KIND SOUL A Forever Knight Novel by Susan M. Garrett CHAPTER 4 With a few shakes of the bottle, Janette spattered over the hairbrush, then ran it quickly through her hair. She stroked it through the upper side of the dark strands, then those underneath, her hair hanging back against her shoulders. Her movements were tight, tense, her mouth grim and determined. Only when it was done did she drop the brush to the credenza in her office and take an experimental sniff. Garlic. And stale blood. No amount of violet water was going to hide the scents--they were clinging to her skin like whining infants, a part of her that refused to let go. Angrily, Janette flounced across the room wearing only her black silk, strapless sheath slip and curled up on the davenport, pushing aside her new dress for the evening. What she needed was a shower and a soak, not a quick change and makeover. But she didn't dare leave the club. Since Dorian had been taken away, she'd awaited the arrival of the Enforcers with fearful resignation. They'd come. They had to come. And she wasn't about to endanger the future of the Raven by leaving Alma or one of those other idiots in charge. They had no idea how to deal with the Enforcers. Then again, neither did she. For centuries, she'd left those responsibilities to LaCroix. Now that he was back in town again, Janette had half a mind to call him and tell him to handle it. It was his function--to protect her. But she didn't to be protected. Janette released an angry hiss and leaned against the arm of the davenport, resting her chin on her hands. The Devil take Dorian! And LaCroix, for that matter! It was their fault she was waiting for the Enforcers, smelling like an overly aromatic, day-old kill. Foolishly, she'd thought it was done between them, that the two had come to some understanding centuries ago. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and gave her head a light shake. In assuming that, she was as foolish as Dorian, for she knew LaCroix too well. LaCroix never allowed a slight to go unrewarded. And what Dorian had done to him could hardly be spoken of as a 'slight,' no matter what the language of the time or place . . . . LaCroix and Dorian had stood less than a hand's width apart, eyes locked. "You ," echoed Dorian, that chilling smile still in place. "And you ran?" "That's why I ran. It's my right." "It's your . You never would have escaped me in Carthage. Or anywhere else." Dorian's correction of LaCroix's statement was smooth, without emotion. He gestured toward a table and chairs, poor in contrast to his finery. "Shall we talk first? I have some refreshment for you. And I like to have the measure of a man, before his interview." LaCroix never moved an inch, only his eyes following Dorian. "There will be interview." Janette held her breath, watching the red fire rise in Dorian's eyes. If his smile had been chilling before, it positively reeked of malice now. His hands drifted across the rough back of one of the wooden and hemp chairs, as if he were searching for splinters, unconcerned. "You'll refuse the interview?" "I'll refuse to acknowledge the call." LaCroix's eyes were steel gray, with flecks of gold dancing in that disturbing stillness. "I'm aware of the distinction between the two." "You'll match your will against mine, rather than your brawn?" With a flick of the wrist, LaCroix gestured toward the shadows. "A wise man knows when the numbers are against him." "A wise man doesn't challenge the lightning to strike him," countered Dorian sharply. He strode back to LaCroix, his smile gone, his face pale and eyes angry. "Are your secrets worth that much to you? Are you willing to risk your immortal existence for a few falsehoods, a few indiscretions?" It was LaCroix's turn to smile, matching Dorian, malice for malice. "I bow to no man. Or vampire. My secrets are my own." "For ten sunrises?" Dorian licked his lips and glanced at Janette. "You know the Code well. I hope you've taught your fledgling all that she needs to survive--because you won't win against me. If you like, I'll take care of her. She'll have my protection as long as she wishes it. She seems pretty. And you owe me forfeit for running." He reached out a hand to push away her veil. Janette drew back from him, her fingers tightening on LaCroix's arm, and hissed. "It's her decision," answered LaCroix. Dorian looked at him, the red in his eyes smoldering, then drifting back into pitch black, like dying embers fading to darkness. Nodding slightly, he bowed toward Janette. "Then let me explain the situation, 'Lady'--your Master will pit his will against mine. I have ten sunrises in which to break him. If he remains silent, he's free of me. If he speaks, then his secrets are mine. And I'll destroy him, as is my right as Archivist." Janette looked quickly at LaCroix, but his face was impassive. Only his eyes seemed to hold any life and those she could not read. It seemed this to be her decision. Catching her hand before she could move, Dorian raised her fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly. But when she tried