by J. K. Beck
"A fact of which I am well aware." Frustrated, he moved to the glass and looked out the barrier at the hall beyond. It was because of Tasha that he was in this cell in the first place. Because of her, and because of his own hubris so many years before. He should have known better, he thought, as the memories welled inside him. He should never have brought her over.
He'd found her, alone and bleeding, fear clinging to her like a blanket, and she'd looked up at him, life fading from eyes so like his own sweet daughter's that he'd been unable to think clearly.
Take, the daemon had whispered, and so help him he'd listened. He took, he drank, and when the change came upon her, he became father, teacher, protector. Most of all, he'd helped her fight her own daemon. Helped her bring back the girl within. A confused, lost innocent who by all rights should have been in heaven with the angels by now instead of walking among daemons. Instead of suffering at the hands of bastards like Marcus Braddock, men who took what they wanted and cared little for the consequences.
Whatever particular arrogance Braddock had suffered under, it was stilled now, as was the man himself. And for that, at least, Luke was grateful.
"Tasha's taken care of," he said softly. "I sent her to New York." He turned back 61
to face Nick. "She's with Serge."
"With Serge?"
Something in Nick's voice caught Luke's attention. "What?"
"I called Serge," Nick said. "Not less than an hour ago. I wasn't able to reach him."
Something cold and unfamiliar settled in Luke's stomach. Fear. Serge's journey to sanity had been even more dappled than Luke's. Many vampires--most even--were able to control the daemon, to push it back down, and keep it bound. The Holding was brutal and exhausting and sometimes deadly. But those who survived walked away with the daemon bound. Trapped.
Or, at least, most did.
A few survivors gained control over the daemon, yes, but did not fully bind it. Instead, the daemon lurked beneath the surface, teasing and taunting and begging to be brought out to play.
If the daemon won the battle--if the vampire could not regain control--the vampire became hunted. A rogue. A threat to society.
And if the vampire was able to keep control despite the daemon's taunt, then that vampire lived on the knife-edge. A difficult existence, as Luke well knew. As all the vampiric kyne knew.
So yes, Luke knew the extent to which Serge forced himself to hold on, sometimes by only the thinnest of threads. If that thread unraveled ...
"You tried all his numbers? You sent an e-mail?"
"I did." Nick stood and started to pace. "I'll send Ryback over to Serge's penthouse. He's in New York on an assignment. As soon as he wraps, I'll have him go by. I can't imagine Serge would leave Tasha alone, but if he did, Ryback can bring her home."
Luke nodded, unsatisfied. He should be the one going to her, the one bringing her safely back to L.A. Since that was impossible at the moment, he reluctantly agreed, and tried damn hard to push the worry out of his head. No easy task. Nick stopped pacing and looked at Luke, his expression pensive. "You sent her away, which is something I've never been witness to in all these centuries. And all the way to Manhattan. She could have stayed with me. Even Ryback or Slater would have taken her in, and she'd have been here. Close by you. But you sent her to the far side of the country. I'm not an idiot, Lucius. You're protecting her. But from what?" From what indeed.
Slow fury bubbled within Luke as he recalled Tasha's words, her tearful entreaties. The terror on her face when she'd described what Braddock had done to her. And as he thought, the daemon stirred.
"He raped her," he said, his voice low and dangerous. He felt his fangs extend, now thick against his lips. "Braddock hurt her. He put his hands on her and he took what he had no right to take."
"And so you took back," Nick said, his voice soft. "From him." Luke's jaw was set. "Did I have another choice?"
Nick closed his eyes, shook his head. "No," he said. "You didn't." He moved forward and put his hand on Luke's shoulder. "I would have done the same thing." Luke nodded. "If I didn't believe that, you wouldn't be the one in here 62
representing me."
"This case could get dirty. Everything you've done, Luke--it could come back down on you."
