by Michele Hauf
He pulled back. “A tattoo. Product of a misspent youth.”
“It’s raised.” Her voice was curious, but not suspicious. He wished his eyes would adjust and allow him to see her expression.
“Vampires react differently to tattooing. I’m surprised werewolves don’t too.”
She didn’t reply. He took that as a sign that she’d accepted his answer. Hoping that was the case, he knelt and felt for the spot where he had hidden the key to the cuffs. With the key hidden in his palm, he sat back onto the bed and closed his eyes, waiting for them to adjust.
He could feel anxiety flowing from her. She paced, or tried to. The cuffs kept her from moving more than a foot from his side.
Finally, she turned and growled. “You have to take these off of me sometime.” She lifted her hand, pulling his arm up also.
He let her.
The ache had subsided in his head, and his eyes no longer burned. With a sigh, he opened them. The pain didn’t return.
The werewolf stood beside him, one hand on her hip, one hand held out toward him as if she were considering striking him.
“I intend to.” He opened his fist and showed her the key.
Her growl growing louder, she reached for the key.
He snapped his fingers closed and moved his arm to the left, making it impossible for her to reach the key, not without throwing herself on top of him.
Which he wouldn’t mind, not even a little. He waited again, half hoping she would do what the stiff line of her body told him she was considering―throw herself on him and attempt to wrestle the key from his grasp.
When she didn’t, he sat the key on the bed beside him and stared up at her. “Someone killed your friend. We should figure out who.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, or tried to. The cuff around her left wrist kept her from completing the motion.
“I want to trust you. With the two of us working together, we can cover more ground, each talk to people the other can’t. If we work together we can find out the truth, not just what the vampires or the werewolves want to be true.”
Her gaze had shifted, from him to a spot on the wall.
“Can I trust you? Do you want to know the truth?” he asked.
She licked her lips and her nostrils flared, but her expression was guarded. He had no way of knowing what she was thinking.
“Vampires aren’t dead,” she said.
Her observation surprised him. He wasn’t sure if it was a comment or a question.
“We never claimed to be,” he replied. He kept his tone light, but not without effort. Even after two hundred years in this state suspended between life and death, it was a topic he avoided—that, as far as he knew, all vampires avoided. He grabbed the key and twisted his body so his feet rested on the floor. “The term is, I believe, undead.”
She nodded, but didn’t seem to be listening to what he was saying. Her mind was elsewhere.
“But the light. That part is true, at least partially.”
“That it destroys my kind? You saw me in the day. You know better.”
“But it weakens you, doesn’t it?”
The key digging into his palm, he stood. “Why? Are you planning to off some vampires? Be warned, you wouldn’t be the first to think trapping us in the day would be an easy venture. But you’d be wrong. We’re used to being despised, hunted, destroyed. There are entire families bred and raised to kill our kind. And why? Because we remind them of what they could become, of their own weaknesses.”
He stopped himself from saying more, plucked at his fang with his tongue instead. He’d said too much, given away too much.
But she only tilted her head to the side, making it appear she was actually considering his words.
“Werewolves too. We don’t have slayers, but we have hunters. Hunting wolves, blaming wolves for being wolves. If they realized some of those wolves had started as humans it wouldn’t matter. It might even make the hunt more fun.”
A shadow crossed her face and for a moment they only stood together sharing what few other creatures could...the haunting feeling of being hunted by what had once been your own kind.
“I didn’t move you.”
Startled, he tilted his head toward her.
“While you were...out...I didn’t look for the door or a window.”
His gaze darted to the floor beneath them.
She waved off the challenge. “Okay, I thought about it. How couldn’t I have?” She raised her hand and shook her arm so the cuffs bounced up and down. “You trapped me and carried me here, but I didn’t drag you to the door. I didn’t try to open it. I didn’t try to destroy you.”
“And you could have,” he murmured. He had padlocked the door, but with only a steel lock. Werewolves were preternatural creatures. He hadn’t known for sure that she wouldn’t be able to break through the door, at least enough to allow light into the room. Which, she was right, would have weakened him more. And then she could have broken a piece off the wooden headboard, fashioned her own stake and been done with him completely.
Staring at her now, he realized how stupid of a risk he had taken. Except it hadn’t been, because she hadn’t even looked for the door and somehow he’d known that she wouldn’t.
“The pack wouldn’t approve of you harboring a killer,” he added.
She tensed and immediately he regretted reminding her that she had accused him of killing her pack mate.
She started to turn, but key in hand, he stopped her. He slipped it into the lock and let the cuffs fall onto the ground.
For a moment, she rubbed her wrist and said nothing.
He picked up the cuffs and slipped them into his back pocket.
He held up the key. She didn’t reach for it, but he extended his hand anyway. Suspicion clear on her face, she took the tiny tool and shoved it into the front pocket of her pants.
“Partners?” he asked.
