by Alix Adale
No, jail wouldn’t be a problem. A bodybuilder? Come on. But his size might also, paradoxically, make him a target. A tough street brawler looking to establish himself on the inside might pick him out as the biggest guy in the room. The punk would try to score points with the other felons by taking him down.
It never happened. Instead, the cops stuck him in an isolated holding cell for half an hour before dragging him off to another part of the building. By then hunger rumbled in his belly and he needed to take a piss, but they ignored his pleas, remaining mute and cold. The first sliver of dawn showed through the windows.
As they walked through an office full of detectives and plainclothes officers, all work stopped. People stood up from their desks and stared. Phone conversations paused. A few pointed and murmured. He heard the word ‘serial killer.’
What? Only Oil-Can Mike died, right? Or was Desiree’s clan involved in some wanton killing spree? No, he couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t believe it. But the doubts crept in.
Detective Zenkowski stood with the other cops, glaring.
“Zen!” He grabbed at straws. “Zen, I didn’t do this! It’s lies! Help me!”
Zenkowski turned away, his face a mask of disgust.
The uniforms marched him into an interrogation room and dropped him into an orange plastic chair. Nobody offered him water or anything to eat. For a quarter hour, he sat in the room, alone.
This was far worse than not getting the firefighter job. Worse than his parent’s divorce or his father’s fatal heart attack. There had to be some way out of this mess. But it was like Fire & Rescue’s written test all over again. His brain froze up under pressure and he couldn’t think.
The door opened and a bald, smiling man in a crisp black suit slipped into the chair opposite. The fluorescents gave the newcomer’s pale head an unhealthy sheen and the black sunglasses a menacing if somewhat ridiculous air. Who wears sunglasses indoors? The detectives must be filming the room. Did this guy think he was intimidating? It would look ridiculous in court.
The man swept his sunglasses off, still grinning. His eyes looked eerie, almost silver. “Good morning. I’m Agent Gideon with Homeland Security. Mister … Xerxes Pontides, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
He left his head flat against the table. “There’s something wrong with your eyes.”
“I assure you they’re normal. Can you tell me why you’re here?”
With reluctance, he sat up in the chair. There. “I don’t know. I want an attorney.”
“Has anyone read you your rights?”
“No. Read them to me then get me an attorney.”
Agent Gideon pulled out a small Miranda Warning card out of his pocket. “You have the right to remain silent.” Abruptly, he cut off. “Wait, you don’t.” He tore the card into little pieces, dropped them on the table. “Let’s try that again.”
What was this guy’s game? That wasn’t a legal Miranda Rights warning.
The strange man took out another card, again reading. “ ‘Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law.’ That’s true, plus a lot of things you didn’t do or say, but which we’ll prove you did. ‘You have the right to an attorney.’ Oh, sorry about that.” Again, he tore the card into a dozen tiny pieces. “No lawyer for you.”
Xerxes scowled. “That’s bullshit, you asshole.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before Agent Gideon flew across the table, grabbed him by the head, and slammed it against the back of the wall. Xerk tumbled over backward, chair and all, sputtering. The agent landed on his chest, pinning him with impossible strength.
The man’s face twisted in rage and the fangs curled out his lips. Iron fingers seized the lapels of his jail jumpsuit, the fingernails turning into aged talons on twisted goblin fingers. Vessels bulged red across a scaled visage as the sclera turned black. “Yes, human! It’s all bullshit! Savor that as you rot away on death row, a dozen Underworld murders to your name.”
Xerk’s world had narrowed, grown more dark. The odds of ever seeing Desiree, of breathing free air, of ever enjoying his mom’s pancakes again were dwindling fast. He twisted his head to one side. “Why are you doing this? Why me?”
“Bad luck,” hissed the creature. “You’re too close to the secret fires. And you got burned.”
The unfairness of it all. The hideous, monstrous viciousness of the situation. That the vampires would do this didn’t surprise him. But that Dez had—had led him astray. Abandoned him. Separated from him and out of her ignorance, allowed this to happen. “A dozen murders? I never killed anyone. You can’t prove it.”
