Coldstorm (Heart of a Vampire, Book 7) (19 page)

The only two people in the room presently occupied only one of those chairs.

The King's wife, Dalia, draped across Jordan's lap, her hands cupping the man's jaw. They kissed each other, clinging tight as if to never let go. Their passion was a thrum in the air.

Matt irresistibly glanced at Anca. He remembered all too well their own battle of mouths.

She met his gaze. In her smoky eyes was the same lingering memory encompassing his thoughts.

Time ground to a halt.

Anca licked her lips.

The urge to drag her from this room and find someplace private, to capture her mouth, to get drunk on her taste, fired his blood.

Before he gave in and did something they'd both regret, he snapped himself to the here and now, taking a large step away from the captivating gypsy woman. He cleared his throat loudly.

Jordan and Dalia slowly parted.

Bowing courtly, because it amused Dalia, Matt said, "M'Lady, this is Anca Fieraru. The investigator from the Council."

Dalia stared at Anca with a tight expression.

Jordan moved between them. "Welcome."

Anca glanced at all the chairs. "How many people are you expecting?"

The Queen stepped from behind Jordan, shooting him a disgruntled look.

Jordan replied, "Six in total. Only two more, the witch and the Keeper."

Raising a brow, Anca looked pointedly at the chairs again.

"That's me," Dalia answered. "It can make things easier to give people plenty of options. Plus I find it interesting to study how they strategically place themselves in the room." She continued to stare at Anca, a myriad of emotions running across her face.

Anca replied quietly, "You can learn quite a bit about interrelationships that way too."

Glancing around at the chairs, Matt conceded their points, though he'd never really thought about it before. Strategizing for battle he enjoyed and understood. Psychology, not so much.

But he didn't know what to make of the tension between the women. His Queen was usually the welcoming one, and Jordan taciturn.

Anca asked softly, "Where would you like us to sit?"

Funny. She'd just admitting the seating arrangements were some sort of mind game. Now she was clear about refusing to play.

***

A
nca forced herself to stay still, keep her expression neutral.

The Queen—in a simple t-shirt and jeans and short, pink streaked blonde hair—was opposite anything Anca would've thought to picture when hearing the tall, gruff King say
wife
. The woman's pointed chin and large blue eyes gave her a youthful appearance. But those eyes sparked with intelligence.

Her aura was amazing. Instead of a dark gray like most vampires, this woman's was a lighter magic. Red flecks mixed with shades of purple.

The Queen suddenly looked straight at Anca, meeting her gaze.

A peacefulness eased over Anca. She brought up her shields, stopping the intrusive magic at the same instant she placed the colors of the aura.

Omega. The automatic power to calm others. And, if used improperly, to make them obey.

The many oddities in this clan were stunning.

Connor Gregory had told her to expect the unusual here, but she'd been unprepared to run into this many, or this much power.

The Queen glanced up at MacDougal, giving him a look Anca couldn't read. He pulled her close, tucking her against his side. Their aura's seemed to almost mingle, as if they drew strength from one another. He led Dalia to one of the matching antique chairs at the head of the large circle. He settled her in the seat, then hunched on the armrest beside her, his hand on her arm. "My wife will be joining us this evening."

Anca bit back an argument. Omegas didn't fight. They couldn't. It was against everything their magic stood for to harm another living being.

The silence thickened as they waited for Anca to take the seat beside the Queen. Unsure why, she glanced at Matt. He only stared at her blankly.

Slowly, she sat in the chair.

Dalia stated, "You're here to track down the Rogues."

"I am."

"I was one of Montgomery's captives."

Anca bit back any response. Her bland neutral expression, normally comfortable and easy, nearly slipped.

This woman? An Omega captured as prisoner by ones such as these Rogues?

And now the woman was the Queen of the local clan. A wise strategic move on MacDougal's part, though he obviously didn't see her as anything less than beloved.

The tenderness in his expression should have made the man appear weak. Instead, it was as if the two continued to give, and receive, strength from being near one another.

Perhaps this woman had information Anca could use. She gathered her thoughts. "Perhaps you can tell me something, anything, about the Rogues that weren't captured or killed." Anything to figure out where they might be, what countermeasures Anca should take to secure their defeat.

