Cursed fs-1

by S. J. Harper

  She gives Zack a fleeting look and whispers, “Does he know—?”

  “That you’re a witch? Yes.”

  “I’ve called all our friends. I’ve worked every locator spell I can think of. What comes up has me crazy. A void. He’s yet to be released to absolute death. It’s something worse. It feels as if he’s trapped—on an alternative plane, or that he’s in some kind of altered state. It’s different than simple sleep or unconsciousness. It’s dark, menacing.”

  She looks again at Zack, this time with trepidation, as if expecting him to make a comment about how fantastical this sounds. For the moment at least, she’s forgotten that fantastical applies to each of us in this room.

  Zack, however, has his eyes on the coffee table. He leans forward and picks up a flyer lying there. “What’s this?”

  Liz glances at the brochure in his hand, shrugs. “It’s a program for tonight’s benefit.” She looks at me. “The same one you have tickets for.”

  Zack is studying the logo. “Green Leaf. Where have I seen that name?” He opens the program and in the space of a heartbeat, he looks at me with grim seriousness. “Guess who’s on Green Leaf’s board of directors.”

  He turns the page around so I can read the name he has his finger perched above. “Dr. Alexander Barakov.”

  “Who’s that?” Liz asks.

  I have to keep the eagerness out of my voice when I answer her. “Someone Zack and I recently interviewed. Evidently he’s on the Green Leaf board of directors. Has Evan ever mentioned him?”

  “I don’t think so. I know Evan’s firm represents the Green Leaf Foundation. That’s why we were invited to the benefit.”

  I’m perusing the program. Michael Dexter’s name is listed as a participating artist in the charity auction. Is that the piece he was working on the day before yesterday? No wonder he mentioned a deadline.

  “Would you mind calling Evan’s office to see if Dr. Barakov is a client, too?” I ask Liz, wanting a few moments alone with Zack.

  “Sure.” Liz stands up “My cell is in the kitchen.”

  When she’s gone, I lean toward Zack. “Another vampire gone with a connection to Barakov?”

  “When we get back to the office, I’ll check the financial records for Amy and Isabella.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Maybe Barakov isn’t the connection. Maybe this foundation is.”

  Liz is back in a minute. She’s carrying a garment bag. Her face reflects the anxiety and fear that’s been racking her mind. “No Barakov on the client list,” she says. “No word from Evan.”

  She tosses her cell phone on the couch, passes the garment bag from her left hand to the right.

  I rise to give her a hug. “We’ll find him. We have a few things we need to check at the office. Will you be all right here alone?”

  Liz steps reluctantly out of my arms. “Yes. Why did you have me check on Barakov?”

  I don’t want to alarm Liz, but I don’t want to lie to her, either. “Barakov has been a common denominator in a couple missing persons’ cases. But we don’t have anything solid.”

  “He’s connected to Green Leaf, and Evan has connections to Green Leaf. You think this Barakov might have done something to Evan?”

  The edge in her voice is razor sharp. The last thing we need is a pissed-off witch going after the wrong guy. Zack realizes that, too, and reacts quickly. “I think we need to give Emma a few minutes alone with him so she can find out. He’ll be at the party.”

  Liz peers at me, tossing her head in Zack’s direction. “He knows about you, too?”

  I nod.

  She frowns. That he knows my true nature, and that he could only know it if I told him, makes our connection too intimate for her approval.

  The atmosphere in the room becomes stiflingly oppressive.

  Zack feels the tension between Liz and me and, once again, breaks the silence. “Let’s not forget it’s possible there’s another explanation for why you can’t locate Evan. You already mentioned an alternative reality. What else could interfere with your scrying?”

  “You mean like a shield of some sort?” Liz suggests.

  “Any way for you to determine if that’s what’s blocking you?” he asks.

  I can see her wheels turning. Zack has given her something to focus on besides me . . . or Barakov. Something that not only will keep her busy, but could be a huge help.

  “Maybe. A shield that strong would take a lot of energy. I’ll keep trying my locator spells and start looking for pockets of unusual power.” She glances down at the garment bag as if just remembering it. “Take this, before I forget.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see when you get home. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

  When she passes the bag to me, there’s a rustle of fabric. This must be the dress Liz mentioned I could borrow. This is so Liz. Her world could be falling apart and she’s thinking about what I’m going to wear to the party.

  “I won’t go if you want me to stay here with you,” I tell her, pushing the bag away.

  “No.” Her reply is quick, adamant. “My place is here. But you go. If anyone at Green Leaf is in any way involved in Evan’s disappearance, you can find out.” The look she sends me telegraphs that she knows I can find out, that she expects me to do whatever it takes, that she’s certain I will.

  “Should I call the police?” she asks then.

  “Wait a little while longer,” Zack says. “We’re doing everything possible right now. Let’s see how things play out and keep one another posted.”

  She sighs and walks us to the door. Zack goes ahead and I pause to give Liz one last hug.

  She pulls away. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She turns back to the coffee table and slips a piece of paper out of a folder lying there. “A list of Blood Emporiums.”

  I glance at it. “Looks pretty complete. Who’s your source?”

