sighed, rolled her eyes and stomped into the bathroom to turn off the faucets. She pulled the plug on the steamy water with a sigh of regret, then went to yank the door open. She didn’t wait for Melina to come inside, just turned and paced to the small table at the room’s far end, yanked out a chair and nodded toward it.
“We are investigators,” she told her unwelcome guest, her tone clipped as she bent to the mini-bar and yanked out a can of ginger ale and a tiny bottle of Black Velvet. She popped the tops on both and poured them into a tall glass that sat beside an empty ice bucket. “Not thieves for hire. We don’t break the law, Ms. Roscova. Not for any price.”
“Call me Melina,” the woman said as she sat down. “And all I want you to do is listen to what I have to say. That ring…it has powers.”
“Powers.” Stormy said it deadpan, dryly, without a hint of inflection. Then she took a big slug of the BV-and-ginger.
“Yes. Powers that could, in the wrong hands, upset the supernatural order—perhaps irrevocably.”
“The supernatural order?”
“Yes. Look, this is very simple. Just…just let me make my pitch, promise me it will remain confidential, and then, if you still refuse, I won’t bother you again.”
Stormy downed half the drink and sat down. “And my word that this will remain confidential is going to be enough for you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Melina blinked, and it seemed to Stormy she chose to answer honestly and directly. “Because my organization has been observing yours for years. We know you never break your word. And we know you’ve kept far bigger secrets than ours.”
Another big sip. The glass was getting low, and she was going to need a refill. Seven Canadian bucks a pop for the BV. And worth it, right about now. “Your…organization?”
“The Sisterhood of Athena has existed for centuries,” Melina said. She spoke slowly, carefully, and seemed to be giving each sentence a great deal of thought before uttering it. “We are a group of women devoted to observing and preserving the supernatural order.” She licked her lips. “Actually, it’s the natural order, but our focus is the part of it that most people refer to as supernatural. Things are supposed to be the way they are supposed to be. Humans tend to want to interfere. We don’t, unless it’s to prevent that interference.”
Stormy lifted her brows. “Humans, huh?” She eyed the woman. “You say that as if there are non-humans running around, as well.”
“We both know there are.”
They both fell silent, staring at each other as Stormy tried to size Melina up. Could she truly know about the existence of the Undead?
Finally, Stormy cleared her throat. “This is sounding awfully familiar, Melina. And not in a good way. You ever hear of a little government agency known as DPI?”
“We’re nothing like the Division of Paranormal Investigations, Stormy. I promise you that. And we’re privately funded, not a government agency.” She licked her lips. “We protect the supernatural world. We don’t seek to destroy it or experiment on it the way the DPI did. We are guardians of the unknown.”
Stormy nodded. “And why do you want the ring?”
“Strictly to keep it from falling into the wrong hands and being used for evil.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for this? And then, based on nothing more than that, break into a museum and steal a priceless piece of jewelry?”
“Yes.” Melina lowered her head. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but the more people who know of this ring’s powers, the more dangerous it becomes.”
Stormy sighed. “I’m sorry. Look, I just can’t do this. And even if I wanted to, Max and Lou would never go along with it.”
Melina nodded sadly. “All right. I guess…we’ll just have to find another way.”
“You do that. Good night, then, Melina. And…good luck. I guess.”
“Good night, Stormy.” She got up and saw herself out of the hotel room. Stormy followed just long enough to lock the door. Then she restarted the bath and refilled her glass.
Vlad reread the piece in the Easton Press four times before he could believe it wasn’t only a figment of his imagination. It was a tiny piece, a two-inch column tossed in to fill space, about a new exhibit of artifacts found in Turkey, currently on display at a museum in Canada. The most exceptional of the artifacts is a large ruby ring with rearing stallions engraved on either side of the flawless, 20 karat gemstone.
That was the line that had caught his attention. The one he kept reading, over and over again, until his eyes watered.
“It can’t be….” he whispered.
But it could. Surely it could. There was no reason to doubt that this might be the ring he’d placed on his bride’s finger centuries ago. And yet, he didn’t want to believe it. Belief led to hope, and hope led to grief and loss. He wasn’t certain he could stand any more of those.
He didn’t suppose he’d done a very good job of avoiding them, all these years, though. He’d tried, but dammit, he couldn’t let her go. It wasn’t in him. She had a hold on him as powerful as any thrall he’d ever cast over a mortal.
Vampires didn’t dream; their sleep was like death.
But Dracula dreamed. Of her. Tempest…or Elisabeta or…hell, the two were so entwined and confused in his mind, he didn’t know how to distinguish his feelings for one from his feelings for the other. He didn’t know how to distinguish them.
He’d purchased a tiny peninsula on the coast of Maine, used his powers to disguise the place. A passer-by would see only mist and fog and forest. Not a towering mansion built to his specifications. It was twenty miles from Easton, where Tempest, who insisted on calling herself “Stormy,” lived with her friends, Maxine and Lou, in a mansion of their own.
He’d kept track of her, all these years. He’d watched her, but from a distance. Never getting too close. Never touching her or letting his presence be known. But he knew. He knew everything she did. He knew about the vampires who shared the mansion with the mortals and helped them in their investigations—Morgan de Silva and Dante, who’d been sired by Sarafina, who’d been sired by Bartrone. The vampiress Morgan was the mortal Maxine’s twin sister, and though the two hadn’t been raised together, they were close now.
He knew about Tempest’s family—her parents, retired now and living in a condominium in Florida. She visited twice a year, no matter what. He knew about her relationships with men—though it killed him to know. She saw men sometimes. Dated. And every time it filled him with a rage that he found nearly impossible to contain.
He was dangerous at those times. And when the anger got beyond his endurance, he would force himself to go away for a time. It was the only way to prevent himself from murdering every bastard who laid his hands on her, and possibly her with them.
Nothing ever came of any of her liaisons. He never sensed her falling in love, feeling the kinds of things
