by Deanna Chase
I’d never heard of rogue willingly joining a family unit—Vyxyn had of her own free will—but I didn’t trust her. Neither did Luc. Still, we couldn’t turn a fellow neph down. After all this time with little contact between outside bands there was simply no way of knowing how many of us there were left. I really only knew of one other band and it belonged to my brother, but his carnival wasn’t full of neph, it was full of other creatures entirely. If I could, I’d send her to him. But that would be too cruel to them, even for a demon.
Though I might have to tolerate her, I didn’t like it.
My stomach lurched, the memory of the dissected boy had been enough to make me sick and beg off from working the past two nights, thus cutting me off from prey. Not only have I not had sex, but Billy still hadn’t shown up. Which was really beginning to torque me off. What kind of game was he playing?
I rubbed my nose, furiously trying to scrub the moodiness away before I met up with Grace. I needed a clear head and thinking about the soap opera my life had become wasn’t helping.
Rounding the block, I left behind the shop quarter and entered the brownstone historic housing district. The houses were gingerbread style, one home planted aside the next in a long, neat, and orderly row. Cars lined both sides of the street. Situated every hundred yards or so sat a small fenced in tree, if it’d been sunny I’ve no doubt kids would have been out playing hopscotch, jumping rope, or in general making pests of themselves.
I wrapped my trench coat tighter around my slim body, not chilled from the rain, but annoyed by it.
A gray shape darted across the street as it ran inside one of the several identical brownstones and disappeared into the safety of a warm house. Lucky bastard.
My mood was further spoiled by the fact that I couldn’t port now and chance the risk of humans spotting me. I had to walk or ride, and since I have a serious aversion to cars, walking it was.
I wiggled my toes in their steel-toed biker boots and snarled. My feet were freakin’ freezing.
I looked at the scrap of paper in my hand. 666 Elm Street. Cute, right? Yeah I’d thought so too when I’d first read the address. Grace is sweet as sugar, but don’t let her demeanor or age fool you, she takes sadistic pleasure in goading me, though I’m sure she’d deny it.
One more block and I’d be there.
I’d never met with her in this place before. Typically we met in safe zones and never the same building twice. Areas with high traffic and higher visibility, a place where if lives were threatened rescue could come. Not for me. For her.
Grace was a prominent member of The Order of Light. An organization tasked with the divine purpose of not only recording history, but affecting peace and change. I know, I know, it sounds so trite, but I happen to know firsthand that this group means what they say.
That’s not to say they don’t have a dark history, most any group does, but they’ve changed for the better.
They’ve donated millions of dollars to needy programs, helped mandate water and agriculture regulations in impoverished nations. But as I’m sure you’ve already suspected that’s not all they do. Their true task is in keeping balance and restoring order. Up until the time of the neph conversion, roughly six hundred years ago, give or take, they were historians of the truth and nothing more.
But times changed. Paras were growing bolder, stronger, to the detriment of the humans themselves and millennia of sameness changed seemingly overnight.
The order was no longer content to sit back and watch. Paras were growing and multiplying. Where before there’d been few, now it seemed an explosion of them were cropping up, everywhere. They were coming out, killing, showing the world that something strange dwelt below the surface.
That’s where all the bloody legends and myths of vamps and shifters started. Too many people had begun asking too many questions.
The order could no longer stand back and watch, they decided to be proactive. Over the years they’d learned not only the strengths of each subset of monsters, but our weaknesses too. They’d developed tools, weapons capable of destroying us.
The order decided they would start engaging us baddies and wipe us out. The only exception being if we agreed to change and fight on the side of truth, we were to be left alone.
Well you can imagine how that little chat went. The paras laughed, scoffed, no way could a bunch of silly humans take us out. They’d quickly proved us very, very wrong.
If the war had been fair, if the order had fought us hand to hand, out in open field, I doubt we’d be where we are today. They knew they couldn’t take us down like that. Back then we had no name for the style of fighting they’d engaged us in; today it’s known as guerilla tactics. Ambush.
Hundreds of years of war and the near extermination of the paras made us believers.
Luc had quickly decided being free was not nearly as important as keeping his family safe. Many of us despised him for that choice—Vyxyn for one—for forcing us to be accountable to humans. But it was that, or die. And to be honest I never minded turning over a new leaf the way other members of my band did.
I was tired of the life I’d been leading. Yes, I’d prefer to be accountable to me and only me, but then again it’s not such a bad gig to think I’m finally doing some good in this world.
Whoever accepted the task of fighting with the order received a liaison, a middle man who speaks for us and them. We’ve been through eight.
Now Grace is our liaison. I’d never tell her to her face, but I think in her I’ve found a kindred soul. She is in a word, remarkable. For years the order had killed and terrorized paras. They’d become, in essence, the schoolyard bully. Submit, or be killed, becoming almost totalitarian in their beliefs.
In stepped Grace, a jumpstart newbie with radical ideas. Somewhere along the way the order forgot their mission, to protect and serve the people, she’d said. They’d grown drunk with power, becoming little better than those they’d killed. She’d suggested they turn to a promotion of peace between the species. Killing only if justified, not simply for the sake of killing. Watching and recording history, but also there to keep a balance between good and evil.
