by Alix Adale
Their anger was understandable, but secretly interesting. What Harlan would give to be sitting in on this conversation! Nobody in the orders had ever attended a vampire meeting, if that’s what this was.
“Why hide this from us?” Armando demanded.
“Because you people can’t keep a secret!” the Queen answered. “If the Walk-Ins are targeting my realm, I don’t want them to know what I know. See how that works?” After some begrudging agreement, Ursula continued. “Since the Walk-In lived inside Ferdinand’s body, it would be susceptible to the usual methods. I contracted with one of the orders of slayers to assassinate him at Firewater Dam. Moog was my contact, the middleman.”
Her heart skipped a beat. A nervous sweat broke out. The timing—no. It could not be.
“That particular year, the lycans held their rally in Arcata, California,” the Queen continued. “They concealed it within a music festival.”
Dread gave way to certainty. Jordan cleared her throat. “Which festival?”
“The Greenwood something or other, a hippie dance party out in a forest. But Ferdinand never made it to the secret Demi-World part of the festival. A slayer nailed him just outside.”
Ursula’s story continued, but Jordan froze. The name hung in her memory: the Greenwood Music Festival. That had been her first kill, right after she’d received her sword. Brother Harlan had put her on a plane to San Francisco. A contact met her in the airport, giving her a bus pass to Arcata and a photograph of a middle-aged man. It was the only things she’d needed to make the hit.
So. She had killed Dreck’s sire—or had she? The man she’d killed was no massive sumo wrestler. Her target had been a middle-aged guy, someone who looked out of place among the dreadlocks, bongs, and tie-dye t-shirts. It had been dark and long ago. But it must have been Ferdinand Braden. Nothing else fit.
“Whoever you hired fucked up,” Dreck said, taking out a cigar. It was a nervous habit of his, she realized. He fumbled for a lighter, scowling. “Because Ferdinand, or Malmardane, or this Walk-In—or whatever—is still out there.”
“Yes,” said the Queen. “That’s a mystery. Does the Walk-In have the power to shift hosts if its body is destroyed? That would be … unsettling.”
“What do we do?” Armando asked.
The Queen frowned. ”Use the slayer and her phone to lure Malmardane somewhere isolated, maybe into the Nevada desert. Capture him and interrogate him if you can, but destroy him. This is our royal command. Report to me or my Chancellor daily. Cherise will serve as my eyes and ears. Dismissed.”
With a wave of her hand, the Queen broke the connection. The Braden elders debated Ursula’s story, trading accusations and forming plans.
The words went right on by. She couldn’t focus. She’d murdered Dreck’s sire on the Order’s command. Even worse, supernatural factions had manipulated her entire Order for their own ends. The whole thing left her reeling. Her stomach twisted.
After a while, the Bradens formed a plan to execute in the morning. But their plan didn’t matter. A different idea took hold and once it put down roots, it couldn’t be shaken off.
“Is it too noisy? I’ll tell those kids to shut up.” Dreck sprawled out in bed, lying beside her. Music and voices came from a bedroom on the far side of an intervening loft. Dreck’s bedroom looked like a hotel room, clean and devoid of personal effects. His stuff had been packed away during his absence.
“The noise isn’t bothering me. It’s … everything else. Where’s Ingrid?”
“Guest room in the basement.” He laughed. “Though she and Armando were making eyes, so who knows?”
Ingrid hooking up with a vampire didn’t sound like a good idea, but how could she complain about that? But she had to ask. “Ingrid and Armando? Is that safe?”
“He’s a lover, not a fighter. And Kit can handle herself.” He reached for her, resting a strong hand on her bare shoulder.
No, not that. Impossible to tell him why. She pulled away. “No, not tonight, George.”
“You never called me George before. Not like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Strangers call me Dreck. Friends and family call George. You’re not a stranger anymore.”
“Thanks, but I’m tired. Long drive, so much to process. Let’s sleep.”
“Sure thing.”
He turned off the light and they lay there in the dark. Whatever he wanted, she couldn’t deliver. Not now. The sick feeling inside was growing. She’d killed his sire. Not just his, but the sire of all three of these elders: George, Armando, and Colin. And by extension, the grand-sire or great-grand-sire of all the other vampires in the house. All these Bradens were part of Ferdinand’s bloodline.
