Nine Lives (Lifeline Book 1)

by Kit Colter

  Erin laughed. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Mm,” the woman said, nodding, then took a drink.

  Erin took another tiny sip, then frowned. She looked into her glass at the whiskey and felt the world tilt to one side.

  * * *

  The woman waited, sitting in the leather chair with Erin’s glass in hand, one nail tapping against it. She grinned a little. No one ever thought about the glass. She could tell that Ann had been worried. That the girl had sensed something. She smiled, remembering the way Ann had watched her pour the whiskey. How Ann waited until she had taken a drink to drink some herself. Clever girl. If she’d been really clever, she would have noticed her hostess pull one glass from the left side of the bar, and her own from the right. Might have even noticed that one glass was just a little less transparent than the other due to a thin coating of chemicals. But the girl didn’t think about the glass. No one ever did.

  Her gaze slipped from the glass to the floor where the girl lay unconscious, and she wondered why, exactly, Sirian wanted her. Was it the tight, sculpted waist? The runner’s legs? The extra touch of muscle carving definition into every curve and angle of the girl’s body? The amber skin? Or was it that goddamn gorgeous face?

  Whatever is it was, she didn’t blame him.

  The woman set the glass aside, retrieved a syringe from the bar, and straddled Ann. She watched the girl’s face for a moment, then slid the needle into the crook of her elbow, deftly piercing the vein. Depressed the plunger on the syringe, debating as she did. How much could she give her? The whole syringe? If she injected too much, it would kill her. And there was nothing particularly fun about dead bodies. Especially when Sirian would be bursting in at any moment to find miss-lies-about-her-name lifeless on the floor. Oh, that would be no fun at all. So she had to be careful.

  * * *

  Sirian recognized the scent of blood the instant he climbed through the window. He knew what had happened. What was still happening. Anger darkened his features, and in an instant he cleared the hall, leapt into the closet, and burst through the door. The lock tore away and wood splinters exploded into the air around him.

  “KRYSIS!” Sirian roared.

  The woman held Erin pinned to a table, red blood smeared across the glistening white surface. Krysis paused, then took her mouth away from Erin’s neck.

  “Mmm?” Krysis purred through glossy red lips.

  Erin clumsily struggled out of her grip, then collapsed to the floor. Fought toward her feet, staggered two steps to the left, then collapsed again, hitting her head on the edge of the table as she fell.

  Sirian vaulted over the table, slammed a fist into Krysis’s face, and drove her backwards into the wall. Krysis let out of a silken laugh and circled her arms around his neck. Sirian growled in warning, and the angles of his cheek and jaw became suddenly sharper, harder. He bared his teeth—his canines inhumanly long—and tightened his grip on Krysis’s throat until he felt the tendons flex beneath his grasp.

  Her smile widened.

  Sirian held Krysis pinned against the wall until the capillaries in her eyes began to rupture in a sudden bloom of redness, then pushed her aside. He strode slowly toward Erin, knelt on the floor several feet away, and watched in silence. Her hair was draped across her face and matted with blood from her neck and shoulder. She fisted her hands and pressed them against her temples.

  “I should kill you for this,” Sirian said, glancing at Krysis as she crawled onto the bloody table and stretched out like an oversized housecat.

  “True,” she said. “But, really, what did you expect me to do?” She rolled onto her back. “She’s so damn cute.”

  Sirian stared at Krysis’s neck, at the pulse flickering beneath her pale white skin.

  “I bet you’ve been just dying to get her,” Krysis purred. “And don’t start up with all that theory shit you always talk about. You think you’re better than us. You’re not. I just did what you didn’t have the guts to do.” She moaned. “It is theory, Sirian. And that’s all. Just—a stupid—theory.”

  “Get out of my sight,” he said.

  Usually, Krysis didn’t take orders, but at the moment she was drugged, and Sirian could kill her with ease. More importantly, she knew he could.

  Krysis moaned again, this time in irritation, then slipped off the table, her arms and body stained with blood. The clipping sound of her heels echoed against the walls and ceiling as she slinked away.

