by Jenna Barwin
She perched on the sofa, accepted the wineglass he offered her, and started to raise it to her lips.
“No, no,” he said, waving his hand to stop her. “Never just drink.” He picked up the wineglass filled with blood and held it below eye level. “First, look straight down into the glass and roll it.” He did that with his glass. “You’re looking for color. Color tells you a lot about the wine, and we’ll go over those details later. For now, I want you to know the steps until they’re so ingrained you do it without thinking.”
He held his glass straight out, and she mimicked what he did. “Next, look for clarity. Is the wine clear or murky?” He then swirled his glass, and she followed suit. “See those tears forming down the inside? Those are the wine’s legs.”
“What’s their significance?” she asked.
“I said we’ll get to that. For now, just get used to the order of things.”
She gritted her teeth and tried not to let her irritation show. Leopold often acted like little time had passed since she had been a young student and he her tutor. He fell back into his role seamlessly. She didn’t.
“Fourth, tip the glass, angling it over a white tablecloth if you have one. Focus on the area where the wine thins.” He then placed the glass below his nose. “Next, the sniff. Give the glass another swirl, then hover above it like a hummingbird hovers over a flower, and take a quick, silent sniff.”
She did, and a lovely scent of ripe berries and oak suffused her nose. But all these steps seemed like overkill. Would the Hill’s vampire vintners really care if she viewed the wine at three angles?
Finished with his sniff, he raised the glass to his lips and, with a nod, said, “Now you may sip.”
He took a drink from his glass—more than a sip—while she took a small one from hers and rolled the wine around on her tongue. Not bad. She picked up the bottle and examined the label—a Cabernet from a boutique winery named Vasquez Müller Wineries.
“If the Hill’s main economy is wine, why do you want our lab built there?” she asked, returning the bottle to its tray.
He reached for the map she’d left on the coffee table and pointed to a section highlighted in orange, a part of the town’s business district. “This area is undeveloped and still within the boundaries of Sierra Escondida, a prime spot.”
“The scientists who’ll work for us can’t live in—”
“They’ll live in the neighboring city of Mordida.”
She took a breath. Why build in the western foothills of Central California, an area without infrastructure or resources to support the kind of research facility she planned to build? Of all the treaty communities to choose from, Leopold had insisted their project must be located near Sierra Escondida.
“Okay,” she said, “so there’s space to build, but that doesn’t explain why you want it there. There are better locations near other established medical tech businesses—South San Francisco, for one. Many biotech firms have established there. We’ll have no problem luring top scientific talent to the area.”
“Too far from the San Francisco Lodge.”
“Then what about Austin, Texas?”
“Too crowded. The millennials have taken it over.”
“Eau Claire? Plenty of room to expand, and they’re offering investment incentives to new businesses.”
“Have you ever spent a winter in Wisconsin? Besides, it’s not even close to an existing treaty community. We’ve been through all this before, Cerissa. The lab needs to be near the Hill.”
Yes, she had heard it all before. And hearing it again for the umpteenth time, his explanation still sounded fishy to her. She suspected his reasons had more to do with New York losing the war forty-five years ago, not that he’d ever admit it.
As part of her envoy training, she’d learned that the war between North American vampires started with embargoes and travel restrictions in the 1950s. Then the Malibu Incident in the late sixties enflamed matters—a few East Coast residents ignored the travel restrictions because they wanted to night surf; the West Coast communities sent their remains back in boxes.
The vampire communities couldn’t conduct their war in public—not if they wanted to remain hidden—and their numbers had never been large. Plus, no one wanted to turn and then sacrifice a mate to the war. And if they hired mercenaries, they’d have to feed and house them later—after the war ended.
In a game of chess with no pawns to sacrifice, the leader of each community became the target, and assassination the goal. When the head of the New York Collective was killed, Leopold became their CEO and signed the North American Treaty.
He blamed Sierra Escondida for coercing him into doing so.
A momentary shudder went through Cerissa. What would Leopold think if he knew the Lux had engineered the events that led to his predecessor’s death?
She pushed the thought aside and took another sip of wine, returning to the key question: why did he really want her lab in Sierra Escondida? It put their project in his enemies’ backyard.
Leopold poured out the second trial wine and handed her the glass. She went through the same motions before taking a sip. As she did, Ari’s caution echoed in her mind: observe and report.
Leopold’s insistence on the location of the lab was a red flag if she’d ever seen one, one she’d report to Ari, but what to do about it? She had to go along with it to gain entry into their secret world. If she questioned his motives any further, he might get suspicious and cancel their project. She couldn’t risk it.
During the six months she was in training, she’d seen no real evidence that the vampire dominance movement existed, but she had heard a lot of grumbling about the treaty and the quality of banked blood.
The Lux had an old adage: With time, truth is revealed. She just hoped they had enough time to learn the truth.
Chapter 3
Sierra Escondida police department—the next night
For close to seventy years, Tig Anderson had served as chief of police for Sierra Escondida.
Some nights, she wondered if it was worth it. Tonight looked like one of those nights.
