Accompanied by the faint jingle of her spurs, she left him, disappearing with her flock into the darkness of a tunnel where the lights forever stayed black.
Sorin had assigned Galatea and the Groupies to go Above based on what he had gleaned from the spywork he had convinced the real Master to initiate last night—spywork that troubled him more than it assuaged his concerns. But there was no contradicting his parent, especially after the work had confirmed that Dawn Madison and her investigator friends had been visiting the Pennybaker residence on a clue hunt. Evidently, they wished to discover a reason for Robby Pennybaker’s appearance in that ghostly film clip.
And, since Sorin must also admit that their spywork had already led them to Bava tonight, he would tolerate the Master’s plans until he had the leverage to protest.
Bava was a bar where Groupies and Servants occasionally gathered, their identities blurred by the fine Goth line between imagination and reality. Like most haunted bars in L.A., one of the Underground Servants was already employed there. He functioned well as a spy who reported back to Sorin.
Tonight, the Groupies would take spywork even a step further, masquerading in human form, focusing on Dawn Madison’s group from anonymous positions in the crowd. They would use their mild mind powers in casual conversation to gather whether the Guard killers were garden-variety mercenaries or indeed connected to a more powerful individual, as Sorin feared.
He hated having to depend on the Groupies, who were normally fun-loving beings who served in the Underground of their own free will. But since they were dedicated to keeping their vow of secrecy when they mingled and fed among humans, Sorin had agreed to assign them to this important work. They loved the Underground as much as he did, so he would trust them.
In any case, it was imperative that the humans not uncover any information about the Underground; unless the Groupies were compromised, the scheme required mere reconnaissance. Passive intelligence. That was all.
With a cynical growl, he turned around, his presence needed elsewhere. He meant to visit the Master in person, mainly to persuade him to rethink their strategy, yet also to do business.
As a stream of wind howled through the tunnel and gathered Sorin in its embrace, his dark clothing chopped around him.
Night wind, he thought, and it was drenched with the scent of humanity.
He shivered in hunger but moved on, knowing a meal—a Servant who voluntarily offered blood without the expectation of exchanging it—awaited him after he took care of his Master.
All the same, he kept his mind where it should be: on security. Vampire secrecy was prized above all else—it was essential to living in peace among the humans—so Sorin had also sent a patrol of Guards Above to quietly resume the hunt for their quarry.
Sorin would do anything and everything to find out if the Underground should risk revealing more of itself in order to stamp out a possible threat. But the threat had to be valid to take such a serious risk. Neutralizing Dawn Madison and her friends now could be costly, especially if other humans noticed their absence and took up the search for their missing loved ones, peeling back the layers of carefully cultivated vampire myth and mystery, one by one.
Like a lighted pathway home, Sorin’s Awareness of his maker—their lifeline between a vampire and the child he had created—led him to a hidden room off the east tunnel. He scratched at the stone, coaxing open a slab, which allowed him to surreptitiously slip through and enter the room.
There, he found a sight that chilled his blood.
In the darkness, he could see the red-hazed outline of his Master. Yet now, instead of a black void filling the inside of his body, a burst of color—violet, green, white, a menagerie of shades—swirled inside the ancient vampire. A hushed sound, much like the whispers of a million voices crying into one, filled the room, emanating from the Master.
He was indulging again.
Sorin could hear his parent’s breath coming in gasps, could only imagine how his body was shaking and shuddering in ecstasy. In sheer, wracking pain.
Had the Master not been expecting him?
Seized by a mixture of mortification, curiosity, and—was it also thirst?—at witnessing this private moment, Sorin bowed his head, waited for the Master to finish.
Yet, a morbid fascination riveted his lowered gaze to the vampire.
As the colors pushed against the old creature’s outline, seeking escape with an urgency that increased by the second, he stirred, moaned. Then, when the colors grew in frantic intensity, the Master grunted, cried out, and gripped the table.
