by Alix Adale
Blood had seeped into her jeans, stained her blouse, her denim jacket. She ached with guilt. It ate through every fiber of her being, ruining the satisfaction of the feast. Remorse left her trembling—horror at what she’d done, at what she’d become. Yet the blood pleasured her with its glow, like a sun beating between her ribs. The afterglow lasted longer and hit her deeper than sex ever did. The adrenaline-flavored feast left her blood-stoned and dazed.
The sun would rise soon, but she didn’t fear its killing rays, nor did any other knight in Dagon’s service. Her nanorian would protect her. Taken from a slain demon, the fiery gem lay between her aorta and ventricle like a second heart. The Queen of Dagon provided them to her loyal clans. Hah.
The Queen—damn, the solstice! They needed to get back to the tomb and rest. But after this—unspeakable travesty—another duty came first. Armando must hear about this crime. What he would do about it, there was no way to predict. He might punish them both. Perhaps he would order Colin to cover it up or blame it on a rival clan. Or he might turn them over to the Queen of Dagon as a couple of lawbreakers.
“Dammit, Cherise!” The idiot fledgling was disgusting, but it was like looking in a mirror. “You murdered him. What’s wrong with you?”
Cher’s cheeks glowed with stolen vitality, turning her usual bone-white pallor pinkish, almost red. She kept licking her fangs and picking her teeth. “Nothing.”
“That was an illegal cull. You broke the Law of Dagon. They might cut off your head.”
Cherise spat red phlegm over the side of the building. “Like I fucking said, they’ll never know—unless you open your fat mouth. Will you?” The other’s eyes flashed. “You will tell, won’t you? Dez, you’re a coward and a snitch.”
There was no answer to that. It might even be true. But she wasn’t a murderer. Not with her own hand, anyway. Hard to say where that blood came from that she drank every day. Medical supply companies, Armando claimed. Freely donated, acquired on the gray market. Not a crime at all. How believable was that?
Down the block, the medics shut the back of the ambulance with a loud thunk. An unmarked sedan was parked beside a police prowler. Great. The homicide cops were already here. What a fiasco—what an utter fiasco this night was. The rain fell harder in the growing light.
Let the rain fall, let it soak her face. Let it wash her crimes away, her sins—tonight’s murder and all the others, from before she learned to control the bloodlust beating within. Years of quiet protest, lost in a moment of frenzy. Her tongue chafed from scraping the rough pavement. Too late for regrets.
She faced her sister. “I have to tell Armando what happened. He might report your crime to the Eibons.” Her shoulders hunched. “Report our crime. I’m at fault, too. I’m senior here, I failed to stop your murder and I … shared the feast.”
Cherise licked her bloodstained fingers. “Are you sure you wanna know what’s wrong with me?”
Not the expected reaction. Dez sucked cold morning air. “It was a rhetorical question.”
Cherise ignored the remark. “When I was thirteen, this psychiatrist diagnosed me with Callous-Unemotional Conduct Disorder.” She quoted from memory with what sounded like pride. “She called me manipulative with a history of violating the rights of others.”
“Sounds right to me.”
“Nah, it’s batshit.”
“Why?”
“They won’t diagnose a minor with psychopathy.”
“Why not?”
“It’s stigmatizing and considered incurable.”
Her head ached. The cheap booze in the dead guy’s blood combined with this idiotic conversation made her queasy. Time to fess up to Armando and pay the piper. Yet she couldn’t help arguing. “Do you have any redeeming qualities?”
“I’m not a sadist. I like it rough, that’s all.”
Dez walked away along the edge of the rooftop. A chill ran down her back. The idea of attending the solstice now sickened her. That gathering would mean only more cynical posturing like Cherise’s, only more sophisticated and jaded. The Blooded enjoyed verbal sparring and boasting of their crimes. Solstice meant a hundred dead things drinking, sucking, fucking, and pretending to be alive. The Eibons and the Vlacs, the Hei-Lungs and the rest; even her own clan, the Bradens. A monstrous gathering of inhuman undead, summoned by their Queen.
