Bound By His Blood

by Jennifer August

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Running leads.”

  “Did you clear your phone? Your mail box is full. Again.”

  Sheridan winced. “Sorry,” she said and pushed the button for the elevator. “I’ll do it when I get back. Take messages for me? Please?”

  Bobbi sighed dramatically even as she winked. “Sure thing, darlin’.”

  The elevator opened and Sheridan squeezed out into the lobby of the downtown high rise that housed the Metro.

  “Miss Aames,” the concierge called.

  She swung mid-stride and headed for him. “Hi Bert, what’s the good news today?”

  He gave her a dour look. Bert was one dodgy old coot, but he always had good leads and knew just about everyone in town, from deadbeats to the mayor. She trusted him implicitly. The old man had never steered her wrong. Didn’t hurt he was also a dear friend who shared her passion for old time radio dramas and decadent full-sugar, full-fat, full-everything ice cream.

  Bert’s brows furrowed with worry. “Heard you were shot at last night.”

  “Well, that traveled fast. How’d you hear?”

  “I have my sources. They also said you vanished with a vampire cop named McCallister.” He gave her a stern, we’re-gonna-discuss-this-right-now-young-lady look.

  Sheridan went cold. How in the hell did Bert know about vampires? About McCallister? She wanted to pepper him with all the usual W questions: who, why when and how, but her attention was grabbed by a low murmur. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked sideways at the bustle of people in the lobby. Her skin crawled for half a second and, just like upstairs, she could suddenly hear voices, only this time the conversations were crystal.

  She definitely heard her name and grab her.

  Fuck.

  “I don’t have time to talk about that, Bert, but please, don’t repeat it to anyone.”

  His brown eyes went wide. “Shit, are you serious?” The green porter’s cap he wore jiggled with the motion of his brows.

  She nodded. “Look, I need to take a powder. Can I hop the freight elevator down?” Another prickle at her nape. She looked over her shoulder.

  Among the bustling lawyers and corporate raiders, two men stood out. Both looked as if they should fit in. Tall, broad, heavily muscled. Despite the nice suits—probably Armani—she knew a goon when she saw one.

  These Brunos could have worked for Flattop Jones.

  “You still after that new street drug? What’s it called? Dust?”

  She pulled her gaze back to Bert, but watched the warped images of the two men in the brass plate behind the old man’s green-cap topped frizzy head. “Yeah. I need some info, too. My last snoop probably won’t have the time of day for me now.”

  “We’ll talk about your encounter later.” He hesitated a heartbeat, brown gaze scanning her with speed of a laser. “You’re okay, right?”

  His sincere concern warmed her. She grabbed his hand. “Yes, I am. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, sure, kiddo. I still got questions, though. Tons of ‘em.”

  “I don’t know that I can answer everything, Bert,” she said. “I don’t really have a clue what’s going on.”

  “I know that feeling. Here.” He slid a card across the marble counter. “Ask for Sullivan Alexander. Tell him I sent you and that you need information and fast. Now, get. They’re about to head this direction.”

  Sheridan snatched the card and inched past him. Just as she reached the brass lattice doors of the freight elevator, she heard a ding and they slid open. She stepped inside, jabbed G, then the Close Door button.

  The doors swooshed shut, and she leaned against the wall with relief.

  In the garage, she scoped out the area, listened for sounds of footsteps in the stairwell, then sprinted to her car.

  Though the small VW Bug wouldn’t win any awards for appearance, Tess got her where she needed go. Her once-red paint was chipped and faded and the interior cloth seats were in dire need of repair, but every bit of sheet metal, every bolt, every gear, and every inch of her engine were pristine.

  “Come on, Tess,” she muttered as she cranked the engine. “We need to jet. Now.”

  The car roared to life, and she reversed and sped out of the garage. Only when she made it onto the freeway did she take a solid, relaxed breath.

  As she drove, Sheridan pulled the card from her pants pocket.

  Glossy black and etched in blood red, the card read Vesper’s Bite. Open shadowfall to pre-dawn.

