Shadow Keepers: Midnight Page 2

  “I should kill you now for comparing me to a beast such as that.” The stranger whispered the words, his broad, cloak-covered back to Carissa. She had no trouble hearing, though. The words fell hot and heavy, carried by the force of the speaker’s anger and disgust.

  “I meant no disrespect,” her father croaked, yet even from across the room, she could see by his face that it was a lie. He feared the stranger, but he hated him more, and Carissa didn’t understand why. The man was offering to rescue Antonio! Was he an occultist? As dark as Baloch himself? Was that what her father meant when he called the man a devil? And even if he was, did such heresy matter when balanced against the life of her brother?

  “I should kill you right now,” the stranger repeated, his voice low and rough and full of honest disgust. “But we are bound, you and I, and I respect that even if you don’t.” He released his hold, and her father dropped like a sack of grain to the floor. Carissa gasped, but his fall muffled the sound. Even so, the stranger cocked his head. Only slightly, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew she was there.

  “I free you from your obligation.” Her father’s voice came out raspy, and he gasped in deep lungfuls of air as he spoke. His words were bold now that he knew he wouldn’t perish at the stranger’s hand, and when he angled his head up to look at the man, Carissa saw the familiar fire of authority burn in his eyes. “Begone, fiend.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to extricate myself from your service. There are those in your line I respect, and I hope that fate will bring more in the future. With you, however, I have neither sympathy nor patience, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to break your neck and leave you to rot on this floor, worth nothing more than food for the rats. Be glad that my obligation is not yours to withdraw or my face would be the last you ever gazed upon.”

  Albertus cringed back against the wall, and Carissa realized that what she was seeing was fear. Even though this stranger had sworn not to hurt him, still her father cowered. “Go,” he said, his voice trembling.

  The stranger looked down at the old man on the floor, and even from her perspective behind him, Carissa knew that his expression was colored by disgust. “You are not worthy of the bond once made on your behalf.”

  He turned then, and Carissa saw his face, bold and ferociously beautiful in the firelight. It was a warrior’s face. A politician’s face. This was a man who not only could move mountains, but build them.

  This was a man who could rescue her brother, and yet her father had cast him away.

  She melted into the shadows as he passed, his long strides taking him away from her down the hall. She watched him go in wonder. Had her father gone mad? It made no sense, and though she knew he would be furious to learn that she’d been eavesdropping, she had to understand.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she burst into the room, then stopped cold when she saw the fury flash across her father’s face. He masked it quickly, though, shifting his features into the familiar smile, the cheerful facade he always wore in her presence. Never mind that she was twice as capable of understanding politics and strategy as her brother Malvolio. Never mind that other noble-born women were taken into their father’s or husband’s counsel. For Albertus that was no life for a woman, and no daughter of his would have her head filled with the trappings of a man’s world, any more than her hand would hold a man’s weapon.

  She loved her father greatly, but about that she thought him a rare fool indeed.

  “The hour is late,” he said, his voice full of more weariness than she could remember hearing. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I heard, Father.” She said nothing else for fear that if she spoke more her words would consist only of sharp accusations and hurtful barbs.

  Her silence didn’t matter, though. Her father looked at her, and he understood. “You think I have done wrong, but you don’t understand the kind of man he is.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, the words out before she could think better of them. “He has offered to bring our Antonio back to us. Father, how can you turn him away?”

  “I’ll not have help from his kind—”

  “But—” She stopped herself, realizing she didn’t know what to ask or how to ask it. “Even a cadre of ten soldiers could make the difference between rescue and—” She stopped, refusing to allow herself to think what would happen to Antonio should he not come home. She’d heard so many stories of Baloch’s cruelty. Of how even the Pope avoided him, sending no demand that Baloch’s men fight at his side. She didn’t know if the stories were true or not, but she couldn’t bear the thought that such a fate might befall her brother.

  “My men are engaged,” Albertus said. “But even if they were not, I’d not condemn even one of my soldiers to follow that … that man.”

  “But it’s Antonio.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she held them wide, determined not to cry. Such feminine weakness would do nothing to sway her father.

  For a moment, he only looked at her, and she thought she saw compassion in his eyes. Then the candle flickered and there was nothing but harsh reality there. “I wish the boy no harm,” he said. “But the moon will rise full in three days, and when it does, he will no longer be a son of mine.”

  His words made no sense to her, but she couldn’t question him. Her hope had died too painfully—as if a fist had reached out and squeezed all the breath from her body. She thrust her hand out, grasping for purchase on the wall before her knees gave out.

  “Go to sleep now,” he said gently. “I would not expect a woman to understand the heart of these matters. But my words will look less harsh by the light of day.”

  He stroked her cheek as he passed, the way he used to when she was a child, as if a father’s touch could soothe her. It didn’t. It infuriated her.

  She stood, frozen to the spot, as his footsteps receded down the hall. Only when she could no longer hear her father did she turn and leave the room herself. She walked slowly, pushing through the fog of her thoughts and regrets.

