“All right. Go on, then,” he said, still sounding tired.
I drew in a breath, marshalling my arguments. “I have to check for myself that Dad’s safe, and that they’re looking after him, Rans. You didn’t see him on Dhuinne. It was like… he was still there, but whatever he’d seen—whatever they’d done to him—had forced him to retreat so far into himself that I don’t know if he can ever get back. What if he never recovers?”
He pulled me closer, until I was pillowed against his chest with his arm wrapped around my shoulders. For a moment, I didn’t even realize how badly I was trembling. I still didn’t want to be the damsel in this story, damn it. I didn’t want to need him like this.
But I did need him right now. Desperately. I burrowed my face against his pale skin.
“The Fae tortured you.” His words were low, but even.
I wasn’t sure if they were meant as an answer to what I’d said, or if we were having two conversations entirely. It didn’t matter, though, because I had no intention of reliving what had happened to me at Caspian’s hands.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said quickly. “I’m fine now. You gave me vampire blood and sex, and… I’m fine.”
“Mmm. You know what I hate most about being tortured?” he asked. His tone was oddly conversational, and he continued without waiting for me to answer. “I suppose there are two things, really. There’s the way it creeps into every aspect of your life afterwards, sometimes for years… even decades. The slightest little thing, and boom—suddenly you’re back on the rack, or having your toenails pulled out, or whatever god-awful slice of inhumanity happened to be involved.”
I thought of the splinter under the table, and swallowed hard.
“There’s also that moment,” he continued. “The one where you realize that all the rules have changed between one instant and the next, and no one is coming to save you.”
Oddly enough, I was on firmer ground there. “Yeah. Been there. Done that,” I told him. “I already had that one when I was six.”
I could remember it, too—the moment when my mother’s casket disappeared into the ground, and my father looked at me like I was some kind of alien creature when I reached up to him with both arms, tears streaming down my cheeks. Rans’ hand cupped my shoulder, his thumb stroking slow circles over my skin. The juxtaposition was jarring.
“But, in the end, you can’t live your life trying to change what’s already happened, Zorah,” he went on. “At some point, you have to let it go and start looking toward the future.”
Okay… so apparently we’d been having the same conversation after all. I closed my eyes.
“None of this changes the fact that he’s still my father, Rans,” I said. “I need to make sure he’s all right… or as all right as he can be, at least. It’s my fault he’s in this situation in the first place, and if I don’t look out for him, who will?”
His free hand brushed my cheek, palming away the tear that had slipped free without me noticing it. “With luck, the human tithelings from Dhuinne will look after him,” he said, not unkindly.
I hoped he was right. “Maybe. But I still have to see for myself.” I craned up from my position curled against his chest, meeting his eyes. “I won’t stay there permanently, though. Not if you want me to come back.”
He nodded in reluctant agreement, though an aura of disquiet still lurked behind his hooded expression.
THREE
THE FOLLOWING EVENING found us back in St. Louis—a place I’d never expected to see again. It was odd how quickly I’d adjusted to the nomadic lifestyle of city-hopping, crashing for a night here and a night there in unfamiliar bedrooms with only a small suitcase of possessions to my name.
To be fair, I still hadn’t adjusted to air travel. Not that magical travel through portals or along ley lines was preferable, exactly, but at least it was over a lot sooner. Nevertheless, we had arrived at Lambert Airport without crashing, and exited the terminal without being accosted by either Fae or human authorities.
“Do you think this means I’m safe from them now?” I asked, doubting that my life could be that simple.
“No,” Rans said bluntly. “Though I expect the terms of engagement will have changed.”
I mulled that over for a moment or two. “So… does that mean it might be okay for me to go back to my house and see what can be salvaged? Or not?”
“It’s possible,” Rans said, not very helpfully. “But I’d much prefer to return to Guthrie’s place first, and make certain we still have a relatively safe base from which to operate.”
I thought of Rans’ sad-eyed friend. “Fair enough. But isn’t Guthrie likely to have an opinion on that?”
