Laws of the Blood 2: Partners

by Susan Sizemore

  Char peered up toward the roof. The place looked like a stiff breeze would finish pushing it over. It would not be safe to enter the ruin, even if there weren’t all sorts of supernatural creatures and evil minions that could be lurking about. So, of course, for some reason unknown to god, goddess, or strigoi, Jebel Haven had decided—without bothering to mention his intentions to her—to have a look inside.

  Something had moved in here, and it hadn’t moved like a human. Haven spared a glance for Charlotte through the broken stretch of wall. Her attention remained intently centered on the darkness ahead. He wasn’t going to let anything distract her. He’d take out whatever lurked in here, waiting to ambush her from behind. He didn’t hear anything or catch any other movement, but he was aware of a shape deep in the shadows, watching him. He didn’t move directly toward it or look its way. He took another step away from Charlotte, putting himself between her and the lurker. He wished he had his flamethrower with him. Too bad his shotgun was back in the Jeep. What he did have in his hands was a semiautomatic pistol with a cross carved on each bullet cartridge. Too bad there was no silver in the bullets, but he didn’t think it was the werewolf inside the ruins.

  “Yo, motherfucker,” he said quietly, not wanting to draw Charlotte’s attention to the situation. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  “Watch your mouth, snack food,” a deep, masculine voice replied from the darkness.

  Haven smiled.

  Something moved, faster than Haven’s eyes could track it. Haven’s reflexes responded; he fired at the blur, saw that the blur had fangs, and kept firing. A yowl of pain filled the night in front of Haven. A banshee screech sounded behind him.

  Charlotte shouted, “Jebel, look out!”

  Then the wall fell down on him.

  Char pushed Haven aside as she rushed past. He fell toward the weakened wall she’d pushed down in her hurry to get inside. He went down under a pile of bricks. She slammed the vampire into the back wall of the ruin with deliberate violence.

  Then she started hitting him.

  He struck back, kicked at her. She darted backward, danced forward, ducked under his guard. He snarled and snapped. Char laughed.

  She didn’t know when her claws came out, but she’d ripped long slashes on his face and chest before she noticed the enticing smell of vampire blood in the air. Fury fueled sudden hunger. It made her want to taste him, to rip his heart out and swallow it whole. He continued to flail at her, but it did him no good. He was no match for her, and it was time to make an end. She’d punished him for daring to attack what was hers; now he’d die.

  The realization that she wanted to kill this strigoi was what kept her from following the impulse. It didn’t lessen the craving for the kill, but reason helped put a leash on her impulses. She might be the judge, jury, and executioner of her kind, but she firmly believed everyone deserved a trial.

  Let’s make it a short one.

  She stopped playing with her food and pushed him back against the wall, holding him there with one hand on his chest. He was a lot taller than she was. This could not be Daniel. He was strong—and sane. Not young. “Who are you?” The words came out slurred, but she spoke in a language that minimized the difficulty of talking around a lot of teeth. She shook him and made him look her in the muzzle. “Strig or nest? Tell me about the demon. What were you doing with my mortal?” She glanced over her shoulder. Haven was stirring, but not fully conscious yet. “Good thing Haven isn’t dead.”

  “He’s supposed to be dead,” the vampire answered. “There’s a bounty on Haven.”

  She realized that the vampire had a bullet hole just below his left eye. Haven had fired several times. She’d bet that the mortal had hit his attacker more than once. “Good.” She dug a claw into the vampire’s chest. “Haven is mine.”

  The vampire looked past her to the man on the ground. He licked his lips. “What good is he to you, Hunter?”

  Her stomach twisted in disgust. “He’s not prey. You don’t have permission to hunt.”

  “I’m no strig,” he answered indignantly. “Word came that Haven was in Washington. I came looking for him. From Carnation. Thought Haven might be on the trail of the sorcerer that blew into town a few months ago.”

  “Haven’s with me.”

  “I can see that.”

