Forged in Flame

by Rabe, Michelle

  Fear and hopelessness settled over her like a shroud, and Emily rolled to her side, sobbing until her throat ached. After a while, exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  When a cool hand brushed up against her throat and along her chin, she let out a high-pitched shriek, recoiling from the contact. She rolled on her back and dug her heels into the mattress, trying to get away. Jayson’s laugh drifted down to her as his hand stroked a chilly, gentle path over her body. She shrank back from his feather light touch. One moment later, a hand wrapped around her throat. The other continued to explore her body.

  “Hello princess. You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, did you?” The pressure from his fingers increased, grinding tendons against cartilage. Emily whimpered and struggled against his grip even as her head began buzzing with decreased oxygen. “Hush, hush, sweetheart,” he cooed in her ear. “You should know better than to hope that making noise will bring help. These walls are damned near soundproof, thanks to old Mister Jackson.” He paused and eased the pressure on her throat.

  All she heard were her rasping breath and heartbeat thundering in her ears. She forced air into her lungs, sucking in as much oxygen as possible.

  “Now, sweetheart, you have a choice. You can cooperate with me, do as I say. Follow that plan, and I might allow you to live to see the sunrise.” Jayson’s fingers trailed down her collarbone and over to the center of her chest. He leaned in close, shifted his grip and closed his lips over the visible pulse in her throat. He bit down, letting his fangs sink into the vein. Jayson moaned as the liquid flowed into his mouth, filling every recess. Her blood delivered a strong kick to his gut like a particularly strong drink. Feedings always provided him with energy, but hers included an extra high. The sharp tang of fear raced through him making every inch tingle with excitement. Years of pent up longing and unspoken desires filled her blood with rich, bold flavors that flowed over his tongue and down his throat.

  He pulled back after one mouthful, moaning as he decided to prolong the experience. Jayson dragged his tongue over the wounds to seal them before sitting back and taking a deep breath. Being careful not to break the skin, he shook his head and nipped her earlobe again. “If you choose to fight me, I will still take what I want, but there will be a lot of pain involved for you.” His fingers traced her chin with a gentle lover’s touch.

  Jayson stood and waited, studying her. On the bed, Emily struggled, fighting against the tape and bindings. He remained silent, watching her body twist and her brow furrow as she screamed in frustration and thrashed from side to side. He fought to keep from laughing while a fresh spike of her terror assaulted his psyche. “You can keep trying to escape, sweetheart, but know this, should you manage to free yourself, I will find you and be displeased. You won’t like the outcome if you make me angry.” He spun on his heel and exited the curtained bedroom area.

  2 - San Francisco, CA – September 16, 2012

  Daniel Young slipped into the apartment building, then paused just inside the front door to take a deep breath. The other vampire’s scent permeated the hall. He frowned as he drifted toward the stairs. A tenant approached. Not wanting to be remembered as seeming out of place, he paused again by one of the interior doors, shifting his weight as though waiting for someone in the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, San Francisco’s Enforcer noticed a young man with blond hair rushing past. He frowned as the air around him stirred, the scent of the Renegade mixing with the unmistakable scent of death. When he heard the building’s front door slam, he walked up to the second floor.

  Half an hour later and back on the first floor, Daniel stood over the young woman’s corpse and swore with creative vehemence in his native German. The fetid scent of death and first stages of decay mixed with the overpowering cologne the other victim had insisted on wearing. The victim hasn’t been dead very long. It’s only a matter of time before the human authorities find both her, and the dead man upstairs. Forcing such useless thoughts from his head, he knelt and examined the body.

  The victim had been laid out on the bed, raven hair fanned across the pillow, cloudy emerald green eyes staring at nothing. Her killer dressed her in a pale blue nightgown made of lace and some filmy material that did little to hide her curves. Her arms were crossed over her torso, the left hand on top of the right. Dark bruises and ligature marks dotted the exposed flesh. This was not an easy death. He played with her before draining her dry. Gods know how long it went on. The corpse upstairs smelled a full eight to twelve hours older than this one. Daniel ran a hand through his hair and knelt beside the bed. “You bastard,” he said, brushing her eyes closed with his fingertips and whispered an ancient prayer to the Gods of the dead that the world had forgotten.

  Upstairs the man’s apartment looked as thought it had been ransacked by thieves, but Daniel knew better. Her neighbor’s death had been quick, and from the mess left behind it looked as though the murder hadn’t been planned. With the woman, he enjoyed taking his time. It took planning, and he had played with her. The Enforcer frowned and stepped back so he could see the whole room as the killer had intended.

  “Why did you take your time with this one? What was special about her?” Daniel asked though he knew no answer would be forthcoming. Shaking his head, he stepped back to the body. “Please forgive me for this.” He reached for one of the two daggers he carried in wrist sheaths and with a swift, sure stroke cut deeper into the flesh, obscuring the bite marks on her neck. Daniel didn’t know how but he was certain that there had been more bites, each its own brand of torture, but those wounds had been sealed using the vampire’s saliva. So, why remove all traces of some bites but leave the last ones? Is this the fatal bite? Did you leave it as a way to mark her as yours even in death?

