Old Sins, Long Shadow

by PG Forte

  It was Elise who’d mentioned it, but Marc had no intention of passing along that piece of information. It figured though, didn’t it? Audrey had sired Vincent—the vampire Conrad had half-blinded, the vampire who’d held Conrad captive and whose body Marc had torched. Again resentment began to build. Again, Marc tamped it down. If Conrad had only held onto his temper, all those years ago, instead of maiming Vincent, probably none of this would be happening now. Marc would not make the same mistake. He’d deal with his anger later. “You first. What do you want from Conrad anyway? Like I said, maybe we can help each other.”

  Audrey shook her head. “Foolish boy. You test my patience. Tell me what I want to know and, when the time comes, I’ll let you die quickly.”

  Marc shrugged. “Wow, that’s a deal. But why should I even believe anything you say? I’ll tell you what, let the girl go, as a sign of good faith, and I’ll think about it. Otherwise, you’ll never know what else our good friend Vincent might have told me.”

  Heather had held tight to his hand, pressing closer to him when he suggested letting her go; now she pulled her hand free. “Vincent?” she repeated, backing away from him, casting wary gazes at both of them. “The guy with the messed-up face? You two are friends with him?”

  “How do either one of you know Vincent?” Audrey asked, her voice hard and suspicious.

  It was Marc that Heather addressed as she answered, “He’s the one who did this to me.”

  Stray scraps of conversation replayed in Marc’s mind. I don’t know where he went, he was just gone… Were you even awake when he left… No one would leave a changeling unattended… And once again he remembered the sight of Vincent crouching over something on the floor of that god-awful cave, snarling as he rose to his feet. He’d rushed at them without warning, attacking them before they could get too close to what Marc had thought, at the time, was nothing more than a bundle of rags piled atop some makeshift bedding.

  He gazed at Heather in horror. “That was you. He turned you, didn’t he? In that cave, down by the beach?” She’d been there that night—she’d been there all along, lying on the cold ground like so much trash. They’d killed her sire and left her there. They’d left her behind so that she would wake up alone and have to fend for herself.

  He grabbed for her hand. “Not now,” he ordered quietly, relieved when she didn’t try to fight him. This was not the time for discussing that night in the cave—or anything to do with Vincent, for that matter. “We’ll sort this out later.” He glanced at Audrey and froze. Both hands were out of her pockets now, wrapped around the tranquilizer gun she held pointed at his chest. The realization it wouldn’t kill him offered very little comfort. He couldn’t protect himself if he was unconscious, he couldn’t protect Heather and, this time, he knew he stood to lose a lot more than a single eye.

  “What did you do to my Vincent?” Audrey’s voice was cold, conversational, almost matter-of-fact, but there was nothing sane or rational about the glittering hatred that showed in her eyes. “Tell me. Why does his spawn answer to you?”

  Shit. “Just put the gun down,” Marc answered, struggling to regain his composure. “I don’t know, all right?” He didn’t know why Heather responded to him the way she did—he’d refused to even think about it until now—or about his own confused reactions to her, either. Why hadn’t he listened to Drew or Elise, or even Georgia, when they’d tried to tell him about ferals?

  “Is he dead?” Audrey asked. “Did you kill him?”

  Marc shook his head. Things were spiraling out of control and he was ready to start lying his head off when the warehouse door was pushed open with a bang. Audrey swung around, her gun trained on the man who’d just entered.

  “Whoa!” The stranger caught sight of the gun and stopped dead in his tracks. “Don’t shoot. What the fuck?”

  Audrey lowered her gun. “Damn it. What are you doing here?” she asked.

  The man hefted the plastic crate he carried higher, gesturing with it as he added, “Delivery. Just like usual. Isn’t that what we agreed to last night?”

  Marc took in the big man’s appearance—shaved head, dark glasses, trench coat—and snorted in derision. I guess someone’s seen the Matrix a few too many times. He opened his senses and studied him more deeply. Not one of Audrey’s people. Not anyone he’d met before. Hairs lifted on the back of Marc’s neck and, without any thought of which he was conscious, an almost inaudible growl rose from his throat. A strange sense of detachment crept over him, as though his conscious mind was standing back watching as a more primitive part of his brain attempted to communicate with the unknown vampire in a language he couldn’t recall having learned.