On the corner of her desk sat a tall stack of binders. She reached for the next one and plopped it down, flipping to the Executive Summary. Another consultant who just didn’t get it. Town hall, including her office, would never be moved outside the walls of their gated community.
Yes, she’d read the legal arguments before—a government facility didn’t belong behind a wall, in a privately owned area. Yes, they should move town hall to the business district and merge it with the small annex of government offices currently there, so the general public would have free access to all town departments.
It will never happen. Not while Sierra Escondida hid a community of forty-two vampires and their mortal mates.
So why was she wasting her time reading another longwinded report on the subject, the page count clearly an attempt to justify the consultant’s fancy fee?
She let out a long exhale. Maybe it was time to move on. Even though she had the honor of being the first black police chief in California, anything seemed better than the administrative cesspool her job had become.
Yeah, first black female police chief, and the only vampire to hold the job. Of course, mortal police agencies didn’t know that last part. It took some occasional fast talking, but she’d become an expert at giving believable reasons for being absent during the day. Besides, no outside police agency ever questioned the old standby: “She’s in a meeting.”
She reached for the insulated tumbler on her desk and took a sip. The blood was so stale, it was hardly worth drinking. How could they call this “dark wine”? The name was an insult to the fine wines produced by Sierra Escondida’s vineyards. She returned the tumbler to its coaster and refocused on the consultant’s report—ruminating wouldn’t get it read.
Her cell phone rang. Yacov’s name popped up on the screen—one of the vampires who served on the homeowners’ board and had direct acce
ss to her private line. She gladly swiped “accept call.”
“Tig, I have a problem.”
Yeah, probably some touchy political situation—that, or someone’s cow had wandered into his yard again. She shoved her phone into the crook of her neck.
“What is it, Yacov?” she asked, trying not to sound bored. Out of habit, she glanced at the digital clock on her office wall: 8:01 p.m.
“Two shooters. I’m trapped in my car on Main Street, a mile past the gate.”
That got her attention. Before he finished speaking, she keyed the portable radio on her desk and called for backup. Rushing past the coat rack, she snagged her gun belt.
“Are you armed?” she asked him, still holding the phone to her ear.
“Of course.”
“Leave the phone on. I’m on my way.”
She hit the door at full run and sprinted out into the dark night, reaching her police cruiser just as gunfire exploded over the phone. She clipped the phone to her belt, the car’s Bluetooth capturing the call, and then slapped the car’s siren switch on. The noise might scare off the shooters before they hurt Yacov.
“Do I have backup?” she yelled into the radio. She put the car in gear and sped down the two-lane road, the homes and vineyards along the road nothing but a blur.
“Four on the way,” the dispatcher responded.
“Jayden with them?” She could only hire mortals who knew about vampires, and Captain Jayden Johnson was the most qualified among them.
“Roger that, chief. Jayden and three reservists.”
In radio-speak, that meant three vampires.
The car’s insulation muffled the siren, but out of habit, she leaned toward the hands-free microphone. “Yacov, are you still there?”
No answer. Not good.
What was Yacov doing in the town’s business district tonight? He ran his diamond import company from home. So what was he doing outside the wall and in the public area?
Tig swerved. A car had pulled over to let her by. The gate stood open—the guards must have heard the siren. She raced into the business district.
The dashboard clock read 8:05 when she slammed on her brakes, stopping at an angle behind Yacov’s disabled Mercedes. His two flat tires faced her, the sidewalls chewed up, probably from gunfire. Shit. Fear for Yacov’s safety crawled through her belly. She killed the siren and cautiously inched out of the car, using the door as a shield to get the lay of the land.
She scanned wide, taking in the storefronts—all dark. The wineries and other tourist-oriented businesses were closed for the night. No sign of anyone moving, but plenty of places to hide.
One man lay sprawled on the sidewalk, shot through the forehead with his face pointing at the sky. She didn’t recognize him. No heartbeat audible, so probably dead. Another man hung halfway out the driver’s side of Yacov’s car. Most of the car’s side windows were shot out, the remaining glass held together like a fragile spider’s web. She approached with caution, trying to watch both Yacov and the nearby storefronts, her hands wrapped firmly around her Sig Sauer pistol. The smell of fresh blood tickled her nose. Her fangs extended reflexively, and she forced them back in. Now was not the time to lose focus.
Yacov sat in the driver’s seat, leaning back against the leather upholstery, his eyes closed. The man hanging halfway out of the open door lay across Yacov’s lap. Yacov’s arms wrapped around him in a loverlike embrace, and the man’s head lolled to one side. Multiple rows of fang marks gouged the man’s neck—he must have struggled against Yacov’s bite.
She detected the sound of one beating heart. No blood flowed from the man’s mangled throat, so the heartbeat must belong to Yacov. Some of the tension eased from her body, and she scanned the street again. Nobody on foot, but she caught the sound of cars fast approaching, and spun around. Two police SUVs skidded to a halt and blocked the street at an angle, forming a defensive perimeter.
