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.
Chapter Eight
Ashwini had never been more glad to get out of a place. Leaving at first light, she didn’t draw a clear breath until the taxi was at least ten minutes from the plantation house.
“You sensed things in Nazarach’s home,” Janvier commented from beside her.
“Not just his home.” If she’d had to touch Nazarach . . . . Her soul shrank from the horror. “Then there’s Antoine. Even Simone. She’s done some nasty things in her time.”
“And still you feel sorry for her.” Janvier sighed. “Why am I the only one you never feel sorry for?”
“Because you’re a pain in the ass.”
A masculine laugh as the taxi driver brought them to a stop at the train station. Paying him, she got out and grabbed her duffel as Janvier did the same with his. Callan had returned both early this morning, his eyes holding the promise of future retaliation.
“So,” Janvier said as she found some cash to buy a ticket from the machine, “we are back to being adversaries?”
“I owe you a favor. I won’t forget.”
“Neither will I.” Reaching forward as she took the ticket and turned, he cupped her cheek. “If I asked you to trust me, Ashwini, what would you say?”
“Words mean squat. It’s the doing that counts.” And because he’d bled for her, she raised her hand to his cheek, putting them in perfect harmony. “Thank you.”
His expression shifted, becoming starkly intimate in the hush of the early-morning platform. “Stay with me. I’ll show you things that’ll make you laugh in delight, scream in passion, cry for the sheer joy of it.”
He knew her, she thought. Knew her well enough to offer her the wildest of rides. “You’ve started the doing,” she murmured, “but you’ve got a way to go.”
“Who hurt you, cher?” A gentle question, and yet she saw the chill intent in his eyes.
Unsurprised he’d understood what she’d never told anyone, she shook her head. “No one you can kill.”