Romancing Austin

by Riley Bancroft, Evelyn Berry, Cara Carnes, Jax Garren, Irene Preston, Rebecca Royce, Chandra Ryan

  “Did we meet at the fight?” she asked. “I was there too, with the jags.”

  “We weren’t introduced.”

  “I kinda think I remember you, though. Maybe we were fighting next to each other or something? So much was going on. My memory is blurry.” She sounded enthusiastic. Then her motion slowed. “You aren’t, by any chance, one of the flippers?”

  He stiffened in an irritation even her extraordinary fingers couldn’t soothe. “Flippers? Seven vampires chose to turn from a life of guiltless contentment—one of whom has already committed suicide over the strain—and they are referred to as ‘flippers’ by the supernatural community? CoVIn at least refers to them as ‘the new souls’ or ‘the ones who shouldn’t be our problem’ or more lately, ‘Soul Asylum.’ Geirson’s contribution, I believe.” He grimaced. “It’s catching on.”

  She chuckled. “Sounds like him. Breathe into my hands.” She pressed on his mid-back, and he breathed into it, trying to relax. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t something to laugh at or treat lightly either. The change was profound. And complicated. And still not something he knew how to deal with.

  “So…” Her fingers found a knot, and she pressed into it. His muscles resisted the pain, but he fought to relax, breathing in and out until they were working together to free the trigger point. The bundled fascia released, and she smoothed it with the heel of her hand. “What would you prefer I call you?”

  “Alex. I’d prefer you call me by my name.” He’d spent the past seven months trying to stay in the present. Wandering the unconscionable actions of his past alone was bad enough. Taking Sofia with him? He barely wanted to know himself anymore. She’d never speak to him again. Fortunately, a lot of his soulless time was a blur, memories shifting and sliding together in a nightmare kaleidoscope. If he concentrated he could pick out individual scenes, but he had zero interest in trying to tease out memories of a time he wasn’t himself. He’d lived a human, died, dreamed of horrors for two hundred years, and awoken. He was glad vampires didn’t sleep. He’d never close his eyes again.

  She worked in silence for a full minute, potentially a record. As he usually did, he opened his mouth to ask her to tell a story. Her voice soothed him, and he loved to hear her talk about her life. Before he could, though, she spoke again. “You are the most fascinating sentient I know.”

  He snorted. “Why? Because I spent most of my existence doing vile things?” Almost every day someone asked him to recall the most despicable thing he’d ever done. His life had become a story for others to enjoy with fascinated horror. He never answered the question. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure which of the scattered memories he did recall earned that awful place. “The unrestrained instincts of man are not pretty.”

  “No. I meant I admire you because you quit doing vile things. Most who take a dark path don’t voluntarily return.” She pulled the sheet away from his leg and tucked it under his knee. With her forearm she pressed into the muscles of his thigh.

  He’d gotten used to having her hands on him, but with the personal conversation the touch felt new again. His skin prickled and his breath grew shallow. He tried to rein in his response, but the intimate admission of what he’d once been craved an intimacy in return. He’d daydreamed about Sofia ever since she’d saved his soul. At first his imaginings were all fire and flesh, but then he’d gotten to know her, listened to her stories, and his thoughts turned gentler. The frenzied coupling evolved into shared touches, a meaningful passion. He wanted her body, but he had a soul now. He wanted to share it.

  Her tone was serious when she said, “I’ve told you I came here from Colombia to be fostered by the Texas pack.”

  The change of subject was a welcome distraction. “Yes. You were six.”

  Her thumbs dug in, finding pressure points panging for release. “Yeah. I probably implied it had something to do with poverty. And it did. In a way.”

  Most of the time her stories were funny, or at least told with the good humor gained from the distance of time. Her tone implied whatever she was about to say was still as raw as if it were new. “You don’t need to tell me if you are uncomfortable.” Although he wished she would.

  “It’s okay, but please don’t repeat it.”

  “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “You probably know the jaguars’ money comes from the drug trade, right? That’s pretty common knowledge in the super community.”

