Janvier straddled the bike, passed her a helmet. “Let’s ride. I need to get the sickly devotion of it all out of my head.”
Initiating the throaty roar of the engine once she was on, he took them through Greenwich Village to Chelsea Piers, then hugged the edge of Manhattan until they reached the George Washington Bridge. Powering over it in the winter dark that had fallen while they’d been inside the town house, he drove to the cliffs of the Angel Enclave, his bike obviously well known enough that none of the angelic guards stopped him.
When he brought the bike to a halt, it was mere feet from a snowy cliff that overlooked the river they’d just crossed. Ashwini couldn’t see any houses, only towering trees on either side of this narrow clearing, so either this land was unclaimed or—more probably—on the far edge of an angel’s property line. Taking off her helmet as Janvier removed his, she swung off the bike, placed the helmet on the ground, and walked to the edge of the cliff. The lights of Manhattan sparkled on the other side of the water that moved slumberous and sullen tonight.
Drawing in deep drafts of the bitingly cold air, she tried to shake off the crawling sensation she’d felt inside Giorgio’s elegant town house. New as the house was, she’d picked up nothing from the walls, no embedded whispers of horror. Her response derived solely from, as Janvier had put it, “the sickly devotion of it all.”
Having remained on the bike, Janvier said, “Giorgio’s household has little to recommend it.”
Ashwini frowned, shifted on her heel so she could see his face. “You say that like the cattle-master relationship isn’t a bad idea full stop.”
“It’s not always about exploitation.” He leaned forward on the handlebars, leather jacket unzipped and hair a sexy mess. “I know vampires who have had the same cattle for decades. They truly treat the men and women as family, are more loyal to them than to other vampires, mourn each who passes. Some of the most haunting memorials I’ve seen in the graveyards of New Orleans are to blood family members.”
“Could be it’s just about keeping the food happy.”
“Food is not so difficult to find, cher.” A liquid shrug. “Vampirism gives the old ones astonishing physical beauty and many are also wealthy and powerful. Mortals are drawn to them like flies, yet it is the oldest of my kind who most often have cattle.
“Unlike Giorgio, the majority don’t view it as a sexual relationship or treat those in their blood family as trophies, the physical appearance of their cattle an unimportant consideration. Friendship, affection, respect, these are the keys. I once asked a six-hundred-year-old friend why he kept cattle, and he said he was tired of the constant round of meaningless seduction, wanted only the intimacy and comfort of family around him.”
Sitting back up, he played with a blade he must’ve slipped out from his boot. “You must remember that many of my kind were born in a time when to be a family was to live in a single home, several generations one on top of the other, newborns sharing rooms with grandparents, and warriors seated side by side with younger siblings, cousins, and fosters. That is what they seek to recreate, for the old ones often find loneliness the worst pain of all.”
His words stopped Ashwini; she’d never considered things from that angle and it made a heartrending kind of sense. “I grew up like that,” she found herself saying when most of the time, she did her best not to think of the past. “My paternal grandparents lived with us, as did an aunt before she got married, and another who’d been through a divorce.” It had never been quiet in the Taj household.
Janvier’s expression was intent. “So you understand.”
“The need to create a family? Yes.” Wasn’t that what she’d done with the Guild when her own broke into too many pieces to put back together? “But that’s not what we saw today.”
“No.” He stared out toward the water. “Giorgio treats his women as pretty dolls. His to own, to dress, to bejewel. Marie May had such a fire in her when I first met her—that fire is now all focused on Giorgio. Soon she will forget her dreams.”
“And when she gets too old for him, he’ll nudge her out like he’s doing with Laura and Penelope.”
“Oui. What they see as kindness is simply Giorgio’s way of creating space for new playthings.”
Red in her vision at the memory of the smug bastard who, it was clear, would soon push poor, lovesick Brooke to the curb, she folded her arms. “Can you get the young ones out?”
“No.” Jaw tight, he said, “They are of age and the Tower cannot interfere in domestic arrangements without cause.” That fact clearly not sitting well with him, he swung his leg off the bike and came to stand beside her. “I’ll call Marie tomorrow and reiterate that she and the others can come to me at any time, but I can do nothing about their mental and emotional enslavement when they go into it with eyes wide open.”
“Five minutes alone with Brooke,” Ashwini said, “and I’d know for certain if she was telling the truth.” Memory echoes were the strongest in old ones like the angel Nazarach, but with a little more effort, Ashwini could pick them up from those under four hundred. The latter limitation was why she could continue to work as a hunter—it was extremely rare for the Guild to be contracted to hunt an older vamp. The angels usually took care of any problems at that level themselves.
Unfortunately, the limitation wasn’t set in stone. Janvier was opaque to her—had always been that way—but usually, the better she knew someone, the more chance she’d connect with them regardless of age. And every so often, even a young stranger would set off her senses, drag her under. It was why she was so careful about physical contact.
Janvier ran his knuckles down the line of her spine. “If you find darkness in Giorgio’s blood slave, it’ll live in you forever. No, I won’t permit this.”
“Since when do you have the right to ‘permit’ me anything?” she said, turning away.
He grabbed hold of one of her wrists, his grip gentle but unbreakable. “Who was he?”
Her response was instinctive, her mind shying away from the agony of it all. “None of your business.”
Hauling her to him, Janvier held her wrist against his chest, his heart pumping steady and strong under the thin barrier of the T-shirt, his body so warm she wanted to stretch out into it like a cat before a fire. “We are beyond that, and you know it. That’s why you’ve been running so hard from me.”
“I seem to recall hunting you,” she said, her traitorous fingers curling into the heat of him.
He tugged her closer, and his voice, it held so many layers when he spoke. “I see such pain in your eyes, such loss.” Breath shallow and shoulders rigid, he whispered, “Did you love him so much?”
At that instant, she knew she could strike a blow that would be a sledgehammer to the strange, nameless, precious thing between them, the connection that had formed the first day they came eye to eye. He’d grinned at her as she notched a crossbow bolt in place, then blown her a kiss and moved with the rapid grace she’d come to associate always and only with him. She’d almost smiled in return before remembering she was there to bring him in to face a very irate angel.
That angel had pulled the hunt order seventy-two hours later, after Janvier made nice. She’d walked into the angel’s residence to find him laughing with Janvier, while the damn Cajun who’d led her into a swamp, before escaping with a slickness she’d reluctantly admired, lay sprawled in a heavy green armchair, long legs kicked out. It was the first time he’d called her cher, asking her when they’d play again.
Et quand en va rejouer, cher?
“I have photos of all my family on my phone,” she whispered, unable to destroy their relationship with a lie that would forever alter the honesty at its core. “You just saw Arvi’s that day . . . my brother.”