“Come here.” Time to start binding her to him.
She stepped up to him, and he bore into her pale green eyes. “The cops think I killed the mayor.” It was a huge chunk of unappetizing truth, but if she swallowed it and it stayed down, they had a chance to survive together.
Her eyes widened, but to her credit, she didn’t flinch or take a step back. “Did you do it?”
He followed her strategy of answering a question with a question. “If I did, would you still help me?”
Her brows hunched. “I don’t know. Murder . . . Jesus, Cade.”
He laughed. “I’m a creature of violence, as are all my brothers. But in this case, no, I didn’t kill her. I’ve been free for over three hundred years. I won’t be put behind bars—not for any real or perceived crime. Understand?”
“Well, humans can be violent, too.” She stared at his forehead, looking right through him, and he wondered if she was seeing a memory in which she’d been such a victim.
“I know that. Red, listen to me. I can prove to you I didn’t do it. Think back to the night the mayor was killed. I was feeding from you in Oz Park.”
She nodded.
“Do you remember the time?”
“I was home by eleven, so around ten forty-five, I think.”
“Exactly. The mayor was killed at ten fifty. You’re my alibi, Red.”
“Then we should go to the police.”
He shook his head. “They say they have evidence against me. It’s false evidence. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to eliminate Deborah Dayton and frame me. If word gets out that you’re my alibi, I guarantee that without my protection you won’t live more than a day or two on the street.”
“Couldn’t the cops put me into some kind of witness protection program?”
“Sure. You want to trust them to keep you alive, or me?”
She looked away and let out a long breath, then refocused on his eyes. “What did you do to Thor back at my flat?”
He raised a brow. “I simply administered a little anesthesia. I didn’t have the time to either argue with him or take the chance he’d try to stop me. Don’t worry. The pug-ugly bastard’ll survive to fight another day.”
She frowned. “He’s not ugly. He’s beautiful.”
He merely grunted. Vampirism had obviously beautified Thor in Red’s eyes. Cade doubted she’d look twice otherwise at an ex-boxer with a mug full of scars.
Her frown lingered. “You take care of number one, don’t you?”
She might dedicate her evenings to rustling up vampire thrills, but she knew nothing of him or his world. “I see to the welfare of thousands of vampires.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He walked over to the drapes, pushed them aside, and looked out the front window. The street was quiet, and there was no traffic. He glanced back at Red. Ignorant as she might be, he admired the fact that she didn’t back down from him. Like Deborah, she was strong. “I have a lot of enemies, both mortal and undead. Any discernible weakness on my part would be exploited, believe me. So, yes, I take care of myself. And whether you believe it or not, I do take care of others.”
She dropped her gaze, studied her shoes, then looked at the front window. Both blinds and heavy drapes closed them off from the world. “It seems I don’t have much of a choice.”
He looked out again, scanning the cars parked on the block one by one. There was no one sitting in any of the vehicles. “No.”
She walked over to him and reached a hand up to touch his face, sliding one fingertip over his mouth. “You say you’re innocent. Somehow that word and those fangs just don’t go together. But okay. I’ll believe you, I’ll help you, and I won’t betray you. Is that good enough?”
He sensed no lie behind the words. “Good enough, but I want to see what’s in the bags you brought.”
He believed her words, but he’d take no chances, so he ignored her dirty look and followed her into the kitchen. She upended one of the plastic bags she’d brought and let the cans and packages tumble onto the table. He stared at the assortment of plastic, foil and paper containers, some no bigger than an envelope, and didn’t envy Red or any other mortal who had to subsist on such so-called food.
“This is what you live on?”
“Not all the time. You gave me about thirty seconds to pack. I’m going to have to go shopping unless you want me to starve.”
He grunted. “Show me what else you brought.”
She picked up the other bags and went upstairs, turning on lights and staking claim on the first bedroom she saw. She emptied the bags on the bed. She’d packed mostly clothes, but there was a goodly amount of personal feminine items, as well as electrical gadgets that looked like torture instruments.
“Your purse, too.”
She sighed and dumped its contents on the bed. There were makeup items, a wallet, comb, pen, receipts, and a cell phone. He took the phone. “I’ll hang on to this for now.”
She threw him more daggers with her eyes and nodded toward the dresser. “Can I put all this away, or won’t we be here that long?”
“Pack it back in the bag. We might have to leave on a moment’s notice.”
She folded her clothes and did as he said, and he watched her as intently as if she were stripping off her clothes.
She returned his look with a glower, as if she, for once, didn’t appreciate a voyeuristic stare from a vampire. “You know, if you’re planning on leaving this house with the cops still after you, you’ll have to do something with all that hair.”
It was his turn to glare.
She ignored his look. “Can’t have you running around the city looking like Cochise.”
He didn’t look anything like Cochise had. “Cochise was Apache.”
Red’s big sigh was an unsubtle hint that he’d missed whatever her point was. “You’ll be recognized for sure.” She paused and waggled her head back and forth. “Look, I lied before. I know who you really are. You’re the city’s top vamp.”
“Doyen.”
“Okay, doyen. But even if you weren’t doyen, you and that hair stand out. What are you, anyway?”
