Nightbred(4)

You’ll be lucky if I don’t turn into a love-starved groupie and start stalking you.

When Jamys had left Lucan’s territory, he had been convinced that Chris was falling in love with him. Since returning to his father’s house, he had waited patiently for her to make good on her comical threat. When her first e-mail arrived, he had expected her to ask him to come back, or permission for her to visit his father’s stronghold, or anything that would assure him that he was not mistaken about her regard for him. Instead she’d relayed an amusing story about accompanying Lucan to a mall for holiday shopping, becoming separated, and then finding him trapped by a crowd in a shop filled with china and lead crystal wares.

Jamys had no gift with words, and had no wish to make a fool of himself, so he had kept his reply brief and reserved. The silence that followed had crushed his hopes for months until Chris sent another note asking for his opinion of a Web site she had created for Lucan’s club.

Since then they had corresponded a dozen times by e-mail. Chris wrote in a friendly, casual tone, and her wry wit and shrewd observations always made him smile, but she never once spoke seriously of herself or her feelings.

Even if Jamys knew Chris cared for him, and would welcome his affections in return, love was nearly all he could offer her. His position in his father’s household provided him with whatever he needed but afforded him no status or privileges. As Thierry’s son he was not required to pledge his oath of loyalty to his father, and since he served no other Kyn lord, he had no rank. As such, he had nothing with which to tempt Chris into leaving Lucan and Samantha to make her life with him.

Jamys couldn’t leave Baucent to pledge himself to another Kyn lord and attain the rank of garrison warrior; Thierry would never permit it. The only way he could escape his father’s overprotective, smothering love was to become his equal: to be named lord paramount, become a suzerain, and acquire his own territory.

Three gentle taps sounded on his chamber door. “Lord Jamys?”

He went to the door and briefly considered bolting it before discarding the spiteful impulse. If he wished his father to regard him as a man, then it was time he began behaving like one.

The manservant waiting outside had a carefully blank expression and worried eyes. “My lord, the suzerain has taken a mount and ridden out from the stronghold.”

Jamys nodded and began to close the door, but the mortal held up his hand.

“A courier from Ireland arrived just after your father left,” he said. “He brings a message from the high lord.”





Chapter 2

Infusion Nightclub

Alenfar Stronghold

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Thousands of tiny, bloodred lights glittered from the shadowy corners of the nightclub, shedding their scant demonic light over the crowded dance floor. Enormous wall-mounted speakers wrapped Amy Lee’s voice around every other sound, every inch of skin, every drawn breath. Sharp-eyed bartenders dressed in scarlet vests over black muscle tees served up Tanya Huff Highballs, Anne Rice Raspberry Smashes, and the latest dark fantasy authorial cocktail craze, Larissa Ione Imperials, classic martinis sporting two black cherries skewered by a miniature silver caduceus.

The club’s patrons, all dressed to depress in the latest Gothwear, milled in affected boredom beneath the big-screen televisions soundlessly projecting an assortment of vampire films. Fake blood streaked across the powdered flesh exposed by deliberately tattered purple satin bustiers; porcelain veneer fangs appeared and disappeared behind black painted lips. Two massively muscled bouncers stood watch at the only entrance, from which a long line of leather-and-lace-clad hopefuls waited for someone inside to leave and give them a chance to be admitted.

Thanks to discreetly mounted security cameras, Christian Lang could watch them all from the quiet confines of her small, soundproofed office at the back of the club. But tonight she barely gave the wall of monitors across from her desk a glance as she dealt with the latest delivery disaster.

“I ordered forty boxes of the copper-jacketed rounds and sixty of the standard nine,” Chris told the receiver tucked between her cheek and shoulder. “You shipped me four and six. Where are the other ninety?”

“We’re out of standard nine, so they’re on back order,” the supplier said. “The copper’s a custom job; they’ll take three more weeks minimum.”

“Wait a minute.” Chris stopped shuffling through packing slips. “That isn’t what you told me when I placed the order.”

“What can I say, lady? Every time Homeland Security elevates the threat potential, my inventory starts flying out the door.” The man didn’t even try to sound contrite. “You got to be patient.”