Night Reigns
Page 20
Ami.
Bastien hadn’t seen her since she had begun serving Marcus. If she had been killed during the big skirmish the two had landed in last week, Bastien would have slaughtered the bastard for not protecting her. He had overheard a conversation between her and Darnell earlier today and wanted to tell her not to bother defending him when the other immortals blamed him for whatever the hell the vampires were currently doing. But she would only ignore him. Just as she had ignored Seth, David, and Darnell when they had urged her to keep her distance from Bastien in the early painful days of their acquaintance.
His cell phone rang as he squeezed the excess moisture from his long black hair.
He looked at the display.
Unknown caller.
Picking it up, he answered. “What?”
“Sebastien Newcombe?” a female voice asked in a near whisper.
“Who the hell is this?” he countered. The only woman who knew his number was Ami.
“Melanie Lipton.”
He frowned. There was a furtive quality to her speech, as though she feared being overheard. And, though her name sounded familiar, he couldn’t place it. “Why are you whispering?”
If anything, her voice quieted more. “I’m not supposed to be calling you. If they catch me … I’m not sure what they’ll do. We’ve been on lockdown for a week now, ever since the night Marcus and Ami were nearly killed.”
If she knew about Marcus and Ami, then she was either an immortal or one of the humans the network employed. Thanks to the power they possessed, immortals tended to be bold. This woman, on the other hand, sounded timid and as if she had been crying.
Recognition dawned.
“Did you say Melanie Lipton? As in Doctor Lipton?” he asked, dread pooling in his stomach. He vaguely recalled a Dr. Lipton being mentioned by Joe, Cliff, and Vincent, the sole surviving members of the vampire army (or ramshackle family) he had amassed. Instead of fighting the immortals in that disastrous final battle, the three had surrendered and voluntarily moved into apartments at the network’s primary research facility, full of thus-far futile hopes that the doctors and scientists there could help them stave off the madness that had infiltrated their brethren.
“Yes,” she exhaled with great relief.
“What happened?” It must be bad news, or she wouldn’t have called.
“There’s been an … incident here at the lab involving Vincent.” Of the three, he had been infected the longest. “He’s been more agitated lately and given to sudden bursts of anger and aggression. He’s been having nightmares, but wouldn’t tell me anything about them.”
They weren’t nightmares. They were fantasies. Twisted desires that had begun to seep insidiously into his mind and shame him in his more rational moments. He had confessed as much to Bastien several times during his visits (which, regrettably, were not as often as he would like, because Bastien was only allowed to enter the network facility and have face to face contact with the vampires when accompanied by another immortal). But those fantasies had been plaguing Vincent for over a year. They had, in fact, begun before he had entered immortal custody.
Had they worsened?
“Today,” Dr. Lipton continued, “he … he flew into a rage. Several people were badly injured and …” She sniffed. “There weren’t any immortals on the premises to help us get him under control, so the only way he could be stopped or overpowered was through blood loss. He was shot … so many times.” Her voice warbled. He could almost see the tears coursing down her cheeks. This woman cared. She didn’t view the vampires as bloodthirsty lab rats, as some of her colleagues did. She truly cared about his men and their suffering.
His hand tightened on the phone. “Did they destroy him?” If they had, he did not doubt that she had tried to stop them.
“No. They waited until he nearly bled out, then restrained him.”
“Are they starving him?” Such would only make the madness worse.
“No. He’s been given blood. And food. But, when he’s lucid …” She sniffed again. “He really wants to talk to you. And Cliff and Joe are pretty devastated. Not to mention scared.”
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Wait,” she said, before he could hang up. “I wasn’t kidding. This place is locked down. Security is tighter than I’ve ever seen it and …” Her voice lowered even more. Any human walking past would barely hear a breath, but her experience working with his men had clearly taught her much about their sensitive ears. “Some are speculating that you may have tipped the vampires off to Marcus and Ami’s location, so I don’t think they’ll let you in the building.”
Oh, but they would.
“I tried to get them to let Vincent call you, but they refused. They think it’s too big a risk.” Disgust entered her voice. “He isn’t plotting against the immortals. He’s fighting for his sanity. And, after everything he, Joe, and Cliff have told me about you, I don’t believe for one moment that you’re plotting against them either.”
