Part 7 (1/2)
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 s.h.i.+mmer 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.”