Blood Ascendant (Blood Stone Book 5) Page 6

  She was almost done wiping down the coffee table surface when she heard the bed shift.

  “You know there are people who are paid to do that, don’t you?” Azarel asked. His voice was hoarse. Strained.

  Francesca straightened and dropped the dirty cloth into the side of the bucket where the water was. “The cleaners don’t arrive until nine. You can’t live in this mess until nine. It doesn’t take long, anyway.”

  Azarel rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye, grinding it in, as if he was trying to wake himself with pain. He’d at least brought the sheet with him, so all she could see was one powerful thigh and his bare chest. His flesh was perfect—there were no scars, no markings and no spare fat. He spent hours swimming naked in the pool yet never tanned, either. His flesh was as pale as a newborn’s. He had explained that in a way, he had only been born not even a year ago, so that explained the lack of scars, but not why he didn’t tan. That, she put down to his not-really-human state.

  He was a very beautiful man, which only a creature who could take on any shape they wanted to could choose. A fine jaw, thick brows and the most astonishing eyes. Nathanial, in the big house, had amazing eyes, too. Although, Nial’s were blue, while Azarel had very pale brown eyes, so pale they were mesmerizing.

  His eyes were bloodshot right now. He was very human at the same time he was inhumanly perfect. He looked at her, almost annoyed. “Paying your penance, right?”

  The first time he had told her she wasn’t a paid cleaner, she had explained as carefully as she could, but her English had not been as strong then as it was now. She had borrowed a term she had heard at Mass. “I am grateful to my brother for taking me away from Chile. I am grateful to Mr. Sauvage for letting me stay here with Dominic,” she had told Azarel. “I must pay my penance for their generosity.”

  Now, Francesca just smiled and bent to straighten the cushions on the sofa.

  “They want me in the big house?” Azarel asked.

  “It is nearly eight o’clock,” she told him. “There was a visitor during the night, too. I saw luggage in the kitchen this morning.”

  “Who is the visitor?”

  “I haven’t seen them yet. If they came in late in the night, then they will sleep longer than even you do.” As she worked, her pendant slipped out of her shirt and she tucked it back inside absently.

  “Why isn’t that a crucifix?” Azarel asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Azarel got to his feet, winding the sheet around his hips. He was tall and lean and ridged with muscle and Francesca was pleased he’d remembered to cover himself up. He often didn’t. Only now, the two ladies in the bed were bare. Oh well, she could live with that.

  Azarel opened the stacked pizza boxes one at a time, until he found a slice. With a grunt of satisfaction, he sat on the sofa with it. “You are a Christian, aren’t you? One of the sects called Catholic. You wear a chain that you touch for comfort when you’re uneasy. I thought it would be a crucifix, yet it is a sea shell and it means much to you.”

  Francesca touched the shell inside her shirt. “It is a cowrie shell, that my brother gave to me when I was fifteen, just before his first public concert. That was ten years ago.” She bit her lip. A lot had happened in those ten years. “It reminds me that miracles are possible.”

  Azarel chewed and swallowed. “Miracles.” He rolled his eyes. “I could create a real miracle, right now, if you are really so fond of them.”

  Francesca shook her head. She was used to this sort of teasing from Azarel. He didn’t realize he was being confrontational. Besides, he was always genuinely curious to hear her answer. “I know you can arrange the world any way you want to, although if you did it now, it would be cheating.”

  “Cheating?” he lowered the pizza, staring at her. “Why?”

  “You would be doing it just because you could do it, while no one else can. You wouldn’t be playing by the rules you agreed to.”

  Azarel sighed. “I do wonder how long this farce must continue. As if I could not have learned everything there is to learn about humans in the first month. Week. Day!”

  “You know that is not true,” Francesca reminded him.

  “It is. Humans are boring in their monotonousness.”

  “If they were, you would not still be finding them such a distraction at night.” She glanced at the bed.

  Azarel grinned. “Ah, now, that is different.”

