He stopped her as she shrugged off her lab coat. Toys took her face in his hands and kissed her long and deeply and sweetly.
"Aayun," he murmured. "I want you to be happy."
"I am now."
"Shhh, listen," he said, still holding her face so that she had to look at him. "I was so lost before I met you. So lost. You brought light into my life when I thought that kind of thing was fairy-tale bullshit. You're real, though. Talking with you over these last few weeks, making love with you last night . . . that's made me feel more alive than anything has for years. I've been dead for so long. I just haven't had the courage to lie down. I've been afraid of ending it all because of what I believe--what I know--is waiting for me. You, though, you made me realize why I need to be alive. To stay alive. To continue to live."
"I--"
"I'm already a monster, Aayun," he said.
And with a savage twist of his hands, he snapped her neck.
Inside the glass cylinder Abdul Fazir screamed a long and silent scream.
Toys sat down on the wooden chair, leaned his forearms on his naked thighs, and stared at Aayun. He tried so hard to weep but could not.
For him the tears did not start until after the place was burning.
Until after he walked the seven blocks from the warehouse Aayun had leased to use as her lab.
Until after he was in his lonely pew in the most remote corner of the church. The tears started then. He put his face in his hands and wept.
And he lived for years and years and years.
MAKE IT SNAPPY
FAITH HUNTER
"Make It Snappy" is set in the modern-day world of Jane Yellowrock, a Cherokee skinwalker, but a few years before Jane and Leo Pellissier meet. Leo, the vampire Master of the City of New Orleans, is attacked from a direction and by an enemy he never expected. This story introduces Katie (Leo's vampire heir), George (his human primo), the outclan priestess Bethany, and Leo, before Jane and her Beast begin to tame the MOC. It is a time when Leo's hubris runs free and his humans are little but cattle.
"Make It Snappy" is a rare look at the backstory of Leo, one of the heroes . . . or villains . . . who started it all.
Leo eased the girl's blond head off his shoulder. She was asleep, dreaming blissfully about their encounter, his mesmerism and the power of his blood assuring her happiness. He ran a hand over her hip. Her body was rounded and plump, the perfect vision of beauty until modern times. Now when he visited those sworn to his service, he was often offered scrawny, bony creatures with no curves, no soft and pleasing warmth. She murmured in her sleep, pleasure in her voice and on her face.
Many of his kind preferred the scent of fear, the unwilling, the blood-bound. He preferred his meals willing, even if only by bargain. This one came to him at dusk, when he woke, offering herself in return for a simple favor. He tried to remember her name as he dressed. Cynthia? Sharon? Simone? She had been an easy read, offering all of her past but for one small corner of her thoughts that was closed off and darkened, perhaps some trauma, some childhood fear. He'd left it there, in the depths of her mind, silent and untouched.
He strapped a small blade to each wrist, positioning the hilts in their spring-loaded scabbards. Shrugged into his crisp dove-gray shirt and black suit. Tied the contrasting charcoal tie. No denim or T-shirts for him. He had worked too hard for too many centuries to dress down in casual clothing, using comfort as an excuse for a crass lack of style. His uncle had taught him the social advantages of education, intelligence, and elegance, and while he was delighted the old Master of the City was dead, he wouldn't toss out the lessons learned at the knee of a dominant, successful Mithran, particularly his sire.
He smoothed back his hair as he walked toward the door. The sheets on the bed shifted when he reached the entrance, and he paused to look back. The young woman was sitting up, watching him, a hand at her throat where his fangs had pierced her as he fed. Her face was wan and uncertain. "You won't forget?"
Forget? His brow quirked up in amusement. The woman was his, with or without his compliance in her little family matter, her useless bargain. Women were such an easy indulgence. But still, he was concerned with her "favor" for business reasons, and it would not take him long to resolve it. "I shall do more than remember. I shall accomplish your request before the sun, ma cherie. Marcoise will no longer have the power to cause pain." A small smile lifted his lips. "Perhaps we may meet for dinner, just before dawn, d'accord?"
