“He did, but what about the hangers on? We only have a Bard’s journal about the ritual. You were in Alaric’s inner circle once upon a ti—”
“He gave me the dark gift, siring me into the night. So yeah, obviously we had been close. What is your fucking point? I’m working late on media spin for a mess around an irritating Oracle, and I don’t need this distraction.”
“Would you still recognize some of his hangers on? We have a suspect—Caucasian man, long blond hair, hooked nose. Wasn’t American. Definitely old. He left me a creepy message about oath breakers for Kristoff. I could have done without him nearly breaking my phone.”
“Sound like a problem for Novak. What were you doing with him anyway?”
“Working. It’s not relevant. Do you recognize the suspect?”
Delilah didn’t answer for a moment. “The order was formed in Europe. We had plenty of blonds. More dead than alive now.”
“I’m pretty sure there was a Roosevelt was in the White House the last time he went clothes shopping. Said he had a destiny. Didn’t sound happy to be above ground among the nouveau riche. If he’s the killer, he doesn’t know how to complete the ritual, yet he’s missing pieces. If you had any—”
“How many ways can I say no before you get off the line?”
“Someone wants to carry on where your sire left off. Don’t you think Quinn would want you to give a shit?”
The other end went as deathly silent as only a vampire could.
“Never, ever, use my husband’s memory against me again!”
The line died.
Dropping her phone on the table, Red pressed her palms to her eye sockets. That was brilliant, bringing up Quinn. She was as tactful as Zach last night. Delilah wouldn’t be giving her fashion advice for a while, that was for sure. Stinging from guilt, she opened the report on the aborted apocalypse, hoping to find something for the gang since her first swing was a miss.
The profile on Alaric was extensive. Although he’d been glibly described as a has-been by Kristoff, Gina detailed a monster with a powerful pedigree.
Before their mysterious disappearance, the original vampires—called the Everlasting Ones—spread from the Fertile Crescent and staked out their corners of the globe, creating children of the night in their wake. Some were more ghoulish than others, like manananggals. What was immortality without minions, after all? Over a thousand years old, Alaric was said to be a few generations away from one named Septima.
The legends disagreed on if he had been a humble priest or the bastard son of a pope, but his vampiric rise was written clearly by multiple accounts. Until the August Harvest, he had been the most feared elder on the continent. A blood mage with the gift of mesmerization, who could stand against him? Even other vampires avoided his underground court in Berlin, where torture and depravity were coded into sacred ritual.
Losing the Last Bloodline War, defecting minions, and the soul curse broke the Order into a shell of itself, unable to fit in with the modern vision of the Blood Alliance. He came to Charm, ready to burn this world, to bring back past vampire glories. Someone else had taken up the torch.
Red found a few blond male vampires in the record, from a personal valet to Alaric’s blood son Isaac Gruber, gifted with the power to turn into mist, who fell in the fight before his sire.
Stuck in the chronicle, she startled when her phone vibrated. She answered the unfamiliar number, only recognizing the Portland area code. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Red. In ten minutes, a black SUV will arrive at your curb. Be a dear and step into it,” Arno said smoothly.
“Is Kristoff okay?”
“Yes.”
Red waited for him to elaborate, sighing when he didn’t. She trusted his brother, but Arno was an unknown quantity. Some claimed humans might have jumped when a vampire said so, but she had never been one of them. “Why should I? Is the driver going to offer me candy?”
“Understand that cheeky gingers are Kristoff’s fetish, not mine. I’m growing impatient. They should have broken to my satisfaction hours ago. I need to know if they are bespelled. Bring something to neutralize magic.”
Red bit back the instinct to tell him where to shove his imperial air. Morbid curiosity stroked at her. “I’m assuming you want me to come to the Country Club’s dungeon.”
“Clever witch, you get a cookie.”
She glared at the phone when the overly confident punk hung up. “Fucker.”
A black SUV rolled up to the curb right on schedule. The uniformed chauffeur popped out to open the back door and silently offered a bar of chocolate. Judging by his confused expression, Arno hadn’t explained the joke.
