Laws of the Blood 2: Partners

by Susan Sizemore

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LAWS OF THE BLOOD: PARTNERS

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2000 by Susan Sizemore

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 0-7865-3530-X

  AN ACE BOOK®

  Ace Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: MARCH, 2003

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So, I’m standing in the Roy Wilkins Auditorium at a Queensryche concert I almost didn’t attend ’cause—well, Chris DeGarmo’s not with the band anymore and I haven’t yet fallen in love with the new CD, but they’ve been my favorite band since the mid-80s and I simply can’t miss ’em even if I should be home working on this late-autumn night. So I’m there. It’s not supposed to be stadium seating, but I’ve sneaked up pretty close to the stage. Great view. Good crowd (who says metal’s dead?). Delighted to be there. Band’s as good as ever. Inspirational. I’ve been having this writer’s block problem—me, who never gets writer’s block and doesn’t even believe in it. The vampire book set in D.C. just isn’t working, and I’m going nuts. Then Geoff Tate starts talking to the audience, something about free will and do you agree this person has the right to do this or that and everyone’s agreeing with this politically correct spiel. Until he gets to, “What if a vampire decides to take a bite out of your throat? Does he have a right to do that?” and the band goes into my all-time favorite Queensryche song, “Walk in the Shadows,” which is from Rage for Order, the best album of all time—and the subconscious inspiration for The Laws of the Blood. And suddenly, the writer’s block is gone. Poof. And Char is there, a shy, quiet Enforcer girl from Seattle with a demon extermination problem, and I’ve got to get home to start writing her story while inside my head she’s humming “The Lady Wore Black.” Thank you, Geoff Tate, Michael Wilton, Scott Rockenfield, Eddie Jackson, Chris DeGarmo—and Kelly Gray. Once again, I couldn’t’ve done it without you.

  But the book is still dedicated to

  Ginjer Buchanan—

  the good, the patient, the wise . . .

  Prologue

  AUGUST

  SEATTLE

  “DO YOU WANT to live forever?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Fool,” the Disciple said to the tourist and walked away, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin body. He shouldn’t have bothered stopping to talk to the man with the camera.

  It was cold for the time of year, but the Disciple didn’t wear a coat. He hadn’t shaved that day or changed clothes. He looked homeless and half mad, but that was nothing new in Pioneer Square. And it was what the Prophet required of his missionary to the world, to go searching in this humble, helpless guise. The Disciple had a gift for seeing into the hearts of those chosen to understand the word. The tourist was ripe for saving; the Disciple could feel it. It hurt him to know that he’d lost a soul, but he was in too much of a hurry to turn back and work at persuading the stranger to come with him.

  Tonight his task was to find a very special pair. Someone to act as a Vessel and channel for what was to come, and someone for the Angel to love. A shudder of pride and pleasure and hunger went through him as he continued his quest. Which would they be?

  The place was thick with humanity tonight. They were crowded onto the benches beneath the trees, strolled arm in arm across the brick paving, spilled in and out of the shops and restaurants.

  The Disciple didn’t like Pioneer Square, but that was where he’d been sent tonight. He didn’t like the way it smelled. He walked around and around the square, with the stenches changing every few feet, so strong they were almost solid. The reek of pizza spilled out from one building, beer from the next, sickeningly sweet candy from another. The aromas of hot yeast and grease and flour turned his stomach, and he had to stop and hold his breath for a while, but he kept doggedly on. He couldn’t understand how or why anyone could stand to taste anything that smelled as much of decay as cooked vegetables and meats. He was sent here often, but he never got used to it. People were drawn to the food like flies. Some of them were worth saving to serve the Angel; he had to always keep that in mind—and that he was happy to serve.

  You went where the Prophet sent you or the Demon ate your brain. If you wanted to live forever, you had to do exactly what you were told. The Disciple was glad only the Demon was allowed to eat brains. The Disciple himself lived for the sweet taste of the transcendent flesh and blood of the Angel of Life. Serve the Angel, and you lived forever.

  He stopped just inside the fancy ironwork bus shelter on one side of the square, barely protected from the sharp wind. He knew he should continue his quest, but he had to think about the Angel for a while to give him strength.

  In the end, and as he should have trusted it would happen, the ones he sought came to him. He did not have to find them. The Disciple hugged himself with joy when a couple pushed past him into the bus shelter. He turned to stare at them, and they stared back, surly at first, but with growing fascination. The man was tall, young, wiry, and looked to be as mean as a snake despite the conservative suit and haircut he wore. His eyes held no great intelligence, but they shone with cunning—and the Gift. This one would be the Vessel of Eternity. The girl was young and close to pretty, and that was all she needed to be.

  The Disciple drifted closer to the couple. The man put his arm tightly around the girl’s shoulders, but his eyes never broke contact with the Disciple’s. The Disciple said to him, “Do you want to live forever?”

