Bitten in Two

by Jennifer Rardin

  Because we paid him to. So we could set up your hunt tonight and make sure your victim didn’t end up dead. Like the first one nearly did, before we realized what had happened the night we arrived in Marrakech when you went missing and we had to hunt you for real. The night you woke with such a bizarre case of amnesia that you thought you were still a Rogue, still outside of your vow never to take human blood, and so deep in this brain-blip of yours that you’d mistaken all of us for people who shared your life over two hundred and thirty years ago!

  I wanted to slap him with those words like a dueling glove. But he’d just look confused, and I’d be extra miserable. So I said, “The man’s family would starve without him.”

  Vayl lowered his eyebrows. “I did not hire you to remind me of such things.”

  I shoved my hands into the pockets of my sundress. It was one of his favorites, and I’d hoped seeing it would snap him out of his past. But he still believed that I was his frumpy middle-aged housekeeper. He also thought Cole was my husband, his valet, who he simply called Berggia. In his mind we’d just traveled to Morocco from his estate in England along with his beloved ward, Helena, whose part was played—grumpily—by Bergman.

  My hands closed around the items most likely to console me. In my right pocket sat the long knife my great-great-grandpa, Samuel Parks, had used during his stint as a machine-gun operator in World War I. Mistress Kiss My Ass (my loudly suffering seam-stress) had skillfully made a place for the sheath in all my clothes. My left pocket held eight poker chips that rang like bells in my ear when I shuffled them. And on a silver hoop attached to the material so it wouldn’t get lost: my engagement ring. I hadn’t worn it long. But I cherished it now more than ever, because I was sure the man who’d slipped the pear-shaped emerald on my finger eighteen months ago would never forget me, no matter where he ended up. Right, Matt?

  It’s not like you’ve slipped Vayl’s mind. Not Matt’s voice. He’d kept a steady silence since the vampire Aidyn Strait had murdered him two weeks after our engagement. On the other hand, my Granny May, who ruled my frontal lobe, couldn’t wait to comment. He believes he’s living over two hundred and thirty years before he met you, she reminded me.

  Exactly! The way he looks at it, Jaz Parks doesn’t exist at all!

  So quit whining and figure out why! Granny May had taken up needlepoint. She sat in her tree-filled backyard in the old metal chair she left out year-round (paint flecks hinted that it had once been red) alternately watching the cardinals fight over the sunflower seeds at her gazebo feeder and taking long, smooth stitches in a piece of fabric the size of a pillowcase.

  I watched her manipulate the needle with one hand while the other steadied the hoop that framed her workspace. Why did I suddenly think she would’ve been just as precise with a throwing knife? I shook my head.

  I’m not whining!… Okay, I am. It’s such sucktacular timing, that’s all! I mean, I may have control of the demon in my head. But I think you need reminding that Brude is still a Domytr. Which means Satan’s go-to guy is not going to give up without a fight. Especially when he was so close to succeeding at his own coup. And there’s Vayl, out of his right mind just when I need him to be the sharpest!

  Granny May snapped, You still have Cole, Bergman—and Kyphas—whether you want her or not.

  We should’ve deep-fried that hellspawn permanently, I huffed. Not cut her a deal that keeps her in our back pockets like a Chicago politician.

  Of course, Gran knew what I was really worried about. Cassandra’s soul is safe from Kyphas, you saw to that. She’s an ocean away, secure behind her locks and wards in her colorful little apartment in Miami. You’re lucky to have a friend like her. A psychic who’s willing to dog-sit and research a cause for Vayl’s amnesia is practically a walking miracle. Just remember what she said last time you talked. You’re standing in the city where you believe the tool that you need to end Brude’s possession of you is located. So find it!

  It sounds easy the way you put it. But I’m not convinced Kyphas is done with Cassandra. And until we know what caused Vayl’s amnesia—

  You’re a girl. Multitask!

  I sighed and scratched my head, wishing for the thousandth time that Lucifer’s gofer hadn’t infested my synapses. Then I could just concentrate on finding the bottom-feeder that had slapped Vayl into a virtual time machine and strapped a pair of 1777-tinted goggles over his eyes. Unless he was just plain sick. In which case I’d be on my own with Brude.

