Gold

GOLD

Josephine Book Three

An Imperial Vampires Novel

Catherine Winters

1st Edition published digitally March 30, 2015 and in Trade Paperback March 30, 2015 by Catherine Winters, United States, www.writingwinters.com

Cover Design by Colin Christie

GOLD

Copyright 2015, Catherine Winters

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. If you don’t know what that means, look it up.

Table of Contents

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

-10-

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-13-

-14-

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-18-

Dear Reader

About Catherine Winters

-1-

The package — a large, flattish envelope, one of those ones they keep on the wall in mailbox stores — jingled as I took it from the messenger. I only had time to form half a question about tipping him before he was gone, down the hall and back to — couri-ing? Couriering? Carrying? Huh. I'd have to look that up.

What is it? Max lounged in the living room of our suite at the Four Seasons, flipping through television channels more for something to do than because he actually wanted to watch anything. It had been the same routine for three nights now, and I was seriously planning to hide the fucking remote.

Give me twenty seconds to open it, would you? We needed out of this hotel room. I didn't care that it was three thousand square feet. He was crowding me.

I slid a finger under the envelope flap and tore it along the top seam. I spilled it onto the dining table: documents, more documents, and five sets of keys.

My settlement.

Max turned off the television and came into the dining room, sliding an arm around my waist and resting his head on my shoulder.

Daddy sent me money, I said, and reached back to run my fingers through his blonde curls.

Thank you, Daddy. He kissed my throat; he was cold. We had to hunt tonight.

I shook the envelope: no note. Just the settlement documents, the deeds to my properties, my keys, and a couple of sheets with account numbers and passwords. I already had all my debit and credit cards — mostly credit because, of course, almost all my money was hidden. Offshore, mainly, but Grant still had a soft spot for a Swiss account, and letting the human governments know about a few of his sins meant they didn't go looking for the rest of them.

I thought about texting him to let him know I got the package, but of course I'd signed for it, so he'd know. Fine. He didn't want to talk, I wouldn't talk.

I slid into the chair at the head of the table, propped my feet up on the corner, and started reading. Max settled himself next to my toes, running his fingers up and down my bare legs absently. It was his preferred attitude for touching me lately, as if he had to do it, even if he didn't care to think about it. I chalked it up to the blood bond and said nothing, though his fingers were freezing.

I paged through a lot of legalese, but what I came up with was this: Around eighty million dollars in a combination of offshore, Swiss, and good old American bank accounts and various investment funds. Five properties: one detached single-family with tenants, a triplex with tenants, the loft at 18th and Champa, and a house in Cherry Hills Village that was listed at a little over a million dollars. It had its own gym. And half of a French château, though why only half, I had no idea. The BMW was mine; the closet at the covenhouse was mine. I'd have to make arrangements for that. Far be it from me to look a clotheshorse in the mouth. And I had enough stock in Black Industries to make me a voting board member. I quirked a brow at that: did Grant expect I'd read up on shipping and whatever-the-hell else he did? No. I'd have to figure out how to give those privileges to someone else, even if it meant selling the stock.

Roughly, I was rich as shit.

But Max was not.

Don't, he said, taking my tiny feet in his hands. I don't want his money.

It's my money. I dropped the last contract on the table and lolled against the chair. Cold or not, his hands were magic when he put his mind behind them.

I don't want you to take care of me.

I pulled my legs off the table. Jesus, Max. You know what you sound like?

Oh, so treating me like some sort of gigolo is a feminist issue, now?

I laughed. It was so unbelievably ridiculous — "Gigolo?"

You're paying me for — He waved his hand, taking in me in my nightgown and he in his pajamas and the unnecessarily extravagant room I'd charged to my erstwhile husband. "This. All of it. Companionship or sex or whatever. Amusement, I suppose. You'll do anything to be amused these days."

The smile slid off my face. Ah. He assumed — because why wouldn't he? — that this was like the night before the covenmistress ceremony, the night I'd brought him home and then ordered up an underbutler, too. Amusement. He had a point. I opened my mouth, but I didn't know how to refute it.

I hate it when I'm right, he said, rubbing his chest. And I hate that I can't be angry with you.

You can be —

No, he said, and winced. The bond doesn't allow it.

Oh. Well. That fucking sucked. My settling you has nothing to do with us. You don't know who made you; you've had to rely on the largesse of the Empire, of Grant's coven.

Your coven.

