Night's Cold Kiss (12 page)

“Since that night on the plane, I haven’t been able to drive you from my mind.” He slowly traced a fingertip down her backbone.

She couldn’t suppress a shudder.

“Stop that,” she hissed and laid a hand against his chest, trying to put a little distance between them.

Her eyes dropped to his mouth. Big mistake.

“You feel it too,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“No—last time was the blood-thrall. It won’t happen again.”

He suddenly dipped her, his gaze sweeping down to her breasts and back to her mouth. He licked his lips. “Liar.”

She raised her knee and ran her inner thigh up to his waist as part of the dance move. Her breath hitched in her throat as he ran his hand down the back of her leg. His fingers trailed along the tender nerves, stopping briefly over the garter and the sheathed knife she had safely tucked out of view. Then he snapped her into a standing position and pressed her tightly against his chest.

Her mind searched for some safe subject as her heart beat in her throat. “You’re a good dancer.” She winced at how lame she sounded.

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” he breathed in her ear. “At many things.” He sucked her lobe between his teeth and gently nipped.

She almost came there and then. Her blood turned to molten lava in her veins, she wouldn’t be able to resist him much longer, blood-thrall or no blood-thrall.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and Christian stopped moving but still held her close.

Antoinette was equally relieved and disappointed to see Lucian’s hand on Christian’s shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to steal back my date.”

“Of course.” He released her and instantly stepped away inclining his head graciously. “Ms. Petrescu.”

He held her gaze for a few seconds longer, then turned and walked away. While her legs threatened to collapse under her, his stride was sure and confident.

“Sir Roger wants to talk to you,” Lucian said.

Antoinette nodded vaguely, watching Christian disappear into the throng. Valerica shot a vicious glare at her then followed hot on his heels.

“Lucian, thank goodness.” A stylish elderly woman grabbed him by the arm. “My husband needs your help.”

“Wait here Antoinette—I’ll be back in a moment,” Lucian said and went with the older woman.

Antoinette sat down at the nearest empty table, removing her shoe to massage her foot. Damn heels! A man had to be responsible for inventing such implements of torture. She continued to rub. The fire Christian had stoked in her blood began to cool. Thank God for the old woman; she’d given Antoinette a few more minutes to collect herself.

Someone brushed past her, humming something familiar and leaving her with a sense of—wrongness. She looked up but no one seemed near enough.

“Hush little baby…”

The words swept past her ear on a breath. She jumped up—looking around—heart pounding against the walls of her chest. Did she imagine it? Was she having a waking dream about Dante again? It couldn’t be him, surely. He was dead. Her father had killed him years ago.

She scanned the crowd for the Aeternus who’d murdered her mother, knowing he couldn’t be there.

“Don’t say a word…”

Barely more than a whisper.

She spun back to the right, sensing someone close yet finding no one.

Suddenly, across the room, she connected with his familiar cold eyes for half a nightmarish heartbeat, then she blinked and he was gone. If he’d ever really been there at all. It was impossible.

Antoinette slowed her breathing and scanned the gathering again. It was just the champagne and her imagination. There was nothing—

A hand closed around her elbow. Her heart jolted into her throat as she involuntarily recoiled, her shoe dropping with a thud to the floor.

“Hey.” Lucian pulled her closer and put his arms around her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Antoinette felt foolish and relaxed against him for a moment, soaking up his comfort then drew back and gave him a smile.

“Are you okay?” He placed a finger under her chin, his features twisting in concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She let the air escape her lungs, hoping it sounded like an offhanded laugh instead of the hysteria that bubbled just below the surface. Was she going insane?

“I think the evening and the champagne have gone to my head.” She winced at her shaky voice.

“You do look awfully pale. How about we go see what the ambassador wants and then I’ll take you back to your hotel?”

“That’d be good.”

He bent down to pick up her shoe and gently slipped it back on her foot. No lingering touches, nothing untoward, just a simple helping hand.

“Lean on me,” he said, holding out his elbow.

Antoinette didn’t hesitate and slipped her arm through his.

“Is the old woman okay?” Antoinette asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“What?” Lucian frowned. “Oh. Yes. The evening and champagne have taken their toll on her husband too, although it’s more likely the champagne in his case. I’ve arranged a room for them in the hotel.”

“That was nice of you.”

“I do what I can,” he said. “Now let’s go—Sir Roger’s waiting.”

Antoinette heard the ambassador long before she saw him. He stood near the entrance talking to the gigantic man Viktor had exchanged looks with earlier. With them was a beautiful pale woman.

“Ah, you’ve found her. Good,” the ambassador boomed.

“Your Excellency, I really think you should keep your bodyguards with you at all times,” Oberon said. “The Department assigned them to protect you.”

“Nonsense!” The ambassador waved away Oberon’s concern. “I told Christian Laroque and now I’m telling you. I don’t need a security detail protecting me inside my room. They can stand outside my door and that’s final. Besides, I have two Guild members with me.” He reached out and took Antoinette’s right hand in his. “And this lovely creature is one of our most talented. I think I’ll be safe enough in her hands.”

