Blood Bond (Anna Strong Chronicles #9) (21 page)

CHAPTER 33

R
ELIEF THAT MOM WILL BE HOME SOON IS MINGLED
with the knowledge that the next time something like this happens, she might not recover. That eventually, she won’t recover.

That eventually, every human I know and love will be taken from me.

Mom, Dad, Trish, John-John.

Frey.

I close my eyes, flashing back to the wedding. Am I fooling myself with Frey? How many times will I repeat the ritual, marry someone I love with a promise of forever? Someone mortal, someone doomed.

Frey is quiet on the ride back. He has taken one of my hands and rested it, covered by his own, on his knee as he drives. The contact is comforting and familiar. I told David yesterday life is too short and love too important to squander. I bring Frey’s hands to my lips. I’m going to appreciate every moment we have.

Frey squeezes my hand. I smile, constantly amazed how my heart can soar one minute, and be plunged into despair the next. This is the saddest and happiest time of my entire life.

Trish rushes out to meet us when we pull up. I put my arms around her shoulders and tell her what happened to Mom, why, and that she will be back with us by dinnertime.

“I should be at the hospital.”

“Mom knew you’d say that. But really, there’s nothing you could do there. That’s why I’m back. She kicked me out, too.”

Trish’s watery smile is coupled with a sigh. “She can be so stubborn.”

“Oh no.” I stop her with a hug then gently propel her toward the door. “We’re not having this conversation again. Let’s go get some breakfast. I’m starved.”

She looks confused and Frey says, “Don’t ask.”

Just then, John-John, David and Tracey are at the door, and we hustle ourselves inside.

* * *

CATHERINE IS DELIGHTED AT THE NEWS THAT MOM IS
recovering well and promises to prepare a special dinner for us. We tell John-John and Trish that it was Mom’s suggestion that they spend the afternoon riding and after a little persuasion, they leave for the neighbors. David and Tracey insist on staying another night, as anxious as any of us to see for themselves that Mom is okay. They take the MG and Catherine’s grocery list to the village to shop.

Then it’s just Frey and me.

We’re sitting side by side at the dining room table, coffee mugs drained, some of the morning’s tension finally dissipating.

I stretch my arms overhead and sigh. “What a way to start our first day as a married couple.”

Frey stands up, holds out a hand. “Well, this is still the first day.”

I put my hand in his and he pulls me up. “And we did get interrupted. Mom is going to be all right. We have the house to ourselves. Now remind me, what is it we were doing this morning?”

Frey pulls me close with a hand at the small of my back. “This refresh your memory?”

The feel of him hard against me sends a rush of heat to my skin.

It does.

* * *

“DO YOU THINK IN TWENTY YEARS WE’LL STILL BE
spending afternoons like this?”

I’m lying on my stomach, stretched out beside Frey. We’re both naked, both spent after an afternoon of energetic and imaginative sex. I didn’t know there were so many ways to give and receive pleasure.

And I’ve been around.

Frey makes a grumbling sound that is half purr, half growl. “I hope so. Or I’ll have to trade you in for a younger model.”

“Is that so?” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Let’s see. In twenty years I’ll still be thirty, and in twenty years you’ll be—”

“Okay.” Frey covers my lips with a finger. “I get it. I guess I’ll just have to keep coming up with ways to keep you interested.”

“Well.” I draw the word out, my turn to purr. I lift myself so that I am now lying on top of him, stomach to stomach, hip to hip, my legs resting between his. I grind against him, feel a familiar stirring. “You’re off to a great start.”

He pulls my head down for a kiss, tongue teasing, advancing, retreating, until I grip it gently with my teeth and draw it in. He puts his arms around me and I know he intends to roll me over. I don’t let him. Instead I sit up, straddle him, take him fully and deeply inside. His breath catches and his head falls back. He lets me take the lead, lets me draw pleasure from him as I lift and lower, thighs clenched tight, muscles contracting around and against him. His breath comes faster, his body tenses. I’m not there yet, but it doesn’t matter. I watch him, watch his face, watch as the muscles in his abdomen grow taut, watch as his back arches. His hands grasp my hips. He’s so close. A tiny movement, a tightening, and a moan escapes his lips as he empties himself into me.

A moan escapes my lips, too. Intense pleasure as satisfying as any orgasm. Frey’s face, shining, open, so bright with love it’s like looking into the sun.

This is what love is.

I collapse against him. We hold each other. He strokes my hair, and I feel hot tears burn the back of my eyes.

I think of my conversation with Vlad.

Yes.

Love is worth pain. Love is all there is.

I bury my face against Frey’s chest, breathing him in, wanting to imprint his very essence into my brain, secure in the knowledge that I will remember this moment.

As long as I live.

