by Ash Krafton
The black leather jacket I'd bought last summer totally rocked. Tapered waist and zippered sleeves implied hotness beneath. With my hair loose and sunglasses on, I looked like a total hard-ass. Did it even make sense? I owned clothes that reflected absolutely nothing about me. I supposed I always had a thing for costumes. This was another one. Today I had to pretend to be someone who rode motorcycles.
I heard his approach from the middle of the next block, long before I saw him. Marek swooped up to the curb straddling a jet black bike, presumably the Night Train he'd warned me about. His hair fell straight back, windblown and loose. No helmet. What possessed me to think he wore one? He didn't even use a seatbelt. Or the rear view mirror, for that matter.
Euphrates, startled by the loud rumble, discontinued his assault on my jeans as the thundering bike drew near. Upon seeing Marek, he beat it around the corner and thumped up the fire escape.
Marek leaned on one leg as he swung off the bike. His black denim jeans were faded slightly, like perfect highlights. And black boots, just like mine. Well, maybe not just like mine. I tried not to grin, thinking how unlikely it was we shopped the same catalogs.
"You look good." His voice sounded husky as if he'd been yelling.
I flipped my hair over my shoulder in a move I'd practiced in the hallway mirror, trying to look tough and sexy and wondering if it worked. "Thanks. You, um, got a helmet for me?"
"A helmet?" he repeated. "I wasn't sure you'd wear one. It's clipped on the side." He eyed my fidgeting fingers with suspicion. "You okay, Sophie?"
"Yeah, of course."
"You're nervous."
"A little," I said softly.
Marek closed the distance between us and reached for me, running his leathered palms down my arms to rest on my hips. Tugging me close, he murmured into my hair. "Don't be. I've got you."
I slipped my hands around his waist and rested against him as he encircled me with steely arms, all the harder for the stiff shell of his jacket.
He sounded as if he spoke through clenched teeth. "Nothing bad will happen to you. I won't let it."
I was taken aback by his intensity. As he held me tightly against him, I had a sinking feeling the headlines were true. Frank was dead. I felt like I lost a dear friend.
I couldn't even begin to understand what Marek was enduring. He'd considered Frank his son. I stretched out a mental touch but only encountered a tightly coiled swirl of anguish. Marek was locked down. All I had to go on were his words and his voice and they didn't leave room for hope of a happy ending.
What kind of monster would do something like this? Mrs. Park had said.
Oh, shit. Monster.
"Marek?" Worry made my voice thin.
"Shh." He released me and walked around the bike, bending to unlatch the helmet. Tossing it to me, he pulled his hair back. "We have to go. Can you get on?"
He swung himself onto the motorcycle again. If I had a choice before, it had evaporated. I realized the implications of Frank's murder. No way would I be standing alone on this sidewalk when Marek and the only safety left in the world pulled away.
I managed to get on without making a complete ass of myself, fighting a wave of nausea as the engine burst into its throaty rumble. It wasn't simple nerves; I had a premonition things would be dire. Disastrously dire. Hurtling through the streets on a naked piece of steel didn't seem so awful by comparison.
My only comfort remained in clinging to the piece of steel who sat in front of me and drove the bike. I held on, eyes squeezed shut behind my sunglasses, and prayed he hadn't been lying when he said he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me.
I prayed if he was lying, let it be over quickly.
"It wasn't Were," Greco said as we walked into Rodrian's Tenth Street office.
He passed a glance at us as we entered and tipped his head with respect at Marek. As I trailed in attached to Marek's hand, I gave him a faint smile. His eyes widened before he tipped his head at me as well. "Tony was the first one in. If there had been any recent Were activity on the grounds, he'd have known. Paschel got onto CSI. She couldn't feel a thing."
"Feel?" I asked.
Rodrian turned to explain. The bruises below his eyes made him look weary and beaten. "Paschel's gift is psychic through touch. She reads life through her hands. If she didn't feel anything. . ."
"Then no living thing did this," finished Marek, voice strained with grief and quiet rage.
