Stormrise

by Knizley, Skye

  “You are quite welcome, Ravenel,” Du Guerre replied. “I love spending time with you and look forward to enjoying your company again soon.”

  The heat in Raven’s face grew hotter, and she felt angry at her reaction to the gorgeous vampire. Yes, he was beautiful, yes, he made her feel as if she were bathing in molten chocolate, but he was still just a man…and a vampire at that! She had avoided a relationship with full vampires on purpose and was uncomfortable that she was considering one now.

  “It was delicious,” she said, forcing her hormones under control. “And please, call me Raven. Like I said, all my friends do.”

  “Which is exactly why I call you by your given name,” Du Guerre replied, watching Raven leave, his eyes glowing in the gloom of the restaurant. “I want to be more than your friend.”

  Raven looked over her shoulder and smiled at Francois, then continued toward the exit.

  VII

  Forgoing her car in favor of enjoying the cool night air, Raven walked the eight blocks to Club Purgatory, her heels ringing on the sidewalk. Her mind was filled with visions of the man with whom she had just shared dinner and she was having trouble shaking them. All she could think about was his beautiful smile, his amazing eyes and his masculine smell.

  The evening air and the walk did some of the work of a nice cold shower, and by the time she could hear the dull thud of dance music echoing from the dance club, she was feeling much more herself. She paused when she was less than a block away and looked up at the gaudy red neon sign that read “Club Purgatory”. The sign had been intentionally designed to sputter and flicker as if it were old and broken, and it showered the people in line with warm, but harmless sparks. Those unfamiliar with the club and the sign watched it with a mixture of fear and amusement, unsure if it was going to fall on them at any moment.

  The rest of the building looked like an old meatpacking warehouse, which is what it had been in the not-too-distant past. There were no windows on ground level and the main entrance was a sliding door that padlocked from the outside with something Houdini might have used in one of his acts. Every time she went there, Raven felt as if she needed a bath afterwards...in very strong lye.

  Ignoring the people waiting in line to get in, Raven walked straight to the door. The bouncer on duty, a vampire fledgling she didn’t recognize, held out his hand and made to stop her. In no mood to deal with undead politics or stand in line, Raven grabbed his arm and slammed him into the wall, dragging his arm behind him in a hammerlock. She leaned in close to one malformed ear and whispered, “Hi, I'm Fürstin Ravenel, the Mistress’s daughter and chosen one. You’re not. If you want to live through the night, nod and open the door for me.”

  The vampire’s eyes bulged and a mixture of hate and fear rose in his eyes. He nodded once and Raven let go of him. The vampire gave a small bow and pulled the door open, allowing Raven to enter.

  She disregarded the bow, knowing to thank the vampire would be seen as a sign of weakness, and passed through the door and the thick, plastic curtain beyond to enter the club. The entry lobby consisted of a short hallway that contained the club's restrooms and emptied into a coat and weapon check that was being overseen by another vampire, this one only slightly older than the bouncer. Raven simply nodded at her and continued into the club proper. No way was she going in unarmed and it was unlikely her pistol showed under her clothes.

  The dance floor of Club Purgatory was massive, covering more than half of the warehouse. Humans, vampires, lycans and less familiar preternaturals shared the floor with one another, most of the humans unaware they were, in many cases, less than inches away from predators they thought existed only in their nightmares. That was another reason Raven hated the club. Humans and preternaturals didn’t mix well, and innocents tended to go missing after a night of partying at Club Purgatory. Raven had worked a lot of missing person cases when she had been a rookie. When all the evidence had come in, she had been certain the person had either been eaten or Embraced at the club. It was a sore spot between her and her mother. Humans shouldn’t be turned without understanding everything they were giving up and they certainly shouldn’t be turned against their will, tradition be damned.

  To either side of the dance floor were the boogie cages and poles, each bearing a nubile, half-dressed entertainer. The club employed a variety of male and female dancers to entertain guests, and they generally started the evening on the poles or in the cages before adjourning to the private rooms with a choice guest or two. What went on behind the closed doors was anyone’s guess. Raven was almost positive it was for bloodletting and blood-play, neither of which she approved of.

