by L. A. Banks
Sweating, panting, his thoughts turned to Carlos. He remembered what he’d been told . . . but why hadn’t Rivera come?
“He can’t help you in here,” the floating voice said. “He cannot even hear you. Pity. He should have taken better care of you. But you can’t trust his kind . . . the newly made. Sydney is wonderful, however.”
Who the hell was Sydney? A laugh echoed out beyond his confining box. Berkfield strained to hear, as the voice got further away.
“Stop struggling and save your breath. There’s only so much air in the coffin . . . then again, you might be lucky and suffocate before this is done. Your prayer may be answered after all, and you can die before the final ceremony.”
With every sense keened, he noticed the subtle sway of the coffin. He was being transported. He scavenged every facet he could recall. His memory danced between the images in the lab and a dungeon. There had been a castle. Torches were everywhere, black hooded robes, deafening, indecipherable words chanted . . . pain, burning, searing, horrific pain that entered his bones and temporarily stole his sight. Delirium, heat, blood, strange symbols, military men and men of science, saying words from old black books, appearing dazed and insane as they spoke in unison. Then the black funnel cloud had scorched the air within his lungs. It had opened up the slate dungeon floor within the center of the pentagram these madmen and creatures had created from fresh human blood.
Berkfield sucked in a huge breath and tried to stifle a strangled cough as he dry heaved and almost vomited. The longer he lay there, the more he understood why Carlos had gone deep underground and into hiding. The man had vanished. But he’d also learned that Rivera had turned into a beast like the thing that had kidnapped him.
Every instinct he had told him that—if he lived through the ordeal—he had to remember it all so he could hunt this beast down and snuff it, before it got to his family.
Just as suddenly as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a deep, echoing snarl. Berkfield cringed as a thunderous bang rocked the coffin, sending a fiery current through the wall of it to crawl over his face, seal his mouth against a scream, blind his eyes, and shatter his eardrums.
He was glad that she’d relaxed enough to allow him to take her to the top of Westfield Centrepoint Tower to look out at the amazing view. He’d lied; he wasn’t ashamed to admit that to himself. There was no real compelling reason to go there. But he just wanted to have a reason to hold her alone for a little while longer under the stars . . . while the night was his and the world was still under his dominion. Once he gave her back to Marlene that was it. His world would be gone.
“See,” he murmured, swallowing hard. “That’s where there’s safety zones.” He pointed for her, hating to let one of his arms break contact with her soft skin. “Over there, bad energy.”
She just allowed her line of vision to follow where he pointed, but he could tell she wasn’t paying attention as she leaned against him closer and swallowed hard. They had both lied to themselves.
The ruse had been plausible, served a dual purpose. Denial was a wonderful drug at the moment, numbed the pain like morphine. Yeah, she needed to see the entire layout of the city for her own safety, to know that Darling Harbor was to the west, beaches were to the east, and north of Sydney was the commercial district and Taronga Zoo—where creatures could be transformed by weres. She needed to see how the Sydney Harbor Bridge divided the city north by south, and to see the concentration of activity on the south side, Chinatown . . . all of that was good information if she had to cut and run.
But more than she needed that, he needed to feel her heartbeat against his chest while the early evening air whipped her dwindling fragrance about him, his nose nuzzling the soft crown of her head, his hands aching to stroke her belly and sense what he’d planted there. She needed him to hold her and never let her go . . . they both knew the deal.
He chanced a kiss on the top of her head, and felt her eyes close, could taste the salt tears run down her cheeks as soon as they hit the air.
“We better go,” he murmured. “You’ve only got a couple of hours before you have to perform.”
“Yeah,” she said, her tone flat, disconnected. “And I don’t even have a plan.”
There was no denying that. All there was left to do was bring her in. Give her up. And try to fight the whole world to give her and his baby a chance to live.
Never in a million years would she have thought she’d be coming to her mother-seer like this, dragging her Isis behind her like she was dragging her tail, knocked up, no plan, a man caught up in a dangerous life, and scared as shit . . . and still so crazy that she didn’t want to leave him. Insane in love.
