LABanks - H2 Awakening

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  "All right, Rider. Suggestions, then?" Damali glanced at him hard, and kept driving.

  "We're in Lake Ponchartrain—which ain't far from New Orleans Lakefront Airport," Rider said slowly. "I've got an old buddy from 'Nam who's out of his natural mind, and he'd fly us in a small charter, direct to Dallas where we can connect to get to LAX… if the storm dies down a little. He's insane, which is no more than what we just did."

  "In a storm, Rider?" Damali shook her head. "I'd feel a lot better in a jumbo seven-forty-seven. Okay?"

  "Oh, so now the lady is concerned about the principles of safety. Give me a break. A floor just dropped out from under us with Hell below it, and you are worried about crashing in a storm? I would think that would be the least of your worries, Madame huntress."

  "He's got a point, D… By the way," Big Mike said in a very quiet voice, "you nicked?"

  "No," she snapped. "But thanks for asking." She softened her voice and patted Big Mike's arm. "Thanks for the bail out. They were demons. Not vamps. Had to be. Vamps deliver a bite when they attack. Plus, Mar did say that she only thought demons had taken over Nuit's old lair—guess she was right? Just like she and her team had found years ago."

  "Somehow, li'l sis, that does not make me feel better."

  She continued to rub Big Mike's arm. "I know. But now you sound like Rider." She tried to chuckle unsuccessfully. "Shit…"

  "Wait," Rider said, his tone slow and cautious. "Demons do not guard vampire lairs. In fact, the two species are in direct opposition to one another—will try to eradicate each other on sight." He sat back and wiped the streams of water off his face. "Then why would Blood Music, known to be owned by vamps, still have ownership of what we've confirmed to be, the hard way, a demon portal?"

  Everyone looked at Rider, and he ran his fingers through his drenched hair. "If demons had somehow jacked this place from him years ago when he got staked, that I could accept. But the fact that he still owns it today makes me wonder. Something fishy is going on."

  Damali turned up the defrost blowers in the car and cleaned the window with her fingers, making a small circle so she could see to drive. The comment stilled her, and she let it roll around in her mind as she wiped water from her eyes with the back of her hand. She allowed Rider's statement to sit with her for a while before she spoke. "That's just it. Marlene told us my father got bitten, and my mother went after him. Then," Damali said in a sad, far-off tone, "my mother staked herself to keep herself from one night going after me."

  The interior of the car was so quiet that only the blowers made a sound. Hard rain pelted the vehicle, its metallic drumbeat fusing with the swish of the tires against the wet road. Occasional traffic crept by, throwing a rush of water against the rental car.

  "Nobody ever staked Nuit," Damali finally murmured. "When Marlene's team learned about my mother's intent to cast a spell and came to the mansion, they used a counter-spell on him and he vanished. A demon-ridding spell… because that's what they thought he was. But they never found the vampire that had bitten my parents. They assumed that what had attacked my parents had been just one of New Orleans' regulars, a demon—not vamp, and moved me and their team to Gullah country in South Carolina. Marlene didn't suspect Nuit was a vamp until he came for, and turned, Raven."

  "If demons are guarding Nuit's entrance to his lair while he's not in it, then this thing is real big." Rider glanced at Damali and Mike, and rubbed his hand over his jaw.

  "Right," Mike chimed in.

  "My point from the get-go."

  Insatiable hunger propelled him up off the black, silk-covered futon. Carlos sat up and glanced around the pitch-dark of the bedroom he'd just acquired. He stretched then yawned, regaining his orientation. Night two—now what?

  First order of business was to take a leak and then bust a grub. Then he remembered and slowly stood.

  "You didn't eat enough your first night," a voice in the shadows hissed.

  Carlos started, his night vision sharpening. He then relaxed when he saw the messenger's hooded robe and red eyes.

  "Did you bring the maps?" Carlos walked across the marble appointed room, searching in the old Dominican's closet for something to wear.

  "Yessss…" the courier hissed again. "On the nightstand. Once you read them, I suggest you burn them. Too precious. Could fall into the wrong hands. Be quick. We have also sent your clothes."

