Probably responding to an arson at a certain “detective’s” apartment.
They wouldn’t find anything. Couldn’t exactly leave a half-shifted werewolf body for forensics. Flame was the only way to make the strange evidence so unidentifiable that people tended to just drop matters.
The sirens faded into the distance. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of an old pharmacy. The handwritten sign on the door indicated it was closed for lunch.
I rapped twice on the window, then the third a few seconds later—as discussed on the phone.
A hunched woman with a cane approached the door.
“Augusta?” I asked.
“You the girl from the phone?”
I nodded, and she let me inside. Jingly muzak played from the pharmacy’s speakers as I followed her past the ibuprofen and cough medicine. The shop was cozy, and while overstocked, generally clean. Augusta went behind the counter and flipped off the security monitor.
“Show me what you got.”
I pulled the torn shirt out of a plastic bag I’d found amid the wreckage in Ben’s apartment. Combined with the rainwater from before, the entire shirt was pretty much sopping wet, leaving pink droplets on the plastic counter.
The old woman gave it a brief sniff and said, “And where is Benjamin?”
I stiffened slightly, trying to read the situation. But there were wards cast all about the shop, powerful ones from what I could gather, which mucked with my intuition. All I had to go on, then, were her eyes, which stared back at me opaquely from behind thick spectacles.
So I just answered truthfully, in my calmest voice. “Dead.”
“Good. That son of a bitch bounty hunter was beginning to make my life hell.”
“Glad I could help.”
“I’m not ready to anoint you a saint just yet,” Augusta said. “The devil you know and all that.”
“All this devil wants is a tracking potion.”
“Can’t do that using this mess.” Augusta tapped her cane against the cash register. “Unless you believe in miracles.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Money has its limits.” Her gaze flipped up from the soggy, blood soaked shirt to me. “But I can make a tracking poultice. That’s my damn specialty, anyway.”
“And how much will that run me?”
“Price is the same,” Augusta said. “Side effects are different.”
I glanced at the clock hanging behind the register. There wasn’t a lot of time left to scour Seattle for better options. Aland could already be packing up the den—and, with it, my choice of claiming this bounty. Meanwhile, the cops—the real cops—would find Ben. Maybe they’d trace him back to the Little Black Dress.
And me.
Then I’d be in real shit.
So I said, “Side effects aren’t a problem.”
Augusta gave me a craggy grin as I set down a pouch of coin. “In a few hours, you might believe different.”
As she hobbled toward the back, I called, “Can you make me something incendiary, too?”
“What would you ever need that for?”
“A fail-safe,” I said.
“That’ll cost you, girl.”
“No price is too high.”
Especially when vampires hated fire.
6
Side effects, it turned out, were a larger problem than I anticipated.
If I’d felt drunker in my life, it was hard to remember when. Oncoming traffic honked as I veered into the wrong lane. I frantically spun the wheel in a moment of clarity, righting the beater back on its proper course as I was serenaded by squealing tires and blaring horns.
I smelled like blood and cinnamon, because, apparently, that was the aroma of a tracking poultice. It created an almost unbreakable urge to head in a specific direction—at the expense of all my other senses.
Biting my tongue the rest of the way, I managed to stay with it long enough to make it into the middle of Aland’s territory. Then, unable to focus much longer, I crashed the car into a telephone pole.
The airbag hit me in the face in a cloud of plumy dust, jarring me semi-awake. I fumbled for Ben’s sidearm—never could have too many silver bullets—and made sure my shotgun was firmly holstered on my back.
Then I got out and stumbled away. Because of the rain, the sidewalk traffic was scarce, although a few people in nearby restaurants stared at me. Catching a glimpse of myself in one of the windows, I saw a trickle of blood coming down from my hairline.
I smudged it away and carried on, trying to focus on the mission. Serenity Cole had been gone for three years. No one in the Elven Cliffs had told me that. But that would have required them coming clean about their previous failed retrieval attempts. Instead, they’d acted like this was a routine, sole-source contract: one bounty hunter, no competition.
Just a simple runaway princess, caught up in a rebellious phase.
That pissed me off. Too many chefs in the kitchen created collateral damage. Clearly this idiot Ben hadn’t been successful for three years, so they’d called me in to clean things up. Except now the Elven King was on the hook for a kill and a retrieval.
Whatever.
I’d get Pearl to send Cyril the bill. She handled all the booking requests and business stuff.
I just took care of the dirty work.
Barely noticing the pulsing music, I entered a discothèque. Being midday, the place was empty, which gave the strobing lights and thunderous bass a strange, ghostly quality. Like stepping into an alternate post-apocalyptic reality.
Blinking rapidly to clear the motion blur away, I heard a screech. My posture straightened, and I instinctively reached for the shotgun. Why I hadn’t drawn upon entering was a mystery.
Well, not really.
As Augusta had clearly warned: side effects.
Fighting off the urge to lie down, I dragged myself past a row of cocktail tables. The sweet, slightly stale aroma of alcohol hung in the air. Pushing forward, I found that the closer I got to Aland, the more the poultice clouded my mind.