"Yeah, that's what she reported. And—she found this."
Marek raised his gaze to Rodrian's face, waiting.
Rodrian stepped over to his desk and took something out of the top drawer. He dropped it on the desk, where it wobbled a moment before lying flat and still. The coin landed face up, revealing the insignia of a heart pierced with two swords.
Marek stared at the piece. Something in his steely gaze told me he recognized it. Sorrow turned to slate and he spoke without looking up. "How was he executed?"
"Paschel said..." Unshed tears crowded Rodrian's voice. "It was bad. Only his face was unscathed."
I stretched out my awareness and my heart wailed at the feel of their power signatures. They both tried to be strong and objective even as sorrow shredded them.
Frank Levene, executed. He wasn't just a friend who'd been slain. He'd been so much more. Frank had been a symbol of hope.
He'd been an investment in the future Marek wanted to shape. Under the guidance and support of the DV, Frank had become powerful and influential, translating Marek's hopes into laws and reforms that protected, provided, and prospered. More than a trusted colleague, Marek loved him like a son and brother and friend. He'd been family.
Now family and investment and hope had been murdered. It was political defeat and personal loss taken to the highest degree.
We mourned silently together, a funeral party in a secured office high above a city that bred nightmare and agony below. We mourned a man who died because someone wanted to send Marek a loud message: Play the game our way or you will lose.
"What's our move?" Rodrian sank onto the couch, hands clasped between his knees, face upturned to his brother. Waiting for direction.
Marek rubbed a hand over his mouth, a grim thin line. "Nothing."
"What? You're joking." Caen shoved himself to his feet, staring at Marek as if he were insane. His voice could have cut through steel. Each word had a sharp edge that pushed its way into my attention, and there was little chance of ignoring him. I cringed, waiting for Marek's inevitable explosion.
It never came. Marek's voice was expressionless. "Nothing will change, with the obvious exception of security increases for our other interests. We will not be intimidated."
"That's it?" Caen argued in disbelief. "We must organize a retaliatory strike."
"Impossible," countered Rodrian. "We'd never win. There's no way to wage war without it spilling out into the open. No matter what we did, we'd lose. We have to compromise."
"Compromise with demons? Are we cowards or fools?" Caen's eyes swept the room for support. Greco turned his back to him, crossing his arms and looking straight ahead at Rodrian. Caen would find no alliance in him.
A few of the others shifted uncomfortably. I could feel the conflict trickling through their power—their loyalty to the Thurzo family struggling against their instinct to avenge.
Caen's power bore a point, a sharp focus of ambition. He saw opportunity. I hated Caen for seeing opportunity where the rest of us saw only loss.
"No. No war. No compromise. I'll go." Marek's voice was leaden, heavy and final.
"Go? You'll go where?" My turn for an outburst. Now, of all times, I didn't want him to go anywhere. Not when we were finally so happy. Not when I was suddenly so scared.
Marek turned to me, apology gleaming in his eyes and betraying his regret. His voice held its usual tone of absolute certainty of what needed to be done and how he had to do it. There was no room for argument. There never was, with Marek. "I will meet him. We will end this."
"You're only giving him what he wants—the opportunity to bring about your Fall," Rodrian said.
I held my tongue, afraid the next sound that emerged from my mouth would be a scream. Everything was spiraling out of control. I squeezed Marek's hand, desperate for anchor.
Marek shook his head. "No. I resisted this long. It will not happen now."
"There has to be another way," insisted Rodrian. "Send someone else."
"Send Caen," I blurted.
Caen blanched before issuing a warning growl and a spike of threat.
I huffed out an exaggerated sigh. "Tuck it away, Caen," I shot back. "I'm not in the mood for a demonstration of how big your manhood is."
The assault wavered a teeny moment before he receded; Caen was shocked I would say such a thing, much less stand up to him. I stepped forward to address Greco and the others. "Caen is the most powerful, behind Marek and Rode, even if he does lack finesse. As Rode's right hand, he knows everything he needs to negotiate a... cease fire, or whatever."
