by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor
Grabbing the machete, she thrust the ring at the beast and, with a roll of the eyes, he swiped her hand away. The ring went clattering to the floor, spinning. Useless.
“You know he’s not coming back,” the vampire said, cocking its head. “So what does that piece of tin mean?”
“Everything!”
Pissed as hell, he pinned her to the floor, buried his fangs in her neck. Camille bucked back from the piercing agony, the shock of actually being bitten.
In the distance, she could hear a roar of disbelief.
She grunted, raised her blade, but the monster vised her wrist in his grip. Strong. Too strong.
With every greedy suck, the life slipped out of her, leaving her dizzy and discombobulated.
It’s over? I couldn’t do it?
Then the room filled with that weird fritzing blip she’d heard when the male vamps had lowered the barrier for her. She knew who’d entered.
Pushing at the vamp with waning strength, Camille could only watch as Sarge burst into the room.
Even as Griff still sucked from her, she glared at her fellow hunter, baring her teeth.
Let me finish it.
“Dammit, Camille,” Sarge said. His voice wavered, face drained of its usual color. “Let it go.”
She forced out a desperate, garbled plea to him. “If you care about me at all, you’ll let me do this.”
The vamp disconnected from her neck, ignoring Sarge altogether. “Mine.”
Grabbing the machete, he sat up, straddling her. Then he made a big show of the whole process, taking the blade, cutting his lip. The kiss of immortality.
“You’d better hurry, Howard,” Sarge yelled, coming to stand behind the vamp, machete raised for the kill. “Do what you’re going to do now, goddammit.”
His tensed body swam in her vision and, in a flashing, slow-motion instant, she realized how much love could leave you a victim.
Love.
To be a killer, you have to be a little in love with death.
Sarge had told her that. And he’d been right.
Griff had become a bringer of death. He was death—the end of her dreams, her naivete…. She did love death, then. Literally. But did she love it—Griff—enough to be a killer? Did she love him enough to end his pain?
God, yes.
Drawing on every bit of remaining energy, she roared, springing upright, grabbing the machete from the vampire and carrying through to a standing position.
Her blood dripped from his mouth as he flared upward to his feet. The ultimate predator.
“I love you, Griffin,” she said, cocking her weapon. “Wherever you are.”
And with a vengeful cry, she heaved the blade forward, through the vamp’s heart. Gouging away a part of her soul at the same time.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sarge relax, stumble backward, giving her the space she needed to complete herself.
To take herself apart with every passing second.
Golden eyes fading to brown, Griff dropped to his knees, hands spread out in supplication. “You did it.”
“Yeah.”
It was a sob. One sob. That’s all she allowed herself before falling to her own knees before him.
Since she was numb anyway, she wanted to touch him, one last time. Nothing could hurt her now.
Bringing his forehead to hers, she couldn’t talk around the choking burn of her throat. The blinding tears.
His body gave way, and he crumpled face first to the floor. She scooped him up, just as she’d done to Bea earlier in the night, cradling him. Willing him to stay. Willing things to be as they were before Juni.
“I love you, Tex.”
She raised her head from his, wanting to kiss him one last time, to bring him back to life like they did in fairy tales.
But his eyes were beginning to glow again, proving this wasn’t even close to a happy ending.
Couldn’t she remember him as her Griff, not the damned vampire? Couldn’t she at least have that to keep?
Don’t think. Just do. Or die.
Before the monster could take over, she summoned her courage, took hold of the machete, pulled it out of his heart, then pushed the body away. Swinging downward, she aimed for the monster’s head.
And did it.
Turning away from the corpse, she screamed, a young girl who’d lost her parents one New York day. Her soul pulled out of her with the sound as it bounced around the room, seeking escape.
She screamed until her throat was dry and only the vibration of sheer horror was left. After that, she could only cry, her heart trying to crawl up through her throat, her hands covering her face so she could keep the pain to herself.
Minutes…hours…sometime later, someone took her into his strong arms. Pressed the baby ring into her hand.
She didn’t even have to look up to know that it was Sarge.
Epilogue
New York, three months later
Sarge stood at the bottom of the concrete police station stairs, watching the paparazzi attack Camille.
Camera flashes lit her calm expression, her formfitting black designer skirt suit and boots, the red hair worn in a sleek, behind-the-ears style. Although she’d had surgery to fix the nose she’d broken in Bucharest at the vampire underground battle with Griff, it still listed off to one side a touch.
She was so damned beautiful.
“As you know,” she said, answering one of the photographer’s questions, “my parents have been deceased for twelve years. I’m here to see if the police will aid me in bringing the killer to justice by warming up this cold case.”
A shower of “Ms. Howard” s followed her progress up the steps. One particularly exuberant reporter hopped in front of her. To Camille’s credit, she didn’t chop him in the throat as Sarge had once seen her do to Griff.
