Without looking at her, the vampire slapped the back of her hand gently against the woman’s face. She fell back, whined from the force of the blow, and tumbled over her own feet, the side of her face an angry red.
“Do not speak to me,” she said, “without being spoken to.”
She continued toward the velvet-covered couch which her servants had brought for her and reclined slowly on it. Her wounds had healed enough to where, at least, she would not bleed all over the cushions. Although the thralls could steal another couch with clean cushions if need be.
Centuries of experience kept her from giving in completely to her fury. There was no legitimate reason why Taylor should still be alive. Not only was she a lesser vampire in general, but Moswen had the advantage of surprise. At least, in the immediate sense. Taylor had been prepared for something, and she had clearly taken measures to ready herself for combat.
Still, the Egyptian realized, she ought to have had servants with her rather than assume that victory would come easily, even in a duel. She’d not make that same mistake again.
She felt her wounds healing, her ancient body mending its tissues and replenishing its limitless vitality, as she gazed around the dark halls of her domain. Soon, she would have a proper golden palace again. As she had long ago in the land along the Nile.
Once her current problems ceased to exist.
If there was to be a name to her pain, it was Alexander Thomas, her wretched, treasonous former slave. She had graciously spared his miserable life in exchange for his servitude and total loyalty. In return, he had entered into the employ of her nemesis at the first available opportunity.
Now, the residues of Moswen’s dominance persisted and allowed him to warn Taylor when his erstwhile mistress was on the move or otherwise contemplating some major action. It was intolerable.
She could, perhaps, have mitigated the effects of this by controlling the volume and intensity of her thoughts and feelings. But why should she? She was born to rule, a superior being. That she should be afraid of a human and his new sapling of a vampire mistress was absurd and insulting.
No. Instead, she would simply remove the problem. Soon.
It was only a matter of time until she caught up with Alex once more. And when she did, he would have considerable time in which to realize how much wiser it would have been to accept death as the punishment for failure. Killing him via the brand’s power would only have cost him a minute or two of agony. He would learn to yearn for that once he discovered all the punishments for betrayal.
Simply sensing her mood and her needs and requiring no verbal command, two of Moswen’s thralls brought her an urn filled with fresh blood they had collected from people of no great importance. The thralls themselves were people of some importance. One was a moderately successful local businessman and the other an up-and-coming athlete.
The vampire accepted the urn without comment. The thralls bowed and withdrew.
Feeding quickened the healing process. She drank with a long, slow draught that gulped deeply of the crimson fluid but gave no sign of desperation. Her slaves could see her anger and even her pain but she would never allow them to see her fear or dejection or abasement. Always, she must project an image of power to her inferiors.
As the blood electrified her senses and brought with it a deep feeling of satisfaction, she turned her thoughts again to the fight she’d departed.
Taylor had fled. Put to the test, she had turned and run. Moswen herself had meanwhile recognized the wisdom in regathering herself to plan for the next phase of the battle.
Her fangs seemed to extend and her eyes burned with hatred as she pictured her enemy and the bloodied and pathetic condition she must now be in. She wanted to continue the fight, to hunt her adversary and complete the task of destroying her utterly. The upstart deserved nothing less.
But cowards were good at nothing if not fleeing and hiding. Taylor’s degree of speed and stealth were respectable enough. She had escaped and now, Moswen did not know where she might be.
She expanded her mind and reached out to all her thralls, seeking to see what they saw and know what they knew. There was a chance that one of them might have something that could lead her to her foe.
Her servants were many, spread throughout society, and well-positioned to provide information on every aspect of New York’s corner of the strange civilization that dominated this continent.
Merchants, teachers, doctors, artisans, and politicians had joined her ranks along with vagrants, drunkards, prostitutes, and thugs. She had, by now, acquired at least one thrall in every major institution she could find—not only in the city but throughout New York State. Each new one she took increased the bank of her knowledge that much more.
All were now aware of her call and her attention. Silently, she heard the voices of those who were not physically present.
Yes, mistress? a woman called Farwell, a bank vice president, asked.
Yes, mistress? responded a man called Hull, a thief and sometime trader of illicit goods.
Yes, mistress? Ramirez was a tough woman and the proprietor of a store that dealt in technological innovations.
Yes, mistress? Wen, a city councilman, replied quickly.
Yes, mistress? Sheandra, a locally popular singer, had been a valuable find.
Yes, mistress? A man called Aronski, a sergeant in the New York National Guard, was particularly useful.
And there were so many others.
The thralls who stood now in the chamber had all gathered around her couch and she could hear their voices with her ears as well as her mind.
Yes, mistress? they asked in unison.
She paused, drank in their total attention and fearful reverence, and assumed the full dignity of her station before she addressed them.
“We must move against Taylor’s allies and pets,” she proclaimed. “Taylor herself is not within our immediate reach. But she is weakened and vulnerable. She will emerge from hiding only to find that she has no friends left, no one still alive who can help her. Then, she will be next.”
Meek nods went around the group, and those who were not there in body broadcast their submission to her will.
