My hands tightened so hard into fists that my nails dug furrows in my palms. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. Almost three hundred years ago the Round Table and the vampires had signed a treaty ending the Second Vampire War. Part of that agreement had been the outlawing of such widespread feeding except in certain designated vampire territories. There were millions of people who lived with the very real threat of being turned into a meal for the vampires, and that wasn’t enough for the undead sons of bitches. They wanted more. They wanted my home.
That wasn’t happening. Not on my watch.
All I knew about Flavian were rumors that had filtered down to me throughout the years, and Rob had filled in a few gaps on the drive across the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The vampire who’d taken to calling himself “ambassador” had been trying to establish himself as the mediator in the conflict between the official vampire forces and the Table. His followers called themselves the peaceful vampires. He expected us to believe that he wasn’t interested in a world where vampires were the dominant species and that he wanted to promote peaceful coexistence between humans and vampires. Yeah, right. I’d sooner believe that a lion had converted to veganism.
Rob and I belted our swords around our waists. Rob’s was a longsword, fully four feet long but with a narrower blade than mine. I checked the captain’s badge on my collar. Then, we strode down the sidewalk towards the metal doors of the warehouse.
We passed in front of a long-abandoned coffeehouse. The sign called it the “Javascript ‘Spress.” Two people stepped out of the grungy interior. Both of them were filthy, skinny, and nearly sexless. They both wore baggy clothes, had limp hair and yellow teeth and vacant eyes.
One of them—I was pretty sure she was a girl of maybe seventeen—stepped forward and held her hand out in a stop gesture. Clumsily, she pulled a snub-nosed revolver from the waistband of her jeans.
“Whatcha want?” Her speech was as slow and awkward as her motions.
I eyed the gun for a moment. The barrel moved back and forth with jerky, birdlike motions. She’d be more likely to send a bullet harmlessly past my ear than she’d be to hit me. The other kid, an even younger boy, was similarly fidgety. Not thralls, then—they lacked the otherworldly focus. These two were volunteers.
Rob’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. I put my hand on the jeweled pommel of mine. Neither of us drew.
“Do you know what this is?” I asked.
“T’sha a shord.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s a sword. A magic sword. I just need to talk to your boss. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
Dirty Harriet’s eyes danced with the electricity of somebody on a heroin rush. She didn’t lower her gun. I kept my hand firmly on my hilt. Not that it would matter if she decided to shoot.
“Wait,” the boy said. “I think he’s the guy.” He tapped the medal on my chest.
“Oh.” Dirty Harriet squinted and leaned forward. “Why din’tya say so? Guy with a shord and a big C on his chest. We’re s’posed to let you in to see the boss.”
She signaled to the boy, who led us down the street towards the warehouse. The kid staggered and stumbled as he walked. If I didn’t know better I would have thought he was drunk.
The boy—Dirty Harriet, too—had been dosed with vampire venom. Vampires have a gland connected to their fangs that produces a kind of thick, clear liquid. Enough of a dose—enough to replace a third or more of the blood—turns a human into a vampire. In smaller quantities have a warming, numbing effect. They say it makes sex even more incredible. But like any drug it has its downsides: Over time, unless the recipient gets turned into a vamp, the venom slows down reflexes and fries brain function. They become totally dependent on a vampire to provide them with their next hit. Which, of course, is exactly what the vamps are going for. Junkies obviously aren’t as effective soldiers as thralls, but they have their uses. As watchdogs, for instance. Still, it was strange that Flavian would leave himself unguarded except for a couple of junkies during a time of war. Sloppy.
The junkie pushed open a sliding door. Light spilled into a darkened warehouse. “Boss,” the kid called, “that guy’s here.” He made an after you gesture. When Rob and I were inside the building, he closed the door behind us, leaving us alone in the dark.
For a moment, everything was silent. Somewhere in the warehouse, an old faucet dripped. I could smell mold and old motor oil, garbage and rotting meat. Permeating it all was the unmistakeable, metallic tang of blood. Definitely the right place then.
Slowly, like an approaching cloud of cicadas, things began to hiss. It started quietly, before growing to a thunderous, eerily angry noise. Each individual voice was low in volume, but there were clearly a lot of them, and they were coming from all around us. I took an involuntary step backwards. My ass bumped into the metal door.
I swallowed hard, tried not to think about how much this reminded me of the facility in Guyana, and said, “My name is Captain Dave Carver of the Knights of the Round Table. I’m here to speak with the ambassador.”
I’ve spent a lot of time in places like the vampire nest, and while I wouldn’t say I’m not afraid of them anymore, I have gotten used to them. My eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, and I could make out a half dozen vampires standing or crouching in a circle around Rob and me. Five or six more hung back, like wild dogs at the periphery of the pack, not yet ready to join the spook show.
Rob’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. I shook my head.
“Not yet,” I whispered.
At that, the lights went on. The floor of the warehouse was completely open—no boxes or storage shelves of any kind. A dozen-plus vampires glared at me, most not bothering with human disguises. Venom dripped from a dozen open, sharp-toothed mouths. Black eyes stared with disgust.
