by Jackie Ivie
And Richer
by Jackie Ivie
A Vampire Assassin League Novella
“We Kill for Profit”
25th in series
Copyright 2015, Jackie Ivie
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Venice was supposedly the size of Central Park in New York City. U. S. of A. The guidebooks had to be wrong. Right now, Venice looked a hell of a lot bigger. Especially when viewed from rooftop level. The panoramic view included a lot of tiled roofs, mostly red; the outline of St. Mark’s Campanile - the tower of St. Mark’s Basilica, rising high above the red roofs; a plethora of narrow and not-so-narrow dark alleys; glistening canals of all sizes. Lots of windows - some lit, most of them dark; and all about in random pockets of space was the evidence of humanity. Partying. Singing. Drinking. Dancing. Kissing. And a few more sensual activities he’d come across without warning.
The city was overwhelming, even in the dark. Derelict-looking buildings were propped between luminous party-driven edifices. The city was honeycombed with canals called Rio, streets called Calle, and streets that used to be canals but were now filled in, but still bore the Rio title. And everywhere was contrast. As if the city terminally wore a mask. Worn, crumbling brick buildings were fronted with expensive, fancy facades. Especially the palaces along the Grand Canal, such as the one he’d been given to use for his stay.
One guidebook had stated that the city slept each evening, only to awaken each morn with the arrival of the horde of tourists. One book put the number at ten million tourists annually. Another at twelve. Either way, Venice was a major tourist destination. But, if it was slumbering, it slept with one eye open. If he concentrated, he could hear water lapping at marble foundations, gondoliers as they whistled and plied the canals, and ancient buildings as they struggled with the ravages of time, tide, and humanity.
Venice had been a major world player for almost a thousand years. Most of that time was spent acquiring a treasure trove of riches that still adorned the city. The last half millennia it became party central. And now it was stuck in the hangover stage. It had been known as the Serene Republic. Right now, it resembled a serene statement on decay and decadence and over-indulgence. With an appetite for more.
There was nothing else like it.
Anywhere.
The city was sinking. Wouldn’t last. Every flood got worse. Harder to recuperate from. It was hard to imagine, really. The city had a pulse Nigel could almost hear. Resilience he could feel. Strength he could sense. Venice wasn’t going down without a fight.
The city overwhelmed, making him feel pretty insignificant, if he let it. Nigel’s hands shook for a moment before he controlled the reaction. There was too much at stake. And he was alone. Nigel couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out without a mentor. Safety net. Back-up. This was ‘sink or swim’ time. Fly or die. Prove himself or cash out. Nigel was the youngest member drafted into the league by Akron. He was stuck at the terminal age of nineteen. Three weeks shy of his twentieth birthday. Unable to add a pound of muscle or a hint of more whiskers. It hadn’t bothered him before.
Well. Not much.
Going solo felt a little scary, but there was a large helping of excitement being served on the side. That sensation ratcheted up as the evening wore on for what seemed like days. It was after midnight. He didn’t know the exact time. Time was worthless to a vampire. But he’d been searching since the sun went down. Checking and rechecking. The streets. Alleys. Dead-end tunnels. Canals and bridges. Gondolas. The cafes. The nightspots. All the tourist spots and then the private retreats. Hovering. Scanning. Listening. Hoping. The hours wore on endlessly.
Oh.
And leather pants itched.
Somebody should have mentioned that little nuance of his new wardrobe. Forewarned him to wear boxers. Or thigh-briefs. Someone like the responsible party. Akron Profit. The leader of the Vampire Assassin League. All-knowing. All-seeing. Their guru of sense and justice.
With a comedic bent that came out every so often.
Like now.
Nigel stuffed a knife blade beneath the waistband of his trousers and scratched absently at his upper thigh. He didn’t take his attention off the section of city directly below him. He was close. Closer than he’d been all evening. His heart was sending continual throbs through him. They were distinct. Real. As was the need for each breath. That’s how he knew.
