4. He Wants What?
He Wants What?
The gates to the vast estate two hours out of Manhattan swing open before I have the chance to announce myself.
I can’t pretend surprise as I feel the holo-cam on me like the eye of Sauron.
Choking back a laugh at the comparison, I try to tell myself I’m being dramatic, but past experience says otherwise.
Of course he recognized the car.
Silence except for the purr of my engine as I slide down the smooth driveway and park between the ornate fountain and the massive front doors of an actual castle.
I know the history well. Taken apart stone by stone in some remote part of the Carpathian Mountains and brought here to be reconstructed.
It would have been cliched if it hadn’t belonged to the owner for longer than many countries have existed.
I’d often wondered if Bram Stoker had ever visited it centuries ago.
Push thoughts of the past aside, vanity has me checking my hair in the mirror and adding a fresh layer of red gloss, even as I berate myself for caring.
You are Detective Eve Sinclair, head of the PPS, I tell myself as I exit the car and smooth down my skirt. But damn if I don’t feel like that na?ve seventeen-year-old girl again.
I make my way up the stone steps slowly, calmly, carefully in my boots.
I flickered Ruby to let her know where I was going before silencing my feeds and notifications, but I didn’t inform my partner.
Ruby Blue knows my past; Tim Easten does not.
And although it’s not a secret- the Captain knows shades of it- I haven’t wanted to explain myself so long after it was all over.
Ancient history, even for a human. Water under the moat.
Shards of glass in my throat and heart if I try to talk about it.
A two-hour drive to get here, plus a stop for lunch and two coffees, and it’s still only mid-afternoon. Giving me plenty of time to get back into the city before nightfall.
Needing two hands to bang the gargoyle knocker has me rolling my eyes.
It’s typical of Barclay to make me knock when he’s likely standing right behind the door waiting for me.
There’s a retinal scanner, but I don’t want to find out if I’m still registered.
I can’t see any holo-cams, but I know they’re there.
I can only hope none of the Coven is here.
But if they are, I’ll just have to suck it up.
I have to stop myself from moving back as the door swings silently inward. Steeling my resolve and my spine, I step inside.
‘Renfield,’ I say to the man who stands before me in the vaulted atrium. ‘You haven’t aged a day.’ I can’t help referencing Dracula’s famous servant, knowing how much he’s always hated it.
Barclay does look exactly the same. Tall and pale, with grey eyes and hair, he could be anywhere from sixty to eighty. Wearing a black suit and crisp white shirt with a bowtie, he’s a walking butler cliche.
‘Still human, I see,’ I add, tossing my hair back with a wide smile.
‘I shall tell the Master you’re here,’ Barclay says coolly, his eyes showing mild displeasure, all he will allow himself at my unwanted presence.
I bite my tongue on a snarky retort. As if he doesn’t already know I’m here. A cold hand ghosts over my spine, as if I can feel his eyes on me.
It’s not true that Vampires sleep during the day.
They just can’t go out into direct sunlight.
Younger Vamps burn to ash, and older ones are still sensitive to it; their blood boils.
I’d loved to tease him about it once upon a time: how I could wander around the estate in the bright sunlight, while he was trapped inside.
Except he was never trapped anywhere he didn’t want to be.
Glancing around me as I wait, I realize I’m trying to see if anything has changed. The outside may be the original castle, but the interior is straight from an Architectural Digest feed. Homes of the Rich and Eternal. Light, bright, tasteful, minimalist.
Every hair on my body stands on end as I sense him before I see him. Every part of me is as aware of him as I’ve always been, as if time doesn’t exist between us. Blood rushes through my veins, heating my skin. I know he can hear my heart beating faster, but I can’t seem to stop it.
Calm the fuck down, I tell my traitorous body. I don’t need my micro to tell me my pulse is elevated, my breathing erratic.
Trying not to make inferences about him coming to collect me himself, instead of sending Barclay back for me, I check my mental shields.
The ones he taught me to build, to stop Vamps from accessing my mind so they couldn’t use Mesmerism on me.
But I always had the suspicion he could break through it if he had wanted to.
The lights from the gold and glass chandelier high above flicker as I catch sight of him. He sucks the light from the atrium as if his shadows are more powerful, more compelling. As if even light bows before him.