"My husband's clan," Dalia tilted her head back to look up at him for a moment, "hasn't been able to find the Rogues. What makes you so certain you can?"

Beside Anca's chair, Matt grunted as if he had the same question.

The challenge in the Queen's magnetic gaze struck Anca with a slam of power.

She let it wash over her automatic barriers uselessly. "I'm very good at my job, otherwise the Magic Council wouldn't have sent me in to help you and yours."

Dalia assessed her. "Do you care about the people you protect, Anca Fieraru?"

Caught off guard by the question, and somehow seemingly compelled to answer honestly, Anca replied, "I do."

Acceptance filled the Queen's eyes and she blinked, then nodded. "All right then. If Jordan and Connor both trust you, I'll do the same."

Unbidden, Anca said a quiet, "Thank you," feeling a strangely profound weight at the woman's words of trust.

Dalia laid her hands on her jean-clad knees, staring at them. "There are many things about my time with Montgomery that I don't remember. There are others I wish I could forget. And I hate talking about any of it at all." She sighed and shook her head.

A wave of magic washed over the room.

Dalia looked a bit startled, as if still unused to her power. Anca had a feeling the calming vibe was unconscious.

"Jordan told me you believe the Rogues are being led by a girl child." A hint of fear crept into Dalia's voice. Whatever she'd seen, had gone through, hadn't been easy. It radiated through the woman's aura like dark rippling waves of frightened pain.

It cracked something inside Anca, dredging up remnants of her own hurtful memories.

She ignored them. She had to do her job.

While she didn't enjoy causing anyone pain—unless they deserved it—Anca had to gather any knowledge she could. It would make her job easier, and perhaps be the difference between winning, or more people dying.

Dalia straightened with a reserve of inner strength, and perhaps some borrowed courage from her husband. "I thought she died in the fight." She laid a comforting hand over MacDougal's, on her arm, "The night we found out about Jordan's sister."

"From what I've gathered," Anca replied, "This girl is very much alive."

The shadows in Dalia's eyes darkened. "Liza Báthory. She claimed to be the secret daughter of the Hungarian Countess Báthory herself. Montgomery never said otherwise."

"Countess Elizabeta Báthory." The name left a sour taste in Anca's mouth.

"The girl was only ten or so when turned. I'm not sure exactly, and she never said. According to her story, her mother knew people were coming for her. In order to save Liza's life, and the girl claims, to give her daughter the true beauty of lasting youth that she'd been so desperate to find herself, the Countess had one of her vampire lovers turn Liza. Only days later, she was arrested and imprisoned, eventually going to her grave without ever uttering a word about her daughter."

Born half a century later than Anca, the story of Elizabeta Báthory's blood lust was one of the first cases she'd seen at the Magic Council. The countess had come from a family with distant Romani magic. Stories written in Council records said she'd been turned by a vampire a few years before her death. There was no mention of a secret child, or of making her a vampire.

A scary thought. And one that could explain why Anca's magic wasn't as effective as it should be in this place. Because the girl might have similar power to her own. "What kind of magic does she have?"

"That's one of the foggy memories. I remember her craziness well enough." Dalia shivered, leaning closer to MacDougal. "How she managed to function I never understood. She should be a raving lunatic. But somehow, she... I guess the best way to say it is she
used
her madness. She made it work to her advantage." Dalia shrugged again. "She had magic of some kind, but I don't know what. She had an affinity for plants, and water. Nature based I guess."

"And the others? Those still following her?"

"Not much. I saw Liza or Montgomery only, for the most part. Except one other." Dalia reached up to grasp the vampire King's hand. He clutched her fingers tight, his gaze smoldering with worry and love.

And dangerous warning for Anca.

"Her magic. She could make you do things even when you didn't want to. It was her that kept us all locked under spells. Her and her bodyguard."

"A bodyguard?"

"Extremely protective, that one. He rarely left her side. A giant of a man, vampire. I never knew anything about his magic. Bloodthirsty. And cruel. Liza always encouraged him." She trailed off, closing her eyes as if to hold back horrible memories.

