Fire is Magic: A Vampire Romance (Hearts of Dagon Book 3)

by Alix Adale

  At the rental company, he picked out an Audi RS-7. That model that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, but its 600-horsepower engine could get them out of trouble. They might need the horses if Malmardane or any lycans gave chase. Seventeen hours on the road stretched ahead, but there was nothing else for it. Taking turns driving, it wouldn’t be so bad. And another night together—no. Not with Malmardane out there, somehow able to track them. Better they keep on driving through the night, not stopping until they reached Braden House on the coast.

  As they drove, they talked. It was his turn to share his life story, and he did. It was easier talking to her than any other mortal woman because he didn’t have to lie. “Got turned in the Napoleonic Wars,” he said, guiding the car around a big rig. “Ferdinand Braden was my commanding officer. What I didn’t know was that he was also a vampire.”

  “Damn, Dreck. You old.”

  “I know it.”

  She fiddled with the radio. “You don’t have an English accent like your Queen?”

  A good observation. “It’s safer to pick up the local twang, becomes second nature after a while. Unless you’re Ursula, holding onto the past.”

  The radio didn’t offer much except commercials and revivals. “How can a vampire pretend to be some old-timey soldier?” she asked. “Was he in some sort of special night-fighting corps?”

  Not missing a beat, this one. “I wondered that myself, for a long, long time. The truth is, he had a magic artifact that let him walk in the sun.”

  “Now you got one too. And those two clan mates of yours.”

  He nodded. “I’m surprised they gave one to that punk, I never saw him before in my life. He can’t be more than a month old. I last saw Cherise back in Bend, Oregon, and she didn’t have this Burke character with her then. Seems like a waste to give sun-walker gems to punk kids that might get killed. Those things are rare shit.”

  Her features took on a thoughtful cast. “These artifacts wouldn’t happen to be gemstones, about so big, kinda orangish-yellow?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know? They’re called nanorians.”

  “Once in a while, we find a gemstone in the ash heap of a dead vampire. But that can’t be right. Why would the sun turn them into ash if they had one of those stones?”

  The urge not to answer filled him. This was a dangerous game. Something could happen still that would turn her against him. The idea of a slayer, even an ex-slayer, walking around knowing the secrets of the Underworld didn’t sit right. But neither did lying to her. “These nanorians—they don’t all do the same thing. They are the hearts of demons, imbued with magic power. The ones we have let us walk in the sun. But there are rumors of other kinds. I don’t know, I’m no magician.”

  She nodded and they drove on in silence.

  They crossed the Idaho panhandle and entered eastern Washington. It was another dry and treeless region that belied the common notion of an evergreen Pacific Northwest. The forests were on the coasts. Up here was still lycan country, even if the Queen of Dagon claimed to rule it. On the open road, they were more likely to get sideswiped by a semi-truck than encounter rogue vampires or angry lycans. But it paid to stay vigilant.

  Jordan drove onward, the mile markers ticking off the intervals of a comfortable silence. The wheels churned and the A/C hummed. At length, she spoke. “It’s for the best.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Me, retiring. I mean, I got a six-month sabbatical, but like I said, I doubt I’m going back.”

  “So don’t.”

  “I owe them so much. Brother Harlan most of all, but he’s dead. But I also owe Father de la Sierra and the whole Order. They made me what I am.”

  “What are you going to do, stay? Change the system from within?”

  He meant it as a joke, but she scratched her chin, considering it. “No, that will never work. On top of that, I’m losing my mojo.”

  “Your mojo?”

  “That knack of detecting the supernatural. It’s getting harder and harder to tell normals from the Blooded, or lycans for that matter.”

  “How’d you lose it?”

  She shrugged. “Getting older. Happens to every slayer in her late twenties or early thirties. Happening a little sooner for me, I guess. The last vestige of adolescent talent. Fades like beauty and acting jobs.”

  “Nuts to that. You’re a handsome woman.”

  “Aren’t you the sweet talker?”

  “Bah.” He unfolded the map, again searching for a route that would take them around Portland. For now, he’d give Ursula’s city a wide berth.

