Praise for the novels of
MAGGIE SHAYNE

“The latest from bestselling Shayne is an interesting, inventive tale.”

—Publishers Weekly on Demon’s Kiss

“Suspense, mystery, danger and passion—no one does them better than Maggie Shayne.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Darker Than Midnight

“A tasty, tension-packed read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Thicker Than Water

“Maggie Shayne demonstrates an absolutely superb touch, blending fantasy and romance into an outstanding reading experience.”

—RT Book Reviews on Embrace the Twilight

“Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.”

—New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Forster

“Maggie Shayne delivers sheer delight, and fans new and old of her vampire series can rejoice.”

—RT Book Reviews on Twilight Hunger

“Shayne’s haunting tale is intricately woven… A moving mix of high suspense and romance, this haunting Halloween thriller will propel readers to bolt their doors at night!”

—Publishers Weekly on The Gingerbread Man

“Shayne’s talent knows no bounds!”

—Rendezvous

“Maggie Shayne delivers romance with sweeping intensity and bewitching passion.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

Maggie Shayne
Prince of Twilight

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Prologue

Fifteenth Century

Romania

“We have to bury her, my son.”

Vlad stood in the small stone chapel beside his beloved new bride. Elisabeta’s skin was as cold as the stone bier on which she lay. She wore the pale green wedding gown the servants had found for her on the day their hasty vows had been exchanged. The skirt draped on either side of her, swathing the stone slab in beauty. Her hair, pale as spun silver and endlessly long, spread around her head, as if pillowing her in a cloud.

“My son—” This time the old priest’s words were accompanied by his hand, clasping Vlad’s shoulder.

Vlad whirled on the man. “No! She is not to be put in the ground. Not yet. I won’t allow it.”

A little fear joined the pity in the old man’s eyes. Not enough, not yet. “I know this is difficult—I do. But she deserves to be laid to rest.”

“I said no,” Vlad repeated, his tone tired, his heart dead. Then he turned from the priest and focused again where he needed to focus: upon her, upon his bride. Their time together had been too short. One night and then part of a second before he’d been called into battle. It wasn’t right.

The priest still hovered.

“Get out, before I draw my blade and send you out in pieces.” Vlad’s words were barely more than a hoarse whisper, yet filled with enough menace to elicit a clipped gasp from the cleric.

“I’ll send in your father. Perhaps he can—”

Vlad turned to send a warning glare over his shoulder. Brief, but powerful enough to reduce most mortals to tears.

“I’m going, my liege.” The priest bowed a little as he backed through the chapel doors.

Vlad sighed in relief when the doors closed once again, leaving him alone with his grief. He leaned over Elisabeta’s body, lowered his head to her chest, and let his tears soak the gown. “Why, my love? Why did you do this? Was our love not worthy of a single day’s grieving? I told you I would come back. Why couldn’t you have believed in me?”

A soft creaking sound accompanied by a stiff night breeze and the gentle clearing of an aging throat told him that his respite was over. Vlad forced himself to straighten, to turn and face his father—for truly, the man had become as much a father to him as any had been, since Utnapishtim.

The old king was pale and unsteady. He’d lost a daughter-in-law he’d been close, already, to loving—and for three days he had believed that he had lost his son, as well.

He crossed the small room, his gait uneven and slow, then wrapped his frail arms around Vlad’s shoulders and hugged him hard, as hard as his strength would allow. “Alive,” he muttered. “By the gods, my son, you’re alive after all.”

Vlad closed his eyes as he returned his father’s embrace. “Alive, father, but none too glad to be, just now.” As he said it, he looked back at his bride.

His father did, as well, releasing his hold on Vlad to move closer to the bier. “I cannot tell you how it grieves me to see you in such pain, much less to witness the loss of such a precious young woman as Elisabeta.”

“I know.”

“Your friend, the foreign woman—she told you what transpired?”

Vlad nodded. “Rhiannon is…an old friend. And a dear one. She said she arrived here for a visit just after I was called to defend our borders.”

“So she did. We put her up. Fussy one, she is, and I don’t believe she thought highly of your chosen bride. Were the two of you…?”

“As close as any two people can be,” Vlad told him. “But we had no claims on each other. She would not have been jealous.”

“She called the princess a—now what was the word she used…? Ah yes, a whiner,” the king said softly. “To her face, no less.”

Vlad nodded, not doubting it.

“When word came that you’d been killed on the field of battle, poor Elisabeta took to the tower room and bolted the door. I had men trying to break it down right up until—”

“I know, Father. I know you did all you could.”

The king lowered his head, perhaps to hide the rush of tears into his clouded blue eyes. “Tell me what I can do to ease your grief.”

Vlad thought about that, thought about it hard. Rhiannon was no ordinary woman but a former priestess of Isis and daughter of Pharoah. She was skilled in the occult arts, and she had told Vlad that he would find Elisabeta again—she had foreseen it—in five hundred years’ time, if he could live that long. What she hadn’t promised was that Beta would be the same woman he had loved and lost, or that she would remember him and love him again.

“There is something I can do for you,” the king said softly. “I can see it in your eyes. Speak it, my son, and it shall be done, whatever it is.”

Vlad met his father’s eyes and felt love for the man. True love, though the king was not his true father. “I cannot let them bury her. Not yet. I need you to send our finest riders upon our fastest mounts, Father. Send them out into the countryside to gather the most skilled sorcerers, diviners, wizards and witches in the land. I don’t care what it takes. I must have them here before my beloved is put into the cold ground.”

The king looked worriedly into his eyes. “My son, you must know that even the most skilled magician won’t be able to bring her back. Buried or not, she resides among the dead now.”

He nodded once, closed his eyes against that probing, caring stare. “I know that, Father. I only need to be sure she’s at peace.”

“But the priest—”

“His prayers are not enough. I want to be sure. Please, Father, you said you would do anything to ease my pain. This shall ease it, if anything can.”

The king nodded firmly. “Then it shall be done.”

“And Father—until they come, keep everyone from here. And even then, let them in only by night.”

The old man was used to Vlad’s nocturnal nature by now. He nodded, and Vlad knew the promise would be kept.

The king left, and Vlad drew his bloodstained sword, then stood between the bier and the chapel door. When the sun rose, he barred the door, drew a tapestry from the wall and wrapped himself in it. When the sun set again, he was forced to lay the fabric over Elisabeta’s body or witness it begin to change with the ravages of death. And before the third night was through, the scent of death and decay hung heavy on the air.

But finally, at midnight of the third night, the chapel doors opened again, and several men entered. No women were among them. They entered in a rush of wind, dressed in dull white traveling robes of wool, for the most part, though one wore a finer fabric in rich, russet tones, its edges embroidered with a pattern of twisting green vines.

They all dropped to one knee, bowing low before him. The one in the brown said, “My prince, we came as rapidly as we could manage. Our hearts are heavy with grief at the loss of the princess.”

“Yes,” he said. “Rise. I need your help.”

The men looked at one another nervously. There were five, he saw now. Locals, mostly, though one appeared to be from the East, and another was Moorish in appearance.

“We are honored if we can be of service,” the apparent spokesman said. “But I know not what we can do. Against death, even we are powerless.”

He nodded and thought of Gilgamesh, the legendary king of Sumer. His own desperate search for the key of life had resulted in the creation of an entire race—the Undead. Vampires. Like Vlad, and Rhiannon, and so many others. But it had never resulted in the great king’s dear friend Enkidu returning from death.

Maybe, Vlad thought, his own quest was just as mad. But he had to try.

“I do not ask you to conquer death. Only to ensure that when I find her again, I will know her—and that she will know me. And remember. And love me again.”

The magicians and sorcerers frowned, seeking understanding in each other’s faces.

“A powerful seer has told me that the princess will return to me in another lifetime. But it will be in the distant future.”

“But, my liege, you would be aged and she but an infant.”

“That’s not your concern, sorcerer. I want only to ensure that when she does return—and reaches a decent age—she will remember all that came before, that she will be the woman she was in this lifetime. Can you or can you not fulfill this request?”

One man began to whisper to another, and Vlad caught the words “unnatural” and “immoral,” but the man in brown held up a hand to silence them. Then he approached Vlad slowly, cautiously, and at last he nodded. “We can and we shall, my liege. Go, get sustenance, rest. She’ll be safe in our care, I promise you.”

