Good Intentions (34 page)

Carlos and his stooges, while very useful in a number of roles, were perhaps not up to the task of stalking an accomplished succubus. Even a demon could risk only so much bleedover between matters supernatural and mortal. Thus, she needed intermediaries…as distasteful as those available here in Seattle might be. It was perhaps an hour and a half after sunset that the knock came at the door to the study. Lydia put a hand on her new pet’s head to keep him going. “Who is there?” she asked. “It’s Paco,” the voice answered. “Enter,” Lydia beckoned. He did, and though he did his best to keep a straight face, the sight of the artist on his hands and knees servicing her put Paco through multiple emotional reactions. He was aroused at the sight of her, enraged and hurt at the notion that someone else had intimate access to her—bad enough that he had to put up with her being married to Carlos—and humiliated at the thought that he would likely do nothing about it lest he risk displeasing her. It was obvious that Paco had to fight off the urge to shoot the boy right then and there. Lydia smiled at Paco sweetly. She kept the artist going about his deed. He wasn’t getting her anywhere near orgasm, but this cruel little moment made up for that. “What is it, Paco?” she asked patronizingly. Paco gritted his teeth. He’d swal ow his pride, she knew, and that cultivated machismo of his, because she was that damned amazing. He wouldn’t do anything to screw up his chances with her, regardless of what she did. The sketch artist might not make it home alive, though, but at least his work was done. It would be no great loss. “You’ve got people here to see you,” Paco said in Spanish, trying to maintain his icy self-control. “Excel ent,” she said. “Have you heard from Carlos yet?” She spoke as if the man kneeling before her wasn’t even there. “He cal ed. He said to tel you he’d be home late tonight.” “Very good,” Lydia nodded. “Can you describe our guests?”

“Three people. Two men, one woman. They’re al dressed in black…frilly clothes,” Paco said, trying to find words. He couldn’t help but stare daggers at the head between Lydia’s legs. “Really pale. They seem stuck up and annoying.” “Yes. That’s exactly who I was expecting,” Lydia said dryly. She shifted in her chair, leaving it to the artist to realize that his time with her was done. He leaned back, looking up at her like a lost puppy. She got to her feet without bothering to close her robe. “Have you made them comfortable?” “I asked them to wait in the living room, yes.” “Good. I’m going to throw something on before I go down there.” She gathered the sketches he had made for her before she glanced down at the kneeling young man. “What was your name again? Albert? Adam?” “Webster,” he answered. “Ah. Right. Paco, could you show Webster here out? Best if you use the back entrance. I’m going to go get dressed.” Paco waited until Lydia was out of the room before he strode over to Webster to pul him roughly to his feet by the ear. Moments later, Lydia came down the ornate staircase in a form-fitting, full -length crimson dress. She had considered jeans and tal boots; a meeting like this would make anyone feel as if they’d stepped in something distasteful. still , what had to be done, had to be done. Waiting in the living room were her guests. One of the men was standing; he was dressed in black jeans, a black button-down shirt and a black leather sport coat, with his hands folded at his belt buckle and his eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. His black spiky hair and fashionable sideburns framed a pale, thuggish face. The other two rose as Lydia arrived. They were dressed with something beyond formality in mind. The man seemed like a grave, al -black peacock, clad as he was in shining black leather pants and a frilly black poet’s shirt. He tossed his head in a motion that conveyed practiced arrogance while also clearing his long black hair from his vision. His companion, a slender woman in a black formal gown and diamond jewelry, would have been deemed to be of

exquisite, delicate beauty to most anyone…but Lydia knew she was only a gaudy, well -preserved corpse. “Welcome to my home,” Lydia said with al the cordiality and warmth she could muster. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t much. “Good evening,” the peacock replied in a deep voice. His accent was English, and overly so. “I am Lord Damien Blackthorne,” he began, either missing or ignoring Lydia’s immediate sneer, “Steward of the Dark Emerald City in service to my liege, Her Grace, Lady—” He got no further than that. His hand had been outstretched as he was in the process of introducing the woman to his immediate left, but Lydia interrupted him. “Spare me your pretentious, insipid titles,” she said with a wave of her hand. Lydia sat in an ornate chair facing them without ceremony. “You’re Blackthorne. I understand. And you are?” she looked to the poised but plainly surprised vampire princess next to him. “Lady Anastacia Il yana Kanatova,” she said in a cultivated Russian accent. “Of course. And you,” Lydia said to the third. “I assume you have a much shorter name. Thorne? No, that’s already partly taken here. Ice? Ash? Blaze. No, wait. Caine. No? Shade?” “Lucien,” the third vampire said with a scowl. “Two syl ables,” Lydia noted with a lifted eyebrow. “I’m impressed.” “We did not come here to suffer petty mockery,” Anastacia said cool y. “No, of course not, but that can’t be helped. I’ve met too many of your kind over the years. We’l cut right to it, then. You know who I am?” “Our court loremasters have explained al we need to know,” Blackthorne replied. “Loremasters,” Lydia murmured wryly. “Of course. well . You may cal me Lydia. I may well be in this city for some

