Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper

by Morgan Blayde

  There’s no good answer to that question.

  He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. “No one is at fault. None of us knew what we were dealing with.”

  Dominika stared at him, weighing his answer. Finally, a hint of warmth entered her voice. “Is that so?” Her glance roved freely, settling on Onyx and me. I made a point of watching her chin, not her eyes. Let her think I’m a weak human, afraid of having my mind rolled. The dragon in me laughed at the thought that a vampire could ever resonate their hypnotic thoughts to match draconian patterns; the frequencies were just too far apart even in a half human version like myself.

  I slanted a look at Onyx. He matched her stare for stare.

  Chief passed Yury, stepping up on the dais without being summoned. “Mistress,” he pointed at Onyx, “that is not human. The form is only a convenience.”

  Her voice developed a curious lilt. “Fey?”

  “Dark fey, demon...” Chief shrugged. “Elder God for all I know.”

  Dominika leaned forward on her throne, more of her interest thawing out. Eyes still on Onyx, she waved Chief away. “Shoo.”

  He looked puzzled. “Mistress?”

  “You’re standing on my dais.”

  “Oh.” He hopped back.

  Dominika shifted her eyes to Yuri. “Go find something to do until I want you. Crawling is not a thing proud vampires should indulge in.”

  He stood, bowed, and backed away. “I shall remember.” He left without telling anyone I had Dracula in my back pocket. He was doing me a favor that he’d want repaid at some later date.

  The vampire queen motioned Onyx closer. “Come here.”

  He moved without taking a step, sliding ahead on a slick of shadow to the edge of the dais. Only there did he step up. Silent, the shadow man moved closer to her. Wrist bent down, he swung his hand up and a sword made of darkness flowed out of his fist, its tip at her throat.

  A pause hit the room, a hush falling hard. Dominika’s chin inched up, clearing the way to her throat as if she were inviting death. Her hazel eyes glowed, fully engaged with the reality before her. Me, I was enjoying the show. Purposely, I’d reined in my wild-assed charm and animal magnetism, staying hyper-still. This martial arts trick, dampen my lifeforce, encouraged people to forget me. I hadn’t tried this in a while, usually depending on my Demon Wings tattoo. I was glad to see I still had the touch. Chief gathered himself to leap at Onyx, forgetting I was standing right next to him.

  A flash of thought caused my Berretta to materialize in my hand. A small swing of the weapon brought it into line with Chief’s foot. My weapon bucked. A cartridge casing spun into the air. A bloody hole appeared in Chief’s foot, throwing off his leap. It was just a lead slug, so the damage would heal quickly for the vampire. Never-the-less, it was painful as hell. As was the second round I put in his spine to get my point across.

  Most of the vamps in the room were the filthy rich and pampered type that had other people get their hands dirty. They hired security, or called a cop. They didn’t fight street wars for territory. They weren’t by any stretch actual soldiers. None of these people had ever taken slugs and had their vampire bodies spit them out while regenerating. Psychologically, risking their precious immortality wasn’t something they were wired to do gladly. As soon as I’d started firing, those around me had stampeded away in desperate haste, impeding the vamp guards that had come in with me. I had no trouble spinning and firing, targeting security. I went for head shots. Vamps could survive them, but the reconstruction took longer.

  That finished, I moved to the dais, coming up behind Onyx. He’d held Dominika’s eyes through the gunplay, his sword tip kissing the underside of her chin. As I watched, he collapsed the sword, reabsorbing it into the darkness of his body. His hand fell to his side. He stepped close to her and reached out, a forefinger caressing her cheek. “I give your life back to you because we are friends. If I were your enemy, I’d show no mercy.”

  She rose from the throne and stood taller than both Onyx and me in her heels, with her hair piled high. “For friends, you killed two of my people.”

  “You sent them to interfere in my business,” I pointed out. “Their deaths are on you.”

  She tore her gaze away from Onyx and really looked at me for a change. Her stare caught on the gun I held. I flipped a wrist, a small tossing gesture, and the gun vanished. The next time I summoned it, the magazine would have a fresh clip.

