by Alix Adale
The Amazing Woman was nothing like that. She set off no alarm bells. She wasn’t involved. He didn’t want her involved. There must be a reason, an innocent excuse, that got her mixed up in this. She must have walked past a security camera around the time this happened. That’s all it was, a coincidence.
Yeah. And she could also jump off four-story buildings without a scratch. He took out the old Nokia and tried more passwords. None worked.
“Xerk, she likes you.” Suarez kept pushing him to go over and talk to Jilly, their waitress. She was off-duty now and hanging around the party, playing pool with some of the guys. She looked good in her stonewashed jeans and button-down blouse, her dark hair teased blonde—he’d always thought her good-looking—but she’d never shown any interest in him before. And what was he now? Less than a probie, only an unemployed nobody, a big nothing. He didn’t want Jilly. She couldn’t want him.
Besides, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Amazing Woman. An amazing beauty too. Port Selkie, she’d said. Did such a town even exist? He could go visit. Then what would he say when he ran into her? Oh wow, what a coincidence. I am working in the gym here now. That would be stalker-ish. But what if she was in genuine trouble?
He yanked out the phone, trying more four-number combos. None worked. It would be easier to go back to his studio apartment and work through every possible permutation with a pencil and a pad of paper. Time to leave, then. He’d partied enough. The clock above the bar read 7:15. He hated to leave, but announced it anyway. “Suarez, guys. Hey, guys. It’s time for me to go.”
The protests came at once, followed by the demands for one last round, a final chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and more backslaps and the handshakes and drunken I love you, mans. The guys were lit up like Christmas trees except those at the station house. Those guys ended up with the shortest straws, but duty came first.
The tab ran over a hundred dollars, but nobody would let him pay a dime. They even bought his favorite sandwich for a last supper: roast beef on pizza bianca bread with stone ground mustard and red onion, mmm.
His farewells said, he hefted his duffel bag, and stepped into the night. His studio apartment was only a few miles away and a brisk walk would sober him up. After only five beers, his size and the greasy food left him with only a mild buzz. Drinking didn’t agree with bodybuilding, but on a night like this, he could make an exception. Still, better hit the gym extra-hard tomorrow. Work the foul taste of beer out of his mouth, out of his system. Then cancel the gym membership. That was a luxury he could no longer afford.
What was her code? He fished the old Nokia out of his pocket and—on a whim—opened the case and pulled the battery, looking for an address, anything. Someone had written in felt-tip marker, across the bar-code, four simple digits: 4-3-2-1. The password worked and her screen unlocked. Old-school text menus appeared.
He thumbed through the interface, examining contacts, past messages, SIM card details. On an old phone like this, there was no Facebook or Twitter and only primitive email. Nothing traceable or personal remained in her memory. The contacts showed only icons, no names. They were cartoonish, like generic avatars. Three showed males. One showed a woman with black hair.
He poked through the SMS messages. Either she never received any or always erased them, because there was only one. It was from one of the icons, a man with long brown hair. A single text message sent at 5:14 AM this morning, it read:
Where the fuck r u Dez?
Dez.
Was that a name? Des—Desdemona. Dezzy? Dezilla. Hah. No, he got it. Desiree. Must be.
He’d reached a crosswalk, looked up into the early evening. A light drizzle fell, coating the grass with a fairyland sheen. Cars streaked by, a ceaseless flow, seeking parking places. The stars looked far away.
What had Detective Zenkowski said? Early twenties. Black hair, leather pants and jacket.
It’s all a mistake, some misunderstanding. This woman should know how to get hold of Dez. He highlighted the contact and pressed ‘Call.’
The phone rang.
Chapter 5: Pioneer Square
Desiree
They would do it. They wouldn’t even hesitate. The sickos. The sick fucking sickos.
Dez paced back and forth in Pioneer Square, a wide, popular, public space in the heart of Portland’s bustling downtown. Department stores and buildings ringed the open space, while the district courthouse anchored the far end. The sun had set an hour ago, though a few final rays played out across the brick-red pavement.
