She hadn’t gone clubbing in three years, not since … well, she wouldn’t think about her last boyfriend. She patted a thin rose gloss onto her lips. She pressed her lips together. She glanced down at the card on the sink … THE BLOOD AND BITE.
The club had been the subject of one of three recurring dreams she’d been having for the past month. The second dream had been about a downtown alley and the third about a long, narrow lake on the west side of the White Tanks, a lake that didn’t even exist.
As she thought about these dreams, a profound longing swelled within her chest until her heart felt squeezed. She closed her eyes and leaned forward. She knew of panic attacks, but longing attacks?
Dreams of the nightclub had sent her to her laptop. She’d Googled the establishment and learned enough to stay away. The location in south Phoenix had ended any desire she might have had to discover exactly why a club, with a wretched name and completely unknown to her, would suddenly appear in a dream.
An image popped into her head of a man bearing large black wings and fangs. A vampire?
Her head thrummed and a chill stirred up the little hairs at the nape of her neck. Vampires with wings. Why was she thinking about something so ridiculous, and yet …
The image crystallized. The man had been beautiful and he’d conversed with her. He had a translucent ivory complexion with a faint blue cast to his skin. He bore enormous shiny black wings and twirled in midair.
She winced. A sudden headache bloomed in the middle of her skull, a dedicated throb. She blinked several times and drew in a deep breath. She let it out slowly. The pain diminished then winked out.
Weird.
What had she been thinking about?
Well, nothing.
She glanced down at her man-hunting costume, a red silk halter, short black skirt, and strappy black Jimmy Choos. She loved these shoes but never wore them. She’d never had an occasion until tonight. She’d even put on sparkly eye makeup. Oh, God, was she really going to do this? Did she actually think she would find happily-ever-after at a place called the Blood and Bite?
On the other hand, what if her deep subconscious mind had been working to redirect her to exactly the man she needed, hence the dreams? She didn’t hold to rigid clinical views when it came to her life’s calling. She embraced the chaotic nature of existence as well as the mysterious and intricate depths of the human mind.
Besides, all of the psychology in the world couldn’t explain her own special powers. So what did she hope to find at this club tonight?
The answer sped to the surface of her mind like a buoy released abruptly from underwater. She hoped that somewhere inside a man existed who could understand her, accept her, perhaps even have the ability to withstand the strange powers she wielded. Did she have a basis for such hope? Only that she’d found a card at her feet and couldn’t explain how it had gotten there.
* * *
At eight o’clock Eldon Crace, High Administrator of Chicago Two, sat in a pool of his own sweat, which made no f**king sense at all. He was known for his composure.
On the other hand, he was sitting opposite the vampire who had the power to give or to withhold what he desired most in the world. Commander Darian Greaves, with one whisk of his Montblanc pen, could authorize a seat at his Geneva Round Table, the place of all future authority for the Coming Order.
He dabbed at his forehead with a crisp square of white linen. Perspiration leaked from every pore of his body. What was this unbearable pressure inside his head?
The Commander was a complete master in the oldest sense, in his level of personal accomplishment, in power, and in the obeisance he called from those around him. He had the air of European aristocracy and the will of Emporer Qin.
He sat behind a massive ebony desk, the size of a battleship, his being as calm as a lake on a windless day. Behind him was a wall of chipped rock, evidence that the compound existed underground, protected, secure, a vast stronghold.
The Commander wore an expensive black cashmere suit, probably Italian, at least in design, the yellow silk tie a striking contrast. He had large round black eyes, a bald head that glimmered beneath ceiling lights, a black ring on his right pinkie, and extremely sharp fangs he rarely bothered to conceal. As a finale, he had talons instead of fingers on his left hand.
Crace refused to look at the dagger-like claws, but not looking didn’t lessen the amount of moisture his body sloughed in pints.
Jesus.
A faint whirring sound drew his attention to the far wall. A row of immaculately groomed and very phallic Italian cypresses ranged from one end to the other and now swiveled a quarter turn in massive gold pots, shifting to face a bank of grow lights suspended from the ceiling. Even the botanical expression in Greaves’s office suggested power and purpose.
A new wave of sweat dribbled down his forehead and he dabbed again.
He held himself together, however. He’d at least learned a great deal of poise in the last few decades.
He’d been summoned to Phoenix Two for a purpose, but he would not hear the Commander’s wishes and desires until the Commander wished and desired to speak. Right now silence kept Crace’s nerves on the edge of a knife.
Crace had had his lips pressed to Greaves’s ass for the last century, doing what he was told and when, stockpiling ordnance, acquiring an army of death vampires, and training, training, training. These activities were no more, no less than the other High Administrators around the globe were doing, all those ambitious men and women who had aligned with the Commander, who hoped for a new order, who hoped for the spoils of the Coming Order.
Crace, however, had no illusions. Darian Greaves wanted to rule and rule he would. Two worlds would soon be up for grabs, and Crace meant to be seated at the right hand of God when the shitstorm came down.
Right now he sat opposite his deity, dwarfed by his presence in the cleverest way. Crace’s chair sat too low and the bottom was angled up at the knees. He couldn’t sit forward if he wanted to. He would remember the psychological disadvantage he felt right now, and as soon as he returned to Chicago he’d order a pair just like them. The chairs would sit in front of his desk and with great pleasure he’d watch his inferiors lean back like they were tanning themselves at Lake Michigan. How easily a blade could be thrust through the sternum in such a vulnerable attitude.
“What’s Chicago like these days?” Commander Greaves asked. He had a velvet-on-steel voice, soothing with a foundation of malice, a solid promise if things didn’t go his way. As one who meant to rule, the Commander spoke as he ought.