“I love fighting with you,” she murmured breathlessly. Michael drew her closer into his body. He kissed her neck, scraping his teeth against her skin.
“That was not a real fight,” he said, as she shivered.
“Never mind,” she murmured. “Let’s do it again.”
So they did.
* * *
“What we just did was illegal,” Keeli said, still blushing. She readjusted her T-shirt as they approached the yellow police tape, which divided the not-so-crowded sidewalk and the milling men and women in uniform. They were in the bar district, a section of town Keeli had walked through the night before. Most of the bars were closed; Keeli had to step around several men passed out on hard stoops that reeked of vomit. The scent made her stomach lurch, stealing away the warm tingle she’d had ever since Michael brought her back down to earth.
Jenkins saw them coming. He said several sharp words to a tall dark woman who looked like Sheila. She glanced at Keeli and Michael, nodded, and then moved off to speak with the other officers. Within minutes, the scene cleared of people.
“I guess everyone needed a cigarette break,” Jenkins said, as he met them at the flimsy barrier.
“Sure,” Keeli said. “How convenient they won’t see their boss allow an unauthorized viewing of a dead body.”
He shrugged. “See no evil, hear no evil. Not that there’s much left to view at this point.”
“We may have a lead,” Michael said, discreetly smearing on more sunscreen as Jenkins led them to the vampire’s body. Keeli smelled the drying corpse long before it came into view. A large black tarp covered a lump in the middle of the sidewalk.
“God, I hope so.” Jenkins pointed at the covering. “There you go. No witnesses. Or least, no one who is willing to talk.”
Keeli crouched beside the covered body. The smell was musty, tinged with blood, meat. Sort of like a dusty closet in a butcher shop.
The vampire looked like she smelled, except there was not much left of her, and what was still solid had lost all its gruesome qualities. Keeli felt like she was ogling a mummy.
She took a deep breath and let the tarp drop down. Backed away, checking the air, trying to catch the faint remnant of anything that stirred memory. After a moment, a scent—familiar and warm—filled her head. For some reason, she thought of Hargittai, but that was not right; this was also different, alien, and she said, “He was here, Michael.”
“Who was here?” Jenkins looked at them both. “You said you had a lead. Is this it?”
“We might know who your murderer is,” Michael said, hesitant.
“Actually, we don’t,” Keeli clarified. “But he’s not a werewolf.”
“He’s not a vampire, either.”
Jenkins blinked. “Well, what is he?”
Michael and Keeli looked at each other. Jenkins sighed. “Can you at least tell me what he looks like?”
“We don’t know.” Keeli threw up her hands when Jenkins glared at her. “He wore a mask.”
“But he’s not human,” Michael said, possibly staving off Jenkins’s next question. “He could fly.”
Jenkins closed his eyes. “You guys are killing me here.”
“It gets better.” Keeli stepped close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “We think he works for the government.”
Jenkins said nothing. Keeli could not read him; it was as though his entire expression were wiped clean away. His face looked like clay: unnerving, startling. Michael stared at Jenkins like he was seeing his friend for the first time. His lips tightened into a hard line.
“What do you know?”
Jenkins backed away, slow. “I’ll call you, Michael.”
“Jenkins.”
“Don’t ask me, man. Not now. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Now get the hell out of here.” He turned and walked away to one of the parked squad cars. Not a single backward glance. As soon as he reached the vehicle he got on the radio. Unease slithered up Keeli’s spine.
Officers began trickling back onto the crime scene. They looked at Michael and Keeli with curious gazes. Dismissive, with a hint of suspicion.
Michael and Keeli left. The sky was the light blue of early morning; cars had their headlights turned off and traffic was thick. People shared the sidewalk, most of them dressed for work. Keeli tried not to be bothered by how out of place she looked, or the concentrated indifference of the people who refused to look at her face. She felt them watch her, though, from the corners of their eyes.
“Jenkins knew something. You think he’s heard rumors?”
“If he has, they did not have anything to do with the murders. Jenkins would never let that stand.”
“There was something, Michael. You saw that look on his face.”
“Jenkins said he would call. I trust him to keep his word.”
Keeli blew out her breath. She liked Jenkins, but didn’t have as much faith in him as Michael did. Of course, she did not have much faith in anyone who worked for the government.
“Great,” she said, deciding to go along with him. “What next?”
“I want to go to The Bloody Pulp. I should have gone before.” Michael held up his hands when Keeli opened her mouth to protest. “It is possible that one of Walter Crestin’s friends saw the murder. Perhaps, even, the men and women who go to that bar have heard rumors of this man who attacked us. After all, they live much closer to the street than the rest of the vampires.”
“Don’t you think if vampires knew about this guy, they would have reported it by now?”
“You do not know these vampires. They belong to a lower class that is looked down upon by the rest of my kind. I suppose it is because they do not embrace the same desire to be human—or maybe the genetics of their making render them unsuitable to hold most positions in high vampire society. Either way, there is no love lost. The first six victims were from the higher classes. If anyone near the street heard rumors about their murderer, they would not be inclined to say anything.”
“So why didn’t we go there earlier?” Keeli asked.
