Blood Rush: Book Two of the Demimonde Read online

  I faltered in my steps and gave him a tiny frown that said it's not polite to knock the Sophia down with one's power. His businessman veneer slid all the way up and he went into full-out professional mode.

  "Miss Galen." His voice was low, smooth, controlled. The familiar sound curled itself around my insides and squeezed.

  "Mr. Thurzo." I responded as dryly as I could. Not difficult, considering I was completely cotton-mouthed.

  He gestured toward his office door. "Please, go in and be comfortable. I'll be in momentarily."

  Rodrian was a lazy decorator. Like many bachelors, he was content to live in unchanging surroundings until someone else decided he needed to change.

  His office hadn't benefited from someone else's intervention. Everything was the same as I remembered—the broad oak desk, the stacks of leather-bound ledgers, the antique ink pot of cobalt glass. Even the comfy couch, cushions so soft and accommodating I used to slip off my shoes and curl my legs beneath me, listening to Marek lecture his younger brother.

  I ignored the couch's silent invitation and perched instead on one of two straight-backed chairs facing the desk, which reminded me of the hot seats in a junior high school principal's office. I was here on business. I had to be.

  He closed the door behind him and the air moved as he took his seat. A single file folder lay on the blotter before him. He thumbed the edge, hesitating before opening it, and sat back in his chair. "I'm surprised you came."

  "I'm pretty surprised myself." I lay my hands gracefully upon my lap. My pro smile popped on, the one that didn't show teeth. It was my Go on, dear, I'm listening smile. It was my equivalent of assuming the Sophia position.

  According to his request, Rodrian needed me. It meant I had the upper hand. The notion made me level my shoulders and I donned what I hoped was a patient, expectant expression.

  "You've been busy," he said.

  The pro smile slipped. I couldn't help the eye-roll. "Understatement. My second job really cuts into my free time."

  Rodrian looked puzzled. "What second job?"

  Instead of answering, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the thread of power drifting from him, wrapping my mental fingers around it, as if it were a rope, and pulling. The part of my mind that was the Sophia roused and stretched before unfurling into awareness.

  Chills having nothing to do with the autumn weather brushed down my arms, leaving gentle swirls of tingles in their wake. Opening my eyes I gazed back at him, knowing they shone a bright and startling shade of blue.

  My gaze locked onto his, and I gave his essence a little tug before releasing my hold. The Sophia slipped back into hiding, my eyes darkening once more to their usual brown. The DV weren't the only ones around here with nifty eye tricks.

  Rodrian stared back, his own eyes glowing like hot amber. He'd seen my blue eyes, felt my empathic touch. Surprise had loosened his control, and he was unable to keep the light in his eyes from answering.

  Most DV couldn't when I touched them that way.

  "Ah." His voice was rough as if I'd given him a lap dance. "The Sophia."

  His hungry look made me uncomfortable. I twisted my ring and avoided looking at him. "Yep."

  "How can you consider that work?"

  I wrinkled my nose. "What, saving the world from vampires isn't work?"

  I expected him to laugh but he only tilted his head. "You're not a slayer."

  "No, but an ounce of prevention is worth a megaton of cure."

  Rodrian was quiet for a few long moments. "You stopped attending the Conclave sessions."

  "Yes," I said quietly. "It became too difficult."

  "Difficult?"

  "Emotionally. My own personal issues kept interfering." I didn't want this to turn into a conversation about Marek, even though he may as well have been standing right here next to us. I was never truly free of his presence, thanks to my obsession with him. "It's just easier to do the Sophia stuff through the column."

  "So I've heard."

  That would explain the stack of Mag issues sitting on the windowsill but I was too modest to point them out. "Yeah? Did you hear I got syndication? The column's been picked up by six other markets and management let slip a West Coast rumor this week. The Mag's making loads of money."

  "Then why—"

  "The Mag is making money," I said. "Apart from a raise and some extra bonus in my Christmas stocking, I'm still a columnist who does her best work for free."