For the first time, the sun’s rays felt like bugs crawling over her skin. It was like a thousand tiny needles, heated up and poking. Instinct drove her hand to her heart, but there was but a single heartbeat, now. They’d taken her stone. The sun would burn her now. The sun would kill. She shaded her face with the newspaper. It was not enough.
What was done was done. The only thing that mattered now was saving that guy, the Puppy Stud. Ridiculous thing to call such a sweet guy, but she didn’t know his actual name.
The gruesome murder had made the front page of The Oregonian. Police department sources pointed the finger at teenage gangbangers out for easy prey. Tension between the homeless and the city was at an all-time high. But if the newspapers knew the truth about vampires walking among them, they would sell a lot more copies.
She abandoned the paper and stalked back to the far end of the square, scanning the crowds, waiting, hoping to see him. People streamed all around her: commuters on their way home; skateboarders risking a few illicit grinds; well-dressed young people, out for a night on the town, carefree and laughing. Couples walked hand-in-hand.
It was time to leave this insane life. She needed to run, to get far away. But first, she had to warn the Puppy Guy. Warn him his life was in danger, his freedom in jeopardy.
A knot of people passed by, revealing a break in the crowd. A large figure stood beneath a tree at the far end of the court, lost in shadows. That size—it could be Puppy Guy. Maybe. The man stepped out of the shadows, into the street lights. Long brown hair spilled off his jacket. Male model looks, but cold anger marred Armando’s beautiful face. He was pissed.
She spun on her heels and ran.
Twelve hours earlier, the taxi had dropped her off in front of Eibon Manor. Upon arrival, the driver pushed back his Mariners cap, showing a gap-toothed grin. “Here we are, miss.”
“Thanks.” She handed over an unlabeled credit card, all black save for a gold chip and numbers.
“What’s this?” he asked. They always asked. The card lacked a Visa or MasterCard logo—it looked suspicious.
“Amex Black. Just run it, it will clear.” It wasn’t Amex—it was more elite than that, but it was easier to explain it that way. For a second, the card didn’t scan and her heart leaped in her throat. Had Cherise beat her back to the mansion and blamed her for the murder? Had Armando—or even worse, the Queen—outlawed Dez on the fledgling’s word? They might cancel her card in that case, making it harder to run.
The card cleared and she let out her breath. The man handed it back with a receipt. She scribbled in an over-generous tip and left. What did it matter, it was Armando’s loot. The car door slapped shut.
Eibon Manor was a gargantuan mansion inspired by the French Renaissance and decorated with red Spanish roof tiles and four stories of ostentatious windows and balconies. Considered an architectural monstrosity by most critics, it served the clan well, since large stone houses of solid, vintage construction almost didn’t exist on the West Coast. Portland’s growing sprawl had surrounded it over the last hundred years.
She approached the iron-wrought gates, black metal embedded in century-old granite pillars. A high-tech panel of black glass provided security. She glared into its lenses, letting the security team scan her facial features, her retina. An electronic lock released and the gate clicked open.
Once inside, she stalked across meandering footpaths along the broad, sweep of lawns to reach the graveyard in the center
of the grounds. Sprinklers swish-swished in the morning gray. She wanted to shortcut across the undulating lawns, but was scared to walk on the Queen’s grass without permission.
What had Cherise told Armando? They’d gone out together and should have returned together. Armando would ask. For a second, a panicky thought struck her. What if it had been a setup? Maybe Armando ordered Cherise to kill her, but sis bungled the job?
No, Armando didn’t want her dead. That was ridiculous. He was aloof, a golden boy, narcissistic in many ways, but he wasn’t some murdering bastard or even cruel. One heard horrific stories in the Underworld about abusive sires. One out in Idaho kept his entire clan chained up so he could feed on their blood and accrue their power. When one died, he turned another. Armando wasn’t a monster like that.
It took five minutes to walk across the property to reach the mausoleums. The lack of people, animals, or even birds left the grounds silent, spooky even. The emptiness surrounded her, threatening to swallow her up.
