by Hughes, Mary
Dedication
This one is for Mom and Dad, because love goes beyond the grave.
To Gregg Hughes and Christa Soule. Without you, this book would not have been possible.
To my online and in-person friends. Your support and encouragement keep the books coming, especially Victoria, Elizabeth, Erica, Robin, Leigh Morgan and Roxy Mews.
Thanks to everyone who voted in my Name Julian & Nixie’s Baby poll. First choice was Jaxxie, followed closely by Jessie. As you’ll see, I’ve managed to work them both in.
To all the wonderful musicians I’ve known over the years. Every one has been a professional dedicated to making beautiful music. CSUCS and all musician characters in this book are based completely on my imagination and bear absolutely no resemblance to the amazing, talented folk who’ve shared their music with me.
To you, dear reader. Let’s take a break together from reality and have some fun.
Chapter One
The vampire hung by his clawtips from the steel cable, his feet scant inches above a crisscross of laser beams.
“What’s taking so long?” A human’s harsh whisper, high above in the rotunda, rang bell-loud in the vampire’s ears. The human was impatient, but he couldn’t see the cutting red weave of lasers. The vampire sure as hell could. If he dropped one more inch, all of Paris would wake to the sirens screaming into the October night.
This job had been one fuckup after another. Gear up, arrive at the museum, meet the client’s agent.
First fuckup. The human agent was five minutes late.
Reassess feasibility. Their insertion was carefully timed to thread the needle in the night guards’ schedule. Three walked the upper floor, their rounds half an hour apart. The job was barely possible if the vampire hurried.
Hell yeah. He thrived on risk.
Continue. Bypass the alarm, insert prerecords into the target camera feeds, run up the back stairs, three flights to the rotunda.
Nearly trip over a guard smoking a blunt mid-rounds. Second fuckup, which cost them dearly. By the time the guard moved on, their twenty-five-minute window had narrowed to seven minutes.
Reassess. Possible with significant shortcuts. Shoot the zip line cable into the opposite rotunda wall. No time to anchor the cable properly on this end, so wrap and knot it around the balcony rail. No time to attach a pulley, so mist to the center of the zip line and attach the descent cord directly to the cable.
Third fuckup. The instant the vampire solidified out of mist and grabbed onto the cable, his weight broke the knot he’d tied, and the cable whipped out. Having just snapped back into his natural form he couldn’t mist again so soon. He fell two stories in as many seconds. Only the quick action of the agent—quick for a human—catching the unspooling cable, kept the vampire’s feet from triggering the alarm.
“What’s the hold up?” The human on the rotunda balcony whispered so loud the vampire winced. “Come on, Zajicek. The next guard is due in four minutes, and he’s A-list. Hurry up. ID the thing and let’s go.”
Dragan Zajicek, orchestral conductor and sometime international “courier” glared at the human before tightening his abs to curl into a ball. He slid his toes over the wire and reversed, hanging upside down like a bat. Would’ve been easier to do the job shape-shifted as a bat, but for this he needed his natural eyes. He uncurled slowly, so he wouldn’t disturb the air currents around the display case, until his head hung inches above the bullet-proof glass.
The uncut diamond inside was as big as a child’s fist. If real, it was worth millions. But that was the question, wasn’t it?
He clicked on a very expensive penlight, aiming its beam between the weave of lasers at the rock. Absorption at a certain wavelength was invisible to all but the cleverest of machines—and vampire eyes. He clicked the pen again for shortwave ultraviolet, and studied the fluorescence patterns. Rumor had it this diamond was fake. He’d learned from unfortunate experience not to simply discount rumors, but to prove or disprove them.
When he was satisfied he knew the right answer, he put away the pen and curled up slowly, until he could grab the sagging cable. Mounting it smoothly, he stood with the ease of a high wire artist. He considered running up the cable but speed was of the essence. Flying, then. If he leaped first, any wind from the downbeat of wings wouldn’t trigger the alarm.
He leaped and willed himself into his favorite form, the red-tailed hawk. Half his mass in the bird, half in trailing mist, he glided on spread wings over the balcony railing and was about to shift back to his natural form when a whistle blew.
