Vampire Games (Files of the Otherworlder Enforcement Agency #4)

Vampire Games (Files of the Otherworlder Enforcement Agency #4) Page 13

Pieces of clothing flew as we walked, with the vampire somehow coordinating the removal of my clothes without a single misstep. He set me down at the foot of his bed and I yanked his shirt over his head. His skin shone in the low light. Not as pale as vampires were reputed to be, but a touch different from a normal man. Muscles stretched beneath, corded and strong. Long and lean.

Just the way I liked him.

The rest of our clothes disappeared under feverish kisses. And then he was pushing me onto the bed, his mouth on my breast. I moaned as he pulled at my nipple, and his hand slipped between us to stroke me.

Sparks flashed almost immediately as the orgasm took me. I was almost embarrassed at how fast he could still do that to me, but his satisfied expression only made me need him again.

He brought my body back to the edge with his long fingers and clever tongue. I gripped his hardness and pulled him to me. I’d be damned if I came again without him.

Lips against my neck, he nuzzled me softly, body braced to enter mine.

“I need you, mon chou. All of you.”

I knew what he was asking for—not just sex, but something perhaps even more intimate. I could have said no, and he would have respected it. But I’d never been able to tell him no. And desire for him to have me—in every way that he wanted—coiled inside me, tight and eager.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He thrust his hips forward, filling me, forcing me to take all of him. A split second later, a sharp sensation stung my neck. Then he sucked.

Pain mixed with pleasure as he drove into me and pulled at my vein. Faster and harder. Thoughts evaded me, and I couldn’t feel anything but him. Time stopped. The orgasm hit and rolled through me so powerfully I thought for a moment I couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t take it. Then Claude stiffened above me and buried himself inside my body. Taking his own pleasure, he cried out against my neck.

Minutes passed before I could think again. His weight still on me as he held me in the cradle of his arms. I sighed against his chest, and his hold tightened.

What the hell had I done?

The night passed like a dream. Like every bittersweet dream I’d had since Claude had ended things. But it wasn’t a dream, and in the morning I woke to a belly full of regret, and the smell of something delicious.

Everyone knows that vampire bites are pleasurable. Everyone knows that bites can be addictive for the recipient and the vampire—even if it wasn’t in the way that drugs are addictive, not to humans, at least.

Everyone knows that you never let a vampire bite.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d made that particular mistake with Claude.

I touched my neck in the mirror. Two small holes. They would disappear more quickly than most wounds, but it would be another day or two yet. They wouldn’t scar. Thank goodness for scarf weather.

I knew better than to think they wouldn’t scar me in other ways.

Claude waited for me in the kitchen, cooking waffles. Actual, made-with-a-waffle-maker waffles. The vampire seemed at ease, going through the motions of cooking with an extra skip in his step. Exactly the opposite of how I felt. Not that I didn’t feel a bit de-stressed from our passionate night, but new stresses now replaced the old. He kissed my cheek when he handed me a plateful, and I offered him a small smile.

“The giant called while you were in the shower.”

“Oh?” Focus on the case. For God’s sake, focus on the case. But I couldn’t seem to drag my gaze from his full lips. The memory of them on my body made me flush.

Amusement danced in Claude’s eyes, but he kept to the topic at hand. “He has some information for us, thought we could head over this morning.”

Some of my panic faded. Yes. This was good. We could pursue the case. I could pretend the night before never happened. It was a blip—I certainly wasn’t falling for him again. I dug into my waffle. “Sounds good.”

“Beatrice.”

I looked up from my food and met his shining eyes, crinkled with pleasure. Hell, he had noticed my eyes on him. “That doesn’t mean we’re not talking about last night at some point.”

Dammit. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

He grinned. The man’s confidence knew no bounds. “Oh, there’s plenty to talk about.”

I attacked my waffle and ignored the weight of his stare, which I could feel following my every movement. We didn’t have anything to talk about. Risking that feeling again—the emptiness and melodramatic sadness I’d felt before—wasn’t going to happen. I was older now. Wiser.

And I’d been down that road.

So I ignored him through breakfast, and then we headed out. The drive to the metalworker’s was quick, but my mood darkened as we drove, even as Claude’s seemed to brighten. By the time we parked and Claude pushed quarters into the meter, I half expected the jerk to be humming.