Her hand inside her pocket with the key, she met his gaze. “In answer to your question, no, the pack wouldn’t approve.” She turned and walked to the door. She grabbed the padlock in one hand and twisted. The metal bent and broke. Then she dropped the useless lock onto the floor, turned her back to the door and slid to a crouch. “How long until dusk?” she asked.
“Under an hour,” he replied.
She nodded. “Good, and tomorrow you’re on your own.”
He walked across the room and sat beside her. “Fair enough.” His idea that they could work together, stop new trouble from building between the vampires and the wolves, had been naive. He’d need a new plan, one he could implement on his own. He would play along with whatever act she put out and pretend he thought they were working together, if she acted as if they were. But he wouldn’t believe her. He couldn’t.
A good inch of space between them, they sat together in silence, waiting. His hand dropped to the broken lock. He tossed it up and down in his hand, wondering if she could have done the same wearing the silver-laced cuffs, wishing he really could trust her, and wondering why he’d given her the key at all.
He was smarter than that. Smarter than a lot of things he’d done, risked, since meeting this female.
It was just as well that he’d realized his suggestion they work together was foolish. She just might have been his final mistake.
Chapter 9
At dusk, Marc had stood and opened the door for CeCe. She’d said she needed to get her phone from the woods and call the pack, report in so they wouldn’t send others to check on her.
He didn’t believe her that she wouldn’t tell them of Russell’s death and that a vampire might be involved, but he couldn’t keep her chained to his side forever, and the alternative, killing her to hide a murder he didn’t commit, was ludicrous. He would just do his best to cover his
own bases and prepare the Fringe for the stories that were about to come. And then he’d go back to his purpose for being here―finding the treasure.
“Two hours...at the diner.” It would be plenty of time for her to betray him.
“Vampires eat?” she asked, one foot outside the door, one foot still on his side of the threshold.
Surprised by her question, he answered, “Vampires do whatever it takes to survive.” A sad, bald truth.
“To blend, you mean.”
Her answer annoyed him. He didn’t like that to survive he had to pretend to be something he wasn’t. He started to push the door shut, but she placed a hand on his chest, halting his forward movement. His gaze lowered. Her fingers spread out, but just for a moment. Then she snatched her hand back.
“You’ll be by yourself?” she muttered, her gaze dropping to her now-curled fingers.
“Of course. There are no other vampires here.” None that he knew of.
His tattoo throbbed, reminding him of the call he needed to make. His check-in was overdue. Still, he took a moment to ask, “And you? Will you be alone? No other wolves?”
She stared at the dark street. A wind had formed since they had left the woods. A paper cup rattled through the parking lot that lay to the north of his temporary home. The light for the motel was out. The innkeeper had most likely left early. The odds that the concrete-cube rooms had sold out were slim.
CeCe looked back. Some strange emotion floated behind her eyes—sorrow or resolve. Marc couldn’t place it.
“I’ll be alone.” Then she walked into the wind. It lifted her hair and tore at her clothes, and she tilted her face to meet it.
She looked strong and confident. Marc would never have pegged her for being afraid of something as mundane as the dark.
Within minutes she’d turned a corner and was gone.
Reluctantly, he closed the door.
Alone again. It was a vampire’s lot.
His tattoo tingled. He placed his hand over it, applying pressure to lessen the throb. Then he walked to the bed and pulled a laptop from under the mattress where he had hidden it.
After plugging the computer into an outlet and establishing an internet connection, he made his call.
“Marc. It’s past time for you to check in. Have you found the treasure?”
Marc recognized the face on the screen immediately. Rudolph Van Bom, one of the oldest and most revered of vampires. But Van Bom wasn’t an active part of the Fringe, not any longer. He shouldn’t have answered the call.
“Rudolph. This is a surprise.” Marc didn’t like surprises.
“These are surprising times,” the older vampire countered. He was dressed in long-sleeved workout gear, the type that was advertised as wicking away sweat, not that a vampire needed the feature. The room was dark and shallow with no decorations to give Marc a clue as to where the vampire was while taking the call.
“True.” Marc paused. He’d called to report on what had happened, prepare the Fringe for whatever rage the werewolves leveled at them. He’d hoped to talk with Andre Moreau, who was known as a diplomat, at least as far as vampires went, but seeing Van Bom caused him to reconsider. Van Bom was old and powerful, but he was also harsh and quick to judge.
“You are back with the Fringe,” he stated.
“Did I leave? Have things changed? I thought the only escape from the Fringe was a trip into the sun or an embrace with a stake. At least that was the pledge those of us who founded it made.” Van Bom plucked some kind of red ball from his desk and squeezed it. The toy disappeared in the vampire’s grip, only to expand again as he opened his fingers.
“No, that hasn’t changed, but you have been—”
“Absent? Not from my own choice; it seemed I was unneeded.” There was no malice in the words, but something about them pricked at Marc. He had assumed the vampire, as old as he was, had no interest in the drudgery that came with being a member of the Fringe, hunting their own, executing orders and vampires.
