Hellbent

by Cherie Priest

  I’d just have to trust him to think on his feet. It was all I could do, short of raising a stink that might get us both killed. The mere absence of copious vampires in my immediate presence did not mean they weren’t nearby. Or watching. Or sharpening their teeth and eagerly anticipating some kind of trouble.

  When even the other two vampires had exited the premises, slinking out through the glass beads and toward the stairs, I was finally invited to sit down.

  “Join me, won’t you? Raylene, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “House-less, at the moment, but you know the manners of a House. So you’ve either left one, or been evicted from one.”

  “Those aren’t the only two possibilities,” I said, leaving him in the dark and not offering to clarify. “And that’s not what I’m here to discuss. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  If he withheld it any longer, he ran the risk of being rude. He didn’t want to be rude, not if he was smart—and he didn’t strike me as a dummy.

  Lone vampires who aren’t afraid to approach a den are likely to be powerful enough to survive by themselves. Quite obviously, this is true when it comes to yours truly. I may be neurotic as hell, paranoid, control-freaky, and prone to hissy fits, but I’m no pansy.

  “I’m Maximilian Renner,” he said, which I knew already—but it still made me want to blurt out, “And I’m your mother!” because nobody really comes born with that kind of name. He’d probably adopted it along the way. Lots of vamps do that; it helps cement their integration into a House by making a public, more or less permanent declaration of loyalty.

  “Nice to meet you, Max,” I said as I stepped down the four steps that would put me onto the pimp-couch with the Guy in Charge. It really was pimp-a-riffic. Straight out of a vintage porno, I swear to God.

  We didn’t shake hands or anything, but I slipped into a seat near him—far enough away on the curve that I could make eye contact without getting a cramp in my neck.

  “Now,” he began, leaning forward and crossing one leg over the other in a show of body language that was meant to convey that I was in his space, at his discretion. “You want to talk about Ian. Is he a friend of yours? Do you people without Houses have little conventions or something?”

  “We’re acquainted. I don’t know where he is at this precise moment, but I could find out.”

  “And what would it cost us?”

  “We aren’t up to that part of the conversation yet, Max. You’re obviously”—I almost said, “the Guy in Charge” but I didn’t—“an authority figure here in San Francisco. It’s a nice den you’ve got. Nice front, too.” There was no telling how far flattery would get me, but it’s usually worth a shot.

  “Thank you and yes, we’re rather happy with it. Of course, this is only one of several dens,” he said almost curtly, like I was wasting his time—or he was afraid that I was about to.

  “I would assume. So here’s my question, if you’ll pardon the bluntness: Are you the top of the food chain? Or is there someone else I should speak with, if I want to talk to the people in charge?”

  He forced himself to relax—loosening the tight crossing of his legs and leaning to rest one arm on the back of the curvy couch. But the sharp line of his mouth didn’t soften, and I knew better than to take this show at face value. “Bluntness is preferred above outdated niceties. At the moment, I’m the man on top.”

  “You say that as if it could change at any time.”

  He glared at me big time, and without fanfare he said, “Three weeks ago, my father died.”

  “William Renner?”

  The glare deepened. “That’s him, yes. He’d been the judge in this city for decades, and his passing has left a tremendous vacuum.”

  “You seem to be filling it ably,” I pushed the flattery a little farther, hoping to soften him up—maybe take the edge off his sourpuss demeanor.

  It didn’t really work, except that it earned me a civil reply. “It’s kind of you to say so. Have you been in the city long?”

  “I only arrived tonight.” It was pretty much true. And you really, really don’t want to hang out in a city with a powerful House without introducing yourself. It can be bad for your health.

  He said, “I see. And you wish to talk about Ian.”

  “How do you know him?” I wanted to get him back in the habit of answering my questions, and not vice versa.

  “He’s my brother.” He unveiled this piece of information with the clear intent of surprising me, which it clearly didn’t. “We spent many years side by side in this House, working together for its continued survival and improvement.”

  Christ. He sounded like a sales brochure. “And what of Brendan?” I asked with all the innocence I could muster.

  Maximilian hesitated, balking as he considered whether or not to lie. In the end, I think he went with the truth—albeit a careful, no-doubt vigorously spun version of it. “He left the House two weeks ago. No one has seen any sign of him since.”

  “How … convenient,” I said. “For him.” And me, too. I wasn’t sensing any deception, only caution—and if Brendan was out of the House (on vacation, furlough, or running for his life), he wasn’t being menaced by Maximilian. Regardless of what the wannabe-judge was telling my beloved roommate.

  “I suppose. I thought he might’ve tried running home to Ian …?” He hinted strongly, pointing an eyebrow at me like a weapon.

  “Not to my knowledge, he didn’t. But I could be wrong.”

  Max smiled, keeping his jaw clenched and his mouth shut. It looked mean. “Well. I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he’s gone, though no one is clamoring to have him back. It’s Ian we need. I was never meant to be left in charge. It was never my destiny, or my goal.”

  He was right about it not being his destiny. Ian had told me that Max was the youngest, and last in line. Unless the judge changes the rules, Houses run like royalty that way, oldest to youngest. At any time, a judge can change up the mix—it happens with a fair degree of frequency—but if those arrangements aren’t specified before he dies, vampires default to the old-fashioned birth-order school of thought on inheritance.

