by J. K. Beck
“I can make him stop. The vampire I came with. He’s in the main house right now, and I doubt that your mistresses will survive the night without my intervention.”
Her thin smile was as cold as any he’d ever seen. “You’re a fool if you think they matter to me. I’m nothing but chattel to them.”
“And your own life? Do you value it so little? You put on a pretty show of bravery, but you know what I am. You know what I can do. And I’m not alone. Are you truly so foolish as to believe that whatever claim you have over the dark arts will protect you from one who has lived within that darkness for centuries? That you can protect your child? Your lover?”
He watched her face carefully as he spoke, noted the way her eyes flattened and the line of her mouth thinned. She meant to give nothing away, and yet she’d failed. His words had hit the mark, and he knew that the information for which he’d paid such a steep price had been true. Evangeline truly was the daughter of voodoo queen Marie Laveau. She had taken a lover—a Dumont house slave named Tomas. Most important of all, she had a child, a five-year-old girl who lived on the Dumont estate and was the product of a liaison between Evangeline and Carlton Dumont, the master of the house.
Serge didn’t want to kill the child, but if that was what it took to get what he came for, then the little girl would die. Not because he would will it so, but because the daemon was pushing too hard. He could feel its cold edges pressing against his mind, against his will. Sharp, like a knife-edge, and so very demanding. He’d come here to turn that knife back on the daemon itself, to lock it deep inside and give him that control. She could give him his life. And by doing so, she would save her own.
But if Evangeline refused him, he knew that he couldn’t hold it in. The daemon would explode … and no one near him would be safe.
“Tomas is not here,” she said with an arrogant lift of her chin. “Nor is my sweet Lorena.”
He could smell the lie upon her. “Do you doubt that I would do it?” he snarled, taking a step toward her. He needed her scared. Needed her willing to do what he asked. “Do you doubt that I would leave your child drained upon this very floor? That I would sink my teeth into your lover’s neck?”
Her jaw tightened. “Why should I help the likes of you? A vile creature that kills for gain and pleasure?”
A surge of anger rushed up within him, and he wanted to attack. To lash out and cut the insult out of her. But he battled it down, forcing the daemon into submission, drawing on what little strength he had in order to keep his fingers clenched tight around the fraying strands of his control. “I do not wish to be that creature.”
She snorted. “Liar.”
He took a step toward her, and her eyes went wide with victory. As if she knew that he was weak and undeserving.
“Do not condemn me to remain this way.” The words felt ripped from his throat, and he clutched the side of the butcher block, his nails cutting gouges into the hard wood.
“Condemn you? You’re already condemned. Killer,” she spat. “Destroyer.”
His fingers sought the blade that was sunk deeply into the block. They curled around the handle, and he pulled it free. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes never left him.
“A killer I am,” he admitted. “But so are you. Do you think I have not heard the stories? That all the people in Jefferson Parish are ignorant of your methods and those of your mother? You draw blood for power. You kill to satisfy your own whims and plans. You may not have fangs, Evangeline, but you do have claws, and you are not so different from me.”
“Persuasion is an art, vampire. And one in which you lack skill. You should woo me, not insult me.”
“With false niceties? We both know what we are. But beyond that, I know what I want to be.”
“I am not interested in your desires.” But he could see in her eyes that she was lying. He’d piqued her curiosity, and he pushed forward, taking advantage of that small victory.
“Hear me now, witch,” he said, then hurled the hatchet across the room. It sailed past her ear, then landed with a thunk in the wall, the blade buried to the hilt. “I want the daemon cut out of me. I want it gone.”
Her expression never changed, but he thought he saw respect in her eyes. “That is not possible. Even for one of my skill, I cannot remove that which is a part of you.”
“Yet you are skilled—if the rumors are true, you’re even more skilled than your mother.” He glanced at her face and saw that the flattery was working. “Surely you could do something.” He took another step forward. “There is blood on my hands, Evangeline. Blood that I did not wish to shed. I will take responsibility for my own actions, but these deaths are not mine to claim, and yet they haunt me. They torment me.”
“And you wish me to believe that even with the daemon locked up deep inside, you would not kill? The hunger would not drive you to drink of the vein? My master has killed many vampires, sir. I know well that not all of those kills were made when the daemon was high. Some of your kind simply enjoy the hunt and feed on the pain.”
She was right, of course. Derrick was just such a vampire.
“How do I know that you do not count yourself among them?”
“You don’t,” he said simply. “But I don’t know, either. I crave the chance to find out.”
“And if you also crave the blood?”
“I will,” he said, because to lie to this woman would get him nowhere. “What matters is whether I can control it.”
She remained still, her eyes piercing him, and he knew that he had surprised her. The question was, had he intrigued her, too? He waited with the kind of patience he’d not displayed for many a year. But for this moment, he would humble himself. He needed her help, his self-respect be damned.
“There is no guarantee. And you must trust me fully. There may be pain. There will most surely be blood. And if you attack—if I fear for my life—I will not hesitate to stake you.”
“Can you do it tonight?”
“Keep your word, and it will be done.”
Derrick. He turned to go. To find and stop his friend from killing the humans in the big house.
