Personal Demon

by Susan Sizemore

  She gestured toward the body. “Bring that along, will you? Our kind doesn’t leave our messes in the street.”

  chapter one

  CHICAGO, PRESENT

  Chicago really wasn’t any windier than any other city, but tonight it sure felt like it was. Cold, too, and raining, with just a hint of ice in the mix. Ivy Bailey was not a happy vampire hunter at the moment, but you hunted when you had to and remembered to wear a raincoat.

  Most vampires sensibly stayed indoors on nights like this, but this one was a stalker. He couldn’t help himself. With the object of his hunger out on the street, that’s where he had to be. Which meant that was where Ivy had to be.

  She hated him.

  In theory, one should hate all vampires, just as a matter of course, of course. And she did, more or less. But she had particularly vicious thoughts for the stalker she was stalking. He hadn’t yet done anything bad enough to warrant having his heart ripped out—other than force her out on this miserable night—but it was only a matter of time. She hoped. Not that heart ripping would be her job. She was his watcher. Soaking. Wet. Dripping. Cold. Disgusted. Ivy checked her watch. It was near midnight, and she had to be at work at seven thirty. She was his “going to sleep on her massage table tomorrow and get in trouble” watcher.

  “Strigoi,” she grumbled disgustedly under her breath.

  Why couldn’t they all live somewhere exotic, like Rio de Janeiro, or winter up at the North Pole? Not that Chicago didn’t have long winter nights for the vampires to strut around in, trying to pick up healthy, fresh-faced, and strong-blooded Midwesterners.

  The vampire walking ahead of her must really have it bad for the girl he was following since he hadn’t noticed Ivy yet, and she was only half a block behind him. The street wasn’t exactly bustling with pedestrians. She knew she wasn’t that good at sneaking and lurking. She probably had the rain to thank, along with a sexual obsession that blinded the young vamp’s senses.

  Up ahead, a door opened, spilled light, then closed. The same thing happened a few seconds later. Ivy crossed a street and reached the spot where the victim and the vampire had entered. It was a coffee shop. Somewhere warm and dry and with WiFi to spend some time out of the rain. Ivy didn’t go inside immediately. She wasn’t afraid anything untoward would happen in that public place. Well, if the vampire happened to casually introduce himself to the woman of his nocturnal emissions, something untoward might come of it, but there were protocols in place to handle that. If the vampire behaved himself, Ivy could hand the case off to others.

  No, Ivy waited in the dark, wet and cold, because someone was following her. A vampire? Why? If not, even more why?

  She did briefly consider that she was having an attack of overactive imagination. It was certainly the sort of night for it. But she was a cautious type. Better to make sure something wicked wasn’t coming after her before she entered the shop, no matter how enticing the coffee scents. There were civilians inside. She had a duty to protect more than one hapless vampire lust object from the monsters roaming the night.

  Ivy continued past the welcoming coffee-shop door. She turned right at the end of the block. Stopped. Listened. Peered past the faint glow of a nearby streetlight and reached out with her mind as much as her vision and hearing. Was there a faintly racing heartbeat coming her way? Still might only be imagination. She certainly didn’t hear footsteps or breathing, but the wind was howling, and the rain’s steady beat on the sidewalk was loud enough to cover anyone’s approach. Imagination running away with—

  A hand grasped hers. Run! a voice shouted in her head. In her head, not her ear.

  She barely had time to register the difference before she was being pulled down the side street at a breakneck pace. The street was slick and slippery, making it difficult to keep her footing. Her—rescuer?—sure-footed as a cat, didn’t notice. Looking at the man ahead of her as he pulled her along, she got an image of wide shoulders, and that was about all until he pulled her into a doorway.

  She would have bolted away from him, but he grabbed her tightly around the waist. She tried going limp to sag out of his arms, but he knew that trick, and just laughed.

