They Come by Night

by Tinnean

  “He is to gain entrance to his brother’s house.”

  And de Vivar couldn’t get him to do this himself?

  “They have been estranged for many years.”

  “Okay, so who is he?” She tapped the photo against her palm.

  “His name is Matthew Crist. He spends the odd evening at Donnelly’s Pub. He’ll be there tonight.” De Vivar gazed off into space, the twist to his lips anything but pleasant. “He needs a friend. That’s going to be you.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Introduce yourself to him. Tell him your name is April.” He held up another photo. “Make sure when he sees you, he sees this. Not a hundred percent but close enough he’ll want to believe you’re her. Nudge him along. Perhaps darken the lights a bit. If you fail….” His gaze lingered on her talisman as he let the words trail off, and she had no trouble filling in the blank. Damn him. “Oh, and tone down your clothing. If you go in looking like a whore, he’ll never buy it.”

  She forced a smile. “You bet.”

  Fucking bad luck.

  SHE WAS wearing a pair of jeans with black legwarmers, a fuzzy black beret tilted at a saucy angle, and a short fur coat, also black. She liked the clothes of the ’60s, but these were pretty cool too.

  After leaving her pad beneath de Vivar’s mausoleum, she’d stopped for a quick bite, and once she’d wiped the normal’s memory, she went on her way. That was one of the vampyr things they were all good at. Their existence could depend on it.

  It didn’t take her long to find Donnelly’s Pub, and she opened the door and let herself in. The interior was already dim, which allowed her to concentrate on the matter at hand. There were lots of things she could do as a vampyr, but turning down the lights kind of felt like a waste of her talents.

  One thing she valued was her heightened senses. She had no trouble hearing the bartender when he leaned forward and whispered to the guy on the stool, “Ya gotta take it easy, Matt!”

  So that was her target. She sauntered to a stool next to his and undulated up onto it.

  The bartender gave a low wolf whistle. “Well, hello there, sunshine! What can I get for you?”

  She flashed him a bright smile, even though she knew his reaction was purely perfunctory. From the time she was fourteen she’d been able to tell if a guy wanted her or just wanted his friends to think that. This guy was definitely of the latter variety.

  “How about a Bloody Mary?” That had been her drink of choice back in the day, and she hadn’t had one since Halloween, 1969. If she went easy on it, maybe she could convince her insides it was real blood.

  “You got it!” The bartender stepped back from the bar and began grabbing up various ingredients.

  Rhiannon opened the small purse that swung from her shoulder. It contained things she didn’t need but a normal would carry. She took out a small compact and a tube of clear lip gloss. The mirror in the compact wouldn’t show her reflection, so if she tried applying the bloodred lipstick she’d favored before she was turned, she’d look like a clown. This was the best way she could draw attention to her mouth. Guys had always loved when she’d wrapped her lips around their dicks, and girls… well, they’d liked the way she sucked their nipples and tongued their clits.

  She missed sex. Sure, she had it with normals, but for some reason it wasn’t the same. She’d heard it was superhot between two… or more… vampyrs, and the only vampyr she’d met who interested her didn’t seem to return that interest.

  Oh fucking well. She’d better get on with the job.

  She parted her lips and smoothed the gloss over first the upper lip and then the lower one, stealing a glance above the compact to see the man sitting beside her apparently fascinated with her mouth. She waited until his gaze rose to hers, and then she slipped the thought into his subconscious that she resembled the mysterious April. A slow, sensuous smile curled her lips.

  “Hello,” she said in a breathy tone.

  “April?”

  “Why, yes, how did you know my name?”

  “April Valentine?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” She made a moue of regret.

  He smiled and shook his head. “Of course not. You’re so much prettier!”

  “And you’re a charmer.” He was kind of cute. There was something about him….

  “I just tell it like I see it.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “My name is Matthew.”

  “Thank you, Matthew.” She pushed just a little. The April chick had a dimple at the corner of her mouth, and as far as this guy was concerned, so did she.