"C'est possible," she said in a schoolgirl French accent. She ducked her head, her long hair sliding forward to curl around her breast. "You know where to find me."
"I do." She had recently come to work in the Royal Mojo Blues Company, a music, dance, and cocktail bar catering to Mithrans, the vampire masters of New Orleans. As the Master of the City, he had right of first taste of all the new blood. Mixed with wine, he had found hers to be piquant, saucy, with undertones of currants and laughter. When she had begged a favor in return for a night in his arms, he had readily agreed.
Leo tapped down the stairs of the townhouse she shared with another girl from Royal Mojo Blues and out the door, into the street. His guards gathered close, summoned on the cellular telephone used by George, his primo blood-servant. Security was much easier since the invention of the devices, though at some point his enemies would discover them, he was certain.
The limousine approached quietly from down the street, riding low, the weight of the armor holding it close to the asphalt. Once inside, Leo said, "One more stop tonight. Back to the club." The club where Marcoise worked as head bartender. Where his bargain with the girl would be satisfied.
"Why, boss?" George asked, his upper-class London accent deliberately coarsened to fit his new persona, his new identity. Like most blood-servants, George had outlived his natural life, his papers and his past reinvented again and again.
"The sister of ma petite fleur received an inappropriate and unwanted advance from Marcoise."
George's brows drew down.
"According to la fille, several of the other girls were similarly approached, with the implication that they would lose their employment if they refused his attention, a clear violation of his service to me."
George shifted his eyes from the street to meet Leo's. "Inappropriate and unwanted advances? And that becomes problematic to you, my master?"
Leo lifted an eyebrow at what might have been censure in the tone. "They are mine. When would I not protect what belongs to me?"
George bowed his head, the gesture formal, the gaze between them broken. "My apologies, my master. It's of no matter."
Leo thought otherwise. George was conflicted and wished to speak, but was holding his tongue, his scent burning with an internal struggle. He was known to have a tender heart for females, having seen his sister abused and his mother killed by those who used them. They would speak of this later, after the situation with Marcoise was addressed. "Her sister acquiesced and has not been seen since their date. I shall attend to the issue."
George scanned the street and the sidewalks to either side as they drove, searching for enemies, problems, threats. Such loyalty as existed between them was rare, but their relationship began in death and violence and had joined them closer than most. Leo knew his primo's mind and heart; they were bound, body and soul.
They pulled up in front of the club, the lights bright inside as the cleanup crew attended to post-closing duties. Leo lifted his cuff and checked the time on his Versace Reve Chrono, though he knew, almost to the second, when the sun would rise. His kind always did. "I'll be only a moment. Security will wait outside."
George opened his mouth to protest. George was always protesting something. Leo lifted his finger, silencing his primo. "I will speak to Marcoise alone. You may cover the outer exits. You may not enter. The cleaning crew will be working and, as former military, they will be armed. I will calm them. I will not have a bloodbath in my club."
George hesitated, clearly thinking about the numb
er of potential victims and hostages. "Derek Lee's company is new," George said. "I'm not certain of the extent of his knowledge, or of his biases."
He did not need to add, Many have refused to work for the vampire Master of the City of New Orleans.
He raked through his hair with his long fingers, worried.
"Alone," Leo insisted and tapped on the window. The chauffeur opened his door. "Thank you, Alfonse," Leo said. He was always polite to the help. Into the night, he exited with all the grace of his kind, part ballerina, part snake, part spider, all predator. The night smelled of humans and blood. Saliva filled his mouth, hunger riding him. The girl earlier had been a tasty diversion, her body a delight as she used it to seal his promise, but this . . . this was the hunt. There was nothing like it, and even civilized Mithrans such as himself knew the desire, the overriding craving for shadowing and stalking prey.
Leo leaped to the door, his speed creating a pop of sound as the air around him was displaced. He keyed open the lock and entered. His men, left behind, rushed to provide the protection his kind seldom needed. He slipped into the shadows. Standing behind a brick pillar, he watched the cleaning crew, scenting them. The men were all dressed alike, in one-piece gray uniforms; they were healthy, their blood touched with alcohol and marijuana. He had known it for centuries as hemp, MJ, ganja, and by a hundred other names and grades and varieties.
