Exhausted, I sat on the floor and stared at a picture of a collie playing with a red ball. The collie, shoulders low to the ground and its tail in a playful swing, reminded me of a mutt about to pounce. Which made me wonder where the hell Sigurd was and why I waited.
Then I inhaled something exotic, both soothing and stimulating, the scent of magic mixed with ginger. He crept behind me, but instead of feeling alarmed, I was practically sedated. A unique drunkenness set in.
He stood several paces behind. The vampire’s straw-colored hair looked sun-kissed, which was an odd impression to get from a vampire. His silky olive shirt paired well with his gray slacks. His hands hung harmlessly by his sides. His face bespoke the patient countenance of a loving professor.
Gorgeous.
“I puked in the hall,” I said. My legs seized and cramped. Struggling to stand, I slowly got to my feet. He watched me the way an arsonist might examine a burning building.
“Do you like the paintings?” His warm voice carried. Joy smoothed my tension. I wanted to confess random, long-dormant sins. I wanted him to tell me everything would be okay because I might believe it if he said so. I wanted to sit down—kneel, really. Pride suffocated the craving.
If I needed to kill him, I damn well better take the heart.
“Does this particular painting captivate you?”
“My boy, Davey, is the artist,” I said. “Personally, I can't tell good art from bad and don't understand half the crap people call art these days, but I'd be willing to say Davey can paint better than this.” I stopped abruptly. I had been babbling, and I told a stranger Davey's name. Shit. It was like someone slipped me a rape drug. I tried to remember if the secretary had touched me at all. She hadn't, but something was wrong.
Sigurd's pleasant expression didn't change. He stood motionless. I blinked. His chest wasn't moving. If not for the glint in his eyes, he might have been a standing corpse. A pleasure to look at, but certainly not human.
He said, “Why are you here?”
“I have some questions which you seem best suited to answer.”
“Does your new skin cause you pain?”
“What?” Sheesh. Abnormal creatures and their sense of smell. “Yes.”
“Is it a dull pain or a sharp one?”
“Dull and constant, but some movements make it grab sharply.”
I fidgeted, not liking that a vampire was so interested in my body. He took a breath: a long shallow one like he was testing the air, seeking my scent. A shiver coursed down my spine, but a tingle in my blood revved my heart and almost had me offering a wrist.
Which illuminated the trouble with the other type of vampire: they were downright mystical and shit. In the presence of this particular monster, I believed in God again. His beauty, musical voice, and dictatorial eyes…
Jesus, Kaidlyn, get a grip.
“Oh, stop,” he said. “You are responding to my smell. The power in my blood draws you to me, as nectar lures the bee. Assuredly, this is nothing more than well-evolved chemical responses, Ms. Durant. You cannot help yourself, and watching you struggle grows tiresome. What questions do you have?”
“I'd like to talk about your role as the Chosen Disciple.”
“I wouldn't. Also, I do not donate to or affiliate myself with government—”
“I'm not panhandling.”
His eyes locked on me with scope-like precision. “Did you interrupt me?”
“You jumped to the wrong conclusion.” Arrogant bastard.
“Are you inquiring about my divine connection to the Christ? Would you like to hear about miracles?” He sounded entirely disinterested and condescending.
“Were vampires honest about their origin?”
“Would the answer change what I am, Ms. Durant? You do not want money and you do not want a god. What can you possibly desire of me?”
“Are vampires responsible for the way the world views mutts?”
“I am not.”
“I meant vampires in general, not you specifically.”
“Are you planning to leave the FBHS?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I cannot imagine why you would care.” He waved his hand. “If the truth makes no difference, your questions are a waste of time.”
“From what I understand, you've got plenty of the commodity to spare.”
He blinked. “A waste of my breath, then, and I do not like breathing.”
Disturbing.
I persisted. “Rumor says that vampires and their money begat the FBHS.”
“Not my money.”