Vlad gazed at the shape beneath the tapestry. No longer his Elisabeta, but a shell that had formerly held her essence. He looked at the men again. “Do not fear to try. It is a lot I ask of you. I give my word, I will not exact punishment should you fail, so long as you do the very best you can. On her memory, I vow it to you.”

The men bowed deeply, and he glimpsed relief on their faces. Truly, Vlad was not known for his mercy or understanding. He left them to their work. But he didn’t rest, and he didn’t feed. He couldn’t—not until he knew.

It was four a.m. when a servant boy came to fetch him back to the chapel, and as he hurried there, he saw that the door was open and the priest was coming out, wafting a censer before him. Behind him, men came bearing the corpse, buried in flowers, upon a litter.

And behind them came the wizards and sorcerers, who met Vlad’s eyes and nodded to tell him that they had been successful. The man in russet came to him, while the others kept the slow pace behind the funeral procession. The priest’s servant rang a bell, and the gruff-voiced cleric intoned his prayers loudly, so that others from the castle and the village joined in as they passed, many carrying candles or lamps. No one in the village had slept this night, awaiting the princess’s burial, and so the procession grew larger and longer as it wound onward, a writhing serpent dotted with lights.

“My prince,” said the man in brown. “We have done it. Take this.”

He handed Vlad a scroll, rolled tightly and held by a ruby ring—the ring he’d given to Elisabeta. It had been on her finger. Seeing it caused pain to stab deeply, and he sucked in a breath.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “You removed her wedding ring. Why?”

“We performed a powerful ritual, commanding a part of her essence to remain earthbound. The ring is the key that holds her and will one day release her. When a future incarnation of Elisabeta returns to you, all you will need to do is put this ring upon her finger and perform the rite contained on this scroll, and she will be restored to the very Elisabeta she was before. She will remember everything. And she will love you again.”

“Are you sure?” Vlad asked, afraid to believe, to hope.

“On my life, my prince, I swear to you it is true. There is only one caveat. And this could not be helped, for we risk our very souls by tampering with matters of life and death and the afterlife. The gods must be allowed their say.”

“The gods. It was they who saw fit to take her from me this way. To hell with the gods.”

“My prince!” The sorcerer looked around as if fearing Vlad’s blasphemy might have been overheard by the deities themselves.

“Tell me of this caveat, then,” Vlad snapped. “But be quick. I must attend to my wife’s burial.”

The man boldly took hold of Vlad’s arm and began walking beside him, catching them up to the procession, while keeping enough distance for privacy. “If the rite has not been performed by the time the Red Star of Destiny eclipses Venus, then the gods have not willed it, and the magick will expire.”

“And what will happen to Elisabeta then?”

“Her soul will be set free. All parts of her soul, the part we’ve held earthbound, and any other parts that may have been reborn into the physical realm. All will be free.”

“And by free, you mean…dead,” Vlad whispered. He gripped the man by the front of his russet robes and lifted him off his feet. “You’ve done nothing!”

“Death is but an illusion, my liege! Life is endless. And you’ll have time—vast amounts of time—in which to find her again, I swear.”

He narrowed his eyes on the sorcerer, tempted to draw his blade and slide it between the man’s ribs. But instead, he lowered him to the ground again. “How much time? When, exactly, does this red star of yours next eclipse Venus?”

“Not for slightly more than five hundred and twenty years, my liege, as nearly as I can calculate.”

Vlad swallowed his pain and his raging grief. Rhiannon had predicted he would find his Elisabeta again in five hundred years. His chief concern at the time had been wondering how the hell he could manage to survive so long without her; how he could bear the pain.

Now he had an added worry. When he did find her, would it be in time to enact the spell, perform the rite, and restore her memory and her soul?

By the gods, it had to be. He was determined. He must not fail.

He would not.

He was no ordinary man, nor even an ordinary vampire, after all.

He was Dracula.

1

Present day

“Melina Roscova,” the slender blond woman said, extending a hand. “You must be Maxine Stuart?”

“It’s Maxine Malone, and no, I’m not her.” Stormy took the woman’s hand. It was cool and her grip very strong. “Stormy Jones,” she said. “Max and Lou are busy with another case, and we didn’t think it would take all three of us to conduct the initial interview.”

“I see.” Melina released her grip and dug in her pocket for a business card. “I guess this must be out of date.”

Stormy took the card, looked it over. The SIS logo superimposed itself over the words Supernatural Investigations Services. In smaller letters were their names, Maxine Stuart, Lou Malone, Tempest Jones and beneath that, in a fancy script, Experienced, professional, discreet and a toll-free number.

She handed the card back. “Yeah, that’s pretty old. Maxie and Lou got hitched sixteen years ago now. Of course, we didn’t get new cards made up until we’d used all the old ones. You have to be practical, you know.”

“Naturally.”

“So why all the mystery?” Stormy asked. “And why did you want to meet here?”

As she spoke, they moved through the entrance and into the vaulted corridors of the Canadian National Museum. Their steps echoed as they walked. Melina paid the entry fee in cash, and led the way deeper into the building.

“No mystery. I want you to handle a sensitive case for me. Discretion—” she tapped the old business card against her knuckle “—is imperative.”

“You can trust us on that,” Stormy said. “We wouldn’t still be in business after all this time if we didn’t know how to keep our mouths shut.” She looked at a threadbare tapestry on display inside a glass case. Its colors had faded to gray, and it looked as if a stiff breeze would reduce it to a pile of lint. “So why this place?”

“This is where it is,” Melina said, eyeing several tarnished silver pieces in another case. Bowls, urns, pendants.

“Where what is?”

“What you need to see. But it won’t be here for long. It’s part of a traveling exhibit. Artifacts uncovered on a recent archaeological dig in the northern part of Turkey.”

Stormy eyed her, waiting for her to say more, but Melina fell silent and moved farther along the hall, among line drawings and diagrams of dig sites, framed like pieces of art. Then she turned to go through two open doors into a large room. There were items lining the walls, all of them safely behind glass barriers. Brass trinkets, steel blades with elaborately carved handles of bone and ivory. Stormy glanced at the items on display, then rubbed her arms, suddenly cold to the bone. “You’d think they’d turn on the heat in here. It’s freezing,” she muttered. Then, to distract herself from the rush of discomfort, she snatched up a flyer from a stack in a nearby rack and read from it. According to it, the items found didn’t match the culture of the area in which they’d been located, and many were thought to be the spoils of war, brought home by soldiers who looted them from faraway lands and conquered enemies. The dig site was believed to have been a monastery of sorts—a place where men went to study magic and the occult.

“Here it is,” Melina said.

Stormy dragged her gaze from the flyer to where the other woman stood a few yards away, in front of a small glass cube that sat atop a pedestal. Inside the cube, resting on a clear acrylic base, was a ring. It was big, its wide band more elaborately engraved than the gaudiest high school class ring she’d ever seen. Its gleaming red stone was as big as one of those, too, only she was pretty sure this stone was real.

“It’s a ruby,” Melina said, confirming Stormy’s unspoken suspicion. “It’s priceless. Isn’t it incredible?”

Stormy didn’t reply. She couldn’t take her eyes off the ring. For a moment it was as if she were seeing it through a long, dark tunnel. Everything around her went black, her vision riveted to the ring, her eyes unable to see anything else. And then she heard a voice.

“Inelul else al meu!”

The voice—it came from her own throat. Her lips were moving, but she wasn’t moving them. The sensation was as if she had become a puppet, or a dummy in some ventriloquist act. Her body was moving all on its own, her hands reaching for the glass case, palms pressing to either side of it, lifting it from its base.

A hand closed hard on her arm and jerked her away. “Ms. Jones, what the hell are you doing?”

Stormy blinked rapidly as her body snapped back on line. She saw Melina holding her upper arm while looking around the room as if waiting for the Canadian version of a SWAT team to swarm in.

Stormy cleared her throat. “Did I set off any alarms?”

“I don’t think so,” Melina said. “There are sensors on the pedestal. They kick in only if the ring is removed.”

Frowning as her head cleared, Stormy stared at her. “Why do you know that?”

“It’s my job to know. Are you all right?”

Nodding, Stormy avoided the other woman’s eyes. “Yeah. Fine. I…zoned out for a minute, that’s all.”

But it wasn’t all. And she wasn’t fine. Far from it. She hadn’t had an episode like that in sixteen years, but she knew the sensations that had swamped her just now. Knew them well. She would never forget. Never. She hadn’t felt that way in sixteen years, not since the last time she’d been with him. With Dracula. The one and only. And though her memory of the specifics of that time with him was a dark void, her memories of…being possessed remained. And memories of Dracula or not, she’d heard his voice just a moment ago, whispering close to her.

