by J. K. Beck
“As a theoretical concept, I’m all about sleep. But right now? I couldn’t sleep for anything.”
The scream of dying zombies filled the living room of Luke and Sara’s Malibu house, and it wasn’t any less noisy in the hallway. Luke gave his friend Nicholas Montague a helpless shrug as he stepped over the threshold into his wood-paneled office. “The girl was thrilled when she learned we owned an Xbox, and after what she’s been through I could hardly deny her. If course, I didn’t expect her to be at it quite so much,” he added with a wry grin.
“You don’t fool me,” Nick said. “You’re enjoying having her around.”
“I am,” Luke admitted. “Though I wish the circumstances were different.”
When Sara had told him about CeeCee, Luke had been afraid that coming home and seeing her would hurt. Despite the centuries that had passed, the loss of his own daughter still ached. And recently he’d lost his ward, a vampire who, like CeeCee, had been turned in her teens. It was strange having a young woman in the house again, but all in all it was easier than Luke had expected.
Nick followed Luke into the office and shut the door behind him. Nick was Luke’s friend and advocate, and Luke had asked him over to discuss his growing suspicions about Serge. He’d told Sara the truth when he said that he didn’t believe that Serge was involved in the death of Penny Martinez. Now, though … now he was beginning to fear that his friend might have had a hand in the death of the poor girl’s killer.
“The girl’s doing okay, though?” Nick asked.
“All things considered, she’s doing amazing. A remarkable kid, actually. Sara’s already in love with her. Of course, she has her moments. She’s pissed as hell at Serge, and she’s let it rip a couple of times.” The temper Luke had been able to handle. The tears had just about melted him. “For the most part, though, she’s happy to hang with Sara or play video games. We took a walk on the beach as the moon was rising. She loved how well she could see in the dark.” He grinned. “Remember those days? When everything about being what we are was shiny and new.”
“I do,” Nicholas said. “Then the daemon hit.”
“Indeed.” Luke nodded, then sighed. “We keep waiting. Watching. So far nothing.”
Nick settled into a chair as Luke took the one opposite. “Interesting,” Nick said. “Serge has been through a lot. Maybe the fact that he made her has affected her? Kept her daemon suppressed? Possibly even nonexistent?”
“We can hope for it. The girl’s an innocent. If she can be spared the horror of facing her own inner evil …” Luke trailed off with a shudder. Unlike Nick, who’d had a relatively easy time controlling his daemon, Luke fought a constant battle with his.
“So about Serge,” Nick began. “You said he just told Sara to take her? How did he look?”
“Ripped, she said. Horrible. She said it was like his daemon was coming out, but somehow different, too. And he was in a hurry. That much was very clear.”
“How did he end up turning the girl?”
“He told Sara that the girl was attacked by a rogue. He fought it—killed it. But not in time to save her.”
“Let her die, or turn her,” Nick said.
“Exactly.”
“Is this what you wanted to see me about? Or is there more?”
“That’s part of it,” Luke said. “The truth is, I’m concerned he might be in trouble. Worse, I’m concerned he might be involved in the recent attacks.”
“The humans?”
“No. The desiccated vampires.”
Nick dropped into one of Luke’s chairs and put his feet up. “You’ve mentioned this to Sara?”
“The prosecutor? No, I haven’t. We did speak about Serge—I caught his scent at the Penny Martinez crime scene and told her as much.”
“But you don’t believe he attacked her?”
“The scent was near the scene, but not the body. He was there for some other purpose, but I didn’t know what. That was what I told Sara, and it was true at the time.”
“But something’s changed.”
“Penny Martinez’s killer was desiccated.”
“Mitre,” Nick said, then nodded. “And you’re thinking that maybe Serge visited the scene in order to catch Mitre’s scent and track him.”
“It’s a possibility I have to consider. Especially since CeeCee was camped out on Venice Beach, and Mitre just happened to be killed there.”