“Nothing to do with you, I get that. You've made it quite clear you have no desire to be affiliated with the bureau. Or perhaps you wish to disassociate yourself from the vampires who support the notion?”
“How did you come by the rumor?”
“Is that important? You haven't answered any questions yet. Are all vampires this frustrating, or is it only you?”
He said flatly, “It is not only me.”
“Good to know.”
“You do not like me, Ms. Durant, and I can sympathize. Most vampires do not even like one another. My reluctance to answer your questions is borne of the fact that I do not care for the ones whom we are about to discuss.”
“Are you one of the Devoted?” I said. His gasp twanged like a rubber band. I jumped back. “What was that?”
A slight tip of his lips revealed he was laughing at me.
“My diaphragm, Ms. Durant. I told you, I do not like to breathe. It causes mild discomfort, like the stretching of an atrophied muscle. The tightness would lessen if I led a more robust existence, but I prefer to be sedentary.” He circled to the left, taking his eyes off me. The ginger wafted around, growing stronger and more pleasant as he moved.
“Can you tone that down?” I covered my nose.
“Says the one who smells of raw flesh and blood. Is my aroma uncomfortable and you want it gone? After you, human.” He touched the frame of the painting I had been eyeing. “Are you wearing a recording device? I must warn you, I rather despise those, and I’ll kill you for it.”
I swallowed. “I have a phone, but it is not recording.”
“Fair enough. What do you know of the Devoted?”
“The religion worships vampires alongside Christ,” I said.
“The Devoted began as a sect of vampires who fervently worshiped the Christ, mostly as a round-about way of worshiping themselves. The current cult which you see in the press is a convoluted, human rendition. I do not share their way of thinking. Nothing but a tedious, roundabout way to affirm one’s hedonism, if you ask me. Which you did.”
“Did the vampires lie about Christ?”
“They told the truth as they know it, and it is as accurate as any witness testimony can be when accumulated long after the fact. The sect began rather harmlessly, but when the Black Madonna started a civil war and left the vampire fate to the world, the Devoted quickly gave mortals a rosy glass through which to view our story. We are all, both you and I, monsters…until compared to a greater monster, a monster poised to take the fall for abhorrent deeds. Thus, the Devoted nailed wolves to the public cross. By extorted fear, vampires became friends of the people. Touching, is it not?”
“A decade of war came from a public relation campaign?”
“The Devoted preach Evil, Miss Durant. It is the cornerstone of their faith.”
“So lykos become the scapegoat for vampire sins?”
“I appear human. Mongrels do not. They easily become the greater evil.”
“To what end? What's the ultimate plan? This crusade can't go on forever.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I said. He stared. I wasn't smart enough to come up with a better reason on the spot. As a government merc, I was hard pressed to tell a vampire that murder was immoral. Moving on. “Where did the Devoted get their money?”
“I am not an accountant,” Sigurd said, full of disclaimers.
�
�Can you tell me about a vampire from Moscow? The name is Alexei.”
He stared for a long, uncomfortable moment. His power tingled through me like a vibrating tuning fork. Finally he moved, brushing his hand over the air between us. I watched his fingers, languid as a passing current. Why not let him touch me? What could possibly go wrong? His fingernails gleamed. I jerked back before he could reach my skin. His hand dropped to his side, but he stepped forward.
“Who told you this name?”
I didn't answer.
“A mongrel told you? You smell of so many dogs.” He stepped closer.
“Keep your nose away from me. This olfactory shit gets creepy.”
“Alexei,” he said, as if the name itself was disdainful. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned away from me. “Despite his low birth, Alexei aspired to make an empire for himself. He usurped half of Russia and killed every master vampire poised to threaten his station.”
“Your people allowed Alexei get away with that?”
“Most vampires don't care. Alexei is something of a pariah even among the isolationists. The strength of his bloodline discourages argument. Anyway, if you could find a volunteer with enough brass, enough stupidity, to walk up to Alexei and tell him he's being brutal and selfish...well, not many argue with self-nominated gods. Alexei has the will of an old Israelite god. You can't argue with something containing such vicious, jealous authority.”