She glanced up at the old general post office that had been converted into the five-star Westin Sydney. The thirty-one-story tower atrium seemed like a perfect place to hurl oneself off of—too dramatic, but the thought crossed her mind. It was so complicated a situation that she couldn’t even think, but had to, as they passed soaring ceilings and windows in the ornate old structure that was littered with impressive antiques and every modern convenience imaginable, working on an opening line. Hi, guys . . . guess what? Damali closed her eyes as the elevator sealed her and Carlos away from the spectacular lobby. She felt like it had swallowed her whole: wishful thinking.
“You ready?” he asked, as they exited the elevator and walked down the hall to the Heritage suites.
“No,” she said, honestly. “I don’t know what the hell we can tell them.”
“You gonna tell them tonight?”
“Not advisable to send them into battle with a divided mind.”
“Then we’re on the same page,” he said, knocking on the door.
She held her breath, put on a performance smile, and let it out slowly when Marlene opened the door.
The looks on the faces of her team were as if they’d walked into a funeral. They didn’t even draw weapons when she and Carlos crossed the threshold, and the clerics just sighed and looked out the shut terrace doors. Marlene didn’t say hello or hug her. She just turned and walked deeper into the room, beckoning them with her body language to follow. They did, and then parted. Carlos found an empty wall to lean against on one side of the room by the door, and she found the edge of the bar to lean against. Sitting down would be impossible. Nerves wouldn’t allow for it.
Rider seemed like he’d aged ten years—it was in his eyes. Shabazz just sat there by Rider on the sofa, his eyes closed, like he was meditating away a stroke. Big Mike was in a huge leather chair, looking down, counting carpet nap in the rug. J.L. and Dan were sitting by her on bar stools tearing sections of their cuticles out, one biting his, the other picking his thumb till it bled. Father Pat’s mouth was moving in silent prayer, his eyes on the dark horizon with his brethren. Jose’s gaze was steady on the crease in his pants, his forefinger and thumbnail zipping up and down either side of it like a razor. Marlene looked at them, pain so deep in her eyes that it almost stole her breath.
“Talk to me,” Marlene whispered, making the rest of the group look up.
“Everything’s cool,” Damali lied, her voice calm, slow, even, her gaze holding Marlene’s. Having learned from Carlos, she found a bit of truth to give her cover. “I’m human, and will cast a reflection tonight. We can put the tapes on standby.”
Tension hissed, popped, and sputtered like a candle touched by a drop of water. But for a moment, no one said a word.
“The plan?” Marlene said coolly. “Or do we have one?”
“I had to go in deep, Mar. Was in the Australian’s castle, and I understand their ways now better than I ever did. Gained valuable information. I learned how they fight, felt their power surges, know how skilled they are at dredging memories, and what their preferred creature is to transform into. I also know what they’ve lost as a result of a bad gambles, and both us know that it’s creating a temporary weakened power state within them until they can regroup, so it’s hit ’em now or never. Had to pass myself off as
a female vamp, and it worked.” She could feel her chest constrict from the evasion. How in the world did Carlos do this all the time and sleep, she wondered. “I need to eat before the concert.”
Shabazz snapped his head in Carlos’s direction so fast that Carlos backed up. He stood in a slowly unfurling rage, shaking his head.
“Nachos!” Damali shouted. “Juice! Anything with salt, something to put a base on before I have to go on stage.”
“’Bazz, man,” Carlos said, his tone controlled as though talking to a guard dog about to lunge, “she couldn’t eat human food in the castle—they’d’ve smelled it on her, and she’d’ve blown her cover. She’s straight.”
Slowly, begrudgingly, Shabazz found his seat again on the edge of the sofa, and it made the other Guardians’ muscles relax.
“The plan,” Marlene repeated, her voice so low that it was hard to hear her.
Damali glanced at Carlos, whose back was now pressed to the door.
“Seal the room,” he said, directing the request to the clerics. “I need a barrier to be sure nobody can hear what we have to put down.” He nervously glanced at Damali, both knowing he was stalling for time, even though what he’d said was true.