Without the ring and the scroll, I’m afraid there is no hope.

What did it mean? Was he here? Nearby? And why, when she remembered so little about their time together, had that phrase come floating in to her memory now?

No. He wouldn’t come back to her when he knew what it did to her mind and body. He’d let her go in order to spare her going through that madness anymore. Or so she liked to believe. She’d awakened in Rhiannon’s private jet, on her way back home. And, like all of Vlad’s victims before her, her memory of her time with him had been erased.

But not her feelings for him. Inexplicable or not, she had felt a deep sense of loss, and she’d been dying inside a little more with every single day that had passed since.

He wasn’t here. He wouldn’t put her through that again. Unless…

She looked again at the ring. God, could this be the ring he’d been talking about? And what had he meant by that cryptic phrase? It was hell not remembering. Sheer hell. She should hate him for playing with her mind the way he had. Over and over she’d struggled and fought to recall the time she’d spent with him, after he’d abducted her in the dead of night so long ago. She’d even tried hypnosis, but it hadn’t worked. Nothing had. He’d robbed her of memories she sensed might be some of the best of her life. Damn him for that.

“Ms. Jones? Stormy?”

Turning slowly, she met Melina’s far too curious brown eyes. “The ring is the reason you want to hire us?”

“Yes. What’s your connection to it?”

Stormy frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no connection to it.”

“You certainly had a strong reaction to it.”

She shook her head. “I had a head injury a long time ago. Occasional blackouts are a side effect.”

“Speaking in tongues is a side effect, as well?”

“It’s gibberish. It doesn’t mean anything. Look, the condition of my skull is really not the issue here. Are you going to tell me what this job entails or not?”

Melina looked at her, pursed her lips and lowered her voice. “I want you to steal it,” she whispered.

Stormy wasn’t sure what she had said as she had made a hasty exit from the museum. She thought she had told Melina Roscova to do something anatomically impossible, and then she’d left. She hadn’t stopped until she’d pulled up in front of the Royal Arms Hotel, where she handed her car keys and a ten-spot to a valet.

“Be careful with her,” she told him. “She’s special.”

He promised he would be, and she watched him as he drove her shiny black Nissan, with the customized plates that read Bella-Donna into the parking garage across the street. As he moved into the darkness, she heard tires squeal and winced. “One scratch, pal. You bring Belladonna back with one scratch…”

“Madam?”

She turned to see a doorman with a question in his eyes. “You’re going inside?” he asked.

“You tell that moron when he gets back that if he scratched my car, I’ll take it out of his hide. And it’s mademoiselle. Not every thirtysomething female is married, you know.”

“Of course, mademoiselle.” He opened the door, his face betraying no hint of emotion. It would have been much more satisfying if he’d been defensive or hostile or even apologetic. But…nothing.

She headed straight for her room and started a bath running, intending to phone Max and fill her in from the tub. She was upset. She was shaken. She was damned scared of what the sight of that ring had done to her.

She’d spoken in Romanian. And she knew exactly what she’d said, even though she didn’t speak a word of the language and never had.

The ring belongs to me.

Elisabeta. It had to have been her voice.

Sixteen years ago, she’d begun having these symptoms. Blacking out, speaking in a strange language, becoming violent, attacking even her best friends and, usually, remembering nothing. It was as if she were possessed by an alien soul, as if her body were a marionette with some stranger pulling the strings.

Max said her eyes changed color, turned from their normal baby blue to a dark, fathomless ebony, during those episodes.

Through hypnosis, she’d learned the intruder’s name. Elisabeta. And she knew, in her gut, that the woman had some connection to Vlad. An intimate one.

Vlad had been under attack, had taken her hostage to aid in his escape. Even then, she’d been drawn to him. His muscled, powerful body. His long, raven’s wing hair. His eyes—the intensity in them when he looked at her. She remembered kissing him as if there were no tomorrow. Or maybe that had never happened; maybe that was fantasy. A delicious erotic fantasy that left her with a deep ache in her loins and her soul. She remembered hoping he could help her solve the mystery of who Elisabeta was and why she was haunting Stormy. Trying to take over. And maybe he had. But though, upon her return, Max had told her that she had been Vlad’s captive for than a week, Stormy remembered nothing.

She only knew that since her return, she’d felt almost no sign of that intruding soul’s presence. And she’d determined that it was Vlad’s nearness that stirred the other to life. As it would stir any woman.

She was still there, though. Stormy had never doubted it. Hoped she was wrong, but never truly doubted. Elisabeta, whoever she was, still lurked inside her, waiting…for something.

Stormy stopped pacing and held her head in her hands as she stared into the mirror that was mounted on one of the lush hotel room’s antique replica dressers. “Dammit to hell, I hoped you were gone,” she whispered. “I honest to goodness was beginning to let myself believe you were never coming back. Not a peep out of you in sixteen years. And now you’re back? Why? Will I ever be rid of you, Elisabeta?”

A tapping on her door startled her and brought her head around, and she swore under her breath. She had things to work through, and there was a nice hot bath—and maybe a few tiny bottles from the mini-bar—in her immediate future.

“Please, Ms. Jones,” Melina Roscova called from the hallway. “Just give me ten minutes to explain. Ten minutes. It’s all I need.”

Stormy 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 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 her arms around her own body, tucked her chin and closed her eyes.

He touched her shoulders. Her body reacted with heat and hunger, but she fought to ignore those things. “I’m sorry, Tempest. I fully intended to have you out of there by the time you woke, but I—”

She punched him. Hard. Straight to the solar plexus. It gave her a rush of satisfaction to hear his grunt, and when she opened her eyes and saw him stagger backward a few paces, it felt even better.

“Bastard.”

“Tempest, if you’d let me explain—”

“How dare you? How dare you stick me in some fucking box like that? And why, for God’s sake? What the hell were you thinking?” She drew back a fist and advanced on him, fully intending to deck him again, right between the eyes this time.

He had her by the forearms before she could swing, so she kicked him in the shin. He yelped but didn’t release her.

“You know, that’s what I like best about you freakin’ vamps. You feel pain so much more than humans do.”

“Enough!”

He shouted it, using the full power of his voice—or she guessed it was full power, but maybe not, maybe he had a lot more he wasn’t tapping into just yet. But either way, the sound was deep and as potent as if her head were inside a giant bell. It rang in her ears, split her head and temporarily deafened her.

She pressed her hands to her ears and closed her eyes until the reverberations stopped bouncing around her brain. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands, opened her eyes, lifted her head. He was still standing there in front of her, staring hard, anger glinting in his jet black eyes.

“I’ve told you, I’m sorry about the coffin. It was the only way.”

She narrowed her eyes on him, about to cut lose with another stream of insults, accusations and possibly profanity, but then she caught a glimpse of the space beyond him, and she was shocked into silence.

Stone walls climbed to towering vaulted ceilings. Inverted domes housed crystal chandeliers. Sconces in the walls looked as if they could hold actual torches. The windows were huge, arched at the top, with thick glass panes so old the night beyond them appeared distorted. Sheet-draped shapes were the only furniture in the place. And a wide curving staircase wound upward and out of sight.

“This is…your place?” She swallowed hard as she took in the dust and cobwebs; then, turning slowly, she started a little at the sight of the two coffins lying side by side, both of them open. “Doesn’t look as if anyone’s used it in a while.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone has lived here, yes.”

Blinking, she went to the nearest window, passing a double fireplace that took up most of one wall on the way. Wiping the dust from the glass with her palm, she stared outside.

The impression was of sheer height and rugged, barren rock. The moon hung low in the sky, nearly full and milky white. It spilled its light over cliffs, harsh outcroppings of rock and boulders jutting upward from far, far below. Beyond the cliffs, she could see grassy hills and valleys. But around this place, there was none of that. It was dark. It was bereft. Even the few pathetic trees that clung for their lives to the steep cliff-sides were scrawny and dead looking.

Stormy swallowed the dryness in her throat—she could barely do it. She was dehydrated, thirsty, starving and a little bit scared. This didn’t look like any island off North Carolina.

“Where the hell are we, Vlad?”

