Blood Run Cold, with Raev Gray (May 2010, eXcessica)
Lucian Dalca, an ancient vampire, takes an interest in Frederik Berg, a financial advisor with a shady past. Lucian's son, Emil, joins forces with Frederik's enemies and finds love with both of them. Family tensions come to a head, and soon it becomes clear that not everyone will survive the conflicts.
Blood Run Cold is a m/m vampire novel with strong BDSM themes and an m/m/m triad. It was released by eXcessica on 10 May.
Blood Run Cold is a m/m vampire novel with strong BDSM themes and an m/m/m triad. It was released by eXcessica on 10 May.
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Old money, Frederik Berg believed, was the best kind of money. It was the discreet money, the kind that didn't talk, but whisper. Old money had gravity, subtlety, even, if he'd attribute any kind of sentimentality to it, grace. He had cast out the network, made calls. He'd played an awful lot of golf recently—even improved his handicap, and had, distasteful as it was, slept with an American heiress in St. Moritz and managed not to kick her little dogs off the balcony while she was in the bathroom.
The lead, when it came, spoke of ancient money, and it was a hint dropped across blood red Chateau Lafitte, which had been harvested while the Nazis had been taking Europe. A family trust was seeking an asset manager, and Frederik assumed word had traveled from his old job with the other family office. This lead didn't come from the Arabs; he didn't ever expect any lead to come from the Middle East. Well, with 20% of his net worth in Dubai real estate, Prince Hasan had his own worries.
Not Frederik's problem anymore. He not so much applied for the job as went golfing with the man who made that decision—a very distinguished gentleman, and Frederik let him win, of course, just to indicate he was willing to be hired and bow to his betters. Who was behind the money was the real mystery. The holding was Swiss, accounts on the Caymans, which reminded Frederik of how he'd started out. He was to work with the money there—one part of a hydra of an investment holding, and he loved the complexity of it. Somebody had built a labyrinth to hide and obscure, and just working his way into this, he felt the whiff of history. This had been built over a long, long time.
* * * *
Lucian had been around since before money really meant anything—and how it
moved around to keep him rich was only as interesting as how his automobile worked. Much of the time, it only caught his interest when it wasn't working. Truth be told, the business of his finances interested him only because there were people involved. Berg was a real shark, they said, a metaphor that amused Lucian enough to make him want to meet this man. Berg had been given an office in one of the buildings Lucian owned in Geneva (the one place in the world where the various vampire clans played nicely with one another).
He didn't announce his arrival ahead of time, mostly because he enjoyed watching the office minions, who were everyone up to and including the CEO, scurry around like frightened mice. He could hear their thoughts, wondering why the hell Mr. Dalca had dropped in when they hadn't seen him in eight months. Was something wrong? Was he, God forbid, dissatisfied? Lucian wandered into the building wearing a cat's grin. He wasn't a large man, but compact, perfectly proportioned, giving the impression that anyone who was taller than he was too large and gangling. His dark hair curled charmingly across his forehead over pale green eyes that didn't seem quite natural, giving his looks an odd combination of boyishness and intensity. He made one's skin crawl the least bit, though nonetheless everyone turned their heads to look.
By the time he reached the elevator, he'd developed an entourage, all of which he more or less ignored or dismissed with a cool, Romanian-accented word.
Frederik's office door was open—first, he liked to see who talked to whom out on the corridor, secondly, it sent the message of being 'open.' The space was generous, a modern building that could have been designed by Norman Foster. Foster had been renovating a five-star in Zurich; maybe he had rounded off his portfolio with these offices. Frederik liked the view—from this height, people were ants, and patterns emerged.
Everything, from the polished wood, chrome, steel and marble surfaces to the clear layout spoke of money, status, and he'd been slightly restless before he'd seen that not everybody got such an office. He was thinking, idly, hands folded behind his back, standing near the floor-length windows, not gazing so much as unfocusing his eyes, not looking at anything in particular. Not even thinking anything much beyond the constant nagging ache of having been bested and how to arrange his revenge. For the moment, he was licking his wounds, and he knew it. Possibly everybody knew it, and he imagined his contacts and their contacts and everybody else was waiting with bated breath how he'd react. This had been overshadowing his work here, and he wondered whether he was truly ready, whether he could let go, and how the fuck he could stay calm and not lash out immediately. It took supreme willpower not to, but whenever he thought about it for too long, he was vibrating, very nearly shaking with rage.
