trailed off. She blinked. “Good grief, you’re serious.”
His mouth quirked. “As a heart attack.”
“How could I possibly assist the great Lucien Marchetta?” she asked, curious despite herself. The man moved in circles far removed from her own and, up until a few hours ago, he’d been completely unaware of her existence. From what she’d heard—and there were plenty of stories circulating about the man—he’d been living mainly on the west coast, establishing the family business...which was code for spreading the Marchetta influence to straddle the whole country.
And she...well, she was a professor of mythology and folklore studies, which was code for using teaching students as an opportunity to indulge her keen interest in stories set in bygone eras—and to find answers for her own problems. She couldn’t help him with the Marchetta empire—the idea was so ludicrous, she almost giggled. Almost. She hadn’t giggled in years.
“I was told you’re the best in the field when it comes to everything arcane and mystical,” he said quietly.
She arched her eyebrow. “Don’t think you can flatter me,” she said brusquely, ignoring the warm pride that bloomed in her chest that suggested he could, indeed, flatter her.
“I need to find something.”
She kept her expression impassive but her mind started to race. What was he looking for? Something arcane and mystical, apparently. Something that drew him to a quiet little professor in a quiet little town. What mystical thing could a vampire want or need? A resistance to silver? No, there were any number of witches who could do some sort of protective spell for that.
An object that protected the wearer from sunlight? She knew of some stories that hinted at the existence of such artifacts. A book? Something that could reveal the clues to a lost pre-Troubles treasure? There were so many possibilities and her imagination was going wild.
“What?” She kept her tone cool, casual. She wasn’t interested. Not really. Nope, not—
“Anything that would neutralize a toxin in a vampire’s system.”
Interested. She tilted her head and tried to look nonchalant. “What kind of toxin?”
“The lycanthrope kind.”
She frowned as she digested the remark. Did he just say—? “A werewolf bite?”
He nodded. She lowered her arms as she straightened.
“A werewolf bite,” she repeated slowly to make sure he wasn’t misunderstanding her and she wasn’t misunderstanding him.
He said nothing, just met her gaze grimly.
“A werewolf bite,” she said, this time rolling her finger in a circle. “You want to find a vampiric cure for a werewolf bite? You are hearing me, right? A werewolf bite?”
His lips tightened. “Yes, I hear you. And, yes, you’ve got it right. I want to find something that will cure a vampire of a werewolf bite.”
Oh, dear. Time had not been kind to Lucien. It was the only explanation she could think of, for him to have such a mental lapse. Strange, she hadn’t heard of a human condition like dementia striking a vampire before. Still, there was always a first time for everything...
Her arms rose to grasp the window, but he moved swiftly, his body a blur as he shifted to the end of the branch. “I’m serious, Nin—Natalie.”
She shook her head. “No, you’re bat-crap crazy, Lucien. Goodbye.” She began to draw the window down to close, but he slammed his hand on the pane of glass, effectively halting her movement. She flinched at the anger in his blue eyes, the set of his jaw.
“Vivianne’s been bitten and I don’t have much time to find a cure. You’re my last resort, Natalie. Help me.”
His sister. She remembered how close they’d been, how he’d often spoken of her as his partner in all sorts of childish pranks, and how they’d supported each other when it came to his controlling, Reform-senator father. Family. It had always been so important to Lucien.
Yeah, well, family had been important to her, too, once upon a time. Anger warred with sympathy. Anger won. Her eyes narrowed at his words. “Me? Help you? Where were you when I needed you, Lucien?” she snapped. “You don’t get it, do you? You broke your promise to me and as a result I lost everything. Help you? I hate you.”
She slammed the window closed, pulled the curtains across with a snap of fabric and stomped over to her en suite bathroom. She pulled cotton balls from the jar on her bathroom sink, stuffed them in her ears and stomped back to her bed.
Help him, indeed. She pounded her pillow into a comfortable pulp and lay down. She brushed away the tears trailing down her cheek as she glared at the wall.
No, damn it. She refused to care.
* * *
Lucien eased back along the branch toward the trunk of the tree.
I hate you.
He settled himself in the crook of the tree, staring at the darkened, covered window. He couldn’t quite close his mouth, although his fingers clenched around the branches above and to the side of him. Shock. Annoyance. Frustration. Pain. Shock. The emotions tore through him.
He was still trying to process everything. Nina—no, Natalie—was alive. He could barely believe it. He’d suspected it was her when she’d slammed the door in his face. Not because she’d slammed the door, or because she’d resisted his compulsion—he still didn’t know how that worked—but because of the way she’d said his name in such a familiar manner. It had sparked memories of a younger, happier woman.
Who currently hated him.
She was so angry, so bitter—nothing like the young woman he’d once known, the woman whose memory he’d cherished. She also awakened a pain he’d buried deep.
He sagged against the tree. When he’d come looking for Professor Segova, he’d expected a quick, easy, polite discussion with a stranger. After all, he could simply compel the woman to tell him everything he needed to know. She was his last resort, though.
Vivianne had been languishing in her coffin for eight months. The witch, Dave Carter, had placed her under a suspension spell when she’d been bitten by a stray lycan, in an effort to give himself enough time to find something that everybody else didn’t believe existed—a vampire’s cure against the lycan toxin. Eight months, and he’d exhausted every option, had visited every elder, witch, monk, shaman—hell, he’d even tried the mundane human doctors. Nothing. Now, though, Dave had learned of a woman well-versed in ancient lore, who could possibly search through the dusty records for an oblique reference to the cure. Well, that was the plan. And he’d anticipated finding an older woman who would succumb to his compulsion and tell him everything he needed to know.
But, no. Instead he’d found a woman who could not only resist compulsion, but now showed no inclination whatsoever to help him save his sister.
She was right, though. He hadn’t been there when she’d needed him. He’d promised and he’d let her down, and she’d paid the ultimate price. He shifted, guilt and shame weighing uncomfortably on his shoulders. He still couldn’t quite believe
