After all this, the Master seemed inclined to face the inevitable. “We’ve withstood more than Lee Tomlinson in the past,” the Master had said. “Much more. And if this Servant’s carelessness leads to a confrontation, then come what may, Sorin. Because the day will come when we have to defend our Underground, but we would be fools to force it to happen without absolute cause. If we reveal ourselves Above too early, that could bring a premature end for our paradise. You’ve said it yourself—we must use stealth to preserve our secrecy, then, if everything else fails, it’s war.”
Had the Master become too arrogant recently? Granted, he had abilities not even Sorin could summon, although Sorin had inherited a great deal of his parent’s skills through the initial long and proper blood exchange that had birthed him.
All the same, each generation’s blood grew weaker, the progeny in need of more protection. Such a pity to lose power as a breed, Sorin thought, remembering his own children.
“Sir?” It was the shaking voice of their guest. “Master?”
Still bruised from the memory of his missing progeny, Sorin reared forward, knowing the human could not see him, but could feel the threat of his blood-laden breath, his hair-splitting power in the dark. “You are not to speak unless spoken to.”
“But I’ve paid—”
“You are making us pay, human. Remain quiet.”
The man shrunk back, chastised for now, his once-neat, finely manicured hair flat with perspiration.
Experienced in the ways of mental torture, Sorin forced the human to wait a few plodding moments before addressing him again. “You solicit entrance to the Underground, where no human comes unless he is willing to be fed upon. You come without the intention of offering yourself or ever becoming one of us. You plead an audience with the Master you call Dr. Eternity.”
Sorin knew the head vampire was listening, though he seemed enchanted by the trick mirror instead. But he was a vampire noble who need not pay respects to this underling when Sorin was his proxy. His shield who preserved his safety from the public. His devoted bodyguard.
“I need your help,” the human said. “That’s why I came. And you summoned me back to this country in the first place because you needed me, too.”
“I find it odd that you so fear ever becoming a vampire, yet you chose this path for your son.”
Nathan Pennybaker looked up at Sorin, his face sorrow-ravaged. “Robby knew his time in the Underground was going to keep his name alive forever. He knew that getting the help of Dr. Eternity was the only answer to his career. That’s why we sought you out after we were approached by your Servant-agent.”
A man who had left them long ago when his usefulness had expired, may he rest in peace. “Yes, Robby’s careerwason the wane, even though he was at such a tender age.”
“That’s what happens with child stars,” the human said, angry. “The audience doesn’t want to see them grow up.”
And Robby had been growing up, all too fast, Sorin thought, knowing this story—and all the stories—by heart. Nathan Pennybaker seemed to take no responsibility for his reportedly awful part in Robby’s fleeting childhood, and that disgusted Sorin all the more, for he had loved his own children once. He had lost them, too. And, unlike Nathan Pennybaker, Sorin would have moved mountains to alleviate anything his daughters might have suffered; never would he have introduced pain to them.
In effect, he enjoyed toying with this bad father, making him suffer.
The Master agreed, his aura reddening.
“True, it is not easy watching your children mature,” Sorin said. “It would also not be easy to see them loaned out to the highest bidders—unless you have the soul of a demon.”
The human choked on his own rage, seeking the words to defend himself, failing.
But Sorin was too occupied with memory to mind the human. Both of his daughters had gone missing years ago, though he knew they still survived somewhere; after all, their own children remained alive here, thus testifying that their parents had not perished. After they had reproduced here in the Underground, they had left for more thrilling adventures in the Old World, wishing to “explore their roots.” Perhaps it had cost them dearly.
The first so-called Groupies had been the result of their fledgling efforts to exchange. More Groupies had followed, each generation losing abilities, the bloodline growing anemic. There had been times that Sorin had pondered the possibility of his exchanging with a human again, but the loss of his daughters was still fresh and agonizing, and breeding became too painful an act to consider.
However, if the Underground required more power, he would reproduce in a heartbeat. His own progeny would be strong. Perhaps the time had come to reconsider, with all the threats circling from Above….
“Perhaps,” Sorin said to the human, newly scathed by his old loss, “you should get your own career to ruin.”
Nathan Pennybaker, the failed child star, responded as if slapped across the face with a fine kid glove. Sorin had known that the insult would sting.
Yet he sensed genuine sadness, as well. Curious, how a man like this could still feel for the son he had manipulated so thoroughly.
“I’m begging you,” said the human, “please find Robby. I can tame him, just like you asked me to.”
Sorin thought of the Guards who had been tracking Robby ever since the child star had permanently escaped from the Underground in order to avoid the final phase of release.
“We are making every attempt to discover his whereabouts,” he said, anticipating that fine day. Because after Robby’s recovery, the Underground would be that much more secure, the Guards Below in their own area and waiting for another situation, should one come. Then Sorin’s worries could be rested.
Tellingly, no one had ever escaped the Underground before Robby. That was a testament to everyone’s willingness to be here. Yet the Master had made an error with Robby, believing he would agree with the career advice of his father once he grew older and less rebellious. In spite of his youth, the child had been career savvy, so it did not seem at all improbable.
