The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance

by Trisha Telep

  I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you. “You can go away now, Tiens. Come back tomorrow at dusk and I’ll let you know.”

  “Not now?”

  “You told me to wait once. I’m returning the favour.” She stared at her sunny yellow mug against the scratched and gouged countertop. “One question, though. How did you find me?”

  “If I must wait for your answer, you may wait for mine on that score.” Tiens eased off the stool, soundlessly touching the scarred linoleum. This place was a wreck, and Liana was briefly, hotly ashamed. But it was cheap, and she’d thought nobody would notice she was home, back in the bad old cradle.

  Guess I was wrong about that, wasn’t I? “Fine. Close the door on your way out.”

  She listened as he paced down the hall, his feet deliberately making noise for her benefit. With her eyes closed, she could see his aura as well, the disciplined, deliciously wicked-smelling glow of a night-hunting predator. They were machines built for seduction and power, the suckheads. For a moment a roaring rose in her ears, the body’s instinctive response to something inimical to its survival.

  Like a sheep trembling at the smell of a wolf.

  The front door opened, closed and the shields over the house – carefully laid, but not strong enough to put out a huge neon sign screamed HERE I AM, COME TAKE A LOOK! – resonated as his aura stroked them, once: an intimate caress. Then he was gone, vanished into the pall of night covering Saint City, perhaps a little shimmer hanging in the air as he performed the ‘don’t look here’ trick Nichtvren were famous for.

  Liana opened her eyes, and stared down. Her left hand curled around the katana’s scabbard, the metal inside quiescent. Her right hand had knotted into a fist, bitten fingernails driving into her palm. The ring, three braided loops of silvery metal, its clawed setting grasping a dead-dark gem, glinted in the light from the overhead fixture. A single pinprick of green struggled up from the depths of the stone, winked out as she breathed in, slowly, blowing out tension the way Danny had taught her. That’s your best friend right there, her foster-mother had said in her melodious, queerly husky voice. Use your breath: it’s completely under your control. Not like other things.

  Not like a heart, or a dreaming mind, or the hint of spice in an aura that made you a magus instead of a necromancer or even a shaman. Not like an accident of genetics that made you liable to snap Hegemony Enforcement inspections or the hatred of normals.

  Her right hand crept towards the blue mug, curled around its heat, almost scorching her fingers. She lifted it to her lips, rested them for a moment where his would have rested if he’d bothered to drink even a single sip.

  I could toss this on the floor. Throw it through the window. But then I’d have to clean up.

  She settled for sliding off her stool, stalking to the sink and pouring the liquid away. The tea bag landed, red as a blood clot, with a plop. She opened her fingers, let the mug drop and wished immediately that she’d thrown it.

  An old-fashioned, chunky plastic vidphone hung on the wall, and she picked up the handset. She dialled a number burned into her memory, hoping he would answer.

  There were two rings, a click and silence. Whether it was him listening or a machine taking messages was anyone’s guess.

  “It’s me,” she said into the black mouthpiece, staring at the ‘Video Disabled’ flashing across the screen. “I’m home. I need you.”

  And before he could reply – if he was there – she disconnected.

  The tower, downtown on Seventh, had a shielding so powerful it was almost in the visible spectrum, moving in lazy swirls, the black-diamond fire demon’s Power resonating with the flux of ambient energy. There was a keypad, a slot for a credit card disc and retinal scan, but even before she pressed her ring finger onto the keypad the shielding had changed, tautened with attention and expanded a few feet to tingle on her shoulders and the roots of her hair. The door slid aside before she even finished keying in her personal code.

  She stepped through and into a lift, felt claustrophobia touch her throat briefly. She dispelled it. Her scalp itched. I’ll be damned it I clean up or dress to visit her. She hadn’t changed since arriving by freight hover two days ago.

  Sackcloth and ashes, anyone?