“Pardonnez-moi.” The voice was dangerously soft. “We’re closed for the evening.”
The man, a broad-shouldered, black-suited security guard, his fade haircut and granite face either ex-military or secret service, was speaking to Dragan’s human associate. The guard slid a compact gun from under his coat with an ease that spoke of long use and aimed it at the associate. “Turn around. Raise your hands.”
Dragan heard the human’s heart rat-a-tatting like a snare drum. Slowly the man turned, lifting cautious palms. His face was white in the museum’s dim night lighting.
The zip line leaped from his hands and whizzed away. An instant later the thud of the cable hitting the diamond’s case was dog-piled by whooping alarms from every level. In the marble confines of the rotunda, sound waves built a tsunami of noise. Dragan flapped in place, desperate for hands to cover his eardrums.
The security guard spoke into a small wrist radio. “Intruder, Three Foxtrot. Backup, now!”
A burst of static, then, “On our way.”
Dragan had mere moments to pull this job out of the shitter. He flew straight at the guard. The man’s hard expression morphed to an O of surprise. The gun swung up but Dragan was already beating his wings in the man’s face. The guard flailed with one hand and shot with the other into the space where Dragan had been.
The first bang was followed by the thud of the human agent’s body hitting the hard balcony floor.
Dragan shrieked a hawk’s rage, talons raking across the guard’s face, blinding him. The man screamed, buried his face in the crook of his arm, and shot until the gun clicked empty. Dragan wheeled on one wing and flew toward his hapless associate as behind him, the guard beat empty air.
The human trembled on elbows and knees, hands laced behind his head. He hadn’t been hit.
Dragan shifted to human form midair, landing lightly on one foot. “Up. We’re going.” He grabbed the agent by the shoulder and hoisted him to his feet.
The human stared wild-eyed at Dragan’s chest. “You…you’re hit.”
Dragan spared a glance at his dark shirt, blackened by wet blood. He spat on his hand, shoved it inside the shirt and wiped the wound closed. “I’m fine. You won’t be. Go!”
He shoved the human into motion, urging him to run. Finally one thing went right. Their planned escape route was clear. Dragan threw open the back door into the alley where a dark sedan waited. He tossed the human in and followed with no wasted motion.
The car peeled out the moment they were inside, hooking a fast corner. Dragan tugged the door shut against the force of their acceleration.
“So?”
The voice emerged from the darkest corner of the sedan. Red eyes were the only part of the man visible.
Well, not man, but an ancient vampire, one of perhaps a dozen in the world. Enkidu.
The human sat between them, head over knees, panting.
The ancient did not waste words. Neither did Dragan. “It’s not real. You’ll have to find another way to finance your children’s hospital.”
“Pity.” The ancient vampire remained no more than a long shadow despite the flash of streetlights as bright as da
y to Dragan. Supposedly ancient ones could hold a permanent misted state, and while Dragan mistrusted lore until proven, it certainly seemed to be possible with Enkidu. Despite doing several jobs for him over the centuries, Dragan had never seen the ancient’s face.
Between them, the agent’s panting gradually slowed.
“Why bother?” Dragan said. “You’re rich enough to endow that hospital ten times over.”
“Twenty,” Enkidu said. “Or possibly a hundred. Why do you bother spying despite all your wealth? The diamond was once mine. It was stolen by a rival. Although I may have originally liberated it from him. Several times.” He chuckled dryly.
Dragan glared. “All this, for a frat prank?”
The long shadow shrugged. “One gets bored in seven thousand years. I have another job for you.”
“If you want entertainment, hire a clown.”
“This is rather more serious. You know of the Chicago Coterie?”
“Windy City vampires.” Dragan sat back with crossed arms. The buttery leather upholstery didn’t soothe his irritation one iota. “Led by Nosferatu, a nasty piece of work. Not rogue, but not far from, the way he bleeds his humans.”
“Yes. Nosferatu is shy a first lieutenant. Rumor says he’s looking to fill that vacancy.”
