Laws of the Blood 1: The Hunt (27 page)

What she felt for Rasmussen was only a faint, surface anxiety anyway. A mask, a Band-Aid, useful for covering her worry for Yevgeny. She looked up from the screen and stared across the dark room. Where was he? What was he doing? Would he come home?

“Idiot!” she muttered. “You’re the one who drove him out.”

Desperation was the last thing she’d felt from him, and it frightened her. She tried closing her eyes and reaching him, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, all she encountered was a wide, thick, black wall. She was good. She was the best, but he knew her too well. She’d blocked him out for years, and now he’d turned her tricks on her. Tricks he’d learned in the last several years of trying to breach the defenses she put around her mind.

I did it for you!
she thought as loudly as she could at him. She knew he neither heard nor cared. It was too late to get through. “Damn.”

She buried her fears by working. She typed quickly, the words pouring onto the screen. Not a new screenplay, or more revisions for
If Truth Be Told.
That was history for the moment. She’d have suggestions for rewrites on that soon enough, now that the script was making the rounds. She’d deal with those suggestions when she had to. For now, she’d decided to try her hand at a novel. Something historical. No dragons, no elves, no spaceships, no superheroes or secret agents. No vampires. Definitely no vampires.

She carefully avoided looking at the clock on the bottom of the screen. She stood up to stretch and turned toward the terrace doors as she did so. She pushed her chair back, but that wasn’t what made the sound that came, faintly, to her ears.
Yevgeny?

The indistinct sound of movement on the balcony came again.
Not Yevgeny,
she decided, not admitting that she’d had a moment’s hope. Yevgeny had a key.

Art Rasmussen? Hardly.

Valentine sighed with exasperation. She heard a footstep. The intruder thought he was moving silently, and to anyone else, even another vampire, he would be. She’d always had very good hearing. Another step. To her he sounded like a bull elephant clomping around, trying to avoid her patio furniture and potted plants.

Valentine marched to the terrace door and threw it
open. “I have a front door,” she said to the intruder on the terrace. “You could ring the bell.”

Selim froze in place, just next to the blossoms of a topiary rose tree. He was pale, bloodstained, and looking very much the worse for wear. His big dark eyes stared at her in utter shock. A wave of cold disbelief poured off him; a wave of hot anger followed. He took a breath. He reached out a hand but stopped an inch away from touching her. His mouth moved, lips forming the word once, then again. The third time, he managed to make sound. The word came out as a croak.

“Valentia?”

“Valentine,” she answered tartly, and boxed him on the ear. “And is that any way to address your mother?”

S
ELIM CLOSED HIS
eyes. It was simply all he could think of to do. He took a deep breath, but Valentia’s very real, vibrant scent betrayed any attempt to claim this as a hallucination. He may not have been engulfed by the distinct physical and mental perfume that was her in centuries, but her essence was as familiar to him as on the last night they’d been together. It masked whatever else waited in the apartment beyond the terrace.

When he opened his eyes, she was still there, leaning against the doorway, watching him. Small, delicate, beautiful, faintly smiling, one hand resting on the luscious curve of her hip. In her other hand, she held a blue ceramic mug decorated with a gold embossed logo from some movie. She was utterly real. As real as the aroma of coffee that also wafted to him on the evening breeze. His ear stung, and that was real, too. She lifted the mug to her lips and took a long gulp. If she had any deep feelings at seeing him again, her casual attitude and mental strength masked them neatly.

“You can’t be here,” he told her, finally finding his voice, if not his brain. He touched his ear. “That hurt.”

“That’s my spoiled little princeling,” she said. “You
never were any good at taking discipline.”

“Why should I be?” he answered automatically. “When I never did anything wrong?” More memories than he wanted to pull out and examine crowded into the moment; more years than he wanted to think about. Most of them spent alone—or, at least, without her.

She laughed. He drank in the sound. He wanted to drown in her laughter, die in the blaze of her smile. She hadn’t changed. Not one little bit. Except now she was wearing faded jeans and a sweatshirt with a movie star’s face on it. He was used to her in more elegant attire.

“And why should I change? I like me just the way I am.”

Her mouth was as lush as ever, her hair as thick and long and curling. He wanted to run his fingers through it, to taste those full, red, smiling lips. Of course he did. She was everything to him: life and love and the first person who’d ever given a damn whether he lived or died or was even a little bit sane. She was everything beautiful in the world.

“I’m your mother,” she reminded him. “Your lover. Your maker.” There was infinite understanding in her aura, as well as chilling tartness in her voice.

“Not my mother,” he answered. “My mother was—”

He barely remembered her, the one who had given first birth to him. She had been a true Egyptian, not a daughter of the Mameluke Arab conquerors, but a Coptic Christian girl sent along with other tribute to the sultan in Istanbul. One did not catch a sultan’s attention without beauty, not in a seraglio full of the most beautiful women in the world. Beautiful, with at least a dash of intelligence, he supposed. One did not avoid the visit from the palace abortionist without a certain amount of cleverness after attracting the sultan’s attention resulted in pregnancy. She had been a favored one, a
khadin,
long enough for her son to be born, at least. Then she’d fallen out of favor. He’d been sent to the luxurious prison where spare princes spent their days at a young
age. He could not remember the Egyptian woman’s name.

“While you lived in the Cage,” Valentia reminded him. “I came to you.” He nodded, throat tight with agony—of love, and loss, and remembering. “We tasted each other. I made you what you are.” Her voice purred and spun magic webs around him.

“No.” He blinked at the pain.
You went away! It happened too soon!
He tried to push the thoughts away. To forget.

“I know you have abandonment issues, dear,” Valentia told him. “But I’m still the one who made you what you are today.”

