No spider.
How appropriate. A work of art that also delivers a warning. The spider is inside.
You are very perceptive. Steffan’s amused voice from the top of the porch stairs has infiltrated my thoughts. And very beautiful. Welcome to my home.
He waits for us in the doorway, light spilling out from a tiled entryway. He is resplendent in an artfully tailored black tuxedo, the cummerbund and tie exactly the same shade as a lilac rose boutonniere. Frey takes my arm and we move to the door, Chael following behind. When we are face-to-face, Steffan holds out a hand to Frey.
“Welcome. You are a very lucky man to have landed this woman,” he says. “Also, a very special one if Anna has chosen you as consort above all others.”
I sense Frey bristle a little at the title “consort”—one that keeps coming up among the vampires we meet. But Steffan’s tone is not condescending and his greeting is warm. Quite a contrast from Chael and his constant, grating derision.
Frey responds by returning the handshake and a smiling “thank you.” He gestures to the house. “And you are lucky to have such a beautiful home.”
Steffan offers an arm to me and leads us into the interior of the house. Frey is at Steffan’s left. Chael follows behind. I notice Steffan has not greeted him and I feel Chael’s aggravation at the affront. It means I must be even more alert to Chael’s conduct tonight.
There may be more than one drama played out on this elegant stage.
From the great room in front of us, the soft strains of an orchestra serve as backdrop to a hum of conversation. Some of it is vocal, some of it is telepathic, all of it swirls on the air like pollen in a gentle breeze. Steffan pauses to let us appreciate a sight that I’m sure has never failed to impress.
It is a large room, so large there are two huge chandeliers, one at each end, dripping four-foot ropes of crystal and pearl. Under the diffused light of a thousand candles, the gathering mills in relaxed comfort. There must be one hundred vampires here, along with two dozen or so mortals partnered with vampires, and a half dozen otherworldly guests.
Frey looks around, too. He nods toward a group of five men standing together near the orchestra. “Shifters.”
Their eyes turn to us in the doorway as if sensing, too, another shifter in their presence and it is to Frey that they bend their heads in acknowledgment.
We continue to drink in the scene. Every female dressed in the finest couture, every male in a custom suit or tuxedo. The jewels glittering on earlobes and necks and fingers could bankroll a small country. There are liveried servants with trays of champagne-filled glasses or thick, crystal goblets of something dark and viscous. And red.
I raise my eyebrow at Steffan, who has been following my thoughts. “Volunteered blood only,” he assures me.
Do I believe him? I think of Avery and his treachery and a shudder racks my soul.
Steffan reads it. He glances at Frey, acknowledging openly that he knows as a shifter Frey can pick up on his thoughts if he allows it. He does.
I knew Avery, he begins. As you can see, he and I were neighbors. I was shocked to learn of his death. Angry. We who you call old-soul vampires, who have had hundreds of years, look on it as an affront when one of our own is snuffed out. Especially by one so new and ignorant of the way. But you killed him in defense of your own life. Something none of us could overlook. There was no vendetta waged, no call for your head.
He pauses, catches the eye of a server and motions him to come to us. He chooses blood from the tray, Frey and I champagne. We tip glasses and drink and he continues.
When your family showed up to claim Avery’s estate, the question was raised again. Did you have the right to dispose of his property? He had never aligned himself with us, choosing an American affiliation, but his roots were here in Europe. We are rather a closed group, steeped in tradition. But just as we have our ways, we respect those of others. When you were declared the Chosen One, it was decided to forever forego any act of retribution on Avery’s behalf.
Another pause, another long pull at his glass. He wipes his lips with a silk handkerchief. The handkerchief comes away with a faint red smudge.
I watch his eyes as he speaks. What is your point, Steffan? Are you asking that I respect you and stay out of European politics?
A shiver runs up my spine at the moment I finish speaking. I look around quickly, senses alert. It’s as if someone reached out a hand to run an icy finger up my backbone. Cold, first, then hot as the path of that finger turns to fire. The feeling unnerves me, as real and visceral as a passionate kiss. It awakens something deep and primitive in the pit of my stomach. Not fear. Not anger.
Lust.
My eyes scan the crowd. If Steffan is speaking, I don’t hear. I’ve closed the conduit between us and to any other prying mind. I’m open only to whoever is causing this stirring in my gut. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.
And in an instant, it’s gone.
No one looks up from the crowd to catch my eye. No one winks or nods or grins a “gotcha” grin.
I drain my champagne glass, motion to the server for another. When I can focus again, Frey and Steffan are both looking at me with puzzled frowns.
Frey speaks first. “Anna? Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I put a hand on his arm. “I felt dizzy for a moment. But I’m fine now.” Switching my gaze to Steffan, I add, “I’m sorry. What was I saying?”
Steffan laughs. I think you were about to put me in my place.
His laughter is contagious. My own face splits into a grin. Nothing so overt. Perhaps I merely wanted to remind you that there is more to the world than Europe. And if you act precipitously, we are all affected.
Well said, Anna Strong.
My shoulders jump.
The unexpected voice comes from right behind me but I neither heard nor sensed an approach. The same gut tingling sensation as before spreads through my body, ice and fire. I know without looking that whoever just spoke is dark and dangerous.
And a threat.
CHAPTER 22
MY FINGERS CLOSE AROUND THE CHAMPAGNE glass and with a crack, the fragile crystal shatters. Champagne sprays, my palm convulses and a shard of glass slices into my skin. Blood mixes with the bubbles spilling onto the polished hardwood floor. Both Frey and Steffan leap to my aid.
But not quickly enough.
Someone steps between us, taking my hand gently in his own. He pulls the sliver of glass free and brings my palm to his lips. His face is half-hidden by a veil of long, dark hair but instinctively, I know he’s the stranger whose voice I heard before. Where his lips touch my palm, a tingling begins. It travels up my arm, warms my face and neck, makes my nipples harden. I close my eyes, wanting to moan with pleasure.
Another’s hand is pushing the stranger away. When I open my eyes, Frey’s face is red with fury. He puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me to a bench along the wall. I let him. Not looking back. Not wanting to see who it is that has such power over me.
Frey examines my hand. “It’s healed.”
There’s nothing remarkable or magical in that. Vampires have the ability to heal. But it’s the way Frey is looking at me, as if he knew I was feeling more than the healing process. I remember wanting to moan in pleasure—sexual pleasure.
Could I have actually done it? Moaned out loud at a stranger’s touch?