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 he liked to think she had felt with him.
He knew everything about her. Everything she did, everything she loved. And he knew her time was short. The deadline was approaching rapidly, the one those magicians had included in their spells. It had been driving him to desperation as it drew ever nearer. The so called Red Star of Destiny was due to eclipse Venus in a mere five days. And when it did, Elisabeta would cross to the other side, along with Tempest. He would lose them both. God, he couldn’t bear the thought!
Although, in every practical way, he’d lost them both already. Unless…
Tempest wasn’t in residence at the mansion now. She and her partners had taken off on one of their cases, and since he didn’t sense any danger to them, he’d remained behind. And now he was glad he had.
He stood, brooding, at the arched windows of his parlor. The fireplace at his back was cold and dark. He didn’t need it, didn’t need warmth, sought no comfort, because there was nothing, really, that could grant it to him. Outside, a storm raged, the ocean dancing at its commanding touch, shuddering with the furious breaths of the angry wind. Lightning flashed, and the wind howled. He loved nights like this.
Vlad looked again at the newspaper, noting the location of the exhibit. The Canadian National Museum in Edmunston. Less than 200 miles away.
He could be there in four hours by car. Less, if he drove quickly.
But he was Dracula, and had far more efficient ways to travel. He pulled on his coat. It was long and leather, with a caped back, and in keeping with his mood, it was black.
He reached to the windows’ center clasp, turned it and pushed the panes outward. Then he whirled, faster and faster. Like a cyclone he spun, as he focused his mind and altered the shape of his body.
When he soared into the night, into the storm, it was in the form of a giant black raven. He would find out soon enough whether the ring on display in Canada was his ring.
Her ring.
Stormy didn’t know what the hell to do. She did know one thing. She was going to have to get her hands on that ring—because if it was the ring, she couldn’t risk anyone else possessing it. Including Melina and her precious organization. She didn’t know anything about this Sisterhood of Athena, and she didn’t even consider trusting them. And not Vlad. God, not him.
That ring had some kind of power over her. That ring had brought Elisabeta to the surface, allowed her to take over again. And that ring, she was more certain than ever, must have been the one he had referred to in the tiny bit of memory that had resurfaced in her mind.
If he learned the ring was here, he would come for it. Nothing would stop him, if that was his goal. And God only knew what he would do with it once he had it. Use it, perhaps, to bring his precious Elisabeta back to screaming, bitching life inside her? She couldn’t go back to that. Not again. She needed to be rid of the intruder, once and for all.
She needed to destroy the ring. Maybe that would do it. If the damn ring didn’t exist, then its power, whatever that power was, couldn’t exist, either. So that was the answer. She had to destroy it, melt it down and smash its gemstone to dust.
But first she needed a plan. She decided not to call Max and Lou on this matter. Not just yet. First, because they were involved with another case, one that had taken them out of the country, and second, because Max was far too protective of her. And this wasn’t her problem. Stormy needed to deal with this on her own, without feeling the need to justify or explain or defend her decisions to her best friend.
So she filled her glass for the third time, and she soaked in the tub, and she thought and thought about how she might go about getting the ring from the museum, not for Melina, but for herself, and how she could do it without getting caught.
She fell asleep in the tub, her empty glass on the floor beside it, her mind reeling with scenes from the classic old movie It Takes a Thief and trying to ignore the other images that plagued her. Images of Vlad.
And then—in her dreams—it came. A memory.
Vlad had sent her to bed in the tiny cabin of the sailboat he’d used to make his escape after abducting her. He’d told her that they would reach his place on the Barrier Islands soon.
They must be there by now, she thought as she woke, and she wondered if she might be in his home already, because she didn’t feel the gentle rocking and swaying of the sea beneath her. But it was pitch dark in this bedroom—too dark to tell where she was.
She rolled to one side, began to reach out in search of a lamp or something, but her hand hit a solid wall. Odd. They must not be in the boat anymore, because that wall was farther away from the bed than this. She ran her palm along the smooth wall and frowned. It was lined in fabric. Something as smooth as satin.
Blinking and puzzled, she moved her hand downward, then upward, only to find another smooth, satin-lined wall behind her head.
Something clutched in her belly, and she rolled quickly to the other side, thrusting both hands out, only to hit another wall. She was closed in tight on three sides, and a terrifying suspicion was taking root in her mind. Her breath coming faster now, her heart pounding, she pressed her palms upward. They moved only inches before hitting a satin lined ceiling.
I’m in a coffin! she screamed inwardly. I’m trapped in a tiny box and God only knows what else! I’ll suffocate!
Panic twisted through her body like a python on crack, and she clenched her hands into fists and pounded on the ceiling, bent her legs as far as the space would allow and kicked at the bottom and sides. She shouted at the top of her lungs. “Let me out. Open this Goddamn box right now and get me the hell out!”
To her surprise, her pounding resulted in the ceiling above her rising with every strike, and she realized belatedly that, while she might be in a box, she wasn’t locked in.
The lid gave when she pushed it, and she’d barely had time to process that fact when it opened all the way, as if on its own.
She could see at last, and what she saw was the man himself standing there, staring down at her. He looked harried, tired. His white shirt’s top three buttons were undone, and his hair was loose and long.
Then he was reaching for her.
She slapped his hands away and, gripping the sides of the box, pulled herself up into a sitting position, swung her legs over the side, narrowly missing him on the way, and jumped to the floor. She gave a full body shudder, then snapped