CHAPTER 34

T
HE TABLE IS LADEN WITH FOOD—A PLUMP
ROASTED turkey, bowls of potatoes, steamed carrots shiny with butter, green beans in a casserole crusted with onion rings. In the center of the table, a simple salad in a broad wooden bowl—various greens and kale and still-warm-from-the-garden tomatoes with a dressing made from freshly pressed olive oil and one of Dad’s wines. The aroma from the breadbasket tempts even me. Thick slabs of a hearty, crusty baguette begging to be slathered with home-churned butter. Makes a vampire’s mouth water.

Could be a typical American Thanksgiving feast.

Except that we’re not in America. And this isn’t Thanksgiving. It’s my mother’s wish.

I look around the table, my heart full. Dad is at one end, brandishing the carving knife like a miniature
katana
, much to the delight of John-John, sitting at his right, and Trish, sitting to his left. The kid’s faces are alight with the simple joy of family together. Next to John-John, Frey watches, too, his wonderful smile a reflection of his son’s. He has one of my hands clutched tightly in his own. Across from us, David and Tracey. Even they are smiling.

I sit, wishing the unbridled contagion of happiness would infect me.

But it won’t.

It can’t.

Mom leans toward me. She’s next to me, opposite Dad, at a table in a storybook setting under big, broad-leafed trees in the backyard of their villa. She reaches for my hand.

I don’t pull back. There’s no longer any need. The coldness of my hand in the warmth of hers no longer requires fumbling excuses about poor circulation.

“Please, Anna,” she says softly. “Don’t be sad.”

I meet her eyes, so warm and full of life. My heart beats with dull, irritating regularity in my chest. “This is so unfair.”

She sits back, smiling. “How can you say that? Here we are together. You’ve found a wonderful man in Daniel and a child that will bring you as much pleasure as Trish has brought us. You have much to give the world. I am so proud of you.”

I close my eyes, tears spilling over my cheeks, filled with so much sadness, my guts twist with it.

Mom reaches over again, touches the tears with the tips of her fingers. “No tears. This is a time of joy. A time to be together with no regrets. A time to make memories.”

I take her hand in both of my own. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Anna.”

Laughter from the other end of the table makes us look up. Dad has carved off a huge turkey leg and placed it on John-John’s plate. John-John doesn’t hesitate a moment, but scoops it up with both hands and takes a bite.

This time, a smile touches my lips, too. Mom is right. No tears today. They’ll be plenty of time for tears later. When she’s gone.

I’m both sad and elated.

I’m looking at my future. Here surrounded by those I love. These are the memories I’ll cleave to in my lifetime.

More than a lifetime.

These are the memories I’ll keep for an eternity.

EPILOGUE

N
O ONE REALLY EVER GETS A HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
I don’t expect my story will be any different. There will always be conflict in the world—between mortal and immortal, between immortal and those who would challenge the way of things. I suppose that’s why I am. It is my burden to keep the balance. Having Frey in my life, and John-John, lightens the burden. Having a family and friends, humans I care about, lightens the burden. I didn’t choose this life, but I take comfort in the choices I do have. The choices I’ve made.

My name is Anna Strong.

I am vampire.

Special Preview of Cursed

Read on for a special preview of Jeanne C. Stein and Samantha Sommersby’s first Fallen Siren novel

CURSED

by S. J. Harper

Coming from Roc in October 2013

Meet FBI agents Emma Monroe and Zack Armstrong. She’s cursed. He’s damned. To
gether, they make one hell of a team.

Emma Monroe is a Siren, cursed by the gods and bound to earth to atone for an ancient failure. She’s had many names and many lives, but only one mission: redemption. Now that she works missing-persons cases for the FBI, it could be just a rescue away. Unless her new partner leads her astray.

Special Agent Zack Armstrong just transferred into the San Diego field office. He’s a werewolf, doing his best to beat back the demons from his dark and dangerous past. As a former black ops sniper, he’s taken enough lives. Now he’s doing penance by saving them.

Emma and Zack’s very first case draws them deep into the realm of the paranormal and forces them to use their own supernatural abilities. But that leaves each of them vulnerable, and there are lines partners should not cross. As secrets are revealed and more women go missing, one thing becomes clear: As they race to save the victims, Emma and Zack risk losing themselves.

Siren (
noun
)

1. One of three sisters ejected from Mount Olympus by Zeus and cursed by Demeter for failing to prevent Hades from kidnapping Persephone.

2. An immortal goddess bound to earth who, in search of her own salvation, saves others from peril.

3. A beautiful and powerful seductress capable of infiltrating the minds of others in order to extract truth or exert influence.

Y
OU’VE SEEN ONE DARK, RUGGED WEREWOLF,
YOU’VE
seen them all.

That’s what I told myself the first time I laid eyes on Zack Armstrong. I was wrong. Dead wrong. And now it’s come back to bite me in the ass.

