Bewitch The Dark - The Devil To Pay Part 7

Ivan dragged himself up and took a shower. He'd been rained on so much lately he wasn't sure it was necessary, but even vampires needed a good, brisk shower to shake away the remnants of Nod. He made the airport by five and arrived in Minneapolis before eight.His parents staffed an amazing crew of people who chauffeured, designed and decorated, legally defended, ma.s.saged, bartended, kowtowed and even cleaned pools. Whenever Ivan visited, he rarely had to lift a finger. Made him feel like one of those rich and famous bachelors on TV, though he sensed those guys didn't have the devil breathing down their necks.

On the other hand...one never knew.

Thanks to his parents' savvy investments and his own financial choices, Ivan was rich, but he'd forgo the fame. If only he could.

Unfortunately-or fortunately, depending how one looked at it-his parents were grooming him to serve on the Gray Council, which combined a force of vampires and witches in a communications forum. They called themselves gray, since the witches had long ago labeled themselves "the light" and the vampires "the dark."

Since Ivan was both witch and vampire, he was an obvious choice to fill in any s.p.a.ce vacated on the council. He had no alliances stronger to either side. He loved his father, who was a vampire. He adored his mother, who was a witch. He'd never grown up with the prejudice most witches and vampires felt toward one another.

And because of those prejudices and downright hatreds, the war between the two factions had pinnacled. If something wasn't done soon to end it, both sides would suffer immense loss. Even worse, the war was getting sloppy.

Sooner or later, the media would pick up on the strange magical rituals and blood sacrifices. It only took one paranormal theorist to label them witch-and vampire-related. Bring in a cryptozoologist to confirm the actual existence of said creatures, and wham, all h.e.l.l would break loose.

The last thing the Gray Council needed was for the mortal world to get over their skepticism and start to believe vamps and witches really existed. Proof was all they required, and proof would be accidentally spilled sooner, rather than later, by one of their own.

No one in the council knew Ivan's soul belonged to Himself-they were not concerned with Himself; everyone knew He was firmly embedded in the mortal realm. It was no secret. Certainly the imps and demons and various marks knew who Ivan was, and feared him. As it should be. Himself didn't concern the council, nor should his fixer. And Ivan intended to keep it that way.

Hopping into the limo waiting on the airport tarmac, Ivan then plugged into his iPod and dialed to a cla.s.sical music playlist. The operatic Farinelli soundtrack seeped into his brain. One of his favorite movies, it supposed the life of the famous castrato Farinelli and how he had become a virtual rock star to the eighteenth-century set.

A lilting opening arpeggio invaded his brain. He closed his eyes and let go of the night job and the forthcoming meeting. As the soprano's birdlike notes began, Ivan drifted into a memory of the previous night.

Holding Dez in his arms and breathing her in. Like some wild exotic flower, she put off so many wonderful scents. Each breath took in something new. A never-ending discovery, she. He was in for the journey. And he wouldn't stop until he tasted apricot blood across his tongue.

The rain had soaked Dez's dress to cling possessively to an amazing body. Aware they had an audience, he had strongly resisted stroking her hard nipples, though the agony of that decision had kept him more silent out of restraint.

And she'd pressed along his erection, knowing exactly what she was doing. He'd gotten so hard.

Had it been purposeful? To see if she could get a rise out of him? (Had she!) Or had it merely been reaction to standing in his arms?

Did the witch want him?

Maybe.

Nodding in appreciation, Ivan tapped his fingers to Porpora's Polifermo and imagined himself in a sweeping dance with the gorgeous witch in skin-clinging red silk.

The meeting room stretched across an expanse of white marble on the twenty-fifth floor of the Dain Rauscher building. Ivan arrived ten minutes early and, standing before the immense floor-to-ceiling windows, looked down over an exhibition tennis match going on below in the Marquette mall.

All along the street, a farmer's market was in full swing. Flowers and fresh vegetables and handcrafted items were abundantly displayed. Gaily colored umbrellas shaded the bounty. A street performer serenaded the pa.s.sing crowd with a spoons rendition of a tune Ivan could not hear.

It felt good to return home. He traveled the globe as the fixer, and rarely stayed in any place more than a week at a time. But Minneapolis was home.

"Ivan!"

His father crossed the room and shook Ivan's hand. The vampiric shimmer tingled up Ivan's arm, a welcome feeling.

"Dad." He pulled his father in for a hug, noting he was a little taller than a man who was already quite tall. "Mom convince you to shave your head again?"

Nikolaus Drake smoothed a palm over his scalp, tattooed over all with arresting black tribal designs. "It's summer. I needed the change."

"Most imposing," Ivan noted.

His father had gotten the tattoos before becoming a vampire and after his own brain surgery, which, due to a slip of the knife, took away the dexterity that had once allowed him to operate. Yep, his father had once been a brain surgeon. Ivan recalled tracing the heavy black tattoo as a kid and wanting his own.

But he'd never imagined his first foray into getting inked would be the shadow currently clinging to his spine.

