“You don’t remember anything at Bar Sinister?” Marcus asked Aliena.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Do you remember attending an execution earlier?”
“No.”
Was her memory loss uniform as related to time? Did everything start at some point in the past that was, as far as she was concerned, only yesterday?
“What do you think happened to me?” she asked.
“Whatever it was,” I said, “it occurred while you were upstairs, in the VIP room. Before that you and I had our picture taken, and you were fine. After you came down the stairs, you were with me the entire time. We were dancing when you told me you felt hot. My body was sweating where it touched yours. I asked what you had done and you said you drank a glass of blood.”
“It sounds as if she was poisoned,” Rachella said, casually lowering her hand to my thigh.
“But with what?” I asked. “Nothing but sunlight can harm you.”
“There are magical objects that can kill us,” Marcus said. “As you are aware. It’s possible a magical potion could be devised that could infect us. The man Kanga, the one you and Aliena killed, made a spray that knocked vampires unconscious.”
At the mention of Kanga, Aliena shivered. “I don’t like that name.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her, “you ripped his heart from his body.”
She smiled. “Did I really?”
“Yes,” I said. “And he deserved it. But Kanga was a sorcerer in possession of the Key of Akasha, a potent supernatural object. Magic that formidable is uncommon, and that is an understatement.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“And what about motive?” I asked. “If someone was intentionally trying to harm Aliena, they may not stop.”
“You’re just trying to scare me,” Aliena said, though it was obvious she was already fearful.
Good.
“We have no way of knowing if this was an attack,” Marcus said, and Aliena gave him a grateful smile—the sort of smile she usually reserved for me.
Marcus’s reasoning perplexed me. Even if we didn’t know whether someone had targeted Aliena, prudence demanded we approach the situation as if someone had. What purpose did it serve to reassure Aliena rather than put her on her guard?
Unless, of course, he knew something I didn’t.
“About the execution tonight,” I said, trying to ignore Rachella’s hand lying casually upon my leg.
“Yes?”
“This Apollo Ring. What is it? Where did it come from?”
“It is an ancient weapon,” he said.
I stared at him. Plants photosynthesized. Bees cross-pollinated. The universe expanded.
He added, “As I mentioned earlier, the ring fires a magnified beam of solar plasma.”
“Yes, I remember. There is no story about the ring at all?”
“There is a story that the ring came from another world…”
“And?”
“And who created the Ring.”
“And that was. . .?” I prompted.
“Apollo, of course.”
I waited for the punchline, but it appeared none was forthcoming. “Do you believe that?”
“No,” he said. “But I admit the possibility.”
Over the years, I, too, had reconsidered whether the gods of mythology and religion were all creations of human imagination. They may have been beings from another galaxy. Apollo was the sun god who also administered the Oracle at Delphi. I wished I could get an answer regarding Aliena’s future from the Oracle, but Delphi is only a city now.
“Why did the priest have that shiny scarred skin?”
“The ring is radioactive.”
“What does that matter?” I asked. “Radiation doesn’t harm us.”
“This radiation does. As I said, it is from another world, possibly not in this dimension.”
Preston’s app to detect interdimensional anomalies was taken from an ultra-secret government satellite. I wondered if it had pinpointed an intersection between our reality and another.
“That is why we keep it in a golden box,” Marcus continued, “although obviously that does not provide complete protection.”
I recalled the effect on the priest during the execution. “It seemed more than radioactive. It looked like it burned him when he put it on.”
“Yes.”
That was apparently all I was going to get. “Who has access to the ring?”
“The head priest and his six acolytes are assigned to guard it.”
“Seven? Why were there only five at the execution?”
“Not all the monks could attend.”
I began to wonder about the two vampires Carmen had killed. “Is the location of the thing known to vampires generally?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
“Is it possible for someone to use it?”
“Not without authorization,” he answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Do you have a reason for asking?”
I related the details of the crime scene. “The name on the driver license was Darius Spellman. I think you are short one monk.”
Chapter 16
Saturday, February 14, 4:31 a.m.
“Excuse me a moment.” Marcus joined a group of men standing on the other side of the boxing ring.
“What do you think happened to him?” Rachella asked. Her hand had crept up my thigh. Fingertips caressed.
“It looked to me as if someone killed him with the Apollo Ring,” I said. Sitting between a cold Aliena and a hot, aggressive Rachella, my focus was not the only part of me being stretched. “Except…there were black scorches on the ground where his clothes were found. The fire inspector thinks they were caused by an electrical discharge.”
“Could they have been there before the murder?” Aliena asked.
“It’s possible.”
The rustle of clothes filled the air as people floated to their seats. The first two contestants ducked through the ropes into the ring. The emcee, a little African American vampire wearing a baggy tuxedo and featuring a dusty-gray pompadour, already stood in the center of the canvas, clutching a wireless microphone.
