by J. K. Beck
Ironic, thought Luke, that his friend could find that one sliver of hope despite all Luke's efforts to hide it. "Don't worry," Luke said. "I know who and what she is." What she was, he thought, was dangerous. A woman who would imprison him. The same woman who freed him. Who calmed the daemon within.
Nick eyed him warily. "You know who she is," he repeated. "But don't forget who you are, too. Who you are, and what you do."
"I have not," Luke said, and the knife in his voice drew Nick up short. He drew a breath, calming his temper. "She will say nothing."
"No," Nick agreed. "She won't. Thank the gods your moment of idiocy was between you and her alone. She can't use any of your conversation in court, so I guess that's something."
Nick checked his watch. "I've got a call in to Tiberius, and I'll see what I can do about moving the bail hearing up before I go."
"Good," Luke said, his mind on Tasha. On the goblin's blood. "I need to know what happened. My enemies? Serge's?" He met Nick's eyes. "Most of all, I must know that she's okay."
"I know," his friend said, as the ogre appeared at the door. "Right on time." Luke's mind turned to Sara, surely as worried about Stemmons's victims as he was about Tasha. From within this cell, there was little he could do. But perhaps he could help in some small way.
"Wait," he said as Nick stepped out of the cell. "There's one more call I need you to make."
118
Chapter 22
The ground shivered beneath his feet, as if the dead were trying to rise, beating their way through the dirt and the mud, flesh clinging to their moldering bones as they clawed their way up, up, up to the sunshine.
And wasn't that the surprise, Serge thought. You claw your way out of hell, only to get burned in the end. What a world. What a goddamn, depressing, fucked-up world. All around him, the walls shook, and while he rather liked the fantasy that his own personal walls of Jericho were tumbling down, in fact he could blame the noise and the dust only on the New York Transit Authority. But since the MTA had donated the abandoned train tunnel in which he currently resided, he couldn't quite work up the enthusiasm to curse the blasted subway that ran only a few feet from his barren, concrete walls.
Not that the MTA was aware of its magnanimity. Serge had acquired the property in a decidedly nontraditional manner, and had thus far enforced his claim by bending the will of weak-minded humans. Granted, there were a few flaws in his overall plan, and one day he fully expected to meet a human who was not amenable to his particular methods of persuasion.
But until that unfortunate day, he was quite content to hold on to this charming Park Avenue address. A small pied-a-terre to complement his uptown high-rise. A place where he could go when he began to see the world through the eyes of the daemon. Where he could recover after a mission as kyne. Where he could call upon the Numen to release the flames and the blood that would bind the daemon once more. Because no matter how sophisticated he might look in a three-piece silk suit, the condo board had a tendency to frown when you opened a portal to hell in your living room. New York was funny that way.
Dear gods, he was losing it.
He pressed his hands to the sides of his head and pushed, letting the pressure build. He'd killed men with those same hands in that same method. Could he press hard enough to end his own life? To end this now? All of this? And most of all--goddammit-the urge to claw his way back up to street level, get his ass back to his condo, and fuck the brains out of the girl whom his best friend had entrusted into his care?
No, no, no.
He'd left. He'd brought in a goblin to stay with her, and then he'd left. At least he'd had the presence of mind to call for Graylach. The creature was a fat, lazy slob, but he'd watch the girl. Keep her company. And as goblins found the human form utterly unattractive, he'd be immune to Tasha's allure. A damn good thing, because she was certainly trying Serge's patience. He wanted. Wanted. And the daemon wouldn't be denied.
The steady jangle of the signal bell came just in time to save Serge from pacing another lap. He hurried to the door--thick wood with ornate carvings he'd acquired from a nearby church two decades prior--and pulled it open. The woman standing in the dank 119
tunnel looked sickly in the grim yellow light that barely illuminated the subway engineering tunnel. But when he pulled her inside, he couldn't say that the incandescent lighting of his hallway favored her much better.
