“Neat,” Jamie said. “Especially since it’s teatime.” Four p.m. He was starving. Brother Manuel had packed them some sandwiches, but he’d devoured his before he’d even sat down in the Madrid airport waiting area.
“The camp’s about ten kilometers away,” Taamir added. “We’ll march in.”
Jamie swore again. Not so much because he was tired, but because he didn’t want Eriko to have to exert herself. But he knew if he said that, she’d probably kick him.
“Then let’s go,” Jamie said.
Jamie knows, Eriko thought. She fought not to limp as they threaded their way through dense, overgrown forests. Time and again she caught her boot on thick roots, wrenching her bones.
He couldn’t know exactly what was wrong with her—she’d done her best to hide it—but he still knew that something was bothering her. On the night of their graduation from the academy, after Father Juan had selected her, Eriko, to become the Hunter, the priest had given her a cup of sacred elixir distilled from herbs so rare and precious that he could only make one dose a year. That year he had chosen to give it to her.
Eriko had loved her enhanced abilities, even though she wasn’t positive she deserved them. She was as strong as Antonio and as fleet-footed as Holgar on his wolf nights. But both their bodies could accommodate their physiological differences. Hers could not. It was literally being torn apart, and she didn’t know how much longer she could stand it.
I should have told Father Juan, she thought, as Jamie glanced over his shoulder at her. She was bringing up the rear in case the vamps were shadowing them, preparing to launch a surprise attack. But she’d been afraid that if she had told their master, he would have made her stay behind in Salamanca. It was bad enough that Antonio and Father Juan had remained in Spain. From what she had heard about this Dantalion, they needed all their fighting power.
Taamir had handed out stakes, holy water, and Uzis from a cache near the truck, and taught them how to scan their surroundings by sighting down the barrel. They all knew how to do that already, but Jenn told them to use the opportunity to brush up. Eriko hated firearms. They’d lost Lucky, one of Marc Dupree’s freedom fighters, to friendly fire in New Orleans.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she moved through a particularly bad rush of pain in her upper thighs. Holgar glanced over at her, frowning slightly. He had a phenomenal sense of smell, and he could detect changes in body chemistry. He probably knew she was hurting, but he didn’t say a word. Holgar was discreet. During their training at the academy he’d concealed Antonio’s identity from them, as well as his own. Maybe she should talk to him. He would understand why she was hiding it. And he would honor her wish to keep it a secret.
But oh, if only the pain would go away.
In a haze of hurt she followed Jamie, glancing repeatedly over her shoulders, then up into the snow-sprinkled trees. Taamir whistled low like an owl. It was answered.
Then an entire section of foliage was pushed out of their way, revealing a guy dressed in white camouflage, his left arm in a sling, arranging what looked to be field rations on some metal plates. Short, curly brown hair framed an angular face with a freckled nose and large brown eyes. His lips were full, and his cheeks and chin were bushy with brown beard. There was something about him that Eriko liked very much, but she couldn’t say what it was. Confidence, poise.
“Hello,” Jenn greeted him.
We come in peace for all mankind, Eriko finished, feeling a tiny bubble of humor escape the pressure cooker of her anxiety. Skye had told her all about Holgar’s spy code in Toulouse. Eriko, only sixteen, had been a little bit goofy like that before her world had ended.
“I am Noah Geller, Hunter,” he said to Jenn. He looked older than the rest of them, maybe mid to late twenties. He bowed his head. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“I’m our leader, but Eriko is our Hunter,” Jenn replied, and she leaned slightly toward him, as if she, too, was affected by his charisma.
“Hello,” he said to Eriko. She bowed, but stiffly, because of the pain.
Noah and Taamir passed out the rations. It was some sort of Spam-like product, which Noah was careful to mention was not pork, on pita bread, accompanied by raisins and other dried fruit and a vitamin drink. Eriko guzzled down the drink and accepted another.
