Blood Unleashed (Blood Stone)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Cyneric?” Garrett clarified. “He doesn’t skew. He just...reinterprets.”

  “He’s an emotionless freak,” Kate added.

  “That describes me for the last three centuries,” Garrett told her, with a smile.

  “You’re defending him?” Kate asked.

  “Not exactly. But I think I see things from his perspective.”

  “You like him.”

  “I admire some of the things he says and does. He’s brilliant, Kate. He’s brilliant like Patrick is brilliant, but they’re brilliant in different ways. They’re beyond world class, except they have deep flaws. There are always reasons for the flaws.”

  “Yeah, he dropped anything human from his psyche centuries ago,” Roman muttered.

  Garrett caught his eye and kept his gaze, forcing Roman to reassess what he had said.

  Roman grimaced. “Sorry.”

  Kate had a soft expression in her eyes. “You really were that far gone, Micheil?” she asked. “You hid it well. You seemed...well, normal.”

  “Up until I met Nial the year before I met you, and he suggested I join the human race again, I was a shell. Nothing got in. Nothing got out. I was going through the motions.” He saw Roman’s expression and pointed at him. “Do not start feeling guilty again. It’s done. That part of my life is over, thanks partly to you. You have nothing to feel responsible about, anymore.”

  Kate rested her hand on Roman’s shoulder. Then she looked at Garrett. “Do you trust Cyneric? You say you like him, but can you trust him? He’s supposed to be Kurshid’s assistant and supposedly he’s spying on Heru for her. But why has he spent nearly a year with us? Who is he really working for? Where do his loyalties lie?”

  Garrett thought about it for a long moment. Rick out-thought everyone at twice the speed. Garrett would never play chess with the man – his ego wouldn’t take the annihilation well. While Nial was a master strategist and could guess several moves beyond the present situation, Rick extrapolated from known data and came up with predictions of future events that were as good as truth. He was always calculating. Always observing. But who did he work for? He could be playing the odds – he could be deciding who was the better faction to side with. He had that ability -- his mind moved very far in the future.

  “I don’t know,” Garrett said finally. “I’d like to believe he’s on our side. But with Rick...you just don’t know. He’s too smart.”

  “It’s dicey,” Roman added. “If he is really Heru’s creature, then everything we’ve done and are planning to do has been piped straight back to the bastard, because Rick has done more to help streamline and lock in Nial’s plans than the computers at CERN could have managed.”

  “So Nial is biased?” Kate asked.

  “Unless he knows more about Cyneric than us, it’s a real possibility,” Garrett agreed.

  Chapter Eight

  Being involved with the League had increased Bryon’s revenue in ways he hadn’t expected and after a year of working with the League he had quit his basic wage job and moved into a tiny house in Baldwin village, overlooking the beach. The constant background drone of planes coming into land at LAX, half a mile away, didn’t bother him. The noise was reassuring. It told him that life went on outside his strange world.

  He had grown up and had always worked in the Jungle, as the village had once been called and most locals still called it. It had been a violent place once, but in the last ten years it had been cleaned up and was usually pretty peaceful. Bryon had learned to stringently mind his own business, which kept him out of trouble.

  It was a life skill that had served him well, working with the League. So when the basement door opened shortly after the sun had set and it was fully dark and Heru stepped out with his hand on the head of the pint-sized interpreter, Bryon repressed any questions he might have. He bowed low. He didn’t know if that meant anything to Heru. He had looked up the name and found it was ancient Egyptian. He had a feeling that dropping to his knees and putting his head on the ground at Heru’s feet was more what the guy was used to. But for now, Bryon just bowed, keeping his head low. The dude was safer when he was pleased.

  Heru spoke. Bryon looked at the boy.

  “You assembled the great ones?”

  Bryon had already learned ‘great ones’ meant vampires to Heru. Vampires were great ones, humans were lesser ones. “They’re waiting for you in my lounge, um, sir.”

