“I’ll help,” she told Jenkins. She looked at Michael and said, “You know why, don’t you?”
She glimpsed the surprise in his eyes, quickly swallowed by solemn comprehension. He understood. This was not just about debts. There was something bigger at stake.
Keeli felt the difference in Michael’s eyes as he studied her. She did not know how to describe it, only that it felt like respect, some whisper of admiration. Either way, his sudden acceptance fascinated her.
“All right,” he said quietly, while Jenkins looked on, confused.
“Did I miss something?” He glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Why are you both suddenly so agreeable?”
“It’s because we love you, Jenkins,” Keeli drawled. “Your needs are our needs.”
Michael laughed. He had a nice laugh, short and deep. Keeli suspected he didn’t laugh very much, because Jenkins stared like a wet monkey was slapping him on the ass.
“Are you sure?” Michael finally asked, his smile fading.
“Yes,” Keeli lied. She wasn’t sure of anything, except that someone had to do this.
“Good,” Jenkins said quickly, as though he feared Michael would continue arguing. “You’re officially partners.”
Keeli pointed at the bars. “Does that mean I can get out of here?”
“Nope. You’re stuck until dawn.”
“That’s lousy.”
“That’s punishment. You’re lucky there isn’t more.”
“Nice to rub it in,” she groused, but Jenkins had already turned to Michael and was pulling the vampire away from the holding cell. “Hey!” she called, but except for Michael giving her a quick glance over his shoulder, they ignored her. She watched them leave the room, and made herself comfortable against the wall.
Ten minutes later, Michael returned without Jenkins. Keeli did not stand up from the bench. She watched him, sullen. Michael crouched beside the bars.
“I apologize for that,” he said.
“Huh. What did he want to tell you that I couldn’t hear?”
Michael tilted his head; she thought he looked amused. “That you’re an unknown and I shouldn’t completely trust you, no matter how much you try to … beguile me.”
“You’re shitting me. He did not use the word ‘beguile.’”
Michael spread his hands.
Keeli slid off the bench, intrigued. She sat cross-legged beside the bars across from him. “Are you always this blunt?”
“Are you?”
“Always. I don’t see any reason not to be.”
“I suppose that answers your question, then.”
Keeli sighed, and glanced around the room to see if anyone was listening to them. There wasn’t anyone close by. She whispered, “How bad was this murder?”
“Bad enough,” Michael murmured. “The vampire was likely eaten, though the body is too much dust now for an autopsy. Jenkins is getting you a copy of the file.”
“Shit,” Keeli muttered. “And how much about … you-know-what … do you know about?”
“I don’t think we should talk about it here.” Michael leaned close; Keeli smelled his breath, light and clear. “Too many ears in all the wrong places.”
Which meant he suspected the entire office, including the holding cell, of being bugged. It wouldn’t surprise her—the Man had a reputation for sneakiness. Get a confession any way possible. Nothing was illegal inside a police station.
Keeli heard a beeping sound. Michael frowned and pulled a small digi-encoder from his robes. He looked at the screen and quickly stood. Keeli scrambled to her feet.
“What is it?”
Michael slipped the encoder back into his robes. His eyes were cold, hard, and did not belong to the same man who had saved her from murder, who laughed at a stupid joke.
“Just some business I need to take care of. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer to talk.”
“Where should I meet you?” Keeli asked. She saw Jenkins approaching with some papers in his hands. She glanced back at Michael, and found him studying her. There was a strange look on his face.
“My place,” he finally said. “Jenkins can give you the address.”
“Why not you?” she asked, but Michael shook his head, already backing away.
“No time,” he said. “I’ll see you soon, Keeli.”
He turned and was out the door before she could say a word. Vampire speed—he was nothing but a blur.
“What’s up with him?” Jenkins shoved the paperwork through the bars into Keeli’s hands.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. But I sure do want to find out.
Chapter Five
The stench of blood and feces overpowers, stretching his flesh full of horror as he fights not to gag and fails—his stomach turning inside out within his throat, red bile spilling through his fingers onto the red, red earth and it is ugly—the only light from fire, fueled by bodies burning while Malachai reaches close and pulls out a small charred limb, takes a bite—“tastes good,” he says and laughs, and he has brought him here, led him, and blood soaks through his boots, through flesh into soul—and the children, the children are crying—he is crying—he cannot stop himself, the bleeding, the dying—and he runs—he runs—
Michael’s eyes snapped open. He heard screams—shrill, tortured cries—and held himself still, trying to calm the frantic racing of his heart. Blood roared through his head; he forced himself to unclench his fingers from the bunched-up sheets.
“Dreams,” he whispered, taking a deep breath. “Just dreams.”
Dreams of the past, memories to be relived in the agony of the present. So much time had passed, and still the horror lived within him. It was no wonder he rarely slept.
Of course, he could also blame his restlessness on the execution he had carried out just before dawn. The message he received at the police station had contained three pieces of information—a name, a location, and a particular code known only to him.
Authorization had finally been given for the Vendix to carry out punishment against Simon Pierce, a slack-jawed asshole who had been caught draining humans to death on at least three separate occasions. And the only punishment for a vampire who repeatedly killed humans with sane, deliberate intent … ?