"Yeah, well, you know I like to freak out the witches." Nikolaus smirked and lowered his voice as a trio of female witches entered the room. "You see that new witch? Anastasia? She's a gorgeous bit of magic, eh, son?"

Nikolaus Drake's affections never strayed from his wife. Ivan was uncomfortably aware of his dad's need to always fix him up with either a witch or a vampire. Ivan hadn't dated for years. He was too busy as a fixer. And did he really want to visit his nightmares on another soul, innocent or otherwise?

"Pretty," he commented of the slender blonde. "But, you know...things to do. Heads to bash. Wicked souls or imps to hunt."

"Right." Nikolaus's easy smile dropped. "But nothing wrong with taking some pleasure now and then, is there?"

"I do, Dad. Don't worry about me."

"I never do, not as much as your mother does, believe me."

His parents had stopped apologizing for their mistake years ago, but he could still see the grief in his mother's eyes. Ivan vacillated between blaming them for his situation and not. Because he had his own suspicions about the true events that had culminated in his being born. But every time he tried to bring up the subject with his mother she resorted to dissuasion, or outright tears.

A teary-eyed woman always put Ivan off his game. He didn't know how to deal with them. Did they need to be touched? To be rea.s.sured? Could he get himself as far away from the crier as possible without making her want to curse him an uncaring lout? "You working on anything right now?" his dad asked.

"A new task. I've to claim some grand grimoire from a gorgeous number out in Maine."

"The Grande Grimoire?" Ivan's mother appeared from behind and hugged him. The top of her head stopped at his shoulders.

Short, yet athletic, Ravin Crosse Drake had once stalked vampires with blood bullets and a take-no-prisoners att.i.tude. If you looked up imposing in the dictionary, you'd find her picture in the margin. "What's this about the grimoire?"

"Just a book, mom."

"Not if it's the Grande Grimoire."

"Really?" Ivan turned and, aware the room was filling up, nudged his mother aside, closer to the windows. "Tell me about it.

Himself wants me to fetch it for him."

A disgusted huff accompanied Ravin's sorry shake of her head. "That can't be good."

Ivan realized she was as pet.i.te as Dez, but where Ravin was dark and dangerous, Dez came off as more wise and sensual, yet still dangerous with the water magic.

"The Grande Grimoire is the grimoire, Ivan," she said, keeping her voice to a whisper. She clutched his hand and they turned their backs to the conference table. "The book of all spells. What the h.e.l.l does Himself want with that? And now?"

"The book of all spells? So, you mean like-?"

"Every time a new spell is cast it gets recorded in the Grande Grimoire," Ravin explained. She glanced over a shoulder to make sure no one listened to the private conversation with her son. "Every spell that has ever been cast, conjured or summoned is listed in there. Should anything ever happen to the grimoire, any witch, and all immortals-and mortals-a.s.sociated with any of the spells will suffer. It is the very binding of our craft. It keeps our species in balance, so to speak."

Ivan blew out a breath and shuffled fingers back through his hair. "I had no idea. So, the witch who keeps this book, does she record all those spells herself? I imagine she must be writing constantly."

Desideriel Merovech didn't look the sort who favored scribbling in a book all day. When did she find time to mix her perfumes or bewitch those d.a.m.ned roses?

"No, it's done automatically. Magically. But there's only one keeper of the book. And should she lose it, or someone steals it from her? Well."

That final word said it all.

Ivan paced away from his mother. Aware the room was settling and growing quiet, he turned and cast a look to the former vampire slayer.

Ravin shook her head and shrugged. They'd talk later. They must.

The meeting was called to order by Nikolaus, who served as the co-chair alongside the witch Abigail Rowan. As usual, Ivan stood off to the side and listened, but he was rarely invited to partic.i.p.ate. He wasn't an official member of the Gray Council. And the only way to a.s.sume a position on the council was by an opening, which meant the death of a current member, all of whom were immortal. Though his parents had insisted he sit in on meetings so he could learn, and he'd been accepted, everyone knew vacancies were not frequent.

Though with the war raging, every day was another opportunity for such an opening.

Most immortals weren't really sure how to take Ivan. Half witch, half vampire? Which side did they relate to? The witches were generally repelled because he was a vampire. The vampires were curious because he could do magic.

All members of the council had no prejudices toward the others, but they still were reluctant about Ivan. He never pressed the issue that he was probably more powerful than the entire council combined. He merely wished an end to this war, as they all did.

"Last week, Eglantine's crew brought down the entire Zmaj tribe," Francois DeMere, former Nava leader and five-century old unbaptized vampire, announced.

The council members seated around the oval mahogany table shook their heads. They kept tabs on all the vampire tribes and the various witch alliances. Eglantine Richards led one of the leading witch gangs. She had been around for centuries and was responsible for dozens of vampire deaths.

"They left the bodies in a dump yard," Francois reported. "Some were not completely burned to ash. The local news station reported on it as if it were a satanic ritual."

