For the woman who’d single-handedly saved my life from day one and stood up for me when literally everyone else was willing to turn their backs, it was hardly enough.
At least she was back to dressing more like herself; this time she sported a sleeveless black shirt, sheer except for the silver skeletal hands holding aloft a chrome pentacle. A matching pair of skeletal hands gripped her lips in place of the simple rings she’d worn before, and a silver star glinted from her nose. The shirt fell to mid-thigh, concealing the tops of her hip-hugging, skin-tight, chain-wrapped bondage pants, and a dark hip pouch hugging the small of her back in a death grip. Lacy black handwarmers and some thick black platforms rounded out the outfit fashionably, but I didn’t care what she was wearing—as long as it was her choice. Anything was better than the styles they kept forcing her into to “tone it down,” the ones she looked miserable and distinctly un-Tamara-like in.
“But are you okay?” The young Moroi cut in insistently as soon as I got to the end of the story, leaning over from her perch on the pew next to me.
“Eh.” I shrugged again. “A little depressed, a little angry. But physically, I’m fine.” I raised my arm again and looked at the hideous color it was still turning. “More or less.” I rose to my feet. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.” I liked it up here in the big, open nave, despite the few holes in the roof, the defaced walls and floor, the broken pews and chunks of rocky debris scattered everywhere, and the uncomfortably religious ambiance. It was peaceful, safe. It was a refuge that had saved my life as well as Tamara’s, and I’d grown rather fond of it over the last year. But my real home was down the flight of stairs that lurked beneath the cracked and crumbled pulpit.
We walked over and Tamara slapped her hand on the ton of stone blocking off the way down. “You first.” She gave the substantial chunk of a fallen support pillar a playful shove. The definition in her arms stood out, perfect ivory pale in the moonlight that trickled in through my damaged roof. But the rock didn’t budge.
“Let me get the door,” I agreed, setting my feet to wrestle the rock. I latched onto it and started dragging; I’d picked a chunk of debris big enough to fit, but barely big enough for me to move. That way, I figured if anything could manage to get to me, it was something strong enough eat me anyway.
Inch by inch, the stone went up the stairs, my muscles and bones creaking. The broken bone in my forearm didn’t seem to affect things much, if at all, only slipping a little as I worked the pillar back and forth. When you were powered by magic, blood, and sheer will, it seemed a little structural damage didn’t do much.
I held the makeshift door and gestured for Tamara to enter.
Underneath the church was a long, roughly rectangular hallway lined with small rooms on each side, running toward the back of the property. I didn’t even know how far it went—or what it was for— because it had collapsed years ago, and the rest of the hallway was choked and cluttered with rubble from above and the rooms I’d cleared out. I supposed I could have dug the whole thing out, I had the free time. But even for a thorough non-believer like myself, it just didn’t feel right to pile the whole mess upstairs in the middle of the nave.
I didn’t know what these little, blocky rooms had once been used for, but Tamara assured me that neither they nor the underground passage itself appeared on the official blueprints. Not enough of the original furnishings had survived as clues, either, so I assumed that the church’s secrets had been lost to time—assuming they were even secrets in the first place. Now, these little rooms served as my new apartment, homeless vampire squatter that I was.
My “bedroom” consisted of four plain, gray stone walls, plus one matching floor and ceiling that blocked me in, sealing me securely underground and away from the lethal daytime sun. My meager furnishings consisted of a scavenged dresser and nightstand, a battery-powered lantern, and sturdy card table with my laptop on it. A wide doorway cut into one wall was the only way out. There was a stool, but someone else had left it here. Finally, there was a thick, slightly dirty blanket from the apartment I’d shared with Lori; I knew it was silly, but I felt safer going to sleep all wrapped up in it.
Home sweet home.