to withdraw her hand, he held it. "Your Master has no chance of winning--he may as well have walked into the sunrise. Out of respect, I'm offering to protect you after he's gone. You can refuse my protection, of course." He released her fingers and she drew her hand back quickly, clasping it with her other hand as she glared at him. Dorian only smiled. "But then, all of our kind would know that your Master had challenged the Archivist, challenged the Enforcers . . . and failed. You'd be shunned from vampire society. The blood line would be tainted. You, and any that you brought across, would be treated as pariahs. You know what that means, don't you?" Again, Janette looked to LaCroix, but he gave no sign. What did he want her to do? With no answer forthcoming, she decided to do what wanted. She spat at Dorian, hissing angrily. "I think you've had your answer," said LaCroix, the faintest of smiles lighting his features as Dorian wiped her spittle from his richly embroidered tunic. "She may change her mind, many do." Pulling a cloth from his sleeve, Dorian wiped away the stain. Then he looked to the shadows. "Take them," he ordered. "We begin at sunrise." The Enforcers separated themselves from the darkness, surrounding them again. But this time, she didn't care. Janette kept looking to LaCroix for any indication that she'd done as he wished. The answer came as he turned to her, his hand covering her deathgrip on his arm, his fingers prying her own lose, but holding them gently. The look in his eyes was one of pride. And she lowered her eyes, smiling shyly, unaccustomed to such a response from him. "She'll remain here," said LaCroix. "No," corrected Dorian. "She'll come with us." Janette looked up as LaCroix dropped her hand. "No one can witness an interview." "I was right--you know the Code well." Dorian smiled, tucking the cloth back in his sleeve. "You also know that I can bend it to my will, in certain circumstances. You still owe me forfeit, LaCroix. I want your fledgling on hand. I want her to hear the consequences of your choice, I want her to hear you beg for mercy. And before I tear your head from your body and your first limb from your last, I want you to warn her never to defy me again." He looked to Janette and those dark eyes chilled her. "If she swears to tell the story to all that she meets, I'll lift the taint on the bloodline. She and those who follow her will prosper . . . by telling the tale of your humiliation and defeat at my hands. That's your forfeit, LaCroix--to be destroyed again and again, in word and thought and memory, throughout eternity." A nod from him brought the Enforcers tighter around them. Janette clutched LaCroix's arm, and shivered, still cold from Dorian's attention. But LaCroix stool firm, undaunted. " you break me," he warned. "I'll break you," said Dorian confidently, almost cheerfully. LaCroix moved quickly, far more quickly than the Enforcers expected--he broke through their ranks and grabbed Dorian by the front of his tunic, drawing him close. Janette yelped as an Enforcer threw his arms around her, pinning her neck and her waist against his leather and link armor. Dorian raised a hand immediately as other Enforcers moved forward to take LaCroix, his movement stopping them in place. It seemed that LaCroix expected as much. " you break me," he repeated, his tone strong and colder than a dagger of ice. "You'll have one chance. And if you fail . . . I'll break I'll make you betray all that matters to you, let you stumble to the very gates of hell, and then, when you long for the final peace of utter destruction, I'll take even that from you. So break me, Dorian, if you can. And if you can't, you'll spent eternity looking over your shoulder, wondering when I might strike, knowing that you'll be powerless to raise a hand against me, or defend yourself." Dorian's eyes blazed in dark fury, but he said nothing for a moment. Then he lowered his hand, hissing, " him." Four Enforcers rushed forward, but LaCroix released Dorian's tunic and kept his hands aloft, pointedly showing no resistance. The Enforcers looked at one another as they surrounded him, but none touched him as he adjusted his own tunic. "Sunrise?" he asked, arching an eyebrow as he met Dorian's gaze again. In response, Dorian snarled, then hurled himself past them and toward the door, the edges of his green cloak flapping behind him and echoing his fury. LaCroix turned toward the Enforcer who held her and Janette was suddenly freed. She jabbed her elbow ineffectually into the Enforcer's stomach as a form of protest and hurried to LaCroix's side, adjusting her veil, which had twisted about her hair and neck in her struggles. " you break him?" she asked anxiously, as the Enforcers fell into place around them, escorting them through the doorway and into the street. LaCroix smiled as he looked up at the early morning sky, which was already turning lavender and fainter shades of violet in the east. "Oh, yes," he answered. "In time. The question being, is Dorian strong enough to break ?" Again, his eyes were unreadable and his tone