Aliena turned to watch. Rachella did not. I gave her a beseeching look. She smiled. I grabbed her wandering hand and tried to lift it. I would have had better luck attempting to raise a corner of Notre Dame Cathedral.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get ready to Driiiiiiiiiiiink,” the Master of Ceremonies shouted. “In our first bout of the evening, fighting out of the red corner, wearing red trunks with red stripes, is the “Montecito Mauler,” Kenny Benson!”
The crowd cheered. Pale as a moonbeam, and nearly as insubstantial, Benson did not possess the build of a prototype boxer. He bowed to all four sides of the ring, bobbing a small head topped with a tuft of orange hair.
“And in the blue corner, wearing white trunks with blue stripes, fighting for La Raza, is Benito “Barracuda” Rodriguez.”
Boos greeted the Barracuda’s introduction. Rodriguez was squat and dark, with a well-muscled physique. He banged his gloves together, fixing his opponent with a homicidal stare.
The diminutive emcee scrambled out of the ring. The bell sounded and the fighters moved forward to exchange their first blows.
I slapped Rachella’s hand. She gave a mischievous snicker and released me.
Marcus returned. “The acolytes have confirmed the Apollo Ring has never been out of their possession. I spoke on the phone with the head priest, who is guarding the ring. He assures me it has been in his sight since leaving Malibu.”
“And Darius?”
“No one has been able to contact him.”
“Was he supposed to be here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them about his death?”
“No, of course not.”
I was sure I knew why, but I asked anyway.
“Because I have not confirmed he is dead,” Marcu
s replied. “One of the monks knows where he lives. We will check Darius’s home for any evidence of his recent demise.”
Exactly what I had been about to suggest.
The crowd roared. We turned to the ring.
Benson staggered back. Rodriguez punched him on the chin with a fierce uppercut. Benson left his feet like a cartoon character, flying into the air, executing a slow flip, and landing on his feet behind his opponent. He swayed dramatically.
Rodriguez had watched Benson’s passage through the air, head tilted back. Now he spun to face his opponent, arms quivering, mouth open. He stayed where he was, eyes wide.
Benson flashed his canines. His face morphed into a lupine leer, the jaw grotesquely distended, the eyes ablaze with hellish rapture.
The front of Rodriguez’s white boxing shorts darkened. He took a step back.
Benson flew into the air, ripped off his gloves, and pounced, grabbing the Barracuda by the hair and hauling him out of the ring.
The Montecito Mauler floated over us clutching a flailing Rodriguez. Aliena and Rachella stood. I joined them, not wanting to remain in my seat.
Aliena’s jaw lengthened and her eyes burned scarlet. She reached up and yanked one of Rodriguez’s legs, pulling his body down so she could bite him on the inside of the thigh. I watched with fascinated dread. Her canines ripped into the hairy flesh and her eyes de-focused as she latched on and began to drink.
Rachella jostled me from behind to pull at Rodriguez’s arm. With fierce red lights burning in her eyes, she bit into the boxer’s wrist just above the thick glove and began slurping.
Pinned between the two women, Rodriguez’s hot leg in my face, my nose filled with the coppery smell of blood mixed with urine, I recalled a dozen battlefields where these odors had signaled a clash between warriors.
This was no campaign, however. It was a feeding frenzy.
I slid from between the two vampires and away from the jittering limbs. Rodriguez’s distorted face hung above me, his eyes bulging as he used his free hand to beat at the two women. He fixed me with an imploring stare. “¡Ayuadame! Agradar a Dios me ayude!”
When I shook my head at him, tears sprang to his eyes and he gave a mournful scream, a sound lonelier than the wail of a late-night train.
Benson hissed at Aliena and Rachella, jerking on Rodriguez’s head. Aliena finally released the boxer’s leg. Rachella let his arm drop.
The Montecito Mauler carried Rodriguez to the other side of the ring and dipped him into the crowd. Many vampires clustered around the thrashing body.
Aliena’s face had resumed its angelic appearance, though a drop of blood streaked her chin. I offered my handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she said.
Marcus came over with a big man wearing black cowboy-styled clothes.
“Sebastian, this is Ron. He’s one of the guardians of the Apollo Ring.” Ron wore a rancher’s Stetson, lizard boots, and his black jeans sported a belt with a Texas flag buckle.
“An honor,” I said.
The Texan made no response. Black gloves covered his hands. No hair protruded from beneath his hat. The skin of his face shone, his cheeks lightly scabbed.
“If the women have had their fill,” Marcus said, “we are ready to check on Darius’s place.”
“We will see you there,” Rachella said. She took my arm and pulled me a few paces away. To my chagrin, the others did not take her hint and leave.
“Sebastian, Aliena doesn’t care about you at all. Take me home after we visit Darius’s place.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can. Aliena’s been poisoned. As far as you’re concerned, she’s gone.”
“No. She’s not.”
“Then she’s not. But while she’s in this state, you could give me what I want. Don’t you find me attractive?”
“You know I do. I love Aliena.”
“I’m not talking about love.” Turning her body slightly, she dropped her hand, giving me a salacious grin. “If Aliena’s memory comes back, and she still loves you, fine. But while her amnesia lasts, we can have some fun. No one will know. I promise I won’t say anything.”