  “Very good,” he said. His accent was English, his voice amused. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

  He was talking this time, not thinking at her. Good. She understood the principles of telepathy, wasn’t freaked by it, but that didn’t mean she’d ever encountered the difficult speaking-from-mind-to-mind part herself. She could defend against telepathy, too, normally, but guessed she had been too intent on detecting signs of the stalker vampire flimflamming his prey to guard her own mind from intrusion. It wasn’t the sort of thing people generally tried with her. Most people she knew weren’t stupid.

  She had the distinct impression that the man holding her close to his body wasn’t stupid, either. He was large, hard, and warm.

  He apparently thought she was. “Do you know what that man you were following is? Do you know how dangerous it is for a woman to be out alone at night?”

  “Do you know who was following me?” she answered.

  It wasn’t he. Her—rescuer?—had come up the side street where she’d been waiting and watching. Unless he’d circled around behind her very fast, he couldn’t be—

  “Oh.”

  He had been following her.

  He was a strigoi, as vampires preferred to call themselves. It wasn’t only modern folk who used bland language to mask evil intent. Care for a little ethnic cleansing to pretty up your genocide, anyone? Vampires were experts at bending words, and laws and customs, to make themselves feel better about what they were.

  She’d never met a strigoi with an English accent before. Well, the Enforcer of the City was rumored to be from Britain, but he didn’t have an accent. Ariel had been an American vampire for a long time.

  “Were you following me?” she demanded.

  “Yes.”

  She’d been followed, and grabbed, and snatched by an English strigoi.

  “Why?”

  “Why were you following that man?”

  “I was doing my job.”

  She was answered with a loud snort of laughter.

  “I know he isn’t a man,” she said. “I was being polite.”

  “You know what I am?”

  “Of course.”

  Hard hands closed around her upper arms. “Are you too stupid to be terrified?”

  “That’s a very good question.” She made herself project calm, pretended that she wasn’t afraid.

  Another laugh from the vampire. It occurred to her that perhaps this British vampire somehow had permission to hunt in Chicago. Perhaps he was going to try to eat her. But she knew the Laws of the Blood. Surely the Enforcer of the City would have warned of any authorized hunt.

  But, if this was a strig, new in town, this could get ugly. For her right now. For this English strigoi after the Enforcer of the City got hold of him. But his eventual punishment wouldn’t give her corpse any satisfaction.

  All the while she’d been talking to the strigoi, her body was clasped to his, his strong hands didn’t seem inclined to let her go. Ivy finally tried to take a good look at his face. It was very dark in that shallow refuge from the rain. She had excellent night vision, but she couldn’t make out much detail. He had high, hollow cheeks and a long, pointed nose. No beauty, which was odd for one of his kind. Vampires preferred great looks to go along with the psychic talent that attracted them to those they made into slaves and companions.

  “You’re no beauty yourself,” he told her.

  Ivy tossed her head and got wet hair in her face for her trouble. Strands of hair stuck against her cheek. “I am, too. This is my drowned-cat look.”

  “Not fetching on you.”

  “You’re wearing a leather coat. You smell of dead cow.”

  “That’s not the worst dead thing I’ve smelled of.”

  Ivy finally realized how strange this conversation was and fought to ge
t back to the point. “Why are you holding me?”

  A wide grin appeared out of the dark. “You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”

  Oh, Goddess, no! He thought he was being charming. At least he wasn’t smiling with any sort of fang showing. She’d never actually seen a strigoi in hunting mask, but she’d had mating fangs flashed at her. Which was not happening now.

  Being around a vampire didn’t normally make her think of mating, but then she’d never been quite so close to one, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

  “Why were you following that vampire?”

  Ivy barely heard the question as a sense of dread made her burst out, “Are you a strig?”

  His eyes glowed a sudden, furious red.

  His voice drilled into her head, very sharp and precise. If by strig you mean an unaffiliated vampire—no, I am not a strig.

  Well, excuse me for living, she thought, and hoped he didn’t overhear that very stupid bit of sarcasm.

  You are excused. For now.

