“Don’t know what to make of me? Well, they’ll be more confused soon enough.”
He raised both eyebrows.
“Malthus is my grandfather.”
The eyebrows shot higher up his forehead. “Cora and Malthus?”
I nodded.
He let out a low whistle. “I understand why they kept it a secret.” He stopped and turned me around to face him. “Our community is going to be confused and freaked when they find out about the demon necromancer.” He gazed at the sky, made darker by a thick layer of clouds. “Dominic is going to have a complete meltdown. If word gets out about what you did to Dominic’s lieutenant, making him a zombie . . .”
“It won’t.” I gave him a warning glare.
He waved his hands in mock defense. “Direct those necro glares elsewhere. I don’t want to become your next vampire zombie bitch. Seriously, though, you can’t trust that Dominic won’t pull that card out when it suits him. And it will, one of these days.”
Dominic and I had settled upon a very tenuous truce, but Lysander was right. He’d use the zombie lieutenant vamp incident to set the supernatural community against me. I just had to beat him to the punch. Even though I couldn’t prove it, his lieutenant had attacked me first, and on Dom’s orders, no doubt. “How is Dominic these days?”
“Laying low, for now.”
“One of the reasons I called you was to tell you someone killed a witch. A friend of Kara’s named Olive. Kara found her dead in their apartment.”
He stopped and set his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry. You think her death is a continuation of what happened with Cael? It’s no secret we believe he wasn’t acting alone. And of course, Dominic would love to bring this all down on the demons.”
“Well, it gets worse.”
I explained away his questioning look, telling him how Olive escaped.
He dropped his hands. “Shit!” Then he lifted my chin with his fingers. “You okay?”
I shrugged and glanced to the side. “I haven’t had a moment to process everything that’s happened. And then, the first time I used my necromancy since the power sphere, it blew up in my face.”
He pulled me against his chest and I grasped his shoulders and held on tight.
“What do you want to do?” he breathed into my hair.
“To find her. To stop the killing.”
He pulled away. “I have an idea. Let’s go sailing.”
“Sailing?” I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. It wasn’t exactly the response I’d been expecting.
He signaled a taxi. We slid into the back seat, and he directed the driver to the Embarcadero. We arrived at the pier and made our way down the dock. Lysander stopped in front of a single-masted sloop, all wood, painted with a red stripe across its black hull.
“Oh my God. Where did you get this boat? It’s beautiful,” I said.
“I commissioned her from a ship builder in Maine. It’s an exact replica of a sloop I owned in 1714, The Siren’s Song.” He vaulted over the rail then reached across the space between the boat and dock. I took his hand while stepping on the stern rail and hopped on deck. His hand lingered on my palm, and he rubbed his finger along the two scars crisscrossing over my lifeline. Ironic, I supposed. I made the first cut to raise Adam, and Cael had sliced over it when I raised Brandon.
“Do all necromancers get scarred up?” he asked, still gripping my hand. It took me a moment to process his words. His continual rubbing was creating a sensual distraction.
“Only the stupid ones who make supernatural revenants. Blood makes a stronger bond, which is necessary to control a revenant.” And even with the blood bond, both Adam and Brandon had proven to be incredibly difficult to control. The effort had taxed me, and I still wasn’t sure about the long-term effects. It was like getting lots of chemo treatment—I was still waiting for all my hair to fall out. I curled my hand and pulled it back. I’d grown fond of my scars and wanted to preserve them so I’d never forget what had happened.
“So it’s an exact replica?” I asked, wandering around his sloop, running my hand on the smooth wood of the rails. Small black swivel cannons were mounted on each side of the foredeck.
“Well, except for the sink, toilet and radio.” He smiled. “Don’t think you’d want to relieve yourself the old-fashioned way, standing on deck and aiming for the water.”
“No. Toilets are good. So are sanitation, anesthesia and penicillin.” I turned to him with a worried expression. “Living back then must have been pretty nasty with all the dangers and diseases. Good thing you were already a vampire.”
“Yes.” A shadow crossed his eyes. “But it’s not easy to see people around you dying.”
