The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  "Shhhh," Liam warned her. "No time. We need a way to stop Salvius. Do you know of one?"

  "Why ask me?" she whispered back fiercely. "I was a prisoner!"

  "Aye, but an observant one. Resourceful. Well?"

  "The statue," she said. "I think it's the statue—he said it kept death from taking him."

  Captain Low, who'd been listening closely from where he stood just a foot away, still on the deck of the Aquila, nodded and moved back toward Captain Salvius. "One more thing, my lovely," he said, and lunged past Salvius to lay both his hands flat on the stone breasts of the marble statue. "A, very nice. Fine piece of work."

  The stone vibrated, cracked, and exploded into white dusty powder and chunks of stone, and left…

  … a goddess. Tall, slender, with hair as red as the sunset glaring behind her, and milky blue eyes and marble-fair complexion. She was dressed in flowing, night-black draperies, and as Low stepped back from her she took in a deep breath, let it out, and fastened her merciless gaze on Captain Salvius. Chaos broke out-men screaming, wailing, some throwing themselves to the deck and begging for mercy.

  Not Salvius, though. He stood and faced her as she came toward him.

  Liam grabbed Cecilia and hustled her across the plank, yelling over his shoulder, "Ned! Damn you, don't dally!"

  But Captain Low wasn't hurrying. He was watching the goddess Larentina as she reached out to tap her cool white fingers on Salvius's forehead.

  He fell to his knees, swayed, and went down hard. Face down.

  "Ned!" Liam yelled again. "She'll take you too!"

  "Yes," he said calmly. "I'm considering it."

  Larentina advanced on him. Low raised his eyebrows.

  "Reconsidering, actually." Low backed away, leapt onto the plank, and ran lightly across it to drop onto the rotting, filthy deck of his ship next to where Cecilia stood with Liam's arms around her. Low pulled the plank away from the Aquila and let it splash into the water—it was already rotting from the touch of his hands. He leaned on the filthy railing and watched Larentina stalk the decks of the Aquila, relentless and beautiful, sending the crew to their long-delayed and no doubt well-earned deaths.

  Larentina paused in her killing to look sharply across at them, and Cecilia felt a chill as if death were passing its shroud over her face.

  But in its wake, she felt oddly restored. Her crippling thirst was gone. So were her aches, pains, sunburns, and when she licked her lips, she found them damp and supple.

  "I think I'm in love," Ned Low sighed, and then shook his head. "Too clever by half, our friend Salvius. Not to mention careless. But I suppose he had to keep her close, or he'd have lost control."

  The Aquila was sinking, rolling drunkenly in a sea that was suddenly churning with waves. And sharks. Cecilia turned away from the sight and buried her face in Liam's chest, and he wrapped her tightly in his arms.

  She felt the wind snap the threadbare sails of the Withered Rose taut, and the gruesome ornamental skeletons dangling from the yardarms clinked their macabre music. Ned Low was watching her and Liam, not the wreck of the Aquila.

  "I'll take you back to your ship," Low said. "As we agreed. Then we're squared, Lockhart. The next time I catch you in my grip, you'll rot like the rest. You and the witch." He hesitated, then said, "Unless she really can break curses, that is." It was half a question.

  "No," Cecilia said. "I'm not a witch. Sorry."

  "Ah," he said, and shrugged. His lovely young face smiled, but the dead man in his eyes didn't. "Pity."

  Low made a languid gesture. Up on the deserted quarterdeck, the wheel turned, and the Withered Rose heeled over in a course change, making for the distant speck of sail that was the Sweet Mourning.

  A fresh sea breeze blew over the deck, temporarily washing away the filthy stench, and tattering Liam's clinging shadows. Cecilia looked down at herself; she was wreathed in the stuff too, like a damp fog. She tried fanning it away, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. "Ignore it," Liam said. "It's when it disappears you have to worry. That's when Ned decides to make sport of you." He sounded grim, and his eyes were dark and haunted. He cupped his hands around her face. "Cecilia. I'm sorry it took so long. Ned's no easy mark and nobody's ally."

  "Then why did he help you?"

  Liam took in a deep breath. "I struck a bargain. It was the only way to get to you. Salvius's ship was too fast. Ned Low was the closest rescue I could find."

