by J. K. Beck
“Serge—my God.” She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Luke said—”
“What?” His voice came out as a snarl, and he saw wariness in her eyes.
“That he’d caught your scent.” Her tone was defiant. Challenging. “Near Penny Martinez’s body.”
He realized only then what a risk he was taking by going to Sara. He was a wanted man, and she was a prosecutor. But he trusted Luke, and by default that meant he trusted Luke’s woman. “I didn’t kill her.”
She regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable. When she spoke, he still wasn’t certain if she believed him. “Come to the house. Luke’s been … well, he’ll want to see you.”
“No.” The word burst out of him. “I’m not. I can’t. I have to—” He let his words snap off like a broken twig. “There are things I still have to make right,” he finally said. “Inside my head.”
She reached out, then pressed her hand over his wrist. She had keen, intelligent eyes, and they were watching him, greedily searching for any details that might give her a clue as to what was going on with him.
Her hand seemed to burn him, the contact calling to him. Teasing him. Urging him to clamp down on that hand, to press hard, to pull and suck and take and live. Because he was at the end—the beast clamoring to get out, the pain crushing, the need growing, growing, growing.
He ripped his arm away.
She jumped, obviously shocked by his violent reaction, but she covered well, even managed a small smile. But her eyes never left his face.
He knew what she saw. She saw a man spiraling down, losing himself to something deep and malicious. She’d think it was his daemon, but she was wrong. It was something much worse.
“Serge.” She said his name as if it were a command, and he lifted his eyes. “Serge, what’s wrong with you? Have you done something? Did you—” Her breath hitched, and he knew she was thinking of Luke, of what she was going to have to tell him about her encounter with his crazy friend. “Tell me the truth. Did you kill?”
He turned then, and faced the living room. CeeCee was squatting on the couch. She’d taken her braid out, and her still-filthy hair hung in strands over her face. Her face was blank, but anger and fear seemed to flow from her, oozing from her pores.
“No,” he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper. He was losing his grip. Had to make this right. Had to quench the hunger before he hurt the people he loved.
Had to go.
“No,” he repeated. “I didn’t kill. I saved.”
Sometimes, life really shoots you a curveball. At least, that was the way Edgar looked at the world. He’d known for decades that there was weird shit out there. You couldn’t be a homicide detective and not realize that.
He’d used psychics on cases—and found lost kids in the doing. He’d brought in mediums to consult—and had gotten leads from the dead. And he’d arrested some screwed-up fucks who swore they were possessed by demons.
Well, maybe they were.
But knowing all that shit existed was a lot different from actually getting up close and personal with a vampire. That one, Edgar had learned the hard way after Alexis had moved back to town. She’d shown up at his door, taken him to lunch, and then started asking him questions about his so-called crazy beliefs. He’d been defensive at first, but then he’d realized why she was asking. Her story about a vampire murdering her sister had gotten him like a knife in the gut. There’d been no question but that he’d help her, and he’d had her back ever since.
So, yeah, he knew all about vampires. But he’d never actually mingled with them. He’d never sought them out, even though he knew people who knew people who swore that they personally knew vampires. One fellow, Frank Court, had been a writer on Three Sisters, the show that had made Gilli famous. He’d come over for drinks one night and had sworn up and down that he could take Gilli and Edgar into the wilds. Show them where the vamps hung out. Let them rub shoulders with the dark immortals. He’d been drunk off his ass, and Gilli had sent him home in a taxi, but afterward Edgar had asked her if she’d been tempted. He hadn’t been—that was for damn sure—but he couldn’t put his finger on why.
His wife had looked at him with that wide-eyed gaze that had made her the darling of the tabloids and told him that there was no way in hell she’d set out on purpose to rub shoulders with a vampire. “Why not?” he’d asked. She’d looked at him with something that he later realized was pity. “Because they’re evil,” she’d said. “And you don’t rub shoulders with evil and expect that some of it won’t rub off on you. I know they’re real. I know they’re here. Someday maybe I’ll fight them. Hurt them just a little. But until I’m ready to do that, I’m not going out of my way to meet them.”
