Nightbred

The rapid dispersal of the territories still open to rule was not the only obstacle Jamys had to overcome. Michael Cyprien, the seigneur who ruled over North America, decided all matters of suzerainty.

The Durands owed everything to Cyprien, who had provided them with sanctuary after they had been freed from the Brethren’s torture chambers. His sygkenis, Dr. Alexandra Keller, had used her healing skills to repair their broken bodies. And while both Thierry and Jamys had been out of their minds with grief and rage, Cyprien had not exercised his right to end their misery, but had instead gone to great lengths to bring them both back to sanity.

Throughout their mortal and immortal lives Cyprien and Thierry had been as close as brothers; even during the worst of times that affection had never wavered. If Thierry asked Cyprien to deny Jamys the chance to rule his own jardin, Michael would not hesitate to do so.

The south-facing window gave Jamys a direct view of the lists, which were now empty, and the line of mountains that lay against the horizon like great storm clouds fallen to earth.

Beyond the mountains lay seven territories, six occupied by the finest of Cyprien’s lords paramount. The seventh and most southern belonged to Lucan, once master assassin to High Lord Richard Tremayne, formerly Cyprien’s bitterest adversary, and still one of the deadliest Kyn lords in the world.

Lucan commanded a garrison of highly trained, utterly lethal warriors as well as a small army of clever and resourceful human servants, and lived with his sygkenis, Samantha Brown, a homicide detective and one of the handful of modern females who had survived the transition from mortal to Darkyn. Yet each night only one among his household occupied Jamys’s thoughts.

Christian.

He closed the shutters as her name resonated through his bones.

It was no mystery to him that he needed a woman, and there were certainly enough at hand to be had. As long as he was careful with them, he could use any mortal female within his father’s household for blood or pleasure or both. Nearly every one of the unattached women servants had made it clear they would not object to his attentions.

An ample supply for an impossible demand, for while he appreciated the warmth and generosity offered, none of them were the girl he wanted.

Jamys went to the computer, where he pulled up the file he had begun compiling a year ago.

He knew some facts about Chris Lang. The mortal female had been born in Fort Lauderdale in 1990, and was now twenty-one years old. After her mother’s death six years past, she had been made a ward of the state and placed in foster care. She had escaped it four months later and disappeared, resurfacing three years later when she had sublet an apartment next to Samantha Brown’s.

A year after that, Chris officially took employ as assistant manager of Infusion, a Goth nightclub that served as the public facade of Lucan’s stronghold. Unofficially she served as Samantha Brown’s personal assistant. She did not belong to a tresoran family, but she was trusted as much as one of the mortal allies who for generations had provided loyal, unwavering service to the Kyn.

After Thierry sent him to Lucan three years ago to recover from his final surgery, Jamys had spent a few precious days in Chris’s company. At one point during his stay he had been implicated in the murders of several humans, and from the beginning only Chris had refused to believe him responsible.

You think you don’t need help, fine. But I’m the only person who knows for real that you’re innocent.

While Samantha and even Lucan had viewed Jamys with suspicion, Chris had instead allied herself with him, following and then rescuing him when he was attacked by one of the real murderer’s revenants. To help heal his wounds, she had even fed him her own blood.

No pictures of Christian Lang existed on the Internet; not that Jamys required an image to remind him of her gamine features. Beneath a cap of fine hair she dyed in the most outlandish shades, she had large, bright eyes the color of a midnight sapphire, a pert nose, and a mouth that readily curved into the most dazzling and fetching of smiles.

Jamys remembered everything about her: the touch of her hand, the shimmer of her laugh, the taste of her lips. Every word she had said to him remained in his heart, especially those she had used for a final, mocking warning.

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.”

“No problem.” Chris swiveled around to open the middle drawer of her filing cabinet and took out the vendor’s order confirmation. “When can I expect the reimbursement check?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Read the terms of the bid,” she suggested. “There’s a ten percent penalty surcharge for every day the delivery is late. Which means you will be paying us the entire bid amount, plus twenty-one days times ten percent of the order. . . . Do you want me to calculate that total for you?”

“You can’t do that.” The sound of paper flipping came over the line. “I didn’t bid on this job to pay you.”

“Page seven paragraph fourteen says you will.” Chris glanced at her calendar. “So I’ll need either the penalty check or the rest of the ammo by Friday at the latest.” As the supplier began to swear, she held the phone away from her ear. Another button lit up. “Have a wonderful evening.” She punched the button. “Christian Lang.”

“Sorry I am to bother you, lass.” Turner, the master of the armory, sounded grim. “But we’ve a situation brewing with the continentals that wants sorting out. Sooner rather than later.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">