Savage: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Where’s Mottrov? Where does he sleep?”

  “You’ll never find him,” Ponytail shouts back.

  I aim at the first Kegerator, just a few feet behind him. If my Glock had a hammer, I’d cock it for effect. Granted, I’m empty, but he doesn’t know that. “Tell me. Where does he sleep?”

  “Do your worst, Mr. Savage. That secret dies with us.”

  The stream of beer slackens.

  “Last chance,” I warn.

  “For both of us, it would seem.” He watches the stream, anxious for it to die so he can rush me.

  I sigh. Sliding the gun into my shoulder holster, I crouch and grab the compact pistol from my ankle strap. I put three rounds into the Kegerator beside him, then double-tap each vampire to cover my escape and aid my three allies.

  The keg lost some of its pressure when I nicked it the first time, so I draw from the blood mixture in my thigh and fashion a cone of force over the hole. Power flows smooth and steady through the signet ring as I shape the creation to my will. The cone diverts the spray in a wide arc, dousing the vampires and everyone else in the vicinity. The stream from the first keg loses pressure and begins to slump, but the vampires can only stagger and hiss while silver burns in their chests and beer droplets sizzle on their skin. I make my exit before they can follow.

  The bowling alley is business as usual when I emerge from the back room, though the patrons in the closest lanes appear to have heard the gunshots. No one else has differentiated them from the cracking of pins. I pocket my remaining gun as I evacuate the premises, leaving a stunned Auntie Gragie on her stepstool behind the counter.

  Frigid air stiffens the beer in my clothes as I sprint to the hearse and squeal through the parking lot. So much for keeping my stitches dry. I veer onto the main road toward downtown with a week’s worth of magic still surging through me, longing to be released. I didn’t use much of it during that exchange, but the night is young.

  A deep cold settles over me as I head for Carmine’s apartment. It’s almost three a.m., that peculiar witching hour when the city doesn’t feel quite as sleepy as it should, and when the only people you’ll meet on a lonely street are the ones you’d rather not. The elder vampire in Auntie’s back room told me what I needed to know—Lorne and Carmine and Paige are Mottrov’s thralls, and each will play host to a legendary vampire thanks to a spell Mottrov found in the Book of the Grave. That is, unless I can save them somehow.

  Carmine lives on the fortieth floor of the Bricktown Commons Building, a few short blocks from the Nachtenbank Center where Lorne lives. As the story goes, the developer of Bricktown Commons razed an entire city block of existing businesses to build it, including a beloved deli, a dive bar, a drugstore, and a used bookstore. That was how the New Detroit renaissance began; with an assault on the city’s historic beauty, termed ‘revitalization’ by its many proponents.

  Nightmarish images flash through my mind as I knock on the door marked 4015. Heads splitting open to birth vampiric parasites. I was an idiot to think I could protect anyone from Gilbert Mottrov. This has been a losing proposition from the start.

  When no one answers after a brief wait, I run through my options for breaking in. I’ve loaded a magazine with the eight remaining silver bullets from the fifty-round box Ryovan gave me. Problem is I don’t have a silencer. If I start shooting, half the people on this floor are going to call 911. I’d unlock the door with a spell, but it’s one of those fancy security doors with a keypad entry system, and I don’t know any spells that can get around that.

  Before resorting to anything desperate, I knock again.

  Carmine answers this time. She’s sporting fleece pajamas and some killer bedhead, her bleary eyes dark-rimmed. “Hi. I thought I heard someone knocking. What are you doing here, Ardy? Do you know what time—”

  I push my way inside and slam the door. Her apartment is larger than mine and Lorne’s put together. The darkness swallowing the massive recessed living room is terrifying. “Carmine. Listen to me closely. Do you feel okay?”

  “I feel fine. Exhausted, but completely fine. Why are you here?”

  I cradle the back of her head in one hand and run my fingers over her scalp like an ape searching for tasty bugs. No splits, no redness, no blotches.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I shove aside thoughts of how beautiful she looks even in pajamas, even with her makeup smeared and her hair a mess. “When was the last time you saw Gilbert Mottrov?”