  “You are full of tricks,” she said. “Yury was right. I did send too few.”

  “Why send at all?” Onyx said. “We’re passing through. In a few days, we’d have been gone.”

  Good boy, Onyx.

  “Suddenly, there are a lot of strangers coming into my city. I need to know why. My rule is new. There are those who’d prefer another Master of the City in my place. My duty is to protect what is mine.”

  “Let us conclude our business, and we will go in peace,” I said, “touching nothing of yours.”

  Staring past us, she made a warning-off sign.

  I made a quarter turn and saw fresh guards spilling into the room, shoving the party-vamps out of the way. At the Mistress’ gesture, the newcomers slowed to a stop, milling in confusion. She called out in a piercing tone, “Those who wish to withdraw may do so.”

  These are a lot of new vamps. They look uncomfortable in their new skin, and they keep forgetting to breathe. I don’t think they even know how to be vampires yet. Weird.

  The guests were quick to escape.

  Onyx and I held our ground next to the vampire princess.

  The new security helped the fallen vamps to stand. They formed a wall between us and the door.

  Dominika called to them. “Go, make sure that no one calls the police to report gunfire. Failing that, if the police come, send them away believing it was just a false report. We handle our own affairs.”

  Chief had collected himself to respond, pointing out several men, sending them off, as even more vamp soldiers came into the room, weapons drawn.

  Arms folded under her breasts, Dominika looked at me. “We have not been formally introduced. Who are you, what are you, and what is this business of yours that brings you among us?”

  I faced her with a show of confidence, setting my back to her men, though I could hear clothing rustling as they eased closer despite the order they’d received to stand down. Vampires forget that they aren’t the only preternatural species with heightened hearing.

  Still not meeting her eyes, I gave the Mistress a relaxed bow in the European fashion. “I am Caine Deathwalker, the Red Moon Demon, heir to Lauphram’s demon clan in L.A.” I flicked a few fingers toward Onyx. “This is my bodyguard.” I didn’t mention he was a shadow man, a rare creature considered mythical by most preternaturals.

  It’s better if they assumed he’s a demon, earlier theatrics aside.

  Dominika cocked her head as she spoke to me. “You smell human, mostly. Not demon. I did not know the demon clans accepted half-breeds.”

  “They accept what I tell them to,” I said. “Hey, you got anything around this place to drink that isn’t blood?”

  A strong voice, slightly accented with Russian, swept the room. “Yes, don’t be rude to our guests. We did invite them after all.” It was a voice accustomed to power, pulling at the senses, demanding attention. A shimmer went through my soul as the raw magic in me thrummed in sympathetic vibration. Normally, I needed to use my Dragon Sight tattoo to detect magic. His power shouted, a lion’s roar.

  Magic user, and a high class at that.

  I turned to see a lean man who stood six-four. A black mane of hair and a trim beard following his jaw line served to frame blunt features and deep-set eyes. He had the usual white complexion of the undead, and followed the Goth practice of overkill with an uncompromising black motif: high gloss boots, linen suit, and turtleneck shirt. Standing there like doom itself, his hands were locked together over his stomach, clutched so as to keep them occupied.

  The gu
ards let him slip past. None of them seemed anxious to get too close. He walked with a bit of jerkiness to his step that might be from an old injury. He came up to the dais and stopped, concerned eyes searching Dominika. “Princess? It is well with you?”

  “As always.”

  Hmmm. Not really an answer.

  She linked arms with Onyx and dragged him past the newcomer. The smile on her face looked determined. “Come along, you need to get to know me better.”

  All of us watched them leave.

  The dark man turned back to me. “I know who you are, though we have not yet been introduced. I am Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin,” he smiled, a twitch really, “whom men have called ‘The Doom of Russia.’”

  Hiding the shock that hit home, I made the obvious comment. “You’re supposed to be dead and dismembered ages ago.”

  “The dead part is accurate. Come with me.”