There were whispers in my ears, hovering above the thrashing drums.
You’re a hunter, Ruby Callaway.
A killer.
Biting my lip—or my tongue—no longer staved off the poultice’s effects. Arms itchy and seemingly burning, I wondered if Augusta had been telling the truth. Maybe she was in league with Aland. Maybe she had a soft spot for Ben, and had poisoned me.
Or, it was possible paranoia was just another side effect.
I heaved through a black door with no window, almost crashing down the unlit stairwell. Another sharp screech told me that Aland lay within the dark, sub-basement depths. And that, really, Augusta’s brew had been exactly as advertised.
Clutching the thin railing for support, I managed to reach the bottom without passing out. The ceiling vibrated from the heavy music, clouds of sawdust descending in rhythmic poofs. Both hands firmly on the shotgun—like it was a life preserver and I was drowning in the ocean—I staggered through the racks of liquor. The pouches of fire grass inside my boots made my feet scratchy.
Chains rattled somewhere in the darkness, the wisps popping up momentarily in a burst of unreadable color. Eyes unable to properly focus, I still made it to a metal door at the end of the storage cellar. It had the vibe of an industrial freezer.
When I looked in the tiny, condensation covered window, I saw what best could be described as a vampire blood bank. Dozens of half-naked young women—a few fit-looking guys, too—chained to the wall, looking drugged and near death’s door.
This was why vamps loved running clubs. They operated at night. The patrons paid all in cash. And they brought the right kind of food straight to their door—no hunting required. Hell, some of these poor bastards probably passed out right on the dance floor in a cocktail haze.
The screech sounded next to me, fetid breath tingling my ear.
“Hello, hunter.” Aland’s sweet voice tickled the corners of my brain. “You will make a nice
final meal in Seattle.”
Before I could react, fangs plunged into my neck.
And now I was the one screaming.
7
I awoke with a shivering start. Reflexively, I tried to bring my hands down to cover my bare chest, but I found that I’d been trussed up like a turkey. The rusty cuffs rattled as I strained.
Whatever side effects the poultice had inflicted had faded during my slumber. A brisk chill ran through the air, but it wasn’t cold enough for a freezer. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw that I was in a back room—a sort of macabre dining area.
There was a table, long and ancient, with three hungry vamps staring back at me. From the bandaged shoulder, I could tell the closest one was Aland. One smiled, looking hungry and wolfish. His incisor was broken—the stupid one who had killed the two girls in sloppy fashion.
And then there were the humans—or, rather, the other creatures. I sensed a troll, although he was cloaked to appear as a particularly ugly and beefy lumberjack. A few wolves, which was odd, since they loathed vamps—and vice-versa. An unholy alliance if there ever was one.
But that wasn’t the strangest sight in this motley supernatural kingdom. For at the head of the table, directly across from where I hung, there was Serenity Cole. I’d never seen her before, but the Elven King’s description was unmistakable. Raven hair. Light brown skin with a perfect complexion.
Undeniable princess material. The subjects would gladly follow their beautiful queen.
Unfortunately, their ruler-to-be had different plans—ones that involved the darkness. My shotgun lay nearby, within arm’s reach of her chair. I wondered if, when everyone was done feeding, she’d be the one to put my light out.
I couldn’t imagine an elf committing murder, but then, I wouldn’t be the first to misconstrue light and dark essence. One might expect the Fae to be more benevolent than vampires. Such, however, was not the case: there were plenty of assholes on both sides of the essence aisle. I’d go so far as to say that, really, light and dark were on about equal footing when it came to sordid and backstabbing maneuvers.
Think an angel can’t fuck you over?
You’d be wrong.
But elves were the exception: genuinely good in every capacity. Except for this elf, a princess consorting with dark creatures and aiding them in their dark rituals.
The chains dug into my bare flesh as I struggled. They’d been kind enough to leave my pants on. But then, this wasn’t a sexual thing. I—and the rest of the blood bags—were only naked up top because all the best veins were there.
Perfect for carving.
Aland stood, pale skin glinting in the candlelight. He moved slowly, grimacing with each step. Getting shot was a bitch—and silver made it a hundred times worse for a vamp. With a devilish smile, he took his finger and touched it lightly against my skin. I recoiled like I’d been shocked with a taser.
“Those gathered would kill for a chance to feel my touch.”
“I never was one for the mainstream.” I tried to listen upstairs. Would screaming make a difference? But back here, in the depths of the cellar, I could barely even catch a hint of the sonic boom bass from the dance floor.
I might as well have been sucked into a black hole. Down here, wherever I was, no one would hear me die.
“Do you know how many have come for Serenity?” His quick eyes read my expression. “Yes, I assumed you were coming for her. The others in this nest are like…lost toys.”
Instead of being insulted by this, the collection pounded their fists on the table, like they loved being societal cast-offs. It sent a shiver up my spine, although that could have always been the damp air.
“No,” I said slowly, looking into his manic eyes. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Three, including you.”
“They always say bad things happen in threes.”
“You don’t strike me as superstitious,” Aland replied, half-addressing me, half-addressing his flock. I wiggled my left wrist, feeling the metal give slightly. The chains were old and rusted. If I just managed to get through…
Aland’s quick grip stopped my wrist from moving.
