And he was old, very old and not just middle-aged old, and set in his ways. He was self-contained, well-used to the autonomy of command, comfortable in the violent roaming of his life, satisfied with army life, a predator, a warlord that liked pounding the shit out of things, and a Wyr sentinel.
This fixation he had developed for her was beyond insane. It was incomprehensible, a recipe for a perfect storm disaster.
He rubbed his face hard with both hands. First things first. Rune and Aryal would be here within the next twenty-four hours. While they investigated the rogue Wyr in yesterday’s attack, they could help with bodyguard detail. Their presence would dilute this impossible, intense one-on-one craziness he had going on with Niniane. Then things would calm down.
From the direction of the bedroom came a thump and a muffled cry. He lifted his head and called out sharply, “What happened, did you fall?”
There was no reply. His stride turned into a lunge. He slammed the bedroom door open with a flattened hand, his sharp gaze darting around.
The room was empty, as was the adjoining bathroom. The silence in the suite roared in his ears. The bedside lamp was on the floor. There was a strange wild scent in the room, a sense of an immense expenditure of Power, a wild upsurge in energy that was already fading.
The bottom of his stomach dropped away. Unbelievably, she was gone again, but this time it was not of her own choosing.
“Oh shit,” he whispered. “Niniane.”
SEVEN
She had lain on the bed staring at the ceiling for long moments after Tiago left the room. Without the vitality of his presence stimulating and supporting her, the lethargy from the cleansing spell stole through her body again. At first she wasn’t sure if she could get her shaky limbs to support her.
Finally she managed to find the strength to push herself to an upright position. She thought about trying to change into more public attire, but that sounded like more than she could handle, let alone trying to deal with Elder politics. She should send messages out to everyone that she needed at least another day to recuperate.
Like Tiago said, let the world wait for you. Pleh. She wondered how he would like it if she applied that to him. But no, she already knew how he would like it—Mr. Bulldozer would push through every objection she might make, so she supposed they were going to have that talk he wanted to have. Then maybe she could lie down and watch old movies on the TCM channel. She could eat the box of chocolates he had given her in between naps and pretend for a little while that the outside world didn’t exist.
When she thought she could stand without falling down, she pushed to her feet with a pained grunt.
That was when the cyclone entered the room.
From one step to the next she was standing in the middle of a maelstrom of energy. She threw a hand over her eyes, staring through her fingers, as a man formed in front of her. Long raven-black hair whipped around an elegant, spare, pale inhuman face. Narrowed crystalline diamond eyes showed through the strands. The rest of his body solidified. He was as tall as Tiago, but he had a lean, graceful frame that matched his face. He wore a linen tunic and trousers that, while simple, seemed foreign. When he saw her, one corner of his mouth lifted in a triumphant smile.
It was a smile that looked all too much like it might say gotcha.
She backed up sharply, bumped into the bedside table and knocked over a lamp. She sucked in a breath to scream. The male grabbed her, moving so fast. He clapped a hand over her mouth while wrapping the other around her waist. He held her in a steely grip. She squealed and clawed at the back of his hand.
The howling windstorm rose again, and this time the world fell away as the cyclone swallowed her whole.
Terror rampaged through her mind. The only thing solid or stable was the creature that held her prisoner against a hard, lean-muscled body. Then the world began to reappear around her: walls, ceiling, furniture, and a floor beneath her feet.
She didn’t wait to look around or get oriented. As soon as those steely arms loosened and she had enough freedom of movement, she pushed away from him, pivoted and punched her kidnapper in the face as hard as she could.
She threw the punch right-handed, from her dominant side, which also was her uninjured side. She got lucky. She felt the male’s nose crunch as his head snapped back.
Those strange diamond eyes flared. She panted and staggered back a couple of steps, hand pressed again to her wounded side. Champagne-colored liquid trickled from one fine-etched nostril. The crooked break in his nose straightened back into place as she watched.
“You’re Gumby Man,” she said in awe, and with not a little resentment. Did all his other body parts straighten into place like that when he got injured? How could you fight and win against a creature that wouldn’t stay broke when you broke him?
He didn’t bother to reply. He wiped his face with the back of one hand as he regarded her with a lazy malevolence.
“I should have warned you to take care,” a woman said from behind her. “The Dark Fae heir apparent is small and cute, but like a Tasmanian devil, she can be vicious when cornered.”
Niniane knew that voice. It was one of the most beautiful voices in the world, and also one of the deadliest. Eyes widening, she turned to face Carling Severan, Councillor of the Elder tribunal, sorceress and Vampyre Queen.
The speaker was as beautiful as her voice, with a heartbreaking, life-threatening loveliness. Clad in a classic black Chanel suit and about average height for a modern woman, Carling Severan was slender with an exquisite bone structure. She had a patrician Nefertiti-like neck, long almond-shaped dark eyes, shining black hair that fell in a heavy curtain to her waist, high cheekbones, smooth luminous skin the color of honey and a treacherously sensual mouth. She had been ancient when Rome was born, but she still bore the face and figure of a thirty-year-old woman.
The Vampyre Queen was one of the oldest recorded surviving Nightkind, if not the oldest. Even at rest her Power filled the room, until Carling did something either to rein it in or camouflage it somehow, so that it receded like a tide flowing away from shore and she resembled a simple ordinary, beautiful human woman.
She was a poisonous king cobra that masqueraded as an innocent, bright green garden snake.
That was so not right.
“Councillor,” Niniane whispered, through numb lips.
The illusion of innocuousness vaporized as the Vampyre walked over to her with a swift, fluid, inhuman grace that was as terrifying as everything else was about her. Carling stopped just in front of Niniane, dropped a slender hand onto her shoulder and looked at the male creature. “That will be all for now, Khalil.”
The male creature’s nostrils flared. He said, “I have paid in full one of the three favors I owe you.”
Niniane could still hear the wildness of the cyclone in his deep voice. She shivered, and the unbreakable hold on her shoulder tightened. The Councillor said, “You have indeed. Until the next time, Djinn.”
A howling wind rose and died. Niniane looked down again and cupped her eyes to protect them from the whipping ends of her hair. That was when she noticed a bright yellow band of sunlight from a nearby window that slanted across both of her legs and also those of the Vampyre’s. Niniane stared. Carling wore no shoes, and her slender, beautiful honey-colored feet were limned in light. Such contact with direct sunlight would have reduced a lesser Vampyre to ash within seconds. Niniane’s shivering increased. Even for a creature that many regarded as unnatural, Carling was unnatural.