He’d taken her words to heart, and had never once sought them out. Frank hadn’t suggested it again, and after Gilli died Edgar didn’t see much of the writer.
Tonight, Edgar had called him up out of the blue, and now they sat together in Frank’s car. In front of them, a ramshackle bar took up about half a block on the dark San Pedro street, the sign above it flashing a neon Z. Frank turned the ignition key to off and looked sideways at Edgar with a shit-eating grin. “I’m glad you called, man. This is going to rock your world.”
Edgar believed him. He glanced again at the flashing Z and felt his stomach dip. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
Frank waved the words away like so much stale smoke. “I been coming here for months now, never had a moment of trouble. It’s like wild dogs, ya know? You don’t show fear, and they leave you alone.”
“And they’re all vamps? Everybody in there?”
Frank gave him a sour look. “Of course not. And it’s not as if they’re wearing signs. But you can tell. They got a way of looking.”
“At you, you mean? Like you’re dinner?”
Frank snorted. “Funny guy.” He pushed open his door and got out. Edgar hesitated. Ever since Alexis had come to Los Angeles he’d felt alternatively like he had a window to more of the world than ever before—and like he was deeply useless. If he could help her find this Sergius and the teenage girl, though, he’d feel like he’d earned his keep. And he was damn sure that if Gilli was still alive, she’d put aside any fears of getting up close and personal with a vamp for the chance to help a young girl.
“Yo. You waiting for an engraved invite?”
“I’m coming,” Edgar said, then slipped out of the car and fell in step beside Frank. Now there was no going back.
The Z Bar was established in 1963 by Tom and Vivian Clamdale, who had moved back down to their native Los Angeles after dropping out of Berkeley to pursue what they considered a more laid-back and mind-expanding existence. They opened the bar as a co-op, serving up drinks that didn’t include alcohol, but did include copious amounts of wheatgrass and other vegetarian offerings that the Clamdales assured their customers were necessary for healthy living. In the back room, they offered up some more elite options for their repeat, trusted customers.
In the process of exploring—and exploiting—all the various mind-expanding opportunities that Southern California had to offer, the Clamdales became reacquainted with Arnold Mink, an old friend from Berkeley. Mink had also dropped out, then spent the next two years “walking the earth.” When he finally walked into the Z Bar, he told his old friends Tom and Vivian that he’d discovered the secret. The ultimate secret to what life should be. The thing that would make their grass and mushrooms and other mind-altering substances seem about as exciting as table sugar.
He’d offered to show them, and they’d eagerly agreed.
And that was how Tom and Vivian Clamdale became vampires.
After their transition, they made a point of inviting more of their kind to the bar. The human patrons never found out what had happened, but they soon decided that they didn’t like the bar that much anymore, though they couldn’t specifically say why. They started patronizing other establishments, and the vampires started using
the Z Bar as a local place to congregate.
Derrick had discovered the Z Bar a few weeks after he’d transplanted himself from Chicago to Los Angeles, and he’d quickly made it his headquarters. As far as he was concerned, Tom and Vivian were fools, with too few years under their belt to truly see the beauty of what it was to be a vampire. One who embraced the vampiric lifestyle didn’t usher humans out the door by supernatural influence. A true vampire fed off the humans who wandered in, and thumbed his nose at any semblance of the law—shadower or human—that might come sniffing around in the aftermath.
Even so, he quickly found that the bar was an excellent recruiting office. The trouble with most vampires today was that they were willing to live hidden lives. The vampires he met at the bar tended to want to change that, even if they didn’t realize it until after a few long chats with Derrick. They wanted to be out in the world. To be in charge. To have bars and clubs and flaunt what they were: Magnificent beings. Gods to the lowly humans, capable of influencing thought and doling out life and death as it suited their whims.
Gods … and yet still they suffered. But by whose hand? The female that Jonathan had reported? The one who had injured Mitre?