time depending on how my affairs turn out. I offer you the courtesy of establishing a working relationship now rather than working one out after months or years of shadowy intrigue and friction between us.” It was Anastacia’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Again, though, Blackthorne did the talking. “Why should we wish to establish such a relationship with one such as yourself?” “Because, little vampire, I know al about your kind. I have an abundance of personal power and resources and I have none of your weaknesses. That said, I have no need to wrest control of the shadows of this city from you—such control as you may or may not have. But if it comes to it, I’l be perfectly happy to confirm through experimentation whether or not current literary trends are true and see if you lot now merely sparkle in the—” “What do you want?” Anastacia asked. Her face remained placid, her voice still cool. It was clear that Blackthorne and Lucien bristled under Lydia’s blunt disrespect, but Anastacia maintained her self-control. “Merely a little assistance. Your kind are spread throughout any city’s nightlife. I am in search of two individuals, a young man and a woman. The male’s name currently escapes me. The woman goes by the name of Lorelei. I have their likeness here,” she said, holding out the sheets of paper, “though with the caveat that the woman’s image does not do true justice to her…physical attributes.” At a nod from Anastacia, Lucien stepped forward and took the pictures. He looked them over, shrugged, and showed them to Blackthorne. Anastacia kept her calm gaze on Lydia. “I would consider it a genuine favor if you would locate and investigate either or both of them,” Lydia went on. “I do not ask you to take any action beyond gathering information.” “And in return?” Anastacia asked. “In return, I shall agree to respect such territorial boundaries as you hold most sensitive. My interests here lie primarily with an expansion and shift of organized crime. As I am involved with that shift, I could help you manage things so that no undue harm comes to your interests. Additional y, I will agree to do you a return favor and come to your aid some time in the future when you face a chal enge to your crown or throne or whatever it is you cal it,” Lydia

added, waving a dismissive hand at the last. There was silence, and finally Lydia added, “And I may be inclined to demonstrate a certain degree of greater respect.” Anastacia favored her with a tight smile. “How very generous of you.” She sat back down in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Tel me what details you can of these two you seek.” * “If you get bored, I want you to let me know,” Alex said. He was behind the wheel this time, feeling a little more confident in his ability to watch the road instead of being mesmerized by his companion. The sun had gone down just a couple of hours earlier, leaving them with a surprisingly clear, comfortable night for late September. “I’l have no trouble keeping myself amused, master,” Lorelei assured him. She sat in the passenger seat, clad in an even small er and even sexier little black dress than she had worn the night before. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap. Her innocent posture and playful tone of obedience sent out very blatant signals. “Seriously, though. This is gonna be a bunch of college-age kids, and a lot of ‘em aren’t really sure what they’re doing with their lives. Probably most of ‘em still claim to be psych majors, for fuck’s sake. Hardly any of us have real jobs yet. And I don’t even know most of them. Just the hostess and a few of her friends who were also classmates of mine. I kinda doubt you’re going to find everyone very interesting. They’l al be blown away by you, though,” he added. “Alex, not everyone I have associated with has been some highly-placed aristocrat or potentate. Far from it. I have spent much more time in simple farms and vil ages and even humbler settings than I have in castles or mansions. Mortals fil their lives with complexities and meaning regardless of where they are placed in society. It’s really al just

