Rajmund

by D. B. Reynolds

  "He didn't come right out and say it, but I got that vibe from him. Why, do you think there is?"

  "I notice a lot of new faces in town,” Raj said, changing the subject. “And not just in the blood houses. Half of the meat in Krystof's basement the other night was new to me."

  Mick snorted. “Why do you think everything was so out of control here? The old man's making new bodies so fast I'm surprised the cops aren't investigating that instead of a few missing pieces of—” His gaze swung to Emelie. “—er, young women. At least some of those guys have to be from out of town, or maybe right off the boat, so there's no one to miss ‘em."

  "Any theories on why Krystof's so eager for converts? Any threats you know of?"

  Mick snorted. “Other than you, you mean?” he said in an unconscious imitation of Jozef. He shook his head. “Nah. A couple of the old ones have disappeared, though. Maybe Krystof's worried—"

  "Old ones?” Raj interrupted. “Like who?"

  "I can only tell you what I've heard. But you know Byron?"

  Raj nodded.

  "Yeah, well, his partner Serge disappeared a few weeks back. At first I thought he'd just moved on, what with Krystof the way he is. But Serge wouldn't have gone without Nina—that's his longtime squeeze. She's a fucking ghost since he's been gone, and Byron's not saying nothin'. That's who you should be talking to."

  Raj frowned. “They still have that video store in the city?"

  "Yeah, but you're just as likely to catch them at home. I hear Byron's not really paying attention to business these days."

  Raj and Emelie stood up, followed by Mick. “All right,” Raj said. “Thanks, Mick. Good job here, by the way."

  Mick put a hand over his heart and bowed again. “Thank you, my lord."

  "Yeah,” Raj said. “Okay. We're out of here, Em."

  Em followed Raj's quick steps across the grass and back to the BMW. “Keys,” he snapped. She handed them over with a sigh.

  "I knew it couldn't last,” she muttered.

  Raj barely heard her. “You or any of the guys hear anything like that in the other blood houses?"

  "No, my lord. Not a whisper. Just that the houses are overcrowded, and like I told you before, no one so much as blinked at our unknown faces, although I did tell the guys to tamp down the power levels, make it seem like they were fresher than any of them really are."

  Raj frowned. Old vamps. He had to find out who was missing besides Serge. If the missing vamps were strong enough to pose a challenge, it could be someone eliminating the competition before making a play, but if not . . . He didn't know Byron and Serge that well, but Serge had never struck him as the type to strike out on his own and Byron was weak.

  He dropped into the driver's seat and started the car. “Byron and Serge live in the city close by the store, maybe even the same lot. See if—” But Em already had the address and was entering it into his dashboard GPS, her Blackberry in hand. “Nice,” he said.

  "I live to serve, my lord."

  "Right,” Raj snorted.

  The video store was dark when they arrived, which was consistent with what Mick had told him, but still surprised Raj. Byron and Serge had always stayed open late, since their fellow vampires were some of their best customers, especially the old ones who were slow to accept the newer technologies. He circled around the block to the modest house which sat right behind the store. This was an older part of town, from when a lot of merchants lived in the same building as their businesses. With the rise in inner city crime, most of the stores had relocated long ago, but two vampires had no need to worry about crime. A single demonstration of the consequences, and the local hoods pretty much left the store alone.

  He and Em crossed to the small, neat house. “Think anyone's home?"

  "Everything's closed up pretty tight, but there's at least one human inside,” Em said, concentrating. “And a vamp too."

  "Byron and Nina, if Mick's right. Okay, let's ring the doorbell like the unwanted guests we are."

  They made no effort to be quiet, letting their boots thud on the wooden porch and hitting the pretty, little doorbell hard and long. Raj waited one minute and rang again. If Byron had the brains God gave a hamster, he'd know that not only were there two vamps on his doorstep, but that either one of them could rip the door open without the courtesy of ringing the fucking doorbell.

  A slice of dim light split the doorframe as the door cracked open and Byron's pale face came into view. He stared at Raj for a long time, glanced at Emelie and back at Raj, then pulled the door wider and pushed open the screen door. “Come on in,” he said listlessly.