was that of a philosopher pondering some distant, purposeless question. Janette shuddered, knowing that this question, at least, would be answered by the tenth rising of the sun. Resting her cheek against the soft covering of the davenport, Janette opened her eyes, as much to drive away the memories that came after as to return to the problem at hand. She could deal with the Enforcers--for all their force and fury, they were men after all. She'd heard, of course, that there were female Enforcers as well, but that seemed a contradiction to feminine nature. Women, whether mortal or vampire, had always seemed to have better things to do than engage in that sort of nonsense. If the rumor were true, it was a sad comment on the state of her gender, that to find their equality with men they'd lowered themselves to that level. And she smelled of garlic. Wrinkling her nose, she'd barely risen to her feet when there was a light knock at her office door. She'd only begun to answer when the door opened slightly-- It was Nicola. As always, her heart lifted at his presence, at that hesitant smile he wore when he realized she was only half-dressed. "I just stopped by--I didn't realize--" "Oh, forget that nonsense. You've seen me in less." She walked to the door, grabbed the arm of his blazer and tugged him into the room. "You can help me dress. I don't like the catch on this one--remind me to have it changed." Nicola managed to shut the door before she pulled him after her. For an instant, she tested the cloth of his jacket sleeve beneath her fingers and frowned. "Not up to your standards?" he asked. "If you paid what I imagine, you were cheated. But then, you always are. Or is this part of the camouflage for your job? Aren't detectives allowed to dress well?" He smiled as she confronted him, her hands on her hips. "On the salary we're paid? Not well." "A pity. Next time you really choose a profession that allows you to wear decent clothing, if you're going to work in the mortal world." Janette shuddered at the thought, then stalked to the davenport and picked up the dress. She threw it into Nicola's hands, then held her arms over her head and said, "If you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Alma's been a little too free with the complimentary drinks--she's developing an alarming attraction for balding men. And at age!" She watched as he carefully unzipped the back of the dress and a tender smile came to her lips. Those large hands and that tiny zipper--but he was careful not to let it snag, if only because he knew that she'd make him pay for the error. Tapping her stocking-clad toe lightly against the carpet, she let him know that she was waiting. As she remembered, those warrior's hands could be exceptionally gentle. He slid the dress over her head, his fingers running down the length of her bare arms and shoulders as it fell into place. For a moment she basked in the closeness of him, the scent of his after shave--he'd changed it recently--the familiarity of him. Over the centuries she'd grown to know parts of Nicola better even than she knew herself. When his fingers lingered a little long on the nape of her neck, she reached up to slap his hand, then lifted her hair. "The zipper?" "Your wish--" She imagined his fingers clasped around the zipper and stood very still as she heard the sound of the metal teeth catching in sequence, fighting the urge to giggle as he brushed his fingers along the sensitive skin over her spine, just before the zipper's advance. It was easy to forget that Nicola, too, knew parts of her quite well. Then he sniffed her hair. "Do I smell . . . garlic?" She stiffened, allowing him to bring the zipper quite near the top before she pulled away. "An accident. It's been taken care of." Janette reached over her shoulder and finished the job, then walked to the credenza as if nothing were wrong. Thank heavens Dorian was gone! And why was Nicola here? Did he know about Dorian? "What of accident?" he asked, following her across the room. Janette put on a charming smile, placed the choker at her neck, then turned toward him. "Again, if you wouldn't mind?" With a light frown at his question having been ignored, Nicola moved behind her and fastened the choker, this time his fingers fumbling in his haste. "How do you manage to dress by yourself?" "As I've always done. Although some evenings I have help." She gave him a saucy smile in thanks, then walked over to the davenport and seated herself. With a regal wave, she indicated the shoes that sat on a chair by the door. "Those, please. And why you drop by, if not to help me dress? I don't feel like answering any of your boring police questions." "I hadn't been by in a while, thought I'd see how you were doing." He picked up the shoes and looked at them in that fascinated way men often had--they'd never understood the engineering behind a pair of high heels, even when the fashion had been in style for men. When he walked over to her, she held up a stocking-clad foot and wiggled her toes. With a resigned sigh, Nicola knelt down; she rested one foot on his left