  "Good," Carlos said, casually. "The old Dominican didn't have much taste in rags, and was shorter than me by half a foot." Ignoring the entity, he walked into the vault-like closet and found a pair of black leather pants, a black silk shirt, and a pair of black alligator boots. He took his time, actually enjoying the impatience he sensed from the messenger who hovered just outside the closet door.

  "We have been concerned," it said when Carlos came back out of the closet. "We lost contact, and the Vampire Council wants assurances that you have located the Neteru and haven't been compromised. And… there was a registration of the loss of one second-generation female vampire and eleven male thirds last night, before we lost a don… thirteen in all. That is a lot of activity. As I said, a concern."

  "My mission was to break Nuit's forces—reason enough for the high number of vampire kills."

  The entity nodded. "Impressive… I will duly communicate your progress in that regard."

  "Tell them not to get in my way. I'm hooking up a smooth strategy here topside."

  "They need to be informed of some of the more intricate aspects. I am sure you understand."

  "C'mere," Carlos ordered. Hunger was making him lose patience with this courier, but he allowed the disgusting creature near him. "Take this scent back to the council. Tell them that I was on sensory overload. Now, I need to eat."

  The two gleaming eyes inside the robe momentarily disappeared and then flashed again. Carlos could only assume that the thing had closed its eyes, when it nodded and emitted something resembling a sigh.

  "They will be very pleased. I will courier your response, and this very special demonstration of loyalty. Hunt well, tonight."

  As soon as the entity vanished, Carlos began dressing, and then stopped—realizing that if he wanted to shower and wanted to dress, all he had to do was think about it. He laughed, and quickly dispensed with the task. Almost immediately, an awful clawing sensation began burning his insides.

  "Oh, shit," he murmured into the quiet. If he didn't eat, any extra resources he used like projection or shape-shifting, even movement would steadily increase his hunger and sap his strength. He would only be strong when he fed. "Sonofabitch!"

  Beginning to panic, he walked across the room, opened the door, and ascended the stairs. Maybe, just maybe. He made his way to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stared at the food. Had to be something for any of the human helpers that kept the house. Sniffing the lunch meat, he cautiously bit into a piece of sliced ham. An acidic taste immediately filled his mouth, making him wretch and heave bile into the sink. "Damn it!"

  The exertion had made his hands tremble. He had the shakes? This was bullshit! A new level of panic ripped through him, and he ran from room to room in the four thousand square feet of the first floor. The gaudy gold fixtures, the gleaming red marble, the velvet and gold furniture—everything the color of ruby red made him want to holler. He tore around the corner and rushed up a spiral marble staircase, searching room by room for thirteen rooms for anything in the house that might take away the pain. He could smell it. Blood was in the house. He stopped moving, forcing himself to be still and concentrate.

  Sensing his environment with his mind, he roved over every inch of the lair site. Of course. The vault. Tearing back down the steps, he dashed through the house, and back to the hidden black marble stairs that opened behind the false fireplace in the den. He almost tumbled down the steps; he couldn't get there fast enough. Once in the bedroom, he spun around and saw openings to other rooms.

  He passed a sunken living room with all-black leather appointments. He
stood in the middle of the room, quickly glancing at the wall stereo system, HDTV, art—was the thing that would quench his hunger in a safe? It was there, so close, but behind what? Again he summoned calm and the scent wafted from deeper within the underground chamber. He passed several more rooms and found of all things a kitchen—with a walk-in freezer. Half afraid to open it, the hunger made him reach out his hand and pull the heavy black lever on the black matte-finished appliance. Sections of human bodies hung from hooks and occupied racks. Carlos slammed the door, and pressed his back against it. Oh shit… what had he done? He wiped his hand over his mouth. He was drooling.

  "Okay, okay, okay, man," he whispered to himself, walking in a circle. "You can tough this out. One more night, maybe two." All he had to do was make a choice, and one way or another the pain would stop and he'd be able to get to Nuit. But he was not going out like this. Eating bodies like a freak? Oh, hell no!