As if over three hundred years of existence could be summed up by one label. He’d discussed such things with only a handful of mortals, but he worried that if he didn’t appease a little of Red’s curiosity, she’d give him no peace. “I was born into what the history books call the Kaskaskia tribe.”
“Never heard of it.”
“No, of course you haven’t. The Kaskaskia were part of the Illinois people.”
“Never heard of them, either.”
“They’re extinct.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
She sounded sincere and was respectfully silent for some thirty seconds, then dug back into the trenches for another try.
“What I’m saying is the hair has to go.”
“No.” Vampires clove to their long hair like lovers.
“Won’t it grow back?”
“The hair and fingernails of the undead continue to grow. But I’m not chopping off my hair.”
She beamed in victory, as if he’d just stepped into a trap. “You don’t have to. I’m a stylist. I’ll do it, and I’ll make you look good—not that you need any help.”
Two hours later Cade and Red were in the black Chevy on a shopping expedition, following sex and a haircut, in that order. Red had said she wanted him to make love to her just once before the hair was gone, and who was he to argue with a lady? But as good as the sex had been, he mourned his loss.
She tried to put a positive spin on the work she was proud of. “I just can’t believe the difference. You don’t even look Native. You could pass for latino or Middle Eastern or any number of ethnicities.”
He gripped the steering wheel an
d concentrated on finding a twenty-four hour grocery store. Her clipping hand had tried to be kind, avoiding a buzz cut and leaving his hair shoulder-length with bangs. With a little gel, most of it stayed behind his ears. Gel. Ugh. The only thing that made him feel better was Gravedigger, the Bowie knife that rested in its leather sheath harness between his heart and the denim duster. With a nine-inch Damascus steel blade and a rosewood coffin handle, it was a knife that made others look like nail files.
He’d gone years without carrying a weapon, having felt no need for offensive support beyond his natural killing talent, but Hell and the advent of the vamp-killing Claws had changed everything, and now everything had changed yet again. Gravedigger was back, with all it symbolized, a happy surprise hidden in a zippered compartment of the bag Thor had brought him from the club.
Red, oblivious to his thoughts, rattled on. “And as long as you keep your mouth shut, no one’ll know you’re a vampire.”
As if he could open his mouth to get a word in edgewise.
They were back home well before dawn, after countless checks in the rearview mirror told him they had no tail. Red had three days worth of food and hair color to disguise her own remarkable and attention-getting hair. Starting tomorrow they’d look like any other young couple on Chicago’s north side—in love, struggling to make ends meet, and hoping the Cubs would make the playoffs.
Chapter Eleven
Kaskaskia, Illinois Country
May, 1763
THE CHANGE KINCADE wished for came slowly at first with the new season. Primroses, pussytoes, and anemones bloomed on the prairie and in the woodlands, and while he took scant notice of such things, it meant more important changes would soon follow. He was right. The coureur du bois arrived in force, more than he could ever remember in past springs. Some were traders, hauling their skins with them, but others were simply runners, carrying nothing but news.
First had come the news that the French and British had signed a great treaty in February surrendering all lands to the British. Even with the wisdom of all his years, Kincade found such words hard to understand. Was not man, even a creature such as himself, a part of the land? He and all his brethren were connected to the rivers, mountains, prairies and woodlands. Man was not above the land, or separate from it. So how could anyone say that the land now belonged to this man instead of that man? All that Kincade understood was that the French father was dead. He would no longer be allowed to protect his children or trade with them. More details of the treaty followed, but he understood those no better.
Still, he yearned for news, and after missing several runners who both arrived and left with the daylight, Kincade left specific instructions with select members of both the Illinois and French habitants. Any runner who arrived during the day was to be detained until Che Kincade could speak to him personally. Kincade issued no threats with his dictates. He merely fattened his commands with silent, subtle promises of life. It always seemed to work. What man didn’t want to live?
For dusk to bring a visitor, then, was no surprise. To emerge from his caveaux to find that the warm scented evening had brought a foul-smelling rodent of a man was something less expected and far less welcome.
The man paced across the galerie like he owned it, and Kincade took an instant dislike to his dirty black hair and small dark eyes. Wrinkles at the corners of the man’s eyes fanned out like mouse whiskers, a consequence, most likely, of too much sun and too much liquor.
“Are you the one the habitants call l’homme de mystère?”
The mystery man. Many of the habitants did refer to him as such, just as many of the Illinois called him Kil-so-quah, the sundown man, but he preferred to be called simply by his name, lest his legend grow too much for mortal acceptance.
“I’m Che Kincade. You bring news?”
He puffed out his narrow chest. “I’m Lugre,” he said, as if he thought anyone cared. “Whatever news I carry is cold by twelve hours. I put in at eight this morning.”
“I apologize for your delay, monsieur. The sunlight bothers my eyes, so I prefer to conduct my business at night. I trust the habitants honored you with a meat pie or two and some sweetened milk?”
The corners of the man’s lipless mouth turned down. “You want my news or not?”
“Come inside.”