  She shrugs. “A longtime client. He circled the one in the Gaslamp, the one he thought you might be interested in.” Her mouth twists in a weary frown. “Ironic, isn’t it, Emma? Yesterday I wasn’t sure how I felt about Evan. Today I’d give my life to see him back home safe. With me.”

  I smile and touch her cheek. “He will be. And the good news is now you know. You have your answer.”

  • • •

  I toss the garment bag into the backseat of the car. I can wait until I get home to see the dress. It’s the piece of paper Liz handed me that has my attention—a computer-generated list of all of San Diego’s Blood Emporiums with the names of each one’s cover business and address.

  “Check this out.” I hold up the paper so Zack can see.

  “Wicked Ink?” It’s circled in red. The address is around Fifth and J Street.

  “Michael Dexter found a receipt dated the day Isabella disappeared. He said she used to pick up her blood supply from a Blood Emporium in the Gaslamp. I think this might be it.”

  Zack gives the list a quick once-over. “This looks like a list of all of the Emporiums in San Diego County. Information like this isn’t easy for an outsider to come by. Where did Liz get it?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. A friend of Evan’s maybe? But I think it’s worth paying this Wicked Ink a visit. Someone there might have been the last person to see Isabella before she disappeared.”

  Zack’s expression clouds over with worry.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask him.

  “Some of the old guard have been targeting the Emporiums. They aren’t happy with the number of vampires who are mainstreaming. They fear it’s a sign the culture is collapsing.”

  “But they’ve been sanctioned by those in power, right?”

  “That’s the case here in the West. My understanding is that there’s quite a bit of dissension between the four American sovereigns. The new Southern king is vehemently opposed. He’s been spewing all sorts of new rhetoric. Or should I say old rhetoric? He wants the Emporiums shut down.”

  I haven’t kept up with vampire politic
s. “I didn’t even know there was a new Southern king. When did this happen?”

  “Eight, maybe nine months ago. He started by levying outrageous taxes, driving up the price of blood in his territory until it’s practically unaffordable, both for those buying and selling. There’s a huge propaganda machine behind the movement. The Emporiums are like a lifeline to mainstreamed vampires. They’re what allow them to function and integrate into society. Shutting down the Emporiums would have the same impact on vampires that shutting down every grocery store would have on humans.”

  “Then why on earth is the Southern king doing it?”

  “Because it’s more difficult to oppressively rule people who are independent. He talks about giving control back to the vampires. Of supporting their taking what’s rightfully theirs instead of lining the pockets of the elite few and kowtowing to humans. I think what he’s really after is a return to the old ways. Some of the zealots have started to move into other territories. I’ve heard reports that Emporiums in New Mexico and Arizona have been torched. I’ve even heard they’ve gone so far as to kidnap and torture patrons. It seems they might be working their way west.”

  “Like here? Southern California? Do you think that’s why we have three missing vampires?”

  Zack shrugs. “It’s something else to check out.”

  And something else to complicate an already complicated case. I glance at Zack. “How do you know so much about it?”

  Zack avoids my eyes. “My former pack has close ties with the Southern king.”

  “One of the reasons you parted ways?” I ask.

  I get a curt nod. Then he closes down. I see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw. He starts the car and pulls onto the street.

  I clear my throat. “Hate crimes against vampires by other vampires. What’s next?”

  If Zack has an answer to that question, he keeps it to himself. We decide to split up. I’ll go to the Blood Emporium alone and Zack will go back to the office to take a second look at Amy’s and Isabella’s financial records. When we looked the first time, we were searching for evidence that the two women were patients of Dr. Barakov. This time he’s going to look for contributions to Green Leaf.

  Soon I’m on my way to Wicked Ink. The first order of business will be to see if I can persuade anyone to acknowledge that an Emporium’s housed there. If I get that far, I’ll ask to speak to someone in charge. For obvious reasons, getting a warrant is out of the question. This is going to be up to me and my powers of persuasion.

  Parking in the Gaslamp District is always a hassle. There’s a road crew working on Fifth Avenue, which makes the predictably busy traffic even worse. I’ve been moving at a snail’s pace but making progress. Until now.

  Now I find myself stuck behind a black sedan that’s decided to stop right in front of my destination—Wicked Ink. It’s just large enough so that it blocks the lane, has tinted windows all around like so many others these days, much like the one I saw at Evan’s place this morning. The light up ahead changes, but it still doesn’t move. I honk. The driver gets out.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  It isn’t like the car I saw at Evan’s. It is the car I saw at Evan’s. The driver glances back at me, not with the slightest hint of apology or even curiosity. His eyes flick my way; then he turns his back on me and holds open the rear door. The passenger gets out and heads inside. Again, there is a distinct moment of hesitation on his part. But he doesn’t look back. I can’t see his face. Is he the one who gave Liz the list I have in my pocket? If I can convince him to talk to me, he might have information about Isabella. He might even have a sense about whether the conflicts Zack mentioned have anything to do with the disappearances of Amy, Isabella, or Evan. They were all mainstreamed. Could it be they were all getting their blood here? Are they targets of the faction who wish to see the Emporiums closed?

