Marjorie M. Liu
A Taste of Crimson
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
They are dirty beasts, but that is the way of it. We will throw the dogs a bone, Michael. Throw them a bone, and watch them lick our fingers.
“Throw them a bone,” Michael murmured. He pressed his tongue against fang, tasted sweet blood. Far below him, at street level, the vampire envoys floated single file down the narrow alley, winding around Dumpsters and rusting cars. Night, a cool breeze, the scent of rain, wet concrete shining with reflected light from apartment windows—the vampires were shadows passing over slick grit and filth.
Michael scanned the path ahead of them. He sensed no movement, no scent of human or steel. Nothing of the mechs, the mechanically enhanced humans of whom the city had so recently become aware. Nothing, even, of the wolves.
They are dirty beasts. Celestine’s words still whispered in his mind, her dry-silk voice soft, damning. Michael watched the top of her head, third in line behind Frederick: the envoys’ leader and Dumont’s hand-chosen negotiator.
Celestine’s pale hairless scalp stood out in stark contrast to her black belted robes. Michael imagined dropping on her, dislodging vertebrae with quick fingers, immobilizing her just long enough to keep her from the negotiations with the wolves. She was a bad choice for these talks—talks that had to succeed. Michael was not a man to admit weakness, but he could eat his pride this once. The humans had proven themselves strong in their first covert offensive against the vampires, and though it had been thwarted and the man who had ordered the assassinations was dead, other enemies existed. The promise was still there, the taste of violence.
The humans know we are vulnerable, soft in our luxury and unprepared for a hard fight. Worse yet, we have proven to them that we are aware of their existence. Now they have nothing to lose. They know we will come for them.
Michael had been alive long enough to know the dangers of calculated desperation. The danger to them all would be greater than ever, and despite his mixed feelings toward his own kind, the species had to be protected at any cost.
Even if it meant an alliance with the wolves.
I would have been a better choice as an envoy, Michael thought, and almost laughed—just as Frederick had laughed outright when Michael had challenged his part of this assignment.
So, now you wish to rejoin our kind? The outsider, reclaimed? A joke, Michael. You are the Vendix, the punisher, and that is all you are good for. You are not a diplomat. You do not do well with words or tact. Simply do what is expected of you. Hunt. Watch our backs from above. Keep us safe from traps.
Be a thug. Muscle. A hired sword.
Bitterness bloomed inside Michael’s mouth, down his throat and into his chest. The horrors of his past, the crimes he had committed—three hundred years later he still paid. He would always pay. It might be that redemption was something he would never be allowed to find. His role in society had been burned on his body for eternity.
Michael gripped the ledge he crouched upon, then jumped. An embrace—wind cushioned his body, sheathed him tight. He floated, toes pointing downward, arms loose at his sides. Black hair fell over his eyes; he pushed it aside, brushing metal. The gold filaments laced into his thin braids felt cooler than his skin.
He flew above and ahead of the envoys, scanning the shadows. Nothing at first, just the stillness of deep night. A rare quiet for the heart of the city, without the crush of traffic and quick-paced bodies. Perfect and lovely. This was the city Michael loved best, full of peaceful solitude. It was the kind of city to get lost in, without eyes to judge or pry.
For a moment, he thought he heard singing, faraway lilting, a man’s voice rimmed with shadow. Michael thought, That does not sound human—and then he stopped listening to the music, because less than twenty yards ahead of the envoys something large moved.
Wolf.
Michael sank swiftly, noting from the corner of his eye Frederick’s slowed movement, light flickering off the lead envoy’s rings. Silk flared around Michael’s legs as he alighted on the ground; he brought back his right hand, brushing the hilt of his sword, and looked deep into the gloom.
“Hello,” he said quietly.
He saw sleek fur, wiry legs. Golden eyes and glittering teeth. A low growl rumbled like thunder in the night air.
Michael did not respond. He waited, patient, aware of the envoys behind him, the heavy weight of their stares. He sensed their impatience. Irritation. Immortals, in a hurry. The irony was not lost on Michael, but it was troubling: a sign of nervousness that the mission—and Frederick, as its head—could ill afford. The wolves would smell weakness.
Bones crackled. The wolf’s jaw shifted, receded. Fur smoothed into naked skin. Muscles rippled in forelegs, expanding, elongating; paws became sinewy, masculine hands. Michael did not avert his eyes. Vampire and werewolf locked gazes—brown to golden—until, at the very last, when the animal had become man and there was nothing left but sweat and burning eyes, a hoarse note emerged from the werewolf’s throat and became, “Hello.”
“We are expected,” Michael said.
The werewolf’s spine popped. He was tall, with pale broad shoulders. A faint scar ran up his left cheek. Silver dusted his hair, although he had a relatively young face.
“The Grand Dame Alpha is waiting. I’m supposed to lead you underground.” His distaste was evident, profound.
Michael felt breath on the back of his neck. Frederick said, “We are ready.”