The corner of Rans’ lips twitched. “Guthrie always has an opinion. That being said, the fact that he‘ll generally keep it to himself if it’s not constructive is one of his more endearing attributes.”
So it was that we ended up climbing out of an Uber, exchanging the car’s air conditioning for the stifling heat and humidity of St. Louis in the height of summertime. We were disgorged onto the curb in front of Guthrie’s fashionable apartment building with our carryon suitcases, the action neatly bookending our departure from the same building a little over a week ago.
Rather than go in the glass double-doors, Rans led me down to the subterranean parking area. I was poised to ask the reason for the detour when he let out a happy sigh.
“Ah. Splendid!” he said, his precise English accent growing a bit broader around the edges as a boyish smile lit his face. “Looks like the old girl survived a few days of neglect with no ill effects.”
I was captivated enough by the fine lines crinkling the corners of his eyes that it took me a moment to realize his relief was for his motorcycle. The sleek, black Triumph sat sedately in the exact place he’d left it after whisking me away from Caspian and his cronies like a dark knight on a chrome-accented charger.
“Nice to see that seven hundred years isn’t enough to keep boys from becoming attached to their toys,” I observed.
The look he shot me was devilish. “Now, luv—don’t try to tell me I’m the only one here who appreciates something powerful between his legs. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll take you for a ride while you’re not about to pass out from shock and starvation. We’ll see if you’re so quick to tease then.”
I raised the hand that wasn’t holding my suitcase in surrender. “Hey, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate any mode of transportation that gets me away from faeries who want to kill me. Just don’t expect me to call it Josephine while lovingly caressing its leather seat.”
His mouth twitched. “Just as well. Josephine is an appalling name for a bike.” He gave me a speculative gaze. “Though if you ever get the urge to don a bikini and polish the metalwork, I’ll arrange for a professional photographer to be present.”
“Pig,” I told him, hoping vampire senses couldn’t hear the way my heartbeat picked up or sense the flush of heat rising to my cheeks.
“What can I say?” he replied. “Sometimes my views are positively medieval.”
“Ha,” I said flatly. “Vampire humor. Have I mentioned lately how much I love it?”
As we had once before, we took the elevator up the penthouse suite.
I glanced at Rans in the mirrored walls. “Seriously, though. Does Guthrie even know we’re coming?”
“I texted him,” Rans replied, unruffled. “He replied with something pithy and passive-aggressive that I chose to interpret as an invitation.”
“Great,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” he continued. “He likes you. That means he won’t throw us out on our arses.”
My brows drew together as I ran through what I could remember of my limited interactions with Guthrie. “Erm… okay. What makes you think he likes me?”
Rans blinked, looking at me as though I was slow. “He warned you away from me, didn’t he? Must mean he likes you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered.”
Once again, I
replayed whatever snippets of conversation with Guthrie that hadn’t been lost to shock and exhaustion. “Huh. I’d assumed that was just banter.”
Rans shrugged, the motion nonchalant.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to reveal a familiar landing, and I followed Rans to the entryway of Guthrie’s apartment. As before, he pressed a button on the intercom. “Open up, mate. We’re here.”
The white door swung open a few moments later, framing Guthrie in casual attire. He eyed Rans up and down. “Oh, good. Be still my heart.”
Rans shot him a manic grin that was there and gone in an instant. “That’s what I said,” he quipped. “And look how it turned out.”
I raised both eyebrows. “Oh, my god. Is subjecting the poor man to bad Nosferatu jokes the price of entry to this place, or something?” I asked, before turning my attention back to our host. “Hi, Guthrie. Thanks for letting us crash here. Again.”
“Hello, Zorah,” he said, stepping back. “Come on in, you two. You might as well make yourselves comfortable.”
“Cheers,” Rans said, herding me in so Guthrie could close the door behind us.
