by L. A. Banks
His fingers touched her lips. Don't say it. Not here, ever.
"How could they?" she whispered.
He glanced tensely at the walls. This is what I was telling you would happen. Tomorrow there will be a banquet, and you are going to
have to be cool—no matter what. "It's the purest blood source, a delicacy. Hard to acquire, even for a vampire. Our host went to great lengths to provide this, honey. So, after we dine on some light hors d'oeuvres, I'll tuck you in bed. Then I'll be back later."
For a moment, she just stared at him, then nodded.
Cut the finger, she heard him say in her mind. Just a small nick.
Damali squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head no.
You have to do it. You're human. If I draw blood, I'll mark the child as a vamp helper for life. Just the aura of my energy could pollute the wound on a human this young. Feel me?
"Shit," she said in a tense whisper, then extracted the blade from under her arm.
Make a small cross on the pinky with your Isis, Neteru. This way its system will have a little more immunity to any sort of possession till I get it home. Then seal it with a kiss, from the Neteru, hand me the child so its smell will be on me, and kiss me so its blood will be in my mouth as well.
She didn't answer, just did what needed to be done. Her hands almost shook as the baby's wails escalated with the small cuts she made. But she followed his instructions to the letter, and pushed the child into his arms, wiping at hot tears, streaking her once-flawless makeup and breathing hard to keep herself from vomiting.
It was the hardest thing he had to do, silencing the piteous wails while the innocent twisted and writhed, trying to break free of the presence of evil. All babies had survival instinct, could feel the presence of harm, and were most closely connected to the Divine Source. Up to this point, he'd never seen himself as thatùtruly evil—until the child's screams rose to hiccupping cries. Every one of his nieces and nephews came into his mind as he put the child into a sleep trance. This was someone's future, someone's fragile heart he held, and its paper-thin throat was two inches from real fangs.
He shook his head in disgust as he ran his palm over the soft downy hair. A treasure… how could they sacrifice a baby when there was plenty of grown meat on the hoof, adults, that had lived and wanted to be vamps?
Carlos tilted his head; Damali's gasp passed through his skeleton as she pulled the blade to protect the baby and the child vanished; he hastily returned it to its parents.
He glared at her. I turned my head to listen to its rhythm, smell its smell, and get a contact to where it was supposed to go! You oughta know me better than that.
"I'm sorry," she yelled across the room, then checked herself. "I should have saved you some."
He turned and looked at her, and relaxed. Okay. Baby was catching on to how this game was played. Everything said aloud was part truth, part lie, the language of the masters of deception. Then she needed to play this to the bone. Let the host think they'd been caught off guard. That his snit over the bedroom thing was because it assumed he needed the extra boost in there—challenged his virility, thus offended him highly. Carlos smiled, placed his finger to his lips. Wanna really hug them out?
Damali smiled, and he loved that it was that wicked one from the old neighborhood when they'd game and bait other street racers into losing bets when they were kids.
He waved his arm and banged a chair against the suite's hallway door. He winked at her and crooked his finger, and she quickly walked over to him. Then he kissed her hard. "That thing had adrenaline all through it—pure adrenaline!" he bellowed. "You toyed with it long enough before you drained it dry, then didn't save me any?"
"Aw, baby," she said calmly, "I'll make it up to you later, I promise."
"Make it up to me now."
She covered her mouth and ran from him when he reached for her, and squealed when he sent the sofa crashing into the bar as he came after her. The sound of her heels clacking against the polished sandstone and her giddy laughter was music to his ears. He wanted her to loosen up, play, shake the nerves, because some seriously tense shit was about to go down soon—and baby had to be able to work the environment to her advantage. Then, again, truth be told, he needed the tension release just as much as she did.
"Now you're running from me?" he said, laughing hard, and trying to shake the image of the child in Damali's arms out of his head. Yeah, he had to keep moving. The way she'd held it so naturally, her eyes so tender, so intense, so ready to give her life to protect it. Just as he'd always imagined she'd hold his child…
He exploded several blood bottles at the bar, making her shriek, loving the sound of her voice.
