Forged in Flame

by Rabe, Michelle

  After several more minutes of back and forth, Abbi stopped speaking and Nicholas heard a heavy sigh through the glass. He could have gone to her then, but he knew her well enough to realize that a question and answer session wasn’t what she needed. The door opened and didn’t close. Soft strains of jazz came through for a few seconds before Abbi stood beside him, a glass of amber liquid with ice in one hand.

  “So, what do you need, boss?”

  He spared her a quick glance. Their heights were a good near match… her five foot ten to his six feet… with naturally curly red hair and bright blue eyes. “You heard about Daniel?” Nicholas asked, not bothering with pleasantries. The pair had exchanged those when he’d first arrived, before the phone call had interrupted them.

  “Yes.” She frowned. “But I guess you’re not here for that reason alone. If you were, you would have simply come out and said something.”

  “I would have just called.” One shoulder rose in a slight shrug.

  “Good to know.” A thread of laughter showed in her words, and she smirked before asking, “Does this mean I should start ignoring calls from you?”

  “No, because that will make me come out here to see what’s wrong.”

  “Good point.”

  “I need your help in choosing the proper successor for Daniel.”

  A slight crease appeared between her brows, and she tilted her head to the left. “The way you say that sounds as if you’re not necessarily talking about wanting the perfect vampire for the job.”

  “No,” Nicholas said, “in this case I’m looking more for…” he paused and pursed his lips, “a certain kind of replacement.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An inept one,” he answered without emotion.

  Abbi shook her head, “Excuse me?”

  “I need an idiot.” A calculating half smile curled his lips. “Someone who’s going to make it look like they’re doing their job but is really just bumbling their way to Byzantium.”

  She thought about what he said for a couple of seconds. Nicholas was content to let her come to her own conclusion or ask what he had in mind. Either outcome worked for his plan. She met his gaze and held it for a few seconds before asking, “May I ask why, boss?”

  “Because Daniel suspected that one of Samair’s bloodline might have something to do with the killings that brought me to the city.”

  “We’re not talking a generation or two removed here, are we?”

  “No. One of Samair’s Blood Children. We didn’t get the chance to go into too much detail. But, if his assessment was correct…” Nicholas let the thought trail off as he took another sip of his wine.

  “So, you need one of our people who’s going to keep Samair placated, but not actually do any of the work of finding the Renegade?” Abbi asked though she thought she knew what the answer would be.

  The Assassin shrugged. “Pretty much. Also, the candidate needs to be somewhat expendable.”

  “So, they’re going to serve as a smoke screen that will outlive its usefulness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s the permanent replacement?”

  The look Nicholas gave her seemed to say, that’s a foolish question. “You.”

  “Damn you.” She took a long pull of her drink and sighed. “You’re asking me to find a nuisance who won’t be missed once they’ve outlived their usefulness, but is capable of at least appearing to do the job?”

  “That is exactly what I am asking you for.”

  Abbi felt all of the breath leave her body. “I…” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “I - I never thought you’d ask me that.” She pressed the tips of her fingers against her temple. “Your predecessor, yes,” she met his eyes, “but not you.”

  “If you can’t help me with this. I understand.” Nicholas set his glass on the banister, turned and started walking.

  Abbi watched as he strode away from her. She sighed and turned to face the city. When she heard Nicholas’s shoes on the tiles in her foyer, she spoke up. “Nora. The vampire you want is named Nora.” I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Nora is the perfect patsy. She gets just enough done to stay off your radar but never really does the job. For some reason, Daniel liked her and, well, sort of cleaned up after her.”

  “How did I not know this?”

  Abbi shrugged. “She’s just one of those people who manages to skate by without pissing people off too badly. I guess none of us called her out because we all, kind of liked her. Her people skills suck, but we all just sort of accepted it.” She frowned and stared into her drink as though truth and the future could be divined by reading cabernet.

  “And yet you’ve outed her now.”

  “Yeah.” She turned to face the horizon, watching the cars streak past below, creating lines of glowing white and red.

  Nicholas knew he could press her and get the answers he wanted, but considering what he’d already asked of her, he sipped his wine and waited for his Blood Daughter to come around on her own.

  “We covered for her.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, measured way. “But now I wonder. If we hadn’t, and insisted that you bring in someone better suited to helping out in a large territory like this, would Daniel still be alive?” She closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath.

  “I don’t know the answer to that.” Nicholas’s demeanor became calm, soothing, comforting and reassuring. “But I do know asking those kinds of questions will drive you crazy. We don’t even know for sure this particular renegade had something to do with his death. We have to go slow, take time to figure out exactly what happened.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. “How can I help, boss?”

  “Right now, I want you to lay low. All of our people need to be more discreet than ever before. I’m hoping the Nomads aren’t aware that I’m in town yet. I’m keeping to the fringes for now. When the time is right, I’ll be out in the open about my involvement.”

