Love Ever After: Eleven All-New Romances! Read online

  They are tortured by the sound, shaking their heads to and fro. But the soldiers still manage to obey my father. Two of them lift Batiste.

  One fires right at Renoir. The arrow slams into his heart and he falls to the ground. He crumples onto his side.

  My father grabs the shoulder of the man who had fallen to his knees. As the man doesn’t respond, my father whips him around. I’m surprised at my father’s strength.

  What I see makes me choke on my own bile.

  Blood trickles from the hunter’s mouth. His eyes are gone. There’s blackened sockets and a mess of stuff on his face. It’s as if his eyes exploded.

  I fight not to be sick.

  “Poor sod,” my father mutters, using an expression that I remember from the past with him. My father is English and he came to America—pursuing vampires—two years before I was born.

  Laughter fills the air. Dark, evil laughter. It makes my heart clench.

  Renoir pulls the arrow of his heart.

  “Impossible,” shouts the hunter who shot him.

  “I am afraid not,” my father says.

  A dark blue van hurtles down the road toward us.

  “Our escape,” my father says. “Lauren, you are coming with me. If you stay here—”

  “I’m dead,” I whisper. “All right. I’ll go with you.” Then I remember. “My friend, Amanda—”

  “I’ll send a man with a message for her. A man in civilian clothes. Another will pose as a cab driver and ensure she is taken safely home.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t expect he would make it into a mission but I’m glad to know Amanda will be safe.

  The side doors are already open. The two men carry Batiste in. The van is empty in the back. No seats, no equipment. Just a carpeted floor. And one silver cross that hangs from the ceiling near the wall toward the front of the van.

  My father propels me toward the front of the van, and I realize it’s like a shuttle bus. We get in and walk up steps beside the driver’s seat and my father points to the second row of seats. “We’ll sit there.”

  I don’t even have time to do my seatbelt before the bus roars away. The bats are still swirling—I can see out the windows now that I am inside. But the windows are reflective and dark from the outside.

  I twist to see back as far as I can. Renoir still stands there. He lifts his hand and the bats begin to disperse. They are like splattered black paint against the moonlit sky. Then they’re gone.

  I open my mouth, but my father shakes his head. “I will explain everything, including your importance in this, when we reach the laboratory.”

  “A secret laboratory?” I ask. Hysterical laughter is a temptation. Either that, or be sick and throw up everything inside of me.

  My father’s green eyes twinkle. “Sufficiently secret,” he says.

  “What happens there?”

  “You will have a cup of tea.”

  “I mean—to Batiste.”

  My father’s eyes narrow.

  “He did save my life,” I say quickly. “You aren’t going to—to stake him.”

  “We intend to study him. He will be kept in a cell at the labs, where he will be thoroughly examined.”

  That sounds just as bad. A shiver goes down my spine. Saving my life has put him in captivity. He must hate me for that.

  “The other vampire, Renoir, said that Christiane is still alive.” My heart pounds hard because I am already feeling hope, even though Batiste spoke as if his brother was lying.

  My father looks at me and there is so much pain in his eyes that I know—

  Tears come and I press my face to the window of the van and cry against it. I don’t want my father to see them. And thankfully, he doesn’t try to comfort me in any way. It’s only as my tears slow that he says, “I am sorry, Lauren. I thought you had accepted it—”

  “I hadn’t. And how would you know or care what I ‘accepted’? You just walked away and you didn’t care how much that almost destroyed me. I want to know why you never contacted me in any way for ten years. I can understand you leaving. I just can’t understand why you didn’t need to ever see me or talk to me again.”

  “Obviously I wished to see you again. Otherwise we would not be here,” he says.

  “That’s the most evasive thing I’ve heard. I deserve better than that!”

  “Yes.” He sighs. His face seems older, more lined. “You do. Of course you do. At the labs…I will answer your questions.”