  The bartender put her Bloody Mary in front of her, and she reached into the purse.

  “Larry, I’m buying the lady’s drink.” He put the money on the bar. “Would you care to join me in a booth?”

  “I’d like that.” She slid off the stool and let him take her arm.

  That was the problem with de Vivar. He believed in brute force, when a deft hand did the trick so much better. She’d plant the notion in Matthew’s mind that he needed to contact his brother. Yeah, there was no love lost between them, but the longer Matthew fought against the… suggestion, the stronger it would become, until finally he’d have no choice but to surrender to it.

  This was going to be a cinch.

  II

  “YOU SENT for me, Juan?” Rhiannon sauntered over to him.

  “Master!” he snarled. When was she going to learn to address him with the proper respect?

  “Yeah, what you said. So whatcha want?”

  He ran his eyes over the blonde vampyr and let his fangs show, satisfied when she backed away in fear. He’d turned her in a moment of boredom some decades ago. Whatever had possessed him to visit San Francisco, of all cities?

  He shook his head. It wasn’t important. What was important was convincing the Crist whelp he was firmly on his side. For some reason it had proved to be more difficult than de Vivar had anticipated, and so, thinking for once a woman might be what was needed, he’d sent Rhiannon—foolish name for a foolish wench.

  “How are things going with Matthew Crist?” he growled. Sending her to work her wiles—such as they were—had been a necessity. He had come to realize that for some reason, the more he pressed Crist to obey him, the more the saborese resisted. Rhiannon was correct when she said her powers of ensorcelling were weak at best, but with de Vivar’s backing hers up, Crist would do whatever he wanted.

  “There’s been a hitch in your plan.”

  “Oh?” He let his eyes turn red.

  “Hey, not my fault! He got called for jury duty.”

  “You couldn’t… persuade him to forgo it?”

  “No. His number had been selected before I found out about it. It’s a murder trial. Some poor schnook is taking the blame for the dead normals who are turning up.”

  “What?”

  “JK. Just kidding.” She offered a weak smile

  He frowned at her, pleased when she backed farther away. He didn’t need to hear mierda like that. If he were rege, it wouldn’t matter, but since he wasn’t, it was all the more important the sabor become his.

  She studied her nails. “Actually, there is a bit of a problem. Matt’s proving to be more stubborn than I’d expected.” De Vivar’s eyes flashed red again, and she held up her hands. “Hey, don’t blame me. I’ve never come across a normal who could withstand me.”

  “Puta estúpida,” he growled. “He is not a normal!”

  “I am not a—Wait a second. If he isn’t a normal, then what is he?”

  ¡Joder! He hadn’t meant to reveal that. “Sin importancia.”

  “English, Juan.”

  “¡Maldita sea!” He slammed his hand down on the arm of the sofa, and she jumped at the sound. “I turned you, you stupid little slut, and you will show me respect!”

  She lowered her eyes and dropped to a crouch before him. “I’m sorry, master.”

  That was the way to keep his vassals in check. Pl
eased with her response, he decided he would delay destroying her until another night.

  “Rise.” He turned away from her. Another plan was needed. He tapped his forefinger against his lower lip.

  Ah! Of course!

  Sufficient time had passed since the rege had fed from the sabor—de Vivar had been keeping that house under surveillance—and he knew the sabor would be growing desperate to have a vampyr come to him. That pleased de Vivar inordinately.

  “Have you ever fed from a sabor?”

  “No.”

  At least that was the correct answer. He’d never given her permission to seek out a sabor, and if she’d done so of her own accord, he would have crushed her talisman between his fingers with exceedingly great pleasure.

  “Would you care to feed from one?”

  “Yes!” She should know better than to show such enthusiasm, and he nodded in satisfaction when she quickly restrained it. “I mean… that would be so cool.”

  “Very well. In that case you may seek out Tyrell Small.” He would have Rhiannon proceed with his latest plan.