Michael glared at her. “We’ve been a little busy.”
“Yeah, okay.” Keeli sighed. “So, you vampires are just assigned a job based on what your genes say you should do? That sounds kind of limiting.”
Michael shrugged. “It works, for the most part.”
“What does that say about you?”
“I am a special case. Malachai was of the warrior class, and I inherited some of that strength, the inclination to fight. I also inherited his inability to eat solid food. I learned later that the deficiency set him apart as something of a freak, but he was old and rich and powerful, and no one dared treat him different because of it. I was not so lucky. The cult of humanity, then and now, does not allow diversity in its expression.”
“You mean, they treat you weird because you can’t eat food?”
“It’s one more strike against me,” Michael admitted wryly. He glanced up at the sky and grimaced. “Now will be a good time to go back to the Crimson Light district. The Bloody Pulp will still be open to vampires, but the clientele will consist of only the most … committed. The ones who don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“I thought you were the only outcast.”
“There are different levels,” he said, with a twist of humor. “If a vampire—especially a made vampire—breaks the law or develops a reputation for being a troublemaker, their social circle grows smaller. And smaller.”
“Until they end up living in bars? That’s pretty small, Michael.”
“You’ve never been to The Bloody Pulp,” he said. “There’s nothing small about it.”
“I can’t wait,” she muttered.
Michael frowned. “You’re not going.”
“Right. You said that place is dangerous for you.”
“In the past six months I’ve carried out three executions there. They won’t be happy to see me again. I’m bad for business.”
“And you don’t see
the logic of ‘I’m going with you’?”
“No.” Michael bent close. “Tensions are too high right now between vampires and werewolves. Between vampires and humans, too. I’ve never had two executions ordered within such a short period …” He stopped, as though he had said something wrong. Keeli peered at him.
“That’s what happened the night we met. Your pager went off and you had to run. It was an execution, wasn’t it?” She wished she could see past his dark glasses to his eyes. All she saw instead was her reflection. She looked distorted, frustrated.
“Michael,” she said.
“I have been doing this for a long time,” he said. “Please, Keeli. Let me do this my way. Alone.”
His request hurt—not because he was asking her to stay behind, but that by doing so she would be unable to help him. They had shared so much, so fast, and the close intensity of their relationship—as though in all the world, they had only each other—made her desire to protect him all the more urgent.
He may be all I have left of friend or family. I may no longer have a clan.
Terror clutched her heart, but she forced down a deep breath and shook off the worst of her fear. Later—she would deal with that later. Right now, Michael needed her, whether or not he wanted to admit it. Yeah, like going into a place full of dangerous people who hated you was a smart move. Shit. They might as well go back to the underground.
“I’ll stand outside the bar,” she said firmly. “I won’t go in. I’ll just wait for you outside.”
He stared at her, and she sensed his uncertainty, the urgency of time and duty pressing down on his shoulders. “If you get hurt,” he began, and Keeli shook her head.
“I could get hurt just standing on this street. You know I’m being tracked. Please, Michael.”
He gripped her shoulders. “You are making me insane.”
“I’ve got it down to an art.”
“Yes,” he muttered, grabbing her hand and pulling her down the street. “You do.”
“I’m confused,” Keeli said. “Tell me why this neighborhood is still rolling high? It’s broad daylight.” She looked up at a gigantic billboard decorated with scantily clad women baring unnaturally large breasts. They all had fangs, and called themselves “Sex and Lies.” Part of a strip club advertising vampire dancers. Keeli seriously doubted the women were vampires. A true fang would never do that kind of work. Own the club, maybe. Dance? On your grave, perhaps.
“It’s the Crimson Light district. The tourists and fang-bangs love it, no matter what time of day it is.”
“I guess so,” she said. Techno blared out of stereos built into the turned-off streetlights, beating out the rhythm of her quick walk; her heart strummed tight in her chest. Keeli gave herself to the wolf, coaxing it gently to the surface. Not so it would show, but to give her that extra edge. She ignored the scents of drugs and smoke, blood; excited chatter about a potential vampire sighting, cameras clicking.
She felt battered by sound, the uncomfortable awareness that she stuck out like a sore thumb. Not because she was a werewolf, either. She doubted anyone but a vampire could tell her apart, and there weren’t any of those on the street. No, it was just that everyone around her was dressed sleek and clean, like they were all ready for a slam party even though it was morning in a town where night usually ruled the comings and goings of human fascination. Not so, here. Keeli felt like a crasher, some wannabe out for a look-see into the realm of the beautiful people. Pale, hungry, desperate people.
Not that the scenery matched the visitors. The city always looked better in the dark, and from what Keeli had seen earlier through the taxi window, the Crimson Light district was no different. The sidewalks, which in shadow blazed bright with color, now looked gray and filthy; the bar facades cheap, garish. Instead of alcohol or piss, Keeli smelled blood.
“So what’s the story with The Bloody Pulp? Why is it the hot place for all the lowlifes?”
“No one asks questions and the blood is cheap and good. The management also allows a certain flexibility in the kinds of activities that go on. Most of them verge on the highly illegal.”
“And your council lets places like this exist?”