Poor kid, may he rest in peace.
“Ms. Howard,” the photographer asked, “everyone knows there was no evidence in this case. What if the cops can’t find any this time, either?”
He flashed a bulb in her face, but Camille didn’t startle.
That’s my girl, thought Sarge.
“Then I’m going after the culprit,” she said, “with or without the NYPD.”
A twinge of concern knotted in Sarge’s belly.
Next to Sarge, Eva Godea, whom Camille had hired as a personal assistant because they’d “been close” in Romania, tapped Sarge’s arm. “I am relieved you are here.”
Of course he’d come. It was Camille.
He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, just to give him something to do. “I thought this might be important. You sounded worried.”
“Fairly. She has not moved away from her thoughts of revenge. Ever since Griffin…”
Sarge knew. After accepting what she needed to do to save her boyfriend’s soul, she’d become more resolute in wanting to set the world right.
He’d done what he could, but her wounds from Griffin’s death were still fresh. It was tough knowing the woman you loved was suffering and wouldn’t let you hold her, soothe her. Would only allow you to communicate with phone calls.
And the thing of it was, Sarge knew he could make her feel better if she’d just allow him in.
“She was always a warrior,” he said, watching Camille withstand another round of pictures. “Just look. These camera-toting jackals would have me running for the hills.”
Done with small talk, Sarge started walking up the stairs to join Camille, but Ms. Godea hadn’t finished.
“You will make her see happiness, Mr. Sargent. No matter what she says.”
Right, Sarge thought, hearing his boot heels make uneven echoes on the concrete. Stubborn Howard. She was still going after that doctorate degree, dedicating her life to learning about all varieties of vamps, calling herself an “aspiring vampirologist” now. She still hunted for answers about the male vampires who’d literally dissolved into air after she’d neutralized Griffin. Not that Sarge knew a lot ab
out them, either. They were reluctant allies, but he’d see them again when Nicolae resurfaced.
He passed her, caught her eye. Caught the glint of the baby ring she still wore on the chain around her neck. As one more camera flash lit her like the shine of a full moon, she smiled, the tips of her mouth rising gently.
“I need to be going,” she said to the paparazzi.
“Ms. Howard!” they yelled. “Can you finally tell us where you’ve been for the past year?”
But she’d deftly moved on, matching Sarge’s strides as they approached the station door.
“Fancy seeing you again,” she said.
“Ms. Godea called me. I thought I could stick around while all this crap was going down. Offer moral support.”
“I keep telling you. I’m fine.” She got the door, motioned him in before her. “But thank you.”
She’d said so many thank-you’s to him, thought Camille, pulse racing even at the sight of her former rival. She’d told him she was fine over the phone, and in her head every night as she slept in her empty bed.
Actually, they both called each other frequently. She kept him up to date about how, upon further research, she and Ike had discovered that Griff’s cell pattern had been minutely off. Slightly inhuman. It’d taken them a month to find the aberration. This meant that Griff’s killing spree was her fault. She and Bea had created a monster.
Damn her for being arrogant enough to do it, but now she was going to catch one to make up for her errors.
Taking the weight of the door from her, Sarge held it open and ushered her into the officious lobby before him.
Touched by his chivalrous gesture, Camille took a moment to survey her surprising supporter: the rough-and-tumble brown hair, the squinted eyes, the faded jeans instead of well-worked fatigues.
Brutal, but workable.
What she really wanted to do was tug on his shirt, pull him into a hug. She knew exactly why he was here. To see that she didn’t lose her soul to this case by going after the murderer as she’d done with Griff.
He didn’t need to say it out loud: he wanted to see that she remained human.
And truthfully, she might need his help this time around. She wasn’t ashamed to admit that she kind of missed him. They were a great team, right? That was why she found herself thinking about him so often, battling the desire to see him again.
As he watched her pass, his green eyes went soft with an emotion she couldn’t handle right now.
We could be a great team in so many ways, his gaze was saying.
She touched her baby ring, felt the weight of it around her neck, over her heart.
Every good vampire hunter carried a crucifix. And now, so did she. Camille Howard could make it on her own.
Right?
“Camille.” Sarge allowed the door to close behind them and tentatively rested his fingers on the small of her back. “You okay?”
“Always.” His touch was sending warmth up her spine, sensitizing her skin, making her keenly aware of him towering above her.
His hand feathered up her back, coming to rest at the nape of her neck. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
“I know, Elijah.” She smiled at the name, liking it.
A lot.
Lifting his eyebrows, he seemed amused. “My given name. I thought ‘Sarge’ created the proper distance.”
“It’s a quality name.” She relaxed under the pressure of his hand, thinking she could get used to this. Someday. “It’s got character.”
Just like you.
He looked so thrilled that she turned away, thinking she should’ve kept their dealings as impersonal as usual.