  Emelie pushed past Raj to go in first—she was becoming a regular pain in the ass when it came to his security. He caught a brief flash of movement in the back hallway—Nina, he assumed. Byron made a soft sound of distress, and Raj turned to find the other vampire watching him fearfully.

  "I won't hurt her, By. You should know that."

  Byron's shoulders slumped. “I don't know anything anymore, Raj. Not a fucking thing.” He looked around as if not knowing where to sit, as if it wasn't his own house they were standing in. Finally, he gestured toward what was obviously the living room and led them in that direction, flipping a switch as he walked into the room. A standing lamp came on in the corner, highlighting a big comfortable chair and an old table filled with books. Flanking it was a long overstuffed couch, with one of those handmade blanket things thrown over the back. The light was bright enough to read by, but soft enough for a vampire's eyes.

  "Have a seat,” Byron said. He headed for the big chair, but paused, and with a glance at Raj, settled on the couch instead, scooting down to make room for Em, careful to leave enough space between them that they wouldn't have to touch.

  "Thanks,” Raj said. He sat on the big chair, but didn't settle back into it. He felt like an intruder in this house, in this room. “Sorry to bother you, By."

  "It's no bother. I guess I knew you'd get here eventually."

  "Why was that?"

  Byron studied Raj's face carefully before answering. “Because something's going on.” His voice trembled with an anger that grew with every word. “And someone told you about Serge, or you wouldn't be here. So don't play fucking games with me, okay?"

  Emelie bristled, but Raj held out a hand, easing her back. “What do you think's going on?” he asked softly.

  "How the fuck do I know? Krystof sends word he wants Serge, so Serge goes. That was something like six weeks ago and we haven't heard a single word from him since. Nina says he's still alive, that she'd know if he was dead. But where the fuck is he then?” His voice broke on the last sentence and Raj looked away, giving him the privacy of his grief.

  "Mick said there might be others missing too,” he said quietly.

  "Yeah,” Byron mumbled. “Maybe. There's a couple of ‘em used to come around the store a lot, but I haven't seen ‘em lately. One of ‘em's Barney. He's an old timer who likes movies, especially the classics that are hard to find. Charles is younger . . . I mean, you know, relatively speaking. He likes the video games and porn—our big sellers, you know?"

  Raj nodded.

  "Yeah, well. I haven't seen either one of them for a while. ‘Course it could just be they're like me and too fucking scared to leave their own houses."

  Raj stood and jerked his head toward the door, telling Emelie they were leaving. Byron looked up in surprise and stood quickly. He wobbled awkwardly and Raj frowned. “You taking care of yourself, By? You won't do Nina or Serge any good if you starve yourself."

  "Nina doesn't want me to leave the house. She's afraid I'll disappear, too . . .” His voice trailed off. “She's not eating right, not sleeping. I can't risk her—"

  "I'll have some blood sent over—” Raj glanced at his watch and frowned. “Tomorrow night. In the meantime, you need anything, you call me or Em here.” He handed Byron one of his cards before walking back to the front door. He started to pull it open, but Byron's voice stopped him.<
br />
  "You'll let me know?” he called.

  Raj turned around.

  "Whatever you find out,” Byron pleaded. “Whatever it is, Raj. Let me know. Nothing could be worse than not knowing."

  He nodded. “I'll let you know. In the meantime, take care of yourself and Nina.” He couldn't get out of the house fast enough, striding down the walk and through the gate to where his car was parked. He beeped the locks open, but instead of getting in, he paced down the alley with hard strides and back again. “Goddamn it, Emelie. What the hell is Krystof thinking?"

  "Maybe he's not,” she said. Raj stopped and looked at her as she added, “You've been telling me for months, hell, years, that the old man's not right in the head. Maybe he's finally lost it for good and he's not thinking at all anymore."

  "Fuck. All right, it's come to Jesus time. I'm going to pay a visit to the old man tomorrow night. See what he knows about all of this.” He closed his eyes, feeling the sun threatening on the horizon. “I can't do anything more tonight. Let's get going. I don't want to end up bunking with the monkeys in the cage,” he said echoing Em's earlier comment about the rest of his vampires.