Six hundred acres of wooded land, gardens, tennis courts, pools, formal gardens, greenhouses, jogging tracks, and riding trails comprised the grounds of Eibon Manor. Given its location, its value likely measured in the hundreds of millions. Before this, she’d searched online for an exact price. The task proved impossible, since the place hadn’t changed hands since the first Eibons built it more than a hundred years ago. Developers salivated over all those empty acres, but the clan wouldn’t sell as much as a pigeonhole. Instead, they bought up as much neighboring property as they could.
A footpath led past a hedge maze and into the cemetery proper. Dozens of headstones lay in artful clutches, the remains of paupers who the Eibons interred on their own grounds, a supposed act of charity. Backdrops for their macabre landscaping fell closer to the truth, or—even worse—the cemetery provided the raw ingredients for the art of necromancy, like a garden of death.
She shivered, heading toward the nearest low, stone building. More than a dozen lay scattered within the cemetery proper, above-ground mausoleums the size of small cottages. Widely separated, they ringed a large, artificial pond. Each of the ‘Visitation Tombs’—as the Eibons named them—housed one of the subordinate clans during these gatherings. The silence, the stillness of the water lilies and yew trees gave the scenery a mordant note, picturesque but sorrowful, like the ideal funeral.
Her fingers darted across the keypad on the exterior of the Bradens’ tomb: 4-3-2-1.
The iron door yielded with a creak. Inside, guttering candles rested on empty caskets. Or maybe they contained genuine bones; she didn’t want to know.
Armando. He was going to be so pissed. Time to pay the piper. She shivered.
At the far end of the mausoleum, an iron hatch—ostensibly a storm drain—opened into their actual guest suite. She used her underworld strength to open the hatch then clambered down thirty feet of smooth, bronze rungs into the large and well-lit central chamber.
Firelight cast a warm glow across ottomans, divans, and Persian carpets. Recessed alcoves provided padded marble slabs for sleeping—or whatever else. Luxuries and comforts abounded: a liquor cabinet, mini-fridges full of blood drinks, a five-star stereo, a wide-screen TV, an internet router, videogame systems, even Wi-Fi. The Eibons provided everything but a conscience.
Armando stood by the fireplace, glaring. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with long brown hair that spilled across his 19th century dress shirt and silk-knotted tie. A handsome face, half grown over with a ragged beard, but angry now. “Where have you been? Cherise returned thirty minutes ago.”
As if on cue, Cherise stepped out of a curtained alcove. Her hair looked wet and she’d changed out of her blood-soaked leathers and into green silk pajamas. Her face betrayed nothing, not smugness, not fear. Certainly not remorse, since she was congenitally incapable of it. No way to know what sis might have told their sire.
Dammit, covering up the crime might have been the better option. Let the whole thing blow over, deny any involvement. No. That wasn’t right. Dez grit her teeth. “She left me behind!”
“Explain.” Armando approached, fists clenched. “Why did you get separated? Two young vampires, alone. The city is dangerous. There are lycans and slayers out there. You must protect one another, watch each other’s backs. Blood is the life.”
Watch each other’s backs! What a joke. “Cherise thought it would be funny to push me off the roof and leave me in Overlook.”
Armando whirled on the other spawn. “That’s not what you told me.”
Cherise shrugged. “The feeding left me feeling frisky. A harmless prank.”
Maybe Cher hadn’t said anything about the dead man. Or she’d played it off as taking one of the ‘condemned’ from the Eibons’ list. Dez crossed her arms, facing her sire. “Feeding? Is that what she calls it? It was murder. Cherise stabbed some innocent homeless guy, not someone from the list. The cops showed up and everything.”
Armando roared. “What?”
“It’s a lie!” Cherise flung up her arms in disgust.
“Shut up and sit down! Both of you!” Armando marched them to a divan. “Tell me everything, Dez.”
So she did, starting with him forcing her to hunt, Cher’s dodgy driving, high on cocaine, and how sis chose their target. She admitted her own part too—the failure to lead, her bloodlust against the dying man. Retelling it didn’t make the guilt vanish, but it helped.