On the streets below, the city crept to life. Delivery trucks rolled across rain-slick, early morning streets. The first fingers of roseate dawn trickled out of the east, spilling out of a fine, gray-green haze.
Time to crawl back into the mausoleum. Time to sleep, to forget this night and every other stolen night since the night she died.
“Hey, Dez.” Behind her, Cherise sounded chipper. “I thought of something.”
“Thought of what?”
“A redeeming quality—as you so charmingly put it.”
“What’s that?” Footsteps approached from behind, but she didn’t want to look at the bloodstained mess.
“My ambition.”
Before Dez could react, two small yet strong hands—improbably powerful hands, endowed with underworld strength—shoved her in the back and off the building.
Her arms and legs flailed outward. She swam through the air, struggling to grab onto something, anything. But there was nothing there at all and she was falling, falling, falling off the edge of the condos; she was falling the way she had that night her car plunged off the bridge.
The river had been so black. The water had rushed in so fast—pounding her, buffeting her against the steering wheel, filling the car with freezing darkness. Black water engulfed her. Her lungs burned, which was strange, because she was drowning. Then there was nothing. Then hours—maybe days—later, she woke up with fangs in her neck.
A blood-drunk Armando was carrying her out a hospital window without a word of explanation. He stole her life; he stole her death; he took her down, down, down into the netherworld, to his unwanted, scarlet embrace.
But that night had been full of stars and this morning was leaden with clouds and rain and regret and there was no water below.
Chapter 2: The Probie
Xerxes
Five Dalmatian puppies yipped and scrambled out of their basket, tripping over each other and their young limbs and long ears. The crush of black-and-white fur hopped, wiggled and squirmed forward, little nails skittering across the smooth concrete floor, eager to greet him.
Xerxes sank to his knees and let the wave of warm, flowing bodies leap atop him, licking his face, sniffing his crotch, barking for joy. Little paws with sharp nails dug into his overalls or nicked his bare chest but he didn’t care. Twelves months had flashed by so fast.
He lifted a couple of the puppies, kissed their noses. “Good morning, Kokino, Kitrino.” He cradled the next two, two peas in a pod in matching collars. “Hello Roz, Cyan. You must behave when I’m gone, no more chewing the boots.” Finally, he scooped up the runt in the green collar and kissed the big, black spot between her eyes. “I will miss you, my little guys.”
A cherry-red fire engine filled one half of the garage. Chew toys, dog houses, and food bowls lay scattered across the unused half. The door from the garage to the firehouse opened and another man entered.
Ah, Suarez. Right on time. He grinned at his friend while firm, sure fingers fastened leashes to collars. “Hi, Suarez. Give me a hand, will you?”
Suarez walked in without his usual hearty reply, stroking the gray remnants of his hair. A computer printout fluttered in his free hand. “You don’t have to do this,” Suarez said. He knelt, grabbing one of the little dogs and attached a leash. “Not today, of all days.”
Maybe not, but it was still fun. He snapped the final leash around a collar and rose to his feet, gathering the leads as twenty clumsy puppy legs strained for the outside door. “It’s my favorite part of the job. And thanks for all your help, Suarez. You’ve been a true friend this past year.”
His friend tried to speak but failed. His
gaze drifted down to the computer printout in his hands.
Suarez was one of the good ones, an aging fireman who had rolled out the welcome mat and shared his knowledge. In the end, it hadn’t been enough. Suarez’s face said it all.
Xerxes pointed. “Is that my test?”
The other firefighter stared at it. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t pass.”
“I’m afraid not, Xerk.”
“It’s okay. We knew it would happen that way.” He whistled at the dogs, heading toward the door. “Come on, little guys. One last walk with Uncle Xerk.”
The puppies clawed and tugged their leashes, straining toward the door. They would sniff every bush and signpost within three blocks of the fire station. Then they would come home and devour their chow, pile into their dog bed, and nap til noon. They tried to drag him toward the door, puzzled why he was hesitating, but Xerk could bench-press three hundred and fifty pounds. The combined might of five puppies was little more than a light breeze.