  Heru lifted his hand in a ‘come here’ gesture.

  “You will bring them to me one by one, in the old way.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bryon turned, tripped and almost fell. He grabbed the counter for balance, then headed into the lounge, where the vampires had been waiting since before sunset. Heru had scared them into unnatural obedience. He had demanded they attend him after sunset and they had arrived in a silent mass, filing into the room until it seemed too full to hold any more. It was only a small room and the big screen TV and new sofa took up a lot of space.

  Bryon had counted eight heads before he was forced to go wait for Heru to emerge from his basement. He turned on the overhead light as he left. They might not need the light, but having them standing there silently in the dark bothered him.

  He stepped back into the room and they were still standing in exactly the same place. Byron swallowed. “He wants you one at a time. Who’s first?”

  A ripple seemed to wash over the waiting vampires. One of them, Craddick, stepped forward. He had the arm of the woman Byron knew as Ilaria, no last name, in his hand. Ilaria looked bored.

  “I’ll go first,” Craddick said.

  Byron lifted his hand and motioned, just like Heru had done. Craddick’s expression tightened and his eyes narrowed, but he followed Byron back into the kitchen anyway, bringing the woman with him.

  Heru was sitting on the table tucked into the tiny dinette area, his legs crossed. His eyes were closed, as if he were meditating.

  Craddick cleared his throat. “My lord?”

  The interpreter kicked at the side of Craddick’s knee, making him drop to the ground, his legs under him. “Do you not know the proper form of obeisance?” He yanked on Ilaria’s arm, bringing her down to her knees, too. Then he pushed at the back of her head, folding her over until her head touched the linoleum.

  Well, I’ll be damned, Byron thought.

  When she tried to lift her head after he released it, the interpreter pushed down again, keeping his hand in place until she understood she was to stay that way.

  Then the interpreter stood in front of the table and just to one side of Heru. “You have not appeared before me alone as I asked.”

  Craddick was apparently allowed to raise his head, for the interpreter was doing nothing to fold him over. Craddick glanced at Ilaria. “This is female. It does not count, nor does it have any impact on security.”

  Ilaria remained motionless.

  “My lord,” Craddick continued, “you should by now be aware that when you bested Wulfson, you inherited all his assets.”

  “I am aware.”

  Craddick shrugged. “Very well.” He lifted a lock of Ilaria’s hair, as a way of indicating her. “This one has returned from an assignment given her by Wulfson. She failed to report to him before he...left. I bring her to you now to tell you what took place.”

  Heru turned his gaze upon Ilaria. “I am aware of the work of this one.” His gaze returned to Craddick. “You were friend to Wulfson?”

  Craddick hesitated. “I helped him when he asked me to.”

  “Then I ask now. The human ranks are depleted. They must be filled.”

  Craddick opened his lips to speak, paused, then nodded. “Very well, my lord. But recruitment is a slow process. Humans in these modern times are not easy to persuade. They enjoy their freedom and creature comforts too much.”

  “Then steal the necessary numbers. I care not how you obtain them. Human bulwarks were the way to success. The old ways are good. We need humans.”

  “Steal?” Craddic
k repeated, puzzled.

  Heru frowned and spat out a word.

  “Take them,” the interpreter added.

  Craddick pressed his lips together tightly. He nodded. “Very well, my lord.”

  “Go. Leave the woman.”

  Craddick got to his feet and left, moving fast.

  “Bring the next.”

  Ilaria stayed on the ground. She had not tried to look up.

  Bryon hurried to the lounge room door and beckoned one of the others. Matlock stepped through.

  “Get on your knees,” Bryon advised him. Matlock glanced at him with irritation, but he stopped in front of the table and got down on his knees. “Sir?” he asked.

  “The one who left.”

  “Craddick?” Matlock asked.

  “When you leave my presence, you will see to his destruction. He waivers in his dedication to the cause.”

  Jesus H. Christ! Bryon swore silently, while struggling to keep his face completely neutral.

