“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
Emmie laughs. “How about I drive.”
I shoot her an indignant look. “I happen to have gotten much better at it.”
“Yeah, but I happen to have the keys.” She takes them out of her jacket pocket and dangles them from her finger. “Come on.”
“Fine,” I say. I follow her out to the van. The night is cold and wet, but it doesn’t seem to bother Emmie, even though her short dress leaves her long legs bare and I doubt her little fake-fur jacket is doing much to warm her. I step in front of her and open the driver’s side door.
“Hey!” She plants her hand on her hip. “I thought we agreed I was driving.”
“I am opening your door for you.”
“Oh!” She blushes pink. Thralls have a talent for blushing. “People don’t usually do that now-a-days.”
I bow and gesture her into the car. “I have very little concern for what people do.”
“Well… thanks.” She climbs into the van, folding her long legs in behind her and tugging the hem of her dress down. It still only hits the center of her thigh.
I shut the door behind her to keep from looking, and go settle in the passenger seat. Emmie guns the motor and flips on the radio, skating right past the classical station to something with guitars that twang. Someone with an accent not far from Emmie’s own is singing about a man who broke her heart.
“Oh, Lord,” Emmie sighs. “I love this song. Chokes me up every time.” She sings along loudly as we pull out onto the street. I have to admit, the girl has a beautiful voice, clear and effortless, with a smoky touch of soul. I listen to her as we drive, the lights of cars flashing past us on the wet pavement.
“Were you bred for that?” I ask.
She looks at me like she’s just now remembering I’m here. “Bred for what?”
“Singing. Where I’m from, most of the old vampire families have their own line of thralls, specially bred for whatever qualities the family prizes most: musicality or taste or athleticism. Although, I suppose you could have been bred for looks as well.”
I’m not trying to compliment her. I’m really just thinking out loud. But Emmie blushes again, even deeper this time. “I wasn’t bred for anything in particular. My dad was a vampire and my mom was a thrall and they just fell in love and bonded like anybody would. But my mom’s family line was specially bred way back when—for sweetness, she always said, although she never said if she was talkin’ about her sweet personality or her taste.” She shrugs. “Both, I guess.”
Sweetness. It wasn’t a quality my family had ever prized, but I could see how it might hold some appeal. “So did you study singing, then?”
Emmie laughs. “I suppose, in a manner of speaking. My mama was a headliner who toured blood bars all over the country. I grew up underfoot, first at her home bar, B Positive, in Savannah, then just wherever she was staying at the moment. I’d watch her sing at night, then my brother Jackson and I would sing the songs back to her in the car the next day while we drove to wherever she was performing next.” Her eyes are on the road in front of us, but her expression is wistful. “Mama always said I learned music by heart.”
“Is your mother no longer with us, then?” It seems a silly question. Thralls never live for long.
She nods. “She was killed by a customer in Tampa. My father lived long enough to take the guy out, though, so that’s good.” The shine in her eyes matches the wet road in front of us, but her voice is matter-of-fact.
“So you were left alone.”
She gives me a forced smile. “Oh, I’m never alone! Ask anybody! And I’ve got Jackson, although he’s traveling with his band. That’s how I know how to find the Red Tide, you know. Because Jackson performed there once.”
“I spent a great deal of time in the care of my older brother as well. I idolized him, but it isn’t the same as having a parent’s attentions, is it.”
Emmie fiddles with the radio dial like it will change the course of our conversation. “Oh, the oldies station. I love this one, too.” She sings along with the man on the radio, “I've got you under my skin, I've got you deep in the heart of me, so deep in my heart, that you're really a part of me…”
The rest of the ride goes quickly. Now that she knows I like her voice, Emmie sings along with every song. I am half-listening, gazing out the window, thinking about all the many problems that haunt us. Oh, how much simpler life would be if I could only convince Cicely to tear herself away from Ander and leave with me. We would still be hunted, but at least it would just be the two of us. My mind drifts back to kissing Cicely in beach house. There’s a chance she kissed me of her on volition, that it had nothing to do with me commanding her, in which case…
“We’ll have to pretend we’re bonded.”
