“It loosens their tongue, that’s what it does,” Mark replies, relaxed.
The guy waves his chubby finger in Mark’s face. I barely repress a smile. I can tell the serpent fucking hates it, and I wonder when he’s going to snap. That will tell me a whole lot about his weaknesses.
“You’re trying to take over the town, Serpaint, don’t think I don’t see beyond your schemes.”
“And if I were, Timur, what are you going to do to stop me?”
Timur snaps his fingers, and his men approach. Mark makes a small gesture with his chin, and Darius, the big alligator shifter, steps in to face the men.
All Darius does is glare and let out a low growl. He rarely ever talks, he keeps at the back of the squad of guards, and rarely steps in. When he does, it means the confrontation is worth it. I sit still near Serpaint, not moving my irises, but observing everything.
“We can spare ourselves all this, Timur,” Serpaint says as his men and Timur’s face each other like rivaling packs of dogs. Only that Serpaint’s men are serpent shifters, pedigree beasts, while Timur’s are stray dogs in comparison.
“All you have to do,” Serpaint continues, “is tell me where your friend, Father Ruben, is hiding.”
The words send a rush through my veins. All my senses spike.
“Father Ruben was my confessor, not the other way around. He knows my secrets.”
“You know, Timur, your people enjoy my powders, and they give me the information I want in return. They already revealed that, Father Ruben being your confessor over so many years, you became friends and enjoyed philosophizing together. Some even say you’re the only friend he had besides my wife. So who could he have gone to for help, if not a friend?”
Timur laughs. “I heard that Father Ruben and his mysteries were what drew you to this town, Serpaint, but I never believed it.” He motions to Mark with a trace of disdain. “You, the master of drug lords, interested in the secrets of a broke priest who used to live in a nursing home.”
“Tell me where he is now.” Mark keeps his cool, but I can tell it’s a challenge.
“Come on, you’re big, strong and powerful. Don’t tell me you really can’t get a hold of an old priest that doesn’t even know how to use a cell phone.” There’s mockery behind the words, and Mark’s blood heats up. This intensifies its scent, which makes my nostrils flare. Hell, how I want to rip his throat open.
The tense conversation continues between the two men, while plans and strategies flash through my brain.
I turn to stare hard at Serpaint, getting his attention. “I think I have a solution for this.”
Serpaint nods and returns to Timur.
“All right, let’s drop this for the time being. And rest assured I’m not trying to take your power in this town away from you. That has already happened. I own the underground already, so next time you step into my club, make sure you fucking remember who’s the boss.”
He signals his men to take Timur away, but Timur stands up and lingers there, looking boldly into Mark’s face.
“You think you’re cunning, and even invincible, Mark Serpaint, but that is a mistake. Try not to step on my toes, because I’m stronger than you think.”
A few serpents burst into laughter, and even I can’t repress a smirk. Poor bastard, if he only knew what he’s up against.
Later, as we step out of the club side by side, Serpaint leans to my ear. “By the time this is over, I’ll have you rip off that fat finger with the golden ring, and shove it up his ass.”
Tristan
SERPAINT AGREED TO my plan. After we talked in his office—not alone, fortunately, or I might have really torn him apart—I get out of the house to go on a hunt.
By the time I find the perfect victim I’m mad with thirst and the need for release. I decide on a rapist slash pedophile lifting a schoolgirl’s skirt by the dumpsters between gray apartment buildings in the night. The girl flees screaming after what she thinks is a swift knife attack on her aggressor. I hear police cars in the distance as I leave the scene, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, and the knife on my thigh. I’ve just slit his throat where my teeth pierced it, in such a way that a coroner will conclude it was indeed a knife attack. He’ll have less blood than he should in his body, but they’ll blame it on something else, something that makes sense. They always do.
Back at the villa I throw off my blood stained clothes, and sink into a hot bath. Hell, it’s good, feeling that rapist bastard’s blood running through my system, fueling mine, making me stronger.
Villains’ blood works wonders on any vampire’s system, it rejuvenates us like nothing else. The bigger the villain, the stronger we become. Not many people know that, but it’s true. Vampires attacking defenseless women or weaklings, that’s just myth, bad press. It would actually be a good thing, if that happened. Many would be healed of their weaknesses, and live forever afterwards. A vampire’s existence may be far from ideal, but it does provide eternal life, eternal youth, and extreme strength and resilience. Sometimes, vampirism even comes with a superpower.
A whiff of Isolde’s scent seeps in through the cracked window. I’d recognize that scent anywhere, lily of the valley mixed with the scent of her husband’s blood. I sit up in the tub, the water lapping over the marble edges. Looking behind me through the window, I spot Isolde running across the terrace, her chocolate hair and her satin robe floating in the wind.
I push up from the tub, grab a pair of pants, and lunge out into the rain through the doors from my chamber that open onto the terrace.
There’s a storm out at sea, I can see it in the distance. Angry clouds coil in the sky, the sea raging, Isolde disappearing farther on the beach toward the piers like a white veil taken away by the wind. The breeze carries her sobs over. Fuck, she’s gonna do something reckless.
My eyes dart around like the eyes of a hawk, making sure there’s no one around to see me take off like a rocket after her. Sure enough there’s no one out in this storm, and when the rain starts pouring down, I can’t be seen from windows either.
I run as fast as a Jaguar, the salty wind whipping around my face, thick droplets of water splashing on my forehead and my cheeks. I grab her just as she steps onto a large stone, ready to throw herself into the waves. I spin her around, and one look at her is enough to realize—she would have thrown herself into the raging sea without a second thought. She’s emotionally broken.
I pull her from the stone to my chest, wrapping an arm tightly around her, and brushing the wet hair off of her face with the other hand.
“Sweet Jesus,” escapes my mouth for the first time in my two hundred years.
Isolde’s jaw is blue, and the base of her neck has the texture and coloration of someone strangled by a snake. Revulsion and anger bubble up inside of me. Looking at this woman with her melancholy blue eyes, the woman who’s dedicated her life to nursing the disabled and the elderly, being abused like this, it’s torture to my heart.
I scoop her up and take her back to the villa, sneaking her into my room through the terrace doors that I left open. The rain has whipped inside the chamber, leaving the curtains and part of the expensive carpet soaking wet, but that’s the least of my concerns. I seat Isolde on my bed, wrap the fluffy comforter around her, and hurry to push the doors closed. I linger there just a few moments to observe the serpents outside, who run toward the beach like crazy—that slimy bastard must have sent them after Isolde. So nobody knows she’s here.