  Nicholas looked out over the city again gazing into the distance, but not really seeing anything. Abbi had witnessed his thoughtful stare enough times to know what it meant. She stepped back into her apartment and left her boss, her Sire, alone with his thoughts.

  7 – San Francisco, CA – October 2, 2012

  Zachary Amberhill parked the car a few blocks away from his destination, choosing to walk the last little bit rather than having his vehicle seen in the vicinity, in case something went wrong. He had an appointment to consult with Claire about a piece of art he’d just acquired, but his Blood attorney and friend hadn’t gotten back in touch to confirm their meeting. He tugged his coat closed against the chilled night air coming off the bay and flipped his collar up to shield the lower half of his face from prying eyes. After about five minutes of walking, he stopped in front of her house. A warm golden light glowed from a lamp on the porch and the study window.

  An icy chill raced up his spine, and Zachary shivered as he stepped up to the front door and pressed the button for the doorbell. Slipping cold hands back into his pockets, he turned to face the street and watched the skyline, feeling the familiar sense of loss as the colors began to drain from dusk while true night started sinking its claws into his corner of the world. A few moments later, he turned back to the door and frowned. He checked his watch. Only a few minutes early, but he knew Claire well enough to realize she would be waiting for him. She knows I’m coming. We have an appointment. The tiny hairs on his neck stood on end and the first hint of fear slipped through his defenses.

  With the feeling of dread rising, Zachary lifted his hand and knocked again. Finally, he heard a soft click from the latching mechanism and the door swung to a ninety-degree angle with an almost inaudible creak.

  This can’t be good. Peering into what he could see of the house, the seed of dread sprouted and the weed had taken hold of the primal part of his mind. He looked around, checking to make sure no one on the street had taken notice of him. Satisfied, he stepped forward and into the house. H
e closed the door behind him without a sound and readied his sword cane.

  Silence shrouded the house, the surroundings too quiet with none of the expected hustle and bustle of activity. In addition to being one of the most sought after Blood attorneys in the city, Claire involved herself with many human charities and nomadic vampire societies. At the very least, her human servants should have been moving around the house preparing it for the evening’s activities.

  He listened again… Nothing, not even the faint sound of a heartbeat or the electronic hum that he’d come to hear as part of everyday life in this century.

  Gooseflesh popped up on his arms and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Instinct told him to get out, to call the Enforcers and allow them to do their work, but something pulled him forward, deeper into the house, his slow footfalls seemed to echo in the silence.

  The first hallway to the left led to the library.

  That was where he found her.

  Claire sat at her desk, staring into space as though she were daydreaming. Zachary gazed for a long moment before his mind caught up and registered the deathly pallor to her skin, the way her eyes stared at nothing, and at the blood staining the front of her shirt. Zachary advanced into the room his senses assaulted by the thick, cloying scent of roses.

  While he stood there taking in the scene, feeling a sense of numbness and shock settle over him, Zachary let the tip of his sword dip toward the floor. He took a few steps in the direction of the desk, toward Claire. He had to do something. The scent of roses grew stronger with each step. Shaking his head, feelings of frustration and hopelessness crept in at the edges of his grief.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of movement, a slight shift in one of the curtains at the French doors, in spite of the still air. He tried to write it off as nothing more than his eyes playing tricks on him, but somehow he knew that he wasn’t alone.

  The killer is in the room. He raised his sword and inched toward the curtains. No other heartbeat broke the silence of the quiet room. Zachary shivered as the realization came to him. He knew without a doubt that the killer wanted nothing more than blood and death and destruction.

  Claire’s killer exploded from behind the curtains, flying toward him with a speed that no normal mortal possessed. The tiny figure charged at him, a feral growl emanating from within. Zachary sidestepped, bringing his blade up in a defensive stance as he waited to see what his attacker would do. After several seconds of deliberation, she lunged, the flash of steel between them. Zachary turned, dodging the second attack while deflecting her blade with his. There weren’t many vampire-hunting societies left in the world, but the one or two that remained had methods developed and honed over centuries. They often coated their blades with a poison that incapacitated or killed vampires.

  His adversary didn’t come back around for a third try. Instead, she took advantage, flung a chair in his direction and raced out into the foyer. Zachary chased her out to the stoop, emerging from the house in time to see her climb into the back seat of a nondescript silvery gray car just before it pulled into the flow of traffic.

  Swearing under his breath, Zachary turned on his heels and stepped back into the house, slamming the front door behind him. He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number of the city’s Enforcer. On the third ring, the line clicked open, and a bored voice said, “Yeah, this is Nora.”

  “I need to report a death.”

  “Who are you?” She’d gone from bored to annoyed in less than three seconds.

  Must be some sort of record. “Zachary Amberhill.”

  “And the name of the deceased vampire?”

