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So he used his tongue and worked her in that way only he could, drawing out the sudden physical response so peculiar to her, that she could orgasm with just a kiss. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
Maybe it was Dark Spectacle. Maybe it was the music, or the moment, or the knowledge that death lived off her right shoulder ready to swing the scythe, or maybe it was just Jean-Pierre in a gorgeous tux, but as he drew back from her and smiled that tender smile of his, she sent, Je t’aime. I love you, so very much. You have my heart.
His expression changed, his ocean eyes narrowing, his cheeks drawing in, his breath a sigh. Je t’aime, aussi, he sent. You have my heart as well, ma chérie.
But something began to change. His eyelashes batted as if in slow motion. He spoke as he turned back to the music. “The … music … is … Beethoven’s…” The last word was so low and so garbled she could make no sense of it. Then he simply froze.
She didn’t know what was happening. She turned to glance down the long curved row of boxes. No one blinked, spoke, or moved in any perceptible manner.
She glanced behind her intending to ask Santiago or Zach what was happening, but they were frozen as well, Santiago looking at his phone. Zach frowning at the stage.
She looked back at the stage. Casimir stood there alone, facing in her direction. He waved at her.
So he could move.
What on earth was going on?
She stretched her vision and saw his smile, the arrogant curve of his lips and set of his shoulders. He wore snug black leather pants, black boots with pointed toes, no shirt, just his long, thick hair loose about his shoulders, his muscular pecs on display.
“Come join me,” he called to her. There was no music because even the orchestra appeared stuck in mid-motion. “I have done this for you, Fiona. Now come to me.”
She shook her head. She didn’t know what to do.
But before she could gather her wits to even figure out what was happening, the two white-winged men flew from the cave and sped in her direction. She felt panicky, queasy. If she rose, they would grab her. But if she stayed put, they’d do the same and there seemed to be no time, just three seconds to make a decision.
Instinctively, she put a hand on Jean-Pierre’s arm and leaned back farther in her chair.
The men arrived. She shook her head and said, “No. Don’t do this.” But neither looked at her.
Instead they swooped down on Jean-Pierre, took him underneath his arms, and flew away with him.
She vaulted out of her seat reaching for him. If she had been able to mount her wings, she would have flown after them, but she couldn’t. All she could do was cry out another helpless, useless, “No!”
Casimir was suddenly next to her. She moved backward, bumping into her chair. She tried to move around the chair, but he simply caught her arm and held her fast.
“What are you doing? What have you done with Jean-Pierre?”
He smiled. “You weren’t supposed to be immune to my stasis skills.” He shrugged. “But I don’t think this is a bad thing. If anything, I expect to have a little more fun. And isn’t that what life is all about?”
Fiona felt the smooth glide, saw the darkness, and knew she was moving through nether-space.
When she arrived, with Casimir still holding her by the arm, she blinked at the familiar dark space, the stone walls, the smooth floor, the slab of dark granite upon which Jean-Pierre was stretched out, beautiful in his tux, but held in stasis.
She jerked away from Casimir.
“You should thank me. I’ve made him more comfortable. I stretched out his legs, his arms.”
She turned and faced the monster, the hedonist, the Fourth ascender. “Have you no conscience?”
He pursed his lips, shook his head, and shrugged. “Uh, that would be a no.” He chuckled.
“Then what do you want?”
“That is an excellent question and to tell you the truth I often have the worst time answering it. I can say this: I want to feel pleasure, a lot of pleasure, and as often as possible. Is that something you can offer me?” As he had the last time she was with him, he hooked his thumb in the waistband of his pants and tapped his zipper with long fingers.
She refused to look down. “No,” she replied.
“Pity.” He turned to the men, who had retracted their wings. They each were as tall as Jean-Pierre, but more muscled, like Warrior Luken. She would have been more frightened but their eyes were dull, enthralled.
“Your minions?” she asked.
“Of course. Are they not magnificent? Russian and as physically powerful as your WhatBee here.”
He moved toward the table in the direction of Jean-Pierre’s head. “Nice tux. I’ve seen this. I believe it is the latest Brioni. Yes, very nice. Your man is quite beautiful.” Casimir put his hand on Jean-Pierre’s shoulder and caressed him.
Fiona’s instincts flared. She didn’t want Casimir touching him, not like that, not like he wished to possess her man. She moved toward him.
Casimir glanced at her and laughed. “Jealous?” he asked.
“Take your hand off him. Now.” She had never heard so much force in her voice before.
“Oh, I think I’ve hit one of your buttons.” He looked back at Jean-Pierre, leaned down and kissed his forehead. At the same time, Jean-Pierre’s coat, bow tie, and shirt disappeared, leaving him bare-chested. Casimir moved in behind Jean-Pierre’s head, bent low, and slid his hands down Jean-Pierre’s chest.
Fiona wasn’t thinking when she leaped onto the table and threw herself on Jean-Pierre. She bared her fangs to Casimir.
What he saw seemed to startle him because he actually moved backward, his hands flying away from Jean-Pierre. He held them up in surrender. “Extraordinary,” he murmured. “But then given what you demonstrated earlier, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re glowing again.”
She hardly cared. She only knew he was not to touch her man, her warrior, her vampire.
She remained in that position, protectively above Jean-Pierre.
Casimir shifted his gaze to his oversized minions, snapped his fingers, and said, “Secure the woman. Bind the man.”
Before she could plot a countermove, the two men moved with preternatural speed and she was dragged off the table and her arms pinned behind her back. The other worked a strange kind of white tape around Jean-Pierre’s throat and torso, lifting him up, raising his arms in a series of quick moves as though he flipped a rag doll.
She thought she saw the smallest flicker of Jean-Pierre’s eye in her direction.
