The Purest of the Breed (The Community) (16 page)

Alex stared distractedly at the Străvechi Caiet, set on the conference table in front of him. It was a beautiful book, the cover sandy-colored with a dark blue crescent moon and star shimmering on the middle of it. He ran his hand over it, the grainy texture lightly abrading his fingertips. Sometimes the nonsensical, hieroglyphic-runic-like writing spoke to him. Which would be nice if it were to happen, like,
now
. Then maybe he could see the future and learn who his mate truly was, and stop agonizing over—

A small electrical spark jumped from the Străvechi Caiet into his hand.

He jumped, his lips parting. His vision zigzagged and his lungs tightened. Trancelike, he watched his own hand slowly open The Book. His heart raced as the page bulged outward, as if it was inhaling a huge breath. On the exhale, it spat the strange lettering off the page, sending it twisting into a small tornado. He stared unblinkingly at it, spellbound. The tornado swirled faster, then slowed, unfolding into a picture. The image was blurry and ragged, but he could make out the figure of a woman. Men, too, large and dangerous— The picture melted into a wash of blood.

“No!” He slammed out of his chair, swaying to his feet.

His exclamation was met with a startled silence. The ten other Council members turned to stare at him.

He stared back, wide-eyed, his breathing audible.

Tonĩ’s gaze shifted down to the Străvechi Caiet, open on the table before him. Her expression sobered. “What did you see?”

“K-Kendra Mawbry…she’s in trouble.” He pressed his fingers to his temples, his head throbbing. The Om Rău knew about her. Someone like Beverly Morville could return safely to the top, but not Marissa, Hadley, and Kendra.

He heard Tonĩ exhale a breath. “How? Kendra agreed to go live with her mother outside of California.”

His stomach was so tight it hurt. “It doesn’t look like,” he said on a raspy breath, “she’s going to make it out of San Diego in time.”

Chapter Sixteen

Alex staggered upstairs on woozy legs. He leaned against his bedroom door for a long moment, one hand braced on the picture of the Eiffel Tower, the other gripping the Străvechi Caiet, his knuckles tense. Jesus, he’d never had such a clear vision before…or such a disturbing one. His head felt packed with wet clay. He drew in a slow, steadying breath, then finally pushed into his room and—

He came to a dead halt.
Oh, no
. The vision had messed up his brain; he was hallucinating. There was a mirage of plants all over the place, scattered everywhere among the Louis the XVI furnishings: ferns, Pothos, creeping charlies…

A small female yelp came from one corner of his room.

He swiveled his head, blinking owlishly behind his glasses.

Luvera Nichita materialized from behind a tall Ficus. “You’re not supposed to be back yet.” She tugged her lower lip between her teeth and furrowed her brow at him.

“The Council meeting…broke early to see to a matter of… What’s going on?”

“Well, um, I know you like plants, so… Ta daaa!” Luvera spread her arms and sang out, “Happy birthday!”

He scanned his bedroom again, his legs still a little tofu beneath him. “I’m not delusional?”

Luvera giggled. “No.”

Holy cow, he couldn’t believe this. The plants were fakes, of course, but excellent reproductions, and there were so many. Luvera had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble and expense.

She clutched her hands together. “I know that half the fun of plants is probably puttering with them, so if this is stupid, I can—”

“No! This is amazing, Luvera, seriously.” He set the Străvechi Caiet on the small table by his door. “I’m standing here like an idiot because I’m stunned.”

Blushing with pleasure, she smiled widely. “Oh, good.”

His stomach danced sideways as he focused helplessly on her smile…or, more specifically, her fangs. Damn, if there was ever a man who was meant to get together with a Vârcolac woman, he was that guy, because the sight of a pair of sweet, sharp fangs totally lit his gas burners. Not that he had any business eyeballing
Luvera’s
fangs. Her canines, or any other part of her for that matter, weren’t up for grabs. Of all the Vârcolac “pals” he’d made recently, Luvera had never so much as hinted she might want to be anything more than his friend. Which was a real bummer. She was super easy to talk to, and they got along great, usually ending up laughing their butts off whenever they were together. More times than not, he found his rear end planted on a barstool at Garwald’s Pub during her waitressing shifts just so he could shoot the breeze with her.