  The man shuddered at the sound. He shuffled his feet nervously and shot an uncomfortable glance in Marc’s direction. “Listen, where d’you want this stuff?” he asked Audrey, gesturing with the crate again.

  Frowning, Audrey pointed toward a table on the far side of the cage. “Put it down over there and then leave. You shouldn’t be here at all tonight. As always, your timing is lamentable.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the newcomer muttered as he moved reluctantly toward the table. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  As he passed close to the cage, Heather rushed at the door hissing frantically, “Nighthawk, you bastard. Get us out of here!”

  Marc stared at her in surprise. Nighthawk? For real? It was all he could do to keep from laughing. What kind of bullshit name was that? Who was this guy, anyway?

  His mouth tight, Nighthawk shook his head. “Sorry, kid. No can do.” He jerked his head in Marc’s direction. “I warned you he’d get you in trouble, didn’t I?”

  “Friend of yours?” Marc asked wryly, coming to stand beside Heather. “I thought you said you didn’t know any of these people?”

  Her mouth twisted as she grimaced. “I don’t know her. Nighthawk has a place where a bunch of us crash, but he’s not my friend. Friends don’t screw each other over like this.”

  “Hey!” The man rounded on her. “Shut up, all right? You brought this on yourself. I told you what would happen if you didn’t stay put.”

  “Leave her alone,” Marc said, responding automatically to the threat against her. Another of those eerie growls rumbled out of his throat. This time, all three of the others shuddered. Heather pressed against him, as though seeking support.

  Nighthawk dropped his gaze. “It’s her own fault,” he muttered in sullen tones.

  “Nighthawk. Go,” Audrey snapped, her voice raspy, her control slipping. She glared at Nighthawk. “Now, feral, or our deal is off.”

  Nighthawk’s eyes narrowed. He raised his head and glared. “Is that some kind of threat?”

  Audrey tightened her grip on the tranq gun. “Consider it a warning. And don’t expect to receive another.”

  The big man hesitated. It was obvious he was under no compulsion, but was choosing to follow Audrey’s orders. An odd idea lodged itself in Marc’s mind. He was suddenly certain that if he spoke up now, if he countermanded Audrey’s commands and told the man to stay where he was, he’d do it—and not because he had a choice. Before he had a chance to try out his new theory, a commotion arose in another part of the warehouse.

  Conrad? Marc could only hope. He smirked when he saw Audrey glance instinctively at the cameras, as though she wished she could see what was happening on the other end. Clearly things were not going as expected.

  “Wait here,” she ordered Nighthawk. “Keep an eye on them.” Then she disappeared into the shadows, still carrying the tranquilizer gun.

  As soon as the sound of her footsteps faded, Marc turned his attention on Nighthawk. “Let us out of here,” he demanded.

  “How do you suggest I do that?” Nighthawk replied, his tough-guy pose seriously undermined by his inability to meet Marc’s gaze and the confusion in his tone. “And why would I help you anyway?”

  “Do it because you owe me,” Heather snarled. “This is all your fault. When I get out of here I’m g
oing to tell everybody back at the apartment how you lied to us, pretending to be a friend, stealing our venom, working with her.”

  “Quiet now,” Marc said, gently pushing her aside. “Enough with the threats.” The sound of fighting could be heard even more clearly from the building’s other side. Probably a good thing, but he couldn’t afford to count on it. He turned his attention back to Nighthawk. “Talk to me. You had a deal with Audrey. I know you’re not stupid enough to think you can trust her. Get us out of here and I’ll either match her offer or better it.”

  Nighthawk’s jaw tightened. “She said she needed help taking over her nest. She promised to make a place for us in her House—for all the ferals. She said we’d have her protection.”

  Marc shook his head. “You know she can’t deliver. Her House is a mess, there’s no protection for you there.”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “Not now, there isn’t. But later there will be. After she takes over. She’s going to become sire.”

