The hubbub of the shelter melted away. Valerie smelled Ilona’s distinctive perfume; wood smoke and lavender overlaid with Vlad’s own rosemary.
Her wife was dead. Could she forgive herself for surviving? Could she let these precious stones, her wedding gift to Ilona, serve some other purpose than her own mortification?
Valerie pursed her lips and sought out Lance in the crowd.
Unwillingly, she smiled, warmed again by his aura. The golden glow calmed her even more than the thought of fratricide. Could vampires get Vitamin D deficiency?
It didn’t matter. Ilona would have wanted her life to mean more than punishing misery.
The earrings pulsed heat again and again. The rocks had been intended to keep Ilona from poverty, from helplessness, from depending on another’s goodwill. Like these despondent beings jammed into this groaning building.
She blinked herself back to the present.
Money.
Tucking herself into a dark corner, Valerie removed all her earrings. The metal settings cooled as they dropped, one by one, into her palm. She hadn’t seen them loose in so long. Her fingers caressed the faceted surfaces one last time.
She curled her fist shut around them.
“Excuse me.” She stopped a human volunteer carrying a basket of paper to Jane’s table. “Do you have an envelope?”
“Um, sure. Here.”
The Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter wouldn’t need money for a very long time.
Lance raised his head when the back of his neck itched. An older woman with untamed gray hair and enormous silver Berber jewelry pushed her way through the front door. Her tidy tweed suit and sensible winter coat contrasted with the red Birkenstocks on her socked feet. She furled her umbrella with a flamboyant flourish as she looked around the shelter as though she owned it.
Age had not withered what once had obviously been a shockingly beautiful face. Ridiculously long eyelashes rimmed silver eyes. No jowls decorated her square, determined jaw, and she walked like a woman who knew her worth. She looked like an entitled, privilege-addled white woman. Lance froze inside when she hustled herself to Jane’s desk.
“Are you Lance Soleil?” Her smoke-and bourbon-infused voice carried easily over the room’s bustle.
Manners were important. She might be useful, Lance reminded himself. “Yes. How can I help you?”
“I’m Glenath Tempesta. I thought you might like someone to help out.”
Lance hissed air in between his teeth and thrust out his hand. “A pleasure.”
Glenath Tempesta was a legend. At the tender age of twenty-one, she’d been a freshly ordained radical minister. Instead of ministering in slums like her peers, she’d single-handedly formed the council for the famous Treaty of Prague. Five years later, she and her mixed-race assembly produced one of the great documents of diplomacy.
Every race of Shadow Children promised to control their appetite for human flesh. Humans promised to control their aggression. She’d laid the groundwork for PNCs to own property, vote, go to school, get modern identification papers.
This aging hippie made the modern world possible. Humans and PNCs worked next to each other, had children together, and both agitated for equal rights. More or less.
“I have some experience in dealing with these situations,” the bishop said.
Jane looked as though a choir of angels had descended. “Oh, ma’am, if you could!”
Lance held his hand up to stop Jane. He didn’t really want to talk to the media anymore.
“My deepest gratitude, Bishop, but aren’t you booked up with the conference? I understand you have a presentation to the schools in the morning, and you give your opening speech in less than thirty-six hours,” Lance objected.
Glenath snorted. “I think we can arrange a videoconference with the school assembly. Right now, there are more important things to worry about.”
She swept Lance with an assessing perusal.
“Namely, we need to get you cleaned up. Dried blood is a good look on you, but not on camera.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’ve avoided interviews all night and it’s not doing you any favors. You need to …”
Her voice faded as realization hit him. He cracked his neck with a resounding snap.
Glenath Tempesta was in the same town as Radu.
Just this past June, the retired churchwoman publicly announced her dissatisfaction with the CCC’s stance on pursuing laws allowing interspecies marriages. It was the first major break between the two main international influences on policy. She had called their “take it slowly” plan “a shameful, cowardly, and pathetic denial of the reality of life.” The global media had plastered Radu’s humiliated face all over the world for months.
