Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion)

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  I sat back casually. It never pays to look rattled even if you’re wondering what the fuck is going on.

  Tension thickened the air, palpable and weighted. The envelope tore open easily, a rough sound in an otherwise silent room. Inside was another photo, headshot taken from somewhere high. Young man in his twenties, dark hair to his chin. His cheekbones were high and sculpted, nose straight. Full lips—the mushy kind girls love to kiss—were pulled into a frown that did nothing to spoil an otherwise incredibly pleasant face. I might like money more than boys, but my heart went pitter-patter nonetheless when appreciating such a fine specimen.

  No accompanying information. I glanced up at Mishka.

  Her face was starkly pale, eyes grave, and she spoke next in a chilling low voice. “Ten million if you take out his son too.”

  This was getting interesting.

  Chapter Three

  Preparations

  Someone throws ten million bucks at you, you accept. Even in Canadian dollars.

  But I’d lucked out on the genetic lottery: I was both pretty and smart. If someone throws ten million bucks at you and every molecule in your supernatural body is thrumming with worry, you at least pause.

  “The son?”

  Mishka didn’t reply. She’d stopped even looking at me: gaze was locked on the chrome tabletop, as if she glimpsed something in its depths beyond her own reflection.

  “The son’s worth nine-point-five million dollars?”

  The silence dragged on.

  “Do you mind telling me what in your Heavenly Goddess’s name is going on?”

  “Will you do it?” Her whisper held an edge, a rasp—a sharp, broken thing that didn’t sound like the rogue witch I knew and sometimes liked.

  So I chewed. Dragged that silence on and on, ’cause hey, she wasn’t being too forthcoming with the detes and I’m a bit of a sadist at heart. My long nails drummed on the table, emphasizing the quiet and—I hoped—pulling her nerves taut.

  “Do I still get my expenses covered?”

  A relieved sigh passed her lips and her eyes dropped closed. Colour touched her cheeks once more, a blush spilling over her face and down her neck.

  “I’d still like to know a bit more about what’s going on,” I said.

  She sighed again, this time weakly. Maybe the late hour was getting to her. “Like what?”

  Age is an ugly, ugly thing. There’s a nice moment in time, usually your late teens, when you’re flawless; you’re past gawky teen but show no signs of aging. Lucky me was stuck that way. But even Mishka, now twenty-four, had the tick tock of death’s clock all over her. My sharp vision narrowed in on the fine creases around her eyes, the skin that lost a bit of its firmness, its glow.

  Being aware of the mortality of those around you is something you can never quite be prepared for. Even if you’ve seen it happen for centuries. Even if you don’t keep friends for long. Undead like me—the immortals—live in the moment. The now. What else is there? Feeling frozen there in time while everyone else moves on is just unsettling, and left a twisting in my gut and dryness in my throat.

  Mishka brushed a few curly tendrils from her brow. Swept her fingers over her eyes and across her face, smoothing the skin as she went. When she glanced up at me again, the clouds in her eyes spoiled her attempt at looking renewed. “Well?”

  “A name, to start.”

  “Nate...Nathan Gregory O’Connor.”

  “No numbers attached to that one?”

  “Nope. But he’s Sean’s sole heir.”

  Interesting. I knew how covens worked and “sole heir” wasn’t usually in the cards; they planned better than that, like the royal family did. “Doesn’t the power and title usually go to the surviving spouse first?”

  “His wife, Delores, is dead. Seven years next spring.”

  “And this Nathan is the eldest son?”

  “He is now. Sean Charles O’Connor the Fifth died almost a year ago in a car accident. There are no other children, which only leaves Nate’s aunts and uncles, all soft in their old age.”

  The proverbial light bulb went off in my head. Now I understood why this was so important. A weak coven and now the sharks were swimming, ready to take out anything left.