  “What the hell?” Shadowfall? What is that? She flipped it over, but no address was on the back. How was she supposed to find the joint without an address?

  Damn, sometimes being a reporter was a pain in the ass. She should have been a detective.

  Which brought up thoughts of McCallister and his damn sensual aura. The way his hands roamed her body and made her feel sexy and wanton. The way her body froze just before coming at the insidious whisper of his voice.

  She growled and forced him from her mind.

  Sheridan tossed the card to the passenger seat and checked her rearview mirror, relieved to find no one following her.

  Just as she pulled into the parking lot of Copley Place shopping mall, her phone clanged. She quickly found an out-of-the-way spot, checked the number—one she didn’t recognize—and answered.

  “Sheridan Aames.”

  “I hear you want to know about Dust.”

  The voice was smooth, educated, urbane. British? Definitely cultured. The voice of someone raised with a silver spoon in their mouth and gold in the bank.

  “Who is this?”

  “Identities are overrated, Miss Aames. Suffice it to say we are both working to achieve the same end.”

  “Sorry, bub, I don’t work with anyone who won’t give me his name. Call me back when you’re ready to do that.”

  Silence.

  “I suppose you’re going to insist?”

  “I am.”

  “Very well. I am Paxton Barrett.”

  Sheridan’s eyes went wide and she pulled the phone away, stared in disbelief at the call screen, then replaced it at her ear. “Are you serious?”

  “Indeed. I would like to discuss this matter in more depth. Are you available this evening?”

  Paxton Barrett—old money millionaire, medical invention pioneer, and as reclusive as Howard Hughes. No need to ask how he gained her number—the man could have anything he wanted.

  Again her eyes narrowed. “Pardon my distrust, Mr. Barrett, but what in the world do you need me for?”

  She heard the smile in his voice. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Miss Aames, but I will try to explain this evening. There’s a club at which we can meet called Vesper’s Bite.”

  She started at the name of the club, her gaze zeroed in on the glossy black card she’d tossed away. Slowly, she picked it up, grabbed a pen and flipped the card over.

  “What’s the address?”

  His chuckle was disconcertingly low and oppressive. “There is no address, Miss Aames. Show up at Fifth and Carter exactly at 6:17 and look for the door. Don’t be late. I despise tardiness.”

  The line disconnected and she hit the end button and slumped back against Tess’ seat. Slowly, she flicked the business card.

  “All right, Mr. Barrett, let’s see what you’re all about.”

  † † †

  At 6:15, Sheridan sat in her car, parked in the pay-as-you-go lot facing the corner of Fifth and Carter. She touched up her makeup in the rearview and wondered if she’d gone a bit too heavy with the black eyeliner and copper shadow. Her eyes did look kickin’ hot, though. And showing up to a club, any kind of club, only half-assed dressed was the kind of rookie mistake that could get a dame out for the scoop, iced.

  She giggled nervously. Steve was right, she’d been listening to way too many Dick Tracy programs.

  6:17. Showtime.

  She popped open her door, grabbed her small red velvet purse, and stepped out of the car, gaze glued t
o the corner of the street. It was a non-descript building. Beige and red brick from the turn of the last century. Crumbling in a few places, boarded up in others. A dark green grill covered a doorway and a huge padlock bolted the door shut. Everything else on the street was dark and lifeless.

  Sheridan scanned the corner again.

  Nothing.

  She hip-shut the door and started forward, though she kept a vigilant and wary eye to either side of her.

  Was this some sort of weird joke?

  A sudden wind kicked up a discarded newspaper which wrapped around her leg. She grimaced and bent to peel the slightly sodden paper—the Metro, of course—off. Wadding the day old print, she tossed it into a trash can then looked back at the corner.

  Her breath stilled.

  The green door now sparkled and stood wide open. A burly man with shoulders wider than a Mack truck lounged against the brick. He was tall and broad all over with skin the color of dark chocolate, right down to the dull glare on his bald head. A large diamond winked from his right ear and she caught the glitter of a gold necklace peeping out from his black T-shirt. He reminded her of an ancient Nubian soldier guarding the palace from infidels. He didn’t so much as acknowledge her existence when their gazes met.