  Oh no. "What did you promise?"

  "Nothing I can't afford to lose."

  Oh, Cecilia doubted that.

  THE WITHERED ROSE GLIDED UP TO A BECALMED Sweet Mourning just as true darkness fell over the sea. The Mourning had lamps burning on board, giving the whole ship a party-barge atmosphere that left Cecilia with a sense of tremendous, knee-weakening relief.

  She couldn't wait to be off this filthy, diseased scow.

  Mr. Argyle was at the railing, holding a lantern, his narrow, clever face tense and anxious. "The Aquila?" he asked.

  "Historical," Liam called back. "Coming aboard!"

  Low sat at his ease and watched indifferently as Liam escorted Cecilia across the boarding plank and safely onto the deck of their own vessel. The crew closed around them protectively—amazing, considering a day ago they'd been willing to toss her over the side.

  Maybe they just hated Edward Low that much.

  She reached back for Liam, but he wasn't there. He was still standing on the boarding plank, looking at her, and while her dark shadows had blown free the moment she'd stepped on board the Sweet Mourning, his still writhed around him like toxic smoke.

  "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice sounded choked and odd. "I'm so sorry, Cecilia. I love you."

  And he turned and went back to the Withered Rose.

  "No!" she screamed, and lunged for the boarding plank. Liam grabbed it from the far end and shoved; it was still fastened on the Sweet Mourning, so it banged loudly against the wooden hull as it fell. "Liam, come back!"

  Argyle was holding her still. "Lass," he said somberly, "he can't. Ned Low's price. One had to stay, and he's made the choice. He wouldn't let anyone else do it for him. I tried. God's witness, I tried."

  On board the other ship, Edward Low uncoiled himself from his perch and slipped down to walk to where Liam stood at the railing. He leaned casually against it, staring at Cecilia, and his moonstone eyes looked like twin moons reflecting the firelight.

  "Do you believe in salvation?" he asked her.

  She wasn't in the mood for his banter. "Let Liam go! Please!"

  "All that binds him here is his honor," Low said. "But that's as strong as chain, for him. I ask you again, little witch, do you believe in salvation?"

  "Yes!" She choked on the word, and a frantic sense of terror. "Please. I'd help you if I could. I really would."

  He studied her gravely. "I believe you would," he said. "Although I'd never deserve it."

  "I'm not your judge. Please."

  Low glanced sideways at Liam. "Your witch bargains hard," he said. "I'll hold you to your word, Lockhart. One year of service on the Rose."

  One year? Cecilia's heart turned to ice in her chest. She'd barely been able to stand an hour. What that would be like…

  "I'll stand by my word."

  "I know you will. You're a man of honor." Low put a mocking stress on the last word. "I never said when your service would commence, Captain."

  Liam didn't move.

  Edward Low rolled his eyes. "Leave, fool. I'm giving you parole. I'll decide when to collect my debt."

  Liam's wrapping of shadow blew away, and Cecilia caught her breath and squeezed Argyle's hands in hers. Liam looked startled, and grim. "I suppose I should thank you."

  "Don't," Low said soberly. "I expect to see full service from you. Just not today."

  He made another of those eerie underwater gestures, and the fallen boarding plank rose up of its own accord and fastened back between the two ships. The ocean went as smooth and dark as painted glas
s.

  Liam crossed over, dropped over on the deck of the Sweet Mourning, and Low reached out to put his hand on the plank stretched between them. It warped, molded, rotted, and fell away into dust and fragments into the waiting sea.

  A devil's wind filled the sails of the Withered Rose, and the dark ship glided away into the night, silhouetted against the stars, and then gone without a sound. Low might have raised a hand in farewell, but it was just a shadowy impression, quickly vanished.

  Liam let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. "You're an idiot," Cecilia said.

  He nodded. "I know."

  "I love you."

  "And so you should," he said. "At great length."

  THE CREW THREW A PARTY FOR THEM—IMPROMPTU feasts of cold smoked ham and canned pineapple and rum. Lots of rum. Their version of an apology for the ruined wedding reception. Cecilia had just enough food to sustain her, and enough rum to settle her nerves. Someone started up a hornpipe, and there was a spontaneous effort at a jig, which Cecilia gamely tried at the urging of the crew. When she stopped, breathless and glowing from effort, she saw Liam looking at her with dark intensity from the other side of the crowd.

