Chapter Fifteen
The Prince was restless.
His network of spies informed him that the Emersons had left the city for Umbria. On the whole, their departure mattered little. There was nowhere in the world that was beyond his reach, only places that were more inconvenient than others.
Umbria was not inconvenient.
He would have to apply to the Princess of that region for permission to hunt on her territory, but they’d been on good terms for years. He doubted she’d withhold her assent. It was possible she’d request a sexual favor, as she had in the past.
She was beautiful and very desirable, but the Prince found himself indifferent to the possibility as his thoughts shifted to a raven-haired woman with large green eyes.
His quest for revenge against the professor would have to wait. He had more pressing concerns.
He’d watched the woman from afar, hoping she’d obey him and flee.
She didn’t.
She went to work. She went to the doctor’s office. She went shopping.
The Prince cursed.
Yes, he’d given her two weeks, but that had been a concession. She needed proper motivation. She needed to be shown what true danger was.
He’d fed himself in his villa, indulging in human blood followed by one of the rare, bottled vintages he’d procured in centuries past. This was one of his secrets.
Over time, he ingested the blood of old ones; blood he’d carefully extracted and saved or acquired through various means. His economy in not ingesting the blood of an old one all at once was rewarded every time he took a drink. He felt himself renewed in strength, his intellect sharper, his senses heightened.
Ingesting blood sated one desire but aroused another. On this evening, he wanted a human woman—young and soft. He wanted to kiss her mouth and thrust inside her. He wanted to look into her eyes and see trust, not fear, and to have her sleep in his arms the way Emerson’s wife slept in his.
He wanted Cassita.
For various reasons, he couldn’t have her. This meant he needed to go in search of a convenient substitute.
On a rainy evening, when the streets were almost empty, it would be difficult to find a woman who met his standards.
That was how he found himself outside Teatro, a place he had not visited in over a century.
When he entered the club, those who recognized him fell silent. He was greeted enthusiastically, if carefully, by the bartender and his citizens, who bowed deferentially, offering their seats.
The music played on and he found himself grimacing. Surely, music was used equivocally when applied to the pulsing dissonance that resonated from the sound system. He didn’t find it entertaining. He didn’t find it enjoyable.
In fact, it made his already impatient and aroused mood that much more dangerous.
Luckily, the humans ignored him. To them, he was one among many. Handsome, it was true, but not obviously powerful or as large as some of the others.
He took a proffered seat and goblet of warmed blood and sat in silence, scanning the crowd. If he couldn’t have Cassita, at least he could have someone who looked like her. He doubted anyone would smell as sweet.
Within minutes he found an olive-skinned, dark-haired woman who boasted an hourglass figure and bright blue eyes.
Close enough.
“Good evening, my lord.”
The Prince’s musings were interrupted by a female who bowed before him. She was dressed in red satin, her sandy-colored hair pinned up, exposing pale shoulders and an elegant neck.
He tamped down his annoyance at being interrupted and nodded at her curtly, putting his drink aside.
“May I service you, my lord?” Her hazel eyes lifted to his.
He stared at her.
“Service me, how?”
“In any way you wish.” She knelt before him and placed her hands on his knees.
He undid her hair, wrapping it around his wrist.
“Your name?”
“Svetlana, my lord.” She searched his eyes for permission.
His expression did not change.
“Your age?”
“I was changed fifty years ago, my lord. I was visiting from Russia.” She parted her red lips in anticipation.
“A youngling,” he muttered. He released her hair and pushed her hands aside. “Stand up.”
Her face registered her surprise as she stood.
He tugged impatiently on the cuffs of his black shirt.
“Since you’re a youngling, I’ll forgive this impertinence. But in future, know that I am the hunter, not the hunted.” His gray eyes narrowed.
She bowed her head. “Forgive me. Your presence is a great honor. I merely meant to show my respect.”
The Prince lifted a skeptical eyebrow.
“I’m sure some of the members of the Consilium would welcome your . . . generosity,” he said. “Not all of us are the same. If you wish to reach old age, you’ll remember that.”
With a nod, he dismissed her.
She bowed again and retreated, disappearing into the crowd.
The Prince scowled.
He hadn’t always behaved thusly. When he was newly turned, he’d indulged in the pleasures of the body. But the chains he’d worn in life were difficult to break. Even now, he wore them. He was, perhaps, the only one of his kind who still had sexual compunctions.
He took great care to hide them, which was why, among other reasons, he avoided Teatro as one might avoid plague.
Aoibhe spoke the truth. He could have his choice, as Prince. But what he desired was a human female, not a succubus.
He rubbed his face. Perhaps he should go home.
But home held memories of Cassita, of her broken body sliding perilously close to death. It was not a place to go in order to forget her.
Anger began to build in his chest. He finished his drink in one swallow, determined to have the satisfaction he craved.
He searched the crowd and eventually located the dark-haired woman he’d been admiring. Surely she was reason enough for him to court a little guilt.
He stood, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. Eyes on the woman, he walked toward her.