Michael twisted sideways, stepping close to the alley wall. The werewolf frowned as Frederick passed between them, followed closely by the rest of the envoys. The vampires each floated at least six inches off the ground, giving them a secure advantage in height. Michael heard the werewolf mutter obscenities, his feet slapping hard against the pavement as he loped ahead.
Michael watched the faces of every vampire who passed, noting their focused indifference with amused detachment. The only one who met his eyes was Celestine, and her dark gaze was sly, smug. Her thin red lips tugged upwards, and then she was gone, gliding past him down the alley. The record-keeper followed, and then the seven guards, their long embroidered robes concealing more weapons than they revealed, most of which were modern—handguns, stun rods, small explosives.
Quaint. Not very elegant.
Michael fell into a floating step behind the last guard. He sensed a tremor run through the vampire’s body, and smiled grimly. Psychopath, assassin, murderer, executioner—all of these were names other vampires had given Michael. All of these were names for their fear.
He almost touched his cheek, caught himself before he could show that sliver of weakness. The tattoo hurt. Centuries old, and still it pained him. Ink laced with gold did not heal properly, even in vampire flesh, and it would never fade or be absorbed by his body. He was marked, forever. Vendix. Punisher. Condemned to be alone.
&nbs
p; Michael drew back, drifting higher, following the envoys at a discreet distance. No more werewolves revealed themselves. He watched as the envoys were led to a wide sewer grate. The werewolf guide leapt over the rusty steel bars and in one fluid motion swept down to yank them open. The hinges were surprisingly quiet; Michael heard only a faint squeak.
A voice rose up from the darkness of underground—hollow as a tunnel, brittle with well-worn age, feminine in a way that might have once been lovely but was now only wise.
“Welcome, vampires. Welcome to the home of Maddox.”
“Thank you,” said Frederick, his bejeweled hands clasped together. He bowed his head; a strand of black hair drifted over his shoulder, caressing the pale glow of his long neck. The other vampires also bowed their heads—as they had been commanded to do—though Michael did not miss the hard line of Celestine’s lips, nor the arrogance that narrowed the eyes of every vampire but Frederick.
You are not a diplomat. You do not do well with words or tact.
Maybe. But at least Michael knew enough to hide his emotions for the sake of politeness. At least he still remembered humility—or as much as was necessary to pretend at compassion.
“Jas,” said the voice in the darkness. The werewolf guide took a reluctant step back and gestured at the open sewer grate. His jaw was tight, his naked body rigid, coiled. Michael thought he might be shaking, and knew it for rage.
“Don’t you dare try anything,” Jas said. A sharp bark from underground made him flinch.
Frederick did not answer. He stepped off the alley ledge and drifted slowly down, down into the darkness of the werewolf tunnels. The other vampires followed, with more reluctance than was courteous.
Michael watched from above, waiting until the last guard descended. Jas looked up at him. The two men locked gazes and Michael felt the challenge and questions.
Just try something. And, Who are you?
Michael waited, silent, until Jas pulled back his lips in a silent snarl. His eyes flashed. Michael saw the hint of fur, the shift of his chin into something narrow and sharp. Then the wolf jumped down into the waiting darkness, and several pairs of hands emerged from the tunnel to pull shut the grate. Silence descended, the weight of the night bearing down into a hush. There was no singing anymore.
Alone, at last.
Michael drifted backward until his shoulders rubbed the alley wall. It was a small comfort, to be away from his own kind. He took some satisfaction in their fear, but it truly only served to heighten his isolation, the knowledge that he could never be part of them. That even if he wanted, they would never accept his presence.
Vampires did not easily forgive those who killed their kind—especially when the killer was a vampire himself.
His assignment was not yet over. Frederick had been very clear; Michael was to stay until the envoys reemerged. There was a three-hour deadline on the talks, enough time for the envoys to return home before sunrise. Each carried a special day-pack—enough makeup, sunblock, and shielding to protect him or her from the sun. Not that it mattered. Despite the official statements, the human offensive had begun: It was a return of the old days, if in a different fashion. There was no safety here, not when sunlight made it so difficult to pass as human.
We should have expected it. Michael tilted his head, struggling to see the stars beyond the glare of city lights and smog. Humans have always feared us, for good reason. And now with their numbers dwindling, birth rates declining … they cannot risk our presence, our promises of self-control.
Self-control. That was laughable.
He finally gave in and touched his stinging cheek, traced the hard round lines etched into his skin. No other Vendix was marked in this way. Only Michael.
For your past misdeeds, as well as the ones you will commit.
Michael pulled his hand away. He curled his fingers against the brick behind him.
Don’t, he told himself. Not now.
He heard laughter, then, distinctly male. Raucous, drunk, wild. The kind to avoid, if he were weak and human. The kind to avoid, even if he weren’t. He listened carefully, but the humans had an echo in their voices that meant distance—several blocks worth—and Michael felt little interest in investigating. As long as they did not approach the entrance to the tunnels, they could piss and vomit up their drunken stupor on any street they liked.
And then the laughter stopped. Suddenly, eerily. A curtain of silence dropped hard and fast, creating an expectant voice within the night: Not right, not right. Michael pushed himself away from the wall, drifting higher.
