Hellbent

by Cherie Priest

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he nearly growled.

  I realized the perceived insult shortly after it flew out of my mouth, so I hastened to correct myself. “Please don’t misunderstand me. The failing is not with you, or your city. But the House I hoped to investigate was … Well, you see, I need to poke around the Atlanta House.”

  Maximilian exhaled and leaned back into the plush stuffing of his curved couch. “Ah. Thus your concern, yes. Though I must ask, what do you want with the Barringtons?”

  Again I stuck to the truth. I was more likely to learn something useful that way. “A young vampire of theirs, a girl by the name of Isabelle, disappeared years ago—and the circumstances are approximately as straightforward as those surrounding your father’s death. Isabelle’s brother is looking for her, and it’s my job to help him find her.”

  “Diversifying your business into people-finding, eh?”

  “Whatever pays the bills. But surely you can see where I’m coming from, and why I was interested in a mutually beneficial arrangement. I have something you want—or I can very likely get it. And you have something I want—the authority and protection of a House. Call me nuts, but I wasn’t interested in showing up on the Barrington doorstep as a loner.”

  “No, it makes perfect sense. It’s the kind of thing I might do, were I in your situation.”

  He tapped his fingers against the top of his thigh. They made a soft thumping noise against the wool/cashmere-blend suit in which he’d sheathed himself. “Obviously, I would not ask you to part with such valuable information as Ian’s whereabouts for nothing,” he lied.

  I had a feeling that he would’ve been more than happy to pound matchsticks under my fingernails until I talked, but everyone knows that’s not always the most direct and efficient way of getting correct information.

  “Let’s not talk money,” I said as an opener. “I don’t need yours, and you don’t want to give me any.”

  “Information,” he said.

  “Authority,” I countered. “If I go to Atlanta now, under the auspices of the San Francisco House, they’re going to assume I’m investigating your father’s death. They’ll be on the defensive before I get in the front door. Your House’s protection can only get me inside; it can’t get me results. But if you designate me as a temporary seneschal, I might get somewhere. If nothing else, they’ll think twice about murdering me on the spot for minor indiscretions.”

  “But only twice,” he correctly pointed out. “The third thought will see you cast out at sunrise.”

  “Let me worry about that. You just worry about signing off on my passport, and I’ll worry about getting Ian in touch with you before the week is out. See? Not a dime exchanging hands. And we can both get something we want.”

  “You’re very persuasive, but I have some concerns. How do you plan to reach my brother?”

  “He used to keep a pair of ghouls. As far as anyone knew, he mostly allowed a guy name Calvin Kelly to run his affairs. But Cal died last year, and since then, his secondary has been in charge. I have an ‘in’ with this pinch hitter.”

  Maximilian nodded. He’d probably been at least tangentially aware of Cal, and by name-dropping him, I was planting the seeds of sincerity. “Keeping a spare—good idea. That Ian, always thinking ahead. Why would his backup be willing to make contact with you?”

  “Because I did this kid a favor, on the side. And on the house,” I added. “His sister was homeless. I found her a place to live and set her up. He’ll give me the time of day, and more if I push him for it.”

  His fingers stopped tapping. “Before the convocation?”

  “I might have to freshen up some of my contact information, and it may take me a night or two to get Domino on the line. But I know it can be done.”

  “That’ll be … fine. And if you can make such contact happen—so that we can follow up, and establish a firmer connection …” He spread the euphemisms thicker than peanut butter. “I’ll get you your seneschal pass. On one more condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “While you’re there, you find out what really happened to my father. I want a full report when you return, and if I’m not satisfied that you’ve done your best—or that you’re telling the truth—then I will be very, very displeased.”

  I swallowed, discreetly enough that I hoped he hadn’t seen it. “Absolutely. I’ll find out whatever I can, and I’ll pass everything along to you when I return. Assuming I return.”

  “Your death, dismemberment, or otherwise running afoul of the Barringtons would absolutely be considered a fair excuse for not reporting back to me. But anything else is grounds to find your name listed beside my brother’s. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I said, though the syllable nearly choked me.

  He leaned forward, extended his hand, and I shook it—because that’s how we civilized undead murderers do business.

  6

  Adrian returned with the rest of the ghouls, looking relieved to see me and thrilled to be leaving—even though he’d been the one who wanted to come in the first place. But he played it cool, and he looked unharmed. I couldn’t wait to grill him about what he’d learned. I’ve never been comfortable with ghouls myself, but I’d be the last vampire on earth to suggest they don’t have their uses.

  All was looking well, I’d successfully winged my way into a productive conversation, and we were just about ready to take off … when Maximilian decided to get a little old school. I’m sure he thought he was being gallant—or maybe he was just showing off how well he knew the routines that no one practiced very often anymore—but when he walked to the liquor cabinet and withdrew a couple of crystal brandy glasses, I had the sneaking suspicion that we were in for trouble.

  Not huge trouble. Not life-altering trouble, or violently dying trouble. Merely some awkwardness the likes of which I would’ve preferred to avoid.

  No such luck.