After a while, Dreck fell into a deep but uneasy sleep, murmuring and twisting in the sheets. He garbled his words: something about horses, blood, and cannons.
The old Jordan would’ve called the Order, brought in reinforcements, and taken this nest down. Stark proof—if still needed—that the old Jordan was gone. No call to do anything drastic like that.
She slipped out of bed and dressed with care, careful to move silently. Then she grabbed her katana and made her way downstairs toward the garage. A green Jaguar had stood out during the house tour. It looked like the fastest car on the property, maybe in all of Umawa County. The keys for it hung on a rack in the kitchen among many other sets, but the Jaguar logo was unmistakable. She grabbed the fob on the way out.
Port Selkie might be on the northern edge of California, but Highway 101 ran straight through town. The key opened the Jag and the garage. She slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. Within minutes, she was southbound and free, headed toward Santa Barbara and the Jesuit monastery.
Chapter 16: Pursuit
Dreck
He tossed and turned amid turbulent dreams. Ever since the video conference with the Queen, Jordan had turned cooler, withdrawing in to herself. They were past that, or so he thought.
Now his dreams took on a turbulent, discordant tone. The pounding of the ocean on the nearby beach—long absent during his sojourn among the lycans—took on the disquieting character of a distant storm. Tornadoes darted across a flooded Demi-World. Cars and SUVs full of screaming victims drifted past, intermingled with Napoleonic-era gun carriages and dying horses, thrashing in their traces. The Imperial Guards were advancing and the musket balls whizzed overhead. His body twisted in the sheets…
“Wake up!” A strong hand shook his shoulder.
He looked up into Armando’s unshaven face. Kit stood in the door, fidgeting in a borrowed nightgown. “What’s up?”
“Your goddamn slayer!” Armando shoved a phone into his face. “She took my Jaguar!”
No, Jordan wouldn’t do that. Betray him? Not in a million years. He sat bolt upright, grabbed the phone. “What? That’s crazy.”
Colin’s voice came over the phone. “Aye, lad. It’s true. We were still awake down here at the bungalow and I heard a car come down the drive. Curious, I poked my head out the window. It was the Jaguar all right, with your hunter driving.”
“Are you sure it was her?”
“Have more vampire slayers stashed up at the House, do you? Got a whole cell?”
Colin’s attempts at wit had fallen flat for two hundred years. Some things never changed. Ignoring the barb, he growled into the phone: “Why? Why would she take off?”
“How the bloody fook would I know? I’m following her down the 101. I haven’t caught her yet, but I’ve got a line on her from the spyware in her phone. She’s south of Crescent City now. I’m about fifteen miles behind her.”
What a disaster. He leaped up, grabbing for his jeans. “Come on, Armando. We have to stop her.”
“Where’s she going?” his brother demanded.
“I don’t know!” He stared at the door. “Kit! Any ideas?”
“Wow.” The lycan twisted her hands together, shivering. “The Order has a lodge in Santa Barbara.”
Yeah, that sounded right, matching what Jordan had said before. Southbound on 101, where else could she be going? But would she sell them out to her order—or try to confront Malmardane on her own? “Fuck, does anyone have her number? Colin, try ringing her.”
“I tried,” said Colin. “She’s not answering. Driving like a bat out of hell according to the GPS, but under the speed limit in towns and speed traps. She’s good. I may not catch her—and if I do, what do you want me to do, run her off the road?”
“Keep her in sight,” said Armando. “George—garage, five minutes.”
“I’m coming too,” said Kit. “She’s my friend!”
“No, beautiful,” said Armando. “You stay here where it’s safe.”
Didn’t want to risk Kit’s life again, but the kitsune was right. “Armando. We may need her to talk sense into Jordan.”
“Fine,” said Armando. He stalked out and through the loft, banged on the bedroom door on the far side. “Cherise! Get up and give me your car keys! Right now!”
