Old Sins, Long Shadow Page 25

  Damian chuckled sleepily. “Very well, mi amor. If you say so.”

  Conrad looked at him in surprise. “You find the prospect amusing, do you?”

  “Mm,” Damian mumbled, his voice fading. “I do. Most amusing. For I know you would never hurt me.”

  It was certainly the last thing he ever wanted to do, but Conrad wasn’t nearly as confident. “You think not?”

  “I am certain of it,” Damian whispered on a yawn. “Did you not tell me so yourself, on our very first night together?” The smile on his face glimmered brighter as he slipped into unconsciousness. “Conrad. My demon lover. Te quiero mucho.”

  True to his word, Conrad stayed with Damian for as long as he could. He left him reluctantly and proceeded to spend most of the next three days in hell, unable to sleep, or eat or to even think of anything else. His ears were strained by the constant effort of listening for any hint of a scandal circulating within the castle’s walls. And he could not stop his mind from imagining in sordid, horrifying detail every possible atrocity that might be occurring.

  In the end, his worry was for naught. Damian was unharmed. But they were still forced to flee for their lives when their reunion was interrupted by the duke, who had returned to the crypt, one final time, to pay his last respects.

  Over the next several decades they lived in the same manner as most others of their kind, keeping to the shadows, surviving on the fringes of society, traveling through all the wilder, less populated areas of Europe and Asia. But whereas Conrad had once been resigned, even satisfied, with this itinerant type of lifestyle, now he found he wanted more. He wanted to provide Damian with a life of stability, safety, ease, and all the material trappings he’d been forced to leave behind. For that to happen, much would have to change in the world.

  With that thought in mind, Conrad spent most of the next several hundred years consolidating his far-flung nest, establishing order. Using diplomacy to convince the heads of as many other vampire families as he could to do the same, using force where diplomacy failed. And amassing a very considerable fortune along the way.

  For close to four hundred years he and Damian were happy together. Then, something changed, Conrad never knew what. All at once, it seemed, Damian became bored with their life together and indifferent to him. Hurt, Conrad withdrew into himself.

  He turned his back on Damian’s indiscretions, overlooked his increasingly blatant acts of disobedience. And resigned himself to giving Damian all the space and freedom he needed to do as he wished. And then more space, more freedom.

  Still, it seemed, the more he gave, the more Damian required. Until the distance between them had become a fiery chasm, too wide, too deep, too rife with anger and resentment for either of them to span. Until the horrible night when Damian went a step too far. Pushed beyond his limits, Conrad lost control of his temper and did the unthinkable. And a lifetime of love was destroyed in an instant.

  Over one hundred and fifty years had passed since that night but, for once, time seemed to have lost all interest in his memories; they remained as fresh and green as though time itself had stopped. Conrad had neither forgotten nor forgiven himself his actions that night. By now, he rather doubted he ever would.

  Chapter Twenty

  San Francisco

  Present Day

  Drew prowled restlessly through the club. He was aware of the somewhat nervous glances his expression earned him, but he ignored them. Why should he be the only one out of sorts this evening? Why should not everyone around him feel just as nervous as he?

  The mansion had already been abuzz with rumor and innuendo when he woke up this evening. Word that Conrad had Marc closeted in his room—and that neither of them were happy had filtered down to even the staff. Concerned about the reason for their dissension, Drew had dared approach Georgia for information. The little she gave him did nothing to ease his fears.

  Convinced that he, too, would shortly be invited to meet privately with Conrad, he did the cowardly thing and ran—straight to the park, where a short hunt and a full breakfast had done much to restore his good humor. Although he’d have enjoyed his repast a damn sight more without the sepulchral voice echoing in his head.

  The condemned man ate a hearty meal.

  Well, the meal was hearty, but he wasn’t condemned. Not yet, anyway.

  He paused as he reached the bar. “No sign of Marc yet tonight?” he inquired of Danny.

