Bound By Darkness (Guardians of Eternity #8)(7)
Author: Alexandra Ivy

She was thankfully distracted. “You think it’s infectious?”

“No, but the veils between the worlds are thinning, increasing the opportunity for the Dark Lord to touch the minds of others.” Regret that he hadn’t prevented the darkness attacking Tearloch sliced through his heart. Yeah, he was quite the prince, wasn’t he? “And unfortunately it’s impossible to detect his influence until too late.”

A strange emotion rippled over her exquisite face before she was abruptly turning to stare at the far tapestry.

Sympathy?

Not bloody likely.

Not from his cold-hearted Hunter.

“How do you know that I’m not under some Jedi mind control?” she mocked, proving her indifference.

“Vampires are impervious to such tricks,” he growled. “Not to mention the fact you’re too irritatingly stubborn for the Dark Lord to bother with.”

Her lips thinned. “No.”

“No, you’re not stubborn?”

“No, I don’t accept your bargain.”

He surged forward, ignoring the danger as he grasped her shoulders and forced her to meet his fierce glower.

“You’re willing to remain trapped here as my prisoner?”

Her chin tilted. “Yes.”

“Why?” He searched the indigo eyes. “Because I’m an evil Sylvermyst?”

“That’s one of many reasons.”

“And the others?”

“I refuse to stand aside while you slaughter an innocent child.”

His fingers dug into her flesh before he forced himself to ease his grip. Logically he understood she was an immortal vampire who could kick his ass given a chance, but towering above her slender form, he couldn’t ignore how fragile her bones felt beneath his hands.

And how screwed up was that?

“Not a child,” he gritted. “A vessel created by the Dark Lord.”

“That has yet to be determined.”

He growled. What did he have to do to convince the demon world that the babe had one purpose and one purpose only? Let Tearloch and Sergei destroy this dimension?

“Fine,” he rasped. “What if I promise merely to capture the babe and return it here where I can protect it?”

She refused to back down. Predictable.

“Even if I was foolish enough to trust you, which I’m not, I’m still bound by my contract with the Oracles.”

His hands traced the line of her shoulders and down the sleek muscles of her arms. His gut clenched at the cool slide of her creamy skin beneath his palm.

“I don’t believe you’ll turn me over to the Commission,” he said, his voice thickening.

She stiffened, but oddly she didn’t pull away from his lingering touch.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you couldn’t bear to have me destroyed.”

She made a sound of disgust. “I can’t decide whether you’re just arrogant or suicidal.”

“Experienced.” A wicked smile curved his lips at her faint tremor. “I know enough about females to recognize when one is desperate for my touch.”

She took a sharp step away, her expression defiant. “Definitely suicidal.”

He pulled in a deep breath that did nothing to ease his throbbing erection; then with a muttered curse, he was headed toward the door.

To hell with it.

It was obvious that Jaelyn intended to remain an uncooperative pain in the ass.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Where are you going?”

His steps never faltered. “Things to do, people to see.”

“When will you return?”

He headed out the door, refusing to give in to the impulse to glance over his shoulder. She would be there waiting for him when he was done with Tearloch.

“The question, poppet, is not when I’ll return,” he taunted, “but whether I’ll return.”

There was a rattle of chains followed by a low, wholly feminine hiss of fury.

“Damn you.”

Chapter 3

London, England

Dusk shrouded the narrow streets of London as the two men halted near a high hedge.

One was a slender, impossibly beautiful man with skin the color of rich cream and long copper hair he kept tamed in a tight braid. He might have passed for human if not for the metallic shimmer to the sterling silver eyes, and thick scent of herbs that clung to his tattered robe, which blended into the green bushes behind him.

The other was equally slender, although he didn’t possess the same unearthly grace, or beauty. He was of an indeterminate age with high Slavic cheekbones, and an icy blue gaze that held a cunning intelligence. And under normal circumstances he was stylishly dressed in a Gucci suit with his shoulder-length silver hair smoothed from his narrow face.

But these were far from normal circumstances.

After nearly three weeks hiding in the Florida swamps, Sergei Krakov was tired, filthy, and wishing to the gods he’d never become involved with the child he held in his arms.

Well, at least he was home now, he silently attempted to ease his raw nerves, heaving a sigh as his gaze ran over the eighteenth-century terrace house near Green Park.

The historical society claimed the building had been designed by Robert Adam. And pedestrians often halted to gawk at the classic beauty of the aging bricks, the elegant portico, and the tall windows with carved stone swags set above them. A brave few had even attempted to catch a glimpse through the door at the carved marble staircases and grand rooms that were filled with Chippendale furniture and priceless works of art.

A mistake that often led to their deaths when Marika-the-vampire had used the house as her lair.

With a curse, Sergei shut down any thought of his previous mistress.

It wasn’t because he was horrified at the memory of watching the vampire female have her head chopped off by her own niece. After four centuries of being the bitch’s whipping boy, he was happy as hell to see her turned into a pile of ash.

But for all her vicious temper and addiction to causing pain, she had been a powerful partner in crime. What demon was stupid enough to cross a vampire who was teetering on the edge of insanity? She was definitely a “kill first and ask questions later” kind of gal.

Now he was without her protection, which might have been fine if he’d been allowed to escape the Russian caves without having to barter for his safe passage with yet another lunatic, this time a crazed Sylvermyst, and a child who had been created by the most evil of all evils.

Perfect.

On cue, Tearloch poked him with the tip of the massive sword he was never without. Not even in his sleep.