The two soldiers cleaned up afterward. Noah moved with some awkwardness because of his injury, but Taamir filled in for him with ease. Father Juan said the Stars of David and the Sons of the Crescent had trained together for just three weeks before arriving in Moscow. The Salamancans had spent nearly four months fighting as a team and two years training before that, and they didn’t come near the level of easy familiarity that Taamir and Noah demonstrated as they put the newcomers at ease.
After the meal, as everyone lounged on piles of leaves, Jamie said, “Don’t suppose it would be wise to smoke.”
Noah grinned and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his sling. “I’m a smoker too. I’ve got a spot.”
Jamie smiled faintly. “Thank God.”
“Let’s debrief first,” Jenn said. “Father Juan said you weren’t sure about a third survivor.”
Taamir was loading their empty ration kits into a plastic bag. He looked up. “Svika. Leader of Noah’s part of the group. Dantalion’s henchmen dragged him into the building. We believe he’s still alive, and we want you to help us rescue him.”
“Wait. Hold on. Time out,” Jamie said. “We are here for two reasons and two reasons only: to kill Dantalion and either destroy, incapacitate, or take possession of his experiments and all that shite.”
Noah and Taamir traded wary looks.
“But we were told that was explained to you,” Noah said.
Jamie thrust out his jaw and furrowed his brow. “Our big kahuna said nothing about rescuing anyone. Which is all to the good, because frankly, we suck at it.”
“Jamie-kun,” Eriko said quietly. “Please, don’t say such things.”
Taamir zipped the bag shut. “We would never leave a man behind. A brother.”
“Your brother’s got a Jewish name, mate,” Jamie said.
“Yes, and I’m proud to call him brother,” Taamir said.
“Things were very different before the war,” Noah admitted. “The vampire war, I mean. A suicide bomber took out my entire family.”
“And the Jews bulldozed our house,” Taamir added. “In Gaza.”
“And yet you’ve back-burnered all that,” Skye said pointedly, looking hard at Jamie.
“Not back-burnered. Forgotten,” Taamir replied. “This world doesn’t have room for battles between humans. If we don’t fight together, we’ll die. All of us.”
“Yeah, well, that’s pretty talk, but that’s a hella lot easier said than done,” Jamie insisted. “Your governments aren’t talking like that.”
“That’s why they’re home, and we’re here.” Noah gave Taamir a nod. “The older ones can’t stop hating each other. But we can. We have.”
There was silence. Then Jenn said, “We have a lot to learn from you guys.”
“Hai, hai,” Eriko said, sounding stressed. She looked over hopefully at Jamie.
Not me, Jamie thought. Not me, ever.
CHAPTER SIX
It’s hard to be a hunter. It’s a lonely life. Family, friends—you leave so many people behind. Loved ones all. They can never prepare you for that when you train. But even with your teammates, with someone you care deeply about, you can still feel that way. Because your thoughts, your fears, are yours alone. And you die alone. That terrifies me. When I was a kid, I used to think that death was something that happened to very, very old people. It was like I thought I was invincible. Now I know the truth. Death happens to all of us, most of the time when we’re not even looking.
—from the diary of Jenn Leitner,
discovered in the ashes
LOS ANGELES
SOLOMON
“And cut,” Solomon said to himself, as he
watched the film crew shoot his pet project, an epic film about the secret history of the Cursed Ones. Romance, drama, tragedy, and triumph—it was certain to enthrall both human and vampire alike. Most vampires had no idea of their own lineage. It was his joke to create one for them—and what a story it was. Lies from start to finish, but something that would give them pride, and the conviction that it was their destiny to put humanity in chains. It redefined the truth of their reality, and it would be his crowning achievement—other than ruling the world, of course.
Sure enough, the director yelled cut. Solomon had picked a good one.
Solomon had been converted in 1980, when he was just thirty-two and a rising star of the entertainment industry. He’d been Solomon Shapiro back then. The Shapiro had been dropped well before his conversion—he was a one-name wonder. Everyone in Hollywood had spoken of him as if he’d been their best friend, but in reality he was their worst nightmare—he smiled at them head on, then stabbed them in the back. His road to success was littered with stars, directors, and producers whose lives he had destroyed by making them promises he never intended to fulfill. He would do or say anything to get what he wanted, and in the end no one could hold him to account. He was too intelligent to leave evidence. More impressive, many of those who he had wronged the most had no idea he had done so.