I interrupt my best friend, Liz, in the middle of—something. I realize I lost the thread of our phone conversation the minute I spied Zack weaving his way through the maze of indistinct gray cubicles that make up the bull pen of the San Diego FBI field office. Save the hair and nine a.m. four-o’clock shadow, the man is all spit and polish. Tailored dark blue suit, starched white shirt, blue and gold silk tie and gleaming black shoes. The hair gives him a distinct edge—dark brown, slightly longer than regulation, no part. It’s swept straight back, accentuating the lines of his square jaw.

I resist the urge to crawl under my desk. “I’ll call you back later. New partner’s here. I’ve got to go.”

“Not until I hear the details. What’s he look like?”

Liz is forever trying to play matchmaker. Ironically, I rely on her spellcasting to make sure a match will never happen.

I turn around and lower my voice a notch. “Remember the guy from South Carolina I told you about? The one I was partnered with on that missing-person case in Charleston last year?”

“Really?” New interest sparks in her voice. “He looks like him?”

“It
is
him,” I say. “Which you’d think Johnson would have mentioned.”

“So what’s the problem? I’ll tell you now what I told you then. You shouldn’t write off the possibility of a good romp with a guy just because he goes furry a few days every month. Weres have amazing stamina. Hey, did I ever tell you about Walter?”

You name it, Liz has dated it. Being a witch with serious magical talent puts her in contact with a wide variety of supernaturals. A strong advocate for equal-opportunity love, she’s currently dating a vampire.

But Walter the werewolf was decidedly
not
one of her success stories.

“Yeah, Liz. A few dozen times. The problem isn’t Zack’s nature.”

“The FBI has rules about fraternization?”

“No.” I wish they did. I wish it could be that easy. Not that getting involved with a partner is encouraged.

“What, then?”

My eyes squeeze shut. I shouldn’t have given Zack Armstrong a second thought in the last thirteen months, seventeen days. But I have. I’ve thought of him often. Too often.

Gooseflesh appears on my arms; the hair on the back of my neck rises. A sense of dread washes over me. That’s why he’s here. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a test the Olympians have their hands in. Or, more specifically, one particular Olympian. Demeter. I’m a Siren—one of three. We were banished by Zeus and cursed by Demeter thousands of years ago for failing to protect her daughter Persephone, for failing to rescue her before she was dragged by Hades to the Underworld. It’s for this I atone. For this I pay.

And pay. And pay.

I’m tempted to make something up, but this is Liz. She deserves the truth. “I liked him.
More
than liked him.”

Her tone turns serious. “You never mentioned that. This could be bad.”

The understatement of the year. Guys I get into meaningful relationships with tend to end up dead, courtesy of my favorite vindictive goddess. Partnering with Zack Armstrong could prove exceedingly dangerous. Even lethal.

For him.

“I’ve got to go.”

I click off, the sound of Liz’s protests ringing in my ear, and concentrate on the familiar six-foot-plus werewolf coming toward me. Deputy Director Jimmy Johnson emerges from his office. “Here’s the memo I promised you about your new partner. Better late than never.”

He may be chronically behind with paperwork, but otherwise Johnson’s tenacious about his job, a real pit bull. And, despite being only five foot six, he’s one of the toughest guys I’ve ever met.

I snatch the sheet from his hand and drop it on my desk. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Armstrong?”

“I thought I did.” His look is quizzical, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. “Zack! Good to see you again.”

The two men greet each other with a hearty handshake.

“Good to see you again, Deputy Director.” The Southern accent is smooth; the cadence of his voice is, as I remember, low and lilting. It was the first of many things that got to me about Zack Armstrong.

Johnson dives in without preamble. “Emma Monroe’s your new partner. I don’t have to waste time with introductions. What’s it been, a year since you worked on that case together?”

“Just over,” Zack answers, flashing a sideways glance in my direction.

What Johnson couldn’t possibly know is that we share more than a past case. We both have secrets—supernatural powers we’ve managed to keep hidden from the bureau, the world and, as far as Zack is concerned, each other. Unbeknownst to him, I sensed what he is the instant we met. We never discussed it. He’s never revealed it. But of course he wouldn’t, not to an outsider.

And then there is the other secret we share. Zack and I slept together.

Once.

It was during our last night in Charleston. We’d celebrated wrapping up the case, indulging in a good meal and too much wine. The attraction had been building for weeks, the sexual tension as thick as the South Carolina air. I wish I could say that one thing led to another. That I was impulsively swept away. But I’m not impetuous when it comes to sex. I can’t afford to be. The potential consequences are too high.

We agreed that we’d go our separate ways after. There would be no telephone calls. No texts. No emails. No contact. Period. With twenty-four hundred miles between us, it seemed safe.

Johnson startles me with a slap on the back. “Show him the ropes. He’s all yours.”

I offer my hand. “Good to see you again.”

