A Taste of Crimson

by Marjorie M. Liu

  The Grand Dame knelt close and brushed cool fingers against Keeli’s flushed cheek.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I do this because I love you.”

  Keeli would have laughed, except she thought it would make her faint. Instead, she choked out, “Love’s not … supposed to hurt … this much.”

  The Grand Dame’s sorrowful eyes turned cool. Keeli felt a moment of fear, and it was horrible, terrible, being afraid of her grandmother. All those soft memories of warmth, safety—gone.

  “I thought you knew, Keeli. Love is pain. Perfect love kills.”

  Her grandmother rose, elegant and distant. Keeli heard quick footfalls, and then Jas said, “Grand Dame?”

  “Put Keeli in her room. Do not let her out until I give you permission.”

  Jas picked Keeli up, cradling her against his chest. He turned away from the Grand Dame and carried her down the hall. Keeli tried not to cry, but tears raced down her cheeks, hot and salty. She watched Jas’s face, and clutched his shirt.

  “Don’t,” she gasped. “Please.”

  Jas’s neutral expression cracked. Compassion filled his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. And that was all he said, even when he set Keeli down on her bed with a blanket pulled over her body, and locked the door behind him.

  It was a bad night to be on the street; Michael felt it in his bones, in his ears with that elusive song soft like a lure. He thought he came close once or twice, but the music eventually stopped and the trail went cold.

  He hung high in the sky, savoring the wind rushing tight around his body. For a moment, his heart thrilled hard with joy—the first time in ages—and he knew it was because of Keeli. He wanted to see her so badly, to be reminded again and again of her light, quick voice and searching eyes. Being with her took away the loneliness of exile, the poison of his people’s contempt for him. The torment of his actions and past. With her he felt new. He felt … good.

  Oh, Keeli. I don’t deserve you. He did not deserve much of anything at all. And if she knew what he had done, the atrocities he had committed with his own two hands …

  She will hate me. She will kill me.

  But maybe that would be preferable to keeping the truth from her. She certainly deserved the truth. Tough, strong, compassionate Keeli—who could take her hate for vampires and still find it within herself to hold one, kiss one.

  Perhaps even love one.

  He launched himself into movement with just a thought, riding the air currents—riding, riding into the blue sky horizon, away and far—feeling for a moment the past upon his soul, the peace before blood and dark. Or at least, now, it felt like peace. In the days before his transformation into vampire, nothing had felt peaceful about his life. It was only hunger and poverty and disdain.

  Nothing had changed. Nothing.

  I was such a fool. A fool to believe anything that Malachai told me.

  Well, Malachai was dead now. No more words, ever again, would pass through those lips. Michael had made sure of that. Burned the body and scattered the ashes.

  His tattoo throbbed. He rubbed the hard gold.

  An unnatural shift in the wind caught his attention. He whirled, glimpsing something large and dark at the corner of his eye. It moved incredibly fast, staying just out of Michael’s line of sight until he felt like a top spinning round and round, and it was too much—Michael shot up, so fast his eyes watered.

  Hands grabbed his neck. Michael struggled to break free but the creature holding him was incredibly strong and supple. It moved as Michael moved, fluid and graceful, smelling strong of blood.

  “I’m sorry,” whispered a low voice. Hot breath swept over his neck; teeth scraped against his iron collar. Leather-clad fingers slipped beneath, pressing hard on his throat, puncturing skin. Killing him.

  His attacker stopped—still, so still. Hushed.

  “You carry her scent,” he whispered, and with those words, Michael stopped thrashing. Terror filled him, hot and biting—so unfamiliar that at first he had no name for it. That blood he smelled …

  “Wha—” Michael tried to speak, but his vocal cords were held too tight. He wanted to scream with frustration, and in his mind he did, again and again, howling.

  “She told me it was impossible,” said the creature. “Told me never, not ever, not even in a dream.” He released Michael.