  "But it's okay if I do?” Em observed as she slid into the BMW's passenger seat.

  "Yeah, because you live to serve, right?” Her only answer was a raised middle digit. Raj smiled, and it occurred to him that it might be the last thing he had to smile about for a while.

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  Chapter Thirty-one

  Sarah was running a little late as she hurried down the street toward Chloe's elaborate red and gold awning. She'd been reluctant to use the restaurant's valet parking, preferring to park her own car for a quick getaway. But that had meant using the public lot two blocks over. She rushed past the long bank of windows which sat several feet above street level and overlooked the main square. Blackwood was already there, sitting at a window table in full view of anyone who happened to pass by—no doubt quite intentionally. The maitre d’ was hovering as his famous guest sipped a glass of red wine and chatted amiably.

  The light was perfect, highlighting the gold in Blackwood's fake blond hair. Granted it was probably very expensive fake blond hair, but a bleach job by any other name . . . She smirked, and for the first time since getting up that morning, felt a little better about things.

  Not that it lasted very long. She went up the stairs, stepping aside to avoid being knocked over by a herd of suited businessmen who pushed through the door just as she reached for it. She'd taken no more than two steps inside the restaurant when Blackwood caught sight of her. He waved and said something to the maitre d', sending the twitchy little man scurrying across the restaurant in her direction.

  "Ms. Stratton,” he said breathlessly. “Permit me to—"

  "The ladies’ room?” she inquired, interrupting.

  "Oh,” he said, clearly stunned that she wasn't rushing over to the great man's table. “Yes, of course. Just that way. I'll tell Mister—"

  "Thank you.” Sarah escaped down the ornate hallway, calling herself every kind of a coward. It wasn't as if she could get out of the meeting altogether, so what was the point in delaying it the five minutes it would take to wash her hands? She sighed and pushed open the door, nearly gagging on the scent of perfumed air freshener. She washed her hands quickly, drying them with a paper towel from a tidy wicker basket sitting on the sink. Tossing the damp towel, she dug into her purse for her lip gloss. Not that she cared how she looked, but it delayed the inevitable for a few more seconds.

  A young Asian woman came in behind her and stuttered to a halt, waving a hand in front of her face. “Yech! It reeks in here."

  Sarah smiled over her shoulder. “I know."

  The woman walked over to the sink next to Sarah and washed her hands quickly, leaning forward as she did so to study her perfect, golden complexion. Obviously content with what she saw there—and who wouldn't be, Sarah thought enviously—she reached for a paper towel, inadvertently knocking Sarah's purse to the floor. She made a quick grab for it, but so did Sarah. They caught it together and the woman relinquished it with a touch on Sarah's shoulder and an apologetic smile.

  "Sorry."

  "That's okay,” Sarah said. “There's nothing in there but junk anyway."

  "Tell me about it. Not yours, I mean. But I swear my purse gets heavier every day and I can't figure out why.” They shared a knowing grin as Sarah slung the purse strap over her shoulder, gathered her courage and walked out to face the music.

  Blackwood raised his big ass off the chair in a semblance of courtesy and said, “Thank you for meeting me, my dear."

  Sarah barely acknowledged him, concentrating on sitting down, hanging her purse from the chair and opening the buttons on her coat. She didn't take it off; she didn't plan to be here that long. Blackwood stared at her intently. She took a nervous sip of water as he started talking.

  "So, tell me, Susan,” he began. She flashed him an angry glance and he backpedaled immediately, pretending to be flustered. “How silly of me. Of course, it's Sarah now, isn't it?” He smiled ingratiatingly. “I do understand your desire for secrecy, you know. The glare of the camera can be exhausting.” He waited for Sarah to respond, to comment on their shared misery perhaps, but she remained silent, sipping her water and counting the threads on the table cloth. “Well, then,” Blackwood said, filling the silence. “I wonder how you came to be working with the vampire on this matter? I wasn't even aware you were in town and believe me, I have excellent sources."

  "I told you, Mr. Blackwood—"

  "Edward, please."