My hand ached for my sword. I was scared, not afraid to admit it. More than that, I was angry. I wanted to draw some vampire blood, to replace the blood I’d lost in Guyana. Any threatening action here—even just brushing the hilt of my sword—could be disastrous. There were a lot of them and it would take some time to get the line of retreat open. If it came to a fight, Rob and I would be killed.
“A wise decision, Captain Carver,” a voice called from the back of the warehouse. “No one here intends you any harm.”
I swallowed and said, “You sure about that? ‘Cause I’m looking at some pretty harmful-intending faces.”
The voice chuckled, a strangely warm sound. “Friends, the good knights are our guests. They shall not be harmed.”
All at once the vampires stood down. The tension evaporated and the fanged faces sauntered off to rest on pillows or sleeping bags, watching with interest.
At the back of the warehouse, a squeaky door opened, and a man emerged from the foreman’s office. He strode across the floor, greeting a few of the vampires as he passed. When he got to the front of the floor, he bowed deeply and respectfully to me.
“Captain, I am Flavian. It’s an honor to meet you.”
The vampire ambassador was not what I expected. He was tall, pale, and handsome, as vampires typically are, at least when disguised. His face was narrow and his cheekbones were like glaciers. His slivery hair, which was combed straight back from his face, seemed to shine in the electric lights. Dark eyes were set deep in the center of his face. He reminded me of a college professor. But what was really strange was the way Flavian carried himself. Vampires don’t stride across a floor—they stalk into a room like a panther. Flavian didn’t seem particularly inclined to rip out my throat. He seemed genuinely respectful. Weird.
There weren’t a lot of things that could scare me just by walking into a room, but Ambassador Flavian was apparently one of them.
“I was sorry to hear of the death of your predecessor,” he said.
I nodded. “Likewise.” Somewhere in the back, a vampire hissed softly. “Which actually brings us to why we’re here. You wouldn’t know anything about the death of Jack McCreary, wo
uld you?”
Flavian’s eyes glittered. “Why, Captain, it almost sounds as if you are accusing me of something.”
“You have to admit, McCreary’s death was beneficial to the vampire cause.”
“Need I remind you, Captain, that I am not associated with the elders?” Flavian was making an effort to slow his voice now. “They are the ones you need to fear. My people have no quarrel with yours.”
“Of course,” I said. “But humor me for a moment. Do you know who killed him?”
His eyes narrowed and his upper lip visibly trembled with anger. Damn, this guy deserved an Oscar. “I don’t know who killed Captain McCreary. If I did I would tell you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, making it plain that I didn’t believe him. “You know a vampire named Roberto?”
“I’m afraid not.”
We stood like that for a moment, Flavian staring at me, me staring at a spot on his forehead just above his eyes. Neither of us said anything, each just waited to see if the other would move or speak.
Finally, I clapped my hands together once. “Okay, then. We’ll be on our way. So nice to meet you, Ambassador.”
Flavian nodded to the junkie boy, who’d apparently entered the warehouse at some point. He rolled the door open. As light filtered in, vampires leapt to their feet and scurried away like cockroaches, retreating into the relative safety of the deeper shadows.
“One last thing, Captain,” Flavian said as Rob and I backed towards the sidewalk. “If you ever come into my home again and accuse me of murder, I’ll not be so polite.”
“Ambassador,” I said, “if I find out that you’re responsible for McCreary’s death, neither will I. And I don’t make empty threats.”
Flavian smiled. It may have been a trick of the light, but his teeth seemed to grow and sharpen. “Nor do I, Captain. Nor do I.”
Rob and I left the warehouse, keeping our eyes on the vampires until we were fully embraced by the warmth of the sun. The junkie closed the door and headed back towards his coffeehouse, presumably to take another hit of vamp venom. We were silent until we were back in the Mustang and cruising away.
“What do you think?” Rob asked. “Did he kill Jack?”
It took me a moment to calm my screaming emotions. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the scent of blood from my brain. It reminded me way too much of Guyana. “No,” I finally said, “but he’s lying about something. I think he knows more than he’s saying.”
Rob was thoughtful as he merged onto the Expressway. “So now what?”
I laughed. “Hell if I know, man. I guess we go back to the office and start investigating.”
Chapter 9
Real detective work, I was discovering, was a hell of a lot harder than television made it appear. I needed to find out who killed Jack McCreary, and I had no freakin’ idea where to start. The enormity of the task stretched out before me, twisting and gaping like a canyon.
So, forty-five minutes after leaving Flavian’s warehouse, I convened my first team meeting.
Off of the main bullpen in the Table’s office, there was a room I hadn’t noticed before. It was separated by a glass wall and covered with horizontal blinds. According to Madison, the researcher/receptionist, the room didn’t have an official name, but everybody called it the “round table room.”