  She frowns. “You could’ve at least called to say you were coming over.”

  “Lost my phone. Long story,” I say, crouching to lift the legs of her pants.

  Her left ankle is marred by two deep gouges filled with congealed blood. I can’t bring myself to tell her how much trouble she’s in. I’ve been too busy with my ultra-important life to come see her, too afraid she might discover who I am through some slip of the tongue, never thinking it might be important until the Guardians pointed out the possibility of her being a thrall. Now it’s too late.

  Carmine straightens her arms at her sides, defiant. “Arden. Seriously. If you don’t tell me what’s going on right now, I swear—”

  “Bite marks,” I interrupt. “These are bite marks.”

  She laughs. “Yeah. Mosquito bites.”

  “Mosquitoes? In the middle of winter?”

  A giggle. “Okay, fine. Gil got a little… carried away.”

  “You are sleeping with him.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business… but yes.”

  “Have you been to his house?”

  “What’s with all the questions? God, you’re like Dad. Yeah, I’ve been there once. It’s gorgeous.”

  “Do you remember seeing a book? Did he read anything aloud while you were there?”

  She frowns, remembering something.

  “It would’ve been a big heavy book with a leather cover.”

  As she’s about to speak whatever memory has cropped up, her face snaps straight and goes stoic. “I never saw anything like that,” she says, her tone light and mechanical.

  I grab her by the shoulders and stare into her eyes. “Mottrov, you bastard. If you’re in there… if you can hear me, come out and show yourself. Coward.”

  “Now you’re freaking me out,” she says.

  I don’t want to open her eyes to all the horrors in the shadows. I don’t want her thinking I’m some looney who believes there are monsters under the bed. There are monsters under the bed, though, and if I don’t find the monster Carmine is bound to, she dies. She and Lorne and Paige and all the others Mottrov is using to draft his fantasy team of ancestral vampires. “Carmine, I know it sounds crazy, but those are bite marks on your ankle.”

  “I know they’re bite marks. Gil bit me. By accident.”

  “He bit you on purpose. I think you know that.”

  She jives her shoulders. “Arden, let go. You’re scaring me.”

  I let go. “When was the last time you saw him? Do you know where he is?”

  She hesitates. “I was at his house a few hours ago.”

  I study her in disbelief. “That’s not possible. Mottrov’s house burned down last night.”

  She straightens. Something in her eyes projects distress.

  “Tell me where he is,” I demand.

  “Arden, you can’t. You can’t.” She breaks down, eyes reddening, frightened tears streaming. She backs away like she doesn’t know me. God she’s beautiful. Pale, breathtaking. And if she ever discovers what I’ve done to her and her family, I’ll never see her again. Burning Mottrov’s house down was a mistake. Now I’ll never find him.

  “This is like the time you beat up Ricky Huntley in tenth grade after he dumped me. I don’t need you interfering in my love life.”

  If the real Arden Savage really did that, I’ve got to hand it to him. Sounds like a kickass little brother. The kind of little brother who’d stick up for his big sister even when he’s the underdog. “Where’s his
house?”

  She clamps her mouth shut, refusing to answer.

  “Is it the one across the river in Windsor?”

  A flash of confusion.

  I read the look and go with it. “It isn’t in Windsor. It’s somewhere close by. In the city?”

  “Arden, please. Don’t do this. Don’t make me lie to you.”

  It’s all I’ve been doing to you, I observe with profound regret. “You don’t have to lie, and you don’t have to be afraid. Whatever happens, I’m doing this for you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Her knees tremble, and she leans against the wall.

  I hold out my arms but refrain from touching her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m feeling a little faint. Maybe I got up too quick.”

  She didn’t get up quick, and she’s been up too long to only start feeling it now. When she puts a trembling hand to her temple and squeezes her eyes shut, I notice the pink splotches beneath her chin and across her cheeks. There’s no denying the signs now. It’s starting.