  Istvan, she thought. Istvan didn’t know she was using Haven to track a demon. He must think that Haven had gotten away from her. Or, more likely, he thought she’d fallen down on the job he’d given her. So he’d put a contract out on the street. Made Haven lawful prey. Bastard.

  But if Istvan had declared a hunt, she couldn’t very well kill a vampire that was simply looking for a kosher meal.

  “Haven’s mine,” she said again. “I don’t care who declared a hunt; I’m the Enforcer of Seattle right now, and I rescind it.”

  “But—!” She dug a claw into his chest. “Yes, Hunter!”

  Haven groaned behind her. He was definitely coming around this time. She heard him pushing bricks aside.

  “Wha—?” He groaned again. “Vampire!” She heard him hunting for his dropped gun.

  Char wasn’t finished with the Carnation vampire, but this was no time to continue their conversation. “I’ve got him!” she called back to the mortal. Her back was to Haven, her Nighthawk form hidden in the pitch-dark corner beneath a stairwell where she’d pushed Haven’s attacker.

  She’d dropped the pipe when she’d jumped the strigoi but remembered almost tripping over the jagged piece of metal during the fight. It was still near her foot. She snatched it off the ground and plunged it into the vampire’s heart with one swift, hard thrust.

  He screamed and clutched at the pipe as he slid to the ground. Char knelt beside him and spoke low and swift, “Play dead, or I’ll rip your heart out.” She twisted the steel shard for emphasis. Blood spurted over her hands. A trickle of blood flowed from the vampire’s mouth. He instantly stiffened and rolled his eyes back in his head, holding his breath when she knew he really needed to scream. He looked quite convincingly dead, at least here in the darkest corner of the burned-out building in the middle of the night.

  Then, on a flash of inspiration, Char whispered, “Tell your nest leader I’ll be on my way to Bainbridge tomorrow.”

  Haven was beside her in the next instant. “You okay?” they asked each other at the same time.

  Char got to her feet and backed away from the body. She wanted Haven to follow her, but he stared down at the still form instead. “You wounded it,” she told him. “Enough so that he wasn’t too hard to finish off. Is that Daniel?” she added for verisimilitude.

  “Not our boy.” He nudged the body with his foot. “Too bad.”

  Haven swayed on his feet, and Char rushed to take his arm. He tried to shake her off, but she wasn’t having any of it. “You look terrible,” she told him.

  “How can you tell? It’s dark.”

  “There’s blood on your face.” She touched his temple and her fingers came away sticky with fresh mortal blood. They were already covered in the vampire’s blood. Messy night. Haven didn’t protest when she ran her hands over his chest and sides, he just groaned. “Cracked ribs, too, I think.” She pulled him toward the alley. “At least bruised. I’m getting you out of here.”

  She very much wanted to find out what was behind the black veil of magic at the end of the alley, but getting Haven away so the Carnation vampire could crawl off to safety was her top priority. Besides, Haven needed some first aid.

  She wasn’t taking him back to her place, though. Not this time. “Let’s get you back to your hotel, Jebel.” She put as much psychic command in her words as she dared with someone like Haven.

  The blow to his head muddled his thought processes enough to let her get away with it. “My hotel.” He blinked at her. “Yeah. Sure.” A stupid smile lifted his lips. “We’ll go back to my hotel.”

  “Oh, brother,” she muttered, and led him out of the alley.

 
Chapter 18

  “GOOD MORNING.”

  Good. Morning. Jebel Haven considered these two words, and that it was Santini who had spoken them. He did not feel good. He’d felt worse, but good was not how he’d describe his condition. Morning. Okay, he could deal with morning. He hadn’t seen the world in the daylight for a while.

  “Where the hell have you been?” was his response to Santini’s cheerful greeting. He did not open his eyes yet. He knew the blazing headache would only get worse when he opened his eyes. He wanted coffee. He wanted a cigarette. He didn’t want to have to move from the bed to get them. “Where’s Charlotte?”

  “Chick split. Said she was going demon hunting.”

  Haven didn’t remember being dropped off. He remembered—a wall falling on him. A body with a stake sticking out of its heart. And Charlotte McCairn covered in blood and not particularly concerned about it. Cute little Charlotte had done the monster—fast, efficient, no nonsense about it.

