Angels' Pawn

Chapter Seven

“He has no right to keep me here,” Ashwini muttered as she sat brushing her drying hair while Janvier examined his face in the mirror. Having showered and cleaned up, he looked even more gaunt than he had in the car, his cheekbones vicious blades against his skin. “How much blood do you need?”

“Enough that it’ll have to be direct from the vein this time. Stronger, richer, more nourishing.”

Her hand tightened on the handle of the brush. “Audrina?”

“If she offers.” A fluid shrug. “Would you ever offer, cher?”

“If you were dying in front of me, yeah.”

A small smile, his lips thin with strain. “You surprise me again. But no, I want no blood from you—not until we’re both sweaty and naked and you’re screaming my name.”

Her mind formed the image far too easily, a hot, tangled thing that made inner muscles tighten in damp readiness. “Confident of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I simply know what I want.” Those bayou-born eyes took inventory of her from head to toe, with several lingering stops in between. “And as I said, there’s pleasure in a bite.”

She wondered if she could crave his touch any more than she did now. “It’s a temporary high.” A temporary madness.

“Not at orgasm,” he murmured. “Then, it makes the pleasure multiply and grow and grow until takes over your entire self.”

Body starting to rebel against her control, she pointed the brush at him. “Go, feed. I need you healthy if we’re going to survive this banquet.”

“You trust me to come to your aid?”

“No. I just want to be able to use you as a shield— right now you’re barely wide enough to hide half of me.” And yet, in spite of it all, he was starkly handsome. As if he’d been stripped down to his very essentials.

“You are right.” Straightening, he headed toward the door. “When I return, we’ll talk. Nazarach’s banquets have a way of turning deadly without warning.”

Janvier’s words tumbled around and around in her head as Ashwini walked through the doors to the banquet room, the long table piled high with foodstuffs and bottles that gleamed dark red. Food and blood.

And flesh.

Monique kneeled demurely at Nazarach’s side as the angel sat in the chair at the head of the table, talking to Antoine. The former hostage, her hair a sheet of beaten gold, was dressed in an elegant dress that screamed couture. The vivid crimson fabric managed to cover her torso and leave the rest of her bare, while skirting away from appearing trashy.

Monique wasn’t the only one on display. Simone sat to Antoine’s left and she, too, was dressed like an invitation. In fact, all the female vampires around the table were clothed in a similar high-class, high-sex style except for T-shirt-clad Perida, who sat next to Callan. The enforcer’s gaze was pure molten fury as she spied Ashwini.

But Ashwini was more concerned about the fact that Nazarach had invited both factions—either he’d decided to end the standoff . . . or he was planning to play the most lethal of games.

The angel looked up at that moment, amber eyes filled with such screams that she wondered how he could sleep. “Guild Hunter.” He waved her toward a seat midpoint on the table. Janvier already sat on the opposite side, having been summoned earlier.

The tightness in her chest relaxed at seeing him unharmed. As she took her seat, she realized Nazarach had put her and Janvier right in the middle—to better hear and spread the word of his decisions, his cruelties? It was, she was forced to admit, an efficient method of getting the message across. No need to kill hundreds. Do one viciously enough and no one would dare rise up against you again.

The man next to Ashwini waited until Nazarach’s attention was elsewhere before speaking. “Bringing my sister back was the worst move you’ve ever made.”

Looking into that electric blue gaze, that perfect skin, she raised her eyebrows. “Is that a threat?”

“Of course not.” Frédéric Beaumont’s eyes were glacial when they met hers. “I’d never threaten a hunter Nazarach holds in favor.”

“Smart guy.” And he’d rip out her throat the instant he thought he could get away with it. That didn’t mean she couldn’t use him. “You’re into weapons, I hear.”

To his credit, Frédéric followed the abrupt shift in topic with ease. “Yes.”

“Do you know where I could get some handheld grenade launchers?”

A slight pause. “May I ask why you need them?”