"I know that." The faces of his victims swam through his memory. Killers themselves, dark creatures that had escaped justice for the murder of their kind and humans. That had, because of technicalities or corruption or pure cunning, escaped the system that was supposed to lock them up or put them down. They'd slipped free, and even as the filthy rats were congratulating themselves on outrunning the long arm of the law, the Alliance stepped in with soldiers who operated outside the confines of the system, its sticky fingers able to reach where that long arm could not. The PEC itself answered to the Alliance, and yet in sanctioning its own brand of justice, the Alliance broke the very covenant that had created it. That violation was justified by the need to protect the Shadow society as a whole, to ensure the secrecy of a world that operated on the fringes of and beneath human civilization. Luke was a player, and expendable. He had always known that. But his ultimate goal was justice. And, yes, he sought penance as well. Redemption for a past that he had managed to escape. A past that crept softly up to him more often than he would like to taunt him, to urge him to sink down under.
He would not.
He had fought long and hard for the restoration of his soul, and he despised those who willingly succumbed to the daemon, who would not even pitch the battle. He was kyne for a reason and, acknowledged or not, he would stand true.
"If it comes to that, you know I'll protect the kyne. But I don't expect an investigation that deep. They have my DNA, and Ryan Doyle has already filed a witness statement. The case is open and shut. There's no reason to dig."
"The PEC doesn't always need a reason," Nick retorted. "And Ryan Doyle will probably take on your trial as a personal crusade."
That much, Luke thought, was true. "I need out of here, Nick," he said, standing.
"I have no intention of staying in this goddamn cell." Nick didn't even bother to pretend shock or dismay. "I'm assuming you're not intending to wait for my brilliant legal tap dancing to acquit you. So what are you planning, and how is my ass going to be compromised?"
"Not you. The prosecutor. She's a human, new to the Division. Her name's Sara Constantine."
"I know," Nick said. "I've started a file. Her legal background's exceptional, but unremarkable for our purposes. Straight A's. Good creds. Solid work history with the county."
"And with Division?"
"Today's her first day on the job, actually. Division ran all the standard tests--she's not mentally susceptible, which is a damn shame--and they've tossed her into the job running. From her file, I'd say she's up for the challenge, which leaves us no lines to tug. Not professionally, anyway."
"But personally?"
"There, we may have caught a break."
He pulled out his cell phone, then slapped it down on the table, a dark image locked on the screen.
63
"Her father," Nick said, as Luke looked down at the date-stamped crime scene photo of a middle-aged man, his neck ripped open in a manner that was only too familiar.
"Armand Constantine. And eight-year-old Sara saw the whole bloody business."
"Ah, Sara," Luke said, his heart breaking for the woman she was, and for the child she had been. He could feel the daemon raging inside him, and he welcomed it. Longed for it to surface if by revealing itself he could rip the life from the vampire who had taken so much from her. "Who did this?"
"Well, friend. This is the portion of our program wherein we wonder if the universe doesn't have one hell of a sense of humor."
"Who?" Luke repeated.
"Jacob Crouch."
At the name, Luke's head shot up, his attention shifting from the image to his friend. "What did you say?"
"You heard me." He met Luke's eyes, and Luke saw the calcu
lation there. The same thoughts that had swirled through Luke's mind. The same schemes, the same plots.
"No guarantees, Luke. You might be her goddamn hero, and if you are we can get one hell of a lot of mileage off the deal. You killed her father's murderer, and she might fall to the ground and kiss your feet. But it could just as easily turn the other way. A vampire killed Daddy. A monster from the dark. And you're a vampire, Luke. Just like Crouch. To Sara Constantine, we may all be monsters."
That was, Luke knew, exactly how she thought of him. A monster who killed. A beast who'd toyed with her heart.
The wound he'd cut was deep, and he would have to work skillfully to heal it. He would be lying, though, if he didn't at least admit that he was looking forward to the process. His plan would kill whatever small thing might have begun to grow between them--he knew that, and regret cut him like a knife--but at least he would see her again. Would touch her again. Would see the soft part of her lips as she came, and feel the slick brush of her damp skin against his own.
