Night is Magic: A Vampire Romance (Hearts of Dagon Book 1)

by Alix Adale

  “B.B.K.? Like B.T.K.? Bind, Torture, Kill?”

  “Yeah, although in this case it stands for Bite, Bleed, Kill. A real sicko.” The agent leaned over the table, dark glasses only inches away. “And we’re looking hard at your firefighter.”

  Firefighter? What firefighter? Zenkowski frowned at the folder, skimming a few case files. The reports documented murder after murder in black and white, cases running from British Colombia down into central California. Slashings, stabbings, even beheadings caused the deaths. Knife wounds figured in many cases, but a few showed eerie bite marks. In every instance, the perpetrator or perpetrators had practiced exsanguination, draining the blood for reasons unknown.

  Oil-Can Mike’s killers had bled him dry too. The Medical Examiner had yet to file her official report, but unofficially, Doctor Qin confirmed a disturbing absence of blood.

  Wasn’t Xerxes from Vallejo, California? Uh, oh. The last folder showed photographs of Xerxes and a list of his previous addresses. Times and dates matched.

  Agent Gideon remained standing. “As a probationary firefighter, his DNA should be on file.”

  “I’ll get it right away.” A cold pit grew in Zen’s stomach. This didn’t look good for Xerk. Not at all.

  Chapter 11: The D’antonio File

  Desiree

  In the dream, mother sat in the old yellow recliner, her fingers as thin and pale as the Kools she smoked nonstop. The smoke wrapped her in a blue haze, leaving her face a leathery mask. The television blasted a laugh track at top volume, but mother’s expression never changed, sending simmering anger toward everything from the evening news to the Mr. Snuggle commercials.

  Dez sat up in a twist of dirty blankets, staring at the cracks in the window. Ugh, of all the things to dream about after an evening like that. Mother was dead, end of story. Ms. Kool couldn’t take anything away from her now.

  The ever-dark night still showed black through the slats on the cottage windows. Dawn remained a few hours away. Good. She needed time.

  Beside her, Xerxes groaned in his sleep. That good, strong, beautiful man. She touched his shoulder, a lingering squeeze, savoring the warm power of him. Last night they’d made magic together. For one beautiful, lingering moment, he’d shown her joy.

  That was over, though. The pumpkin replaced the carriage as the clock struck midnight. Time to do what she must. Moving with exceptional quiet, she packed her few remaining belongings—clothes for the most part—and dressed. Time to go.

  The door creaked open and she stepped out into the night, knapsack over one shoulder. Nothing in the cool breeze compared to his scent. It still lingered on her, his husky odor, his sweat. His need. It made her hesitate, one foot out the door.

  No. No backsliding. No wavering.

  She quickened her step, heading through the silent, sleeping environs of Respect Village. Tennis shoes crunched gravel, masked by the sound of jet engines from the nearby airport.

  She loved him, but she could never have him. Mortal men belonged in the mortal world, not in hers. There was too much danger in the Underworld, too much darkness. It would overwhelm him, chew him up and spit him out. As it was doing to her. As strong as he was it would still crush him, because inside he was a good-hearted, innocent boy.

  Mother was wrong. All men weren’t jerks like dad, walking out one day, never to return. Xerxes would never leave. It was written in his face, in his puppy-dog eyes. So it fell to her to take responsibility before it was late.

  A chain kept the gate to Respect Village closed to motor traffic, but she swung one leg over the low fence with ease. Not until halfway around the block did footsteps come rushing up in the dark. Damn. She’s almost broken away clean.

  “Dez! Dez, where are you going?”

  A bus stop offered shelter from the rain, so she stepped beneath it. Gaudy posters advertised summer music festivals and microbrews.

  Xerxes crashed to a halt, joining her under the shelter. Wide, hurt eyes took in the backpack, her leaving the cottage. “Dez, what is this? What did I do?”

  The poor guy, as naive as his puppies. Her chest tightened. “You didn’t do anything, Xerxes. You’re a warm, wonderful guy.”

