Bloodlines (The Guardian of Empire City Book 1)

by Peter Hartog

  “Then tell them to meet us back there,” he replied. “I hate crowds, and I’m thirsty, so you’re buying me a drink. Let’s go.”

  Grabbing my elbow, he directed me along while my head teetered around on a broken swivel. As we pushed our way through, I licked my lips and found my eyes wandering, soaking in the sights and sounds of the nightclub. A slow smile crept across my lips. Tension leaked out of my taut muscles in slow, luxurious waves. The sense of imminent danger I’d felt for Besim and Leyla evaporated, replaced by a languid indifference.

  We navigated through skeletons cavorting with ghosts and werewolves. Rowdy superheroes in painted-on spandex laughed and drank and twirled. The music was awash with synthetic sounds and slick beats. A curvy devil with a plastic pitchfork and a lot of cleavage leaned against the railing post of the stairs. She leered at us with a ‘come hither’ look. I blinked, feeling a powerful urge to tear off her clothes and take her on the floor.

  “Time for that later, Casanova,” Deacon said, dragging me unwillingly up the stairs. “We got shit to do.”

  Moments later, we were seated. To either side sprawled costumed people in various stages of intoxication. A few asked us to join them, but Deacon waved them away.

  An unattractive waitress with pale skin, frizzy hair, black eyeliner, and heavy red lipstick sidled up to our table.

  “What can I get you two?”

  With a start, I realized the waitress was a waiter. He wore a leather corset and garters that revealed more than it concealed. His fishnets were torn in places, and he bore the long-suffering look of someone who needed the job despite all the aggravation that went with it. Deacon ordered something I couldn’t hear, and before I could respond, the waiter left.

  “Don’t worry, Holliday. I got you something,” Deacon said as I started to protest, draping his arms over the armrests.

  I gave an indolent shrug and glanced past the railing down to the dance floor below. Between the flashing lights and the fog shrouding everything, I imagined I was atop the crow’s nest of an ancient mariner ship from a Jules Verne adventure.

  “Leyla, we’re upstairs. Where are you?” I asked, although I didn’t really care.

  I tapped my foot in time to the rhythm, humming to myself. I didn’t recognize the song, but that didn’t seem to matter, either.

  “Was about to ask you the same thing, Doc,” she replied, appearing a heartbeat later with Besim in tow.

  Leyla plopped into her chair with a merry laugh, pale cheeks flushed with excitement. Besim took the seat next to mine, a look of discomfort on her face. She produced a small flask from her coat. Tilting her head back, she drank deeply, then stowed the flask away. I noticed her skin glistened, heightening the dark tattoos around her face and neck. I leered at Besim, admiring the curve and angles of her face, and the way the light reflected in her strange, gray eyes.

  “Glad to see you’re both enjoying this,” I remarked as Besim held my gaze with an appraising one of her own. Right then, thoughts of the murder investigation, Julie DeGrassi, and David Crain were the last things on my mind.

  “I find dancing to be deeply satisfying, Detective Holliday, and not solely for its health benefits,” Besim answered. Her discomfort was gone. “The body’s movements stir up instincts and senses buried below the mundane demeanor, reminding the mind and soul there are more things in life than work, responsibility, and duty.”

  “I just think it’s fun!” Leyla chimed in, laughing. “It feels good to kick it!”

  Besim nodded, smiling fondly at Leyla.

  “It is a catharsis, to be sure.” Her voice held the same resonance as her singing back at Armin’s. “Such movement draws upon the primitive nature in all of us, both intimate and powerful.”

  The sound of her voice stirred feelings and desires in me, base emotions that had lain dormant for a long time. I idly wondered what lay beneath all that bulky clothing she wore, and whether the stories I’d heard about Vellans and their appetites were true.

  “Is everything all right?” Besim asked, her eyes narrowing in concern.

  “I feel fine,” I replied with a lopsided grin. “Everything’s fine. Now where the hell’s my drink?”

  Chapter 22

  A bottle and glass were set before Besim, who examined the label with a critical eye. The server offered to pour, but Besim declined with a languid wave of her hand, performing the honors herself. She let it breathe, then swirled the contents of her glass. The consultant sipped, sloshing the liquid around in her mouth before swallowing. She nodded in clinical satisfaction, then refilled the glass.