He shook his head. He slashed his hand down diagonally between them. “You—you didn’t—” Selim spread his arms wide, helplessly trying to take in everything he’d ever been and done.

Valentia did not look impressed. She looked him over critically, though. “I didn’t make you a Hunter, you mean? Who was she, then, this third mother of yours? I assume it was a woman, knowing your narrow tastes,” she went on after a short silence where he stood in front of her like a stubborn child, gaze on the Spanish tiles of the balcony floor rather than her, his first lover, his second mother. “I’m gratified you’ll admit to even that much, Selim, even if you won’t say it.” Jealousy curled around her words like wispy smoke, faint but there.

Selim couldn’t help but meet her gaze. He couldn’t help but feel faint amusement at her attitude, faint pride in his answer. “Olympias. It was Olympias herself who brought me to the Hunt.”

Valentia raised an eyebrow sarcastically. She crossed her arms beneath her full breasts, letting the empty coffee mug dangle from one finger. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He mirrored her gestures, though it was a silver dagger that dangled from his fingers when he spoke. “I certainly was.”

“I never thought that square jaw of hers was
attractive. And the girl’s too tall for my taste. More Xena Warrior Princess than Epirean Temple Priestess. Of course, you didn’t know her when she was young.” Valentia glanced at the dagger and neither showed nor felt concern. At least he sensed no contempt at his bravado, though her amusement was strong. “Is there something you plan on doing with that, dear?” She grinned at him. “I really wish you hadn’t felt the need to draw it so soon.”

“Why? Do you have something to fear?” Damn right, she did. Or, more likely, he hoped, someone in her household had something to fear. And how did Valentia come to have a household in his town without his knowing about it? How long had she been here?

“Something to fear? From you?” She shook her head. “No. I was just hoping to use a version of the old Mae West line on you.”

“Mae West line?”

Her grin widened. She took a slow, sexy, step toward him. “You know the one. Is that a knife in your pocket, or are you just happy—”

“Don’t!” He was blushing when he put the dagger back in its sheath. He held his hands up before him. He didn’t know how this conversation had gotten out of control. That’s right, it had never been in control in the first place. He barely remembered how he’d gotten here or why he’d come. Right now, he knew he wanted her, though he knew wanting her was impossible. Forbidden. And—he remembered the dream of making love to her a few days ago.

“To see me,” she finished, her gaze on the growing bulge at his crotch. She was still smiling sexily, but she didn’t come any closer. In fact, she backed up and gestured him inside the apartment. “Want some coffee? Want some answers?” she added when he hesitated, and then she sauntered, hips swinging, inside.

Selim stared after her, pure masculine response overpowering him. It took a few moments to get the reaction under control. He didn’t do it by reminding himself of
the seriousness of the matter, of the heresy of wanting the one who had made him, that it was his duty to punish whoever had broken the First Law. He managed to get his hormones under control by remembering how Siri would react if the little spitfire ever found him fooling around with somebody else. “Never mind the Strigoi Council,” he murmured, and made himself step inside the spider’s lair. “My wife would kill me.”

The room he entered was large, but multifunctional. There was an office setup near the balcony doorway. Beyond that was a living area with a leather couch, a wide-screen television, a glass and iron coffee table, and tall bookcases. There were some large, colorful, art glass pieces in a lighted cabinet, but no paintings on the walls. There were no photos, no knickknacks, no mementos.

“I travel light,” she said, watching him look around. She tapped her temple with a forefinger. “Got everything I need right here. There’s no one in the bedroom,” she added as she went into the kitchen, a narrow open space between the living and office areas. Selim followed her and listened with dread. “I know you sense that I’m alone, but I thought I’d make it perfectly clear before we continue that I’m the one you’re looking for. No household.” She refilled her mug and poured a second cup for him. “Do you still take it sweet?”

“Black,” he answered automatically.

His mind tried to process information while his hands reached for the cup she politely held out to him. He went into the living room with her and took a seat on the couch beside her. They were silent for a while. Not an awkward silence, not an antagonistic one. He felt her withdrawal, her patience, the familiar, comforting compassion while she gave him time to order his thoughts. He drank boiling-hot coffee without tasting it. He stared at the blank television screen. He put the cup down on the table when he realized that the liquid remaining was now cold, and noticed the cover of a coffee table book resting on the middle of the coffee table. Michael
Jordan’s face looked back at him, and Selim’s thoughts, such as they were, turned to basketball.

“You have season tickets for the Lakers,” Valentia said. He turned his head to look at her. She was curled up on the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, the blue mug cradled in her hands, a small woman not taking up much space. Her power filled the room, his mind. He blinked and could do nothing but listen. “That’s where I first spotted you,” she went on. “You and Siri. I was watching the game one night and spotted you in the crowd. Fascinating child, Siri. You really must take her back to your bed.”

He shook his head, held out a hand, started to explain. Valentia didn’t let him get in a word.

“Is it because of what I did to you? Because we had such a short time as lovers? Are you trying to draw out your time together because of what happened to you?”

“She needs time,” he heard himself say. The pain in his voice humiliated him. He knew, and Valentia knew, that he wasn’t talking about Siri, but himself. He wanted to shut up, but couldn’t. “She has to be ready. It takes years to prepare a companion. Decades.”

“And you’ll miss her when she’s gone?”

He nodded miserably. “That, too.”

“Denying what you need won’t work.” She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Believe me, I know. Abstinence isn’t doing either of you any good. It’s wounding her and distracting you. An Enforcer can’t afford to be distracted. The distraction helped me get inside your head without your noticing. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was already there, in your memories, at least.”

He tried to stave off those memories, but they rose with bruising, battering intensity. As she intended, he realized. She was doing a very good job of keeping him off balance.