“You know that is out of the question.”
Persuading Marcus to reveal himself as a vampire to a mortal—someone he did not intend to consume at that moment—required careful reasoning. “Hamilton is working on the problem threatening your people,” I said. “We could use his help, and the more he knows, the more valuable he is to us.”
“You have my permission to share anything we tell you,” he replied.
“Marcus, you said we needed to trust one another.”
“And how much do you trust Mr. Hamilton? You will vouch for him? You will give me your Holy Oath that he will never endanger us, even to the extent of revealing our existence?”
“Yes.”
“You surprise me.” His voice was as dry as the sand silting the paws of the Sphinx, and resonated not with surprise but disappointment. “To so endorse a mortal is unwise.”
“Not in this case.”
“You are old enough to make that decision. As long as you understand: if he betrays your trust, his head will not be the only one I take that night.”
After making a note to pass Marcus’s dictum on to Hamilton, I called Rachella. No answer. The GPS tracker put Aliena over Topanga State Park, heading northeast.
My cell buzzed. Hamilton. “Hi, Steve.”
“You said you’d call by ten. Listen, when are we going to interview these friends of Spellman’s?”
Though I had already bargained for Hamilton’s presence at 49, that was contingency planning. I still hoped to talk him out of going. “I promise to tell you everything that is said.”
“No, Sebastian, don’t do that. Please?”
“You can’t come with me,” I told him. I pondered again: would the crowd tolerate a mortal human in their midst—one who wasn’t a contestant doomed to death? If the pack decided to feast, I would be forced to watch my best friend die in mortal terror, drained until his suit no longer fit him properly. Learning the truth regarding the existence of vampires could also be a jolt. “You absolutely can’t.”
“Why, goddammit? What is it?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Well fuck, that’s a switch,” he said. His voice had a familiar thickness.
“Are you drunk?”
“Just barely. Come and get me, okay? We can talk about magic rings and vampires.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Sure you are. You heard me. Fucking vampires. Spellman. Cha. Your Aliena.”
Sometimes I hate being right. “Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I’m still here,” I told him.
Something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. “Right. Come and get me, dammit.”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“I just had an officer drop me outside your gate.”
“If you’re outside my gate, your palm can get you in, remember?”
“I’m not walking a fucking mile down your private road.”
“It’s half a mile, and it sounds like you could use the walk.”
“I have a large Round Table pizza, double pepperoni with mushrooms.”
“I’m on my way.”
After picking him up and bringing him back, I came around to the passenger side to find Hamilton still trying to climb out of the car. He had the door open and his feet on the ground, but was holding the pizza box, so couldn’t quite leverage himself out of the seat.
“You and your damn Ferraris,” he complained. “This car is too low.”
I took the box and dragged Hamilton off the leather, closing the door behind him. We had taken three steps when he collided with me. I got an arm around his waist.
“I thought you said you weren’t drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
I guided him up the steps and through the front door.
Once in the foyer, he pushed me away. “I told you, I’m not drunk.”
I closed the door and gave him the once-over, noting the way he swayed like a skyscraper in an earthquake. “And you’re not. You are clearly hammered blind.”
He dissolved into laughter, leaning over and putting his hands on his knees, eyes shut. “Fuck, baby, you are so right. Holy shit.” He burped. “What is it you like to say? Knowledge has unpredictable effects. Or some cool shit like that. Man, were you right.”
Uh-oh.
“You plan to come with me and question people in this condition?”
“Bro, I figured if I was gonna meet a vampire, I might want to have a few first. For courage. I also hoped that somewhere between sobriety and drunkenness, I would realize my conclusion about vampires had to be wrong.” He gave me a glassy stare.
“How did that work out for you?”
“My brother, it didn’t work out, not at all. All I did was convince myself I’m a freakin’ Sherlock.”
“O-kay.” I took him by the arm, led him into the living room, positioned him in front of the couch, gave him a shove. He landed bonelessly on the overstuffed cushions. I set the pizza box on the table.
“Let me put something together for you.”
In the kitchen I quickly assembled a concoction that included horseradish, cayenne pepper, cold espresso, and other proprietary ingredients, spilling the mixture into a four-ounce glass and topping it with a squirt of lemon juice.
As I prepared the drink, I reviewed the recent past. From the beginning of this case, he had questioned me about the anomalies he had witnessed regarding Aliena and me, and had been unsatisfied with the answers I had given him. Talking him out of coming to 49 with me no longer seemed possible.
Returning to the living room, I found him staring through the glass doors leading to the patio.
“Double-paned windows,” he said, turning.
“Yes they are. Here you go,” I said, handing him the bracer. “This will clear you up as much as possible in your current condition.”
He glanced at it briefly, tilted the contents down his throat. When his nerveless fingers released the tumbler, I caught it and set it on the coffee table.
Hamilton emitted a high-pitched, pressurized-air sound similar to a lobster being stuffed into a boiling pot. His throat worked and he smacked his lips loudly. I thought about supporting him, but realized if he collapsed on the carpet, it might not be a negative outcome.