Zack takes it.

A woman can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. Zack’s hasn’t changed. It’s confident, firm and friendly. It’s the handshake of a man who has nothing to apologize for and no regrets.

Johnson is already on his way back to his office. Zack doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are on me.

“I’m pleased to be working with you again, Agent Monroe.”

Is he? The handshake. The demeanor. Both seem genuine. But despite the old-world charm, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

Maybe coming here isn’t something he wanted at all. Maybe it’s strictly a bureau-initiated transfer. Maybe he’s merely worried about how I’m going to react. My curiosity has gone into overdrive. The possibilities ricochet through my mind like bullets in a steel barrel. I want to know how he feels. To taste the truth, whatever that may be. And I could. All it would take is lowering the dampening spell that keeps my powers in check. But giving in to temptation like this would be uncharacteristic. Using my gift comes at a price.

“I thought we’d moved past you calling me Agent Monroe,” I say finally. “Emma or Monroe will do fine.”

Zack releases my hand, then subtly breathes in my scent before stepping back to continue his appraisal. His gaze, now cool and calculating, sweeps the length of my body. He’s searching for a reaction, sizing me up. He sees what I want him to see, what he saw when we worked together before: a no-nonsense professional who is dedicated, capable, all about the mission. Denying my powers and disguising my beauty have become second nature to me.

Over the centuries I’ve become an expert at concealment, at blending in. My dark hair may be long, but it’s never loose. I use a simple band to pull it back; some days I wind it into a tight bun. I wear sunscreen. No mascara. No lipstick. No makeup. Period. Today’s suit, like all of my suits, is black and tailored. The white cotton twill blouse is classic, conservative. I don’t accessorize. I don’t wear jewelry. I don’t wear silk where a man can see it.

Zack’s eyes, an intense dark brown ringed with gold, linger a fraction of a second too long on my collarbone. I can’t help myself. For one fleeting moment, I remember the feel of his mouth there. Suddenly, I’m conscious of the rise and fall of my chest. My throat is dry. I push the memory aside. The last thing I need to be doing right now is dwelling on what happened in Charleston. I know I should say something. I just have no idea what. Zack breaks the ice.

“It’s been a while,” he says.

“Yeah. So, how are you?” Before he has a chance to answer, I add, “I should introduce you to the others.”

Zack lifts his hand in the air and shouts out, “Zack Armstrong, new guy.”

There’s a collective “Hey, Zack.”

He turns back to face me square on. “I’m itching to get started. What have you got for me?”

I take a step closer and lower my voice. “That’s it? You have nothing else to say to me?”

He matches my tone. “I was hoping to postpone the awkward ‘What are you doing here?’ conversation for as long as possible. At least until lunch?”

Since I’m not anxious to go down that road, either, I gesture to the desk facing mine. “Have a seat. This one’s yours.”

When he sits, I check my reflection in the window behind him. The glamour I rely on is firmly in place. The lock on my powers under control. He shouldn’t be able to see through the wholesome, plain-Jane façade to discover what’s underneath, what’s real. Thanks to Liz, no one should.

“You heard what the man said.” He leans back in his chair and spreads his arms wide, giving me a glimpse of what I know to be a well-muscled chest under the fabric of his shirt. “I’m all yours.” His look is serious, expectant. “What can I do?”

A thousand possibilities rush through my mind. Not one of them has anything to do with the case.

Focus, Emma.

I pull a sheet from the file and give Zack the rundown. “Amy Patterson has been missing for two weeks. She’s thirty years old, an artist. She lives alone. We got the case this morning.”

Zack pulls a pen and a small notebook from his inside coat pocket. “What kind of an artist?”

I quickly scan the report. “Painter, Expressionist, mixed media mostly.”

“Kidnapping gone bad?” he speculates.

“Could be. She’s successful. But there’s no known family and, according to her manager, no request for ransom.”

Zack sets the pen and notebook down, centering them deliberately on the empty desk. “Who reported her missing?”

“The manager, Bernadette Haskell. She’s known Amy for years. Haskell owns the gallery in La Jolla where Amy’s art is exclusively exhibited, and handles Amy’s gallery bookings and commissions worldwide. I spoke to her earlier this morning. She said Amy rarely leaves her apartment. She both lives and works there. Plus, she has a huge show coming up in New York. And before you ask, yes, she called there to see if Amy might have gone ahead to check the space out.” I shake my head. “She’s not in New York, either.”

His brow furrows. “Why is the FBI involved in a straightforward missing-person case? Shouldn’t the local police be handling this?”

I nod. “They should. They are. But Haskell has a friend in the district attorney’s office, and he’s calling in a favor. The relationship between Haskell and Patterson was more than purely business. Over the years, Patterson became like a daughter to this woman. SDPD hasn’t made much progress. Officially, we’re just reviewing the casework.”