  Antonio.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then walked faster.

  Somehow she would get her brother back.

  Tiberius had come by horse, intending to lead a small cadre of soldiers away from this place and toward Baloch’s stronghold. He had expected Albertus to thank him—hell, he’d expected the doughy old fool to fall to his knees and praise Tiberius as a god—and it infuriated him that not only had Albertus refused his help, but he’d impugned the bond that had existed between Tiberius and the De Soranzo family for more than a millennium. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. Tiberius had vowed to protect the family, and by the gods, he would honor that vow, no matter how hard the puerile prick of a father fought against him.

  Beside him, Nightshade lifted her head and snuffled. He stroked her soft nose, then pulled an apple from his saddlebag and fed it to her. “He is a fool, old friend,” Tiberius whispered.

  “He is.”

  The timid voice came from behind him, and it was a measure of Tiberius’s distraction that he hadn’t heard the human approach. He breathed in deeply now, catching the scent of fear mingled with perfume. A woman.

  He turned, his irritation at being interrupted fading when he saw her. She was exceptional: dark hair that fell in loose curls around her face, lips so blood-red they seemed to beg him to feed, and skin so pale she could have been carved from the finest marble. She was by far the most beautiful woman he had seen in centuries, and yet it wasn’t only her beauty that held his attention but the way she carried herself, tall and proud and determined.

  Beside him, Nightshade whinnied—a demand for another apple—but the sound seemed to break a spell, and Tiberius strode forward even as the girl clutched the edge of the stable’s door and refused to retreat, her feet planted with obvious effort.

  Tiberius simply watched her, letting the silence between them grow heavy.

  She shifted her weight from fo
ot to foot, but her eyes never left his. She had mettle, this female. He remained silent, more interested in watching her than in hearing what she had to say. But as the seconds ticked by, his perception changed. Not many women could stand silent and strong in front of him. Most babbled or dropped their eyes, intimidated by his very presence. That she could bear the weight of the silence even while holding his gaze intrigued him, and he found himself reluctantly fascinated by a female for the first time in a very long while.

  “Speak, then,” he finally said, sacrificing a victory at the hand of curiosity. “Who are you that comes to see me off?”

  “Someone who hopes that you will ignore my father’s words and hold tight to your quest.”

  “Your father has abandoned the boy to the hand of fate.”

  “I thought we had already determined that my father is a fool.”

  She spoke with such seriousness that he had to force himself not to laugh. “You speak the truth.”

  “I can offer you no men to help you in this quest, but I am as capable as any man.” She bowed, low and serious. “I offer myself as your aide.”

  “Do you, now?” By all rights, he should be either irritated or amused. He was neither, his thoughts traveling in a much more base direction. Slowly he looked her up and down, noting the soft curves where her breasts rose behind the fine silk, the slim waist that he could easily fit both hands around. She would undoubtedly break in battle as easily as she would in bed.

  Her cheeks flushed, and though no human could have seen the color rising beneath the dark of the night, he saw the blush clearly.

  “I’m stronger than I look,” she said.

  “You would have to be,” he said, and this time he did laugh when her glare hit him as solid as a punch. “Forgive me,” he said. “Your father irritated me like a burr beneath a saddle. I cannot help being relieved to find his daughter much more appealing company.”

  “I’m not interested in being appealing. I’m interested in rescuing my brother.”

  “I see that. But it is no quest for a woman.”

  He saw her lift her head to argue, then subtly drop it again. She had pride, this girl, but she also knew that he spoke the truth.

  “Perhaps not. But you could do it. You could bring Antonio home to me.”

  “I am flattered you think so highly of my skills,” he said.

  “Please. He is so young, and must be so frightened.”

  Anguish lined her face, and he was overcome with the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her. It was an urge that both disturbed and delighted him—she was not a woman he should have, and yet it had been far too long since a woman had moved him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Carissa,” she said impatiently. Her brow furrowed in thought. “You told my father you needed troops. I cannot assign his men, but I know where my father keeps his purse. I can give you money to hire mercenaries. The taverns are full of them—men who will do any job for a price.”

  “Are they, now? And how would you know such things?”

  “I may be a woman, but I am not a fool. People talk. I listen.”

  “There are men who would happily take your coin—and who would then take the profit and run at the first hint of danger.”

  “I see.” She pressed her lips together as she thought. “And have you no men of your own to call upon? You do not have the look of a man without means.”

  “Don’t I? Tell me, then. What do I look like?”

  He heard her breath hitch. “You look—you look like a man who can get things done. You look like a leader of men.”

  Not men, but he was a leader. And he did have resources upon which he could draw. Allies that she would neither understand nor believe. Followers that would terrify her.

  But he could not call upon his friends for this task. The obligation to protect this human family was his and his alone, and this particular mission was more dangerous than Carissa knew. Baloch’s palazzo was reinforced with hematite, the one substance that vexed a vampire, that chipped away at his strength and destroyed his ability to transform. And since Baloch had likely hidden the boy deep within the palazzo’s cellars, Tiberius would be putting his own life in jeopardy by breaching the fortress. He could not in good conscience ask his friends to join this quest.