"You know I don't play that!" he hollered across the room. "You're putting me in a bad mood for my meeting, woman."
"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice escalating in false alarm.
"I don't want any other vamp in here while I'm gone, or I'll take a limb! Go to bed. Wait for me. Don't even call the maid to clean up this mess!"
"Yes, baby," she said, winking at him and slinking into her bedroom, blowing kiss over her shoulder. "I know I've been a very bad girl."
"Councilman," the Aussie said, standing as Carlos swept into the study. "Can I offer you a skein?"
Carlos nodded and sat heavily in the leather wingback chair before the man's huge, polished mahogany desk. "Absolutely, and thank you for the lovely surprise in my room," he said. "My wife thoroughly enjoyed it."
Carlos leaned forward and smiled, watching the nervous tension ease away from his host's face. His line of vision scanned the room, quickly sensing for any danger among the large stuffed animal heads, heavy walnut bookcases that held an extensive library, and across to the crackling fireplace that had an opening the height of a man. The room looked like it had been modeled after a combination of old European libraries and smoking rooms.
"She sounds like a handful," McGuire replied as he slowly assessed Carlos. He walked over to the long bar behind his desk to pour Carlos a drink. He peered over his shoulder, seeming unsure if it was safe to turn his back on his guest, then quickly uncapped a crystal decanter.
"She is," Carlos said, his awareness taut as he sensed for poison, his olfactory capability keened, while his drink was being prepared. Just a bit of colloidal silver would eat his insides out, but his expression remained amused. "She's feisty, still has a lot of Neteru in her," he said, knowing it was the most prevalent and tempting question in the Aussie's mind.
He watched McGuire sit down slowly, unabashed curiosity glittering in his moss green eyes. Carlos could see the man breathe in slowly, as if trying to control his inhales, as the scent of Damali coming off Carlos's body lit him up. Excellent.
"How on earth… Mr. Councilman… if you don't mind me asking?" The Aussie leaned forward and handed the drink to Carlos with caution, tilting his head, sniffing hard as he withdrew. He raised his skein in a gesture of respect, and then took a quick swig from it.
Carlos returned the gesture with a smile. "Crazy woman was fighting were-demons in Brazil, took a mortal wound, had almost bled out when I found her. Was still trying to swing the Isis at me when I got to her. Her immune system was compromised as her body went into death shock, but timing of the bite is everything. I beat death to the punch while her defences were down." Carlos shook his head and chuckled. "Neteru to the bitter end."
His host nodded, and took a long, deliberate sip from his skein. "She's trailing it all through the house," he whispered, swallowing hard.
"Yeah," Carlos said, standing, going to the window. "Died with it in her system… will, at times, make you do foolish thingsùbut that's part of her allure. She wears it for me now as a signature fragrance that she conjures." He glanced at McGuire over his shoulder, and looked down at his drink. Yeah, they had to get this shit straight so it was clear. Reach for her and you're dying for placebo. "That's why I don't travel with an entourage anymore. Gets too messy; a waste of energy, and my dogs were
becoming gorged." He looked up at McGuire. "I would hate to have an incident in the castle. While I'm sure you understand, we do have a few older foreign ambassadors who might not. Let's not have any confusion."
McGuire hesitated, fully comprehending the threat. "Oh, the castle is a sure sanctuary for you while you visit, sir."
"Good." Carlos nodded and came back to his seat and gestured for the Aussie to relax. "Do you have any particular regional problems that you'd like me to bring to the council table after my visit?"
The Aussie stood and began pacing slowly near his desk with his hands behind his back. "Of course, you're busy, and I'm honored that you've even asked, especially after your long travel here, but, uh, the Aborigines, their prayer lines have carved up my territory so badly. It's an old regional problem, but my previous entreaties to the council have gone ignored as a low priority for them. I've been lobbying council since the nineteen-eighties, when our drug traffiking operations really needed to cross those lines at will. When flying, you had a butcher at it, right?"
"That's a bitch," Carlos said, raking his fingers through his hair, while trying to sound empathetic. Now came the bargain for the shaky promise of support. "I saw them—just crisscrosses your whole region, and so old they glow." Carlos stood and went to the window.