Rolling her eyes, she took it and climbed inside. One cocky Novak brother was trouble enough, now she had two on her hands.
17
Red followed the chauffeur. A sea breeze whipped through charred trees on the expansive country club estate. They crossed a row of fresh turf, one of many laid down in the wake of the explosion. Workmen repaired the windows of the manor behind them.
She’d given up trying to talk to the human on the drive from Stace’s house. Waves breaking on the foot of the cliffs filled the silence between them. He wouldn’t look at her, dark hat low over his face. Did he think she was dinner? How often did he deliver to the less savory club members?
“In there. You’ll hear ’em,” He opened the door of a stout brick shed with boarded-up windows and pointed inside to a trap door in the corner. It was the first and last thing he said before trudging back toward the stately club.
Red scowled at the cryptic exit. The whistling wind made her hug her leather jacket to herself. She almost texted Kristoff a warning pic of the shed and the caption—see you there. Did she really want to give him time to clean up whatever waited below?
She put her phone in her pocket. It wasn’t as if she were in danger. Arno had invited her. He wouldn’t harm her, not with his brother’s claim on her neck and a posse of hunters in town.
Walking inside and closing the door, she passed upright lawn mowers and rakes cluttering one side. A rusty circle marked the wooden trap door where a nearby barrel must have usually stood to hide it. She gripped the latch and heaved it open, releasing an electric cobalt glow from the subterranean passage.
“Great, creepy stairs.”
Trotting down the slotted steps, she curbed her brain from imagining a hand grabbing her ankle. Bare bulbs in the ceiling diffused blue light over her, turning her skin a pale turquoise. The muffled sound of music drew her to the iron-plated door at the end of the hall. She undid front pocket flap of her belted hunter’s kit as she walked. Would she find a music video or a horror movie?
The entry opened ahead, releasing the slinky notes of big band jazz.
Arno beckoned. Tie undone, dark circles under his eyes, he was paler than even the dead should be. He must not have gone to ground to rest at dawn.
Chin up, doing her best attempt at projecting confidence, Red entered the room. She immediately flinched at the two vampires hanging in the center of the cement ceiling like sides of beef from silver chains looped on a hook.
Stripped to their underpants, Gavin and Stephen slumped unconscious, heads bowed, swollen eyelids closed. Jagged knife slashes crossed their torsos. Bruises spotted them. Their supernatural healing hadn’t caught up. Without blood, they’d only grow weaker. Strung up, they were perfect punching bags for the brothers.
Face away from them, a shirtless Kristoff reclined on a velvet couch, feet over the edge, texting too fast to see his thumbs. Peggy Lee sang “Why Don’t You Do Right” from a portable speaker on a nearby stand. He did a double take at them, eyes flashing amber at his brother, sardonic voice sharpening. “This is a surprise.”
She tried not to stare at the dried smears of blood on his bare chest. “Really? A chauffeur picked me up.”
Rising, he turned off the music, watching her warily. He looked down at his dirty hands. “I didn’t sign off on bringing you h
ere.”
Red believed him—he’d have washed if he had known she was coming. He didn’t need to be worried about shocking her. Even without the mysterious blond vampire adding drama, this was about what she’d imagined the bomber and the schmuck dumb enough to talk back at a tithing would look like after last night.
Kristoff turned to her, blocking view of his brother. “You don’t need to be here because he ordered you.”
“Strong independent woman, here. He couldn’t have forced me into a McDonalds.”
Arno retorted, “What if I got you one of those little apple pies the humans like?”
Snorting a small laugh, she extracted a small jar of powdered cold iron from her hunter’s kit. She ignored Kristoff’s contemplative stare. “What do we think—a mage has their tongue?”