  Sirian watched her leave, jaw clenched.

  Erin groaned.

  Sirian looked down to find Erin staring at him with a horrified expression. It wasn’t an unusual reaction to the fangs, to the shift in facial musculature that rendered his features suddenly harder, sharper, and obviously inhuman.

  Erin slid backwards along the floor, scrambling away from him. Sirian watched as she stood slowly, leaning against the wall for support, her arms and legs trembling.

  “Don’t,” she murmured.

  “Erin,” Sirian said firmly.

  “Don’t!” she said, screaming this time. “Don’t!!!” She took a step back, but as her foot came down, her body collapsed.

  Sirian took a step forward.

  “NO!!!” Erin screamed, struggling halfway to her feet and collapsing again.

  Sirian slowly knelt. He looked down, trying to force his own tension back long enough for his features to return to normal. He glimpsed a needle mark in the crook of Erin’s elbow and the anger returned in a sudden surge. Krysis had injected Erin with heroin, not because she couldn’t handle Erin, but because she liked to ingest drugs through living human blood. His earlier thoughts of killing Krysis, of that tiny pulse in her neck, returned to his mind. It was unfortunate that he needed Krysis.

  Sirian stood up and, ignoring Erin’s drug-addled cries of terror, lifted her into his arms.

  Chapter 5

  “ ... think you’re better. I know your theory. All that, the body should be serving the mind, not the other way around shit. Know how you think there’s nothing particularly superior about being a killing machine when it jeopardizes your self-control, and blah, blah, blah. Jesus, Sirian, listen to yourself. You like killing—so bloody kill. It’s that simple. Who cares about control.”

  Krysis’s voice reverberated in Erin’s head, sliding in and out of clarity.

  The sound faded. She could smell something familiar. Fragrant smoke. Dad used to smoke cigars. Something else familiar kept tugging at her mind. Not another smell, but a sound and a feeling at once.

  She was in a moving car.

  Sensation. She hurt. Her head hurt. Her face hurt. She was so incredibly tired. Erin felt something moving through her hair. She struggled against a pressing wave of nothingness and, as it receded, she realized that there was something beneath her torso.

  Erin opened her eyes and saw Sirian’s face. He was looking down at her with a detached calm. She slowly realized that she was lying across his lap and that he had one hand in her hair. They were in the back seat.

  She was too tired to be scared. Too tired to feel anything but exhaustion and pain.

  “Where are we?” Erin asked weakly, watching him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  Her gaze drifted across his face as she struggled against the darkness creeping in on the sides of her vision. Then lost the fight.

  * * *

  The passageway was virtually lightless and thick with the scent of dust. Old age and solitude clung to the walls like oil. Sirian heard the sound of the guard’s breathing before he saw him.

  With Erin lying limp in his arms, Sirian stepped up to the guard, a large, muscular man with shoulders that filled the entire corridor.

  “You aren’t welcome here,” the guard said, standing taller and wider.

  Sirian started to step forward, but Krysis pushed in front of him. Pulling the cigar from her lips, she smiled and leaned into the guard, exhaling a smooth stream of smoke into his face.

  Sirian gave
Krysis a cold look. He didn’t have time for her games.

  “Listen, sugar,” Krysis purred, “you’re going to let us in because if you don’t, we’re going to kill you.” By the end of the sentence, she had a large silver revolver pressed to the underside of his jaw.

  The guard didn’t move.

  “And even if we don’t, your boss is going to kill you when he finds out you turned back one of Dega’s people.”

  “You’re Dega’s?” the guard asked.

  Krysis shed a sleek grin. “Right under Gage.”

  The guard looked her over, then turned his attention to Sirian. Searched his face. Then glanced at Erin.

  “And the woman?” the guard asked.

  “None of your business,” Krysis said, pushing the guard aside and walking by. Sirian continued behind her. In seconds, another guard stepped out of the darkness and led them forward. They reached a thick metal door, and the guard opened it, let them in, and secured the lock behind them. They continued for another twenty yards before stepping into a large stone room. The enclosure was dark except for a circle of tall, lit candles in the center.