Without warning, the colors ripped out of him in a scream of terror, circling overhead, darting with an ear-shattering sucking groan into the vial that Sorin knew was waiting, open, on the table. A tiny screech wept out of the container, sounding every bit as traumatized as a victim who was cowering from whatever was stalking him.
Weakened, the head vampire collapsed, his red-neon outline fizzing out, lacking energy while he grasped the table as if it could keep him afloat. His breath rasped out of him, yet Sorin kept his peace, knowing from experience that the Master would not want pity or aid.
Even if Sorin feared for his parent’s safety, he knew silence and lack of worry was prudent. Instead, he moved forward, then corked the vial, keeping the contents inside.
Keeping the soul contained for the Master’s future use.
“Sorin…” the other vampire uttered while crashing to the ground.
The younger vampire did not answer. He wanted no part of feeding this addiction beyond cleaning up after the mentor he had so admired over the centuries.
By now, he could hear the Master’s breath rattling as he recovered from imbibing one of those souls in his extensive collection. In the dark, Sorin’s vampire sight caught the gleam of a hundred more vials stored in boxes on the wall’s shelves.
He asked no questions, because he knew precisely what had transpired. His Master was a Soul Taker, feasting on the only tie to humanity he possessed anymore. Souls mattered more than blood now—it was a rush for the Master, the drinking of them making him feel temporarily alive. And if Sorin had not believed that this was one of the only ways to keep the Master interested in existing, he would have campaigned for a stop to it long ago.
“My shell of a body…” the Master said, his breath catching. “It never fails to reject what I need the most.”
“A soul is foreign to you,” Sorin said, feeling as if this were a vicious resurrection replayed week by week, the words frayed and useless from too much repetition. “You lost your own when you took the oath, Master. There is no reclaiming it.”
The older vampire’s teeth chattered. It was the only sound hitting the stone walls.
Sorin often wondered if the souls so violently departed from the Master because he had not earned the right to one.
“None of us has them anymore,” Sorin added stoically. “It is the price we paid.” He eased toward his parent, unable to withstand the suffering. “In spite of your greater powers, you are no different from the rest of your brood in that matter.”
“Sorin.” It was painfully uttered, yet still an ecstatic command. “A…moment…more.”
Hands clasped behind his back, Sorin obeyed, allowing the other vampire to wallow in his anguish. A masochistic luxury.
“Innocence…” The Master heaved out a long breath. “This one had such…innocence…before it was corrupted. Remember what that was like, Sorin?”
“No, Master.”
Sorin saw no use in the Master’s insistence on taking the souls in. But the old vampire often said that each spirit had its own properties, and that he was a little in love with them all. Each allowed him to lose himself, if only for a sublime minute, in an intimate stranger’s essence.
To be human for an agonizing burst of stolen joy.
And the Master could never get enough of escaping himself. Not lately.
Still quaking, the old vampire drew himself up, propped himself against t
he wall, cradled a leg and rested his arms over a knee. Sorin was puzzled at this new wrinkle in the process. Normally, this was when his parent shed enraged tears, when he pulled into himself and escaped to his own separate world until Sorin attempted, once again, to pull him out.
But this was not the way of it tonight. No, the Master seemed more reflective than usual, even restlessly content.
“Master…?”
“A miracle.” He laughed, the sound edged with disbelief, happiness. “It’s possible. This time, it doesn’t hurt for me to come back. A miracle.”
Thankfulness welled inside Sorin, a muted celebration at finally seeing his Master interested in his surroundings again. He wondered how much this had to do with what was transpiring Above—if these desperate times had finally jarred the rightful ruler back into form: the vampire who had tasted all the pleasures the world had to offer.
The ruthless warrior who had created a powerful Underground that, until this point, had run smoothly and effortlessly.
Seeing the change in his parent, Sorin knew that, in spite of all of his doubts and concerns, perhaps he had done well to challenge the Master last night. He held a hand to his chest.
Long live the Underground.
Long live this blink of interest from the Master.