“Moses did.”
“Yes, Moses. And Abraham, as well.” His lips arched with a rare grin. His smile lit me up, inside and out. Then the smile fell off his face like an anvil. “Both asked God to spare the people He claimed to love. How brave! Likewise, are you trying to convince Alexei not to kill the ones he loves? Have you seen him?”
“No, I merely heard the name. How can I find another vampire, one who might be able to lead me to those who are spinning the political wheels?”
“To what end?”
“To make them stop.”
“Why should they?”
“Vampires and lykos are making war and my people are dying.”
“Which is not inherently bad,” he said.
“Neutrality is a coward's banner, Sigurd.” Oooh, was I ever toeing a line! But I couldn't help it. He knew the truth, but his indifference killed people and allowed the persecution of those like Davey. Sigurd took a step toward me and I retreated.
“Come with me, Ms. Durant.”
He walked by, smelling erotic.
“Call me Kaidlyn,” I said, happy that he wanted to spend so much time with me. Goddamn it! Needed to remember to keep my distance. He climbed the stairs and I gave him plenty of room. “You don't use elevators?”
“I do not like small spaces.”
“So I guess you don't sleep in a coffin.”
“No, I do not,” he said flatly. No sense of humor.
My legs were on fire. My lungs couldn’t grasp enough air. He stopped every few paces, waiting, sniffing. It was creepy as all hell.
We trudged up a few more floors and he opened the door, revealing a massive room with two desks and mounds of art. One of the desks held a computer, the other supported a book nearly a foot thick. Sigurd approached the gigantic volume. The black leather cover looked ancient. Its pages were thick and yellowed, with perfectly uniform script written in a language I couldn't identify.
“A book of names,” he said, “a history of the vampire race chronicling all the way back to when they claim the Christ died. So many names. Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. I do not know how many of us there are or were, and I do not care. Not a single name in this book could cause me to shed a tear. Line up these individuals and their entire house, burn them all to a cinder, and I would not even reschedule my afternoon tea.”
The monstrous book could hold a lot of names.
“I am not a coward, Kaidlyn. I simply do not give a shit.”
I absolutely believed him.
“You’re suggesting the vampires who outed the wolves and concocted the FBHS are written in this book,” I said.
“This book is not to be seen,” he said. “Not by you.”
“But I'm looking at it right now.”
“And do you read Arabic? No? Then it has not been seen.” Sigurd stepped closer, and I held my breath to avoid his seductive odor. His voice, coaxing, said, “Have you seen any other pages from this book or heard any other vampire names?”
“No.”
“If you have seen pages, I would like to know whose house has been flaunting their book.”
“I heard Alexei’s name, nothing more,” I said.
“How long can you hold your breath?”
I stepped away. “Will you help me find other vampires or not?”
“Try bleeding more often; you'll find one eventually. Go away, agent. I have a plane to catch and I want to eat first.”
Eat.
I quickly started walking toward the stairs, but then I turned to ask one last thing. His face killed the question in my throat. There was nothing to his expression. Any emotion or pleasantry he had shown me thus far was only a mask: tabula rasa. I decided to shut my mouth and keep moving. As I hurried down the stairs, the secretary hurried up. Dinner.
No law prohibited the donation of blood to a vampire, and it had become commonplace. The church even had a registry for volunteers who offered dinner to random vamps. Devoted followers carried donor cards, pledging their blood and life to vamps in a Confirmation ceremony. If Sigurd munched on his secretary, it wasn't my business. If she ended up dead, the case would go to a different division.
It pissed me off nonetheless. No one gets to sit back and leech off people while claiming neutrality. Not on my watch. If cows were at war with pigs, I'd have the decency to worry about the future of my bacon cheeseburgers.
Bastard.