This was Tepes’s reason for being here. He wasn’t interested in furthering the CCC’s so-called agenda of peaceful integration. He wanted to even the score.
Lance pinched his nose. At least she’d be safe here in the shelter. For now.
Valerie pulled in front of Lance’s quirky cottage. Time to get under a roof. They didn’t have long before the sun rose.
This area of Portland was known for its colorful houses and Haight-Ashbury vibe. All the homes had tall bushes and stately trees surrounding them, providing shade, privacy, and far too many places for prowlers to hide.
Two night hags hung from Lance’s trees, watching the small green house and the street with the intensity of a polar bear waiting for a seal to emerge.
A flashbulb went off. Even as Valerie spun to locate the source, one of the hags dropped from her perch. Gliding on bat-silent wings, she snatched the camera and flew away. The photographer raced after her, brandishing a fist and cursing. She laughed with the species’ crazed screech all the way down the block.
A few dogs barked, but no one even looked out the window. Perhaps the photographers were getting to the humans, too. Valerie shrugged as she circled to the passenger door.
Lance called to his unconventional watchdogs. “All okay, Betty?”
The hag’s leader gleefully waved at Lance.
“Most fun I’ve had since we moved here, Father,” she crowed back. “Thelma and Louise are watching the shelter.”
“Betty, meet Valerie Tate. She’ll be staying tonight. Veronica will be back when she finishes playing with her food.”
“Bloodsucker.” It wasn’t a compliment.
Valerie waved and flashed a huge false grin. “Pleasure to meet you.” She pointedly turned her back and hoisted her duffle out of the backseat.
Lance coughed, obviously covering a laugh. He walked her to his front door and handed her his keys.
As she unlocked the dead bolt, the heady aroma of spices and frankincense wafted out to greet her. His house smelled like High Mass and sex.
A rush of moisture swelled her labia. Then she opened the door.
An ornate, bejeweled Jerusalem cross blasted her eyes with radiating holiness. Five feet high and bright gold, it dominated the little foyer. Its power kicked Valerie as hard as a horse.
Ordinarily, the barrier against entering was a null sensation, a feeling of blankness. The holy symbol actively resisted the supernatural with its brightness. Valerie turned her face away, trying to adjust her eyes.
Lance rubbed his body against hers as he crossed the threshold. Such a wicked tease. She ground her hips against him as he passed, reveling in the way his eyes turned hot and dreamy and half lidded.
He kissed his fingers and touched them to the center of the cross. “Come into my parlor,” he whispered. “Stay the night.”
The ward disappeared.
Valerie edged her way past the cross. Some mischievous spirit from her youth made her grope his behind.
His aura was constantly in motion, warming her and touching her even under her clothes. Every time she moved, hot sparks of excitement prickled her skin.
Her vagina fluttered. “You’re asleep on your feet.”
“Aren’t vampires supposed to watch people
sleep?” he countered, locking the door behind them.
Valerie snorted before she could stop herself. “Only vampires with no self-respect.”
He kissed her, soft and sweet. “Stay.”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered against his cheek. His golden stubble brushed against her lips, a pleasant rasp.
Lance yawned against her neck. “Sleep with me.”
She stepped back and shook her head. “I’ll patrol.”
“Betty and Veronica are on it. But if you insist. You’ll want something to read.” Crossing to a walnut bookshelf, he handed down a thick, red leather-bound book with the words The Treaty of Prague: the Anatomy of an Insurrection embossed in gold on the spine. “You might like this.”
She held the tome as he shuffled down the hallway, stripping off his shirt and dropping it on the floor behind him. Shoes, socks, and jeans landed like a trail of bread crumbs in the forest leading toward his bedroom.
She watched him go, an eyebrow winging up to her hairline. Like she was going to pick up after anyone but herself.