Frederik suddenly felt the skin in his neck prick, and turned his head, but the window only showed him a shape in the reflection, and he turned fully to look at the man who was now standing in the office. Suddenly it was hard to breathe; the room was completely filled and Frederik's eyes widened, then narrowed, but he immediately remembered to smile. People liked to be smiled at. He sometimes had to remember which game he was playing.
"Good afternoon, sir." He'd never seen the man before, and he couldn't place him, but 'sir' was definitely a good start.
Lucian smiled; it was an expression so boyish it almost made him look like a teenager in his father's suit—almost. No teenager ever had the kind of self-possession that seemed to be a natural part of Lucian's being, and the expression had too many sharp edges to be childish. That was why he could never quite pass for human: he was too old and too far past sanity to keep the mask on. It kept slipping, even in a simple gesture like a smile.
"Good afternoon to you." He didn't linger in the doorway, but glided inside. Clearly the man was being treated well; that was good. Lucian believed in spoiling his best assets. And just by looking at him, he could tell Frederik was one of the best. Well-kept good looks aside, it didn't take a mind-reader to see the razor-sharp mind behind those eyes. He was glad he'd come. He moved forward and again the mask of humanity slipped; what should have been a series of steps for a small man seemed to be accomplished in a single movement. He extended a well-manicured hand.
"Frederik Berg. My name is Lucian Dalca."
The name had been spoken—sounds sharp, rolling, and a certain hush came over anyone who mentioned the name. It was never spoken casually. Frederik stepped closer, and took the hand, gave the firm, honest handshake that came with the pinstriped suit in his business. He smiled, an expression entirely unconnected to the prickling in his neck, like hair caught somewhere, or static.
"It is an honor to finally meet you, sir." No use pointing out he was surprised, no use talking business—unless the man started it, of course. Frederik had dealt with many eccentric millionaires and billionaires and he knew when to adopt the honest, slightly self-ironic, cultured subservience that butlers possessed. First move on a chess board, and he was playing black—he had to react, he had to work harder.
Lucian took such subservience for granted; it was just how people treated their
superiors, and he was under no illusions that he was superior. The obsequious manner amused him for some reason, though, possibly because he could tell it was an act. This man was used to acting the way he needed to act when it benefited him. The behavior intrigued Lucian and made him want to know more.
"I ought to have come sooner," he said in his smooth voice, and let Frederik interpret that how he would. He squeezed Frederik's hand, ever so slightly, then dropped it and made a circuit of the room.
"I've been hearing good things about you," Lucian continued, apparently now
captivated with the view of the streets below. "You'll allow me to give you my thanks by taking you to dinner?"
Frederik paused, smile widening, warming, as if he were flattered by the other's
attention and offer. This might be about more personal secrets, a deeper layer of the holding, a talk of strategy. Usually they didn't rush it like that, but Dalca possibly had pressing matters to attend to. "Of course—allow me to cancel a different appointment, and I will be all yours." Frederik smiled, guilelessly, a bland smile that hid any kind of double entrendre like he hadn't actually meant it.
Lucian laughed, a genuinely amused sound. "Of course you will be," he said in an affectionate tone one might use for a favorite pet. Somehow, he made it sound flattering rather than condescending.
Frederik tasted the affection, and it raced into his bloodstream, like a drug, suddenly, possibilities, and what kind of possibilities he could read from that other's body language. Power. Actual, real power. His pupils dilated, and he felt a sudden lurch of desire. His favorite drug. Danger. Of course he was all Lucian's. This was the focal point of the company, of the money, the spoke of the wheel. Frederik was always fascinated by the centre of gravity that held everything together, and, besides, the man was far younger and far more attractive than he'd thought. Spending time with him would be a pleasure, even though his skin felt like he was too close to a source of electricity, a dry tightness, more intense than goose bumps.
Lucian leaned against the column that separated one floor-to-ceiling window and the next and watched Frederik with hooded eyes, head tilted slightly. He looked like nothing more than a predator watching prey, if the predator were too lazy to do more than play.
"I confess I don't spend much time in Geneva. Will you suggest a restaurant?" he
asked. The first part was the truth, but it was also a concession; he waited to see where Frederik would lead him, if he dared suggest something at the top of the social ladder or if he'd compromise.