“Feeling better?”
He straightened up, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “What the hell was that?”
“Family recipe.”
He nodded, burped. “Amazing stuff.” Then he stood there, watching me.
“Pizza?” I suggested.
“In a sec. Let’s talk about vampires first.”
“Vampires.”
“Yeah. Spellman and Cha. That hot-ass Rachella.”
“Are you asking me if they’re vampires?”
“No,” he said. “I told you, I already know they are. What I want to know is, what are you, Sebastian?”
“Me?” I replied, startled.
“You’re not a vampire. But you’re different and you’re hiding something, or you wouldn’t refuse to take a blood test.”
“That’s a privacy issue. It’s none of—”
“That’s shit, and you know it,” he interrupted, crimson-eyed glare flashing with irritation. “You won’t do it because you know your blood will match the blood we found at the Leoni scene. The immortal blood.”
“I don’t know it,” I said.
“Like hell.” He wiped the back of his hand across his upper lip. “This is a nice place, way out in the middle of nowhere.”
Now I understood his comment about double-paned windows and suddenly realized what he was about to do. The light bulb had gone off too late, however. Before I could move, he drew his pistol, flipped up the safety, and leveled on me.
Hoping the alcohol had slowed his reflexes, I tried to grab the weapon anyway. He saw me move and stepped back unsteadily, but did not fall. My concoction had done its work.
“Don’t, man,” he said. “I sw
ear I will pop caps on you, rich boy.”
I lowered my arms and went still.
“Not that it would matter,” Hamilton said. “Right, bro? I could empty this whole fucking clip into you, and you would still survive. Wouldn’t you?” He shifted his balance, kept the barrel steady.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “You’re drunk, Steve. Put the gun down before you make a terrible mistake.”
He stepped closer. The round, blunt eye of the pistol remained focused on the area below my chin. I took a compensating step back.
“You know I loved the Sherlock Holmes stories,” he began. “Holmes said that once you had eliminated the impossible, whatever explanation remained, no matter how strange, must be the truth. As crazy as it sounds, you’re immortal. Somehow. It doesn’t matter how I review the evidence, it always leads to the same conclusion.”
“Stories turn out the way the author intends,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Real life is more complex. You know that.”
“No. No, there’s too much, too many things I’ve seen. Since you won’t take a regular blood test, I’ve decided to do one of my own.”
He shook his head as if he thought he might fall. The potency of my formula cleared most foggy heads, but the man clearly had a skinfull. I leaned toward him again with an idea of taking his weapon. He spied my shift of body weight, took a half-step back. The bore of the gun remained level with my throat.
“Don’t even, bro.”
Many intelligent men and women have crossed my path, and some of them have divined my eternal nature, so this was not a new situation. A great deal of time had passed, however, since someone had caught me by surprise. The crisis with Aliena had made me careless. I decided not to be too hard on myself for that. After all, I loved the girl more than my own life.
Staring down the barrel of Hamilton’s Smith & Wesson forty, the moment crystallized for me: Aliena was controlled by a deadly creature inside her, Rachella had just blackmailed me into giving her my blood, someone was burning vampires to cinders, and now an LAPD detective had decided to gun me down in order to prove his theory that I would survive the attack.
My life had been weirder.
Trying to argue Hamilton out of his belief never occurred to me. More observant and intuitive than anyone I had met in centuries, he knew when his mind had found the solution. As he explained, after reviewing the evidence, he had decided to test his theory. I could not fault him for that.
The first shot took me below the Adam’s apple. Propelled by the blast, I stumbled backward, flinging my hand in front of me in a reflexive blocking gesture. Hamilton fired his next bullet through the palm of that hand. A spray of hot blood spattered my face as my knuckles crashed into my forehead. The shell pierced my upper chest, leaving hot pain in its wake, as if a sizzling fireplace poker had been jammed deep into my lungs.
I tripped over the coffee table and crashed onto my back. Before I blacked out, I heard Hamilton yell a single word.
It began with the letter ‘F’.
Chapter 42
By Laurena’s third birthday, I did not have an answer to the question that had occupied my mind since her birth. My first-born had natural grace and balance and had yet to hurt herself, even to the extent of a skinned knee.
The earliest memory of my ability to heal quickly was age six. My father told me, however, that when I was much younger I had fallen and banged my knee on a rock, drawing blood. By the time he took me inside, my skin was dirty from the fall, but smooth and unmarked.
I followed her as closely as her guardian angel. Since the phenomena could manifest itself in dozens of ways and occurred so fast, only someone near her could see it when it happened. If she witnessed her unique power while alone, she might not want to tell me about it. Those first few years, my darling daughter did not spend much time in solitude.
Cutting her deliberately crossed my mind, but I rejected it as the impatience of an immortal father. Besides, if the wound didn’t heal immediately, I did not know if I could bear the anguish.
The spring before Laurena’s seventh birthday, I had my answer.