“Tomas,” she said. “Find him first. Protect him.”
“And your daughter?”
“She is my worry, not yours.”
He nodded, then continued toward the door, but he hadn’t gone two steps when it burst open wide. Derrick stood there, his linen shirt stained red. He held a man in his arms, the scent of death already clinging to him. With aplomb, he tossed the body onto the floor of the kitchen, then turned a grinning visage to Serge. “So. You found her.”
Serge felt his body turn cold. “Her?”
“The Dumonts have themselves a witch.” He took a step forward, his foot landing on the man’s ribs. The sick crunch of breaking bone filled the cookhouse, matched only by the wounded, keening wail of Evangeline herself.
“Tomas!” she cried, then turned to snarl at Serge. “Never! Never will I—”
But she didn’t get the words out. He couldn’t let Derrick know that he’d asked the witch for help. He had to quiet her, and he rushed forward, knocking her to the ground. He had no intention of hurting her. No plan to permanently silence her. But fear and fury were driving him forward. Fear that he’d lost his chance for a cure. Fury that Derrick had interrupted. And, of course, there was the hunger. And she was warm in his arms, her own fear tugging at the daemon. Teasing it. Taunting it. Until it overcame all strength and burst out in a blood-red rage.
The daemon took over, and in a hungered frenzy he sank his teeth into the witch’s neck and drank deep, drawing in her fear, her anger, her wretched power.
The part of him that remained Sergius faded deep inside, curling up with self-loathing. But the last thing he saw before the daemon subsumed him was the stern silhouette of the four Dumont men, their crossbows aimed at Derrick and himself.
And the last thing he thought was that if nothing else, the sharp sting of death would finally rip him free o
f the daemon.
Present Day
It was well past midnight on a moonless night, and still there were no stars visible over Hollywood. The lights were too bright, the area too vibrant. It thrummed with a kind of painful energy, as if it were trying too damn hard to be hip. To overcome the seedy reputation spawned by years of pimps and hookers and back-alley drug deals. The lights brightened up the place, and the Disney theater and revamped shopping areas gave it a new gloss. But scratch that sparkling surface, and the grime still showed.
Serge knew all about dark underbellies, and as he crouched on the roof of the Kodak Theatre, his eyes trained on the narrow alley between the buildings, he felt right at home.
Below him, two vampires moved leisurely in the dark. Their strides were long, their manner unconcerned. And why not? As far as they knew, they were the baddest asses out that night. But of course, they didn’t know who was watching them. Didn’t know that the most badass of all creatures was up on the rooftop watching their every move, planning his attack. Planning his feed.
Idly, Serge wondered what they’d think if they knew that he was on the roof. He was legend now, the stuff of gossip and rumor. And the two vampires in the alley—Mitre and Colin—had undoubtedly heard the stories. They would know that the daemon had been strong in Serge. That it had repeatedly vanquished him, sucking him under until all he could do was succumb … and then emerge to swim in a pool of self-loathing.
He’d tried once to have that part of him suppressed, cut out, destroyed. He hadn’t cared how. Had cared so little, in fact, that he’d begged a witch to do the deed for him. But that adventure hadn’t gone as planned, and he’d been lucky to escape with his life.
The vampires on the street, however, would know nothing about his escapades in New Orleans. The stories they would’ve heard would be much more recent. Tales of how he’d been cursed. Transformed into a mindless creature that had lashed out wildly, destroying at the discretion of the vile human who controlled the curse.
He’d been a machine, a goddamn lapdog, and he’d hated it. Hated knowing someone else was pulling his strings. That neither his body nor his mind was his own.
And then the human who’d created the curse had been killed, and with his death the torment had been lifted.
Serge had been an assassin’s tool. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t.
He was back to being Sergius. Or so it appeared. But it wasn’t true. The Serge he’d once been had fallen away, like a snake shedding its skin. Now, after almost two thousand years, he no longer knew who he was. More to the point, he no longer knew what he was. Because though he once again looked like Serge and felt like Serge, a new type of wretchedness lived within him, warring with his daemon for supremacy. Turning Serge into a creature he didn’t know and didn’t fully understand. A beast with a new kind of hunger, darker and more demanding. Less controllable. Far more terrifying. And he was completely alone.
When he’d been under the curse, he’d had the ability to draw out victims’ life force. To leave them weak on the ground as he transformed into whatever creature they were—jinn, paradaemon, vampire. He’d assumed that this power would disappear along with the curse.
He’d assumed wrong.
In the days after the master’s death, he’d wandered through France and Italy, shunning the company of friends, of other shadowers, of humans. He’d walked and he’d slept and he’d fought a growing hunger that he didn’t understand. As a vampire, he’d craved blood. Needed it. Became weak without it. When his daemon was high, he’d take that blood however he could get it, the more violent the better. But when he’d managed to wrangle the daemon into submission, he’d still needed the blood—both physically and emotionally. He lost himself in it, in the sweetness it offered, in the rush it gave him. He kept the daemon satisfied by feeding that need—by taking the blood from willing humans, violently, painfully. He’d push them to their limits, especially the females. Would watch the need on their faces, then revel in satisfaction when the pain hit.