He lit the iron lamps on the mantel and took brandy and a pewter cup from the sideboard. It was Indian swill, not the kind he reserved for friends like Jacques Roland, but he’d learned that not all guests were equally welcome or deserving of his hospitality. He made no offer of food, certain that Lugre’s belly was full of warm bread, thick stew, and the coveted meat pie.
Lugre took a swig of the brandy, not seeming to care about its quality, or lack thereof. “There’s a new war chief. He’s an Ottawa, name of Pontiac. In April he spoke at a gathering of the Ottawas, Potawatomies and Huron and convinced them to attack the British at Fort Detroit. Twenty soldiers were killed and fifteen more taken captive. Allies are flocking to Pontiac’s cause like suckling pigs to a teat. Fort Sandusky’s fallen, and so has Fort St. Joseph. It wouldn’t surprise me if every fort west of Detroit capitulates within a month.”
Kincade had heard the name Pontiac from the lips of other runners, but this was the first time Pontiac’s name had been associated with more than mere oratory. For any Indian to actually stir supporters to action was a true mark of greatness. None of the prophets preaching abstinence from liquor and separation from the whites had gained this kind of wide acceptance. The prophets had invoked the name of the Master of Life in their teachings, and still they hadn’t effected true change like this one war chief apparently had. How had this Pontiac, this mere mortal, achieved distinction so quickly?
“Tell me, monsieur Lugre, what this Pontiac says to inspire such a following and such a forceful call to action? Are his words painted with the promise of gifts?”
“He spoke of the French father.”
“Onontio?” Onontio was the French father symbol, representing all Frenchman from the king himself down to every priest, trader, and soldier.
Lugre took another gulp of brandy and nodded. “Pontiac says that Onontio will never hand New France over to the British. He says Onontio is not defeated, only asleep. Pontiac says the uprising will awaken Onontio and that the French will reclaim all the land for their children. He uses Onontio and the French flag to pull all the different nations to his breast.”
Kincade had to admit that it was true visionary thinking on Pontiac’s part. And smart thinking. Retaliation against the British was fare to whet the palate of the Indian masses. Denial, especially of liquor, was not. Why hadn’t he had such a vision? Why hadn’t his Manitou’s promise come true? “And will Onontio awaken, do you think?”
Lugre shrugged. “Let us hope so.”
Kincade had his doubts. From what he’d heard, the French and British had already made peace. Could the uprising of the Indian nations truly stir the French to action? The French had a fort on a knoll north of the village, Fort de Chartres. He’d heard that the commandant, Captain Louis Saint-Ange, had already resigned himself to peace. Kincade found it hard to imagine Saint-Ange rallying his troops to Pontiac’s cause in defiance of the treaty. He butted his brows at the thought. Was he already wishing failure on the great and powerful Pontiac? If he were to believe the ache in his fangs and the rush of blood that made his body feel alive, perhaps.
He looked at Lugre. Drops of brandy dribbled into his beard, only to be lost in the matted hair, and his bird-eyes glistened in the lamplight like a raven’s. The drink seemed to have mellowed the man’s irritation at having been delayed, but Kincade found the resulting conceit no more respectful.
“I have detained you long enough, monsieur. I’m sure a warm bed awaits you.”
Lugre leered at whatever images ran through his head and stood.
But not in
this lifetime, mon ami, not in this lifetime. Kincade waited until the man turned for the door, then embraced him from behind, curling one hand over the man’s mouth to stifle his screams, and the other around the man’s wrist to prevent him from reaching the knife on his belt. He pierced the man’s neck, ignoring the hair and stink of the brandy, and let the blood flow into his mouth. When the flow abated, he drew on the wound, and when he felt the tension leave Lugre’s arms, he released the man’s head and arm and clinched him around the waist to keep him from slumping to the floor. The man’s flesh was disgusting and his blood fouled by the alcohol, but the taking of his life was sweet. It had been several months since Kincade had killed, for Kaskaskia was not so large that a missing habitant would go unnoticed. But this unpleasant creature . . . no one would miss him.
It was the most satisfying kill he’d made in a long, long time. The fire in his belly was back.
Chapter Twelve
CADE AWOKE TO an unhappy lover straddling him. More than unhappy. By the look in her eyes, cheated, scorned, and lied to.
“You fucking bastard.” Red was dressed, but she sat on his naked crotch and cinched her legs around him as though she felt she wouldn’t get his attention any other way. Either that, or she just liked torturing him. Her newly-dyed hair was dark brown, almost black, but her eyes were green venom.
He gave her a good sideways push, and she toppled to the floor in a snarl of long limbs. If she wasn’t going to fuck him, she had no place sitting on him.
She untangled herself and stood. “Did you think I wouldn’t watch TV? Did you think I wouldn’t find out the truth?”
TV and truth. There was an oxymoron. “I told you the truth. What did you hear?”
“That you’re wanted for raping the mayor as well as killing her. You didn’t tell me you were wanted for rape.”
He rolled off the bed and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. “In light of the warrant for homicide, the rape charge seemed irrelevant. I didn’t do either.” He could hear the drone of the television and went downstairs to watch for himself. Red followed on his heels.
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