Free Dark Studies (Arcaneology) by C. P. Foster

him. Steffen threw his head back and let go.
    Aftershocks twitched through them for several moments. As the last tremors faded, Grace took in deep breaths, and with each exhalation she relaxed a little more until her muscles turned to liquid. Steffen eased onto his back and pulled her with him. He was himself again, taking control, placing her where he liked. She let him turn her onto her side so he could spoon her from behind. The feel of that big body wrapping itself around her made her hum with contentment.
    Into her hair, he murmured, “Thank you.”
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
    In answer to your question, my first child was a warrior who fought like a demon and partied like a madman. My second was a psychotic sadist of a woman. That was some five hundred years ago, and I am no longer the person I was then. If I were to create another, what would I choose now? Someone intelligent, with a passion for life that is tempered by self-discipline. Someone whose thoughts and opinions are worth hearing. Someone like you, when you were human.
    —Steffen Scott, letter to James Morgan, c. 1632
     
     
     
    Angie walked off the ferry at the little town of Kingston on the Olympic Peninsula and crossed the street to a restaurant that served Northwest cuisine, mostly seafood and game meats, reflecting the cultural heritage of the region. Her dinner date awaited her at a table next to the window, looking out over the ferry terminal. He appeared to be a man in his mid-forties. His dark hair was shot through with strands of silver, and a few character lines marked his forehead. The gold-brown color of his eyes should have been warm, but they were too distant to be called that.
    An hors d’oeuvre was already on the table: steaming hot mushrooms stuffed with crab and lightly breaded. He must have ordered it when he saw the ferry approaching, so it would be ready for her. A glass of white wine waited as well.
    “James.” She smiled and bent to kiss his cheek.
    “Angel. It’s good to see you.”
    “You, too.”
    There was no plate on his side of the table, just a large wineglass filled with opaque red liquid, warmed to body temperature. As she settled into her seat, he picked it up and took a sip. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
    “I have a favor to ask.” She helped herself to one of the mushrooms, and the burst of flavor made her close her eyes and hum with appreciation.
    “Name it,” he said.
    “It’s research for my dissertation. I’d like to focus on the Fallen, but material is scarce. Have you heard of the Journals of Iphra-El?”
    “They were sold in a private auction a couple of years ago, if I recall.”
    “Could you find out who has them and possibly get me access?”
    His eyebrows rose a fraction. “That is a tall order. I’m flattered you have such a high opinion of my capabilities.”
    “Don’t try your false modesty on me.” Angie's lips quirked up at the corners. She knew he had agents all over the world. No one was better at gathering information and making things happen behind the scenes. In his human life he had been the spymaster for King Stephen of Blois, though that wasn’t what they called it back then. The vampire who’d turned him was a sovereign who recognized the value of his skills and had the patience to wait until James got his newly acquired hungers under control. It paid off. For nearly a century, James provided him with information and opportunities beyond his wildest dreams. Now, he served the Covenant. And his own agenda.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed, “but I cannot promise anything.”
    “Thank you. You have a few contacts among the Fallen, don’t you? I need to find some willing to let me interview them.”
    “I can arrange introductions, but an interview will be difficult. The effect they have on humans is…overwhelming.”
    “I’d be grateful for any advice you could give.”
    James took another drink, a longer one this time. He would have fed earlier, she