She glared at him. “Only a vamp as bored with his existence as you would think that.”
A slow smile spread across his handsome Gallic face. “Come on, admit it. If he survives, the experience will make Élan a better man. He’s a tad too arrogant, even for a vampire of his longevity.”
Alyssa closed her eyes to the image of her proud maker on his knees before the wispy-boned yet still incredibly beautiful Aphrodite. Under the rules of immortal salvage, the ghoul would be able to force Élan’s obedience, but resentment would rip endlessly through his powerful body. His pale blue eyes would burn with the fury of the ancients, becoming a deeper shade of crimson with every sexual act he performed against his will.
Élan had a calm that was unnerving when he was under control.
But his rage was something to behold.
She’d only seen it surface once. The day the vampire slayer Munro had dared to torch Élan’s familial crypt, turning every coffin—and every vampire who looked to him as lord and master—into nothing but soot and scorched bones. His howl had frozen the stars in the sky and sent shivers down the spine of every immortal creature in Paris. Munro had thought to draw him out of the shadows with his heinous act, and he succeeded. Beyond his wildest imaginings. Élan had risen at nightfall with that crimson glow in his eyes, sussed out Munro with the uncanny hunting skill that all ancients possess, and tortured the slayer with creative zeal until the sun came up. Then he finally let his whimpering prisoner die.
It was the only time Élan had looked anything less than inhumanly sexy.
No.
Javier might find a term as a sexual slave amusing, but Élan would prefer an eternity of dust over the loss of his freedom. Alyssa was certain of it.
“We’ve got to get him back,” she said. “Before she performs the indenture ritual.”
Javier rose from the velvet draped bed, sighing. “Cherie, your devotion is touching, truly it is. But a bargain made with a ghoul is very difficult to undo. Impossible, actually.”
“Which is why we need to go now, before his blood dries on the contract.”
“We don’t even know if Aphrodite managed to save him,” he argued. “There’s no hint of his essence in the air.”
Alyssa’s shoulders slumped. True. She didn’t have to reach out with her senses to prove it. Élan’s presence always lingered at the very edges of her subconscious mind, even when he wasn’t actively luring her—which was most of the time. The wretch. He took an almost sadistic pleasure in making goose bumps rise to her flesh, gently caressing her aura at every turn, sending waves of hot need crashing over her body at the most inopportune times. Like the night she’d been about to dine on that drug dealer in Queens. She’d gotten so turned on by Élan’s masterful siege on her senses, she’d almost let her prey get away.
Her throat tightened.
Such deliciously sensual attacks might now be only memory. How many times had she wished he would release her, that he’d cease his relentless teasing and let her be? Too many to count. Yet, now that her wish might well be reality, all she felt was emptiness. A deep, hollow ache.
“I’ve got to try,” she insisted.
Javier frowned. “I must say, I’m rather disappointed, mon chou. I thought you’d welcome the day when Élan no longer nagged at you.”
“So did I. But I was wrong. Let’s go.”
Nodding his head toward an ornate, gilded door on the left, Javier said, “Give me a moment, then. I must change out of these clothes or be taunted by the scent of fresh virgin all night. I’ll be quick, I promise.”
Alyssa huffed. But she could no more sway Javier than she’d ever been able to sway Élan. Both of them were incredibly strong-willed, even by vampire standards. She let him go and paced the room, from the massive baroque dresser to the frou-frou Victorian floor lamp and back.
What she couldn’t understand was how those creatures had gotten the drop on Élan in the first place. Honestly, his senses were so keen, she swore all she had to do was cough and he could find her clear across town. And his mental powers were unparalleled. She was pretty sure some of her hottest dreams of him had been induced from across the Atlantic Ocean. No. He hadn’t survived thirteen hundred plus years to be taken down by a pack of mongrels, pig-faced and Novocain-breathed as they might have been.
So, what had happened? No ambush scenario made any sense.
Damn, she needed a cigarette.
She couldn’t pull the smoke into her lungs, but no matter. Just the feel of the little cancer stick on her lips settled her thoughts like nothing else. Of course, having quit thirty-nine years ago, there wasn’t a pack to be had.
Her gaze landed on Javier’s voluminous black great-coat, tossed over the Louis XIV chair in the corner. She grinned. Javier had everything inside that coat. What were the chances he had a cigarette?
Diving on the coat, she explored every soft, silk-lined pocket.
Car keys, comb, a fat wad of Ben Franklins. A bottle of blood, a Tanto knife, and a rolled parchment sealed with red wax. The temptingly piquant scent of O negative oozed from the bottle, but having recently fed, she successfully resisted and kept digging. An onyx ring in a velvet box, a lock of blond hair in a silver locket, and a cherry wood pipe. Breath mints, a tube of lip balm, and...a Mason jar.
Alyssa pulled the jar out and held it up to the light.
It was filled to the metal brim with a thick, dark-red liquid. More blood.
Something sloshed against the glass as she bent to put it back, and her stomach rolled unpleasantly. The something was pulpy. Fleshy. With the remnants of large arteries attached. Holy flaming sunrise. It was a—
“Oh dear,” said Javier softly from the doorway. “My curious little kitten has discovered my secret.”
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