She nodded. “Just like that.”
This khiss was more organized than he thought. Seemed like even leeches had a hierarchy nowadays. Who would’ve thought?
If he wanted to do his job, make his mark, and get back to his old form, he needed to pay more attention to what she was trying to tell him. Vampire or not, she was trying to help . . . and as much as it went against his very being to be kind to her, he didn’t have much of a choice, given the circumstances.
He sure as hell wouldn’t be kissing her again; though their lip lock was hot enough to jumpstart his sputtering engine, it wasn’t right.
Hell, this whole situation wasn’t right.
She’d felt much too good in his hands. He couldn’t deny it. She was soft and warm, and ready to take him in if he’d let himself get carried away in her . . . and it wouldn’t have been difficult to get lost in her if he could get past the fangs and thirst-for-blood thing. Who was he kidding? That’d never happen, no matter how smokin’ hot she was.
She was a vampire, he reminded himself. The kind of leech he assassinated on a regular basis for doing the thing that came naturally to them: killing. Damn, he had to remember that when the next urge came to grab her and nuzzle into her neck.
Focus returning to the task at hand, Slade took a step back. Maybe if her rain-fresh scent wasn’t as strong, as debilitating, he could focus on her words instead of her body. “Give it to me again. One more time.”
She huffed again and peeked out the sliver of the open door, then turned back. “They’ll call you by your number: Five. You’ll need to repeat the creed that I wrote on your palm when it’s your turn. Do not look anyone in the eyes. Be respectful at all times. Bow low when the Primus is in your presence; in your case you’ll need to bow when his replacement is before you, seeing as our Primus is out until Winter Solstice. And last but not least, do not speak until spoken to.”
He checked the creed on his palm scribbled in blue ballpoint pen. He’d memorized the height, weight, and status of over a hundred marks in his time as Assassin. He should have no problem memorizing a few lines, especially after she’d outlined it for him like a child.
“I got it,” Slade said, and paused. “When this is over will I see you again?”
“I don’t see why you’d want to. If it’s your urges that have you concerned, I can introduce you to a suitable female when Induction’s over.”
He swallowed hard, not imagining there could be another creature in all of Crimson Bay as remarkable as she was.
Without waiting for a response, Dylan stepped into the hall and raised her voice to a more proper octave. “Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll wait to be summoned.” She strode down the corridor, not waiting to see if he followed.
He did.
The hall was dark and cold, but not in a demonic dungeon sort of way. It was soothing and calm, with dim yellow lights, dark stone-tile, and even darker walls. When she turned left at a guard station, he followed, head down, making sure he didn’t meet a single blood sucker eye to eye.
Beyond an amber-lit foyer, through two more sets of heavily-guarded checkpoints, was a great room that would make Gothic designers of the world shudder with delight. From his peripheral, Slade spotted Olympic-style columns, ruby red walls the color of Petrus Merlot and cherrywood framed art dating back centuries. All the greats were included. Priceless works of Klimt, Bosch, Monet, DaVinci, and Rembrandt sparked his interest immediately. Traditional pieces mixed with whimsical moldings created a building out of place and style with its metal-working, industrial neighbors.
This was so not what he expected.
He watched Dylan’s feet pound with purpose, striking the midnight stone floor at a demanding pace. They passed row upon row of folding chairs, enough to seat hundreds of people, until finally she stopped at the back of the great room where a line of seats were filled with two other men and one woman, their hands in their laps, their heads down.
Other newborns.
“This is where you’ll stay until you’re summoned. Remember what I told you and you’ll be fine. Do you have any questions?”
“No, you’ve answered them all . . . and then some.”
Not meeting his eyes, she turned on her heels and stormed out of sight.
Keeping his gaze low, Slade took the seat at the end of the row and folded his hands in his lap. Much more of this Beaver Cleaver bullshit and he’d flip his lid. He squelched down the desire to stand and stretch his legs, take a wandering look at the tomato-canning warehouse that was anything but.