  On the far side of the dance floor was the mosh pit and stage. A death metal band was doing a version of a Britney Spears tune and the pit was alive with dozens of bodies dancing, writhing, fighting and copulating, sometimes all at once. Purgatory was the only club in Old Town that required a signed waiver to enter their pit. It was also the only place where patrons could bet on the fights that frequently broke out between vampires and lycans during ‘preternatural only’ nights. Many fledglings had been ashed trying to make a name for themselves in the pit.

  Seeing very few people she recognized, Raven headed for the bar, deciding it was as good a place as any to start. As cliché as it was, bartenders still had more dirt than just about anyone else because your average drunk was ready and willing to talk with the provider of liquid libation. Raven shoved her way between two inebriated gang members and placed a fifty-dollar bill on the teak bar-top.

  The bartender, a tall woman with hot-pink dreadlocks and skin the color of midnight, ignored the bill and said, “What can I get you, Fürstin Ravenel?”

  “A cranberry club soda and some information,” Raven replied, not surprised someone she didn’t know knew her title. Most of the vampire community made it their business to know all the members of the Court. It didn’t pay to insult the Royal Family of the Totentanz. The bouncer outside had just been an idiot.

  The bartender poured the club soda from a sealed can and placed it on a napkin in front of Raven.

  “I’m not sure what information I can provide,” she said, “but I’m willing to try.”

  “I'm looking for someone I think works here.” Raven reached into her pocket and fished out the photograph she had taken from Victoria’s apartment. She placed the photo next to the fifty on the bar and reached for her club soda. “Her name’s Victoria. Have you seen her?”

  The bartender cocked her head and examined the photo for a moment before picking up the folded bill. “Yes. Vicki Laveau. She’s one of the cage dancers. A pretty good one judging by the tips she shares with the rest of us.”

  Raven sipped her soda and nodded. “I thought as much. I saw Lius’ handiwork in her makeover; he only does that for girls that turn major profit. Have you seen her recently?”

  The bartender shook her head. “No. I heard she’d taken a few days off because she was sick. Some sort of stomach bug that was going around or something.”

  Raven pursed her lips in thought. She wasn’t surprised that no one had seen Victoria. Raven was fairly certain she was dead. It was just a matter of finding the body and tying the two murders together.

  “What about the man in the photo?” she asked. “Did you ever see them here together?”

  The bartender examined the photo again and shook her head. “No, I have never seen him before. He might have been around, but Vicki usually hung out with a different gentleman and his associates. One was an older gentleman; the others were much younger. Most nights they took Vicki into one of the back rooms for some private entertainment.”

  Raven made a mental note of the information. “I don’t suppose you know the names of any of the men she associated with?”

  The bartender thought for a moment, nodding at a patron down the bar that she would be with him shortly. After a few seconds, she said, “Yes. I think one of them was named Symone…Brand Symone. He was usually the one signing the cre
dit card slips.”

  “Symone…as in Anderson, Richards and Symone?” Raven asked in surprise.

  The bartender shrugged. “I’m not sure. He was a younger guy, Italian looking, with black hair and a goatee.”

  “Thank you for your help.” Raven placed another fifty on the bar. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Pashta,” the bartender replied with a grin. “Pashta Shubakwa. It’s pleasure to meet you, Fürstin Ravenel.”

  “Thank you again, Pashta. And the pleasure was mine. Good evening,” Raven said.

  She exited the club, intending to go home, take a bubble bath and get some rest. She and Levac would tackle the case again in the morning. A good night’s sleep might give her a new perspective on the evidence and perhaps she would see something she hadn’t before.

  She was walking casually back to her car when her sensitive nose picked up the scent of old leather mixed with oil…gun oil. She was already diving to the side when the first shot rang out, the bullet passing her with only a few inches to spare, the spent round shattering the storefront window next to her. Dozens more followed as her assailants sprayed the area with automatic gunfire.

