Jabril Read online

  It was a spacious room, elegantly furnished with a huge four poster bed and heavy satin and velvet furnishings. Elaborate brocade drapes covered the wide windows, dark burgundies and blues to match the bed coverings. It was all very beautiful and very expensive ... and nothing she would have chosen for herself. But then she never slept here. It felt safer, somehow, to hide in the closet. It was foolish, and ultimately pointless. But she did it anyway.

  A tug on the thick rope and the drapes drew away. Beyond the window, the night was driven back by the bright, almost garish, artificial lighting of the estate grounds. Mirabelle stared out without seeing and wondered why she was so unsettled tonight. It was a night like any other. Wasn't it?

  A knock sounded on the door and she turned, heading across the room with a smile. It was probably her sister Elizabeth who was her only real friend and the one bright spot in her nights. Only seventeen and still human, Liz lived in a separate building on the edge of the estate, along with the housekeeper and other servants. It had been days since they'd seen each other. Liz couldn't come every night, but she did try, and—

  Mirabelle stopped before she reached the door and scented the air carefully. Her visitor was definitely human, but...?

  She glanced down nervously at her silky nightgown. It was a secret indulgence to her femininity, the last one left to her. She rushed back to the closet and drew on a long, thick robe, tugging it closed around her neck and tying it securely before going over to pull open the door.

  "My lady.” The servant outside lowered his eyes, unwilling to look upon her, even in the all-encompassing robe. “Lord Jabril Karim requests your immediate presence.” He glanced up at her night clothing and tightened his mouth in disapproval. “That is, my lord requests your presence as soon as you are decently clothed."

  Mirabelle flushed, more from humiliation than anger. Even the servants presumed to judge her, though it was her money that fed and clothed this man and his entire family. And because she was feeling unhappy and unsettled tonight, she did something she rarely did. She threw courtesy to the wind and closed the door in his face, locking it with a loud click.

  A petty defiance, she admitted as she hurried back to the closet, and one that would probably come back to haunt her in the form of small holes in her clothing and erratic visits to her room by the cleaning staff. Not that she cared either way. She hated the so-called modest clothing Jabril Karim insisted she wear, and the rooms were little more than a prison cell. What did she care if they were clean or not? Still, if the old bloodsucker had sent someone to fetch her, it was probably important—to him anyway. And he had ways of punishing her that were far worse than anything the cleaning staff could dream up.

  She stripped off the robe and nightgown, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the room fill with steam while she brushed her teeth. Jabril might complain she'd taken too long, but she'd be damned if she'd go without a shower. He knew very well that she woke long after he did, long after the other vampires in the house did. She was very young, as such things were reckoned. She'd been barely eighteen when she was turned, and that was only five years ago, a century or more younger than any of the other vampires living here. The sun had to be well below the horizon before she began to stir, which meant everyone else had been awake a good hour by the time she drew her first full breath of the night.

  She rinsed her mouth and stepped under the hot spray, letting it pound away the tension, forcing herself to put aside her many grievances, shoving them far into the back of her mind. It was how she had survived this long, how she would survive long enough to break away someday, to take Liz and make a life for the two of them far away from Texas and Lord Jabril fucking Karim.

  Chapter Four

  The thick fabric of her skirt hung heavily on her hips, and Mirabelle tugged at it, trying to settle it comfortably around her legs. Her clothes were unrelieved black—ankle length skirt, t-shirt and loose black sweater, even a scarf to hide her long blond hair. Her shoes were black Nikes, and she wore black old lady socks that rose above her knees, as if somehow the sight of even the tiniest bit of her flesh would prove an irresistible temptation to the male vampires of Jabril's court.

  Mirabelle didn't feel irresistible or tempting. She felt old and ugly, and she looked resentfully at the richly dressed men who filled the room. The penile brigade clothed themselves in silks and soft wools in a rainbow of vibrant color.