How did a place like this fly under the radar? How could therians have missed it? And how did a woman like Dylan fit in with this group of leeches?
He exhaled heavily and picked at a callus on his palm until he heard one of his fellow-newborns murmur, “Here they come.”
He lifted his lids, peeking through lashes and brow, to the group of men dressed in black robes making their entrance from the right. There had to be fifty of them, gliding quietly across the floor to their seats. After each of them was seated, a second group flushed in from the right and took their seats near the back.
In no time the place was bustling with flares of robes, flurries of whispers, and random bursts of laughter, although not from any of the newborns. They remained stoic and dutiful . . . at least on the outside.
A line of figures in pristinely white robes took to the chairs in the front, facing the crowd, and sat in their seats, looking poised and proper. They exuded confidence and stuffiness and sat upright like they had stakes up their assess. Must be royalty.
It occurred to Slade that there weren’t any women in the room. He wondered if he simply couldn’t see them from where he was sitting and thought more than once about standing to get a better look.
That’s when he sensed them.
All eyes shot to the cathedral doors at the back. Clearly he wasn’t the only one aware of the sudden and intoxicating female presence. The newborns peeked down the center aisle, watching pair upon pair of heels click-clack over the tile as they passed.
Slade picked up hints of jasmine and sage, ocean breeze and crisp wind, mixed with the faint aroma of lemon and apple and . . . was that syrup? In a flash, every other scent evaporated into the vaulted ceiling. Above all other aromas came the overwhelming scent of fresh rain. He didn’t have to see her face or figure to know Dylan had entered the room.
His body told him so by firing every nerve ending at the same time.
As a therian, he’d been able to sense other therians or vampires when they were near. His engine would run hot, his skin would crawl, and his eyes would pull to the form in question. He had no idea that vampires could sense other vampires in this way. In fact, it was so much more intense than anything he’d experienced in all his lifetimes. Slade’s engine wasn’t running hot—it was on fire. For her.
He linked his feet around the legs of the chair to keep himself from jumping up and carrying her off somewhere private. He steadied his breathing and strained to focus on the task at hand: becoming a welcomed member of this khiss. He imagined himself on the job years ago, lying low on a grassy knoll, breathing in . . . breathing out . . . watching people pass him by without noticing his form blending with the grass.
His heartbeat slowed until he was completely . . . utterly . . . relaxed.
The females made their way to the front and took their seats off to the right of the aisle. When the last woman had taken her seat, a masculine form in flowing white walked up to the podium in front.
“First let me welcome all of you,” the raspy voice boomed, echoing off the natural acoustics in the hall. “It has been my honor to serve you in our Primus’s stead. Unfortunately this will be the last time I stand for him as he is set to return by our next Court session on Winter Solstice.”
His voice sounded familiar, Slade thought. Almost like the prick he met in Mirage, but the Primus seemed to have some kind of a European accent. He wondered where the prick was now.
Unless the traitor sported the same thing night after night—black hood, black shades and long, gleaming fangs—Slade wouldn’t know what he looked like anyway.
The Primus pulled back his hood, revealing a butch-cut trim that starkly contrasted against the white of his gown. A thick scar ran down the side of his cheek, right into the crevice of his lip. So this was the leech who would earn Slade’s reluctant bow. Didn’t look like much.
“Although official haven business is normally reserved for Court, there’ve been a few things that have come to my attention that need to be discussed during tonight’s Induction in order to better prepare for our Winter Solstice celebration. Our first order of business is with the treasury.” He stepped back, allowing a waif-thin woman with flowing blonde hair to approach the podium, her fist full of notes.
