hearing, Drake picked up the quick intake of breath that suggested the woman was about to speak to him, but when the song came on she closed her mouth so quickly her teeth clicked together. He fought a smile. A slow dance was, apparently, too much of a challenge to her courage. No doubt she was one of those women who believed deep down that men should make the first move.

  Being more than a hundred years old himself, Drake found the old-fashioned attitude rather charming. He bent a little closer to her so he could speak without shouting.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  She almost jumped out of her shoes, then color rushe
d to her face. She put a hand to her throat and laughed shakily. “Sorry,” she said, blushing harder. “You startled me.”

  He smiled at her, exerting just a touch of glamour in hopes that it would soothe her obviously brittle nerves. There was something innocently appealing about her, something that made him hope she’d say yes.

  “I’d love to dance,” she said, her voice suddenly breathy.

  Drake reeled his glamour back in. Calming her nerves was one thing. Clouding her judgment was another. He had little enough trouble finding women to warm his bed; he didn’t need to seduce the reluctant.

  But even without the glamour, she smiled shyly at him as he led her to the floor, their beers forgotten. “I’m Stacy,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake, then starting to jerk it back. Color flooded her cheeks again, and Drake had to fight the urge to laugh.

  Obviously, she was new to the sport of picking up men in bars. He caught her hand and raised her knuckles to his lips, grinning at her as he planted a courtly kiss there.

  “Pleased to meet you, Stacy,” he said, not letting go of her hand. “My name’s Drake.”

  “Hi,” she said, grinning a bit herself. “You must think I’m the world’s worst doofus.”

  He laughed, but didn’t answer, figuring anything he said would make her feel worse. Instead, he put his hands around her waist and drew her to him, close enough for intimacy, but not so close as to be inappropriately forward with a complete stranger.

  Tentatively, she put her arms around his neck and let him guide her as they swayed to the music. He grimaced at the syrupy lyrics.