  “Strangers trespassing ... I have not invited you here.”

  The voice came from the shadows. The sound was old and creaking, and almost ghostly quiet—so quiet Sirian was tempted to hold his breath to hear more clearly.

  “We have come for your wisdom, Oracle,” he said.

  “Tell me why I should bestow it upon you ... Sirian.”

  “I will give whatever you ask,” he said.

  Silence.

  “Ah ... Krysis ... I hear much of you.”

  “Yeah?” Krysis asked, sounding unimpressed.

  “Death speaks of you fondly.”

  Krysis took a deep draw from her cigar. “That’s nice of him.”

  Silence.

  Sirian glanced to his right, sensing movement in the darkness. More guards.

  “And what do you bring to my home?” the Oracle asked.

  Sirian lay Erin down inside the circle of candles and stepped back.

  There was shuffling in the darkness, and—very slowly—a hunkered silhouette eased into sight and crouched at Erin’s side. “A mortal woman. She reeks of unnatural substance. Of chemical filth.”

  “Tell me you can do better than that,” Krysis moaned.

  “SSSILENCE!!!” the Oracle roared. The sound boomed against the stone walls.

  Krysis sneered.

  There was a faint hissing sound. The flickering candle light seemed to dim considerably, flames dying down almost completely. The weak remaining light dowsed the outlines of a hunched figure. A dark hand reached out and grabbed Erin’s wrist. There was a slash of movement, and Sirian heard the soft patter of droplets against dusty stone. He could smell her blood.

  “It seems ... But what is this ... ?”

  Sirian located the guards in the shadows by the sound of breathing. He counted four.

  “No ... But ...”

  Sirian clenched his jaw, glancing at Krysis tensely. He should have killed her. She was losing interest already, and he knew what it would mean if she decided to entertain herself.

  “Leave now!” the Oracle ordered. “Take it, take her, away from here, and do not come back.”

  “Losing your touch?” Krysis asked with a mean smirk.

  “LEAVE NOW!!!” The Oracle’s voice ricochet against the walls. The guards moved out of the shadows. “Take her now! Take her AWAY!”

  Sirian swept Erin into his arms, then made his way back to the entry tunnel. Krysis lingered behind, but he didn’t stop. She’d catch up—or she wouldn’t.

  Erin moaned, shifting in his arms.

  Sirian quickly made his way through the tunnel, which merged with a mine shaft about eight hundred yards from the surface. He heard an echo behind him and walked faster. More echoes. A gunshot. Sirian exited the mine and carried Erin down a rocky slope to his car, which was parked on a dirt road that snaked up the mountainside. He placed Erin on the passenger side, lying down. Then he slid into the driver seat, started the car, and began the drive to the highway. An instant later, something vaulted across the hood.

  Krysis.

  She ripped open the passenger door and climbed into the car. Krysis hooked an arm around Erin’s neck, propping her in upright position. With her stiletto heels cutting into the dash, Krysis wiped the blood from a gash on her cheek, lit a cigar, and drew in a deep breath.

  “You put her in a coma,” Sirian growled, checking the rearview mirror.

  “Oh, she’ll be fine,” Krysis replied. “It’s just the combination of the drugs and, well, blood loss.” She grinned. “Give her a day or two.”

  Sirian’s eyes narrowed on the pulse flickering in Krysis’s throat.

  “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said. “Killing me is going to be a bitch, sweetheart. You sure it’s worth it?”

  Sirian watched for a moment longer weighing his options, then turned his gaze to the road.

  “Didn’t think so.” Krysis let out a slithering stream of smoke. “I told you the Oracle wouldn’t have anything to say about her. Didn’t expect him to lose his shit, though.” Krysis traced her lips with the cigar. “I’m surprised Melanthius hasn’t killed him off yet. He’s a waste of blood and time.”

  Sirian didn’t respond.

