Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion)

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  A shriek started in the back of his throat, high-pitched and grating on my nerves; my other hand snapped out to clamp over his mouth.

  “You were following me, presumably with the intent to violate me. I suppose you were going to kill me too.”

  He vehemently shook his head in response.

  I tightened the death grip on his hand. “I don’t like people who lie to me.”

  Tears sparked in his eyes, building, welling, then spilling down his cheeks. He made some sort of moan of protest against me breaking his bones.

  “I know it’s wacky, but I really have a problem with people who try to rape and murder me,” I continued. “Do you have any idea how rude that is? Here we are, in the twenty-first century, and despite the progress women have made, men still think they can dominate them. That makes me so angry. Doesn’t that make you angry?”

  Weakly, he nodded.

  “I mean, what is humanity coming to when in this day and age a woman still can’t even walk down a deserted alley, all alone, in the middle of the night, without fearing being attacked?”

  Another whimper, a weak little broken sound.

  “Tell me, are you at all aware of how this has affected me? How am I ever going to walk freely at night after what you’ve done to me? Did you even think of my feelings when you started stalking me?”

  He mumbled something.

  Ah, so you finally decided to join the conversation. I removed my hand from his mouth so he could speak freely.

  “Yes?” I said. “You were saying?”

  He parted his lips and his high-pitched scream filled the air, like the female victim in a horror film. The sound drove spikes into my brain—I hate it when they scream this far into the act.

  His neck twisted to look behind him, at the mouth of the alley where we both knew others waited. “Help me!”

  I leaned toward him as he looked back, my voice taking on a soft whisper. “Something tells me they aren’t coming.”

  That thought settled in his brain and his face changed, twisting into something ugly and frightened, then he yelped as I flung him by his broken hand across the alley. He hit the bricks hard and crumpled to the ground, a broken puddle that used to be a tough guy.

  My heels clicked on the concrete as I strolled over. He stirred, cradling his broken hand, eyes coming to settle on the toes of my boots.

  I’m not all bad; I reached down to offer my hand. Not surprisingly, he stared back, agape and fearful.

  So little trust. I hauled him to his feet by the collar of his shirt. “Do you now see the error of your ways?”

  He nodded, cowering in my grip.

  “Do you promise not to try to rape any more girls?”

  Again, he nodded.

  “Good.” I grinned. “Now go my child, and sin no more.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Of course you aren’t getting off that easy. Brace yourself ’cause this will hurt...quite a lot, actually.”

  A throb started in my gums. They make it look so easy in the movies, but even after a few centuries of it, the growth of my teeth into fangs hurt. The throb sharpened into pinpricks dancing on my gums and then my canines grew longer, sharper. Saliva formed, swelling in my mouth as I reached out and yanked my would-be-killer toward me. His body went limp in my arms, then contorted and shook as my teeth pierced his skin. The hot blood swirled past my lips, but rather than satiate my thirst, it made me want more.

  I held him there in the moonlight as I drank, ensuring his friends would see. With any luck, that would serve as a warning to them. If they came after me, I’d be forced to kill them, which—though enjoyable—was a waste of perfectly good blood. I couldn’t very well feed from all of them, as one human was enough to fill me for a week, and overfeeding would leave me feeling ill for a few days afterward. Besides, I was already late for a very important meeting.

  Generally, I don’t take enough blood to kill. It doesn’t make sense in the grand scheme of things—if the human lives, he can always produce more blood, so there’s no danger of ever having to go without a meal. I rarely ever drain a human.

  But sometimes I just can’t stop myself.

  Chapter Two

  Business Opportunities

  Not fifteen minutes after my meal, I stood in front of my destination. Or, rather, on top of it. After my unexpected dinner, I opted for the rooftops for the rest of my walk. It’s faster than stopping to kill every loser who decides to follow you.

  Plus I probably looked killer with that knee-length jacket flapping in the wind as I ran.

  Mishka’s window lay wide open without a screen, a big happy mouth ready to let me dive inside. How nice of her.