  Sheridan swallowed and tugged down the hem of her black leather skirt, then started forward.

  The Nubian shoved away from the building, a frown creasing his ebony skin. Sheridan pasted her best vacant, party girl smile on, adjusted the sway of her hips and sauntered so close she could see the bristle from his five o’clock beard.

  “Hi,” she said, channeling Breathless Malone. “I’m here for Mr. Barrett.” She winked slowly. “He’s expecting me.”

  Not so much as a twitch. Hell, if anything, his expression grew more stone-like than the building he was in front of.

  Sheridan bit the inside of her lip and pondered the wisdom of trying to barrel past him.

  “You won’t make it,” he said, voice low and slow like cold honey. “Got a card?”

  “Uh, yeah, I do.” She pulled the now bent and slightly tattered black business card from her purse and handed it to him. As he reached out, she gasped and yanked it back, staring hard.

  Vesper’s Bite was still prominently displayed, but the card now also blared a shifting set of words. She caught Barrett’s name, hers, McCallister’s—what the hell was that about?—Sullivan Alexander and Bert’s. A shiver raced over her.

  Was she getting into something too deep here?

  The black guardian plucked it from her fingers, studied it closely, whistled then nodded and stepped aside, handing her the card.

  “Barrett is in the Red Room. McCallister’s at the bar. Alexander will be there, too. Not sure where Bert is tonight. Interesting company you keep.”

  “McCallister? What’s he doing here?” Was the big lug following her or something?

  The bouncer didn’t respond, just tipped his head toward the door.

  Obviously, he wanted her inside and out of his non-existent hair.

  Fine.

  She shoved the card back into her purse and stepped forward, muscles tensed and braced for God only knew what.

  As soon as she passed the threshold, sound exploded around her and she clapped her hands over her ears. Eyes watering, she frantically looked over her shoulder, but the doorway was gone, replaced by a solid wall.

  The enormity of her what-the-fuck situation hit her, and Sheridan sucked in a shuddering, panic-filled breath.

  She had to get out of here.

  Except she had no idea where here was. People crowded the hallway in front of her and through the dim lighting, she glimpsed a larger, open room. Rows of bottles lined the far wall and a tall, good looking blond man stood behind the red-and-black patchwork bar.

  She wavered, tempted to head that direction. I could use a drink right now.

  But the Nubian said McCallister was in there and she wasn’t ready to face him just yet.

  The big vampire cop was still on her shit list for last night’s confusing debacle. Sheridan squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on pushing the noise from her ears as if the sounds held physical mass. McCallister’s eerie green eyes and incredible lips filled her vision.

  The sounds lessened.

  His lips moved but she didn’t hear anything. Frowning, she shook her head and concentrated on his face. Her anger at his arrogance, the sudden halt to their lovemaking, his ridiculous command not to come all faded, melding into an oasis of need and desire. The realization that now all she wanted to do was pull his head down to hers and kiss him as senseless as he’d made her made her scowl.

  McCallister’s mental image chuckled and he tapped her on the nose, winked, then faded from sight.

  Sheridan’s eyelids popped open, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief because the noise was gone. Only the normal sounds of being in a club with a hundred other people, a great bassline in the background, and the clink of glasses filled the air.

  “Interest you in a shot, ma’am?”

  Sheridan looked down. A petite, young woman with hair the color of a fire truck and eyes as big and dark as coal, lofted a silver tray containing several shot glasses.

  Despite the temptation and the need, she shook her head. “Maybe later.” Definitely if I run in to McCallister. I’m gonna need something strong to deal with him tonight. Why did I picture kissing him instead of smacking him?

  The woman nodded and pushed past her. Sheridan reached out and touched her arm.

  The waitress spun so swiftly, the alcohol sloshed in their glasses. The sweet, smooth face had gone wild and fangs protruded from her mouth.

  “Whoa!” Sheridan jerked her hand away.