I’d resisted bringing over much from my old apartment. I couldn’t bear the sense of finality it gave our breakup. Besides, I needed to move forward, not back; those Strigoi urges wouldn’t master themselves. These days, I didn’t need much. Not comforts and not distractions. My battered old laptop was one exception; it served the vital purpose of music, research, and Google maps. I stopped and flipped on a playlist before plopping down on my blanket. Classic rock played quietly in the background, just like what I’d been raised on, and I turned on the lamp so Tamara could see too.
“Motley Crue?” Tamara queried. She took the stool, and I leaned against the cold stone wall.
“Think so.” It felt odd having her here, sitting on a stool in the middle of such a dingy hideout. She was too good for a lair as crappy as mine...or at least too clean. Maybe I should have gotten a chair for visitors or at least some Lysol. “I can turn it off if you want.”
She shook her head emphatically, tossing strands of vibrant blue and black back and forth. “Nah, I dig it. I love hard rock, heavy metal, glam metal...I’m easy.” She winked.
I grinned at her. “I'm just fortunate this place was still hooked up to a power grid. Not that that makes much sense, but…” I eyed her.
She grinned.
“You did that when you bought it, didn’t you,” I accused. I looked deep into her grin. “You wily bitch. It was you all along.”
She burst out laughing: fake, villainous, maniacal laughter, an admission of guilt. After a moment, I joined in. “It really took you three months to figure that out?” She said in between vibrant, rolling chuckles.
I couldn’t help but keep laughing. “That’s me, sharp as a rock.” It felt good to laugh. I felt good to relax with a friend, and with Tamara in particular. We’d gotten along since we first met, when she hit me with her car and saved my life the next night. And when she’d used her powers as a Moroi princess to save us all from being blown to bits by Strigoi-controlled Hollow men, that connection had only gotten stronger.
That was okay, though. It was just part of her heritage as a Moroi vampire, that other half of the natural vampire spectrum, The other side of the coin, the opposite of the Strigoi. Where we were immortal, they were still mortal; Moroi had to drink, eat, sleep, and breathe just like humans, all in addition to feeding on emotion. They had heartbeats, felt pain, and got tired just like a normal mortal. They could even be killed by anything that would kill a human, assuming you could overcome their enhanced strength, agility, and durability. They might evoke, heighten, and feed off emotion by their very presence, but at the end of the day, Moroi vampires were people too.
I accepted her, just like she accepted me. As far as I knew, she was the only person that simply accepted me as I was.
The echoes of our mirth died away, and Tamara pulled a leg up onto her stool, resting her arms across her knee. “I’m just glad to help.”
“I really appreciate it, no two ways about it.” Electricity might not be a necessity any more, but it was still nice to have. I didn’t want to be a total barbarian. Now if only I could shower on demand.
“I’d considered trying to get some sort of water hook-up too,” Tamara mused aloud. She wasn’t looking at me, but she was smirking.
“You, madame, are some sort of saint.”
“Hardly,” she snorted, looking playfully offended. “Besides, it’s only a few calls for me, no big deal.”
Silence fell. It was almost comfortable. “So…” I rasped.
“So.” Tamara sighed and unzipped her hip pouch. “Can’t say I was looking forward to this part, but it’s getting late.”
She didn’t have to tell me that; I could feel it in my Ashes-bones. “Let’s do it.” Hopefully Tamara, with her network of family contacts and the amazing abilities of the alm
ighty dollar, had fared better at gathering information than Charles and I had.
Tamara held up a flash drive in one pale hand. “Mind if I…” I nodded and spun my laptop to face her. She stuck the drive in and focused on the screen as she spoke, her fingers dancing over the keyboard and touchpad. “I would have told you guys all of this earlier tonight over the phone or something, but calls aren’t safe right now.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Your family again?”
She frowned and nodded, sapphire eyes still on the computer screen. “After last time, I definitely don’t want them catching onto what I’m doing. Especially considering how stirred up Liandra is right now.”
“What’s she upset about now?” I’d never met her, and I’d already come to dislike Tamara’s older sister. Moroi might be supernaturally, inherently likable, but I was pretty certain I already hated the woman. I didn’t care if she ran all of the Moroi interests in Birmingham or not; I wanted to shove that stick a little further up her ass and see what happened.