"Now that's fine," Nikolaus chimed in, "but we can't afford when mortals begin to label it witchcraft. We need a resolution, people."

"We're recruiting task forces daily," Francois said. "But there are simply not enough unallied vampires or witches willing to police their own. It's too dangerous. And thanks to the Stone corporation, the armored suits manufactured for vampires against witches puts them on the top right now. The witches are merely fighting for their lives."

"Not true," Gerard Langdouc, another vampire, said. "There exist organized cadres of witches hunting vampires in Europe, Russia and right here in the U.S. If we attempt to mark a victor in this war right now, it would come up a draw."

Abigail Rowan sighed heavily. Her utterance echoed the thoughts of them all, and for a moment everyone sat in silence.

A flash from down on the street captured Ivan's attention. He spied a young woman riding her bicycle through the farmer's market. Long hair captured the sun in many different shades of blond, chestnut and pale red. Like Dez's hair.

And there, a brilliant red flag, flickering above a stack of fresh vegetables, made Ivan lick his lips. That dress. It was almost as if she had not worn anything after the rain had soaked the thin fabric to her curves. His fingers had strayed low to the base of her back. There, where those s.e.xy indents had teased him to trace out a design of his desire.

He wanted more. And this was not the fixer thinking he needed more to successfully complete a task. No, Ivan Drake wanted more.

"What if the Protection spell were reversed?"

The entire room looked to Ravin, who had suggested the bizarre idea.

Ivan shook off his straying thoughts. Reverse the Protection spell? Now that was an interesting idea. And for his mother, a witch, to have suggested it was remarkable.

"If the witches no longer held such incredible power over the vampires," Ravin said, "then perhaps both sides would step back and regroup. If the vampires are given no reason for defense, then they would not kill. Nor would the witches. We could go back to living peaceably among one another."

"Too simplistic," Francois challenged.

"We've never lived peaceably," Emmanuelle, a newer member, said. "And I for one have no desire to be enslaved by a vampire for my blood and magic."

"It wouldn't happen that way," Nikolaus said. "We've all learned from the past. Vampires have no more desire to enslave witches than witches do of drinking blood." He angled an eye at the witches who sat across the table from him. The witches did drink blood, Ivan knew. Once every century, if they wished to maintain their immortality, a witch must drink the blood from a beating vampire's heart. Sources, the witches called the unfortunate vampires. Ash, was what the vamps called their fallen comrades.

"It's something to take under consideration. We need to act, people. Sooner rather than later." Ravin announced a break.

Nothing had been resolved, but it had been over two hours, and everyone was restless.

"Good idea," Ivan said to his mom, as they strolled out the room and headed toward the elevators. "Is the Protection spell in the Grande Grimoire?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Her dark eyes took in her son's neat appearance as she gave him a smirking smile. "What are you thinking, Ivan? Don't do anything rash. It would have to be voted on by the council first."

"Don't worry, Mom. I'm not sure I'll ever gain access to the grimoire. But I'm certainly enjoying the challenge."

"I knew it." Nikolaus Drake joined the two from behind and spread his arms around his son and wife. "The witch who guards the book has caught your eye?"

His father never let up. "Maybe."

Ravin suppressed a squeal. She didn't do things like squeal in delight; the woman was a leather-wearing, chopper-riding witch who'd once slain vampires for fun. But Ivan could see definite delight in her eyes.

"I'm ready for a grandchild," she suddenly announced.

That confession threw Ivan way out of reality. He didn't know what to say to that. What had become of his hard-as-nails mother?

"Me, too," his father added. "After you steal the book from her, are you going to sweep her off her feet and marry her?"

"Wait. Stop." Ivan pressed the elevator b.u.t.ton and then spread out his hands before him. "I just met her. She's pretty, and yes, I'm attracted to her. But she's a job. Okay? And who said anything about marriage? I'm young. I've centuries in front of me. And Mom, you'll still be young when you finally get your grandchild, so don't push."

His parents appropriately bowed their heads, conceding.

The elevator opened and Ivan stepped inside.

Ravin thought she was whispering, but Ivan's ultrasensitive hearing picked up his mother's quiet remark. "This is the one," she whispered to her husband. "I can feel it."

Chapter 7.

T he radio was tuned to a local pop hits station. Dez liked the energy of the music and always played it softly when working in the still room.

Crushing pale violet heliotrope petals she'd stolen from the gala in her favorite marble mortar, she drew in the cherry scent. Cherry and vanilla were her absolute favorites.

She'd been brewing spells and ointments for centuries. For a time she'd been a healer, utilizing herbs and plants and spellcraft.

She had taken a stab at alchemy in the seventeenth century, didn't like it; too messy and the metallic, chemical odors were oftentimes worse than roadkill.

The end of the nineteenth century had seen her extracting the poisonous wormwood oil to create the popular absinthe. But after she'd seen the results the wicked green fairy had on men-and real fairies-she destroyed that processing equipment and settled back to what she most enjoyed, creating perfumes.