  I said, “Maybe not, but looks like things are running smoothly.” I tried to sound friendly, and no doubt did a terrible job.

  “Is that what it looks like?” He sneered. “I suppose that’s good to hear, that the illusion is holding up.” Maximilian made a face like he wanted to bite the head off something, maybe me. His lifted nostril raised one corner of his lip, exposing another impolite flash of fang. “And it is an illusion. Perhaps a temporary one, because my father picked one of the worst possible places to die, damn him.”

  “And that would be …?”

  “Atlanta.”

  I produced a low, unhappy whistle. I couldn’t help it. “Atlanta? He was with the Barringtons? Jesus Christ.”

  “Tell me about it.” He uncrossed his legs, then changed his mind and draped them one upon the other once more.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your concern,” he said tightly.

  “It’s not my concern, no. But I’m curious, and I’m not accusing you of anything. What was he doing in Georgia? It might matter to Ian,” I tried. Maybe his brother’s name would haul him back around to feeling cooperative. Or somewhat cooperative. Or whatever “cooperative” looked like to Max on an ordinary night. “I’ll need details, facts. Particulars. If I want to lure him out, I mean. He’s already gotten the message that the judge is dead. But it’ll take more than that to bring him home.”

  Max chewed on this, eyeing me the whole time without blinking, and without even the faintest hint of friendliness. What had begun as a civil meeting was devolving into hints, tricks, and political confrontation, and I didn’t like it … mostly because I only had the one card to play—Ian—and if I didn’t play it right, there was an excellent chance I was asking for trouble. Real trouble. The kind that would end u
p with me staked to a roof and waiting for dawn.

  I eyed Max back, keeping pace with his stare.

  Oh yeah. He’d do it. He was just the type. After all, he was already hunting down his brother with extreme prejudice. God only knew what he’d do to a new acquaintance.

  His nostril lowered, once again concealing the irksome fang. He’d made up his mind about something. It was hard not to worry about what. I steeled myself.

  But he said, his voice as tight as a guitar string, “Last month we came upon a newspaper clipping with a photograph of Theresa Barrington and Robert Croft, dressed to the nines, exchanging handshakes and smiles. And I can tell by your expression that you already understand our concern.”

  I was pretty sure I wasn’t doing a full on horror-face, but I was definitely thrown by the mention of Croft. Oh yes, I knew him. Or I’d been acquainted with him, a long, long time ago.

  I cleared my throat and asked, “Robert Croft? One of the favored sons of the Chicago House, isn’t he?”

  “You say that like you aren’t certain.”

  “I’m not. It’s been quite some time since I’ve had anything to do with the Great Lakes region. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  “All right, we shall. And if anything, your ignorance of that situation raises your standing—so far as I’m concerned. Robert is now the judge of the Windy City, and has been since 1998. In the intervening years, Chicago has been no great friend to San Francisco.”

  I supplemented the sentiment with a guess. “Or to Atlanta, either. What were the two of them up to?” The northern and southern Houses typically view one another with contempt. It’s like that whole Civil War thing happened last week or something, and it’s stupid as hell. You’d think maybe Chicago and Atlanta would make friends, since they have so much in common. They both burned down, didn’t they? That’s totally something in common.

  “We didn’t know, but if some … alliance was in the works, it was worth finding out the details. According to the newspaper blurb with the photo, they were donating money to each other’s pet charities.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You said it. But laundering money in public is easier than doing so in private, as often as not. The Crofts and the Barringtons had struck some business deal, I assume, or that was my father’s guess. So he packed up and headed out there to see what he could learn. And he never came back.”

  I frowned. “Very bad form. On Atlanta’s part, I mean. Then again, bad form is Atlanta’s favorite kind.”

  “So you’re familiar with them.”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve had a run-in or two with them in the past, and nothing good has ever come of it.”

  Something about my honesty warmed him. Slightly. Let’s just say he went from ice cubes to margarita slush, so you don’t get the wrong idea. He didn’t leap up and give me a hug or anything, but his gaze gleamed upon recognizing his enemy’s enemy.

  “I’m sorry to hear that they’ve given you trouble, though it puts you in good company. And as you might expect, I was concerned when my father ventured that way—but he insisted on the usual arrangements despite the recent unpleasantness there.”

  “There’s been recent unpleasantness? I thought the unpleasantness was basically ongoing.”

  He laughed, briefly and too loudly. More like a seal’s bark than a tinkle of amusement. It was the guffaw of a nervous, angry man who wasn’t sure exactly what he was dealing with—but whether he was worried about me or the Atlanta lunatics, I couldn’t tell.

  After giving me a hard appraisal with those pretty, dark eyes of his, he said, “You know what I’m up against. The judge of one of the largest Houses in America left town to be sheltered by the influence of another … only to die in less than forty-eight hours. They only returned his remains yesterday.”

  “Remains? Not a body?” I asked. I’m good at reading between lines.

  “A box of ashes. A very nice box,” he added wryly. “Mahogany with ebony overlay. I’m sure it was expensive.”