He would use her, but the pleasure he gave her would be real. For Sara, he knew, that would make the betrayal all the worse. That, however, was a reality from which Luke couldn't escape. He had to be free, and he couldn't compromise Tasha's safety because of the whims of his heart.
"I'll make her an asset," he said, then looked up at Nick. "I need you to get me on the street." He needed to see her, needed to put these wheels in motion.
"Do you really think now is the best time? Her first day? They'll be wiring her house with security, issuing her a panic button. You show up, she pushes that button, and the gig is over."
"I have no intention of seeing her tonight," he said, only slightly regretting the lie. He wasn't going to tell Nick about his night with Sara. That much, at least, would remain pure. But without that bit of information, Nick couldn't understand why Luke wanted to go to Sara now. Why, in fact, he believed that she would see him--and that she wouldn't bring the wrath of Division down upon him.
"So, what? You're just interested in taking a stroll around town? See the sights?
Catch a movie?"
"Actually, I'm interested in having a little chat with Ural Hasik."
"Hasik might not be in a conversational mood," Nick said, but his mouth curved 64
with understanding.
"I'm sure we can find something to chat about."
Nick stood. "I'll arrange for a furlough."
"Try Judge Acquila," Luke said. "Remind him of Prague, 1874. That tussle between him and a British diplomat regarding said diplomat's daughter."
"Kind of you to have helped him sort it out," Nick said. He aimed a hard look at Luke. "Hear me well, though, Luke. I'll get him to authorize an advocate-escorted furlough for the purpose of reviewing the crime scene with my client. Three hours. And then we walk back into this detention block and they close the cage on you. We'll get you the hell out of here, but you are not escaping on my watch. I want your word."
"You have it."
"I like my privacy, and I'll not have the PEC looking into both of us."
"I'll be outside, Nick, but I won't be free. You know the drill. Escape would be next to impossible. Wasn't it Ferdinand Cristo who broke furlough last summer? His death was not a pretty thing."
"Your promise, Luke," Nick repeated.
"I swear on our friendship and our bond as kyne that I will return to this cell." But before he did, he would have his time with Sara. And though his purpose was dark, his heart still leapt at the thought of touching her again.
65
Chapter 10
Ural Hasik slammed through the double glass doors into the Quik-Stop Mart on South Figueroa, his nose twitching. He stopped, then looked around, silently daring anyone to give him grief. A human in a black leather skullcap and an oversized jersey kept his nosy ass looking in Hasik's direction a second too long. Hasik growled, the sound starting low in his throat as he bared his teeth.
The human backed away, almost knocking down a display of breakfast cereals. Fuck, yeah, you better run away, you worthless piece of human garbage. He shoved his hands into his pockets and prowled toward the counter, where a skinny wraith of a man was working the cash register.
"Can I help you?" he asked, a definite tremble to his voice.
"You can point me toward the self-service section." The elderly cashier's eyes went wide. "I--I don't think you want to go down there."
"You're telling me what I want, old man?"
"I just mean ... Your kind. Down there. It's not--"
"I'm expected," Hasik said, slapping a C-note onto the counter. Then he twisted his mouth into some version of a polite smile, his white canines gleaming under the fluorescents.
"I--Yes. Of course. This way." He stepped out from behind the counter, then shuffled to the back of the store. He paused in front of the door to the walk-in refrigerator through which the glass display cases of soda, beer, milk, and snacks were stocked.
"Through there. All the way back. There's a door. Just past the empty milk crates. Code's O-NEG."
Hasik curled his lip in a snarl, just because he didn't like the bastard, then pushed through the cold, the fine hairs that covered his body standing on end. When he reached the keypad box, he punched in the code, then slipped inside as the steel door opened. The corridor was long and damp and twisted down in a spiral pattern until it reached a small stone-hewn room three stories beneath the Quik-Stop. The walls were lined with benches, and on the benches sat at least a dozen pasty-faced bloodsuckers drinking blood through long tubes extending through the stone walls. Hasik bit back a snort of disgust. He might not have their life span, but at least he didn't have to put up with that bullshit. Two young-looking vampires stepped into the room from the underground entrance that fed into the L.A. subway system and allowed the vamps to come in and feed during the day. They eyeballed him, but he ignored their questioning glances. Not surprisingly, few werewolves ventured into vampire feeding arenas, but these two paid him little heed, moving instead to a kiosk at the far end of the room. As Hasik watched, one slid several coins in, then punched a few keys on a brightly lit pad. The kid leaned in and read the keypad, then turned to his buddy. "Gotta wait. All the stations are full."