Marlene waited, her gaze never wavering as the clerics did what had been requested. She was stone. Granite. Would not be moved. Stood like a brown statue in the middle of the floor, arms folded, eyes unblinking, radar up. “The plan?” she said again, this time through her teeth.
“At the concert,” Damali said, trying to sound authoritative. “Four master vampires and their wives will be—”
“Four master vampires,” Rider said, standing, drawing out the words as he walked toward her. “And their mates. All at one time. All under the same roof. With however many innocent humans that we can’t hit in a shootout.” He opened his arms, leaned in toward her. “All waiting for a bunch of fucking musicians to leap from the stage with stakes in hand to save the goddamned world?”
He walked away from her, grabbed Jose by the shoulder, pulling him to his feet and toppling the stool. “Fuck this. Me and you, bro, we’re hitting a bar. He glared at Damali, then Carlos. “We’re out. You’ve got your nose standing there by the door—and that SOB is already dead. We’re just human, Damali. I am never sitting up all night tearing my guts out worrying about you again!”
Jose pounded Rider’s fist and swallowed hard, his gaze locked with Carlos’s.
“Guys, I’m sor—”
“Do not say it, Damali!” Shabazz was on his feet, his finger pointed in accusation. “Do not say, ‘I’m sorry.’” He stormed away and stood with the clerics, his back to the group. “This is the first time I’ve been able to breathe in two nights.”
“So, there’s no plan?” Dan stood, coming off his stool slowly, incredulous. His blue eyes blazed with pure shock. “You were with him for two days and two nights and you guys didn’t come up with the master plan? You want us to rush four master vampires and a bunch of second-level females without a plan? Just freestyle?”
“We have a plan but you’re not listening to—”
“Call it off, D. We ain’t got a plan, so we don’t go in till we do. We do the concert, and get more info on which one of those bastards stole the key, dust him, and hope we can get on a plane with everybody still walking.” Big Mike shook his head, glanced at her, then Carlos, his eyes filled with disappointment. “I hope you both had fun, got everything out of your systems—because tonight, we’re on the defensive, not the offensive.” He stood slowly, his tall tree-trunk body erecting six foot eight inches of mass up from the chair. “I don’t know where you went, or where you’ve been.” He looked at Damali. “As somebody who loves you, I deserved more respect than that.” His glare settled on Rivera. “We thought you’d be able to sniff out some more info than y’all are bringing.”
When she took a breath to speak, Big Mike held up his hand. His gaze on her narrowed, and for the first time in her life, she saw something in the team’s gentle giant’s eyes that hit her harder than a slap could have.
“You put the family at risk!” Big Mike bellowed, his voice thunderous, shaking the windows. “Never in my damned life have I been brought to my knees in prayer like this for your ass, girl! Sobbing and crying and begging and rocking and pleading with God to bring my baby back home . . . If you ever disappear like that—” In a slow storm, Big Mike cut off his own words, walked to the far side of the room, punched the wall leaving a hole and dust, then whirled on Carlos. His voice was an even rumble. “Let’s me and you take a walk outside, old school–style.” He cast off his gun. “One on one, motherfucker.”
“Mike . . .” Damali said, but his glare almost stopped her heart.
“I have had it, D!” Big Mike hollered. “I’m done! I’m angry with both of us this time!”
“We might not have a complete plan,” she said fast, her gaze darting to Carlos, who hadn’t even bulked for the battle, his resignation frightening her, “but—”
“Then what the fuck was all this drama about, anyway?” J.L. said, suddenly standing, shaking his head and walking in a circle. “We could have stayed in LA. I mean, what’s the point?” He stopped, opened his arms, closed his eyes, and tilted his chin up to the ceiling, tears now slipping from beneath his lids. “Oh, God, what is the point?”
Marlene was practically hyperventilating, and the clerics each walked to a corner of the room, their mouths moving silently, until Father Pat’s voice shattered the silence. “Damn it to Hell, man! What is wrong with you?”