I escaped unscathed and pretended my heart thudded from exertion and not relief. In the lobby, the secretary buzzed me out, and I stared at her like an idiot. I had just passed her on the stairs! Finally, I realized the trick: she was a twin.
As the security hustled me out the door and escorted me through the mob, the absurdity of the whole thing struck me. Hard. People worshiped Sigurd like a god. As if he descended from Christ’s direct bloodline. Humanity prayed to him, and he didn’t give a rat’s patoot about anything other than his collectibles. The vamp had the audacity to be more concerned about his political neutrality than the misconceptions which led to the genocide of an entire race.
Sigurd’s diplomatic, pedantic ass would help me whether he wanted to or not. I planned to do something incredibly stupid and insane, the mere thought of which made my fingers go numb and nearly gave me the shits.
Gonna get myself killed.
Luckily, I knew a tech-savvy pirate who could outmaneuver any security system on any grid and happened to enjoy mischief. I turned on my black cell, which was free from Big Fed’s prying eyes and open for illegal communication. I used my silver phone for work because it had a constant federal wiretap and GPS system; it was a huge tattletale. Keeping the phones straight was literally a matter of life and death.
I called Rainer for backup, hatching my plan, recruiting his brain power, and offering what intel I could. He promised to put his devious pirate mind to the task. I drove to the nearest all night restaurant and drank cup after cup of coffee, paired with a few cinnamon rolls and a batch of French fries. Eagerly, I waited for the silver phone to buzz in my pocket.
It turned into a long night.
When Rainer texted a smiley face, I hopped up, feeling like James Bond, and drove immediately to his bunker.
Blasting the radio and singing along with the gritty vocals of Zakk Wylde, I was alert and almost happy. Maybe Rainer had something good for me, like a blacklisted gem of literature. I loved finding illegal treasures that most people would never see, simultaneously hoisting a big 'screw you' to the government that tagged me like an animal and tried to control every aspect of my life.
My
soothing guns sat pleasurably on my hips, the black phone occupied my pocket, and a to-go mug warmed my hand. I sipped hot coffee, sighed, and cruised down empty highways after curfew. Red Sector was beautiful at night, filthy with colorful people and street vendors. Ignoring swells of prostitutes and smugglers, I navigated past the street fairs toward Rainer’s hidden lair.
Chapter 8
I pulled the sweatshirt hood over my head and walked into an adult toy shop. Gigantic prosthetic dicks and silicone toys hung proudly on a wall behind the flavored lubes. A pit bull, Rufus, hopped up from his bed near a rack of fleshlights and fell snout-deep in my crotch before I closed the doorway.
I pushed his nose away and gave him a good rubbing scratch down his spine. Tongue lolling to the side, he ate up the attention. Ironic to let a pit bull guard a mutt hideout, but Rufus was a friendly dog who took his job seriously. Which was, initially, to scare away dog haters.
The place buzzed with males and females of all age, in various states of dress. They saw me and their eyes unanimously widened. We all froze and stared at each other. I recognized two of Erik’s lieutenants: Quasi with his greasy hair combed away from the old scar on his face, and Biscuit, who paused with a submarine sandwich halfway to his mouth, his young hips leaning against the counter where a middle-aged lady with giant tits flirted as he ate.
“Hey,” I said.
The crowd broke. More than half of them bolted for the back door. Fast. Mutts, all of them. And they recognized me. Chills jolted down my spine, but I put my hands in the air. Don't shoot, I mimed. I tucked my chin and strolled to the back of the porn shop. As I passed Biscuit, he reached out. I sidestepped and bumped into a rack of furry handcuffs.
“Everything okay?” His crystal-clear eyes worried while his nostrils flared. I imagined the stink of weakness drifting from my clothes.
“Fine,” I said. Still didn't want him to touch me, though. Quasi rounded the other side of the rack, and I poised to pull a gun if he got closer. The two mutts triangulated and circled. At least, that's what it felt like.
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