Suarez grimaced. “I’ll talk to the captain. Maybe he can make an exception, a re-test.”
“There are no exceptions.” The old guy was taking the news harder than he was. “Union rules, remember?”
Suarez rubbed the back of his head. “It’s a damn shame. You’re the best probie we’ve had in some time.”
“Thanks. Come on, guys. Don’t lick the motor-oil.” He tugged the pooches away from a spill, toward the door.
“What will you do now, Xerk?”
“I’ll walk the puppies, finish my other duties, pack, and clock out by three. Take good care of my little guys, okay?”
“Of course, Xerk. Everyone loves the puppies. Not as much as you, maybe. What I meant was, where will you go after this?”
The puppies strained toward the door, relentless in their eagerness for exercise. Five black-and-white spotted tails wagged in unison.
“I might move down to Salem, get an apartment. Rent’s cheaper. I can teach fitness again, compete in some bodybuilding contests.” He grinned, pulling a Golden State Warriors jersey out of his back pocket and pulling it on. “Don’t worry, Suarez. Something always turns up.”
The dogs hurried along, sniffing their way across the back lawn of the fire station, leading him down the sidewalk. Every morning they took a different route, sometimes north toward the park or west toward the river, but never going far. Today he led them south toward a condominium complex. This early, the residents weren’t awake and the puppies liked to sniff the planters and other dog scents.
His phone buzzed and he fished it out. “Hi, Mom. You’re early today.”
“Thinking of you, that’s all.” A wooden spoon slapping batter inside a ceramic bowl was audible in the background.
The sound triggered a Pavlovian response. His belly rumbled and he almost drooled. Mom’s tiganites—honey and walnut pancakes. His favorite breakfast food—as she knew. Mom didn’t always play fair. “Aww, Mom. I didn’t get the job.”
“What? My boy? But you’re the best.”
“The written test, mom.”
“What’s this captain’s name? I’m calling him.”
“No, Mom.”
“What’s his name? I’ll speak to Mr. Salzburg. He’s a lawyer. Retired.”
“Mom. It doesn’t work that way.”
Her sigh filled his iPhone. “You should have studied more.”
“I did study, Mom.”
“I told you to spend less time pushing weights around and more time hitting those books. Isn’t that what I said?”
“Mom.”
Whunk-whunk-whunk. The wooden spoon slapped the batter around, beating against her ceramic mixing bowl. She always used the same dish, white with a blue scrollwork finish that looked vaguely Athenian—though it came from Bed, Bath & Beyond. “What about that other thing?”
He didn’t want to talk about any other thing. “What, Mom?”
“Your love life.”
Oh, that other thing. “I don’t have one.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t have time. Not now.”
Ack, she could make turn him into a stumble-tongued fourteen-year-old again. The gangly, pimply-faced loser who’d only just discovered the joys of working out, the adrenaline rush, the feeling of power, of fluidity. Of strength. “Mom! No woman wants to date an unemployed guy.”
“Candice Giogolopos got divorced and is back in Vallejo working in a salon.”
“Vallejo? I live in Oregon.”
“My door is always open. Come home, Xerxes.”
Oh, Mom. She didn’t give up and he loved her for it. Memory filled in the scent of her tiganites, all full of walnuts, running over with butter and honey. His stomach rumbled. “Mom, I’m twenty-three. I can’t live in an old folks home.”
“It’s a gated community, not an ‘old folks home.’ ” Her spoon tap-tap-tapped, staccato-style, shaking the last batter off. “Beverly Herrera is in Costa Rica this month and she said you’d be welcome to stay in her suite—”
“Mom! It smells like mothballs.”
“It does not! Now listen…”
A few steps ahead of him, the dogs had grown still and quiet, necks craned upward. He froze, too, his attention snapping away from Mom. Up above was a wonder.
A woman plunged off a rooftop, swimming in mid-air. Long dark hair waved behind her. Limbs wrapped in blue jeans and a denim jacket flailed against gravity. She hung there only a second before crashing into an open dumpster. The strangest thing was she didn’t even scream. Instead, she hit the dumpster with a resounding thunk and vanished from sight.