  "That doesn't sound fair." He frowned at me. I figured he would—his first love was profits. Things like volunteer work and charity probably gave him a rash.

  "I'm glad we agree. But who argues with destiny and wins? I can't stop being the Sophia. I just have to do it my way. And anyways..." I jerked my shoulders in an uncomfortable shrug and slid my purse across my lap to a new position before gripping it tightly, urging my fingers to be still. "This is just as good as any other way. It's not like I'm going to slip on Grecian robes and move into a drafty old temple anytime soon."

  "Funny you should say that." He flipped open the folder. "That's why I asked you to meet with me today."

  As suspicious as I was, I couldn't help but perk up. "I'm getting a temple?"

  "No," he said. "But there's a mansion lying around if you want it."

  "I think I missed the joke."

  "I'm serious, Sophie." He glanced down at a neat stack of pages. "I'm referring to the country estate you've visited with my brother. We are offering it to you."

  "And, why?" I was baffled. A thousand things had crossed my mind as the possible reason why I'd been summoned. Getting a house was not one of them.

  "Do you remember the wards on his private quarters?"

  I nodded. Marek had explained they were a security measure. Those wards were much stronger than the ones Rodrian had set down the hall but Marek had "tuned" them to me so I would not feel them, despite my empathic sensitivity.

  "The wards don't recognize him anymore so they can't be removed. He told me you... seemed to enjoy your stay there and asked me to arrange its transfer to you."

  "So, what, he doesn't like his mansion anymore and figured I'd want a hand-me-down?"

  "A hand-me-down?" Rodrian's eyebrows almost disappeared under his loose bangs. Money wasn't something he joked about. "The place is worth seven figures!"

  I gulped, suspecting all seven were in front of the decimal place. "Then I definitely have to refuse. I'd never be able to afford the taxes."

  Rodrian shook his head. "That's all arranged. A trust will be set up for that, as well as maintenance, staffing, utilities..." He looked down at the paper in front of him. "An income, too."

  "An income?" I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. "Oh. I get it. I'm the maid, aren't I?"

  "No, goof. The babysitter."

  I gaped. I've seen fish on ice at the market with more composure than I had at the moment.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have called you that."

  "Yeah." I waved it away. "Babysitter, Rode?"

  His power pulsed warmly at the sound of his diminutive. "Yeah. Sort of. I'd like Shiloh to move in with you for a while. Would you object to it?"

  "No, I...I just..." I stammered as if I had a clothespin on my tongue. This unexpected request left me reeling. "What's up with Shiloh? I haven't seen her in a long time."

  "She, um...has a medical condition, something you can help her with. It's complicated."

  Ah. That explained the sense of need I felt attached to his letter. "Details?"

  The corner of his mouth twitched and he dipped his head. "Not today. I'd like to meet with you another time to discuss all that. It's—Shiloh. My baby girl. I can't talk about her and business at the same time. It wouldn't feel right. Does that make any sense?"

  I nodded when he looked at me for a response. Family was separate from business. I found both comfort and disappointment in his idealism. "You've been thinking about this for a while, haven't you?"

  "Look, Soph." Rodrian abandoned
his corporate act and pushed his chair back. "I haven't been the most considerate of friends, I know. I've been busy and things have been...hard. Just hard."

  "I know," I said softly. "Don't explain."

  "But I need to." He leaned against his desk, trying to close the distance between us. "I never forgot about you and I need to tell you—"

  "Nothing. You need to tell me nothing. I don't hold anything against you, or..." I waved my hand and avoided saying a certain name. "Any of your people. Would've been nice to get a little help now and then, considering what's expected of me, but I'm not keeping score. Much."

  "Sophie—"

  "No, Rodrian. Don't explain. Don't apologize. Don't talk about things you can't change. It'll only hurt."

  He lowered his eyes, seemingly chastised. I wasn't sure if that had been my intention. These days I didn't mean to do a lot of the things I did.

  When he again looked up, the business facade was back in place. "Do you think we can work together on this, Sophie?"