"My point exactly. They're like electric fences. I need to annex some well-trod areas where the lines are not as lethal. Lost two good vamp drivers last week and was mad as a cut snake. My pilots have all gone blind; they have to sense their way in. Makes transporting lucrative products overland a shipping hazard." The Aussie went back to his chair and sat with a thud and waited as Carlos slowly found his seat.
Both men's eyes locked across the desk. Carlos could feel the Aussie siphoning information from the Dananu language before speaking. It morphed daily, and it took lower levels a moment to calibrate to it—lest they offend a higher rank by misspeaking even in the smallest way. So he waited, watching strengthened respect dawn in his host's eyes as McGuire picked up the new strand of Spanish that ran through the negotiation syntax.
The Transylvanian's territories are vast, and have been coveted for a long time by many. The Aussie didn't blink as he spoke slow and easy.
Carlos wrapped his mind around the harsh guttural tones of the familiar language.
That is a significant concentration of power, Carlos replied, much like Africa.
Stunned, the Aussie nodded as his will fractured and then regrouped. You would consider new realignments?
Mark Twain wrote that "Satan made Sydney"… he quoted an unknown traveler; I believe perhaps one of us who actually knew, si?
You are very progressive, Mr. Chairman. As I'm sure you know, your youth was not fully appreciated in the descent by the other masters, but they have overlooked your shrewd forward thinking.
De nada. Carlos stood, feeling McGuire's will begin to bend then twist out of his hold. A sudden concentration of power is what made Fallon Nuit. We cannot have that in the empire again. Transylvania concerns me, as does Africa. But we will not discuss China—too powerful and too old to take by storm. Carlos moved to the window again, his hands behind his back as he studied the moon.
McGuire nodded. True. But Transylvania, especially the Russian provinces and the old Czech Republic, concerns us all, the Aussie said, his gaze level at Carlos's back, but weakening. Thank you, for even considering my request, he added quickly, then summarily disengaged the negotiation in Dananu and pulled out of the negotiation-lock.
Carlos waited, allowing the man to collect himself. The exchange was no joke. It took serious focus just to seem unflustered by it. It hadn't helped that McGuire was a little high from Damali's scent. Carlos returned to his chair, sitting down, then leaned back casually and breathed out a slow, unseen exhale.
"Tomorrow evening," McGuire said brightly, appearing recovered, "once the other masters have arrived, we have something special planned."
Carlos made a tent with his hands before his lips, his elbows resting on the high arms of the chair and kept his eyes on the man behind the desk. He didn't like surprises. "Talk to me," he said, and then smiled.
"We've got this game here called the Masters Cup Hunt." The Aussie stood, smiled and looked out of the window. "In the heartland, the dirt is red—iron ore—nothing but rocks, sandstone flats, goes on for miles—it's the bloody core of the continent."
Intrigued but wary, Carlos stood and went to the window again to look out. "Extreme sports in the desert plains?"
"Tomorrow is a full moon, and the were-roos can only come up to feed then. Six-hundred-pound beasts. Can flip a Range Rover with their tails." The Aussie chuckled. "It's bloody beautiful huntin', mate. A man of your prowess would love this. The feed after the hunt is awesome… and the ladies love it."
The Aussie had definitely been compromised by the negotiation and the scent of Neteru. He'd dropped all formalities, and his thick Australian brogue almost slurred. Most excellent.
"Objective and wager?" Carlos took his time showing enthusiasm. Street sense told him this was a good place to get smoked and have it look like an accident. But he needed to know more, had to understand how they might possibly come at him. Relax, McGuire… take the bait.
McGuire laughed. "Every man has to put a piece of land, or a territory on the table. Somethin' sweet that he's willing to gamble, against somethin' he really wants to win… like a barmaid's blush."
"Rules of engagement?"
"A human driver, no intervention, unless crossing prayer lines is imminent."
The two men stared at each other for a moment.