  “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

  Or werewolf, possibly.

  Sitting only increased the blazing ache in his head and side, but Haven was used to ignoring his injuries. He made himself think around the pain and went looking for memories of the previous night.

  He opened his eyes and noticed that Charlotte had thoughtfully left a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand. She’d brought him here and cleaned him up. Yeah, right, he remembered that. Her hands had been gentle. More memory returned as he got up and downed four tablets. Pity she’d had to push the wall over on him to get to her prey, or he wouldn’t have this headache she’d been so concerned about.

  He didn’t think she’d hit him on the head with a wall on purpose. Charlotte was—nice. You know, for a monster. Girl said she was a monster slayer. And she’d undoubtedly saved his life last night. But . . . He took the piece of shotgun ammo he’d fished from her kitchen garbage can from his pocket and he rolled this evidence between his fingers. He’d filled her full of steel shot, and the worst damage it had done was to make her spit up. He’d actually recognized the baggy raincoat first but told himself he had to be nuts.

  She hadn’t finished him on the mountain. She’d slept with him. She’d saved him last night. What was she up to?

  What was he going to do about her?

  He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think at all. “Coffee?”

  “Right here.”

  Santini handed Haven a cup from the room’s little pot. It tasted awful, possibly the worst cup of coffee in Seattle. It was scalding hot, and Haven finished it in three gulps. Charlotte made great coffee. He remembered sitting in the kitchen at her friend’s place, drinking coffee and talking shop. It was all domestic and cozy—and warped. The thought almost made him smile.

  “Screw it,” he said and squinted around the headache to look at Santini. “Why’d you take off the other night?”

  “Spotted the skinny asshole that tried to pick me up. Think he came back to the abandoned headquarters to get something. Had something in his arms when I chased after him.” Santini sat on the room’s other bed and tossed Haven a pack of cigarettes.

  “Thanks.”

  Santini gave one of his manic grins while Haven lit up.

  “Charlotte’s been teaching me manners.” He dragged smoke into his lungs. “I don’t suppose you caught the bastard and made him take you to Danny boy?”

  “Didn’t let him know I was following him, did I? Think I found the new hideout. Been staking it out waiting for you to show up.”

  “You think?” Santini waited? The biker wasn’t the patient type. “How many of these fuckers are there?”

  “Two, three dozen. They’ve got guards posted now. And there’s . . .” He shrugged. “Whole area around their new place feels wrong. Must be magic,” Santini concluded. “ ’Cause I get scared and confused when I go near it, and I don’t get scared and confused. Della says the dark magic’s growing.”

  “Della?”

  “The lady at the shelter. I’ve been sleeping there,” Santini answered.

  “Sleeping with her.”

  Santini raised an eyebrow and gave a knowing wink. “Woman’s hot. Into things I only seen in porn movies.”

  “Bites and scratches, does she?”

  “Better her than what usually wants to bite me. You have a problem? You haven’t been sleeping at home. I’ve checked. You’re doing pretty Miss Charlotte. Della says so.”

  “How would Della—”

  “She says it’s inevitable—and a lot of stuff I don’t understand. Della sees things.”

  Haven kept his response to himself. Della’s hallucinations and Santini’s getting laid were none of his business. Killing Danny and the demons were. And Charlotte.

  He’d had sex with a werewolf. Jesus.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. He needed a shave. He needed a plan.

  He didn’t need the loud knock that sounded on the door just as he turned to go into the bathroom. Haven had a gun in his hand even as Santini moved to take a cautious look through the small window next to the door. They were not expecting company. Of course, the company they usually got wasn’t polite enough to knock.

  “Charlotte?”

  Santini shook his head. The biker looked disgusted, but he didn’t hesitate to unlock the door. Haven cautiously lowered the gun, but he didn’t put it down.

  Haven almost wished he was being attacked by vampires when he saw who Santini let into the room. “I’m tired of waiting for a report, Haven,” the woman said.