  Michael spun around, reaching for his sword. He glimpsed red eyes in a torn mask.

  “Did you rape her?” asked the creature, shaking. “She did not look raped, but I don’t know about those things. Did you hurt her? Did you? Is that why you have to die?”

  “What do you want?” Michael rasped. His throat hurt.

  “You’ve had sex with a werewolf,” said his attacker—a man, a creature—some strange mystery. “A vampire and a werewolf. You smell so strong of her.”

  Michael lashed out, dancing on air, his sword flickering quicksilver in the moonlight. The creature whirled, turning against the blade, cutting his clothing on the razor edge. Michael plummeted feet first to the earth. The creature followed; when they were less than twenty yards from concrete, Michael threw himself flat and shot sideways, up. His pursuer barely managed to stop himself. Michael fell on him, stabbing. He reached for the mask.

  The creature caught Michael’s hand and tossed him away. Michael skidded into a dumpster.

  “I thought she smelled strange,” said the creature, breathing hard. “Strange, familiar. It’s why I followed her. I … I wasn’t supposed to.”

  “Did you hurt her?” Michael staggered to his feet. Wildness spun through his heart, biting, hard.

  The creature touched his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I am going to kill you,” Michael said, raising his sword. “I don’t care how strong you are. I will kill you for that.” “Please,” said the creature, and something in that voice made Michael hesitate long enough to hear, “Do you love her?”

  Michael stared.

  “Please,” said the creature again, floating closer. “Please tell me. Do you love her? Is it possible for a vampire to love a werewolf? Please.”

  If Michael held any doubts about the her his assailant was referring to, they were completely erased by that one question.

  “Who are you to ask such a thing?” Michael asked, so quiet he was not sure the creature would hear him.

  “I …” He stopped, and those red eyes became so anguished Michael felt the creature’s pain as surely as if it was his own. “I … don’t know.”

  “Fight me, then,” Michael said, gliding close. “Fight me, and maybe you will remember.”

  Because he wanted a fight—oh, he wanted blood from the man who had tried to hurt Keeli. Nothing less would satisfy.

  The creature backed away. “You don’t want me to fight you. I’m too hungry. It will end badly. It is supposed to end badly. You are supposed to die tonight.”

  Memory stirred in Michael’s heart, centuries old, of a moment when conscious thought penetrated the fog of savage hunger that had clouded his mind for months, and he stopped—stopped before the kill, and the ragged man beneath him still wanted to fight. I am so hungry, Michael whispered. Please, don’t. It will end badly. It will end—

  Michael looked hard at this new creature—no, no, not another mirror, not another Malachai—and swallowed his terrible desires as he had done so long ago. Familiar dread filled his heart as he said, “Who is hurting you?”

  The creature made a low sound.

  Michael glided forward. He lowered his sword. “It was done to me,” he said, as though they were holding a normal conversation that had nothing to do with death and torture. “My master put me in a hole where he starved me until my body shriveled, until my mind held nothing more than instinct. No thought, except for hunger, for survival. And when I was near death, but still strong enough to kill, he released me in the middle of sleeping families, to watch me feed. It was his sport, his entertainment, and I was helpless to that game fo
r a very long time.”

  “There is no entertainment,” said the creature. He touched his neck, and Michael noted a bulge beneath the tight outline of his dark clothing. “But she does watch me. She has always watched me.”

  “Who are you talking about? Who did this to you?”

  The creature shook his head, backing away. “No, I can’t. This is wrong. You’re the enemy. You’re food. You don’t talk to food.” His voice broke. “Please, go. Just get away from me.”

  “Why were you going to kill me? Who told you vampires were food?”

  “Reversal of fortune,” whispered the creature, floating off the ground. “Karma.”

  And then he shot up into the air. Michael tried to follow, but the creature quickly lost him amidst the tangle of city buildings. Lost him so easily, in fact, that Michael wondered if he’d had training. No one ever had escaped him like that; Michael was too fast, too skilled at the hunt.

