Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (28 page)

The waitress cleared their plates, he paid the check, and they left Fat Tuesday. As they walked to the club, she could feel the bloodlust claiming her a little more with every step. Her joints pulled as if shifting into Nala. And yet, she was still her human self. Or was she? She held out her hands to make sure.

Yes, they were still her hands, and yet, not. Just like she was still herself, and yet not. The debauched and reckless side of her nature had risen up and taken control. While she might look the same, she sure as hell didn’t feel the same. All fear, all inhibition, had fled.

He stopped below a sign—a battle-ax inscribed with the name of the bar—outside a narrow passageway. The building looked dodgy to the point of dereliction. Her pulse quickened as he led her down the claustrophobic corridor. A strange thought flashed through her mind. He was leading her to the gallows, thinking the noose was for her when it was really for him.

They crossed a footbridge and passed through some kind of strange torture chamber before entering an old New Orleans courtyard. It took every ounce of will she possessed not to attack him. Stopping to take a restorative breath, she looked up at the stars. Seeing the constellation Leo, she dimly remembered a golden-haired knight she’d read about once in a faery tale. His name meant bringer of peace, but she couldn’t seem to recall what it was.

* * * *

Callum, as restless as a caged lion, stared out the airplane window. Worry over what had befallen Vanessa tied his intestines in knots. He should have warned her about that prick Armstrong. Not doing so was selfish and cowardly. He’d persuaded himself she’d only resent his interference, but that was a load of self-delusional bollocks. At first, he didn’t tell her because he didn’t believe she’d really go back to the States. Later, when it became clear she was determined to stick to her guns, he’d hoped Armstrong’s bad behavior might send her running back to him. Now, it sickened him to think what evils his silence might have wrought.

Outside the window, the lights of Atlanta were fading into the distance. At long bloody last, he’d reached the final leg of what had been a long and frustrating journey. In less than two hours, he’d be in the same city as his bonny butterfly once more…and would finally know what kind of trouble she’d gotten into.

* * * *

The Crypt lived up to its name in every way. Eerie dead things hung from the dungeon-like walls, heavy metal pounded from the jukebox like a sledgehammer on speed, and damp, mildew, sweat and blood, not all of it human, hung heavily in the air.

Vanessa scanned the crowd—a mish-mash of Goths, punkers, bikers, and BDSMers—for other immortals, but saw none she could be sure of. Truthfully, any one of the black-clad anemics in this circus sideshow could be a blood-drinker.

“When I was a kid,” Beau said as they queued up for the bar, “I imagined this place as some mysterious realm of evil where all kinds of dark and mystical things went down.”

Vanessa glanced around at the skulls and other creepy decor. “And is it?”

He shrugged. “There are some cages upstairs where dancers pretend to have sex, but it looks pretty forced.”

The urge to comment on the irony of that statement burned on her tongue, but she bit it back as they stepped up to the bar. After procuring their drinks—two plastic cups filled with something called Midnight Potion—he carried them to an empty booth and slid in. As she took the seat across, he pushed hers in front of her. She picked it up and studied it with skepticism. It was purple and smelled alarmingly sweet and intoxicating. She took a sip and made a face. It tasted as dangerous as it smelled.

Not caring, she took another drink. She was no more than a predator now. She had no conscience, no capacity for remorse, no sense of right and wrong. She needed prey to satisfy her intertwined needs for blood and sex. The ideal candidate sat across the table from her, ready and willing.

As she nursed her cocktail, she shed her right shoe, extended her leg, and set her foot atop his knee. He looked up, blue eyes heating as approval bowed his lips.

With tantalizing slowness, she inched her foot up his inner thigh. He cocked an eyebrow—a question or a challenge?—as her foot brushed across his crotch. She curled her toes against his bulge, delighting in her power as grew.

“I take it you’re ready to leave?”

Shaking her head, she smiled alluringly. “Not yet.”

He grinned and opened his legs. “I like your style, sweetheart. Just don’t make me cream my jeans, okay?”

With more room to maneuver, she slid her toes up and down, watching his every reaction. His eyes hooded and then closed. His mouth tensed and slackened. His fingers tightened and relaxed around his drink. Fastening her gaze on the pulse in his neck, she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, tasting artificial grape tainted with the medicinal bite of grain alcohol. Her fangs were out, her nipples were hard, and her pussy ached to be filled.

“Knock, knock.” She tapped her big toe against his zipper.

“Who’s there?”

“Why don’t you open up and find out?”

Eyes rolling, lashes fluttering, he peered around before lowering his fly. She resumed her ministrations, now flesh to flesh, noting every ridge, vein, and indentation. Under her toes, his dick felt like granite covered in putty.

“God, I love the male anatomy.” Smile spreading, she pressed her big toe against the tip of his glans.

“It’s not hard to see how you got inside Barrogill.”

The name triggered a pang of recognition, but she couldn’t for the life of her think why.

“What’s Barrogill?”

“Here, here.” He raised his beverage in a toast.

Disappointment chomped down as he reached down and took hold of her foot. She frowned as he pushed it away. She’d been enjoying teasing him more than she realized. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, but if you keep going, I’m gonna shoot my wad. And as nice as that would be, I wouldn’t quite feel I got my money’s worth.” He zipped up, slid out of the booth, and offered her his hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Put your shoes on. It’s time to seal the deal.”

* * * *

Callum, pumped like a shotgun, sprang to his feet the moment the plane parked at the gate. Collecting his stuff, he hurried toward the forward hatch. The few minutes he waited for the stewardess to let him out felt like a century. He was suddenly grateful he’d flown first class.

The minute he set foot in the accordion tunnel, he dug out his mobile and turned it on. There was a text from her. It was an unannotated response to his request for her address. There also was a new voicemail from Lord Snowden congratulating him on a job well done.