  He turned toward the door, waving away the guards. They hurried off, delighted to be out of the dark man’s presence. I knew why: Rasputin had a reputation as a mad monk, by which I mean bat-shit crazy. On top of that, his occult powers of mesmerism and near indestructibleness were legendary before becoming a vampire. I’d known Dracula had founded a new cursed line, all other vampires being born that way, or being made by the older line. I had to wonder which branch Rasputin sprang from. Either way, he might now be the equal of True-Blood royalty like my friend Gloria. There’s a lot I want to know that only he can tell me, but I needed to be careful getting it.

  I made a point of warming up several tattoos with raw magic. If things turned suddenly violent, I’d have little enough time to react.

  I followed across the room, back to the stairs, and down to the first floor. The man moved in a dark cloud, with an air of gloomy introspection. He seemed to have forgotten I was even there. Instead of going back to the main part of the gallery, he led me away to where a standing screen hid a white-painted door with a glass handle. We went through, into a hallway. There were restrooms and a door that might have been a janitor’s closet. Past these, the hall ended in another door that led us into the Russian café. The voices of diners and the clinking of glassware and silverware made a cheery greeting, as did a host of smells: shrimp in a butter-brandy sauce being set alight, mushroom caps with snails and garlic, baked scallops wrapped in bacon… The floor was hardwood, the walls marble-tiled, and the wooden furniture was red lacquered. Booths were red leatherette with white table cloths, cloth napkins, and unlit candles. There was a bar along one side wall.

  A public place. This was good. It meant he wasn’t taking me to a private killing field, or maybe a dungeon. With high ranking vamps, you never know. We wound up settling a private booth. The speed with which the waiter arrived to offer drinks and take our order showed my host was well known.

  I took the menu offered me. “I’ll have a Midori Green Russian.” I looked forward to the sweet green melon flavor of the drink. It had been a while since I’d ordered one.

  Rasputin shook his head, indicating he wanted nothing, and the waiter withdrew.

  “I like to bring guests here,” Rasputin said. “I can’t enjoy the food anymore, but I can savor others’ pleasure. And the smells remind me of home, so comforting...”

  I got right to the point. “I assume we’re here to put our cards on the table?”

  He nodded. “I will match you truth for truth, and the moment I decide I am being lied to, I will kill you.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “In a busy restaurant?”

  “No one will see or hear anything I don’t want them to. I’ll even allow you the first question.”

  “What makes you think I won’t simply destroy you out of hand?” I idly picked up my salad fork, running a thumb over the tines.

  “The fact that you are avoiding my eyes proves your inferiority of mind. Let us not play games.”

  I lifted my eyes to his, making contact, and spoke very softly. “I do not fear you.”

  He met my gaze, a small smile twitching his lips. “Ah, that is better.” The darkness of his gaze brightened as a hell-red glow swelled in his eyes. His irises became bloody stars pulling at my thoughts with considerable gravity. The rest of his face was hazed by the infernal radiance. He leaned toward me, his palms flat on the tablecloth. He spoke deep and slow, in a hypnotic rhythm. “That’s it; look deep into the flames of my will. All that you are is as wax, melting into obedience. Your will is mine. You are mine.”

  My right hand was under the table, fingers curled to hold a sword hilt. My thoughts raced out into the ether. My demon sword came to me. The materializing black-steel blade with its infernal red haze stabbed diagonally up through the table, the tip a few hairs away from the underside of Rasputin’s chin. The psychic howl of hunger from the sword was a gale in my head.

  Rasputin drew back, flattening against the back of the booth.

  My sword tip followed. He could slide sideways, but not at full speed. Hi knew it too. His life was mine to take, if I wanted—unless he had some trick of his own to whip out.

  I smiled coldly. “I thought you didn’t want to play games.”

  He smiled with warmth this time, holding the expression—not that I was fooled. He said, “I stand corrected.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Naked vixen look good on a leash. Hey, don’t judge me!”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  “At last,” Rasputin said. “I have drawn out your true strength, the power I sensed in you from the beginning.”

  My inner dragon laughed at that idea, ready to burst out of my skin.