“Find this man Remington,” she went on. “Wherever he may be. Kill anyone who is protecting him but bring him back alive. I want him to spearhead the attack against his pitiful keeper in my name. She will feel the sting of betrayal before I rip her heart out.”
West Harbor Motel, West Harbor, New York
“Weak?” Starik raged, his voice loud and ragged. “Does this look weak to you?”
His foot descended onto Mordhem’s head, cracked the skull, and collapsed most of the face.
“Does this? Does this?” he continued and trampled the hapless victim again and again. Mordhem’s arms flailed, his hands grasped, his legs kicked, and his torso bucked. His head, though, simply fell apart into wet pieces under the force and pressure of Grayhammer’s boot heel and the weight of his massive body behind it.
The other cartel dwarves—all of them—watched in stoic yet discomfited silence. In a few more seconds, it was mostly over, Mordhem being well past dead. Their leader had begun to calm enough to regain his self-control.
His nostril’s flared as he sucked air in and released it between clenched teeth. As he imposed his iron will on his fury, his hands opened and shut, from fists to widespread fingers, and back again. He straightened his posture and looked up and out at his subordinates.
“Does anyone else,” he inquired, in a low, raspy voice, “worry that we will be seen as weak merely because one human was able to escape from us?”
Most of them did not and showed that their opinions were correct by shaking their heads, commenting, “No, no, of course not,” waving their hands in magnanimous gestures of support, or simply muttering in ways that sounded right.
There was not a single dissenter among them. That made Starik feel slightly better.
He had pegged Mordhem some months previ
ously as the type who might, under the right circumstances, make a play to supplant him as the leader.
The type who thought himself cunning because he could insert snarky comments into the discussion at inopportune times. He thought himself tough because he could easily beat up feeble creatures like gremlins, humans, and elves. The type who, in short, was a potential troublemaker.
And so he had not been surprised when he had stepped up to challenge him and suggested with his impertinent remarks that Grayhammer had somehow failed them by refusing to eliminate Remington and his allies.
But Starik was in no mood to tolerate such idiocy. Mordhem was not a large dwarf and he’d succumbed easily. Now, he’d served the cartel better as an example than he ever would have as a leader.
He cast his gaze over his assembled troops. “All of you know well,” he proclaimed, “that if I allow an enemy to escape, it is only to save us from discovery or to allow him to lead us to other enemies, that we might destroy all of them at once.”
Again, nods and murmurs of unanimous assent followed. His bodyguard of Gray Dwarves, seeded amongst the rabble, were the loudest and most enthusiastic in affirming his statement.
“Now,” he continued, “that is exactly what shall happen. We know much about these vermin. Surrly, inept fool that he was, gleaned a great deal of information about this Remington character, as well as about his employer, the great and mighty Taylor Steele.”
He flexed his hands and the moonlight glinted on his four rings.
“Already, we have driven the human from his home. He’ll not return there. No, instead, he will seek safety with his mistress. And as it so happens, we know that Taylor has commandeered the use of a neglected subway system beneath Manhattan. If she is not holed up at her estate, she is likely to be there.”
Starik had convened the entirety of the cartel’s enforcers. That meant fifty dwarves besides himself, now that Mordhem was no longer available.
“Every one of us,” he insisted, “shall participate in this fight. Taylor and Remington have insulted us, far beyond what may be forgiven.”
Even thinking about it made him want to hoist his war hammer and knock down half the motel while he imagined that each shattered piece of wood or plaster was one of the bones of his enemies. Instead, he resumed his speech.
“As all of you have had your honor impugned—almost as much as I—so too shall each one of you contribute to our revenge. We hereby declare war and shall crush, hack, trample, spit on, render unto nothing more than shit every living creature in Taylor’s employ.”
He fantasized briefly about how the dwarves of the future would think back to this. Perhaps they would tell stories about how the mighty Grayhammer led his men to retribution and victory against the vampire who had supposedly controlled New York.
“There must be no mercy, no hesitation, no restraint in the obliteration we shall wreak upon—”
His phone rang. Very few had the number, and it took a tremendous effort for him to not simply fling the ridiculous device into the harbor. No, as a respected leader, he had a responsibility to respond to important calls.
He raised his huge hand to excuse himself, slipped the phone out of his pocket, and turned away from the gathering.
It was his contact with the Vampiric Order, of course.
“Yes. Grayhammer,” he said crisply.
The voice on the other end, slow and bearing the characteristic accent of those undead who reigned over the Balkans, did not even bother to start with formal pleasantries.
“We have heard, Grayhammer,” the man almost sneered, “that you are declaring a vendetta against Taylor Steele. May we ask why you have not consulted with us on this matter before reaching your decision?”
Starik’s jaw clenched. “It is no concern of yours,” he stated.
“On the contrary,” the voice retorted, “it is of utmost concern. Taylor is a fixture of New York City. She is something you are to work around, not against. We thought you knew this. You are to cease this feud immediately and make peace with her.”
“What?” He almost crushed the phone. A crack appeared in the screen.