  “With the oldest son dead,” Mishka continued, “Sean knows he’s in trouble. He’s strong, but he can’t hold out for long. Besides bringing Nate into the fold again, he’s been shopping for a new wife and to potentially produce a couple more heirs.”

  A mental eww went through my head—that guy was wicked old. I pitied whatever bimbo he picked up to be a vessel for the continuation of his coven. It would make more sense to encourage grandchildren, at least in my mind, but then I wasn’t some wealthy, powerful old guy. They had their own logic.

  “And Nate’s only twenty-seven,” she said, oblivious to where my mind had drifted. “He’s not nearly as powerful as he could be one day, so it’s best to strike now.”

  “So why didn’t you just tell me about the son before?”

  “I wasn’t sure...that is, it wasn’t completely necessary...”

  I watched her closely. With my cold gaze boring into her, she began to twitch, and was soon shifting around in her chair again, face on fire.

  “Whose money is paying for this, Mish?” I asked.

  “Jeffrey and Heaven are—”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt they contacted you about the old guy. I mean the son. Who’s covering that one?”

  After a long pause, she relented. “I am.”

  It hit me. She had said she didn’t want to be in the assassin business any longer...

  “You finally dipped into your trust fund, I take it. This Nate is a little gift for Mom and Dad so they let you back in the country club?”

  “Go to hell.”

  I grinned. “I don’t blame you. It’s not like this is high living, and rebellion hardly looks good on someone your age.”

  She sent a glare in my direction, sharp like razors, and might have muttered a few words of a curse at me if she hadn’t known I’d rip her in two before she got the spell out.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “I already said I would. But regarding my expenses, I want an extra five grand per guard I have to kill.”

  “Zar—”

  “They might not be mortals, and if they are, they could be Hunters, so they’ll be a bitch to kill. Should the need arise. I won’t go out of my way to kill them. Promise.”

  “Fine. But you’re capped off at fifty thousand—any more and you’ll have to suck it up.”

  Bitch. “And of the guaranteed ten mil, I want half now.”

  “You know damn well that I’ll pay—”

  “Half now.”

  She eased back into her chair, shoulders slumping and arms coming to cross over her chest. “I’ll have it wired to your account.”

  I nodded my agreement. “Good. Now I want details. Schedules, blueprints, security information, and everything else you have on them. What you don’t have, you’ll point me toward someone who can find it for me.”

  ****

  I returned to my studio apartment around five in the morning, just before dawn.

  Sunrise has a scent, like a brand of accelerant I couldn’t place. And didn’t want to. So I ducked inside just as the stink tinged the air, and ensured the curtains were pinned in place and I wouldn’t burst into flames when the sun rose. Not that I would literally catch on fire, but my skin blistered in direct sunlight, leaving me looking like a burn victim. And that look doesn’t work for me.

  I hung my lovely new jacket outside on the fire escape to air out the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric. In one of the pockets I found a small wad of cash, which would cover the cost of purchasing a new shirt. I wasn’t hurting for money or anything, but I’m all about principles.

  A night prowl around the city was great and all, but I loved my apartment. It sat in one of many old warehouses in the industrial district that had been turned into apartment c
omplexes. While it lacked a loft, which I had originally been looking for, I fell in love with the place the moment I saw it. Being so damn old, you’d think a girl would learn not to become too attached to material things. Nothing lasts forever. But I tried not to think of that when surrounded by the brown brick of the warehouse walls, huge windows that stretched nearly to the ceiling, and dark hardwood floors.

  I’d had hundreds of homes over the years, but I never got tired of decorating them. In this apartment, I’d kept nearly everything the way it was, including the steel support beams throughout the space. The only paint was a rich splash of violet in the kitchen, and a single light blue wall amongst three white ones in the bathroom. Furniture was sparse, though I didn’t get a lot of company, so I didn’t require much seating. Mishka occasionally dropped by, and for her visits there was the lime green couch and white armchair in the living room space.