With reinforcements guarding her back, she holstered her gun, reached in, and pulled out the dead body, depositing it on the pavement—another stranger. She bet the body would stay dead where she dropped it. Yacov would never have given the attacker his blood, and it took both vampire blood and the venom in a vampire’s fangs to turn a mortal vampire.
She offered her hand to Yacov and helped him stand. He seemed all right, aside from some cuts inflicted by the broken glass, but those would heal quickly. Good. She didn’t want to consider the consequences if he’d been killed.
Yacov still gripped his gun. She pulled a plastic evidence bag from her back pocket, where she always kept one or two, and threaded it over the barrel. She held the bag with one hand and gently pried the gun loose from Yacov’s fingers with the other. From the look in his eyes, he wasn’t ready to talk—still too dazed from gorging on a body’s worth of blood.
Turning to the arriving officers, she barked out instructions. “There may be others. Liza, Zeke—take the north side. Rolf—take the south. Go.”
Give her just one live perp and she would have the truth by sunrise.
She searched the dead bodies. No form of identification. “No car keys,” she called out. “Be careful. They hid the keys or someone drove them here. That someone may be nearby.”
Jayden arrived in the crime scene van and she signaled for him to join her. He placed his kit on the ground next to Yacov’s car.
“ID first,” she said. He took out an electronic fingerprint scanner, printed the two dead men, and then handed the scanner to her. Seconds later, a ding told her they had a match. The names of two known felons appeared on the screen. She returned the scanner to him, pulled on gloves, and picked up the gun near a dead shooter.
Yacov still leaned against his car. A small amount of blood clung to his unruly brown beard and his olive-toned skin looked rosy. At the sound of her approach, he opened his eyes. “Tig, my friend, I had no choice. They tried to kill me, I swear.” He inclined his head toward the nearest dead man. “I don’t know why. I’ve never met them before.”
“Do you recognize their names—Anthony Luzzari and Rocco Giordano?”
He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.
She unclipped her phone and started the built-in audio recorder, letting Yacov see what she was doing. He nodded his consent, and she slipped the phone into her shirt pocket so she wouldn’t have to hold it. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was on my way to Los Angeles. A new shipment of diamonds to cut.”
“Were you carrying any?”
“Not this time. The raw diamonds are at the wholesalers.”
So he did carry diamonds sometimes. She’d heard rumors, but never confirmed them. “Continue,” she said.
“What’s to tell? A loud bang and my car dropped in the back. I thought I’d blown a tire.” He shrugged, looking sheepish. “The second bang—I realized it was gunfire. With two tires gone, I stopped the car and ducked down.”
Lucky for him he drove an older-model Mercedes with bench-style seats—no tall center console, so he could get below the window line.
“I grabbed my gun from the glove box and called you. Bluetooth,” he said, tapping his old-fashioned earpiece. He paused, looking down. “They may have wanted me alive.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, either that, or they were stupid.” He tugged at the end of his long beard, twining and untwining his finger in the ragged ends. “They approached from behind, one on each side, shooting out the windows. Then they stopped.”
She saw Yacov’s point. Why stop shooting? They had him cornered.
“I heard footsteps,” Yacov continued, “and the sound of a heart beating louder as it came closer. I took the chance. I sat up and shot him.”
“The man on the sidewalk?”
“That’s right. Then the other man opened my door. No one told him how fast we can move.” He chuckled and released his beard. “I grabbed his gun and pulled him in. You know the rest.”
His story matche
d what Tig’s eyes told her. The council would probably clear him of any wrongdoing for draining his attacker. Self-defense and heat of the moment—even an older vampire like Yacov, amped up on adrenaline from the attack, couldn’t stop a feeding frenzy.
“Has anyone threatened you?” she asked.
“No. No one. And it makes no sense. Why attack me while I’m driving? Why not wait until I’m alone and not in public?” He gestured while he spoke, his whole body taking on the appearance of a question mark.
She ejected the clip from the gun the assailant used. “Silver,” she said, running her finger along the half-full cartridge and feeling the telltale burning sensation through her glove. “How did they know to use it?”
“I have no idea, my friend.”
She shoved the clip back into the gun and dropped it into another plastic bag. “A business dispute?”
“I’m on good terms with the diamond merchants I cut for. Besides, they wouldn’t know to use silver. They don’t know what I am.”
“What about ex-lovers?”
“None who want me dead. Besides, I’ve been with my wife for ten years. I’m a faithful husband, Tig.”
She kept her eyes locked on his. “You have no idea why they attacked you?”
“Believe me, I wish I knew.”
“Anyone know your travel plans?”
“Only about half our community, as well as the community in the Fairfax District—I was going to stay with them.”
That didn’t narrow it down much. “I’ll need their names and contact information.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll email it to you later.”
She clasped his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re unharmed,” she said, releasing him. “One of my officers will drive you home.” She motioned to Zeke.
Yacov waved him off. “I’d rather walk.”
She got it—he wanted to walk off the effects of the kill before his wife saw him. It wouldn’t do for him to arrive home with blood in his beard, mortals didn’t always understand that sort of thing, and she touched the corner of her own mouth before pointing to his. He caught the message and wiped his beard clean.