He was near her.
The one. The only.
His mate.
The renewed sensations were proof. Undeniable. Seductive. And highly addictive. Nigel pulled his knife out of his pant leg. Sheathed it. Crouched down to shuffle along a roof edge, grimacing at how the pants bit into his balls. Akron had probably snickered when he’d ordered these things. Nigel forced the discomfort into his subconscious as he looked over the throngs below him. He was above the Campo Santa Margherita. The place was stuffed with people enjoying a lot of ribaldry. Making a lot of noise. She had to be down there. Somewhere. He’d just have to be patient while he zeroed in on her exact location. He wasn’t chancing another foray into the streets.
He didn’t know how he looked. He didn’t have a reflection to verify, and the servant at the rented palace was old. Crotchety. Half blind. And male. Nigel hadn’t bothered asking if he looked okay. He figured he must look pretty damn good, though. The black mask was probably overkill. It didn’t seem to detract from him, either. Quite the opposite.
He grinned, and licked his lips.
The last bit of blood he’d taken had contained vodka. Gin. And a fair amount of brandy. Nice mixture. Even nicer to experience the buzz after he’d fed, propped the woman into a chair in a dark corner, and disappeared. He hadn’t drained anyone, there was no reason. She’d offered. He hadn’t refused. Besides...he told himself he needed to appease any hunger before approaching his mate. He was determined to keep the truth hidden. His fangs under wraps. His needs controlled. And finding a willing victim to get some fluid wasn’t difficult. They were almost attacking him.
The first time he’d stepped into view at street level, a throng of women had ambushed him. They’d been mostly teens. Obviously taking advantage of the sixteen-year-old minimum drinking age. There had been squeals of delight, a lot of gushing, myriad requests for his number. His social network page. His contact site. One girl asked to be on his mailing list. Another took several ‘selfies’, while trying to catch his image in the background. To no avail. She’d decided it was her battery at fault.
He guessed black leather must make him resemble a rock star. Or maybe it was how tall and lean the attire made him appear. It was Akron’s fault. Their leader had definitely updated Nigel’s wardrobe. Or sent it back a few decades. Maybe centuries. Almost everything was crafted in leather. Except his suits. Those were mainly superfine wool, and included all kinds of skinny ties. Skinny ties? What designer thought going back to the 1950s was a good idea? There was one suit however...that gave him pause. It was really cool. The slacks were another bit of skinny-leg design, but the jacket was midnight blue velvet. Perfectly tailored. Now, that suit, he could definitely rock.
Akron had guessed his exact dimensions, too. These leather slacks fit like they’d been poured onto him. Even in the crotch area. There wasn’t much left to the imagination. Th
ey were almost worse than polyester bellbottoms would have been. Being built like a long distance runner or a champion swimmer seemed to really appeal to the opposite sex nowadays. The younger generation appeared to appreciate his physique much more than his generation ever had. That was another surprise.
The last time he’d gone down into the streets, an even bigger group of women had surrounded him. Asking for the same personal information. One had wanted to be his ‘groupie’. And someone even begged him to sign her very ample bosom. She’d had a marker with her. Nigel had declined and turned away. That would have befuddled and irked the old Nigel. That guy had dreamt of forays into crowds of blonde bimbos with big boobs. In between playing VIDWAR games. Both were now passé, if they were even thoughts. Dull. Uninteresting. And why?
Because his mate had come into his sphere. And he could claim her. Finally.
If he could just find her!
Venice was a really interesting place at night. The full moon and street lights reflected off the water, creating a glitter effect. The major thoroughfares had congregating humans. In pockets. The rest of the city was mostly dark. Deserted. Excellent feeding ground.
If he was still hungry.
For anything other than her.
Nigel’s fangs tingled and then elongated. His heartbeat got quicker. That was weird. It was supposed to match hers. And the trousers got even more uncomfortable. He had to stand. Stick a hand into his briefs. Readjust. Damn leather.
And then he saw them.