“Your connections and knowledge are impressive,” Marc replied. “The Fringe is lucky to have you.” The words were placating, but also true.
The older vamp made a dismissive noise and sat the ball on his desk in front of him. “Even among vampires there is little that can replace age and experience. It is our only source of real power.”
“Very true.” Marc glanced at the door where CeCe had left earlier. Van Bom might well have insight into why the werewolf Russell had been staked, and the vampire had been active during the war. He might know if the stories of werewolves being staked then were true. If they were, there might be some tie to the wolf here.
Marc stared back at the computer, weighing his words.
Van Bom’s eyes glimmered. He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. “Did you find the treasure? Tell.”
It was an order, but Marc was under no compulsion to comply. However, he’d already decided to use the older vampire as much as he risked, but he would start slow, with something else that had been nagging at him.
“I need some information.” Marc paused. “On weapons.”
The older vampire raised a brow. “Weapons? What type of weapon? Have you found something?” The vampire’s voice rose and he edged closer to his computer screen.
“Only this.” Marc held up the handcuffs he’d used on CeCe.
Van Bom’s eyes shuttered. “Cuffs? Not that unusual.”
“There is silver in them.” Marc dropped them onto the bed.
“Silver, like from the war?” Van Bom twisted his lips to the side.
“Yes.”
“There’s more. Tell me.”
Marc hesitated, but he had gone this far. He had no choice but to finish the tale. “A werewolf has turned up dead.”
“A werewolf? How?”
His gaze steady, Marc answered, “He was staked.”
“Staked?” Van Bom pushed himself back then leaned forward again. There was no missing the excitement in his eyes. “Did you find him? Did you find the weapon?”
“No. The stake was missing, but the werewolf wasn’t here alone. He was with a female. She blames me for the death.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No, of course not.”
Van Bom shrugged. “Worse things have happened. Why are you telling me this?”
Annoyed that the other vampire seemed to think Marc was wasting his time, Marc growled. “She will tell her pack, claim I broke one of the three laws, maybe two.”
“Two?”
“A human is dead too, but the police have termed it natural causes, a heart attack.”
“So no crime there.” Van Bom seemed to accept that it would all be that simple, no problem because he didn’t wish it to be. “You need to get back to your job. Find the treasure. Do you think this female may have it? Could she have killed the other wolf?”
“No, but she is...” Marc clenched his jaw, strangely unwilling to share details about CeCe with Van Bom.
“She is what?”
“Different.”
“Different? How?” Again Van Bom leaned closer.
“Her smell...do wolves smell of spice like a vampire?”
A smile curved Van Bom’s lips, but it was fleeting. “Not that I’ve heard. Perhaps it is just her perfume.”
Perhaps, but Marc didn’t think so. He was old enough to distinguish between a natural scent and one applied from a bottle.
“What else?”
“Nothing, except...” He thought of her long sleeves in one-hundred-plus heat and how she had reacted when he had Russell’s blood on his hand. He knew the pack had reacted too; knew that connection meant something. “Nothing,” he confirmed.
“You’re
sure?”
It was obvious Van Bom didn’t believe him, but Marc wasn’t concerned with the fact. Van Bom would take what information Marc chose to give him.
After a moment, Van Bom grunted and reached for his mouse. “Then do what you were sent there to do. Find the treasure.”
Before he could cut the connection, Marc replied. “There’s more I need to ask.”
Van Bom paused, his hand hovering.
“During the war, there was talk of werewolves being staked. Is it true?”
Van Bom seemed uninterested. “There are better weapons to use on a werewolf. Silver.”
Marc knew, of course, that weapons targeted at werewolves always contained silver, but he hadn’t considered whether the stake that had killed Russell would have. “Have you ever heard of a silver stake?”
Van Bom’s brows lowered. His impatience with the questions was clear on his face. He waved one bony hand. “Wives’ tale. I don’t know who created it.”
Marc waited. He hadn’t mentioned any specific stake or story.
After an annoyed pause, Van Bom continued. “During the war there was talk of a weapon, a stake. The werewolves claimed it was created by a female who was bitten as a teen. She was in love with a vampire, but the wolf stole her. Changed her. After that, of course, the vampire would have nothing to do with her.”
Of course not. The other vampires wouldn’t have allowed it.
“She hated both groups.” Van Bom tapped his fingers against the desktop. He looked back at Marc. “And, according to the werewolves, she created a weapon that could be used to kill both werewolves and vampires.”
“A silver stake,” Marc filled in.
Van Bom lifted his chin in agreement.
“But the stake was nothing special.”
“So, it was real?”
“Real, but mundane. There was no magic in it.”
Marc hadn’t mentioned magic. He glanced at the older vampire, wondering at the statement, but the extra embellishment wasn’t important. What mattered was a silver stake did exist or had.