“I’ve never heard of one. Of course there were always myths, old wives tales.” He smiled. “My mother had a whole list. Don’t eat chokeberries. Eat the leaves of dandelion, never the root. There were dozens of them. None of them were true, though. I should know. I tried most of them.” He chuckled. “Some tasted like shit and some of them made me sick, but none of them turned me.”
JJ laughed and shook her head. “I gather you weren’t a mama’s boy, huh? So what’s happening with our guy? Do you think it’s like you and Canaan? Someone who loves him is protecting him?”
Otto ran his hand over his mouth, pinching his lower lip. His sigh was deep and long. “I suppose it could be, but something about this doesn’t feel right. Where do they have him locked up and how does he keep escaping? How are they getting him back? Does he come back on his own or do they track him down? Again, how?” He shook his head and sighed again.
“None of us have that much experience with turning. Most of us who’ve turned vampire are killed within days. When Canaan found me, I didn’t know who I was or who he was. He was bigger than me, stronger than me and I almost turned him. Twice. It was almost a year before I could talk. Two before Canaan could bring me a supply of blood without my ripping into him. After four years, I could function, but I still couldn’t be trusted around humans. All it would have taken was a paper cut.”
“Canaan found you bagged blood.”
“Still does, but now I take it daily instead of all at once and that’s not happening here. Canaan checked out every source in the city. This guy’s drinking fresh and those few kills wouldn’t be enough. It’s not like the old days.” When he saw JJ raise her eyes in question, he explained.
“Years ago, there were families who procured blood victims for the turned. The downside of being the mate of a wealthy man was serving him live meals if he turned and the family decided to keep him. It was rare and risky and usually had more to do with inheritance than love.”
“Like Dracula?” JJ asked and then felt foolish for bringing up the myth. To her surprise, Otto nodded.
“Vlad the Destroyer, the most famous among us. He had a host of victims and he functioned. Like me.”
JJ looked around the cheerful kitchen in the lovingly restored Victorian home and snorted a laugh. “Hardly like you, Uncle Otto. Even in this neighborhood, someone would have noticed all those heads on pikes.”
After a few more minutes of small talk, she thanked him for his time and donned her coat for the walk back across the alley to the House of Guardians. It was snowing again and the paths the twins dug between the houses were already half full. She smiled and scuffed her feet, kicking up the powdery fluff until she was surrounded by a cloud of pure white.
The sun would be rising soon and the city would awaken. At this moment, however, it was so quiet you could almost hear the snow fall and the only light was the soft golden glow from the fixture over Otto’s door. A dark alley in this section of town should make her tense and alert, but the wintery night had transformed the place into a shimmering wonderland of crystal and gold and all she felt was safety and peace. It was strange how comfortable she felt here, how the cold inside her seemed to thaw a bit. Of all the places she’d lived in her life, this one felt most like home.
JJ climbed the stairs to the House, but instead of entering, she turned right up another three stairs to the wide deck that spanned the full width of the two connected houses. The snow here was deeper, almost to the tops of her boots, but she was willing to risk wet legs and frozen feet for a few more minutes of this unexpected serenity. She walked to the rail and leaned against it, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. She laughed and opened her mouth to catch the falling flakes on her tongue.
Her eyes snapped open when she felt something nudge her hand. It was the little tawny cat from her house across town. For as much as she’d tried to chase it away, she almost cried with relief when she saw it sitting on the rail. Damn this House and its tears.
“It is you, isn’t it?” she whispered, “Did Dov and Col find you or did you find me on your own.” It was a ridiculous thought, she knew, but wouldn’t it fit perfectly with all the other strange happenings these last few days had brought? She unzipped her jacket and tucked the cat inside where it settled comfortably and began to purr.
Off in the distance, church bells tolled, the sound echoing through the stillness of the snowy night. She was reminded of a song she hadn’t thought of since she was a child. Softly, so as not to disturb the quietude of the moment, JJ began to sing.
