Hesitating, he nodded.
He considered saying more.
He considered telling her not to worry.
He considered promising he’d be back… in one night. Two at most.
He didn’t.
She watched him hesitate.
She watched him turn over words, consider speaking… then not.
He saw her expression harden, even as understanding grew in her eyes.
Still staring at his face, studying his eyes, she nodded.
He watched her wrap her arms tighter around her torso, right before she turned around and walked away from him. He watched her retreat back into the darkness of her two-story house. He listened to her feet as she ascended the stairs back to her bedroom.
He listened and winced, even as his jaw hardened, his resolve hardening with it. He swore to himself, at least, that he would be back.
He would come back here.
He wouldn’t be a coward. He would come back to her.
He wanted the fuckers who’d done this to him.
He couldn’t deny that some part of him looked forward to that. The animal part of him looked forward to it, to hunting them down, to looking them in the eye for what they’d done to him––right before he ripped their throats out with his teeth.
Or, barring that, he would content himself with watching Charlie put them in restraints, maybe ask her to taze them a few extra times before dragging them down to the cells under the NYPD. Assuming the court system worked like it should, he relished the thought of eventually seeing them in Rikers, maybe even dropping by to flip them the bird now and then.
It was more than that, though.
Now, it was more than revenge.
More than the part of Nick that wanted justice, revenge, retribution… that felt compelled to hunt them down and make them pay for its own selfish, animalistic reasons… Nick knew he needed to find them now.
He’d done that. That part was his fault, too.
In coming here for refuge, in using Wynter as his sanctuary, he’d painted a target on his girlfriend’s back.
He hadn’t meant to, but he’d put her in danger, too.
So yes, he wanted them for his own, selfish, fucked up, purely vampire reasons.
He wanted them for Wynter more.
He wanted to come back to Wynter more.
Chapter 18
Instrument
Archangel met him at the train station.
Nick knew they were Archangel.
He knew even before Veronica Racine, Lara St. Maarten’s personal assistant and bodyguard, stepped out of the back of the limousine, wearing an all-white, faux leather suit that probably cost more than Nick made in a few months of his Midnight allowance.
Nick watched as she straightened to her full height, walking towards him as she opened an enormous black umbrella that entirely blocked the morning sunlight.
Most of that area of the curb was still in shade as the sun rose, blocked by buildings on either side, but the deep black umbrella blocked what little sunlight was already lighting up the section directly in front of Central Station.
“Mr. Tanaka,” she said politely.
Bowing her head, she motioned towards the open door of the limousine, indicating clearly for him to join her under the umbrella.
She didn’t get too close to him, he noticed.
He frowned, looking from the open door back to her.
“We don’t have much time, Mr. Tanaka,” Ms. Racine said, clearly noting his hesitation. “Ms. St. Maarten is concerned about your safety this evening. She would like to offer you her…”
She paused artfully.
“…assistance. In minimizing the risks you will be taking upon yourself as a part of this operation. She asked me to accompany you to her residence, where she has a number of resources waiting to provide you with additional tools for this evening.”
Nick scowled a little at the theatrics, glancing up and down the street.
No one was nearby, but the woman’s words still struck him as brazen.
Surveillance drones and cameras literally covered New York.
He couldn’t help but notice her changed demeanor towards him, too. Something about her politeness struck him as forced.
He heard a thread of what sounded a lot like hostility under it.
They’d gotten along well enough before, so Nick found himself thinking it had something to do with how he’d escaped Phoenix Tower after they’d found him in that warehouse.
Thinking about what Damon told him, he frowned, studying the woman’s face.
Something had definitely changed.
As he looked her over, noting that coldness in her eyes, he remembered that he’d not only attacked St. Maarten’s security people, he’d supposedly hospitalized some of them.
He wondered if he should apologize.
Seeing the immovable look on the woman’s face, he decided it could wait.
“Mr. Tanaka?” she said again.
She checked her watch pointedly.
Given that she probably used her headset to tell the time, like most normal people, it was likely theatrics, but Nick got the point.
Anyway, he knew she was right.
He really didn’t have much time.
He could also use all the help he could get.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he nodded, mostly to himself.
He stepped out from under the overhang in the same beat, joining the tall human under the thick umbrella and letting her lead him to the back of the long, white car.
“All right.” Kit frowned, staring down at Nick’s exposed arm. It lay, inner arm up on the table between them. “They won’t be able to get past that… I don’t think.”
Nick frowned, staring down at the semi-organic tat.
They were in a small, nearly featureless room in St. Maarten’s penthouse.
Given this room, the virtual reality station he’d seen on the way in here, and the extensive lab equipment he’d glimpsed as he walked through another glass-enclosed hallway on the other side of the elevators… Nick was beginning to suspect this whole “luxury penthouse” was actually some kind of supervillain’s lair from an old spy movie.
“You don’t think?” he muttered. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
When she didn’t answer, or even look up from whatever she was doing to his ident-tat, he nudged her with his arm, scowling when she lifted her eyes to his.