  He woke up hours later. They were south of Portland, making their way toward the Oregon-California border. The Audi made excellent time and his credit card took care of gasoline for the car, food and drink for her, and a bit of raw meat and butcher’s blood for him. But it wasn’t enough. He hungered and they had no blood packs. Soon, though. Just needed to get to Port Selkie.

  Noticing him awake, Jordan glanced over. “How you doing?”

  “All right. You still good for driving?”

  “I’m good. A couple hours left to go. I’ll take the rest.”

  “Okay.” He rubbed his face, double-checking the cooler for blood but it was all gone. He contented himself with a can of V-8 juice. The tomato taste reminded him of the masking agents they used to disguise the sickly-sweet taste of stolen blood. It didn’t fool his body for long.

  Watching him with amusement, she asked: “How many Bradens are there? I’m going to meet them, right?”

  “Armando, Colin, and me are the elders. Ferdinand was our sire.”

  “And the others?”

  “Cherise, Desiree, that Burke punk, and some other new fledglings.”

  “One big happy family.”

  Not always, but the word fit. Kind of. “It’s better than a religious order dedicated to murder. Sorry, that sounded harsh. We’re past that now.”

  “Yes, we are. And you’re not wrong.” She frowned at the winding road ahead. “You’re not wrong.”

  He checked the GPS and clock. They should hit Port Selkie by dawn.

  Two dogs came bounding across the long, gravel driveway, eager to greet them. Mustard led the way, followed by a gangly Dalmatian puppy with a green collar. He’d never seen that dog before either, but Mustard’s presence was a good sign. Kit must be here.

  Jordan knelt and let the dog embrace her. The porch light came on and the front door opened, two figures emerging—Kit and Armando. Kit rushed over and hugged Jordan. The two women fell to talking.

  Armando strode forward, a grin plastered across his thirty-something, party-boy face. His black velvet shirt looked like clubbing wear and his eyes showed tell-tale traces of redness. Yet he remained alert and upright, a smile of greeting painted across his face. “George, you old dog!”

  Good to see a friendly face for a change. “How you doing, Armando?”

  “Good, good,” said his brother-in-blood, wrapping an arm over his shoulder and leading him out of earshot of the others. “You run off to find our sire’s killer, but instead you bring us women. You horny goat!”

  It wasn’t like that, at least not with Kit. How to explain? He shot a look back at the women. They were playing with the dogs now, laughing without a care in the world. “The werefox is a friend.”

  “Tell me,” continued Armando, increasing his grip. The other man’s voice dropped to a hiss. The arm draped around his neck tightened. “Why did you invite a vampire slayer to our home?”

  Oh shit. Someone had talked—Kit or Cherise. He raised a hand. “It’s not as bad as it—”

  Armando’s fist shot out, catching him under the chin, off-guard. “Liar!”

  Struck by his own brother! The blow staggered him and he dropped to his knees. “What the hell, Armando?”

  “You will destroy everything we’ve built!” The clan elder stood above him, fists raised.

  “I’m the one searching for Ferdinand’s killer! You do nothing but sit in Brade
n House smoking weed!”

  “And what have you found apart from lycans and vampire slayers—enemies of our kind?”

  All the others had stopped and stared. Colin, Desiree, and a couple other Bradens stood on the porch, horror-struck by the confrontation.

  For their parts, Jordan and Kit also froze. By now, he recognized their fighting stances. Both were backing up in tiny movements, ready to run—or fight.

  Armando’s words were both true and false. Dreck clambered to his feet, wiped his chin. “Ferdinand’s dead. These are my friends. They helped me escape Moog’s circus. I would be dead without them. You want to hurt them, you go through me. Got it?”

  Armando stared him down hard, his gaze as unfriendly as the barrel of a gun. Dreck eyed him back. After a tense moment, his brother stuck out a hand. “Welcome home.”

  Dreck shook. “Thanks. Now, let’s call Ursula and get some answers.”

  Chapter 15: Braden House

  Jordan

  These vampires lived like genuine humans in an actual house, not in some filthy underground nest. Because face it, they were people, same as her.