His eyebrows rose. She and Ami might be the only people in the world who believed that.
“If you’ll hold on for a minute, I’ll see if I can sneak my phone into his room and—”
“Don’t bother. I’ll be there within the hour,” he promised again.
“But—”
Ending the call, Bastien crossed to the wardrobe and began pulling out clothes.
Marcus opened his eyes and let sleep fall away. He had patrolled nightly since his and Ami’s big showdown with the vampires and hadn’t found a damned thing. No vamps. No minions. No evidence to indicate what Marion’s involvement had been.
Reordon was beginning to lose it a bit. He insisted Marion was completely trustworthy and damn near choked anyone who suggested otherwise.
But Marcus knew that even those one trusted the most could become one’s greatest betrayers. Just look at Roland, a cautionary tale if ever there was one. He had been turned over to the vampire who tortured and transformed him by his own wife, who had cuckolded him with his brother. Then, a few hundred years later, he had nearly been killed by his fiancée. Roland had expressed no surprise at all when Marcus had informed him the network might have been infiltrated.
“It was only a matter of time,” had been his droll reply. “Why do you think I insisted Seth remove the address of our new home from the memories of everyone but you and David?”
He had said other things then, expressing his opinion of Marcus’s taking on thirty-four vampires at once with only a Second to aid him, using an impressive array of four-letter words. One might almost think he cared.
Almost.
Sprawled in his king-sized bed, Marcus gave his muscles a luxurious stretch, then opened his senses to the house, doing what he did every day upon waking: seek Ami’s location.
Today she was in his study.
He could find her easily now. She had stopped creeping around and sneaking up on him when he had stopped sneaking around and trying to avoid her.
Since the morning they had awakened, curled up in bed together (he still got hard thinking about it), they had fallen into a comfortable routine. Friendly. Efficient.
Dangerous. At least to his peace of mind.
Marcus was becoming alarmingly attached to his Second.
Rising, he performed his evening ablutions.
Second.
For Marcus, the term Second brought to mind fierce warriors, like those who had served him in the past, matching his own height of six foot one and nearing or passing his weight. Ami hardly fit the image.
A foot shorter than him. Half his weight. Delicate build. Beautiful breasts. Full hips. Long, lovely legs.
Marcus cursed his body’s eager response.
A loud rumbling overhead drew his gaze to the ceiling.
What the hell was she doing up there? Rolling a bowling ball back and forth across the floor?
His formerly pristine bamboo floor?
Anticipation thrummed through him as he pulled on boxers, black cargo pants, and a long-sleeved black shirt. Sitting on the cushioned bench at the foot of his bed, he added socks and steel-toed boots.
No longer did he dread rising each day, bored with the drudgery and repetition of his long existence, nothing to look forward to.
No. Seth had been right, curse his hide. Now, when Marcus awoke, his first thoughts were of Ami. Was she home? What was she doing? Had she slept well that morning? What was she wearing? How easily could it be removed?
Damn it.
As far as he could tell, she had had no more nightmares or bouts of insomnia. She seemed content with their situation, their partnership, their friendship. As was he. Ami had an almost childlike fascination with the world and explored it with the same enthusiasm. Marcus never knew what she would do next. What music she would filch from the extensive collection of 78s, 33s, 45s, eight-track tapes, cassette tapes, and CDs he had amassed over the years. What curious questions she might pose.
It was a little like living in London for fifty years, then rediscovering its beauty while showing a tourist around and seeing everything anew.
Leaving his bedroom, he scaled the stairs to the basement door. Stepping out into the house’s main hallway, he turned away from the living room and kitchen area and headed for his study.
Ami didn’t hear him when he arrived in the doorway. No human would have. Sheer habit left him moving silently. Yet she seemed to possess an almost mystical ability to sense his presence where other mortals could not. Normally when he came upon her, only a second or two would pass before she turned and greeted him as cheerfully as if he had entered the front door, slammed it, and shouted, “Honey, I’m home!”
Tonight, however, she was too distracted by the rock music pulsing through the very expensive headphones he had purchased for her the previous night.
Leaning one shoulder against the door frame, Marcus tilted his head and used his preternatural hearing to determine what she was listening to. His lips curled up slightly. Bloodrock. “D.O.A.” How very morbid of her, particularly when she began to sing harmony at the top of her lungs.