  * * *

  We pass through Greenwich Village. The warm spring night has lured thousands of New Yorkers outdoors. Cafes are filled to bursting. Outdoor patios vibrate with laughter, conversation, music.

  A carpeted wall separates our seating area from the back, where Batiste Carlyle is being held by armed guard.

  I don’t understand why he was so protective of me. Aren’t I just prey to him?

  But I owe him my life…

  The van travels into a part of the city I would never visit at night. We pass dark warehouses, scary alleys, boarded-up apartments. The van turns up and down streets—I’m sure we’ve traveled the same ones over and over. Then we head toward a large warehouse covered in battered, gray metal siding.

  A large garage door slides open as we approach. We’re swallowed up by the building as we drive inside and the huge doors whir shut almost soundlessly. We pull into a loading dock, with an elevated concrete platform along the end wall and a long ramp.

  A man and a woman in lab coats hurry forward with a gurney.

  “Stay in the van, Lauren,” my father instructs.

  Through the window, I watch Batiste be rolled across the bay floor, strapped to the gurney by thick black belts. He’s rolled up the ramp, then taken inside the warehouse.

  “Now it is safe to bring you in.”

  I don’t see how it wasn’t safe before. Batiste was strapped to the bed with so many leather bonds, he couldn’t move.

  I follow my father down corridors lit only by strips of red lighting. My shoes click on the concrete floor. The block walls are painted a dull beige.

  We pass through one metal door after another. My father leans toward a screen positioned at each door. I think the screens perform retinal scans.

  We take two elevators, moving downward. The numbers count down: U2, U3, U4. At U8, we get out...

  And step into a corridor lined with richly polished wood paneling. A rich carpet decorated with a Victorian flower pattern runs the length of it. Warm lighting throws a soft gold glow around us.

  “My offices,” my father says.

  He opens a door in the middle of the corridor and I step into a room that looks like the library of the estate of an English duke. Richly polished wood shelves reach to the tall ceiling, packed with leather-bound books. Floor lamps with ornate shades provide the light, along with brass lamps with green shades on the tables. The furniture is heavy dark red wood with silk cushions.

  It screams of wealth, and even when my father lived with us, before we lost Christiane, we never lived as if we were rich.

  I stare at this man who is a stranger to me. A mystery. And a source of the some of the worst pain I’ve ever known. “Who are you?” I ask bluntly.

  * * *

  I refused to take tea or brandy. I wanted answers and I couldn’t bear to waste any more time.

  My father settles in a tall backed chair across from mine. We are positioned in front of the fireplace with its huge marble front. Except no fire burns in it, and I don’t think one ever has. I look around the room. None of this relates to the father I remember. We lived in an ordinary suburban home that was built in the 1950s.

  “You know who I am, Lauren. Marcus Kenneth Knight. I am a vampire hunter, as you know. I was married to your mother—”

  “Was married? You mean, you officially divorced?” It makes sense, since they’ve been apart for years and years. But my mom never told me this.

  “I gave your mother her freedom. It was the least I could do to repay h
er for the loss of a child.”

  “Your child, too. Your daughter. Christiane.”

  He sips his brandy—he poured one for himself, even though I refused. There’s a distance to him that makes me angry. I don’t know what I expected. That every word he said would be a plea for my forgiveness?

  I push up from the chair, hugging my chest.

  “Lauren, you should sit down.”

  “I don’t want to. I need to know why you left us. How could you have been protecting us when you kept away from us for ten years? You left because you couldn’t face the loss of Christiane. I wasn’t enough to make up for that lost. And mom—” Then I stop. Maybe he hadn’t left because I wasn’t a replacement for beautiful Christiane. Or because he couldn’t face grief. “Were you the reason Christiane was taken? Did you lead vampires to us? Did they attack to hurt you?”

