Vermilion Lies

by L. D. Rose

  “Your brother is right,” she said, fear glinting in the dark pools of her impossibly sad eyes. “They’re monsters. All of them. Villains. And I know things, things that can destroy them. Him. His plans, his intentions, his . . . secrets.”

  Dax stepped closer, a fierce protectiveness rolling through him, tensing his muscles and clenching his teeth. “That’s not why you’re here.”

  “I know.” She nodded, emphasizing the fact. “But Rome is right, I need to prove my worth. To him. To you.”

  A growl nearly escaped him, but he leashed his anger. “Goddamn it, Cindy, you don’t have to prove anything—”

  “I am drenched in Alek’s sins!” she suddenly shouted, her eyes brimming, her chin quivering, and his heart cracked down the middle. “I can’t wash them off, no matter how much I deny them or how far I run. I have to come clean, Dax. I need to be free. For good. Forever. For you.”

  Her ebony eyes bore into his very soul as he swallowed around the rock in his throat, stunned into silence by her outburst. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what she’d been through with that megalomaniac motherfucker, and all he wanted to do was kiss away the scarlet sadness spilling down her cheeks.

  She climbed off the bed to her feet, leaving the sheet behind, naked and unsteady before him. “Tell Rome he can have what he wants. Everything. Willingly. As long as he promises me you. Only if you’re willing to have me.”

  Dax closed the distance between them in a single stride, cradling her face a little harder than he’d intended as she gasped softly.

  “If you think I’m going to leave you, you’re wrong, Cindy.” He gentled his grip as her lips trembled and bloody tears splashed onto his skin. “I don’t care what Rome says or does, I don’t want anyone else but you. I don’t give a fuck about who you’ve been with, or what your real name is, or your real goddamn hair color.” He smiled at the last. “But I really do like redheads.”

  She let out a cross between a laugh and a sob.

  Sobering, he continued. “I care about what counts, what’s in your mind, heart, your actions, your soul. What did I tell you about your worth?”

  She sputtered. Tried again. “That I’m not some trophy to be bought.”

  “Not some fucking trophy. Don’t leave out the swear words.” She laughed again, with more spirit this time. “What else?”

  “That I’m priceless,” she whispered, gazing at him with her vulnerable, bleeding eyes.

  He leaned in close, feathering his lips against hers. “Goddamn priceless. And don’t you forget it.”

  Unable to stand it any longer, he kissed her hard, their lips colliding as she wrapped her arms around him tightly, so tightly, as if she never wanted to let go. Her tongue plunged into his mouth with renewed desperation as she dragged him back toward the bed, showing rather than telling him how she felt.

  But by the look on her face and the way she held him, he knew exactly what she wanted to say.

  Because he felt the very same way.

  Before they fell to the mattress and started all over again, Dax’s phone rang from the back pocket of his jeans, the vibration making him jolt with surprise. Cindy groaned in protest, flinging her head back and hanging limply in his arms as he chuckled, pulling the device from his pocket.

  An image of JJ aiming a sawed-off shotgun at him glowed on the screen, “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains pealing in the air before Dax answered the call.

  “It’s been ten minutes,” the Fed growled, and wind blew across the speaker, indicating he was already outside.

  “Five more.” Dax inhaled sharply as Cindy latched on to his earlobe, tonguing his plug.

  “Put the kraken back in your pants and get the fuck outside, Frosty.”

  “Mmm-hmm, yeah, okay,” Dax muttered distractedly as he shoved the phone back in his pocket and they both tumbled on the bed while Jon’s muffled curse resounded from his backside.

  NINETEEN

  The Bowery Mural looked like a Tarantino horror show.

  Smeared blood, satanic symbols, macabre graffiti of people screaming, dying, being ripped apart. Dax actually winced as he stared at it from across the street, pressed up against a brick wall on the corner. A stark white Shakespearean quote shouted at him from the morbid background, speaking far more truth than he cared to admit.

  HELL IS EMPTY AND ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE.

  “Where are you?” JJ asked over the comm link, his timbre rumbling in Dax’s ear.