In just a few short years many vampires had fallen under his spell—enough to consolidate his standing as leader. Hundreds of his opponents had been staked prior to the Valentine’s Day that he brought the vampires into the light. The purges continued, and vampires trembled in his presence.
He had never met the old guard, though—ancient vampires like Aurora, Sergio, and whomever they served. He’d get them sooner or later. Preferably sooner.
Aurora was probably more dangerous than Sergio. She was wise to take over Vegas. It was a vampire’s paradise. There was one way into Las Vegas, and one way out, and she had that heavily patrolled. So it was a perfect hunting ground. Aurora had left some lesser light in charge back in New Orleans. Solomon knew she was up to something, conspiring against him with Sergio. Those old-world vampires were hard to figure out, with their ancient, twisted allegiances, dusty histories, and worship of archaic hell gods. Liege lord this and king that, the code of the Transylvanian hills. She and Sergio, the love-hate of her life, had been duking it out for centuries like they were in a remake of Dracula. And as for this supersire of theirs, whoever, “the Big Bad,” as they used to say on Buffy—
He’d be dust.
Let Aurora and company make their pathetic plans, scheme their little schemes. He had spies planted all over the place. He knew everything they were planning practically before they knew. And he knew something they didn’t: Solomon had gotten the best news ever from his partner in Russia. The power in Vampireland had just shifted.
Solomon’s future looked so bright, he was going to have to wear shades.
Because he was going to have a bright future.
He was going to walk in daylight. And whoever owned the sun wouldn’t need Vegas, or New Orleans, or anywhere. Because he would own the world.
“Looking good,” Solomon said to his cute little assistant, a tawny Barbie-airhead human who was wearing a plunging white tank top and jeans. Sparkling at her throat was the necklace he had designed and copyrighted—a bat holding a heart. Maybe he’d rip her throat out tonight. He liked doing that.
Because he could.
He winked at her—what was her name again?—and sauntered off the soundstage into the sweet Los Angeles night. Solomon Productions rented space from Paramount. He loved the old movie lot. It was where he’d begun his climb to fame, working in the mailroom.
This was his Solomon-in-L.A. persona. Of course, when he was in Washington, he was a different Solomon—more grave, businesslike, older.
He strode into Makeup and Hair and swung into the first room on the right. A man sat in the chair, and Solomon watched in the mirror as pancake makeup appeared on the man’s face. The sponge daubed his forehead, moving as if by magick, something out of an old ghost movie, but the makeup girl was simply a vampire.
Solomon made a show of tiptoeing up behind the man, then grabbed his shoulders and cried, “Boo!”
“God!” the man screamed.
Solomon chuckled and patted him on the back, whirling the makeup seat to the left and stepping in front of it. “Sorry, Paul, it was just too good a chance to pass up.” He appraised the makeup job. “Perfect.”
He smiled at the girl, then back at Paul Leitner, the father of Jenn, the hunter Aurora was after. That was one thing Solomon did not know—why Aurora cared so much about this one hunter. That bothered him. A lot.
Then Paul Leitner actually came staggering into one of Solomon’s Talk Together offices in Berkeley and asked for his help getting his daughter back. Told him the whole intriguing story about Aurora and Jenn. Would anyone really go to all that trouble just to bag a little warrior girl? Heck, he’d taken out the American Hunter ages ago . . . and anybody else who tried to be a hero.
“Did you know Annie here used to work for a mortuary? She made up corpses,” Solomon declared.
“Never had any customer complaints,” Annie said, grinning at Solomon.
“Except one of them was not a corpse. He was a sneaky vampire lookin’ for love.” Solomon let his fangs out a bit, flirting.
“Best thing that ever happened to me.” Annie put down her container of foundation and picked up a brush.
