She shrugged. “I thought it might cheer me up.”
“If you tell me what’s got you feeling so blue, I might be able to help.”
“I don’t think so, but thanks for offering.”
Cara glanced out at the dance floor as the lights dimmed. The music, which had been upbeat, changed to something slow and sensual with a dark, sexual undertone. It called to something earthy deep within her.
“Would you like to dance?” Anton asked.
Again, she hesitated a moment before agreeing.
Anton took her by the hand and led her out onto the floor. “So,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s see. What do you like to do for fun? Do you work, or are you an heiress? Who’s your favorite singer? And, most important of all, are you a chocoholic like every other woman I’ve ever met?”
She laughed. “Guilty on the chocolate,” she said, and then frowned as she realized she had never seen her mother eat or drink anything chocolate. Even the most rigid dieters cheated every now and then.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
“No. I work at the library, and I don’t really have a favorite singer.” She didn’t tell him that she was, in fact, an heiress. After all, he was a stranger and she wasn’t a fool. Not that she had anything to worry about, not with Frank Di Giorgio sitting at the far end of the bar watching her like a hawk.
“You’re a librarian?” Anton exclaimed.
“Is something wrong with that?”
“No, no, but…well, you’re a knockout. I sort of thought you might be a model or an actress.”
Cara smiled, flattered in spite of herself. “Disappointed?”
“Not at all.”
When the music ended, he escorted her back to their seats. Their drinks were waiting for them. Cara sipped hers, thinking how glad she was she had stopped in here tonight. Di Giorgio had tried to dissuade her, but she had insisted. Once inside, she almost hadn’t stayed, it was such a strange place. For one thing, she was the only one in the place who wasn’t wearing black. Voodoo masks and ancient Indian burial masks decorated the walls. Tall black candles flickered in wrought-iron wall sconces, casting eerie shadows over the faces of the patrons; a good number of them wore long black cloaks or capes with hoods.
“So,” Anton said, “what do you think of The Nocturne?”
“I’m not sure. Why is everyone wearing black?”
“This is a Goth hangout.”
“Oh! Silly me, I should have guessed.”
He grinned at her. “I take it you’re not into the Goth scene.”
“Not really,” she replied, and then frowned, thinking that her father would be right at home in a place like this. He had an affinity for dark clothing, and he had a long black cloak. It was more than that, though. From time to time, she had sensed a darkness in her father that she couldn’t explain and didn’t understand.
Cara finished her drink, then looked at her watch, surprised to find it was so late. “I should be going,” she said reluctantly. “My folks will be worried.”
“Don’t tell me you still live at home with mom and dad!”
Cara shrugged. “I like it there.” And she did, although sometimes, especially when the days were long and the nights were short, it was like living alone.
“One more dance?” he coaxed.
“I don’t think so. I really need to go,” she said, and then wondered why she had to be home before midnight. She wasn’t a child anymore. Why did she still have a curfew? Lately, she’d had so many questions about the way she lived. Why did she still live at home? Why did she still need a bodyguard? She was twenty-two years old and no one had ever tried to kidnap her or molest her or so much as give her a dirty look. Of course, Di Giorgio was probably responsible for that. A man would have to be crazy to try anything with the Hulk lurking in the background. Still, maybe it was time to sit her folks down and ask the questions that had been plaguing her more and more in the last few months.
“Thank you for the drink and the dance,” she said, rising.
“Any chance you’ll be here tomorrow night about this time?” he asked.
She canted her head to the side, considering it, and then smiled. “I’d say the odds were good.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
Leaning back against the bar, Anton Bouchard watched his enemy’s daughter leave the bar, followed by a big bear of a man who looked as if he could easily take on every other man in the place without breaking a sweat.
Anton grunted softly, thinking how pleased his mother would be when he told her he had put the first part of her plan into operation.
Chapter 2
Serafina Bouchard beamed when Anton told her that he had made contact with DeLongpre’s daughter. Serafina had waited over twenty years to avenge herself on DeLongpre and now the time was at hand, so close she could taste it. She wasn’t powerful enough to destroy the vampire or his witch wife, but destroying their daughter would hurt them far worse than any physical pain she could inflict, and they deserved to be destroyed. They had killed Anthony Loken, the only man she had ever loved, and Myra had been killed that same night. Serafina didn’t know how Myra had died, or who had killed her, but she was certain that, one way or another, Roshan DeLongpre had been responsible for her death.
Serafina smiled. She wasn’t sorry that Myra was gone. She had always been jealous of Myra, jealous of her power, jealous of her association with Anthony. With Myra’s death, the Wiccan Way Coffee Shop and Book Store had closed and the coven had been without a leader, but not for long. When no one else seemed inclined to take over, Serafina had stepped in and taken charge. She had opened a new bookstore on the other side of town and offered it to the coven for a place to meet. Now, twenty years later, she was the undisputed head of the coven and The Wiccan Heart was thriving. When Anton grew old enough to work, she had made him her partner in the bookstore.
Later that night, alone in her room, Serafina spoke to her beloved’s photo. “Soon, Anthony, soon your death will be avenged and you’ll be able to rest in peace.”
She pressed his picture to her breast. She had fallen in love with Anthony Loken the first moment she had seen him, so tall and blond, like one of Satan’s angels. She would never forget the day Myra had introduced her to Anthony. He had smiled at Serafina, and she had known that he loved her in return. One night, during a spring ritual shortly before his death, she had offered herself to him. Anton was the result.
Anthony had never known of her love for him or about the child she had conceived. By the time she knew she was pregnant, he was gone. She had raised her son alone, teaching him everything she knew about Magick and witchcraft, whispering to him late at night that he would be the instrument