  “Claire Danvers.” Zachary turned away from his friend’s body as his throat constricted. A long pause later, he heard the telltale clicks of a keyboard as she entered the information into an Enforcers-only database.

  “You are both Nomads,” Nora said.

  Zachary frowned, not liking the note of contempt in her voice. “What does that have to do with anything?” he snapped, his temper fraying. “I was under the impression the Enforcers were there for all of our kind.” He knew that to be true.

  The Enforcers were there to keep all vampires in line. That lesson had been ingrained in him starting with the first night he woke as a vampire. His Sire had insisted that he study Council Law and Zachary had been eager to learn.

  “I do not have time to look into a Nomad’s death.”

  A heavy silence filled the line, stretching and morphing into something strange. Zachary broke it with an exasperated sigh.

  “Perhaps you should speak with the Lord of the City?” she asked, yawning.

  “This is not his job. It is yours,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “As I have said, I do not have the time.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Honestly, I don’t care. Do I have to keep repeating it?”

  “Yeah, yeah. You do not have the time. I got it. Thanks for a whole lot of nothin’.” Zachary punched the button to end the call, missing his old handset and cradle setup that made it much more satisfying when hanging up on someone.

  Not wanting to stay in the same room, and unable to bring himself to close Claire’s unseeing eyes, he stepped back into the foyer and closed the doors without making a sound. He took a deep breath, and almost gagged on the pungent scent of roses.

  Zachary paused and looked around, there were several floral arrangements on tables in the entryway but not a single rose. Claire hates… hated them ever since that guy kept sending her dozens even after she told him that she hated them. What was his name? James, wasn’t it?

  He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, knowing there wasn’t any reason to delay. The sun pulled at the edges of Zachary’s awareness, and he knew he should get home but had work to do. He couldn’t leave Claire to be found by humans. Gathering his courage, he pushed away from the wall and made his way downstairs to the basement. Natural gas lines could be tampered with and used to turn the house into a funeral pyre.

  He had no other option.

  “I just hope that it doesn’t get too far out of control and do too much damage to the neighborhood,” he muttered under his breath.

  8

  Morgan walked through the sea of black, thorns biting through the leather pants and knee-high boots she wore, the sweet scent of roses drifting up to fill her head. Her hands hung loose at her sides, blood flowing from the tip of each finger, flames devouring the liquid before it had the chance to reach the parched earth below. The heavy cloak of blue-black feathers dragged the ground though it didn’t get snagged on any of the thorns. She could feel the plants shifting, as if they were moving out of her way. She kept moving, one foot in front of the other in a delicate almost dancer-like fashion, though she didn’t know where the path led, or why she walked it. The compulsion overrode her common sense, so she walked on. She stepped over corpses as the field of flowers began to thin going from vibrant and full of color to desiccated and dead.

  She didn’t see the bodies as she trod over them. Didn’t recognize Christophe’s amethyst eyes gazing into the burning sky—unfocused and unblinking—forever. Or that Marcus had succumbed to the blades of several enemies, inflicting high casualties before sheer numbers overcame him. She hadn’t noticed when Nicholas put himself between a blade and her back, taking the fatal blow in her place.

  Morgan continued walking, following the compulsion.

  She opened her eyes when she stepped into the clearing. All around her the ground was littered with black rose petals that split and bled with each step, leaving footprints of dark crimson in her wake. He stood across from her at the other end of the long aisle of calm amidst the storm.

  “Morrigan.” Her name whispered on the breeze, the ancient pronunciation she seldom used anymore.

  At first, she didn’t answer, her will asserting itself. Instead, she halted progress and forced herself to scan the area. All around her, cla
w-like branches reached out as though they wanted to catch and drag her into their skeletal embrace. She started walking again… Curiosity, not compulsion, driving her this time. When a strange figure dressed in black from head to toe appeared from the shadows, she stopped. It wore an odd, shapeless coat that dragged the ground. The being turned to face her, but not before she caught sight of its long, grotesque beak-like hooked nose. Something in the back of her mind pinged with recognition, a thrill of trepidation running through her, breath catching in her lungs as her throat tightened.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Who are you?” The mocking echo of her own voice continued until the sound was too faint for even Morgan’s vampiric hearing.

  The shadowy image turned its head, and she shuddered as a memory surfaced in her subconscious, a title drifting through her mind, Plague Doctor. Completing his turn and now facing her, eyes glowing red, it reached out toward her.

  Morgan shook her head and began backing away, knowing she didn’t want it to come near enough to touch.

  Laughter filled the void, a high pitched, scratchy mockery of true mirth, and it sent needles of ice lancing to Morgan’s core. She screamed. Morgan turned, her feet getting tangled in her skirts as she tried to flee. The ground opened up and she twisted. Her high-pitched scream echoed in her ears as Morgan fell through the black, with the earth following.