Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply (9 page)

The most recent Vedere prophecy revealed that the return of the missing vampire ancients, Shamhat and Amahté, would herald a new chapter for the vampires. The prophecy was not particularly secret . . . but the location of the Ancients had been closely guarded. How Karn had learned of their whereabouts remained a mystery. His goal was to get to those long-slumbering Ancients and kill them. He wanted to take their power—and give himself true immortality with the ambrosia that was buried with them.

World-domination plots were so last century.

My thoughts returned to Moira. She was a fascinating woman in many respects. However, she was not very well liked around these parts, though the bits of gossip I gleaned while sitting at the coffee shop and in the library (where she loved to go ravage the sections on ancient Egypt) seemed tinged with bitterness. People who whispered their grievances and spread poison with innuendos were cowards.

Moira was not a coward.

She faced people every day who either hated her or feared her, and she acted as though their sneers and the obvious way they crossed streets to avoid her didn’t bother her at all. She ignored, too, people clustering together and laughing behind their hands. Perhaps these actions did not bother Moira. Constant derision and scorn often built the most durable of shields.

All the same, I wanted to rip off their faces.

I had come to admire Moira. She had grace. Purpose. Beauty.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have said she was a werewolf.

I was the only one dispatched to the college to watch over Moira. Dove did not need protection. She vibrated with the kind of energy that encouraged people to move out of her way or die.

I liked her.

The other humans Eva had glamoured were also students here, but we had no cause to concern ourselves with their memories. Their minds had been far more malleable than Moira’s and Dove’s . . . and most had been asleep when Karn sent his minions to the campsite. The one called Ax had presented a somewhat larger challenge, but eventually he remembered just as Moira and Dove did: They had found an empty crypt and had returned to the States hopeful that next year’s dig would bear fruit.

Eva had thought the false memories of an archaeological find would better hide the real memories of uncovering the pyramid and being attacked by Karn.

I felt a growl low in my throat.
Karn.
The way he had taken Moira, threatened her. He deserved to die for laying his filthy hands on her. My sense of dread had been building all week.

Or maybe it was my attraction to Moira that coiled like a snake in my belly and caused my foreboding. I could not have her.

But I wanted her.

I heard the clip of boots on the sidewalk and straightened. I knew the beat of Moira’s shoes on concrete. She strode around the corner, confident and beautiful, her red hair pulled into a casual ponytail. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt with the college logo on it, tight jeans, and an old pair of cowboy boots. She carried a monstrous tote, and as always, her expression suggested she was deep in her own thoughts.

She seemed unaware of her surroundings, and as far as I could tell from my weeklong observations, she never seemed to show interest in detecting potential danger. Being on home turf made her complacent, even though she was surrounded by enemies. If I had the opportunity, I would show her how to protect herself better. She seemed quite capable with guns, but did not carry one on campus. Perhaps she would feel too tempted to use it on the college personnel.

But a gun would not help Moira against a vampire, a fact she would know if she remembered what had happened in the desert. A paranormal being such as Karn would not find a gun much of a deterrent. Vampires were by and large derisive of weapons that were incapable of chopping off their heads. A bullet was a mere nuisance.

I silently tracked Moira, pausing as I caught the scent of . . . parchment. Vampires smelled like old books in a library to werewolves. It was not unpleasant, but it was distinctive. I scanned the area.

There, in the trees that lined the right side of the main parking lot, was a vampire. The red glow of his eyes gave him and his intentions away. Moira headed to her Mercedes. Just as she reached the driver’s-side door, the vampire sent out a wave of power that sizzled the parking lot lights.

Moira paused and stiffened, obviously aware now that something was wrong.

I moved toward the trees as swiftly as possible without giving myself away, but the vampire had scented me, too. The moment I knew he was waiting for me to come at him, I gave up stealth and went for speed.

“Sorry, mate,” he said as I entered the trees, “the girl’s already mine.”

“I found her first,” I said. Then I punched him in the throat.

Moira

T
he hairs rose on the back of my neck. I could hear the hushed sound of my own shallow breathing, and my heart went from erratic to spastic.

For an odd moment, I had the terrible feeling that if I moved even the
slightest
bit, something big and scary would attack me. Fear was a stupid, irrational thing, and I knew it. But still I was frozen, my fingers trembling on the car door handle, my other hand clutching my tote.

I heard a big, quick
swoosh
 . . . then . . . nothing.

Silence enveloped me, and it felt thick and strange, like wet cotton had been stuffed into my ears.

I took a breath and then whirled around, ready to swing my bag at an intruder—and let me tell you, that Theodora Monroe book added substantial heft.

I was alone.

The wind tickled at my hair, sudden and playful, as if it hadn’t abandoned me. Then the parking lot lights flickered back on.

My heart rate, however, remained at a steady one thousand rpm.

Because I was stubborn, I took a minute to study the area, to try and determine what had been behind me. I glanced up at the steady blue hue of the light, and made a mental note to get those damned things checked.

Then I slid into my car, eased the tote onto the passenger seat, and carefully started the motor.

By the time I reached the street that led to my house, my heart rate was normal and I could breathe again.

I had no idea what had happened. Maybe reading about vampires before venturing out into the dark had messed with my mind.

In any case, I had more important matters to worry about.

Like what to wear.

•   •   •

I stood near the table laden with mini quiches, puff pastries, and prosciutto-wrapped melon. I held a champagne flute while I mulled over the selections, even though I’d already filled my plate four times. What? They were
tiny
plates. Every so often I would look at the open double doors that led into the ballroom.

Where was Dove?