Nick nodded slowly. “The pieces fit together, except for one thing. How is he supposedly drying out the rogues?”
“He was able to consume a shadower’s life force while he was cursed,” Luke said.
“True. But he didn’t leave them desiccated. More than that, the curse was lifted—Petra’s certain of that,” he added, referring to his wife, who also happened to be the witch who’d cursed Serge in the first place. Though she’d placed the curse, it had been controlled by someone else—a madman whose death had freed Serge from the torment.
“Does she still have a connection to him?” While the curse had been in effect, Petra had often found herself inside Serge’s head. It wasn’t a place she had liked to be.
“A very vague one. But even though the curse has been lifted, we can’t avoid the simple fact that he’s like no one else. There is no creature that has lived to see that curse removed. We have no idea what the ramifications are. And considering how vile Serge’s daemon has always been, the ramifications could be horrible.”
“I know,” Luke admitted. “That’s at the heart of my concern, especially since Sara said that he looked so wretched. And damn him for not coming to me for help. He’s been like a brother to me, and yet he stays away now?”
“If he is behind the deaths, can you blame him? With your position, he might think your loyalty would be skewed.”
“He would be wrong,” Luke said firmly. “If it takes a formal pardon to prove that to him, then so be it.”
Nick whistled through his teeth. “What does Orion say about the desiccations?”
“He’s at a loss. Doyle and Tucker have managed to chase down a few leads, though. They found solid connections between two of the dead humans and two of our mummified vamps. Security camera footage putting them at the same locations within the same time frame.”
“That supports your theory,” Nick said, frowning. “That Serge was at the crime scene waiting to catch the scent of a rogue.”
“I know,” Luke said.
“But a rogue hunter? I wouldn’t have guessed that of Serge.”
“No?” Luke frowned. “I’m not so sure. I know the very idea of a rogue disgusts him. He sees too much of his own torment there.”
“Destroying his own sins by proxy.”
“Something like that,” Luke agreed.
There was a soft tap at the door, and then Sara opened it and stuck her head in. “It’s Doyle.”
“Must be important,” Nick said, and Luke understood the deeper meaning. Luke and Doyle weren’t exactly buddies. If Doyle was stopping by Luke’s house, there was definitely a reason.
“Have him come in,” Luke told Sara. “You might want to stay, too.”
“Oh, I will,” she said, then disappeared, only to reappear a moment later with Doyle in tow.
“What happened?” Luke asked.
“I’m coming here first as a courtesy,” Doyle said. “Because I know he’s your friend.”
Luke caught Nick’s eye, saw his own trepidation reflected there. “Who?”
“Sergius.”
“What about him?” Luke asked.
“I’ve seen him,” Doyle said, then tapped his skull. “In here.”
“A victim,” Luke said, his blood running cold. Doyle wasn’t getting any images from the desiccated vamps. If he’d seen Serge, it was in the head of one of the dead humans. Shit.
That complicated things. Luke was now in a position to help Serge, who was technically a wanted man for the murders he’d committed while cursed. Luke had no qualms about pardoning those crimes si
nce Serge had not been himself.
Nor did he have an issue with pardoning the desiccation of the rogues if it had indeed been done by his friend. The rogues killed humans, which was an offense punishable by death under the Fifth International Covenant. Why should Luke care if that punishment came after trial or by Serge’s hand?
But if Serge was the one killing the humans …
It wasn’t something Luke liked to think about, and he hoped to hell Doyle was wrong, even though he feared Doyle was right.
“What did you see?” Luke asked.
“A cop was killed today,” Doyle said. “Vampire attack. I got called to the scene, and the death was recent enough that I was able to get in. Got a good image, too.”
“He was killed today? And you suspect Serge?” Only young vampires could maneuver through the sun. There were ways to travel, of course—cars with specially treated glass, for example. But it was still a point worth raising.
“Not in this death, no,” Doyle said.