"Damn, I'm hungry. We shoulda come yesterday. Told you I was getting in a bad 66
way."
"Almost time. You'll be fine."
"Way I feel right now, I could suck down a human." The first kid's eyebrows rose. "Whoa now, man. Don't even think about that. That's some seriously illegal shit."
The hungry kid shrugged. "I didn't say I would. I said I could. What, you think I faked the Holding? I got some serious control, dude. But, damn, it would be nice to taste something not through a goddamn straw."
"You hear about that Division judge? Throat completely ripped out."
"I know. Bad mojo, huh?"
"Worst. You ever lose control? Your daemon ever ... you know?"
"No way, man. Yours?"
A shadow passed over the kid's face, and he shrugged. "Fuck no. I'm solid."
"You'd tell me, right? I mean, you wouldn't try to work that down on your own."
"Shit, man, I told you. I'm good." The kid turned back to the kiosk, now beeping with a seat number, and their conversation died away.
Hasik sneered. Pussies. That's what they were. All that power flowing through them, and what do they do? They bottle it up.
Idiots. Working so hard to tamp down on something that would raise them to the level of gods. Didn't make any damn sense.
Not werewolves. With the rise of the full moon, the beast within burst free, and man and beast were one. It was glorious, and no way would the Weren ever subject themselves to some bullshit ritual. Confinement, yes. The damn Covenant required confinement for the protection of humans. Something else Hasik considered bullshit, but he also didn't want to end up on the gallery stage facing a leather-clad executioner. So yeah, he was willing to watch the moon and go in for confinement. Didn't mean he
liked it. And it didn't mean he did it every month ...
Shit no. And at the end of the day, he had it one hell of a lot better than the vamps.
Damn, but the little bloodsuckers gave him the willies, and now they were all looking at him, catching his scent, knowing he wasn't one of them. He bared his teeth, staring them down. He'd killed his share of vamps. Watched the surprise on their supposedly immortal faces as he whacked their heads off. No, they weren't any better than he was. Not by a long shot.
But damn if they wouldn't stop staring.
He shouldn't have come. Should have insisted she meet him someplace else, especially since he'd scanned the whole room and didn't see her. The female vamp. Gunnolf's new squeeze.
Hasik's lip curled automatically. Gunnolf, one of the key Alliance members. Gunnolf, head of the entire Therian community. Gunnolf, Hasik's friend and mentor, and the horny bastard went and hooked himself up with a female vampire. Fucking unbelievable.
Then again, Hasik wouldn't turn down a fine piece of ass like Caris, either.
"You look stupid just standing there." The female voice came from behind, and he whipped around to face her, taking in the short-cropped hair and blood-red lips. She wore a white tank top that hugged her breasts and a diaphanous white skirt that brushed the 67
ground and revealed the curve of her thighs. The outfit of an innocent, but he knew damn well this woman was anything but.
His nostrils flared--he could smell the wolf upon her, the filthy whore. "Mind your manners, bitch," he sneered.
She ignored his menace. "Hard to believe Gunnolf actually trusts you to advise him." Her green eyes narrowed. "Then again, maybe that's why he's not controlling the City of Angels. Yet."
She pressed a hand onto his arm, and he growled, low and dangerous, the sound not fazing her in the least. "You think that's it, wolf-boy? You think you're the reason Tiberius's constantly making your buddy Gunnolf take it up the ass?"
"You watch yourself."
"No," she said, her voice as low and dangerous. "You watch it. You think you have Gunnolf's ear, and maybe you do. But I've got the rest of him, and you damn well know it."