I snorted. Trust me, it's not my coven now. I pushed the memory of Grant ordering me out of the house out of my head. Don't you want freedom? I stretched and stood behind my chair. I realized how it made us look, uneasy, unequal.

I'm free enough. It isn't as if the stipend is small, you know. Besides, the other fledglings don't get it.

There aren't any other fledglings.

There were.

I glared at him. Seriously? You're holding that against him?

That got us here. More wincing, and his hand stole back to the place just above his heart.

You know, you were supposed to be an alternative to the fighting.

Was I? I don't remember promising anything.

My hand tensed around the back of the chair; I heard a crack and let go, but too late. The top of the silk-upholstered backrest sagged awkwardly to one side. Grant was going to be pissed when he got this hotel bill. What crawled up your ass tonight?

His largesse. He sighed and reached for my free hand. I let him have it. He'd as soon see me dead, Phina. I don't want his money.

I didn't tell him that, no, in fact, Grant had been quite concerned with his welfare — when he thought it would keep me close. I didn't want them both turning on me, and I knew how to fight with Max so that all I'd get back was an apology. "It's my money, first of all, and secondly, you haven't objected to his money when it's paying for the Four fucking Seasons. When it put a roof over your injured head. When it helped support Mircalla."

Phina —

So don't take it, fine. Live on sufferance forever. Don't expect it to be my sufferance, though. I pulled out of his grip; he said my name as I slammed the bedroom door on him. Very mature, as usual.

I paced between the mountain-view windows and the door, silk nightgown brushing the silk taffeta duvet every time I went past, shush-shush, the whisper of luxury. Don't believe people who tell you beauty improves their mood. We were surrounded by it constantly, everything perfect, even our own bodies just-so, and we got angry about people wanting to give away money.

I sat on the bed. Maybe that wasn't fair. Did he have a point? Should I not want Grant's money, either? Was that eighty million dollars just something I should refuse?

Ha, right. No. Max was, as usual, being difficult, trying to assert some sort of independence or something and, also as usual, going about it in exactly the wrong way. You want to be useful and independent? How about you ask Mircalla for a job instead of arguing with me about whether or not I can give you a couple million to keep you in shoes and suit-pants? Jesus. I'd run away with him: couldn't that shut up his insecurities for ten fucking minutes?

I'd run away with Max.

I dropped my head into my hands. No, it was not the first time I'd had the thought in the last week, but it was the first time I hadn't shoved it away to deal with later. I'd run away with Max. I'd run away from my husband and all my responsibilities and then used his credit card to buy the most expensive thing I could find in Denver. I'd left him to be with a man I didn't like much, but kept fucking; a man I'd accidentally bonded to me and now was stuck with.

Was I trying to make the best of things? I snorted. Hardly. I could have taken ten damn minutes to think things through and I wouldn't have left. Not even after Grant told me to. When was the last time I'd done what I was told?

I worried the finger where my emerald should be. What had I done to Grant? Was he in trouble now, too? Had he divorced me? Who would have adjudicated that, when there was no more Empire?

Was there no more Empire?

I should have stayed.

No, said Max from the doorway. They say jump and you say how high and where does that end? You weren't happy.

I'm not happy now.

We'll figure it out.

Will we?

His mouth set. Well, pardon me for not realizing that it was placation time.

Max, you're bonded and won't take my money and I'm — I'm lost. What are we doing? Are we going to live in hotels from now on? Are we moving to somewhere he's given me, or will you complain about that, too?

Maybe I should leave.

And go where? You won't take the money. Go back to Mircalla? You can't go back to Grant, that's certain. Not without my intercession.

He held his hands together, fingers straight, and looked at the ceiling. Oh, St. Josephine, please don't leave me without your intercession! He dropped the sarcasm and his hands. I'll make do.

"You shouldn't have to, that's my point. They owe us. They owe you."

And will you forfeit everything you won?

I stared at him. Won?

When you killed.

I still didn't get it.

Phina, didn't you know this? It's not just your settlement. You own everything Augustus did, and Bathory and Ruthven. Vampires who kill vampires inherit their property — though I'm sure our dear Empress will find some way to deny it to you, that's the tradition. That's the law, as I understand it.

I took a second for that. Grant had just given me eighty million plus property. Now I owned everything that had taken a combined 2,500 years to amass? If my heart could stop — really stop, that hitching, human hiccup — it would have.