  “Before you go,” he said as he set the glasses on a silver tray, “let’s settle the matter with a toast.” Then he pulled out a slim silver knife that would’ve passed for a letter opener at twenty paces, but was as sharp as a razor.

  Adrian noticed immediately that Max didn’t pull out a decanter of brandy, or any other container of anything else. He was trying not to look worried. He’s a sharp lad, that Adrian.

  “Annabelle,” Max summoned his ghoul-in-chief, the pretty woman with the black hair and dress. Particularly favored ghouls are often included in these things, as a nod to the fact that they will likely be involved somehow in whatever business dealing is being sealed. This meant that Adrian was going to be called upon for involvement, and I hadn’t told him about it.

  In my defense, that’s because I didn’t think in a million years that Max would whip out the old tradition.

  Oops.

  “Raylene,” Adrian said softly, halfway between a begging and a warning.

  “Don’t be silly,” I replied with more stiffness than I meant to. “You’ve done this before.” Then I said to Maximilian, “But it’s been a while. The Exchange isn’t often practiced in other cities, not anymore.”

  “Nor here, either.”

  “And what was that you were saying earlier, about outdated niceties?”

  Without looking at me, he said, “But my father liked it, and I’m hoping to see it make a comeback. It’s so delightfully personal, don’t you think?” He picked up the knife and offered it to me with one of the glasses. It’s polite to let the guest go first.

  I took it and shrugged, like this is something I do every damn day with Adrian, whom I assumed would sooner drink turpentine than anything that came out of my veins. I turned the knife’s sharp little tip down, and with a flick of my wrist, I opened a small slash—then upturned my wrist to catch whatever fell before the incision healed itself. Usually this means filling about half a small-form brandy glass, which is exactly how it went. Then I passed the knife back to Max, and he did the same.

  “In collaboratio
n,” he murmured as he passed his glass to Annabelle, who held it up to her mouth.

  She paused, waiting for Adrian to do likewise. This was supposed to be a synchronized event.

  I turned my head so that—it was to be hoped—no one but Adrian could see the look I gave him. It was a casserole look, layered with threats, pleas, insistence, and bribery. I had no idea if it would work, but I was pretty sure that if I’d broached the subject earlier in the evening, he would’ve told me where I could stick my pretty glass of vampire goo.

  For a fraction of a moment, I wished to God that he were my ghoul—and I could tell him things one brain to another, so I could reassure him that this was mostly normal, and not sinister, and I didn’t plan it, and if he wanted us to get out of here without heaping great stinking piles of suspicion and possibly violent death down upon our heads, then he needed to play along. If he were really my ghoul I would’ve told him the one thing that would’ve had him line up with a salute: Drink this, and these yahoos will fund and support a trip to Atlanta, where I might find out what happened to your sister.

  But I couldn’t tell him any of that. I had to trust that he trusted me, which was a precarious thing to balance a con job upon.

  Following a slight hesitation that ran almost long enough to rouse curiosity in our hosts, Adrian took the glass and held it to his lips. He watched Annabelle, taking his cues from her, which was smart. I couldn’t give him any cues because I’m not a ghoul.

  To my unending astonishment (which I did my best to mask), he began to drink.

  Not a lot. Only a bit. A few seconds’ worth of sipping, and a slight lowering of the blood level in the glass.

  When Annabelle stopped, Adrian stopped. When she handed her glass back to Maximilian, Adrian handed his back to me.

  I could’ve whooped for joy at how smoothly this was going; I wanted to do a jig and slap Adrian on the back, because God knows I didn’t think he’d go that far to keep a cover—and hot damn, he pulled it off. We were almost home free.

  Maximilian and I then exchanged glasses and downed the remains of each other’s blood, kind of like sorority girls doing shots off a bar. One quick chug, swallow, and then back onto the tray the glasses went. The tray was sent off with Annabelle, and then our host showed us back through the beaded curtain.

  “I trust you can find your way out?” he said, holding the fringe so it didn’t drop back and tickle us, or tangle up in our hair, or whatever it is that sinister beaded curtains do to inconvenience the unwitting masses.

  “Sure. And we’ll be in touch. If things go according to plan, I’ll have you on the phone with your brother within a couple of nights.”

  “Excellent. Upon such a call, I’ll draw up your paperwork. And I’ll anxiously await your report from Atlanta. Deliver it to me before convocation, and we’ll consider the deal settled.”

  “When did you say the convocation was, again?”

  “Next week. You have six nights to get Ian on the phone, and get yourself in and out of the Barrington House.”

  “Great,” I said without enthusiasm. I knew he was hoping I’d find something in Atlanta to help him undermine their power grab, but making too many promises could get me killed. So I stuck with what was already on the table and promised to do my best.

  I meant it, too. Now I wasn’t just headed south for Adrian’s vengeful satisfaction. Cutting the Barringtons down to size was a tall order, but I figured you never know. I might find something so shocking or helpful that Max could seize power without ever having to worry about offing his wayward elder sibling.

  Pure fantasy, yes. And deep down, I knew it.