“Then what the hell are you talking about? You just told me you saw him.”
“I saw a woman. I haven’t been able to identify her yet, but she’s the one that took out the cop.”
“And Serge?”
“He was all over the guy’s thoughts. That Serge was dangerous. That he had to warn ‘her’—I don’t know who. But his impression was that Serge was a killer.”
“And yet Serge didn’t kill the cop.”
“No,” Doyle agreed, “he didn’t. But Tucker and I have been working this for a while, and other than the deaths, the one consistent thing we’re hearing is that the rogues are organized. That they have a leader.”
“You’re thinking it’s Serge.”
“And I’m thinking this cop somehow found out. So Serge sent one of his soldiers to kill him. Now, what I want to know is what you’re going to do,” Doyle demanded. “You two used to be attached at the hip. You gonna help us track him down, or are you going to sit back and watch the show unfold, hoping like hell your friend gets away with murder?”
Luke kept his face casually blank, though his thoughts were raging. “I’ll do what I have to do, Ryan. Just as I always have.”
Serge found Alexis sitting at the bar in her kitchen, a cup of coffee forgotten in her hand. He went to her, wanting to touch her, and pressed his hand gently onto her shoulder. He’d awakened to find her gone, and an unreasonable sense of dread had rocketed through him. Now, touching her, he felt calm, and that feeling only intensified when she tilted her head back and gave him a watery smile.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“I keep thinking about Edgar. He was so innocent before he met me.”
She’d told him a bit about the detective last night, and now Serge knelt in front of her and took her hands. “He knew about the shadow world. You told me that he knew about it long before you even had an inkling.”
“Knowledge and action are two different things.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Oh, believe me, I can. I’m doing a remarkably good job of it.” She managed a smile. He reached out to brush a lock of hair off her cheek, wishing that he could offer her real comfort, not just words. “It’s almost light,” she said.
He glanced at the door and the gray sky that would soon burst into orange and purple. “I should go,” he said, hoping that she would beg him not to.
“Right,” she said. She pushed her chair back and stood. “Before you can’t. And I need to get in touch with Leena. The busy life of a guilt-ridden vampire hunter.”
He took her hand. “Don’t.”
She closed her eyes, and he could sense her gathering herself, strengthening her resolve. “Sorry. My head knows I shouldn’t feel guilty. My heart will catch up soon. In the meantime …” She shrugged. “I guess I really should keep busy. It’ll keep my mind off it.” She leaned forward and pressed an awkward kiss to his cheek. “I—well, last night—thank you. It was hard, learning about Edgar. Then that vampire. Everything. You made it—well, thank you.”
He swallowed, hoping his disappointment didn’t show. She’d needed comfort, and he’d given it. He was a fool to think that anything more would grow out of it. To think he could have anything more than that. He was what he was, and Alexis deserved more than a monster in a man’s body. Considering the way she was pulling away from him now, she’d figured that much out as well.
“The sun,” he said, as regret weighed on him like lead. “I must go.” And he did, moving faster than she could see to her door, then out to the pool, where he transformed into mist and rose into the fast-brightening sky.
Jonathan Marcus Worthington III met his first vampire when he was fifteen. Or so he thought. Turned out the chick was just some overgrown goth girl who liked his money.
He’d let her suck him off, then headed back to his dorm room at Dayton Prep, the New England boarding school where his parents had dumped him.
For years afterward, he hadn’t thought about vampires. He’d been too busy scoring coke and exam answers to pursue that little hobby. But when he got kicked out of Yale after his first semester, he’d moved to New York and had started trolling the goth subculture again, asking questions, searching for answers. It had taken him a long time, not to mention moves to Philly, San Francisco, and finally Los Angeles, but at last he’d found a real, live vampire. Well, a real undead one. He’d played it cool, of course, doing whatever she wanted—sex, blood, anyway and anyhow. Her name was Hanna, and she was sexy as hell and dark as sin. She used to talk smack about something called the Covenant and the PEC, some sort of police department for vampires. All bullshit, she’d say. Humans were cattle. Humans were food.