  The lift was high-speed, and even though it was pressurized her ears popped a few times as it ascended. The building looked so slim and graceful from the outside, it was easy to forget just how big it was, and how much was said by its construction. Saint City was one of a handful of places that hadn’t been affected by the first Tithe, when the mouths of Hell opened and madness poured out. A twentieth of the Hegemony population had died, either that night or in the week following, when the citizens of Hell hunted at their leisure or simply, merely, drove the normals to suicide or insanity. Magi had died in droves trying to drive them off, other psions had died trying to protect Hegemony troops or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had been even worse in the Putchkin Alliance, the chaos, reaching global proportions before suddenly, inexplicably, waning. All was well for seven years . . . and then the mouths of Hell gaped again.

  Liana had been nineteen that second time, and she remembered the Hegemony ambassadors coming to her mother. This city hasn’t been affected by the Tithe. Why?

  And Dante’s reply. You know better than I do, you supercilious jackasses. Come in and ask him what you’ve come to ask.

  The lift chimed and halted, chimed again, and the doors slid open. The familiar entry hall – white floor, white walls, a restrained Berscardi print hanging over a neo-Deco table of white enamel – swallowed her whole. Her whole head itched, long dark hair matted and hanging lank, and she was sure her clothes were none-too fresh, despite the antibacterium impregnating the micro fibre explorer’s shirt and the leather-patched jeans. The non-slip soles of her boots squeaked slightly, echoed by the faint sound as the double doors at the end of the hall swung open.

  Grey, rainy, winter light poured through, glowing mellow on a wooden floor. The sparring-space was huge, cavernous and walled with mirrors on one side and bullet proof tinted plasglass on the other. A ballet barre was bolted to the mirrored side, varnished with use and wax, and a slim shape in loose black silk with long, slightly curling dark hair stood precisely placed, her back to the door, the golden tint to her hands clearly visible.

  Dante Valentine turned and regarded her foster-child. The same sharp, hurtful, intelligent wariness in dark liquid eyes, the same high cheekbones and sweet, sinful mouth pulled tight in an iron half-smile, the same tensile grace to her shoulders and her left hand holding a long, curved shape. The emerald set in Dante’s cheek spat a single welcoming green spark over her tat, a winged caduceus that ran under her skin. Liana’s own tattoo betrayed her, ink prickling with diamond feet in her flesh, answering. The ring tightened, green swirling in its depths before it relaxed into dead darkness again.

  They regarded each other, and Liana felt herself bulge shapelessly like a blob of reactive paint in zero gravity. You’re the very image of your mother, Dante had said over and over again. She was so beautiful. And each time, Liana flinched. She hated being the image of a dead woman she couldn’t remember even with the holostills of her precise little smile and dark hair. She wanted to be as pretty as her foster-mother, the most famous necromance in the world. The woman who had raised her, the woman whose demon had played with her for hours in the long dim time of Liana’s childhood.

  As usual, Liana’s nerve broke first. “The prodigal returns.” Her tone was a challenge, and she winced inwardly as Dante’s shoulders hitched slightly, as if bracing herself for a blow.

  “I’ve never known you to waste much, Lia. I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “A thief in the night.” Ask me what I’m doing here, Get angry for fuck’s sake. Say something.

  “Are you . . .” Dante caught herself. Are you all right? Are you well? She would never ask. “Are you staying long? I –”

  “Not long.” Now tha
t Tiens found me. I just came by to say hi. And to see Jaf.”

  Again, that slight movement, as if words were a blade slid into flesh. “Nothing else?” Other questions crowded under the two words – questions such as: Do you forgive me? How long will you hate me if you don’t?

  Questions with no real answer.

  “Not really. I suppose he’s at the office?” I knew he would be. Coordinating defence and taking care of the business of keeping this city afloat. Probably organizing refugee camps, too.

  “Yes.” Dante tilted her exquisite head slightly, silk fluttering as she took a single step forwards. Loose pants and a Chinese-collared shirt, reinforced in patches, not the jeans and explorer’s shirt she would wear if she intended on stepping outside the tower. “I worried about you, Lia.”

  More unspoken words crowded the still, grey air. It’s my job to protect you. I promised your mother.

  And Liana’s response, flung at her in the middle of screaming matches during the storms of adolescence. I don’t care what you promised her! I’m not her!