A picture was forming in Anca's mind of this Liza Báthory.

This girl sounded like a larger problem than she'd been expecting. No matter. She'd deal with it.

The Queen, however, seemed exhausted. She'd most likely shared everything that might help. There was no point in forcing her to remember such things any longer. "Thank you."

Dalia glanced at her, relief sweeping over her face at the realization they were done. The King led Dalia to the other side of the room, whispering against her ear. His soft, soothing voice would've made the hardest person calmer.

Anca ran through the few facts she'd gathered so far, letting them loop in her mind, searching for weaknesses to exploit.

Across the room, Dalia let out a short frustrated growl.

Anca jumped to her feet, instinctually, then stopped as MacDougal's voice rose to a powerful command. "You will not go. It's too dangerous."

"Try to stop me. Jordan MacDougal, you are not going up against a damn siren without me, and that's final."

MacDougal gave them a disgruntled look of helplessness.

Dalia added, "I may not be of much help fighting, but I can lend my strength to everyone. That's not something to take lightly."

"The danger—"

The Queen growled again. Her eyes flashed crimson.

To Anca's immense surprise, MacDougal threw his hands up in surrender and slumped over to one of the chairs. Dalia sat at his side, not looking pleased, only worried.

She should be. They all should be. With their small handful of people and who knew what kind of witch the clan had, facing the siren was going to be a hell of a risk.

But she had no choice, and no time to wait. Anca wouldn't allow the creature to decimate this town, or any of its peoples.

M
att couldn't help but feel the anger and worry radiating around the room. From Jordan especially. While Dalia didn't often force her way, when she did, Jordan was helpless. Everyone in the clan was.

Even so, Matt agreed with his King. Dalia should stay home where it would be safe.

He glanced at Anca, realizing he wanted to keep her here as well. Not that such a thing was possible, but it still burned in his veins, this instinctual need to protect her.

Only moments later, Shane Spencer strode into the room. And with him, the witch.

Short and thin, the old woman looked somehow diminished in her black, many pocketed cloak. White haired, her dark skin heavily wrinkled, Jezamine appeared ancient. Her black eyes seemed depthless and all knowing. All seeing.

He'd looked too long into that gaze before and been sucked into a whirlpool of haziness.

Anca jumped to her feet, and bowed her head. "
Bunică
."

Matt knew the word. Grandmother? But the witch couldn't possibly be Anca's grandmother.

"Hello, child. Ye be well." The old woman's statement held a strength and a well of magic that commanded attention.

"I am," Anca replied.

Squinting closer, the witch chuckled, a surprisingly soft sound. "Aye. Ye be well on yer way to a few things. 'Bout time."

Anca's eyes widened. Her lips pressed tight.

"Come." Jezamine strode to Anca's vacated chair. From a pocket, she pulled out a folded black velvet cloth. With a snap of her wrists she laid it over the seat. From another pocket, she drew out a small wooden box with something clattering inside of it.

Abruptly, she handed it to Matt.

He took it without thinking, then silently cursed himself.

Jezamine grinned slyly, grabbed the box, and dumped the contents on the velvet. Small bones scattered in the middle of the cloth, telling a story only the old witch could read.

Or so he'd always thought.

But Anca gasped, staring at the bones. Then she shot Matt a hard, angry look.

"Told ye, Anca Fieraru, daughter of György, great smithy he be." Jezamine laughed again and waved a hand above the bones. "She has seen yer will. What else need be?"

The bones shivered, shook, then redistributed themselves into a new pattern. The witch poked at them and muttered for long moments before straightening with a decisive nod. "The plan be set. It be doable, if we be hurrying."

Sweeping her things back into her many cloak pockets, Jezamine strode across the oval and sat opposite Dalia's chair. No one spoke as everyone settled in chairs surrounded by a thick relaxing quiet.

At the realization, Matt felt the lightest of magics in the air.

Between Dalia and the old witch, an almost imperceptible hum lingered at the fringes of his senses. Calmness, peace. Dalia's Omega abilities were apparently magnified with the witch here.