Bastien hadn’t seen her since she had begun serving Marcus. If she had been killed during the big skirmish the two had landed in last week, Bastien would have slaughtered the bastard for not protecting her. He had overheard a conversation between her and Darnell earlier today and wanted to tell her not to bother defending him when the other immortals blamed him for whatever the hell the vampires were currently doing. But she would only ignore him. Just as she had ignored Seth, David, and Darnell when they had urged her to keep her distance from Bastien in the early painful days of their acquaintance.
His cell phone rang as he squeezed the excess moisture from his long black hair.
He looked at the display.
Unknown caller.
Picking it up, he answered. “What?”
“Sebastien Newcombe?” a female voice asked in a near whisper.
“Who the hell is this?” he countered. The only woman who knew his number was Ami.
“Melanie Lipton.”
He frowned. There was a furtive quality to her speech, as though she feared being overheard. And, though her name sounded familiar, he couldn’t place it. “Why are you whispering?”
If anything, her voice quieted more. “I’m not supposed to be calling you. If they catch me … I’m not sure what they’ll do. We’ve been on lockdown for a week now, ever since the night Marcus and Ami were nearly killed.”
If she knew about Marcus and Ami, then she was either an immortal or one of the humans the network employed. Thanks to the power they possessed, immortals tended to be bold. This woman, on the other hand, sounded timid and as if she had been crying.
Recognition dawned.
“Did you say Melanie Lipton? As in Doctor Lipton?” he asked, dread pooling in his stomach. He vaguely recalled a Dr. Lipton being mentioned by Joe, Cliff, and Vincent, the sole surviving members of the vampire army (or ramshackle family) he had amassed. Instead of fighting the immortals in that disastrous final battle, the three had surrendered and voluntarily moved into apartments at the network’s primary research facility, full of thus-far futile hopes that the doctors and scientists there could help them stave off the madness that had infiltrated their brethren.
“Yes,” she exhaled with great relief.
“What happened?” It must be bad news, or she wouldn’t have called.
“There’s been an … incident here at the lab involving Vincent.” Of the three, he had been infected the longest. “He’s been more agitated lately and given to sudden bursts of anger and aggression. He’s been having nightmares, but wouldn’t tell me anything about them.”
They weren’t nightmares. They were fantasies. Twisted desires that had begun to seep insidiously into his mind and shame him in his more rational moments. He had confessed as much to Bastien several times during his visits (which, regrettably, were not as often as he would like, because Bastien was only allowed to enter the network facility and have face to face contact with the vampires when accompanied by another immortal). But those fantasies had been plaguing Vincent for over a year. They had, in fact, begun before he had entered immortal custody.
Had they worsened?
“Today,” Dr. Lipton continued, “he … he flew into a rage. Several people were badly injured and …” She sniffed. “There weren’t any immortals on the premises to help us get him under control, so the only way he could be stopped or overpowered was through blood loss. He was shot … so many times.” Her voice warbled. He could almost see the tears coursing down her cheeks. This woman cared. She didn’t view the vampires as bloodthirsty lab rats, as some of her colleagues did. She truly cared about his men and their suffering.
His hand tightened on the phone. “Did they destroy him?” If they had, he did not doubt that she had tried to stop them.
“No. They waited until he nearly bled out, then restrained him.”
“Are they starving him?” Such would only make the madness worse.
“No. He’s been given blood. And food. But, when he’s lucid …” She sniffed again. “He really wants to talk to you. And Cliff and Joe are pretty devastated. Not to mention scared.”
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Wait,” she said, before he could hang up. “I wasn’t kidding. This place is locked down. Security is tighter than I’ve ever seen it and …” Her voice lowered even more. Any human walking past would barely hear a breath, but her experience working with his men had clearly taught her much about their sensitive ears. “Some are speculating that you may have tipped the vampires off to Marcus and Ami’s location, so I don’t think they’ll let you in the building.”
Oh, but they would.
“I tried to get them to let Vincent call you, but they refused. They think it’s too big a risk.” Disgust entered her voice. “He isn’t plotting against the immortals. He’s fighting for his sanity. And, after everything he, Joe, and Cliff have told me about you, I don’t believe for one moment that you’re plotting against them either.”
His eyebrows rose. She and Ami might be the only people in the world who believed that.