"I've heard the restaurant Hôtel du Parc des Eaux-Vives was decent," Frederik
ventured. Two Michelin stars should be enough. Plus, part of his mind whispered, it was a hotel. With rooms. Maybe not a good choice, then, if he appeared too... forthcoming about the other thing, but the desire was clouding his mind, and more the longer he looked at the man.
Old money, Frederik Berg believed, was the best kind of money. It was the discreet money, the kind that didn't talk, but whisper. Old money had gravity, subtlety, even, if he'd attribute any kind of sentimentality to it, grace. He had cast out the network, made calls. He'd played an awful lot of golf recently—even improved his handicap, and had, distasteful as it was, slept with an American heiress in St. Moritz and managed not to kick her little dogs off the balcony while she was in the bathroom.
The lead, when it came, spoke of ancient money, and it was a hint dropped across blood red Chateau Lafitte, which had been harvested while the Nazis had been taking Europe. A family trust was seeking an asset manager, and Frederik assumed word had traveled from his old job with the other family office. This lead didn't come from the Arabs; he didn't ever expect any lead to come from the Middle East. Well, with 20% of his net worth in Dubai real estate, Prince Hasan had his own worries.
Not Frederik's problem anymore. He not so much applied for the job as went golfing with the man who made that decision—a very distinguished gentleman, and Frederik let him win, of course, just to indicate he was willing to be hired and bow to his betters. Who was behind the money was the real mystery. The holding was Swiss, accounts on the Caymans, which reminded Frederik of how he'd started out. He was to work with the money there—one part of a hydra of an investment holding, and he loved the complexity of it. Somebody had built a labyrinth to hide and obscure, and just working his way into this, he felt the whiff of history. This had been built over a long, long time.
* * * *
Lucian had been around since before money really meant anything—and how it
moved around to keep him rich was only as interesting as how his automobile worked. Much of the time, it only caught his interest when it wasn't working. Truth be told, the business of his finances interested him only because there were people involved. Berg was a real shark, they said, a metaphor that amused Lucian enough to make him want to meet this man. Berg had been given an office in one of the buildings Lucian owned in Geneva (the one place in the world where the various vampire clans played nicely with one another).
He didn't announce his arrival ahead of time, mostly because he enjoyed watching the office minions, who were everyone up to and including the CEO, scurry around like frightened mice. He could hear their thoughts, wondering why the hell Mr. Dalca had dropped in when they hadn't seen him in eight months. Was something wrong? Was he, God forbid, dissatisfied? Lucian wandered into the building wearing a cat's grin. He wasn't a large man, but compact, perfectly proportioned, giving the impression that anyone who was taller than he was too large and gangling. His dark hair curled charmingly across his forehead over pale green eyes that didn't seem quite natural, giving his looks an odd combination of boyishness and intensity. He made one's skin crawl the least bit, though nonetheless everyone turned their heads to look.
By the time he reached the elevator, he'd developed an entourage, all of which he more or less ignored or dismissed with a cool, Romanian-accented word.
Frederik's office door was open—first, he liked to see who talked to whom out on the corridor, secondly, it sent the message of being 'open.' The space was generous, a modern building that could have been designed by Norman Foster. Foster had been renovating a five-star in Zurich; maybe he had rounded off his portfolio with these offices. Frederik liked the view—from this height, people were ants, and patterns emerged.
Everything, from the polished wood, chrome, steel and marble surfaces to the clear layout spoke of money, status, and he'd been slightly restless before he'd seen that not everybody got such an office. He was thinking, idly, hands folded behind his back, standing near the floor-length windows, not gazing so much as unfocusing his eyes, not looking at anything in particular. Not even thinking anything much beyond the constant nagging ache of having been bested and how to arrange his revenge. For the moment, he was licking his wounds, and he knew it. Possibly everybody knew it, and he imagined his contacts and their contacts and everybody else was waiting with bated breath how he'd react. This had been overshadowing his work here, and he wondered whether he was truly ready, whether he could let go, and how the fuck he could stay calm and not lash out immediately. It took supreme willpower not to, but whenever he thought about it for too long, he was vibrating, very nearly shaking with rage.
Frederik suddenly felt the skin in his neck prick, and turned his head, but the window only showed him a shape in the reflection, and he turned fully to look at the man who was now standing in the office. Suddenly it was hard to breathe; the room was completely filled and Frederik's eyes widened, then narrowed, but he immediately remembered to smile. People liked to be smiled at. He sometimes had to remember which game he was playing.