  He wished he could look at her, but his face was stuck in the damn donut thing. Most people were more comfortable, though, without someone else’s eyes on them. Maybe she’d quit talking if he turned. He focused on her voice. “I am aware, yes.” Not every jaguar was involved in the trade, but Marcos, the leader of the jaguar pack Familia de Tejas, headed one of the most prolific cocaine distribution networks in the Southwest. Word was, the jaguars ran a less death-riddled trade than most cartels, but not because they were less violent. Jaguars were harder to kill than humans, and sometimes being left alive was not a kindness.

  For her own safety, he hoped she wasn’t involved. Maybe her parents were?

  She pulled on his foot, stretching his leg, but nothing relaxed until she spoke, her words so soft he could barely hear, even with vampire-good hearing. “My biological parents are in the People’s Army.”

  It took every bit of restraint he had to stay in the face cradle. “Your parents are… guerrillas?” He barely stopped himself from saying “terrorists.” She probably wouldn’t take that descriptor well. The People’s Army, better known as FARC, practiced narco-terrorism under the banner of Marxism. They kidnapped travelers for ransom, attacked the Colombian military, and trafficked in cocaine.

  Her hands slid rapidly along his body with more power than finesse until she was at his arm. The sound of the rolling chair came closer, and she started working on his right bicep. “Yes. They sent me here because they wanted me out of it. And I’ve never done anything with the trade for Marcos.” She sighed. “My parents started in the forties, after La Violencia—the movement to protect the poor from the violence of people in power. Everyone was dying. Businesses forced our farmers from poverty into starvation. My parents meant good things. It just…”

  “Got out of hand?” That was an understatement.

  She dug a thumb into his palm, the pressure nearing vicious. “Yes. Got out of hand.” The pressure eased. “They write me sometimes, and their notes are full of optimism and kindness. Then on the internet I read about what’s happening, and I can’t help but think, with the things they do, they’ve lost their souls. But you took yours back.” The hope that her parents would also turn their lives around lingered in her tone, unspoken. Her hands stilled. “I’m sorry. I’m doing the worst job ever. Don’t tip me.”

  He couldn’t help it anymore. He turned to face her. Her brown eyes were downcast as she started working on his forearm. At his movement, she paused and her gaze caught his, full of confusion and helpless anger. He wanted to touch her face, maybe kiss her on the forehead. Something to say he was sorry it wasn’t okay.

  She managed a smile. “We can go over time. I’ll make up for it.”

  It wasn’t her best work, but he didn’t care. In all their days together, she’d done her job and told him stories, but tonight was the first time they’d connected. His skin prickled with nervous energy as he finally said, “If you say no, I promise never to ask again. Would you have coffee with me? Or maybe a drink?” It was an intrusive question that broke the professional distance of their relationship. He’d waited seven months for the right time to ask. He swallowed in anticipation, hoping he hadn’t ended everything they had, little as it was.

  Her eyes widened as she took a shallow breath. “I’m free tonight. You like horror movies? They’re showing that new ghost one at Drafthouse, and I’d love someone to go with. We could hit the midnight showing.”

  Relief made him smile. “I have an erra
nd tonight, but I should be available by then. Perhaps I could have your phone number so I could call if there is a problem?”

  Her own smile turned genuine. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  2

  “Am I allowed to defend myself at least?” Alex couldn’t believe he had to ask permission. The fire in front of him crackled an unnatural green as it burned a hole in the hotel carpet. The cheap room smelled of burning polyester and rum—as did the woman in Daisy Dukes and a too-tight tank top pointing a dagger at his throat. A woman and a man behind her poured a cornmeal sketch of a triangle with starbursts onto the floor.

  “No hitting,” Cash ordered, voice barely under control. “Yet.”