  Who I couldn’t stop obsessing about. The Domytr who wanted to create a whole new hell was still stomping around in my mind. And although I had him contained in a place where he couldn’t control me anymore, I’d begun to show physical strain from keeping him imprisoned. Mainly nosebleeds. But also headaches that started behind one of my eyes and spread across my skull like I’d cracked it on an iron post. Even without consulting experts, I knew those were bad signs. If Brude broke free of the room where I’d imprisoned him, he’d destroy more than virtual walls. Which was why failed exorcisms often ended with a coroner writing the word “aneurism” on the victim’s death certificate.

  We had to complete our original mission. The one Vayl had set us on before he’d lost his way. My life depended on finding the Rocenz, a demon-forged hammer and chisel that had been supernaturally welded together. Once we had the tool and figured out a way to separate the parts, we could engrave Brude’s name on the gates of hell. At which time the power of the Rocenz to reduce everything to its most basic elements would transform the Domytr in my head to dust.

  Proving once again how utterly useless Vayl would be for this aspect of our operation, he asked, “Has your husband’s cough eased now that we have spent a few days in the dry air?”

  “Who? I don’t—” Oh, he’s asking about Cole. “Yeah, yeah.”

  His lips tightened and I thought I was about to get another lecture on my presumptuous behavior. Which would’ve been fine with me. Another chance to zone out, try to formulate some sort of plan. Plus, okay, I’ll admit it. Despite the fact that it had only been three days since I’d held him in my arms, I was already hunting excuses to stand and stare at my magnificent sverhamin, imagine my fingers brushing across his broad brow, sinking into his soft black curls. Pretend I was standing on the invited side of that come-love-me look in his emerald eyes.

  I watched his lips part, wind around the words. My mouth went dry as he said, “I can tell you have something on your mind, Madame Berggia.”

  If you only knew! “Uh, well, sure I do. That is, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since… we got here.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a hard time believing Co—I mean my husband—was the real reason you left England.” I waited. He liked it when I did that. Freaking elitist.

  “You are a very astute woman.” Vayl turned so all I could see was his profile, the proud bridge of his nose, the hard planes of his cheeks and jaw reminding me of pictures I’d seen of Roman generals. Until I realized he was watching his breakfast drive away in the creaking old donkey cart with a look of hunger that made my stomach clench.

  “So what’s the deal?” I demanded. “Why are we really here?”

  He turned his head, spoke sharply enough that I probably should’ve felt put in my place. But at least he explained. An entire story in a single word. “Helena.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  While the cart driver urged his donkey to speeds it hadn’t attempted since it was a yearling, Vayl dug one of the evil-smelling cigars he’d begun smoking after his “transition” out of the breast pocket of his black duster. His lighting routine was so elaborate I was surprised he didn’t have to sacrifice a goat too. Cole took advantage of the pause to needle Bergman through the Party Line.

  “I don’t think Lord Brâncoveanu’s ward has the right kind of dresses for this climate, do you, dear?” he asked, turning his head so Vayl couldn’t see him crossing his eyes at me the way we did every time we had to use his title along with h
is tongue-tripping surname. “Maybe we should take Helena shopping tonight.”

  Bergman growled so loud we both had to adjust our earpieces. He said, “I’m only pretending to be that girl because Cassandra said Vayl could be permanently damaged if I didn’t. But if you make me try on dresses I will happily vegetize him.”

  “You’re the one who got your hair all permed and dyed to match mine,” Cole whispered. “Can I help it if it makes you look like Uma Thurman?”

  “Who is Uma Thurman?” asked Vayl.

  While Cole tried to explain, I urged them both to get moving. The less time we spent dawdling in the medina’s mean streets, the better. Not that the criminals who hung out in Marrakech’s old city were any worse than the ones who preferred the modern section. Just that I’d have relaxed more back at the riad, where I wouldn’t have had to watch our backs while I recalled the moment when Bergman realized Vayl thought he was an eighteen-year-old girl whose interests revolved around painting and playing the pianoforte. But let’s face it. Even if a whole gang of thugs jumps out of the shadows, a moment that priceless is going to loop in your head until your inner bimbo stops trading howls of hilarity with the bartender and resumes her drunken dance with the coatrack. So I let the memory reel roll.

