Blood Bond

I glance at Frey. He has purposely used the name associated with the historically cruel figure instead of the more benign “Dracul.” And it gets a reaction from the shifters. Worried glances exchanged one to the other. Finally, one speaks.

“Why have we been called to speak with Vlad Tepes?” asks the one who looks to be the older of the four. He speaks English with an accent I can’t place. “We are only invited guests. We have nothing to do with what transpired with Steffan.”

The three behind him stir and nod in quick agreement.

Vlad smiles. “We do not accuse you of being a part of Steffan’s intrigue.”

His voice is as smooth as his oily smile. It makes my blood run cold and I am not on the receiving end of his attention. I see a bit of the legend now and wonder . . .

Vlad continues. “Why were you invited? What connection did you have to Steffan?”

The four look at each other. Once again, the one who appears older than the others speaks. “We are not sure why we were invited. The invitation came by way of messenger only yesterday. It said as leaders of the shifter bands we were to be in attendance at a grand convocation. An announcement was to made that would affect us all—vampire and shifter alike.”

Vlad raises his eyebrows. “What connection is there between vampires and shifters? I know of no such alliance.”

This time, a spark of concern flashes in the eyes of the shifter. “Recently, Steffan reached out to our community. We were not aware he was violating any accord in doing so.”

“What did he ask of you?”

“Nothing.” The shifter glances back and meets the eyes of the others. All nod in quick agreement. “We supposed he wanted to widen the circle of his sphere to include all supernaturals. We were not aware it was only shifters that he approached.”

Vlad takes another slow drink from his glass. The silence hangs heavy, seems interminable.

What are you doing? I finally ask Vlad.

Waiting, is his curt reply.

The numbing quiet stretches on.

Frey shifts at my side. His patience is growing short.

So is mine.

If we wait too much longer, Steffan is going to get away, I remind Vlad.

It won’t be much longer. Watch their eyes. They are communicating among themselves. Can Frey understand what they’re saying?

Frey must have answered in the negative because Vlad is shaking his head.

Unfortunate that there is not communication among shifters as there is among vampires. Frey has no knowledge of the language they’re speaking.

I sigh. Vampires think communication is like Esperanto . . . universal to all.

Vlad continues, But Frey did say the timbre of the conversation is becoming heated. I don’t think it will be long now.

Vlad is right. The spokesmen for the group steps forward once again.

“We do not know what plan Steffan had for us. But one unusual thing transpired tonight that we will share with you as a token of our goodwill. One of our ranks, Louis Archambault, disappeared shortly after you . . .” He clears his throat, starts again. “After the unfortunate scene with Steffan.”

“Disappeared?” Vlad’s tone is sharp.

“We were all transfixed, as you might imagine, by what was taking place in front of us. When it was over, we noticed that Archambault was gone. None of us saw him leave nor did he tell us where he was going.” He looks away, almost as if afraid to continue, but feels he must. “We thought he was overcome by the brutality. It may indeed be the case.”

Vlad ignores the knife-sharp accusation. “Where does Archambault live?”

“Near Paris. Asnieres-sur-Seine.” He rattles off a street address.

“If he took a car,” I say to Vlad, “we could beat him cross-country.”

Vlad crosses to the door and, opening it, calls to his guard. He snaps something in French and the guard disappears, to return an eye blink later. His answer brings a smile to Vlad’s lips.

“His car is gone.”

Frey addresses himself to the shifters. “What form does Archambault take?”

“Bear,” the spokesman answers.

Frey’s expression is almost blissful as he looks at me. “A challenge. It’s been a long time.”

“No, Frey,” I snap back at him. “It’s too dangerous. You can’t come.”

But Frey has already retreated to a corner behind the bar. We hear rustling and I know he’s stripping off his clothes in preparation for making the change.

I sigh. Unless I’m prepared to hog-tie him, arguing with Frey when he’s made up his mind is useless.

Vlad is waving a hand to dismiss the shifters when I stop him. There is still one more piece of the puzzle to snap in place.

“Did something happen tonight between Archambault and Steffan?” I ask. “Did Steffan borrow something of Archambault’s maybe or—?”

One of the younger of the shifters speaks up for the first time. He looks to his friends. “The tie?”

“Tie?” I say encouragingly. “What happened with the tie?”

His face reddens. “It seems Steffan liked Archambault’s tie better than the one he was wearing. He asked if they might trade. At the time we all laughed, it seemed silly. But the two did trade. And Steffan put Archambault’s tie on immediately.”

I nod to Vlad. He waves the shifters off and they waste no time beating a hasty retreat back to the party.

“Well, at least we have more than suspicion. Even if Steffan’s leap to Archambault was unsuccessful, he was planning on trying it if things didn’t go his way.”

I pause as another thought strikes me. “Which means Steffan must have suspected you might show up tonight.”

Vlad shrugs. “Ours is a tight-knit community. There are those whose allegiance to me is strong. Word can and does pass both ways.”

“And was it Chael who told you of Steffan’s plan?” I speak the words without giving them conscious thought. Chael played a major role in getting me here. And his cryptic words in the car about history to be made all make sense now.

“Chael is a friend,” Vlad replies.

He says nothing more.

The rustling in the corner stops. Frey emerges, a sleek black panther, and flashes us a green-eyed greeting—a growl emanating from deep within his chest.

He pushes against my legs until my hand lies on the top of his head.

Vlad watches, a smile touching the corner of his lips. “I may have been wrong about your panther,” he says. “He is not so biddable as I thought.”

Frey snaps in Vlad’s direction and I swear, I see him smile.

Vlad looks down at himself, then over to me. We are not so fortunate as your cat. We cannot shed our human forms, but we can shed these clothes. Steffan has a gymnasium in the house, which means he must have something we can use to make our travels more comfortable. Come.

Once again Frey and I follow Vlad through another door and up a staircase to the second floor. Frey bounds up the stairs with feline grace. Every time I see him in this form I’m amazed at the powerful muscles that ripple under midnight black fur. He is beautiful. My heart races. And mortal. I will protect him at all costs tonight.

The “gymnasium,” as Vlad called it, is in fact an exercise room: recumbent bike, free weights, a treadmill. Attached is a shower room and then another door that leads into what I guess is Steffan’s bedroom.

Not what I would have imagined a “king’s bedchamber” to be. It is spartan. A plain bed of rustic wood, a huge armoire with simple lines, a writing desk. And yet, a search of the closet and armoire yields Steffan’s clothes, finely tailored suits, slacks, silk shirts of the palest hues. In a drawer, we finally find what we are looking for.