“Then why didn’t you look at my body?” She straightened up, dropped her towel on the floor, and ran her hands through her hair one last time.
I pulled her over by her belt, untied it, and spread the robe open wide. She stood straight, her breasts thrust forward, the amulet dangling in the valley between them. I took a long look.
“The way you look at me excites me, now,” she said.
“Now? It didn’t before?”
“No.” She took my hands away and closed her robe again. “The first time, it reminded me of the way men looked at me when I was mortal and some of the disgusting things they said.”
“You are overwhelmingly feminine,” I told her. “You exude sexuality.”
“I have a brain, too.”
“A good one.”
“And I saw your face when I said we had nothing to worry about as long as Kanga’s spirits couldn’t get in here.”
A minute passed. Her mole distracted me. I looked back into her brown eyes. Her gaze was steady.
Never try to outstare a vampire.
The dryer beeped.
“Your clothes are ready,” I said.
I brought her stuff in, shaking out the jeans and the T-shirt and tossing them on the couch. The bra and panties I kept, pressing them to my lips.
She dropped the robe on the ground, took her underwear from me. I watched as she twisted and turned and pulled to get into her jeans—Venus performing a snake dance. She finally zipped them up. Fortunately, she didn’t need to breathe.
“You think he is already too powerful for us to defeat, even if Marcus helps?” Her voice was incredulous.
“I don’t know.”
She slid into her too-small T-shirt, threaded her belt through the loops on her pants. “What about the third murder? He hasn’t even completed that yet. And we still haven’t confirmed he has the Key of Akasha.” She stepped into her boots.
“He has it.”
“You do not know that.”
“I feel it. So does Marcus.”
“Well, I don’t. And until the third murder, he cannot have enough power to withstand an assault from all three of us at the same time. How could he stop us?”
“I don’t know.”
She picked up her jacket and handed it to me. She turned around, and I helped her on with it, taking the opportunity to kiss the nape of her neck. Leaning her head back so I could kiss her cheek, she said, “Do you really think he will kill again today?”
“Yes.”
She faced me. I could see she was uneasy. I took her hands in mine.
“Hamilton and I may be able to track him down by tonight. Either way, it’s Christmas Eve, so I want to be with you.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said.
I pulled her close and kissed her, and her body pressed against mine from knee to shoulder, the crackling of the wood logs and the smell of strawberry shampoo in her hair like sensory spices as we explored with tongues and lips. I wanted to stay like that for hours.
She pulled back and breathed in my ear, “I have to go.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to stay, but I said nothing. She knew. She would sleep here when she was ready.
We walked onto the patio, holding hands. The stars were beginning to fade on the eastern horizon.
“Be careful, my darling, and sleep well,” I told her, kissing her hands.
“Thank you.” She rose into the air. “See you tonight.”
Thirty-Five
Friday, December 24, 6:53 a.m.
I stood on the deck, watching the sky lighten over the Pacific. Friday morning traffic crawled along Pacific Coast Highway, the sun’s rays sparkling off windshields like the births of tiny new stars. Or the deaths of old ones.
So much to do today. Preston needed to find Kanga’s real hiding place by nightfall. Before then, I had to come up with a plan for attacking him when we knew where he was.
It would be necessary to stay close to Hamilton to protect him from any shenanigans Kanga might be planning with his spooks. Asking the detective to wear the onyx amulet was a waste of time. He would refuse on general principles.
The sun crested the hills, spilling its glow across the water as I finished my third cigarette.
Back in the house, the only sound I could hear was the popping of burning wood. The couch sighed as I lay down and arranged my arms over my chest.
Closing my eyes and breathing deeply, I slipped into a state of relaxation, drifting . . .
When my father and I arrived home the afternoon I drank mulled wine with Guthbert and promised the intoxicating Agnes I would return on Tuesday, my mother and sister were relieved to see us. Assured of our safety, they shooed us out of the house while they prepared dinner from the ingredients they had purchased at the fair.
“I will take that wine, Mr. Montero,” my mother said. “You look like you have had enough before dinner.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said, handing her the pitcher we had brought from the alehouse.
“Is that alcohol I smell on your breath, Sebastian?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Well, that’s all right. You’re fifteen.” She turned back into the house. “You two can have some more later.”
“What about me?” James asked.
My mother and Marguerite answered together. “No!”
Half an hour later, James and I were playing noughts and crosses in the dirt. My father dozed under the cool canopy of our apple tree.
The smell of the fire-cooked meat wafted through the shutters. We were in the middle of a game when James rose and rushed to the door. He stood on the threshold, his hands clasped behind his back, and shouted inside. “Can I have a taste?”
“No!”
James fell back on his heels. He ambled to where I was and plopped opposite me. He smacked his stick on the ground. “I don’t see why I can’t have a taste,” he said. “I know Marguerite is eating while she helps.” He looked up at me. “Right?”
“Yes, she probably is.” I reached over and ruffled his hair. “I’ll let you have some of mine when no one’s looking, okay?”
“Like the last time?”
“Yes. That stinky Margie, she always gets extras.”