  Anyone else I invited over was usually confined to my bed, and not encouraged to hang around much afterward.

  After changing, I paused in front of the full-length mirror next to the bathroom to check my wound. Contrary to the ridiculous myth, I had a reflection, so I was able to clearly see the two inch, bloody gash in the side of stomach. It healed over at the usual fast rate. Within a couple of days there wouldn’t even be a scar to flaw my smooth, pale skin. Lucky me.

  I wouldn’t be able to sleep yet, and I had at least fifteen hours before nightfall, so I rolled up the Persian area rug in my living room, took everything Mishka had faxed over to my place, and spread the sheets across the floor.

  I was to hit the O’Connor’s mansion on Friday, which only gave me three days to prepare. Mishka had provided me with all the information she and her parents had, and I knew right away the job wasn’t going to be easy.

  Luckily, the younger O’Connor was staying with his father, which meant less running around for me to do. Mish and I had decided on the Friday because Sean was holding a social gathering, and about three hundred guests were expected to attend. That meant easy access. Not in that security wouldn’t be tight—it would be, and far more so than usual—but with that many people, I could probably get in unnoticed. Mish figured he wouldn’t know all of the guests; the covens O’Connor played nice with had lots of extended family he’d never met. During the party, I’d take note of the guards and security, then slip away to steal what I could and wait in hiding for everyone to leave. After that it was just a matter of taking out my targets, grabbing my stuff, and I was home free.

  Mishka had a contact taking care of getting me an invitation to the party and a fake ID, so all I had to do was perfectly learn the layout of the mansion. As strong, fast, and kick-ass as I was, the one thing I didn’t have was a photographic memory. That part would take some time.

  Shortly after noon, someone buzzed my apartment. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and even if I was hungry, I was careful about where I ordered take-out. One too many pizza delivery boys returning to their employers looking a little peaked—with bite marks on their necks—starts to make people wonder. I had exactly one I trusted and he didn’t work afternoons.

  “Miss Lain,” a guy’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Mishka Thiering sent me.”

  Unless I’d blinked and missed a couple of days, he was kinda early. I let him in and a few minutes later hauled up the industrial elevator door as he arrived.

  He was young—barely seventeen or eighteen—and was reedy-tall and thin, and almost as pale as me. I doubted it had anything to do with an aversion to sunlight, though—he probably just spent most of his time forging documents in his parents’ basement.

  “You finished those quickly,” I said as he handed me my papers.

  His eyes darted around the apartment, then shot back to me. “Huh?”

  “Ah—Mish probably got you started a few days ago, didn’t she?”

  “A week ago yesterday.”

  Clever girl. Still, if she was so sure I’d say yes, it would have been nice if she’d informed me sooner. I didn’t like having to prepare on such short notice.

  I flipped through the envelope that contained my new driver’s license, social insurance number, health card, birth certificate, Visa, bank card, local library card—all in the name “Helene Walker.”

  “Oooh, a clothing store membership too. You certainly go above and beyond, don’t you?”

  A blush rolled from his face down his neck at the compliment and he cast his gaze to the side. Even though I had eaten the night before, the rush of blood to his face made me hunger.

  Humans are kinda like potato chips in that you can’t just eat one sometimes.

  I looked down at my new ID again to avoid thinking about food. “Wait—you made me twenty-five? I’m not trying to buy a carton of smokes, I just want to get into a party.”

  “Well...but-but Mishka said—”

  “Never mind, it’s all right.” Twenty-five. Once upon a time, all I dreamed of was reaching eighteen...but I was just under two weeks shy of that. Ten days before my birthday, I was turned. My unlife was suspended at seventeen years, three hundred and fifty-five days. Waiting centuries didn’t change things; those ten days never passed.

  “A passport too.” I flipped open the little book. “Wow, I get around.”