But he didn’t hum, although a smile lingered on his lips. As Chicago’s bitter wind swept through my layers, I pulled my coat tighter around myself.

The metalworker answered the door quickly, as if he’d waited for us by the door, a sour expression on his face. His gaze met Claude’s, and his frown deepened. The vampire hesitated at the door, then shot me a questioning glance before following the large man inside.

Again we trailed behind the man down a long, dark hallway into what had to be some sort of basement area. And again he sat. But this time, the walk didn’t seem quite as fearsome, and the smell of smoke didn’t bring to mind the brand and burning flesh.

“You said you had info for us,” Claude said, settling into a chair not far from the counter. I remained behind him, suddenly feeling out of place.

The giant sighed heavily. “It’s what I said.”

Claude tensed, his body suddenly tight and unmoving. “And?” All friendliness had disappeared from his tone. And what remained wasn’t threatening, but all business.

“Yer not gonna want to hear this.”

“Tell me.”

“Found the metalworker that made the brand. Found its use.”

“What was it used for?” I took a step toward them, tired of being left in the background. This was my case, too, whether Claude liked it or not. Whether he realized how important it was to me or not. Because it was important. More important than his beef with Nicolas.

“Torture. Looks like they was experimentin’ with causing pain through the brand.”

There were plenty of ways to torture people, both magical and mundane. Why leave a traceable mark behind? “Meaning what exactly?” I asked.

“Meaning they could do it from wherever. Whenever they cared to,” Claude said.

“The fanger has the right of it.”

“It forms a magical connection, then? They can cause a marked person pain from a distance?” Disbelief made my voice too loud, but I didn’t care.

Claude turned to me. “That would be pretty damn useful. You’d be able to use it as a targeting system. Would be able to cause pain to the person marked whenever you liked, so long as they didn’t alter the mark.”

“Whoa, whoa.” I shook my head vigorously. “No way. That kind of power over someone through a simple brand?”

“Nay. Yer misunderstanding. It’s not so easy.” The giant set the picture of the brand on the counter he used for a desk. “The brand is forged usin’ witchcraft—powerful stuff, that. Can’t be sensed. Can’t be magically felt.”

“But his sensitive partner felt the brand—” I began.

“Sure, bettin’ she sensed the shaman power, though. The forgin’ is only the first bit. Then they’d need some time with the poor soul caught in their web. Several days, I’d guess. And a shaman with as dark a soul as you can imagine to bind the spirit to the brand mark.”

My stomach dropped. Several days. Shamanic power. But why? Who would want the ability to torture a selkie—even a selkie prince, or whatever he was—from afar? Surely there was little to be gained by it. And if torture had been their goal, then he probably wasn’t the only one. Otherwise, why create a reusable brand?

“And bindin’ the mark…” He shook his head. “It’d make it impossible to destroy on the poor man it was branded into.”

“What about his memory issues?” Claude said. At the giant’s questioning glance, he added, “The man can’t remember what happened during the time he got the brand. Also has a tough time talking about it.”

“Not shaman power, that. More witchcraft. Whoever be doin’ this, he’s goin’ to a good deal of trouble.”

“This all sounds like a fairy tale.” I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud until Claude replied.

“Not a fairy tale, but definitely something infinitely difficult to do. You’d need a shaman with no scruples, difficult to find in a spirit-based group of magic users. You’d need a witch powerful enough to pull it off—not easy to find among non-Covenant witches. Again without empathy, and an ability to work metal. And a witch—likely a different one—to work the forgetting spells, and the persuasion so he can’t talk to anyone about it.”

“Aye. And neither of them be a typical skill among witches.”

“But you said you’d found the witch who made the brand,” I pointed out. Hell, if we had that witch, we could no doubt track it further, to the person who’d orchestrated the whole thing. Although I was pretty sure I already knew who that was. Nicolas, maybe. But I didn’t doubt his father was involved.

“Give me the name,” Claude said, order clear in his tone.

“Nay. I won’t be doin’ that to ‘em. And there’s naught you can say to convince me otherwise.”

Claude’s face twisted, and within half a second he stood in front of the counter, directly across from the giant. He leaned toward him, hands gripping the counter, but the threat was clear.

The small bit of friendliness on the giant’s face disappeared, and something wicked flashed behind his eyes.