  Her heart hammered hard against her chest. She realized she’d been holding her breath when she had to gasp for air. He’d scared her. He was relishing making her show that he’d scared her. The knowledge squirmed through her. A tiny part of her that lodged in the primitive reptile part of her brain rubbed its scaly paws together, hoping that the bloodsucker would make her angry—really angry.

  “Why were you following the vampire?” He was back to that.

  She found her bravado again. “Why did you drag me down the street?”

  “You said you were doing your job. What does your job have to do with my kind, human?”

  Instead of grasping her tightly around her arms, his hands had shifted—one had drifted higher up her side. His other hand was pressed flat against the base of her spine. How had he managed to get past her raincoat and under her sweatshirt?

  She didn’t think he’d even noticed doing it, but—

  “I’ve noticed. Glad you finally have.”

  Ivy refused to be impressed by the press of his skin against hers. Tried not to be. He was a vampire, for crying out loud!

  But he wasn’t trying to psychically seduce her. She’d know if he was, wouldn’t she? The only thing he was doing to her was being a big, strong male. These pheromones are not the ones you’re looking for, Ivy told herself.

  “You like nice men, I take it?”

  “Hush!” Ivy ordered. “Just hush. You’re not from around here, so I’ll tell you how it is, then you’re going to let me go.”

  He didn’t argue any more, or demand, or continue the odd combination of tease and threat. He stood still as death, big, and strong enough to crush the spine and ribs where his hands rested. Ivy worked very hard not to be afraid of him. Or stimulated by him in any other way.

  “The strigoi I was following is looking for a companion. His attentions have glommed on to a woman who doesn’t know he exists. He’s been following her, stalking her. Fantasizing about her. And trying to worm his way into her dreams.”

  “How could you possibly know about dream walking?”

  “We Yanks call it dream riding, and it’s against the rules.” She made out that his wide mouth was pressed in a thin, angry line, but still added, “It’s a form of rape.”

  “Rules?”

  She noticed he didn’t dispute the rape charge.

  “Don’t interrupt. We have rules in Chicago. Rules about how vampires and mortals interact with each other. This is Selena’s town. Those of us who work with her enforce rules to protect humans from your kind. It’s about time somebody did.”

  His hands tightened on her.

  She gasped in pain.

  He sneered. “You’re a stinking little vampire hunter.”

  “Yes.” She feared he would crush her right then, but he waited for her to go on. “Not the traditional kind of hunter.”

  She knew how to kill a vampire, in theory if not practice. And would kill if she had to, but that would start a war. She didn’t want to be responsible for that. She didn’t want innocents to get hurt, even innocent vampires if such creatures existed.

  Ivy went on carefully. “Some mortals are working with the Chicago area nests to keep things ethical.” The rules were known as the Covenant—vampires liked fancy wording. “We don’t deny that vampires crave companions, but those companions have to be willing lovers.”

  “That isn’t how it works.”

  “We have the tacit cooperation of the Enforcer of the City.”

  At least Ariel had left them alone so far. Ariel was Selena’s problem. This big English vampire holding her tightly, out of sight of any witnesses, was her problem. Maybe she would be feeling safer if she’d lied to him, but she was naturally honest. This was one of the traits that broke the hearts of some members of her family, on both sides.

  “I was following that vampire because he was following the woman he wants. He won’t be allowed to force her into an unwanted relationship.”

  “You were only doing surveillance, is that it?”

  Ivy didn’t appreciate the word only, but didn’t dispute it. “Surveillance,” she agreed.

  “I see. The vampire followed the girl, you followed the vampire.” His hands were suddenly clasping her face. He leaned close, until their eyelashes were almost touching. Their lips were very close.

  “And you were following me.” When she spoke, she felt like they were sharing breath.

  “Wrong,” he whispered. His lips brushed hers. “I was following the one who was following you.”

  chapter two

  And then what happened?” Aunt Cate asked. She leaned forward in her deep easy chair, eyes bright with interest. “Did he kiss you?”

  “Oh, Goddess, no!” Ivy answered.