  Dax flipped back the edge of his beanie and pressed his finger to the earbud, hitting the raised button. “East Houston, heading toward Bowery. I’m at that creepy ass mural, bunch of sick fucks.”

  “Yeah, it’s a winner,” JJ grumbled. “I’m near the park on Delancey. Heavy metal is pouring out of the Ballroom, they’re having a giant fucking party. Do you hear it?”

  Dax turned onto Bowery, sticking close to the shadows. The vast majority of the buildings were dark, hulking beasts, fossilized with the passage of time. A few streetlights flickered on and off, buzzing with a snap, crackle, and pop. The gentle breeze carried the smog of foreboding, contaminating the crisp night air. “I’m not close enough.”

  “Well, hop to it, chop, chop. I’m going to cut through the alley on Chrystle and hit the back. You want the roof?”

  “I’ll get on top.” Dax smirked. “Though I prefer to hit the back.”

  JJ laughed. “Is that what you were doing while I was waiting for your sorry ass?”

  Dax scowled playfully, eyes scanning as he approached the intersection of Bowery and Delancey. A sheet of rotted newspaper skipped along the sidewalk, a cloud of bats dive-bombed in the wind, and scattered rats chirped from the gutters. The music finally reached his ears, a seething cacophony of guttural bellows, pounding bass, and guitar screeches. “Hey, fuck you very much for that, by the way.”

  “If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be hitting anything, Frosty. You remember that.”

  “Oh, I’ll remember, sweet cheeks.” Dax swerved into a backstreet beside a high-rise, the noise amplifying, and he took a running leap onto a zigzagging fire escape. The brittle, rusty ladder shrieked under the force of his weight, but it didn’t collapse, thank God.

  He just prayed no one else heard him.

  Climbing cautiously, he moved fast and nimble on his feet. The darkness wasn’t as thick here, thanks to the nearby light pollution and the flashlight of the full moon in the clear sky. Too bad it was such a gorgeous night. He could’ve taken Cindy out for a ride.

  He’d have to spend it spilling her brethren’s blood instead.

  Arriving at the high-rise’s roof in no time, Dax alighted on the flat surface and stole a moment to catch his breath. The starry sky was even brighter up here, a studded charcoal gray with the clouds silhouetted in black. The cold air felt glorious in his lungs, his skin tingling with untapped power, his adrenals pumping so hard he felt buzzed. He sidled to the other end of the roof, stepping out to the ledge, and looked at the Bowery Ballroom below.

  It was a steep drop, since the venue was one of the shortest buildings in the vicinity, constructed during the Depression era. He probably could’ve jumped and landed just fine, but with his luck he’d break his legs.

  The last thing he needed was to get caught.

  The last thing he wanted was to never see Cindy again.

  Burying the memory of her tear-streaked face in the back of his skull, Dax leapt onto the closest balcony and descended the opposite side of the high-rise, dropping from railing to railing. If anyone lived in the respective apartments, they didn’t make themselves known, every light snuffed out and each window reflecting darkness. When he touched down in a crouch on the Ballroom rooftop, the impact reverberating into his bones, he discerned several shadows topside, bolting in different
directions. Two came at him while others raced for the access points.

  Shit. He couldn’t let them warn anyone.

  Flicking his wrists, his knives fell into his palms and he drew them with opposite hands, launching at his first attacker. Dax quickly disabled him, sinking the blades in the leech’s chest and belly just as the second lunged. Yanking the daggers out with a spray of hot blood, Dax cut the second vampire down in midair, a harsh yelp tearing from the leech’s throat. As soon as the bloodsucker hit the roof, Dax stabbed the knife in the vampire’s heart, the tip scraping against the back of the leech’s rib.

  Gunfire pelted across the rooftop and Dax dashed toward the nearest exit, narrowly missing the zooming slugs. Every hair on his body stood on end as a bullet whirred past his ear, almost clipping his plug. Weaving side to side in order to make himself a moving target, he spotted the muzzle flares beyond the access point and glimpsed one of the leeches sprinting for the door. Planting his boots, Dax steadied his momentum and raised a knife, balancing its weight perfectly between his fingers. Then he whipped it through the air in a smooth, fluid motion and ducked.