“Wake me before you sleep,” he mumbled. “I want to kiss you good morning.” With that, he fell asleep.
What a sweet boy. Not every vampire lost it under the sun. She could last nearly a week without sleep. Speaking of which.
Frowning, she prowled around his single-story cottage. Every window was already locked, every door to the outside had double dead bolts. This mortal took his security seriously. She nodded with approval. Poor security led to disaster.
Beyond his everyday measures, he had superior paranormal defenses. The hags were obviously protective and more than capable. The cross would be a difficult, though not impossible, obstacle for any supernatural being to overcome.
The legends of how consecrated ground and religious relics stopped the so-called Unnatural creatures in their tracks held a kernel of truth, but not in the way humans expected.
Valerie reached through the pulsing barrier. Her fingers hovered just above the center of the cross. She and her kind were not forbidden the comfort of faith. Had she not spent her entire mortal life fighting for the Catholic Church? She shook her head. The irony of that had not been lost on her.
Rather, the unity, harmony, and loss of ego represented by religion painfully countered the inherent chaos that sustained a PNC’s existence. Vampires and the others were created during Lucifer’s rebellion. They had been created by The Maker to keep the wayward Fallen Angels company, not made in tender contemplation like mortals.
If a supernatural were willing to bear the pain of every cell crying out in confusion, they could cross any threshold they wanted. Take what you want from life and pay the price, she thought, and turned away from the foyer and its dangerous contents.
Duty fulfilled, she noticed his décor. In the living spaces, he liked color. Original paintings lived in real frames over a crimson leather sofa. Throw rugs softened the scuffed wooden floors. Handmade oak bookcases cradled a messy assortment of books stacked any which way. One butter-yellow wall sported a locked gun rack with gleaming rifles and handguns. A pole arm and a sword leaned against it. Her warrior came with his own armory.
Some framed documents caught her attention. An honorable discharge of one Lance Soleil from the Army Rangers brought a smile to her face. They could compare war stories. His chaplaincy and seminary credentials completed the story of his education.
Off to one corner, nearly hidden on top of a bookcase, a framed picture lurked in the shadows. Gently, she lifted it, careful not to disturb the dust. A very young Lance and another boy posed in front of a rocky river. She peered at the dark-haired teenager. Intelligence and keen awareness showed in his eyes and his cocky grin. He was shorter than Lance, but no less potent in his sexual appeal.
She touched the glass over that dark-haired tempter’s mouth and put the photo back in its corner. One final glance at the picture, then she sat down with the book Lance had handed her.
In two minutes, she tossed it on the wooden table and went in search of a different read. She’d lived through all that. What did he have that she hadn’t experienced?
A cracked book at the very bottom of the bookshelf finally drew her fingers. Fallen Angels: A Literature Review, written by Josephine O’Neill, the most famous hunter of Dracula’s Paranormal Corps.
Josephine had been a powerful woman. Valerie hadn’t known that her honorable enemy had written a book.
A variety of sources (Appendix Four) document the story of Lucifer’s pride. All these sources have only one point of agreement: God cast Lucifer and his allies out of Heaven for daring to challenge the Divine Order.
None of them comment on the Divine’s capacity for forgiveness. Are the Fallen damned forever? If so, what does that say about the belief in an all-merciful, all-powerful, loving Higher Power?
Early myths (Cone, Smith, et al, Appendix Five) tell the story of a loophole in the banishment from Heaven. If those who rebelled were willing to ride the Wheel of Life and to serve the lowly beings that God had created, they could learn the humility necessary to offset their sin of Pride.
The earliest known version of the Fall (Papyrus 1079, informally called the Eviction Notice, Appendix 1) gives tantalizing hints that some members of that Host have attempted the redemption. One intriguing passage hints that the nascent angel is sent a guide to encourage the Fallen toward right action (Eviction Notice, plate 2).
The Eviction Notice implies that penitents are stripped of their memories from their previous existences until they survive a cathartic event (Appendix 3), usually around eighteen years of age. At that time, they learn of their previous choices.