  We shook hands again and slipped up the stairs, into the front of the club, through the crowd, and back out the front door where we spilled onto the sidewalk with the smokers and drunks who always collect like a scab outside such places. Adrian and I didn’t speak until we were once more ensconced in a cab and on our way back to the hotel.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I wondered how he was feeling—if those few sips of my blood had done anything to him. Would he want more? Would it not affect him in the slightest? It could go either way. Maybe he didn’t know, and was trying to sort it out for himself.

  About halfway to our destination he asked, “Why did you promise to have Ian call him? A phone call won’t bring him back to San Francisco.”

  Happy to land on a subject other than the elephant in the cab, I replied, “Max wants to get Ian on the phone because he knows him, and he knows that Ian is a man made of guilt. Max is pretty sure he can manipulate him into coming home if he can only speak to him in person—and not through ghouls, or whatever intermediary they’ve been using so far.”

  “Is he right?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe.”

  He shook his head. “You have no idea, do you?”

  “I have an idea, but not much more than that. Hey, did you hear anything useful about Brendan while you were hanging with the nearly-deads?”

  “Only that he’s not around, and they don’t know where he went. If Max is lording Brendan’s safety over Ian, it’s probably bullshit.”

  “That’s what I’d gathered, but it’s nice to hear independent confirmation.” Unless, of course, they were all lying to us. Which was not outside the realm of hypothetical possibility.

  “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “He might be. Or he might have just made the strategic decision to lie low and let Uncle Max have his way for a while. If he’s smart, he’s staying out of the way until the power balance settles. Regardless, Ian obviously thinks he’s still alive and somewhere near the Renners, and Max will use that to his advantage.”

  “At least until you tell Ian the truth.”

  “Right. I am a good manipulator, too, and I will con Ian into staying put.”

  “You sound confident. But what if he’s already made up his mind? What if he lies to you?” Adrian raised two very valid concerns.

  I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and leaned my head against the cold, vaguely damp and icky-smelling window. “I don’t know. He’s a grown man. A civilized adult. I can’t tie him down and force him to stay.” The truth of it sank in and weighed on my stomach like a brick. It made me feel queasy. “When all is said and done, I can’t save him unless he wants me to.”

  Adrian leaned against his own window, mirroring my pose and staring at me. The city lights drew colors and streaks across his face, both illuminating him and hiding whatever he was feeling. Finally he said, “I know from experience, when it comes to the people you love—there’s only so much you can do to help them, without their consent.”

  “Yeah. I guess you do know what it feels like.”

  We rode on in silence a few minutes more, eventually reaching the hotel and letting ourselves out of the car. I paid the driver and sent him on his way; and when I turned around, Adrian was looking at me funny.

  “What?” I asked him.

  I’d like to accuse him of blindsiding me, but that wouldn’t be fair. He wanted to know, “Why didn’t you tell me about that thing?” Rather than clarify, since we were standing on a public sidewalk like rocks in a stream, he said, “You know which thing I mean. You could’ve warned me.”

  I focused my earnestness and honesty into a laser. “I didn’t know,” I swore. “That thing—it’s an old tradition, the kind of thing nobody does anymore, like a gentleman dropping his coat on a puddle so a lady can keep her feet dry. I swear to you, Adrian, it’s damn near that obscure.”

  He considered this. “If I hadn’t done it, they would’ve known you were lying, and I wasn’t a ghoul like you’d told them.”

  “Yes.”

  “They could’ve thrown us out or killed us.”

  I countered, “They could’ve tried.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “There were more of them than you saw.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. But yeah, they would’ve known we were full of shit. I’m sorry,” I added.

  He turned t
o head inside, and stopped to hold the revolving door for me. As I joined him, we slipped into the lobby and he asked, “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you sorry? It’s not going to fuck me up for life or anything, is it?” He broached this right as we were crossing the lobby, heading toward the elevators.

  “What? No, no it won’t,” I assured him, but I also smacked him on the arm in a “Shush, you fool! People are listening” gesture that may have undone some of the sincerity.

  Once we were back in the room, he made it clear that he hadn’t believed me—not completely. “No, it won’t fuck me up for life?” he revived the subject. “How about in the short term? Will it fuck me up for a week?”

  I threw my bag down on my bed, and he sat down on his bed.

  I told him, “No, it won’t fuck you up, period.” And because I was too crazy and dumb to let it lie there, in case I was wrong I added, “As far as I know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, but he was peeling his shoes off while he was demanding it—and people who are peeling off shoes in a leisurely fashion aren’t typically the kind who fear for their lives. Not in my experience.

  “It means … I don’t know. Did you … feel anything?”

  Finishing with the shoes, he moved on to the socks and flung them one at a time with a snap against the TV cabinet. “Feel anything? Hard to say. I felt disgusted, but in a vague way, like other people’s bodily fluids aren’t my cup of tea. And I was nervous, because I know that’s how you make ghouls—by getting them to drink some of your blood. Isn’t that right? You let them drink from you?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. But listen.” I sat on my bed so we faced each other. I drew my feet up until I had an Indian-style pose going on, and I concluded, “That wasn’t enough for you to … um … become one of them. Or anything like that. I’m pretty sure.”

  He frowned. “You’re pretty sure? That’s all? Not even very sure, or totally sure—just pretty sure?”