“You don’t think they can get past it?” he growled.
“I don’t see how they could,” she amended, her voice firming. “It’ll be okay, Nick. Stop being such an old man.”
“An old man? Why don’t you just double-implant me?” Nick’s voice still contained an edge, one even he could hear. “Put in a secondary chip?”
“No.”
“No?” His frown deepened. “Why not? I don’t like this ‘I think’ crap. This is my ass on the line. And you don’t sound… reassuring. Just implant me again. I don’t mind. I’d rather have you go overkill than risk them getting me somewhere you can’t find me.”
Kit shook her head, pursing her lips.
“No… I mean, that’s not what I meant. I meant this is better,” she said. “Unless they’re idiots, they’d scan for a secondary chip. In fact, I’m tempted to put one in as misdirection. They know we’d be likely to pull something like that, given what happened to you already, so it might actually reassure them.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Ms. St. Maarten, who stood behind them.
“What do you think?” she said.
St. Maarten’s red-painted mouth firmed. Glancing at Charlie, then back at Nick, she nodded, her eyes returning to Kit.
“Do it,” she said. “I think it’s a good idea.”
Kit nodded.
Getting up from her chair, she walked over to a bag on the floor of the penthouse lab.
Nick had apparently been in here before.
He didn’t remember it.
> He glanced around the featureless, pale green walls, noting the stainless-steel table that evoked autopsies and dead bodies more than doctors. A padded bench covered in straps was a little too familiar to some part of his subconscious for comfort––not to mention those stainless-steel tables themselves, which somehow made his throat tighten.
He noted the panels set in the walls, the morphing, liquid monitors, and frowned harder.
It was all state-of-the-art Dr. Jekyll stuff, and not super comforting right then.
“Come on,” he muttered, when Kit sat back down in front of him. “Hurry up. I’m supposed to be down there in two hours.”
She walked over, carrying a small black case.
Setting the case on its side on the table, Kit unhooked the clasps, opening it up to reveal a small, alien-looking device with a green handle sitting on shape-conforming foam.
Nick had seen implant guns before, but never one so new-looking, or with so much of the shimmering, metallic-green material making up the body of it. That particular color of metal was usually a dead-giveaway for a full organic.
Kit’s new toy must be yet another upgrade from Archangel.
“Why didn’t your girlfriend come?” Kit said, lifting the gun out of the case.
Nick grunted, staring at her.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Kit shrugged. “Why not? I’d think she’d want to come see you fight.”
“Yeah,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “Sure. She’s just dying to come down here and watch me fight a bunch of assholes, in a club run by the guy who might have tried to kill me.”
When Kit flinched, staring at him in surprise, Nick added,
“She’s pissed as hell I’m doing this, Kit. She thinks I’ve got a death wish. I’m going to have to grovel for weeks after we bust this guy… assuming she’s not right, and I don’t end up drained and left outside the dome with my heart ripped out of my chest.”
“You told her?” Kit said, blinking again. “What you’re doing? About Farlucci?”
Nick frowned. “What kind of fucked-up relationships do you have?”
“I just mean…” Kit inserted a rice-sized implant into the green-handled gun she held over the case, clicking back the trigger and checking the settings. “You’re a cop, right? Isn’t that stuff secret? Things like infiltrating vampire boxing rings, pretending to be a fighter so you can bust the guy who tried to have you killed?”
“I showed up at her door and fell unconscious for two weeks,” Nick grunted. “I think she deserved an explanation. Don’t you?”
Kit seemed to think about that.
“Yeah, okay,” she conceded, shrugging. “Fair enough.”
She motioned towards him, flushing a little.
“Take off your shirt. The one with the collar, I mean. The other one is probably okay.”
“Where are you going to put it?”
“Back of your neck,” she said at once. “Just under the hairline. I might as well at least try to make it look like I’m hiding it.”
Nick thought about that, nodded.
Rolling down his sleeves, he unbuttoned the front of his shirt, then shouldered it off, leaving it on the chair behind him.
Scooping up the gun, Kit walked around his chair.
He felt her fingers explore the back of his neck. She found a groove between two muscles, just above where his hairline ended. Moving his hair aside carefully, she pressed the end of the gun exactly in the spot she’d found with her fingers.
He winced when she hit the trigger.
The implant slammed into his skin.
“Will there be a scar?” he said.
She let out a half-snort.
He could practically hear her roll her eyes.
“Not for you,” she said.
Nick nodded.
He looked around at the rest of them. He paused on St. Maarten’s bodyguard, Veronica Racine, who’d barely spoken, but who he’d definitely caught glaring at him enough times that he now strongly suspected she was probably one of the people he went through to get out of here the last time he’d been in this building––her or one of her friends, along with a few of her employees. His gaze shifted to Kit, then to St. Maarten herself.
He stopped finally on Malek, who hadn’t spoken at all.
When no one said anything, he regained his feet.
