Sanguinity

by Tori Centanni

  I wondered what his former mortal groupies would make of his resurrection, if they would regret helping the witch, or if they’d rage against him anyhow for leaving them in a vulnerable position in the first place.

  “You’re welcome,” Angela said as she came down the stairs. I wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to me or to Cazimir.

  Cazimir watched her approach like she was an angry snake. “Merci. I appreciate your help in this matter.”

  Angela nodded, but her eyes were fixed on me. “What witch?” she asked, tilting her head.

  Fuck.

  “What?” I asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Cazimir’s eyes narrowed at me. “Are you working with witches, Henrietta? You do realize their magic is weak and their promises are almost always empty.”

  “I’m helping them with a thing. It’s an internal thing.” Both Angela and Cazimir stared at me like I’d announced I planned to personally walk into hell and slap the devil. I threw up my hands. “Oh, come on. You have a contract with the witches. They’re your allies!”

  Cazimir merely raised an eyebrow.

  Angela, however, moved very close to me, invading my personal space. Her white fingers danced along my shoulder and before I knew what she was doing, she had untied the scarf around my neck, revealing the nasty bruise. It had been turning funky shades of yellow when I’d seen it earlier this evening, and I doubted it looked any better now.

  I heard Ry suck in a breath.

  Angela studied the markings on my neck and then met my eyes. Hers were cold. “Who did this to you?”

  I tried not to think of the animated skeleton, to push thoughts of the preternaturally strong bony fingers closing around my neck out of my mind, but it was impossible. It was like someone telling me not to think of a pink elephant. And Angela knew it. I pulled away from her, but it was too late. She’d seen the image in my thoughts. An impassive expression clouded over her face.

  “It’s none of your business,” I said, snatching the scarf from her hands and wrapping it back around my throat.

  Angela kept staring, but she didn’t voice what she must have seen in my thoughts. Finally, she broke her gaze. She did a strange half-bow to Cazimir.

  “I expect you understand that you owe me one,” she said to him.

  “But of course,” Cazimir said, his lip twitching slightly. He didn’t look pleased by the way Angela casually suggested he had an obligation to her.

  She turned and opened the front door, sparing a look at Ry before she left.

  The door shut behind her and silence filled the air.

  “What did she see?” Cazimir finally demanded.

  I folded my arms over my chest. “None of your damn business. Not important anyhow. I’m glad you’re awake. You lying there half-dead was creepy as fuck.”

  “It really was,” Ry muttered.

  “Whatever the witches have promised you, Henrietta, I assure you they cannot deliver. They have nothing you want.” His green eyes were hungry as his gaze fixed back on my throat, wrapped in the scarf though it was. I could see the hint of blue veins beneath his pale white skin. Ry must have found him fresh blood before he’d texted me, but Cazimir obviously needed a hell of a lot more of it.

  “Just cold hard cash,” I said. Although technically that promise was moot, since they’d decided against paying for my help. I really hoped my last check from the restaurant was a good one.

  “There are better ways to get what you want.”

  “Says the guy who chugged poison,” I said. I’d meant it to come out teasing, but instead it sounded accusatory.

  “I believed the vampire blood would help destroy the Cure in my veins,” he said. “At any rate, I am restored, and soon I will reclaim my assets and return to my throne.”

  I glanced at Ry. I wondered if Cazimir knew how thoroughly his kingdom had been decimated. First Lark had remodeled the place, taking out any hint of Cazimir’s haunted palace aesthetic. Then most of the vampires had fled. Finally, she’d kicked out the mortals he saw as his subjects. The fire had only made things worse. The Factory had been converted from a supernatural stop to an empty shell.

  “I owe you a favor, as well,” Cazimir said, the words strained like they tasted wrong in his mouth. “I will pay my debts.”

  “You could turn me back. That’d make us even.” I said it flippantly, but part of me dared to hope he might embrace me then and there and do the deed. My back hurt, and lack of sleep and coffee made a headache burn behind my eyes. Mortality was a bitch.

  “It’s too soon,” Ry said before Cazimir could reply. I knew he was right, but I wanted to punch him for saying so. New vampires have far less success in turning others than vampires who’ve been immortal for a while. No one is sure why, but that’s how it is. In Caz’s case, he’d only just woken, and the causes of his supernatural slumber were still undetermined—it could have been complications from the Cure or from Lemondrop, which was not only a drug but might have its roots in a magical potion of some sort. Either way, Cazimir trying to turn someone right now was twice as risky as it would be for another vampire.

  “He’s right, of course,” Cazimir said. “The odds would not be in your favor were I to attempt it. Though so we’re clear, my debt to you does not run that deep.” The words slapped me across the face. Just like that, I was nothing but a random subject again, someone whose worth was based on what they could offer him.

  “Of course,” I said, and turned to leave before I could do something stupid, like ram my sword through his chest. That wouldn’t kill a vampire, not by a mile, but he’d probably break my neck for doing it.

  I stormed out of the small house, no longer as thrilled to have King Cazimir back. I knew we hadn’t really become BFFs, but I expected a little more fucking courtesy for the pains I’d gone to in protecting his helpless mortal ass.