  Deacon watched in mild amusement as Leyla grabbed her colorfully-mixed cocktail and downed it in two gleeful gulps. She twirled the empty glass between her fingers, and whooped as it slipped from her hand, tumbling to the floor without breaking. She laughed again at her clumsiness and lost her balance while bending over to retrieve it. Deacon reached out to catch her, but she fell backward and onto his lap. Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with lewd mischief as she writhed seductively in time to the music. The mortified look on Deacon’s face was priceless.

  “Sorry Deacon,” Leyla laughed as a wicked smile played across her lips. She returned to her seat and winked at me.

  He knocked back his rye whiskey, then glared at the empty glass.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” the Confederate bristled. “Where the hell’s that server?”

  My shoulders sagged as I settled deeper into my seat, breathing a heavy sigh, content and at ease. I was captivated by all of it, the music, the people, the atmosphere, and could’ve sat there for hours. I glanced from Leyla to Deacon and Besim with a crooked smile.

  “I count myself in nothing else so happy, as in a soul remembering my good friends,” I murmured.

  It was nice having friends again.

  I laced my hands behind my head and took a deep breath. The air up here tasted sweet despite the acrid admixture of sweat, booze and cigarettes. Leyla summoned our server and rattled off a series of drinks, many of which even I’d never heard of before.

  I was sipping some shitty, watered-down bourbon when David Crain strolled up to our table, along with three of his stooges.

  Our waiter rushed over to him, nodding furiously as Crain gave him instructions, then hurried away. A pointed glance from the nightclub owner was all it took for the adjacent table to empty as if poured from a bucket, affording us additional space.

  I took another swig, studying Crain. He was a lot paler in person. Average height and build, and unlike his profile, he sported a trimmed beard and mustache. Tonight, he wore a dark evening jacket, slacks, and a slate grey turtleneck.

  That threw me.

  A turtleneck? I nearly choked on my drink.

  Who the fuck wears a turtleneck to a nightclub?

  Apparently, this guy.

  As I swallowed my drink, I imagined a younger David Crain walking around my old neighborhood wearing that stupid-looking turtleneck. My old bratva “friend” Ivan Kruchev and the rest of his gang would’ve kicked the shit out of him just on general principle. For some reason, the thought warmed my belly.

  “Good evening, Detective Holliday.” He smiled pleasantly, an expression that never reached his cold, blue eyes. “My name is David Crain, the owner of this establishment. May I join you?”

  My head was stuffed full of cotton candy, but I managed to nod and return the smile. Something tickled at the back of my mind, but I ignored it, concentrating instead on the music and drinks. A welcome tide of inebriation washed away any of my lingering concerns.

  “Marko, bring that over here.” Crain motioned at a chair by the empty table next to us.

  As Crain sat down, his flunkies fanned out in a half circle behind him, pinning us against the banister. All three eyed us with arrogant disdain. They reminded me of historical images I’d seen of rock bands from the eighties, with the big hair, feather earrings, ripped t-shirts, and acid-washed jeans. Marko, the shorter, curly blonde-haired o
ne who had brought over the chair, wore a high-collared jacket covered in colorful patterns and bits of flair, and a leather glove on one hand. A permanent sneer was plastered to his face.

  Crain nodded at Leyla, and the two exchanged pleasantries. She chattered brightly about the music and the decor, stumbling over her words in her excitement. A deep scowl crawled across Deacon’s stony face, his new drink untouched. Besim withdrew deeper into her chair, more interested in the wine than the new arrivals. She casually swirled her wine with a practiced bored expression, drank it, then filled her glass again.

  “We need more drinks.” Leyla glanced from Crain to his men with a broad grin. She waved frantically for another server a few tables down the row.

  “I’ve already taken care of it,” Crain said. “The next round is on the house.”

  His voice was soft, yet forceful, and smooth as silk.