  Once more her gaze darted around the bar and this time she realized there were many, many sets of fangs on display.

  She swallowed hard.

  Fuck this. I’m out of here.

  “I’m sorry,” the waitress said. This time her hand curled over Sheridan’s forearm. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you a new Consort?”

  Sheridan shook her head even though she had no damn idea what that meant.

  The waitress’s expression went wary. “You have a card, right?”

  “Yes.” Sheridan cleared her throat and forced her unease away. McCallister’s claims from last night were the only thing keeping her in this damn place.

  Well, that and I can’t find the blasted exit.

  “I’m here for Paxton Barrett. The big guy outside said he was in the Red Room. Do you know where that is?”

  The redhead nodded slowly. She pointed to the left with her chin. “Down that hall, second door on the right.” Her head tipped as she narrowed her gaze. “Mind if I look at your card?”

  Since she had no intention of being anyone’s dinner snack or causing any trouble at all, Sheridan dug the black card out and handed it over.

  “McCallister?” The waitress flicked her with a glance that held both envy and tension. “He’s in the bar. I’ll get him.”

  “No,” Sheridan yelped and grabbed her card back. “I’m here for Barrett. I don’t know how McCallister’s name got on there, but it’s wrong.”

  The waitress held out a shot glass with liquid as green and bright as McCallister’s eyes. “Take it,” she said softly. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  Sheridan wavered then reached out for the glass. “What is it?”

  The girl smiled. “It’s called a Mad Scientist. Rum, melon liqueur, and a dash of water. It’s McCallister’s favorite.”

  If the drink hadn’t already been at her lips, Sheridan would have put the shot back on the tray. Instead, she slugged the burning liquor down and savored every drop.

  “Tasty. How much?”

  “Nothing,” the waitress said. “My treat.” She hesitated then grinned. “Actually, McCallister’s treat. That one was his.”

  “Damn it,” Sheridan muttered. “Why did you give it to me?”

  “I don’t know. J
ust seemed like the thing to do all of a sudden.”

  Sheridan dug in her tiny purse and pulled out a five then tossed the bill on the girl’s tray. “I pay my own way.”

  “It’s too late but thanks.” She turned and melted into the crowd, offering drinks to chatting vampires.

  Sheridan shuddered away the realization she was surrounded by a building full of vampires.

  One she could handle. Sort of.

  An entire building of them?

  Let me out.

  “I should have asked her where the exit was instead.” Sheridan fiddled with the strap of her purse and looked over her shoulder. Still no doorway.

  She peered down the mostly empty hallway the waitress had indicated.

  “I’m here. No sense wasting the opportunity to meet the reclusive Paxton Barrett.” She was also curious as to why the man was in a bar full of vampires. Had he known they existed all along? That question moved up to her number one spot. Several more investigative questions surged in her brain and helped her to regain her bearings.

  Sheridan tugged on her tight teal shirt and wished it was just a smidge longer. Her tummy felt oddly exposed.

  Not that any of them were looking at her. She peeked at the crowds again and saw, to her surprise, they were all hanging around chatting, drinking and laughing. Just like regular people in any bar.

  This is so weirding me out.

  Sheridan headed down the hallway. Her steps only faltered once when the overhead lights flickered as she passed beneath.

  Total coincidence.

  As she made the last turn, she caught sight of a faint glowing sign above a doorway: Red Room. Okay, that made her smile even as she grimaced. Vampires had black humor. Who knew they had any humor? She didn’t know whether to knock or just go in. Her decision was made when the door soundlessly whooshed open.

  “Come in, Miss Ames.”

  The voice, no longer distorted by cell technology, sounded even more cultured. Sheridan peered into the room, scoping it out as fast as she could.

  Two empty upholstered wingback chairs sat in front of a fire, a burgundy leather chaise with only one arm, also empty, sat along one wall, and a fully stocked bar complete with stone faced bartender against another. She sized up the lean man in traditional white and black server’s garb and lifted a brow as she stepped inside, cockiness rising once more. He didn’t look old enough to be a medical pioneer, but she appreciated a good cover when she saw one.