He called Vanessa, got voicemail, and left a short message letting her know he’d landed and was on his way to her house. He then stuffed the phone back in his pocket and speed-walked the length of the terminal. After locating the cabstand out front, he jumped into the backseat of a waiting taxi and barked the address at the driver. When they started rolling, he sat back and closed his eyes.
Holy Jupiter
. The humidity was suffocating.

By the time the taxi pulled up in front of the house, his shirt was stuck to his back under his jacket. He paid the driver, hefted his bag over his shoulder, and climbed out into the feverish night. He walked partway up the driveway, regarding the cars parked thereon with suspicion. There were two. A dark blue Swedish station wagon and a pale gold American sedan.

Was one of them Armstrong’s? Jealousy laced with anger lanced his heart. What the hell was that shithead doing here at this hour? It was well past midnight. He listened for sounds from inside the house. If there were any, he couldn’t hear them over the cacophony of insects.

Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t point to anything specific. The house was dark and quiet, so, why did his gut pulse with unease? He strode to the front porch, senses alert, and climbed the steps. His footfalls sounded hallow on the wide white boards. He knocked on the door, stepped back, and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again. Still nothing.

Maybe she wasn’t home. There were two white wooden rocking chairs on the porch. Should he have a seat and wait? Maybe, but not until he was certain she wasn’t there. He turned back to the door and depressed the buzzer for longer than he would have under normal circumstances. When he released it, he pressed his ear against the door. Hearing muffled sounds, he strained to make out what they might be.

Alarm pealed through his system when he identified groaning. A different kind of fear tightened his chest. He pounded on the door with his fist.

“Vanessa! Let me in.”

No answer.

He tried the knob and, finding it unlocked, threw open the door. The smell of blood shot out, striking his nose like a fist. His gums began to hum with interest. A sobering blend of lust and dread pulsed through his veins.

“Vanessa?”

Still no response, dammit.

He shut the door, leaving his suitcase outside. When he heard the groan again, all the blood in his body turned cold. It was a moan of pleasure, not pain.

While the house was dark, he could make out shapes. A sofa, an easy chair, drapes over a sliding glass door. He followed the sounds to the sofa as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. He could make out the curve of her hip and her dark hair cascading down her back. She was astride someone. He could guess who. For a long moment, he stood there watching, too hurt to take action.

Recovering his wits, he bellowed her name.

Her head popped up and snapped around, lips drawn back in a snarl. Her eyes were slits, her hair a wild nest, and her mouth and chin dripped with blood. He took a step toward her, but stopped when she hissed, a warning to keep his distance. Clearly, she was out of her senses, but he couldn’t just stand by and let her kill someone.

Even someone he’d love to strangle with his own two hands.

“Vanessa, it’s me. Callum. Let him go, darling.”

“Help me.”

Armstrong’s feeble plea gave Callum both pain and relief. The prick was still alive, but for how much longer? Assuming a defensive crouch, he slunk toward the sofa. He planned to grab her and pull her off while her fangs were disengaged. Being bigger and stronger, he could overpower her, but, if he chose the wrong moment, he could do serious damage to her and her prey.

She was still dressed, thank the stars. In the little black dress she’d worn to dinner her first night at Barrogill. Drawing nearer, he reached for her. She flailed at him with her fists, landing painful blows on his arms, chest, and face. His arms shot around her and hoisted her into the air. She fought like a demon, swinging, kicking, and gnashing. He tackled her, pinning her under him. When she began to calm down, he turned his attention to her victim, who was flat on his back on the sofa with his fly undone. His erection still glistened with Vanessa’s juices. The sight of it shook Callum to the core. Images flashed of banging Miss Hornsby up against the bathroom door. When guilt squeezed his gut, he ignored it. Surely this incident evened the score. Though, being a woman, she probably wouldn’t see it that way.

“Are you all right?” His voice conveyed concern even as his heart burned with hatred.

“I’ve been better.”

“Don’t worry,” he told Armstrong, struggling to speak while restraining the she-devil. “I’m not going to let you die—much as I’d like to. But I am going to let you suffer until I get the whole bloody story of what happened here tonight.”

At that, he lifted his weight off Vanessa and flipped her onto her back. Moving swiftly, he clamped his hands over her wrists and pinned her arms to the floor. The crazed look in her eyes told him she was still in the throes of bloodlust madness. Thus, there was no point in trying to reason with her. He wasn’t inclined to believe anything Armstrong might have to say, so he’d wait until she regained her senses to extract the truth.

“Get off me.” She thrashed under him like a crocodile.

He sat down hard on her pelvis and tightened his grip on her arms. “Come back to me, lass.”

Snarling, she bared her fangs and tried to buck him off. He battled the urge to slap her, both to shock her out of her frenzy and because she’d hurt him. To do so, however, he’d have to free one of her arms. That could prove disastrous. In her present state, she was like a wild animal he’d interrupted in the middle of feeding. Given the chance, she’d fight him to the death for her prey.

“Vanessa, please. Calm down. It’s Callum. I’ve come to help. But I need you to snap out of it.”

Her response was to hiss and try to bite his arm. Surging with a mixture of angst and adrenaline, he picked up one of her arms, turned her on her side and clasped both wrists in one hand. Then, he did slap her. While not as hard as he might have, still hard enough. She laid there for a moment, unmoving, her hair strewn across her face in tangled wisps. Then, with the speed of a striking snake, she sank her fangs into his wrist.

“You wee bitch!” Pain shot up his arm, but he didn’t let go. “I’m trying to help you.”

She withdrew her teeth and looked at him. The hatred in her eyes lodged in his heart like a bullet. He nevertheless held her gaze. Little by little, her body relaxed beneath his. A few moments later, the woman he knew returned to her eyes.