“They have to. You can’t kill too many of your own without just cause, and not expect trouble. The old ones are survivors. That’s why our new leader, Fleur Dumont, is having difficulties. She’s a member of the warrior class. Maybe one of the last. She wants to fight back, though smart. The negotiations between vampires and werewolves are because of her. If the elders in the Primary Assembly had their way, we would be massacring every human in sight. Or running.”
“Moderation’s on the not-so-happening side, huh?”
“They do not know the meaning of the word.”
If Keeli had been by herself, she might have walked past the bar. Everything in this area looked the same in sunlight—featureless and gray—but Michael slowed and Keeli caught a wet, warm scent. Blood. Lots of it. He touched her arm and guided her into a small alcove that had steel bars screwed across the door window.
“Across the street,” he said. “That’s where I need to go.”
Keeli looked. There was no bar sign, no indication that anything beyond pain and hostility existed past the barbed wire and concrete blocks surrounding a set of stairs that disappeared beneath the sidewalk into shadow.
“Cozy,” she said. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m well-armed.”
“You’re an idiot with a sword and a steel choker.”
“Try to stay out of trouble,” he said, running his fingers down her cheek. He kissed her. “I love you, Keeli.”
“Whatever. Just watch your ass in there.”
He smiled, and it was sweet—so sweet—that Keeli wanted to throw her arms around his body and hold him tight against her, tight enough to anchor his feet to the ground so he would not go into that awful place without her; but she loved him, knew him well enough to understand his determination, and so she did not move when he left her side and crossed the street, a dark figure in sunlight, gliding into the gray, the dirty, alone.
He descended the stairs and disappeared. Keeli leaned against the alcove wall and settled herself for a long wait.
Ten minutes passed. They were long, boring, minutes that consisted of watching cheap blondes in cheap dresses with cheap breast jobs stalk up and down the sidewalk in search of a fang fix. Their arms were riddled with teeth marks. They looked pale, anemic, their eyes too bright. Keeli pushed deeper into the alcove whenever they passed her. Not that they would be interested in a werewolf, but Keeli did not want to be the focus of such depressing addiction. Those girls embodied the most desperate desire for youth and immortality—the one perfect bite: the answer, the prayer.
Movement flickered at the corner of Keeli’s eye. She peered beyond the alcove wall, studying the street—
—and then jerked back into hiding, heart hammering like a steel jack.
The profile she had just seen was all too familiar. A Maddox wolf. A Tracker.
Keeli closed her eyes. The Tracker was far away down the street, on the opposite end of where she and Michael had walked. Which meant that he still did not have her scent. If he just kept walking in the other direction, he might not pick it up at all. Or at least, she might have enough time to get away before he scouted the entire district.
Shit. Granny May must have overruled the others. And then, what? Sent them here? Because yeah, all the fangs take their new bangs to the Crimson Light district for a good time.
If he found her, it would be a hard fight. Trackers played dirty. They used tranquilizer weapons, stun rods, anything to incapacitate with the least amount of damage. Keeli didn’t think she was prepared for that sort of thing. Superhuman rage was not so effective against a man with a tranq-dart.
Careful, she peered around the alcove wall. The Tracker had his back turned. He began walking down the street, a lean strong figure in nondescript jeans and a jacket with deep pockets that no d
oubt held his arsenal. Keeli watched him, and when he was far enough away and walking with enough intent that she didn’t think he would turn around, she darted from the alcove and pelted full force across the street toward The Bloody Pulp’s stairs. Yeah, let him catch her scent and follow her in there. Good luck. If she didn’t get herself or Michael killed in the first five minutes, then maybe she would have a chance to see a Tracker come up against a room full of vampires. That would be a show—if he were actually stupid enough to follow her in.
Stupid like you. You are so screwed.
Keeli descended into darkness, encased by concrete and the overwhelming scent of blood. The stairs went deeper into the ground than she anticipated, and when she finally stopped in front of an iron door, rusty with damp and years, the blue sky felt very far away, and she felt very small.
Michael, please forgive me, for I cometh to crasheth thy party.
She tried the door. It was locked. Keeli banged her fist on the cold iron. A low buzz filled her ears and she glanced right. A small green light blinked, right beneath a tiny intercom.
“What,” said a dry cool voice, “do you want?”
Shit, she thought, but words filled her mouth, sultry, and she said, “It’s not what I want, sweet. I got a call for blood. Different blood.”
“We’ve already got blood. No one here would place a call.”
“You an expert on wants and needs? Don’t think so. Come on, bravo. Open up your hole.”
Silence. Terror wrapped hot fingers around Keeli’s gut, but she stayed frozen with a half-smile on her face, trying desperately to pretend indifference.
The door clicked. Swung open an inch. A hard drumbeat filled her ears.
Keeli pushed the door open and walked into a pulsating darkness tinged with blue—blue shadows, blue furniture, everything blue—tinted lights set high in the walls and ceiling, pouring fey moonlight into the maw that counted as a room. Keeli had never seen so many vampires gathered in one place: men and women, smooth and young, with bloody glasses in their hands and hideous teeth flashing smiles.
A Taste of Crimson Page 25