  “Tiens visited me,” she said. She heard the catch in her voice and hated herself. “Don’t tell Jaf, but I’m doing dirty laundry for him. Like mother, like daughter, huh?”

  Dante sighed. “If you wanted a fight, you could have come a little later in the day. You know I’m not ready for homicide before noon.”

  Liana’s heart squeezed down on itself. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Sekhmet sa’es.” But the curse didn’t have it’s usual snap. “What can I do, Lia? What do you want? Blood?”

  Not like you could bleed over me anyway. The instant you cut yourself Jaf would show up, and I’d have to deal with the disappointment on his face too. Isis preserve me. “I just wanted to say hello. I’m allowed that, aren’t I?”

  “You’re the one who keeps away.” The necromance made a swift, abortive movement, too quick to be a flinch. “Can I take you to dinner? That noodle shop on Pole Street is still open. Or we could go for a walk. Even . . .”

  “Even sparring? You’d do that just to keep me in the room a little bit longer, wouldn’t you?” Listen to me whine. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. “I’m a lot better than I used to be.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Dante’s shoulders relaxed. “What are you really here for, Lia?”

  I wish I knew. “Just wanted to say hello, Mother.” Deliberate emphasis on the word, watching as Dante turned into a statue carved of fluid golden stone, every inch of her braced and ready, giving nothing away. Except her eyes. The pain there was half balm, half poison. “I’ll be on my way. Give my regards to Jaf.”

  “Come back soon,” Dante whispered. Her aura, full of the trademark glittering sparkles of a mecromance, embedded in black-diamond demon fire, turned dark and soft with hurt. “Please. Lia –”

  “Maybe, Hold your breath.” And Liana stalked away. There. Mission accomplished. Now I can go.

  As usual, though, Dante got the last word. “I love you.” The words were soft, scarred with deadly anger, and so husky they almost refused to stir the air. “I always will.”

  Liana made it down the hall and into the lift before she started digging in her pockets with her free hand. Well, that went well. I saw her. Now I can go away again. I can catch a transport in an hour and be back in Angeles Tijuan by nightfall.

  But the tears, sliding hot and thick down her cheeks, said otherwise.

  Taking a cheap hotel room on the fringes of the Tank was merely a gesture. She wasn’t even really surprised when she exited the shower, dripping, every hint of grime washed away and her scalp thankfully not itching, and found him sitting on the bed, hands loose on his knees. Darkness had fallen, pressing against the curtain-shrouded window with the pock-pock of projectile fire and a scream down on the corner. They might have found a cure for the worst drug of the century, but people still got addicted to Clormen-13 and shot each other, or innocent bystanders. The blight of inner-city rot fuelled by addiction still crept outwards, though not as quickly as twenty years ago.

  Tiens’ eyes glowed in the dim yellow light from the bedside lamp. “Charming.”

  Fuck you. Liana dropped the towel on her pile of dirty clothes, picked up her clean shirt and shrugged into it. Her skin tingled with chill, the room was barely heated. The long thin scars on her buttocks and side twitched; Tiens drew in a sharp breath. Goody for me. I’ve surprised him.

  “What is that?”

  Liana sighed, buttoned up her shirt, pulled on her panties and stepped into her jeans. The leather patches were dark from chem-washing. She dropped into a rickety chair and pulled her socks on, laced up her boots and double-knotted them. “Just a demon.” And a very, very close call. Closer than you would ever believe.

  The walls between Hell and the world were so thin now, and it took so little for a demon-trained magus to break them. The only trouble was, she had little control over what came through – and the name she used to make the walls thin down to transparency was the name of a demon the new Prince of Hell wither feared . . . or wanted to punish.

  “M’sieu –” Tiens began.

  “Don’t you dare tell Jaf. If I’m going to be helping you, you don’t get to go carrying tales to him. He’s got enough to worry about and it’s not his fucking business anyway. Clear?”

  “I cannot –” His throat moved as he swallowed, and a nasty gleam of satisfaction lit in Liana’s chest.