knee and the other in the palm of his hand as he slipped the shoe in place. "What of accident?" he asked again, as she placed the other foot in his hand and his fingers curled around her instep. Janette suddenly realized that she'd made a tactical error--she wasn't going to get her foot back, or her shoe, unless she answered him. "Oh, the kind of things that happen when you run a business," she said, dismissing the event with a wave. "A mis-delivery, for a restaurant on another street. Garlic, of all things! Alma wasn't getting anywhere with the delivery man and so I stepped in . . . just as the box broke open. We'll have that stench in the storage room for I can only be thankful it didn't reach the cellars." She thankful . . . when Nicola slipped the shoe on her foot. But he didn't seem convinced. "And that's all?" "Ummm." Janette rose to her feet and walked back to the credenza, where she picked up her earrings. She held them in her hands for a moment, pretending to choose among the several pairs she'd set out. "As you can see, everything's fine." "And you haven't had any trouble lately?" She froze for the barest mortal heartbeat, then dropped the earrings as if in disgust at the lack of choice and picked up her hairbrush. Tapping it against her palm, she turned and eyed him thoughtfully. "Trouble? Nicola, you aren't trying to tell me that my club's going to be raided?" "No, nothing like that." There was still that suspicion in his eyes as he added, "No trouble with the customers?" "Of course not. Bruno can handle them well enough." She walked past him, slapped the handle of the brush into his palm, and seated herself on the davenport, turning slightly so that he could sit beside her, her back toward him. "You may brush my hair, now." Nicola sit beside her. "I'm on duty." "So, these cop questions? So much for being concerned about my welfare--" Pretending anger, she tried to grab the brush from him, but he held it out of her reach. With one hand on her bare shoulder, he turned her back to him again and began to stroke the brush through her hair. Janette breathed a sigh and smiled, as his fingers and the brush plied their magic. He remember. Her eyes closed as she let the sheer luxury of it, the familiarity of it wash over her--without that horrid scent of garlic still assaulting her nostrils, they could be anytime, anywhere, having shared this moment in the past more often than she could count. For just as LaCroix had tutored Nicola in many things, she'd taken his education on the ways of women into hand. At the start she'd realized that he'd never learn to understand them--so few men had that rare ability--so she settled on teaching him how to please them. It was hardly a waste of time, for in caring so much about his education, she did herself a good turn. Nicola could be an apt and enthusiastic pupil when he wanted to be. And there were times when he wanted . . . . "Have you been receiving any threats?" he asked. "Threats?" She opened her eyes, her memories of pleasant times interrupted by the non sequitur. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Occasionally Bruno tosses a rowdy customer into the street with a little too much diligence, but that's easily settled. And I've had no incident of that sort in weeks." "I've heard--" The brush stroked upward, against the hairs on her neck and she shivered at the touch, her back arching involuntarily as she leaned against Nicola's shoulder. "I've heard that you've been receiving some unwelcome attention. Some gifts?" "I often receive gifts from admirers. You used to be among them. Can there unwelcome gifts?" She forced herself to be calm, her heart skipping its solitary beat. "Who told you that?" "Is it true?" There were two options--lie or tell the truth. Since he seemed to know the truth, what would lying gain her? "Yes." "Janette," he put the brush down on the davenport and placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him, "why didn't you tell me? You know you could be in danger." She forced a smile, touched to see the concern in his blue eyes. "The next thing you'll say is that I'm being hunted." Nicola's eyes narrowed, trying to pin her in place. "Are you?" "No, of course not. Not for decades, at least a half century." She rose to her feet, taking the hairbrush with her back to the credenza. Once there, she picked up the bobby pins and twisted her hair around her hand, in preparation for pinning it up on one side. "Haven't you heard? We're passe'. No one believes in vampires any more. There aren't any professional hunters, as there used to be." Nicola remained on the sofa, she could feel his eyes on her back, watching her for any reaction. "You haven't . . . killed anyone recently?" Janette stuck a pin into her hair to keep her hands from shaking. This was a sore point between them and would remain so until he got over this business about wanting to recross the line between vampire and mortal--he hadn't killed for blood in over a century. While she, being true to their nature, saw nothing wrong with feeding on mortals. "Nicola, you know we don't