"This is true." Greco nodded slightly. Several others wore agreeable expressions.
Caen gave me a penetrating stare, trying to figure out where I was leading. Truthfully, though, as much as I'd argued for his competence, I just wanted him gone. Better him than my man. If I could have pulled off a Sophia trick to help convince them, I would have.
"It has to be me." Marek sounded weary. "He will be satisfied with no one else."
"Marek..." Rodrian raised his hands, palms bared, supplicating.
"No. Can't you see? This is what he wants. If I don't go, he'll take someone else. He doesn't make mistakes, brother. Frank wasn't a mistake. Father wasn't a mistake. He'll hit us again and again until I have nothing left. I will not stand here and watch you Fall, one by one."
He turned slowly, looking into the eyes of the men who surrounded him—even Caen, who sullenly acknowledged his intent and lowered his eyes. Marek stood half a pace in front of me, sheltering me, excluding me from the threat.
Instead, he wrapped me in a gentle pulse of comfort. Even tinged by the turmoil raging through him, it helped. I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
Marek walked to the door and opened it, ending the meeting. "Arrangements must be made. We'll meet tomorrow after sunfall. Tonight, I will not be disturbed."
Rodrian's gaze flickered to me again, so briefly I'd have missed it had I not been watching him. Tapping his fingers on the desk top, he nodded. "Okay. Tomorrow, at Folletti's."
"Sir?" Greco ran a hand over the top of his shaved head and waited while the rest of the crew filed out. "Is there family who needs arrangements?"
"Not flowers," said Marek, before Rodrian could answer. "The only thing they need right now is protection."
We left shortly afterwards and waited at the elevator, silent and solemn. When the doors closed, he punched the button and found my hand again. I pressed against his side, needing the contact but not wanting to intrude. His eyes found me in the mirrored doors and he smiled faintly, a slight turn of the mouth that never reached his haunted eyes.
We hit the street at the start of rush hour traffic. Seeing the bike again gave me a more welcome type of stress. At the curb he pulled me to him and pushed my hair back from my shoulders, trailing his fingers down my throat.
"Stay with me tonight," he asked. "I have a cottage in the country. It's quiet. Secure." He leaned over me and his hair fell like a veil, cutting off the sight of everything but his face. "I need to gather myself. If you were alone in your apartment I would only worry."
Standing up straight again, he glanced at the passersby. "I don't mean to scare you. I just don't want to take any chances."
I leaned to take the helmet from its clip. "Do we have time to swing by my place first?"
"Of course." He mounted the bike but before I could get on he put his hand on my arm. "Sophie, I'm sorry. I never meant to put you in danger. I never wanted any of this for you."
I reached up and stroked the side of his cheek, giving him my best Buck Up! smile. "It's all right. I'm sure I'll think of something brilliant."
He pulled me closer and drew me down to his face, letting his eyes simmer with a gentle hint of light. His mouth hovered over my skin, breathing me in.
"I have no doubt you will, my little Sophia." His voice sounded husky again, but now with promise, rather than pain. Releasing me, he urged me onto the bike and soon we slipped seamlessly into the traffic.
We headed north. By the time we hit the parkway I was accustomed to the ride. The open road held fewer stationary targets so I wasn't nearly as afraid of colliding with things. Eventually, it became white noise and I relaxed enough to loosen my death grip around Marek's waist.
Marek's compulsion had a lot to do with the tension fading. I sure wasn't responsible for the positive attitude adjustment. One thing about the Wonderful World of DV I appreciated was the calming influence Marek exuded whenever I had more than I could handle.
Marek left the parkway and headed west. He took the curve of the off-ramp at a tilt that reminded me I wasn't brave or placated enough to let go. I flung my arms back around him, feeling him laugh.
The sky was turning toward the beginnings of sunset—what Marek had meant by "sunfall." The sun had dropped to that particular position that made it impossible to drive, its light creating a sheet of luminescence upon the highway that slid into your eyes and made you squint despite visor or sunglasses.