Emmie’s voice snaps me back to reality. “Excuse me?”
“At the bar. We’ll be there soon, and we should pretend we’re together.”
“Why?” I say. “Do you expect a dangerous element? Will you feel better if a vampire—what is the phrase—has your back?”
She laughs. “Don’t you worry about my back. I just mean that blood bars don’t love it when unattached thralls come hangin’ around. They might think I’m a freebie there to steal their clientele.”
“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”
Emmie turns off the highway and onto a narrow street that winds down towards the water. It’s an industrial-looking area. Boxy warehouses sit closed for the night. Long docks reach out into a bay. The whole place smells like fish.
I eye the warehouses skeptically. “Are you sure you’re in the right area?”
“Yup. My brother was just here last summer. He told me where to meet them. I just hope they’re sailing tonight, considering the storm we had earlier.”
“Wait,” I say, “the bar is on a boat?”
“Well, sure!” she says. “This is Maine, after all. Plus, they have to be able to move it, you know, or somebody will shut ‘em down.”
“Why would they shut them down?”
Emmie ignores me. Her eyes are scanning the water for the boat. Mine are on the buildings around us. We pass a tattoo parlor and a seedy looking bar crushed in between the warehouses. I don’t have much confidence in any boat that would launch from a place like this. The few boats that line the docks are industrial fishing vessels, gray as rhinos, their sides splattered with the guts of fish. Not exactly appealing.
We round a corner and the bay opens up in front of us. “There she is!” Emmie cries.
And there she is, indeed. The ship is nothing like the others. It looks more like the ships of my youth: a huge black wooden vessel with bright red sails. It sits in the middle of the harbor, rocking on the choppy waves, the moonlight glinting off its polished sides. A jolly Rodger whips in the breeze.
“Pirates,” I say.
“I know!” Emmie beams. “Isn’t it just straight out of a dream? What time is it? The boat docks at midnight.”
“Then it must be almost time,” I say. “But I’m not sure we should set foot on a boat that—”
“Oh, come on.” Emmie pulls the van over to the side of the road and cuts the engine. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of pirates.”
Okay, well, I won’t tell her, but the fact of the matter is the ship seems more like something out of a nightmare than a dream. It slices through the choppy water like a knife, the skull flag grinning down as the ship slides towards us. “Of course not,” I say. “And these are not real pirates anyhow. I’m sure the jolly Rodger and all is just a—how do you say?—gimmick, yes?”
“Oh, it’s no gimmick. The guy who owns the place has been around for centuries. He’s the real deal.” Emmie’s eyes shine with excitement. Leave it to a thrall to have no real sense of danger. “Come on!” She hops out of the van and shoots me a smile over her shoulder. “I thought you said you—” she does her best to impersonate my accent, “How do you say? Have my back?” She puts a little e
xtra sashay in her hips.
I roll my eyes. “I hardly sound like that.”
Emmie laughs. “I like the way you talk. Now, come on!” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “We’re supposed to be bonded, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” I hold out my arm to her and Emmie links her arm through mine as we walk up the pier. The boat is closer now and I can make out some details: the red racing stripe that runs the length of the hull, the name “Red Tide” pained in blood red near the stern, the figurehead mermaid, as pale as death, twin bite marks painted on her neck. Well, these people certainly know how to go for atmosphere.
And they certainly seem to be popular. A few dark shapes stand in the shadows ahead, other vampires waiting for the blood bar to dock, but there must already be customers on board because I can hear music and laughter and shouting coming from the boat as it pulls near. The other vampires eye us with a mixture of curiosity and distrust that makes me pull Emmie a little closer. I have a feeling they aren’t used to outsiders here, particularly in the off-season, and I’m relieved when the gangway is lowered and we can step onto the boat.
