Okay. So no response to a crucifix or garlic. But the servant at Bava had shown the same reaction. So was Matt just an unfortunate human participant in a case that was getting weirder by the hour? Or was he really a servant, immune to these items because he still had a soul?
Matt’s phone trilled. He took a glimpse at the call screen and grunted. “I’ve got to take this.”
“No problem.” Dawn offered another smile, dropped her chain.
Again, kind of shyly, he grinned back at her, then got up and wandered to a secluded area while answering.
She tracked his exit, more intrigued than ever, more unsatisfied, too. These working hours were going to put a real crimp in her lifestyle. The night before last, The Voice had soothed her, filled her up for a short time, but now she was hungry again.
Dawn heaved her napkin to the table, burying her face in her hands. Even if her body was as taut as a rubber band pulled to its limits, she didn’t want to go back to The Voice begging for another encounter. Sure, the experience had left her breathing easy afterward, but it had also alienated her, given her more self-doubt.
But, if she really admitted it, her personal life was the pits anyway. She’d always made excuses, said she’d settle into a normal relationship someday, just as soon as she’d sowed all those ever-lovin’ wild oats. Problem was, she seemed to have an unlimited supply in her silo.
Her face was flushed from just dwelling on all this. Shit.
“I’m going to the restroom to cool down,” she said to her audio friends.
“Does Dawn have a crush?” Kiko asked.
Ignoring him, she got up, made her way to where Matt had disappeared. She really wanted to tell Kiko where to stick it, but she didn’t want to talk to herself and advertise that she was hooked up on Spy Satellite, Inc. Then again, this was L.A., so holding a one-way conversation might actually come off as pretty normal.
Yet the choice was made for her when she found Matt pacing near the bathrooms, phone to his ear, looking mighty upset. When he saw her, he ended the call.
“I hate to do this, but—”
“You’ve got to go.” She tried not to feel bruised by the brush off. “Excuses, excuses.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not like this was a date.” She stuck out her hand, a gracious loser. “Best of luck with Frank, okay?”
That was their cue to shake on it and leave everything at the status quo. But he wasn’t walking away. No, he was standing there, mouth in a line.
“P.S.?” she added.
He spread out his hands, like he was surrendering. “I’m trying to figure out how to do this gracefully.”
Ugh. She didn’t like the sound of that, so she crossed her arms over her chest, preparing herself.
“I…” He ran a hand through his short brown hair, making it stand up. “Here’s the thing. I haven’t had much of a social life, and I’m out of practice.”
Now she was confused. “Seriously. Don’t worry about leaving.”
“It’d just be…well, I suppose a real conflict of interest to see if you’d want to go out sometime.”
She loosened up, arms falling to her sides. In spite of herself, she broke into a dumb grin. “Go out?”
He was talking about a date, right? Wasn’t he? Had she really ever been on one of those? Oh, God. How did they work?
“It’s probably a bad idea,” he said.
“I’d go.” What the hell. “I mean, on a date. Or. Whatever.”
He seemed surprised. “You would.”
“When this is all over, of course. After I find Frank.”
“Or when I find him.” He smiled, but it wasn’t shyly or nicely. For one splinter of a moment, she pictured herself in the sights on a hunting rifle.
Then he moved closer, reaching out to her, and the smile turned into that reticent gesture he flashed whenever he was comfortable enough to do it.
Sniffing, he pulled back.
Garlic. The oxygen lodged in her chest.
But then—light of all lights—he smiled again, an oddly knowing gesture. Then, hesitantly, he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. His touch skimmed upward, pausing over the bare white scar she’d earned just above one brow, then downward, to touch her long earring.
She remembered her audio earpiece. He’s gonna call us on our games, she thought.
But then…miracle.
After the longest tick of the clock in history, his hand trailed back to her cheek and, smoothly, with the slow speed of a yearning caress, he slipped both hands under her jaw, pulled her to him, completely throwing her off guard.