She was never on time, but being late always made her arrival spectacular. Still, we were nearly two hours into the gala and Dove hadn’t showed. That wasn’t like her. Half an hour, yes. An hour, maybe. Two hours? Never. Sheesh. Had she tripped on those outrageous shoes and broken her neck?

I slipped into a corner, pulled the cell out of my beaded wristlet, and called Dove. The phone rang and rang, and finally voice mail came on. “Apparently I didn’t want to talk to you,” she intoned. “Leave a message. If. You. Dare.”

Oh, I dared.

“Where are you? Are you okay?” I hissed into the receiver. Then I realized I sounded like worried Mama Bear. “I’m bored! I’ve eaten my weight in quiches, and you’re supposed to prevent me from doing that. If you don’t call me in the next five minutes, I’m going to the dessert table without you. I will eat all the cheesecake, Dove.
All
of it.”

I ended the call and slipped the phone back into the little purse. Worry nibbled at me like vicious hamsters. Surely Dove was fine . . . just being extra Dove-y, or something. And I really wanted her to see my dress. I suspected it might actually rate Dove approval.

I looked down at said dress and sighed. I’d unearthed the purple sheath and matching heels from the closet. With my hair pulled into a topknot, and the amethyst jewelry I wore, I looked good. And with all the lotion and powder and spritz I’d put on after my shower, I smelled good, too. Considering I spent a lot of time in the same clothes, sweating daily, showering . . . um, weekly, and ignoring stench and beauty in the name of archaeology, dressing up in this kind of finery was unusual. And uncomfortable. Why couldn’t some designer make T-shirts and khakis the next big trend?

I looked at my wristlet, debating whether to call Dove again. Maybe I should go to her apartment and make sure she hadn’t suffocated after putting on her corset.

Dove was an irreverent bitch, but she was responsible. And she didn’t lie. If she said she was going to do something, she did it. I was giving her fifteen minutes. If she didn’t show by then, I would track her down. And if she was alive . . . I would kill her.

I sipped my champagne. The college orchestra played lovely eighteenth-century music, and performers from our dance and theater programs were showcasing Baroque dances, such as the minuet and the gavotte.

Then the tempo changed to an upbeat tune, and the performers dispersed, grabbing partners from the watching crowd and dancing with sweet abandon.

“Good evening, Dr. Jameson.”

I turned my gaze to the gentleman who’d approached me. He was taller than I was by several inches, and I was six feet. He was also nicely filled out, muscled in a non-brutish way, with sandy brown hair and eyes so blue they looked gray . . . and cold. Like fog rolling over a fresh grave. I had no idea where that imagery was coming from, but that’s the feeling he gave me. He was handsomely dressed in an old-fashioned tailored tuxedo. I had pictures of my grandfather from his youth in the same style of formal wear.

“Good evening,” I said. I felt electrified in his presence, as though I were standing near a live wire and should tread very, very carefully. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“Ah, now there’s a question.” He studied me closely. “You don’t remember, do you?” He bent his arm under his waist and swept into a graceful half bow. “My name is Karn.”

His name was Karn? Last? First? Or was he more like Cher or Madonna? “I’m Dr. Moira Jameson,” I said, even though he apparently knew my name.

He extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

“It’s kind of you to ask, Mr. Karn,” I said, as though he had politely queried instead of quietly demanded. I resisted the urge to bat his hand away, “but I’m leaving.”

“Just Karn,” he said, in nearly the same severe way that Dove often introduced herself. He dropped his hand and offered a thin-edged smile. “A dance, Dr. Jameson.” He leaned close, the smile growing sharper still. “I’m afraid I must insist. Especially if you hope to see your darling little Dove again.”

“What?”

He kept a polite, distant expression while he took the champagne flute out of my hand and set it onto the tray of a passing waiter. “I’m quite sure you don’t have problems with your hearing, Dr. Jameson.” He once again extended his hand. “Shall we?”

This man had kidnapped Dove? Why would anyone take her? I gripped his hand, resisting the urge to twist his fingers enough to break them. For a moment his eyes gleamed with challenge, almost as though he’d guessed my thoughts and welcomed my defiance. I gritted my teeth, ignored my impulse to hurt him.

He led me to the dance floor.

He placed a hand at my waist and I reluctantly put my hand on his shoulder. Then he lifted my other hand in his and whirled me around.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“The world,” he said, flashing that awful sharp smile. “And everything in it.”

The world?
Really?
“Well, you can’t have Dove.” I felt chilled to my core. Was she okay? Had they hurt her? Why, why, why would someone take an orphaned, smart-mouthed college undergrad?

“I already have her.” He executed a turn. I twirled away, and then returned to the slimeball’s arms. “If you want her back, Dr. Jameson, then you’ll come with me and do what I ask.”

Oh, was that all? Grrr! I wanted to kick him in the shins. Hard. But terror, not retribution, crawled through me like a thousand marching spiders. I pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. If something happened to Dove . . . oh, God.

“If you hurt her,” I said, “and I mean, if she even stubs her little toe in your care, then I’ll—”

“You’ll
what
?” He pushed his face close to mine, daring me to threaten him. Aggression rolled off him in waves. He wasn’t a gentleman at all. He was a beast hiding in a fancy suit. Fear slicked my spine, and I got the distinct impression he wanted to tear out my throat with those sharp white teeth of his.

“I will kill you,” I said.

He drew back, and sighed. “How clichéd. I was hoping for a far more clever response—especially from you, Dr. Jameson. You’re very much known around here for your . . . hmm . . . I suppose some might call it wit.”

“Occasionally it’s best to stick with the classics,” I said between clenched teeth. “Is it money, then? Ransom?”

“You really do like her, don’t you?” He looked at me blankly, as though he didn’t fathom the concept of friendship. “It’s useful—this connection you humans have to one another.”