2

Vlad kept his distance from the others who were visiting the museum. Mortals. Tourists. Groups of children being led about by young tour guides. He slipped into the Anatolian exhibit, which was housed in a room all its own, and stared at the ring in its glass case. Memories came flooding into his mind, into his soul, but he drove them back. It wasn’t easy. He recalled taking the precious gem from his little finger and slipping it onto Elisabeta’s forefinger, the only one it came close to fitting. He remembered how, within an hour, she’d wound it around with twine, to make it fit more snugly, and how seeing it on her made him feel proud and protective. It was large and strong and powerful on her small, delicate hand. It seemed to denote his claim to her. It seemed to mark her as his own.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” a woman asked.

Vlad blinked the memories away and turned to face the uniformed woman who had approached him. He hadn’t even been aware of her presence, much less of how much time had passed while he’d stood there staring at the ring.

“The museum is closing sir. You’ll have to leave now.”

“Ahh. Yes, of course.”

She left him alone, and he turned again to the ring. It was the one. He’d found it at last. And yes, he would leave the museum—for now. But no power on earth would keep that ring from him.

He closed his eyes, turned and left the museum, but as soon as he stepped out into the fresh air of the night, he sensed something else, something he had not expected.

“Tempest,” he whispered. And he turned slowly, scenting the air, feeling for her energy, certain she was close.

And she was. He began to move, barely looking, drawn by the feel of her. Like following the trail left by a comet’s tail, he homed in on her warmth, her light, the sparkling energy that was hers alone.

He wouldn’t get too close. He couldn’t, not without running the risk of her knowing. In all these years, all this time, he hadn’t come close to her, despite the temptation he could barely resist. And as long as he’d kept his distance, Elisabeta had slept. She’d been dormant, deep inside Tempest. Somewhere. He knew she hadn’t left this plane. She hadn’t died or moved on. She was still there. He felt her there. But she hadn’t stirred.

As long as he stayed away from Tempest, he thought, she wouldn’t. It was easier on Beta that way, or he hoped it was. Let her rest and bide her time. But time—God, time was running out for both of them. And now that he’d found the ring, he almost didn’t dare to hope there could be a chance. Yet he couldn’t help but hope.

So he followed her trail as her presence hummed in his blood, stroked his senses like a bow over the strings of a violin, until his longing for her vibrated into a pure, demanding tone. It was more powerful now, he realized as he drew closer, than it had been before. Even harder to resist, perhaps because he was allowing himself to move closer to her than he had in sixteen years. It drew him, drove him, until he stood on the sidewalk beside a hotel, staring up at the room where every sense told him she was.

God, it was all he could do not to climb the wall and go to her.

Always before, he’d been prepared to resist his own urges. Always before, he’d had time to steel himself before getting within range of her energy. But this had been entirely unexpected. He hadn’t come here for this, for her. He’d come for the ring. His plans beyond that were uncertain. Without the scroll, the ring was useless.

Why was Tempest here? Had she come for the ring, as well? Why? How could she know?

He couldn’t let her obtain it, if that was her goal. For her to possess it would be far too dangerous.

As he stood there, staring up at the room, Tempest stepped out onto the balcony, leaned on the railing and gazed out into the night.

He couldn’t take his eyes from her. And his preternatural vision didn’t fail him. He managed to drink in every detail of her face in a way he hadn’t been close enough to do in far, far too long.

The blush of youth had faded from the body of the woman in which his love lay sleeping. In its place were the angles of a female in the prime of her life. Her face was thinner, her eyes harder, than they had been before. Her hair was still blond but not as pale; still short but less severe. Its softness framed her face and moved with every touch of the breeze. She still bore a striking resemblance to Elisabeta, her ancestor. He longed to bury his fingers in those sunlight-and-honey strands, to bury himself inside her; to feel her shiver under the power of his touch.

She wanted him.

God, he could feel her wanting him. Yearning for him. And she knew he was close. She sensed him, perhaps not as powerfully and clearly as he sensed her, but it was there. And consciously or not, she was calling out to him. She wanted him still.

He had to school himself to patience. He had to know why she was here, what she was doing. He’d waited sixteen years to be with her again—more than five hundred before that. Surely he could wait one more night. But not much more than that.

He was hungry. He needed sustenance, blood to satisfy his body and perhaps calm the raging desire in his veins. To keep himself from going to her, for just a little while longer. And then, in the early hours just before dawn, he would go after the ring.

And that was precisely what he did. But when he got to the museum, it was to find the window broken, the alarms shrieking, sirens blaring and the ring…

Gone.

Stormy woke to the insistent sun beaming through the hotel room’s windows and searing through her eyelids. She rolled over in the bed and hid her face in the pillows, but the memory of her dreams woke her more thoroughly than the sun ever could have.

She’d dreamed about Vlad.

But she hadn’t dreamed about the two of them making love—which was odd, because she’d dreamed of that many times over the past sixteen years, never sure whether it had actually happened, or if it was just part of her senseless yearning for him. Or something more sinister—perhaps the longing of her intruder or one of her memories.

No. This dream had been more like a memory. Until the end. Then it had become a vision. He’d been standing there on the shores of Endover, where she had first met him. His castle-like mansion hovered on its secret island behind him, and the sea was raging in between. He’d been just standing there, staring at her.

Wanting her.

Calling to her.

The wind had been whipping through his long dark hair, and she’d remembered—yes, remembered!—the way it felt to run her fingers through it. His chest had been bare, probably because, in her mind, that was the way she preferred to remember him. His chest. Next to his eyes, and that hair, and his mouth, it was her favorite part of him. She’d touched that chest in her dreams. She’d run her hands over it and over his belly. Had it ever been real?

It felt real. More real than anything else in her life.

She rolled onto her back and pressed her hands to her face. “God,” she moaned. “Am I ever going to get over him?”

But she already knew the answer. If she hadn’t been able to forget Dracula in sixteen years, it wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. He had a hold on her. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it was him messing with her mind, refusing to let her forget him, even while making her forget the details of their time together. Or maybe it was because of that other soul that lurked inside her. Because, though it had been dormant for a long time, Stormy knew that the other was still there. And if she’d begun to doubt it, Elisabeta’s recent appearance had driven the truth home. She lived still.

But was that why she couldn’t forget Vlad? Or was it just because he was the only man who had ever made her feel…desperate for him. Hungry for him. Certain no one else would ever suffice.

And no one else ever had. Or ever would. She couldn’t even climax with another man.

He certainly hadn’t had the same issues, though, had he? He’d never made contact, not once in sixteen years. And it hurt, far more than it should. Some days she convinced herself it was because he truly did care about her. That he was keeping away to protect her from the inner turmoil Elisabeta would cause if he did otherwise. But most of the time she believed the more likely reason. It was, after all, Elisabeta, not Stormy, he loved. And since he couldn’t have her, he couldn’t be bothered with Stormy at all.

She closed her eyes, and revisited, mentally, the initial parts of her dream—and knew it had been a memory. A snippet of the weeks Vlad had erased from her mind. He’d taken her to Romania, not North Carolina, smuggled her there inside a casket. She’d awakened in his castle, furious with him.

But why? What had happened there? Why had he let her go? God, why had he ever let her go?

Groaning, Stormy dragged herself out of bed, shuffled across the room and kicked the clothes she didn’t remember wearing out of her path. She went to the door and hoped, for the hotel staff’s sake, that her standing order had been delivered on time.

It had. Outside the door was a rolling service tray, with a silver pot full of piping hot coffee and a plate with several pastries beside it. There were a cup, a pitcher of cream, and a container with sugar and other sweeteners in colorful packets. Beside all of that was a neatly folded—and hot of the presses, by the smell of the ink—issue of the daily newspaper.

Her order had been filled to perfection—assuming the coffee was any good—and delivered on time. She’d specified this be brought to her room every morning of her stay between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m., and that it be left outside her door so that her sleep wouldn’t be disturbed.

Yeah, she was a pain in the ass as a hotel guest. But given what they charged for rooms these days, they ought to throw in a little extra service, the way she saw it. Not that they were throwing it in, exactly. She would be billed, she had no doubt. But the agency was thriving, so what the hell?

She wheeled the cart into her room, filled the cup with coffee and snagged a cheese and cherry Danish. It wasn’t Dunkin’ Donuts, but it was the closest she could get at the moment. Then she sat down to enjoy her breakfast and unfolded the newspaper.

The banner headline hit her between the eyes like a fist.

BOLD BREAK-IN AT NATIONAL MUSEUM—PRICELESS ARTIFACT STOLEN.

“No,” she whispered. But she already knew, even before she read the piece, what had been taken. The hole in the pit of her stomach told her in no uncertain terms.