  Daniel stood and turned his attention to the apartment. Nice, but nothing too fancy, small and decorated with an eclectic mix that spoke to either an artistic personality or non-existent budget. Pulling on a pair of soft leather gloves, he started looking through the stacks of scattered papers that covered almost every flat surface in the place.

  Gods, I hate this part. That’s when he came upon a photograph of the young woman. Surrounded by smiling friends and family, the photographer caught her in the middle of blowing out candles on a cake. Daniel didn’t take time to count the candles. It wasn’t information he needed, yet. A full media report on this death would flood the airwaves and be plastered across newspapers soon enough.

  A lovely young woman found dead in her apartment is always good for several column inches in the local paper, and the hometown news stations will pick it up as well, unless, of course, there’s some earth-shattering local sports or human interest story to cover.

  Shaking his head at the thought, he picked up her purse from the counter and opened it. Nothing unusual: brush, lipstick, powder compact, lotion and other items I can’t name and, I’m not sure I even want to try. Near the bottom of the victim’s handbag, he found several wrinkled business cards. He pulled them out and started searching for another item he wasn’t sure he’d find. Two of the cards were for doctor appointments, one for a tanning salon, another for a hair stylist, and the last three bore names of nightclubs. Daniel recognized all three clubs as places some of the earlier victims had frequented. He sighed, knowing that he could no longer put off the inevitable.

  “I have got to go meet with Samair.” Placing the cards back in the woman’s purse, he hoped the human police would make the same connection. If so, it might help slow the Renegade’s killing spree. He didn’t go so far as to hope the murder rampage would come to an end, but if it caused delays and meant fewer corpses, he’d be fine with that.

  Daniel turned, ready to leave the apartment when something caught his eye, stopping him in his tracks. Snatching one of the photos off the front of the refrigerator, he studied the four people standing in a row, all in their early–to mid–twenties. In the snapshot, the dead woman stood on the left. The guy Daniel had found in the apar
tment upstairs stood next to her with his arm draped over her shoulder. To the right, another woman with flame red hair and brown eyes. Cursing under his breath, Daniel realized the blond guy on the right was the young man he had just passed in the hall. Upon closer examination, he recognized him.

  Hello, Jayson. Daniel sighed, recalling the young vampire from one of his recent audiences with Samair, leader of San Francisco’s Nomadic Vampire community.

  He looked to be about the same age as the rest of the group, and if the vampire grapevine had ferreted out the truth, he’d changed about six months ago. In the photo, Jayson’s blond hair had been styled to appear messy. His blue-green eyes, made the elder vampire think he wore contacts.

  Daniel frowned and slipped the photo into the inner pocket of his jacket, hoping none of the humans would notice. He lingered in the apartment for a few additional minutes, trying to figure out why Jayson had attacked this girl and her friend upstairs. None of the previous victims seemed to have a connection to their killer, but the two in this building had. Satisfied he had all he needed from both apartments, Daniel made his way out of the building, and back into the fog-shrouded night.

  He drifted through the shadows, staying out of sight for several blocks. Slipping into a dark alley, he pulled the cheap burner phone from his front pocket and flipped it open. He dialed 911 without looking at it. A few minutes later he cut the call short when the operator asked for his name and contact information. Not bothering to end it before dropping the phone on the ground, instead he crushed the phone under his boot heel. After the device had been destroyed, he strode in long, even steps into the night, making his way back toward the apartment building. As the first wail of the sirens in the distance filled his ears, he melted into the shadows, becoming one with them as a single word filled his mind.

  Renegade.

  They were three syllables that filled every enforcer with apprehension and a small measure of fear, the word that meant one thing… the situation had spun out of control, and there was only one option. Call in the… Assassin.

  3 – Hollywood, CA – September 20, 2012

  Dark, moody rock orchestral music thundered through the club as hundreds of humans, vampires and others moved to the music. Lights bathed the stage in color and high above the former church's gothic arches disappeared into shadow. The club's co-owner and manager on duty, Christophe Marchon, strolled through the crowd, brushing up against some of the lithe young women in ways that could be considered seductive. His behavior bordered on scandalous, but his amethyst eyes never left the redheaded vampire waitress who’s strange behavior had caught his attention more than half an hour ago. She wove through the crowd, a tray of five drinks balanced on one hand, smiling to patrons as she moved. When she reached table fifteen, she shifted the tray and started handing out the drinks.

  He watched as she smiled and chatted with the patrons for a few seconds, flashing the killer grin that had been one of the deciding factors in hiring her. The dark haired guy with a wannabe vampire complex slipped her a tip. Christophe's eyes narrowed and he ran a hand through his blond hair. Ahh, cherie, what have you got there?, he thought with a frown, watching the waitress as she continued to circulate among the patrons, hoping the tiny bag of white powder didn’t change hands again.

  “What’d you see?” James the pseudo-skater, werewolf head of security on duty asked from over his left shoulder.

  “It’s just as Thomas thought.” Christophe shook his head. “Keep an eye on her, and make certain the package doesn’t change hands again. When she comes back to the bar, have your guys get her off the floor. I’ll see what I can do about calling someone in ASAP to cover the rest of her shift. In the meantime, let Phillip know, he can alert the other servers and make sure our asses are covered until I can get someone here.”