Chapter 17
Maximillian hurled the poker at the closing door and then swore at the gouge it left behind. He went to the small, well stocked bar in the corner of his home office and poured himself a drink.
The Chief Constable had just left after giving his report on the latest death. As if the Director needed to hear it. He knew who the young woman was. He’d chosen her name at random from a short list of those with brothers who bore the red tear of a potential Guardian. It made him sick that he had been forced to choose, but what could he do?
What began as a simple plan to replace the Guardians with a force under his control had escalated into a nightmare. If it was left to him, they would have continued on with his original plan to destroy Lord Canaan through financial ruin and the censure of the Ruling Council. With the Nonveniae involved, however, the decision was no longer his. Salvador ad Primus, a man Maximillian had always considered a friend and confidant made that abundantly clear.
He and Salvador met socially, years ago, and found they had much in common. They both believed in the superiority of the Race over humans and shared a disappointment with the Ruling Council’s satisfaction in the status quo. Salvador introduced him to an organization that felt the same way. They called themselves the Nonveniae.
They lured the young Maximillian in with promises of wealth and power. They had connections everywhere and were as good as their word. They kept in touch, out of friendly concern, and if they asked him now and again to use his growing influence on behalf of another member, what of it? These were like-minded people who saw the unfairness of taking a backseat to humans in the running of the world.
It was the same with the money he occasionally funneled here or there on the Nonveniae’s behalf. It wasn’t strictly legal, but no one was hurt except those who could afford it. He was extremely careful and occasional losses in the market were expected by those who invested heavily. He suffered some losses himself, though the profits from his dealings on behalf of the Nonveniae more than made up for them.
Maximillian’s most recent contributions to the cause came from Canaan ad Simeon’s House of Guardians; donations that would never be questioned or missed from a source that was a past enemy of the Nonveniae. It served both his personal needs and the needs of the cause and he took pleasure in the knowledge that the Guardians were funding the very organization that would someday replace them.
Everything had gone smoothly for years until, on a strictly social visit, Maximillian mentioned the research being done in the Sanctuary’s labs. Salvador’s suggestion that they use that research to develop a security force under the Sanctuary’s control seemed the ideal solution to the problems caused by the area’s House of Guardians. Being in the security business himself, Captain ad Primus’ further suggestion of being placed in charge of the project made perfect sense.
Now, Maximillian had no choice but to do as he was told. The very people who had engineered his success now had the power to destroy him. And none of it was his fault. None of this would have happened if that damned House had continued to play by the Council’s time honored rules.
Yes, this was Canaan ad Simeon’s fault, pure and simple. The Lord Guardian was an affront to the traditions and decency of all Paenitentia everywhere. He’d spit in the face of the Council’s authority by ignoring their edicts. He’d defied the traditions of a thousand years by going his own way. He’d kept his friend and mentor alive after being turned even though the man wa
s already old and well past his usefulness. He’d invited a Daughter of Man, no better than a harlot, into his bed and into his House. Adding insult to injury, he’d not only mated the bitch, but allowed her to bring in others like her.
He recruited new members without thought or purpose; an arrogant European gigolo without family or name who’d brought additional shame to the Race by mating with another Daughter; the son of an international banker, said banker being adamantly opposed to his heir joining the ranks and let’s not forget his twin nephews who had not yet undergone their initiation, but who nevertheless came part and parcel with the House. They were proof positive of all the negatives nepotism entailed.
Yes, they were a bad lot, but the most insidious of the band was the one who used his computer cartoons to corrupt the youth of Moonlight Sanctuary. They were captivated by these games and considered the heroes of these fictions as gods. Why, he’d seen younglings of nine playing at being Guardians of the Race when they should have been attending to their more practical studies. It was reported that some of the older ones were actually drawing a tiny teardrop on their chests with red pen in mimicry of the real marking.
