Blood Sin (2)

by Marie Treanor

  Her breath caught. “You?” she said doubtfully. “He doesn’t know he’s met you. He’d run from Travis’s before you arrived. Could he be looking for you?”

  “I doubt that,” Saloman said slowly. “Not for me.”

  In one sudden, impossibly fluid movement, he unwound himself from her and rose from the bed. Saloman was always splendid; naked, he was magnificent, and Elizabeth couldn’t drag her gaze away from his long, powerful legs, the graceful, economical movement of his hips, the undulation of muscles across his back and shoulders as he straightened and turned to her. His sheer sexual beauty overwhelmed her, and, in spite of everything, her heart began to drum once more.

  “Not for me,” he repeated, his eyes blazing with sudden, frightening fury. “For my blood. He wants to be turned with the blood of an Ancient, however diluted, to give him greater power.” He grabbed up his clothes from the floor. “He’s gone for Dmitriu.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dante’s only fear as he walked into the Angel on his second night in Budapest was that Dmitriu wouldn’t turn up. He’d laid his plans well, with his volunteer hunter team in hiding, just waiting for his word. The men he’d brought from America for protection, mindless thugs even in his own estimation, were farther back but ready to be called in if necessary—duly primed, of course, that they might see some weird sights. He didn’t want them freaking out and fleeing just when their muscle was required.

  The club was busier than on the previous evening. Angyalka, serving behind the bar, gave him a sultry smile of welcome as he approached. “Good evening, sir. What would you like? Bourbon?”

  He’d guessed last night she was a vampire. The Hungarian hunters had confirmed that suspicion, and also told him she was the owner of the establishment, and the main reason the club was tolerated. Like Travis’s place in New York, it had been known to the hunters for several months and at one point almost closed down. But they’d decided to leave it in the end, mainly because they’d have had no idea where the next such place would open up if this one vanished. And so the Angel remained, a documented haunt of vampires who could thus be watched. And Angyalka herself tolerated no violence on the premises. The only known fight had erupted during an abortive raid by the hunters to capture the Ancient Saloman.

  “Yes, please,” Dante said, and she reached for the bottle. The knowledge of her power, a power he would soon surpass, sent a delightful little frisson through his body.

  “Good to see you back,” Angyalka said, but although Dante waited, she said nothing about Dmitriu, merely presented him with his glass and turned to the next customer.

  Dante didn’t want to call her back, to show too much eagerness by asking again about Dmitriu. He decided to wait awhile, and turned on his stool to watch the dancers, who, this evening, had a live rock band to gyrate to. Dante hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long—the music did his head in.

  “Too loud, eh?” said the man sitting next to him.

  Dante smiled. If he said yes he had no excuse for hanging around, and yet his expression must have been pained to elicit the comment. “I’m getting used to it.” He glanced at his companion, unsure whether he had been there when he’d first arrived.

  Dante spoke sharply to himself. He mustn’t, he really mustn’t let his guard down in this place. If he let overconfidence in his future mess up the present, then God alone knew what that future would entail.

  The man beside him was youngish, maybe in his thirties or very early forties. He had spoken in English and had an intelligent look about him, and since he oozed comfortable amiability rather than threat, Dante figured there were worse ways to pass the time than in conversation.

  “You Hungarian?” he asked in his best friendly-stranger-in-town manner.

  “Romanian,” the man responded. “I’m Dmitriu, and I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

  Everyone’s self-esteem should be given a slap now and then. It woke a person up, kept him on his toes. Unfortunately, in this case, it also made his stomach twist with unexpected nerves.

  Fighting it, he stuck out his hand. “Hey, Dmitriu, great to meet you at last. I’m Grayson.”

  Dmitriu took his hand in a cool, brief grip and waited. A five-hundred-year-old vampire must have learned a lot of patience.

  “You’ve been recommended to me,” Dante said, aiming at forming some kind of trust.

  Dmitriu’s dark brows twitched upward. He looked distinctly skeptical. “By whom?”