  Ry came rushing out after me, appearing in front of me on the sidewalk thanks to his vampire speed. “Hey, wait,” he said. He pulled something out of his pocket and held it between his finger and thumb. It was a small vial of a viscous, crimson liquid.

  My heart leapt into my throat. His blood.

  “Caz and I both owe you big time,” he said. “You kept him alive while he was human, and that wasn’t easy to do. Well, until he basically chugged poisoned, but that wasn’t something either of us could have foreseen. So I owe you. And you deserve your fangs back.”

  He held out the vial. I reached for it. He pulled it back and I scowled. “This is all I can give you. And if anyone asks, I will deny it to my death, understood? This didn’t happen. I would never give my blood to a scientist, and I’m not a Blood Traitor.”

  I looked back toward the house. My question must have been plain on my face, because Ry answered it before I could ask.

  “No, Caz doesn’t know. And you’re not going to tell him, got it?” He extended the vial again, and this time, he let me take it. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I curled my fingers around it. The glass was cool to the touch.

  Ry went back inside and I slipped the vial into my jean pocket. The temptation to drink it was overwhelming, for all the good it would do me. A mouthful of vampire blood was functionally useless, but I longed to taste it, connect to it, roll it around in my mouth.

  Sadly, drinking it would defeat the purpose of getting it. I had to hand it over to Neha and make her use it to develop an antidote. If none of these assholes would give me more than a sip of their blood, that was quickly becoming my only path back to immortality.

  I thought of the supposed immortality spell and shook that thought out of my head. Cazimir was right. The witches didn’t have what I wanted.

  Hands shaking, I used an app to summon a car and then waited for it to arrive.

  * * *

  I had the car drop me off at my apartment and took my own car across the 520 to Bellevue, since driving myself was cheaper and easier.

  Nervous energy filled my bones, and
I switched through radio stations, unable to settle on a song for more than a minute.

  I parked in the first open space I found in the crowded parking lot at Neha’s apartment complex. At this time of night, most of the tenants were home, so I was happy to find a space at all. I got out of my car, being sure to lock it, and then headed toward her unit at the end of the row.

  I realized something was wrong when I was still a couple of doors down from her place. Even in the dark, her orange curtains always made a stark contrast with the rows of white and wooden window blinds in her neighbor’s units. But tonight her windows were dark and black.

  The hair on my arms stood on end. I quickened my pace.

  Seconds later, I stood in front of Neha’s apartment, only it wasn’t Neha’s anymore. The white blinds that had replaced her curtains were open and revealed an empty unit. All of her furniture had been removed, leaving a newly polished floor and bright white walls that had been newly repainted. There was nothing inside but the appliances that came with the apartment. A For Lease sign entreating me to go to the leasing office for more information sat in the lower corner of the window.

  The reality of the situation slammed into me like an oncoming train.

  Neha was gone.

  And without her, so was any chance of an antidote.

  Fury burned through my veins. A sour taste filled my mouth.

  I stepped into the yard and took a closer look through the window as though I might spot some clue about Neha’s whereabouts, but all of her stuff was gone. The place had obviously been professionally cleaned and repainted for a new tenant. She’d been gone for a couple of days, easily. She must have left right after I did a few nights ago, or there wouldn’t have been time to completely spruce the place up.

  She’d looked me in the face and lied, telling me she’d work on the antidote if I brought her blood. In reality, she’d probably packed up the moment I’d pulled away.

  Anger warred with defeat inside me. I clutched the vial of Ry’s blood in my fist and resisted the urge to throw it at the window.

  Neha had taken my immortality away, injecting me with her poison against my will and without my consent, because she believed vampires were monsters and it was the right thing to do. She had wrongly believed that she was saving me, because she hadn’t been able to save her girlfriend, Kate. Never mind that I had helped her, that I had done my damnedest to help Kate, and that I had never once done anything monstrous to her.

  She’d done this to me and now she’d left me like this.

  Maybe an antidote was as impossible like she’d claimed. Or maybe she so staunchly believed she’d been in the right that she simply refused to try.

  Either way, this final betrayal was one too many. Neha had better have run fast and far, because if she ever crossed my path again, I was going to show her what a monster I could be, with or without fangs.

  Chapter 24

  I spent the next day in a haze, spinning the vial of Ryuto’s blood on my coffee table like it was the arrow on a game board and would point me in the right direction eventually.

  I thought about drinking it, but even if Cazimir had been right that vampire blood could war with the Cure in my veins, a mouthful was hardly enough to do anything. I longed to taste it but I felt like I should give it back. Maybe if I did, he’d take pity on me and turn me.

  Yeah, right.

  I was fucked. No one wanted to make me immortal, and the scientist who might have found a way to undo her poison had fled, Frankenstein abandoning his monster and refusing to take responsibility for his actions.

  At sunset, my phone rang. It was Lark. I frowned, stomach churning. She had no good reason to call me, so I braced myself for bad news as I answered.

  “Come to the Factory,” she said without preamble. “There’s something you need to explain.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  She hung up.

  I waited a whole sixty seconds before I moved, defiant for the sake of it. Then, with a sigh, I got up, grabbed my sword, and headed to the Factory.