“Isn’t he promoting his second or third loo?”
“No. This is a new player, completely unknown.”
“I don’t believe it,” Dragan said flatly. “We’d have heard of him. It takes three, four hundred years dead before a vampire can even begin to seize power. It’s impossible to stay unknown that long.”
“Apparently one decoyed and killed the Japanese ancient, Tamayori—after drinking every last drop of her blood. In an instant he became…more.”
“More?”
“More powerful. More insane. There is a name for such an atrocity.” The ancient paused. “Soul Stealer.”
Dragan uncrossed his arms. “That’s not good. If this soul stealing vampire aligns with Nosferatu…” Vampire factions around the globe were carefully balanced, but nowhere was the equilibrium more delicate than between the superpowers of the Iowa Alliance and the Chicago Coterie. “It could disrupt the balance of power in the United States. What do you want me to do?”
“Infiltrate the Chicago vampire scene. Use the deepest cover you can. Discover if the rumors are true, or not.”
“How much does this pay?”
“You determine its worth.”
“Me…?” Dragan swore. “You don’t expect me to live.”
“Perhaps. You’re courting destruction anyway, flaunting Elias.”
Dragan’s jaw clenched. “The esteemed ancient leader of the Iowa Alliance wants me to abandon the podium. He might as well kill me.”
“He will, if you provoke him enough.”
“All because I won’t toe the party line?” At that, his fists clenched too. Vampire existence was secret; however strong they were, the few million vampires could be crushed by billions of frightened humans. Dragan’s taking the worldwide musical stage fifty years ago—and refusing to “age”, much less “die”—supposedly put all vampires at risk, according to the Iowa ancient. Enkidu was right—eventually Elias would get fed up and come after Dragan himself.
So why not go out with a bang? “All right. I’ll do it.”
A small sigh came from the shadow. “Thank you.” Not words Enkidu said often. “If the rumors are false, there is little danger. But if they are true… Zajicek. Be careful.”
“Why?”
“It is said this vampire cannot be killed. Not by humans or vampires.”
Between them the human agent straightened, his face slashed with horror. “Vampires? Soul stealers?”
Enkidu sighed. He put a long-fingered hand on the human’s head. “Sleep.” The agent instantly slumped. “This conversation never happened. Remember only the job.”
Dragan shook his head. “You haven’t done him any favors. What humans don’t know can still hurt them.”
“Mass panic would hurt them more. Not to mention what they’d do to us. Get to the bottom of this Soul Stealer rumor, Zajicek. That’s the way to keep us all safe.”
“Hey, Rocky. Did you hear the rumor?” Doreen St. Clair leaned up next to me as I pulled my gold headjoint from the case on my lap and fit it to the body of my flute.
“The one about us doing Brahms Four?” I blew into the tube to warm it up. “Don’t listen, it’s just gossip. Circulates every year, never happens.”
She noodled a few notes on her clarinet then leaned up again. “Not the Brahms. I heard we’re getting a guest conductor.”
To my left, Peter Obois wet his oboe reed by dunking it in a shot glass. “Middle-school band director turned symphony wannabe?”
“We might get lucky and get high school.” I scooted my chair toward Peter—a b-foot flute is twenty-eight inches of metal pipe brandished like a baseball bat, and I didn’t want to whack the flute player next to me. “We’re a community orchestra, we get community people. That’s what happens when you’re semi-professional.”
“Emphasis on semi,” Peter agreed.
“Not a local,” Doreen said. “A name.”
Peter sniffed. “I’d be more impressed if it were a recording contract.”
“I’d be more impressed if it wasn’t gossip.” I stowed my case under my chair, my eyeglasses sliding to the tip of my nose. I straightened, poked the glasses up with one finger, then set out my music. “I doubt there’s any truth to it. Why would Hugo give up the podium?”
“Because he’s a hundred plus? He should have retired years ago,” Doreen said.
“Please,” Peter said. “The only way he’ll put down the baton is when it drops from his cold, dead hand.”
“He’ll try to conduct, even then.”
“His baton technique won’t look any different.”
