by Nalini Singh
“Like this, Ellie. You have to become the music, become the air.”
Sadness weighing down her shoulders, Elena whispered, “I’m sorry,” before leaving the bright little room, its color and flamboyance a painful foil for the small, rotting body that lay curled up on the bed.
As she went through the house more carefully, she noted another poster, this one from a Hollywood blockbuster that had a sticky note at the top proclaiming Extras rule! Then there was the marked-up television script on one bedside table, a musical score on another, next to a violin of glowing wood so beautiful, Elena didn’t dare touch it.
“They were artists,” she said to Keir, watching as he examined the body of the girl in the living room. “Dancers, actors, musicians. Must’ve banded together to rent this place so they could save on costs.” It surprised her. “I always figured after a hundred years of service to an angel, vampires would come out with at least some savings.”
“Not every angel is generous.” Keir kept his eyes on the body, his hands gentle and respectful as he opened the girl’s shirt to check the progression of the disease. “It’s an unspoken rule that the blood kin who complete their Contracts should be given enough money on leaving to begin a new life, but that sum is open to interpretation.”
He closed the sides of the shirt, doing up two buttons so it wouldn’t gape. “Then,” he said, shifting to look at the male, “there are the vampires who come out of their Contracts so used to being told what to do that they have no idea how to manage their money and end up going through it like water.”
“The musician,” Elena said, “I think he spent his money on his violin; the actor on drama classes, from the brochures I found in her room; so these five, at least, were working toward something.” There was a vibrant sense of promise in every room of the house, the kind of energy that said all five had been on the same wavelength. “It seems so unfair. They were the good ones, the ones who did their hundred years, and this is their reward?”
“Life is rarely fair, Elena.” Keir’s voice held the echoes of thousands of years of existence. “But this, at least . . . no, it should not have happened.”
Finding nothing in the living room that might provide a clue as to how all five roommates had apparently been infected simultaneously—a fact that seemed to negate their blood donor theory—Elena moved on. Ransom returned while she was in the kitchen. “Raphael is one scary motherfucker,” was his greeting.
Elena’s hand tightened around the edge of the fridge door, the cold air seeping into her clothes to scrape over her skin. “Cici?”
“Sleeping like a baby. And yeah, your scary boyfriend’s returned to the Tower to deal with something else.” Lines of strain around his mouth, he blew out a harsh breath. “Part of me is glad Cici won’t be haunted by this horror, won’t wake up whimpering and screaming night after night, but we took a piece of her life, Ellie.”
“I would rather die as Elena than live as a shadow.”
She’d said that to Raphael once, and he’d kept her faith, hadn’t messed with her memories. Maybe that was why she’d become complacent, forgetting he’d do so to others without blinking. Even to the people who were more her family than Jeffrey would ever be. “I’m sorry,” she said again, door edge digging into her palm from the force of her grip.
Ransom shoulder-bumped her. “It’s not your fault. I’d have had to report this to the Tower whether or not you were with Raphael. Only difference is, I’d have been wiped, too, and never known it, so thanks for having my back.” Bending, he began to move things around in the fridge. “Hey”—utter motionlessness—“did you see this?”
Alerted by his response, she pushed the door wide and bent down beside him. “Blood.” Bottles of it, tucked away in back of the second shelf. Most vampires preferred the vein, but bottled blood was like fast food—every city vamp had some within easy reach. “Supplier?”
If it was one of the major vamp-focused blood services, this could go nuclear very, very fast. Those services didn’t test for disease, because vampires weren’t supposed to get sick. Instead, they took in donors the human banks rejected, paying them enough that, for some, donating “food blood” was a steady source of income. And with New York being a Tower city, with a strong vampire population, demand was high. It would’ve been child’s play for the carrier of this deadly pox to slip into the donor line.
“Blood-for-Less,” Ransom read out. “That’s a new outfit in the Vampire Quarter.”
Known as Soho in the daytime, the area wasn’t exactly a cheap-rent part of the city, which meant, Elena thought, the business had to be at least moderately successful.
“Small-time blood café but with a growing fan base,” Ransom continued, closing the fridge door. “Lower-quality blood, according to my vamp contacts.”
“How can it be lower quality than diseased blood?”
“Word is they take anemics, people who overdonate, might even be watering the blood down a little, but it’s cheap. There’s a market for that—blood that’s enough for a snack, not a meal. And since that’s the Blood-for-Less motto, no one feels cheated.”
Elena walked across to flip open the lid of the garbage bin.
No bottles.
Then she spied a white plastic crate off to the side marked Recycling in sparkly purple pen that erased any distance she might’ve managed to keep from the victims. “Here we go,” she said through a throat gone raw. “One large bottle.”
“There was that half-eaten cake in the fridge.”
“Yes.” The remnants of the word Congratulations had still been readable, white icing over chocolate frosting. “A celebration, complete with cake and a shared bottle of blood to do the toast.” God, it pissed her off that these people had died so an archangel already bloated with power could gain more.
“I can reach out to my contacts”—stress lines bracketed either side of Ransom’s mouth as he spoke—“find out if there are any other budget operations like Blood-for-Less, if that information will help with whatever the hell is going on.”
