Good Intentions (58 page)

“Our arrangement with Lord Baal has nothing to do with Lady Anastacia’s holdings, nor any of the agreements we have negotiated,” Stefan replied. “I see no justification for this interference.” “Interference? No. Observation, sir,” Blackthorne countered. “This sorcery was to take place in my home, while hosting an event at the Lady’s invitation and under her jurisdiction. I should say we are quite entitled—!” “Jurisdiction?” Stefan scowled, showing a small degree of open tension for the first time. “Need I remind you, sir, that no agreement has yet been formalized between the Brotherhood and the Lady.” “Trouble in paradise?” Lydia smiled over her shoulder at Baal. The demon had moved over to Lorelei, who turned away from him in disgust. “Not the sort of matters that concern my slaves or I,” he said. Then he smiled at Lorelei. “Yes, slaves. You’l be mine once again, as soon as Lydia has dispatched your little boyfriend here. But I see no reason to rush her.” “Again, Lord Stefan,” Blackthorne said darkly, “this is still my home. You remain here at the Lady’s invitation. We will al ow your work to continue out of deference to Lord Baal and Lydia, but do not presume too much.” “Gentlemen,” Lord Baal sighed without looking away from Lorelei, “this grows tiresome.” Stefan and Blackthorne stared at one another for a moment longer. Warren was silent, along with the other vampires, but their presence wasn’t the sort of thing anyone would miss. Stefan was quite clearly aware of the superior numbers around him. Despite his magic, numbers mattered. “Warren,” Stefan said finally, “please proceed.” The robed sorcerer stepped around to the head of the large table. Lydia remained on top of Alex, upright but still straddling him. “If the lady would be so kind?” Warren gestured, then offered a hand down from the table. “I think I like it here,” Lydia protested mischievously. “Is it essential that I move?”

The hooded man did not answer right away. “I can perform my work either way,” he said, “but I would hate to disturb you.” “I’m already disturbed. Please make it worth my while.” He bowed again. Warren then drew from the folds of his robe a funnel and a large flask. “I will need someone to hold his head steady,” he said. “Mitchel ,” Blackthorne beckoned immediately. Without hesitation, the vampire in the black clothes so reminiscent of the Old West strode to the end of the table. He grabbed Alex’s head and held it firm against the tabletop. “Thank you,” Warren said. He glanced down at Alex’s face. “Would someone else be so kind as to urge him to open his mouth?” “Talon,” Blackthorne said. A moment later, Talon appeared at the table opposite from Warren. He grabbed at Alex’s jaw and forced it open after a bit of a struggle. Lorelei pul ed against her chains fiercely. The force of her efforts resulted in a loud racket. Lord Baal looked on with some amusement as she pul ed and pul ed, even to the point of obvious injury to her hands as the cuffs around her wrists refused to give. “Love hurts, doesn’t it, dear Lorelei?” he taunted. The succubus yanked again on the chains. Neither the links nor the hook in the floor would give, but she kept trying in obvious desperation. Finally Blackthorne said, “Spade, Jack, would you be so kind?” The unoccupied vampires with him walked over to Lorelei and began beating her. She was pummeled to the floor as fists with supernatural strength and a complete lack of mercy fell upon her. Warren put the funnel partly into Alex’s mouth and popped the lid on his flask. He poured in a small amount of the liquid, murmuring words in Greek. Alex coughed and sputtered as best he could, but the hands on his head made it impossible to do anything more. Eventual y, he swal owed out of panicked reflex despite his efforts at spitting the liquid out.

His body shuddered. Warren pul ed his flask back, watching and waiting. The room had fall en silent as Lorelei’s tormenters let up in their work. Everyone heard Alex let out a stifled whimper of pain. “Does it hurt him?” Lydia asked. “Physical y, no,” Warren explained. “Not at al . However, the River Lethe is said to take sorrow and pain from the dead. To expose the living to it brings the opposite effect. The memories that come back first and clearest are those that are most painful. Trauma is relived. Loss occurs al over again. The reason we cannot simply examine his memories immediately is that we must let the psychological turmoil settle first, lest Lord Stefan be subject to his pain.” Lydia smiled broadly. “How dreadful,” she mused. Without warning, she snatched the flask from Warren’s hand and promptly overturned it into the funnel. “Not so much!” Warren blurted out, reaching for the flask only to have his hands slapped away by the demon. None of the vampires moved to stop her. Once more, Alex did what he could to spit out the potion, but the fingers that clamped down immediately on his nose blocked any ability to breathe. He couldn’t cough out the liquid without any air in his lungs. Eventual y, desperate reflex took over and he swal owed. Lydia withdrew the funnel and empty flask from his mouth, handing both back to Warren. “There you go,” she said sweetly. Alex coughed, gasped, and then fell silent for a long moment. Tears that had fall en from his eyes in the midst of choking continued to flow. Soon, his body shook as he openly wept. There was no holding back his tears. He hardly seemed aware of his surroundings anymore. On the floor, Lorelei shook with pain. Lifetimes of desire were mixed up in Alex’s memories, almost al of it dominated by a sense of loss or desperation or betrayal. Alex thrashed willdly on the table with greater effect than ever. Lydia chuckled, slipping off of him to let him strain against his bonds. His cries became tumultuous, body-wracking sobs.