"Lost a few championship drivers when their Jeeps or Range Rovers crashed. Human drivers can't see the lines, so the master riding shotgun has to help steer while using only conventional weapons—crossbow and silver-tipped arrows—to bring down the were. Those bloody bastards breed like vermin in the region. Incineration is ten points; tackle and chain it alive, or behead it before it burns, twenty." The Aussie wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shuddered from the increasing effect of Neteru in the castle. "All while moving between eighty to hundred miles per hour."
"Ugly sort, too," McGuire went on. "Huge fangs, drooling acid, thirteen-inch claws that they can't retract, strong as bloody hell. They use portals to go underground, then pop up outta nowhere to flip ya. But we gotta make the game interesting. You can't use your powers unless you're in mortal danger. Then, you can use flight to keep away from the lines, but you lose what you've put on the table. Winner takes all. You'll love it."
"What time do we play?"
The Aussie's grin widened. "From sunset till two A.M. The course runs from where there's a human sacred rock formation, Uluru—Ayers Rock, goes up for eleven hundred feet, glows red, changes color during the day the humans tell us, and is covered in twenty-thousand-year-old prayers that will fry your ass if you bump it. The whole course runs to the other marker, Kata Tjutaùthe Olgas, fifty-three kilometers west, to the sacred human stone markers, thirty-six gigantic rock domes that hide gorges and crevices. Fucking incredible, Mr. Chairman, if I do say so, myself."
"And while we're out, the ladies?"
"Oh, mate, it's way too taxing on a female. They watch from the choppers. Makes 'em—"
"I hear you," Carlos said, holding up a hand. This could allow him to get them all together, even before the concert. With a blood sport going on, it would be easier to detect alliegences, if any. And with adrenaline pumping through their systems, if one of them bit his man, Berkfield, he'd smell it for sure. Against his better judgment, Carlos found the allure of it thrilling, but what was more essential was the fact that it presented an opportunity to take out an opponent and make it seem like an accident. If he could do that, then the threat level on Damali's whack plan would be reduced. Carlos chuckled. "My problem will be trying to figure out what I'm willing to put on the table."
The Aussie smiled. "Sir, you have many assets that I'm sure would bait the foreign ambassadors… and I know you d
on't doubt your own abilities, do you?"
Carlos's deep laughter filled the room. "I never doubt my own abilities, hombre." He knew where his host was going, but wanted the man to tell him out of his own mouth. It was always best to ferret out for sure where an adversary was coming from.
"If you put your wife on the table, I'm sure no one would be offended, sir." McGuire took a deep swig from his skein, watching Carlos's reaction over the rim of his cup.
Carlos smiled. "I'm offended," he said after a pregnant pause that made the Aussie set down his cup with care, "that no one would ask me first for my council seat."
The Aussie choked and spit out his blood. "That's not on the table, is it?"
"No," Carlos said, standing. He walked away from the table, dismissing the comment. "I'm just surprised that wasn't your first request."
Carlos could feel the Aussie's penetrating gaze on his back and he turned around with a smile. "But I understand. She is magnificent." Carlos shook his head and walked back to the desk. "You're high, McGuire, so I'll take your request as a compliment."
"Thank you, sir," he sputtered, trying to regain his composure. "I meant no offense. Just admiring one of your finest assets."
Carlos's expression hardened. "Just so you know, any other time that kinda shit will get you killed in your own home."
When the color drained from McGuire's face, Carlos sighed. The man wiped his nose again with the back of his hand.
"You might want to bargain with the Transylvanian ambassador for some of his estates, but do not ever bet against me," Carlos said, no threat in his tone, just amusement over the proposed wager. "I'm telling you that because you're cool. Not quite like the rest." A slow chuckle of appreciation bubbled up. "Damn, man, you just flat-out told me—I like the honesty in that. You Australians are all right."
Relief swept through McGuire and he laughed with Carlos. "You're gonna make my old lady put me out in the daylight. Already got her in chains in the basement, the scent is making her chuck a berko—she's totally wonky. Before your wife ate, she was begging me for a menage a trois, or couples… and I told her I'd see what I could do, would propose it to you man-to-man later. Then after your woman put on her perfume to get ready for bed, Evie began screaming madness about your wife being a human, and me being daft. But I told her that if her jealousy made her say anything that offends, even after eighty years, I'd rip 'er heart out myself."