  Chapter 27

  I bring Carmine into the living room and sit her down on one of the expensive leather couches. “How did you get to Mottrov’s house? Did he drive you? Did you drive yourself? Did a chauffeur bring you?”

  “I drove there to pick him up.”

  “For what? The gala isn’t until tomorrow night.”

  She shushes me. “Don’t talk so loud. He’s sleeping.”

  My blood runs cold. “You brought him here?”

  “Arden Savage,” says a voice from the darkness. “This is an unexpected surprise. I couldn’t be more delighted you’ve decided to join the cause. Now the cycle will be complete.”

  I shoot Carmine a look. “You let him into your house. Never let them into your house.”

  “I’m afraid the choice wasn’t hers,” Mottrov says, lurking somewhere beyond my sight. His voice comes from every direction, and I can’t pinpoint its source. “The devotion of a thrall is, after all, exhaustive.”

  “Gil?” says Carmine, squinting into the darkness. “You’re up. I’m sorry if we woke you.”

  “No apology necessary, my sweet. I wasn’t sleeping. I’ve been watching you. Waiting for your beauty to return in full.”

  Carmine blushes. “Oh, stop it. How do you know my brother?”

  “Yeah, Gil. Why don’t you tell her how we know each other?”

  “In a short while, your sister won’t remember any of this. The unequaled Lady Hayle Sebraxis will overwrite her mortal memories with centuries of wisdom and grace. It is she whose return I most look forward to. She was my sire, and will carry your sister’s imprint forward through the ages. The same is true of Lord Montrovia, who now inhabits the body of Roger Tarpley. And the same will be true of Lord Belthazar when he takes your place.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but Lord Montrovia’s dead. Again. I beered him in half.”

  A pause. “Roger Tarpley was one of my best executives.”

  “Yeah. Not anymore.”

  “This is most unfortunate. We’ll need to accelerate your transfiguration.”

  “My transfiguration? Fuck that. I know the gala isn’t a fundraiser. It’s a massacre. You’ve been undermining the leaders of your coven, and now you want to use these revenants to kill them.”

  “The nightlords of the Ascended have long kept us from our true potential. Tomorrow, we cull the ranks so the Ascended may finally rise to our rightful place—”

  “Rightful place as the foremost power in this world. Yeah, I got that from one of your guys at the bowling alley tonight.”

  “So you attended the assassination of Mr. Golug.”

  “That’s where I killed Strix Montrovia.”

  “And what became of the others?”

  “Everyone else was alive when I left. I don’t know what happened to them.”

  Mottrov breathes an audible sigh.

  “You care.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You care. About the two vampires at the bowling alley.”

  “Perhaps my sentiments are difficult to hide.”

  “You have those?”

  “I’m not a monster, Mr. Savage.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “The younger of the two is my son, Felix. The elder, his mentor, Xender Ozul.”

  “Why aren’t you your son’s mentor?”

  “Felix was a willful child. Adulthood has yet to change him. He does my bidding out of obligation, yet we seldom see eye to eye. I put him under Xender’s guidance when it became apparent how little he shared of my vision for the future.”

  “Sounds like an excuse to be a shitty dad.”

  Mottrov’s laugh echoes from every direction. “What would a mortal know of fatherhood? Of authority and influence across the centuries? You lack foresight. Your pathetic life is too brief to grasp the true nature of such things.”

  “What about love?”

  “What about it?”

  “I grasp the nature of it. It’s where humans have you beat hands down. How can you cherish each day when your days are endless? How can you value a moment when you’re the same age from one moment to the next? How could time be precious to you when your time is never over? Mortality is a human problem, but it’s a beautiful one. One you’ll never have. Which is why you’ll never understand the way human beings love each other. You could never love my sister—or the revenant you’re turning her into—the way I do.”

  “Human love is a construct, Mr. Savage. An attempt to find significance amid a life which is ultimately meaningless.”