  James nodded and turned. The werewolf had taken half a step before the vampire grabbed his arm. “I don’t want a big production. No muss, no fuss.”

  “Anything else you want me to do?” the werewolf asked, a hint of a growl coloring his words.

  “Not that I can think of right now. When you get her off the floor, take her into one of the back rooms where we let hot heads cool off. I’ll call Morgan and see what the boss lady wants to do.” He checked his watch. “Maybe she hasn’t left for the airport yet.” I don’t really want to bring this to her, but Morgan insists on knowing when we fire someone.

  “She’s in the office. Danny saw her go up about twenty minutes ago.”

  “What’s she doing here? I thought she was staying home before heading to New Orleans.”

  James shrugged, “I don’t know. Keeping tabs on the boss when she’s not at the club isn’t part of my job as head of security.”

  “All right. Just get little miss I think I’m sneaky off the floor.” He nodded to indicate the redhead. “I’ll go talk with the boss lady and see what she wants to do.” Christophe turned and headed up the spiral staircase to the converted choir loft that served as their shared office. The space wasn’t elaborate, with a desk, chairs and a plush leather sofa. A large window overlooked the dance floor and industrial strength sound proofing dulled the noise from below. Sufficient space and peace for him, Morgan and Charles to share while working at the club.

  She sat behind the desk, running a hand through her raven tresses, staring at something on the laptop screen. Even from across the room, Christophe spotted the dark circles under Morgan’s eyes. Her skin looked paler than normal. After over 400 years of friendship, he knew that his mentor wasn’t sleeping well.

  “Morgan, I thought you were taking the night off.” Christophe stood in the doorway and leaned against it, cocking one eyebrow, questioning without saying more.

  She shrugged and tilted her head to the left, not meeting his eyes. “I remembered there were a few things that needed my attention first.”

  “Yes.” Christophe shook his head. “And, before you left, you asked Charles and me to handle them. We have this, Morgan.” A nagging voice in the back of his head said there was more going on than met the eye.

  “I know, and I trust you, but.” She sighed and gestured to the papers on the desk. “I just need to take care of this.” Her attention refocused on the papers.

  Who does she think she’s kidding? I am 400 years old, give or take a decade or two. I truly do not have the time for this, but, when she is in a mood… Christophe’s thoughts trailed off as he pushed away from the door, entered the room and closed it behind him, turning the thumb latch to give them an extra layer of privacy. He waited for some kind of response, but when none came for several moments and tension began to build, he asked, “What?”

  She looked up at him, her brow furrowed and lips parted in a slight gasp, genuine confusion in her emerald eyes.

  “What is so important that you don’t think we can handle it?”

  “I don’t have time.” Morgan waved him away with a growl.

  “How long have the nightmares been back?” He knew he’d hit a nerve when she flinched. Mon Dieu, I wasn’t expecting to hit the nail on the head.

  In the three years since Morgan had been kidnapped and used for experimentation, her extended vampiric family had tried to get her back to normal. Sometimes, it was impossible, especially when considering that she trained with a Sorcerer every night to control the magic in her blood. While other vampires fell into a death-like trance every day, Morgan sometimes had vivid and terrifying dreams.

  “That’s quite a leap from having paperwork to do, to you thinking my nightmares are back.” She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back in the swivel chair, leveling a cool gaze on him.

  He didn’t say anything, but thrust his hands into his pockets and waited, an expression of sheer boredom on his face.

  The standoff continued for a few moments before Morgan gave in and asked, “What makes you think they’re back?”

  “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. Also, it’s a giveaway that you’re here and not at home prep
ping for your trip to New Orleans. Besides, you’re moody.” He ticked off each reason on a finger and glanced up. “Would you like me to continue? I’m sure there are a few more.”

  “So I’m not allowed to be moody without having nightmares?”

  “No, you are.” He shrugged. “But moody wasn’t the only thing I mentioned.”

  She held up one hand and shook her head. “I do not want to do this with you. Please, just let me do what I need to so I can get out of here.”

  “Is it the meeting with Caitlynn in New Orleans? Are you worried about going back there for the first time since everything went down? You think it will stir up a lot of crap that you aren’t ready to deal with yet?” When she didn’t answer, he decided to push harder. “Are you obsessing over choosing the location for the new club? Did you have an argument with Nicholas? Oh no, did Mina forget how to use the litter box again? Ooor… is it something else?” The questions came in rapid fire, not giving her the chance to answer.

  “Eric’s cat is using the box just fine.” Morgan rolled her eyes at her Blood Son. Another brief battle of wills happened before she capitulated and asked, “You’re not going to let go of this, are you?”

  “No. So save us both some time and tell me what’s going on. Or do I have to get Nicholas on the phone? I’m sure that’s exactly what he needs to hear about now.” Christophe knew how to twist the knife deeper, but held back. He didn’t want to hurt her, just pause long enough to convince her to be more reasonable, careful.

  “Bastard,” she swore under her breath, lips pulled back in a snarl. “Swear to me you will not tell Nicholas. He does not need to know.”