Dark Descendant

ELEVEN

Having been suddenly turned into an immortal caught between two warring factions of the Liberi Deorum, I hadn’t exactly had time to deal with the mundane challenges presented by having my car totaled. I had a suspicion that wasn’t going to be changing anytime soon. My car had been towed, but I had no idea where or by whom, nor did I know how Anderson had explained the accident. He’d have had to offer some explanation, right? I mean, there was blood all over the place—both mine and Emmitt’s—and I didn’t imagine a wrecker service would haul the car away without any questions being asked.

If I thought there were any chance of going through legal channels peacefully, I’d have called my insurance company about the accident. They might even have reimbursed me for car rental. As it was, I decided that at least for now, I would ignore the whole problem. I rented a shiny new silver Taurus, then drove out to Anderson’s mansion in Arlington.

Renting the car had taken less time than I’d thought, so I was a little early. The warmer weather of the last couple of days had melted all the ice, but I couldn’t help the chill that ran down my spine when I caught sight of the iron gates at the head of the driveway. A big part of me longed to turn the car around and just go home. Pretend none of this had happened. Pretend Steph wasn’t in danger, and I was just an ordinary woman.

Shoving down my disquiet, I lowered my window and hit the button on the intercom outside the gates. I wasn’t sure what to say, but apparently silence was good enough. Moments after I hit the button, there was a faint buzzing noise, and the gates parted. I dried my sweaty palms on my pants legs as I waited for the opening to be large enough to drive through.

The visibility was a lot better today than it had been the last time I’d navigated the twisting driveway that led to the house. Even so, I drove like a nearsighted granny, my hands clutching the steering wheel way too tightly. My heart rate jacked up as I fought against the memory of driving through the sleet. When I rounded the final curve and hit the straightaway, I slowed to a crawl.

Everything had happened so fast the other night that I couldn’t really say where the exact spot was that Emmitt had suddenly appeared in the middle of the road, nor where his body had lain when I’d crawled out of my car. My headlights illuminated gouges in a couple of trees beside the road—the trees that I’d plowed into. My stomach lurched, and for a moment, it as was if I were living at both times simultaneously. I could have sworn I smelled blood and scorched rubber.

I brought the car to a complete stop, then lowered my head to the steering wheel and closed my eyes, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths. My head was spinning and my skin was clammy with sweat. I wondered if I was having a real live panic attack. Obviously, I had yet to deal with the horror of that night, and I wished I could have told Steph about it. She wouldn’t have been able to say magic words to make it all better, but just the act of talking might have eased some of the pressure inside me.

After a while, my heart rate slowed to something just a little faster than normal, and I no longer felt like I might pass out behind the wheel. Cautiously, I raised my head, half-expecting to find sleet clattering against the windshield. But no, the sky was clear. The past was back in the past where it belonged, at least for now.

Blowing out a deep breath, I put the car in drive again and proceeded to the house. I parked in a circular drive that surrounded a decorative fountain, then got out of the car, my legs still a little shaky from my brush with panic.

As I’ve mentioned, the house was easily big enough to be termed a mansion, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be a renovated pre-Civil War plantation. The front door was framed by a series of columns and featured a porch that was bigger than some houses I’d lived in. A cluster of elegant outdoor furniture formed an almost cozy seating area on one half of the porch. The other half featured a whitewashed swing and several dozen potted plants, all of hearty varieties that could survive a Virginia winter outdoors.

Anderson was waiting for me on that swing, one leg curled under him, while his other foot pushed on the porch floor just enough to create a little motion. He was dressed in a pair of faded denim jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, his feet tucked into sneakers that had seen better days. The casual, comfortable outfit seemed almost out of place with the majestic mansion in the background.

Moving slowly, as if trying not to alarm me, Anderson rose to his feet. I had to admit, I felt extremely wary. If he’d made anything I could have interpreted as a hostile move, I’d have been running for my car in a heartbeat. But he kept his distance, and even stuffed his hands in his pockets for good measure.