And then he’d drink deep and glory in the knowledge that—except for those few occasions when he’d lost his tight grip on control—this debasement kept the evil locked deep inside him.
But this new hunger …
It wasn’t bloodlust so much as life lust. He craved and he took and he killed.
He hadn’t known it about himself until the first time the hunger had overpowered him. He’d gone in search of a faunt, a human willing to sell blood to a vampire. The hunger felt different, but he’d hoped that taking the blood would satiate him.
He never made it that far.
With little warning, the hunger had reached a tipping point, transforming his body into something harsh and unfamiliar, his skin reptilian, his mind gone, nothing remaining but the need to feed.
And he had.
Though Serge now remembered none of it, he’d awakened beside the body of a desiccated werewolf—and he’d felt the power of the wolf surging through his veins.
That was when he understood what had happened. The curse may have been lifted, but a beast was left behind. The beast was hungry, and when Serge refused to fill that hunger, it would take matters into its own hands.
After that, Serge learned more about what he was and how he needed to feed. He drained life force, killing his victims and becoming that which he had drained.
It was a reality he despised, but there was no escaping it: To live, Serge had to kill.
And that was when he made his decision—he would feed off the rogue vampires, the killers, those who were a plague upon the human world. He would remain a vampire, and in that small way he would retain some bit of the Serge he knew as well as some tiny amount of control.
Now he stood on the rooftop looking down at the vampires who would provide his next feed. The hunger wasn’t yet overwhelming, but Serge had learned the hard way that it was safer to remain sated so that he could pick his victims. Otherwise, the beast might burst forth and suck dry an innocent. And so he methodically watched the vampire community, keeping tabs on those vamps that had turned rogue. Because he’d spent so much time living off the grid, slinking through sewers and alleys, basements and drainpipes, he saw things that other vampires missed. Witnessed actions that other vamps were certain took place in total privacy.
If the hunger wasn’t rising, he made a note of the rogues. Their scent. Their characteristics. Their names if possible.
Then, when the first niggles of hunger started, he could seek out one of his personalized, pre-approved meals.
Tonight that meal was named Mitre. He hadn’t known about the companion, Colin, but if he turned out to be rogue, then Serge would add him to the meal plan as well.
Now, though, he wanted them to separate. Attack Mitre in front of Colin, and Colin would have to die, too, because leaving witnesses was unacceptable. And so he watched and listened. Eventually, they’d part ways. And because the beast’s low rumble hadn’t yet worked up to a growl, Serge still had time to be careful.
The two vampires rounded a corner, moving into the alley behind the Hard Rock Cafe. Serge waited until he was certain they wouldn’t see him, then leaped across the alley to the restaurant’s roof. It was lower than the theater’s, and he could more clearly hear the vampires’ conversation. It flowed over him like white noise, mundane talk about females, sports, the monotony of being a young vampire in Los Angeles, and their hero worship of some of the older, more worldly vamps.
“I’m really gonna meet him?” Colin said, and the tone of awe in his voice caught Serge’s attention.
“Shit, yeah. He’s looking forward to it. Been working with me since he came down from Chicago. Not happy, either. I talked to him a little last night, and he’s pissed we haven’t recruited more. Done more damage to the fucking PEC,” he said, referring to the Preternatural Enforcement Coalition, the organization that investigated, prosecuted, and adjudicated crimes committed by shadowers. “And, of course, the fucking humans.”
“Not
happy? Maybe with some of the others, but not me. I’ve taken out half a dozen on my own.”
A slow curl of anger rose up in Serge. They were talking about humans, of course, and Colin was boasting about his kills. Serge had suspected that the rogue population in Los Angeles was organized. Now it looked like he had confirmation. But who was pulling the strings?
“Yeah, he thinks you’re doing all right. But still, six is hardly a dent,” Mitre said. “And it’s sure as hell not enough to keep the PEC hopping. He wants them chasing their tails, the useless bastards.”
“Useless is right. Doing all that shit—making all those laws—and most of them are there to protect the humans.”
“They’re our goddamn food supply, and the city is our hunting ground. The PEC, the Covenant, the whole damn thing just shifts the natural order of things.” Mitre frowned and shook his head, his demeanor much like a politico arguing to a TV camera. “It isn’t right.”
“Shit no.”
“Hey, hold up.” Mitre tilted his head up, and Serge stepped back, melding into the shadows. “Smell that?”
Colin’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Human. And close. What do you think? One block?”
“About that. Come on.”
Serge caught the scent, too, and hurried to keep pace. Any humans hanging out in an alley at three in the morning were probably up to no good, but that didn’t mean they deserved to be a vampire’s meal.
He caught sight of the human the same time that Mitre did. The vampire stopped, then held out a warning hand to Colin. Below Serge, the vampires stood in the shadow of a building. Beyond that was an open trash bin filled with cardboard and rotting food. The metal was rusty, and the ground near the bin was so covered with cockroaches it seemed to move. A squat, muscular male leaned against the bin, hand extended as he exchanged a small plastic package for several bills presented to him by an emaciated female with corn-husk hair and clothes too short and too tight to be either modest or sexy.