  Mirabelle was the only female vampire on the estate. For that matter, she'd never even met another female vampire, although she knew they existed. Jabril Karim rarely sired female vamps. Normally, he had no use for women beyond the nutritional value of their blood and the sex that came with it—and his basement stable of human blood slaves provided that. He'd made an exception in Mirabelle's case, because she had something else he wanted ... a lot of money.

  Fortunately for her, he had yet to figure out a way to get to the money without keeping her alive, assuming a vampire could be considered alive. She didn't know the science of the matter, but she certainly felt alive. Sometimes she thought it would be worth dying for good just to keep Jabril from getting his slimy hands on her part of the money. But then, he'd just go after Liz that much harder, plus she'd be well and truly dead and unable to enjoy his reaction, so that kind of took away from the satisfaction of the whole idea.

  With an effort, she forced her thoughts away from Jabril and his followers and onto something more pleasant, what little there was to choose from. She wondered where Liz was. Not that her little sister ever ventured into this part of the house at night. There were only two types of beings in this room—vampires and food. If you weren't one, you were the other. And Liz was determined to be neither, an aspiration Mirabelle had every intention of seeing realized. Bad enough Jabril had succeeded in turning her; she would not stand by and let him turn her little sister as well.

  A ripple of movement shivered across the room, and Mirabelle glanced up through her lashes. It was a big room, a “great” room her parents’ architect had called it, with broad pillars dotted throughout the empty space. The pillars were only for effect—Mirabelle knew from a childhood spent playing here that they were quite hollow and not at all the marble monoliths they appeared to be. But that had been before her parents had died, before Jabril had claimed their home for himself. There were no children playing in this room, not anymore. A familiar wave of sadness rolled over her as she remembered all those other times. The grand receptions and parties of Texas society—fund raisers hosted by her parents and others, charitable events where guests stood around sipping cocktails and eating dainty finger foods before writing big tax deductible checks.

  She sighed. Jabril had changed the room to suit himself, of course. He'd had most of the furniture removed—there was no need for couches or chairs when no one was permitted to sit, except him. He'd left only a few narrow tables along the walls interspersed with huge verdigris urns whose pale green reflected off the near white of the marble floor. Far overhead, the ceiling arched into a round glass-paned dome whose copper framing bore the same green patina of age. She remembered sunlight shining through those enormous panes of glass, filling the big room with—

  She jerked her attention back to the present as double doors burst open to one side, and a hulking, half-naked vampire stalked in, glaring around the room as if expecting someone to challenge him. No one did. In fact, no one so much as met his gaze. They'd all learned long ago that Calixto's idea of a challenge was unpredictably flexible, depending on his mood on a given evening. Vampires might heal injuries quickly, but the pain still hurt like hell. The bodyguard stepped out of the doorway, standing to one side and nodding respectfully into the unseen room beyond.

  A moment later, Jabril entered with a regal nod of approval for his guard's diligence. In appearance, the vampire lord was a fit forty-year-old, with black, tightly curled hair worn short, and dark chocolate eyes that were large and round, almost bulbous, with a yellow sclera. To Mirabelle, they had
always looked wet—big, wet, yellow eyes. Yuck.

  She dropped her own gaze quickly as he approached her. Jabril Karim al Subaie was the scion of a very traditional and conservative Arab family who'd been allies of the Saud dynasty for centuries, longer than even Jabril had been alive. He demanded respectful and submissive behavior from his servants ... and his women.

  Mirabelle tensed as the elegant leather shoes beneath his perfectly tailored trousers stopped in front of her lowered gaze. She waited, not daring to look up.

  "Mirabelle, my treasure,” he said finally. She fought not to curl her lip at the endearment. There was nothing even approaching affection between them. If she was his treasure, it was only in the most literal sense.

  "My lord,” she all but whispered.

  "I wonder, my dear, if you have heard from Elizabeth lately?"

  She felt a jolt of fear at his words. Shocked into looking up, she met his eyes for brief seconds before her gaze fell once again to his feet. “Elizabeth, my lord?” she managed. “I have not seen her since...” She thought desperately, trying to place Liz's last visit. “I believe it was five days ago, my lord. Just before dawn."