Stopping several feet away from me, I can barely breathe, let alone move, as I drink him in. My skin prickles as his onyx eyes drift coolly over me.
‘Evangeline.’ His voice is a caress, like silk sighing over my overheated skin. He is the only one who ever uses my full name.
‘Micah,’ I say evenly, meeting his gaze. I barely stop myself from clenching my hands or wiping them against my skirt.
He moves so swiftly I don’t have time to blink, until he’s a breath away, towering over me.
Micah Saint James is beautiful. More beautiful than any man has a right to be.
Immortalized in his late twenties, his dark hair is shorter than the last time I’d seen him, no longer brushing his collar.
It makes him look younger, more modern. But his skin still has the same golden bronzed glow.
I’ve never been sure about his origins, but I always thought they were ancient Mediterranean or Middle Eastern.
His eyes are the same fathomless black that can make anyone do anything he wants.
Not that he needs to use Mesmerism. I’ve seen enough of the effect he has on humans without it.
‘You’re as beautiful as you always were,’ he says, and damn it, I almost melt into a puddle on the floor as his eyes burn into mine. His hand cups my cheek, and I can’t help it, I blush.
Jerking away as if scalded, I almost stumble as I remind myself who I am now. I’m not nineteen anymore.
‘No,’ he corrects himself, as if he didn’t just sear my skin with his touch. ‘You’re entirely more beautiful now than you were the last time I saw you. I’ve missed those green eyes.’
He’s baiting me, but I don’t know why, so I stay silent. He can’t be upset with me when he’s the one who…I cut off my thoughts sharply. Not gonna go there.
‘How long has it been?’ Micah asks idly, putting one hand into the pocket of his tailored black pants.
I refuse to look at the perfectly sculpted slice of skin showing above the undone buttons of his pewter shirt.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’d undone those two extra buttons just to mess with me.
If I didn’t have irrefutable proof he doesn’t care what I think of him.
‘I’m not sure,’ I lie. I could tell him how many years, months, days, and minutes it’s been.
‘Seven years,’ he says, meaning I can’t decipher layered in his smooth-as-whiskey voice.
Seven years since I’d made a fucking fool of myself.
‘Come,’ he says lightly. ‘You’re here for a reason. And I know you’ll want coffee.’ His mouth twitches up at one side, letting me know he remembers. That he knows me, knows my habits.
I find myself smiling in answer. Some things don’t change. And not only for those with immortality.
‘No Coven,’ I say as he gestures me ahead of himself. The feel of his hand on my back almost makes me jump, burning through the silk of my shirt.
‘This is my private residence,’ he says smoothly. But we both know he can’t refuse his Coven access to him. Even with Lila practically running it for him, he has a duty to them, the same as Jake has to his Pack.
Walking on automatic down the hallway and into his private den, I realize I could still find my way around this castle blindfolded.
Leather, mahogany, priceless art on the walls, and bookcases that I used to love to look at and run my hands over.
I also know there’s a holo-screen. Modern tech may be hidden, but it’s still there when needed.
Micah once told me that to survive for so long, Vamps have to adapt constantly to the ever-changing world around them.
A carafe of coffee and a glass with dark red liquid are waiting for us.
Barclay executing his job perfectly, as always.
I wonder if it’s the synthetic blood Vamps are supposed to drink.
Or does Micah still have humans willing to donate?
There’s no law against Vamps drinking fresh blood, as long as it’s freely given and doesn’t result in loss of life.
But it is supposed to be straight from the vein.
It’s not my business, but I do know he’s old enough to hate the manufactured kind, and human blood is preferable for strength, speed, and healing.
Sinking into a velvet chair, I help myself to the coffee. It’s probably not a good idea to have more caffeine when my nerves were already screaming, but it distracts me from all the unwanted feelings swirling in the ether between us. It will either settle my nerves or have me climbing the walls.
Micah sits opposite me in his favorite leather wing-back chair.
The glass floats to him on a phantom breeze, and he smiles at me in the way that used to make me feel special, as if I meant something to him, as he takes a sip of the red liquid.
At least it’s in a glass, and not from the neck of some acolyte.
Some humans can orgasm just from the ecstasy of a Vampire’s bite. And once they start donating, it’s hard to stop. Hence, the new laws. New, as in the past fifty years of the World Treaty between humans and Paranormals.