“Oh.” Seth nodded. “So what’s in Wilmington?”
“A vampiress who might know something of the gang’s whereabouts.”
“What makes you think she knows?”
“She’s beautiful, incredibly wealthy, and it’s rumored she recently had her heart and her bank accounts broken by the same man. That sort of game is one Gregor’s right-hand man is extremely fond of playing.”
Seth nodded, and wondered if this vampiress with the broken heart was the woman he was looking for. He was still full of questions. But he decided to give Reaper a break. Then he reached up for the rearview mirror and tilted it down to check out his face. Sure, the pain was gone, but he had to be bruised pretty badly.
However, when he looked in the mirror, there was no reflection. A wave of nausea rose up in him, and he pushed it down.
“That’s another one of the myths about us that are true,” Reaper told him. “And your bruises are gone. They healed with the day sleep. Everything did, just as it always will.”
Seth licked his lips, leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. “One more question, okay?”
“Only one?” Reaper sounded skeptical.
“For now.” Seth opened his eyes, wanting to see the guy’s expression for this one. “That stuff you told me about the Chosen, and about every vampire having one special one, one that he’s more connected to than any other?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m a vampire now, too, right?”
Reaper nodded.
“So do I have a bond with one of the Chosen, too?”
“Yes. One of the Chosen—or, possibly even one who’s already become a vampire. The bond remains even after the transformation. You may not know who it is right away, but yes. There will be a powerful connection, a pull. You’ll know when that one needs you. You’ll feel compelled to help.”
“Could I have felt that bond even before I was changed over?”
Frowning, Reaper glanced at him. “I don’t see why not.”
Seth was pretty sure he already felt it. Had felt it all his life, and then, more potently than ever, just as his mortal life had ebbed away. The beautiful thing with the coppery red hair and the huge brown eyes. She was a part of his destiny. He’d never been more sure of anything.
For just a moment he started to panic. What if he was supposed to be helping her right now? What if he couldn’t find her in time? What if…?
And then he felt it. Just as surely as day followed night, he knew it. They were going the right way. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. The fate he’d been waiting for was at hand. He’d never felt this way before. He knew it was dead-on-balls accurate.
He sighed and tried to relax. He was on his path, on his journey, doing what he’d been meant to do his entire life. And he was going to do it right.
3
“I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!” Topaz hurled a 1945 Waterford cut crystal vase into the wall with so much force that it dented the surface before it exploded into a thousand glittering bits.
It wasn’t as satisfying as smashing his face would be, though. God, when she thought about how she’d been with him, the things she’d done. She’d been utterly uninhibited, willing to do anything, try anything, experience anything, because she was sure she was safe in his hands. That he was just as enamored of her as she was of him. That he loved her.
He’d convinced her of that.
She’d allowed it.
“Liar!” She kicked an oak rocking chair out of her path as she paced the mansion’s great room. It hit the fireplace mantel and broke into three pieces on the way to the floor.
Topaz was enraged. She needed to feed the fury inside her, and stored blood wasn’t going to do. Not tonight, not with the memory of him so alive in her mind.
She’d been making progress getting over him. Or she’d thought so. And then that freaking gossip of a vampiress, Dorinda, had to bring it all crashing back on her. With her, Oh, honey, I just had to come by and see how you were doing, and her, I know exactly how you must feel. All of it bullshit, all of it just a way of leading up to the real reason for her visit. which was to impart the news that Jack had been seen several times in Savannah, in the company of a very young, very beautiful vampiress no one seemed to know anything about.
Dorinda hadn’t come out of concern. She’d wanted to gossip and gloat, and twist the blade Jack had driven into Topaz’s heart. Dorinda was jealous. She’d wanted Jack for herself. The lucky bitch should be grateful she hadn’t gotten him.
It galled Topaz that she’d been so transparent, so idiotically in love that she’d revealed it to everyone she knew. So that when her money vanished, and her lover with it, everyone knew that, too. She’d been publicly humiliated. She’d been used. And she’d been robbed.
And hurt. Though she would never admit that to anyone, ever, not even under torture. But she’d been hurt more than she had ever hurt in death or in life. And she didn’t think the pain was going to end any time soon.
She had really loved the bastard.
She grabbed a jacket, slung it on over her glittery tank top and designer jeans, not because she would feel the night’s chill, but because it was a cute jacket, leather with fur trim at the collar and cuffs in a shade of pale mink that exactly matched her hair.
Topaz enjoyed nice things. And while she wasn’t destitute, by any means, Jack’s thievery had set her back substantially. He’d taken her for a half million, convinced her to let him invest it in something she should have known sounded too good to be true. As it turned out, it was something that didn’t even exist.
“Bastard.”
She flung the door open and dove into her bloodred Mercedes SL-500, and then she drove at high speeds, searching for trouble.
A couple of hours later, she found it.
She didn’t know what city she was in. She’d been following her senses, not road signs. There was a killer here. Yes. She would have settled for a wife beater or a child abuser, or quite possibly someone parked in a handicapped spot without a permit, but a killer was better. Less chance of morning-after doubts.
She parked the car and tried to quiet her mind long enough to focus. She needed him, needed to vent the rage that was boiling over by now, needed the solace that came with the blood. Like morphine, it eased her pain. Like mother’s milk to a newborn, it comforted and calmed. Living blood, more than any other kind. And that was what she needed.
It wasn’t often that the pain got this bad, but when it did, a human had to die. She wasn’t a rogue. She wouldn’t take an innocent. Not only because of the regrets that would leave imprinted on her heart, but because it would bring the wrath of the entire undead community down upon her head, and she didn’t need that.
Over the years, Topaz had learned how to control the filters in her mind, to raise and lower them at will. She lowered them now, briefly, like opening floodgates to the thoughts and senses of thousands, perhaps millions, of mortals within her range.
Noise came in from all directions, deafening, maddening, perhaps, given time. But worse than the noise—far worse—were the sensations. Pleasure, pain, heat, cold. And still worse, the emotions. Nearly crippling in their intensity. Hurt, grief, joy, fear, love.
She