  One of their team was already on the floor nursing his jimmies. That idiot had tried commanding a witch. The vampire skill worked like a Jedi mind trick and was effective on most humans, but a witch’s psychic barriers rebounded the power, causing pain in the vampire instead of compulsion in the victim. Considering they were at Loa-Con, a gathering of voodoo practitioners, anyone with two brain cells to rub together would assume there might be an unusually high number of witches. Cash’s warrior elite were, once again, acting first and thinking afterward. Alex had accompanied them on a few missions now, and he was shocked they weren’t all dust.

  Two more of them stood behind Cash, guns drawn. As usual, Alex had no weapon. An ex-Liberi didn’t get one because God knew when he’d do something stupid with it, like, oh, draw on a pissed off witch.

  Oh, wait, no, he would never have done something so idiotic.

  Cash raised his hands. “Lady, calm yourself. We came here to talk. We just want to look at the damn book.”

  The book in question, a two-hundred-year-old grimoire written by the woman’s great-great-great-something-grandmother, floated in front of her. Alex concentrated on the upside-down pages as they slowly flipped on their own. Call him unethical, but the bokor who had him at knifepoint was a bad witch. He didn’t see a problem with knocking her out and stealing the damn book. Stating a violent opinion, however, would remind everyone he’d been evil not too long ago.

  He was pretty damn sure everyone else in the room would kill her, not knock her out, except CoVIn law forbade taking life without a trial. They’d come to negotiate twenty-four hours of borrow time, unprepared for her to go mental the moment they entered the room.

  Because learning about someone before you went to talk to them was not the way of those who charged forth swinging. How had CoVIn’s general lived to be over a thousand years old?

  “Do something, Cash,” Rhiannon, the pink-haired good witch Cash had brought along, gritted out. “They’re invoking Marinette.”

  Cash’s fists clenched. “Why are we worried about marionettes? And why is there a dead chicken in the refrigerator?”

  One of the bokor’s helpers had ceased pouring cornmeal and was carrying a plucked, whole chicken to the fire. More pages turned, and Alex kept watching, storing the material in his unusually adept memory. It was all Cash and his crew would let him do, much to his frustration. If Rhiannon was right—and he had more faith in her than in everyone else put together—things were about to get really interesting.

  “Marinette!” Rhiannon yelled. “The loa! She’s calling a voodoo spirit, and you’re standing there chatting her up like an idiot!”

  With a giant squawk the chicken flapped its featherless wings. Alex jumped in surprise, and his stomach lurched. “It’s not dead?” That was vile.

  “Stop the ritual,” Cash demanded.

  They ignored him. The chicken was thrust into the fire, its vocalizations getting louder and more frantic.

  Cash drew his pistol and shot the bird. It collapsed into the flames as the scent of searing flesh melded with burnt carpet. “I said stop. The. Ritual.”

  Everyone froze.

  Cash rounded on Rhiannon and gesticulated with his gun. “Didn’t you tell me voodoo was a beautiful, misunderstood religion of struggle through the challenges of poverty and blah blah blah? Crazy people sacrificing live chickens in a hotel room was not in your report.” It made Alex feel a little better to know he’d done some research. Cash aimed the gun at the bokor. “Quit pointing a knife at my teammate, and I’ll quit pointing a gun at you.”

  The woman straightened, regal as an offended monarch, or regal as she could be with failing dental hygiene and an outfit so small she was squeezed out on both ends, and dropped her weapon.

  “Thank you.” Cash lowered his gun. “Now let’s douse the fire and negotiate a loan.”

  The bokor smiled, setting Alex’s nerves on edge. “Marinette comes.” She raised her arms.

  Cash trained his gun on her.

  Instead of the witch, one of the vampires fell to the floor, seizing in pain.

  Alex had used the car ride to do research—because no one trusted him with plans in advance—but by the power of Google he’d learned that powerful spirits called the loa were called for aid during voodoo ceremonies. They possessed hosts in the congregation and sometimes stayed for hours. A good ritual leader could control them to a certain extent, calling them down, banishing them, and keeping them from causing too much mischief in the meantime.