hunt anymore. Not here. It's just too dangerous." "I didn't ask about ," he corrected, voice sharp. "I asked about " Another pin was set in place. She turned her head, touching the back of her hair lightly, as content as she was going to be with the result. "If I answer you, will you believe me?" He hesitated only a moment, before saying, "Yes." Grabbing a set of earrings from the credenza at random, she turned toward him, eyes meeting his as she blindly fastened the dangling pearls into place. "I haven't hunted in at least . . . I'd say five years. Does satisfy you?" Nicola rose to his feet, wearing that studious expression--that look. It irritated her. "Yes," he answered, again after a measured--or measuring--pause. "But that means we've got no easy answer, no clue as to what mortal wants you dead. Or how they found out you were a vampire in the first place. I know you're careful--" "Why, thank for noticing." "--More careful than most." He moved to stand behind her as she adjusted her choker, checked her earrings with the tips of her fingers. "There's nothing to say that this couldn't be one of us." "It's not a prank. I've checked." "Is there anyone you know who's got a grudge outstanding?" Janette tilted her head thoughtfully as she picked up the perfume atomizer from the top of the credenza. It was made of scarlet crystal--the light from the lamps made her hands appear to be covered in blood. She rather liked the effect, it helped her concentrate as her memory ranged back, far back . . . then she shook her head slowly. "No. No one that would be here, now." She felt Nicola's hands settle softly against the skin of her neck, but raised the atomizer in her hand and warned, "If you don't move, Nicola, you'll be marked by my scent. Although I would to hear your explanation when you returned to duty . . . ?" She smiled as he backed away, then turned her head and gave the bulb a squeeze. A fine spray of perfume enveloped her, complementing the violet she'd already brushed through her hair. Flinging her pinned hair this way and that, Janette gave an experimental sniff. No garlic. Pleased with herself, Janette returned the atomizer to the credenza. She placed her fingers along the wooden edge, arched her palm, and posed prettily, asking, "Better?" Nicola merely shook his head, a stern smile on his face. "Janette, this is " "And so am I have an image to maintain. There are some who would like to see me fail at this venture. Others who think I have no right to be so public because I'm a woman, or a vampire, or a child of LaCroix. Showing fear-- fear--would put my club in a very untenable position." Stalking up to him, she touched his lower lip lightly with a red-lacquered fingernail. "It's nothing. Don't worry. I can take care of myself." She trailed the finger down his chin to his neck, then pressed her lips lightly to his, whispering, "Or don't you remember? Has it been long?" Just as he placed one hand on her neck, the other sliding down to her waist, she hissed, "Lipstick! Nicola, you should have reminded me!" and escaped him, running back to the credenza and ignoring his exasperated sigh. "I don't think you realize the--" Janette barely heard him, her attention centered on finding just the right lipstick from amongst the many colors and pastes and applications she'd scattered across the top of the credenza. A knock sounded in mid-sentence and she said, "" without thinking. The click of Alma's stiletto heels, even muffled by the thick Persian carpet that covered her floor, was unmistakable. Janette barely gave her a glance. "What is it, Alma?" "Bruno found this taped to the front door." Turning her head, Janette saw Alma's eyes rake across Nicola with an unabashed, primal interest, as she waved a white envelope. Nicola, in turn, seemed not entirely disinterested--there was a saucy edge to that official and polite policeman's smile. Walking between them, Janette snatched the envelope from Alma's fingers, saying, "That be all, Alma. I'll need an early count on the midnight receipts. If you'd be so kind?" Alma's glance was deathly cold as she batted her eyelids at Janette. Flashing Nicola an inviting smile over her shoulder, she headed for the door. But she was no more than a step or two away when she stopped. Her lips twisted and she turned blank eyes to them, as if puzzled. She sniffed, delicately. Taking a step closer to Janette, she sniffed again. Then she smiled. And swinging her shoulders back, Alma left the room, closing the door behind her. "That's !" snarled Janette. Stalking directly to the desk, she picked up her car keys. "I'm going to take a shower. Nicola, tell Bruno he's in charge. And tell that--that --!" As she swung by him, Nicola deftly lifted the crumpled envelope from her grasp. He opened it and unfolded the paper inside, reading it. Her fury was extinguished by his suddenly blank expression, like a match in a hurricane wind. "What?" she asked, as he stared at her. In answer, Nicola held the paper out to her. Janette took it, her eyes taking in the two, scrawled words-- I KNOW. A shudder ran through her. She