  "I think I'll retire for the evening," Cecilia said as she passed him. "Join me?"

  Liam let a torturous second or two go by, then pushed away from the rail. "Aye," he said. "I suppose I might."

  He was kissing her well before they reached the cabin—in the hallway, in fact, up against the wooden wall, perilously close to the tilting lantern. He kicked the cabin door open and pulled her inside, already unfastening her belt and leaving it in a pile on the floor as he walked her relentlessly back, toward the bed. Her shirt marked another step, and his joined it. Boots next. Trousers.

  By the time they reached the bed itself, they were naked and warm and entirely consumed with tastes and touches and not at all with thought. Liam's hands slid around Cecilia's head, combing through her thick short hair, and he devoured her mouth in hungry, desperate kisses with all the feverish energy of lightning striking.

  When he pulled back, Cecilia found herself shaking, panting, and very close to heaven. In the firelight, Liam's skin was the color of hot caramel, twice as sweet to the taste—burned darker on his forearms and hands and face, a true man of the sea.

  "Maybe we ought to wait," Cecilia said. Lockhart's eyes widened.

  "Wait?" he echoed, and she smiled wickedly.

  "Something's bound to interrupt us."

  Liam held up one finger, stepped back and turned to the door to bellow, "Mr. Argyle!"

  The cabin door opened just a crack. "Aye, Captain?"

  "You'll guarantee our privacy this time?"

  "Oh, aye, sir. Totally guaranteed." And the door shut with a clank of metal.

  "See?" Liam said. "Problem solved."

  "Except that your first mate is listening right outside the door, Liam. I don't call that privacy."

  Liam seemed honestly surprised. "Well, then, we'll have to be quiet, then, won't we?"

  His kiss completely derailed her objections. The lovemaking was like a dream, waves hitting the shore, sleek and salty and irresistible. Cecilia floated in the currents, anchored only by his body, the sharp nip of his teeth on her neck, the electric-hot press of his hands.

  In the end, there was nothing in the least quiet about it, but Cecilia quite forgot to worry about that.

  "Ah, that's the way to mark the passing hours," Liam said drowsily, stroking her hair as they lay twined together in an untidy heap on the disordered bed. "One day down."

  "Aye aye, Captain." She smiled against his chest. "And forever to go."

  Rachel Caine is the author of the popular Weather Warden series, the sixth installment of which Thin Air was released in August 2007. She also writes a young adult series, Morganville Vampires, with the third book, Midnight Alley, scheduled for an October 2007 release. In addition, Rachel has written paranormal romantic suspense for Silhouette, including Devil's Bargain, Devil's Due, and the recently released Athena Force novel Line of Sight.

  Visit her Web site: www.rachelcaine.com.

  My Space: www.myspace.com/rachelcaine.

  HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER

  P. N. Elrod

  Gangsters, gats, and girls in Depression Era Chicago mean trouble, even for an undead shamus. Jack Fleming relates his latest case from The Vampire Files.

  Chicago, February 1938

  IT'S BEEN MY EXPERIENCE THAT A BLUSHING BRIDE usually waits until after the honeymoon's over before hiring a gumshoe to check up on her husband's whereabouts. When Dorothy Schubert, nee Huffman, plowed into the office still in her wedding gown I figured she was out to break a record along with anything else in her path.

  She was the angriest woman I'd ever seen—which is saying a lot.

  I'd only stopped by to pick up the mail and hadn't bothered to turn on the light. She'd charged noisily up the outside stairs, shoving the door open so hard the glass rattled. Blindly she fumbled the switch, and the sudden brightness caught me behind the desk, envelopes in one hand, reaching under my coat for my .38 with the other. Chicago's a tough town; even a vampire needs an extra edge at times.

  You heard right, but I'll get back to the Lugosi stuff later.

  I eased off drawing my gun and put down the envelopes. The lady appeared to be unarmed, just remarkably upset. Her face was red, her brown eyes blazed, and she had very straight teeth, nearly all of them bared. I kept the desk between us.

  "Is that you?" she demanded, jabbing a finger at the name painted on the door's pebbled glass panel. It read THE ESCOTT AGENCY.