  Please tell me. Do you love her? Is it possible for a vampire to love a werewolf? Please.

  He remembered that pleading voice, asking the one question Michael could never have foreseen.

  And then he remembered the scent of blood.

  Werewolves guarded the first tunnel he tried to enter. They held sharpened wooden pikes, guns holstered to their sides. It was the first time Michael had ever seen the werewolves arm themselves, and he thought it was bad timing, considering the second negotiation with the vampires was scheduled for that night.

  He tried to pass them and they blocked his path.

  “The Grand Dame is restricting all access to the tunnels,” said the shorter werewolf, all muscle and beard. The taller held his pike loose, ready to stab.

  “The Grand Dame knows me. I am helping her granddaughter investigate a murder.”

  A tight grin passed over the short wolf’s face, though his companion remained tense. Worried, even. “Yeah, we can smell all the help you’ve been giving Keeli. You’ve been doing a real good job, haven’t you?”

  “Dan, stop that,” said the tall wolf. He looked at Michael and lifted the pike, aiming the point at his heart. “You better go. We have our orders.”

  Michael held out his hands. “I do not want to fight. Please, where is Keeli? Did anything happen to her?”

  The second wolf began to answer, but Dan lashed out, stabbing at Michael’s chest. Michael blocked the pike and twisted it out of the werewolf’s hands. He broke it over his knee and tossed the pieces away.

  “Where is she?” he shouted, advancing on the two werewolves. Dan pulled out his gun, while the other wolf lifted his pike—warier now, with a tight grip on the wooden shaft. Michael smelled their sweat, heard the racing thrum of fearful hearts—and underneath it all, the hot promise of blood.

  But if he fought these wolves—if he hurt them in any way—Keeli would be the one to suffer. He had already made her a target, without inciting even more resentment and rage. Michael backed away. He left the tunnel entrance and took to the air.

  He found another entrance, and the result was the same: armed werewolves, with orders to keep him—and it was only him, he was sure of that—out of the underground.

  What happened? What changed in the Grand Dame’s heart to make her do this?

  Or was it Keeli herself who had begged for the order? Had she changed her mind about him? Was this what her rejection looked like?

  No. He did not doubt the possibility of her rejection, though it was not something he wished to contemplate, but he could not believe she would do it like this. Keeli was too straightforward. She would never ask anyone else to fight her battles.

  Which meant that something was very wrong.

  He was turned away at the third tunnel, and it was difficult—almost impossible—not to knock aside the wolves and run rampant through the underground, searching and screaming her name.

  Enough of this. Forget control. Do you think Keeli would apologize for being tactless? No.

  He unsheathed his sword, preparing to jump back down into the tunnel he had just left.

  Someone whistled.

  Michael glanced over his shoulder and saw a familiar face peering out from behind a dumpster. Suze gestured furtively and pressed a finger to her lips. Michael glided close, ducking into the shadows beside her. Their shoulders pressed together; he did not miss the way she shuddered, but for once, he didn’t care.

  “Keeli,” he whispered.

  She refused to look at him. “There was a fight between her and the Grand Dame. Keeli got knocked flat and locked in her room. You’re bad guy numero uno.”

  “I need to get her out.”

  “Sure, fine. That’s why I’m here. We got word that you tried to get into the South Street entrance, and guessed you’d end up here eventually if you didn’t lose your cool. Richard is looking for another way in.”

  Michael stared. “You hate me. Why are you doing this?”

  Suze finally looked him in the eye. “Because Keeli took up for me. She slammed an Alpha and his goons, for Christ’s sake, just because he was beating on me. Your fault, don’t forget.”

  “I haven’t,” he said grimly.

  “Yeah. Well, Richard and I remember when people do good things for us. When you’ve got nothing, a little something becomes real important.”

  “If the others find out—”

  She cut him off. “They can’t do anything worse to us than what’s already been done. Richard and I will just stick with the original plan. Go to Mexico or something.”