  Braden House was a two-story Victorian mansion on a hill with sweeping views of the gray Pacific. The whole spread was roughly twenty acres of lawns and woodlands, screened by woods and fences and reached by a winding, private drive. Malmardane’s lair in Oklahoma had been an abandoned missile silo. Other nests she’d burned out included crypts, sewers, and subterranean lairs strewn with bones and blood. This was genuine real estate. It belonged in a housekeeping magazine, not a grimoire.

  Dreck had already gone inside to confer with his other clan mates, so a woman named Desiree showed her and Ingrid the mansion grounds. This Desiree was short and curvy, dark-haired and pasty. Dressed in a plus-sized t-shirt, tights, and beret, she looked like an inoffensive art student, not a fearsome predator from the Underworld. Mustard and the puppy tagged along, wagging their tails.

  “… and Colin and Rowan live in the bungalow on the beach,” Desiree was saying, “while the rest of us are up in the house. Even in a house as big as this, it can get crowded. And if George is back too…” She brightened as they stopped in front of a tree-swing facing the sea. “Here’s the famous love seat. Every morning, my special guy and I cuddle in the chair.”

  Words were going in one ear and out the other. Jordan exhaled long and hard. “Look, I’m sorry. This is all fascinating, but I’m not good company right now.”

  “What’s wrong?” Ingrid asked. “We escaped the Circus. Our troubles are over.”

  “Yours are. But as long as Malmardane lives and breathes, I’m not done.”

  “Who’s Malmardane?” their guide asked.

  Innocent sounding question. And this Desiree woman looked oblivious. She also lacked that creepy, know-it-all attitude of Dreck’s other clan mate, that Cherise. This woman’s demeanor sent no spiders tiptoeing up and down the spine. Jordan sucked in her breath, exhaled. “Malmardane is a … demon. I’m what you might call a demon hunter.”

  Desiree shot a nervous glance at the katana. “Armando called you a vampire slayer. I never met a slayer before. You’re not going to kill us, are you?”

  “No. You all aren’t that different from lycans, or regular people for that matter. Some are good, some are bad.”

  “That’s so true!” said Dez. “I never asked for this life, but it’s what I am now so I make the best of it.”

  Jordan let out a breath. “It’s fine. I’ve … made an adjustment.”

  “Walk away,” said Ingrid. “I did. You can do it too.”

  Easier said than done. Jordan frowned. “The Order threw you out on account of being a lycan.”

  “I meant the Circus of Blood. I can’t believe I left. But I did. It’s over.”

  “Ran away, you mean.”

  Ingrid giggled. “Drove away. Real fast!”

  True. In spite of herself, Jordan smiled. She put a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Yeah. And I’m glad.”

  “Jordan.” Dreck’s voice came from the porch. “Can you come inside? It’s time to talk to the Queen.”

  “Coming.”

  Dreck led her into a media room in the basement. A conference table faced a large flat-screen hanging on the wall. Brother Harlan would’ve loved this place. They could kick back and watch some Cheers reruns like they used to. Sometimes you wanted to go where everybody knows your name. This house had that kind of vibe—for the vampires. Not for her.

  The homey feeling faded as Dreck’s brothers glanced up from the table with hostile looks. Cherise leaned against a wall, arms crossed, looking smug. Worst of all, Queen Ursula stared out from the massive video screen, eyes tracking Jordan’s entrance into the room. The Queen sat on a throne in some undisclosed location, wearing an antique gown and—preposterous!—a genuine diadem in her hair, studded with gems. The Queen looked silly. What was this, A Game of Thrones?

  “Fabulous,” said the Queen, her voice flooding out of a state-of-the-art surround sound system. “One vampire hunter in the flesh.”

  What? How did she know? Jordan froze mid-step, preparing to run.

  Dreck squeezed her shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re not in danger. You have my word.”

  The word of a vampire was worthless. But this was Dreck, a man, her partner in the hunt for Malmardane, even her lover. Whatever he was. It was too much to process. But she took a deep breath, nodding, and followed him into the room. Facing the screen, she said, “Don’t expect me to kneel.”

  The Queen laughed. “And what Order do you represent, dear?”

  No way! Jordan shook her head. “Let’s not get into that.”