The elderly priest swished past Marlene and Damali, his rapid movements drawing the group’s focus, his blue robes sounding the air, but his pace nearly blinding as he came to Carlos, drew back his fist, punched him, and then grabbed him by the T-shirt at his chest. “Where’s the key? Tonight, I am ready to die, young man!” he yelled, slamming Carlos against the door. “Tear out my throat, rip out my heart, there is nothing you can do to me that hurts more than this.” He shoved Carlos and walked away, no fear, his backed turned, total disgust his shield, righteous indignation his sword. Father Patrick covered his face with his hands and breathed into them slowly, then stood tall, eyes glittering with rage and so much more.
The emotion in the exchange—the care, the love, the disappointment, the hurt in Father Pat’s fury, in his punch, his entire being—entered Carlos and held him. What none of them could understand was that he was bound to them now, could feel all of them as though they were one. Knowing how much they loved Damali, knowing how much they cared about him, had hoped for him, even prayed for him, too. Knew that in the beginning it was just because she was so bonded to him, but then after he’d proven himself in their eyes, in Hell, in Brazil . . . and now, they were hurt beyond words. He’d left her vulnerable, the team vulnerable to four master vampires and an army. What had he done . . . all because he’d wanted her in his arms?
He looked away until the wall became blurry, washed with shame, tears he couldn’t shed in public, ever. Father forgive him, he never meant for this to happen. He rubbed his jaw, not from the punch—that hadn’t even registered. But the family’s pain sent a blade into his heart as he took it all in. They were just this upset because she’d been missing, but they had no idea what else was wrong . . . they didn’t even know . . . and there’d be no way to tell them . . . what had gone down defied explanation.
“We have a plan,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “We wouldn’t let you down like that.” Carlos looked at Damali, who was breathing slow, trying not to cry. Don’t cry, baby. Not now. We’ll both lose it up in here. Stay strong.
This is bad, Carlos. We’ve gotta make this right. The family doesn’t deserve this. I don’t even know what to say to them.
“What was your plan going in, Carlos?” Father Pat said, his voice quivering with rage. “Tell me!”
“With four masters coming into the castle, and me as the councilman, I had to be formally introduced to each, in the open, as well as have occasions where
I could sense if they’d bitten my marked man, Berkfield, during the key hijack, or smell the key on them, and—”
Father Patrick slapped his forehead as he paced back and forth in an agitated line, his blue robes swishing. “Are you mad? I thought you were there to detect which of them had a secret, fraud in their—”
“Are you mad?” Carlos asked evenly. “They are master vampires. They all have secrets, lies, fraud, and deception. It runs all through them, it’s like a cesspool in their systems. There’s no way to cleanly sense that and sort out thousands of years of lies without getting that bullshit twisted. Get real.” Indignant, Carlos stared off toward the wall.
“We didn’t know you were trying to sense for the Living Blood! I cannot believe your whole strategy hinged on that aspect! This was the problem with not being able to caucus with Damali, properly, as a team, before you all went off on your own!” Father Patrick shook his head and let it drop to his hands in defeat. “Oh, God . . . had we known . . . Yes, you can sense Berkfield, but you can never smell the Blood of the Lamb—”
“Father, the ability to track a blood scent is—”
“—Beyond your capacity, even if you were Lucifer himself!” Father Patrick’s panicked gaze shot around the room.
Damali covered her mouth with her hand as Marlene closed her eyes. Her gaze darted around to the stricken expressions of her teammates.
“But the council never told me that,” Carlos whispered, caught up in his own new awareness. “I never gained that knowledge, even after taking a throne . . .”
All eyes were on Father Patrick as he spoke. “You wouldn’t, because that information doesn’t reside down there.” The elderly cleric began pacing again. “Just like your realm has certain powers and hidden information—rules of engagement—so does mine. Welcome to my world, Carlos Rivera!” Father Patrick slapped his chest hard and his voice trembled with rage. “This is what I do—what we do, as the Covenant. We know things that the darkness cannot even conceive! That is our strategic advantage . . . so for all your powers, you’d better know that some things you simply cannot fathom, young man.”