  He’d intended to use Albertus’s troops to assist the rescue. Now he would go in alone, with stealth as his most precious ally. He would feed before, in the hopes of retaining as much strength as he could despite the proximity of hematite. But if he was attacked as he’d been in the Roman crypt, he would be unable to escape the way he had when Baloch’s men had converged on him.

  Then again, he feared that by going to the palazzo he was walking into Baloch’s arms. He’d cornered the cagey werewolf in Rome with the hope of discovering with certainty where the boy was held. The palazzo made the most sense—but it also made a perfect trap.

  Still, he had no choice now. Having failed to extract the truth from Baloch, Tiberius had no option but to start looking for the boy in the belly of the beast. If the boy was not there, Tiberius had no qualms about torturing one or more of Baloch’s guards to find the boy’s true location.

  She was watching him, her green eyes intense, and he saw on her face the moment she made her decision. “Please,” she said, moving toward him for the first time, her face blazing and determined. “I’ll give you whatever help you need. I’ll do anything you ask. But please, please help my brother.”

  Something dangerous roused within him—and not his daemon. No, this beast was desire, and it was alive and hungry. “There is no help you can offer me,” he said.

  She moved closer, until only the thinnest veil of air separated them, and he breathed in the scent of her, lavender and anise mingled with the musky scent of desire. He felt himself harden even as his tenuous hold on chivalry weakened, leaving him with only the basest, purest knowledge: He wanted her. He would have her.

  She swallowed, the movement of her throat the only indication of her nerves. “Not help, then. But perhaps motivation?” Her breath was shallow and fast, and the tempo of her heartbeat filled her ears, her blood pulsing like a demand. “Please,” she whispered again, and as she did, she rose up on her tiptoes and slid her arms around his neck. “I’ll do anything.”

  Skin brushed skin, and he thought for a moment that he would explode from the intensity of the pleasure coursing through him. Richer than wine, more satisfying than blood. Her touch alone could fill him, but even so, it wasn’t enough. Where Carissa was concerned he was greedy and unabashed. He wanted her, and right then, nothing else mattered.

  Right or wrong, he would have her.

  “Anything?” His voice, rough with passion, ripped through her, awakening senses that she didn’t even realize existed within her. She wasn’t a stranger to a man’s touch—she’d been betrothed twice, and though neither man had bedded her, they had asked for and received kisses that felt as chaste and flat as those she bestowed upon her brothers.

  Now, though …

  Now her body tingled. Her clothes felt heavy. And an unfamiliar warmth glowed between her legs. She shifted, pressing her thighs together beneath the folds of her skirt, but that only made the heat grow and she knew—she just knew—that she wouldn’t be satisfied until she felt his hand upon her there. His hand, yes, but also the whole of him.

  “Carissa,” he whispered.

  She told herself she was thinking only of Antonio. Of doing whatever she could to help her brother. But that was a lie. She wanted this—this feeling, this sensation. She was betrothed to an irritable old man, her future spread out before her like a desert. This man was an oasis, dark and strong and virile. A man who could make her feel all the things she’d dreamed of feeling. A man who could give her sweet memories to cling to through the long, hard days to come.

  He was a man who could help her, and in more ways than one.

  “Yes,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him. “Anything.”
And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed her lips to his.

  His mouth opened against hers, his breath hot upon her. He clutched her tight, one hand around her waist pulling her close, the other holding the back of her head, his fingers curled in her hair. Their bodies melded together, their tongues finding, tasting, devouring. Her head spun with new sensations, and she felt as if she were falling and climbing all at the same time. She wanted to consume him and be consumed by him, and she lifted her own hands to his head, her fingers twining in the silk of his hair, trying to pull him even closer.

  His mouth tugged and teased her lips, and she moaned as he trailed kisses across her cheek to her temple, her ear. “You are certain?” he whispered, the words so low she almost imagined she hadn’t heard them.

  “Yes,” she breathed, and then, to prove to him she meant it, she took his hand and placed it on her breast, hoping his touch would quell some of the fire that was burning through her. It didn’t. It only made the flame burn hotter.

  “Please.” It was the only word she could manage, but it was enough. His hands were upon her, his mouth at her neck, hot and wild as her pulse beat against the pressure of his lips. His fingers were quick and nimble and had the laces of her bodice unfastened in an instant. He pushed her back until she was pressed against the side of the stable. Then his head dipped down, his mouth closing over her breast and his tongue teasing her nipple. He pulled away, and she sighed at the sweet sensation of the gentle breeze caressing her now-damp skin.

  “Lift your skirts,” he said, and as she did, he knelt before her, his breath hot upon her thighs. Her sex tightened and quivered, and she shifted her hips, longing for something she’d never had but instinctively knew that she wanted.