  “Thank you!”

  He seized her wrist. “You will not take more than a few sips from him.”

  She pouted but didn’t attempt to struggle. “That hardly makes it worth my while!”

  “Nevertheless, you will obey me.” He squeezed her wrist, pleased when she flinched, and then released her.

  “Yes, master.”

  He glanced at her sharply. Was she mocking him? She was spending entirely too much time in Antonia’s company. But she was smoothing down the white fur jacket she wore.

  “You will also insert in his mind the command he is to grant admission to his home to the next vampyr who comes to call.”

  “It’ll be a snap.” She demonstrated by snapping her fingers, clearly affronted her abilities were doubted. Not that he cared.

  “See that it is.”

  “But what happens if another vampyr gets there before you do?”

  “That won’t happen, but in any case, that isn’t your worry.” Why did she bring up these irritating possibilities? He needed her to plant the command. It wasn’t necessary for her to know that the reason he was restricting the amount of blood she could take was so he could drink his fill when he arrived shortly after she returned to him to announce the success of her undertaking. “But have you ever known me to fail in any endeavor?”

  “No.” The word was offered so reluctantly he wondered if perhaps other, older vampyrs were aware of what he’d attempted and had spread it within the vampyr community.

  But no, he was certain no one knew of his endeavor to impregnate the female vampyrs he’d created, and that was something he would never permit anyone to discover.

  “I won’t fail now,” he asserted. Although the male and three females he’d sent had been unsuccessful in gaining entrance to Tyrell Small’s home.

  He’d been tempted to rend them limb from limb for their failure, but with the rege placing limits on the number of normals a vampyr was permitted to turn, underlings were growing hard to come by.

  He would wait for Rhiannon to return. If she had no better luck, he would have no other recourse than to reveal to the Crist whelp exactly what he was and obtain admission to his brother’s home through him.

  He looked Rhiannon over again.

  “Now go.”

  She left, her white-skirted bottom swaying in what she probably thought was an alluring manner.

  He shook his head. The women of his own time were so much more seductive.

  He didn’t like the idea of other vampyrs feeding from the sabor he intended to claim as his, but once Rhiannon succeeded, he would dispose of her.

  Meanwhile, he could do with a snack. Where was Miguel?

  The rege frowned on feeding from normals, but as long as they weren’t drained or turned, he didn’t raise too much of a fuss.

  On the grounds surrounding de Vivar’s mausoleum were numerous graves—quite a clever ploy if he thought so himself. Who would be surprised to find bodies in a cemetery?

  And what the rege didn’t know wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  THE BLOOD of this normal was exceptionally satisfying, almost as satisfying as a sabor’s.

  His lips parted in a hungry grin, and he waited for the normal to cringe in terror. Instead, he just stared at him with dull eyes.

  “¡Joder!” He looked around. “Miguel! ¡Ven aqui!”

  “¿Sí, maestro?”

  “This is for you.” He flung the normal toward his lackey.

  A smile split Miguel’s face, and his fangs glinted brightly against his lips. “¡Gracias!” Turning him had erased the pockmarks and given him a semblance of good looks, but nothing could wipe away the cruelty from his eyes.

  “De nada. Just don’t drain him. I’ll want him at another time.” After all, he couldn’t feed from the sabor every day. Those plastic bags of blood could be hooked up to this normal. They would keep him alive and make it convenient to feed from him. And of course that was a splendid idea, for hadn’t he, Juan de Vivar, el Duque de Málaga, thought of it?

  He made himself comfortable on a sofa and watched as Miguel raised the normal to his mouth with negligent ease. The normal whimpered as fangs sank into his throat once again.

  III

  SHIT. SHIT, shit, shit, and shit once more for good measure! Fucking bad, rotten luck! She’d been so close. How the fuck was she going to get herself out of this one?

  What was wrong with her? Not only had she been unable to talk the sabor into letting her into his home, but then she’d totally lost her cool and trashed the normal’s van.