He plastered a sloppy kiss on her knuckles. Antoinette fought the urge to wipe the back of her hand on her gown.

Oberon turned his stern frown on her, his top lip lifted into a half-sneer. “You can’t be too prepared, Excellency.”

“I’m in a hotel that has been secured by numerous Department and CHaPR divisions including your own—I don’t think the extra intrusion is necessary,” Sir Roger said.

“Whatever you say, Excellency.” Somehow the agent made it sound like an insult.

He turned on his heels and stalked off in the other direction, the pale woman almost running to keep up.

Antoinette watched them go. She’d hate to get on the wrong side of that man.

Lucian and Sir Roger waited for her at the elevator. The two bodyguards entered after them and stood near the doors with hands clasped together in front.

Once the elevator started to ascend, Sir Roger took her hand. “My dear, do you know how much you look like your mother?”

“I’ve been told, Excellency.” She had a picture of her parents by her bed at home.

“Yes—the spitting image. She and I were close once, you know. I would’ve married her if your father hadn’t come along.” His face went all dreamy with past memories for a moment. Antoinette glanced at Lucian, who shrugged.

Then Sir Roger straightened and pierced her with a probing glare. “So—what do you think of all this nonsense your uncle has been spouting? It’s all totally preposterous of course.”

“I’m sorry?” The change in tact caught her by surprise.

“He seems intent on creating a panic over a few unfortunate mishaps. I mean really, a couple of fires and a few accidental deaths…” He puffed out his chest. “They hardly constitute a return to The Troubles.”

“I think it’s a little more serious than a few accidents, Excellency.” She struggled to keep her tone even. “My uncle isn’t one for paranoid panic, and my Uncle Nicolae was one of those murdered.”

“True, but the French Intelligence division did a thorough investigation into the whole matter. They reported he’d made a few enemies of late. Apparently he was having an affair with a married woman and her husband has been detained as a suspect.”

Antoinette chewed her lower lip. Did Sergei know this? She caught Lucian’s sympathetic expression.
He thought the same.

Sir Roger seemed oblivious to her distress. “Do you know where this information is coming from?”

Lucian tensed and looked at her.

“Uncle Sergei hasn’t shared his confidences with me.” It wasn’t a lie—not exactly.

“So why did you come here?” Sir Roger asked.

“My brother took up an R&D position with the Guild, London office. Uncle Sergei thought the conference might be a good opportunity to have a look at the graduating class.” She looked Sir Roger in the eye, squaring her shoulders, daring him to disagree. “I need a new tech.”

After a few tense seconds, his face broke into a smile and he slapped Lucian on the back.

“Good. We need more young people with your dedication. Come have a nightcap with me before you return to the party.”

Antoinette’s feet hurt, her heavy head already swam in an alcoholic haze. The last thing she needed was another drink with this pompous asshole.

“Thank you, Excellency, we’ll be happy to,” Lucian said before she had a chance to beg off.

The elevator doors opened to an empty hall on Sir Roger’s floor. Antoinette shivered—a cold knot formed in her stomach. She shook it off, putting it down to her earlier moment of panic and the effects of the champagne.

The two beefy bodyguards took up their posts either side of the door as Sir Roger let them into his luxurious suite. A bottle of champagne sat chilling on the sideboard in the living room area. The Ambassador walked around the ivory damask chaise lounge and straight to the ice bucket. He lifted the bottle and began peeling back the foil cap, then indicated that Antoinette should take a seat.

A chill swept goose bumps up her arms. She caught the slight movement of the balcony drapes out of the corner of her eye and reached for the knife she’d stashed in her garter. A large pop rang out as the ambassador pulled the cork and she spun toward the sound.

His eyes went wide and his head rocked back, the bottle
falling from his hands. A red dot appeared on his forehead before he collapsed to the floor, the wall behind him now painted red.

Lucian reached inside his jacket but another silencer-muffled pop fired from beyond the balcony drapes before he could withdraw his weapon. A scarlet bloom appeared on his white dress shirt under the right side of his jacket.

It all happened in less than a blink of an eye. Antoinette crouched and threw her knife at the shape emerging from the curtains and was rewarded with a meaty thud followed by a grunt.

The assailant looked down at the handle, a familiar grin forming at the corners of his mouth. The second their eyes locked, Antoinette was immediately reduced to a six-year-old child again.

He’s here.

And this time she knew it wasn’t a dream. Somehow—impossibly—her mother’s murderer stood before her. She froze, the same cold dread chilling her veins, just as it had over sixteen years ago.

Dante’s fingers wrapped around the protruding handle and he drew it out, slow and steady, his evil grin unwavering. Then he ran the blood-smeared blade across his tongue before tossing it out the balcony door.

Damn, the blade was steel, not silver. As Antoinette reached up to pull the twin stilettos from her hair, he slammed her against the wall. His face closed in, inches from hers and he pinned her wrists above her head with his left hand. The pistol fell to the floor with a thud and he ran his hand up her bare arm and across her breast.

“Well now, little-one—you’re all grown up.” His cold voice sent ripples of fear through her body. He ran the back of his finger up her cheek and twisted it in one of her curls. “What a fine trophy you’d make.”