And her stomach was right.

According to the article, the burglary had been a graceless smash-and-grab. Someone had kicked in the window of the room where the ring was on display, so they clearly knew right where it was. They had set off every alarm in the place but were back out the window and gone before the security guards even made it into the room.

It didn’t seem a likely M.O. for Melina Roscova. Stormy would have expected more grace, more finesse, from a woman like that. But who else would want the ring?

The answer came before she had time to blink. Vlad. That was who.

She’d dreamed of him last night. Had it been coincidence? Or had it been his real nearness making his image appear in her mind?

Did he have the ring? Just what kind of power did that thing have?

She shivered and knew that whatever it was, it frightened her. But she shook away the fear and squared her shoulders.

“One way to find out,” she muttered. She finished the Danish, slugged down the coffee, and headed for the shower for a record-breaking lather and rinse, head to toe. But halfway through, she stopped. Because…damn, hadn’t she fallen asleep in the bath last night? Why the hell didn’t she remember getting out of the tub and into bed?

She frowned as she toweled down and yanked on a pair of jeans and a black baby T-shirt with a badass fairy on the front above the words Trust Me.

“I must have been more tired than I thought,” she muttered. “It’ll come back to me.”

Telling herself she believed that, she slapped a handful of mousse into her hair and gave it three passes with the blow dryer. “And that,” she told her reflection, “is why I love short hair.”

She stuffed her feet into purple ankle socks, and her green and teal Nike Shocks, then grabbed a denim jacket and her bag—a mini-backpack—on the way to the door. There she paused before going back to grab her travel mug off the night stand. She filled it from the coffee pot, snatched two more pastries and the business card Melina had left her the night before, then headed out the door.

She moved through the hotel’s revolving doors and turned to tell one of the uniformed men who stood there to go get her car, but Belladonna was already there, waiting. She was parked neatly just beyond the curved strip of pavement in front of the hotel’s doors, along the roadside. Had she called down last night and arranged for the car to be there, then forgotten doing it? That didn’t seem likely, but between the drinks she’d had last night and the stress of being in the same city with that ring, much less Vlad, she supposed it was possible.

And that was as far as she allowed that train of thought to travel. She would deal with the burglary now. Just focus on that. The intricate and tangled web of her mind and her memory would only distract her. She had to see Melina Roscova. Because she had to find out what had happened to that ring.

My ring, a little voice whispered deep inside her mind.

It wasn’t Stormy’s voice.

It was a four-hour drive to Athena House, or would have been if she hadn’t gotten lost on the way, and stopped for lunch to boot. Stormy inched Belladonna’s shiny black nose into the first part of the driveway and stopped at the arched, wrought-iron gate that had the word ATHENA spelled out in its scroll work. The gate was closed, but there was a speaker mounted on one of the columns that flanked her on either side.

She got out of the car and headed for the speaker. The big iron gate hung between two towering columns of rust-colored stone blocks. The entire place was surrounded by a ten-foot wall of those same hand hewn stones, and beyond the gate, Stormy could see that the house was built of them, as well.

Giant stone owls carved of glittering, snow-white granite perched on top of each column, standing like black eyed sentries to guard the place. Those glinting onyx eyes gave Stormy a shiver. Too much like Elisabeta’s eyes, she supposed. And the notion of them sparkling from her own face, the way witnesses had said they did, sent a brief wave of nausea washing through her.

A speaker with a button marked Talk was mounted to the front of the left stone column. Stormy poked the button. “Stormy Jones, from SIS, here to see Melina Roscova.”

“Welcome,” a feminine voice said. “Please, come in.”

The gate and swung slowly open. Stormy went back to the car, sat down on her black seat covers with the red Japanese dragons on them, which matched the floor mats and the steering wheel cover, and waited until the gate had opened fully. Then she drove slowly through and followed the driveway, which looped around a big fountain and back on itself again. She stopped near the mansion’s front entrance and shut the car off. Then, stiffening her spine and hoping to God that Melina would admit to having stolen the ring herself, she got out and went up the broad stone steps to a pair of massive, darkly stained doors that looked as if they belonged on a castle, right down to the black iron hinge plates and knobs, and the knocker, which was held in the talons of yet another white owl.

The doors opened before she could knock, and Melina stood there smiling at her. “I know we didn’t discuss a fee before, but I’ll pay whatever you ask. I’m just so glad you changed your mind.”

She continued babbling as Stormy’s stomach churned, and she led the way through the house’s magnificent foyer into a broad and echoing hallway, and along it into a library. As they walked through the place, they passed other women, all busy but curious. All between twenty and fifty, Stormy thought, taking them in with a quick sweep of her well trained eyes. All attractive and fit. Really fit.

“You certainly work fast once you make up your mind,” Melina said, as she closed the library doors, and waved Stormy toward a leather chair. “Did you bring it?”

Stormy walked to the chair but didn’t sit. Instead, she turned to face Melina, her back to the chair, and asked as calmly as she could manage, “Did I bring what?”

Melina’s smile showed the first sign of faltering. “The ring, of course.”

Disappointment dealt her a crushing blow. So much so that Stormy sat down heavily in the chair behind her and lowered her head. Dammit, she’d been hoping, but she didn’t think Melina was acting. She drew a breath. “I don’t have the ring, Melina.”

“Well, what did you do with it?”

“Nothing.” She forced herself to lift her head, to face the woman, who was, even then, sinking into a chair of her own, looking as deflated as Stormy felt. “So it’s safe to say you didn’t break into the museum and steal it last night,” Stormy said.

“I didn’t.” Melina closed her eyes briefly. “I assumed you had. Figured you’d had a change of heart or…something.”

“I didn’t,” Stormy said, echoing Melina’s own denial.

“Then that means—”

“It means someone else has the ring,” Stormy said.

Melina rose slowly, walked to a cabinet and opened it, then poured herself three fingers worth of vodka. Stolichanya. Good shit. She downed it, then turned and held the bottle up.

“No, thanks. I’m driving.”

“Not for a while, I hope.”

“No? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Melina grabbed another glass and poured, then refilled her own. She capped the bottle and put it away, then walked across the room to hand the clean glass to Stormy. “Because I need your help. Now more than ever, Stormy. You have to agree to take the job.”

“The job was to steal the ring,” Stormy said. “Someone’s already done that.”

“Yes. And now the job is to find out who has it and take it from them. Before it’s too late.”

Stormy was pretty sure she knew who had the ring. And she didn’t look forward to going up against him, although it seemed she wasn’t going to have a choice about that. Maybe with the money and resources of this Sisterhood behind her, she would have an edge. A shot, at least. God knew she couldn’t let Vlad decide what to do with the ring. She didn’t know what sort of power the thing possessed, but she sensed, right to her core, that whatever it was, it might very well destroy her.

Melina sighed. “I have to let my Firsts know what’s happened, so we can begin the search.”

“Your Firsts?”

“My…lieutenants, for want of a better term. Not to mention my superiors.” As she said that, she lowered her head and wiped what might have been a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Stay for dinner. As soon as I have things squared away, I’ll tell you everything I know about the ring. Everything, Stormy. Although…”

Stormy lifted her brows, and when Melina didn’t finish, she prompted her. “Although?”

Melina shrugged. “I get the feeling you already know as much as I do,” she said softly. “Why is that, Stormy?”

Stormy shrugged. “I never set eyes on that ring until yesterday, Melina. I think your imagination is working overtime.”

Melina studied her for a long moment, then seemed to accept her words with a nod. “Will you help me?”

“You keep your word and tell me all you know—and I mean everything, Melina—and I’ll do my best to find and…acquire the ring.”

Melina smiled. “Thank you, Stormy. Thank you so much.” She clasped Stormy’s hands briefly.

Stormy felt a little guilty accepting such senseless gratitude from the woman. After all, she hadn’t said anything about giving the ring to her. And she didn’t intend to.

When the sun went down, Vlad rose from the crypt where he’d spent the day. The crushing devastation that returned the moment his mind cleared of the day sleep was nearly enough to send him sinking to his knees. But he fought it. All was not lost. It couldn’t be.

To be so close—so close to having the ring—and then to lose it that way…

He could only reach one conclusion. Tempest. She must have the ring. She had come for it, just as he had. And she’d beaten him to the theft.

So there was still a chance. He need only find her and—

She’s gone.

The knowledge seeped into his mind, as real and as palpable as air seeping into a mortal’s lungs. Tempest had left the city.