  “You need to know my history with Renoir Carlyle, Lauren. I first met him twenty-five years ago, in London. I failed to destroy him there and I followed him to America. For two years, I pursued him and he managed to evade me. My pursuit of him led me to hundreds of other vampires, who I destroyed. But still, I wanted Renoir. Then you were born. You and Christiane, my beautiful and perfect twins. Renoir wanted to drive me away, to make me stop hunting him. So yes, I am the reason that Renoir Carlyle took your sister.”

  “And killed her,” I whisper, hating Renoir Carlyle.

  My father frowns. “He did not kill her.”

  “What? But what you said before—” I’m shocked. And that turns to confusion and pain and anger. “I thought she was dead because of what you said.”

  “She is lost to us, Lauren. You must think of her as dead.”

  But I can’t. I won’t. “If Renoir Carlyle has her, we can rescue her.”

  My father sets down his brandy and he stands. I remember how large he seemed when I was young. He is tall, but not as broad as I remember. He’s leaner.

  He touches my forearm. I pull away. Softly, he says, “He will have turned her, Lauren. He will have waited, I believe, because she was a child. He spared her life for one reason only. To make her like him. He was trying to lure you—to change you.”

  But I don’t care about what almost happened to me. “Christiane can’t be a vampire. She can’t.” God, that is worse than dead. “You’re a vampire hunter. Couldn’t you have killed him?”

  I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped out. Of course he would have done that if he could.

  He releases my wrist. “I ask myself that every day.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not your fault. It’s Renoir’s fault.”

  “I intend to find him.” My father’s tone is even and cold, the sound of a man willing to lay down everything, and it frightens me. “I intend to free Christiane, Lauren. That is why I have Batiste. He will get me to his brother. Then I will end this.”

  “Free her. But how can you let her—”

  At the dark pain in his eyes, I stop talking. I know what he means now.

  Oh God, I want to be sick.

  Someone pounds on the door.

  “Enter,” my father shouts.

  The door swings open. A young man in black garb steps in and salutes. “You are needed at the containment level, sir.”

  “Yes, of course,” my father says. “Take my daughter to the dining room—to my private dining room. I’ve ordered food to be brought to her.”

  “Food? I don’t think I’m ever going to eat again,” I mutter.

  “You need it, Lauren. You will experience delayed shock.” My father reaches out and touches my neck. “The wounds are small, but they are there. You need to heal and recuperate. That requires energy. I will come back as soon as I can.”

  My fingers crawl to my neck. As soon as I touch torn skin, I shudder. My stomach jolts. I can feel two holes in my throat. Remembering the sickening push of Renoir’s fangs into my neck, I feel ice-cold and sick again. Shaky.

  Maybe food would be a good idea.

  “Ma’am,” the young soldier says to me. “Are you ready to go?”

  Ma’am? I’m barely older than he is. I guess, around my father, he is being extra polite. As I follow the soldier further down the corridor, I realize there are hundreds of questions I didn’t ask my father. And asking questions drowns out the painful verse in my head that keeps repeating: Christiane is a vampire. Christiane is a vampire.

  “What is this place?” I ask the soldier. “New York’s answer to Area 51? Do you work for the government?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

  “But you are a vampire hunter.”

  He hesitates.

  “I met two vampires tonight. I know that’s what my father does. There’s no point in making it a big secret around me.”

  “Then yes, ma’am, I am a member of the team.”

  That really doesn’t say anything. But he opens a door for me and when I go in, I see deep chocolate-brown wood wainscoting, paintings on the wall, and long table of dark wood that smells of polish. Dishes cover it.

  “This is all for me?”

  “We eat in our quarters, ma’am. But I expect the commander will join you when he’s done downstairs.”

  The commander must be my father. “Containment is where you keep vampires.” Where Batiste is.

  “Yes, ma’am. Enjoy your meal, ma’am.”

  With that, he retreats. He doesn’t salute me, but he turns on his heel as if he is marching in parade, then he walks out of the room.