Sunfall was the time of the day when the sun makes the subtle change from a king of the sky to dying star of the horizon. Marek once told me all the names the DV have for different phases of sun and moon, spinning a tale of earth lore and vampire superstition unlike any I'd heard before. It was entertaining and engaging and altogether frightening.
Sunfall marked the beginning of the end for a fully-evolved DV, his body making the final physical changes that rendered him vampire. At sunset the sun died, the DV died, and the vampire rose. For the DV at the brink of evolution, sunfall was a time for pain and fear and damnation. For those who survived, it was a moment of prayer and reflection.
Despite sunfall's spiritual gloom, the sunlight was incomparably beautiful—passing from white invisible light to warm color, rendering shadows that enhanced the beauty of the remaining light. The irony was harsh; how could something so beautiful be so terrible?
I contemplated this as Marek left the main road. We passed through a set of tall gates and rode up a long sloped driveway, our destination hidden from view by trees and garden, full of life and dancing in the colors of a dying sun.
"So this is your 'cottage in the country'?" I doubted we had come to the right place.
We'd pulled up in front of a huge house about twenty minutes outside the city limits. It wasn't so much suburbia as a community of estates. Gates hid the driveway from the main road and the long driveway put a considerable distance between the house and outside traffic.
The sunlight washed the front of the house with its palette of heated watercolors, staining the edifice in corals and marigolds, the heat of a neatly-banked fire.
Testing my legs, I turned to survey the grounds. The driveway circled a small garden with a central fountain. Maidens of carved white stone held swords in various positions around the center piece—a dance of death parading around a gentler dance of water. The water leaped upwards and outwards, catching the sunlight and igniting with a molten glow.
No cottage I'd ever seen had a fountain like this in front of it. A vinyl goldfish pond bought at the local home do-it-yourself store, at best. Cottage, my Aunt Fannie. Try mansion.
Marek leaned against the now quiet bike, allowing me time to look around. Crossing his arms, he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Quaint, huh?"
"Quaint?" I leaned back and squinted, trying to see the upper stories of the house and failing. The porch had columns, for crying out loud. "I guess. Maybe, though, 'palatial' might be a better word."
He laughed and pulled my tote from the saddlebag. "Well, technic
ally, it started out as a cottage. I've had it renovated a few times since I acquired it."
I walked back a few paces, taking in the rows of elegant windows. "Renovated, right."
"Actually, the original structure still exists. It's the guest suite now."
"Right." I followed him up the steps. We passed through the massive double doors into a brightly lit foyer. Cream walls stretched toward high ceilings that scattered my voice in echoes. "Sounds fancy. I never slept in a bedroom as big as a whole cottage before."
"You won't tonight, either. My private quarters are much more suitable."
"What..." I chuckled. "Isn't quaint romantic enough for you?"
He dropped his keys on a high-legged antique table along the side wall. "Quaint isn't secure enough."
The teasing mood I'd been trying to maintain disappeared.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that. We're safe here, I swear." He sighed heavily and reached for me, rubbing my arms and softening the edge of my alarm. "We came here to relax and enjoy ourselves. And we will do exactly that."
He released me and unzipped his jacket, shrugging it off and tossing it onto a chair near the table. I was lost—lost in the situation, lost in the aftermath of the killing, lost in the luxury of the quaint little mansion looming around me like an expensive crypt.
Marek unzipped my coat, pushing it down over my shoulders and slipping it from my arms before tossing it onto his own.
"The house is secure. I have both an electronic system and a mobile security force. There's no place you should be afraid to explore here, guest suite included. But I have wards upstairs, old ones that have never failed. We can relax up there. I'd like us to have time to ourselves, time not spent worrying for your safety."
"Marek, how bad will things get?"
"I don't know." For once, he sounded as if he didn't know the answer and not that he didn't know how to tell me.
"We'll be okay, right?"
His mouth softened somewhat, not quite a smile. The warmth in his eyes made the lie almost believable. "Yeah," he said. "We will."