Even the young females were caught wide-eyed in the snare. They oohed and aahed and cooed over some misguided romanticized images of some over-muscled barbarians. And just look at where it all led; young people flocking to the city in search of music halls and discos and whatever other inappropriate venues they could find.
Maximillian laid the blame for this current situation squarely on the shoulders of Bernardo ad Tormeo, Guardian, computer geek and corrupter of youth.
It wasn’t as if the blemish of their betrayal was confined solely to their House. Oh no, the stain had seeped into his domain as well. As Director of Moonlight Sanctuary, the largest gathering of members in the area, he was not only responsible for those within its confines but those without as well. This whole district fell under the auspices of his office and what would it look like to those above him if he couldn’t keep a simple House of Guardians under control.
He knew how these things worked. Blame would be applied to the easiest target regardless of innocence or guilt. He could almost feel the concentric circles growing on his back. Canaan ad Simeon and his band of corrupt mercenaries must be brought down.
Callista, his betrothed, wanted the Liege Lord disgraced for whatever petty offence the Guardian had committed against her. Maximillian wanted the man and his House destroyed.
*****
Nardo sat on the edge of the long leather sofa with his knees braced on the metal and glass coffee table. His elbows rested on his knees and his fingers gripped the sides of his head. He snarled in frustration, felt his face grow hard and his fangs descend and he snarled again. He couldn’t control his fucking rage any more that he could control the nightmare that had struck their city and their House. He couldn’t get the picture of the dead girl’s face out of his mind.
They found her exactly where Canaan said they would with three young men huddled at the mouth of the alley smoking and trying to look brave. Her brother was a few feet in, crumpled in a heap of misery at her side. Nico pulled him away, wrapped his arm around the young man’s shoulders and led him back to his friends who were given strict orders to keep him there until someone from the Sanctuary arrived.
Her lips had pulled back into a grimace like some macabre smile, her mouth coated with blood as if some over ardent lover had smeared her lipstick with his kiss. A matching slash of red lined her throat where vicious fangs had ripped out the jugular. At first glance, it appeared she’d been drained, but a closer inspection revealed the blood pooling beneath her, soaking into her padded winter coat and leaching into the fur collar and cuffs so that her white coat was trimmed in red. The remainder was absorbed by her sweater, torn open from neck to hem, and her long wool skirt. It had been yanked to her waist to expose what was left of her tiny pink panties and torn tights. Someone, probably the brother, had tried to cover the evidence without success. The poor child had been raped.
She was, as Canaan’s call had claimed, a Paenitentia and she couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. As near as they could determine, she’d been angry when her older brother refused to take her with him to a party and had somehow followed him, though how she got this far away from Moonlight Sanctuary without transportation was still a mystery.
Who was this monster feeding on young women? This was the fourth victim in the last month. There was another victim two months ago and another the month before that if his suspicions were correct. Two of the victims were drained. Two were not. This one had been raped. One was not. Joy had interrupted one in the midst of the attack, so no conclusions could be drawn. The other’s status was unknown, though he vaguely remembered the conclusions drawn on one of the earlier victims; raped, murdered and left in an alley where the rats had done their work.
Both of those earlier victims he’d attributed to demon attacks and since demons were hunted and killed in both areas within the week that followed, he’d thought no more about it. He should have. If he’d paid more attention to those deaths, he might have seen something that could have prevented the others.
He slammed the table with his fist, saw the spiderweb of cracks spread through the inch thick glass and swore. If he didn’t work off some of this anger and frustration, he’d do some real damage. He headed for the gym.
Once there, the appeal of hitting something hard enough to break it lost its attraction. The heavy bag beneath his fists did nothing to release his tension. After only ten minutes, he gave it up and went back to his room for his coat. There was still time before the sun came up to shovel away the newest batch of snow. Working outdoors in the frigid air would satisfy his need for physical release with the added benefit of a sense of punishment to assuage his guilt.