  “If you can keep what almost happened between us a secret, you can also keep a little bit of lost skin to yourself.” She finger-combed her dark hair, then began braiding it back with quick motions. “Now, if we can get down to business. What does this Nichtvren look like? I don’t want to kill the wrong one.”

  “Female. Dark. Very young.” He made a restless movement as she tied off her braid. “I will be there to meet her, and her thralls –”

  “How many?” You didn’t say anything about thralls before, dammit.

  “I do not know. All I know is that she will arrive, and God help me afterwards.”

  This just keeps getting better. “Anything else you want to tell me, Tiens?” If I was my mother right now I’d be kicking your ass. But, I’m just me, and I don’t even know why I’m doing this.

  Her heart turned into a heated bubble inside her chest. I’m lying. I know why. Because once I do this, we’re even and I can leave again.

  He rose slowly, and Liana dropped her eyes. Her left hand shot out and closed around her katana, which was leaning against a spindle-legged table that passed for furniture only in the most charitable of senses. She dragged it closer to her like a lifeline.

  The air turned hard, tensing, and Tiens halted a bare two feet from her.

  This is your honour, Lia. It must never touch the ground. Dante’s voice, from the very first time a ten-year-old Liana had touched a sword.

  The first time she had known what made her different, and only human.

  “I could say I am sorry, and that I wish I had chosen otherwise. But you would not believe me, since I need your help.” A slight sound of moving fabric, and he leaned down, his warmth – he must have fed, blood or sex providing the metabolic kick to fuel his preternatural muscles – brushing her cheek. “And have committed the sin of asking for it, as well. Tell me, if I asked for that offer again, if I begged and said you were right, would you bare your throat to me?”

  His lips almost touched her cheek, his breath a warm dampness, flavoured with night and oddly enough, a little bit of mint. He must have brushed his fangs. She pushed down hysterical laughter at the thought, her body stiffening, remembering soft kisses and murmurs, the feel of his fingers over her damp, young, mortal flesh. Air caught in her throat, let out in a sipping gasp, and her right hand twitched towards the katana hilt.

  Tiens retreated, blinking out of existence and reappearing across the room. Two inches of steel gleamed, glowing blue with spidery runes, the dappled reflection against cheap wallpaper giving the entire room an aqueous cast.


  “And she reaches for a knife, to make her lover disappear.” Tiens let out a sound that might have been a laugh. The walls groaned sharply under the lash of his voice, a sound she remembered from childhood, the physical world responding to a more-than-human creature’s temper.

  “You aren’t my lover, Tiens. You made that very clear –” the sword slid back home with a click and an effort that left her sweating “– five years ago.” Five years, two months, fourteen days. Should I count up the hours too? But I’ve changed. Living down south where life is cheaper than a bottle of soymalt-40 will do that to you.

  “Does this mean you will not aid me against my enemy?” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, for all the world like a juvenile delinquent on a holovid show.

  Isis, save me. Liana shrugged. “I’m here and I already bought more ammo. It would be a shame not to use it.”

  Private transport docks radiated out from the main transport well servicing the west half of Saint City, and this one was a long, sleek, black metal tongue extending out into infinity. Liana hugged the shadows at the end of the bay, wishing she could use a plasgun. If she could outrun the blast when a plasfield interacted with reactive paint on the underside of a hover, she could just blow this Amelie bitch up and not stop running until Saint City was a smudge on the horizon behind her.

  And if wishes were noodles, nobody would starve.

  Tiens stood at the end of the dock, the orange glow of city light and freeplas tinting his pale hair and now-wrinkled suit. Liana’s left hand hovered, touched the butt of her plasgun, then returned to the 9 mm Smithwesson projectile gun. Hollowpoint armour-piercing ammo; hopefully she could bleed the Nichtvren out in short order – if she could hit her, that is. She wasn’t a preternatural crack shot like Dante, didn’t have Dante’s grace or unthinking berserker speed. Seeing her foster-mother fight was like seeing fire eat petroleum fumes. Human reflexes could only do so much, and Nichtvren were dangerous.

  How many thralls is she going to have? Miserable acid boiled in Liana’s stomach. I have a really bad feeling about this.