Every regional office in the organization had a piece of furniture that was modeled after the original table, the one that had given us our name. The giant piece of oak, ten feet in diameter and carved into a perfect circle, was crammed into a tiny square room. With a dozen chairs arranged around it, their backs pressing up right against the walls, getting into the furthest corners was an interesting experience. But it was impossible not to feel cool sitting at this table. It wasn’t the original, obviously, but it was an exact replica of the round table, the one that had been made by Merlin. The one that had sat Arthur, Lancelot, Gawain, Galahad, and Guinevere. It was like a baseball player getting the chance to swing a bat that had belonged to Babe Ruth.
Once everyone was seated, I folded my hands in front of me in what I hoped was a wise, leaderly manner, and said, “So who has an idea of where to start?”
Nobody spoke.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “I’m really asking. New York’s my home, but I haven’t been here in almost ten years and I don’t know the supernatural community the way you guys do. And I’m really knew at this whole investigation thing.”
Madison raised her hand, exactly like a schoolgirl, toying with the end of her pink hair, nervous that she needed to ask a question. “Uh, Captain McCreary never asked us what to do. He just told us.” I saw Earl nod in agreement. Kim’s and Rob’s faces stayed cold and impassive.
“I’m not Jack McCreary,” I said. “By the time most of you guys met him, I’m betting he’d been in the business for twenty years or more. He already knew what he was doing. I need some help, folks. Brainstorming time. No such thing as a bad idea. Let’s go.”
Kim Larsen spoke up, after a long silence, saving me from the embarrassment of my first meeting falling on its face. “We should probably speak to the neighbors around here. It’s a quiet neighborhood, but there’s usually someone around in these buildings. Someone might have seen something.”
I nodded. “Good idea. What else?”
Earl looked at Rob. “What about Dallas? He’s usually got a good ear to the ground. Maybe he heard something.”
The older knight shrugged. “He’s still pretty pissed at me about that thing in Tribeca last year. Maybe he’d talk to you, but I can’t be sure. It’s hard to tell with that wizard. He’s easy to make mad.”
“Uh...” Krissy said as if she wasn’t sure she should be speaking at this meeting. I motioned for her to go ahead. “What about the cops? Like, the regular cops. They’re probably trying to figure out what happened, right. I mean, maybe we can help each other.”
“Anybody have a source in the NYPD?”
Earl shook his head. “Captain McCreary always said the mortal cops weren’t worth the tin they used to make their badges.”
I snorted. That was such an old-school Round Table attitude. “They usually know less than a newborn troll, I’ll admit that, but they’re not stupid. They’re not clued in to the supernatural world usually, but they know when something isn’t right.” I shook my head. “But if nobody’s got a contact, we’ll have to back-burner that for now. Good idea, though, Krissy.”
She beamed, obviously proud to have contributed to her first meeting.
“Okay,” I continued, “what’s next?”
We came up with a three-pronged plan of action that I thought would be effective.
Prong one: Kim Larsen would go knock on doors around the office, asking the neighbors if they’d seen anything the day that McCreary had died. She looked motherly, almost grandmotherly, so I figured she’d be better at wheedling information out of nervous straights than anybody else in the office.
Rob Haney had been in the New York office longer than anybody, now that McCreary was gone. He had more contacts than anybody else. So prong two of the plan was for him to head uptown to talk to the patrons of a bar he knew that was popular with former vampire venom junkies.
Prong three: Earl would take Krissy and me into the city proper to talk to this guy, Dallas, the guy who apparently kept his ear to the ground and was quick to anger and who everyone agreed probably knew something.
I walked out of the round table room feeling confident. I’d organized my team quickly and efficiently. For the first time since Guyana I felt like I was doing something right.
In my time with the Knights of the Round Table I’ve seen things that are amazing. I’ve walked the underwater streets of Atlantis, ridden a ghost ship through a hurricane, spoken with spirits, and killed creatures out of nightmares. That late morning, though, I witnessed something that put all of them to shame.
Lieutenant Elmore “Earl” James got us from Queens into Manhattan in less than fifteen minutes.
“This guy we’re going to see can be a little intense, sir,” he said. “He runs a magic shop.”
“A magic shop.” I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but I guess I didn’t quite succeed.
“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but he’s the real deal. A wizard. He just uses the shop to make money.”
“I guess even wizardry can’t compete with capitalism,” I said. “He’s good?”
“Rob says he’s the best. Most of the magicians in the tristate use him for their supplies. Anyway, he’s a good person for you to know, sir. He’s got almost as many supe contacts as Rob does, and some of them are in places where the Table generally doesn’t go. He’s legit, though—Magic Council member and stuff. He’s a good guy.”
“Rob didn’t seem to think he’s such a good guy,” I said, remembering the grimace that had crossed the older knight’s face when Dallas’s name came up.
Earl laughed. “That’s just ‘cause last year they were both trying to fu—” He seemed to spot Krissy in the rearview mirror then. “Hook up with this elf chick at the Tribeca festival.”
“Who won?” Krissy asked.
“Rob never told me, so I guess that’s your answer. Anyways, it’s not like he doesn’t like the Table, sir, he just doesn’t get along with Rob. He’ll help us if he can.”
Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood Page 6