The creature hung in his face, breathing down from mere inches away. The vampire’s eyes shimmered, the silver growing more intense. The pupils flickered and pulsed. At first, it was bizarre, but after a minute the strangely pulsing eyes left him loose and relaxed.
When he’d shared the blood-link with Desiree in the zoo, her nearness surrounded him, healing him with something supernatural. A weird thing was happening again, a connection between him and this fiend squatting on his chest. But this was no bond of blood and love. This was the other man’s will, boring into his and dominating his own. It warped and shaped his mind.
“You’re guilty,” Agent Gideon whispered. “Confess. You’re guilty. Confess. Confess.”
Guilty—yes, he was. Better to confess now than let those poor families suffer. They wanted to know who killed their loved ones, why it had happened. They needed closure, they needed peace…
Agent Gideon told him. Agent Gideon wanted to lift that burden, that guilt. If he confessed, it would be over. The horror, the nightmare, could end. Reality ebbed away. The fire station, Suarez, the Dalmatians—all of it fizzled like the fragments of a dream. Desiree’s face faded.
No! With the last shards of stubborn reason, he fixed her in his mind. Her tan features; the tiny, upturned nose; the large brown eyes like warm coffee—that was genuine. Not this. Not these lies.
Yet in your arms, the night is magic.
Yes! That was reality. He would not lose to this creature. Rage powered him. He snapped his neck forward, head-butting the monster with as much force as he could muster. Their skulls cracked together like fists. It was like ramming his head against a concrete wall. The blow left him reeling, woozy.
But Agent Gideon also howled with rage, grabbing his forehead and rocking back on his heels. The table overturned, followed by a chair. Blood flowed from the freak’s bashed-in nose.
Two plainclothes detectives flung the door open and poured into the room. “What happened?” Zenkowski demanded. The second detective drew a pistol.
Agent Gideon scrambled to his feet, keeping his back to the other men. By the time he turned around, his humanity had returned. The demonic nails had vanished; the hypnotic eyes had reverted to an ordinary, everyday blue. “A mild disagreement,” Gideon said in a calm voice, straightening his necktie. “Though I believe you’ll find that Mr. Pontides is in need of a psychiatric evaluation. His delusions are curious and profound.”
The homicide cop gave Gideon a dubious scowl. “You should have been recording the interview and had another detective in the room or watching. That’s standard procedure.”
No kidding! Zen had to see through this farce, this masquerade orchestrated by creatures of darkness. Xerk faced him. “He’s a vampire, Zen! Believe me! Look at his eyes, they’re silver! Silver! And he has fangs! Open his mouth and look!”
Zen stared in disbelief. “I’ll order up a psychiatric. He’s plumb loco.”
In retrospect, as a white-uniformed psychiatric nurse shoved a tranquilizing needle into his arm, he should have remained silent. As the room went dark and his eyes fell shut, he tried to remember her face—her face—his lover’s face—but he could not even remember her name.
Chapter 13: Underground Again
Desiree
She cowered in the back seat of the unmarked prowler as dawn crept in
the rear window. The sun was an all-powerful, all-consuming force now, ready to burn up sinners. Like her.
Mabon’s police car rolled across Steel Bridge, joining the flow of traffic downtown. Steel and glass towers loomed all around, throwing long shadows across the street.
When she’d woken up, maybe an hour after Mabon gassed her, she found herself alone in the back of his car, parked in some shadowy underground garage, unattended. Spotting an opportunity to escape, she kicked out more windows but the ensorcelled mesh held fast. Her underworld strength proved useless against it.
Shortly after, Mabon had slid back into the front seat. A heavy cotton bandage covered his nose.
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. She grinned. “What’s with the clown nose?”
“Your boyfriend is a stubborn fool.”
Go Xerxes! Good. This bastard deserved it, as uncharitable a thought as that was.
“Don’t worry,” Mabon said. “He’ll yield in the end. They always do.”