No matter. There was nowhere on earth the woman could go where he would be unable to follow. To find her. To feel his way to her. She would never escape him.

So he followed the trail she had left. A trail of her essence, woven with her yearning for him. And he found her.

She was behind the walls of a mansion, beyond a stone barrier and an iron gate marked by the word ATHENA.

He recognized the place for what it was—it wasn’t the first he’d seen—a base for the Sisterhood of Athena.

They were involved with Tempest? With the ring? By the gods, how? Why? Why would Tempest entangle herself with the likes of them?

Vlad planted himself outside the tall stone wall that surrounded the place, though he could easily have leapt it. He didn’t need to. His power over Tempest was strong enough that he could crawl inside her mind, see everything she saw, hear everything she heard. He could feel her thoughts.

And damn the repercussions. She’d stolen the ring and…what? Brought it to these meddling mortals? How dare she betray him that way?

No, he would do whatever was necessary to get to the bottom of this, to find the ring and get it back. So he made himself comfortable in the darkness beyond the walls of the mansion, and he slid as carefully as he could into his woman’s mind.

3

Dinner was late at Athena House, but well worth the wait: a tender glazed pork loin with baby carrots and new potatoes. Enough side dishes to satisfy anyone, and the promise of dessert later on.

As she ate, Stormy tried to match the names she’d been given to the faces around her, but she determined she would never keep them all straight. There were three she knew for sure. Melina, of course. Then there was Melina’s apparent right-hand woman, Brooke, with sleek, shoulder length red hair parted on one side, as straight as if it were wet. She looked as if she’d stepped off the set of a Robert Palmer video and was so thin Stormy wondered if she ever ate anything at all. She wore a tweed skirt that hugged her from hips to knees, with a buttoned-up ivory silk blouse. And third was Lupe, a shapely Latina who reminded Stormy of Rosie Perez every time she opened her mouth. She was five-two, way shorter than her two cohorts, and curvy as hell. She had full, lush lips and copper-toned skin. Her hair was longer than Brooke’s, jet back, and curled as if it had been left out in a wind-storm, and her brown eyes were like melted milk chocolate. She wore designer jeans and a chenille sweater that had probably cost more than Stormy’s entire wardrobe.

Those three she remembered. And those three were the ones who went with her into the library when the meal had ended. And yes, Stormy thought, Brooke had eaten—about enough to feed a baby bird.

A fourth woman brought a china tray with matching coffee pot, cups, cream pitcher and sugar bowl into the room, set it down and left without a word.

“This place is…odd,” Stormy said.

“Is it?” Melina poured coffee into four cups, took one and sat down. She took it with cream, no sugar, Stormy noticed. Smooth but strong.

“It feels like a cross between an army barracks and a convent.”

“Because that’s what it is,” Lupe said with a grin and a combination Spanish-Brooklyn accent. She took her own cup, added four spoons full of sugar and sat back. Hot and sweet, but dark, Stormy thought.

She eyed the room. It was large, a towering ceiling and four walls lined with books and bound manuscripts, many of which seemed very old. The scents of old paper and leather permeated the place. At the farthest end of the room there was a table that stood about desk height. It might have been a desk, for all Stormy could tell, since it was hidden under a purple satin cloth. Antique pewter candle holders with glowing tapers stood on top, to either side of an aged leather book.

Stormy eyed the book, watching only from the corner of her eye as Brooke took her own cup of coffee, adding nothing to it at all. Dark and bitter.

She took her own with just enough cream to mask the bite, and just enough sugar to lull her into forgetting that caffeine could kick her ass. She smiled a little as she fixed it and thought that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they took their coffee.

Melina said, “We first learned of the ring in 1516, when a member of the Sisterhood acquired the journal of an alleged mage who’d lived a century earlier.”

“The Sisterhood of Athena is that old?” Stormy asked.

“Older.” Melina watched her staring at the book.

“So this is the one? The old journal?” Stormy asked, stepping toward the book on the table.

“Yes.”

She set her coffee cup down and moved closer, then reached for the book, only to pause when Brooke put a surprisingly chilly hand over hers. “It’s very delicate. Be careful.”

“Like she’s planning to rip off the cover?” Lupe asked with a toss of her head. “Give it a rest, Brookie.”

There was no question, the nickname was not a term of endearment.

Stormy looked from one woman to the other. They were opposites and maybe equals. There was tension there. But that wasn’t her problem. She steadied herself and touched the book with great care, opening its leather cover and staring down at the brittle, yellowed pages within.

Words flowed across the pages in some foreign script, where words were even visible. Many had faded to mere shadows. She wanted to turn the page, but didn’t dare, for fear it might disintegrate at her touch.

“It’s not in English.” After she said it, she realized she had stated the obvious.

“No,” Melina said. “Many pages are missing or only partly there. Many more cannot be read, but we’ve translated those that can. It’s written in a long-forgotten language, so some of the translations are piecemeal or educated guesses. But the journal does speak of ‘The Ring of the Impaler.’”

Stormy nodded. She didn’t bother trying to feign surprise. She’d never been a good actress. “Meaning Vlad the Impaler, aka Dracula.”

“That’s the conclusion we’ve reached, yes. The timing would have been right, and since it was found in Turkey, and the Turks were at war with the Romanians during Vlad’s reign, it makes sense.”

Stormy felt herself shiver. This was the ring Vlad had referred to sixteen years ago in the words that had so recently echoed in her head. If there had been any doubt, it was gone now. It was the ring he’d been seeking for more than five centuries. She forced herself to retrieve her coffee, to sip it slowly and not tremble visibly.

“And this journal…it says something about the ring?” she asked.

Melina moved past her to the aged book and opened it to a section marked with a blood red ribbon. “This is the reference,” she said. “If you prefer, you can copy it out and take it to your own translator. But I can assure you, you won’t find a more accurate interpretation than ours. We use only the best linguists for this sort of thing.”

“I believe you,” Stormy said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to copy it. Or better yet…” She dipped into her backpack, which she’d slung over the back of her chair, and pulled out a state of the art digital camera, tiny and light and packing 8.5 megapixels. “May I?”

Melina nodded, but her face was pinched. Stormy snapped several shots of the book, including close ups of the page to show the text as clearly as possible. Then she put the camera away and turned to Melina. “So are you going to tell me what it says?”

“Of course.” The other woman moved behind the large table that held the book, and confirmed Stormy’s suspicion that it was actually a desk when she lifted the purple cloth and opened a drawer. She removed a notebook and an eyeglass case. Then she slid the glasses on—gold framed bifocals in their stereotypical rectangular shape. She opened the notebook and began to read.

“‘At the prince’s bidding, we imbued the ring with his bride’s essence and created a powerful rite, which we transcribed upon a scroll. These were given to him, along with our instructions. When he finds the woman, he must place the ring upon her finger and perform the rite we created. At once the essence of the one he lost will return. Her mind, her memories, her soul, will be restored. Certain physical traits—mysteries to us but known to the prince, or so said our divinations—will return, as well. This was perhaps the greatest work of magic I have ever performed. The power of all of us together, the most accomplished mages of our time, was an awe-inspiring experience. And yet my heart remains heavy, for the work we did has a shadow side. The soul of the lost, while a part of the whole, is not the whole. For it to return, it must also displace. It is unnatural, and I fear the repercussions upon the whole, upon the innocent, and upon my own soul for my part in creating what I fear is a dire wrong. We did, however, set a way for the gods to subvert our work. A time limit, in the tried and true method of occultists from time immemorial. When the Red Star of Destiny eclipses Venus, the time of this spell will expire. And all parts of the sleeping soul—both the woman she was and her spiritual descendant—will be set free to begin anew.’”

Melina closed the book and lifted her head. She removed her glasses and folded them with care.

Stormy looked at the other faces in the room and realized this was the first time either of the other women had heard these words aloud. Brooke looked excited and intrigued, while Lupe seemed puzzled and troubled.

“So the ring has the power to bring someone back from the dead?” Lupe asked.

“Not the body,” Melina told her. “Only the soul.”

“Creating what? A ghost?” Lupe asked.

Stormy set her cup down. “It’s a soul-transferal. The dead spirit comes into the body of a living person. It…takes over.” She got a chill when she said it. “Correct?”

Melina nodded. “That’s my best interpretation, yes.”

“And by spiritual descendant…some sort of reincarnation?” Stormy asked, though she thought she already knew the answer.

“But wouldn’t a reincarnation already be the dead woman’s soul?” Lupe asked.