He had Hunters. Two. At least. Nigel dropped onto his belly, rattling a roof tile and disregarding how everything smarted from the jolt of his landing. It was inconsequential beside the fact that he’d spotted two men. In camouflage attire. They hovered at opposite ends of the courtyard, trying to look invisible. Their presence told him several things. The Hunters’ presence was proof that this was the right courtyard. Mandy was definitely down there somewhere. It also demonstrated that his grandson, Paul Henry Beethan, had major class. He went up even higher in his grandfather’s esteem. Even if the lad no longer wanted Mandy, he’d made certain she was protected. Ah. How Nigel would have loved to meet the kid. Introduce himself. Check out his contribution to the human DNA pool. All nice thoughts. All pretty much useless at the moment. Because of the last thing.
Reaching his mate had just gotten difficult.
It was just as Akron had advised him at the Millennium Hotel in St. Louis. Unnecessary attention could lead to discovery. And definitely to disruption. Nigel didn’t want or need attention. He just wanted Mandy. In his arms. His eternity. And in that big-ass fancy bed back at the palace. His dick stirred again. He silently cursed the cut of his pants as he inched toward the roof edge. He was being overly cautious, but he wasn’t taking chances. There could be more of them. Dressed inconspicuously. Trying to fit in. Like at Old Aberdeen Ferryden turntable where he’d first seen Mandy.
Nigel groaned and shoved his groin into the relentless surface of ceramic tiles. If this was the best he could do at control, he was in trouble. He’d have to stand behind waist-high structures or something. Hold his hands in a strategic location. Maybe grab up a table cloth to tie about his waist. Or use his jacket.
Damn these frickin’ leather pants.
Again.
Oh. Who cares about discomfort, Nigel?
He forced his mind to deal with the real issue. He had Hunters. They were in his way. Elimination would be fairly easy. Especially with the crowds. He didn’t need to kill. A quick blow to the back of the head. Lights out. That could lead to a lot of Hunters being alerted and moving in. Mandy would probably be removed and hidden, too. Nope. He had to come up with something else. He might actually have to reach out to Akron. Ask for help from their Venetian associate. The jackass named—
“Nigel! Kid! As I do not live or breathe! I thought I recognized you. Ciao! You’re looking extremely sharp tonight. Nice mask. Very fetching. Oh. Never fear, my good fellow. I am not into pretty boys. Not yet, anyway. I just couldn’t believe my eyes. It really is you! In my fair city!”
Count Reynaldo Moroseni swooped onto the roof beside Nigel, in a flurry of fabric, a mass of words, a lot of lanky hair, and with a movement that dislodged a tile. Nigel snagged it before it fell four stories to the street below. He stared at it in his hand for a moment.
“Excellent reflexes, my boy! Excellent! That reminds me of the time—”
“Quiet!” Nigel hissed over his shoulder.
“What? Me? You’re telling a member of the Noble House of Moroseni to be quiet?”
“There are Hunters down there, Reynaldo!”
“Really? Here? In Venice?” Reynaldo knelt beside him. His green velvet coat flared out, doing its best to compete with the vivid red satin knee breeches. “Why didn’t you contact me?”
“Because you are extremely loud. And annoying. And abrasive. And arrogant. And superficial. And self-absorbed. And flamboyant. Need I go on?”
Nigel was speaking through set teeth. Reynaldo answered in a loud voice, although he’d gone down slightly in volume.
“Fine. Be that way. See if your opinion bothers me. How many are there?”
“Keep your voice down, Reynaldo. I’m warning you.”
“You say we have Hunters? Well. Where are they? Quick, boy! Don’t just lie there! Give me a target.”
“There are at least two.” Nigel pointed them out.
“Ah. I see. I’ll take the far one. You handle the other.”
“No! Wait!”
“I am not letting any Hunter live. If you knew my history, you’d concede.”
“Be quiet!”