And then she’d look at him with that thin-lipped smile of hers, and he’d realized that he was a human, too, and that he’d be lucky to get out of her room alive.
He hadn’t, of course. Hadn’t gotten out alive, that is.
Instead, he’d been dead when he’d walked out of her room. Undead, with his undead lover at his side.
And for the first time in Jonathan’s existence, he’d been happy. He’d been in charge. He’d been master of his own fucking domain without concern for rules or codes of honor or parents or nosy-ass friends telling him he was losing his shit, man.
He was a god. A goddamn, fucking god, and he had a beautiful goddess at his side.
And then some human with a wooden stake took her from him.
Some low-life insect with a superiority complex actually had the gall to think that he knew the way the world should be. That humans were superior and vamps should be iced. Fucking loser, and Jonathan had spent the next six months tormenting the bastard. Going after his family. His kids. Feeding off them. Draining them. Taking them to the point of death but not killing them. Not until the human—a supercilious bastard named Maury—was about out of his mind with rage and worry.
Then Jonathan had picked them off one by one. He saved Maury for the last, of course. And he didn’t even drain that asshole’s blood. Because he didn’t want it inside him. Didn’t want the foul stench of the idiot human lingering in his veins.
He’d cut the man’s throat and left him to die.
Two days later, he’d awakened to a pounding at the metal door of the abandoned storage shed he was squatting in. No back door, so running wasn’t even an option. He readied himself, prepared to fight the humans to the death. But when the door finally burst open, it wasn’t a human. It was a vampire.
And he was smiling.
Derrick. And he’d welcomed Jonathan into the League.
Derrick had become Jonathan’s friend, his mentor, his leader.
Now it was Derrick he needed to talk to. And the older vampire was going to be pissed.
Jonathan stared at the phone in his hand, not quite able to believe the call he’d just received from Warren, one of his friends in the PEC, a friend he’d converted over to Derrick’s way of thinking. And flipping a PEC employee—even one who only worked at a compute
r—was a big fucking deal to Derrick. It had earned Jonathan major brownie points.
Now, though, it meant that Jonathan had to be the one to deliver bad news.
Bella was dead.
Beautiful, sexy Bella, now nothing more than ash.
At least that was the only conclusion Jonathan could draw, because after Bella’s mission to get information out of the humans who’d infiltrated the Z Bar, she’d disappeared off the map. She’d been scheduled to check in with Warren to find out what the PEC knew about the human deaths. But he never got her call.
And Bella wasn’t sloppy. As far as Jonathan was concerned, that meant Bella was dead.
The League members were dropping like flies. And even though Derrick had it under control—because Derrick always had everything under control—Jonathan couldn’t shake the cold whisper in the back of his head that said he was an idiot to stay in town, and that the one thing he should do if he didn’t want to meet the sharp end of a stake was get the hell out of Los Angeles.
Alexis stayed at the kitchen table watching her coffee turn cold and wondering about the regret she’d seen on Serge’s face, not to mention how quickly he’d left.
And why not? It’s not like she thought her attraction to him was one-sided—he’d clearly wanted her last night as much as she’d wanted him. But that didn’t change the fact that their passion had been driven by all that had happened between them.
She told herself it was for the best; she hardly needed to start something with a vampire.
And she told herself that she didn’t truly care that he’d run so fast from her, because she didn’t feel anything real for him—just lust. Simple male–female attraction mixed in with the compelling pull of his blood.
She told herself all of that, and yet she didn’t believe it. So she sat holding an ice-cold cup of coffee and staring at a quickly brightening sky and wondering what she could have done differently that would have made him stay. Because the hard, simple truth was that the house felt empty without him. And, dammit, she felt empty, too.