If they survive the revelation, they come into semi-angelic powers; health, speed, heightened strength. They can be identified by a glowing aura and a weakness for desire.
The Eviction Notice also hints that the Angel’s Rebellion created Paranormal Citizens (historically called the Shadow Races in older texts).
… As The Creator made the angels for harmony, the creatures of fear were made for times of chaos and transition.
(translation Cone, Smith)
It is not mentioned if any Fallen have succeeded in their tasks, or if they preferred to Reign in Hell rather than Serve on Earth.
She closed the cover, suspicious. The aura, the powers. Could he be? Had Mother Teresa or that boy in Rwanda been Fallen Angels on the wheel? Valerie drummed her fingers. This could be very bad. Or very good. She had pleasant memories of angels.
Bucharest
December 1476
Vlad splashed through the shallows of the Dambovita River. The Angel of Death followed. Enormous black feathered wings opened wide and stirred the air. Tattered gray robes never touched the ground.
“Come, Vlad Dracula. Time for your judgment.”
“I will not leave this earth until my revenge is complete.” Vlad bared his teeth even as he his legs trembled with the strain of remaining upright. “Salih still lives. I will not yield.”
Death hovered. “Your revenge comes with a price. A very high one.”
“I will pay it.”
Death floated above the water. The wind from its wings rippled the river.
“You will know nothing but darkness. You will eat nothing but the most precious of fluids. You are cast out from Divine consolation. And know this: your revenge will not be complete until you face what you fear the most.”
“I fear nothing,” Vlad scoffed.
Icy cold glittering hands held Vlad’s face. “Then be damned.”
A guttural moan drew her down the dark hallway.
Curiosity alone had her following him into the bedroom. She had to know. Was he a Fallen?
If so, his bedroom would tell her. Did anything more reveal a person’s innermost self as their bedroom, their most vulnerable place?
She glided to the doorway, looking in, but refusing to let herself enter and touch. It certainly wasn’t desire that made her look. He wouldn’t be worth anything sexually until h
e got some sleep.
Stark was the only word that came to mind. Ignoring the almost expected surge of moisture between her legs at his rich clove scent, she studied the room. A simple wooden dresser held his keys, wallet, and holster. The queen bed, a plain platform of blond wood, boasted a low shelf with tissues, lip balm, and a glass of water, but nothing else. No lubricant, no girly magazines, not even a book. Even the bedspread was plain white linen.
No photographs or artwork on the white walls. She’d seen monks’ cells with more sensuality than this bedroom. Penance rode Lance Soleil like a crazed jockey.
Valerie watched his aura swirl as he slept. The black at the pit of his soul pulsed and hissed with the pride and wrath of the original sinners.
She pressed her fist to her chest.
Lance Soleil was a reincarnated Fallen Angel. Lance Soleil understood everything there was to know about redemption and temptation.
Valerie Tate, formerly Vlad Dracula, had finally found a true mate.
Chapter 21
November 1
The invigorating aroma of rosemary teased Lance awake. A buzz of low-grade arousal tingled his nipples and cock. Valerie must be here. He rolled over and opened his eyes.
There she was, standing in his doorway. She had changed her clothes during the night. Faded blue jeans clung to her gently curved hips. A gray sleeveless T-shirt concealed her breasts, but it hugged her lean frame like jasmine on the fence between two lovers. Her black hair shone like a raven’s chest. She wore no makeup, no shoes, no jewelry. She looked like a virginal eighteen-year-old Italian girl about to buy her papa a cappuccino.
Until he looked into those dreamless hazel eyes.
Lance was no fool. He knew that she had not changed her mind about killing Radu. At best, she was humoring him until she got within staking distance of the other vampire.
Best to keep her busy, then.
“Sunrise?” It couldn’t be. The light against the wall was too bright, too high for a late-fall dawn.
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