“Be nice.” I elbowed Peter in the ribs. “The String King commands our attention.”
Dr. Walter Vilyn, our concertmaster, mounted the podium as if it were a royal dais, regal in a Prince Philip tweed complete with gold pocket watch. The String King certainly ran the string section like his personal fiefdom. But I had it from several string players that he bowed everything wrong. He pointed imperiously at Peter, ordering the tuning note. Peter took a breath to play.
The door slammed open. Kevin Hutt, the orchestra’s part-time manager, dashed in. Or, since he slings pizzas for a living and lives on the pizzas he slings, he lumbered. “Wait! I have an important announcement!”
Peter let out his breath on a sigh.
The String King reluctantly relinquished his throne. Huffing, Kevin struggled up. It had to be important for Kevin to interrupt His Stringy Highness. Walter’s revenge was more creative than his solos. Which, considering he played everything like Prokofiev wasn’t saying much, but still.
Kevin was already red-faced; sixty sets of eyes on him turned him purple. I mentally reviewed my CPR while he fumbled in his pockets, getting more and more flustered.
He managed to find the folded paper before he keeled over, a sheet once ivory bond but now stained as if it had been mauled by a sweaty bear. He unfolded it and cleared his throat. “As you all know, music director Hugo Banger is our regular conductor.” He panted as he read from the paper. “I’m happy to report Hugo had a stroke—” At the collective gasp, he flushed beet red and scanned the note. “No! I’m sorry to say Hugo had a stroke. I’m happy to report it was mild and that we’ve found a replacement for the period of his recuperation.”
“Doreen was right,” Peter whispered. “I shudder to think who they got.” His thin face puckered as if he was sucking straight lemon.
Because as everyone knows, guest conductors sleep in coffins and use meat cleavers as batons. “Hopefully not Walter,” I whispered back. “He conducts like a wet seagull flapping his wings.”
“He leads the section that way too.”
From behind, Doreen said, “I think it’s somebod
y from The Symphony.” Both Peter and I turned and gaped at her. There was only one symphony for us. Chicago.
Then Peter rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding? Not even the third assistant student conductor from The Symphony would guest conduct us. Compared to the big league, we’re a plastic whistle. A baby’s toy piano versus a Steinway.”
“Come on, now,” I said. “We’re semi-professional. We’re at least an accordion.”
On the podium, Kevin was crinkling his note. “Our guest conductor is well-known, having led orchestras all over the country.”
“Meaning he does grade school clinics,” Peter whispered.
More note crinkling. “Excuse me.” Kevin shot a glance at the doorway, his blue shirt bleeding indigo under his arms. “He leads orchestras all over the world.”
“Meaning the high school strings toured Luxemburg one year,” Doreen said.
“He’s recorded with the Berlin Phil and the London Symphony, as well as New York and Chicago.”
That shut us up.
“He’s a name you know well, and I’m sure we’ll be in very good hands while Hugo recovers. Please join me in welcoming Dragan Zajicek.” He pronounced it “Zah-jeh-seck”, turned purple and immediately stuttered, “I mean Dragan Zy-check!”
“Sweet fuck,” Peter breathed.
“The Dragan Zajicek?” Doreen said.
I felt faint. “Is there more than one?”
“Can’t be the Zajicek. The man is bigger than Karijan. Bigger than Ozawa. What the hell would he be doing conducting us?”
My heart rattled my ribs in agreement. Since junior high, I’d followed Dragan Zajicek’s career. Brilliant didn’t begin to describe him. A musical genius, world-renowned in classical circles even as a youngster in the sixties, he’d only gotten more popular, an international celebrity for the last two decades.
I had a stupidly huge bucket crush on him. In high school, when other girls had posters of Backstreet Boys and ’N Sync lining their lockers, I’d had one of Zajicek. And I’d been envied for it.
Why would an international superstar even be in the same room with the Community Symphony of Unaffiliated Chicago Suburbs? CSUCS (affectionately known as See-Sucks) was okay, but hardly in the same league as Juilliard, much less Dragan Zajicek.