“Precisely,” Arno said, hands behind his back. The pose reminded her of Kristoff. A few inches shorter and years younger, he held himself with the same coolly arrogant air. “It’s not like vampires can mesmerize each other to forget little things like betrayal. These mutineers must have accomplices, a leader. I want to know who dares rise against us… I mean the prince.” His poise frayed as he faced his captives, brown irises lightening to a demonic yellow. “Pour that iron powder down their throats if you have to.”
“I’ll let you get close to their teeth,” Red said absently as she opened her third eye wide. There were no traces of magic around their necks. Their auras were darkened, but nothing struck her as unusual considering their species or injuries. She imagined it was a night where the two wished they weren’t immortal, capable of withstanding what a human would have mercifully died from. “I’m not seeing anything obvious, Arno. Are you sure it’s magic?”
“I know how to torture a man, little girl. I know when they lie. Nothing this fish smelling fuck is telling me—"
Kristoff put his hand up to cut off his brother’s rant. “We need to know where that bomb came from. Someone is stirring up the natives.”
Red wanted to say no shit. Already distrustful against the Novaks, resentful of the truce with Stace, last night wouldn’t have helped matters. Instead she said, “He could be a disgruntled loner. What are they saying, anyway?”
Kristoff fielded the question matter of factly. “The longshoreman claims he was paid to not report a small vessel coming to port a few weeks ago. There were real silver coins on top of the plastic explosive. Gord is still reconstructing it, but he suspects it was a remote detonation. This fool says he didn’t see its cargo, only the bribe.”
“He put it all aside for his back taxes, couldn’t believe his luck that it was the exact amount he needed.” Lip curling, Arno glared at the unconscious vampire. The blood on his shirt was a testament to Stephen’s luck.
Red tapped her leather hunter’s kit, mulling over the info. “There was another sacrifice left in a well, killed last night. What about Gavin and the mystery vamp? Do they have alibis before the tithing? We have video of the blond one breaking into the magic shop. He’s definitely involved.”
“Says the stranger merely offered his sympathies. Neither of these two idiots could have committed the murder. They were caught on camera, separately, at different locations last night on Main Street.”
Red tried another tack, hoping to gather enough pieces of the puzzle to guess a pattern. Not all bewitchments left an aura signature. There were other signs. “Do they twitch or froth at the mouth when you try to get specific names or dates out of them?” She winced. “When you’re not doing something awful to them.”
Kristoff shook his head. “No electricity fluctuations either.”
She handed him the jar of iron powder. “Sprinkle that on them and their belongings. It should neutralize any low-level enchantments imbued in an object.”
“Is that it?” Arno crossed his arms.
“Maybe.” She examined the hanging vampires closer, focusing on their hands and aura for dark energy.
Neither could have had anything to do with the latest murder, but the others were possibilities. Beyond the roil of demonic energy animating them, they were clean. Why did that strange vampire speak to Gavin? What was on that ship that came to port? Inviting so many questions, these were poorly chosen lies if they were covering up a new rival to Prince Marek. How did they fit in? Stephen, at least, had been researched for vulnerabilities, chosen carefully for his explosive role.
“What’s their bloodline?”
“Septima. Many generations removed,” Kristoff said. “Not in the Alaric branch.”
Arno stepped closer to Stephen, glumly considering the other vampire. “Neither were in Charm for his uprising. Already checked the DVA records. Their clans didn’t answer Alaric’s call, or at least Gavin wouldn’t shut up about that.”
“Did their clans fight in the Last Bloodline War?” Red asked, a theory percolating as she remembered Aunt Gina’s journals.
“They abandoned Alaric when the fight for London turned.” Kristoff snapped his fingers. “Oath breakers.”
“These two might not be working with the killer how we thought.” Her jolt of satisfaction in the realization faded to worry.
If she was right, then they were dealing with a strategic foe who had done his homework, choosing pawns to avoid soiling his own hands. Kristoff had said that the wild energy of the rift zone influenced younger vamps to be a little bolder and more stupid. She hoped it hit the doubtlessly cunning mastermind. Had it already? Confronting her and failing to kill her last night was a blunder even with the petty revenge of spooking the Novaks.
