Chills skittered up his spine, and again he wondered if a stoning mightn’t have been a mercy. . . .
Jo’s eyes flashed open.
That hadn’t been a simple dream—it was a memory of Rune’s! She’d witnessed it as if from his eyes. She’d known his thoughts and language as if they’d been her own.
He’d suspected Jo would read memories from his blood. She must be—what’d he call it?—a cosas vampire!
What memory would he kill to prevent her from seeing? Surely not scenes like the ones she’d just experienced.
She burned to find out what that heartless queen had wanted from him. What use would Magh have for sensuality and intensity?
Jo found it baffling that the arrogant Rune had once been a slave. She felt unwelcome sympathy for him. How he hated the fey! And he despised his blood. He’d longed for a female of his own species as much as she’d longed for a partner.
No wonder he hadn’t spilled semen on Jo. No wonder he’d been so stunned when she’d fed from him. He could do to her everything he’d dreamed of.
And yet he’d decided to kill her.
She pulled her knees to her chest, reeling from everything she’d learned. Entire worlds of freaks existed.
Fey and Wiccae kingdoms. Immortal dimensions with intrigues and wars.
Demons could teleport, or trace. Jo supposed she should get the lingo down. Tracing was disappearing and reappearing, traveling over distances.
So what did they call it when they ghosted or dematerialized or hung out in walls?
Could they?
If a fey world existed, then was there a place for creatures like her? Maybe her shooting hadn’t turned her. Maybe neither she nor Thaddie had ever been human. What if they’d crossed over from some fantastical realm—perhaps from a nation of ghost vampires?
Seventeen years ago, the docs had blamed her memory loss on a head injury. That could be why she’d forgotten her birthplace.
She shot upright in bed. If she could find out for certain, she’d have to go to Thaddie, to explain their origin and their powers and this entire weird world! She ghosted with happiness; then embodied with a frown.
Right now she didn’t have much to explain.
Rune might return to the Quarter tonight. Information for the taking.
An unwelcome realization arose: Rune the Insatiable Asshat might be the key to her reuniting with Thaddie.
FOURTEEN
A vampire has my bloody talisman.
Rune would rather have forfeited the Darklight bow. All day he’d stormed down New Orleans streets, seeking any Lorean to question about Josephine. Most took one look at his expression and fled. Even the nymphs had retreated into the trees or the river.
No one stole from him. No one was fast enough, crafty enough. It simply didn’t happen.
Yet the vampire had.
Twice.
After she’d disappeared—taking her necklace, his bait—he’d interrogated the nymphs for any detail he might have missed, then he’d used those clues to try to unearth her lair. He’d been tempted to fetch Darach for the wolf’s tracking abilities, but Rune didn’t want to explain his new target. Besides, time moved differently in Tenebrous; tracing there and back would take several Earth days.
Damn that leech!
He found himself touching her bite mark yet again. A day later, he remained astounded that she’d not only bitten him, but fed.
A vampire consumed my befouled blood.
He pierced the remnants of her bite with his claw tips, seeking to recreate a fraction of the pleasure—only to fail.
He’d reacted like a madman, couldn’t even remember what he’d said to her. He thought he’d spoken to her in Demonish. He knew he’d bellowed so loud his throat had stung.
Part of him was glad of his response. Hardly that of a deadened man whose fire had been extinguished! Rune had felt with Josephine. Some buried cinder must have lingered deep within him, because it was . . . sparking.
His reaction to her—and hers to him—made him ponder the most asinine and far-fetched possibility.
What if she was his mate?
What were the odds he would meet a female whose scent put him to his knees—and who also happened to be immune to his poison? She’d told him, You smelled right.
No, no, there’d be no mate for Rune. Thousands of years ago, he’d concluded his kind didn’t get a fated one, were cursed to be alone.
He’d never met a mated dark fey, had never heard of a second generation of his species. His own solitary years had cemented the idea in his mind.
Even if he got a mate, Josephine the vampire wouldn’t be his. He’d reacted so violently to her and her bite because she’d mesmerized him.
Her scent enticed him more than anyone else’s simply because she had the most alluring scent. Other men on the street had responded with just as much heat.
None of the other Møriør had a mate. To take on such a glaring vulnerability would have to affect Rune’s standing. He’d be damned to the hells before he relinquished his spot at their table.
Plenty of immortals would sell their soul to take his place. . . .
By late afternoon, Rune headed to the Lore shop the nymphs had mentioned. It was a ramshackle store with a symbol of the Lore in the window. The shingle read: Loa’s Emporium
Perhaps he could find manacles here. He could definitely pry for information.
Unshaven and wearing last night’s clothes, he strode inside. A bell jingled above the door. Mortal wares crowded the shelves. A Lorean market must be concealed in the back.
A woman sat behind the counter, engrossed in a book. Her nearly sheer white dress clung to her dark skin, revealing a voluptuous figure. Loa, the proprietress?