Another draft brought the scent of the cooking meat to us. It was a deliciously unique smell, but it clearly connected with a more urgent desire in my family than in me.
A few minutes later, my mother called us in to eat.
It was the most wonderful dinner we had as a family. The meat was tender, the gravy thick and spicy, the vegetables crisp and fresh. We finished with two sliced apples for dessert.
My father shared out the wine, giving James a small glass mixed with water. My mother had a big glass. Halfway through it, she turned giggly like a little girl, her face flushed. She and Marguerite sat next to each other, still in their best tunics. The fading daylight lent their faces a rosy cast, as if they were figures in a Da Vinci painting.
James and I surreptitiously switched bowls when no one was looking. When everyone had finished eating, we all pitched in to clear the table. My mother walked unsteadily, so we teased her.
“Oh, shush,” she said. She wound her arms around my father’s neck and kissed him on the lips. I knew what came next.
“Okay, you three,” he said. “Say your prayers and then it’s off to bed with you.”
They kissed us good night.
We left reluctantly for our side of the room. After prayers, we all lay down on the straw together, James in the middle as always.
“I saw you switch bowls, Sebastian.” Marguerite’s voice was part accusing, part scolding. James tittered, and she pinched him hard enough to make him squeak. “Shh!” she hissed at him.
“So what if I did?” I said. “You sneaked some for yourself while you and Mama cooked.”
“I did not.”
“Did, too.”
“Did not.” James giggled, and Marguerite pinched him again.
“Ow, stop it
, Margie.”
“It’s okay, Margie,” I said, teasing her. “We understand. You’re bigger than us. You need a lot of food.”
James snorted and then whispered loudly as Marguerite slid her hand toward him, “Don’t pinch me again!”
“Then stop being a nuisance!” She turned to me. “You hardly ate anything today. Or yesterday. Papa just teases you, but he’s right. You eat as if it’s an obligation. As if you don’t really need it.”
“Yeah,” James chimed in, his voice heavy with sleep, “you gave me almost your whole stew.” He yawned. “Didn’t you want it?”
“Maybe I’m getting sick,” I told them.
“You always say that.” Marguerite’s voice rang with impatience. “And then you eat less, because you say you are sick. But you don’t ever look sick or seem sick. The dinner Mother and I made tonight was one of our best ever, and you hardly touched it.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” James agreed softly. He was only moments from sleep. “Everybody’s hungry. Papa said so. Everybody needs to eat.”
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Am I strong?” His eyes were closed now, but his lips curved in a smile.
“Strong as an ox,” he whispered.
“Am I smart?”
“Smart as an owl.” This last sentence was so low we could hardly hear him. In moments, he began snoring softly. I gazed at his sweet face, knowing he felt a kind of safety and love here in this house, sleeping between his older brother and sister, that many of the people at the festival today had never known in their lives.
Marguerite continued to stare at me, her face questioning. She was not finished. I pushed my usual routine.
“Time to go to sleep, Margie.” She didn’t reply, but after a moment, she lay on her back. The straw rustled as we both settled down. The sun had gone now.
“Do you know, Sebastian?” she asked me. “Do you know what makes you different?”
“I’m not different,” I said. “I just don’t need as much food as everyone else, that’s all.”
“You’re different.”
We lay in silence for a while as James snored. She finally spoke again in a drowsy voice.
“I have dreams about you sometimes.” From her tone, I knew she was not talking about the dreams she had shared with James and me in the past. “In them, you’re like an avenging angel, with terrible power. Nothing can hurt you.”
I waited, holding my breath.
“I always feel safe with you in these dreams. But I’m scared of you, too.”
“Don’t say that.” I shifted uncomfortably. “They’re just dreams.” It was too dark to see her now.
“Are you sure?”
“Are you ever afraid of me when you’re awake?”
“No.”
“And in your dream you are because dreams aren’t real. Remember when James had the dream that you were his mother? It did not seem strange to him in his dream. Funny things like that happen in my dreams all the time.”
“I know. Mine, too.”
I sighed. “But . . .”
“But there is something different about you no matter how much you try to deny it.” She fell quiet then. Her breathing became deep and even until it vibrated with the unmistakable rhythm of slumber.
The sounds of the night filtered through the walls. An untoward protectiveness for my family filled me. Lying on my back, with my hands behind my head, listening to Marguerite and James sleeping by my side, I felt peaceful, as if I were exactly where the universe wanted me to be.
My father and I were working the west fields the next day when we heard the throbbing of approaching hooves and saw horses racing down the village road, clouds of dust following them.
“Who is it, Sebastian?” My father was shading his eyes against the sun.
“Two knights, Papa, including the one we drank with yesterday. Guthbert.”
“Come with me.”
He began walking quickly to the house. I almost had to run to keep up with him. We stepped over the low stone wall he and I had built two years ago and crossed the yard, passing under the apple tree.
Mother and Marguerite were scattering feed to the chickens at the side of the house, and James fooled around on the grass.
Guthbert and the other knight turned down the dirt path to our farm.
“Leave the talking to me,” my father said. He slowly walked forward, deliberately putting himself between the visitors and our family. I came up and stood next to him. He laid his arm across my chest and gently pushed me back two paces.