  Had something happened? She wanted to scream the question at him, but forced herself to stillness, clenching her fists tightly in the folds of the heavy skirt. If he knew she cared, he would delight in keeping the information from her.

  She was aware of his silent scrutiny as he stared at her, sniffing the air like an animal, as if he could somehow smell the truth of her words. But then, she could not lie to him. He was her Sire, her creator, and she was too young and too weak to resist him. He knew her mind nearly as well as she did. She had managed to keep some secrets from him, hidden away in the most private part of her mind, behind walls of misdirection and inconsequential detail. He'd never think to look for the truths she hid, because he had no idea they existed. But he would know if she lied in answer to a direct question. And she was not lying about this. If Elizabeth was missing, Mirabelle had no idea where she was.

  "I see,” Jabril said. “Well, that is troubling. Has the woman arrived, Asim?” he asked the vampire standing at his elbow.

  "She just cleared the gate, my lord."

  Mirabelle listened, eyes downcast, her mind bombarded with questions. Where was Elizabeth? And what woman was Jabril talking about? Did she know something about Liz? She was so caught up in her own questions that she almost missed Jabril's next words, jerking in fear when he spoke right in front of her.

  "You will remain here, Mirabelle."

  "My lord,” she squeaked breathlessly, folding into a deep bow and remaining there until she was certain Jabril had moved well away. When she straightened, she did so slowly, her eyes still searching. It wasn't beyond Jabril to linger, only to punish her for disrespect. The vampires closest to her observed her cautious behavior with little snickers of disdain, and she felt a pang of old hurt. Once upon a time, these same vampires had treated her with the fondness due a younger sister. Over the months following her turning, they'd seen Jabril discard her, seen him treat her with utter disrespect. Seeking to please their master, they'd followed his example one by one until she'd been completely isolated, alone in a room full of vampires. Stifling a sigh, she ignored their snickers for now, knowing they could do no more than smirk. Until her twenty-fifth birthday, until Jabril had absolute control over her money, no one was allowed to touch her. No one except Jabril.

  Mirabelle shuffled backward until she stood against the wall, head bowed, hands fisted at her sides, wanting nothing more than to be invisible. She gazed cautiously around the room, trying to gauge the mood of the other vampires. They stood in bright clusters, talking and laughing too loudly, their voices echoing off the marble floors and high ceiling. Jabril had moved to a low dais at the front of the room, seating himself on an oversized wooden chair elaborately carved with gilded detailing. The back and seat were cushioned in deep bronze satin with gold embroidered trim. A throne by any other name, Mirabelle thought.

  She didn't care. Let him have his throne, let him have his sycophantic followers filling the room and jostling for position, trying to get close enough to preen and fawn for his attention. Not Mirabelle. The last thing she wanted was Jabril's attention. She'd much rather be hiding in her closet, checking the message boards for some sign from Liz. Because if Jabril truly didn't know where Liz had gone, she might have run, might have escaped this hellhole that had once been their home. And if that was so, she'd try to send word to Mirabelle, to let her know she was safe. They both knew Liz had to be careful, that any information she gave to Mirabelle could be pried from her mind by Jabril. But she'd send something. She wouldn't let Mirabelle worry for nothing. And Mirabelle was very worried right now.

  A door in the back of the room opened with a bare whisper of sound. Mirabelle looked up along with everyone else and saw one of the vampire lord's many bodyguards slip inside. They were enough alike that she rarely bothered to distinguish among them. Hulking men with dark hair and dead eyes, dressed all in black from shoes to shirt. This one paused, his back to the closed door, and looked to the front of the room, questioning. Mirabelle followed his gaze and saw Asim whisper briefly to Jabril who raised his eyes and nodded to the bodyguard.