“Just thinking they might come in useful one day.” The dreams had been odd, fragmented. All she could really remember was thinking that grenade launchers sure would’ve come in handy. And given her dreams . . . “I like to be prepared.”

“I may have the name of a supplier for you.” Frédéric continued to stare at her. “You’re slightly out of step with the world, aren’t you, hunter?”

“Or the world’s out of step with me,” she said as Janvier caught her eye.

Warning blazed in the green depths she was used to seeing filled with laughter, and the strength of it chilled her to the soul. Whatever the hell Nazarach had planned, Ashwini really didn’t want to be here for it. Briefly, she considered calling in the Guild pullout, but why put Kenji and Baden in danger if Nazarach only wanted her and Janvier as his audience?

A sudden pure silence.

Ashwini knew things had begun even before she turned to see Nazarach raising a wineglass. “To intelligent conversation and new beginnings.”

It took her a few seconds to figure out why those words drenched the room in fear. Antoine and Callan sat opposite each other, the old guard and the new. Only one, she thought, was meant to come out of this alive. “Survival of the fittest,” she muttered to herself.

But Frédéric answered. “Not always.” Leaning close, he brushed her shoulder with his. “Sometimes, it’s survival of those who can play the game best.”

She turned to him. “Your sister will get herself killed unless she learns.”

Full lips curved. “Monique is very good at making men do what she wants.”

“Yes, but Nazarach isn’t a man. And I think she might forget that one day.”

Two slow blinks. “She won’t die. Not tonight. Nazarach will humiliate her into submission and that will be enough.”

Ashwini heard an undercurrent of anger in his voice, and it was understandable, but there was something else, something that made her hidden senses recoil. Following his sensual gaze as it stroked over the bare curve of Monique’s shoulder, she shook her head. “Please tell me what I’m thinking is wrong.”

“Everyone else will die,” Frédéric whispered, his refined voice sandpaper against her skin. “It’s better to choose companions from those who’ll remain for eternity.”

Putting down her water glass, she swallowed her gorge. “That’s a unique way of thinking.”

“Far better than Janvier’s.” Frédéric looked across the table, and the two men locked eyes. “He pursues you, but you’ll turn to dust in mere decades if not sooner. Such a relationship is pointless.”

Tracing Janvier’s profile—healthy and unblemished once more—she shook her head. “There’s pleasure in the dance, pleasure you’ll never know.” Because she understood without asking that Monique and Frédéric had been in this unhealthy relationship since long before they were Made.

Frédéric continued to hold Janvier’s gaze. “Whatever pleasure there is, the pain will agonize him far longer.”

“And if Nazarach decides Monique is expendable?” she whispered.

His head snapped toward her, and there was a madness in those formerly urbane eyes that made her fear for the kind of vampire he’d become with age. “I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take her from me.”

Ashwini didn’t answer, but she had the thought that Frédéric Beaumont wasn’t going to have a very long life, either. In fact, she, with her pitiful human life span, might outlive this almost-immortal. Because no one could stand against an angel of Nazarach’s power except one of the Cadre of Ten—and if Frédéric didn’t understand that . . .

Icy fingers of fear crawled up her spine as Nazarach stood, flaring out his wings until they dominated the room, all shimmering amber and terrible beauty. That fear, it was healthy. She held it to her, a shield against the impact of the power coming off him. For the first time, she truly saw him, truly understood how very inhuman he was, how completely removed from mortal life.

This being saw them all—vampire and human—as nothing more than interesting, amusing, or irritating toys, depending on his mood.

“I have no quarrel,” the angel began, his voice quiet . . . and as cutting as an unsheathed blade, “with my vampires sorting out their problems amongst themselves. However, when you take it to this level, you bring my control of you into question.” His gaze went to Antoine, then Simone. They stayed on the terrified female for several long seconds. “Of course,” he said softly, “some of you apparently believe you can do a better job than an angel who has lived seven hundred years. Is that not so, Simone?”