  "Mr. Blackwood,” she repeated firmly. “Mr. Gregor is a friend. Nothing more.” And probably not even that anymore, she thought to herself, feeling an unfamiliar ache in her chest at the thought. “We were simply having dinner together when you saw us."

  Blackwood's cheeks flushed and his mouth tightened in obvious irritation, but he shifted tactics, saying, “William is quite convinced the vampires are behind it, you know. But I'm not so certain."

  Sarah looked up at him. “You don't think there are any vampires involved?"

  "No, I—” Blackwood began, but then gave her a curious look and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Unless you have something to tell us? I've always felt the police would do well to listen to what you have to—"

  "I don't have any knowledge—"

  "Don't play games with me,” Blackwood snapped, any semblance of friendship disappearing in an instant, replaced by hard intent. “I understand why you haven't gone to the police,” he said. “The idiots wouldn't know a true talent if it bit them in the ass. What I don't understand is why you've chosen to throw your lot in with those disgusting blood drinkers. If you're having dreams—"

  "Those dreams were years ago,” Sarah insisted. “I don't do that any—"

  "This is bullshit!” Blackwood nearly shouted. The room around them was suddenly quiet. Blackwood drew a deep breath and sat back with a broad smile, smoothing his ruby-colored tie over the bulk of his gut and waving off the maitre d’ who was looking their way anxiously. He took a long drink of his wine and patted his mouth prissily with the neatly pressed napkin.

  "We both know what you're capable of,” he said in a low voice, that phony smile once again firmly planted on his broad face. “So, don't insult me by pretending otherwise."

  "What is it you want from me?” Sarah asked tightly.

  "What I want is whatever you know about Patricia Cowens and this entire affair."

  "I told you. I don't know anything and I don't want to know anything. Do you have any idea what they put me through back then? The police treated me like a murderer and my parents thought I was crazy. They institutionalized me, Edward. I've spent the last ten years doing whatever it takes to forget this so-called gift and nothing you say will change that."

  Blackwood regarded her with a smug smile. “Nothing? Well, Susan, I'm quite certain the tabloid press would be thrilled to discover that their favorite t
eenage psychic is alive and well and living right here in Buffalo. Why, I imagine it would make the front pages for weeks if you turned up. You'll be right alongside the two-headed cows and Elvis. And, of course, the tabloids are all over the Internet now too, aren't they? What do you suppose your University colleagues would make of that?"

  Sarah sat rooted to her chair, her heart in her throat, watching the last ten years of her life go a little further down the drain with every word from Blackwood's mouth. She'd been so wrong about Raj. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't even close. The real monster was sitting across the table from her in this elegant restaurant, a smug smile on his fat face that said he didn't give a damn about her or anyone else.

  "Your refusal to face the truth of your talent is a loss for the entire human race,” he was saying. “A true loss. And, may I say, selfish on your part. Surely you owe it to—"

  "I don't owe anyone anything,” she managed to whisper. “Least of all you.” She grabbed her napkin blindly, laid it on the table and shrugged the strap of her purse over her shoulder. She scooted her chair backward to stand, but Blackwood placed a firm hand over her arm on the table, holding her in place. “Now, Sarah, I don't think either of us—"

  "Director Blackwood?” She looked up to see a woman bearing down on them, middle-aged and wearing enough jewelry to feed a small village for a year. “It is you! I'd heard you were in town—"

  Blackwood was on his feet in an instant. “Of course, my dear, and what a delight to see you.” The woman took his arm, turning him away from the table as she called to someone across the room. Sarah saw her chance and made a break for it, all but running from the restaurant. She passed the wide-eyed maitre d’ and shoved her way past a trio of matrons who gasped at her rudeness. Like she cared.

  She almost fell down the stairs in her urgency to get away. There was a big, black van parked right in front of the restaurant, and some part of her registered the valet arguing with the driver as she ran past. But she left it behind, along with the curious looks of the suited executives and iPodded teenagers she shoved out of her way. She took a shortcut through a reeking passage between two buildings, dashing around trash cans, nearly tripping over a homeless person who muttered angrily as she disrupted his afternoon nap. She reached her car, keys in hand, thankful for the remote to beep open the doors, because she didn't think she could have gotten a key in the lock with her hands shaking the way they were.