“A Venetian nobleman does not do anything quietly! We are known for our theatrics. Comedies. Operas. Have you never heard a Vivaldi concert? Viewed a Tintoretto or Bellini painting? They are the epitome of vividness in color and sound.”
“Shut up!”
“Not to mention the carnival! Now, that is something to experience. Why. I’ll have you know—”
It took a second. And lightning reflexes. And pure instinct. Nigel had Reynaldo on his back, one hand pushing Reynaldo’s chest into the rooftop. The other held a knife blade at the man’s throat. Reynaldo blinked. He didn’t move. The count looked surprised. He wasn’t the only one. But Nigel hid it, pushing the blade closer, drawing a thin line of dark red.
“I have never killed another vampire, Reynaldo. But, trust me. I will. And I know how.”
“Why...kid. This...is. I’m...dumbfounded. What...has gotten into you?”
Each word came with a trickle of dark fluid. And if Reynaldo didn’t cease talking, he was going to lose more. Nigel lowered his chin, flashed his eyes to red before they resumed their bright blue, and then he snarled. His fangs were on full display. Reynaldo’s eyes widened.
“My mate is down there.”
Reynaldo blinked. He didn’t reply. Nigel went on.
“And I will eliminate anyone who gets in my way. Anyone. You understand?”
“That...include...Hunters?”
The three words brought more blood. His knife would have been slippery, if he wasn’t controlling it so closely. Nigel eased up on the pressure.
“Especially them,” he answered.
Reynaldo grunted.
“We have an accord?” Nigel asked.
“Let me up, boy. I’ll be quiet.”
Nigel moved the knife. A moment later, he released the hand that held down Reynaldo. The man sat up, straightened his coat, and regarded Nigel without expression. And then he shook his head.
“You have changed, Nigel Beethan. Akron should have updated me.”
“Yeah. You could say I’ve matured.”
“Well, I am not at all certain that it is an improvement.”
“Save it. I have an issue down below. Remember? And I could use your help.”
“Oh. So now, you wish my assistance?”
“I would not turn it down...if you can help without drawing unnecessary attention to yourself.”
Reynaldo sighed heavily. “Does that mean I cannot kill them?”
“That is exactly what it means.”
“Buggers.”
“You have someplace in your palace you can use as a cell? Without internet capability? And no chance of a signal being sent?”
“Of course. That description fits my entire ground floor. I have lots of ways to secure a couple of Hunters. They will not get a moment to send a signal, even if they could. I shall spend the time regaling them with the history of my city! The art! The music! The architecture! The wonders! And...lest I forget: the tide does come in twice daily.”
Nigel chuckled. “Sounds perfect.”
“Does this mean I can kill them later?”
“Dead men tell no tales. You know that. But you have to wait until I have my mate. We got a deal?”
Reynaldo shoved his hair over his shoulder and smiled. His throat wound was already sealing. Moonlight glinted off elongated canines.
“You’re the boss,” he finally replied.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hey, ladies! Do you think that’s normal? I mean...for Venice?”
Mandy asked it as a male duo on stilts strode through the throng. They were wearing huge blue feathered masks, flesh-toned athletic cups, light blue gauze with a lot of sequins, and little else. They had great physiques, which was a plus. Their height made them difficult to miss. The lack of clothing made it impossible. But it looked pretty effeminate. That was cancelling out any plusses in Mandy’s opinion. Then she stilled. Something snagged her attention at the far side of the plaza. Right at the opening of a darkened alley entrance. She narrowed her eyes.
And the world halted.
Every sight stopped. Sound was instantly muffled. Movement ceased. It was akin to the dead time before a call connected. A wave of goose bumps coursed over her arms. Down her legs. Her heart gave three heavy beats. Her ears buzzed. And then the sensation ended, as if someone had hit a switch. There was a micro-second of lag as sight and sound meshed into real time, but it left a gap somehow unaccounted for. Mandy blinked repeatedly. And then she squinted. There could still be someone there. She couldn’t tell. If so, the shadows had engulfed him.