At the thought of his lieutenant’s name, Derrick stiffened and clenched his hands into fists so tight, his nails dug into his palms. He’d learned only an hour ago that Mitre had been found dead. A shriveled creature, dry and pitiful.
He didn’t know if the girl in the alley’d had a hand in bringing about Mitre’s demise, but Derrick didn’t care. She’d killed Colin. She was the reason Mitre had been on the hunt. And it was a fair bet that she’d staked some of the other members of the League who’d gone missing. Whether she’d desiccated his soldiers, too, was irrelevant. Either way, he intended to find her. And then he intended to kill her.
After that, perhaps he’d move on to London, especially if he hadn’t yet located Serge. The PEC had begun to push its nose too far into his business, and while Derrick had nothing but contempt for the organization, he was neither foolish nor suicidal. The world was a big place, and he could recruit for the League as easily in Europe as he could in the States. Besides, he had enough appreciation of drama to relish the idea of hunting humans in the famous London fog.
Tonight, though, he was seated at a darkened table in the far corner of the Z Bar. Vivian had brought him a fresh drink—human blood that she swore she’d harvested herself—and as he sipped it, the door opened and two humans walked in. One of them Derrick recognized, though only by sight. Frank. A dull name for a dull human. One of those humans who believed he understood the shadowers, without having even scratched the surface. Frank had caught Derrick’s eye a few months ago, and despite Derrick’s initial urge to make the human his dinner, he’d held back, instead persuading Tom and Vivian to let him come and go as he pleased at the Z Bar. The human claimed to know things about the shadow world, and Derrick didn’t like the idea of humans peering through the looking glass into their world. If the human did know things, then Derrick wanted to know what.
He lifted a hand and signaled to Bella. She was standing in a corner talking to Raoul, a particularly promising new League member. She left the younger vampire immediately and floated over, the grace she’d once displayed on stage at the Bolshoi still apparent in the fluid way she moved across the battered concrete floor. Her sultry smile suggested activities other than the one he had planned, but he pushed thoughts of sex aside. That could come later. Right now, he had a job for the petite female.
“The humans over there. Go talk to them.”
She pouted. “Talk?”
Derrick chuckled. “Just talk. I have my eye on the plump one. I want to know why he’s here. What he knows. What he wants. And why he brought a friend tonight.”
“The price is a kiss,” she said, and he willingly paid, feeling his body get hard as he pulled her close to him, his mouth closing over hers, his tongue finding not only hers, but the taste of blood. “You fed,” he said when they broke apart.
She didn’t meet his eyes. “I was angry,” she said. “About Mitre. I thought the blood would soothe me.”
“Did it?”
Her eyes blazed. “It only made me want more.”
He nodded, pleased. “What happened to Mitre is one of the reasons I want you to talk to them. Feel them out. You’re good at that. See if you get any hint that they know what’s been going on.”
“Can I flirt with them?”
He laughed; she looked so eager. “Of course. But you know the rules. It’s not nice to play with your food.”
Her brows rose. “Is that what you believe? I thought you loved a good game of cat and mouse.”
He kissed her hard. “You know me too well,” he said, then patted her ass to get her moving. “Go. I’ll be listening.”
She nodded, and glided across the room to where the humans sat on bar stools. Derrick listened halfheartedly at first; he wasn’t particularly interested in Bella flirting with the humans, even if he knew it was only in sport. A few moments in, however, and she had his attention. She’d settled onto the plump one’s lap—the human named Frank—but she was looking at the other one. “So what’s your name, sugar?”
“Edgar,” the human said. He didn’t sound particularly eager to be there.
“Nice name. What brings a nice boy like you to a place like this?”
From Derrick’s vantage point, he was looking at Edgar’s profile. But he could still see the way the human shot a glance at his friend. “We’re looking for someone,” Frank said.
“Someone other than me?” Bella asked, with a purr in her voice.