  I dropped noiselessly onto the fire escape and stole down two levels to her floor. White sheer curtains fluttered, cutting across the open window. Beyond them was the living room, and beyond that the kitchen; Mishka Thiering sat with her back to me at the chrome dinette table. Blonde hair was coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place even at three in the morning. I swore that witch never slept.

  A blue ceramic mug touched down on the table, then she moved her hand back in front of her; the flipping of pages followed. Her flowery peasant skirt trembled as she shifted in her seat.

  I failed to see why she’d have all the damn lights on so anyone could see into her place. Despite living in what could only be described as “the slums,” all her furniture was either new and stylish or antique and priceless. That chrome dinette set wasn’t there the last time I dropped by for a visit, nor was the 1930’s lounge chair tucked near the window. Maybe she didn’t think anyone would bother carting off furniture in this neighborhood. Or maybe local thieves were scared of the witch next door.

  I’d both steal good furniture and risk the wrath of a witch...good thing we’re still friends, Mish.

  I bent and slipped through the window. Two lights were on either side of me and I stole through the living room at an angle, dodging the light where I could as to not cast a shadow in her line of vision. My boots moved soundlessly on the plush gray carpet and soon I stood directly behind her.

  Her attention stayed on the book as I leaned over her shoulder to peer at the discoloured pages.

  “Invocation of the Summer God,” I read aloud.

  Her shoulders lifted in a start and her body jumped in her chair. “Goddess damn you, Zara!”

  “Hmm.” I took the seat opposite her and dropped down to sit, draped one long leg over the other, and tapped my scarlet-painted fingernails on the tabletop. “Is it possible to damn someone already damned?”

  “Funny,” she said without smiling. “Why can’t you just use the door like a normal person?”

  Because I’m not a person, dumbass. “I like to make an entrance. Besides, you shouldn’t leave the windows open.”

  “The air conditioner doesn’t work—that’s the only way to get any fresh air in here since the landlord won’t replace it.”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s why I moved out. Maybe you should buy one yourself or at least invest in a spell to keep out unwanted visitors, rather than...” I snatched the leather bound book from her hands to look at the cover. “Raven’s Grimoire of Dark Magick?”

  “Gimme that.”

  I let her grab the book back. She was way too smart for that trashy kid magic they sold in occult stores—why bother with something wannabes read? But I didn’t ask, because I had trouble taking interest in something that wasn’t directly related to me. “So, the invoking thing...how’s that working out for you?”

  She ignored me. “Nice jacket.” An exaggerated inhale through her nose and her face scrunched up. “Ugh, when did you start smoking?”

  “I didn’t—the charming gentleman I killed and stole it from did.” I reached into one of the pockets, pulled out a small pack of cigarettes, and tossed them on the table. “You’re welcome to what he had left.”

  “No thanks.” Her chair scraped on the kitchen tile floor as s
he rose, hardcover book in hand. A tall, dark walnut bookcase with a heavy bottom sat next to the couch, and she moved to set the book at eyelevel. I had long suspected she kept all the good magic stuff hidden away in her fireproof safe—which she didn’t think I knew about—and leaving ol’ Raven’s Grimoire up there confirmed my suspicion it was filled with shit spells. She paused there, skirt swirling around her feet as the wind kicked up and blew through the open window, and eyed the books for a moment. “I didn’t think you fed in this area anymore.”

  “I don’t, not since Dustin got that little heroin problem after feeding on too many addicts. I think that was a valuable lesson for us all—you are, indeed, what you eat. But someone follows me, he doesn’t live to tell about it.”

  Her green eyes glanced back at me, sharp and alert. “Was it random?”

  “Probably. He seemed surprised when he realized I wasn’t human.”

  A smirk lifted the corners of her lips. “Imagine that—someone who hasn’t heard of you.”

  “Fucking tragedy of biblical proportions, I’m telling you.”