  The bartender’s eyebrows rose. “He was in earlier. Didn’t you see him?”

  Drew bit back the obvious answer, that if he’d seen him he wouldn’t be asking. “Where is he then? Did he go someplace? How did he seem?”

  Danny blinked in surprise and Drew reminded himself to calm down. If Marc had been exhibiting any obvious injuries, doubtless Danny would not be looking quite so relaxed. And, if Marc was here at all, then clearly Conrad hadn’t killed him. The night was looking up.

  “He seemed fine,” Danny answered with a small shrug. “Until he got the note—then he lit out of here. But didn’t he see you before he left? He said he was going to.”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Drew snapped. “What note? What did he say? And when was this, anyway?” Didn’t it figure that this should occur on the one night he came in late? What else had he missed?

  “It was right after he got here. I found a letter shoved under the back door when I was opening up. It had his name on it, so I gave it to him when he came in. When he read it he said he had to leave for a bit—some kind of emergency I guess. He said he’d be back shortly and first he told me to give you a message, but then he changed his mind and said he’d tell you himself.”

  “What message? Did he seem upset?”

  “I don’t know what the message was. He never told me. But, naw, he didn’t seem upset about that. The letter though, that sure seemed to throw him for a loop.”

  Drew nodded. The letter, whatever it was, did not concern him. It hadn’t come from Conrad—that was all that mattered.

  “Danny, I’ll take a stout now,” he ordered as he allowed himself to relax for the first time all evening.

  Danny nodded. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll have to go get it from the back room, though. We’re out up here and I haven’t gotten a chance to re-stock.”

  Feeling distinctly as though he’d just dodged a bullet, Drew leaned back against the bar while he waited for Danny to return. He glanced around, eyeing the clientele with a little more interest than usual. He was in the mood to celebrate, possibly by breaking his own personal rule against eating while on duty. Despite the rumors to which he’d awoken, it appeared Marc’s luck continued to hold. Which meant that, in as far as Drew’s fortunes were tied to that of his friend, so did his own. Or so it appeared, until a minute later when Danny returned to the bar.

  “Hey, boss? This just came for you.” A tinge of unease colored Danny’s voice as he held out a bulky manila envelope. “Messenger dropped it off while I was in the back. Funny thing though, that’s the same handwriting that was on the letter Marc got.”

  Drew frowned, his senses tingling in alarm. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Look, I’ll show you.”

  As Danny reached into the waste bin beneath the bar, Drew examined the envelope. It was addressed simply to the club itself. He tore it open and quickly dumped the contents out onto the bar. A business-sized envelope, addressed to Conrad, slid from the package, along with a small, gilt-trimmed, white leather gift box, such as one might reasonably expect to hold expensive jewelry. Drew’s nostrils flared. Bile rose in his gorge. He seriously doubted the box held anything so innocuous. He cast a quick glance at Danny’s face. Did he sense it too? But, no, clearly he had not. It was apparent Danny’s human sense of smell had failed to discern what was so screamingly obvious to Drew. The scent of blood wafted from the box. Vampire blood.

  “Here. See?” Danny shoved a crumpled envelope toward Drew. “It’s the same, right?”

  Drew nodded. Here was more proof that something wa
s terribly wrong. It wasn’t just the writing that matched. The envelope was identical in make to the one addressed to Conrad.

  “What do you think it means?” Danny asked.

  “It means I’m leaving you in charge,” Drew said, surprised at how calm his voice managed to sound. “I have an errand to run. Get whomever you want to come in and help out, if you’re shorthanded. If I’m not back by closing time, just lock everything up in the safe.”

  Danny shrugged. “You got it, Mr. Geiger. If you say so. Is everything all right?”

  Such innocence. Drew shook his head. It was little wonder Danny’s blood tasted so sweet. Perhaps he should take the time for a quick bite before he left? There was no telling when, or even if, he’d be back. “No, Danny.” This was about as far from all right as things could possibly get. “I’m afraid it’s really not.”