“If you’ll hold on for a minute, I’ll see if I can sneak my phone into his room and—”
“Don’t bother. I’ll be there within the hour,” he promised again.
“But—”
Ending the call, Bastien crossed to the wardrobe and began pulling out clothes.
Marcus opened his eyes and let sleep fall away. He had patrolled nightly since his and Ami’s big showdown with the vampires and hadn’t found a damned thing. No vamps. No minions. No evidence to indicate what Marion’s involvement had been.
Reordon was beginning to lose it a bit. He insisted Marion was completely trustworthy and damn near choked anyone who suggested otherwise.
But Marcus knew that even those one trusted the most could become one’s greatest betrayers. Just look at Roland, a cautionary tale if ever there was one. He had been turned over to the vampire who tortured and transformed him by his own wife, who had cuckolded him with his brother. Then, a few hundred years later, he had nearly been killed by his fiancée. Roland had expressed no surprise at all when Marcus had informed him the network might have been infiltrated.
“It was only a matter of time,” had been his droll reply. “Why do you think I insisted Seth remove the address of our new home from the memories of everyone but you and David?”
He had said other things then, expressing his opinion of Marcus’s taking on thirty-four vampires at once with only a Second to aid him, using an impressive array of four-letter words. One might almost think he cared.
Almost.
Sprawled in his king-sized bed, Marcus gave his muscles a luxurious stretch, then opened his senses to the house, doing what he did every day upon waking: seek Ami’s location.
Today she was in his study.
He could find her easily now. She had stopped creeping around and sneaking up on him when he had stopped sneaking around and trying to avoid her.
Since the morning they had awakened, curled up in bed together (he still got hard thinking about it), they had fallen into a comfortable routine. Friendly. Efficient.
Dangerous. At least to his peace of mind.
Marcus was becoming alarmingly attached to his Second.
Rising, he performed his evening ablutions.
Second.
For Marcus, the term Second brought to mind fierce warriors, like those who had served him in the past, matching his own height of six foot one and nearing or passing his weight. Ami hardly fit the image.
A foot shorter than him. Half his weight. Delicate build. Beautiful breasts. Full hips. Long, lovely legs.
Marcus cursed his body’s eager response.
A loud rumbling overhead drew his gaze to the ceiling.
What the hell was she doing up there? Rolling a bowling ball back and forth across the floor?
His formerly pristine bamboo floor?
Anticipation thrummed through him as he pulled on boxers, black cargo pants, and a long-sleeved black shirt. Sitting on the cushioned bench at the foot of his bed, he added socks and steel-toed boots.
No longer did he dread rising each day, bored with the drudgery and repetition of his long existence, nothing to look forward to.
No. Seth had been right, curse his hide. Now, when Marcus awoke, his first thoughts were of Ami. Was she home? What was she doing? Had she slept well that morning? What was she wearing? How easily could it be removed?
Damn it.
As far as he could tell, she had had no more nightmares or bouts of insomnia. She seemed content with their situation, their partnership, their friendship. As was he. Ami had an almost childlike fascination with the world and explored it with the same enthusiasm. Marcus never knew what she would do next. What music she would filch from the extensive collection of 78s, 33s, 45s, eight-track tapes, cassette tapes, and CDs he had amassed over the years. What curious questions she might pose.
It was a little like living in London for fifty years, then rediscovering its beauty while showing a tourist around and seeing everything anew.
Leaving his bedroom, he scaled the stairs to the basement door. Stepping out into the house’s main hallway, he turned away from the living room and kitchen area and headed for his study.
Ami didn’t hear him when he arrived in the doorway. No human would have. Sheer habit left him moving silently. Yet she seemed to possess an almost mystical ability to sense his presence where other mortals could not. Normally when he came upon her, only a second or two would pass before she turned and greeted him as cheerfully as if he had entered the front door, slammed it, and shouted, “Honey, I’m home!”
Tonight, however, she was too distracted by the rock music pulsing through the very expensive headphones he had purchased for her the previous night.
Leaning one shoulder against the door frame, Marcus tilted his head and used his preternatural hearing to determine what she was listening to. His lips curled up slightly. Bloodrock. “D.O.A.” How very morbid of her, particularly when she began to sing harmony at the top of her lungs.