  So they had to convince the bokor to expel Marinette or they were fucked. The woman wasn’t afraid of weapons. Clearly she wasn’t interested in money or she would’ve listened instead of attacking first. What did she value?

  Her family grimoire.

  He snatched it from the air. The air fought him in a tug-of-war. Yay magic. “Send the loa away,” he ordered the woman. With a mighty pull, he gained control of the book.

  “What you thinking on, boy?” she asked in a thick bayou accent. “Marinette’ll jest take it from you again.”

  The first page in the book, one he’d memorized, made a satisfying rip as he tore it from the spine.

  She shifted, not so regal anymore, as her eyes widened in concern. “What you doing?” She stepped toward him, raising her knife in the same ridiculous threat. As if she could reach him with it before he dodged.

  He wadded up the two-hundred-year-old page and dropped it into the fire.

  “No!”

  “Alex?” Cash asked. “We came here to get the book. Not destroy it.” Cash didn’t seem to grasp the significance of what was coming. Fortunately Rhiannon did. She put a hand on the general’s shoulder, stopping him from interfering.

  “Banish Marinette,” Alex ordered again. Another page came out.

  “Don’ you dare!”

  He tossed it into the fire. He had the first six of them in his head. Surely she’d give in before then. He ripped the third one slowly. Her gaze stayed fascinated to the page, her expression turning angrier by the moment.

  Behind him, the possessed vampire rose as if woozy, his motions feminine.

  Alex crumpled the page. “Banish her and loan us the book. We’ll return it in good condition. Or I’m going to keep destroying it.” He tossed the page, then put his hand on the next one.

  She struck through the cornmeal on the floor and muttered in a French so bastardized he couldn’t follow it.

  The vampire dropped to the floor again.

  Alex’s shoulders relaxed. “Thanks. We’ll bring the book back tomorrow.” Eyes still on the witch, he tossed the prize to Cash.

  “Huh,” was all Cash said.

  Alex wasn’t sure if he was about to get reamed or thanked.

  —

  Everyone was invited to Cash’s house for drinks. Though Alex was curious—he’d never been to the man’s house before—he’d rather go home and ransack his closet for something reasonable to wear on his date. There was no turning down an invitation from General Geirson, though. Despite every vampire’s mistrust, Alex needed to be a part of CoVIn. The new head of the Austin Liberi was gunning for the six of them who’d switched teams at the atrium battle; it was too dangerous to be alone.

  Also, he liked it. CoVIn had its idiosyncrasies, but they fought for the safety of men, sane
vampires, and any other reasonably nonviolent species that believed in free choice. CoVIn was work and a community he desperately needed, a cause to believe in, and a reason to keep moving forward.

  Hopefully he hadn’t blown it by hijacking the mission.

  To his surprise, Cash pointed to Alex, then to his own Aston Vanquish. “Soul Asylum, you’re with me.” He leaned against the car, looking calm as white wine in his scuffed jeans and a T-shirt that read, “Old enough to know better. Young enough to do it anyway.” Alex couldn’t help thinking it described the vampire perfectly. Cash had been a twenty-six-year-old Viking raider when he died. With his sun-blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and smile promising trouble, he didn’t look like one of the most powerful vampires in the world. And yet he was.

  Rhiannon, who’d ridden over with Cash as usual, waved at Alex for his keys.

  “You’re going to be disappointed at the handling.” He meant it as a joke as he pulled the fob for his pre-owned Civic out of his pocket and tossed it, but it was frustrating as hell. Without his soul, he’d stolen whatever he wanted, then ditched it when he was tired of it. He didn’t need money. Now he and the other converts were all destitute. CoVIn, for now at least, provided the six of them with unfurnished rooms and daily bottled blood at its headquarters, the way it did for baby vampires who’d just been turned. But baby bats had sires to take care of them and provide for more than the basics of life.

  When Cash had given Alex a chance to work for the military, he’d jumped at it. It wasn’t much, but the money had meant a used Honda Civic and a chance to see Sofia every week while CoVIn argued over a long term plan for him and the other converts.