  We’d been gathered in the courtyard that filled the center of the riad, giving the building the shape of a grater that went straight at the top. The eye-catcher in the whole outdoor garden was the fountain rising out of the rectangular wading pool, a gracefully crafted urn that made it hard to look away. But then, there was so much more to see.

  The pool was surrounded by wooden chairs and tables with such ornate arms and legs you’d almost believe fairies had done the crafting. These sat on sand-colored tiles, two-foot-square sections of which had been removed in choice spots around the courtyard to make room for plantings of banana trees. Copper planters full of ferns, palms, and lemon trees took turns with hanging lanterns to line the courtyard’s pink walls, providing some relief for the eye when the sun beat down during the brightest part of the day. Escape also came in the form of two corner-built gazebos hung with raspberry-colored curtains that could be closed for extra privacy. Inside, Monique had placed two couches framed in metal that was bent to reflect the shovel-shaped arches that showed up in so much of Marrakech’s architecture. The burgundy cushions topped with enough pillows to satisfy an entire legion of interior decorators cozified them.

  I’d been admiring those gazebos for days, thinking about what Vayl and I might have gotten away with behind their thick curtains if he hadn’t been brain-fried. Now I shared them with my crew, watching the sky darken, waiting for the moment when—there. Cirilai sent a shot of warmth into the palm of my hand. The ring Vayl’s grandfather had made to protect his soul had warned me he was waking. Which meant it was time to prepare the troops.

  I looked at Bergman, sitting with his hands in his lap. Across a glass-topped table framed in exotically carved wood and covered with flickering candles sat Kyphas. I kept my eyes on her couch because, honestly? I could still barely look at her without reaching for the gun strapped to my shoulder. So what if she’d promised Cole to stop trying to corrupt souls for the Great Taker. My reaction?

  Sure, and my belly ring’s set with moon rocks.

  What I hoped was that she’d keep her paws off Cassandra now that we’d promised her Brude and a shot at the Oversight Committee in our psychic’s place. Four souls for one? Come on, that’s like a damn clearance sale, even if the soul you’re giving up had promised herself to you over five hundred years before. In return she’d agreed to help us find the Rocenz, which, because it had been demon-crafted, was more likely to be rediscovered by a demon. She’d even signed on to helping us carve Brude’s name onto hell’s gates. What a gal.

  The problem was, Kyphas didn’t believe in generosity. In fact, greed tended to ooze out of her like hangover sweat. Cole might not recognize the stench. But he tended to get distracted as soon as boobs starting bouncing within his line of sight. I knew that for Kyphas, the more souls she took back to hell with her when this was all over, the higher she’d rise up the hierarchy, so she’d be looking for any loophole she could find in her contract with us. No Cassandra? Okay. Cole’s soul probably looked as juicy as a medium rare T-bone to her.

  And she did look like she could gobble him whole as she eyed him from under her lashes. Which caused me to growl a little louder than I’d intended to when I said, “We can’t put Vayl off any longer. He keeps asking for a girl named Helena. We think that must be you, Kyphas. Play the part or—”

  “Or what?” The demon’s perfectly pink lips quirked in amusement. “Go ahead, threaten me some more, Jaz.”

  “He calls me Madame Berggia. You should too,” I snapped, reaching for Grief.

  “You know, Kyphas, you are probably the most beautiful woman I have ever fantasized about,” Cole said as he laid his arm across my shoulders. She sat forward, giving him full access to her halter-topped, tight-jeaned magazine-cover bod. He took his time with the view. Then he said, “Why do you have to be such a bitch all the time?”

  She sat up straight, crossing her arms as he went on, almost casually, like he was discussing the price of lawn mowers this season. “I’ve killed snakes that were cuddlier than you. Well”—he glanced at me—“those inland taipans you offed during that Scidairan witch mission were pretty gnarly. But I remember this pygmy rattlesnake I had to shoot during a case in Miami when I was still a PI. It was actually pretty—”

  “All right!” Kyphas slapped her hand against the armrest. “I’ll cooperate!” She glared at Bergman. “Am I that bad?”