“So, are you ready for scene two?” Solomon asked Leitner as he swung the chair back around to face the mirror. “Got your new lines memorized?”
Leitner hesitated for just a fraction of a second, and Solomon saw his anxiety, fear, resentment, hatred. Solomon felt for him, he really did. Aurora had treated him abominably. Betrayed his trust, reneged on their bargain, left him for dead in all that San Francisco fog. No wonder Leitner no longer thought he’d made a good decision offering up his delinquent, rebellious hunter daughter in return for the safety of his family.
“Let’s run through it,” Solomon said smoothly. “I’ll feed you your first line. I’ve memorized all mine. Ready?” He cleared his throat and assumed his Washington, D.C., look.
He put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “‘We’re still looking for her,’” Solomon said sadly. “‘We understand the confusion she must be feeling. There’s so much misinformation out there, so many false rumors. Jennifer Leitner, please, listen to your father.’”
He smiled at Leitner. “Your turn.”
Fear rolled off Leitner. Both Solomon and the makeup girl caught the scent; it stirred them. Solomon kept his gaze fixed on his actor. Leitner clearly had second thoughts about his decision to ask Solomon for help. No matter. He’d be dead soon enough.
Maybe I should just mesmerize Leitner and be done with it. But this guy has it in him to deliver a convincing performance on his own. I’m sure of it.
“‘Jenn,’” Leitner ground out. His hands began to shake, his finger to tap his knee.
“Cut.” Solomon smiled at him. “Don’t tap your knee.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, Paul. Let’s move on. Your next line?”
Leitner took a big, deep breath. “‘Solomon is right. We only want to help you, sweetheart.’”
“Perfect.” Solomon beamed at him. “We’ll shoot you in about an hour.” He paused dramatically. “Not literally, of course. Shoot you. We would never shoot you.”
The makeup girl giggled. Solomon started to leave, then paused again. “Maybe you should tap your knee a couple of times. Let her see that you’re very worried about her. It’s a thought.”
He strode out, then down a flight of stairs to his office. Only he had a key. He let himself in, humming, and slammed the door. The human he’d had for breakfast was still chained to the wall. And still alive. Nice.
“Take two,” Solomon said.
The human jerked his head. “No,” he whispered.
In an
instant Solomon’s eyes glowed; his fangs extended. He glared at him.
“What did you say?” he shouted. He twisted the man’s head so that his mouth was pressed over the guy’s ear and yelled as loudly as he could, “What did you dare to say to me? No?”
The man gasped, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He was near death. If Solomon was going to have any more of him, he had to act fast. He had never in his thirty-odd years as a vampire drunk dead blood, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.
“No one says no to me.”
Then he slowly pierced the man’s ravaged neck with his fangs, knowing it would be torturous, as the man groaned and tried, very feebly, to protest.
Solomon chuckled and further drew out the pain. For a long, long, time.
Finally the man’s heart stopped; his head lolled to the side, and his eyes stared at nothing.
“And that’s a wrap,” Solomon said gleefully. His cell phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket. It was his partner again.
“Danny,” he said. “Dobraye utro.” “Good morning,” in Russian. He listened to a stream of Russian in response. His smile grew so wide he was afraid his face would crack.
“Kruta,” he replied, which was Russian for “cool.” “Of course I’ll wire you more money.” He frowned. “So there are just the two left, right? Two hunters?”
He huffed as the guy on the other end of the line continued to whine. “Oh, please, you can find two people hiding in the forest. Set your monsters after them. You can make more. They’re like extras, Dantalion. Disposable. Yes? Okay, kruta, kruta. Later.”
Solomon hung up. Dantalion was losing his mind, poor guy. Maybe it was time to dump him.
He unchained the human and dragged him into the hall. Called maintenance.
“Hybrids,” he said to himself. “That’s what we’ll call them. Cool. Kruta.”
He went back to the soundstage, daydreaming about sunscreen, and solar energy, and going surfing again.
The Damned Page 9