  Matlock was smart. He nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, sir. The moment I leave this room, it will be done.”

  “You will see to filling the human ranks. No matter what it takes.”

  “Recruitment?” Matlock replied quickly. “No problem.”

  “Good. Leave me.”

  Matlock scrambled backwards, then got to his feet and hurried away.

  The interpreter kicked Ilaria’s arm, making her sit up. She sat, her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead rather than at Heru himself. Her face was like marble, cool, hard and unmoving.

  “I know of your work for Wulfson,” Heru said. “You will continue that work. I have more work for you, though.” Heru outlined the project in frank, efficient sentences.

  Ilaria did not twitch a muscle in reaction.

  “Do you understand?” Heru asked.

  “Yes,” she said hollowly.

  * * * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, Rick heard the soft click of the mail alert LED switching on, down by the front door of the apartment. It stirred his curiosity enough to uncross his legs and head down to the quiet, cool building entrance to collect the mail.

  There were two letters for Adrian Xerus, which was the name Roman was using right now. Rick put those aside. He would deliver them to Roman the next time he saw him at Nial’s home. It had been ten months since the three of them had bought the big house further north of here and most of Roman’s mail went directly there.

  The other letter Rick studied curiously. It was a business envelope. The letter had been redirected from England, as all his mail still was, for Rick did not consider this borrowed apartment as home, regardless of how long he lived here. The logo at the top left was familiar. Statesman Airlines.

  He slit the end of the envelope open and withdrew the three sheets inside. It was a statement of bonuses and rewards earned from frequent flights. He rifled through the sheets curiously. Most of the flights were his own. The others, of course, were his. Menes would suffer through a commercial flight if he could arrange to leave and arrive while the sun was down and wanted to get somewhere in a hurry. Long haul flights were tediously long in a small private jet, which didn’t have the range of the big planes.

  Rick scanned the flights that weren’t his and his eye was caught by a flight taken thirteen days ago.

  Atatürk International Airport (IST)

  Turkey. That had popped up far too many times, lately.

  Rick rubbed absently at his temple. He checked the final sheet. The last flight was only eight days ago and it was not his.

  Los Angeles International Airport (LAX)

  Menes Heru was in L.A.

  Rick looked up from the sheets, at the blank big screen TV mounted against the wall. His gaze was unfocused. The data he had been absorbing for the last day and a half shifted and a new pattern was revealed.

  He folded the letter and placed it in his pocket, picked up the car keys from the kitchen counter where he had left them, stepped out of the apartment and shut the door.

  * * * * *

  The security at Julien’s Auctions wouldn’t let Marcus onto the bidding floor. He wasn’t a registered buyer. As there was already a number of heads turning to check out who it was that was getting the shaft, he sighed and reached into his jacket and produced his ID.

  The guard’s brows lifted. He silently unclipped and held aside the red velvet cordon.

  “Thanks heaps,” Marcus told him dryly and stepped inside. Up on the raised dais at the front of the room, there was a plain wooden table. Sitting on top of it was a half-dummy wearing a red and black patent leather jacket that looked astonishingly familiar. There were a lot of cameras flashing around it.

  The room was filled with buyers, all facing the front. The auctioneer standing behind the podium just to the left of the table was extolling the virtues of the jacket, before taking opening bids.

  “....an icon of a generation, and a treasure that will only rise in value, ladies and gentleman. Michael Jackson’s most revered and symbolic garment.”

  “Sod me standing,” Marcus breathed. Amazing. They were selling off Michael Jackson’s clothes.

  “The bidding starts at seven hundred and fifty thousand. Who will raise it to eight hundred thousand?”

  Fuck! Staggered at the sum being asked, Marcus had to drag his attention back to the business that had bought him here. He scanned the backs of the heads until he thought he had spotted the one he wanted. He made his way around the sides of the rows of chairs, not willing to walk down the center aisle and draw attention to himself. He had to squeeze passed cameras of all types to do it and probably ended up drawing even more attention to himself.