  “Lots of people,” Dante said vaguely; then, as the vampire’s lip curled, he added hastily, “Look, Dmitriu, I won’t beat about the bush here. The bottom line is I have a proposition for you.”

  Dmitriu continued to look at him in silence. Dante allowed himself a rueful glance at the band.

  “We can’t talk here,” Dante said. “Shall we go somewhere quieter?” For a moment he thought Dmitriu wouldn’t even answer that, wondered if he’d have to bring the hunters and his own men in here.

  Then Dmitriu pushed himself off his stool, clearly waiting for Dante to do the same. Dante smiled. He even remembered to call good night to Angyalka while, under pretense of checking in his pocket for wallet and phone, he pressed the “buzzer” the hunters had given him to attach to his phone. Now they’d know he and Dmitriu were on their way.

  Dante’s heart thundered with excitement as they made their way down the dingy staircase to the street. Beside him, the vampire Dmitriu, in whose veins flowed the rare and powerful blood of the last Ancient, the owner of the sword himself, walked in careless silence.

  Although Dmitriu wasn’t flamboyant and cocky like Travis, Dante wasn’t fooled. He knew Dmitriu was strong and something of an enigma to the hunters; and in fact, his very negligence in leaving the bar with a complete stranger on a such a flimsy pretext spoke of a belief that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—be harmed. Dante was happy to foster that belief for the next couple of minutes.

  And then he’d strike. With the sword and the hunters, he couldn’t lose.

  “There’s a quiet café down here,” Dante said, turning left at the door. On cue, a solitary hunter turned the far corner and walked toward them. Dante’s skin prickled as he prayed the other two were already approaching from behind. Despite his largely honorary position as Grand Master, he’d had no actual dealings with vampires apart from his two not entirely successful sorties to Travis’s in New York; but he was aware Dmitriu was likely to sense danger, and to react with faster reflexes than any human could hope for.

  But so far, at least, he could detect no concern in the body language of the silent vampire beside him. The hunter was maybe ten yards away and closing. And there were only about two more yards to where his inconspicuous car was parked.

  Deliberately, Dante shivered. “I’m just going to get my coat from the car, if you don’t mind. The night’s turned a bit chilly.”

  Dmitriu inclined his head and halted while Dante unlocked the doors of his car. Casting a surreptitious glance in the direction they’d come from, he saw the two hunters walking smartly behind Dmitriu. Dante bent and felt yet another thrill as he touched the sword, even through Josh’s dad’s old coat, and dragged the bundle toward him.

  His heart hammered. Timing was everything here. The hunters’ footsteps were drawing closer. Three, two, one.

  Dante yanked the sword free and spun to face the still passive Dmitriu, just as the hunters sprang.

  Dante should have known that in a vampire, stillness did not necessarily betoken unpreparedness. And Dmitriu, it turned out, was perfectly prepared. Dante barely saw him move, and yet the two who jumped him from either side were sent flying across the pavement toward Dante, and the third, who managed to dodge Dmitriu’s fist, was felled instead by a vicious kick.

  The vampire walked purposefully toward him, and Dante saw that his blazing dark eyes were not amiable at all. The hunters, still stunned, scrabbled sideways out of his path, clearly trying to regather their energy for another attack.

  Dante he
ld the sword in front of him with both hands. The thrill of it helped counteract the desperation, the failing hope that the hunters could fight this being without the wooden stakes Dante himself had forbidden. He needed Dmitriu alive. Or at least still undead.

  “You can’t kill me with that,” Dmitriu observed.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Dante said. With renewed excitement, he realized Dmitriu’s gaze was riveted on the weapon. He recognized it, surely, knew its power.

  But for several heartbeats, nothing happened. The sword did not compel Dmitriu to surrender. Perhaps it needed blood. Wildly, Dante thrust it into the vampire’s shoulder. He didn’t see Dmitriu move, but realized at once that the blow had been deflected to a mere graze. And that Dmitriu continued to gaze at him with curiosity but absolutely no submission in his dark face.

  Shit. What the hell do I do now? How does this damned thing work?

  “Three!” yelled the lead hunter, and once again all three of them launched themselves at the vampire, who shook them off like fleas.