  The server returned with a helper to deliver whatever it was Crain had ordered. Leyla’s eyes gleamed lustily as she took in the distilled festival laid out before us. From glow-in-the-dark bright blue cosmopolitans and pastel-colored daiquiris, to robust red wine and a more sedate gin and tonic, the table brimmed with bottles and glasses filled with all manner of alcoholic concoctions. Leyla whooped with delight, clapping her hands like a little girl. Deacon glared at Crain as if the man had just pissed in his whiskey.

  “What do you think of my club?” Crain asked me, gesturing expansively with an outstretched hand. “I’ve spent a lot of credits to make Kraze one of the premier hot spots in Empire City.”

  His quiet voice mingled with the music, alcohol and sweet smell of the place, lulling me further into a deep lethargy. Crain chose one of the small glasses containing a golden liquid and handed it to me with his compliments. It tasted like honey fresh from one of those Bioclone beehives, yet flavored with a hint of cinnamon, cayenne and something else. The flavor was remarkable, and while my body sagged, my mind wandered even further away, lost in all the sensations I was experiencing.

  “It’s nice,” I replied, my speech slurring. “I mean, really nice. I like the lights, and the music is great!”

  I sounded like a complete idiot to my own ears but didn’t care. The world swam around me. I rubbed at my eyes, but that didn’t help. The music billowed, becoming less distinct. My throat constricted. What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Sorry,” I said, frowning in consternation. “Never had a problem holding my liquor before. Haven’t touched the stuff since I left Wallingbrooke though. When was that, anyway? Wasn’t that long ago. Seems like yesterday. Or was it the day before? Oh, who gives a fuck, right?”

  “I’m glad you are enjoying yourself, Detective,” Crain replied, adjusting the cuff of his dark jacket. “It’s not very often I have one of Empire City’s finest come through my door.”

  “That right?” I mumbled.

  “Health inspectors and the fire marshal, to be sure,” he continued amiably. “Rarely one of the boys in blue, unless they’re off-duty, of course.”

  I laughed, slapping my knee as if Crain had made the funniest joke I’d ever heard.

  “But you aren’t off-duty tonight, are you?” he asked quietly, a hint of menace creeping into his voice. “What brings you to my club?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Crain.” Deacon took in Crain and his hair band crew with a measured look. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Oh, lighten up, Deacon,” Leyla wheedled plaintively. “He got us free drinks!”

  “Fuck that shit,” the former Protector grated. “Pull your head out of your ass, girl. There ain’t nothing free in this fucked-up world. Just a lot of assholes looking to sell you something you don’t need.”

  Leyla’s smile melted, her pale skin flushed with anger. She crossed her arms and turned away from us, focusing on the dance floor below. The temperature dropped several degrees. I swallowed the rest of my drink hoping the liquid gold would warm me up.

  Deacon growled something unpleasant, but a sudden swell in the music made me miss whatever he’d said. Crain smiled as his eyes slid toward the Confederate like a lizard, cold and bereft of emotion. Deacon shifted in his seat, then reached into his coat for his lighter and cigarettes and lit up. He blew a thick plume of smoke in Crain’s direction, glaring daggers with a spidery smile. With one elbow on an armrest, his other hand trailed by the side of the chair.

  Crain waved the smoke away dismissively.

  “Detective, my doorman informed me you’re here on ‘police business,’” the nightclub owner continued, handing me another glass of gold. “What sort of business?”

  Syrupy thoughts sloughed inside my head like a Catholic priest on an all-night bender. I felt the sudden urge to tell Crain about Vanessa Mallery, the investigation, our chase for Julie DeGrassi, everything.

  “Oh, you know, the kind where we chase the bad guys,” I managed to say, motioning with a lazy hand. “Arrest ‘em, read ‘em their rights, and all that happy horseshit.”

  I snickered, pointing my finger like a gun, and mimed shooting Crain. As my head lolled about, somewhere in the back of my mind a small part of me panicked. My arms and legs felt like dead weight. It was all I could do to maintain my grip on my own glass. The last thing I wanted was to spill my drink on Crain’s ridiculous turtleneck.

  The nightclub owner was not amused.

  “And your investigation has led you here,” he pressed.

  “You could say that,” I graced him with an indolent smile.