The ruling body of the order had agreed, it was time to call a ceasefire. There weren’t many paras left, stragglers, a few here and there, but nothing major enough to cause concern. Groups we could easily take care of if they grew out of hand.
Grace had helped usher in a new era of peace. It could still be dicey at times, but a million times better than what it used to be.
It sometimes still amazed me how a group of humans were able to make us toe the line of social and ethical responsibility. Just goes to show you how far grit and determination can get you even in the face of certain defeat.
It’s not like the order live long lives, they don’t have super powers. They had a few weapons and a library so vast it would make conspiracy theorists weep to try and get their greedy paws on it.
Made me wonder if they knew about the priests’. A thrill of excitement shot through me at the thought. I could potentially discover who Billy was and inevitably find his weakness. I’d have to ask Grace; maybe she’d take pity on a poor sap. I hurried my steps.
I stopped walking and turned to stare over my shoulder, again feeling eyes watching me. I’d mistakenly thought the night I’d killed the vamps that it had been them watching me, but it hadn’t stopped.
I searched blackened windows, shadows dancing in alleyways and saw nothing, felt nothing. But being a predator myself, I recognized the pattern. I was the prey, I was being stalked and I had a pretty good idea who was doing it.
Tired of it, I flipped the one finger salute, moving it in a slow arc from side to side. “You see this,” I hissed, “you can’t scare me. Come out and fight me like a man.”
I can’t be sure, but I think I heard a faint trace of laughter.
Chapter 9
I frowned, stared at the sheet of paper wadded in my hand and then at the brick stone house. This was
interesting.
What had Grace been doing since last we’d met?
A welcome mat with pretty painted birds, flower boxes lining the windows, a flag hung from a flag pole; it all looked so very domestic and cozy, out of place for the type of people we were. Or maybe I didn’t know Grace as well as I thought I did. I’d never have pegged her for the patriotic sort.
“This is 666 Elm St.?” I walked up the steps, gazed up and down the street and shrugged. I shoved the paper in my pocket ready to knock when a gold and wooden placard resting next to the doorbell caught my eye.
It read: Proverbs 25:17. I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting back the laughter. Any doubts I’d had that this was the wrong address fled. Only Grace would do something so obviously intended to insult. That crazy wench had probably put that out just for me. Picturing her tiptoe out the door, wearing nothing but a Mumu and an evil smile, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
I laughed, and I forgot the rain, forgot the dead bodies, or my godforsaken existence and gave myself up over to the moment.
The door swung open.
It took me a second to regain my composure. A girl, in her early twenties, mousy, unexceptional, except for the dove colored almond shaped eyes—which were at the moment staring at me like I’d sprouted a second head—stood by the door. I looked over the kid’s shoulder.
“Yes,” she asked, her voice dulcet but wary.
I turned my gaze to her ashen face, noting the small worry lines pinching her brow. I smiled, trying to put her at ease. “I’m here for Grace.”
She yelped, the vein in her neck hammering gunfire quick.
My smile faltered, confused by her reaction. What had I done? I thought that had been a perfectly polite way to ask for someone.
“Sweet Mother of Mary,” she whispered, pointing to my mouth. “Ye’ve got fangs.” The Irish brogue grew thick with agitation.
Ahh. I forgot. I don’t often deal with mortals; those I do are either bespelled or close to death so that a little thing like fangs doesn’t get much in the way. I rounded my hands so they looked like hooks and said in my best big bad wolf impression, “The better to eat you with, my dear.”
To this day, I’m still not sure why I did that. I think I actually got nervous by the wee little lass.
Her face grew stark, pale and bloodless. After a second she found her tongue and screamed, then slammed the door shut.
I blinked. Umm...
The door opened again, this time it was Grace. She was hunched over, hanging onto the frame for support with one hand and swiping her cane at the poor girl’s behind with the other. “Get ye gone, lass. If ye canna keep yer wits about ye, then ye’re of nae use ta me.”
Poor girl, first me, now Grace. I’m not sure which one of the two of us she saw as the bigger monster. Dracula’s bride, or the crazy old biddie swinging her cane like a machete.
Grace turned rheumy blue eyes on me, leaned all of her ninety pounds on the cane and gestured for me to come inside. “Useless,” she muttered, “Order sent her ta take care of me, can ye imagine? Spineless guppy.” This she said loud enough, so that wherever the girl was she’d have no choice but to hear.
I smirked.
“Come, come, before you let in all the rain and ruin me decor, fool girl.” Grace grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me in. It amazed me that a pound woman should be so strong. But then again this was Grace, and she wasn’t like anyone else. “Sit on the divan; I don’t care if ye get that wet.”
“Oh gee, thanks, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Don’t ye be sassin’ me, girl, or I’ll be givin’ ye a good thwackin’ too.” She shook her cane, threatening to pop me if I didn’t behave.
Her accent was thick; clearly she’d been having a spat with the house girl long before I’d gotten here. Grace was usually the epitome of culture and decorum and when calm there was barely a trace of the Gaelic. I’d have given anything to be a fly on the wall; Grace’s tempers were legendary for their ferocity.