Death.
Michael closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of Simon’s arrogance draining away into abject terror. The century-old vampire had tried to fight—he carried a gun, of all things—but when Michael had a job, nothing, not even bullets, got in his way.
The bullets were around somewhere, scattered on the floor after being removed from his body. He would have to clean them up before Keeli arrived … if she did. He might have presumed too much, telling her to come to his home to discuss the investigation. Of course, with Keeli he seemed to be doing a lot of things that did not make sense.
He thought of her, locked behind silver bars, stopped short by the poison that had already taken its toll on her wrists. He had not realized until that moment how sharply she had insinuated herself under his skin. Impossible. He’d known her for such a short time, and yet, to see her injured …
I did not mean to touch her. I did not.
But she did not pull away.
Sharp knocking, the rap of bone against wood, made him sit up. He stared through the cracked gloom of his stained and shoddy studio, wishing he could see through doors. Was it Keeli? Had she already been released? He glanced at the window, and caught the faint rim of sunlight peeking through the bottom edge of the blind—a spot missed when he’d taped down the flimsy plastic.
The knocking continued. Michael pulled on his pants. He tucked a small shiv into one deep pocket. Three steps and he stood at the door. He leaned to one side of the battered frame and said, “Who’s there?”
Quiet, and then, “Darling. Open the door.”
He almost refused, but it had been a long time. Not long enough, perhaps, but there were some things within himself he could not fight. He opened the door
.
Celestine stood before him, dressed in a formfitting pinstripe suit, a black wide-brimmed hat set rakishly over her brow. Sunglasses were tucked into her breast pocket. She carried a slim briefcase.
“I’m here to read you your rights,” she purred.
“You’re only a lawyer.” Michael stood back to let her into the room. “The most you can do is take my rights away.”
“Good enough.” Celestine breezed past him and stopped. “Filthy,” she said, staring at the studio. “You’re lucky I like you enough to come to this ghetto. I swear, if any of those homeless freaks touch my Lamborghini, I’ll rip out their throats.”
Michael shut the door and leaned against it. “What do you want, Celestine?”
She glanced at him, and in her eyes he read the same old fear—fear masked by arrogance, conceit. Lust. How long had they known each other? And still, no change.
“I’ve brought your money.” She tapped the briefcase with one long nail. “I’m sure you need it.”
Michael gritted his teeth. “We had an appointment for the drop-off. Tonight, at the park.”
“Change of plans. We have to go back to the dogs, Michael. Last night was completely useless. They won’t even consider letting us use their tunnels. Not even in return for a sizeable sum of money.” She sneered. “Dogs. That head bitch practically licked her crotch during negotiations.”
Remembering his brief encounter with the Grand Dame Alpha, Michael highly doubted the accuracy of that last barb. Celestine was much more likely to commit inappropriate licking in public.
“Anything else on your mind?” Michael felt certain she must know about the latest vampire murder.
Celestine smiled; slow, seductive. “Anything and everything. You know my tastes.”
Michael tried not to react. Curious. If Celestine did know about the murder, she wasn’t saying anything. Michael wondered if the council were trying to keep the latest crime secret in order to aid negotiations with the werewolves. If and when the news broke, life would become even more difficult for both sides. Vampires like Celestine would surely use the opportunity to denounce the wolves and end the negotiations. Arrogance, self-reliance—taken too far.
Suicide. There weren’t enough warriors left from the first war to stand up against the humans. Those who had survived that round of death were the same vampires struggling now—and unlike in the past, wits and money would not be enough. Michael knew that this time, if the humans truly set themselves to the task, they would not stop until all the vampires were gone. And after them, the werewolves would be next. Kill or be killed. Leave nothing to chance.
Leave no one alive. Because all it took was a bite …
Celestine tilted her head; the tip of her tongue darted out. She swayed close. Michael stood very still, waiting, as she pressed her body against him. Soft.
“You’re thinking you should kill me,” Celestine said, and she was right. “Not a stretch, really. It’s what you’ve been doing for some time now. Murdering our kind.” She touched his cheek, and Michael jerked his head away.
“I control our kind,” he said, the old argument coming quick to his lips. “Those I kill cannot be allowed to continue. It’s because of them the humans are threatening us. Feeding indiscriminately, like animals. Humans don’t deserve to be treated as cattle.”
Celestine smiled. “You act so pure, Michael. But you’ve taken your pounds of flesh, taken them in your teeth and sucked dry the lifeblood of human after human, razing them down to husks.” She nipped his chin and Michael smelled blood on her breath, fresh and sweet. She whispered, “You remember what it’s like, don’t you? The hunt. The kill.”
Michael lifted his chin, breaking off another attempted kiss. Celestine laughed, low. “You should see your face! What tragedy.” And then her smile faded and she leaned even closer.
“Why don’t you touch me?” she breathed against his throat.
He almost did—a habit borne of loneliness—but as his gaze fell upon Celestine’s pink lips, he was reminded of hair just that color, hot and wild, a riot of color surrounding a delicate stubborn face. The scent of anger, sweat. Warm skin. The memory of a memory, running wild on the steppe—
“Michael.” Celestine leaned harder into his body, her breasts full against his chest. She dropped the briefcase and it hit the ground hard. Her hands drifted down his stomach, fluttered across his groin. Michael grabbed her wrists.