Elena could taste his frustration, but she wasn’t about to risk his mind or his memories. “Yes,” she said, and the responding flash of anger on his face cut like a knife; she had the sense of a wall going up between her and someone who’d been a part of her life since the day she’d first walked into the Academy. “I’ll check out Blood-for-Less.”
Less than a minute later, she said, “I have to fly out,” to Illium, having grabbed the address from Ransom before he left, his expression tight. “I want you to stay here, keep a watch on Keir.” No sane archangel would target a healer, but there was no guarantee they were dealing with anyone sane. And what better way to cripple New York than to eliminate the one person who had any real handle on the disease?
“You can’t fly alone at night,” Illium reminded her. “It’s a blanket ban.”
“Shit.” She’d forgotten the precaution and it wasn’t one it’d be smart to flout, given the current situation. “Who—” She broke off as the gleaming red motorcycle, which had disappeared in the time she’d been inside, purred to a stop in front of the house once more.
The tall male who slid off after removing his helmet had eyes of deep green and hair of chestnut, his face holding an inherent and lazy sensuality reinforced by his every movement. It would be a mistake, however, to trust that first impression—because while Janvier wasn’t one of the Seven, he worked directly with them. No one held the respect of men that dangerous without being deadly himself.
“I return as per your command, dear Bluebell,” the vampire now said, the cadence of his voice invoking images of bayous dark and mysterious.
Illium’s order was to the point. “Make sure no one gets to Keir. Aodhan is arranging aerial backup—someone should be here within ten minutes.” When Janvier flicked a salute, his motorcycle jacket shifting to reveal the gleaming black butt of a serious gun, Illium turned to Elena. “A lift?”
“Yes.”
His hands ar
ound her waist, her own on his shoulders, Illium took off. Though he was whiplash-fast and could maneuver like nobody else she knew, he didn’t have as much brute strength as Raphael, the lift taking longer than it did when it was her consort who held her. Eyes of gold looked into her own as they rose into the starlit sky, the lashes thick black tipped with blue in a natural echo of his hair. “You look angry, Ellie.”
Oh, she was. It didn’t matter that she understood she was being irrational—humans couldn’t be permitted certain knowledge for the good of mortals and immortals alike. And if anyone leaked the news of this disease, it would not only incite panic, it might give Raphael’s enemies the sign of weakness for which they no doubt waited.
Regardless of all that, she was angry at Raphael for being so much an archangel. That, too, was in no way logical or rational, simply a sign that she’d lost sight of the truth of him because he’d become someone else to her. It was a bone-jarring shock to be so bluntly reminded that the man who was her lover was that man only for her. To the rest of the world he was—must be—the lethal, dangerous, and sometimes cruel Archangel of New York.
None of that was something she could share with Illium, this battle a very private one, so all she said was, “It’s been a hard night.”
His expression told her he knew that wasn’t all of it, but he released her without further words as soon as they’d gained the correct altitude, and they flew in silence to the cute little warehouse that functioned as Blood-for-Less’s current base of operations . . . and the heart of the infection.
14
Unsurprisingly, the blood café was open, the doorway glowing with a muted light that would be too dark for most humans, but perfect for its clientele. While the warehouse was technically in the Vampire Quarter, it was on the very fringe, no other vampiric businesses around it. As a result, the area was currently deserted, devoid of foot traffic.
Inside, the warehouse had been partitioned into two sides using heavy black drapes in lush velvet, one side acting as the store and office, while the other was set up with three sets of unexpectedly lovely seating arrangements featuring wine-red sofas accented with black rugs. There was even art on the walls, the black-and-white photographs carefully chosen to add to the darkly sensual ambience.
It was the kind of place that might tempt a group of friends to linger, drink a glass of blood together . . . maybe buy another more expensive one—because when Elena picked up a menu from a nearby side table lacquered in glossy black, she saw that Blood-for-Less also offered a premium service tailored to its market: rich blood flavored or spiced in a number of different ways, but at a price that wouldn’t break the budget, as each serving was relatively small. Attractive enough pricewise that a couple on a date, for example, might buy several flavors to share, and fancy enough that it’d feel like a special occasion.
Smart business.
“Welcome—” The pretty Hispanic woman who’d walked out of the office cut off her spiel the instant she saw them. “Consort.” Ruffles of white lace at her throat and cuffs, teamed with a tightly fitted vest and pants in black, she lowered her upper half in a deep bow. “How may I be of service?” Her gaze flicked to the door that Illium was closing as she rose back up, fear crawling into her eyes with a quickness that told Elena this vamp’s angel hadn’t been kind to her. “I assure you I’ve completed my hundred years. I have my discharge papers—”
Elena held up a hand to relieve the woman’s panic. “I’m not here to take you in, but I need you to answer some questions. How much blood do you have in storage?”
Blinking, the vampire pulled herself together with commendable speed. “I just began this business three months ago, so it runs on a shoestring. My present stock is two hundred bottles.”
