The Immortal Greek by Monica La Porta Page B

was under water.
    While still fighting to free herself, she slowed her breathing and regulated her heartbeats so she wouldn’t need air for at least half an hour. Her assailant was paranormal. She wouldn’t have had any problem fighting off a man, but this one had strength that rivaled hers, therefore he couldn’t be human and knew he wouldn’t kill her by just keeping her head under water. She thrashed, bucked, and kicked, and felt the man release his hold. One of his hands left her throat and she pushed herself up with the intention of head-butting him, when she felt a stabbing prick on her hipbone.
    The man suddenly let her go and she was back in the tub, her legs dangling over the ceramic edge, dizziness possessing her at an alarming rate. Her eyes went down to her right hip, where a thin rivulet of blood marred the water, but her vision was blurred. In a last effort, she propelled herself out of the tub to unbalance the man.
    ****
    On his way to the club on the Appian Way, Alexander called Ravenna several times, but she never answered. He informed Samuel he had done his best, then kept driving to the club where he had his breakfast and waited for anyone on the angel’s list to show up. As he had anticipated, the first to arrive had been one of the most powerful men in the paranormal scene, Lucius Seneca Quintilius, one of the few werewolves who had business with the Immortal Council, the Vampire Nation, and the rest of the paranormal tribes. The Were Nation tended to be secluded from the other species, but Quintilius managed to make everybody happy by sharing a good portion of his fortune with the rest of the paranormals. He also had dealings within the human realm. In almost three thousand years, he had accumulated so much he could afford to be magnanimous.
    “I heard you had quite the eventful night.” Quintilius had made a beeline toward Alexander as soon as he stepped inside the club’s breakfast nook and saw him.
    Alexander pulled a chair out for the massive werewolf. “Not as fun as you think it was.” He had counted on the rumor mill to work for him. It made asking difficult questions easier.
    “My nephew told me otherwise.” Quintilius took the chair, opened the last buttons on the jacket of his suit, then sat and raised his hand to let the hovering waiter know he was ready to order. “What are you having?” He gave Alexander’s plate a mildly interested look.
    “Fresh fruit.” He brought his fork to his mouth and ate a small cube of watermelon.
    “The usual for me.” He dismissed the waiter with a flick of his fingers. “So, I heard the Stross boy committed suicide. Is it true?”
    Alexander nodded.
    Quintilius shook his head. “I don’t understand this immortal fixation with death.”
    “Me neither.” Alexander put down the fork and sipped from his glass of sparkling water. “The Immortal Death is so difficult to acquire it takes true determination to go after it.”
    Quintilius’s eyes lit in interest. “Yes, I heard the potion takes some skill to be put together.”
    Alexander wetted his lips with another sip from his glass. “The ingredients are not what you would find in your spice rack.”
    Meanwhile, two waiters had arrived with the werewolf’s breakfast. Soon, every space on the table had been filled with plates of cold meats, boiled eggs, fish, purple figs, and a whole loaf of bread. “Its production must be a dangerous, but lucrative business.” He gestured for Alexander to take a bite of anything he wanted from his smorgasbord, and Alexander politely declined. Showing impeccable manners, Quintilius took fork and knife, cut a piece of thin prosciutto, and paired it with a slice of bread and a plump fig. He closed his eyes as the morsel disappeared inside his mouth, then reopened them a moment later to look intently at Alexander. “It could also be political.”
    Alexander made a hmm sound, as if he were pondering that idea, and sipped the rest of the water. He dabbed his