Cherise didn’t bother to interrupt, only sat with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes. At the end, Armando turned toward the fledgling. “Well?”
“Things got out of hand. Mistakes were made.” Cher grabbed his arm. “Come on, daddy. Don’t be mad. I only wanted to scare the guy, but the knife went the wrong way and hit him. Then—the blood. We got hungry. It won’t happen again. Don’t tell the Queen, no one will ever know.”
Armando pushed her arm away. “Don’t call me ‘daddy.’ You know I find it—disturbing.” He stalked off toward the wine cabinet, pouring tequila, tomato juice, Tabasco sauce, and blood into a tumbler. Ice cracked and glass clinked. His angry breathing could be heard across the room.
Dez sank back into her seat. What was done was done. Let the chips fall where they may. She’d made the right choice. It was in Armando’s hands, now. Maybe he’d bring Colin and George in to discuss it, too. Seek out their advice. Their absence didn’t surprise her; probably off on clan business. Shareholder meetings to attend. Secret councils. Intra-clan debts. The Underworld was all so complicated, but they shut her out of the decisions. Didn’t trust her. A mere six-year-turned vampire, when the three males had five, maybe six centuries between the three of them. Pigs. They loved the imbalance of power. Okay, that wasn’t fair to Colin. He was a good guy, kind in his distant way. George—was George. He had no spawns, either. It was Armando who was the problem. Her sire.
Armando sipped his bloody maria, lost in thought. While his back was turned, Cherise made a face, sticking her tongue out. God, for a nineteen-year-old, sis sometimes acted half her age. At last, Armando spoke. “Go, Dez. Clean yourself up. As to this matter, I’ll ask for a private audience with the Queen tonight. She must judge your crimes. I wash my hands of it.”
“Daddy!” said Cherise, leaping to her feet to argue. “It’s not my fault. Dez made me do it. She dared me to do it!”
Armando turned his back. “Do not insult my intelligence with your lies, Cherise.”
“Daddy! Believe me!”
Dez ignored them, the stream of manipulation, that twisted relationship. Once—only once—Armando had suggested a threesome. The thought made Dez’s blood freeze. Not the idea of sex with another woman. That didn’t appeal to her in any particular way, though she could see why some women did it. It just wasn’t for her. But the thought of making love to Cherise, that was revolting. Ugh. She stripped off her jacket on the way to the shower.
The bathroom was tucked away in an alcove behind a blue velvet curtain. It boasted hot running water, multiple showers, a spa, even an ol
d-fashioned tub on gnarled brass legs. Nothing too good for guests of the Queen.
Wash the guilt away. Get this poor, dead man’s blood off her. The warm waters offered only a temporary respite. The blood swirled down the drain, but regret remained. Yes. Let the Queen of Dagon decide her fate. Who knows, maybe she’d sentence her to exile. That would be welcome. Maybe she’d even give her that final release.
She exited the shower, put on a robe, then collapsed on her slab, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep until evening.
It was time to meet the Queen for their private audience. That had an ominous ring to it. Dez had slept, fed, washed up as best she could. Evening had arrived, though sunset remained an hour away.
All five Bradens moved through the underground corridors beneath Eibon Manor. None spoke a word, though their finery rustled in the drafty tunnels. The ancient stone walls resembled a medieval catacomb, replete with bone niches and aging caskets. Crumbling bricks, illuminated by only the occasional candelabra, stretched in every direction. Here and there, heaps of masonry, old wine barrels, and shattered tools littered the corridor, the detritus of the generations. It looked positively medieval and made her wonder. Did their illustrious Queen import all this trash from some European junk heap, or did she scavenge the flea markets of Portland, looking for matching iron maidens?
Armando walked in the fore, anger emanating from his hunched shoulders, his clenched fists. Cherise walked a step behind, unfazed, even whistling, until Armando snapped, “Shut up!”
Dez saw no reason to put up a brave front. Her fists punched inside the pockets of a fresh denim jacket. She’d matched it with a clean, loose pair of boyfriend-jeans. If she was going to be imprisoned, exiled, or even executed, she might as well go out in comfort.