  Dante gave in and yelled for backup. He had a couple of moments to feel proud of his thugs, for Dmitriu clearly hadn’t expected them. As Dmitriu wheeled to face the new threat piling out of the car across the road, the hunters managed a few good blows that sent the vampire staggering backward. And by then the four thugs were upon him.

  The scene degenerated into a confused mess of flailing limbs. Dante had to shake his head to try to regain focus, to make out what was going on. Bodies began to fly into the road with such force that Dante knew, sickeningly, that there would be broken limbs. And they weren’t Dmitriu’s.

  He could make out the vampire now, holding one of his thugs in both hands. With monstrous ease, Dmitriu broke his neck and hurled him to the ground. Dante, gripping the sword hard, moved forward, and Dmitriu advanced once more to meet him. His fists flew, knocking the still-game hunters cold beside his fallen thugs, and unbelievably, Dante knew he’d lost.

  At the same time, his heart soared with excitement, because of the sheer strength in Dmitriu. He couldn’t prevent the freezing, mind-numbing fear, but that didn’t change the surge of longing, his desperate knowledge that this was what he truly craved, this power, which would never die but only grow with the passage of time.

  Dmitriu’s gaze dropped to the sword, which he wrenched from Dante’s grip without further warning.

  “That,” said Dmitriu, “does not belong to you.”

  “I have a proposition for you,” Dante croaked, just as one of his thugs lying at Dmitriu’s feet rolled into the vampire’s legs, trying to knock him off balance.

  Dmitriu sliced down with the sword and the thug screamed. Dmitriu bent, dragging the man upright with his free hand. Under Dante’s appalled but fascinated gaze, Dmitriu yanked the thug’s head back by the hair and bit into his throat.

  It was over with dizzying speed, the vampire dropping the drained body to the ground as if it were a finished beer can. The point of the Sword of Saloman pricked Dante’s throat.

  Yes! The desire for this death, anticipated so long and eagerly, filled him, almost smothering the need to negotiate.

  Dmitriu’s brow twitched into a frown. “Interesting,” he murmured, searching Dante’s eyes.

  “My proposition . . .” Dante began desperately.

  But inexplicably, Dmitriu lowered the sword. “Oh, no. You want this too much. I won’t oblige you. But I thank you for the sword.”

  And the vampire turned away, stepping delicately over his victims as he sauntered off down the road with the sword swinging from one hand.

  “Dmitriu!” Dante yelled pleadingly. “Wait!” He tried to run after him, but his legs shook too much and he’d never felt so old in his life. By the time he’d cleared the last of his fallen henchmen, Dmitriu was out of sight, and Dante was left alone with at least two dead bodies and several unconscious victims of violence.

  He wasn’t a politician for nothing. He averted his gaze and walked away.

  Saloman. I have something of yours.

  At the sound of the familiar voice, Saloman smiled. I thought you might.

  He was with Elizabeth in the airport departure lounge, waiting for their flight to be called.

  You might have warned me, Dmitriu complained.

  I had faith in you to deal with him, Saloman responded blandly.

  I’m touched. What do you want me to do with it?

  Keep it for me. I’m on my way. Saloman sank into the seat beside Elizabeth, who was drinking coffee and turning the pages of a newspaper. Where is Dante?

  Fled the carnage. He had hunters with him, and American bodyguards.

  Saloman glanced at Elizabeth. Did you kill the hunters?

  You know I like a peaceful life, Dmitriu said reproachfully. Why would I kill them?

  Self-defense.

  Well, that was the interesting thing. They had no stakes. And your man Dante has a death wish. Or is that undeath?

  Elizabeth nudged him. “You’re in the newspaper,” she said sardonically, pointing at a photograph of him and an American businessman that had been taken at yesterday’s meeting.

  Don’t grant it, Saloman commanded Dmitriu. Under any circumstances. And by the way, watch out for a visiting vampire from America. He’s called Travis and he’s strong.