  "Of course." I gave him a sincere smile. I was nothing if not sincere; it was part of my job description. "I need to hear the details first but I'd never turn my back on you, Rode."

  "And why is that?"

  "Knowing you, the moment I did you'd snap my bra. Or are you too mature for that now?" I asked when his eyebrows shot up in protest.

  "You haven't changed, Sophie." Relief relaxed his expression and he laughed.

  "Oh, but see, that's where you're wrong, Rodrian. I've changed plenty." I pressed my lips together and kept from elaborating. "But let's not talk about it. Let's hear more about why you called me here so I can decide whether I leave laughing or screaming."

  "Fair enough," was all he said before he got down to business.

  After a twenty-minute demonstration of Rodrian's exceedingly suave vocabulary, I figured I understood enough of his offer to contribute. "So, basically, I've inherited a fortune."

  Rodrian only shrugged in reply. That little dismissive gesture told me there were great discrepancies between our definitions of fortune.

  "It's not right, Rode. I've always taken care of myself. Money wise," I added firmly, when he shot me a look of disagreement. It was the same look his brother used to give me. Marek had never believed I was capable of taking care of myself, either. He still didn't, apparently. "It's a lot to take in."

  "I know it's a lot but I need to know. About Shiloh, I mean. The house isn't going anywhere." A tiny flare of anxiety broke through the demeanor of his power when he said her name.

  "You really mean to guilt me into this, don't you?"

  "Not at all. But I don't believe in serendipity. Marek's offer came to the table nearly the same time as Shiloh's condition became apparent. This isn't about guilt. This is about opportunity and—"

  "Divine intervention?"

  "If that's what you want to call it."

  I chewed my lips and thought about it. This arrangement would solve any number of my current problems, decent housing and security topping the list. I wasn't stupid enough to pass up an opportunity, either.

  However, I didn't have an overwhelming impulse to admit I'd been failing miserably at solving my own problems and needed help. I gave the help around here, darn it. "I need time. I can't just say yes to something this big. I mean, I'll do anything for Shiloh but the rest of it...I don't feel comfortable taking something from your brother."

  "You can call me later if you want. Or I can stop by."

  "No, that's all right." I hadn't had company at my new apartment yet—not even my Demivamp best friend Dahlia—and I didn't want to start. Being Sophia made me a big enough target without allowing the DV to taint my home with their power. Remembering what a flirt Rodrian was, I figured he'd spread it around like a tomcat. "I'll call you once I've had time to think about it."

  Since we seemed to have concluded business, I stood to leave. Rodrian pushed away from his desk and hurried to escort me to the door. Something softened his expression and I worried he might embrace me.

  Thankfully, however, he only offered a handshake. His skin wore a sheen of power that felt the way sunshine looked on water. The shake wasn't as efficient as it could have been but I didn't really mind. This business was personal. It could never be anything but.

  "You'll call?"

  "You bet," I said and smiled thinly.

  When I walked out into the hall, he remained in the doorway. His eyes were almost a weight upon me as I left, and I tried to ignore the feeling that at any moment he might seize me and pull me back.

  The next day, my editor called me into her office as soon as she got back from her morning meeting. As I shut the door behind me, Barbara Evans glanced up and gestured with a "help yourself" wave toward the coffee station. "We heard from St. Louis last night. They're on board."

  I lifted my Styrofoam cup in response to her coffee offer. Once, Barbara's coffee station brought me a glimpse of paradise: the imported beans, the milk steamer, the little shaker tins of mysterious spices and flavors...

  But my beverage of paradise disappeared into limbo after a near-death experience left me drained. A DV healer named Pontian banned me from drinking coffee, saying it would interfere with my blood loss treatment; I considered it a punishment for a crime I never committed. He never even told me when I was eligible for parole.

  Being separated from the things I loved most had become a theme for me. At least it lent tremendous inspiration to my freelance writing.

  Sinking into the big red chair by her desk, I set my cup down. "That's great, Barb."