a matter of perspective.” “Yeah, but…I’ve just got this feeling it’s going to devolve into a bunch of people feeling like they’re willd and crazy just because they’ve had a few beers and are talking really loud.” “I’m sure it’l be fine.” “You’re just saying that to be tactful.” “You know I would not do that, Alex,” Lorelei replied. “If I didn’t want to go with you to this party, I’d have seduced you into staying in the hotel with me. Your friends will be there, won’t they? I rather enjoyed their company the other night.” “Well , there’s my close friends, and there’s people I know from school, and their friends. I’ve gotten along at these parties, sure, but I wouldn’t cal just any one of them up at night to see if they wanted to go catch a movie.” Lorelei shrugged. “Not every pleasant association can lead to something life-altering.” Arriving at their general destination, Alex began looking for a parking space. As he did, he asked tentatively, “Demons don’t really ever have friends, do they?” “No,” she answered. Her voice had grown quieter. “Not among our own kind. There is occasionally the pretense of al iance or loyalty, but it is al out of self-interest, and al know it. I have had…a passing appreciation for some few mortals in my life, but I kept my distance.” Alex felt her eyes upon him as he found a parking spot. “You and yours are the first friends I’ve ever had.” He turned to look at her then, and found her solemn gaze tel ing him a hundred things without using a single word. Without their eyes breaking, she finally said, “I want you to have a good time at this party tonight, my love.” She shifted a bit in her seat, sliding black lace down from underneath her short dress and off her legs. Lorelei dangled the lace for a moment between herself and Alex without ever breaking that stare of undying desire and unquestionable devotion. “A very good time.”

They were parked out on a residential street at night lined with cars against both curbs. It was Magnolia again, the same neighborhood where Alex had met Raymond Cordingly and confronted the reality of what Lorelei was for the first time. Their destination wasn’t as opulent or large a home as Cordingly’s, but it was more than ample for throwing a big party. several of the other houses in the neighborhood were apparently hosting get-togethers; it had been tricky finding a place to park. Alex and Lorelei had a couple of blocks to walk before they got to the house. But before that, Alex opened Lorelei’s door, offered his hand in helping her out, closed the door… and then slipped an arm around her waist. Lorelei slung one leg over his hip with easy grace. Wordlessly, she loosened his jeans and pushed away his button-down shirt. Their stare held as their contact became even more intimate. Swept away as they were by shared desires, neither of them had thought to have Lorelei employ her supernatural knack for hiding in plain sight. A BMW passed by, slowing long enough for the older woman at the wheel to yel out in disgust, “Hey! Go inside! This is a decent neighborhood!” Laughing happily, Lorelei cal ed back to the woman, “Not tonight, it’s not!” * After three hundred years, Alistair Prescott Pennington was more than accustomed to being the center of attention at social events. He was young when he was ushered into unlife, barely over twenty years and having seen little of the world past his small English vil age. His talents for poetry, artistic expression and social interaction had caught the eye of a passing vampire. The ancient one swept him away with a vivid description of the macabre grandeur of the undying society of the night. Unable to resist this siren’s cal , he consented to giving up his life’s blood for a chance at transcending his drab, common mortal existence. At first, there had been emotional turmoil and angst— oh, the angst! —but with time, Alistair adapted to the realities of unlife and the society of the night. His artistic and interpersonal acumen served him quite well among both the

living and the undead. He was celebrated, in Europe and even America, in high society bal rooms and theatres and private performances. His unending youth also worked to great advantage. It was Alistair’s eternally young face and voice that al owed him to keep current, to adapt well to changing times and blend in with the mortal world. It made it easier to keep up with trends, to maintain his artistic and social edge…and to feed. His current dal iance was Brittany, a lovely, buxom young blonde college student enchanted by Alistair’s deeply thoughtful eyes and his dark, mysterious styles. When Alistair arrived outside her window, half an hour past sunset as he had for the past several nights, she asked, breathlessly dazzled as always by his dark charms, if he would go with her that night to a party. She had been invited to a house in Magnolia, thrown by a friend of a friend. Brittany’s eyes shimmered with joy when he said he would love to meet her friends. She knew he would be a great hit, being so worldly and magnetic and talented. Alistair knew it, too… …until they arrived, and hardly anyone noticed him. Oh, he and Brittany had made an entrance. He came through the door, brooding and enigmatic with the lovely, innocent blonde on his arm. Heads turned and conversations fell to a mere murmur. Brittany’s grip on his forearm tensed as she realized with self-conscious excitement that al eyes were on her—wel , on him, anyway. But she was with him and that was surely exciting enough in its own right. Then someone pressed through the crowd and said, “Ohmygosh, Brittany, you’re here! You’ve gotta see! There’s fire dancing outside!” Brittany hardly hesitated. Alistair’s pale skin went an extra shade lighter as people rose from the foyer and the living room, al headed to the rear of the house to see what was going on. Alistair let his date pul free from him. He wanted nothing to do with terrible, dreadful flames. He stood in the foyer alone as VNV Nation began blasting outside and party guests began to whistle and cheer. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Alistair fol owed, through the living room and then the broad kitchen space beyond and out to the spacious backyard. He was more than happy to stay at the rear of the crowd, eventually finding a planter upon