  He shook his head, but the shake slowly turned to a nod. The motion made his hair bounce, which activated Cole’s AGR (automatic giggle response). Because, despite my daily suggestions to dye it back to brown, Bergman insisted that if he modeled his look after Cole’s he might have the same luck with women. So far he’d gotten two imaginary cell numbers and an outright, “Are you kidding me?” Personally I thought his head was too big and his frame too skeletal to pull it off. He needed a girl who was into unwrapped mummies.

  Or, maybe, one who enjoyed feeding people. Monique had come out with a tray full of cookies and tea just in time to say to Cole, “Lord Brâncoveanu is calling for you.” She smiled sympathetically, still buying our loony-but-lovable uncle story. Which is why nice people are always getting suckered.

  I reminded myself to leave her a big tip as I followed Cole out of the courtyard, motioning for the others, especially Kyphas/Helena, to follow us to Vayl’s door. Where we waited while Cole went in to do valet crap. Ten minutes later he invited us into the suite.

  I felt a familiar pang of regret as I glanced at Vayl’s bed, its white spread resembling a cast-off wedding dress. Except the mesh canopy that draped overhead and tied at each corner of its black metal support was a rich chocolaty brown. And the black-domed sleeping tent perched underneath that veil seemed less like a vampire’s shield from stray rays of light than a tunnel into another universe.

  Cole said, “He’s changing. Thank God I talked him out of needing assistance with that yesterday! Have a seat.”

  Bergman and Kyphas moved into the conversation area, which contained a fireplace, a couch, and matching armchairs upholstered in bright green satin. I took the round white ottoman that stood between them, ignoring the couch because, frankly, I needed Bergman’s moral support.

  Vayl swung open the bathroom door and strode out, the deep line between his red-rimmed eyes announcing his hunger. He wore a black button-down shirt with purple pin stripes and tailored slacks that kissed the tops of his shiny black boots. Cole handed him his duster and he shrugged it on as if he was chilly. In fact, he’d informed “Berggia” that he felt naked without it.

  Bergman leaned next to my ear, since nothing had happened to injure Vayl’s hearing, and whispered, “How does he pull that off? It’s hot enough for shirtsleeves but I guarantee you nobody will harass him about his outfit
. I’d probably get the crap kicked out of me if I tried to pull that off. But he’s so manly strangers will probably stop him on the street to ask where they can tour his castle.”

  I sighed. Vayl’s vibe was working on me, as well, but in more of an oh-baby-let’s-play-doctor kind of way. Before I could pull myself together, Vayl held out his arms. His smile, while it kept the fang-reveal to a minimum, was so gentle that for a second I thought he’d come back to himself. My heart jumped, making an utter fool of itself, when he followed the gesture by saying, “Madame Berggia. You have brought my little Helena to see me. What a fine way to greet the new day!”

  “Oh. Yeah, well, you insisted—” I jerked my thumb at Kyphas so she’d get the lead out and stand up already. She shot to her feet, but with a full-faced pout that revealed just how much Cole’s comment had hurt her.

  Damn. Maybe she has a heart after all.

  Kyphas raised her arms to return his hug, her hands hanging limply as if she’d inherited some zombie traits from her mom’s side of the family. Vayl raked his eyes over her. “It would help if my walking stick was balanced on those,” he snapped. “But I will forgive you since you are, in fact, Helena’s maid.” And then he engulfed Bergman in a hug so enthusiastic I was pretty sure I heard some Russian tourists cheering in the streets.

  “How are you, my dear?” Vayl asked, patting Bergman on his fluffy head when the hug had ended. “I missed you. I had not realized our travels tired you so greatly. Here, let us be seated while you tell me everything.”

  “Uh.” Bergman shot a look of pure panic over his shoulder as Vayl took him by the hand and began to lead him toward the couch. I’m not a girl! he mouthed.

  Suck it up. I’m not a fat Italian housekeeper either! I mouthed right back.

  Cole was making a helluva racket taking down Vayl’s bed tent. Normally it collapsed very quietly. Then I realized he was punctuating the folding of the poles with swallowed snorts of laughter.