Stormy shook her head. “Not necessarily. Some theorize that when we die, our soul returns to meld with a greater one. A higher self. All the experiences are shared, and the higher self spins a new soul from its parts. That’s the reincarnation. It’s part of the whole, but not the same whole that lived before. A new individual.”

Lupe nodded, as if that made sense to her. Stormy wondered how, when it had taken her sixteen years to wrap her mind around the notion. It had been explained to her by the hypnotist she’d seen in Salem, and she hadn’t believed it at first. Hadn’t wanted to believe that the enemy lurking within her was her spiritual ancestor. A part of her.

Now she had a whole new nightmare to wrap her mind around. Elisabeta was Vlad’s bride. His wife. His dead wife, and she was already hiding in Stormy’s body, waiting for the chance to take over. And the ring he had in all likelihood stolen last night could bring her back to raging life in Stormy’s own body. It could give her full control.

“So the question is,” she asked slowly, “what happens to the living person? The rightful owner of that body? Does she just get…booted out when Elisabeta takes over?”

Melina licked her lips. “How did you know her name was Elisabeta?”

Stormy’s eyes flicked to hers quickly, then just as quickly away. “Come on. You said you’ve been observing my company for years. You must know vampires are an area of expertise for me.”

Melina nodded but kept looking at Stormy for a beat too long. Then she sighed. “I don’t know what would happen to the rightful owner of the body. But the rite spoken of in this journal could very well be a recipe for metaphysical murder.”

“Not necessarily, though,” Brooke said. “Some people, myself included, believe that two souls could conceivably co-exist within the same body, providing both agreed to it.”

“It would be like having a split personality,” Stormy said softly. “Constant conflict, fighting for control.” She was speaking, of course, from personal experience. “It could never be over until one of them died.”

“I disagree,” Brooke said. “They could share. Perhaps even…meld, given time. Melina, does the rite say the person the soul resides in has to be a spiritual descendant?”

“No.”

“It’s obscene,” Lupe said softly. “A slap in the face of the supernatural order, no matter how it works.”

“Exactly,” Melina said. “A lifetime ends when its time is over. That’s the way things are supposed to be. You cannot interfere with that and think there won’t be serious repercussions. And now…” She closed her eyes. “Someone has the ring.”

“But what about the rite?” Stormy asked. “Is the actual rite given in the journal?”

“No,” Melina said softly. And as she said it, her eyes met Brooke’s very briefly, then slid away again. “We don’t even know if the rite exists anymore. It could easily have disintegrated, as so many pages in this journal have done.”

“Could it be recreated?” Stormy asked.

Melina tipped her head to one side, studying Stormy a little too closely again. “Perhaps. A talented witch or sorcerer might be able to create a spell that would work. They could certainly try, with God only knows what sort of results. And no doubt there are some stupid enough or power hungry enough to want to.” She shook her head in disgust. “Which is why we must get the ring out of circulation. It has to be secured. As long as it exists, there is the risk that an innocent life will be lost or altered beyond repair.”

Stormy agreed. Particularly since the innocent life in question was her own. “What did that last part mean,” she asked. “That part about the Red Star of whatever?”

“We don’t know. We have no way of knowing what modern astronomers have named whatever star those old ones were referring to. Or if it was a star at all.” Melina carried the notebook to the desk and put it into a drawer, then locked it. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s absolutely everything we know. Brooke and Lupe, because they are second in command to me, are the only two here who know all this. And now you know it, as well.” She moved across the room to Stormy. “Do you think you can find the ring and take it from whoever stole it?”

Licking her lips nervously, Stormy nodded. “I think I have to.”

It had been so long. Far, far too long.

Elisabeta lived still. He sensed her, alive and aware, deep inside Tempest’s consciousness. Waiting for him to rescue her.

And maybe the things he’d overheard while eavesdropping from deep within Tempest’s consciousness were things that required him to take action. To see her. To speak to her. Or maybe he was only allowing himself to believe they did, because he couldn’t be this close and not get a little closer. Close enough to touch.

The one called Melina—the leader of this little coven—suggested Tempest stay there at the mansion for the night, rather than driving all the way back to the city and her hotel. When Tempest agreed, he sagged in relief, because he couldn’t wait much longer. He needed to go to her.

But he would have to be careful. As angry as he was that she would betray him by agreeing to help the Sisterhood of Athena steal the ring, he didn’t want to traumatize her unnecessarily. He would, no doubt, be forced to do enough of that later. Soon, in fact.

He had no idea how she felt about him now. He didn’t how she would react to seeing him again for the first time in sixteen years. But he could not leave without seeing her. So be it.

The bedroom to which she was shown had a minuscule balcony. Vlad stood beneath it, watching her shadow play against the curtains as she moved around the room beyond them. He tried to be patient when her movements stopped, but he didn’t succeed. Instead, he leapt from the grassy lawn behind the Athena mansion, clearing the rail and landing softly on the balcony. And then he went still, listening and sensing for her in the room beyond.

The shower was running. The bedroom lights were turned off, but a sliver of illumination came from beneath the closed door of the adjoining bathroom. And so he waited there, aching, silent and bleeding inside.

Eventually the sound of flowing water stopped. He waited, still and alert, watching her as she stepped into the bedroom wearing only a towel. And then she dropped the towel to the floor, and he swore his body caught fire at the sight of her, nude and damp and beautiful still. So beautiful.

She crossed the room, tugged back the covers, settled into the bed and closed her eyes.

She was tired; he felt that in her. And then she sensed something, someone near, might even have known on some deep level that it was him, lurking in the night, hungering. But it didn’t trouble her enough to keep her from sleep. And he wondered briefly why she was so exhausted.

He had to know what she was doing. He had to know why she was involved with the Sisterhood of Athena, and what she planned to do with the ring if and when she found it. He’d overheard enough to be fully aware she intended to search for it on behalf of the Sisterhood. Did she honestly intend to hand it over to them? What could have instigated such an idiotic, not to mention disloyal, act?

He waited until he was certain she slept—it didn’t take long. Then he slid the glass door open and moved silently into the room, up beside her bed.

For a long moment he stood there, just experiencing her. The scent of her, familiar and arousing, filling him. The sounds of her breath, moving softly, deeply, in and out of her lungs. The sight of her. Her once purely platinum hair had new tones, honey and gold, woven through with paler highlights. It was slightly longer than before, softer. And there were lines, tiny ones, at the corners of her eyes. He wanted to touch her, taste her, and the knowledge that the blankets and sheets were the only things covering her burned in him.

But he wasn’t there for those things. He was there for information. And the ring.

He lowered himself into a chair, focused on her mind and crept inside, carefully. He didn’t want her aware of his intrusion, nor did he wish to rouse Elisabeta, who still lingered. His eyes fell closed as he felt her exhaustion, and then he sank into her dreams. She was on a sailboat, lying on the deck, bathed by the light of a full moon so big it lit the entire sky and the sea beneath it. It painted her in its milky light. She wore a stretch of sheer white fabric that draped from one shoulder all the way to her feet.

She was smiling up at someone. It was with a little rush of shock and pleasure that he realized it was him. He was in her dream. And he was moving closer to her, reaching out to her, telling her not to be afraid.

“I’m not afraid,” she told him. “Not of you.” And she tilted her head. “She can’t get to me in my dreams. Did you know that?”

The real Vlad was surprised, as he watched her dream image of him react with a knowing nod. “It’s the one place you’re safe from her. That’s why I come to you here.”

Was it true? Was it real? It almost seemed as if she had dreamed of him before. Could it be true?

He had to put it to the test. Had to. He stepped out of her consciousness, so that he was looking at her lying there in the bed, rather than looking out through her eyes within her own dream.

“You will not wake. You will stay safe in the haven of your dream,” he told her. “Do you understand?”

He felt her agreement, though she didn’t speak aloud. He also felt her longing for him, wanting him, craving his touch. It was almost too much to resist, and yet…

“I have questions for you, Tempest.”

“Yes.”

He was sitting on the edge of his chair now, leaning closer to her. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her, just a little. He commanded her not to wake with the power of his mind as he trailed his fingertips over her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, and she shivered a little with a rush of pure desire. So responsive to him still. Maybe even more so than she had been before.

“Tempest, why are you looking for the ring?”

“Have to find it. Said I would.” She spoke the words aloud, startling him. But she remained asleep, lost in the throes of her dream. When he started to move his hand away, her smaller hand closed over it to press it closer to her face. Then, slowly, she moved it downward, over her neck, her collarbone, underneath the blanket to her breast.