“Get off me.”
“But then you might attempt something foolish. Like escaping before I finish the story.”
“I don’t care about your fucking story.”
The air left the room. At the end of the table, I saw the wisps circling Serenity’s head become conflicted. Before, they’d been consumed by darkness—an almost unprecedented signature for an elf.
But that little statement had jarred loose her true nature. Or at least a memory of it.
Which made me realize that Serenity was under Aland’s enchantment. Hypnosis. Allure. Charm. Call it whatever the fuck you wanted—some old vampires had it in spades, and could basically brainwash anyone.
Kind of like a sleazebag politician, except with ten times the charisma.
And bigger fangs.
But at least I now understood the whole Pied Piper thing going on here, with this motley assortment of beasts following Aland into the murderous darkness. He’d created his very own little collection of acolytes—a true freak show of a circus formed to feed his dark impulses.
And I was next on the menu.
Lucky me.
Aland released my hand and walked two paces to the right, so that we were now face-to-face. The bite on my neck throbbed, calling me to him. I could see the charm, the allure, everything—almost wanted to be part of it as I stared into the pits that were his eyes.
He said, “But you want to know who was the first to come after dear Serenity?”
It clicked together, and I groaned. “Goddamn idiots.”
“Cyril the Elven King was desperate for his runaway, rebellious daughter to be returned. Enough to trust me.” Aland spread wide for a fang-toothed smile. There was still blood—my blood—on his incisors. “But, then, I can be very convincing.”
“Like a fox watching the henhouse.”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” His cold hand touched my chin, forcing my head upward. “We fell in love. That’s the story.”
I glanced past him, to Serenity. The wisps confirmed that. I couldn’t tell if that was brainwashing, Stockholm syndrome, or simply psychopathic elf disorder, where one betrays one’s conscience and nature completely.
The last diagnosis wasn’t a real thing. I just made it up to explain the insane clusterfuck of strangeness I was currently experiencing.
“Last words, Realmfarer?”
“I’m not going to beg.” I crossed my ankle boots together and started working them against one another. A little late, but it was now or never.
“It would be unbefitting of your reputation if you did.” Aland’s fangs snapped out. He clearly got the first cut—every other circus performer was relegated to leftovers.
“But I am curious,” I said, feeling one of the boots come loose, “about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“What you’re going to look like with half your face missing.”
I kicked off the boot. The fire grass sprinkled off onto the floor.
“Hey, Serenity,” I said, calling across the table. “What do you light in a hearth?”
“Flame,” she answered dully.
“Flame,” I yelled emphatically.
And the grass, responding to the words and our essence, alit, bursting up at Aland’s shirttails. He screeched, crashing into the table, the silver leeching into his blood still slowing his agility.
I flicked off the other boot, the grass inside adding to the fire. At the table’s other end, I could see Serenity come alive, half of her consumed by horror, the other half by sheer hatred.
Of me.
Fantastic.
Now, I wasn’t impervious to flame, either, and things were pretty roasty nearby. Keeping my feet high over the lapping orange tendrils, I watched as the room devolved into madness. The distraction was enough that I jerk
ed loose from the one corroded chain. My left hand swung over the rising fire.
My right hand, however, remained stuck.
“You know what you need to do,” I screamed to Serenity. “This is who you really are.”
Serenity stared back, ten yards away. It might as well have been an entire world. Her eyes darted between me and Aland, who was beginning to lurch toward her, his clothes covered in embers.
Good thing vampires are highly flammable.
Too bad my survival window was slamming shut.
With no other options, I sang the anthem from the Elysian Scroll, speaking the Elven nobility’s tongue as best I could. The blackened wisps fell away from Serenity as the melody filled the crackling dining area. Darkness browbeaten by the light.
Goodness.
Sacrifice.
She reached for the shotgun near her chair. Aland’s eyes flashed wide as she picked it up.
The ancient firearm came hurtling through the air, bouncing end over end off the wooden table. Clattering to a stop on the stone floor after cutting through the flames, it now lay almost within my grasp.
I reached for the lifeline, the confused creatures howling around me. Separated by a wall of flame, I was safe inside my own protective bubble.
“Kill her,” Aland screamed.
No one moved. Loyalty had its limits.
“Looks like you have a mutiny on your hands,” I said.
“No.” Aland’s voice came as a growl, feral and awful, as he plunged through the flame. Burning like a pyre in the night, skin melting off his pale jowls, he swatted at my chained arm. I felt my right arm crack like a gunshot.
Screaming over the roar of the flame, I strained further against my bonds. Because the break granted me the flexibility necessary to reach the shotgun.
Pulling it up with my left hand, I racked it with one arm and didn’t stop to aim.
I just fired right at the burning mass, turning Aland into bloodmeal.
8
How does one with essentially mortal skin escape a heated inferno?
That one’s easy: fire grass has a shelf life. Of course, when you’re a vampire, and flame is about as dangerous to you as peanuts are to someone missing their EpiPen, you’re not thinking that.
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 66