She had fuchsia hair that had been coated with so much gel it stood out from her head like railroad spikes, and most likely with as much strength. Her skin was so pale her freckles appeared to float in front of her, as if leading the way. Dark shadows rimmed her eyes, accentuated by the thick line of kohl. She wore a white tank top with no bra, through which he could see quarter-sized brown nipples on breasts that would have been more appropriate on a thirteen-year-old. Hiphugger-style jeans shifted on her body as she moved, as if trying to find some actual hip to in fact hug.
The girl was so utterly emaciated that she could have passed as a runway model, a breed of women Serge found uniquely unattractive. He couldn't recall the specific date when women had collectively begun to despise their natural curves, but he rued that day nonetheless.
"I'm here," she said, and took another step into his foyer. "God, what a nightmare that was. Least you tossed out some good directions. But I gotta say, this place is pretty damn frosty."
"I'm thrilled you approve." He had once spent an entire week acquiring and installing the flagstones that led from the entrance into the living area. He had done it because it pleased him, though no one else would see the stones. To know that this creature was sharing even an iota of the pleasure he'd felt seemed almost more obscene than the reason he'd called her to him in the first place.
An army surplus-style backpack dangled from one anorexic arm. The inside of her left elbow was bruised from fresh puncture wounds. If it was sore, she showed no sign.
"So, anyway, like, here we are," she said, swinging the bag off her shoulder. She reached inside and pulled out a long coil of plastic tubing, along with a needle and an empty IV bag. "You into suck or puncture?" she asked. "Oh, and I guess John-O told you my rates, right? And I don't do more than two pints. Makes me too damn woozy, you know?"
Considering that he doubted she had two pints of blood in her entire tiny body, he certainly did know.
"I suck," he said, making her smile. "And we can set up in the backroom." He waved a hand, pointing her toward the heavy steel door.
"Whoa, Nellie," she said, as she stepped inside, and he knew that she was looking at the manacles chained to the walls. "You can really get the kink on in here, huh?"
"I can indeed," he said, following her more slowly, letting the anticipation build.
"I've found it's safer this way. You don't mind if I am bound?"
"Hey, you jump all over that safety thing. That's fine with me. I just do what the client wants. But let's be straight here, ya know? I make my living selling this," she said, gesturing to her body. "Pretty much any way you want it. I don't do drugs, and if you want a fuck, you gotta put some jammies on your hammie. But that's about as safe as I get, you know? I mean, hell, if I wanted to play it safe, I coulda got a job waiting tables. Let some wanker grab your tits, and he'll double the tip, too."
"You don't have any tits."
She snorted, then slapped her thigh. "Aren't you a funny dude? Funny 120
bloodsucker. Heh. Maybe you oughta do stand-up or something?"
"I'll look into it right away."
"So what's your deal, anyway? This some sort of religious thing for you? I mean, I know the whole vampire cult thing's all the rage, but I mean, gross me out on the drinking human blood."
"It's extremely nutritious, I assure you. And no, it's not a religious thing." He tilted his head, examining her even as she examined her nails. "Has John-O never told you about your clients?"
"What? Other than you guys are all freaks?"
"Yes," he said dryly. He suppressed a shiver of pl
easure at the thought of tasting her, the feel of her blood flowing over his tongue. His cock twitched in anticipation and he couldn't understand his need to engage in this pointless conversation. But if he didn't, the daemon would be harder to restrain, harder to control, and he was barely hanging on as it was. "Other than that."
"Nah. He just says it's more interesting than selling plasma. Pays better, too." She glanced at the wall, at the manacles that dangled there. "So, like, is that for you or for me?"
"For me," he said, amused by the mix of relief and disappointment that danced across her face. "Unless you'd like the honors?"
A brief hesitation, then she shook her head. "Better not. Wouldn't want you to lose your natural rhythm, what-o?"
"What-o, indeed."
With her rather eager assistance, he was soon stripped naked and manacled to the walls. Steel cuffs, and strong. But not too strong. He wanted to be bound--to keep the faunt who came so trusting to his door safe.
