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Doyle felt anything but privileged after his first meeting with Charles. Less than a year ago, he’d have amputated a limb if it meant he could attend a meeting with the prestigious group. Now that he’d had the opportunity, and had suffered the scornful stares of the vampire elite, the idea of Charles appointing him to the head of the U.S. division was unfathomable. He sat in Charles’ vast living area staring at the empty table in the adjoining room, his mind awhirl.
Him. Charles had chosen him to lead the U.S. division. Why? He was remarkably young by Table standards. The number of choices for the job had plummeted since the war, but not so much that Charles had no other options. There were still at least fifty older members of the Tribe who lived in the States more competent than he.
It wasn’t a matter of his devotion. Doyle’s dedication to the Tribe was suspect; he’d proven that by helping Vivian and Michael many times. Never mind that it had turned out to be to Charles’ advantage when he wound up plotting to kill Jude, anyway.
So why? What quality did Doyle have better than any of the ancient ones?
You’re his lapdog. What’s the one thing you’ve always done for Charles? Said yes. You’ll be a figurehead—a little stoolie who will go running to the Big Man when anyone misbehaves.
A tall glass of Das Schwarze, an oil-black German beer imported especially for him, courtesy of Charles, rested on the table at his knee. He took a long sip, but the beer, as dark as it was, still lacked taste.
Anything but blood lacked taste. He closed his eyes and envisioned sinking his teeth into the jugular of a squirming human, but his eyeteeth failed to elongate the way they used to. The struggle, the Death Rush—lately, it lacked the punch for him. The satisfaction wasn’t there. Instead, it left him feeling...
Guilty.
The word hit him like a sack of wet concrete. Guilt? Doyle Christy? The two ideas had always been so contrary before. His lack of remorse had drawn him to Charles’ attention. Death, cheating, scheming, it was all part of the sport. Now the first, at least, seemed to have lost its ability to give him pleasure. The Death Rush was still a rush, but the emotion left churning in his stomach for hours, sometimes days, afterward took away from the short-lived thrill.
Is the Maleficence’s hold on me weakening? And if it is, where does that leave me? Not part of the Table. Not head of the U.S., for sure. Probably not alive.
Did Charles suspect Doyle’s weakness? Was that why he wanted to keep him so close? Did he hope that giving Doyle a job with authority might bring him back into the fold? Or did Charles care that much for Doyle—for anyone?
Probably not. I’m as disposable as anyone else in the Tribe. He recalled the blank face of Ananenko after Charles had drained her and cringed.
He needed to get a hold of Vivian, to warn her about Charles’ flight to Savannah and his plan for the renegades. Her family, Blu, all of their friends and acquaintances, were in peril. His fingers twitched at the phone on his hip, but he didn’t detach it from its clip. No doubt the phone Charles had issued him was tapped, linked to the Tribe network. Telepathy was straight out—Charles was only in the next room. Not that Doyle was too good at it, anyway.
A thought occurred to him. What if Charles is counting on me to lead him to Vivian? Of course! Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, that whole thing. He knows I care about her. He’s waiting for me to slip up and lead him to her.
His long fingernails, tight within his fists, pressed into his palms. How long did he have to warn her? A few hours, maybe? Charles undoubtedly had the best private jet on the market. It wouldn’t take long for them to reach Savannah.
I have to warn Vivian. But how?
“Doyle?”
Doyle looked up. Charles stood, eyebrow cocked, his body facing the door. Had he been reading his thoughts? He hadn’t sensed Charles in his head but... God, I’m so stupid.
But if Charles had heard his musings, he showed no displeasure. He must not have bothered. And why would he? What was he to Charles but a puppet?
“Time to go,” Charles said, his expression taciturn, as always.
Suppressing a sigh of relief, Doyle stood.
Maysun’s body lurched up from her bed with her hands stretched before her, shoving away an assailant she couldn’t see, but was certain hovered in the gloom. A psychic link between her and her attacker revealed his purposes as clearly as if she were watching a film. He wasn’t there to kill her. What the man wanted was worse than death. He wanted to rule over her, to control her body and spirit. He wanted to drive her out of her mind with fear.
Her hands reached, stretched, and struck the air while her heart pounded deafeningly in her ears. A scream died in her throat as her eyes adjusted to the scant lighting.
There were no attackers. She was alone, an empty spot where Eoghan used to lay in the bed next to her. Her eyes took a moment to focus.
Royal blue bedspread. Blue jacquard curtains hanging over a tall window, blocking out nearly all the daylight. Plush, white carpet. A matching antique bed and dresser. Strange. She hadn’t expected to be back in her flat, but where else would she be now that her life as the Balance was over?
The dream she’d had was so vivid, her heart still hammered, her teeth clenched in an unspoken scream. In her dream, she wasn’t in any of the homes she’d lived in across the globe. She wasn’t anywhere she remembered seeing before.
I’d forgotten what nightmares were like. She released a long breath and her tension left with it. That felt so real. She’d opened the door to many others’ dreams and nightmares over the centuries, but always from the safely insulated position of the Balance. She experienced the dreams with the dreamers, but the sensation left once her eyes opened. With her nightmare, it took several minutes before her sympathetic nervous system finally recognized her panic was a false alarm. Her heart rate slowed, and her breathing grew deeper. The first prolonged sleep she’d had in centuries, and she was rewarded with a nightmare so averse it was enough to put her off sleep for a long while.
It was harder rising from bed than usual—perhaps because it was the first time she’d awoken since she’d regained her mortality. She’d slept hours longer than she’d expected to; the bedside clock read a quarter past eight. Her head felt fuzzy, her muscles sore; her blistered feet ached from yesterday’s shopping trip. She swallowed, and a coppery taste tanged her tongue. Her face screwed up in recognition.
Blood? But how...?
She shuffled to the bathroom and pulled back her upper and lower lips to study her teeth and gums, but she saw no trace of blood. She was sure she’d tasted it.
She let her lip go and studied her reflection. I probably irritated my gums by clenching my teeth in my sleep. I’ll have to be sure to take better care of them now that I’m human again.
A nagging thought lingered. Perhaps it was merely the dream. Maybe the scent and taste of blood in her mouth had triggered a memory from her time as a vampire. Now that she was alert, the dream was almost gone, save for the lingering unease.
It’s been so long since my dreams were merely an overactive imagination. I can’t recall normal ones. Is it possible that this is more than a nightmare?
She squeezed toothpaste onto her brush and scrubbed her teeth. The taste of baking soda and mint replaced the aftertaste of blood and sour morning breath.
The problem was that the dream had seemed too real. Though it’d been centuries since she’d had dreams, she’d caused many in the minds of others. Few had had the clarity of her nightmare—and those that had were in the minds of precognitive people.
If she were clairvoyant, why didn’t she remember? And whose life was she seeing?