  Eternal life was not something he could offer the girl.

  AUGUST

  ARIZONA

  The flamethrower worked better than anything else he’d found. Napalm would probably be the best, but Haven hadn’t been able to get his hands on any recently. The ATF had raided his primary sources of supplies in a sting operation a few weeks back. Haven had a fondness for alcohol, tobacco, and firearms but no love at all for any law enforcement agency that regulated anything on local, state, or federal level. The forces of law and order didn’t love him, either, but they did want him. Or would have, if it wasn’t believed he’d been killed five years before.

  “Reborn a little, but not killed,” he murmured into the coolness of the desert dusk. He and Santini were two hours late getting to the site they’d scouted out the previous night, but Haven didn’t think the upcoming fight would be much of a problem. Darkness was okay; a daylight raid might be noticed by the workers in the nearby copper mine. Even if his targets were stronger at night, they wouldn’t be expecting company. Haven didn’t care much if they were. He smiled a little. He was actually looking forward to a fight.

  Beside him, Santini yawned, scratched, and said, “Reborn.” He fingered the gold cross he wore around his throat. “Right.”


  Santini was one of the survivors, one of only four out of twenty, who had lived through the horror that had made Jebel Haven what he was today. Santini had been a drug-dealing, hard-drinking, whoring biker before Haven met him. He still was, but he never failed to show up to help out when Jebel Haven gave him a call. Sometimes Haven had to bail him out or break him out to get him to the firefight, but the biker’s expertise and commitment were worth the trouble. This time, though, Santini had been hanging around Baker’s office when they got the tip about the nest two days ago.

  Tonight would be a simple cleanup operation. They’d gotten most of this nest already, and the survivors had run to the desert for cover.

  Haven looked up at the starry sky, then shifted his gaze downward to the dark hole in the cliff side where the cave was located. Their hiding places were easy to find if you knew what to look for. Funny thing about that, you’d think they’d have more sense. That they’d at least hunt out new holes after the old ones were burned out again and again. They were stupid, true, most of ’em, but they could be tough. He’d run into a few that had given him plenty of trouble, but this wasn’t going to be one of those ugly fights.

  Too bad; Haven lived for the rush of righteous vindication that came with the really spectacular kills. Those were getting few and far between. Part of him hoped that maybe what he and Santini and Baker did was having an effect on culling their numbers. A part of him suspected he was being played for a fool. Hope was not something he was comfortable with. The suspicious part of his nature had the upper hand most of the time.

  What was he missing? There was a growing itch in the back of his mind that told him he was going about this all wrong, that it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

  He took a drag on his cigarette and tried to think only of what he and Santini needed to do in the next couple of hours. Had to go in, flame the nest, drive in a few stakes, chop off a few heads, get back to the Jeep and out, well away before dawn.

  He tossed the cigarette to the ground and smashed out the butt with his heel. Checked his weapons and equipment again, glanced at Santini while the biker did the same. “Ready?”

  “Yep.”

  At first, Haven had enjoyed the hunting, but lately all the fun had gone out of his current occupation. Somebody was going to pay for messing him over soon. But sooner than that, he was going to get Baker to teach him how to use a computer. Maybe holes and caves weren’t the only places to look for the sons of bitches. Maybe he’d try the Internet. If Baker could use it how hard could it be?

  Haven was almost bored when he said, “Let’s go kill some vampires.”

  Chapter 1

  LATE NOVEMBER

  PORTLAND

  “GOT A JOB for you.”

  Char didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried when the man behind her in line whispered in her ear. She recognized his voice. Normally, she would have felt the approach of one of her own kind, but her senses could be forgiven for not picking up any scent of Istvan the dhamphir. Once she knew he was there, the trick was not shaking in her shoes. She didn’t know if Istvan was officially the chief of all the Enforcers, but he was certainly in charge. She supposed that gave him all the clout he needed to order her around. As far as she knew, no one had less seniority than she did. And seniority aside, Istvan had the biggest fangs and baddest attitude of all. He scared anybody in their right mind to death.

  “Didn’t know you were in town.” She was quite pleased that her voice didn’t shake when she spoke.

  “I’m not.”

  And who was she to question that? When a fingertip touched the side of her neck, Char managed not to scream, though she shuddered as she squeaked, “What?”

  “The Council has decided to kill Jebel Haven. You’re it.”

  The Starbucks was crowded on this rainy autumn night, but Char was certain no one but she had heard the dhamphir’s words. She wished she hadn’t.

  She whirled around to protest the unfairness of such a dirty job being given to her, but of course the dhamphir was no longer behind her or anywhere in the coffee shop. The dead traveled fast and all that hyperbole. Where he’d come from she didn’t know, where he went she didn’t care—as long as it was somewhere far away from her. The woman who was behind her in line gasped as Char bumped into her, and Char stepped aside rather than offer excuses or apologies. She moved to the back of the other line and indulged in a bit of sulking while waiting to order her latte.