  “If you are so bored, why do you not just will yourself back to wherever it is you go, when you are not where humans can see you?”

  “You mean, give up this human form?” He took another enormous bite of the pizza, then picked up a slice of pepperoni from the portion left in his fingers and pushed it into his mouth as well. Azarel also seemed to have an infinite capacity for food.

  “Is that what you do?” she asked. “Then yes. Why do you not just go home if you are so tired of it all?”

  “I can’t,” Azarel said, his mouth still full.

  “Going home is not a miracle you can perform?” Francesca teased.

  He swallowed hard. “I can’t perform what you call miracles. No...magic. Nothing a human cannot do.” His scowl returned, yet even that negative expression merely made him look more interesting.

  Francesca realized she was holding the shell once more. She didn’t let it go. She thought of the concerts she had heard Dominic play and the adulation he had received. She remembered the diving accident that had left him deaf. She remembered her husband, Jose, relishing her despair when he gave her the news that Dominic was probably dead in some bar brawl in Argentina. She remembered—oh, so clearly!—her joy when Dominic had arrived at her little house in Santiago, more alive than he had ever been, his hearing restored in the most astounding way. Dominic had patched up her cuts and bruises and used a private jet to fly her back to America with him. She had been unable to hide the truth about her husband’s ill treatment from Dominic the way she had hid her shame from the rest of the family. He had seen it in her mind. The largest miracle among all those many marvels was that he had understood. He had not told her it was her fault, or that she must remain by her husband’s side and ask God for forgiveness. He had delivered her from evil.

  “Humans are capable of magic,” Francesca told Azarel firmly. “You just have to learn to recognize it.”

  Azarel considered her for a moment. “I bow to your superior knowledge.”

  “You should get dressed. Nathanial will be waiting for you very soon now. There will be coffee waiting, too.” She would make it herself, if it was not. Azarel was just as addicted to coffee as any other human.

  Azarel rolled his eyes. “More planning. More strategies.”

  “It is important,” Francesca reminded him. “Humans have to find a way to defeat the Summanus. They have to.” She picked up her things and dropped them into the dry side of the bucket. “Isn’t that why you are here? To learn how humans and the Summanus deal with each other? To understand the nature of the war?”

  Azarel sighed, dropping the remains of the pizza slice onto the table. “War. Trouble, strife, turmoil and torment. That is all anyone ever talks about. The only time anyone ever wants to deal with us, it is because of plight and sorrow and anger.”

  “That is also your job,” Francesca told him lightly. Azarel would slide into a dark mood if she let him continue this way.

  “I’d rather be doing something else. Anything else would be more fun.” His gaze slid toward the bed.

  “I thought humans had become monotonous?” Francesca reminded him.

  He almost threw himself back against the cushion and growled.

  “Coffee. Ten minutes. I’ll see you there,” Francesca said and shut the door behind her, fully confident he would show up at the big house, now. The power of coffee to move a person to action despite their inclinations had never yet failed her. It was another sort of miracle.

  * * * * *

  The deep, muted rumble of a powerful car engine drew
Sasha to the window of his borrowed bedroom, which looked out over the front of the house. It was the quiet end of the house, Patrick had assured him, for he and Dominic and their partner, Blythe, all lived in a suite at the back end, overlooking the conservatory. That was the source of most of the noise in the morning, before Blythe’s three children left for school.

  Sasha had been roused by their cheerful sounds as they clattered down the stairs, about two hours ago, then had let himself drift back to sleep.

  Now, he was fully awake and it sounded as if the rest of the house was, too. There were people talking out by the big, industrial-strength front gates and the guard box there. More people were talking, downstairs.

  It was the car engine that caught Sasha’s attention.

  He looked down at the wide driveway and parking spot at the front of the house. There was a low-slung car there. The roof was gunmetal gray. Sasha could see just enough of the side profile to suspect the car was the 2016 Dodge Viper, which explained the low thunder coming from it. The Viper had a 645 horsepower engine, one of the most powerful on the US domestic market, although some of the European sports cars were being built with 700HP.