  Raven drew her Automag and ran, the sound of bullets ricocheting off the walls adding to the cadence of her boot heels ringing off the concrete. When the gunmen paused to reload their weapons, she made her move, kicking her legs out and spinning to land prone, facing the way she had come. Her pistol barked twice, the perfectly aimed shots easily dropping two of her three assailants. Raven was uncertain if they were dead or merely wounded, and right now she didn’t care.

  Her next three shots narrowly missed her target and she was forced to roll to the side as another round of gunfire kicked up a shower of sparks on the concrete. She rolled to one knee and fired again, emptying the magazine and eliminating the last gunman, her final bullet tossing him head over heels to the ground.

  Certain there were no more waiting in the dark, but unwilling to accept that her assailants were all incapacitated, Raven ejected the magazine and reloaded, the next round chambering itself with the flick of her thumb. Then, pistol held in a two-handed Weaver stance, she approached the three men. All were dressed alike in leather long-coats, black pants and tee shirts, and they were heavily armed with not only the Heckler and Koch submachine guns they were using, but side arms and what looked like military surplus hand grenades, as well.

  Two were definitely dead. One had been shot through the head, another through the chest. Both wounds were large and unsightly and left no chance of survival.

  The third was lying on the pavement gurgling; her last shot had caught him in the throat, leaving him near death.

  Raven walked past the first deceased gunman, muttering, “You have the right to remain silent…if you manage to say anything it can and probably will be held against you in a court of law once you take a turn on the Late Late Show…”

  As she moved past the second dead assailant, she continued, “You have the right to an attorney; you will probably need one that can conduct a séance…if you cannot afford an attorney the city will provide you with one who will try too hard to save your sorry ass.”

  When she reached the surviving gunman, she knelt, grabbed his shirt, and growled, “Who sent you?”

  The gunman opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a weak cough, his hands grasping weakly at Raven’s clothes.

  She shook the man. “Give me a name, damn it. Come on! It won’t do you any good where you’re going!"

  Again the gunman tried to speak, his final breath coming as a long, gurgling laugh, his smile frozen in place.

  Angry and frustrated, Raven dropped the gunman and began CPR, her instincts telling her it was a futile gesture, her heart telling her to try anyway. After several minutes, she gave up and stood, her hands trembling.

  It was after midnight by the time she had filed her report on the incident and spoken with both an internal affairs officer and Lieutenant Frost. When she was through, she left the district, driving blindly. She wasn’t sure where she was going until she arrived, knocking on the door to a penthouse mere blocks from where Nathan King had been killed. Francois Du Guerre answered the door almost immediately, his face registering first surprise and then concern.

  Raven's eyes glistened with uncharacteristic tears. “I think I’d like to share that drink now.”

  VIII

  Water ran and frothed from the tap like silver and tumbled into the white marble bath. Raven lay back in the deep tub, enjoying the warm water and the sweet smelling bubble bath Du Guerre had supplied. A glass of icy champagne sat on the edge of the deep whirlpool and beeswax candles flickered nearby, bathing the room in a soft glow that Raven could almost feel. She was just about asleep when Du Guerre entered with a platter of caviar, salmon, and toast points.

  He was dressed in a pair of leather pants tight enough to show he was not wearing any undergarments, a blousy white shirt and a classic red smoking jacket of the type made popular by Hugh Hefner. He placed the platter within easy reach of the tub and sat on a stool placed for the use of servants. “Now,” he said with just a hint of authority in his voice, “tell me what happened tonight and why my Ravenel is so shaken.”

  Raven used the mother-of-pearl spoon to scoop some caviar onto a piece of toast, savoring the mixture of tastes before speaking.