The men rode up quickly, reining in their horses at the last moment. Both knights were big and looked battle-hardened with cold eyes, wearing swords and light armor. Truncheons were fixed in their saddles.
“So, Montero,” the lead knight began, looking down on us from his mount. He was clearly senior to Guthbert. “I trust we find you and your lovely family in good health?”
“Yes, sire,” my father said, bowing slightly. “Thank you for inquiring.”
“I understand your daughter had trouble with a vagabond yesterday.”
I looked at Guthbert. He smiled smugly, puffy-eyed, his complexion waxen.
“He was a boy, sire,” my father said, surprised. “He caused us no harm.”
“That is not for you to decide. You should have filed a report with the man-at-arms,” he said, nodding toward Guthbert, who swelled, sitting up straighter. “We need to maintain civil obedience.”
“Yes, sire.”
Something was wrong. This knight would not concern himself with the incident yesterday between the young man and Marguerite. I looked at him closely. He was an older man, with a thin face and a bent nose. He was not as heavily armored as Guthbert, and his clothes were richer.
The two of them dismounted, their weapons and armor clanking. The older knight took the trunch off his saddle and hooked it onto his belt.
“My name is Edward,” he said. “One of Earl William’s lieutenants. Let us go inside for something to drink, and the young lady can give her report now.”
From the strong smell of them and the slightly glassy look in their eyes, it was obvious they had both been drinking heavily. They stared past us, at my mother and Marguerite. I turned.
Marguerite leaned over, facing away. Her tunic had tightened, molding to her hips and thighs. My face grew hot as I turned to look at the two knights. A queer anger began building inside me.
“Yes, of course,” my father said slowly. “This way, please.” He turned and began to lead them into the house.
Lightning. Sharp and dazzling. Smell of ozone. Falling. No. Flying. Without willing it, my ti bon ange sailed through the ether. Blink. Not my own eyes. Blink again and—
She was inside, and she was alone. Everyone had left an hour earlier. My digital watch read ten fifty-one.
I rang the doorbell and took a casual look around. This was a quiet, tree-lined street. Mottled sunlight fell on the lawn, filtered through fall-colored leaves. There were no neighbors outside that I could see.
I turned back and waited, my right hand relaxed in the pocket of my jacket, the atomizer like a small gas grenade in my palm. In my left hand I held the case containing the tools I would need for the next fifty minutes.
The front door had a small window, and now I could see movement behind it as young Amanda came to answer. I had found her two nights ago with my spirit body, homing in on the purity of her Virginal Aura, which shone like a beacon in the night to my hungry eyes.
She opened the door without looking through the window, as if she knew Destiny waited on the other side.
“Yes?” She wore white tennis shorts that were cuffed on the bottom and a pink, short-sleeved blouse. Her feet were wonderfully bare, and her skin shone with vitality.
“I am here to prepare you for the afterlife,” I said. In that same moment I raised my right hand and sprayed the atomizer in her face. She inhaled reflexively, shocked as the others had been, taking the full dose. I st
epped quickly over the threshold as her body went limp and got my right arm under her before she fell.
I struggled around, setting the case down, a sharp pain piercing my back. After lowering the girl to the floor, I shut the door and with a shaking hand set the dead bolt. This was always the worst part, getting in safely and taking my victim quietly. I looked through the small window, my breath coming in shallow gasps. There was no one.
I slid the aspirator into my pocket. The paralyzing spray was a recipe from a text over a thousand years old. I wiped my hands on my pants to dry the palms. Yes, all the formulas finally worked perfectly, since I had fulfilled my side of the magical bargain. Now that I possessed the young woman staring up at me, the power of a Thief of Souls lay within my grasp.
Hoisting Amanda in my arms, I carried her into the living room and laid her on the couch, carefully turning her head so she could see my preparations.
Retrieving my case, I set it on the coffee table in front of her. My breath came normally now. Looking at her lying helplessly on the tan leather couch, tall and lovely in her shorts and tiny top, my confidence returned, and my heart began pounding, this time with excitement.
“The path to true salvation is a painful road,” I said to her. Her sky-blue eyes were wide as she looked at me. “This is a road of agony most people spread out over a lifetime. But for a select few, a chosen few, this journey is compressed into moments. You must travel it now, Amanda, and you must endure the pain of a lifetime all at once, to give me the power I desire.”
I opened my bag and pulled a thin cord and a pair of pliers out of it. A dining room chair served as a step so I could screw a heavy hook into one of the ceiling beams. I knotted the white rope and looped it over the hook, let a short length hang down, and tied a knot at the end, leaving a wide opening.
When I returned to the living room, Amanda watched me. Had she figured out who I was yet? Tears spilled off her cheek, and her eyes were wide with terror. Yes, she knew who I was and what I had done.
And most importantly, what I was about to do.
I knelt at the table in front of her. Reaching into my case, I pulled out the goblet, set it on a doily, and placed a small shaker next to it with the combination of spices for the ceremonial chalice. Thinking about drinking her blood sent a powerful bolt of excitement through me.
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