  Sasha looked down at the beautiful machine with a touch of envy. Someone knew their cars. Someone had the money to indulge their tastes, too.

  There were two gate guards standing next to the open driver’s door of the vehicle, their heads nearly together as they pumped their fists once, twice, then displayed their hands.

  They were drawing to decide who got to drive it.

  Sasha hid his grin as the winner got into the car and backed it up carefully. He drove it around the corner of the house, heading toward the back of the property. There was probably some sort of permanent shelter for cars back there. The guard who had lost the draw trudged back to the gate.

  Sasha dropped the curtain, letting it fall back into place. Who owned the Viper? They were probably one of the voices he could hear, in the big room downstairs. Time to go and meet them.

  He made his way downstairs. The big curve of the stairs meant that as he rounded the curve, he could look straight down into the room and was startled. There was more than a dozen people there, far more than the quiet murmur he had heard from the bedroom had hinted there would be.

  They were either all being very quiet, or the soundproofing in this house was efficient, which meant that the noise Patrick’s three teenagers had been making was all the more remarkable.

  Either way, Sasha was walking down into a room of strangers and semi-strangers. He had not been here long enough to get to know everyone, the last time he had been here, for they had been whisked off to Turkey in the big military transport shortly after he had arrived. From Turkey, with the Blood Stone opened and the three enemy species loose, he had thought it best to return to Russia and let them know what had happened.

  Many of the faces were familiar, though, so Sasha kept moving down the stairs.

  Nial was standing with two of the strangers, while everyone else was sitting or sprawled on the many chairs and sofas and ottomans that had been pulled into a ragged group in the middle of the room.

  The two strangers with Nial were a man and a woman. He was very tall, almost as tall as Nial, who was an inch taller than Sasha. It wasn’t his height that was remarkable, though. It was his build. He was solid through the shoulders with body-builder style muscles and bulk, with a thick, powerful neck. He had tight hips and strong thighs under the designer jeans he wore. His skin was olive, that most Americans would automatically assume meant he was Hispanic. Sasha had seen Armenians and Georgian Russians with skin of that color, so he wouldn’t assume the man was Hispanic until he learned more.

  He had a scrubby black beard and very black eyes, with a refined nose. It was a very ordinary looking face. Almost ugly, in fact. Yet there was intelligence in his eyes.

  Then Sasha looked at the woman standing next to the man and almost stumbled down the last step into the room.

  She was beautiful, in a glowing film-star sort of way that made Sasha think of the golden Hollywood movies he had watched as a student, learning English the natural way. She had that sort of perfection. Her hair was black and hung over her shoulders in gentle, soft waves. She had strong arching brows over eyes the blue of shadows and midnight, royalty and oceans.

  Her mouth was mobile, expressive and full, the lips parted right now to show a hint of white teeth. Her chin was pointed, almost elfin in its delicateness, above the narrow column of her throat.

  She was not petite. Her head was above Nial’s shoulder. Neither was she freakishly tall. She was wearing a dress that seemed to float around her, in hues of blue and green that drew attention to her eyes and the curves of her body, too.

  In that room of jeans and yoga pants, she stood out. Indeed, everyone was looking at her. Sasha realized that Nial was introducing the pair around the room, so he moved over to stand behind the back of the sofa closest to the stairs and tried to calm his heart.

  The sight of such beauty shouldn’t bother him that much. There were beautiful women in Russia, too. Marcus’ Ilaria was stunning, in a miniature way. Kate Lindenstream, the director, who was sitting on one of the ottomans next to Garrett, was a beautiful peaches-and-cream blonde. Even Winter, with her fiery red hair and matching temper, was extremely attractive, especially when she let down her guard and allowed her softer side to show.

  Sasha let his gaze turn back to the woman, as Nial lifted his hand to point to Roman, who sat closest to them. Sasha had missed her introduction, then. He would have to find out later what her name was and why she was here, if those facts didn’t emerge from normal conversation.