“I am so very pleased,” Sorin said, saluting his superior with his other hand, fingers to his forehead. “Welcome back.”
A well-fought grunt, a sigh of renewed anguish from against the wall, gave Sorin pause. Had he spoken too quickly? Had he made too many assumptions?
In due haste, he moved on to the business at hand, keeping the Master engaged. He extracted a manila envelope bulging with money from his coat, set it on the table. The Master’s breath hitched at the scent of it.
“It is a payment from Tamsin Greene.” A human who wished to become an elite citizen. “I have completed her preliminary procedures, and we await a time and date at your pleasure.”
“Tamsin Greene,” the Master said.
Sorin knew that his parent recognized the name. He had been privy to her interview tapes, her vows of maintaining Underground secrecy at the cost of her life and dearest desires.
“She seemed anxious about her decision.” The Master’s voice, still shaky with spent passion, had gone wary. “Is she convinced she wants to be here? Based on recent events, Sorin, we need to be careful.”
“We are.”
Now the Master’s tone sounded strangled, choked with an emotion Sorin could not readily identify.
“I’m never taking anyone without their full permission again. Not unless they want what I have to offer with all of their soul.”
Perhaps he was smarting from the trouble Above?
“She is willing.” Sorin rested a firm hand on the money, a payment of millions. “And she has no qualms about giving more.”
Sorin tried not to glance at the capped vial on the table, the boxes lining the walls.
“Then schedule her to join us as soon as possible.” A pause. “I trust you with this, Sorin.”
“Yes, Master.” Yesterday, Sorin would have entertained grave doubts as to whether or not his Master would have been up to the exhaustive ceremonies and celebrations required to welcome a new citizen. Today, he was slightly more reassured based on what he had just witnessed as well as the Master’s decision to initiate spywork last night.
A decision that Sorin still wanted to discuss. There were elements that concerned him, especially—
“Leave me,” the Master rasped, reading Sorin’s mind and cutting him off. He slumped against the wall, the aura around his body fading as he rested.
Without another word, Sorin bowed and saluted once again, going about his work.
Leaving the Master alone in his beloved darkness so he could go about his, as well.
Thirteen
The Gathering
Smoke and mirrors. That’s what this place was made of, Dawn thought as she, Breisi, and Kiko sat at Bava’s crumbling altar-bar smelling of the garlic they’d rubbed over their skin like insect repellant. If it worked, great. If not, she’d be tasty scampi for some lucky set of teeth tonight.
Kiko had been the first to note that this cramped Goth hangout was named for Mario Bava, a noted Italian horror director. It was an homage to one of the artist’s best-known movies, Black Sunday, La Maschera del Demonio. The color scheme was stark gray and white; the inside gutted like a ruined chapel with iron grating, stone coffins, and gnarled branches and weeds creeping over the walls. A tinge of white light rose up from the bar, casting shadows under the faces of the black-garbed bartenders, lending them nefarious attitude to go along with the dyed jet hair and heavy eyeliner. Dog collars, see-through netted shirts, and piercings were the order of the night in here. Throbbing music drowned out conversation and identity in a mist of sweat and darkness.
Dawn sipped at her glass of water and moved her fingers in time to the heavy bass. Sliding a hard look around, she took in the small dance floor choked with customers who swayed in haunting, studied rhythm under the shifting lights.
During the last hour and a half, their attempts at engaging the management and then the patrons in conversation hadn’t worked so well. The owner didn’t know squat. To make matters more difficult, the customers were skeptical and unwilling to help, their painted looks discouraging queries. If they weren’t on the dance floor, they were huddled in the dark corners, where a few underage, famous faces lurked, too. Dawn had already spied a “new punk” eighteen-year-old pop singer drinking from a martini glass of blue-tinted Hypnotiq and snorting coke from behind the shield of her bodyguards. No one was acknowledging that she even existed.
Breisi leaned toward Kiko and Dawn, yelling, “We need to isolate these bartenders and waitresses and convince them to talk. They’ve got to take breaks sooner or later.”
