Heather Long: Waiting in the Wings

“Nothing. You seem distressed.” Like Roseâtre, Cerveau was an Amazon. But the similarities between the women ended at the statement. They were tall, strong, well defined and athletic, but where Roseâtre’s presence commanded attention, Cerveau virtually faded into the background. It was like her two-dimensional reflection stood next to them—an old photographic negative.

Kiki shook her head. The throb in her teeth made her head ache too. “Just need to go track down the party spirit and shove it back in the bottle. I’m heading up for a bit.” Her black mini dress and combat boots were hardly high fashion, but she wasn’t going out to be noticed.

“Wait…” More scholar than warrior, Cerveau caught her arm in a surprisingly hard grip, and Kiki’s eyes burned. She whirled, a grimace pulling her lips back. To the academic Amazon’s credit, she didn’t retract her hand. “We’re not supposed to go out alone.”

“And I never do.” She struggled to smile—a real struggle because the heat in her belly bled into the rest of her system, and the fingers on her free hand curled into a fist. The urge to strike rode through her, a wild storm blasting through common sense and courtesy. “See you later, darling!”

She pulled herself free and trotted down the hall toward the theatre steps. The closed lounge opened onto the main lobby, and from there she could access the rest of the casino. The dressing area lights were off, a relief for her eyes. Her headache receded with every step away from the music. Where she would normally clomp noisily up the stairs, she virtually prowled.

Why the hell am I running away from the party? The thought crystallized in the sweet silence at the top of the stairs. But she had to go. Out—out of the theatre, away from the girls, away from the music and the distractions.

Hunger gnawed at her belly.

The hunger and an indefinable need twined through her, urging her onward. She was halfway across the stage and descending the steps to the lounge when the drive became a pull. Movement to her left sent her crouching into the shadows. She touched three fingers to the floor and stilled. Nostrils flaring, she caught the scent of nothingness. Not just empty theatre where the scents of human, shifter and vampire lingered amidst the ghosts of alcohol, food and perfume.

Stan appeared at the top of the stage, his normally bland expression grim and serious. His gaze swept over the empty lounge as he studied it. Kiki didn’t dare breathe, but her muscles were tensed, coiled and ready to spring. The sentinel was the guardian to all the women serving as showgirls in the Midnight Mystery Lounge. He escorted them when they stepped out of the safe haven of their cells and he protected them—but he was also a jailor.

Tonight, Kiki refused to be caged.

The lure calling to her increased, but she ignored it. Better to wait the guardian out than allow impulse to get her caught.

She’d made that mistake before.

A ripple of awareness shivered through her. The elusive thought trickled through her mind and vanished before she could capture it. Seconds became minutes, and Stan turned—finally—and vanished toward the back of the stage. Kiki remained frozen until the whisper of the door closing and the definitive echo of the sentinel’s shoes on the steps reached her ears.

The pull tugged her again, but still she waited. When a full five minutes passed and the sentinel didn’t return, she rose and drifted through the shadows until she reached the main doors. A quietly as they allowed, she slipped out into the blast of light and a cacophony of noise. Her eyes narrowed, and she squinted against the fluorescent overheads and beaming crystals reflecting onto the marble parquet lobby floor. Clusters moved through—coming and going—in groups of two, three and twenty.

Cheerful alarms rang up winnings. Cards shuffled. Men swore. Women laughed. Alcohol flowed. A woman sauntered past wearing the musk of sex and a satisfied smile. A man followed behind her, adjusting his tie. A couple in the corner all but rode each other through their clothes, while a grandmother smacked her husband in the back of the head and shooed him out the main doors.

It took her minutes to filter through the overwhelming barrage drowning out that nascent push-pull sensation driving her from the safety of the theatre. Striding across the lobby, she turned away from the all-seeing sphinx and the waterfall-fed wishing pond. She circled away from the elevators and down the steps into the casino proper.

The pull beckoned.

Irritated with the constant jerking tugs, she slowed her pace and drifted through the gamblers. She paused to enjoy one woman’s victory over the slots and again near a blackjack table—where defeat hung like a shroud over the players, but they tapped their fingers expectantly as if their luck would be found with the next turn of the cards.

The stronger scents of perspiration mixed with desperation on the casino floor. Her gums throbbed again. The twisting, squeezing of her belly rumbled. A waitress passed, and Kiki snitched a glass of wine so smoothly the succubus never noticed. The fruity grapes carried the tang of copper, and she drank it down swiftly. The alcohol eased the cramps in her stomach, and a flutter of euphoria stretched out inside her like a lazy cat batting at the air.

She traded her empty glass for another, this one a darker red with a far heavier metallic taste. The one-two shot of wine settled her jitters, and she resumed her prowl toward the mysterious lure all the way across the five-thousand-square-foot maze of gaming tables and slot machines to a dark and smoky lounge she had never entered before.

Unsurprising considering how many lounges the Arcana Royale featured—from sex clubs to bloodletting to dancing djinn and more. The Royale catered to every creature and their deepest desires.

She recognized the masculine pull three steps into the darkly lit bar. Her eyes adjusted slowly, but she didn’t have to search. He walked straight toward her, a smile curving his sweet lips.

He was why she was here. He was waiting for her.

His nearly jet black eyes were like velvety pools of darkness after someone stole all the stars away. He wore a beautiful suit, black-on-black silk. If someone carved out the night and gave it human form, it would have been this man. Wrapped in the scents of patchouli and sandalwood, she barely processed his arms closing around her—the whisper of his lips feathering along her jaw to her ear.

Head tilting back, she saw the light above kaleidoscope. His teeth grazed her throat.

“Darling, I didn’t know where you were.” The words, so drenched in need and affection jolted her from the lethargy stealing over her body. He pulled back, and she met his gaze. He closed the distance, head tilting and mouth open.

He’s going to kiss me.

She slammed her forehead into his. He swore, but she snapped her arms out, breaking his hold and caught him by the shirtfront. “Who the fuck are you?” Fury blossomed in her like a match dropped into a can of kerosene.

“Kristina.” His voice shuddered with command, the hum of it draped over her like misty netting, and she rebelled.

With a fling of her arm, she knocked him three feet back into a table. The occupants squealed and fled. Her teeth hurt so badly she wanted to scream, but the man was on his feet and coming for her. She braced herself.

If he wanted a fight, she would give him one.

But deep below the anger, a savage thrill sent a grin to her lips.

She really hoped he wanted a fight.

Richard rebounded to his feet. The sluggish beat of his heart surged double time. Adrenaline flooded his body, and his blood caught fire. By all that’s holy, I’ve missed her. Fifty years of separation vanished in a single blow. Her eyes glittered with suppressed passion. The potent scent of her filled his nostrils. The teasing lick of her throat was just a bare sample, and he wanted more.