  “Adrian Romanus Xerus, originally of Constantinople,” Nial said.

  “Roman, it is good to see you again,” the woman said.

  “You know each other?” Nial asked.

  “From long, long ago,” Roman confirmed. “I heard you were dead,” he told the woman. “In France, during the first world war.”

  Sasha drew in a breath, settling himself down as he jumped in reaction. She was a vampire.

  “It was close. I holed up in a deserted trench for nearly a month, recovering,” she admitted, with a small smile. “I was behind German lines and close enough to hear just about everything they said, for there was a command post only a quarter of a mile away. When I finally made it back to Allied HQ in London, they were very impressed.” She smiled, showing a dimple.

  A dimple.

  Something loosened in Sasha’s belly, making him shift on his feet. He felt hot. Too hot, even though the heat of the day hadn’t kicked in yet.

  “Then, if you know Roman, you probably know Garrett as well,” Nial said.

  “I do.” The woman smiled again. “Have you two finally stopped squabbling?”

  Garrett’s jaw rippled.

  “They argue,” Kate Lindenstream said. She laughed. “All the time, but the make-up sex is great. Hi, Rory. I’m Kate.”

  The two women met each other’s gaze. Sasha thought he could almost see something pass between them. An understanding.

  Rory smiled back. “I don’t watch movies. I hope you don’t mind that. I have heard people speak of your movies and of your talent with awe and enthusiasm.”

  Who doesn’t watch movies? Sasha though, baffled. Everyone watched movies, often. He liked the older ones, himself, although he knew enough about Hollywood to know that Kathrine Lindenstream was carving a name for herself that would pass into history as one of the big change-makers of the decade.

  Kate’s smile was even more brilliant. “It’s nice of you to say so,” she told the woman. Rory. It was an intriguing name, Sasha thought.

  “Sebastian, you know,” Nial said.

  Sebastian nodded. His gaze was steady upon Rory. “It’s good to have you here.”

  “And Winter, our wife,” Nial added.

  Winter nodded.

  “If you don’t do movies, then you probably don’t know who Patrick Sauvage is, beyond th
is house being his,” Nial said.

  Patrick lifted his hand. He was sitting on the sofa that Sasha was standing behind. A woman with dark, short hair was leaning against his shoulder as if she was very tired.

  “Of course I do,” Rory said easily, with another glowing smile. “The best hunter on the west coast. Your record for kills in a single six hour hunt has been unbroken for six months, so far.”

  “Don’t get her going on statistics,” the man standing next to Rory said, rolling his eyes.

  The deaf man called Dominic, who was sprawled in the armchair next to the sofa with his knees over the arm, sat up a bit straighter. “Don’t you hold a few records, yourself?” he asked the man.

  The man grinned, showing white, even teeth. “A few. They’ll eventually all fall, now I’ve retired.”

  Sasha reassessed the man’s physique. Was he someone famous? Here in Los Angeles, that wasn’t too unusual. Another film star?

  Dominic put his feet on the ground and sat up. “Most NFL career passing touchdowns. Longest passing yards. Single season touchdown record. Highest consecutive passes without an interception.” Admiration colored his voice.

  Sasha sighed. Football. The man was a professional football player, a sport that Sasha didn’t understand and had no time for. He had spent a whole ten minutes watching a NFL game. Once. He had given up with a grimace, still waiting for something to happen, while dozens of people stood around on the field, shouting at each other.

  Still, that explained the shoulders.

  “And, Dante is the leader of his own hunter squad,” Rory added.

  “Leader?” the woman leaning on Patrick’s shoulder said, also sitting up.

  “Blythe Murray,” Nial murmured, “and Dominic Castellano. Dom reads minds to hear what you say. He won’t intrude farther than that. We warn everyone, anyway.”

  Rory raised a brow, looking at Dominic.

  “No, wait,” Blythe said. “You lead your own squad?” she demanded of the man Rory had called Dante.

  Dante gave a tiny shrug. “Sure. Although I’ve had to hand off to my 2IC, now.”