Besides, the Master had wanted Robby, had been utterly intrigued by his precocious soul, by the relationships he had developed during his stellar career.
“I’ve tried to find him myself,” Nathan Pennybaker said. “These past few nights, I went everywhere I could think of—hotels, bars we frequented—but he’s not around. I thought he’d come right back to me. We were inseparable before his…death.”
“As I suggested previously, perhaps you should stay with us and lure him backhere.” Sorin expected him to refuse, knowing how much the human feared being turned into a vampire, although he had given Robby to the wonder of it. He had probably done so believing his son would never turn to him for blood. And there would never have been a cause for it, either, had Robby not escaped. “You might be the incentive he requires to return.”
“I told you—I can find him.”
“Yes, you have proven that to be true, have you not?”
Under the withering sarcasm, the human surrendered, his posture deflating. “My wife will still stay under your protection while I’m away from my home? She doesn’t know anything. She won’t be a problem.”
“The protection you have already purchased for your family remains a part of our contract. But if Robby is sighted, we will send you to your son to gently persuade him to return to us…along with a squad of Guards.”
Fright laced the human’s perspiration. “No Guards—”
“They will follow your commands within reason, human. You need not worry about them turning on you for the prize of your weak blood. Frankly, they are used to better quality.”
Even with the derogatory comment, the human seemed placated, as did the Master, who had been agreeing with Sorin via their Awareness.
They had allowed Nathan Pennybaker an audience with the sheltered Master only because Pennybaker had spoken as Robby’s parent and taken the oath of secrecy upon buying the boy’s plac
e in the Underground. Sorin knew the human would not betray the real Master’s existence and cause a breach of security. From stories Robby had told during his stay here, Sorin knew that the human feared torture and fangs; he would not chance being exposed to either that or to the relinquishing of Robby’s resurrected career.
Their business finished, Nathan Pennybaker lapsed into silence, awaiting his dismissal. But Sorin was not feeling so kind as to give it just yet.
The Master leaned forward, hardly deigning to recognize the drama between his child and the human. He had been tuned in to the spa as if it were a television or movie screen.
The interest boded nicely for the welcoming of Tamsin Greene, which was set to take place tomorrow at nightfall.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they, Sorin?”
The Elites. They were the only ones the Master gifted with his blood these days. Certainly, hundreds of years ago, Sorin had been the Master’s first and only child, but the Elites had held a special place in the Master’s world for half a century now. He worshipped them, loved them—especially a certain one—with passionate intensity.
But that did not mean the Master was blind to their Allure. Even though the Elites were able to use their powers to convince the humans Above of their perfection, to draw them in, to make others want to be them, the Master had always understood the danger of the Elite crowd. They had unstable egos, narcissistic tendencies. Thus, at the birth of the Underground, the Master had decided to allow them one monthly infusion of blood—and that was all—to keep their Allure strong. Controlling their intake of the Master’s blood was a safety precaution, keeping the Elites in line through the leveling of inferior power.
Not that they seemed to care who had control and who did not in the Underground. Life Above was all that mattered to them in the end, even if they enjoyed the pleasures here. After an Elite was released, they often returned for a night or two when they became lonely, but they were always drawn back to the surface by the compulsion, pure need, ego…and perhaps the restlessness of spending too many years Underground in the first place. For, during their required time here, they hungered to reemerge, anticipating the day they mastered their Allure. In order to accomplish this, they practiced hiding their abilities: when they arrived Above, they would be able to use only enough Allure to hypnotize humans, allowing their powers to emerge in full force strictly around fellow vampires.
At least, that was the mandate. Robby Pennybaker had shown much difficulty in controlling many of his new talents—except, of course, for blocking the Awareness between Master and child. He had perfected that all too well, even though they never used the power Above, for fear of detection. Though he was an adult in years, he was still an adolescent in his emotions. In fact, six months ago, he had even taken to sneaking out of the Underground for secret trips, but he had always returned. Sorin had put a stop to that, but this, among many reasons, was why Robby required taming before his release.
“Yes, Master, your creations are beautiful,” Sorin said, always ready to please. He fixed his gaze on the male Elite with his Groupies. “Magic, if I do say so myself.”
“You would know.”
The Master gestured toward the show, where the male Elite had seized the Groupie who had been massaging his scalp. He had her by the waist, forcefully positioning her over the pillows that had been holding up his torso. Spreading open her thighs so that her legs framed the Groupie who was still servicing him from below, he bent and latched his mouth to the dark red flesh between her legs, laving her there as the Groupie braced herself and warbled in encouragement. The Groupie below him accommodated his accelerated thrusts with her mouth and throat, taking him deep and fast.
With a roar of satisfaction, he came, once, twice, into her. As she eased out from under him, wiping her lips, the rest of his Groupies purred, stroking him in the afterglow, turning him on his back and revealing his breathtaking face.
“My children,” the Master said with a sense of wonder and awakened joy. “Gods.”