  Curious, Mirabelle turned back to the entrance in time to see an unfamiliar woman stroll through. She was tall and slender, her dark hair hanging in a ragged shoulder length cut, her green eyes sweeping the room with a seemingly idle gaze. Mirabelle barely stifled the gasp of longing that stabbed through her hard enough to hurt. The woman was everything Mirabelle knew she would never be—beautiful, confident ... free. That green gaze fell on her briefly, and Mirabelle saw a flash of humor. She knew in that moment it was all a pose, a deliberate play for attention. And it was working. Every vampire in the room was staring at the visitor hungrily, wondering what it would be like to bury his teeth in that slender, soft neck. Jabril and his vampires might disdain women as something lesser, but that didn't keep them from lusting after them all the same. Mirabelle sighed, loud in the silence. The woman met her eyes again and winked.

  Mirabelle felt a flush of pleased surprise. A simple exchange, the wink of an eye, that's all it was. But it said so much: We're together here, you and me. Two women in a room of fools. She returned a tentative smile, but quickly lowered her gaze, suddenly embarrassed at how she must appear to this elegant woman, with her ugly clothes and drab scarf, not even a brush of mascara to bring out the color of her eyes.

  "Lord Jabril Karim?” The woman's voice carried across the silent room, breaking the frozen tableau.

  Jabril gave her a predatory smile, one that bore much more than the simple lust of his minions. There was cunning in that smile, and an avid hunger. Mirabelle hoped to live the rest of her long life without ever having that smile turned on her. Jabril nodded in acknowledgment. “Ms. Leighton, join us please,” he said.

  The woman started forward, the high heels of her fashionable boots clicking loudly on the marble floor. Like Mirabelle, she was dressed all in black, but the similarity ended there. Black pants clung to trim thighs before flaring slightly below the knee to accommodate mid-calf boots. She wore a cashmere turtleneck against the cold, and a leather coat fell to her ankles. Though Mirabelle was stifling, the woman seemed cool and at ease as she strode through the crowded room and stopped only inches away from the dais where Jabril presided.

  * * * *

  Cyn knew as soon as she stepped into the room that it had been a mistake to come to Texas. Pausing on the topmost of two short steps down to the main floor of a big, echoing room, she could feel the eyes crawling over her skin, the testosterone so thick it was difficult to breathe. An idle scan told her there were only males here, and vampires every one of them. No, wait, there was one lonely female, young and terrified, wearing the cast off clothing from someone's Italian grandmother.

  She drew a deep breath, taking some comfort from the weight of her Glock in its shoulder holster beneath the long, leather
coat. They hadn't searched her, hadn't so much as asked if she was armed. At first, she'd thought it was the usual vampire dismissal of a mere human, but then realized it was not her humanity that made her less. It was her gender. The realization made her both more confident ... and more cautious. Confident because she knew she could handle herself far better than most men expected. Cautious because she couldn't count on the norms of courtesy when dealing with Neanderthals of that stripe, especially not when those Neanderthals were also Vampire.

  And speaking of Neanderthals ... Her gaze ran over a half-naked giant standing to one side of the vampire lord, eyeing her suspiciously. Cyn wondered if he was a eunuch. She smiled to herself and looked directly at Jabril.

  "Lord Jabril Karim?” she asked, although really who else could he be?

  He gave her a regal nod and invited her forward. She crossed the space with a deliberately casual sway, using her height and long legs to good purpose. She paused at the base of the dais and considered taking that final step up onto the dais itself, wondering what the eunuch bodyguard would do if she tried. Self-preservation made her pause and give a little bow from the waist instead. “My lord,” she said.

  Lord Jabril's large eyes raked her from head to toe. It was more, and somehow less, than the lusting appraisal she usually got from men. As if he wanted her, but not as a woman. Or not only as a woman. She assessed him silently, waiting for him to make the next move. Typical, she thought. There he sat, the vampire lord on his make-believe throne, a prince and his courtiers. Raphael might be a treacherous pig, but he never styled himself a prince, at least not that she'd ever seen.

  She grew irritated as the minutes dragged on, feeling more and more like a specimen in a zoo, but past experience with vampires and their games kept the irritation from showing on her face. Did this jerk think she would wilt under the weight of his regard? Not likely. She pasted a look of mild curiosity on her face and waited him out.