  “Stop dropping your guard!” Damian scolded with uncharacteristic harshness. He’d coaxed Julie into fencing with him, in hopes a little swordplay would help him expend some of the pent-up frustration he’d been left with following his interview with Conrad. It wasn’t working, however. The girl was proving to be far too timid an opponent for his needs. “Focus, chica. You’re too distracted tonight.”

  Julie huffed out an angry breath. “Pot, meet kettle,” she snapped and Damian knew he couldn’t refute the charge.

  “Again,” he sighed, annoyed with them both. He was distracted, damn it, but how could he not be? Ever since the morning after the party he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knew he’d pushed Conrad too hard. It had been madness to taunt him. It was foolish and dangerous…and yet, Conrad had not reacted in any of the ways Damian had come to expect. Quiet, subdued, forgiving, restrained; this was not the vampire Damian knew and loved. Fool that he was, he suspected he might actually prefer a Conrad who shouted and growled and made his feelings plain. At least then you knew where he stood with him.

  You mean at least you thought you might tempt him to lay his hands on you in anger, an evil voice inside his head insisted. Since you can’t get him to do so in any other way.

  That was probably true as well, but if so it was of an order of idiocy beyond anything Damian had sunk to in a very long time. And that was definitely not something he wanted to dwell on.

  He froze for an instant when the door to the gym opened and the object of his obsession appeared. Fabulous. Just what I need. He and Julie both stared at Conrad in surprise. As far as Damian knew, this was the first time he’d been to the gym since his abduction—a good sign, surely. It was just Damian’s bad luck he’d chosen to show up now.

  “Have you come to work out?” he asked, trying hard not to stare. After all, it was hardly the first time he’d seen Conrad dressed so casually. Even though his current outfit—yoga pants and fitted T—left little to the imagination, he’d also seen him in far, far less. He should be inured to the sight. Still, it had been a while.

  Conrad shrugged. “It’s a possibility. I haven’t decided yet.” He glanced around vaguely, then took a seat on one of the weight benches. “Go on with what you were doing,” he urged, as he picked up a small barbell. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

  Dios mio. Damian sighed. As if it had ever been possible for him not to be disturbed when Conrad was anywhere in the vicinity. Still, the attempt needed to be made. For the sake of his pride, if nothing else. He nodded to Julie and they began again—only to be interrupted almost immediately.

  “Julie, you’re holding back,” Conrad observed, after Damian had scored another easy point off the girl. “Push him a little. C’mon, you can do better than that.”

  Damian bit back a growl. The one area where Conrad had mostly treated him as an equal was in the care and training of the twins. It didn’t matter that they were in agreement, in this case, Damian still did not need—or appreciate—Conrad’s sideline coaching.

  “Again,” he growled, noting with sympathy how Julie’s jaw had clenched, the flush that colored her cheeks. Of course she would be flustered and embarrassed with both of them harping on her like this. How could she not? He could barely bring himself to offer any additional instruction himself, at this point, lest she feel herself completely browbeaten.

  They sparred for several minutes more and all the while Conrad, his own workout forgotten, continued to volunteer advice. It was obvious he had misconstrued Damian’s silence as an invitation to take over the lesson. Finally, Damian could take no more.

  “Stop!” he ordered.

  Julie’s eyes flashed. She glared at him, clearly exasperated. “What now?”

  Damian ignored her and turned instead toward Conrad. “Do you really think you’re that much better at this?”

  Conrad appeared momentarily startled. “At what?” he asked cautiously.

  “All of it! The fencing, the coaching, the sword fighting.”

  “Sword fighting? Is that what you call what you’re doing?” Conrad’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “Well, as to that, I should hope so, my dear. After all, I do have quite a few years on you. I daresay I could still teach you a few things.”

  “Do you? Bueno.” Damian motioned to Julie. “Hand me your foil.”