And yet there was a part of him ...
Well, that part insisted on steel and not hematite. Less sport, perhaps. But the potential for so much more satisfaction.
"So, like, you got no free arms. How you going to hold the tube?"
"The tube?" He was spread-eagled on the wall, arms and ankles bound tight. Certainly no threat to anyone at the moment. And still the girl licked her lips, took a tiny, apprehensive step backward.
"Yeah." She held up the plastic tubing, the bag, and the needle. "Whatcha gonna do? Just clench it between your teeth?"
"I'm sure the experience would be delightful, but that is not where I find my pleasure." No, he found it in the flesh. The skin beneath his mouth. And that sweet moment of hesitation before the flesh was punctured and the blood ran free. It was forbidden, of course. What he wanted. To puncture a human ... it was a crime, and yet he wanted it still.
"So what you thinking about?" she asked, looking at his crotch, where his cock had sprung to attention, quite in anticipation of the main event. "What's getting you all hot and bothered?"
"You are, of course," he said.
"Yeah?" She strutted toward him, then pressed her finger to his lip and drew it down, down, down, then flicked the end of it hard on his cock. He winced, with both surprise and pleasure--and knew then that he would have this one. 121
She laughed, satisfied, and danced back away from him, her expression teasing. He could tease as well. "Let us play a little game."
"Yeah?"
"Drop the bag. Drop the tube. Drop the needle."
She did.
"Now come to me."
She took one step, then hesitated, her eyes narrowed. "John-O said I shouldn't--"
"Am I not strapped to a wall? What harm can come from indulging a bound man?"
"Well ..."
He met her eyes, looked deep ... and let his will be done.
"No harm," she said, easing closer, the seductive smile ridiculous on her pixie face and brightly colored hair.
"No harm," he agreed. "Come closer."
She did, pressing herself to him, one hand closing around his shaft. She stroked him in a slow, practiced motion that had him groaning, fighting the urge to let her finish. But no. He had other plans for her, and in a low voice, he told her. She looked at him, and for a moment he thought the hold would snap. Thought he would have to change into mist, transform to chase her down. He didn't want to. The shackles, though illusory, kept the daemon at bay. A reminder, he supposed, that he'd once won. Once upon a time, he'd beaten the daemon back fiercely. Besides, he got off on it. On being exposed to them. Vulnerable to them. Because he so wasn't vulnerable.
This one, though. This one wasn't cooperating. Instead, she was squirming in his arms, fear in her eyes. The fear that came with understanding. In finally realizing what he meant to do.
He'd told her, of course. But until this moment, she hadn't believed. Concede.
She sighed, long and languid, as the suggestion filled her mind. Then she tilted her head to the side, exposing her neck for him. So white, so smooth. Like marble, and yet not. Pliant and delicious and living. Pumping with life. Pumping with blood. He breathed deep, letting her scent envelop him, letting the pressure build within until he was certain he would come when the first drop of her blood touched his tongue. And then, when he could stand it no longer, he sank his fangs deep into her throat, his entire body convulsing with pleasure as the blood began to flow. Ecstasy.
This was it. What he needed. What he'd been craving.
But it still wasn't enough.
He needed to taste the tang of fear in her blood. Needed it to bring him out, to pull him through.
Had to have it.
Now.
The bond between them snapped, and the instant it did, she screamed. And inside Serge, the wakening daemon stretched and preened and took one step closer to freedom. 122
hapter 23
"You banging him?"
The words, cold and harsh, seemed to slam up against Sara as she moved through the Division hallway toward her office. She whipped around to find herself facing a lanky man--she assumed he was a man--with a craggy, weatherworn face and the kind of broad shoulders that suggested tight muscles and latent strength hidden beneath the ill-fitting clothes. He walked with a swagger that suggested an old-time sheriff, and his eyes were cold and flat.
"Oh, wait," he said, stepping up and getting in her face. "You're a human. Not really his type. So maybe you just like his pretty face. Or maybe you're just stupid enough to do the bastard favors."