Have it, I said. You think you deserve something for helping kill them? You do. Take it. Take it all. I'd have to live in this fucking hotel to even make a dent in my settlement. I don't need anything else.

Why try so hard to please me?

Because I'd like to please someone! I lowered my voice. I need to do something right here, Max, or I am going to keep feeling like the world's biggest fuckup, and that makes me even more unhappy than fighting with you. Or Grant.

Oh, Phina. He came into the room, knelt in front of me. He dropped his head into my lap, hugging my hips. You've done a much better job of dying than I did.

I ran my hands into his hair. Really? I feel like I've killed an inordinate number of other people.

He laughed against my belly; my fingers tightened on his curls. I think until you reach five thousand, you're safely in the 'ordinate' category.

Take the money.

He looked up at me from my lap, not moving his head. Does it mean so much to you?

Yes.

All right, then.

Good. Now that's settled —

We can go to bed? He started pulling my nightgown up using just his thumbs, sliding the silk over my skin.

We can go get you something to eat, and I slipped out of his hands and into the bathroom. Go get dressed.

****

Wow.

I tipped my head back to take in the height of the foyer: two full stories. A set of steps led down into the living/dining/kitchen combo, an unfortunately open arrangement I didn't care for at all. But the floors were hardwood; the appliances — useless as they were to me — stainless; the counters marble. Crown molding, beige walls. A blank canvas.

Max whistled as he came in, shutting the door behind him. Holy shit.

Right? Because what I need is several thousand unfurnished square feet.

This must have cost him a fortune.

I snorted. He has it.

I wandered into the house, flipping on lights. Mine. A house that dwarfed my little brick ranch in Aurora, a size for which I had neither need nor desire. But still, mine.

Your bed is enormous!

I followed Max's voice up the stairs — the back stairs, because I had two sets of the things, not counting the set that led to the basement — and into the master bedroom. He wasn't kidding. The whole room was huge. There was the enormous bed, a sitting area, and a bathroom, which had both a clawfoot tub and a separate shower, between the bedroom and the dressing room. It took up the entire north side of the house. Jesus. What did Grant think I would do with all this space? Obviously he didn't just think rich people lived like this; the loft downtown was manageable.

Max flopped onto the mattress; it gave under him. Too soft.

For all I knew, Grant hadn't even seen the place. Probably he called an agent — or had one on staff — and asked for a house in the best zip code in Denver. Cherry Hills Village had some of the highest home prices in the state, and wandering through all the rooms I couldn't even come up with a use for, I understood why.

Are you going to hire a decorator?

Because I'm just too busy to do it myself? No. I touched one of the beige walls in the too-long upstairs hallway. Painters, though. It's so bland.

People like that.

People are dumb.

Phina, you're really, really rich.

I sighed. Let's go back down.

We trudged down the stairs. Max was already buying big-screen televisions and bookshelves with my money as we passed through what might have been a living room and a media room and a — hell, I have no idea. Too many rooms. I went down into the semi-finished basement to find another outside door and a mudroom next to a laundry room twice the size of my first apartment. Too bad we sent everything out.

Aside from those rooms off the door, though, the space was empty. Carpeted, drywalled, painted, but empty.

I curled the fingers of my right hand up into a fist, then released, walking a little blue fireball along my knuckles like a magician with a coin. The carpet and drywall would have to go. You can't go throwing fire at flammables, after all, and this...this could be a perfect space to figure out just what, exactly, I might be capable of.

This looks promising, said Max. Even though I hate those fireballs.

Those fireballs kept me alive. I extinguished it anyway, rolling it into my palm and making it disappear. No, I still have no idea how I do it. I just know that I do, and that they're useful. Great at parties, too. I'm thinking of setting it up as a training room.

To figure out how much of a Miracle Baby you are?

Ding ding ding.

Carpet'll have to go.

I nodded. And maybe add a drain? I'm interested to see what I can do with water.

What would that be? Hydrokinetic?

I guess.

You get to name yourself, Phina. How cool is that?

It would be cooler if I could read about it on the Kindle. Let's go — I stopped. Where?

Home?

Yeah, but where is that?

He shrugged.

I sighed.

****

We shut all the lights and locked up after ourselves. The garage was close to the street, though the house was partially hidden behind old-growth trees and a meandering path deeper into the acre-plus lot. It would probably be completely hidden in the summer, but about half the trees were bare now. I surveyed the neighborhood as we walked: quiet. No one parked on the street, except for a boring little sedan I might have attributed to police but for the very un-cop-like guy in the front seat on the phone. Lost, probably, and making excuses to someone. I didn't bother to listen in. Call me jaded, but I was beginning to find most people boring.