But the relief only lasts a second, because the gentleman standing at the top of the walkway is a pirate—not a costumed character, an actual pirate. Undead, by the smell of him (although I don’t dare take more than a whiff; evidently hygiene is not his highest priority) and huge, with a shaved head and a tangle of tattoos on each meaty arm. He lets the other customers board without comment, but when Emmie and I reach him, he scowls. “You can’t bring that on here.”
I keep my face impassive. “I beg your pardon? Bring what, exactly?”
“The thrall!” He takes a step closer and I reflexively take a step back, suddenly aware we are on a narrow gangway, the inky water slithering below us.
“Oh, we don’t mean any trouble.” Emmie smiles sweetly. “My bonded and I were just passing through and wanted a little company, is all. It’s been a while since we’ve been around our own kind. You understand.”
Her look is warm enough to melt butter, but it has no effect on the bouncer. “You come on board this ship, it’s to bite one of ours, not to bring your own.”
“Oh, we’ll pay!” Emmie says quickly. “We’ve been traveling and he’s had no one else to bite. I’m drained near dry.”
The bouncer’s voice is a growl. “No outside thralls.”
“Unless, of course, they are a gift to the management.” A vampire has appeared behind the bouncer. He’s dressed in modern clothes—dark jeans, boots, a simple t-shirt—but there’s no mistaking the pirate about him. His long black hair is pulled back into a pony tale and there are small gold hoops in his ears. The fine black tattoos on his pale arms are like scrimshaw etched on bone. He gives Emmie a well-oiled smile. “I’m kidding, of course, but by all means, come in.”
“Thank you.” Emmie side steps the bouncer gracefully and steps onto the ship. I follow her and the bouncer bares his teeth at me as I pass.
“You are very welcome, Miss…?”
“Jackson,” Emmie says smoothly. “Jennifer Jackson.”
“Rafe,” he says. “I own this fine establishment. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jackson.” His gaze slides down Emmie’s body, lingering on her neck before slipping to her breasts. It makes me think of slugs leaving a slimy, shiny trail.
I clear my throat.
“Oh! This is my bonded, Alejandro,” Emmie says quickly. It’s a shame we can’t use our real names, I think. The Marianez name might inspire some respect in this malcriado. I reach out and shake his hand wordlessly, my grip a little stronger than necessary.
Rafe doesn’t flinch. “Your bonded?” There’s just the slightest hint of amusement in his voice and it makes my temper spike. “Well then I would assume he’s a very satisfied man, but if he wishes some variety—” He gestures vaguely towards the stairs which must lead down into the hull. “I would be happy to keep an eye on you until he returns.”
I bet you would. This gentleman is exceedingly fortunate I am not actually Emmie’s bonded. If I were, he would be dead by now. I put an arm protectively around her shoulders. “Actually, we were hoping for the tour.”
“Yes!” Emmie claps her hands delightedly. “Oh, will you show us around, please?”
“Of course.” Rafe smiles at her obligingly, although I can tell by the tone of his voice there are other things he would rather do with her. “Please, follow me.”
A pair of crossed cutlasses hangs above the open door that leads below deck to the hold. Walking beneath them makes me feel like I’m stepping into a trap, but Emmie seems relaxed enough as we follow Rafe down the stairs to the bar below. She gives me an approving smile. I must be playing the part of her bonded to her satisfaction. Either that or she thinks we’ve found a good source of information in Rafe. There I have to agree: if anyone would know about violent and illegal doings, I have a feeling it would be he.
My feeling is confirmed when we reach the bottom of the stairs. The hull of the ship has been converted into one of the most disreputable looking bars I have ever seen. Smoke chokes the air, mixing with the smell of blood and rum. The small round tables are crowded with men playing cards and arguing and drinking, some from bottles, some from the necks or wrists of thralls in various states of undress—and various levels of liveliness, too: one girl is slumped over a table, unconscious. Another straddles the lap of a vampire while he bites her neck, a thin stream of blood slowly leaking into her cleavage. A second vampire sucks hungrily on her wrist.
For once, Emmie looks as shocked as I do. “You allow more than one customer to a thrall?”