Nothing about his appearance sparked her recognition, and yet she was certain she knew who this man was. "Agent Doyle, I presume?"
"In the flesh."
"You always skip the introductions and go straight for the insult?"
"Only when it's appropriate."
Because his insult skirted very near the truth, she took the time to consider her response, disguising her discomfiture with a sharp assessment of him and his companion. Whereas Doyle had a no-nonsense vibe about him, his partner, Severin Tucker, lived up to his rep as an easygoing ladies' man. Or his appearance did.
"I'm tired, Agent. I've barely slept. And in case you didn't get the memo, Dragos's bail hearing's been moved to tonight."
She still couldn't believe that bit of news. Apparently Luke really did have connections, because the word had come down all the way from Leviathin that the hearing was being bumped up. Lovely. Maybe she'd sleep next month. Doyle's eyes cut to Tucker, who shook his head. Barely a millimeter, but Sara caught it, and she understood.
"Sorry, boys." She tapped her head. "Can't poke around in here." She aimed a sweet smile at Tucker. "I've heard about your special skills."
"I've heard about yours, too. Figured I had to try, anyway. No offense?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "That depends. You two going to keep riding my ass?"
"Why don't you tell us what you were doing sprinting to Division in the middle of the night? Especially after what he did to that girl at your pool?"
"I didn't know about her at the time," she admitted. "How did you find out?" Doyle moved away, then leaned casually against the wall, giving off the appearance of a benign man having a simple conversation with a colleague. But there was nothing benign about Ryan Doyle. She could see the danger bubbling beneath the surface. She imagined that edge made him an exceptional investigator--not to mention a tireless opponent.
"Human police band. The address popped as yours."
123
"All right," she said, because so far he was making perfect sense. "But there's still no straight line that connects me and Annie and Lucius Dragos."
"The hell there isn't." He reached out his hand, and Tucker slapped a PDA into it. He passed the PDA to Sara.
She peered at the small screen, then let out a small gasp at the image of Luke, battered on the steps of the pool, and Annie moving in close to him.
"Smile," Doyle said. "That fuckwad's on candid camera."
"Got him dead to rights
on this," Tucker said. "Drawing from a human. Feeding a human. Big no-nos for vamps. Brings the daemon too close to the surface." She lifted her gaze from the image, remembering the hint of the daemon she'd seen on Luke's face before he'd fled her apartment.
"Evil bastards," Doyle said. "Tricky, too. Daemons know how to play. How to tease. Even how to lay low. And don't be so naive as to think a vamp's ever really got his daemon under control," he added, his color rising. "That may be the politically correct party line, but it's a bunch of bullshit, and everyone in the Shadow world damn well knows it. The daemon can't be controlled-- won't be controlled. And when it comes out, it's like a visitation straight from hell."
Sara shivered, then realized she'd been hugging herself. Tucker, she saw, had moved closer to his partner, who shook his head violently, then turned away. Personal, she thought. The daemon might be real, but it was also damn personal to Doyle.
"So how did you get this? There aren't security cameras on the pool deck." Tucker snorted. "Two vamps live in your building. You think the PEC doesn't have some surveillance of its own?"
She frowned, her gaze dipping back down to that image. An image of Luke, with his mouth on Annie's neck.
She tore her eyes away, ignoring that fresh burst of absurd jealousy, the same that she'd felt when he'd told her the story. Dear God, he was feeding on the girl. Sara didn't want that. How could she want that?
"So you'll use this, right?" Tucker asked. "At the hearing?"
"Of course she will," Doyle said, looking at her hard. "I'd say this is some pretty solid proof that Dragos is a danger to the community. Wouldn't you, Counselor?" She hesitated, weighing her options.
"It is," she finally said. "And yes, we'll use it." She told herself that she wasn't crossing any lines by doing so. After all, Doyle had learned about Annie and Luke all on his own, and none of what he learned was within the purview of the off-the-record conversation she'd had with Luke.