Neona’s heart stilled as another wave of grief swept over her, leaving her cold and numb.
“Minerva,” she whispered. “Who will listen to me now in the still of the night? Whom can I trust with my secrets?”
Sleep had been difficult since the battle two weeks ago. When Neona would finally fall asleep, she dreamed of her twin sister. Memories of growing up in the valley, running through the green pastures, laughing, playing in the stream. But the dream would always take a sinister turn, and she would see Lord Liao’s sword plunging through her sister’s chest, see her sister falling to the ground. Then Neona would wake up with tears streaming down her cheeks and her heart aching so much that she thought it would burst.
But tonight had been different. Why, after all these years, would she dream about that boy? It had been a horrendous day, full of death and destruction, a day she’d tried hard to forget.
“Why did I have that dream?” She glanced at Minerva’s bed, imagining what her sister would say.
Did something different happen to you today?
“Yes,” Neona whispered. “I met a man. A man so special I couldn’t tell anyone. But I would have told you.”
Silence.
Tears filled her eyes. “It must have been a warning to shield my heart. So I would remember what happens if any of us chooses a man over our sacred duty.”
Steeling her nerves, she wiped her cheeks. It was a good thing Zoltan had disappeared. She was too vulnerable right now, too easily swayed by a false sense of affection. She would have to be strong. The price of losing one’s heart to a man was always the same. Death and destruction.
Innocent or killer? The question reverberated in Zoltan’s mind. It was the following evening, and he was in his office in Budapest, reading a report. But the words on the page kept blurring before his eyes as his brain replayed last night’s meeting over and over.
The memory always started with the best part of their meeting. The kiss. He would recall how sweet Neona had tasted, how strong yet delicate she had felt in his arms. She was the most fascinating combination of toughness and tenderness. Her words had been bold, but her body had trembled at his touch. Innocent.
But then the leopard’s warning would slice through his memory like a knife, ripping it to shreds. Then he would recall how she’d attacked him at first. He’d been unarmed, but she’d shown no mercy. No hesitation. A killer.
With a groan, he tossed the report on his desk. Innocent or killer? Which was she? Who were the women of Beyul-La? Was it a convent? But he’d never heard of nuns who went around ravishing and killing men. Maybe they were a man-hating cult? Why did they have arrows similar to the one that had killed his father? Were they descendants of the ones who had murdered him and destroyed the village? It seemed crazy, but he might have discovered a centuries-old cult of female assassins living in a place called Beyul-La.
Had Neona attacked him because he’d ventured too close to their home? The leopard had said men weren’t allowed there. They would kill him if they found him there.
He did a search on his computer for Beyul-La, but just as he expected, nothing came up. The word beyul existed, though, and it meant “hidden valley in the Himalayas.” The example cited was called Barun Valley, and the photo looked similar to the valley he’d seen. Green and lush, surrounded by snow-peaked mountains. The local people, the Sherpa, called such a place sacred. Paradise on earth. Fantasies were told of hidden valleys like Shangri-La, where the people never aged and lived forever in peace and harmony.
Zoltan snorted. There was nothing peaceful or harmonious about Neona. He’d turned his back on her once, trying to protect her, and she’d clobbered him. At least all the injuries he’d incurred had completely healed during his death-sleep.
Should he see her again? God, he wanted to. He’d enjoyed talking to her. He’d really enjoyed kissing her. But would she be glad to see him or try to kill him?
He’d never know if he stayed here in Budapest. Unfortunately, he had a full schedule of meetings until midnight, and then he had to return to his townhouse, where the ballroom was used twice a month for Coven Court.
As Coven Master of Eastern Europe, he had to preside over the proceedings, pass judgments, and generally keep the peace among his constituents. Occasionally, some Malcontents would get out of hand and he’d have to borrow some employees from Angus to go after them. For centuries, he’d been keeping law and order. And building a successful business. He owned the old castle and surrounding area in Transylvania and a great deal of real estate in Budapest, Hungary, and Sofia, Romania.
Business was good. Work kept him busy. So busy that he could usually forget that he was alone. He solved other people’s problems, protected them from Malcontents, Communists, Nazis, Ottoman Turks, Mongols. On and on, for centuries.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. He was tired. Tired of the same activities stretching on into eternity. It was times like this when he sorely missed his old friend Istvan.
As the local vampire, Istvan was already old and wise when Zoltan had met him as a child. And when Zoltan had suddenly become the new Count of Czakvar at the age of fourteen, Istvan had lent him advice and wealth in order to rebuild the castle and village. At the age of twenty-nine, Zoltan had despaired that he would grow old and die without discovering the truth surrounding the deaths of his parents, and he’d begged Istvan to change him. Since Istvan had been a friend of his father’s and was also keen to solve the mystery, he’d agreed to become Zoltan’s sire.
Over the years, Istvan became a second father to Zoltan. The old vampire warned him that acquiring wealth was important, even necessary, for a Vamp. It meant security and freedom. So Zoltan had amassed a small fortune. He felt secure enough these days, in spite of Howard’s fussing, but he didn’t feel free. He just felt . . . tired.
Istvan had died in the Great Vampire War of 1710, killed by the evil Casimir. Zoltan had tried his best to step into the shoes of his mentor, volunteering to take over Istvan’s job as Coven Master of Eastern Europe. Zoltan had been reelected in 1750, then again in 1850 and 1950. Apparently, no one else wanted the responsibility.
Istvan had also taught Zoltan that time spent protecting mortals would give his life meaning. Zoltan had accepted that as his noble purpose. But the longer he lived, the more mortals he saw grow old and die. He couldn’t really protect them from death. Was his noble purpose nothing more than vanity to make himself feel better?
With a sigh, he opened his eyes, and his gaze fell on the computer screen and the photo of Barun Valley. Paradise on earth. Similar to Beyul-La, but the ridges around Beyul-La had seemed impenetrable, so that the valley was completely cut off from the rest of the world. Beautiful, but so isolated. What would cause a handful of women to live alone in such a place? Why were they willing to kill to keep it secret?
Zoltan sat up. This was what he needed. A new quest. He would discover the secrets of Beyul-La and win the heart of Neona. If she didn’t kill him first. And he might also solve the mystery of his first quest and find out what had happened that fateful day in 1241. Because of the arrow, he had a strong feeling it was all connected.
A knock sounded on the door, and Milan peeked in. “Sir, I’m sorry to say this, but your meeting in five minutes has to be postponed. They just called, and they’re running late. They don’t expect to be here for thirty minutes—”
“That’s fine.” Zoltan’s heart started pounding. In thirty minutes he could teleport to Tibet and back. “Oh, Milan,” he said when his assistant started to shut the door.
“Yes, sir?” Milan looked back in.
“Clear my schedule for tomorrow. In fact, clear it for a week.”
Milan’s mouth dropped open. “You’re taking a vacation?”
“Yes.” Zoltan grabbed a pen and some paper.
“But you never take a vacation. Not in the five years that I’ve worked for you.”
“You’ve been with me five years?”
“Yes, sir.” Milan blushed slightly and adjusted his glasses. “You hired me after I graduated from college.”
“Oh.” Zoltan thought back. Milan’s grandfather had been the steward at his castle for years. And Milan’s father, the head gardener, had turned the gardens into one of the highlights of the castle tour. They were always there, every night, just like Milan. “I don’t recall you ever taking a vacation.”