  She waved the air in front of her face. "Still drinking that stuff?"

  Recently I had embarked on a chai kick. The creamy spiced tea was the closest I could get to recreating the mystical coffee experiences I'd once had at her coffee bar.

  Barbara, however, didn't share my enthusiasm. She thought chai was disgusting and insisted I refrained from breathing on her while drinking it.

  I sighed. "Did you call me in here to tease me?"

  "Anyhoo. The column is spreading like wildfire. Tommy said he's gotten four unsolicited requests in the last week." Tom was Editor-in-Chief at The Mag and Barbara's supervisor. Anything that made Tom happy tended to make the entire office happy.

  "Did you pitch him my idea about unique columns?"

  "Yes," she said. "But I don't think he's sold on it. Tell me again why it's a good idea?"

  "Well, the column has always been city specific. It was our own residents reading The Mag. People like seeing their own letters in print—makes for a strong connection and reader loyalty. If we branch out into new markets, the hope of seeing their letter diminishes. I think the response will diminish, too, and reader loyalty won't be as strong."

  "But think of the work you're already putting into it. Are you going to write a column for every market every month? It defeats the purpose of syndication." She pulled out a drawer in her filing cabinet and flipped through some files. "Plus...I know you, kiddo. You love having free time. You've really bumped up your office hours over the last couple of months."

  "Is my work suffering?"

  "No, of course not. It's just that...you don't seem happy anymore. I miss the old Sophie."

  "I am happy," I insisted. "It's just that lately I've been a little tense." I hadn't told anyone about being chased, not even Barbara. Although she was my closest human confidant, she knew nothing of the supernatural double-life I led.

  "I've been worried about you," she said. "You seem secluded. It's not healthy."

  "I know. But the breakup...the funeral...I didn't bounce all the way back. I'd lost the people I could have counted on for support."

  "You never lost me."

  I would have hugged her if not for the desk between us. "I know. Thanks, Barb. If it wasn't for you, I don't know what I would have done." I raised my chai, eliciting Barbara's cheerful frown. "I'd toast you if you had a drink."

  "Well, I'll be toasting you tonight after Tom gets through with me. You always
made me look good, hon, and if you keep up your magic, I might not even recognize myself anymore."

  Her phone rang and I used the distraction as an excuse to head back to my cube. I fervently hoped Tom would buy into the unique column idea. If I could swing that, it would cut my work in half. Instead of answering letters privately, I could use the DV petitions as column material, thereby satisfying work and the DV needs simultaneously. My obsession with answering each letter was largely responsible for my horrifically average-length work days.

  Barbara worried about increasing my workload; she didn't realize my work load couldn't possibly get any worse. I was already doing the very work I proposed. Making it official would save me the effort of being my own secretary.

  On my way into my cube, I snagged my mail from the hanging basket on the outside of the partition. On Mondays the stack was so thick it didn't fit and the delivery person usually tossed the bundle onto the floor inside my cube. I had yet to catch them doing it but, when I did, they'd better be ready for an extremely dirty look. It wasn't right for anyone to go postal outside the post office. It was like people parking in handicap spots when they weren't handicapped.

  I fished out the day's catch. Immediately, an envelope trimmed with red and blue stripes caught my eye. Air mail.

  The address was handwritten with a purplish-blue ink that would have made Rodrian drool. The writer had used actual calligraphy, inscribing each letter with precise flourish. Simply looking at the envelope made me ashamed of my less-than-perfect penmanship. No return address. No surprise there. Most of my mail tended to be anonymous. The postmark was blurred but if I deciphered it correctly, it read "Budapest."

  Just great, I thought. My free advice had gone international. Not that Canada didn't count but, anyways.

  No compulsion on the envelope meant I had to open it if I wanted to know anything. The crisp page was carefully creased, ivory paper embellished with gold embossing and a faint fragrance. The letter had been written by the same hand as the address and the words swirled gracefully across the page, an elegant dance of the written word.

  Dear Sophia,