Now the car left downtown traffic behind, ascending into the West Portland Hills. She twisted in the seat, the better to get a view out the front window. The Renaissance towers of Eibon Manor jutted up above the trees.
No, not there. How could she help Xerxes if he was in county lockup and she was back in the clutches of her clan? “Why are you taking me there? I belong in the woman’s jail.”
“What manner of justice can creatures like us find within the mortal realm? We answer to a higher power—Queen Ursula.”
No, no. This wasn’t the plan. She groaned. “Why did my lawyer betray me?”
“What makes you think she did?”
“If she didn’t, then who did?”
He shot a disdainful look at her in the rearview mirror. “Does it matter? There are factions, players in this game beyond your level of understanding.” His attention snapped back to the road, continuing in a softer tone. “Don’t beat yourself up about getting caught. You have no experience turning rogue. You would have screwed up sooner or later, used the wrong credit card, called the wrong person. We would have found you in time. The Underworld bounty system is effective and some of these lycans, they can track for miles. Once a Dagon, always a Dagon.”
Yeah, whatever. She curled up on the back seat, cowering from the growing daylight. Xerk faced serious jail time while her own future—well, she might not even have one. What would the Queen do to her now? At least Xerxes faced a court system. The Queen’s rule was absolute within Dagon, encompassing the powers of life, death, and undeath. Even Armando couldn’t prevent a sentence of destruction.
“Desiree?”
Strange, but Mabon sounded thoughtful. “What?”
“Why did Armando turn you?”
“If you find out, let me know.”
The car passed through the gates of Eibon Manor and threaded the formal gardens along a cart-path, rolling to a halt in front of the mausoleum park. Mabon parked, got out, and came around to unlock the side door. Three men stood before the Bradens’ visitation tomb. As the car parked, all three—Colin, George, and Armando—walked up. Mabon helped her out of the back seat and unlocked her cuffs. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like what?” Defeat stared her in the face. She was on the grounds of Eibon Manor, surrounded by security, her clan-mates, and other vampires. Her futile rebellion had fizzled. Even the ambient, pre-dawn glow left her weak and nauseous. Combined with the after-effects of the garlic spray, it left her dizzy. Her knees buckled.
The Bradens came forward. George and Colin each took an arm. Armando draped his cape over her head, sheltering her from the sun beneath rune-stitched folds. They led her down into the mausoleum.
Great. Can’t even manage to crawl back into the tomb. The failure had returned to the nest. What was the use?
Beneath the layered earth, sipping a warm mug of tomato-blood juice, she recovered. Colin prepared it, ever-solicitous. The others sat on divans, observing her. Armando’s cape covered her shoulders, serving as a blanket. But he glared her way with such ferocious anguish, it made her fresh nourishment taste like bile.
What was he so angry about? She could guess. By running out on him, she’d betrayed him and the clan, turning her back on her sire and his crimson gift. Even stranger, Armando traded furious looks with George. The grizzled elder glared right back, stalking around the room. Maybe George was on her side for a change. That would be unexpected but welcome. Cherise wasn’t around, no doubt recovering from the Queen’s hammer-blow. Good. No sympathy wasted in that direction.
Mabon’s presence increased the tension. He’d come down into the lair, but stayed aloof, texting. Nobody said a word, as if reluctant to speak in front of the Queen’s Chancellor.
She drained her mug of blood and V8, needing more. She’d gone too long without the life-giver, her last true meal a blood-pack provided by Tricky at the zoo. It wasn’t enough. Anemia left her light-headed, weak, maybe even contributed to her foolish decisions, like trying to surrender. “More. Please.”
Colin came over with the pitcher, refilled her glass. “Why’d you do it, lass? Why’d you run off?”
She drank fast, guzzling the tomato juice and its extra ingredient. It hit the spot, warmed her insides. God, how stupid she’d been. “Colin, you already know.”
“Try me.”
“I can’t drink blood and I can’t not drink it. I sleep all day then I sleep all night, too. I’m afraid of the dark but now, without my nanorian, I can’t even walk in the sun. I’m not doing it right, Colin. This vampire thing. It’s not for me, ya’ know?”