“How did you know I like plants?” he asked, stepping over to his wet bar and fingering the yellow and green leaf of a Pothos.

“I saw a picture in Tonĩ’s office of you and her and your mother on New Year’s Eve. It was taken in your living room, which happened to look like a jungle.”

“
That’s
how you figured it out?” Who did that? What kind of woman so carefully studied a picture just to better understand a guy? His pulse slowed and an odd pressure awoke near his heart. Luvera was something special, so gentle and thoughtful and compassionate.

She didn’t even know how great she was; that was the awful part. She dressed like such a drudge most of the time, her clothing shapeless and unfashionable, her rich sable hair knotted in an ugly bun on top of her head, no makeup. Maybe she thought she wasn’t pretty. She was, though,
really
beautiful, her pearlescent skin as unblemished and pure as the girl herself. Her features were porcelain-like, the delicate bones of her face making her luminous silver eyes seem enormous. It gave her an air of permanent vulnerability that oddly managed to piss him off, as if he knew the whole world was just waiting for an opportunity to take advantage of her. And he, a man who generally ran about a quart low on testosterone, felt an astonishing compulsion to give anyone who would dare such a thing a knuckle sandwich.

“Well, thank you, Luvera,” he said softly, crossing his room to give her a deep look. “It means a lot to me that you would go to such trouble to find out what I like.”

Her blush reappeared. “O-oh, it’s nothing. I…” She fiddled with the frond of a fern. “I like to give people what they want— I mean, to know what they like.”

“Well, that’s very caring.”

She laughed, an uncomfortable bubble of noise. “It probably comes from watching my parents fail at it.” She ran her teeth along her lower lip. “Every year my father would give my mother a gift for her birthday: red sweater, red scarf, red shoes.”

“Let me guess.” Alex inched his brows upward. “Your mother doesn’t care for red?”

“Hates it.” Luvera picked at a hangnail. “He never bothered to figure it out, though, not once during their whole marriage.”

“Men can be dense about those things.” He paused, studying some wispy strands of hair sticking up from her bun. “But, I’m sorry, it sounds like they weren’t happy.”

“No, not often.” She looked up and smiled weakly. “I think, not ever.”

“Isn’t that unusual for Vârcolac marriages?” From what he understood, the biological bond inherent to Vârcolac couplings tended to create strong unions.

“Very unusual,” she said. “Although…I think there’s a secret story behind it. Years ago, I was snooping through my mother’s dresser—just being a nosey teenager—and I found a crumpled letter to her from some man named Ştefan Dragoş. It was dated 1877, the year that the slaughter of Vârcolac in Romania forced the breed to flee. In the letter, Ştefan apologized for not being able to go with her. It was…gosh, so poignantly worded, it sounded like he’d loved her, though he never actually said it. I’m guessing my mother’s heart was broken, and I’ve tried over the years to be sympathetic to that, so I can maybe better understand why she’s the way she is.”

You mean, a bitter, mean-spirited, and rigid old woman
? Alex compressed his lips into a tight line. Broken heart or not, Pettrila should treat her daughter better. Luvera deserved it. “You should move out,” he told her, his tone more sharp than he’d intended, but that strange, fiery protectiveness had risen up in him.

“I know,” Luvera sighed out. “I want to…I’ve
tried
, but…Well, it’s complicated.”

He felt himself getting angrier. It wasn’t complicated at all. Pettrila prohibited it. Not out of devotion to her daughter, but because of her pompous pride. God for-freaking-bid an unmarried woman bearing the name Nichita should live outside the home, according to Pettrila’s prehistoric social rules. It was so unfair. “You
have
to get out from under that woman, Luvera. You’re such a great girl, but the way your mother treats you is sucking the life out of you. I mean, just look at you.” He gestured at her baggy clothing. “You’re so pretty, but you—” He clapped his mouth shut with a clack of his teeth Oh, no. That had come out super wrong.

He watched a taut swallow work its way down Luvera’s throat, and wanted to perform some percussion maintenance on his own head; bang it with a hammer until the damned thing worked properly again.