‘Thank you, Savage,” she said graciously. “Our budget for the remainder of the month is stretched thin, with the red line creeping up fast. We need to save for final Winter Solstice expenses, so if you have yet to donate this year, now would be a gracious time to do so.” She flipped over one of her slips of paper. “There’s still no progress or report on the missing funds. If you have any information on who might’ve had access to the account at the time in question, there is a reward offered, and you can speak with someone at the registrar’s office for further information. Are there any issues up for debate tonight in regards to the khiss’s finances?”
Like how the hell a khiss of uneducated leeches managed to have bank accounts, a treasury, organized meetings, donations, and enough funds to have some sort of Winter Solstice shindig? Slade kept his trap shut, his eyes down, and his arm plastered to his side.
“Thank you, Dawn; I think we’re finished,” Savage said. “Now a report from the defense department.”
Here we go. This should be good. Slade readjusted in his seat, ready to take in as much information as possible about the war situation from their perspective. He’d be able to use this against them when the time was right. Hell, one of these people might be his next mark. He fought the urge to scope each one of them out early.
A scruffy bastard in black with long, sweeping hair marched up to the stand. He went palms-down on the podium and glared across the crowd. “Therians are cracking down on the streets, killing for no good reason,” he barked. “Nothing new. Keep your fangs clean and you shouldn’t have a problem.” He stomped back to his seat.
Killing for no good reason, huh? How about draining the life force out of an innocent human? That seemed like damn good reason to put a stake through one of these parasites, if he’d need a reason at all. These leeches had their chance to be civil, long ago. They spoiled it during the Crimson Bay Massacre of 1912 and therians didn’t take well to second chances. Especially when hundreds of humans died at their bloodlusting whims.
Savage returned to the podium. “Thank you, Marshall. Now on to more festive matters. We have three items to go over before newborn feeding, Induction, and dismissal. The first is about the Valcdana on Winter Solstice. One of the partners has failed to check in. Has anyone seen or heard from David Morgan?”
The crowd remained silent, but fidgety.
“Okay then. If you hear from him or know his whereabouts, have him contact me immediately. Now let’s move to the next matter at hand: Induction.” Slade felt the pressure of Savage’s eyes. “Let us have the five newborns in the back escorted to the front.”
This was it. Doomsday.
Two black robes flanked their sides and raised their hands in a motion the newborns understood as “stand and follow.” They stood as requested, snaked out of their aisle, and lined up in front, facing the crowd.
Slade kept his eyes low, his breathing rhythmic. It was the only way to keep from bursting through his skin as Savage walked down their line, speaking to each one in turn, offering them a drink from a diamond-encrusted chalice.
Head down, palm turned up, Slade read through the lines written by Dylan’s scripted hand.
When a pair of black shoes stopped in front of Slade’s own, he knew his time was up. He bowed low. Repressed a cursing grumble. Swallowed down the urge to grab a wooden chair leg, snap it off, and stab it through the leech’s heart.
“Number Five, are you ready to take your place among our khiss?” Savage asked.
“As ready as I’m gonna get.”
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Yes.”
“What say you to our rules and privileges?”
Slade’s palm twitched. “I will honor and obey the Court. All I do and say reflect upon my brothers and sisters. My life is theirs . . .” he coughed. “. . . to take at whim.”
Silence grew thick, stagnating in the air.
The diamond-encrusted chalice entered into his line of vision. Good Lord, this was really about to go down. He was going to drink blood for the first time—for the last time.
He could do this, he prepped himself. One small sip and he’d never have to do it again. He reached for the chalice and tipped it back, watching the red ooze swirl and spread, finally reaching his lips.
The lukewarm liquid didn’t taste like anything at first. Slade thought maybe his eating habits had transferred to this form. Maybe drinking blood would be like taking a bite of tofu—bland and tasteless. Then the blood hit the back of this throat, shooting a bitter aftertaste into his mouth. Sharp and spicy hints of blood stuck to his cheeks, his gums, and burrowed between his teeth. It’d take a full dental cleaning to rid the taste, he was sure. He reigned in his grimace and handed the chalice back to Savage who had a sadistic smirk slapped across his face.