  “You’re an heiress and you spend most of your time in Europe. There’s a Walker Coven in New Jersey, but there’s also a well-known one in South Africa. No one from either is said to be attending the party, so if you just say the name ‘Walker,’ Mishka said they probably won’t question you further.”

  “Because they wouldn’t want to seem stupid and not know me?”

  “Right. I’ll hack into a few networks and fake some files so, in the unlikely event someone does a background check, they’ll find enough to think you’re legit. You even have a Facebook account.”

  I just hope no one compares it with Zara Lain’s Facebook profile. “All my bases covered,” I said with an approving smile. “I like you. You’re quite helpful.”

  Just as his usual lack of colour was returning, his face flushed again. “There is one problem, though.”

  My gazed narrowed on him and he went back to pasty.

  “I-It’s just a-a minor one—”

  “What is it?”

  “The invitation. I-It’s better than an exact replica—it’s perfect. The same paper, the same ink—all of it.”

  “But?”

  “There’s a problem with the seal.”

  I looked over the invitation. The vanilla parchment was folded and sealed with a dark red circle of wax, the O’Connor crest imprinted into it. A gryphon. Probably a symbol of strength but it always made me think of myths, which equaled untrue. Not a way to inspire confidence.

  “It looks good to me.”

  “The problem is that it’s supposed to be a magic seal. An incantation—and O’Connor blessing—was said as it was pressed into the wax...every one of the invitations was done individually.”

  “This is crucial to my job how?” This was really turning into a hassle. I should just kill Mish—bet someone would pay me for it.

  “Magic is a lot harder to forge than a simple invitation.”

  “So there’s no magic here?” Bloody hell, why didn’t I just decide to break in?

  “There is, but I had to send it to Mishka to do, so it’s Thiering. No one will probably sense the difference, but—”

  “But as magic is built right into a witch’s genes, it has a family genetic imprint to it...I get it.” Stupid witches. “Will this get me in the door or not?”

  “It will. So you really need it? You need to be invited inside?”

  Yet another stupid superstition. Christ, was I ever sick of hearing those. “No, it’s just rude to show up at a party without one.”

  “I’m sure there won’t be any problems, Miss Lain.”

  “Good. I’ve decided I won’t eat you.”

  His eyes doubled in size. “You were going to—”

  I laughed. “No, not r
eally. Well, probably not.”

  Chapter Four

  The Dark Place

  I dreamed I awoke in the dark place.

  No sound. Nothing at all. I’d never experienced silence like that; even in the dead of night, in an otherwise empty room, something could always be heard. But in here, the dark place, there was nothing. Just a stillness that seemed loud in how quiet it was.

  A deep inhale. Stench filled my nostrils and a choke rose in my throat. It was awful and I resolved I would not breathe again.

  That didn’t turn out to be a problem.

  I tried to open my eyes, stretching them wide—but they were already open. Yet I saw nothing. Only blackness.

  My hands instinctively tried to fly out, but they were nailed to my sides. The dull ache coursing through them told me they were still there, but I couldn’t lift them. Same with my legs.

  I opened my mouth to call out something, anything—to beg and cry and scream for help—but my voice wouldn’t come. It lodged somewhere in the back of my throat, as if afraid to come out to confront the darkness with me.

  Focus, focus... If I knew where I was, I might know what was happening. What did I feel? What was I touching?

  I was lying down—of that I was certain. On my back...yes—lying on something hard, on my back.

  How did I get here?

  For a frightening moment, I didn’t know. I didn’t who I was or where I’d been, only that I had a sick sense of longing, of betrayal, aching in my chest. There were whispers there, threading around my mind...I’d risen early one morning, when the sky of dawn was still dark, and then hands reached for me—

  No, no. Forget.

  And then I did because the cold struck me.

  I’d felt it all along, but something switched on in my brain and it hit me in waves. I wasn’t shivering, no; the cold was deeper within me and seemed so natural, so much a part of me, that it hadn’t registered initially. But once it caught my attention, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’m not sure I ever have.