  “There you go, proving my point.”

  “If you mean to provoke me, you’ve wasted your time.”

  Carmine groans, cradling her head in her hands. “God, I have a terrible headache. What are you two talking about?”

  “Nothing which need concern you, my sweet. Go to bed.”

  “Don’t be mean to him, Ardy,” Carmine mumbles as she stands up and staggers toward her bedroom.

  If I could save her by taking her away from here, I would. But I’d only be carrying her away to die. There’s a woman sleeping in the guest suite of my apartment and a man locked in the quarantine of a derelict hospital who would die too. Who knows how many others share the seed, and they’re all doomed if I don’t stand and fight. If I don’t defeat Mottrov and break the spell.

  As soon as I hear Carmine’s bedroom door close, I draw the gun loaded with the last eight silver-plated rounds. Screw the neighbors and their 911 calls; I’ve got a vampire who needs putting down. “End this, Mottrov. It’s over.”

  “I’m afraid what has been set in motion cannot be stopped.”

  “Every spell has a counter.”

  “Not this one. Do as I asked when you were in my home last night. Remove your shoes so you may join your family in their undeath.”

  “I’m not undying tonight, and neither are they.”

  “No, of course not. Your sister is merely exhibiting early signs of the transfiguration. Labor pains, as it were. The real festivities begin tomorrow night. I am simply offering you the courtesy of a clean transaction.”

  “The same way you’d offer a rabbit the spit or a turkey the oven.”

  I pull a measure of blood from my thigh, leaving plenty for what’s to come, and raise a detection spell. Bingo. Mottrov’s outline glows blue, emitting a faint aura like fire against the darkness. He’s standing in the big circular penthouse room off the kitchen, where a grand piano casts an odd shadow across the floor. The shades are drawn over the curved full-length windows encircling the room, beyond which lies a balcony offering sweeping views of the city below. When Carmine moved into the apartment, she was very particular about putting a piano in that big empty room. She said only the most distinguished homes have pianos. She doesn’t play.

  “In coming here without your friends,” Mottrov says, “you’ve made yourself as vulnerable as any prey.”

  “I told you yesterday. I don’t hav
e any friends.”

  “Lies are unnecessary. When Lord Petrovic assumes your brother’s form, the Guardians of the Veil will be in greater danger than you know.”

  “Des won’t let that happen.”

  Mottrov laughs. “The ancient lords survived thousands of years of being hunted by human and dhampir alike. They have adapted to survive against the most heinous tactics of murderers like Desdemona Dolman.”

  “Lord Montrovia survived for about thirty seconds before I split him in half with a keg of holy beer. The only adaptation he managed to develop was an extreme case of the uglies.”

  “The newly birthed form is temporary. In time, each of the ancient lords and ladies will mature to their former beauty.”

  “How many are there? How many innocents have you defiled with the secrets from the grimoire?”

  “The Book of the Grave holds many more secrets than I’ve had time to ascertain thus far. Rest assured, Mr. Savage; I will put it to the full extent of its use. And when Lord Belthazar becomes you, you’re going to help me do it. Now put the gun down and submit. It will go easier for you that way.”

  “Fuck you, Mottrov.”

  He laughs, long and loud. “You won’t be the first Savage I’ve fucked. Your sister rather enjoys—”

  “Quit hiding like a coward and come out where I can see you.”

  “Your poor nighttime vision is no excuse. Submit, and your eyes will see at midnight as if it were noonday.”

  “Except they won’t be my eyes anymore. You want my submission? Come earn it.”

  There’s a flash of movement as Mottrov’s blue outline blurs across the room.

  I fire twice.

  Something knocks me off my feet. I land halfway across the apartment and skid to a stop on the hardwood floor. I pick myself up, groaning at the pain in my stitches. Mottrov comes out of nowhere and slams my head through the wall. I collapse in a cloud of drywall dust and grope for the gun, but I’ve lost it somewhere in the dark. Mottrov leaps onto me, his hands vices, his strength astounding.