When it was secured, he led us into the airy kitchen and offered me a drink, while pointedly ignoring Rans. After handing me a glass of filtered ice water, he leaned against the counter, regarding us with his arms crossed.
“Just so you know,” he said, “I have to leave tomorrow afternoon for a business trip. I don’t care if you stay here while I’m gone, but if I come back to find the place destroyed in some kind of supernatural battle, you’re paying for the damage, Rans.”
It shouldn’t have been funny, which is why I attributed my poorly stifled snort of amusement to jet lag and the weird hours I’d been keeping lately.
Rans waved an airy hand. “Fair enough. I’m taking you out for that lunch I owe you tomorrow, by the way. And you run most of my investments, so you’re in a better position than I am to know if I can afford to renovate a penthouse apartment in St. Louis or not.”
Guthrie only grunted, apparently having reached his capacity for idle chitchat. Meanwhile, I tried not to show any outward reaction to the idea that Rans had money. It didn’t work.
“Okay—back up for a second. You have money?” I asked.
“He’s as old as dirt,” Guthrie said. “Of course he has money. Why worry about getting in on the IPO for Apple or Microsoft when you already got in on the IPO of the Edison Electric Light Company?”
Rans raised an eyebrow. “Though to be fair, Guthrie here did pick me up a few hundred shares of Apple at forty dollars apiece, back in the mid-eighties,” he put in.
Something struck me as odd in that statement, and it took me a moment to figure out what it was.
“Hang on. The mid-eighties?” I eyed Guthrie’s close-cropped dark hair and smooth ebony skin curiously, trying not to be obnoxious about it. “That would make you… what? Almost sixty? Um… I have to admit, you’re looking pretty good with it.”
The heaviness in Guthrie’s brown eyes took on a bitter edge. “What can I say? It’s part of the package deal.”
I paused, not sure what the most polite way to say ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ would be. I vaguely remembered Rans telling me that Guthrie had made an unfortunate decision when he was younger, and someone he cared about had died as a result. His wife, maybe? I’d assumed he’d gotten in a fatal car accident while drunk or something, but now my paranormal shenanigans detector was beginning to clamor.
“Guthrie is demon-bound, Zorah,” Rans said. “Oh, and, Guthrie? You should know that Zorah is the daughter of a cambion, since we’re all presumably going to get to know each other better in the future. She’s one-quarter demon.”
I looked at Guthrie with new eyes. Evidently, he was doing the same to me, because his normally flat expression twisted with a combination of anger and… fear?
“She only found out about her heritage on the night we showed up on your doorstep, old chap,” Rans continued, imperturbable. “It was after the Fae tried to take her. And I can guarantee she doesn’t even understand what a demon-bond is, so please stop looking at her like she kicked your favorite puppy.”
“It’s true,” I said, shooting Rans a glare. “She doesn’t know what a demon-bond is—beyond the fact that it lets you get into and out of Hell. So does anyone want to call class into session? I’m pretty much done with being clueless about the forces that apparently control my life now.”
Guthrie mastered his expression with some difficulty. He wiped a hand roughly over his face before dragging a barstool around and flopping down on it.
“Jesus Christ, Rans, do you enjoy dumping shit like this on me out of the blue?” He shot me another glance. “Sorry, Zorah. It’s nothing you’ve done. I just…” He trailed off and shook his head.
“Don’t worry about it, Guthrie. Believe me… my reaction to finding out was way worse. So. Demon-bond,” I prompted, settling onto my barstool for a longer discussion. “Is that anything like a life-bond?”
Rans leaned a hip against a nearby counter. “Funny you should ask that.”
“Oh? Is it?” I asked.
“Not really,” Guthrie muttered.
Crossing his arms, Rans regarded us. “The same kind of magical crystal is used for both spells. The idea in both cases is that the two participants are bound, life-force to life-force. The difference is that demons—full-blooded demons, that is to say—are immortal. When a mortal is bound to a demon, they can’t pull the demon’s soul with them when they die. So instead, the reverse happens. The demon absorbs the mortal’s life-force, adding it to their existing power.”