  He dropped to his knees before her. Hands reached for hers, squeezed. “I thought we found something. So why? Why are you running away?”

  Ugh. How to explain? Her gaze fell on the microbrew ad, a group of four college-age models, healthy and happy, enjoying their beer. Four college-age humans.

  “Dez.” He stroked her fingers. His touch was surprisingly warm and silky touch against her knuckles.

  Oh god, just look at him and get it over with. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Yes—yes it was. Her chest heaved, tongue struggling for words. “Have you ever heard the expression, if you love something, let it go?”

  He jaw dropped, astonished. “That is a cliché.”

  “Maybe! Look, babe. I have to do this.”

  “Do what? What are you doing?”

  “Turning myself in.”

  His eyes bugged out, disbelief veining his neck. “What? That’s crazy, girl.”

  “No it’s sly, like a fox. Will you at least hear me out?”

  His hands never let hers go. “Always.”

  “The way I see it, there’s three roads before me. One, run off with you and live as a rogue vampire, hiding underground and feeding on animal blood. It’s no life for anyone, least of all you.”

  “I don’t care! We don’t have to hide. I’ll get a job, work in the day while you sleep.” His voice strained with need, eager to sell his fantasy. “I was thinking, we can rent a cottage in Salem with a big basement. Sunproof it. You’ll be safe.”

  Damn his eyes, that sounded tempting. But no, she’d awoken with clarity. Her purpose remained, unshakable. “I’m not doing that to you. You deserve someone who can love you, give you children. I’m—not even human anymore.”

  “It’s curable.” His fingers clutched her as if clutching for straws. “We’ll find a way. Talk to a priest, an exorcist. Whatever it takes.”

  Her head shook at once. “There’s no cure for vampirism, none. It’s undeath, babe. I’m already dead. Trust me, I spent years in the Braden library, reading, studying the lore, looking for a way out. But undeath is a one-way ticket to the other side. You can’t go home again.”

  “These other options?” His head bent, finding her shoulder.

  She stroked his short, bristly hair. “The second option is to run back to my clan and claim you as my blood-thrall.”

  “Blood-thrall? What is that?”

  “A human sworn to love and serve a vampire, with body and blood, heart and mind.”

  Hope lit up his face and made his eyes sparkle. “Let’s do that.”

  She shouldn’t have mentioned it. Her hand squeezed his shoulder. “No, babe, that’s even worse than running off together. It’s beyond immoral. It will weaken you over time, reduce you to a shell of your former self—or drive you away in despair. It’s no life for someone as strong and vital as you.”

  A stubborn set came into his jaw. “That’s two options. What’s number three?”

  “Turning myself in to Detective Zenkowski. I found his card on the floor, you must have dropped it during the—festivities.”

  He blinked in stunned disbelief—followed by vehement protests. “Turn yourself in? Dez, that’s a terrible idea. You talked me out of it before. The same goes for you. You’ve done nothing. Please reconsider.”

  “I did do something; I was there. Accessory to murder or whatever they want to charge me with.” She stroked his hair.

  “And what about the sun?”

  “Remember the magic gem I mentioned during our walk?”

  “The nanorian, yes?”

  “Ursula has to give me my stone back.”

  “Why?”

  “Otherwise, I’ll suffer ‘spontaneous human combustion.’ A pile of dust where a prisoner used to be is not a good look for the clans. They’re nuts about keep
ing the Underworld hidden from view.” Her smile tightened; that was at best a guess. This was winging it big-time, but if that’s what it took to win his freedom, it was worth it.

  Her babe—and he was her babe, and always would be—hung his head. It took a while before he answered. “Promise me one thing.”

  She touched his shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “Go in with a lawyer.”

  “I’m not trying to make a deal. I want them to punish me.”

  “You don’t understand! Every cop I know tells me off the record never talk to a detective without an attorney. Ever. Innocent or guilty, rich or poor, you don’t do it.”

  Strange sentiment from a firefighter! “Why not?”