  “She’s Order of Silence,” said Cherise. “I saw it on the cover of her book.”

  Jordan scowled. “She means my copy of the Malleus Maleficarum, though it’s not the edition you’ll find at your local library, that’s for sure. Updated for modern times and the orders. But I lost mine in the Demi-World. Along with a few other … things.”

  On the screen, the Queen nodded. “We know the Ordo Silentii. It is based out of Saint Marius and affiliated with Opus Dei.”

  The Queen’s knowledge was uncanny. Jordan shifted in her seat. “You got it.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the Queen. “Our Kingdom has an understanding with your order. We even provide funds, hire them for assassinations from time to time.”

  “Bullshit!” Jordan snapped.

  “Bat-shite is the preferred parlance, if you please.” Ursula’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tell us, slayer. Did you ever hunt vampires within the Kingdom of Dagon?”

  She shrugged. “We went all over the country.”

  “But did you slay in Oregon, Washington state, or British Columbia? No? What about Alberta, Idaho, Montana, or Alaska? We have a vast and powerful realm.”

  That sounded large. Too large. Jordan frowned. “No, but there are other orders, other cells, working those areas. We blanket the world. Those parts with Catholic churches, anyway.”

  “We assure you,” said the Queen, “slayers do not operate within our kingdom. Let’s get on with this. George has already filled us in about what happened at Firewater Dam. Colin, have you examined the slayer’s phone?”

  “Aye,” said Colin in his Irish brogue. “As feared, it’s got tracking software in it.”

  Is that how Malmardane followed her from Santa Barbara to Montana? Jordan sat up straight. “Spyware? Who put it there?”

  Colin shrugged. “Hard to say. Who had access to your phone?”

  “Not Malmardane. The Order only. Father de la Sierra gave me that phone a few days before the funeral. We swap them out all the time. Security.”

  Colin grumbled. “This Father Sierra. Could he be one of Malmardane’s spawns?”

  “That’s crazy! He’s old, and he presided over my mentor’s funeral. He was there when Malmardane attacked me in the cemetery. He’s not Malmardane or one of his spawns.”

  “You’re thinking like a soldier,” said
Colin, “not a spy. Somebody could be impersonating somebody else, telling your priest to install the spyware for your own good. And he would never know he’s doing it on behalf of us—or someone less friendly.”

  Maybe, maybe not. Jordan shrugged. “Then who?”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Dreck’s fist slammed the table. “Ursula, you promised answers. Here I am. Who killed Ferdinand? What do you know?”

  Ursula smiled, adjusting the hem of her skirts as she crossed her legs. “Everyone sit down and listen and don’t interrupt. It irks us. And now I shall dispense with the royal ‘we’. Agreed?”

  “Ferdinand,” the Queen began, “and I have a long history, but that’s a tale for another day. He’s been a loyal vassal for many years, even if he was a barmy old codger. But seven years ago, he started acting … a bit daft. Out of sorts. He took his holidays at strange places, meeting odd people. Alarmed, I sent my little spies out into the world, keeping tabs on him.

  “To make a long story short, Ferdinand Braden was no more. He’d become possessed, and not just by any demonic entity or malevolent spirit. A Walk-In took control of him.”

  Gasps went around the room. Everyone else understood the term. Despite the Queen’s warning against interruptions, Jordan couldn’t help herself. “A what?”

  The Queen clucked her tongue. “You don’t believe that the cosmos is as limited as your theology, do you? One Heaven, one Hell, one Earth, and that’s it? The universe, dear, is more vast and bewildering. A Walk-In is an entity not terrestrial in origin. They are strange and dangerous. They have a negative influence upon immortal affairs.”

  Again, Jordan squirmed. “Like extraterrestrials?”

  “Not quite. The point is, I could never permit a Walk-In to control the Bradens, my most faithful allies. Such a move suggested a plot against my throne. I had to act. For the good of the realm, Ferdinand needed to die.”

  At this, the three Braden elders leaped to their feet, startled and buzzing. The Queen had admitted to killing their sire! Or at least, the creature that was pretending to be their sire. It sounded dubious, but in a weird way plausible.