A knock somewhere beyond the velvet curtains had the owner glancing over her shoulder, before she jerked her gaze back to Elena, perspiration glimmering on her skin. “That’s the donor entrance. I get enough walk-ins to keep the stock relatively steady, but I haven’t yet built up a strong network of regular donors. It can get hairy sometimes—last week I was down to twenty bottles before a group of college students dropped by.” The explanation came out staccato-fast, as if she was attempting to hold back suspected bad news by drowning the air in words.
“I need to see the blood,” Elena said, hating the fact that she now inspired so much fear in a legal, hardworking vampire.
A jerky nod. “Of course.” The shorter, curvier woman led her inside the office and to three large fridges. “Is—is there a problem with my blood?” Her fingers trembled as she tugged at the lace of her cuffs.
“I can’t tell you yet. If you could step out, stay with Illium.”
Opening the nearest fridge once the vampire left, Elena picked up the first bottle, unscrewed it and took a sniff.
Cold iron, a hint of disease . . . but it was a disease she’d scented before.
“Cancer,” she muttered and screwed the lid back on.
It took her a number of hours to go through the entire stock, and by the time she was halfway through, she’d found three that pulsed with the putrid stench she associated with the vampire pox. An angel dispatched earlier for courier duty took the infected blood to Keir as it was discovered, the healer having returned to the labs underneath the Tower.
No others set off her senses.
Regardless, none of the blood in this warehouse could be permitted into circulation. When she informed the owner, the vampire—who, Elena had learned, was named Marcia Blue—almost broke down in tears. “I put my entire payout into this business,” she said, hugging her arms around her body. “I can’t afford to rebuild my stock from scratch.”
“Do you have insurance?”
A shake of the woman’s head. “Premiums were too high, given my location and clientele.” Trembling, she bit down on her lower lip and swallowed in a clear effort to hold back tears. “I made a profit for the first time last week.”
Elena thought of the heartrending unfairness of so much of what had happened over the past three days, culminating in the broken dreams of this vampire who’d put in her time, done her hundred, and she made a decision. “I’ll stake you for a percentage of future profits,” she said, knowing she couldn’t simply give Marcia the money.
Harsh as it might seem, that would make the Tower appear far too generous, the association between it and Elena automatic. And the Tower couldn’t afford to be anything but ruthless . . . as Raphael couldn’t afford to let her humanity alter the balance of power that kept the city stable.
Marcia’s eyes went wide. “You?”
“Yes, I need to start investing my money, and I like your idea. But,” she added when Marcia would’ve spoken, “you understand I’ll have to go over your long-term business plan to make sure it’s a sound investment?” That seemed like the kind of thing an investor would say.
“Of course.” A shaky smile, Marcia’s heart in her eyes. “I’ll send it to the Tower at once.” Bowing again, the other woman looked up, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You won’t be sorry. I swear it.”
Uncomfortable, Elena turned the conversation back to the hunt. “In the meantime, we’ll advance you some clean blood—and you’ll start operations again tomorrow at your normal time. Accept donors as usual but don’t sell any of their blood. Sell only the blood you receive from us. Understood?”
A quick nod.
About to continue, Elena had a thought. “Did you put up a sign explaining tonight’s closure?” If the carrier had returned during that time and become suspicious, he or she might not come back.
It was Illium who answered. “Front and donor door. Just said, Family emergency, back tomorrow.”
Since vampires often considered other vampires with whom they’d served, family, that was an excuse no one would question. “Do you have surveillance?” she asked Marcia.
“No. There was no money for that.”
A quick glance at Illium, a nod in return, and she knew the cameras would be in
place before the doors opened the next day. “I need you to keep strict data on who donates what blood,” she said to Marcia. “Tag and label everything.”
The vampire nodded, eyes shrewd. “Someone is selling tainted blood, and the taint’s dangerous.” Carrying on before Elena could interrupt, she said, “I won’t speak a word of this, and I’ll ensure none of the donated blood leaves the café.”
“I hope so,” Elena said softly. “Anything else would cost you.”
Sweat broke out over the vampire’s face once more, a slick sheen. “I do not lie, Consort.”
Stomach tight at the renewed fear pulsing in the woman’s eyes, Elena told the vampire to leave them the keys and return the following day an hour before she typically opened up.
“I just scared her on purpose,” she told Illium. The act had been instinctive, the realization of what she’d done horrifying.
Illium shrugged. “The fear will keep her alive.”
“Maybe, but I don’t want to become that, become someone who controls others through fear.” It sickened her to think she was being corrupted by the power now at her disposal. “What if a hundred years from now, I look into the mirror and see Michaela?” Cruel and capricious and nasty.
“Do you think we’d permit that?” Lips curving, he tapped a finger to her nose. “Raphael would be the first to warn you were you in danger of losing yourself.”
Elena wasn’t so certain. The man who owned her heart saw nothing wrong with acts that deeply troubled her. She was the human one in their relationship. Raphael had said more than once that she’d brought him back from the abyss of age and power—what would happen to the balance between them if she survived war only to break under the relentless pressure of an immortality textured by the power of being consort to an archangel?