“I’m sorry,” he said hastily, “that didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean it like… I meant it as a compliment, that…that you’re pretty, but, um…” Someone knocked on his door. He hesitated.
Damn
.

“It’s all right.” She sent him a smile that was forced and so obviously for his benefit that he decided he should stick his head in an oven instead; the hammer was too good for him. “I understand what you meant to say.”

He tucked his lips in at one corner. Lying wasn’t her forte. The knock sounded again. Muttering a curse, he crossed to his bedroom door and opened it.

“Happy birthday!” Jennilĩth exclaimed. “I hope I’m not bothering you, Alex, but I wanted to come by and give you this.” With a flourish, she held out a wrapped package.

“Oh, hey…thanks.” His cheeks warmed. “This is turning into a regular celebration.”

Jennilĩth craned her neck into his room. “Wow. Look at this place.”

“Isn’t it cool? Luvera did it.”

“Oh, hi, Luvera!”

“Hi.”

Jennilĩth gestured excitedly at the present. “Open it.”

He tore off the paper.

“It’s a copy of the
Jaws
script, see.” Jennilĩth flipped open a page. “It has all of Steven Spielberg’s notes on it and everything.” She beamed. “You like scary movies, right?”

Well, actually, horror flicks were more his thing, especially of the slasher variety, and that had been back in his high school days, but… “Um, thank you. This is very thoughtful.”

A smile blazed across Jennilĩth’s face.

Dang, she was so pretty it made him uncomfortable sometimes.

“So you want to catch some dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Tonĩ and Jaċken have already invited me over, but why don’t you come along?” He swung around. “You, too, Luvera.”

“Sorry, I can’t.” Through waxen lips, Luvera forced another smile. “I have to work.”

Heat flushed over Alex’s skin. Well, there was another lie.

“Oh, Luvera, I forgot to tell you,” Jennilĩth gushed. “I got a job at that new restaurant Marissa Bonaventure’s opening. I interviewed for anything, figuring I’d be hired as just a waitress, but she wants me to train as her sous chef. Isn’t that great? I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”

Alex flinched.
Just a waitress
. He knew Jennilĩth hadn’t meant to be disparaging, but between that comment and his big mouth, Luvera was getting trampled.

“Congratulations.” Luvera’s lips were so pale and drawn, Alex worried she might be on the verge of fainting. “Everyone should get to do what they want. Excuse me, I have to go.” She crossed his room. “See you guys later.”

Alex followed her into the hallway, standing awkwardly just outside his door. “Thanks again for the plants, Luvera. You…sure you can’t come tonight?”

She glanced at something down the hallway. “I have to go. But, um, you’re welcome.” She hurried to the grand staircase, leaving him to wonder if he’d blown their friendship to Kingdom Come.

He heard a noise, and glanced down the hallway, too.

Shọn’s door was cracked open, emitting a sliver of light, but as soon as Alex turned to look, it closed with a sharp click.

Chapter Seventeen

134 years ago: December 15th, 1877, Transylvania, Romania. Peleş Castle in Sinaia

Elisabeth of Wied, wife to Carol, Prince of Romania, bent over her needlework, a lace cap perched daintily on her crown of rich sable hair. She was seated on a cushioned bench across from Pettrila in the castle’s Florentine Room. Both women were cozily placed in front of a huge white marble fireplace decorated with replicas of Michelangelo statuary, a stack of blazing logs warding off the chill.

“Our army finally took the town of Plevna,” Elisabeth said, then
humphed
sadly. “Five months it took the combined forces of Russia and Romania to succeed in that, and so many men lost.”

“Aye, Your Highness, war brings such terrible misfortune.” Pettrila shifted on her bench, her own handwork in her lap, but couldn’t find a comfortable position. Any measure of comfort would no doubt be impossible to find with her long hair knotted into an excruciatingly tight bun at her nape and the gown she was wearing cut along the waist into the fashionable, figure-hugging “princess line.” The design had necessitated an extra-tight pull of her corset laces, rendering movement, not to mention the act of breathing, an undue challenge. But when one visited royalty, no matter how favored a companion, one dressed in the latest style.