Ancients rarely promise, for they never break their vows. I still didn’t trust her. The girl was a natural-born troublemaker.
“An hour from now,” Rachella said, “when you’re done playing detective. You can do anything you like with me, anything at all.” She ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. “Give me a drink and I will be your slave until sunrise. I will do things to you no other woman has ever done.”
Of that I had no doubt. “Please give me time.”
Although my hand grasped her wrist, I could not stop her caresses. She continued crowding me, fogging my senses, her hand on my arm a vice, the other forcing my body to respond.
“I will give you all the time you like.” Sultry voice. Carnal. “You feel wonderful in my hand, Sebastian. Mmm. I want all of this inside me. In an hour.”
Her touch sent shafts of delirium through me.
“Rachella, please.” My dearest love stood behind me, a woman who had accepted me in marriage just a few hours ago and who now regarded me as a stranger, while I fought off the advances of her rival. The situation was bizarre, even for me. “We need to focus on searching Darius’s place.”
She pouted. Unhappy, with narrowed, mean eyes. “I haven’t all morning, as you know.”
“We can decide later.” I was desperate to end the interview. An image of Rachella had popped into my mind, the line of her naked spine an erotic curve, her cool emerald eyes surveying me in a bathroom mirror as I took her from behind.
Her wandering hand stilled. “You are a fool, Sebastian.”
I gripped her wrist helplessly, knowing she was not going to like my next words, knowing too I could do nothing to prevent her reaction.
“I love Aliena.”
“That is why you are a fool.”
She showed her fangs and pinched me with a twist, her bright eyes ablaze. Though I had been expecting the attack, it was impossible not to flinch.
She spun around and stalked off, her taut black dress bouncing in all the right places.
Two women ogled my crotch, licking their lips. The men who had seen what happened regarded me with ember-eyed hostility.
Taking a breath, I straightened up and buttoned my jacket before turning to Aliena and Marcus. Marcus looked amused. Aliena appeared bored.
Ron’s dark glasses pointed toward Rachella’s retreating rump.
“Shall we?” I said with all the aplomb I could muster.
Marcus led, with me bringing up the rear.
The tumescence Rachella had created faded as my worry for Aliena overrode all other input. Watching the sway of her honey hair, I feared this was only the beginning of her “illness.” My soldier’s nose told me she had become the target of enemy action, though I could fathom no purpose for the attack, nor imagine who might be behind it.
And now someone had killed a priest of the Apollo Ring. None of the vampires ventured an explanation for why anyone would want to do that. I began to wonder how much I wasn’t being told.
As we passed behind the stadium seats, I glanced to the right.
The desiccated corpse of Benito Rodriguez lay on the floor, tossed aside like an emptied sac, satin shorts billowing on his rudely drained physique, his expression all childish terror.
Chapter 17
Saturday, February 14, 4:47 a.m.
Marcus gave me an address in Studio City before the four of them flew off. I climbed into the Italia and sped out of the lot.
Darius lived north of the Boulevard, off Whitsett Avenue near the golf course.
When I was still several blocks away, my phone vibrated, played a ringtone, then played a different one. When I pulled it out, the display was flashing a message:
EMF EVENT DETECTED. RANGE AND DIRECTION COMPUTED.
Below the announcement was a graphic display pointing toward the phenomena. A
ccording to the descending range numbers, I was headed right for it. I replaced the phone in my pocket.
After I pulled to the curb at Spellman’s address, I checked the phone’s display again. Range was now indicated in meters, the pointer aimed directly at the house. Before climbing out of the car, I donned a pair of latex examination gloves.
Darius lived in a quiet neighborhood. Homes featured large front lawns facing clean gutters. All the street lights worked. His house was a single-story with attached two-car garage. The front door stood ajar. Once inside, I closed it.
A small foyer faced a dining area with no furniture. Medieval swords and axes hung in racks on the walls, attended by two full suits of armor that were not for show, but bore the marks of battle duty. I wondered if Darius had acquired these tools of war before or after he had become a vampire.
Curious, I inspected one of the broadswords more closely, pulling it from the rack and turning it in my hands. I recognized it. The pommel and hilt bore the unmistakable marks of a Pelham Grenville design, sword maker to Richard Lionheart.
Left hand extended, knees bent, I slashed the air viciously, the weapon exquisitely balanced, my shoulder, elbow, and wrist flexing with the easy muscle memory of a hundred campaigns, the movements filled with deadly, precise power. In the hands of an experienced soldier, especially a mounted cavalryman, this broadsword could kill a dozen men in a single battle. I knew that because another Grenville sword hung in the wine cellar of my Spanish estate.
Smiling, I spun it on my palm before replacing it, the raucous after-parties of my armies playing an old drinking song in my head.
The family room had been stripped of carpet, exposing the concrete foundation, and what must have been a solid wall between this room and the garage was now an arch. Darius had converted the enlarged space into a workshop for motorcycles.
Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3) Page 9