When Savage finally spoke again his voice was louder, deeper. More dominant. He remained plastered in front of Slade. “Here before you stand five inducted newborns. Welcome and care for them as your own brothers and sisters.”
Applause flapped through the room like angels’ wings.
“What’s your name?” Savage asked above the welcomed roar.
Swiping his tongue across his teeth, Slade struggled to keep his eyes on the leech’s loafers. “Slade.”
Without another word Savage strode back to the podium and spoke above the crowd. “Slade, the final newborn inductee of this night, will hereby be deemed the Newborn Representative for all incoming inductees. This order, that the final newborn of the night shall take the position, was granted by the Primus himself and derived straight from our Grimorium Verum. Do any of you contest?”
What the hell was going on? Had Slade stepped up as some sort of blood-sucking representative? No, this was not the way things were going down.
He twitched and started to lift his hand to contest the offer when Moses’s voice rang through his ears: You will need to be in a position of status to make your mark when the time is right.
Damn this ceremony straight to hell. And damn the man who concocted this twisted plan. His fists clenched until they strained white.
No contests fired from the crowd.
Fucking figures.
Now he had a bad taste in his mouth for two reasons.
Pride?
Was that the feeling streaking through Dylan’s mind, making her glow with excitement? Yeah, she thought so.
Watching Slade accept a worthy position like Newborn Representative nearly made her insides squirm with delight. No newborn she’d ever prepped had earned such a status, although she really didn’t do much prepping at all. Unless tongue-twister and first-base-feelie were types of study techniques.
Dylan knew better, but was proud nonetheless. So proud, in fact, that her public speaking nervousness almost disappeared. Almost.
She dug into the manila folder tucked under her arm and took out her notes. Time to get down to business. She read through quickly.
ReVamp is still trying to determine what is tainting the blood supply. Sample X, the stable donor at the clinic, is the base we’re using to measure all other donors against. His blood has somehow remained pure and strong amid other complaints. I can assure you blood platelets a
re screened daily. Extreme measures are being taken . . . no, how about all my time and energy are being used . . . yeah, that’s better. Keep it positive . . . to analyze the blood for cleanliness before they’re transferred to the Feeding ward at ReVamp. Should the tainting and weakening continue, ReVamp may be forced to search out other blood banks for supply to meet your demand.
Short and sweet. A few minutes briefing the khiss should give them the information they sought, getting her in and out of the spotlight as quickly as possible.
“And now we have the matter of ReVamp to discuss,” Savage announced. “Dylan, would you be so kind as to step up here, please?”
Time’s up.
She nodded, sweat curling the hair at the nape of her neck, and approached the podium. Savage made no move to leave the space. Instead, he put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, showing a camaraderie she didn’t know existed.
“I’d like a show of hands, please. How many of you feed from ReVamp’s blood supply?” he asked, searching the room.
More than 90 percent of the hands flew into the air. Business was good, she couldn’t deny. She smiled from nerves, anticipation, and more than a little curiosity. Where was Savage going with this unusual showing?
“Now I’d like to see how many of you are noticing yourselves weaker than before. How many of you have to feed more regularly to keep up the same energy levels?” He paused, surveying the khiss. A few hands wavered at shoulder length. More heads turned to glance at others. “It’s all right. No one’s up for removal tonight.” He squeezed her arm. She daydreamed about grabbing his fingers and wrenching that hand behind his back. Show him what she really thought of his fake camaraderie. “How many of you are noticeably drained and think it’s a direct result of the blood you’ve drunk from ReVamp?”
Oh no, no, no. This was not good. Not good at all. Erock, that pompous prick, was right. Court didn’t summon her to speak on blood progress or statistics. They called her here because they were going to try to shut her down, close her doors. But with ReVamp closed, struggling vampires would have nowhere to turn. What were they thinking?
Intervamption Page 7