Nightbred(34)
“No, Captain.” Lucan smiled. “You will leave this Dutch to me.”
Chapter 8
Despite the brightness of the morning sun, Jamys insisted on personally escorting Chris to the private car waiting to take her home for the day.
“For the record, this isn’t my idea,” she said as her driver, Melloy, came around to open the door for her. “Someone needed my parking spot for his new Ferrari.” She rolled her eyes up at the penthouse suite.
“You will return tonight?” The dark shades Jamys wore gave him a teen heartthrob look, but his voice rasped with weariness.
“Sure.” She climbed inside, a little startled when his hand supported her elbow. “See you later.”
Chris forced herself not to look back through the rear window at him, but as soon as the limo turned the corner, she slid over onto her side and thumped the soft leather seat cushions with her fist.
“You okay back there, Lang?” Melloy asked over the intercom.
“No. Yes. Not really.” She sat back up and lowered the partition window so they could talk without using buttons. “Melloy, why do we work for these people again?”
“Well, they pay us a ton of money, and we have all kinds of job security,” he suggested. “If you’re a night person, the hours are good. If someone wants your parking spot, they lend you me and the limo.”
“Anything else?”
He thought for a minute. “They don’t sparkle or get you pregnant with a life-sucking fetus.”
“Amen, brother.” Chris laughed.
Peter Melloy was one of the youngest tresori to serve Lucan, and had the unusual advantage of being born and raised in America. While he could behave with the same dreary formality as the European tresori, and was as fiercely loyal as any of them, he had a wry sense of humor and a much less slavish attitude toward the Kyn.
“So you and the new guy seem pretty tight.” Melloy, whose parents served the Atlanta jardin, had not pledged himself to Lucan until a year after Jamys’s prior visit. “Got some history going on there?”
“If a couple weeks count, which they don’t.” Chris rested her arms against the back of the front seat. “Did you hear about the high lord’s latest summons?”
“My parents called right after it was delivered to Suzerain Scarlet.” He grimaced at the rearview. “Can’t talk about it, though. Official tresori business.”
She waved a hand. “Don’t sweat it, Melloy. Padrone Ramas called me about it last night. I know the council doesn’t want the high lord to get his paws on the emeralds.”
Melloy perked up. “He told you that? Lang, you know what this means?”
I’m totally screwed. “I’m trustworthy?”
“No, you’re in. You’re going to be one of us.” He grinned. “So where are you getting your ink?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” She couldn’t confide in Pete, but she wondered what he would make of her dilemma. He’d tell her to follow the council’s orders, naturally; like all tresori, he took the secret side of his oath to keep the Darkyn from destroying the mortal world very seriously. “But if the paperwork goes through, I’ll probably do the back of my shoulder. If I can find an ink shop that offers general anesthesia.”
“How can you be afraid of needles?” Melloy sounded perplexed. “You volunteered to serve the Kyn.”
“Sam didn’t have the fangs when I met her.” Chris sat back and closed her eyes. “I was grandfathered in.”
As Melloy drove her across town, Chris thought through her impossible situation. She knew enough about Richard Tremayne to suspect the council was right on the money with their orders; once he had the emeralds, the high lord would definitely use them. As cold and ruthless as he was, he might even set up his own private immortal-army-making factory. From there the only thing that kept the Kyn in check—the fact that they couldn’t reproduce or otherwise make more Kyn—would be a nonissue. Then the mortal world would be in serious trouble, because Tremayne would be focused on things like wiping out the Brethren, establishing new territories, and taking control of governments. He wouldn’t worry about silly little details like who was going to feed his armies.
Burke had told her that in order to maintain their strength, heal spontaneously, and use their abilities a healthy Darkyn had to consume a minimum of three pints of human blood per day. Wounded Kyn required much more, often as much as six to eight pints. While the immortals had trained themselves not to kill the humans while feeding, Kyn who had experienced any type of blood loss often became ravenous.