As he passed through the long hall at the back of the house, he could hear the soft murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. Grace would be consoling Canaan with offers of food and love and gentle laughter. Nico would find his comfort in the kind and caring arms of his mate; Broadbent in the solace of his books. John Donne and his Holy Sonnet X would be Nardo’s guess. The twins, being young, would deny death’s hold on the House with hell-raising away the rest of the night and reaffirming life the following day by fucking their respective lovers senseless.
After twenty plus years of lifting the skirts of any woman willing, Nardo had lost his taste for casual sex and had no current lover or mate to turn to. Unlike the professor, he’d never understood poetry, so at times like these, he usually turned to his work. But tonight, the computer offered no distraction. It only reminded him of his failure.
He walked on cat’s paws across the wooden floor. If Canaan or Grace heard him, they would feel compelled to share their warmth and offer their company. He didn’t want to intrude on their intimacy. The latch of the door clicked loud in the silence, but the murmur punctuated by a soft laugh continued. He slipped silently out into the cold and heard the voice of an angel.
There was no wind, no far off hissing of buses stopping along their route, no grumbling of truck engines at their early morning deliveries. The snow had shut down the city and the everyday, pre-dawn sounds of life were absent. Far in the distance, echoing through the silence, St. Stephen’s church bells rang out the Angelus in the time honored call to Matins, the morning prayers. It was rare to hear them this far from the river.
As the sound of the bells faded, all that could be heard was the sweet clear notes of a woman’s delicate soprano coming from the alley that ran the full length of the street out front. The voice wasn’t loud, but the sound carried through the cold darkness as sound often seems to do. The tune was familiar; a round meant to be sung in two or three parts, one beginning before the other ends. These words were new to him, but the pattern was the same, each line sung with an echo. As he listened, his anger left him and the simple beauty of it was like a light in the darkness and it filled him with joy.
He si
lently climbed the steps to the deck in the hope of catching a glimpse of who in this neighborhood would brave the cold to sing such a delicately innocent song.
“Oh how lovely is the evening, is the evening,
When the bells are sweetly ringing, sweetly ringing.
Ding, dong, ding, dong.”
It was Joy, standing at the rail with her arms wrapped around her middle and her head turned up to the sky. Her hair glistened with a lacey cap of snow and her eyelashes sparkled with tiny flakes. She was a picture of beauty and peace and as the last note died away, she smiled.
“Through the day, I’ll send my heart to thee, send my heart to thee,
Turn thy dreams to thoughts of loving me, thoughts of loving me,
Sweet sleep, sweet sleep.”
When he began to sing, Nardo saw Joy’s shoulders tense and he thought for a moment that she would be angered or embarrassed by his presence. But then her shoulders relaxed and her smile returned and though she didn’t turn to him, she knew who he was and she was listening.
The second time he sang the verse she joined him at the appropriate moment and continued on, using his words. Three times they sang the round as all rounds should be sung, his voice deep and rough, hers high and sweet and pure.
As before, when the last words faded into the darkness, she smiled. Only this time, the smile was for him and his returning grin must have made him look like a half-assed fool, but he couldn’t help it. A thought crossed his mind that he didn’t dare speak aloud. “You bring me joy. You are my Joy.”
She turned back to the rail, looking out over the alley to Manon’s gingerbread porch. “I love the snow,” she whispered as if it was a secret shared only with him, “Especially at night, when the world is quiet and the snow is untouched. I feel like it’s a present sent only to me. I heard the church bells and they reminded me of a song Mrs. Garrity taught me when I was a little girl. She was an older lady who lived upstairs from us. She used to take care of me while my mother entertained. That’s what she used to call it. Mrs. Garrity was good to me. She’d teach me songs and bake me little cakes and let me decorate them any way I wanted. And when the noise from my mother’s apartment got too loud, she’d turn the TV up and hold me on her lap or sometimes, she’d take me for a midnight walk in the snow.”
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