When he kissed her, it was soft, explosive. On the backs of her eyelids, she saw the flow of sheer red curtains in a breeze, the hems whispering down over the curve of one naked body that was poised over another. Dawn flowed with the motion of the material, of the bodies, with their sweat, their slick rocking movements, their low moans and cries.
But, too soon, Matt was pulling away, leaving her with just a taste of him: an unidentifiable mélange of possibility. She bit her lower lip, wanting more, dying to ask for it.
So this is normal, she thought. First-date sweetness. Is this what it’s like to get only one kiss?
He backed away. “You fascinate me.”
Then with an embarrassed shake of the head, he left her, as if too mortified to look back. He retreated to the hostess desk where she saw him take out his wallet and present the girl with a wad of bills to cover their check.
Dumbstruck, she wanted to follow him, to take what he’d teased her with. But then again, there was a part of her—a new angle—that gleamed with the infatuation of wanting to be discovered, inch by slow inch, day by long day.
Kiko’s voice came over the earpiece. “I’m calling nine-one-one because there’s a three-alarm conflagration going down.”
Breisi shushed him, her “Shhh” chopping off mid-scold as Dawn wandered back out to the patio. At the bar, the older woman was tapping her headset, as if it had suddenly died on her.
Then Dawn heard a familiar voice in her ear. Ten to one he’d disabled Breisi’s and Kiko’s equipment to speak to Dawn privately.
“Good work,” The Voice said, his tone so jagged that it was almost disguised. “Now come backhere.”
The vibrations of his words called to her, even as she fought the pull of what he was no doubt promising.
Sixteen
Below, Phase Three
That night, the Underground rang with the presence of all its members, save for those who had been released Above. They had been gathered into a community meeting to pass judgment on a threat that could steal their utopia.
On the top tier of the stone theater, the elite citizens sat next to Sorin in cushioned throne seats. The top vampires shone in all their unfathomable beauty, their skin rosy from feeding, their eyes a swirl of colors that did not exist on the surface of earth. Males were bare-chested, dressed only in loose-fitting silk pants. Females decorated themselves with the finest of embroidered materials that seduced Sorin with thoughts of a mighty old world.
Then came the Groupies on the lower tiers. Dressed in thin silks, their skin shining with scented oils and glitter, they lounged like cats, rubbing against each other, draped over the stone in lazy luxury. Some had been chosen by the Elites to sit at their feet, the lower-ranking vampires leashed in jeweled collars as they nuzzled against their masters’ legs. Amusing, tasty pets. That was the niche of the Groupie.
Guards and human Servants were generally not allowed at any gatherings. Their opinions—if they had any—were of no importance since the manufactured Guards were merely puppets who, unlike the Groupies or Elites, did not even have the ability to change from preternatural creature to blending, quasi-human being. And as for the mortal Servants? Food. And, more importantly, they were the extremely willing worker bees who facilitated the vampires’ needs Above, rewarded for their efforts and kept loyal through their addiction to the Underground’s decadence and glamou
r.
Sorin stirred in his throne chair as he listened to the speaker who had been lending testimony from her position on the stage, her voice amplified by the stone acoustics. Next to her stood a coiffed man with graying hair and glasses. He was dressed in a black suit and maroon tie, the only human Servant in attendance.
“After being shielded from Dawn Madison’s mind and failing to get any information,” said Goth-laced Galatea, the Groupie who had been charged with spywork at Bava last night, “we chased the human Servant Lee Tomlinson, who took sanctuary in a church where we could not get to him.”
Sorin grimaced. They were talking of the bartender from Bava, a man who resembled a deceased actor from Above—Brandon Lee had been the name. Under the threat of having his pretty face harmed, Lee Tomlinson and his massive ego had gone against the code of secrecy by surrendering information about Robby Pennybaker to Dawn Madison and her friends last night.
Damage control was now called for.