  “What?” Julie’s eyes widened.

  “Your foil, chica. Now.”

  She handed it over reluctantly. Damian took it and executed a courtly bow. “And now, if il Maestro, would be so kind. Perhaps you’d favor us with a small lesson?”

  A disbelieving smile curved Conrad’s lips. “Are you saying you wish to fight me?”

  “Unless, perhaps, you fear it would be too strenuous for someone of your advanced age?”

  Conrad frowned. “No, I believe I can still manage it.” He rose to his feet. “Although it might prove embarrassing for you.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Damian replied, promptly hurling the foil at Conrad’s head—tip first—not overly concerned with whether Conrad would catch it, or it would catch him. A moot point anyway, since Conrad easily dodged and spun and caught hold of the hilt as it flew past.

  Julie scurried away to sit on one of the benches. Conrad approached, idly swishing his blade through the air. A fell smile curved his lips. “Very well. Now, what am I wagered?”

  “Wagered?”

  “It is customary, is it not? Or am I mistaken? Did you not just issue me a challenge?”

  “I did. But why waste time now on details? Let us just say that the winner may demand from the loser whatever boon he wishes.”

  “Rather a useless victory,” Conrad observed coolly. “Is it not? As your sire, I’m already entitled to ask for whatever I want from you.”

  “Ah. You’re assuming you’ll win, then?”

  Conrad’s answering smile was so engaging Damian might have had serious trouble resisting its attraction if he weren’t so angry. And if Conrad didn’t compound his anger by replying with insufferable confidence, “But, of course.”

  “Don’t,” Damian advised, getting quickly into position. “En garde!”

  It had been too long since they’d played together like this, Conrad decided, easily parrying Damian’s thrusts. But some skills, once learned, were never forgotten. They’d sparred with each other countless times over the centuries and, even though it had been a while, they still knew one another’s moves so well they could almost anticipate every action. As had always been the case, they soon abandoned any pretense at fencing. If they adhered to all the rigid rules that governed such contests neither of them would ever score a point. This was battle, pure and simple, and the joy of combat sang in Conrad’s veins as they pursued each other back and forth across the gym. He’d almost forgotten how enjoyable it could be. He’d almost forgotten what an extremely proficient swordsman Damian was, what a worthy adversary. And he was definitely in very grave danger of being distracted by the sheer beauty of his form.

  Still, it had not been idle boasting when he’d declared the outcome a foregone conclusion. However excellent Damian might be, or however long or hard he worked t
o hone his skill, he could never seriously hope to compete with Conrad who had already been wielding swords for hundreds of years before his birth.

  Since long before Damian had been but a gleam in his father’s eye, or before his great-great-great grandfather had been a gleam in his father’s eye, for that matter, Conrad had made his living with his sword—and not these silly light swords either, the epees and rapiers and their ilk. He’d fought using longswords and broadswords, cutlasses, claymores. Real swords. Swords forged for battle. The kinds of weapons that could have separated even a vampire’s head from his shoulders with swiftness and ease.

  He never would have survived for even one century had he had not been extraordinarily skillful. Add to that the fact that he was Invitus, bred to prey on weaker vampires, and it was obvious Damian could stand no chance against him, not even in his current weakened condition.

  Conrad pressed Damian relentlessly, forcing him with ruthless intent deeper into one of the room’s corners, where he planned to trap him and demand his surrender.

  Once again, however, Damian surprised him. He feinted to the side, followed with a quick passare, then dodged and ran—across the mats, over the weight bench, flipping through the air in a one-handed cartwheel, to a perfect landing on the vaulting board. From the board, it was an easy leap to the horse, and then he was airborne; somersaulting over Conrad’s head to land near the wall where the weapons were kept.

  Julie gasped in surprise. Conrad, delighted by this turn of events, gave a shout of laughter. He quickly gave chase, but was brought up short when Damian dropped his foil and pulled two rapiers from the rack on the wall.