  Annoyed, he brushed past the three people at the end of the row and settled on the empty chair next to Roman Xerus. Roman glanced at him briefly, his brows coming together. He was a tall man of Greek heritage. He was wearing a sleeveless black tee-shirt that showed off a tattoo on his shoulder that looked like an ancient symbol of some kind. Given how old Roman was, it was probably exactly that.

  “Hi, Adrian,” Marcus said quietly, using his current name, as Kate had coached him. “Kate sent me. Sort of.”

  He watched Roman’s brows push together again and his eyes narrowed.

  Marcus opened up his ID again. “Can we talk?” he asked, keeping his voice soft. The auctioneer was whipping up the bidding frenzy, which would hinder eavesdroppers, too.

  Roman crossed his arms. “You’re Kate’s...”

  “Coordinator.”

  “That’s not what she calls you.”

  “Handler?” Marcus suggested.

  “Amongst other things,” Roman said, with a small smile. He watched the bidding for a few seconds more. “Let’s step out into the hallway where we can talk.” He got to his feet and shuffled to the left, toward the center aisle. Marcus shrugged and followed him.

  Roman led him out through the velvet rope and further down the hall, where there was a small café and a handful of tables with chairs. He picked the table furthest from any of the occupied ones and sat down, crossing his arms again.

  Marcus sat next to him, rather than opposite him. It would let them speak softly.

  “What can I do for you, Anderson?” Roman asked.

  Marcus couldn’t help staring even though he had been bracing himself for this all morning.

  “What’s wrong?” Roman asked.

  “Nothing,” Marcus told him. “I’ve never met a...one before.”

  Roman’s eyes narrowed yet again, this time assessing him. “How would you know I’m the first?” he said, finally. “We don’t have tattoos on our forehead or pointy ears.”

  “I can see that,” Marcus agreed. “You’ll have to forgive me. The reality of, well, you – it’s hard to accept emotionally. Intellectually, I get it. But up close and personal...” He grimaced. “I didn’t think I would have to do this for a long, long time.”

  “What’s changed that?” Roman asked.

  Marcus glanced around once
more, assessing potential listeners. He did it without moving his head.

  Roman lowered his arms to the table and leaned against it. It brought his head a lot closer.

  “A world class sniper took a shot at me three days ago...and missed.”

  “World class?” Roman looked startled. Then, “If someone that good missed, then...?”

  “Why does the idea of world class bother you?” Marcus asked.

  “It’s nothing. It came up in a conversation we had last night, about some people we know – the idea of world class talent. Why do you think he missed?”

  “It could be a message. Or a signal. There are not a lot of options, but all of them mean that he would try to contact me soon after taking the shot and he hasn’t.”

  “He wants you to go to him?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “And how do I fit into this?”

  “I need to track down where the cartridge was made.” He nudged Roman’s arm with his fist, the bullet enclosed inside it.

  Roman turned his hand up under Marcus’ fist and closed his fingers over the bullet when he dropped it onto his palm. He straightened up and looked at the bullet with his hand held under the level of the table.

  “Kate suggested I ask Sebastian to trace it, as he’s good at tracking things down. I spoke to him on the phone and he told me I needed you.”

  “Why?” Roman asked bluntly.

  “He said he was good at finding people. They left electronic traces for him to track. You, he said, are good at tracing the lineage of things.”

  Roman relaxed. “An interesting way of putting it,” he murmured, staring down at the bullet. “So Kate told you where I was today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” he asked flatly, once more.

  Marcus looked at him, puzzled.

  Roman leaned over the table once more, turning his head to look at him. The bullet had disappeared. “I mean, why ask me to track this? Your people have got miles more resources and equipment and are tapped into places Sebastian would swoon over if he had access. So why me?”

  Marcus didn’t know how to phrase it without sounding melodramatic. He grimaced. “There are issues. I can’t use my people.”