clasped her fingers around the edges of the paper, suddenly recalling LaCroix's first words to Dorian, from so many centuries ago. Was this some message from the Enforcers? From Dorian? From LaCroix--could he have found out that Dorian was here, that she hadn't destroyed him when she'd had the chance--? There were too many possibilities, too many options. Her knees felt weak and started to give way . . . but Nicola's arms were around her, supporting her. He took the paper from her hand, saying, " is serious." "No, no," she muttered weakly. "This has nothing to do with those other--you don't understand--this is--" Janette looked up into his face, his eyes, which were anxious and just a bit angry at her obstinate nature. She tried to find words to explain her confusion, that the note could mean any one of a hundred different things. There were names she could speak, explanations she could give, stories she could weave-- And she remembered her earlier promise, both to Dorian and Natalie Lambert, that she wouldn't mention Dorian's presence unless she was asked. It wasn't as if she'd never broken a promise--she could pave a road to Calais with the promises she'd made and then conveniently forgotten. She hadn't sworn an oath on any saint or stone, any blood or tie, any tune or trail. They were words. Only that. But for some reason, it was important that she honor that very pointless and--so she had thought at the time--ill-considered request. It could only lead to disaster later. Such secrets always did. It might bring to ruin this blind trust Nicola had so placed in his mortal friend. It might be enough to shake him from this foolish preoccupation with the mortal world, mortal things, mortal lives. It might break Nicola's heart. It might even send him back to her, to what he truly was and where he truly belonged. At that moment, Nicola pressed his lips to her forehead and drew her close, whispering, "There's no reason to be afraid. At least I've got something physical to work with. I'll take care of it--I'll tell them you've received threats before, but this is the first in writing. We'll treat it like a stalking. It'll be investigated. We won't let anyone get near you, Janette. won't let anyone get near you." She shuddered again, at the familiarity of his arms and his embrace, but her eyes were open as she tucked her head down, against his shoulder. Nicola took her confusion and hesitation for fear. Fine. Let him think that. She would keep her promise to Dorian, let his little tableau work its way to a tragic end. And then would protect Nicola, pick up the pieces and put him back together again. But if he got the police involved . . . . "No." Her voice was quiet, muffled against his blazer. Janette pushed herself back, away from him, straightening her spine. Meeting his eyes, she adjusted her choker with the touch of her finger, then smoothed the length of her dress. "No, Nicola, I don't want the police involved. This is my concern, not yours." "If you're being threatened--?" She slapped the message against his arm. "Fool! Your friends ask questions. And what's the first question they'll ask? What does this person know that could be so damaging, so threatening?" She raised an eyebrow, seeing her logic mirrored in his expression. "Yes, I pay my taxes. I'm a model citizen, according to the records. But someone might suspect blackmail and begin to dig. Dig too deeply and they may find holes in those records. Larry Merlin is a genius, but even he's limited in what he can do and the speed with which he can do it." He opened his mouth to answer, but she held up a warning finger. "And what about your partner? You've brought him here too often, he knows we're . . . friends. If my past has holes, you might be guilty by association. Are you in such a hurry to leave this life, to endanger all you've built and accomplished because your chivalric instincts drive you to act? Because you have some to protect me? Or is it that you feel guilty, having neglected me for all these months?" She saw the hurt in his eyes and, for a moment, regretted her words. But Janette steeled herself, hardened her heart. She glared at him, feeling her eyes slip from blue to gold, as the beast fed on her anger, transformed her. "I don't need your protection! Or LaCroix's protection. I take care of my club. And myself." Nicola was trying to be reasonable--she could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as he exerted control he'd not displayed for . . . he learned something, these past few years. "I never said you couldn't protect yourself. But this is beyond you. If nothing else, think of the club--if you don't let me take care of this, the club could be endangered. At least . . . at least let me have that note. Nat can have forensics take a look at it for me, on the sly. There could be fingerprints, paper fibers, we could use to identify--" She forced herself to ignore his common sense. Shoving the note back into the envelope, Janette folded it in half, then in half again, and tucked it down the front of her dress. Nicola moved forward, as if to take