“Kind of like now,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from spilling out. Time to change the subject. “I would have never guessed you’d own a sailboat.” I bent over the railing and watched the metallic silver moonlight undulate with the water.
“Why? Because I’m a vampire?”
“Maybe. Or perhaps because you’re a grungy bartender.”
He chuckled while untying the rope attached to the dock. He unfurled the mast that immediately puffed open in the wind. I tightened the red pashmina scarf Cora had brought me from Turkey around my shoulders. “So how did you learn how to sail?”
He adjusted the canvas, catching another gust that sent us skimming across the water. “I was part of Black Sam Bellamy’s crew in the seventeen hundreds.”
My mouth fell open and my words rushed out in a gasp of amazement. “You mean the pirate?”
He nodded. “The eighteenth century was a crappy time to live. I had enough money to join the British aristocracy like many of the vampires, but it was so boring. Piracy was exciting. At first, the long periods on the ship disoriented me, but I adapted. I traveled with a chest full of dirt and volunteered for the night dog watch. No one cared. I was old enough to tolerate some sunlight, but I prefer the night, always did, even before I turned vamp.”
I gazed at him, imagining him decked out in the most cinematic of pirate gear.
“Uh, no. I see what you’re thinking, and get the image of Errol Flynn out of your head. I dressed pretty shabbily on the ship. In fact, I stayed grimy on purpose to hide my unblemished, unscarred body and perfect teeth.”
I laughed, a strange sound to my ears. Stranger still that it lightened my heart, a little anyway before I drifted into darker thoughts. “Did Ewan ever tell you why he’s here in our realm?” I asked.
“No. I never asked. I sensed his desire to keep it to himself.”
“He fought some kind of battle and lost, and for a reason I don’t yet understand, he was punished. Now he’s serving some sort of prison sentence, under Malthus’s control. A debt pact, they call it.” I leaned over the rail and skimmed my hand over the icy water, losing myself in the ripples, in the deep dark unknown full of sharks and Krakens and yet undiscovered slimy creatures until my hand tingled from the numbing cold. When I moved away from the rail, I locked onto his gaze, thoughtful and possibly somewhat calculating.
“And you can’t have a relationship because of his debt pact, because you’re Malthus’s granddaughter,” he said, giving his words a questioning lilt.
“Right.”
“I’m sorry.”
Did he sound sorry? Maybe a little. “I’d hoped to find some loophole, a way around the debt pact, but Ewan told me to drop it. I understand. On face value, it’s a fait accompli. He clings to his punishment, either because of demon honor or to assuage his own guilt.”
“See, that’s the difference between demons and vamps. No honor, here.”
I stuttered a laugh. “Demons do not have honor.” I paused. “You have honor. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Does an honorable vampire lust after the woman his friend desir
es, but can’t have?”
I laughed, taking his words as typical alpha supe flirtation, but when I looked at his face, my laughter stilled. He wasn’t joking. I dropped my gaze to the deck, and he returned to messing with the sails.
His admission had tainted our breezy conversation, and a salty awkwardness layered the air between us for the rest of the cruise. When Ewan had stumbled upon Lysander comforting me after my encounter with Dominic, I had to lie to him. Of course, that led him to imagine a much worse scenario than the actual truth, which I couldn’t reveal. Now a new, more insurmountable obstacle divided Ewan and me, but the episode with Lysander was almost more unacceptable to Ewan because I’d caused it. And now, Ewan had written our relationship off, and I was sailing in the moonlight on a boat captained by a hot vampire, who used to be a pirate, and who had given me the occasional glimpse into a passion and vulnerability that would be increasingly hard to resist. I was screwed.
We cruised into the Oakland Inner Harbor, heading for the Alameda Marina. He pulled up next to a catamaran and docked the boat. We disembarked and traversed the wooden dock, heading for one of the new oyster bars that signaled the revitalization of the once-industrial area. I clutched my scarf against the chilly air creeping along the waterfront. The nearly-full moon projected an incandescent glow onto the water, providing the only light to dispel the thickening darkness. We left the dock and took a dirt path intersecting a concrete sea wall on our left and a string of warehouses on our right. The only sound came from the water slapping against the sea wall. I darted my eyes around us and sidled closer to Lysander. The shadows lengthened, seeming to nip at my heels as we walked. Shadows didn’t have malevolent intent, did they? These seemed to crouch, ready to pounce; Seemed to whisper, “Come . . .”