  I hesitated replying, wondering what my partner had gotten himself into, and then realized she'd not have asked the question had she ever met Escott. "No, but maybe I can help?"

  "I need a detective," she said, tottering forward to grab the back of one of the wooden chairs in front of the desk. The charge up the stairs must have winded her.

  "You look like you need a drink."

  "That, too." She dropped onto the chair, her classy wedding dress making an expensive rustling sound. She was more arresting than pretty, with thick black hair, a hawk's nose, strong brows, and wide mouth. By turns she was the type who could turn ugly or traffic-stopping beautiful depending on her mood. A sculptor would have made much over her cheekbones, chin, and throat. I noticed the big vein there pulsing in time with her heartbeat, which was audible to my ears. She was calming down, though, the beat gradually slowing.

  Her floor-dragging veil was half off, and she wore no coat over the gown. Last time I checked it was cold enough that even I felt the bite of Old Man Winter. The lady must have departed straight from the church in one spitfire of a hurry. Post-ceremony, I noted, her rings were in place. One was a showy engagement sparkler, the other a more modest band with diamonds embedded in its gold surface. She had enough on one finger to buy the block, never mind the pricey trinkets hanging from her neck and wrists.

  "You cold?" I asked. Her bare arms showed gooseflesh.

  She considered, then nodded. The heat was down for the night; I took off my overcoat and draped it over her shoulders.

  "You're nice. So polite," she said, pulling it close around her body like a blanket.

  "Sometimes."

  Escott kept a pint of Four Roses in the bottom left drawer—cheap stuff and strictly for clients in need of a knock-in-the-head bracer. I pulled it out and started toward the back room to get a glass, but the bride didn't wait. She had the cap off, bottle upended, and drained a quarter of it away in two shakes. It being her wedding day she had good reason to indulge, but still—impressive.

  She slammed the bottle on the desk and whooped in a deep breath, her dark eyes watering. "Wow."

  I'd given up drinking booze some while ago, but knew that Four Roses could peel varnish without much effort. "How may I help you, Miss—uh—Mrs.—?"

  "Mrs. Jerome Kleinhaus Schubert as of an hour ago. I want you to find my husband."

  "Uh."

  Damn few t
hings are a cause for flummoxing, but this peculiar situation had me nailed to the wall. Had Mrs. Schubert been a bad-tempered, gun-waving mug with one of the city's mobs I'd have known exactly what to do. Instead we traded stares for a long, much too-silent moment; then I remembered to fall back on procedure, and got out one of the agency's standard contracts, notepaper, and a fountain pen.

  "Is that you?" She again pointed at the name.

  "Mr. Escott's out of town. I'm his partner, Mr. Fleming. May I ask who referred you?"

  She took a turn at assessing me. I was taller than average, leaner than some, and looked too young for my actual age of thirty-eight. Her gaze drifted upward. I removed my fedora and put it on the desk, and that summoned a glint of humor to her eyes. "Taxi driver. I told him I wanted a detective, and he took me straight here."

  I peered between the blinds to the street below. A yellow cab was double-parked next to my Studebaker coupe. The driver waved up. I knew him slightly; he often hung out in front of my nightclub at closing, hoping to snag a late fare. It was no surprise that he knew about Escott's agency and that one or the other of us might be found there at odd hours. The club's doorman liked to chat when things were slow. They'd have plenty to gossip about with this development.

  "Did you pay him?"

  The bride glanced pointedly at her dress, which was unburdened by pockets, and she had no purse. "Put it on my bill. I'm good for it." She unpinned the trailing veil from her hair and began winding it loosely around one hand, apparently confident that her word alone was enough.

  I hadn't said I'd accept the case, but decided this was one I couldn't miss. "No problem."

  Excusing myself, I left to take care of her fare, trusting that she'd not run up an excessive amount in the brief time since her nuptials. I'm too much the optimist: the meter showed two-fifty. They must have come from across town. I gave the driver three bucks and asked if he knew what the hell was going on.

  He was cheerful, shaking his head. "That dame shot out of St. Mike's like one of them human cannonballs. Boy, was she mad. Never seen anything like it. She spotted me, was yelling for a PI, an' I thought of you."