“What happened out there?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the driveway.

I felt the blood rush to my face as I realized he’d been sitting here watching while I had my little panic attack. If I wanted Anderson to think of me as a tough chick he didn’t want to mess with, I wasn’t exactly going about it the best way.

I licked my lips, then regretted the nervous gesture. “I couldn’t help … remembering,” I said, because I had to say something.

Maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see, but I thought there was a softening in Anderson’s expression. “Why don’t you come inside,” he beckoned, heading toward the door. “It’s a little chilly out here.”

At that point, I was eager to comply. If I was inside the house, I wouldn’t be able to see the spot where I had killed Emmitt, and maybe I’d be able to keep the memory at a more comfortable distance. I forgot to be wary as I hurried to cross the threshold while Anderson held the door open. Luckily, there was no mob of angry Liberi waiting to jump me, or I’d have blundered into them blindly without even a hint of a fight.

The foyer was everything you would expect in an enormous mansion. The floor was of intricately patterned green marble, and the walls were decorated by oil paintings that might well have been the work of grand masters—I’m not enough of an art aficionado to tell an imitation from the real thing. There was even a crystal chandelier that looked like something right out of Phantom of the Opera.

If Anderson took any particular pride in the grandeur of his home, he didn’t show it. He barely seemed to glance at the house, or notice my reaction to it, as he led me through room after elegant room until we came to a huge state-of-the-art kitchen.

The rooms we had passed through on the way to the kitchen had all been pristine and formal, almost like they were more for show than for actual living. The kitchen was a different story. It was as large and well-appointed as any other room I’d seen, but there was no missing the signs of habitation. A couple of dirty cups in the sink. Some crumbs on the counter near the toaster. A walk-in pantry crammed with a disorganized array of boxes and cans and bags.

The air was rich with the smell of spices, and I saw a huge vat of something simmering on the stove. I couldn’t be certain, but it smelled a lot like chili. My stomach grumbled its approval, and my mouth started watering. Who’d have thought the leader of a group of such powerful immortals would cook chili for dinner, just like an ordinary single guy? I bet neither Konstantin nor Alexis had ever let such peasant food cross their lips.

At one end of the kitchen, there was a breakfast nook, surrounded on three sides by windows looking out onto the back lawn. A butcher block table occupied the nook; Anderson had laid out a couple of place settings there. An open bottle of wine breathed in the center of the table.

“Please, have a seat,” Anderson said.

I was strangely glad he didn’t try to pull out my chair for me. Both Konstantin and Alexis were such stuffed shirts I couldn’t help appreciating Anderson’s more casual manners. I sat down while Anderson gave the pot on the stove a stir.

“I hope you like chili,” he said. “It’s about the only thing I can cook that anyone other than me would willingly put in their mouths.” He shot me a self-deprecating smile over his shoulder.

“Chili’s great,” I assured him. “Can I help with something?” I asked, belatedly remembering my manners. Then I was surprised at myself for asking. Ever since I’d first met him, I’d been considering Anderson an enemy, or at the very least an antagonist, but over the course of just a few minutes, I seemed to have dropped my guard entirely.

“No, no,” he answered. “One of the advantages of chili is that all I have to do is scoop it into a bowl. Strictly a one-person job.”

He got a couple of bowls out of one of the cabinets and generously ladled in the chili. Then he reached into the oven and pulled out a foil-wrapped bundle, which turned out to be cornbread. He put the bowls and cornbread on a couple of plates, then carried them into the nook and set them down. The chili smelled heavenly.

“Don’t worry,” Anderson said, one side of his mouth curling up in another of his wry smiles. “I didn’t cook the cornbread, so it’s safe to eat.”