Lysander gave me a reassuring look, obviously perceiving my nervousness. The lights of the bar about fifty feet ahead became visible, and I shook off my anxiousness. I was with a fricking vampire who used to be a pirate.
Lysander stumbled.
“Not very smooth for a vampire,” I said with a laugh.
He didn’t laugh back. His only response was to stop suddenly and groan. I moved to face him and recoiled at the sight of his face illuminated by the moonlight. “What the hell? You’re turning all Nosferatu on me. I liked the movie and all, but it’s not a look that works for you.”
When he met my eyes, and I saw his confusion and desperation, I realized this wasn’t some normal vampire transformation. His skin was shriveling in sick slow motion before me, prune-like, turning to the color of ash and flaking away as if burning from the inside out. “Oh, Christ. Lysander, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” he managed to croak from a throat that was shrinking upon itself.
Whispers, real now, louder, drifted toward us from the shadows clinging to the spaces between the warehouses. No. I’m not going crazy. Someone is out there. “Who’s there? Son of a bitch. Show yourself!”
A soft laugh answered me.
Fuck this. I turned toward the warehouses, but a tug on my pants stopped me. “Blood,” Lysander rasped.
“Where . . . oh.” He meant my blood. “We can’t.”
“I’m dying.” His voice sounded as shriveled as he looked. His skin was no more than a thin layer of plastic shrink-wrapped around protruding bones.
I slapped my head with my palm. Oh God. Oh God. I can’t do this. I wasn’t worried about transforming into a bloodsucker. I knew it took much more than a few blood exchanges to turn someone. My fear came from my own power. Like with Dominic’s lieutenant, the necromancy could taint the blood connection and turn Ly into a zombie. I took another look at him and dispelled my fear. He was dying. Maybe he was stronger than Dominic’s lieutenant. Maybe his blood would resist my power. Please.
I squatted next to him, held out my wrist, and squeezed my eyes, not sure what to expect. Getting sucked on by a vampire was supposed to feel better than ecstasy—that’s why so many people frequented the vampire club—but when the lieutenant had sucked my blood, his fangs had felt like hot pokers ramming into my neck.
Lysander jerked his fangs into my wrist, and I cried out. Okay. No pleasure here. His fangs shook, like he needed his fix bad. He tore at my skin with sloppy slurps. I gritted my teeth at the pain that scorched my wrist. My arm shook, but he held tight and sucked. I didn’t even know if this would work. I didn’t want him to die, but what would I do if he transformed into a zombie? I felt my power murmur inside me, unhappy at the intrusion, but I stamped it down, hopefully before it could taint the blood.
Lysander pulled off my wrist. The force of the movement caused me to fall back on my ass. The air and ground spun around me, and I fought off the nausea with deep breaths. The moonlight slashed across Lysander’s profile, and I sighed, relieved at the pale, vampire tone of his wonderfully tight and unshriveled skin. I reached out my hand, trembling violently, and touched his shoulder. He twisted his head, and I recoiled, seeing the same emptiness in his eyes that the lieutenant had reflected when he’d drunk my blood.
No. No. No.
Lysander just stared at me.
“Give me your blood,” I commanded him. I had no clue where the idea had come from or if it would work, but what the hell. He didn’t hesitate in handing me his wrist. “Uh, can’t you cut it first?” I wasn’t about to gnaw at his flesh in a zombie imitation. Bad enough I was going to drink his blood.
Without removing his eyes from mine, as if needing my command for even that, he put his wrist to his mouth and sliced it with his fang. I hated the smell of blood, and my stomach churned at the thick drops seeping out of the cut. I swallowed down the sour lump that rose to my throat, put his wrist to my lips, and licked at the blood.