  “Don’t get pissy, Sirian. You’re no fun when you’re pissy.”

  He glanced at her, then focused on the road.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still angry about the bird,” Krysis moaned in boredom. “So I chewed on her a little. She’s going to be fine.” Krysis gently leaned Erin’s head onto her chest, slipping her fingers back and forth through the girl’s bangs. “Cute little thing.” She turned to Sirian. “You’d better start talking if you want my help.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” he said.

  Krysis let out a very slow laugh, smoke snaking across her lips as she did. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it,” she said. “You need my connections, and I’m the only decent vampire for miles.”

  Sirian didn’t respond.

  “What are you trying to do with her, anyway?” Krysis asked. “You’re not actually trying to save her.”

  “They want something from her. Whatever it is, I want it first,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. “I couldn’t be involved with a rescue mission. I hate rescue missions.” She smiled and leaned in close. “I’d have had to kill you myself if you’d gone that soft,” she said, biting his ear.

  Sirian growled in warning.

  Krysis grinned, leaning back into the seat and slipping her fingers through Erin’s bangs once more. She placed the cigar between her lips and breathed in deep.

  “I love this century.”

  * * *

  The first thing Erin recognized was the gentle hum of an air conditioner. Then softness beneath her. Then pain.

  She moaned and brought her hands to her head. She was surrounded by dim light and cool shades of grey. She hesitated, turning her head to the side. Grey sheets.

  She was lying on a bed.

  Erin sat up slowly, one hand still pressed against the side of her head. She was dressed—always a good sign—but her shoes were gone. She looked around, amazed by the size of the room. The ceiling had to be at least fifteen feet high. Three massive bookcases stood against the wall across from the bed, hardbound texts lining every inch of the shelves, almost all of them ancient-looking. Erin stood up and found her bare feet pressing against cold, marbled black granite. Beside the bookcases stood a work desk. To the right was a tall, glass shower stall. To the left was a staircase that led up through a square hole in the ceiling.

  Just then, Erin noticed a towering human silhouette leaning against the wall a few feet away from the staircase. “Come on,” Sirian said, walking up the stairs and disappearing.

  Erin waited a moment, listening.

  “The door’s up here,” Sirian said from above.

  Erin g
rabbed the standing lamp beside the bed. Keeping watch on the staircase, she unscrewed the shade and bulb, then tied the cord around the base so she didn’t trip on it. She took the lamp firmly in her hands and crept up the stairs to the next level. Sirian was standing several feet away, arms crossed and waiting.

  “You can keep it if you like,” he said, glancing at the lamp clutched in Erin’s hands. She ignored the comment and surveyed the room for an exit. Two black sofas. A small glass table. There was an open doorway on the east side of the room, leading into a kitchen enclosed by fissured glass. She looked past Sirian to the door directly behind him. That was it. The exit.

  “What do you want to drink?” Sirian asked, and he walked into the kitchen. The instant he was out of sight, Erin darted to the door and turned the handle. When it didn’t open, she dropped the lamp and pulled with both hands.

  “It’s locked, Erin,” Sirian said, reappearing with what looked like a glass of water. “I take it you’re not in the mood for whiskey.” He placed the glass and two small white tablets on the table, then picked up the lamp. “Aspirin,” he said, moving away, giving her space to approach.

  Erin watched Sirian place the lamp on the coffee table, then frowned. “What do I have to do to get out of here?” she asked.

  “Open the door,” he said, hints of that elusive grin sneaking across his lips.

  “It’s locked,” Erin snapped.

  Sirian nodded. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Erin sighed in frustration. “No. I’m not hungry. I want to go home, and I want you to tell me what I have to do to get there. You want me to dress up like a French maid and scrub your goddamn floor, then let’s get it over with.”

  “You’d do that?” Sirian asked, walking slowly toward her.

  Something about the look on his face sent a wave of dread through Erin’s chest.

  “What else would you be willing to do?” Sirian asked, stalking forward.

  Erin clenched her jaw.

  “Something along a different line?” he asked, now so close that Erin started backing away.