  Michael shook his head. “Do you have a good memory?”

  Suze gave him a strange look, but nodded. Michael gave her his address and made her repeat it back to him.

  “There’s a briefcase with five thousand dollars in it. I’ve got it at my apartment. If you and Richard get into trouble and I’m not around, the money is yours.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You’re fucking nuts.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s why Keeli likes me.”

  “I’m cool with that,” Suze said, still looking dazed. They heard a scuffling sound and Richard appeared. He frowned when he saw Michael sitting so close to Suze, but only gestured for Michael to follow him. He had some papers stuffed in his hand.

  Michael, Suze, and Richard jogged down the alley, turning out on the street with headlights flashing bright in their eyes. They walked for two blocks in complete silence, and then Richard dragged Michael down a series of steps that led to the front door of a basement business, closed for the evening. There was a drainage grate in front of the door. Richard pointed at it.

  “There’s your door. It’s not guarded.”

  “How did you find it?”

  Richard grinned. “When you live rough, you learn to play rough.” He held up the papers in his hand. “The first thing I did when Suze and I moved in was find the clan’s blueprints of the place. Told them I didn’t want to get lost.” He sneered. “Made sure I found all the back holes, the ways in and out. Made drawings. I don’t trust anyone.”

  “Except for Suze,” Michael commented, lifting the grate free. The hole smelled wet and dirty. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Richard snag Suze around her waist and pull her close. Michael thought of doing the same thing to Keeli. He sat down on the edge of the hole and dangled his legs in the darkness.

  “Thank you,” he said, looking up at the two teens. They shrugged, but it was enough.

  Michael dropped through the hole, scraping the sides of his arms. He did not hit the ground, stopping mere inches above it so he would not make a sound. Michael saw the rough outline of pipes, the accumulated debris. This place was very old.

  “It’ll run out three tunnels over from the Alpha core,” Richard whispered, replacing the grate. “There shouldn’t be too many wolves in the halls. The fangs are supposed to arrive soon.”

  Earlier than what Michael had expected. Frederick must be feeling pressure to get this resolved.

  Michael almost felt sorry for the elder vampire; the Grand Dame was not g
oing to be in a pleasant mood tonight. An alliance between their two peoples was looking less likely, and this time, the blame could be put squarely on his own shoulders. Michael did not doubt he was part of the reason Keeli and her grandmother had fought.

  Do you know what would happen to Keeli if the others found out? Her reputation would never survive. She might not survive. Such alliances are not tolerated.

  Or maybe such alliances were not tolerated by certain individuals. It was clear to Michael that every werewolf near them had smelled the sex on their bodies, and only a handful had made an issue of it. Perhaps that had to do with respect for Keeli’s position and her temper, or maybe the werewolves—even if they were disgusted—were far more polite than Michael had ever given them credit for.

  Or maybe this was the consequence the Grand Dame had spoken of when she begged Michael to do the honorable thing. A promise Michael had found impossible to uphold.

  Please forgive me, he begged Keeli, flying through the tunnel, watching the shadows for movement.

  The tunnel narrowed. The smell of dirt and damp disappeared, and everything, even the pipes, looked cleaner. Michael glimpsed light, and slowed his approach. The main corridor was empty. Michael took his chance and flew down the hall. He heard a rustling sound just before he turned a corner, but he could not stop—did not want to stop—and he ran into a werewolf who barked sharply as Michael tackled him to the ground. They tumbled over each other, grappling, punching, and he heard the wolf say, “Michael, it’s me.”

  Michael bared his teeth. “I know. Don’t stop me now.”

  Jas hissed. “I thought you’d manage a way in. How did you do it?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “The Grand Dame wants you dead.”

  “I suspected that.”

  “I’m of two minds, believe it or not.”

  “Since you haven’t tried to kill me yet, I also suspected that to be the case.”