  Why me? she wanted to howl into the night—though it would disturb the other patrons who’d come in out of the cold rain if she were to make a fuss. She did not go around disturbing people. Okay, occasionally she had to kill them, but she hated the idea of upsetting anyone she didn’t have to. No reason the patrons of Starbucks should be burdened with the knowledge that she’d been ordered to commit a murder. The floor was wet and the windows steamy; the place was full of warm bodies and the rich scent of coffee. Jazz played on the sound system, barely audible over the buzz of conversation. The lines waiting to order stretched all the way to the door, and every spindly chair at every tiny table was full. Bodies brushed against hers, and the sound of laughter filled her ears, only serving to emphasize to Char how alone she was in the night. She liked to think of herself as serving and protecting. But then, she supposed, so did Jebel Haven.

  Jebel Haven could not possibly be his real name. Come on, was anyone really going to be named something as wildly heroic as that? She knew all about Jebel Haven, or at least as much as was possible to learn from a long way away from the man. She’d made a point of following his career, which was probably why she’d been picked to eliminate him as a threat to the Strigoi. She could argue that she didn’t see why he was a threat, but arguing with the Council would get another Enforcer sent after her, and eventually Jebel Haven was going to kill a strigoi, and mortals simply couldn’t be allowed to do that. That was the Enforcers’ job.

  Jebel Haven was a good name for a crusader; Char gave him that. She was of the opinion that if you were going to be a superhero, you needed a cool name to go with the gig. Problem was, comic book writers had grabbed all the good hero names long ago. You had to do your best with what was available. Char wasn’t exactly her real name, either, but Charlotte McCairn just wasn’t a very good name for a vampire, especially not an Enforcer, a Keeper of the Law, and a daughter of the Nighthawk line. She went by Char, as in burnt and blackened. Like charcoal rather than simpering, silly Char, pronounced Shar—bleah! She’d considered calling herself Cairn for a while but figured that at some point someone would call her Rocky, and she’d have to kill them.

  Kill them. What an awful thing to joke about. One did, though, easily, and such casual references to murder made no sense. Committing murder was serious business and should be treated with respect. And handled strictly by hardworking professionals such as herself. Except that Enforcers were supposed to be involved with executions rather than indiscriminate violence . . . which brought her thinking back to Jebel Haven.

  Char put murder out of her mind for a few minutes more until she picked up her order and left the coffee shop. Her original plan for the evening had been to settle down in a quiet corner and watch the world go by for a while. She had a copy of today’s Oregonian with her in case there was no one interesting in the place to strike up a conversation with. If she didn’t make direct contact with humanity, that was okay, too; just being out among people was a relaxing pastime sometimes. She knew she spent way too much time reading books and working with databases. Pity Istvan had put a hard, abrupt end to any semblance of normal, ungeeky, civilized behavior for this late-autumn evening in Portland.

  The rain had slowed to a cold drizzle by the time Char stepped outside. She took some pleasure from the moist air while she walked. She walked a long way and eventually found that she was in her favorite spot in her favorite park. And what a symbolic and sentimental choice her subconscious had chosen, the place being a memorial to fallen war heroes. Truth was, she hoped it was
the smell of witch hazel and roses that led her to the Garden of Solace, even though the scents were faint at this time of the year. Her sense of smell had become keener since she’d become a Nighthawk. Her wits, however—well, she worried about them a lot.

  For one thing, Char now realized that she’d forgotten about her latte, though she still held the cold cup of coffee in her hand. She dumped it onto the ground and thought of libations and sacrifices and muttered, “Oh, come on, it’s only a Grande from Starbucks, Char.” Besides, the goddess, if the goddess had ever existed, would prefer blood to coffee. Char didn’t, but it was a little late to mention an aversion to the stuff at this point. Blood had its place, of course, and could be delicious under the right circumstances. But never in her wildest dreams had she ever suspected she’d crave the taste of another living being’s heart.

  “I was a vegetarian once, you know,” she said, though there was no one around to hear her. Char did that a lot—talked to herself. Came from being alone too much, she supposed. Of course, she’d never been very good socially. Being a vampire had helped her natural shyness for a while. Then she’d changed into a Nighthawk, and nobody wanted to hang out with her anymore. Nighthawks didn’t have a lot of friends. Probably because they ate them under the right circumstances. That tended to put people off.

  Speaking of putting things off, long, lonely walks in the mist weren’t going to help her forget her troubles or that she was now Haven’s trouble. Char sighed loudly. There was nothing she could do but to go home and consider the best way to kill a man. And what she needed to pack for a trip to Arizona.