“You should go,” he said, trying to hide the strain in his voice. “Thank you for bringing my money.”
Celestine stared, her perfect oval face caught for one moment in rare surprise. And then her pink lips tightened, hard and flat.
“You refuse me?” she asked in low, clipped tones. Michael said nothing. She had a right to be shocked. He had never refused Celestine, not once during the long years they had passed in and out of each other’s lives. Secret, always secret—but a respite nonetheless. Someone to be with, if only for a short time. Quick, shallow pleasure.
Celestine cared nothing for him. She had always made that clear. She came to him only because it was forbidden, dangerous. Because, long ago, they had shared a common enemy.
That no longer felt like enough.
She bared her teeth, grinding against him—violent, thrusting motions. Michael braced himself against the door. He closed his eyes, willing his body not to respond. It was easier than he’d thought.
Celestine whispered, “You’re not even hard.”
“I don’t want you anymore,” he said, and was startled at how easily the words left his lips, how good it felt to say them.
She froze, and for one moment Michael felt sorry for her. Just one moment.
Celestine raked her nails across his face—faster than he could move to block her, a cutting swipe, sharp, burrowing deep into flesh. Michael did not flinch. He savored the warm sting, tasting blood as it trickled from his upper cheek and lip into his mouth. He instantly wanted more. It was a reminder of what she was like—of what they were all like.
Michael grabbed Celestine’s wrists and pushed her away. She stumbled, but he moved with her, watching as enraged triumph quickly dulled to horror.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“You forget yourself,” he said, tasting her terror and savoring it as a rare moment of honest emotion. “You forget what I do.”
Celestine hissed at him, but beneath her anger he felt her tremble, coil away from his body to keep him from pressing against her. Why don’t you touch me? He remembered her words, and felt a smile rise up his throat, bitter.
“You wouldn’t dare!” she cried, as he turned them both and pushed her to the door.
His smile finally emerged, humorless and cold. “I dare many things, Celestine.”
Defiance rose up in her eyes, then, hardening her full lips. She twisted—once, twice—and Michael set her free. Her hat fell off and she stepped on it, one sharp heel denting the fine thick cloth. Snatching it up, she looked at him over her shoulder and bared her teeth.
“The others humor you because they think you’re necessary, but you are nothing, Michael. Nothing. Just wasted blood in a wasted body. I hope the humans kill you.”
Celestine wrenched open the door and froze.
Pink hair, a small pale face. Blue eyes bright as sky. Lips quirked in a smile or a frown. Michael felt himself go very still; a strange ache thumped against his ribs.
“I came at a bad time, didn’t I?” Keeli said.
Reminder to self: bald is not a good look on a woman, even if she is a vampire.
Keeli braced herself, the wolf raising hackles beneath her skin. The woman in front of her looked ready to kill, and if the blood running down Michael’s face was any indication, she’d already made one good attempt.
The woman snarled; sharp teeth glinted in the poor yellow light of the hall. Keeli’s own response rose in her throat. She stamped down the growl, struggling against the wolf. She wasn’t here to fight. Of course, she wasn’t here to eavesdr
op, either, but she had done a pretty good job of that.
Son of a bitch has no friends.
Nostrils flared; the woman’s eyes shifted, a melody of uncertainty, rage—and finally, ugly comprehension. Her lips curled into a sneer. “Michael,” she said, her gaze never leaving Keeli’s face. “I understand now. You’ve decided to sleep with the dogs.”
Oh. Bring on the hurt. Before Keeli could say anything, though, Michael reached past the other vampire and grabbed her hand. His was cool, electric. She was so shocked, she did not protest as he dragged her into his darkened apartment, practically throwing her behind him.
“Hey!” she gasped, but Michael ignored her, leaning close to the other vampire.
“Better a wolf than you, Celestine,” he said quietly. The woman’s jaw dropped. Michael shut the door in her face.
Better a wolf than you?
“You’re nuts,” she said, astonished. She stared at the back of Michael’s head, taking in the glitter of his braids, the straight line of his back. “What the hell was that?”
He turned to meet her gaze. Dark eyes, like she remembered. Deep-set, quiet eyes. It took an effort not to flinch. Every time she saw those eyes it was difficult to speak, to think.
Vampire voodoo, she thought. But no, vampires couldn’t do that sort of thing. Smoke and mirrors, lies for humans to tell each other, to make fear.
“Michael,” she said, because he still had not answered her question, and she could not bear to look at him for much longer. She was afraid of herself, of her reaction to the sudden hunger in his eyes, the loose grace of his body, his sheer presence—
Celestine screamed something obscene from the other side of the door. The hinges rattled. Michael did not act as though he noticed. Blood covered half his face—scarlet, gruesome. The door shook.
“Werewolves don’t heal as quickly as vampires,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made her heart ache. She did not like that feeling—it was too personal, something to be identified as prologue to a more intimate emotion. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
A Taste of Crimson Page 5