  She moved to the tall cabinet next to the shelf, a four drawer number in white that looked out of place between the antique pieces. But then she was a shitty decorator. Hadn’t even painted in the couple of years she had the place to herself. Of course, neither had I before her, but I was going for grungy apartment at the time and the discoloured walls kept up that theme.

  Not locked, I thought as she went for the top drawer of the filing cabinet. No key, no magical barrier keeping it closed that required her witchy words to open. The well-oiled wheels hummed as she hauled it open, then again when she found what she searched for and closed the cabinet.

  Mishka turned to face me, large manila envelope clutched in both hands. For a fraction of an instant, she paused there. Then perhaps overcorrecting after the intermission, she sped forward and her bare feet carried her back to the table. I waited, nails still going click click click on the table until she slid the envelope to me and took her seat.

  My last name, Lain, was written on the front in big fat Sharpie letters. So formal. “This is my shiny new contract?” I slid my fingernail along the sealed flap to open it.

  “Yeah.”

  An eight-and-a-half by eleven, black and white photo waited inside along with a single sheet of typed information.

  The photo was snapped from far away, I guessed: zoomed in and everything but the target had a touch of blur. A man stepped out of a car and I saw him from the chest up: dark business suit with crisp creases and a no-nonsense tie, thinning hair, and one of those faces that conjured images of a beaten leather catcher’s mitt. Behind him, a limo—dark, probably black—and three broad-shouldered bodyguards surrounded him.

  A light over the dinette table cast shadows over the brief synopsis of info on my target. I might have guessed him to be fifty or so, but...Jesus, age seventy-four?

  “Who is he?” My gaze flickered to Mish, briefly, taking in the fidgeting of her hands, before dropping back to the photo again.

  “Sean Charles O’Connor...the Fourth.”

  “I can see his name right here—I meant what is he?”

  “Warlock.”

  Huh. Don’t play with them too often. Modern covens, typically, have money and they’re total fucking snobs—I didn’t deal a whole lot with those types these days. The odd rogue, like Mishka, was a different story. Her type wasn’t backed up by the cash and monarch-like organization.

  So some warlock, probably with a coven, with a contract on his head...and no details on the info sheet regarding why. Or payment... “That’s some great anti-aging magic he’s got. What—is he threatening to sell his secrets to Hollywood’s richest, and some plastic surgeons have hired me?”

  “He’s the leader of a rivaling coven.”

  “Exactly whose is it rivaling?” I looked at her and raised a brow. “Mommy and Daddy’s?”

  Her face tightened into a scowl. Mishka had virtually disowned her family during her teenage rebellion, and left one of the more prominent covens in the northern hemisphere. Became a rogue. I supposed I was partly to blame; late one night when the kid caught me stealing from her wealthy parents, Jeffrey and Heaven Thiering, she not only showed me to her father’s safe, but tracked me down the next day and camped out on my doorstep until I agreed to let her stay with me.

  The unlikely friendship we struck up when she was sixteen had blossomed into a business relationship as well. Proving herself useful in my transition from high class thief to full-blown hitwoman, four of the past seven contracts I’d been given came through her. And Mr. Sean Charles O’Connor the Fourth would be number five. The witch had great contacts.

  Her chair creaked as she shifted and arranged her hands on the table. “Heaven contacted me. This is just your basic blood feud five centuries in the making, and they think it’s time to deliver a major setback to the O’Connors. Take out the head of the coven and it will cause chaos. You in?”

  “What are they paying?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “There had better be more than three zeros attached to that number.”

  “No—they said five hundred G’s.”

  I stared at her for a moment. That wasn’t funny. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Plus any expenses—”

  “No.”

  “—and whatever you can grab on the way.”

  Now that got me thinking. In the sheet of information, the Thierings specified that they wanted it done at his home, which meant if I was quick about it, I could probably find and crack open his safe while I was there. But doing the job at a heavily guarded mansion was going to be tough, even for a vampire. Important people rarely had mortal guards...and since the number of undead assassins and thieves was on the rise, they could quite possibly be prepared to take me out.