  “How? By going to war with Conrad? Good luck with that.”

  “That’s what this was all about?” Heather snarled. “What happened to all your big talk about how ferals were so free, how we were better than everybody else, how we didn’t need houses or sires or any of that stuff?”

  “Shut up, all right?” Nighthawk glared at her. “You don’t know what it’s like to have a family, to be part of something, then watch as it all gets ripped away ’til you’re left with nothing. To be all the time on the run, afraid, constantly watching your back. This deal is gonna help us all. It’s gonna give us a chance for something better.”

  “Nice thought, but it’s not gonna happen,” Marc told him. “She’s going down. Help us get out of here now and I’ll talk to Conrad for you. I’ll see if he can’t give you some part, at least, of what you wanted from Audrey. And if he won’t help you, I will. I promise.”

  For the first time, Nighthawk raised his eyes to Marc’s face. “Why should I trust you?” he asked, his expression anguished, pleading, hopeful. “I don’t even know you. Why should I believe you’re gonna be any different than her—just ’cause you say so?”

  “Yes.” Marc met his gaze and held it; throwing every bit of his will into the look he gave him. “That’s exactly why. Because you have my word on it.”

  “Listen to him, Nighthawk,” Heather urged. “Do something smart for a change.”

  “Aw, fuck, I must be crazy,” Nighthawk sighed as he cast a quick glance around. He pulled a fire extinguisher off one of the walls and tried smashing the lock with it.

  “Stop,” Heather snapped after a moment. “This is stupid. We need to try something else.”

  “Like what?’ Nighthawk growled, still pounding at the door of the cage. “What do you want me to do? Drive a forklift through the wall? Melt the hinges off the door with a blowtorch? Do you see anything like that lying around here?”

  Marc sighed. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that she might have left the keys?”

  “We don’t need a key,” Heather said suddenly. “Or any of those things. Look.” She pointed toward a desk on the far side of the room. “You see that computer over there? There’s a can of compressed air sitting right beside it. Go and get it. Bring it over here.”

  Nighthawk looked questioningly at Marc, who shrugged. “Might as well.” He raised an eyebrow at Heather. “You want to tell me how that’s gonna help?”

  “I have an idea,” she answered, bouncing excitedly. “It’s something I saw on TV.”

  “Oh, well, TV.” Marc sighed. “Sure, they never make anything up.”

  “Okay, what am I doing with it?” Nighthawk asked when he returned with the can.

  “Turn it upside down and spray it on the lock,” Heather instructed.

  Nighthawk shot her a skeptical look, but did as he was told. Within seconds, a white rime began to appear all around the lock. “Shit, that’s cold,” Nighthawk complained as he dropped the empty can on the floor. He rubbed his hand on his pants to warm his fingers. “Now what?”

  “Now hit it again with the fire extinguisher.”

  Nighthawk stared. “You mean go back to doing what didn’t work in the first place?”

  “Just do it,” Heather insisted.

  Growling, Nighthawk picked up the canister and smashed it down on the lock. Metal cracked loudly. The door sprang open. Marc’s eyebrows rose. “Well, hell.”

  “Told ya,” Heather said, grinning as she bolted out of the cage. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Nighthawk stopped Marc at the door. “You meant what you said before, didn’t you?”

  Marc glared at him. “I said I did, didn’t I? What’s it gonna take to get through to you?”

  The second part of his speech was addressed to empty air. Surprised, he glanced down at his feet. Nighthawk lay sprawled on the floor with Conrad crouched on top of him, ready to rip out his throat.

  “No!” Suddenly furious, Marc hurled himself at Conrad knocking him away from Nighthawk. “Get away from him. Mine!”

  Time froze. Conrad’s face was contorted as he turned on Marc. His eyes, red and gold, glowing like hellfire, held no trace of recognition. Marc didn’t care. He snarled back at Conrad, knowing without a doubt he was about to die, but completely unable to back down.