Pity showed on his round, good-natured face and he refilled her mug a third time. But Colin couldn’t cure her vampirism, no one and nothing could.
All a sudden, George kicked the wall with such violence everyone in the room froze. His voice sounded like a snarl. “You’re a fuck-up, Armando.”
Everyone stared, but nobody answered.
What was bothering George? There was no reason for his outburst. The moody loner was a mystery. She wrung her hands, feared driving a wedge between the centuries-old brothers, of even breaking up the clan.
Mabon cleared his throat. “This sounds like a Braden matter. Should I step outside?”
Armando drew himself up to his full height, a powerful figure in his 19th century waistcoat and trousers. His eyes never left George, though he addressed Mabon. “Stay. Help us resolve this situation to the Queen’s satisfaction.” He addressed his last remark to George. “Then we’ll talk.”
For answer, George kicked the wall again and stalked to the ladder. He ascended in quick strokes and vanished toward the tomb above.
He’d better hurry up before dawn rose. But that wasn’t right. George had a nanorian. Everyone had a nanorian, except for her. She stared at the intricate patterns of the Persian carpet, red and gold knots and flowers running across the floor.
Armando stomped up, voice quaking. “Desiree, your actions speak louder than words. You show no loyalty. I will not compel you to stay if it is not your wish. What do you desire, my spawn?”
What did she want? Hah! She lifted her head. “I want Xerxes free. He’s innocent. I’ll claim him as a thrall if that’s what it takes. I’ll stay in the clan, do whatever you want, if only you let him go. You can’t destroy his life and throw him in prison for a bunch of vampire murders. It’s wrong.”
“You’re in no position to make bargains, let alone demands,” Armando said. But his faced turned thoughtful. He stroked his beard, considering. “How much does this firefighter know about us? Tell us everything from the night you went hunting to now.”
So she did. The three men—Armando, Colin, and Mabon Conreal—sat in a half-circle around her. For the next half-hour, she spoke, quiet at first, her voice gaining confidence with each twist and turn. She even covered the lycans in the zoo, bending the truth only once—to protect Tricky, the were-coyote who’d helped them escape. She stuck to the cover story of overpowering him and tying him up. Otherwise
, everything else was true, even making love in the homeless camp.
How would Armando take that? Would he be alarmed, angry, even jealous? She tried not to make it obvious, watching him out of the corner of her eye while retelling that part.
He never reacted. He didn’t love her anymore, if he ever did. Her sire, the immortal who turned her, who shared a perpetual bond that was supposed to be closer than marriage, than even parent and child—he didn’t give a damn.
Nobody did, nobody but Xerxes, during those brief, wonderful days. But that was done with now, too. He had to forget she even existed to protect his freedom. Solitude fell on her like a cloak, an old familiar friend.
After she finished her story, Colin’s face lit up. “You’re in love. That explains everything in my book. About bloody time, too. You’ve been down and out for far too long, Dez. Good on you, lass.”
Yeah, good on her. Except this love could not last. “So you see? I don’t want him in prison for crimes he didn’t commit! Don’t I get a say in anything?”
Armando pinched up his face, expressing displeasure at having such a knotty problem dumped in his lap. “If you’re attached to this boy, I can see why you ran off. But now he knows too much. Should I request another audience with the Queen to discuss these additional transgressions?”
Goddamn it, Armando! She wanted to jump to her feet, stalk off, to hit him, anything. Instead, she folded her arms. “What transgressions!”
“Running off and blabbing about us to this despicable fireman!”
Despicable? Come on. She flung up an arm. “He’s sweet and strong. And innocent.”
“Yes—yes. But what do you propose we do about him? We can’t have him sitting in prison, writing memoirs about his adventure with Desiree the missing coma patient.”
Good question. Her eyes drifted over toward Mabon. Maybe the mesmerist held the key. “What if Mabon used his Enthralling Eye to make Xerxes forget everything about the Underworld?”