  * * *

  The Factory was abuzz with contractors who filled the place like bees in a hive as they worked on restoring the Factory to its pre-fire industrial glory. Lark was sitting in the parlor downstairs, which had been largely untouched by the fire, though the walls were lined with blue painter’s tape and had already undergone at least one new coat of paint.

  All of the hard-edged, square furniture was covered in plastic, except for the chair that Lark was sitting on. It looked like a box with a seat cut out of it. I didn’t get the style, but then I liked furniture that was comfortable. A cardboard box sat at her feet.

  Angela stood behind her, next to the cold fireplace that held no fire, and my stomach clenched. Angela’s red and yellow hair was loose and flew around her white face like a wild mane. Lark, in contrast, had her black hair smoothed against her scalp with a puff of it at the back of her head and wore a white pantsuit.

  I fought the urge to back out of the room and run the hell away. Both women were powerful and deadly, and they were pissed off about something. But it was too late to bolt. Either of the vampires could catch me if I tried.

  “Henri,” Lark said. My name had never sounded so ominous.

  “What the hell is this about?” I asked, unable to keep my gaze from drifting toward Angela, whose face was impassive.

  “I received a package. I would like you to explain it.” Lark reached for the cardboard box. I could see the address in marker across the front. It had been addressed to Lark personally. She pulled out a brown skull and held it up.

  I gasped, my heart slamming into my ribs. I recognized it immediately. You don’t forget the face of the reanimated skeleton that tried to squeeze the life out of you. I swallowed uneasily, my throat still sore from the attack.

  “What is it?” Lark asked.

  “Harold’s head,” I said without missing a beat.

  Lark’s eyes flared with anger. She turned the skull around and tried to picture the vampire she’d known overlaid on the bone. “Is it?”

  Angela was watching me. My palms felt sweaty. Obviously she’d told Lark about what she’d seen in my thoughts, the bones and the witches. So when the package arrived, it was clearly connected to me.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Henri. Explain yourself. What the hell is going on?” She dropped the skull back into the box, gently enough but not with any reverence one might usually pay to the remains of a dead friend.

  “Why doesn’t Angela tell you? Since she knows everything.” It was petulant and stupid, but I was angry. I didn’t like having my own thoughts used against me, and I really didn’t like being summoned to the Factory like I was guilty of something.

  Angela moved in a blur and then she was in front of me. Her white fingers tilted my chin up. She looked into my eyes. “I don’t know everything,” she said. “But I could know more.” She looked meaningfully at my neck.

  I shook my head automatically. If she drank my blood, she could see it all, anything she wanted, and I didn’t want to grant her that. Not without a promise of immortality in exchange.

  “I will not turn you,” Angela said firmly.

  “Then back the hell off.”

  She pulled away, but her eyes never left my throat. I shuddered, blood thrumming in my ears.

  “Harold is dead and his skull reeks of magic. I assume you know why,” Lark said, bringing my attention back to her and reasserting who was in charge here.

  I opened my mouth to form a response but then faltered, unsure what to say.

  “You must tell me,” she insisted.

  “I don’t know why he was killed, exactly,” I said, glancing at Angela, whose gaze bore into me like she had x-ray vision. Her dark expression was clear enough: tell the truth or pay the price.

  I continued, “He died in a magical ritual, but I don’t know its purpose. The current theory is that it’s part of an elabor
ate immortality spell.”

  “Such spells don’t exist,” Lark said, but I caught the tiniest quaver in her tone. She wasn’t certain. “Regardless, I want the witch who killed one of mine brought to me for justice.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I said.

  “Of course it is. Those are the rules. Unless the witches prefer I kill all of them instead.” She said it so casually, like one might talk of weeding a garden, but I had no doubt she meant it.

  “Who sent it?” I asked.

  Lark raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. It’s not as if they left a return address. The box was dumped outside. One of the contractors brought it in to me.”

  I bent down and lifted the box to examine it myself, but of course she was right. There was no helpful “from the evil witch at evil witch tower” inscribed on the corner.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said, more to myself than either of the vampires.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Lark agreed. “I prefer not to receive my friends’ heads in boxes. Though it does seem to be a trend with you.”

  I ignored her and stared at the handwriting, trying to will it to speak to me. I’d have to ask Erin what they’d done with Harold’s remains in the barn after I’d left. I assumed they’d buried or otherwise destroyed them and cleaned out the barn, but it wouldn’t have been hard for one of the witches to grab the skull. What I couldn’t figure out was why the hell they would send it to Lark. It was obviously the skull of a vampire, and even if she couldn’t smell the faint hint of magic on the bone—that strange, yet distinct aroma—she’d connect the dots eventually. So the only reason to send it was to get her angry at the witches. Which was exactly the thing the witches wanted to avoid.

  Unless it wasn’t.

  But that made no sense.

  My mind spun trying to churn together some possible motive. Had the mortals brought her the head? Maybe Jeff, to ease his guilt? But then, that was a suicide mission, and Jeff hadn’t struck me as the type. Besides, how would the mortals get hold of it without the witch they were working for handing it over?