  The sedan is once again on the move. Traffic opens up and I luck out. There’s a parking space just around the corner on J Street. I park, then hurry to catch up with the man in black.

  The bell over the door rings as I walk into the shop.

  It’s not at all what I expected.

  For a tattoo parlor, Wicked Ink has one fancy reception area. To my right is a large, round dining room table, surrounded by high-back red velvet chairs and piled high with black leather-bound books and two sterling silver candelabras. Each holds half a dozen black candles, all lit. There are more candles blazing in the standing candelabras that line the north and south walls. The walls and ceiling are padded, tufted, and covered with an elegant black on black brocade, the floors a dark polished wood. A series of ornate silver-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors covers the east wall across from me. I see myself reflected in several of them.

  It’s eerily quiet, too. No heavy metal blaring from hidden speakers. Only the barely discernible hum of an air conditioner pumping refrigerated air into a room I’d guess is about sixty degrees already. A shiver races down my spine. To my left there’s a sitting area. I wander over. There are two red velvet sofas facing each other. Between them is a round black velvet ottoman with silver-beaded fringe. More leather-bound volumes are stacked on it. I take a seat and flip through the first one. They’re filled with designs, each one labeled and indexed.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn toward the voice just in time to see a door close. It’s cut into the brocade-covered wall and, once closed, is all but invisible. A touch of a button and a large flat-screen monitor that’s recessed into the wall comes alive. It displays the store’s highly stylized black-and-red logo. “Most of our clients prefer searching the online database.” The voice belongs not to the man I was looking for, but a young woman.

  More precisely, a young female vampire.

  She couldn’t have been more than sixteen when she was turned and looks to be completely at home in these surroundings. Her black, off-the-shoulder taffeta gown has a fitted bodice and a full skirt. I hear the rustle of silk and crinoline as she glides toward me. Her face is heart-shaped. The narrow chin and delicate cheekbones serve to further accentuate her enormous green eyes. The clothing is late Victorian, but the hair and makeup are contemporary goth. Smudged kohl eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and flawless, pale skin. Her jet-black hair is piled atop her head in an organized mess. Feather accents finish the look that must have taken hours to painstakingly create. The ink she’s sporting is dramatic, an intricate pattern of black thorns and bloodred roses that start at the top of her neck and run down, disappearing into the gown. More peek out from the edges of the long sleeves of the dress and run over her hands and fingers. I wonder how much of her petite body is covered.

  With the experience of one who knows exactly the reaction her image projects, she stretches out a hand. “All my work is done here. What, exactly, are you looking for? I’m sure I can point you in the right direction.”

  Her question is spoken in a purr. I rise from the couch, shake my head, and flash my badge. “Beautiful ink, but that’s not why I’m here. Special Agent Emma Monroe.”

  “FBI?”

  “That’s right. You are?”

  “Rose.”

  Appropriate. I slip the badge back into my pocket. “A man came in here a minute or two ago.”

  The vampire makes a show of looking around. “I don’t think so. It appears we’re quite alone, Agent Monroe.”

  “Perhaps he’s back there?” I point to the door that she’s just emerged from.

  “There are three tattoo stations back there. All of them are currently empty. I was just setting up. The artists don’t normally come in until late afternoon. You’re welcome to look.” She steps back and waves toward the door. “The man you’re looking for, is he a criminal of some kind?”

  “No.” I don’t take her up on her offer to search behind door number one. If she’s so willing to have me do it, there’s no point.

  I decide to go for the direct approach, hoping my candor will loosen her tongue and that I
won’t have to resort to using my powers.

  “I want to speak to someone who works the other side of the business.”

  “The other side?”

  “Someone with the Emporium. I’m working a missing person’s case. Actually, it’s a missing vampire. We have reason to believe she was here the day she went missing.”

  At the mention of vampire, Rose allows a slow smile to form on her lips. “Missing vampire? Can I see that badge again? This is a joke, right? Max put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  Rose’s skirt starts to ring. She turns her back on me, reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a cell phone.

  “Yes?” The vampire looks up into a corner of the room where a discreet surveillance camera is positioned.

  I’d bet my badge that my mystery man is watching.

  “Of course, sire. Right away.” She turns back to face me, the cell once again concealed in the folds of her skirt. “Follow me.”

  Sire? I have no time to ask the question. Rose is on the move. She crosses the room, pushing one of the tufted wall panels aside to reveal a keypad. She enters a series of numbers, and a door, like the first one she came through, swings inward. I follow her down a short hallway to a staircase. Apparently there are floors not only above, but below us. We head down. Despite the dress, Rose negotiates the steep steps rather well.

  When we reach the door at the bottom, we’re immediately buzzed through. I feel as if I’ve gone down the rabbit hole and ended up in my local grocery store. Real basements are extremely rare in Southern California. This one has a polished white floor, harsh fluorescent lights, and a long double row of industrial-grade refrigerators with glass doors.

  The refrigerators are filled with blood packs. The lower shelf of one contains insulated bags that are tagged with names, dates, and times. The signs hanging on the outside that normally point shoppers to the vegetables or ice cream instead have written upon them things like A+ and B-. I pause in front of a door marked YBV.