  After a few quicksilver flashes, the vampire dropped, the blade’s handle embedded in the leech’s spine. Triumph surged over him as Dax flipped forward to his feet. Pulling his silenced SIGs from his double shoulder rig, he aimed at the muzzle flares and fired twice. A body fell from the top of the exit with a thump while another tumbled off the rooftop, arms flailing.

  When a scream rose up from the front entrance, the vampire landing on the sidewalk with a sickening thud, Dax knew they were fucked.

  He hit the comm, running for the door. “They know we’re here.”

  “No shit,” JJ growled and music pummeled Dax’s eardrum, nearly deafening him. He cringed, ready to pop the bud out before the noise abruptly silenced with JJ’s severed connection, followed by the muffled rat-tat-tat of a fully automatic machine gun below.

  Dax practically flung himself down the access stairs, heart hammering at the all too familiar sound. He knew the death march of JJ’s M240 anywhere, which meant the Fed at least had time to mount the lethal weapon.

  As he navigated his way into the concert hall, shrieks and shouts echoed against the walls, the thunder of stomping feet rolling through the building like a high-speed train. The band ceased playing, the song cut short and punctuated with the screech of a guitar amp’s feedback and the crash of a cymbal. When Dax finally burst into the main ballroom, he met a sea of wailing, writhing bodies, the leeches bleeding and clawing at the acrid, smoke-filled air while JJ rained hell on them from the mezzanine.

  Black Bullet was fucking right.

  Dax rushed for the stairs, vaulting them in threes, disposing of a few screaming vamps en route. Reaching the mezzanine, he found JJ set up in front of the balcony bar and annihilating leeches like fucking Rambo, dark hair matted with sweat and face twisted in a vicious snarl. His obsidian eyes were volcanic, absorbing every ounce of light that hit them, revealing nothing but infinite darkness.

  JJ at his finest. Dax’s lips twitched.

  The scattered vampires on the balcony floor continued to charge at the Fed, forcing him to stop the intermittent blasts of ballistic mayhem. JJ looked possessed, demolishing every bloodsucker that came at him, bones breaking, blood spewing, gore splattering everywhere like a goddamn Jackson Pollock. Although the Fed clearly didn’t need help, Dax joined the fray, eliminating the distractions so JJ could focus on pumping everyone else with silver.

  Holy shit. They were going to win this.

  As soon as the notion settled on him—as soon as that breath of respite whooshed from Dax’s lungs—the stage lights flipped on with a boom that sounded as if a block of C-4 had gone off. They both dove to the mezzanine floor as the world went red—a vivid, glaring vermilion red—and they lifted their hands to shield the light, peering at the stage below.

  A dark figure emerged onto the raised platform, the ornamental curtains already drawn back to display the dead band members dispersed on stage. Stepping over the toppled drum set and splintered guitars, he wore the battle uniform of his army, combat boots and all, but he didn’t have a single weapon on him.

  Because he didn’t need it.

  Striding toward the platform’s edge, he smiled from a red-hued Slavic face, a condescending flash of fang and dimple. Tall, broad shoulders, slender waist, no one could mistake the way he carried himself, a royal Machiavellian dictator even when garbed like a soldier. His inky, crimson eyes pinned them where they stooped, eyes like JJ but even darker, soulless, an abyss that went straight down for miles, right into hell.

  The fucking devil himself.

  Dax and JJ exchanged stupefied glances as they both straightened, acting on pure instinct. With his pulse slamming in his throat like a battering ram, Dax lifted his SIGs while JJ took aim behind the M240 death machine, their trembling fingers hooking around their triggers in unison.

  Before either of them could get a shot off, the Sire of New York City raised his fists and time came to a startling halt.

  Seconds stretched into minutes as Alek slowly uncurled his right hand and gave them an invisible push. JJ grunted then went flying as if tackled by a linebacker, tossed away from the M240 like a ragdoll. Soaring over the bar and toward the coffered ceiling, the Fed crashed through the bay window, the shattering of glass and liquor bottles a dissonance of horror as Dax witnessed his brother-in-arms plummet to the sidewalk below.

  No!