“Oh, you’re a right sweet find,” Frank said. “But my buddy here’s looking for someone in particular. We think he’s the kind who might hang out in an establishment like this. If you know what I mean.”
Bella tipped her head in that sexy way she had. “Why yes. I think I know exactly what you mean. So who is it you’re looking for? Friend or foe?”
“Neither, actually,” Edgar said. “He’s … well, I just need to talk to him.”
“Lots of folks come through these doors. Can you give me a few more details?”
The two humans exchanged a glance, then Frank nodded.
Edgar hesitated, then pulled a square of paper from his jacket pocket. Derrick leaned sideways to get a better look as Edgar unfolded it, then had to fight back a gasp when he saw the familiar face sketched on the paper.
“We’re looking for this guy,” Edgar said, as innocent as you please. “I think his name is Sergius.”
Derrick stood. This had just taken a turn toward interesting.
He crossed to the bar and put his hand on Bella’s waist, urging her off Frank’s lap. He pulled her close, squeezing her up against his side as he aimed a brutal look at each of the two men. “Couldn’t help but overhear. You boys looking for someone?”
“This guy,” Edgar said. Derrick could smell the fear on him, but he was impressed that the human didn’t show it.
“I know him,” Derrick said, taking the sketch from Edgar’s hands. “Why are you looking for him?”
Edgar didn’t quite meet his eyes when answering. “Got a few things I want to ask him. Nothing earth-shattering.”
“That a fact?”
“That’s a fact,” Edgar said, and this time he did meet Derrick’s eyes.
“Hey, hey,” Frank said. “My buddy here, he’s okay.”
“That right?” Derrick asked, nodding slowly. “Well, since Frank comes here often, I’ll take his word for it. All right, then. Here’s the truth. If you’re looking for Sergius, then I think you boys are in over your head.”
“Might be,” Edgar said. “But I still need to find him.”
“Good luck. He’s gone off the grid. And I’m still wondering what you want with him.”
“I told you. I need to talk to him.”
“Might live longer if you changed your mind.” He folded up the sketch and slipped it into the back pocket
of his jeans. He had an old daguerreotype that he’d shown his men so that they would recognize Serge. In this sketch, however, his hair was shorter, and it was clear his old friend had changed with the times.
He aimed a hard look at Edgar. “Sergius is a son-of-a-bitch. He’d just as soon kill a human as look at one. As deadly as they come. Hell, Sergius scares me.” He smiled, thin and predatory.
Edgar met Frank’s eyes, and Frank nodded. “Well, thank you much. We appreciate the help.”
“I’m serious,” Derrick said. “You value your life, you don’t want to get mixed up with him. Hell, just asking about him—well, let’s hope he never hears about it.”
They both nodded, then Edgar slid off his stool. “Let’s get out of here.”
Frank looked like he wanted to argue, but he fell in step beside his friend. The two left the Z Bar without looking back.
Derrick watched them go, then headed back to his booth and signaled for Bella to follow.
“You should have encouraged them to ask around,” Bella said. “Maybe they’d draw Serge out.”
“Not a bad plan,” he conceded. “But I’m more interested in the fact that they’ve just demonstrated my old friend is still in the area.”
“And they’ve seen him,” Bella said. “Or someone they know has. If you still want to find Sergius yourself, we should find out who. And where.”
“So we should.”
“Will you see to it personally?”
“Actually, I thought that you could handle it.”
“Me?”
He saw the delight in her eyes and chuckled. “Find out what you can. And once you’ve learned everything you can, drain them dry.”
“I can play with them first, though, right?”
He brushed a kiss across her mouth and pulled her into his lap. “My dear, I’d be ashamed of you if you didn’t.”
“No, no! Please! I’ll be good. I swear I’ll be good!”
CeeCee’s screams echoed in Serge’s mind. She’d lost it when he’d told her he had to go—that he couldn’t be the one to help her through the transition. That he had to leave her with Sara, who stood next to the girl, obviously irritated and confused that Serge was walking away when the girl needed him.