Simone’s fingers were trembling so hard, the red liquid in her wineglass sloshed over the edge as she put it down on the table. “Sire, I would never—”

“Lying,” Nazarach interrupted, “is something I despise.”

“Sire,” Antoine said, putting a protective hand over his mate’s, “I’ll take responsibility for any missteps. I’m the older party.”

Nazarach’s amber eyes glowed as he looked at the vampire. “Noble as always, Antoine. She would sell you to the highest bidder, if it came down to it.”

Antoine gave a faint smile. “We all have our foibles.”

Nazarach laughed and there might’ve been a glimmer of amusement in it—but it was the amusement of an immortal, a knife that made others bleed. “I’m pleased Callan didn’t manage to kill you, Beaumont.” Turning, he looked at the man he’d just mentioned. “The young lion—one not very good at guarding what you aim to keep.” His hand stroked over Monique’s hair again, a silent, merciless taunt.

Callan’s eyes cut to Janvier. “I trusted too easily. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“That mistake,” Janvier corrected with shrugging insouciance, “saved your life.”

Nazarach’s expression didn’t change, but his voice, it held a layer of white frost. “The Cajun is right. You took that which was mine. Why shouldn’t I rip your bones from your skin while you stand screaming?”

Callan stood, then fell to one knee. “My deepest apologies, sire. I was . . . overzealous in my attempt to prove to you that I can bear you better service than those who take their position for granted.”

For a moment, there was no sound, and Ashwini knew it was the instant of judgment. When Nazarach’s wings snapped back to lie sleek against his spine, no one dared draw breath.

“Simone,” he said in that soft, dangerous voice. “Come here.”

The slender woman got up, trembling so hard she could barely walk. Antoine rose with her. “Sire,” he began.

Nazarach shook his head in a sharp negative. “Only Simone.” When it appeared as if Antoine might open his mouth, the angel said, “I’m not that indulgent, Antoine, even for you.”

Clearly reluctant, Antoine retook his seat. And that, Ashwini thought, was the price of immortality. Giving up part of your soul. She watched as Simone reached the angel, but before she could go down on her knees, Nazarach caught her by her upper arms and bent his head to her ear.

Whatever he said to her, no one would ever know. But when she turned back to the room, her face was a shock of white, her bones cutting against her skin. Nazarach’s right hand remained on her shoulder as he met Antoine’s eyes. “It seems Simone will be my guest for the next decade. She agrees she has some lessons to learn about dealing with angels.”

Antoine’s face grew tight, but he didn’t interrupt.

“You will stay loyal to me, Antoine.” A quiet order, a brutal warning, his fingers playing over Simone’s pale, pale cheek. “Utterly loyal.”

“Sire.” Antoine bowed his head, looking away from the woman he called his own.

But Nazarach wasn’t finished. “For what you’ve done, I’ll spare your life, but not those of your children’s children. There will be no more Beaumont vampires, not for another two hundred and fifty years.”

Frédéric sucked in a breath and Ashwini didn’t have to ask to know why. The vampire had just been told he couldn’t have children unless he wished to watch them die. And since vampires weren’t fertile for long after the transformation, that meant he’d never ever have a child.

Callan had remained unmoving all this time, but raised his head when Nazarach called his name.

“If you wish your kiss to remain in Atlanta, you’ll sign another Contract. A century of service.”

It appeared, on the surface, an almost easy punishment—after all, Callan sought to serve Nazarach anyway. But seeing the way Nazarach’s hand moved on Monique’s head, Ashwini knew very well that the angel understood there was something between the beautiful vampire and the leader of the Fox kiss. And he would use that knowledge to torment Callan whenever and however he felt like it.

There was no blood that night. Not any that could be seen. But as Ashwini watched Simone slide to her knees on Nazarach’s other side, she understood that some wounds bled rivers of pain that stained both people and places. Simone’s silent screams were already weaving themselves into the graceful arches of Nazarach’s home.