“Do not pretend that you are deaf, Grayhammer. You heard me clearly. Already, the strife between your cartel and her organization has affected our profits. Human law enforcement is becoming involved. Open war between the two of you would be a financial disaster. You are to negotiate terms as soon as possible. Is this clear?”
He grunted.
The vampire continued for another minute, essentially restating what he’d already said, and peppered it with a few thinly veiled insults of the kind vampires loved to bestow upon what they regarded as lesser beings.
“Your instructions are unambiguous,” said the representative in conclusion. “I need not remind you that, if you should disobey us, we—”
Starik threw the phone onto the pavement amidst the ruins of Mordhem’s head and gave it the same treatment. His foot stamped four times, then five, and ground the stupid little device into nothing more than plastic dust and shards of cheap metal.
His head snapped up, and his eyes were almost crazed when they locked with the collective gaze of his troops.
“You are all to forget,” he ordered them, “that any such call as this ever took place. It never happened. We move forward. Understand?”
“Yes!” his Gray Dwarves bellowed as one. “Hail, Grayhammer!”
“Hail!” the others echoed.
Their leader allowed himself a savage grin amidst the churning storm of his anger. Then, to better prepare for the slaughter to come, he reached into a small, secret compartment within the case where he stored his hammer. From it, he withdrew a syringe filled with glowing white liquid.
“My lieutenants,” he announced, “I leave the details in your hands. As your leader, my first responsibility is to fight bravely at the very front of the battle.”
He inserted the needle into his arm, knowing that soon, he would have difficulty thinking of anything except killing.
“Tonight…” He snarled as the ivory liquid entered his bloodstream. “New York becomes ours!”
No one disagreed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Taylor’s House, Harrison, Westchester County, New York
Remy pulled the Lincoln up to the broad part of the driveway before the estate’s garage. The gate had been closed and he’d opened it normally. Nothing else seemed amiss thus far.
But, of course, there had been no response from Taylor or Presley any of the four times he’d already tried to get hold of them.
“Well,” said Riley from where she reclined in her true form on the dashboard, “I don’t smell anything strange. Maybe a human nearby or one was here recently, but that’s all. No dwarves and nothing evil. Moswen and her servants have a special stink to them.”
He frowned as he withdrew the keys from the ignition. “That sounds about right. Well, it’s good to hear, but I’ll rely on my eyes as the final authority.” He climbed out of the car and the fairy drifted out after him before he shut the door and locked it.
When they approached the house, the butler did not open the front entrance for them. He opened it himself, instead, with his key. Riley hovered over his shoulder, ready to deploy defensive magic if necessary.
The door swung inward into silence. He stepped through.
“Hello? Presley? Taylor?” It was dark now, so the vampire might reasonably be present.
He thought he heard a footstep somewhere farther down the hall. Somewhat wary, he strode through the foyer, turned right, and braced himself for potential combat as he turned into the sitting room.
The old butler stood there, holding a can of furniture polish in one hand and a dirty rag in the other, his face set in its usual morose, almost bored calm expression.
“Mr. Remington,” he said calmly. “It’s so nice to see you. Is anything amiss?”
Remy exhaled and adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “That’s supposed to be my line, Jeeve
s. So I’ll be rude here and respond to a question with a question. Is anything amiss? You tell me.”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Presley. “So far, at any rate.”
“Well,” he interjected, “we have reason to suspect that bad shit is afoot. You know, serious business. Where’s Taylor?”
The old werewolf’s mouth tightened somewhat. “Miss Steele is not present.” Noticing the way he started forward and prepared to open his mouth, he quickly continued.
“And before you ask, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know where she is since she did not say. May I ask exactly what you believe is going on?”
Relief and frustration mingled. He was glad nothing was blatantly wrong, but there were still too many unanswered questions for his liking. Too many hazy gray areas that might turn out to be disasters waiting to happen.
“Well,” he began, “Alex called me and told me that his Moswen-sense was tingling and that we’d better expect some kind of major attack. And, to properly ice the cake, we…uh, failed to remove the dwarven cartel’s leader as a threat, so it’s highly likely that he’ll be back for revenge post-haste.”
Riley raised a finger. “Oh, and Conrad went home for the night,” she added.
The old man set his cleaning equipment on an end table and ushered them out toward the foyer, talking as he walked.
“Yes,” he remarked, “we received a similar call from Alex ourselves. Well, neither he nor Taylor told me the details, but I surmised that it dealt with some activity of Moswen’s. And I was aware that the dwarves were displeased with us, but this still sounds like a most disturbing development.”
“To put it mildly,” Remy concurred. Despite his agitation and his desire to do something, he forced himself to sit in his usual chair. “Taylor might be in danger, not to mention we are definitely in danger, so a reunion with her would be advantageous to all of us. She seriously didn’t say where she was going?”
Presley sat across from the younger man and spread his hands in a gesture rather like a shrug. “She does this occasionally, sir. Usually when she’s engaged in some kind of espionage and wishes to leave no loose ends. Before departing, she told me cryptically to watch the house, to take no calls, and to receive no visitors for a few days until she returned. I did as requested—minus the exception of allowing you to enter, of course.”
A Girl’s Best Friend (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 3) Page 22