On the other side of the mirror, the Elite closed his eyes. His face shimmered in the steam. A face that had been so adored by the multitudes over eleven years ago.
Back when he had been known as Jesse Shane.
Twenty-One
The Healing
Now there was definitely no way Dawn was getting any sleep, especially after what had happened with Jonah. And, worse, just knowing that Frank was somewhere out there, in pain, needing help, was even more reason to get a load of caffeine into her.
After she left the room where she’d been with The Voice, she engaged in a marathon coffee-drinking session and then went with Kiko back to his place. All the way there, he stumbled over the same explanations about Frank. Having already heard enough from Jonah, she told Kiko to stop apologizing, but she didn’t tell him that she was never going to forget that he was on the boss’s side, so she just let it lie.
Nonetheless, she enlisted him in a ritual that would carry her through the day.
“Can you…?” She motioned to Frank’s undershirt.
Kiko seemed to understand. As she drove, he touched the material. This time he didn’t go into convulsions; in fact, he didn’t even react.
“Nothing,” he said. “But we can keep checking.”
That last part appeased Dawn a little. Strange as it was, the undershirt was her conduit to Frank. Earlier, Kiko had theorized that maybe his daughter’s skin was adding power to the shirt, the item on which Kiko focused his energies. As a result, he was able to conjure Frank’s thoughts with more effectiveness than before.
But she wasn’t interested in technicalities. She wanted results, no matter what the hocus pocus involved.
While the sun blasted awake in the sky, they arrived at Kiko’s, and Dawn decided she needed some exercise to stay awake. Aside from fencing, she hadn’t really worked out since returning to L.A., and it was driving her crazy. Her muscles and skills felt flaccid. When all this trouble was finally done, she was going to contact Jerry Aberly, a stunt coordinator she’d worked with three times before. He had his own private workout, and Dawn was hoping he’d invite her to join him sometime, that he would remember how hard she’d labored for him on previous gigs and that he would see how hungry she was for another job.
After a jog during which Kiko trailed her in his car “just in case”—lazy bum—she went into an alley next to his place to practice throwing her shuriken while he sat by an open window, going through the Hollywood Reporter to see which movies were going into production. It was early enough not to attract much attention as she refamiliarized herself with the art of throwing.
She stacked the blades horizontally in her left hand, sliding one at a time to her right, where she would position her thumb tip in the shuriken’s center hole. By shuffling the blades from one hand to the other, she would be able to fire them rapidly at her target, her fingers and wrist tensing just slightly at the moment that the blade slipped away and sang through the air. She was careful not to fling or heft the shuriken; the procedure required a lighter touch than that.
For close to an hour, she practiced, getting back into the ninja taijutsu method she’d been trained to use for throwing the shuriken back when she’d just been learning the ropes of stunt work. By rocking forward and back with each throw, taking care to breathe in then out with every motion, she gained power, accuracy. Pretty soon she was lengthening the distance between her and the fence she was aiming at.
Now she imagined a real target: one of those red-eyed creatures. They’d been wearing clothes, so she’d want to get them where the flesh had been peeking out—the neck, the bald head. Small targets, but doable.
But would her blades be quicker than those tails?
That kept bothering her. She wished she had a weapon that was the equivalent of those long, barbed whips….
“Yo! What’re you doing out there, girl?” It was some harpy yelling at Dawn from behind her screen.
“Sorry for the noise,” s
he said, wanting no trouble.
In his window, Kiko kept reading, probably used to the neighbor lady.
“You get out of there before I call the cops!”
Dawn gave a neighborly wave, just for karma points, and went back into Kiko’s. Then she showered, allowing the cold spray of water to keep her frosty. Afterward, she applied garlic—she was kind of getting used to the stink—then some of Breisi’s goo to the scarred-over injuries on her arm and leg, and then dressed, wearing another of Frank’s undershirts. Finally, she joined Kiko on the couch, multitasking by anointing her blades with holy water and downing more java.
“Guess what?” he said, jacked up on caffeine, too.
“Your neighbor is the sentinel charged with guarding the gates to hell—and both of you are living over the mouth of it.”
Kiko actually looked like he might consider this and should check it out when he had time. But then he gave her an aw-that’s-a-reference-to-a-seventies-horror-movie glance and said, “Breisi got us a date with the coroner at around one o’clock tonight. Looks like Klara is a priority homicide. I can’t wait to hear their theories about how she got all…”
He stopped, noticing the wan expression on Dawn’s face.
She bucked up. “Okay, until then we’ve got an hour before our first interview.” Breisi had set up a day’s worth of them yesterday; afterward, they were going to hit the location list that Klara had given them. “Who’s this first one?”
“Another child actor, but this guy wasn’t half as successful as Robby. Now, he develops scripts over at Universal. Since Breisi’s back at the office working on refining those locators, we’re going to meet her on the production lot to talk with him.”
“Hope it’s over lots of coffee. Until then, you up for breakfast?” Here, her ulterior motives crept into play. “I know an Internet cafe near the fencing studio where they make pastries to die for.”
Night Rising Page 22