"Good afternoon, sir." He'd never seen the man before, and he couldn't place him, but 'sir' was definitely a good start.
Lucian smiled; it was an expression so boyish it almost made him look like a teenager in his father's suit—almost. No teenager ever had the kind of self-possession that seemed to be a natural part of Lucian's being, and the expression had too many sharp edges to be childish. That was why he could never quite pass for human: he was too old and too far past sanity to keep the mask on. It kept slipping, even in a simple gesture like a smile.
"Good afternoon to you." He didn't linger in the doorway, but glided inside. Clearly the man was being treated well; that was good. Lucian believed in spoiling his best assets. And just by looking at him, he could tell Frederik was one of the best. Well-kept good looks aside, it didn't take a mind-reader to see the razor-sharp mind behind those eyes. He was glad he'd come. He moved forward and again the mask of humanity slipped; what should have been a series of steps for a small man seemed to be accomplished in a single movement. He extended a well-manicured hand.
"Frederik Berg. My name is Lucian Dalca."
The name had been spoken—sounds sharp, rolling, and a certain hush came over anyone who mentioned the name. It was never spoken casually. Frederik stepped closer, and took the hand, gave the firm, honest handshake that came with the pinstriped suit in his business. He smiled, an expression entirely unconnected to the prickling in his neck, like hair caught somewhere, or static.
"It is an honor to finally meet you, sir." No use pointing out he was surprised, no use talking business—unless the man started it, of course. Frederik had dealt with many eccentric millionaires and billionaires and he knew when to adopt the honest, slightly self-ironic, cultured subservience that butlers possessed. First move on a chess board, and he was playing black—he had to react, he had to work harder.
Lucian took such subservience for granted; it was just how people treated their
superiors, and he was under no illusions that he was superior. The obsequious manner amused him for some reason, though, possibly because he could tell it was an act. This man was used to acting the way he needed to act when it benefited him. The behavior intrigued Lucian and made him want to know more.
"I ought to have come sooner," he said in his smooth voice, and let Frederik interpret that how he would. He squeezed Frederik's hand, ever so slightly, then dropped it and made a circuit of the room.
"I've been hearing good things about you," Lucian continued, apparently now
captivated with the view of the streets below. "You'll allow me to give you my thanks by taking you to dinner?"
Frederik paused, smile widening, warming, as if he were flattered by the other's
attention and offer. This might be about more personal secrets, a deeper layer of the holding, a talk of strategy. Usually they didn't rush it like that, but Dalca possibly had pressing matters to attend to. "Of course—allow me to cancel a different appointment, and I will be all yours." Frederik smiled, guilelessly, a bland smile that hid any kind of double entrendre like he hadn't actually meant it.
Lucian laughed, a genuinely amused sound. "Of course you will be," he said in an affectionate tone one might use for a favorite pet. Somehow, he made it sound flattering rather than condescending.
Frederik tasted the affection, and it raced into his bloodstream, like a drug, suddenly, possibilities, and what kind of possibilities he could read from that other's body language. Power. Actual, real power. His pupils dilated, and he felt a sudden lurch of desire. His favorite drug. Danger. Of course he was all Lucian's. This was the focal point of the company, of the money, the spoke of the wheel. Frederik was always fascinated by the centre of gravity that held everything together, and, besides, the man was far younger and far more attractive than he'd thought. Spending time with him would be a pleasure, even though his skin felt like he was too close to a source of electricity, a dry tightness, more intense than goose bumps.
Lucian leaned against the column that separated one floor-to-ceiling window and the next and watched Frederik with hooded eyes, head tilted slightly. He looked like nothing more than a predator watching prey, if the predator were too lazy to do more than play.
"I confess I don't spend much time in Geneva. Will you suggest a restaurant?" he
asked. The first part was the truth, but it was also a concession; he waited to see where Frederik would lead him, if he dared suggest something at the top of the social ladder or if he'd compromise.
"I've heard the restaurant Hôtel du Parc des Eaux-Vives was decent," Frederik
ventured. Two Michelin stars should be enough. Plus, part of his mind whispered, it was a hotel. With rooms. Maybe not a good choice, then, if he appeared too... forthcoming about the other thing, but the desire was clouding his mind, and more the longer he looked at the man.