  Why hadn’t Tyrell Small invited her in? She’d been so certain, and wasn’t it a law or something that a sabor had to let in whichever vampyr came to his door?

  And why hadn’t the offer of a threesome tempted him? Back when she’d been a normal, the boys would have fallen over themselves to have a chance at that.

  As for that little bitch growling at her—what did the mutt think Rhiannon was going to do, for fuck’s sake?

  Once the anger was out of her system and she started thinking straight again, she realized there was another way to get into the house: the normal. She’d slip into his mind and get him to open the door for her.

  She began to push, and found she had no trouble manipulating him. Another vampyr had been in his head before her, and thank… Whoever… for that. She might not have been able to succeed otherwise.

  She rubbed her hands together, pleased at how much better it was going now. You will open the door and invite me in!

  Nothing happened.

  Why was nothing happening? She pushed a little harder, but just as he was about to obey her, that other vampyr showed up.

  It was the vampyr who’d been in this one’s mind before her—she recognized his signature—and she withdrew as fast as she could. The vampyr was kind of cute, and while she’d never had a thing for blonds, for him she’d have made an exception.

  But something told her he was dangerous. She’d never met any of the born vampyrs, but she knew just by looking at him that he was one.

  And if he saw her, he’d crush her talisman and she’d be dead meat come the morning.

  Oh fuck. De Vivar was going to do the same thing when he found out she’d failed. He didn’t think she knew what was what, but she hadn’t been turned yesterday.

  Think, Jane. Think!

  She didn’t need them, but she took a few deep breaths to steady herself, and then morphed into a delicate mist. The vampyr who’d turned her should have taught her how to do this, according to Antonia, the Spanish vamp, but he hadn’t.

  THERE WERE a lot of things he should have taught her, but he was too fucking busy trying to come up with a foolproof way to get a female vampyr pregnant—and thank God that was something she didn’t have to worry about. Before he’d turned her, de Vivar had asked how she felt about children. He hadn’t seemed amused when she’d replied she liked them but couldn’t eat
a whole one by herself.

  He’d stared into her eyes, and she found herself babbling that she couldn’t have children. And then there had been that pain in her neck.

  When she’d awakened the next evening to find she’d become one of the undead, she’d discovered what a favor that med student had done for her. Antonia told her how she’d been turned, and while Rhiannon hadn’t minded sucking the occasional dick, the thought of spending night after night throughout eternity doing that was not her idea of a fun meal. Jesus, it was bad enough she’d never have another Big Mac or a Nathan’s Famous ever again.

  “It does get monotonous,” Antonia murmured as she combed her long black hair.

  “Let me braid your hair,” Rhiannon offered.

  “It’s been a long time since anyone has wanted to do that. Thank you.”

  Rhiannon separated it into three sections. It was thick and wavy, and it felt good between her fingers. After a few minutes, she asked, “Why is he so set on having a bunch of brats running wild in the mausoleum?”

  “He thinks it will help him become rege.”

  “Huh?”

  “King of the vampyrs.”

  “Gotcha. And will it?”

  “No. No matter what de Vivar attempts—and believe me, over the past five hundred years, he’s tried many, many ways—he will fail. Only born vampyrs can reproduce.”

  “Wait, vampyrs are born?”

  “The most powerful of them, yes.”

  “So why doesn’t someone tell the emperor about his new clothes?”

  “And risk having our talismans destroyed? I think not.”

  “What’s a talisman? What are you talking about?”

  Antonia glanced over her shoulder, gave her a droll look, and took something from her blouse. Then she reached for a similar pendant Rhiannon had found dangling from her neck when she’d awakened. “This contains the soil of our homeland, wherever that may be. If it’s ever broken, we won’t survive to see the next sunset.”

  De Vivar came striding in just then, all bluster and pomposity. “It’s time to feed, woman.” He sneered at Antonia, then turned to Rhiannon. “Rhiannon—”