  Another intense convulsion stabbed at his intestines, and he began to move in a serpentine resistance to the mere thought of denying himself the sustenance he needed. But he smelled blood—not just meat. Saliva was building in his mouth. Even his sight was dimming. He leaned over the sink and dry heaved again, and turned on the tap to splash his face with cold water—and hit ruby gold. The tap ran blood.

  He drank from his hands, but he couldn't get enough of it down his throat fast enough. He turned his head, putting his mouth under the faucet—and he stayed there until he was so gorged that he could barely breathe. He came away from the sink, wiping his face on a crimson towel, and then burped.

  Perplexed, curiosity made him bend to look under the sink. A fresh tank, like a spring-water cooler, gurgled and bubbled from the forced siphon. Deep. Nuit had probably ordered it as a gift to repay him for the Neteru sample. Cool. Made sense. Had to keep him fed to keep him on the Neteru's trail. Yeah, fair exchange was no robbery.

  Steadier now, he glanced around and spied a wine rack, immediately recognizing the crest on the dark glass. Carlos laughed out loud. "Private label? Get outta here!" A hundred questions slammed into his brain as he checked out his new environment more slowly. How did they keep the blood from clotting? How often did he have to eat? How did they bottle it? Then he became still. Who paid the price for this gift of life so they could live? He slowly approached a bottle and pulled it out of the rack.

  How many kids… women… children… brothers… fathers… how many to make a good bottle?

  Full, but far less exuberant about his find, Carlos slowly went to the upper levels of the house. He had work to do, and although he felt much restored, he was deeply disturbed. An aftertaste registered on the back of his tongue, and he stood in the middle of the palatial villa trying to figure out what it was. He closed his eyes. Anticoagulant. Carlos wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He needed answers. A small voice in his head told him to just ask.

  The mental conversation was becoming more disturbing than his recent panic attack. It was as though he could understand this new life by instinct—then he remembered. The line retains the knowledge of the line. Now he knew why blood from the tap tasted different than when he'd drunk from Raven, and why he needed so much of it. A fresh kill was always better. It was more potent. He didn't need as much because it carried the adrenaline and hormones of the victim. So, if he raided a blood bank, or drank it out of the tap, he'd need three times as much.

  This could not be happening. A kill a night… If he lived for years, the body count would add up to a personal war. Or, if he just fed off of multiple victims per night, but not enough to totally drain and kill them, they'd eventually get sick, finally die, and turn. Now the Vampire Council's policies made sense. If too many vampires were feeding topside, at any given time, and without population limitations, they'd wipe out the human food supply within a couple of years.

  Carlos studied the wine rack. Discipline. Masters had discipline, and had access to fresh blood from willing human donors without siphoning it from a bite, in exchange for material gain. Carlos raked his fingers through his hair. People would put a needle in their arm, or even their momma's, for money.

  The old vampires were ingenious. He was sure they also had emergency backup provisions.

  Now he understood why the Vampire Council was so appalled by the number of humans Nuit had turned. With the demon influence, his mutated seconds mangled their victims—maiming, nearly destroying them. They ate as much as a master, and one bite could cause a turn—fucking up the vampire ecosystem. Yeah, he could dig it. He'd seen them at work.

  Thoughts of his brother tore at him, as Alejandro's death became vivid to his mind's eye. He breathed out hard, feeling his face grow sticky and crusted with dried blood. He walked up the stairs and found a bathroom—deciding to wash up the old-fashioned way.

  Coming out with a towel over his head, he went back down into the vault to find another black shirt—this time pulling out a sleeveless T-shirt. Damn, this was crazy. All right. Start again. He trudged back up the steps and went to the front door, but stopped and glanced down at the newspaper that had come through the slot.

  A newspaper delivery at night? Interesting, but definitely a message. There was a black-and-white photo of his car in the woods with the door open and two suitcases on the ground plastered on the front page. Carefully he assessed the situation. He needed a plan—a new plan A, B, and C if the ones before it didn't pan out. He knew the vultures were circling and couldn't afford to have his resources jacked, even if he was supposedly dead. His mother and the rest of the family had to be taken care of no matter what.

