“We?” Daniel caught his balance as she jerked him to the door. “We who?”
Trisk didn’t move as Barbara all but pushed him into the lunchroom. Miserable, Trisk crossed her arms over her chest when the entire building shouted “Surprise!” and began to sing “Happy Birthday.” Her eyes closed, and depressed, she slumped back against the wall beside the doors. Her birthday was in the spring, but elves weren’t known to celebrate them, as there were too many memories of babies who never grew up.
Unable to go into that room full of happy people and pretend, she opened her eyes and pushed herself up from the wall.
Starting, she jerked to a stop, almost running into the man standing before her. She hadn’t even heard him approach. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her gaze going first to his ID badge before dropping to run over his tall frame. He looked almost exotic in his slim-waisted suit inspired by the latest British fashion, his narrow, brilliantly red tie the only nod to old-school business Americana. Dark, gently waving hair almost dared to touch his broad shoulders, and her face warmed at the unusual pull she felt toward him. “Excuse me,” she added, faltering at his intent gaze, his pupils widening ever so slightly to make his dark eyes even darker. They seemed to be looking right to her core, and she stifled a shudder, becoming very much awake despite it being noon.
“You must be Felecia,” he said, his mellow voice sounding as if he should be announcing jazz on the radio, not standing in the hallway of a scientific center.
A faint hint of brimstone tickled the back of her throat, and in a cold wash, she realized she wasn’t standing with a human. Suddenly his allure became . . . threatening. Don’t witches smell like brimstone? “I’m sorry. Are you supposed to be here?”
Smiling with his lips closed, he extended his hand. “I’m Rick Rales. The new CEO.”
“Oh.” She cautiously tapped a line, letting a bare hint of it run through her as she took his hand. If he was a witch, he’d notice and give himself away. Only witches and elves could tap into and use ley lines. But the man’s hand gripped hers with only a professional strength. “Everyone calls me Trisk or Dr. Cambri,” she added, pulling away when she remembered: Witches didn’t smell like brimstone. Vampires did.
He was a vampire. Not an undead one, as the sun was up, but a living vampire, born to parents who were the same before they died and became truly undead. He’d have some of the strength and charisma of his undead brethren, but none of the liabilities, and he probably only dabbled in blood whereas the true undead needed it to survive. Probably. What is he doing here?
“Ah, nice to meet you,” she added as Rick touched the side of his nose and smiled, clearly recognizing that he’d been outed. She should have known right away. The undead bred their living kin like horses, designing entire family lines to be compliant, mentally flexible, and most definitely beautiful. And Rick was breathtakingly handsome. In his midthirties, he was clearly too old to be a plaything anymore. It would make him smart, ruthless, and very . . . subtle, to have survived this long under his undead master’s attention.
Trisk hadn’t dealt with the undead much. Indeed, apart from elected officials and very old vampires regulating human-Inderland affairs, there was a “you go your way and I go mine” mentality that kept the peace. Showing fear, though, would be a mistake. She knew that much.
“I, uh, wasn’t aware we were getting a new boss,” she added, glancing in at the festivities. “Is Dr. Hartsford okay?”
“He is.” Rick’s lips split to show normal-looking teeth. He was wearing caps over his slightly elongated canines, though nothing would hide the truly long versions he’d get once he died. “You might say you invited me,” he said, head inclined in amusement.
“Really? How so?” Her pulse had quickened, and she didn’t like that he probably knew.
Rick leaned in, and she froze as he whispered, “You need to keep your nose out of human progress.”
Trisk pulled back, hating that she had flushed. “I created a drought-resistant tomato.”
“Your boyfriend’s virus?” he asked, thick eyebrows high.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said quickly, wanting to walk away, but turning her back on him wasn’t an option and might invite him to follow.
Rick breathed deeply, and she wondered if he was tasting the emotions that lingered long after those responsible for them had left. “He wants to be,” he said, voice as soft as black silk, and Trisk felt ill, wishing there were a vampire handbook she could consult. “Play with him. You have a hundred years to make more elves.”
Lips pressed, Trisk took a long step back. No sense of personal space. She knew what he was, and he needed to stop trying to pull an aura on her, which was a polite way of saying trying to charm her into being his blood slave. “Why are you here?”
Immediately Rick lost his avarice, glancing into the lunchroom as if it helped him find a calmer state. “You tweaked his virus,” he accused. “There are elven fingerprints all over it. We are in the government as much as you are, and we know it’s been slated for military use. I’m here to make sure you’re not creating something to further your species at our expense.” His eyes found hers. “You elves are tricky little bastards.”
By our expense, he meant the vampires’, and she found her courage, hands on her hips as she leaned into his space, brave here among the humans as she couldn’t be in a dark alley. He wouldn’t dare bite her to try to bind her to him. Not here. “I may have given him some ideas,” she said, smug as he blinked in surprise at her lack of fear. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. If you’d bother to look at the code, you’ll see that I made everyone immune to it. All of us,” she emphasized. “Not just elves. It’s human specific, right down to its mRNA.”