  “Too many things can go wrong. One misstatement or inconsistency and the prosecutor might pin the whole murder on you. Especially if they can’t find that Cherise person. They might lock you up until I’m an old man shuffling around.” He groaned, putting his head in her lap, across her dirty jeans.

  Damn, damn, damn. This is why she’d snuck out. That, and the deadly rays of the sun. She stroked his powerful neck. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “I’ll talk to a lawyer.”

  Disbelief colored his face. “Right now?”

  “Right now.” She pointed at a Sinclair station kitty-corner to the bus-stop. “Do you have any quarters? There’s a phone booth over there, maybe the last one in Portland. But I’ll make a call.”

  In the end, she called the Braden’s lawyer in Selkie Bay. The card was wedged in the back of her wallet, handed to her by Colin years ago and forgotten. Their lawyer answered right away despite the ungodly hour, advising them to sit tight until someone could pick them up.

  They waited in the bus stop, holding hands but saying little. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say.

  Periodically, he still tried, the anguish in his voice undisguised. “Wasn’t it any good?”

  Didn’t he know? She kissed his knuckles. “Babe, it was the best.”

  “I’ll wait for you. However long it takes, I’ll wait.”

  “Not for me. I’m not worth it.”

  “Love … is love, Dez. I’ve never known it before. Don’t take it away.”

  How tempting that sounded, to escape into his arms, forever. “It’s killing me too, but I have to do it. You understand, don’t you?”

  “My brain understands. My heart does not.”

  Their hand-holding turned into long, lingering looks, trading understanding. They jumped to their feet in one motion before falling into each other’s arms. Their lips met and locked together, sharing a kiss that endured and endured. The world around them vanished. There was nothing but the breeze in her hair, his arms on her waist, his lips against her kiss. It transported them, sent her skyward before the full moon.

  It took a police bullhorn to bring them back. “You in the black jacket. Step away from the woman and turn toward the sound of my voice, slowly. Good, now put your hands in the air.”

  Oh, hell. This was not good. She broke the kiss, peering around his shoulder.

  A pair of squad cars had pulled up twenty yards away, noses pointed toward the bus shelter. The cruiser doors were open. Four uniformed police officers sheltered behind the steel doors, leveling automatic pistols at them.

  She stepped away from him, their eyes still locked on each other, following each instruction as it came across the bullhorn: On your knees. Hands behind your head. Now get on the ground. Face down.

  They slapped cuffs on Xerxes first. Two officers helped him to his feet, led him toward a patrol car.

  The reality of the situation hit her. Her clan had shifted the blame to Xerxes even without a mesmerized confession. No—no—no! She squirmed on the ground, not daring to get up, to start a fight with these cops. They would get hurt. “Xerxes! I’ll get you out! I promise!”

  He twisted his neck over one shoulder. “Dez! I love you!”

  One officer forced Xerk’s head forward again then both were shoving him into the back of the patrol car. All the doors shut.

  “Xerxes! Dammit!”

  The patrol car rolled off.

  A heavy knee landed on her back, pinning her with underworld strength. Strong cuffs locked onto her wrists, immobilizing them. This metal burned! Hot as fire, it singed her flesh, scalding. Skin sizzled and the tiny hairs on her wrist burned away.

  “Don’t struggle or the silver will burn you worse.” The voice sounded cultured and familiar. She twisted her head back to see.

  A bald man in a black suit with black sunglasses hauled her to her feet, propelling her toward an unmarked sedan. Though he wore a Homeland Security badge, he was no Fed—and needed no introduction. This close, the gentle thub-thub, thub-thub of his nanorian entered her ears through spirit-senses. “Mabon Conreal.”

  “The great and powerful,” he said, shoving her into the back seat of a beige Taurus. A wire cage separated the driver from passenger. “But I’d appreciate it if around the troops you called me Agent Gideon. It’s so important to keep up appearances in front of the sheep.”

  The doors looked strong enough but no match for underworld strength. One kick ought to free her. Better to find out what just happened, first. “Let Xerxes go. He’s innocent.”