  His senses prickled, reminding him of someone he’d almost forgotten. Breaking the connection with Dmitriu, he reached over and folded the newspaper trumpeting Adam Simon’s spectacular rise into the world of international business, and placed it in Elizabeth’s open bag.

  She regarded him over her coffee cup.

  “Your cousin is here,” he said, by way of explanation, and her gaze shifted with his to the door of the departure lounge, through which strolled Josh Alexander, stylish and handsome in dark glasses. He appeared to be alone, without any of the entourage of staff and hangers-on expected of a film star. Clearly, he was traveling incognito.

  “Josh!” Elizabeth exclaimed, jumping to her feet and drawing his attention. His lips fell apart in obvious surprise when she all but ran to meet him. What had he imagined? That she wouldn’t recognize him in shades? That she wouldn’t be pleased to see him because she was with Adam Simon? Possibly. Certainly, suspicion oozed from his every pore as Elizabeth spoke to him, and took his arm to urge him to walk with her back to Saloman. Which was interesting too. She would have been forgiven for leading him in the opposite direction.

  “Josh is going to Budapest too,” she said flatly.

  Josh looked him in the eye. “I figure you go where my sword is.”

  Saloman allowed himself a smile of delight. “You’re following us.”

  Josh looked slightly disconcerted by this response. Then he sighed and, as if tired of pretending such distant dignity, took off his sunglasses to reveal the shadows of sleeplessness. He rubbed his eyes. “You don’t even object, do you?”

  “No. In fact,” Saloman said, “I have no objection to our, er, pooling knowledge. At this moment, I think that would be to your advantage, since I know where the sword is.”

  Elizabeth paused in the act of retrieving her coffee to stare at him. “You do?”

  “With Dante,” Josh said at once.

  “It was,” Saloman allowed. “A friend of mine has just taken it from him.”

  Josh’s eyes widened; then his gaze dropped in what might have been no more than a blink. He replaced his sunglasses.

  “Is Dante dead?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “No,” Saloman said regretfully. “On the other hand, neither is he undead.”

  Josh said, “Is this a trustworthy friend?”

  “Is there another kind?”

  “Yes,” said Josh fervently.

  “Then, yes,” Saloman said, and abruptly, Josh laughed and flung himself into the seat beside him.

  “So what’s your story, Adam? What have you got to do with the sword, with any of this?”

  “Everything,” said Saloman.

  When Dante finally o
pened the door of his modest hotel room, his feet were dragging and his head spinning with the speed of his defeat as well as with desperate efforts to think what this meant for his plans. After everything he’d done to get it, he’d managed to lose the sword. And he figured alienating the vampire Dmitriu was another mistake. He didn’t know whether it would be worse for Dmitriu to keep the sword for his own ends, or for him to return it to the legendary if shadowy Ancient Saloman.

  And where in the hell was Saloman? Sooner or later, surely, the Ancient would enter the game to reclaim his sword. That was one reason Dante had wanted this done quickly, for once he had the immortal power and the sword, surely even Saloman couldn’t take it from him?

  However, Saloman’s creation Dmitriu had taken it from him as easily as taking candy from a baby. As if it could sense his lack of power, the sword would not fight for Dante. Because he was not yet undead? Perhaps he should send the hunters out to catch him some slavering, bestial fledgling to do the turning.

  But Dante had aimed high, once he’d understood something of the hierarchy of the immortal undead. And now, mere bestial vampirism wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to be reborn at least at Dmitriu’s level, with enough status and self-control to use the sword to his best advantage. Otherwise he couldn’t hope to present any meaningful challenge to Saloman, who would simply kill him when their paths eventually crossed. He needed to be turned with some form of Saloman’s blood—otherwise the whole endeavor was pointless.

  There had to be another way to reach Dmitriu.

  Closing the door, Dante leaned back against it and shut his eyes. In that instant, he felt the other presence in the room with a certainty that had him reaching, trembling, for the light switch.

  Not Saloman! Oh, please, not Saloman. Not before he had time to think, to plan . . .

  The vampire Travis swung gently in the swivel chair by the desk, spinning his hat on one finger. “Evening, Senator,” he said amiably. “About your proposition . . .”