  “How thoughtful of them.”

  “An explanation would’ve been more thoughtful. A phone call would’ve done wonders, really. The email seemed somehow insufficient.”

  I said, “Wow,” because it was all that sprang to mind. Yet it was quite in keeping with what I knew of them already. Inconsistent, the whole lot of them. A beautiful, valuable mortuary box and an email. Neither one was out of place in that wacked-out household. “What’s the correct response to such a … oh, let’s call a spade a spade—a breach in diplomacy?”

  “I’m fairly certain there’s no protocol. To date, I’ve sent them a card thanking them for my father’s return, his state notwithstanding, and requesting a full report as to what became of him.”

  “I hope you cc’d that message to whatever email address they used.”

  “That too. I’m not going to obey tradition to the point of idiocy. If they want to talk by email, that’s fine,” he said, but his grouchy emphasis suggested that it was not, in fact, very fine at all.

  “Wow,” I said again. “It’s kind of a pickle you’re in—father dead, brother missing. Must make it hard to move forward with a clean start.”

  “Never mind Atlanta’s interference.”

  “They killed your father … don’t tell me they’re going out of their way to be even bigger assholes?”

  “Would it surprise you?” he asked.

  “Well, no. What’s their angle?”

  He sighed, and it was the bitterest sound I’d ever heard. It was noise that cut. It was a knife in search of a back. “As a gesture”—he poisoned the word so that it sounded like a curse, “Chicago has called a convocation a week from today, inviting the big Houses to attend and assist.”

  “Assist what, exactly?”

  “Themselves. They want to establish an interim judge here in San Francisco, since we appear unable to sort out the matter for ourselves.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “They can try. We can deny any verdict they declare, and I can insist on the position till I’m blue in the face.” He sighed again, razor-sharp and full of hatred. “But the only way to shut down their power grab is to show up to this convocation in person, with the official title and full support of my House. And I can’t do that until my brother is accounted for. Which brings us back around to Ian,” he concluded, turning the conversation on a dime. “You say you might help me locate him.”

  Holy shit. No pressure or anything. If Max weren’t such a mean-looking devil, I might’ve felt sorry for him, seeing how he was between a rock and a hard place. Or two or three of them.

  Still, I had my own problems to manage. So I played my card and crossed my fingers. “That’s because I can.”

  He leaned forward, eager now that we were getting down to brass tacks. “You’ve been in contact with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity?” he wanted to know. “Is he living with some other House? Has he run away to join the circus, or some ostracists, or something like that? One day he just vanished.”

  I opted to stick with a streamlined version of the truth, sanitized for Ian’s protection. “He hired me last year.”

  “He … he hired you? For what?”

  There was no time like the present to deploy my Cheshire cat smile. No teeth. Smooth line. Slightly predatory. Not reaching my eyes. I said, “I’m something of an acquisitions specialist. My expertise leans toward antiques, jewels, and other assorted valuables, but I can sometimes be persuaded to seek out other quarry.”

  As it turned out, Max was good at reading between lines, too. “You’re a thief.”

  “Yes, and an expensive one. But he had an open checkbook, and I had a free slot in my schedule, so I took the gig. He wanted me to retrieve some long-lost records from the government.”

  His eyes went wide before he had time to keep them narrow and cool. Still, they reverted to narrow and cool in a fraction of a second. “Really?”

  “Reall
y. About ten years ago there was this military project, and to make a long story short, they were swiping vampires and weres for experimentation. Ian was looking for information about a vampire who had disappeared into the program—a man named Bruner—and that’s pretty much all I can say without delving too far past the boundaries of client privilege.” I’d made up the part about Bruner on the spot. If he were still alive, it might’ve annoyed him. I liked the thought of that.

  “You’ll sell him out to me, but you won’t tiptoe over the line of client privilege?”

  “This is how I earn my living. Without a House to back me up, all I have is my reputation as a professional—and my own personal capacity for self-defense, which is not at all negligible.”

  Just then the potential overlap between my interests and Adrian’s interests and Maximilian’s interests occurred to me in kaleidoscope form, in such a fashion that I wasn’t sure, for a moment, how to proceed. If I wasn’t careful, things could get sticky. Coincidence or divine design would see to that. If I was too careful, I’d look even more suspicious than I already did.

  “Raylene?” Max asked.

  I hate it when I get lost in thought and it’s that fucking obvious to whoever I’m sitting with. “Yeah, sorry. Listen, here’s the thing. Ian’s case tied in with another case I’m working on. The funny thing is, I think it ties in with yours, too, and that throws a monkey wrench into my proposal.”

  For just an instant, he looked uncertain. “How’s that?”

  I went on, winging it, winging it, winging it. “It’s like this: I was going to offer to put you in touch with Ian … if I could get your permission to proceed on my other case with the weight of your House’s support.”

  “It might be a fair trade—I’m not sure yet. But you’re asking us to put our family name and resources on the line.”

  “I know,” I said quickly. “And I was hoping that you wanted Ian badly enough to reach such an arrangement.”

  “But now you’re not certain?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m certain that you’d let me ride under your banner. But now I’m not sure that I want to.”