He took in a slow breath and parsed the chemicals in their blood. The marijuana smelled . . . odd. Impure. He watched as a small man, no more than five feet, five inches tall, lifted a bucket and then, oddly, dropped it. The pail landed with a clatter and splash of water on the concrete floor, and the man stood, hunched over, staring at the mess as if mesmerized. Certainly confused.
Leo sniffed again. There was something mixed with the marijuana, some chemical he did not recognize. The small man took a breath, a faint gasp of sound. He fell.
Leo held still, as only undeath allowed. The other men rushed to help. Another fell, his head bouncing on the floor. A third dropped. And another. Only Derek was still standing, the boss of the crew. Leo had hired Derek Lee's fledgling company because of his service in the military, though the man was destined for far more. Derek pulled a weapon and backed to the bar, the brass rail at his spine, analyzing the room, the short hallways.
Leo said, "You did not partake of the smoke offered to the others."
Derek swung his weapon toward the column hiding Leo. "Who's there?"
"Leo Pellissier, Master of the City. The smoke? The weed?"
"Owner of the Royal Mojo. Fanghead. And no, to the weed," Derek said, his weapon steady on the brick pillar. "One of the guys brought it. Said his brother had gotten a deal on the streets."
"Mmmm. And a gift is always a good thing."
"No."
"And what shall you do to the man who injured your cohorts?"
"Better you don't know." Derek's voice was harsh, unyielding.
Leo chuckled. "There is more here than meets the eyes."
"No shit, dude. I got free weed, four downed boys, and the Master of the City hiding behind a brick column. How 'bout you come out. Make nice-nice wid me."
"How about we take down whoever is waiting for us in the office? I smell six. One is a Mithran, one is female and bleeding, one is a dead human."
"My men?"
"They are breathing. I will offer them healing blood if they are not awake before dawn."
Derek considered. "You take the fanghead. I'll take the others."
Leo stepped from behind the column, hands where they could be seen.
"You seem certain that you can contain the humans," he said. "Three against one?"
"This trap wasn't for me. Makes sense it was for you. I'm supposed to be down and out, so they won't be expecting me."
"Better things, indeed," Leo murmured to himself, reevaluating the young man. "You are correct that this is a trap for me. I was sent here by a woman, to chastise an employee named Marcoise. You don't perhaps know if he is with the others?"
"Beats the hell outta me."
Leo chuckled. "I shall enter at speed and engage the Mithran. If there are humans held against their will . . ."
"Understood. No collateral damage. After this, I suggest you get a better security system. Cameras woulda gone a long way to keeping this place safe."
"Undeniably so." Behind him, he heard the door open and George's scent blew in. George seldom followed orders he felt were unwise. "Do not shoot my primo. He follows," Leo instructed Derek. Silently, he led the way to the back, Derek following, and George behind.
At the door to the office, Leo paused, pressed his ear to the crack and listened. There was silence on the other side, the scent of blood and pain and gun oil wafting from beneath the door, but no scent of a fired weapon. He gently attempted to turn the knob. It was locked.
He nodded to Derek and to George, both armed, weapons at the ready.
He stood back, positioned his body, lightly balanced on both feet, and kicked out with all the strength of a well-trained Mithran. His foot impacted the door where the lock's bolt entered the strike plate. The frame splintered, the door banging open. Moving with faster-than-human speed, Leo leaped inside. Still in the air, he took in the room's layout in an instant.
Three humans bracketed the doorway. Two with cudgels, one with a long rifle, the battlefield kind, fully automatic, created to bring down multiple enemies. If it hadn't been pointed at him, he might have approved of the choice. And the girl, in the center of the room. Fastened to a chair with duct tape. Unconscious. Bleeding. Near death. No Marcoise in sight.