  “No,” I said. “If you were to see my true power, this place would be a shattered, bloody ruin, as would the entire block. The people would all be dead, and I’d be frying your ass with lightning since I prefer to cook my meals. Your ultimate destiny would be to become dragon dung fertilizing the daisies. Now, are we going there, or are you going to behave?”

  Sitting across the table, I continued to meet his eyes.

  His will rolled in like an ocean wave, crashing against the breakers of my resistance.

  I laughed at him. “Give it up, already. It’s not going to work.”

  “You are a dragon.”

  “There’s some truth for you.”

  “Yes, indeed. A little more than I expected.”

  I nodded. “Because I’m heir to a demon clan, people assume the non-human half of my nature must be demon of some kind, but my mother was a golden dragon. If I can overcome the stigma of tainted blood, the dragons might one day accept me as more than the clan’s royal bastard. My dragon blood that insulates me from vampire mesmerism, much to the irritation of vampires everywhere.”

  The red light went out of his eyes, the returning darkness

  more empty than before. “Yes. And you mention being royalty because you know I served Russian royalty in my day. You are hoping I transfer my reverence for royalty to you. However, my peasant days are long behind me. I am quite the American these days.”

  You say that but old habits die hard—just like exes.

  I willed my sword away.

  He reached out, picked up a glass of water, and took the smallest sip. “Odd, I would not have thought I could still know fear.” He set the glass down. “The next question is yours.”

  “Fine. How did you survive what history calls your assassination?”

  “Now that is a story! But let it wait a moment.”

  Our waiter returned with my drink. I hadn’t looked at the menu. I picked it up and handed it over. Looking at Rasputin, I asked, “What’s good here?”

  “The spicy lamb sausage, I hear. It comes with rice pilaf and an apricot-shallot relish. Try it with the citron vodka.”

  I nodded at the waiter. “You heard the man.”

  Rasputin said, “I’ll have a bottle of the special stock you keep for me in the basement.”

  “Yes, Sir, at once.” The waiter left.

  “Human blood?” I asked.

  “Lambs’ blood. Sy
mbolic that I have lost my soul, but not abandoned my faith in the Lamb of God.”

  “You think a vampire can get into heaven with a few hail Marys?”

  “I’ll never know if I don’t try.” He lifted his head to stare into infinity. “You asked about my death. It happened as history says, for the most part. Prime Minister Yusupov—may he rot in hell forever as devils eat his intestines—invited me to tea. As I would find out later, he served me petit fours laced with a vast amount of cyanide. I refused the fool and his food. Ever since an earlier assassination attempt put a knife in my stomach, I suffered from hyperacidity which meant I had to avoid sugar and wine. As time dragged on, and it was thought I’d eaten, but stubbornly wouldn’t die.

  Quite humorous, no?”

  I nodded. “Heaven protects fools and madmen.”

  Rasputin laughed. “Hah, we should know. It was quite stimulating. Yusupov played a few gypsy ballads on his guitar. We discussed spirituality, the occult, and politics through the night. Morning approached and I still would not convenience them by falling over dead, so they panicked, these conspirators. If I were die in the morning as the palace came awake, it would become hard to quietly dispose of my body. The secret of the murder would be out.”

  “So they shot you to hurry things along.”

  “In the liver, stomach, and kidneys. Left for dead, I did die, but only briefly. I attribute this to the fire of hatred for those who had betrayed me.”

  There is precedence. I thought of Dracula—who’d cursed himself to create his own line of vampires—was rare, gifted with a superhuman force of will that had been dragged his corpse back to a semblance of life. Apparently, lightning had struck twice.

  Rasputin continued, “Eventually, Yusupov came to check on me. I remember his horror as I opened my eyes and lunged at him. I was strangling the bastard when he clubbed me down with his gun, caving in half my face. We broke apart. Still hoping to live, I shambled up the basement stairs to the ground floor. I found the door to the courtyard with Yusupov hot on my heels. Having reloaded his gun, he shot at me four times, missing twice. My head exploded with agony. I fell into the snow. And darkness rushed in. I think I died a second time.” The waiter came by to deposit a bottle and a glass. He asked, “Would you like me to pour?”