Lydia cast a glance and a smirk toward Baal. “Teenagers,” she snickered. “So much drama.” She looked to Warren. “How long will this go on?” “I am unsure,” Warren told her. “It will al depend on how much there is for his mind to sort through. This seems a bit much for one so young, but there may be trauma in his personal history we did not account for.” “Hmpf,” Lydia shrugged. She then turned to Blackthorne. “I suppose, then, that while we wait I might fullfil my obligations to your Lady.” Blackthorne eyed the wailing prisoner. “That would be good of you, yes,” he murmured. “Master?” Lydia asked. “Wil you accompany us?” “My time grows short,” he noted. “I will accompany you, but…you. You. Deal with her chains,” he said, gesturing to Spade and Jack and then to Lorelei. “She comes with me.” “Talon,” Blackthorne blinked. “Mitchel . Would the two of you be so kind as to remain here?” “Sure,” the cowboy shrugged. Talon only nodded. They both cast wary glances at the robed sorcerer, who stepped back an extra pace. As Lorelei’s chains were unfastened from the floor, her handlers favored her with another kick to the stomach and another blow across the shoulders. She hardly felt them, though. Instead, she felt her young lover’s desires. Lorelei loved him. He’d helped her rise above what she once was. She longed to surround him with luxuries and affection, and to enjoy him for the rest of his days. She had worked tirelessly to simply teach him to set aside his distant worries and finally learn to have a good time. As she was pul ed away from Alex, Lorelei still felt his desires. It was al flavored with a tempest of desperation, denial, fear and regret. She felt betrayal, loss and terrible, awful loneliness.

As Lorelei was dragged from Alex’s side, she felt his strongest desire. More than anything else, the only man she ever loved wanted to die. Chapter 17

Don’t Cry

He remembered walking to Opilio’s house, feeling cheated, feeling bitter, knowing, just knowing that this would destroy any chance at building a decent life again. He’d been right, too. He realized that as the abrupt end to his memories became clear. It was the same feeling he’d had when the slavers clubbed him over the head. After this second blackout, though, there was nothing else. He remembered sitting in the recruiter’s office in Detroit, giving his name, rank and serial number and requesting to go back into that stinking bush, trying al the while not to weep. The recruiter didn’t even ask how he was doing, let alone question the decision. His tears didn’t flow then, but they flowed now. He remembered Marie in the rearview mirror of the truck as he returned to the front, back to where 2nd Armored would go right back into the thick of it with the Germans. She waved, then hung her head and turned away. They exchanged letters right to the end, but that was the last he ever saw of her. He remembered al the awful, thoughtless, stupid things he had said to Siobhan. He hadn’t meant any of it, hadn’t meant to say anything but “I’m hurt” and “this is hard for me” and “I love you.” The hurtful things came out of his mouth and crushed her feelings like so many slaps in her beautiful, wounded face. He remembered desperately wanting to take them al back, and he remembered the moment when he found out that it was too late. He remembered building hall a’s funeral pyre and lighting it, the morning after he had spent al night cradling her bloodied body in his arms.

He remembered dying alone and afraid in a dirty street in a Holy Land that seemed less and less holy every day he and his fell ow Crusaders had been there. He remembered al that, and so much more: finding his wife slain by Shaka’s warriors for failing to show proper grief for Nandi’s passing. Finding his wife bent over his dinner table by the very priest who had officiated the wedding, and her snarling demand that he leave her alone despite the flowers in his hand and the horror in his eyes. Al that, and so much more. It was too much to bear al alone. * “I’m here. I’m gonna help you. You’re not alone.” “Mol y,” Mr. Woods asked, “what are you doing?” “Helping him,” Molly said. She knelt at the side of the young, mostly-naked man on the short couch. He was pale and hardly conscious. Molly pul ed from one of her many pockets a blue periwinkle leaf, crushed it in her hand and rubbed it on his neck where the two puncture wounds were still somewhat bloody. She murmured words of healing and comfort. “No, I mean why would you do that?” Woods pressed. Molly looked over her shoulder in something of a glare. Standing over her were Onyx, Mr. Woods, and a pair of heavyset vampires in dresses that were the height of fashion back in the antebel um South. She ignored Woods. “He needs water,” the redheaded Goth said to Onyx, who promptly stepped away to a table of refreshments nearby.