His gaze swept down to the swell of her breasts and up again to meet her eyes. Christian had done the same thing
during their dance and had made her heart flutter, but Dante sent a liquid nitrogen chill through her blood.

A familiar iciness crept over her mind. He pressed his body even closer—she could feel his excitement hard against her hip.

“It can’t be—” She finally found her voice, barely above a whisper. “You’re dead.”

His chuckle was as humorless as his dead eyes. “Luckily I know a good doctor.”

He leaned closer. Antoinette twisted her face away from his breath against her lips—he drew his tongue, wet and slimy, up her cheek. She shuddered as the saliva dried like foul bugs crawling on her skin.

“You taste just as sweet as your mother did.”

She stopped struggling. Pure hot rage exploded in her chest. Hate swelled like a tidal wave, crashing against her, drowning her fear and clearing her mind. She was no longer a child—no longer helpless. He’d tormented her memories and her nightmares long enough; it all stopped now.

She opened her mouth and screamed.

His eyes rounded then narrowed dangerously. But the guards began pounding against the locked door. He released her so suddenly she lurched into the empty space he’d occupied, and noticed the gun on the floor beside her. Dropping to a squat she grabbed it and fired a shot after him. The bullet slammed into the wall a hair’s breadth from his head as he disappeared through the curtain. She followed at a run through to the balcony, and…nothing. Not one sign of him above or below.
Shit.

The brightly lit street many floors below brimmed with people—he could be any one of them, or none. She’d lost him.
Shit, shit.

She barely registered the splintering crash of the doorframe exploding. Someone touched her shoulder. She spun, pointing the gun, ready to kill.

“Antoinette, it’s me!” Christian said, holding up his hands in front of her face.

At first Christian wasn’t sure she’d heard him. She stood panting, gun in hand, eyes haunted, and she seemed unreachable. Then she blinked and focused. The gun shook and fell from her fingers.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. “Have you been shot?”

She shook her head and then her knees buckled. He caught her, sweeping her up against his chest. Instead of fighting him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his shoulder as he carried her back into the room.

Christian put her down on the sofa. Viktor appeared at the door, then went to consult one of the agents on bodyguard duty. Fine job they did.

“How’re the ambassador and Lucian?” Christian asked over his shoulder.

“Lucian has taken a bullet in the shoulder, and lives,” Viktor said. “Unfortunately, Sir Roger’s not so lucky.”

Christian noticed the other agent had grabbed a towel and now pressed it against Lucian’s shoulder. Viktor moved to join Christian and Antoinette.

“What happened?” Christian asked her.

Tears traced a path down her cheeks and it was few more minutes before she was able to talk. Finally she shook herself and took a deep hitching breath as she swiped her tears.

“He shot them from the balcony but…” She leaned closer, her eyes searching his. “Christian, it was him—Dante—the one who killed my mother.”

“Impossible,” Viktor said. “He’s dead. I watched Dante’s burning body fall from the window of a burning building. The fire consumed everything except for a charred finger with the half-melted remains of his family crest ring.”

Antoinette turned pale and placed a hand over her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Christian grabbed a nearby trash bin, holding it while she emptied the contents of her stomach. Viktor disappeared
into the bathroom and returned with a towel and a glass of water, handing both to her when she’d finished.

The EMTs arrived and rushed straight over to Lucian. Antoinette gave Christian and Viktor an embarrassed, shaky smile. “I’m not used to drinking.”

She wiped her face with the towel then took a sip of the water. Christian placed the soiled bin in the bathroom and closed the door.

“It’s shock more than the champagne.” He sat on the coffee table in front of her, his knees either side of hers. “Now—”

A woman appeared at the door, pale and ethereal. He recognized her immediately.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” Christian said, lowering his voice. With a quick glancing exchange, Viktor slid in beside Antoinette and put his arm around her shoulder.

Christian approached the newcomer. “Bianca.”

Bianca arched a pale eyebrow. “I didn’t expect you to be here already Christian. I’ve been called in to help retrieve her statement. The coroner’s office is sending over someone to look at the body.”

Speak of the devil. Kathryn Jordan, the forensic pathologist, appeared at the door carrying a large black bag.

“Christian,” the doctor said. “It’s been a while.”

“Good to see you, Kitt,” he replied, giving her a nod. “The body’s over there.”

The diminutive woman looked drawn. She nodded and moved past them to where the late ambassador lay.

Christian turned back to Bianca. “So, are you here to orb her?”

The white witch nodded.

“Go easy, okay. I think she’s had a severe shock; she’s not making much sense at the moment.”

“I’d better go question her.”

Christian touched her elbow. “Like I said—go easy. Please.”

The woman sat beside Antoinette on the sofa. “My name is Bianca Sin and I’m the head of thaumaturgical studies at the Academy. Because of the delicacy of this case I’ve been called in to consult.” She held up a small glass sphere. “This a reconstruction orb. It’s going to capture your experience of the incident while you recount it to me. Because of the subjective nature of the process it’s not admissible in court and is completely voluntary. But if you do submit to the procedure, it may give us invaluable insight into the crime, which you may not be able to consciously remember. Do you understand?”