The true enemy stood in the back of the room, holding two silvered blades, his fangs down, eyes scarlet and black in fighting form. Shock sped through Leo in recognition. El Mago. Leo had left the mage on the fighting floor, his body in pieces, over three hundred years ago on a visit to Madrid. The fiend was dead. Or should be.
Leo snarled, bending his legs to touch down. Heard three shots from the door. Derek, behind cover, taking down the shooter. George screamed, a battlefield roar, intended to shock the other two humans. Leo landed, let his body fall forward over the chair, taking it and the girl with him, into a roll, and shoving her and the chair across the room, out of the line of fire. He drew two small steel blades and rose upright, into El Mago's face. Inside his reach. Thrust both blades into his abdomen, twice each. Stab-stab, high, low. He withdrew the blades for another double thrust.
Pain ratcheted up and through his body. He looked down. El Mago had dropped the longswords and performed the same maneuver on him--two shorter blades were buried inside him. Agony shredded his belly. The blades were silvered.
And then El Mago yanked upward, the blades slicing into his core, then out to the sides.
Leo fell to the floor, the blades still buried in his body.
Standing above him, El Mago extended an arm and turned over his hand. White crystals poured from a black bag. Salt? Sea salt? Crystalline flakes of a brilliant white fell over him. El Mago removed his blades, wiped them on a cloth. Darkness descended upon Leo, his vision telescoping down into nothingness. The sound of gunshots was a muffled hollow drumming as the darkness stole even that.
When Leo woke, El Mago was gone and his own scions had filled the office of Royal Mojo. He was fighting exhaustion, the thirst, and a rage that he could scarcely control. Not since he went through the devoveo, the decade of madness experienced by all his kind when they were turned, had his need for blood been so strong that he could not force his fangs to retract. The broken thing, the girl who had been tied in the chair, had been bled almost to the point of death. She was being attended to by his heir, life coaxed into her, so that she need not be turned. Another drop of blood lost, and she would die a true death. Still, he could think only of sinking his fangs into her throat and draining her dry. Even Marcoise's dead body, bloodless and cold, on the floor across the room, was appealing. Marcoise, the bait to this trap, which had been sprung on him with such exquisi
te perfection, had been dead for hours.
"Master?"
George stood behind him, his heart strong and pounding. He had been honed into a weapon so perfect his body was little more than a sheath for the blade he was. Hot, perfect blood, pumping through his primo. Son sang est rempli d'energie, puissant, merveilleux sang.
Leo spun up from the floor like a snake striking, too fast for George to dodge. He sank his fangs into George's throat.
He heard gunshots. Felt the impacts. Whirled to confront his enemies and took a stake to the belly. Leo fell to his knees at the feet of his assailant. His own heir. Katherine.
He slid to the floor, where he lay in a spreading pool of his own blood, paralyzed by the ash wood that pierced him. Above him, around him, other Mithrans, his scions, rushed to heal George, whose blood was spurting across the room.
Heal George.
He had attacked his own primo, the human blood-servant who most trusted him. The human he most trusted. Shock flowed through him, filling the empty veins that had been drained out on the cement. Katie bent over him, her silvery-blond hair upswept, her long teal gown split up the side, a bastard sword at her hip.
She toed him, cocked her head far to the side, her eyes luminous and thoughtful. Very, very quietly, she murmured, "I know you can hear me. Understand this, my master. If I wished your lands and hunting grounds, I could take them this night. If I wished to be forsworn and yet powerful enough that such treachery was no matter, I could take your head.
"You attacked your primo without provocation and mortally wounded him. Had I not been informed that things had gone wrong and seemed off-kilter this night, your George would now be turned and in my scion lair, not yours. Had I not been here, you might have died at the hands of your humans.
"Now you are at my mercy. However, I am loyal still, and do not wish to rule. This bargain we shall strike. Someday I may require all your power and influence to save me, to protect me, keep me in my undeath and not true-dead. At such time, you will remember this moment and provide such assistance as I might need. Until then you are in my debt." She stood straight, her body positioned so that he might see up her split skirt. "Think on this as you bleed, my lord and master."
Urban Enemies Page 19