“Oh,” said one of the vampires in a sweet voice, “do you plan on revivin’ him? That’s ever so kind of you. He’s just delicious. Ah’d hate to think that ah got the last bit of him al mahself. He should be shared around more.” “Shared?” Molly blinked. “He’s wiped out. Even once I’m done with him, he’s not up for more of this. He needs to go home.” “Home?” The vampires chuckled, looking at one another. “Why, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” one of them declared. Onyx was there with a glass of water at that moment, which she put in the delirious young man’s hand. Mr. Woods laid a hand on Mol y’s shoulder. “Mol y,” he urged, “we need to move on. You’ve done what you can here.” “I can get him to a car.” “You can’t,” Woods said firmly. “Not unless you’re will in’ to pay Lord Blackthorne for him,” the other of the undead ladies put in. “Al these refreshments are his property, after al .” Mol y’s eyes flared. Onyx grabbed her arm and helped Mr. Woods pul her away. “You’ve been warned already,” Mr. Woods reminded her in a hushed voice. “Live and let live.” “Like they’re letting these drones live?” Molly hissed. “Would you be so tolerant of a guest in your home disrupting your lifestyle?” Woods asked. “This has gone on for centuries. You’re not going to change anything.” “This goes beyond lifestyle,” Molly argued quietly. “Do you really think al these people here walking around as hors d’ourves are knowing volunteers?”

“Some of them, yes,” Mr. Woods nodded. “But that’s not for us to judge. Ladies, I know you are both new to al of this, but how different do you really think this is from how the Brotherhood handles its matters? We told you before, the vampires are doing this in part to remind one another—and us—of their natures. We shouldn’t be shocked. They’re entertained by seeing you get upset, and they’l only seek more entertainment from that. They feed on human blood. We are here to make sure once and for al that it won’t ever be our blood. Don’t tel me you’ve gotten al this way in your studies without spil ing a little blood yourselves.” “Mr. Woods,” Onyx broke in, her hand still on Mol y’s arm, “do you think you could give us a moment to talk this over? I think we’re al just having a misunderstanding here.” He nodded, looking at Onyx imploringly. “Of course,” he said. He stepped away. Most of the conversation took place through a single exchange of nuanced glares. Onyx sympathized with Mol y, but wanted to keep her eye on the bal . Molly didn’t want to blow their mission, but was of the opinion that everyone present needed to be annihilated, here and now, immediately and without delay. This was not, after al , the first expired “blood toy” the pair had seen tonight. It was just the first that they could get to and offer aid. Moreover, it wasn’t the first time they had witnessed the indifference of the Brotherhood. Before the conversation went very far, though, there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere of the broad hall . Black-garbed partygoers parted graciously and bowed or knelt as a strange procession of individuals walked by. At their front were Lord Blackthorne and Lady Anastacia, who had been described at length for Molly and Onyx by several gushing guests. They carried themselves like royalty. Behind them, though, no one else put on such airs. They were imposing enough, though: a man in a suit with dark, smoky orbs instead of eyes, and a stunningly beautiful blonde woman in an elegant, slinky emerald dress. To Molly and Onyx’s mystic vision, both of them had small black horns just below the scalp, large demon wings and thin devil’s tails. Those same demonic features where shared by the chained, muzzled, bloodied woman dragged behind them in chains. She wore a tattered black nightgown and a glare of overwhelming hatred for everything around her, and in

particular for the demons she was forced to fol ow. The vampires that dragged her along by her chains offered no mercy or pity. Onyx’s grip on Mol y’s arm tightened noticeably. Were it not for the aid of the spel of deception they both wove before they began this escapade, her expression would have surely betrayed her alarm. Instead, her face was merely grim. “Lord Stefan?” Mr. Woods asked as the group passed by. “A moment?” The well -dressed leader of the Brotherhood peeled off from his accompaniment of the group without disrupting its ranks, having been behind the demons to begin with. A robed man who kept his face hidden behind a hood fol owed him. “My time is short, Mr. Woods,” Stefan warned him in hushed tones that Onyx only barely heard. “Stil , it is good that you got my attention here. We need to speak.” “Oh?” “How urgent is your business?” “Not terribly, I suppose. I did want to make you aware of a couple of new guests if only to avoid a surprise. This is Molly and Onyx, whom we’ve been hoping to chat up for some time. Ms. Black managed to convince them to come to the party to meet with us.” Stefan glanced up at them, a glint of recognition in his eyes but without any real change in his demeanor. “Ah. Ladies, I sincerely apologize. While I have been eager to make your acquaintance and hopefully sway you into joining our organization, I fear tonight may not be the night for such negotiations. Mr. Woods, I trust you are seeing to their safe conduct?” Woods hesitated. His eyebrows rose at the loaded question. “I am,” he answered finally.