“I think she’s scared of me.” I jerked my chin.
Grace chuckled, the sound pleasant. “Aye, I’m sure she is. Anyone with any sense would be.”
I glanced at her. “You’re not.”
“Ehh.” She shook her head. “All sense left me with age. Sit. Sit.” She pointed.
I sat on the overstuffed burgundy divan that had seen better days, stuffing popped out the seams of the cushion. But in relation to the rest of the house it was tame by comparison. The living room looked as if angels, flowers and Christmas had come and thrown up all over everything.
The couch and recliner were an off putting shade of eggplant, red, green, blue, and gold. A lit fireplace, logs crackling, sat off to my left. Atop the mantle were several angel figurines in varying shapes and sizes. Vases full of roses and lilies sat atop ivory doilies on cherry wood end tables at either side of the furniture. A large, fake green plant—looked like a palm maybe—was parked next to the door leading into the kitchen. Wound through the stems was a twinkling strand of Christmas lights. A burnished gold chandelier with crystal danglers caught the light of the flame, a rainbow of color spun around the room.
This was a chaotic, frightful clash of color.
“What do ye think of me house?” Grace asked, voice low.
She sat on the recliner, four foot five inch frame looking dwarfed by the size of the massive chair. Her feet dangled a good two inches off the ground. My lips quirked, but I said nothing.
“Mary decorated, isn’t it lovely?” Delicate lines of her face twisted into an indignant sneer.
I snorted and she smirked. “Aye, I thought you’d say that.”
“I have to say, I’m surprised to find you in a house. Is this a permanent arrangement?”
She shrugged. “I’m too old to sleep in hotels anymore. Anything other than me bed wrecks havoc on me bones. Besides,” she took a deep breath, “the carnival’s going tae be stayin’ put for a while.”
I frowned, that had sounded ominous and like a clear segue way to more important matters. I shrugged my coat off, sat it aside, then crossed my legs. “So, old bat, I’m here, let’s talk.”
Grace’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve missed you, lass. Good to see you again.”
I smiled. The love I felt from Grace was more than any my true mother had ever shown me. Seeing her was a little like coming home. We never spoke of love, but I felt it all the same.
“Well now,” she took a deep breath, “down to business. You tell me what you know and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Vamps are crawling everywhere. We’ve killed seven in the past four days.”
“Mmm,” she shook her head, but didn’t seem at all surprised.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
She expelled a deep breath, shoulders sagging. “Yes, I knew. I’d hoped you’d tell me something different, but I’d heard activity was rising.” She reached over, grabbed an envelope I hadn’t noticed sitting on the end table earlier and handed it to me.
I stood, grabbed, and opened it. A photo fell into my hand. The picture was of a club, the word Sanguinary buzzing red from the light of the neon. If it hadn’t been for the line of people trailing out the door I probably wouldn’t have pegged it as a club at all. It looked more like a meat-packing or textile building. Metal frame, large body; standard packing mill type of place.
“Call me dense, Grace, but what’s this?” I looked at her.
Face void of emotion she said, “That, dearie, is a Vampire club.”
“Actors or the real deal?” There’s always been a subculture of humans who acted the part of vamp. I personally don’t understand the fascination humans have for the mosquitoes, probably had something to do with the romanticized stories of beyond gorgeous baddies who could make all your dreams come true with a little nibble.
Hey, I’ve read Anne Rice too. Lestat... two words: So. Hot.
But that’s why
it’s called fiction. Lestat doesn’t exist.
“Aye, the real deal.”
I tried to decide if she was yanking my leg. Grace was one for jokes, but on the other hand she never teased about anything so serious. “Are you screwing with me?”
“Would I do that?”
I lifted a brow.
She smiled. “Aye, I would. But not this time.”
I fidgeted, anger beginning to foam in my belly. “What the hell, Grace? If you’d asked me two weeks ago I’d say the vamps were nearly extinct. But now I see them coming on our turf and this picture—” I shook it, “this... this is bad.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“Are they growing in number again?”
“We can’t be sure.” She shrugged. “This could be a few, or many. We need to find out so we can decide on a course of action.”
“Okay. So,” I dragged out the ‘o’, “do you want us to go in there and kill them? What’s the deal?”
“No.” One word, but it spoke volumes.
I couldn’t believe it. I studied her; she patted a gray strand of hair back into her bun, looking at me with equal frankness.
“That’s right, I said no,” she said, as if reading my mind.
“None of them? What...” My thoughts trailed off. This really didn’t make sense. Since when did we—parasite killers—not kill?
I shivered, then frowned. In a millisecond the room felt as if the temperature had dropped to thirty degrees below freezing. It was cold. I mean, bone deep cold. The type of cold you’d expect to feel if you walked naked through the frozen tundra in the middle of December. I never get cold, except for my feet, which felt like blocks of ice at the moment. Another bout of chill wracked me and when I exhaled a small wisp of frost curled like a sinuous snake through the air.
I was unprepared for the ferocity of that life sucking numbness. My heart thumped a frenetic pace, wild and crazy, out of control. My body flooded with adrenaline, sending it into a hyper arousal state of flight or fight.