“And what say you?” Sorin directed this at the man standing next to Galatea, a lawyer whom the cowardly Lee Tomlinson had contacted Above as a liaison to the Underground—a man who was pleading his case.
He bowed to Sorin, fingers to forehead. “Lee is genuinely sorry for what he’s done, Master. We ask to take into account his service to our community. First, he’s a loyal visitor to this Underground, providing consistent sustenance for the citizens with his disease-free blood. He’d planned to stay here a very long time, aspiring to become an Elite one day after ‘making it.’ He’s only had this one misstep.”
“A most costly misstep,” Sorin added, leveling a terrible glare on the advocate.
The polished man frowned ever so slightly in admission. “The justice system Above allows for everyone to be fairly represented, Master. I’m only living up to my duty in the hopes that it’s the same way down here.”
Sorin laughed to himself. Such a quaint observation. And this particular lawyer, Mr. Milton Crockett, had been a trusted member of the Underground for a decade and a half. He aspired to be no more than a Servant, because he loved his family and home. He was also paid well for the referrals he brought to them; Mr. Crockett was responsible for guiding the last two elite citizens here, plus the new candidate Tamsin Greene. He had an eye for choosing those who fit the profile—beautiful, magnetic, ambitious to a fault.
“You do your job well, Mr. Crockett,” Sorin said. “But Lee Tomlinson showed an appalling lack of discretion.”
Galatea’s voice filled the theater. “And there’re other people Above with loose lips. Rumor has it that a woman named Klara Monaghan talked trash about Robby to those PIs. Maybe Lee felt a little too comfortable with sharing after he heard about her.”
Murmurs burbled through the theater—anxiety from the Elites, excitement from the Groupies who were stroking the higher beings in worshipful compassion.
Sorin held up a hand for silence. It was immediate.
There was no erasing what this Klara Monaghan had evidently told the investigators. The aging actress was only a part of the bigger problem: Limpet’s detectives. Sorin was not certain whether they were merely defending themselves from dangers while following leads about Robby Pennybaker and Frank Madison, or if there was a much more perilous reason for their meddling.
“We will discuss additional safety precautions after we have finished with Lee Tomlinson.” Sorin rested his hands on the throne. A calm appearance was paramount. “Mr. Crockett, for what your client has done, he must be banished.”
A gasp from the crowd did not sway Sorin. Banishment was worse than death. No one wanted to have their minds wiped of memory like a pitiful Guard or to be separated from the paradise of the Underground.
The lawyer stepped forward in supplication, hands in front of him. “Master, Lee Tomlinson has promised to do anything—anything—to return to your graces.”
“Then he will come to us peacefully, and we will go about banishment in a congenial manner. If he refuses, we will hunt him down and destroy him.”
“He can’t be imprisoned down here?”
“And give him the prize he wishes for? No.”
Mr. Crockett looked conflicted. Even he knew that violence was the last option. The consequences for his beloved Underground would be unthinkable. Lee Tomlinson might be missed by someone Above, such as the human lover he had taken within the last two months. So if the bartender disappeared, there would be hell to pay.
All the same, how could they tolerate a Servant who had gone against his vows? The punishment could not be ignored, or else a pattern would be established, a weakness in authority. Excusing this crime would mean ignoring the next, and the next, until the Underground crumbled under the crushing blow of discovery.
Best to establish fear through caution now.
He rose from his throne, and every vampire responded with a bow, a salute. “You are free to discuss your ideas for security. I will return with a clear mind after I have fed.”
One of the Groupies stood, a woman clothed in a wispy skirt that fell around her hips and revealed her long legs through the material. She was intending to supply food. Sorin’s groin tightened at the sight of her full, golden breasts. Juices flooded his mouth at the thought of sinking himself into a spot below one of them, piercing the skin just under the sensual weight of a rounded globe.
“Not now.” He waved her off, ignoring her hurt gaze. His loose, dark clothing flared around him as he made his way to an isolated room where he knew the Master was working.