it from her, but as the note disappeared from sight, he stopped himself. Taking a breath, he turned away from her angrily--she saw a glint of gold in his eye as he ran his hand through his hair, but his control still held. He met her gaze and pointed at her chest. " is evidence." "Of what crime? ," Janette touched her hand to the front of her dress, "is personal correspondence. If you want it, get a search warrant. You know where to find it. And even then, I'm not giving it up without a fight." There'd been a time when he would have taken it from her--but he was no longer that man. His fists clenched and he took a step toward her . . . but then he unclenched his fists and held up his palms, as if in surrender. "All right. If that's the way you want this handled." "It ." Janette whirled on her heels and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, "Remember, Bruno's in charge. Alma--I'll deal with her later." But Nicola caught her at the door, moving quickly. He circled her wrist with his hand. When she went perfectly still and looked down at the fingers that held her, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm gently. "Don't wait to call if you need help," he said, the words whispering against her skin. "Be careful, Janette. Be very, very careful." When he released her hand, she stroked his cheek with her fingertips, lightly, something in her heart melting at his concerned, earnest warning. Not enough of course to sway her decision, to make her give in, but it was a gallant move. "As you said, , I'm careful." And with that, she slipped down the hallway and toward the rear storage area of the club before he could catch up with her. A thorough cleaning had removed most of the garlic smell . . . but only bleach would remove the bloodstains. Janette made a mental note to have that attended to as quickly as possible--she might have diverted Nicola's attention this night, but he'd be back. She'd never quite determined how he could be so blind to the ways of women and yet have such an eye for the smallest, inconspicuous detail. It was that thought that occupied her as she unlocked the rear entrance and exited the Raven. Janette smiled a little, fitting the key in the lock and rebolting the door, as she considered some of the details Nicola had remembered over the years . . . as well as those he'd pretended to forget. Her car was not that far away--she hummed a few stanzas of a song to herself, it having been part of a happier, simpler time. Fresh blood had been so plentiful then. One could take what and whom one wanted, without fear of discovery or later regret if one was careful. And she had always been careful. Well . . . almost always. When she reached her car, she was surprised to find that the electronic lock beeper on her keychain locked the door instead of unlocking it. Janette opened the door and moved to slide into the seat-- Then pulled back in horror, hissing. A large crucifix had been propped up on the seat and threaded through the steering wheel of the car. Placing her arm across her eyes, she hissed again and turned, outrage managing to drive away at least some of her immediate fear-- how someone touch her car! If this a prank, she'd have the fool's head for it. That's when she heard the heartbeats. Janette turned slowly and found herself facing four men. They appeared strong, of good build . . . one was even handsome. They were scraggly and poorly dressed, their jeans torn and tattered, their shirts and T-shirts smelling of sweat and dirt. Even their hair was unkempt, although the handsome one had tied his back in a very becoming tail. Folding her arms across her chest, she regarded that one with an appraising eye. "Can I help you, ?" she asked, fighting back the urge to let her fangs fall into place. As she'd told Nicola, she hadn't hunted in years. Open displays of menace could be costly in these modern times. One of them held up another crucifix, thrusting it in her face. It had all been too much for her that day--too many surprises. She hissed at him, fangs bared, before she thought about what she was doing. Too late, she heard the noise behind her, heard the other heartbeats. There was a swoosh in the air, a light breeze accompanied by an overwhelming stench of garlic. Entangled in a net made of thick rope, Janette foundered. The smell of garlic over-powered her--the rope must have been soaked in it--and her eyes watered blood red tears as she closed them, shrieking at the attack, weakened by nausea. The weight of the net and the gut-wrenching effects of the garlic had dropped her to her knees onto the tar. Janette fought to keep her eyes open, fought to keep conscious, as the fumes choked her, attacking her lungs just as it irritated her skin. She couldn't keep anything straight--the heat of their bodies blended into one other as bright red and orange streaks against the darkness, their heartbeats blurred into cannon blasts. Raising her hands to her ears to hold out the sounds, she managed a weak wail and opened her eyes-- Just in time to see a stake descending toward her. End of Chapter 4