Sounded doable to Dawn. Responding to the idea, she raised her glass to Breisi, then downed the rest of the liquid.
The older woman’s face didn’t change expression; she disengaged eye contact, tapped her foot, and began taking inventory of the bartenders.
Dawn followed suit, resting her hand in her jacket pocket and feeling a holy water vial for defense. Before heading out here, Breisi had smeared more of her wonder goo on Dawn’s rapidly healing injuries, then armed her with a cluster of vampire weapons: garlic, a stake, an additional crucifix, and the holy water. Dawn had asked Breisi when she would get to use that bitchin’ crossbow with the blades, but Breisi had just gotten all pissy and shoved a garlic clove into Dawn’s hand for a rubdown while muttering, “In your next life.”
But Dawn was set. Besides her pocket arsenal, the silver bullet–loaded revolver was in its shoulder holster. However, the stake would’ve been too obvious, so it was back in the car.
They weren’t at Bava for a rumble anyway, right? Still, if the vamps showed up, they’d be ready.
They’d also changed into appropriate attire for clubbing. Dawn had no problems: she’d just thrown on her earring, boots, heavy makeup, a clean pair of black jeans, and a dark skull-and-crossbones tank top to wear under her jacket. Breisi and Kiko, on the other hand, had needed some coaching.
Kiko had on a pair of leather pants and a jacket—all black, of course. Oddly enough, he looked like one of the underage kids in Bava, so he fit right in. But Breisi…
Jeez, Breisi. She’d shown up dressed in black, thank God, but she’d been wearing one of those damned bear shirts—this one of Teddy doing a cartwheel. Dawn had made her take it off, rip it in a few fashionable places, then turn it inside out so the picture didn’t really show beneath her jacket.
Breisi was not amused.
“For this kind of place,” Dawn had told her, “black-lace teddy—okay. TeddyRuxpin—not so much.”
Now, as the music transitioned to an old song by Siouxsie and the Banshees, Kiko hopped off his bar stool. He indicated a magenta-haired waitress and darted away to corner her.
That left Breisi and Dawn. The
y just stared at each other for a second, then yelled over Siouxsie at the same time.
“I’ll work the bar!” That was Dawn, pointing to her glass.
“I’ve got to make a call!” That was Breisi, pointing to her phone then heading outside.
Dawn knew she was going to give Nathan Pennybaker another try. God, she couldn’t wait to bruise all the parts of him that were pink and justifiably poetic.
And as for Mrs. Pennybaker…they’d decided to hold back on telling the mom anything until they could approach Nathan first. Hell, was it so wrong to have their facts straight before ruining the poor woman?
Too bad they weren’t having any luck reaching her husband. To make matters even more frustrating, Breisi had told them that the bugs she’d planted weren’t even picking up Nathan’s voice.
As Dawn wondered if they were going to have to find Robby’s dad now, too, she hunkered down over the bar. She thought of her own father—where he might be right now, what he was…
Coldness shivered over the back of her neck.
Immediately, she straightened, on guard, eyes locking on a woman at the end of the bar.
Asian-featured, she was pale, with Adam Ant war paint on her face and braids all over her head. Like the flash of a mirrored ball, the woman’s eyes went silver, and Dawn jammed her hand into her pocket for the crucifix. But…
There was nothing—no fire, no mind screw.
Dawn hesitated. A vamp would’ve worked its gaze, like those red-eyed things, yet there’d been nothing with this woman.
The Adam Antette turned away, leaning on the bar and watching the dance floor.
The hair on Dawn’s arms was standing on end, and she let go of her crucifix, not sure what to think. Too rattled to think.
Was she getting paranoid? That’d be awesome.
Someone yelled at her, and she jerked back to find the bartender waiting for her to answer him. Wearing a black vest, long dark hair, and makeup straight out of The Crow, he resembled the ghost of Brandon Lee, the actor who’d died during a tragic shooting on the set of his last movie.
Night Rising Page 13