  And I’m not just a thief anymore, damn it. Sure, I subscribed to the ‘want, take, have’ philosophy, but that wasn’t how I made my living now. How fucking embarrassing to be expected to make up the rest of the money just stealing?

  “No deal.” I leaned back in my chair. A whiff of smoke drifted up from the jacket, tickling my sensitive nose. “You can call them back and tell them I said there’s no way in hell I’m doing anything for less than a mil.”

  “As disgustingly rich as they may be, you know damn well my family doesn’t have that kind of money lying around. Jeffrey’s got that gambling habit, and I don’t think his spell-casting skills are getting any stronger, ’cause he still sucks at roulette. And now, if we get O’Connor out of the way, it’s going to get ugly, and almost everything they’ve got will be going into protection.”

  I can’t believe she’s playing this goddamn game with me. Mish knew how I felt about money—I liked it even better than I liked boys. And I really like boys. “Then it seems they can’t really afford to be doing business. One murder seems rather pointless if it’s going to leave them bankrupt.”

  “I don’t even expect a cut of this,” Mishka said. “No commission. Personally, I’m not sure I want to be in this business anymore. But this isn’t just about money—if you’re the one to take out the leader of the O’Connor coven, you’ve got it made. No more petty theft—”

  “Hey, when I thieve, it certainly isn’t petty—”

  “It is compared to this.” She leaned forward, arms sliding across the table and green eyes focused on mine. “Zara, this is big. Bigger, I think, than you know.” Her words were heavy, an unseen weight tipping them toward ominous.

  My skin went prickly, itchy, all creepy-crawly with annoyance. I didn’t like ominous and I didn’t like her implication. “And I think I’ve got more perspective, Mish—I do have a few centuries on you, remember.”

  The corners of her lips twitched and the thin line between her brows deepened. “But you don’t know how we work.”

  Of course I knew. I couldn’t not know—I was over three hundred goddamn years old. Covens were filled with hereditary witches a
nd warlocks. The covens were in a constant struggle to have better, stronger magic than one another, and the most powerful ones had been around for centuries. I knew that if I was the one to take out a major player, I would be highly respected...but I also knew that he was worth a lot more than what I was being offered.

  “I only do charity if you’re registered with the government. Gotta think of my taxes, honey.”

  “You’ve killed for less.”

  “Yeah—humans. Anything supernatural that might cause me problems, I want six figures. Rich guy like this? Seven. You know that.”

  “Kill O’Connor and you’ve hit the big time.” Her voice took on a higher pitch and she shifted in her seat. I was missing something, but suspected she wouldn’t let me in on the secret. “Several covens have been after him for a while. He needs to go.”

  “I’m sure at least a couple of these covens would be willing to pay more then,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll go to them.”

  “The word is they already have someone. Someone good. If you don’t act quickly, someone else will, and you’ll be left with nothing.”

  Damn, and I thought I had her there. I couldn’t even let myself consider doing it, though—as respected as I would be in my field for this hit, if it got out I did it for mere pennies I’d never get a decent contract again. Self respect: no matter your profession, you’ve gotta have it.

  “Then someone else will have to do it.”

  Mishka’s pale green eyes darkened, and she chewed at her bottom lip.

  Keep debating, witch. I don’t say yes ’til you start talking.

  Slowly, silently, she stood. Back to the living room she went, stepping softly and skipping the cabinet.

  In the far corner, a lamp sat on a square table with a long burgundy cloth draped over it. Mish knelt in front of it, cast the cloth aside—goddamn, I knew she had a safe!—and angled her petite self so I couldn’t see her twirl the combination dial. A click and it opened, then slammed shut again before I could glimpse the contents. Sneaky witch—it was like she didn’t trust me or something.

  Another manila envelope, this time with no one’s name printed on it. Her throat worked as she swallowed nervously and walked back to me, skin going almost as pale as mine. She sat once more only when the envelope was in my hands, and even then she poised on the edge of her seat.