N. Walters: Damek's Redemption

Not that Byron or any other of Damek’s staff knew what he was. No, he wasn’t that trusting or stupid. They all believed him to be a powerful businessman, which he was, but he was simply much more.

He followed Byron’s gaze to the end of the bar. Alison, one of his best bartenders, had her head bent and she was talking to another woman. Byron’s assessment was right on target, as usual, the woman certainly didn’t look as though she belonged here.

His preternatural vision allowed him to see easily in the darkness, cutting through the flashing lights on the dance floor to the woman in question. She had her head turned away as she spoke, so his eyes drifted down her body and he examined her clothing. No high heels or short dress for her. No, she was wearing sensible shoes, pants and a tailored jacket.

Damek’s curiosity was aroused. “Did she say who she was?”

Byron shook his head. “Nope. Just that she was hoping to talk to you.”

He looked back and all his senses tingled. Her hair was caught at her nape in some kind of decorative clip. It was curly and wild and the color of the night. He wondered what it would look like released from captivity.

His body stirred for the first time in a long while. Months, years, he wasn’t sure. Time lost all meaning when one lived as long as he had.

But it was her face that captivated him. It was heart-shaped, with a pert nose and full, inviting lips. Without seeing them up close, he knew her eyes would be gray.

He’d watched that face from afar many, many years ago, seen it grow wrinkled with age as youth gave way to old age. But that woman had died four hundred years ago. He shook his head, certain he was seeing a ghost.

“You okay, boss?” Byron’s question brought him back to the present, but he was unsettled. And not much unsettled him these days.

“Tell her I’m not available and escort her out of here. You were right. She doesn’t belong.” And if another man made a move on her, Damek would be tempted to rip his head from his shoulders. Literally.

He felt Byron’s gaze on him, but the bouncer did as he was instructed. Not that Damek had any doubt that he would. Byron could be counted on to carry out his orders. He watched as Byron wound through the crowd and stood beside the mystery woman. He hadn’t even asked her name. Probably better that way.

Elizabetta. He still remembered her name from long ago. She’d been no more than a peasant, living with her family in the remote countryside of Transylvania but, to him, she’d been more beautiful than a queen with her bright laughter and quick smile. He’d tarried for years there, leaving but always returning to watch her.

It had almost killed him when she’d married and had children. She’d aged fast, as people had back in those days, and been dead by the time she was in her early forties. She’d left a husband, seven children and six grandchildren to mourn her passing.

Damek swallowed back the pain and rage threatening to undo his ironclad control. He’d wanted to kill her husband for not taking better care of her. Oddly enough, it had been the sight of that man dangling one of his grandchildren on his lap that had stopped Damek. The child had looked so much like her grandmother that Damek hadn’t been able to move. Frozen outside the window to the cottage where Elizabetta had lived and died, he’d watched and known a part of her still lived on.

That had been enough.

Was this woman a descendant of hers? Or was the resemblance nothing more than coincidence?

He wished he were close enough to hear her voice above the heavy music and drunken laughter. Was it softly accented or was it clipped and precise, more American than European. He leaned forward before he realized what he was doing.

Cursing himself, he cloaked his presence and glided along the shadows, moving ever closer to his goal. He stopped just beyond the bar, only feet away from the woman. She was fairly tall, about five-seven and slender. But it was hard to tell much else about her physical attributes without stripping her out of the unflattering suit she wore.

“When will he be in?” Her low, sultry voice sank into the very cells of his body and he closed his eyes and simply basked in it.

“Don’t know.” Byron’s answer was short and concise. “You should leave.”

He went to put his hand on her arm and Damek hissed with displeasure. A wave of pure menace shot out of him before he could control it. Bryon froze, his hand hovering in the air about four inches from her arm. The woman sucked in a breath and glanced around, her gaze falling briefly on Damek before sliding away and continuing around the rest of the room. All the patrons of the club froze on the dance floor, as though some unknown force had control of their motor functions.

Damek silently cursed himself and reined in his emotions. A woman laughed and a glass hit the bar, making the ice inside it tinkle. The music played on and the club gradually returned to normal, but there was an edge to the atmosphere that hadn’t existed before, and Damek knew the club would probably clear out early tonight unless he left the premises. His mood was permeating the place, making everyone here nervous and restless. The woman’s presence here had unsettled him, a dangerous proposition for a vampire.

The woman fumbled in her rather large purse, drew out a card and handed it to Byron. “Please ask him to call me.”

Byron slid the card into his vest pocket but promised nothing. The woman sighed and turned to leave with the bouncer right behind her. Byron kept his hands to himself, for which Damek was extremely grateful. He was on edge and would hate to do something he’d regret tomorrow. Damek followed at a discreet pace, confident no one could see him. He was one with the night, a mere shadow to those around him.

The iron gate that acted as the first door to the club closed with a metallic bang behind the woman, the finality of it sending a shiver of dread down his spine. He frowned and eased from the shadows to stand beside Byron. He didn’t speak, but simply held out his hand.

Byron slid the card out of his vest pocket and put it in Damek’s hand. It was made of heavy vellum and etched in black lettering. Sonia Agostino, PhD in folklore and anthropology. Now what did some academic want with him and his club? He noted she taught at NYU and wondered what she was doing in Chicago.

“I’m going out. You can call me if there’s trouble.” Damek was out the door before he even realized he was going. It was sheer instinct that had him following her. No, not her. Sonia. Her name rolled around in his brain and he smiled. It suited her somehow, a bit old-fashioned and old world.

He had her in his sights now. Her shoes were clicking against the sidewalk as she made her way quickly down the street, her oversized purse slapping against her hip with each long stride. Damek shoved his hands in his pants pocket and strolled after her.

Sonia muttered to herself as she walked. “Well, you knew it wouldn’t be easy.” Yet, she’d expected to walk into a nightclub and talk to the owner. Damek, no last name, at least not one she could find, and she’d done her research.

She sighed, wishing she’d taken the time to change into flats or sneakers. But no, she’d been in such a rush she’d dumped her suitcase at the hotel and hurried straight to the club. Now her feet hurt, she was disappointed and her stomach was growling in protest to the fact she hadn’t eaten since early this morning. She’d been too busy teaching all day before racing to the airport to catch an early evening flight. She’d had plenty of coffee, but not much else.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to slow down and pay attention to her surroundings. Chicago was a city, and like any city, it wasn’t smart to be unaware. The Fulton River District was bustling. Empty warehouses sat alongside new condominiums, which cost more than she could ever hope to afford. Not that she’d ever leave New York and her family. They all lived in a building her grandparents owned in Astoria and she loved it there, loved being a part of a loud, opinionated, boisterous Greek family.