He released a shuddering breath as his palm rubbed over warm, soft skin and the stiff peak pressing into its center. Softer than before, not as firm or perky, but warm and full. He told himself to take his hand away. She arched her back, and he couldn’t do it. Instead he drew his fingers together on her nipple, pressing and rolling it to give her a taste of the pleasure she so craved.

“Why, Tempest?” he asked. “Tell me why?”

“Make love to me, Vlad.”

“Talk to me, first. Answer my questions,” he told her.

She twisted in the bed, pushing at the blanket until it slid and bunched up around her waist, leaving her upper body bare and fully exposed.

He shivered at the sight of her. Still so incredibly beautiful, with creamy skin almost begging to be touched. Hips a little wider than before, body a little fuller. It wasn’t the body of a twenty-three-year-old now. It was a woman’s body, and he burned with desire to bury his own inside it.

“Tell me why you have to find the ring.” He cupped her untouched breast with his other hand, and squeezed and lifted it, then pinched the nipple softly, because he loved the way she gasped and shivered every time his fingers closed tighter on the hard little bud.

“If you have it, you’ll kill me.”

“I would never hurt you, Tempest.” Another pinch. Harder this time. She sucked air through her teeth. Gods, he wanted her.

“Use your mouth,” she whispered.

“Tell me why you think I’ll kill you.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts. He wanted to taste them. And he didn’t have the will to do otherwise. He bent his head, squeezing her breast in his hand, so the nipple thrust upward, and lapped its tip with his tongue.

She gasped. “More.”

He loved this part of her, this new part. The girl she’d been would have waited to see what he would do, how he would touch her, then reacted when he did. But the woman she had become told him exactly what she wanted. And it made him all too eager to comply.

“Tell me, Tempest, and I’ll give you what you want,” he whispered, his breath bathing her sensitive skin as he spoke.

“If you have the ring, you’ll put it on me. You’ll perform the rite.” She arched her back. “Please, Vlad.”

He closed his mouth around her nipple, suckled her deep and hard for a long moment. Her hands closed in his hair, and she held him to her. He bit down a little, and she arched against his mouth, silently begging for more.

He stopped. “Keep talking, Tempest. Tell me what I need to know.”

Breathless, she whispered, “If you perform the rite, I’ll die. My soul will go away. And she’ll take my body. Take you.” She pressed her breast to his lips, and he took it again, drawing on it, nipping and tugging.

She writhed beneath him, arching and moaning until the blanket fell to the floor at the foot of the bed, leaving her completely naked and exposed to him. Vulnerable to him.

Gods help him.

His hand slid over her body, across her belly, to the soft curls between her legs. She let her thighs fall open wide, arching her hips against his hand.

“What will you do with the ring when you find it?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you. You’ll stop me.”

He slid his fingers between her folds. She was wet. Dripping, and so hot. “Tell me, Tempest,” he whispered, and he thrust his fingers inside her.

She shuddered from her head to her toes, and pressed him deeper.

“Will you give the ring to the woman? Melina?”

“I don’t know her. Don’t trust her,” she said. Then, “Harder!”

He drove his fingers into her more deeply, withdrew and did it again. “Tell me what you’ll do with the ring.”

“I’ll…destroy it,” she whispered.

He went still. Shocked. Destroy it? By the gods, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Her eyes fluttered.

He saw it, knew she was starting to lose her grip on sleep, and called up the full power of his mind. “Don’t you dare wake up, Tempest. Sleep. Dream. Enjoy.”

She relaxed a little, and he rewarded her by sliding his fingers into her again. In, and then out. Over and over. “Give yourself to the pleasure, my beautiful Tempest. Give yourself to me.”

“You’ll hurt me…destroy me.”

“If that’s my will, there is no point in fighting it. Surrender to me, Tempest. Let go.” He worked her body and her mind, bending to take her breast in his mouth again, in his teeth, using his thumb to torment her clitoris while his fingers drove deeper into her, until he felt her give way. She writhed and moaned as the orgasm gripped her, and he spoke to her mind, commanding her to remain asleep, to remember it all as no more than a pleasant dream. Her body jerked and shuddered with her release, and she whispered his name over and over as she came.

He caressed her until the last shivers finished, until the spasms eased and she calmed slowly back down. He stroked her body and, leaning close her ear, whispered that she was his, that her will belonged to him, and that she would trust him, believe what he told her and do what he bade her, always. He tugged the blankets over her body and tucked her in tightly.

“You’ve hurt me,” she whispered. “You never came back to me, Vlad. You only came now for the ring. And now you have it!”

She was getting agitated. He soothed her, stroking her hair, her cheeks. “I don’t have it Tempest. I didn’t take it.”

“You don’t? You didn’t? But you want it. And you have to know…have to know… Even Melina knows.”

“Knows what?”

Her head twisted from side to side on the pillows, her eyelids beginning to flutter rapidly without quite opening. “You don’t care, do you? You want to clear the way for her to come back, even if it means my soul. You want me dead. Nothing can hurt more than that.”

“You will trust me, Tempest. Your will is mine. I own your soul. Know that, and stop fighting it. You’ll do my bidding, whatever that might entail. But for now, sleep, Tempest. Just sleep.”

She relaxed slightly, and as he continued petting her, rubbing her shoulders and neck, she calmed down, bit by bit.

“I love you, Vlad,” she whispered. “I never wanted to. But I do.”

He didn’t know how to respond to such a declaration. It shocked him. He’d hoped, secretly, that she still harbored feelings for him, because it would make doing what he had to do easier if he could do it with her cooperation. But he’d never imagined those feelings could be so intense, especially since he’d erased her memory of the time they had spent together.

She rolled onto her side and relaxed as he gently urged her mind into an even deeper sleep, a dreamless, restful sleep.

He rose then, went into the bathroom, washed his hands of her scent, her essence, with no little rush of regret, and then splashed cold water onto his face.

He hadn’t intended what had just happened between them. And yet, he’d learned far more than he’d ever hoped to learn. He knew now that she wasn’t working for the Sisterhood of Athena—not really. She didn’t know anything about them, didn’t trust them any more than he did. He knew that she hadn’t stolen the ring. But she intended to find the ring and destroy it, and he knew why. She feared that ring—feared wearing it would be the death of her soul, and would result in her body being surrendered to an intruder.

And so it would.

And he’d learned that she loved him. Tempest loved him, and it hurt her to believe that he didn’t love her in return. That he would choose Elisabeta over her. Even if it meant her life.

Above all else, he’d learned something more vital than anything else. Tempest believed herself immune to invasion from Elisabeta in her dreams. But she was wrong. Elisabeta had been there. She’d heard, felt, experienced, all of it. He’d felt her there. Why she hadn’t come into full control, he didn’t know. It might be that she was too weak after so much time. Or it might be that she was waiting, listening, trying to learn the same things he was. Who had the ring and how to obtain it.

He could visit her as often as he liked. He could make love to them both, Tempest and Elisabeta, if only in dreams.

Was it wrong to visit Tempest’s body this way? Probably. But it wasn’t against her will—he knew her will, could sense it in her mind. But the will to make love to a vampire in her dreams might not be the same as it would be in her waking state.

Did he give a damn if what he was doing was right or not? Gods knew he’d done worse things in the centuries he’d been alive. And if this was the only way he could have her, so be it.

He knew he would return—night after night if he could manage it. He was like an addict craving a drug, and having found a font of it, endless and undefended, he couldn’t do less than take his fill.

Especially being fully aware just how little time remained. Four days. Four short nights until the Red Star of Destiny eclipsed Venus. And then they would both die.

Beyond the physical pleasure he would give, and eventually receive, as well—yes, why the hell not? Beyond those things, he would be able to keep himself fully apprised of Tempest’s progress and her interactions with the Athena group.

He returned to the bedroom, leaned over her and whispered in her ear, “Remember me only as a dream, Tempest. Remember and know you will dream of me again. From now on, beautiful Tempest, your nights, and your will, belong to me.”

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me again.”

He leaned closer, pressed his mouth to hers, kissed her softly, deeply, and wished for more. And more. He had to leave. He had to find a victim, feed on hot, rich blood, before his will failed him and he took hers instead.

That would make him vulnerable to her. It would strengthen the already powerful bond and create a weakness in him. One that might make him falter in the things he needed to do.

And he could not falter. He had to move forward with his plan or all would be lost.

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