The meal was surprisingly pleasant. We didn’t talk about the Olympians or Emmitt’s death or what either faction wanted from me. Instead, we talked about the kind of trivialities that almost reminded me of the getting-to-know-you part of a first date. We learned we were both Redskins fans, and I was appropriately jealous to discover he had season tickets. He had typically male tastes in movies—action flicks good, anything remotely mushy bad—but showed no hint of the veiled sexism I’d seen in Alexis and Konstantin. He didn’t even make a face when I admitted I liked romance novels. And, unlike Jim, the Date from Hell, Anderson showed interest in what I was saying and didn’t try the steer to conversation toward himself.

If it really had been a first date, and nothing had come before, I’d have said I had a good time. Too bad it wasn’t a first date.

Observing Anderson’s “cult” in the days before I’d joined the ranks of the Liberi, I’d noted that although he served as their leader, Anderson had a remarkably laid-back manner. That manner was very much in evidence tonight. I kept reminding myself that Anderson was dangerous and not to be trusted. I even forcibly reminded myself of the way he’d hurt Jamaal, and the way he’d threatened to hurt me. But it was hard to reconcile that memory with the man who sat across the table from me, chatting amiably and smiling easily.

I stuffed myself on chili and cornbread, both of which were blazing hot. I was half-expecting it from the chili, but the cornbread took me by surprise, since I didn’t see the jalapeños until I’d shoved a big hunk in my mouth. Good thing I like spicy food, though I’d have preferred to wash it down with a cold beer rather than room temperature red wine. I’m pretty sure the wine was good stuff, but my taste buds were burning too much to notice.

When I could eat no more, Anderson made a pot of after-dinner coffee, which he served with a generous splash of Bailey’s. When he returned to the table, I could tell by the serious look on his face that social hour was over, and we were about to get down to business. The strength of my regret surprised me.

Being in no hurry to put an end to the festivities, I sipped my coffee in silence, waiting for Anderson to begin. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Your sister and anyone else you care about is going to be in some amount of danger, no matter what you do,” he started, and the baldness of his statement made me wince. There was sympathy in his voice, but he made no particular attempt to soften the blow. “I figure it does neither of us any good if I make promises I can’t keep.”

At least he was honest about it. “So if you can’t protect Steph, what’s the point of me coming here?”

“I’m not saying I can’t protect her. I’m just saying that even if I do, there will always be some danger. Konstantin and I have agreed to tolerate each other for the sake of expediency, but if at any time he should decide our truce is more trouble than it’s worth, he could break it. That’s a reality all of us in this house have to live with. We don’t have any Descendants at our beck and call, which means we can’t kill Konstantin or any of his people. If he decides to break his truce with us, he’ll do it by having his pet Descendants attack us, and even if we win the battle, it’s likely some of us will die—and increase the Olympians’ strength by doing so.”

I frowned as I thought this over. “Then why did he agree to a truce with you in the first place?”

Anderson smiled, and in his eyes I saw a flash of the ruthlessness that was usually well hidden beneath his friendly demeanor. “Consider that a trade secret.”

I decided not to press. “Okay. So you have a shaky truce with the Olympians, but you’re not confident enough in it to promise you can keep Steph safe.”

“That’s it in a nutshell. But I can promise to keep her a whole lot safer than she is right now. Even if you agree to hunt the people on the list Konstantin gave you, that won’t guarantee her safety. If you ever balk at anything he commands you to do, he’ll trot the threat out again. I can’t imagine you could have spoken to him for more than five minutes and not know I’m telling the truth about this.”

Unfortunately, he was right. Konstantin had tried to make it sound like we could be best buds if only I’d do this one little thing for him. But I knew a bully when I saw one, and I knew Konstantin was the kind of guy who’d enjoy flexing his muscles on a regular basis.

I had to suppress a shudder at the thought of Steph being subjected to Konstantin’s malice. There were times I couldn’t help being jealous of my sister’s relatively easy life. She’d been born beautiful and personable, to a wealthy family who doted on her. Sure, she’d had her share of heartbreaks, just like any normal person, but nothing really bad had ever happened to her. She’d never been abandoned by her mother, or been passed from foster home to foster home, or been threatened with juvie.