  “On the contrary,” Mabon said, starting the car and pulling out onto the street. “He’s an awful, dangerous man. The papers will label him a monster. He’s responsible for as many as a dozen murders from Vancouver to California.”

  “That’s a lie! That’s a goddamned lie!”

  “Juries love DNA evidence, but it’s so easy to plant from the inside. Imagine that!”

  The sickos! She felt ill. “They have chains of custody!”

  “My talent is the Enthralling Eye, or have you forgotten already?”

  Damn. She sat back in her seat, biding her time. The best place to kick out the door and run for it would be closer to downtown. She needed sewer access. It would be dawn soon.

  “Don’t try it,” Mabon said. The sunglasses studied her in the rearview mirror. “This is a special car, built to my specifications. Ensorcelled silver mesh in the doors and seat cushions. Concentrate and you’ll sense it. You can no more break out of here than could a normal human from a steel cage.”

  She reached out with her enhances perception. The enchanted silver crackled audibly in her spirit-senses. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Home.”

  “I don’t have a home!”

  “Armando disagrees.”

  She slammed her head against the right-side, rear window. The glass crushed and split—but the steel mesh, reinforced with strands of supernatural silver, held fast.

  Mabon swore and yanked a spray canister out of the glove box. “Why don’t they ever believe me? They always have to break a window.” He pointed the canister through the mesh grid and pulled the trigger. Billows of white gas hit with the force of a fire extinguisher.

  Coughing, sputtering, she fought against the blinding, tearing concoction. It tasted of garlic, pepper spray, wolfsbane, and other potencies. The mixture left her weak and nauseous, almost dry-heaving. The enormity of her error, her folly slugged her like a baseball bat in the gut. Of what she’d done to Xerxes. Turning herself in. The sheer stupidity of it.

  God, oh god.

  Chapter 12: Portland Homicide

  Xerxes

  Jail didn’t frighten him.

  He sat in the back of the patrol car, calm and unresisting. He could handle himself. Nothing to worry about there.

  But the coldness and silence of these arresting officers was worrisome. They weren’t from the local station, so he didn’t recognize them.

  He demanded a lawyer. They told him to shut up. He wanted to know what the charges were. The sergeant again told him to be quiet. He begged to speak to Detective Zenkowski.

  The sergeant turned around and raised his nightstick. If Xerxes didn’t cooperate, the club suggested, the sergeant wouldn’t mind givi
ng him a little lesson in resisting arrest. The anger and hate in the men’s eyes were beyond him.

  Reality struck him a couple miles later. They thought he was a cold-blooded thrill killer. They wanted a piece of him. They were daring him to resist.

  He simmered down, sinking back into the cushions. This whole experience felt so surreal, but somehow anger won out over fear, taking root first.

  Dez. This was her fault.

  Until now, he’d trusted her judgment without question. Everything she’d said had proven true. Vampires, werewolves, the clans—all of it. His Amazing Woman. His lover. They belonged together.

  But calling her lawyer, surrendering to the cops for something she didn’t do, it was the stupidest thing ever.

  What was wrong with her? Didn’t she want to build a life together? So what if it was on the run? He’d carry her coffin onto a Greyhound bus if that’s what it took. So long as they stayed together, the world outside didn’t matter. Why couldn’t she understand?

  At the same time, her choice made sense to his rational, logical mind. It was the moral thing to do. She’d played her part in Oil-Can’s death. She’d gone hunting instead of refusing her sire’s command. A man died as a result. Justice must grind forward.

  Still, he’d rather break a thousand laws rather than lose her to prison. He’d live the rest of his life in filthy sewers if that’s what it took. She must feel the same. But her morality won out, proving she was the better person. He hung his head, fighting against hopelessness. He needed to win her back, somehow. Get them both off the hook. If only he could think. But it was no use.

  The cops kept his cuffs on during the mug shot and the fingerprinting. Three immense officers, the biggest on the shift, escorted him from station to station. They took his property, made him change out of his clothes into a blue jumpsuit.