  Just when it seemed Conrad was about to spring, a pair of arms were clasped around his chest from behind. “Stop this,” Damian ordered as he yanked Conrad back, away from Marc, and held him close. “Calm yourself, querido,” he murmured, softly biting Conrad’s neck over and over again. “It’s Marc—see? It’s just Marc. You don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Marcus,” Conrad repeated as his eyes slowly lost their crazed look. “Yes, of course.”

  Next thing Marc knew, his head hit the floor hard enough to leave him stunned. From flat on his back, he stared up into the angry face of his sister. “Jules? What the hell?”

  Tears danced on her eyelashes even as she snarled at him. “What were you thinking? Attacking Conrad—are you crazy? He could have killed you! Maybe he should have killed you! You big stupid…stupid…stupid…”

  Marc blinked at her in surprised disbelief. Attack Conrad? Had he really? What the hell for? Then again…his memories of the last few minutes seemed suddenly to be dissolving. Everything had turned fuzzy and unreal, substantial as clouds. Hell. Maybe he had.

  Julie gulped back a sob. Marc put his arms around his sister and patted her back reassuringly. “Easy there, sis,” he murmured in soothing tones. “It’s good to see you too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Audrey had gotten away. That thought was topmost in Marc’s mind as he lay in bed several hours later while a solicitous Damian hovered over him, fluffing his pillows, rearranging his bedclothes and offering further suggestions for his comfort.

  “And are you positive you don’t want me to run you a warm bath, niño? Or perhaps get you another small snack? I could re-wrap your bandages for you. Would you like that?”

  “No.” Marc closed his remaining eye, pained by the reminder of what had been taken from him. He didn’t even need the damn bandages—they were for everyone else’s benefit. Did they really think he wouldn’t figure that out?

  “There must be something I can do. Can’t you think of anything that would help?”

  Marc grit his teeth to keep from screaming. He’d thought his outrage spent. He’d argued himself hoarse once already tonight and had thought himself too exhausted to battle any more. Yet here he was growing angry all over again. He’d like his eye back, that’s what he’d like. Or, failing that, he’d like to hear that the entire household had been mobilized and was, even now, even this close to morning, out scouring the city in search of Audrey. Those were the only things that would help—that or getting to do over the last couple of days, so he might perhaps avoid some of the mistakes he’d made. Could Damian manage any of that for him? It seemed unlikely.

  “Damian, leave the boy alone,” Conrad finally or
dered. He was seated in an armchair on the other side of the room with Julie perched on the arm, leaning against him, both of them watching Marc worriedly. “I’m sure all he wants right now is to get some rest. Isn’t that so, Marc?”

  “Yes,” Marc agreed, but it was a lie. What he wanted—at the very least—was an explanation. Why had she been allowed to slip through their fingers? After everything he’d suffered, why was it too much to expect that the woman responsible had at least been caught? He’d practically handed her over to them! He’d kept her distracted until they were actually inside the building. He’d engineered his own escape from his cell. Did he have to do everything himself? And how could he be expected to rest knowing she was out there, waiting for another chance to strike? For that matter, how could any of them rest?

  Useless to ask again when the answers he received were never what he wanted.

  “I have to do something about Heather,” he blurted, even though part of him didn’t want to discuss that subject again either.

  “I know you do,” Conrad answered, his voice subdued, almost rueful.

  Marc glanced sharply at him, annoyed by Conrad’s understanding tone. What did he know? “I promised I’d do something about all the ferals, actually, but Heather…” Shit. He’d sent her off with Nighthawk—which had to be the worst idea he’d ever had, even though he’d warned the other vampire what the consequences would be if she were hurt. Heather had insisted she’d be fine there, but Marc still didn’t like it. “It’s especially important she’s taken care of. It’s our fault she has no sire.” Not that Vincent himself was a loss, but all the same…

  “I wouldn’t exactly call her a feral,” Conrad murmured. “And even though she’s had no contact with her sire until recently, it’s not quite accurate to say she doesn’t have one.”

  “Who, Audrey?” Marc shook his head. “Yeah, that’s an improvement.”