Laurena had learned to ride a few months after turning five. At seven, she was strong and tall for her age, handling her mount as if born to the task. That did not please everyone in the Montero manse.
She and I strolled to the main stables one afternoon. I tried to take her hand, but she avoided it. We had passed that stage.
Our footsteps padded softly on the hard-packed earth. I swept my gaze over my estate, the land stretching in every direction, the nearby vineyards filled with sunshine.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Where did Saber come from?”
Laurena had become fascinated by Karina’s pregnancy now that her mother’s belly had grown heavy and pronounced. She asked us how it happened. We gave her the standard explanation about a man and a woman being in love.
“She came from her parents,” I told her. “Just like you.” I pointed at one of our mares. “There she is. That’s Fiona, Saber’s mother.”
She glanced at the horse. “But where did Fiona come from?”
“She came from her parents, too, but I think I know what you’re asking. You want to know where the first horse came from, don’t you?” I ruffled her hair, forgetting she no longer liked that, either.
She pushed my hand. “Yes.”
“Nobody knows for sure, but the Holy Book tells us God created all things.”
“I know,” she said. “Did he make horses smart?”
“Very smart,” I told her.
“I knew it. Saber understands what I say to him, even if he can’t talk.”
“Yes, he does.” One of the closest bonds you can form is the relationship you have with your horse. I’ve loved every horse I’ve owned, and mourned each one’s passing. With a thought, I can see them again, smell their sweat, remember their voices and what it felt like to lay my cheek against theirs. “You’re important to him.”
“Is that why Michael makes me brush him and feed him?”
“You’re very smart, Princess. Yes, that’s why.”
“I love Saber. And he loves me very much, too!”
My adoration swelled and I picked her up and hugged her tight, kissing her cheeks.
She averted her face. “Papa! Put me down!”
With a look of exaggerated sadness, I slowly set her on her feet.
She scrubbed her face. “Did Mama tell you I shouldn’t ride Saber so much?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She’s afraid you’ll hurt yourself,” I said.
“But everyone knows I can ride!”
“Accidents can happen, honey.”
“Not if I—Ow!”
“What?”
“Look! It stung me!” She held out her arm. The bee fell to the ground, dead, leaving its stinger in the flesh of her forearm.
“Hold still,” I said. Crouching next to her, I carefully scraped my fingernail in the direction the barb pointed, careful not to squeeze the end and inject the venom.
Laurena remained motionless while I performed the operation, no tears in her eyes. The stinger came out easily and I flicked it to the ground.
“Your mother should have a look at that,” I said, heart tripping, pulse loud.
“I’m fine! We don’t have to tell Mama. She’ll get upset!”
“Sweetie,” I said, barely hearing her, “there are some things all parents want to know.”
“She’ll cancel my ride!” Now the tears flowed.
“I promise to bring you right back here.”
The crying stopped as if she had forgotten how to do it. I had kept every promise I had made to her. “Promise?”
“Yes, sweetie,” I said.
We walked back to the house. This time she let me hold her hand. My mind roiled, muscles tense. Should I look now? No. Give it time. Wait until we’re inside. And if it’s still…?
“Papa, you’re squeezing too hard,” Laurena said.
“I’m so sorry, kitten,” I replied, relaxing my hand.
We climbed the steps into the cool foyer and I called Karina. I squatted and picked up Laurena’s arm. The skin around the wound had puffed up, red, and a dot of blood marked the stinger’s entry point.
A horrid anguish burst as I absorbed the meaning of this.
My first child had not inherited my eternal engine.
Chapter 43
Saturday, February 14, 11:27 p.m.
I awoke to a curse, followed by heavy breathing. Whisper of clothing as someone moved beside me. Hands scrabbled at my chest, ripped my shirt open. A dry sob.
“¡Gracias a Dios! I knew it, I knew it.” Fingers pressed against my neck. “You son-of-a-bitch.” A giddy laugh preceded a victorious battle cry, a geyser release of pent-up emotion.
His voice filtered through the roar of blood raging in my ears. A familiar itch tingled my throat, another prickled my chest. Red ants munched on my right hand. All the wounds burned as my immortal engine finalized its repair operations, sealing any openings with a hot golden glow.
Hamilton gasped. His exclamation of stunned surprise was followed by the heavy sound of him sitting on the carpet. He mumbled a brief prayer in Spanish.
I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, cleared my throat. “For future reference, being shot hurts me as much as it would hurt you.” The blood drying on my face tightened the skin, making my lips and cheeks feel stiff when I spoke. “You could have shot me in the leg once and watched it heal in order to prove your point, you know.”
Whole again, I sat up. Though his eyes remained bloodshot, Hamilton appeared suddenly sober.
“Are you an angel, or something? A god?”
“Of course not.” I rubbed my face, stopped when I saw small flakes of dried blood drifting to the floor. “No, I’m nothing like that.”
“Then what are you?”
“I don’t know. But I’m a human just as you are.”
Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3) Page 23