  It was Special Agent Brenda Novak, the mother of the vampire he was going to track down and kill.

  “Isn’t this fucking great?” he greeted the woman, and sat back on the bed, wishing he could pass out again.

  “Not good enough! Pitiful creature! How am I supposed to work with the dregs of the streets? The sacrifice is barely worth killing.”

  “I want to kill,” the Vessel said. “I like it when the magic flows into me. The way it’s building in me—I need the rush.”

  “It’s not about you,” the Prophet snapped at the Vessel. “You serve a higher purpose.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the Vessel said. “You’re going to make us all immortal.”

  “The one that idiot brought in last night is hardly worth the trouble of performing the ceremony. The Angel barely bled him. What was that fool thinking?”

  “He doesn’t think,” the Demon said. “He obeys. All the kiddies are in off the street. Might as well light the candles and sharpen the knife.”

  The Disciple listened, but only to make sure all the shouting, pacing, and raging in the other room didn’t disturb the Angel. He hadn’t dared close the door all the way, but he’d pushed it closed far enough to give a semblance of privacy with the Angel. Everyone was gathered, preparing, waiting. He’d have to join in the ceremony soon. They’d notice his absence in a minute.

  The Prophet, the Demon, and the Vessel would call him out, or worse, march in and disturb the Angel’s sleep with their complaints. They didn’t think the Angel could hear them in his holy sleep, but the Disciple knew better. He knew because the Angel spoke inside his head. Not often, and he had to listen very hard. It had to be utterly still, and they needed to be alone. It was best if he touched the Angel; then the Angel spoke to him skin to skin—no words or images when they touched, but the Disciple would know.

  The Disciple knew the Angel was unhappy, deeply troubled. Giving and taking the blessing of blood was growing less important. The Disciple was worried about the heretics that searched the city even though the Prophet and Demon were smugly certain that nothing could happen to them.

  All they thought about were themselves. They didn’t give a damn about the Angel.

  But he did.

  “I have to go.” He stroked the Angel’s strong white hand. He knelt and cupped the Angel’s beautiful face in his hands. “We’re going to have another sacrifice,” he told his lover, his master, his Angel. “To help y
ou.”

  Some of it would. The ceremony would grab the sacrifice’s soul and transform it. Some of the magic would go into the Vessel, stored for the Great Transformation. But some of that magical energy, far less than the Disciple liked, would serve to protect the Angel. They needed something, someone, stronger. It was up to the Disciple to find a truly powerful sacrifice.

  “Tonight,” he promised his sleeping lover. “Tonight I’ll bring you what you need.”

  •••

  “I kicked major butt. Me. Char. Nighthawk. Enforcer. Hunter. Me,” she addressed a passing gull. “That’s me.” Char giggled, glad to be alone on the top section of the observation deck. The water below was smooth and beautiful, black and deep out here between the island and the city. She pressed a closed fist to her chest, then punched the air a couple of times. Her eyes glittered in the dark that was not dark to her. She wanted to crow. “Superhero. With my secret identity intact. I’ve got what it takes. Really. How ‘bout that?”

  Char turned her face to the wind, lifted her cup of Starbucks in a salute to herself, and looked back on the city skyline as it receded in the distance. She took in a deep breath of sea air and smiled. This was her third ferry trip between Seattle and Bainbridge Island tonight, and she wasn’t bored yet. She doubted if she would be, even if she rode all night. It was about a half-hour trip each way on the big commuter ferry. It had still been rush hour when she’d come aboard soon after sunset among a huge crowd of pedestrian traffic. She’d stayed on after her fellow passengers disembarked. She was enjoying the privacy, and the water was soothing.

  She chuckled, remembering that one of the legends about her kind was that they couldn’t cross running water. Terribly inconvenient, as well as ridiculous. She’d always loved the Washington State Ferries, even when she’d had to use them in the winter and had no aspirations of becoming a vampire. Okay, they made commuting hell and you had to live your life by the ferry schedule to get to and from the islands in the Sound. But she still loved the big white boats that tied together the islands and peninsulas of Puget Sound.