There, he found his parent and another vampire sprawled on the expanse of a cushiony divan. They were participating in the monthly infusion of blood that an Elite required to survive, especially after they were released.
The Master was always careful to give the Elite only enough to lend a fraction of his powers, but it was sufficient for what the top citizen required. However, the Elite’s own vampire children—if they cared to have any—would not have access to the Master’s powers through an infusion: the blood would have become too weak, too diluted in the recipient’s inferior body. The only reason the Eliteshada hint of the Master’s abilities was because they drank of him regularly, else they would be powerless and bereft.
Sorin attempted to ignore the Elite, the inferior vampire. Unlike them, he was a full-blooded son, not requiring any more of the Master’s infusions since his father had not held back at his birth. In fact, he was the only one of this type, a source of great love for his maker.
His face buried in a pillow, the Master affectionately stroked the Elite’s hair back from his forehead. As the male Elite sucked greedily from the older vampire’s wrist, the exhausted slump of the Master’s body reflected boredom. Sorin panicked at the sight.
Or perhaps he was merely tired, Sorin thought. He had been working much harder lately, thank the day.
The glow of the television—Sorin thrilled to see that it was on—reflected the closed-circuit video images of the meeting in the theater. He had been watching.
Sorin’s spirits lifted high above the room at this indication of the Master’s renewed interest. In decades past, the head vampire had taken great exhilaration in games—hunting and being hunted. Was his old love of chaos resurrecting him?
“You were watching?” he asked, studiously keeping the joy from his voice.
The Master’s words slurred together. “I was. You did everything perfectly, Sorin.”
A stain of pride spread through his chest. Sad, that he still depended on the Master’s approval. Sad, that Sorin suspected he would never be able to discard the need for it.
“Now, to deal with the PIs,” Sorin said.
“Weare. From what’s been gathered in intelligence, I think they might be useful to us. If there really is another master directing them, they could lead us to the source itself.”
The male Elite tilted his head back, gasping for air, blood on his chin as he opened his eyes and smiled.
“Ahhh,” he said, wavering back and forth as if dizzy.
“My very own Dr. Feelgood. Or…sorry…Dr. Eternity.” He chuckled. “It’s a little bit like calling out the wrong name after you come, huh?”
At the mention of the nickname that the Elites had invented for the Master, the head vampire patted the young creature’s head, ending the infusion.
Balancing to his feet, the youngster stood by the television, wiping his mouth. One of the oldest of the elite class, this one’s humanity had died in an automobile crash a half century ago, and he was awaiting a second release. He was strung together with fine, slender bones, his hair a golden brown fluff that was punctuated with long sideburns. Lanky and sexy—that is what the Groupies said about him.
“It is time for you to leave,” Sorin said.
“Aw, hell, you’re going to see me around the emporium and whatnot.” He strutted to the entrance. “I’m going to visit the baths tonight for a real, real long time. Get me some pussy, and then I’ll be set to leave.”
He laughed as he exited, and Sorin scowled. He could not deny the Elite. These vampires were allowed full use of the Underground because they paid enough to ensure the privilege.
The Master was still buried amongst the divan cushions, his wrist already having healed from the infusion.
“He is arrogant,” Sorin noted.
“All of them are.” He sounded weary now. “But that’s part of their charm, now, isn’t it. You weren’t that different from them back when I found you.”
Just as Sorin was becoming worried about his tone, the Master reached for his television remote control, flipping through channels. “Alias reruns will be on in ten minutes. Sit.”
Relieved beyond measure, Sorin laughed. The media-loving Master. “I must see to the meeting’s close. Shall I report to you later for details regarding Tamsin Greene’s welcome?”
The Master sat up, his red-outlined aura stronger than Sorin had seen it in years. “I’ll be prepared.”
As the television’s screen revealed the faces of lovely young people, Sorin rethought his plan for the night. “Perhaps I will stay. Only for a few moments though.”
His aura beaming, the Master made room for his child on the divan.
Night Rising Page 17