More emotional turmoil was not on her agenda.
“I’ve got to get this done.” She moved toward a reception counter that was manned by a blond female cop.
He didn’t follow, just hung back, uninvited.
“Hey,” she said.
Hey, said the ghost of Griff from his home in the shadows of her heart.
Camille swallowed, chasing away the ache, the tragedy of losing his love.
But Sarge still waited, sticking his hands in his pockets, looking out of place on the fringes of her world.
Warmth wrapped around Griff’s shadows, covering them like sleeping memories.
“You comin’ or what?” she asked.
A grin tugged at his mouth, and he shrugged, stepped forward. “Just wanted to be invited, is all.”
“You—” she smiled, held out her hand to him “—are so difficult.”
He stared at her open palm for a moment, then raised an arrogant brow. “Just glad to be wanted.”
And, as he stepped to her side at the counter, he slipped his hand into hers.
Entering into another battle.
Together.
Urban Legend
By Erica Orloff
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Prologue
Shanghai, 1911
“It is the…boy,” Shen had whispered, his voice trembling, his head bowed low to Tessa as she chanted before the small altar of Buddha in the corner of her bedroom. Shen’s dark eyes had been shiny with tears.
Tessa had dropped her jade prayer beads to the floor. What she had feared most had come to pass. She extinguished her burning incense, pulled on her cloak and followed Shen through the black night, through the streets of Shanghai into dark alleyways filled with the noises of rough men, barbarians, Mongols, warlords, and drinkers, past houses lit by lanterns, to the opium den, its dim red interior filled with filmy curtains and silk cushions, to where her lover lay, not really a boy, but with a face always childlike and youthful.
Tessa had tried to steel herself for this moment, even as she rushed behind Shen, her black wool cloak up around her face, teeth chattering from nerves. But at the sight of Hsu’s face, eyes shut as if just sleeping, she flung herself on the body and kissed his soft cheeks, his eyelids. She would have, in that instant, traded her soul for his, but she knew her soul was worthless to Buddha, to anyone. Neither truly alive nor truly dead, she was a vampire—though she could never bring herself to say that word aloud. Still she would trade places with the boy, with her Hsu, if she could.
Many nights, long after they had made love and murmured softly of their dreams and hopes, she had lain awake and stroked his face, his cheekbones sharp and high, his skin smooth and unlined. He was twenty, but he looked like a teenager, especially when he laughed, his black eyes alive with gaiety. He was brilliantly funny and quick-witted, able to manipulate words in clever ways to amuse her. He said his greatest happiness was making her squeal with laughter. “Your laugh is like my grandfather’s crickets,” he had said. “Music to me.”
Tessa, frozen in time at thirty years of age, had first locked eyes with Hsu after a performance of the opera. She was used to being stared at, a British woman, green-eyed, once the lover of a diplomat who had called her his wife, though they were not really married. After Sir George Ashton III, a charmer who had scandalized his family by taking up with Tessa, died of typhoid, she
had stayed in Shanghai, where she felt comfortable in her home and gardens, water lilies growing in the small, cool-water pool in the courtyard.
But meeting Hsu had changed her. He had threatened the very serenity she worked so hard to find at the altar of Buddha.
The intensity of the love affair frightened her. She thought she couldn’t feel so strongly again. Her passion made her ache when Hsu was away from her, and shudder with desire each time he returned to her bed. Sir George had been a pleasant distraction, a merry bit of English wit. But Hsu had surprised her. Every breath she took was just in anticipation of seeing him again, of touching him. Their lovemaking went on for hours, and afterward they curled around each other breathing as one.
That had all changed. Tessa had her secrets. But so did Hsu. Over time, his secret destroyed them. The opium had started to take over his life, until he spent evenings languid and glassy-eyed, seemingly content to let Tessa stroke his face, but unable to do more, or uninterested in anything other than the featherlike touch of her fingertips along his flat stomach.
That night, at the sight of his body, cold, stiff, hands frozen in a position of torment on the cushion of the opium den, Tessa had felt a rage build in her belly. And after arranging for Hsu’s body to be brought to his family, after mourning and chanting, she felt the rage grow.
Two weeks later, Tessa hired a guide, and, along with Shen, journeyed by night to the opium fields. Fire was an enemy, one of the few ways to kill a vampire, but Tessa didn’t care. She would play with it. Fight with it. If she died, that would be better than living with this suffocating grief.
The opium fields she targeted belonged to a warlord, one of the last few warlords, a dying breed, in the country. The fields, in full bloom, were guarded by men along the perimeter. With a tendril of Hsu’s hair in a gold locket around her swanlike neck, visions of her beautiful lover filling her mind, Tessa fought the guards one by one, picking them off with a furious crescendo of violent kicks and punches. Her strength was that of three men. One of the guards called her a devil and drew a dagger from his belt.