I pondered that for a moment. Once you accepted the basic premise, which was admittedly something I desperately didn’t want to do… it made a twisted sort of sense.
“But,” I began hesitantly, “why would anyone agree to that?”
Guthrie made a choked noise, and my eyes flew to him.
“You’d be surprised,” he said.
“I’m certain you’ve heard the old saying about making a deal with the devil,” Rans murmured.
Guthrie made an unfortunate decision, and his wife died, he’d told me after we first met.
“What did you do?” I asked Guthrie softly.
He looked away.
“Mate, you don’t have to—” Rans began, but Guthrie shook his head and cut him off.
“It’s all right.” He met my eyes, and once again I was struck by the depth of sadness that lay behind his deep brown gaze. “In 1948, I got out of the army after serving for several years. I came back to the States and married my high school sweetheart. It took me some doing, since blacks weren’t terribly welcome on Wall Street back in those days, but I eventually managed to get a foot in the door with the first African-American owned securities firm—a little place called McGhee & Company located in Cleveland, of all places.”
I nodded to show I was listening, fascinated by this unexpected glimpse into the past.
“Things seemed to be looking up for us,” he continued. “Right up until Clarabelle visited a doctor to find out why she hadn’t gotten pregnant yet. While she was there, he found a tumor growing in her breast. It turned out to be cancerous.”
I winced.
“The only real treatment available at the time was surgery and radiation. It didn’t usually work, and it would have bankrupted us in short order, but I begged her to try it anyway.” He swallowed. “Within a few months, we were just about broke, and she was too sick to leave the hospital.”
“I’m so sorry, Guthrie,” I said uselessly.
He shook his head. “It was more than half a century ago, Zorah.”
I didn’t reply, because it obviously still haunted him.
“Anyway, I have no idea what brought me to the demon’s attention, but just when things were at their darkest, this rich-looking white guy shows up and offers me a deal. My soul in exchange for Clarabelle’s cancer going into remission.”
He
gave a dark laugh. “Now… I was a good, upstanding churchgoer at the time, so I knew exactly what was going on. And I jumped on that deal faster than a drowning man lunging for a life preserver… more fool me.”
“Did the demon double-cross you?” I asked, utterly captivated by the story.
But Guthrie shook his head. “Nope. Not in the least. Within a matter of days, Clarabelle started getting stronger. The tumor began to shrink, and within a couple of months it was too small to be detectable anymore. She gained back the weight she’d lost, her hair grew back, and the doctors were completely befuddled. Eventually they shrugged their shoulders and labeled it ‘unexplained spontaneous remission.’ They told her to come back if she noticed any new lumps, and sent us on our merry way.”
I held my breath, suspecting that what came next would hurt.
“And then?”
His eyes went flat and far away. “Four months after that, she was walking to the corner store in broad daylight one afternoon when a drunk driver mounted the sidewalk and ran her over. She died on the spot.”
My throat closed up. It was Rans who filled the silence when it threatened to stretch too long.
“We don’t know which demon it was who made the deal; not that I’m sure it matters much. It was a violation of the treaty, obviously. Interference on Earth—though of a relatively subtle sort.”
Guthrie rubbed at his eyes. “Anyway, it’s moot. The deal can’t be undone, so I’ve been hanging around ever since, waiting for the proverbial guillotine to fall. For now, I seem to be more valuable to the demon as a moneymaking machine. I stopped aging decades ago, and the handful of times I got pissed off enough to attempt suicide, it… didn’t work very well. Obviously.”
I frowned, looking between the two men. “I don’t understand.”
Rans shifted. “Demons are very powerful, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. Once the bond is established, it’s easy enough for them to funnel a bit of power through it to stop a human aging and prevent physical injury. As long as the bound human is more valuable to the demon alive than dead, they stay hale and hearty. Indelibly so.”
The Last Vampire Box Set Page 35