  It wasn't about just showing up at the police station one night with some long story about why he, of all people, had left a cool one-point-one mil sitting beside his car, and illegal firearms next to two butchered FBI agents. They'd lock his ass up and hold him without bail, if the cops didn't take him in the back room and shoot him first for doing one of their own—then he'd have to play dead and vaporize to escape, and the shit would get really ridiculous. Would send his mother and grandmother through more heartache. No. He had to lay low and somehow get this rap pinned on somebody else. Somebody else who was already dirty and the authorities would be all too happy to close the case on. The Dominican don fit the plan perfectly. Maybe he would call the cops to set up a meeting. He could propose a trade, information for immunity.

  The maps! Carlos tucked the newspaper under his arm and hurried back downstairs, collected the maps, read them, and left them to burn in the fireplace. They immediately caught flame and turned to ash. Okay—now to search the Dominican's lair.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Rider, just chill! You've been complaining nonstop for the last six hours. We've been over this crap a hundred times." Damali flopped down heavily on a stool in the compound's weapons room and let out a hard breath. "I'm just glad Marlene, Jose, and Shabazz got back to the compound all right, and that Dan and J.L. didn't have to deal with any problems while they were here alone."

  "You sure Jose is okay back there, Mar?" Big Mike looked over Marlene's shoulder and peered down the hall.

  "Yeah, poor guy. His fluids keep dropping and he gets all disoriented. They pump him intravenously to rehydrate, and then he perks back up only to do it all over again. I'm not sure how much of this his system can take before something major goes wrong."

  "It's hard on his liver and kidneys, not to mention his heart, the doctors said," Shabazz warned. "Gotta figure out how to put this bastard, Nuit, down fast—and hope he's the one, at that."

  "I know." Damali glared at Rider and dared him to speak. "We'll find out soon."

  The fact that their team didn't know much more than when they had started out only made her feel worse, especially given Jose's weakening condition. She roughly towel-dried her locks in frustration, walked across the room, and flopped down on the sofa. Her nerves were still fried from the harrowing ride in a prop to Dallas, and then the ensuing drama to get their flight moved up. It felt good to have on cle
an clothes and to have clean skin and hair again. The whole misdirected adventure had made her feel grimy, tainted, and she'd spent a half hour soaping Nuit's environment off of her.

  Rider paced, still piqued about the whole New Orleans fiasco and walking around fussing despite Damali's command for him to drop it.

  "Look, man," Big Mike sighed. "We've explained everything to Marlene and the fellas—right, Mar? So why beat a dead horse?"

  "Me and Dan were able to come up with some pretty cool stuff for tomorrow night, so you won't have to go in there like you did today." J.L. stood and stretched. Dark circles were forming under his eyes, the strain of the last twenty-four hours taking its toll on him as well.

  "Yeah, and I took care of all the PR stuff so people would just think you were booked elsewhere—the interviews went great. Everything is copacetic." Dan rolled his shoulders and leaned his head back, massaging his neck.

  "Need I remind you all that this happened in the day—so I can only wonder what could happen at night!"

  "Rider," Marlene said on a long breath, "you are workin' my last nerve. Shabazz and I are tired, Jose is sleeping, J.L. and Dan have been wracking their brains on wild new designs—and Damali has got to get some rest… or she won't be any good for the concert tomorrow. Not only does she have to be in top fighting form, but the girl also has to perform in front of a worldwide audience. Not to mention, it will be her birthday—and it would be nice to do something fun… but we have this other very un-fun thing to do. We're all maxed, in one way or another. We all need sleep. So cut it out."

  Damali yawned at the mention of rest. It was pure reflex, and the hot shower hadn't helped. "I haven't even worked out my routine, figured out which pieces I want to do—and I'm a little nervous to do the old stuff… seriously, that was good for local crowds, but going overseas with the message…"

  "My point exactly. And the music team, plus lights and sound, need to be tight. Dan gave the Blood crews basic info—because their people are handling all the setup. So, if there's a switch in any aspect of the performance, it will have to be done right on stage."