  Dax tried to shout, struggled to move, but he made no sound, his mouth shut and his voice mute. He rattled the cage of his body but his muscles wouldn’t respond, his eyes wouldn’t blink—shit, he couldn’t even feel himself breathe.

  He was paralyzed, his brain virtually amputated from his spine.

  Acting of its own accord, his head swiveled toward Alek Konstantinov, his body shifting to the railing. Lowering his right arm, Alek smiled that arrogant fucking smile, and Dax would’ve done anything, anything to rip that smug bastard’s face off, to skin him alive and wear his hide like a goddamn cloak of retribution.

  Coward, he roared into the recesses of his skull. You’re a fucking coward!

  Alek shrugged indifferently, as if he’d heard him, his left fist still raised. The sire turned it, relaxed it, and crooked his fingers, calling Dax on.

  “Why don’t you jump off that ledge, hybrid.” His melodic voice resonated in the cavernous hall, as if the ballroom had been built just for that Russian accent. “Your brothers can’t protect you now.”

  Dax involuntarily climbed the railing, somehow balancing on its razor’s edge, his body no longer his own to command. Leaping off the mezzanine like a man committing suicide, he landed awkwardly, his legs manipulated in such a way that they cracked under the impact, snapping like dry twigs underfoot.

  Pain drove over him like a Mack truck, rupturing his every cell. He would’ve howled if he could have, screaming bloody murder in his mind instead.

  Alek laughed, malevolent and sinister as he closed in on him, boots thumping across the bloody floor. Dax couldn’t see him, his head turned at an odd angle, reality still slow and fuzzy around the edges. Murky streaks warred in his vision, smearing over his eyes like paint, his heart thrashing in his chest as if it too couldn’t control itself. When Alek leaned over, squatting to Dax’s level, his face looked distorted, blurred, and suddenly a third eye opened in the center of his forehead, his mouth bearing rows of serrated, shark-like teeth.

  “Her blood flows in your veins,” he hissed, saliva dripping from his jaws and sizzling on the wooden floor like acid. “My blood. It grants me power over you, dhampir.” He spat the last like a slur. “She’s no longer bound to me, but I’m still her sire. And you consumed her forbidden fruit.”

  God, the stench of sulfur and ketoret burned in Dax’s nostrils, bile rushing up his throat. Al
l he could do was stare as Alek’s voice warped into something evil, demonic, exposing his true nature.

  “What did she taste like, half-breed?” Alek rose to a stand, a specter looming over him. “Sweet? Ripe? Like black cherries?”

  A steel-toed boot swung at Dax’s face.

  And kicked his head like a soccer ball.

  His retinas exploded with white stars, red splashes, and gray spatters of color. The pain was terrific, a special brand of agony he couldn’t even defend himself from. He tasted blood, so much blood, his blood, her blood, gushing from his mouth like a faucet. Gradually, he regained motor function, his hands jerking and toes twitching in his treads.

  Then, like a corpse being wrenched up by its noose, Dax was on his feet again, and the bastard’s hot breath whispered in his ear, firing shivers up and down his traitorous spine.

  “Your mind may be yours, Knight, but your body now belongs to me.”

  Alek whirled him around and shoved him forward, letting him fend for himself as he stumbled in the dark with his fractured legs and ruined face. Every step electrified his nerves as more blood seeped into his eyes, blinding him, and the sire kicked him brutally through the front doors of the Ballroom onto the sidewalk.

  Dax collapsed on his hands and knees, shards of glass piercing his skin. As if roused by the dropping temperature, his chi swam to the surface, a blue glimmer of hope emanating from his soiled hands. But his motor skills were abruptly severed again as he flopped on the concrete like a fucking fish.

  His blood boiled with anger when he spotted JJ flat on his back, riddled with gashes and scrapes, glass glittering from his crumpled limbs. The Fed was down for the count, but he breathed and his heart still beat, albeit erratically. Alek ignored him, snatching Dax by his vest and dragging him across the debris, the sire’s body humming with strength and a malignant, pulsing energy. Before Dax knew it, he was tumbling down the stone stairs of a subway entrance, crushing more bones, spraying fresh blood, plunging into a darkness as thick as oil.