The downside to this gilded life was that she’d never had to develop the kind of armor I had. There’s a difference between knowing that there’s ugliness in this world and being subjected to that ugliness yourself. My early life had inoculated me against some of the worst the world had to offer. I was reeling under the stress of what had happened to me the other night, but I was at least coping with it. Steph wouldn’t have those kinds of coping skills. Even a small dose of violence would be a terrible shock to her system. I feared that if Alexis got his hands on her, he wouldn’t have to work very hard to break her.

“The best thing you can do for your sister,” Anderson said softly, “is to ally with me. I’m not a tyrant like Konstantin, and my people do what we can to make the world a better place.”

I pushed my fears for Steph to the side and met Anderson’s eyes. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought I saw something warm and wise in those medium brown eyes of his. Eyes I’d once dismissed as ordinary.

But as friendly and non-threatening as he was being now, I’d seen another side of him that first night. I wanted to trust him, if only because it would make my own life so much easier, but I couldn’t allow myself to forget how little I knew about him.

“So that Hand of Doom thing you did to Jamaal isn’t something you consider tyrannical?” I challenged, watching his face carefully in hopes his expression would reveal more of his hidden depths. No such luck.

“Hand of Doom?” he asked with a little smile. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”

“You think it’s funny?”

His smile faded, replaced by an almost sad expression. “No. No, it’s not funny at all.” He sighed and reached for his cup of coffee, which was almost empty. I think he was just stalling for time as he tipped the last few drops into his mouth.

“I suppose I have my own tyrannical moments,” he admitted, staring into his empty cup. He seemed to catch himself doing it, then carefully placed the cup on the table and looked at me once more. “Gentle rebukes don’t have much of an effect on most Liberi, especially not on someone like Jamaal. I know you’ve seen no evidence to support this, but he’s a good man at heart. He wants to control his dark side, but he isn’t always able to, especially without Emmitt to help him. When he loses control, there have to be consequences.”

“So that was special treatment you reserve just for Jamaal?” Instinct told me the answer was no.

“I don’t run around hurting my people on a regular basis, if that’s what you’re asking. But I am their leader, and I do expect them to obey me when I make a direct order.” He leaned forward, his expression intense. “Understand this, Nikki: you’re very new to being Liberi, but the rest of my people are not. Being immortal and having supernatural powers will change you over time, will corrupt you, if you let it. If I let my people get away with defying me, then I risk losing them. Not right away, but over time, as they find they can do anything they want without suffering any consequences, year after year after year. I’ve seen it happen too many times, and so have my people. They’re with me because they don’t want to go down that road, and they believe I can keep it from happening.”

“And what’s to keep you from going down that road? Or do you punish yourself when you’ve been a bad boy?”

I thought my sarcastic question might piss him off, but Anderson just smiled. “There are some checks and balances in place.”

Not the most specific answer in the world, but it was apparently all I was going to get.

“All right. Let’s say I accept that you’re not a tyrant and that becoming your ally is the best way to protect my family. What would I have to do to join up?”

“First, you would have to move into the house, because those are the terms of my agreement with Konstantin. Any Liberi who lives in this house is considered to be one of mine.”

I had no intention of moving into the mansion permanently. I loved my condo, and there was no way I was giving it up. I also loved my freedom, and sharing communal quarters with Anderson and his flock of Liberi would be like living in a barracks. A luxurious, beautiful barracks, but a barracks all the same.

However, I’d already established that I needed Anderson’s help, and if temporarily moving into the mansion was what I had to do to get it, then I was going to have to suck it up, at least for a while. I’d just have to consider it as an indefinite hotel stay.

Unfortunately, Anderson had already let me know there was another condition I had to meet to earn his help.

“And second,” I continued for him, “there’s someone you want me to find for you. Who? And why?”

The corners of his eyes tightened with what looked like pain. “Her name is Emma Poindexter,” he said. He swallowed hard, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She’s been missing for almost ten years. And I want you to find her because she’s my wife.”