“I think they’re pawns, definitely the boat guy. Not sure about Gavin, but it can’t be great for morale to see some local working stiff get locked up by the enforcers from out of town. Nothing like a mutiny to get the attention off a murder spree.”
“There is a delicious irony in using your enemies for your own aims. Alaric would appreciate that.”
“If these bastards were distractions…” Arno kicked Stephen in the shin. “We’re going over this again.”
The fisherman groaned, opening one eye, the other too swollen to open.
Blocking the view with his body, Kristoff hovered his bloody hand over her shoulder to lead her out. “You don’t have to see that.”
Red walked into the wash of cobalt light in the hallway. “Why? Something you’re not proud of?”
“I’m thinking of your tender human sensibilities,” Kristoff said, shutting the door behind them. The lighting turned the red smears on his bare chest black. “Why do I detect that you’re mad at me?”
She couldn’t stop staring at his bloody hands. “We need to talk, but you should wash up first.”
Passing the stairs to the surface, Kristoff took her into an ornately decorated chamber that Oscar Wilde would have adored. He walked between a crimson chaise lounge and a bed fitted with black sheets to a small bathroom, water splashing after he closed the door.
She sat on the couch, crossing her legs, leaning her elbow on the back, unable to get comfortable on the embroidered cushion. This talk would push their honest policy to its limits. Maybe it was because of the empath ritual with Zach last night but she couldn’t keep bottling up these questions.
Red rambled, uncrossing her legs, tapping her fingers on her knee. “You’ll want to send guards to all the wells in town. The killer is running out of time. He might try to express ship his next sacrifice again.”
Falling silent, her eyes darted to the bed and then to the vampire emerging from the bathroom.
“It’ll be done,” Kristoff said. Water droplets rolled down his bare chest, all trace of his night’s labors erased. He smoothed his dark blond hair, tension in his jaw bringing out the cleft in his chin. Like a supernatural power itself, he slipped on his usual mask of reserve and reclined next to her. “What’s on your mind? Annoyed with my brother or me?”
“Neither. This is part of the case.” She cocked her head. “It’s not the same as when I walked in on what happened to Trey.”
&nbs
p; Kristoff snorted. “Yes, those two in there seem to be innocent.”
“Of working with Alaric, yeah. They don’t have souls. There’s a lot they might have done.”
“Am I vain, or doesn’t it seem like that was about me too?”
“Both, maybe.” She chuckled dryly. A few stupid quips came to mind. She flapped them away. A fight with a ghoul sounded better, but she laid down her cards. They were a long way from Vegas, but the stakes were higher. The first two kisses were flukes, but the last… She didn’t know what she was thinking besides that he could have died last night without her. She couldn’t bluff her way out of what she felt for him. “I think about you when you’re not around. I wonder what you’re doing. You’re different with me, I know. All those worries go away when you hold me, and I can’t think. Abracadabra, all the thoughts are gone.”
He smiled softly.
“Then you let go…” She trailed off, fidgeting her hands in her lap.
“Learning my body count isn’t going to make it better. You know what I am.”
“I know, but I wonder who you are.” She twisted to face him, elbow on the couch back, and flushed at her inept words. That wasn’t quite right. What she felt for him had been developing before she had acknowledged it, but she didn’t know how to talk about it.
Red was a demon hunter. Kristoff was an unrepentant demon. The story wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“You know me.”
“I know your life is more than nightclubs in Los Angeles and beach houses in St. Tropez.” She touched his shoulder, sighing a little as she drew away. “Maybe that’s all you want me to see, but I can handle it.”
“I’m sure Lucas delighted in telling you my crimes—traitor, gangster, war profiteer, corporate sell out.” He rolled his eyes up, mouth tightening in disdain.
“I don’t want his narrative. I want yours. We promised to be honest with each other.”
His wry expression faded. “Are you sure?”
Small Town Witch: A New Adult Urban Fantasy (Red Witch Chronicles 5) Page 19