  At least she didn’t think so. She didn’t remember. She hoped her aunt was just being a romantic rather than her having revealed too much detail about the encounter the night before.

  “What I do remember is somehow finding a cab in the rain—”

  “If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is,” her cousin Paloma cut in.

  “I got in the cab, and I went home,” Ivy finished. “I had a cup of tea, took a hot shower, and went to bed.”

  “Tea?” Aunt Cate asked. She chuckled, and sipped from a delicate china cup of Earl Grey. “That’s definitely a sign you were hypnotized by an English vampire.”

  Ivy was gathered in Aunt Cate’s living room with a group of hunters, most of them relatives. There was one vampire among those present in the apartment above her aunt’s store. His name was Lawrence, and Ivy supposed she should count him as family because he and Aunt Cate had lived together for years. Cate wasn’t his companion. Certainly not his slave.

  Caetlyn Bailey was the most powerful witch in the city. Maybe in the country. Practitioners of the light, dark, and in-between occult arts came to her magic shop, and Web site, from all over the world and several dimensions of reality—knowing that her stuff was the real deal. She also told fortunes, but that was mostly a nod to the old family con-artist sideline. Not that she didn’t actually see the future—sometimes—but that wasn’t for the tourist trade.

  The Baileys had always practiced magic, along with the other members of their Traveler familia, the McCoys, Crawfords, and such. A lot of the time they got it right. Not everyone who picked up a spell book did, or could. Magic was an inborn ability to manipulate energy. It was not a blessing. More of an allergy, really. A kink in the DNA. And it frequently drew unwanted attention—from vampires and others.

  Lawrence looked worriedly at Ivy. “English? Are you sure? Maybe he was Australian or Irish?”

  Ivy watched a lot of PBS and BBC America. “English,” she said. “He had a northern English accent.”

  “There are no English vampires,” Lawrence said.

  “You’re kidding,” Paloma said. Lawrence shook his head. Paloma looked at Ivy. “This guy really did do a number in your head, didn’t he?”

  Ivy didn’t think her mind had been me
ssed with that much, but then, she wouldn’t, would she? “Bastard,” she muttered. “I think he might have really tried to get into my brain if a cop car hadn’t come by and shined a light—hmmm, wonder why I just now remembered that detail? All this telepathy and crap really sucks.”

  There were nods from people all around the room. All of them were psychic to some extent.

  “You need to practice more to grow stronger,” Aunt Cate said.

  Ivy didn’t know if her aunt was talking to her, or admonishing everyone in the room. It was always nagging to work, practice, perfect with Aunt Cate, the magical world’s own top drill sergeant. There was some squirming. Nobody answered.

  “What do you mean there are no British vampires?” Paloma asked after silence reigned for a moment. “What about Mina Harker? No, she’s not a vampire. It was her friend that Dracula turned, the rich bitch everyone was in love with.”

  Aunt Cate cleared her throat. “You’re talking about Dracula, Paloma. That’s a work of fiction.”

  “But it’s English literature.”

  “I wouldn’t call it literature,” Uncle Crispin sniffed. He taught high-school English.

  Paloma ignored this. “If the most famous vampire book ever was written by an Englishman, then there have to be vampires in England—a source for the guy that wrote its research.”

  Ivy didn’t understand Paloma’s logic, but one rarely did at first. Paloma had a twisted way of getting at things, but much of the time, her conclusions turned out to be profound. Which probably wasn’t so in this case.

  “Wasn’t Bram Stoker Irish?” Ivy asked. “Or was that Conan Doyle?”

  Uncle Crispin sighed loudly.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Lawrence said. “And don’t ask me why there aren’t English strigoi; I don’t know the details. I was only informed I couldn’t travel to England, even as a tourist.”

  “Maybe you should ask your new friend about the English strigoi, Ivy. There’s so much we don’t know about how they live in the rest of the world,” Aunt Cate said.

  “Planning on slipping him some truth serum, Cate?” Lawrence asked.