“Mom! Gotta go—emergency!”
Chapter 3: Crash Landing
Desiree
She forced her eyes open. Great, a filthy dumpster. What looked like black cottage cheese oozed out of a trash bag, staining her left sneaker. The reek of coffee grounds and rotten bananas filled the air. High-pitched dogs yipped nearby.
Dammit, what happened? Oh, right. Cherise pushed her off a four-story condominium complex. Why? Had the little sicko actually tried to kill her? No. Bitch-Eyes had to know a fall like that couldn’t kill an immortal.
More likely, Cherise was rushing back to Eibon Manor to get her version of the story into Armando’s ear first. Damn. Not good. No damn good at all. Her first hunt in years had ended in disaster and murder. They killed a man. Some poor, innocent man, homeless or not. He was a human being but as he lay dying, she’d lapped his blood like an animal.
Like a beast.
A wave of remorse shook through her. She groaned in agony.
A man’s voice, strong and commanding, filled the dumpster. “Don’t move! You might have serious injuries! Close your eyes and don’t look!”
She kept them open and glanced up.
A handsome but concerned face stared over the rim of the dumpster, a young guy in his early twenties, with dark hair and eyes and a deep, natural tan. She couldn’t place his accent. His concern never faded. An iPhone waved in one hand.
“I’m fine.” To prove it, she sat up.
His eyes widened with alarm. “Don’t do that! I’m a firefighter trained in emergencies. Let me call 9-1-1.”
“It’s okay, I landed on trash bags and cardboard boxes. Look.” She wiggled her fingers. But she couldn’t stick around and answer questions from the cops or medics, like what was she doing on the roof? Did she know anything about the murder? Oh god, the murder. She scrambled to her feet and climbed out of the dumpster. Her sneakers hit the pavement. Time to run.
Wow, this was a big guy. Six feet tall and muscled like a horse. Stubble gave his face a grizzled look but didn’t hide its intrinsic youth. A basketball jersey left his arms, shoulders , and biceps exposed, even some of his chest. He wore it over a dungaree coverall and lineman boots.
Cute. But she had no time for a do-gooder, let alone the police. Back to Eibon Manor, like right now. She put a hand on his arm. “Please, no cops.”
He looked dubious but lowered the phone. Strong nose
, thick lips, spaced out by a broad, angular jaw. A stray forelock of black hair flopped loosed over his forehead, an errant cowlick that needed pushing back with a dab of gel.
Dogs barked. Flashes of black and white darted around the courtyard of the condo complex. Puppies! Half-a-dozen little black-and-white bundles ran around the bike racks and patio furniture, dragging loose leashes, wagging their tails. Even as she watched, one turned and bounded out onto an empty tennis court. Another headed down a stairwell to the street.
“The puppies! They’re escaping!” The big man turned with a look of horror and raced toward the stairwell. The other puppies began barking with excitement, eager to join in the game and they went bounding after him.
Oh shit! The courtyard was empty and so was the street, but a vehicle could trundle by any moment. She sprinted past the stranger and grabbed the leash of a puppy in a red collar. It had careened halfway down the stairs, chasing a faint, hours-old tomcat scent. She could barely pick it out with her heightened senses. Dogs, even puppies, could track scents better than any immortal—except a werewolf. Or so her book lore said. She didn’t have any practical field experience.
The other puppies—she counted five, in all—had scattered in every direction across the courtyard, yipping and wagging their tails. They nosed about under picnic tables, circled behind planters, and played with bits of loose trash flung clear of the dumpster. The big guy chased them, hampered by the puppy under his arm.
Dez scooped up red collar and headed toward the one trying to wriggle a wet nose through the iron bars protecting a fresh flower bed. She corralled that one too and headed back up the stairs.
The hunky guy stood there, two wriggling puppies in his arms. So he had two, she had two, that left one missing. She lowered her wriggling, squirming cargo to the ground and handed the leashes to him. “Where’s the fifth one? There’s only five, right?”
Big guy did a quick head count. After, his voice ached with worry. “Little Prasino is missing, the runt of the litter. She wears the green collar.”