He had almost cleared the rooftops when he heard a whistle, a low catcall. Laughter, again, but lower this time. A promise. More silence … and then shoes slapping against concrete—hard, fast. More and more, a group of people running. Chasing.
A woman screamed.
And just as Michael shot into the sky, pursuing the sound of that terrified cry, the men began screaming, too.
Chapter Two
The Man was around, which meant that Keeli had to slip out of Butchie’s through the back, leaving Shelly in the weeds with five tables, one of which whose occupants had been screaming for their fries just before that familiar starched white shirt ghosted through the front doors.
“H.I. Bob is here,” Shelly whispered, and just like that, Keeli had to drop everything and dodge. Health Inspector Bob, aka The Man.
A man who had a distinct dislike for werewolves. Bob had already fined Jim Butchie three hundred dollars for keeping Keeli on as a waitress. Not that werewolves were the reason cited, but it didn’t have to be. The Man had a reputation, and every other restaurant in the city—the ones that didn’t discriminate—had suffered from his twitchy fingers and high fines.
Blame it on a new law from the Feds, which now required the Food and Health industry to screen all prospective employees for lycanthropy and other “aggressive” diseases. Employers weren’t supposed to discriminate based on blood-test results—that, at least, was still illegal—but enforcement was a joke. Humans were running scared nowadays. Or at least, a little nervous.
Keeli was lucky; she still had a job. Even the most progressive restaurants fired their nonhuman servers after a run-in with the Man. Of course, most restaurants weren’t owned and run by Jim Butchie, an ex-trucker who embodied the two most sacred words in Keeli’s vocabulary: fuck you.
Butchie’s was a greasy hole situated in the armpit of east downtown, the round and smelly fringe of the city. It had good cheap food, and was open twenty-four hours a day. Jim lived above his restaurant and could always be counted on to poke his nose into everyone’s business, at every hour of the day. Jim didn’t seem to need much sleep. One of the busboys had probably gone up to his apartment by now and told him about H.I. Bob.
Keeli crouched beside the dumpster on the other side of the restaurant’s back door. The smell was overwhelming, but she didn’t move. She listened to the dishwashers in the pit, young men, new to the country, chattering in a patois of Spanish, Chinese, and English that had become common in the lower classes. Keeli spoke it fluently.
She cleaned her fingernails to kill time, scraping out bits of food from beneath her long nails. She hated the feel of grease on her skin, her odor after a night on the job—the scent of wolf, drowned out by the scent of fries and hamburgers.
It could be worse. At least you have a job. You work in a place where the people like you.
Yes. She had nothing to complain about. Not like the rest of her clan, especially the men, many of whom were finding it difficult to land even grunt work. Everyone in this part of town knew each other’s business—especially if you were fang or fur. And no one was hiring fur.
Stupid vampires. Word gets out on the street that they’re lined up for shit, and suddenly life becomes difficult for all of us.
And it was only going to get worse. Everyone in the underground knew about the attack on the vampires. Rumor called it a rogue element of the human military, but that was shit, just so
me lame excuse. Keeli didn’t imagine for one instant the humans wanted the vampires around. Nor did she think they would stop at just attacking the vampires. The only surprise was that the werewolves hadn’t been targeted first. When it came to pure visceral reaction by humans, wolves usually got the boot up the ass before the fangs.
We just aren’t sexy enough. Keeli glanced down at her striped stockings, her scuffed Doc Martens. Her torn black T-shirt barely covered her lean midriff, and her spiked hair had been dyed a fresh shade of pink just that morning. Yeah, she radiated sex appeal.
Not. Of course, that was the way she wanted it. She was sick of expectations.
She heard Jim’s voice over the clanging pots and running water. Good, he was up. A moment later, H.I. Bob said something nasal, irritating. Hackles raised, Keeli edged deeper into the shadow cast by the Dumpster. The alley was poorly lit, but she always had trouble judging what humans could see or hear. Underestimating others is a dangerous thing, her grandmother had taught her. Arrogance leaves you vulnerable.
Vulnerable. Something Keeli had vowed never to let herself be.
She shifted, stretching cramped muscles. She did not like sitting still for long periods of time—it was the wolf in her, the need to run, to feel the ground beneath her feet, the rush of air in her hair, against her skin, drawing out each breath like it was her last living moment in the world. …
Keeli sagged against the wall, savoring the feel of the cool damp brick. Her fingernails felt too sharp. The wolf roiled within her chest, close to the surface. Too close.
Jim’s voice got loud and then receded, followed quickly by H.I. Bob. Kitchen inspection was over, which meant Keeli’s retreat was near an end. She’d have to go back in soon. She had responsibilities, tables waiting. Shelly needed help.
Keeli swallowed hard. It would be so easy to walk away from all this. But if she did, all her work—the slow process of proving her self-control to the clan and her grandmother—would be worth nothing. She could not allow that. She was finally making her own way, defying expectation. Nothing was worth losing that independence.
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