  Crain’s eyes narrowed to slits. Anger radiated from him in waves. He leaned in, our heads mere inches apart. I felt his breath on my face and wrinkled my nose. It smelled like rotten flesh. My stomach turned. I almost threw up but managed to hold it together.

  “Why are you here?” Crain hissed at me, loud enough so only I could hear him. “Tell me.”

  I tried. I really did, but something held me back despite the strong desire to speak.

  Do not give in to the poison around you, a faint whisper echoed in my mind.

  “Tell me,” Crain repeated.

  He held an armrest of my chair in a white-knuckled grip. I thought I heard the crack of splintering wood but chalked it up to my wayward imagination. A song blared in the background. I snorted at its absurd lyrics. The tune was catchy, so I hummed along, tapping my foot in time to the music, my moment of nausea forgotten.

  “Who brings a dead man to a party anyway?” I laughed. “That’s against the law. I should arrest your DJ, Crain!”

  “What do you know?” Crain said, his frustration growing with every word. “Why did your investigation bring you here?”

  “Mr. Crain, you have an excellent eye for wine,” Besim broke in suddenly.

  Her clear voice rang both vibrant and strong. The sound of it cut through the strange fog clouding my mind. I shook my head in response, trying to clear the stuffing. Leyla turned away from the railing to regard Besim, her head cocked to one side as if listening to a conversation only she could hear. It reminded me of the shared communication between Deacon and Besim.

  The air around us grew colder. I took a shuddering breath, releasing it in a cloud of white.

  Crain reluctantly faced Besim with hooded eyes.

  “Thank you,” he replied with a brittle smile.

  Besim held the glass before her, raised it in salute, and drank the rest. She returned his gaze with an unblinking stare of her own.

  “A rather interesting tincture,” she mused almost to herself, and placed the empty glass on the table with exaggerated care. “A peculiar maceration of crushed grapes infused with something else. A foreign element, meant to heighten more than the flavor of the wine, to be sure.”

  The sound of her voice remained level, yet something about it attacked the malaise wrapped around my brain. I rubbed at my eyes several times. They felt sticky, as if I had a bad case of hay fever. Glancing at my hands, a thin layer of film glistened there, glittering like gold.

  Crain leaned toward her, his face registering su
rprise.

  “I thought it a costume at first, but I see I was mistaken,” he said with raised eyebrows. “You’re a Vellan.”

  Besim inclined her head in acknowledgement.

  Deacon shifted his weight in his seat. He crushed the cigarette on the armrest, then flicked the butt away with disdain. His other hand rested inside his coat.

  “It has certainly imparted the desired color and proper amount of tannins and aroma,” Besim continued, unperturbed. “In fact, it is a fair facsimile to the real thing.”

  Crain’s hand clenched into a fist. A vein throbbed in his temple. Two of his goons looked at each other, yet Marko observed the Vellan in a detached manner, his sneer lost somewhere during the conversation.

  “How curious then to discover the very same wine at both Julie DeGrassi and Vanessa Mallery’s apartments,” she said, gray eyes smoldering with fire. “However, the bottle at Vanessa’s townhouse was conspicuously devoid of this additional element. Alas, I was unable to examine the one at Julie’s to corroborate my findings. It had disappeared, along with its owner.”

  Staring hard at Besim, my slumbering mind struggled against the sickly-sweet shroud covering it. The Insight scratched at the edges of my vision, desperate to burst through my submerged senses. I clung to Besim’s every word, urged on by the burgeoning Insight. The distinct sounds of her voice were rungs in an audio ladder. Using it, I clawed my way out.

  “And yet, the vintage I just drank is rife with the new element,” Besim raised an eyebrow. “The beverage you provided Detective Holliday is another example, as is the peculiar aroma your club’s ventilation system continues to produce. A purer form, if I am not mistaken.”

  Besim paused.

  Crain froze in place.

  She held his gaze.

  “Of goldjoy.”

  The word crashed down like a tidal wave in my mind, snapping me out of the drug-infused haze. Everything came back to me in a mad rush, the murder investigation, the chase for Julie DeGrassi, and the horrible realization that we’d been drugged.