“Liandra's always got grounds to bitch about something. I think she makes sure of it.” She shook her head. “But this time it’s legit. I’ll explain in a minute.” She spun the screen to face me, and I leaned in, crouching on my heels.
“What is this?” I found myself staring at a bunch of digital newspaper articles, both recent and old, scanned-in copies. Tamara didn’t answer, just nodded at the screen. I quickly scanned enough to go back to the beginning and start scrutinizing the articles, absorbing every detail like it might save someone’s life.
It didn’t take me long to read over the obituaries and unsolved case files. I’d always been a quick reader.
“Holy shit.” I looked past the screen at Tamara’s grim expression. “So, these kids we’re looking for, they weren’t even the first.” I suppressed a familiar anger with the ease of much practice.
“Yeah.” She reached across and patted my arm, probably sensing my heightened emotions. “Don’t worry, Ashes. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” She tapped the screen. “Looks like the first disappearance was seven years ago.”
“But this first one looks like a separate incident.” I read over the articles again, committing them to memory. “Maggie Keys, age eight.” The first picture of her was an adorable image of a girl with light blond hair, fair skin, and bright hazel eyes wearing a pretty pale sun dress. The sun was shining, and there were birthday balloons in the background. The next few were not cute; they were crime scene photos. “Parents found her missing from her backyard, late in the evening; they were distraught. The police picked up her trail a week later, only to have it dead end in an abandoned building, where they found her blood splattered all over the walls of a closet she’d been held captive in.”
I clenched my fists tight so as not to break anything. Tamara frowned tightly, sympathetically. “This is fucked up, Tam, but it’s not the same,” I growled. “With our three, they just disappeared with no trace except for the blood splatters in their homes.”
She shook her head. “Keep reading.” She dragged the stool around the table, sitting shoulder to shoulder with me and peering at the screen. “Maggie was seen in the company of a very tall, thin man in nondescript clothing and a dark leather hat and jacket,” she quoted from the article.
“That could be a thousand people, including Charles,” I grumbled hoarsely. “Or something that’s not even a person at all.”
“Charles isn’t thin. Shh.” She smirked, but it was a weak smile. “Police trailed him to that very building, but he—and his victim, Maggie—disappeared without a trace. The case remained unsolved.”
“Hmmmm,” I rumbled thoughtfully. “Okay.”
“Second disappearance.” She scrolled down. “Sondra Lacrosse, age six. Blood found at the scene, all over the backyard fence. Family was implicated, but cleared of charges; witnesses later came forward stating they saw a strange man lurking nearby several nights beforehand, though he never approached the house and was never found.”
“Tommy was also never found and presumed dead. This was almost two years after Maggie’s disappearance.” I glanced back at the other articles. “After that, fourteen months. Then ten months. Then nine. Then seven. A tall, thin man was only spotted one other time, but the blood left behind was always the same. No tissue samples, nothing indicating an intruder, nothing except blood. Certainly sounds similar to what we saw.” I scowled, barely holding back a growl. “So there’s a pattern here, but it changes partway through. Why?” I looked to Tamara, hopeful for answers.
She just shook her head and leaned her shoulder against mine, giving and receiving comfort. “I wish I knew. The detective I spoke with said that they didn’t even link the first two disappearances until there had been three more.”
“Dammit.” I scanned Tamara’s notes again. “They just get more and more frequent, and then, boom. Suddenly, five in the last two months. The ones we’re looking into.”
“Monstrous.” Tamara shook her head in revulsion. “But there’s more. The detective I talked to…he was really passionate about the whole thing. If there’s someone on the inside, maybe covering it up for the Sanguinarians, it’s not him.” I nodded. “So I got him talking, and he told me something very interesting.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow.