You hungry? I asked Max, shifting into first and laying on the gas.

Starving.

Let's stop by the room. I need to change if we're going out.

You're not hungry at all.

I shrugged. It had been a day — no, two. I could eat.

Max shook his head. I envy you sometimes.

And then you remember how everyone is up my ass for everything all the time, and you don't anymore.

Yup.

And that's why I ran away with you. I gestured at the glovebox. Light me a cigarette.

Do the rest of them think you like it or something?

I don't know. No, I do: they think I should put myself to some use greater than my own satisfaction.

They don't know you at all.

I smiled. I couldn't help it. Max knew all of that, knew how selfish I was. You should have warned them.

This is much more fun.

I had to agree with that.

****

If you ever need really, really heavy things, look no further than Craigslist. I mean, yes, it's a giant pain in the ass to have to hire a couple guys to help you pick up enormous hardwood desks and bookcases and entertainment centers when you could just magick them into a truck, but if you really want to see how much your little finger can lift all by itself? Pick yourself up some half-priced, gently used furniture and put it in your basement.

At least, do that if you're a freaky-ass vampire with time on her hands.

Max and I had settled into the Cherry Hills house mostly so I could spend my time in the basement, moving things around and then setting them on fire. Well, some of them. I mean, the moving was pretty easy. I could slide things, levitate things, move them across the room if I wanted. No sweat. It was the fire that gave me problems: absolutely nothing made of hardwood would ignite.

My fireballs have never seemed hot to me, but they can light a cigarette or a gas stove burner or a candle. Little things, things that are supposed to burn. But I kept throwing them at desks and secretaries and kitchen tables to absolutely zero effect. I'd make them bigger: nothing. I'd stand closer or farther away. I'd send several at once. They'd absorb into the wood, harmless, useless.

Hardwood was one of the few things my Kindle had an answer for. Well. I say an answer but really, the entry only met the technical definition of one. Hardwoods have some sort of dampening effect on vampires. They can render us completely powerless if we're young or weak; they can be used to control our strength, as when the Empire makes handcuffs and gags out of them. Hunters use hardwood for stakes, because it makes it easier to actually puncture our bones, our hearts.

No one knows why this works, though. No one has done any sort of scientific examination, because that would make too much fucking sense. It's always simply been accepted that hardwoods — ash, cherry, oak, et cetera — will fuck us up. Because they do.

I hurled another set of fireballs at the cherry highboy in front of me anyway, because it was something to do. The flames hit the front and fanned out, a wave of fire dissipating uselessly.

Hardwood still defying you?

I turned; Max lounged on the stairs, watching me and drinking. He, of course, could get drunk — at least a little bit — and had taken to doing exactly that most nights. It took more liquor, but at least Gypsies had the option. I don't understand why I can move it, but I can't burn it.

He shrugged. How's the water going?

I levitated his ice cubes.

Cute.

I lowered them back into his scotch. So what's up?

Mircalla called me.

I stiffened, then made myself relax. We left the covenhouse before Christmas. It was now the end of January, and aside from my settlement documents, this was the first we'd heard from them. I couldn't be angry about it. Not until I knew what she'd said. And?

She's concerned about the disposition of property.

The what now?

You know. He sipped. I wondered how many he'd had tonight. When you're going to pick up your stuff.

Did this mean there was an Empire? Or was she just tidying things up where she could, clearing off her desk before she left it? What's it to her? Do I have a time limit?

I think she's interested in buying some of it off you.

She can have it.

Don't be hasty, Phina. There are some rumors about what you might own now.

Such as? I hated when they pulled this cagey shit. Open your damn mouth and talk. Or don't. But don't dangle carrots in front of me like that.

Some people think Geneviève Lacroix hid Council records, and that Augustus found them.

Why would she hide them?

Two theories: from Coventry, because she was just a mess, apparently; or from Grant.

So why is anyone but me interested in Council records? It's only me and Grant, now. How useful are they to anyone else?

He held his empty hand up, palm out. I'm just passing on the gossip I hear.

From whom?

I have friends. Am I not allowed to talk to them?

I shrugged. No, of course you can, but it was an absent reassurance. Friends. Who had friends in this world? Everyone was out to sink a stake in your back at the first opportunity. Weren't they?