He pulled his shirt off the chair, still glancing around at faces.
Charlie wasn’t here… or Damon. Or Morley.
They weren’t part of the Archangel crew.
Tai wasn’t here either.
Then again, why would she be? If she had been, he would have chewed that brother of hers out for real.
“Is that it?” he said, shoving his arms back into shirt-sleeves and pulling the shirt around his shoulders and chest. He started buttoning up the front, locking gazes with St. Maarten that time, instead of Kit. “Anything else I need to know?”
“Don’t die, Detective,” St. Maarten said, her lips quirking humorously.
Nick rolled his eyes.
“Just aim your experimental weapons elsewhere,” he grunted. “If you decide you need to come ‘rescue’ me again.”
Her green eyes reflected puzzlement. “Experimental weapons…?”
Nick snorted in open derision.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Walking over to the higher table by the door, he pulled his coat off the top of it, then glanced around, nodding at everyone.
“See you on the other side,” he said.
“Hey!” The voice boomed out over the underground space, followed by an open and shockingly genuine-sounding laugh. “It’s you! Killer! We’d about given up on you…”
Nick froze, mid-step.
If the human saw the confusion on Nick’s face, he ignored it.
“Get down here, Midnight,” the human laughed. “You’re late… as usual.”
Nick flinched, that time at what the human called him.
It occurred to him then, of course they knew what he was.
He’d told them himself. He’d told them he was a cop, and a Midnight, the last time he was down here, when he was half-conscious from that dart they hit him with.
They would know his real name now, too.
Morley said the NYPD and I.S.F. fed Farlucci and his lawyers pretty much all of Nick’s actual stats, so they’d know a decent amount about him, including his entire record as a Midnight, and probably a fair bit about his past, given that it would be seen as relevant to the contract and negotiation process.
According to Morley, the contract between the I.S.F. and the fight club, leasing out Nick as a fighter was fully legit––and likely legally binding, in the event Farlucci ended up being clean. Of course, if Farlucci ended up being the illegal vampire harvester and murderer, not to mention the likely illegal bio-tech and organic substance dealer, no court would hold the I.S.F. to the terms of the contract for Nick’s body and time.
Nick didn’t find that overly comforting.
He had a feeling Wynter wouldn’t either, when she heard.
Still, he understood why Morley and the I.S.F. went through the contracting process for real. Not only had it provided cover while Nick recovered at Wynter’s, but it gave an air of legitimacy to Nick’s being here at all.
Farlucci wasn’t an idiot.
They couldn’t really get around doing a real contract with real I.S.F. lawyers, not without raising even more red flags.
As it was, Nick had to assume at least some of Farlucci’s people, and likely Farlucci himself, suspected he was infiltrating them.
Nick had to assume any one of the black market cartels Farlucci might be working for, or with, must suspect that, too.
Moreover, if this was a cartel job, Nick assumed they had people in the NYPD already.
He knew Morley kept the circle small on this, including inside the department.
Most of the precinct didn’t know a damned thing about any of it––but that d
idn’t mean there hadn’t been any leaks. Nick trusted Morley, and Jordan, and, to a lesser extent, Charlie, but he knew how things worked. He knew how easily things could get out, even with a group that wasn’t overtly corrupt.
Also, he hadn’t known any of these people for very long.
He couldn’t afford to trust anyone.
He couldn’t afford to underestimate Farlucci, either.
He glanced around as he paused on the steep stairs.
He caught glances and stares as other faces and bodies turned, taking in Nick as he resumed his cautious descent down to their level, which was the ground floor of the maze of rooms and passageways Nick remembered under the ring in the Queens coliseum.
Despite his lingering wariness, Nick was a little stunned at the wash of friendly looks and curious stares he got.
He saw a few scowls, but every one he saw came from another vampire, not from the humans who clustered around a fewer number of vampire fighters.
Only one vampire smiled at him.
Well… smirked really, winking at him with a half-grin on his face.
It was the vampire from the club that night––the one with the brown mohawk and the Dimitry Yi tattoo on his back who was really fucking strange to him.
Basically, the one vamp, out of all the vampires he’d encountered so far, Nick would have believed might have something to do with his being taken that night––his racial superiority crap notwithstanding.
In an odd sort of opposite-land, all the human faces Nick saw looking at him wore genuine-seeming smiles, smiles that struck him as almost warm… smiles that actually reached their eyes.
Nick couldn’t help being taken aback by their enthusiasm.
Two humans broke out in whistles then, clapping as Nick made his way down the last few stairs, stepping out onto the floor of the prep area.
When Nick glanced over at the source of the whistles and laughter, he was surprised to see that one of the humans clapping was no-neck, the giant who’d first let him in at the upstairs gate, and who’d been one of the three in the room when Nick regained consciousness after they darted him in the ring.
The man standing next to him, also clapping and laughing, was a red-headed human with tattoos and a beard who stood about a foot shorter than no-neck.
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