“He said they keep these cases quiet, because the higher ups don’t want a panic, and there’s no rhyme or reason to the disappearances, just anyone in their early teens or lower. But he said that on every case but the first two or three, the parents reported a history of headaches, nightmares, and unease in the days or weeks leading up to the abduction.”
I ran a hand through my messy hair. “What does that mean?”
“I dunno.” She straightened and took a deep breath. “But I’m hoping Charles might.” Tamara yawned and stretched, then leaned back on the stool. “I still think your Sanguinarian guess is right on the money.”
“Damn, I hope so.” I felt unqualified in the worst kind of situation to be unqualified for. With more information, I felt more uneasy than ever. And except for the mystery man, they also fit an abduction pattern I’d seen before. “He could be a magician, too. Would explain the ability to wipe his trail and disappear.”
“Working with something from the other side, like the Strigoi and the Rawhead?” Tamara shook her head. “Charles already said he didn’t think so. We chased your progenitor out of town, and why would a regular magician need blood sacrifices? The Sanguinarians need blood, but a wizard can just get drunk.”
While not precisely accurate, she still had a point. A trained member of the Magisterium could use mind-altering rituals and substances to send part of their mind Next Door, pulling whatever kind of power they needed straight from the other world. That, and experience, was the reason a powerful wizard like Charles was such a force to be reckoned with. Not that I’d ever say it in front of him, of course. “Then, if it’s Sanguinarians, what are they up to? What do they have to gain from kidnapping children?” We were still missing something. I knew it.
“I...I think I have that answer.” Tamara stood up, running a hand through her colored hair.
“Oh?” I thumped back against the wall as Tamara started pacing. I was tired of looking at bloody abduction sites at the moment anyway. They made me angry and hungry at the same time.
I let Tamara walk it off for a moment. Finally, she knitted her fingers together behind her head and turned to face me. “Whoever this is, this kidnapper…They’ve taken one of ours.”
My jaw dropped, and I sat up straight. “No way. Someone took a Moroi?”
Tamara nodded gravely. “I only just found out, but it happened a couple of days ago. Same blood and everything. I don’t know what leads we have; Liandra's keeping me out of the loop,” she added, a bitter, sharp edge to her voice that I wasn’t used to hearing.
“Well, I see why you think it’s the Sanguinarians, then.” I thought it over. “That’s the first assholes I’d look at, too.”
“It gets worse, believe it or not.” Tamara dropped to her haunches, meeting my eyes with her glimmering sapphire ones. “She’s not just a Moroi. She’s mother’s youngest child. My youngest sister.”
I glanced down to make certain my jaw hadn’t completely fallen off and tried to make coherent words. “What? Shit. That is not good.” I waited for Tamara to tell me just how not good it was.
“It’s pretty far from good, Ashes.” Sadness, pain, and anger shifted and swirled in the liquid blue of her eyes. This wasn’t just family in the sense that Liandra was her family; this little girl was her family. “Personal feelings aside, Mother does not take well to her younglings getting threatened. At the least, everyone that failed to protect her will be severely punished.”
“Including you?” I asked. Tamara didn’t bother to confirm it; her face said it clearly enough. “What’s the worse case, then?”
“She descends on the city personally.” Tamara’s face was grim. “In full force, with my eldest siblings in tow, and the Treaty in Blood goes right out the window.”
“The what?”
She blinked. “The Treaty in Blood?” She shook her head. “Sometimes I forget how new you are to all of this.”
“And yet I handle it all so well.”
She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes and didn’t last. “After the Strigoi were exterminated, everyone kinda took a long look around and thought ‘crap, what if I’m next?’ Things got tense for while until the Magisterium proposed a solution. The Treaty in Blood is a document, forged in the blood of Moroi, Sanguinarians, Jiangshi, both the Dawn and Dusk fae folk, and the Magisterium council. There are some minor signatories too: a couple of human organizations like the Hellfire Club and supposedly an elder demon.”
“So,” I tallied the names. “Everybody but the Strigoi.”
Blood Red Ashes (Dying Ashes Book 2) Page 6