  “I went to Club Purgatory, investigating one of the victims like I told you at dinner,” she said with a shrug. “There were three guys waiting for me when I came out. Three gun-bunny guys carrying no identification with their fingerprints sanded off. Dr. Finkel managed to lift a partial thumb from one of them, but I doubt we'll find anything in AFIS or anywhere else. Whoever they were, they were professional hitters looking for me.”

  Du Guerre nodded and sampled the caviar himself, tasting the cracker almost daintily. “I am pleased they were less professional than you,” he said after a moment, his eyes locked on Raven’s. “You would be sorely missed by both me and the House Valentina.”

  Raven smiled and again found herself blushing under his powerful gaze. “Dad always said skill was fifty percent luck. I think he was right. If I hadn’t smelled Hoppe’s cleaner and smelled the leather on their holsters, I’d be fish food right now. I’m not used to professional assassins shooting at me."

  “I doubt that, Ravenel,” Du Guerre said. “Your mother has told me a great many things about you. You are not one to be, as you might say, taken down so easily.”

  “Mother is secretly proud of my accomplishments.” Raven smiled. “I’m surprised she shared her secret with you, though. Being proud of the family black sheep is hardly a topic for Court. My father wasn’t a popular man among the immortals and as a half-breed with mistress-level abilities, I’m even less so. No one likes someone who can kick their ass and walk in daylight.”

  Du Guerre returned the smile and gave a small shrug. “Our families have been intertwined for decades. Your mother is very close with my sire, perhaps which is why she felt able to discuss your career with me—and her pride in your success.”

  Raven nodded and helped herself to another serving of caviar. While she chewed, Du Guerre leaned over the tub to dab at her chin with a napkin, his eyes twinkling playfully. A moment later, he leaned down to kiss her, his lips at first tentative, then becoming more insistent, his tongue teasing at her mouth. Raven found herself enjoying the kiss, her tongue reaching out to play across Francois’, her hands finding his chest to snake beneath his shirt and play over his muscles. She delighted in finding that the tender, pale flesh was pierced and she cooed into his mouth.

  Du Guerre ended the kiss after a few moments, his eyes closed, his breath warm on Raven’s cheek. “Enjoy the rest of your bath,” he said softly, his control like iron. “You will find sleeping attire in the armoire. Please choose whatever you like.”

  Raven watched him leave the room with a mixture of disappointment and awe, admiring his backside as one would a framed Picasso. When he closed the door
, she sighed and sank beneath the bubbles, her body tingling all over.

  When she finished her bath, she dried her hair and watched the now-chilly water swirl away down the silvered drain. She then dried herself off with the softest and most plush towel she had ever felt and brushed her long hair out into the tub, letting a few strands fall against the white porcelain. With her hair hanging cold and damp down her back, Raven sorted through the armoire; most of it was thin and silky, a see-through mixture of silk lingerie, satin corsets and high-heel slippers of the kind only Dolly Parton could love. At the back, however, she found what looked like one of Du Guerre’s own shirts, a dark burgundy button-down of fine silk. Knowing what her body wanted as opposed to what she needed, Raven slipped the shirt on.

  She reached back and pulled her hair into a manageable ponytail and left the bathroom, padding quietly down the hallway to the guest bedroom Du Guerre had offered her when she’d arrived. The door to his own bedroom at the end of the hall was closed and Raven could hear soft music playing within. She approached and raised her hand to knock, but thought better of it, instead laying her hand on the dark wood as if she could feel the mysterious man on the other side. With a sigh, she whispered, “Good night,” and entered her own room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Raven awoke the following morning, she found a gift-wrapped package from Saks Fifth Avenue waiting for her alongside a light continental breakfast. She sipped coffee and nibbled on a croissant while she unwrapped the gift. She cooed over the royal purple blouse, ran her fingers over the sumptuous black leather jacket and matching skinny fit pants, and couldn't wait to put them on.

  At the bottom of the package she found a note from Francois asking if she would meet him for another dinner. She left her own thank-you note along with her cell phone number, asking Du Guerre to call when he rose at nightfall. She giggled to herself and skipped off to get dressed.