  * * *

  Dinner is elaborate. The silver dishes contain slices of roast beef, sautéed shrimp, pasta with slivers of lobster, smoked salmon. But I nibble at all the food and can barely force myself to swallow the few bites I take. When I finally give up, my father still hasn’t returned.

  I almost go to sleep in my chair. I have no idea of the time. 2 a.m.? 3 a.m.? I have a weird, eerie feeling of unreality because I have no idea how much time has passed since I walked into Renoir Carlyle’s gallery.

  Getting up, I decide to explore. I don’t know exactly what this place is. Secret laboratory? Military installation? Shades of the X-Files? I suspect I won’t be able to get too far. I doubt I can even leave this level—access is probably secure all over this place—but I won’t know if I don’t try.

  I walk out into the corridor. It’s quiet. Creepily so.

  For the first time I wonder: am I going to be allowed to leave here? Is my father going to refuse to let me go home—back to the apartment he rented for me?

  I have no intention of staying here.

  I have to go to work tomorrow.

  Oh God, I have to make my pitch in the acquisitions meeting tomorrow. I can’t miss that. I can’t just not show up. But I’ve been up for most of the night. How coherent am I going to be?

  Can I leave here without knowing what has happened to Batiste?

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I pace in the hallway. In my little black skirt, tank top, and heels, I feel awkward. Underdressed.

  Voices come from behind one of the beautiful inlaid wood doors. I knock, wanting to talk to my father. I want him to tell me exactly what they are going to do to Batiste.

  No one answers, but the voices continue to speak. Then a low shout of pain sounds through the door.

  I knock hard. I turn the doorknob. To my surprise, it turns, unlocked. Of course I take a peek in the room. It’s a small space, unadorned and has the utilitarian look of the rest of the building. I go inside. A T.V. monitor sits on a table. It’s a security camera monitor, with the screen split into smaller pieces to show the feed from different cameras.

  A lot of empty hallways, offices, and rooms that look like hospital operating rooms are shown.

  The sound comes again and I look at the panel in the bottom corner of the screen. The picture is grainy, making it hard to tell, but I’m sure the face in the screen is Batiste’s.

  I bend closer, heart pounding.

  His head is bowed, his hai
r wet with what looks like sweat. Shadows cover his face but I realize they are actually blood and bruises. One eye is swollen shut and his cheek looks distorted and puffy.

  He’s been beaten. He looks worse than he did when Renoir pounded him.

  My hand covers my mouth. My dinner churns in my stomach. How could my father authorize this?

  A metal collar sits around his neck. I realize his wrists are shackled and chained.

  And his chest is bare and covered in dark, long, bloody welts.

  I back away from the screen.

  Then a voice fills my head. They are leaving me. They aren’t going to kill me yet. Come to me, Lauren. Let me see you. I need to tell you why my brother wants you. I need to keep you safe, Lauren.

  “I don’t know how to get to you,” I say softly. “I don’t care why your brother wants me. I’m never going near him again.”

  He won’t leave you alone. Not now. Lauren, you have to know how important you are—

  His voice stops. In my head, I hear a muted cry of pain.

  I look on the screen and see his face contort horribly as he howls.

  Then my father’s face shows on the screen.

  I jump back. But he can’t see me, can’t he? I don’t see a camera in this room.

  My father’s hand moves toward the camera, huge in the image. The image shakes, then that portion of the screen goes black.

  * * *

  My father refuses to take me down to see Batiste.

  “He is attempting to use you to escape. He told you lies. His brother wants you to be his victim. That much is obvious. Batiste is a one thousand year old vampire. He intends to manipulate you, use you, then kill you.”

  “He’s one thousand years old?”

  “Almost. He went to England with William the Conqueror, I believe. Once he became a vampire, he ravaged Europe. He is evil, Lauren. Throughout his blood-soaked history, he has killed men, women, and children without restraint.”

  Tears burn in my eyes. “Children too?”

  “He has no soul, Lauren. If he appears to be human to you, I assure you that he is not. He is playing a part, working to buy your sympathy.”