“I think you’ll find we are interested in accommodating our patrons here, Miss Jackson.” Rafe smiles. “For a little extra, anything can be arranged.” He glances at me, gauging my interest.
I look away. The smell of blood in this closed space is tempting, but I hold my fangs in check. Best to keep our wits about us. “I think you’ll find I’m a traditionalist,” I say, a bit more stiffly than I intend.
Rafe laughs. “You need to relax. Here, have a drink.” He crosses to the bar that stretches along one wall, vaults over it in one easy jump, grabs a bottle of rum from behind the counter and fills a glass. “Coral!” he shouts. A blonde thrall wanders over. He grasps her already bleeding wrist and holds it above my glass. She watches dazedly as her blood stains the rum to deep rust.
“You sell alcohol?” Emmie’s disapproval deepens.
Rafe laughs. “They don’t where you come from?”
“Most bars don’t want their vampires drinkin.’ We only sell sucker punch and that’s one glass per customer, real strict.” She makes a face at my glass. “And we don’t usually mix it right there at the bar.”
“I think maybe you could use a drink, too.” He grabs another glass and fills it, setting it in front of Emmie with a bang.
“No thanks.” She smiles politely, but pushes the drink away. “I don’t think thralls should drink. It dulls your judgment for the job.”
“Ah,” he says, “a true professional.” I can tell by the light in his eyes he’s making fun of her. “But you aren’t working tonight, now, are you.”
“Still,” I say, “it pays to be on one’s guard.”
“Why?” There’s the slightest edge of threat in his voice. “Don’t you trust us?”
“Oh, it’s not you.” Emmie says quickly. Her pleasant smile is back in place. “It’s just where we’re staying south of here, there’s been talk of vampires hunting and leaving their dead humans right out where anyone can find them. It makes me nervous, that’s all. You haven’t heard about it?”
Leave it to Emmie to bring the conversation back around where we need it to be. She really is brighter than she seems. I give her hand a little squeeze of approval.
“Can’t say I have.” Rafe takes a slow sip of Emmie’s rejected drink. “But why should you be nervous? Doesn’t your bonded protect you well enough?”
“Anybody would worry,” Emm
ie says reasonably. “Humans are getting killed.”
Rafe swishes his drink so the blood swirls. “Humans are always getting killed. A thrall should know that. Why, you should have been on this ship two centuries ago. We’d board a boat off the coast of England and take out the whole crew. Or right here in the 1920s.” He raises his glass up to the light. “Running rum like this through the Isles of Shoals. We wouldn’t hesitate to take out anyone who got in our way. It was business, everyone understood that.” He knocks back a drink. “We’ve all gotten too domesticated, too soft.”
“That’s funny, coming from someone who runs a blood bar,” I say.
“I run whatever makes cash. Blood, drugs, rum, it makes no difference to me.”
He puffs out his chest a little with pride, still trying to impress Emmie.
“Oh, you’re a real pirate,” she smiles, but there’s a current of disgust under her words.
“So you aren’t opposed to killing humans,” I say.
Rafe shrugs. “We’ve all done it.”
I look him in the eye. “Recently?”
Rafe’s eyes narrow. “You’re awfully interested in this situation, aren’t you?” He leans forward, elbows on the bar, his voice low. “If I find out you’re with the cops, trying to pin something on me so you can shut this place down—”
“No, we’re not with the cops,” Emmie says quickly. “He’s just interested in the philosophy of it. You aren’t opposed to vampires who hunt?”
“Well, of course I’m opposed to it.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s bad for business, isn’t it? If vampires are free to hunt, they have no need to pay for blood in here. That’s why we keep them in check out there, work with the Hunters, make sure they take out any vamps who hunt, keep people coming back here.” He gives Emmie a charming smile. “I’ll tell them to keep an eye out for whoever is hunting near your place, if it will make you feel better.” He cuts a meaningful glance at me. “They pretty much take out whoever I say.”
Crossfire (Book Two of the Darkride Chronicles) Page 14