It tasted like a thick, sulfurous milk-magma. Hell’s own castor oil. I gagged but forced it down, holding my breath as I slurped. This had better do something, damn it. I tried to concentrate on drinking the blood, but was aware that whoever or whatever lurked in the dark, was watching me. After one last swallow, I pushed his arm away and wiped a trickle of blood off my chin with my sleeve. Ly coughed and slumped over, but caught himself with his hands before his face met the ground. Then he groaned and leapt up, merging into the shadows in one swift movement. I moved closer to the water, feeling safer somehow. I had no idea what had just happened, if he was okay, and was worried that he’d left me, disgusted with what I’d done, even if it was to save his life.
The air around me swooshed, and he reappeared next to me, startling my already jittery nerves. He stood motionless, his cheek muscles twitching, his eyes sweeping the row of warehouses. “I didn’t find anything, but someone was definitely here. He left a scent.”
I emitted a soft cry of relief at his words and his normal, non-robotic voice. “You’re okay?” I asked for reassurance.
His expression mirrored my relief. “Somehow, my vampire blood—my power—in you countered the effect of the necromancy.”
“Thank God. So what kind of scent? Demon?” I asked.
He bit his lip and creased his brow. “Not demon or vamp, but supernatural. He bore the scent of ritual and sacrifice, spicy earth, swampy . . . I’ve smelled it before, a long time ago. In Africa, Benin.” He tapped his chin then his eyes lit up, literally. “Voodoo. It smelled like voodoo.”
I struggled to make sense of what he’d said, catalog it with the rest of the insane detritus of the past few weeks. Voodoo? What the fuck? Had I been wrong to assume the Big Bad was a demon?
“We should leave,” he said, sounding worried. “I don’t like voodoo. Let’s go to my place. It’s not far.”
I hesitated when he reached for my hand. His place?
“Come on,” he said, apparently sensing my trepidation.
I let him tug me up. He smiled, revealing his fangs, and a delicious shiver rippled through me.
“I promise I won�
�t bite,” he said, holding me close for a brief moment before continuing our walk, still holding my hand. Being bitten by Lysander was the least of my worries.
Chapter Nine
“HOME SWEET HOME.” Lysander swept his arm out toward a houseboat resembling a Cape Cod cottage, wooden planks painted a sea blue. Not at all a vampire-ish abode. “Hope you don’t get seasick.”
“You’re the only vampire I’ve ever heard of who lives on the water.”
“True. Throws the other vamps off, though.” He smiled. “That’s reason enough. Besides, the water doesn’t bother me, you know, given I was a pirate. Plus, when I need my dose of soil and earth, I can step off and roll around in the dirt.”
“Now that I’d love to see.”
“Yeah, you’d like to see me dirty and nasty?” He stepped onto the deck and reached his hand out. I paused for a moment before extending my own hand. While joking, his voice had thickened, and I wasn’t sure if joining him was such a good idea. Then he smiled, and the easy-going Lysander returned as he hauled me on deck. The movement thrust me against him, and he held me for an agonizing moment before letting go. I steadied myself before following him, telling myself the deck had swayed.
He directed me to narrow stairs while he disappeared into a cabin. I climbed up to a deck with just enough space for two lounge chairs and a table. I laid back in one of the chairs to let my stomach, still churning from Lysander’s blood, settle. He ascended a minute later with several beer bottles in between his arms and a bowl of Goldfish crackers in his hand.
He popped the cap with his fang and handed me a cold bottle. I gulped down the lager, eager to wash away the lingering taste of blood. He connected an iPod to a speaker dock. My ears welcomed Bob Marley’s soothing reggae beats.
“Wow. That is not something I ever want to relive,” he said, stretching his long frame out on the other lounger.
“Being a zombie?”
“All of it. I don’t know what the fuck happened. It was as if someone was sucking me inside out, and the zombie thing, yeah, that sucked too.” He shivered slightly. “You know those stories of people who take a drug that makes them appear dead, like the Haitian zombie drug? They can’t move, can barely breathe, but they experience what’s going on around them? I saw you, heard your voice, and wanted to respond, but couldn’t.” He gulped down some beer. “Thank you. You saved my undead ass.”
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