Now dressed, Dreck sprinted downstairs and charged into the garage. Kit followed hot on his heels, hopping one-legged as she tried to pull on her silken ninja pajama thingy while running.
The garage door was wide open, moonlight illuminating the empty bay where Armando’s Jaguar owned pride of place. His own Hummer H3 sat in one corner under a dustcover, untouched in months. He yanked the cover off.
“What are you doing?” Armando demanded, appearing in the door. “We can’t catch a Jaguar in that tank.”
“What do you want me to do? These cars are junk!” He waved his hand to emphasize. It was true. Armando’s Jag and Colin’s Benz coupe were both excellent cars—and both were gone. That left Dez’s Prius and Cher’s BMW. The Prius was trash for performance. The BMW might do in a pinch, but his Hummer had a larger engine. The cars parked outside looked like scrap salvaged from a used car lot: a Mini-Cooper, an old Honda, and a battered Chevy Blazer with the label ‘Sparks General Contracting’ on the side. He didn’t even know which fledgling owned which junk heap. He’d been away at the Circus of Blood too long. Strange new Bradens had joined the family and moved in, crowding his style, crowding the house. Rowan, Xerxes, Burke—who were these people and why did they have such shitty cars?
“The BMW has the horses,” Armando said. “And it’s less conspicuous.”
Cherise strolled in, dangling her car keys off a finger. “What’s going on? Why do you need my car?”
He snatched the keys from Cherise and leaped into the driver’s seat of the BMW. Easy to do in a convertible. “Armando, let’s go!”
More Bradens piled into the garage in their night clothes and pajamas—Desiree, Burke, and the rest. The garage was crowded. Armando waved his arms around: “All of you, back to bed. Desiree is in charge while we’re gone.”
“What? How? Why? Where are you going?” The fledglings flung questions one after the other, heads bobbing as they chattered like a pack of ducklings.
Armando shooed them out. “We’ll call you with updates, go!”
They filed out—except for Cherise, who leaped into the passenger seat.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dreck snarled.
“Ursula told me to keep an eye on things.”
“You turned into the Queen’s little spy pretty damn fast, kiddo.”
“Hey! She broke my jaw. You think I’ll disobey her? She put fear of the Underworld into me. Besides, I’m the best magician in this clan.”
“You’re the only magician in this clan!” he shouted, backing out of the garage as Armando hopped into the back seat with Kit. “Your magic is shaky, at best.” The stress boiled over. “You know, we used to have a fine little clan here! Me, Armando, and Colin. With Desiree moping in the basement. Then you showed up and it’s all gone to hell!”
“Don’t blame me! You’re the genius that fell in love with a vampire slayer!”
“I’m not in love with her!” he shouted, furious at his own anger, at his weakness. At that accusation he wasn’t expecting—was it even true? He was furious at Jordan for betraying him. And at Ursula for assassinating his sire. He was furious at everyone for everything. Most of all he was furious at himself. How could he have been so stupid, so trusting? Two hundred years of caution and discretion. Had he gotten sloppy? Turned stupid over a pretty face? If the Order of Silence swooped down on Braden House, burned it to the ground and killed everyone… “Just—shut up everyone!”
They did.
He accelerated down the silent, suburban streets, the convertible making conversation difficult. The BMW did have a three-piece folding hard top. He almost activated the button to slide it up automatically. But he decided he didn’t want to hear anybody anyway and left it down.
That decision didn’t last. Rain started falling as they rolled through Eureka and he put the top up when they stopped for gas. They changed places, took turns driving, kept in touch with Colin. All the while, he kept trying to call, text, or otherwise get a hold of Jordan.
She never answered.
Her actions bothered him more than he let on. Order of Silence indeed. That quietness was part of her appealing strength. She never wasted words, not Jordan. But for once, he wished she was feeling talkative.
His grim mood infected the rest. It was a twelve hour drive to Santa Barbara. How could Jordan make it on her own? She might stop somewhere, maybe in the Bay Area, which was about the halfway point. She wasn’t superhuman. She had to eat, use the restroom, get gas for the Jag, sleep. Presumably, her Ordo Silentii credit card could take of necessities on the way.
After a while, Cherise broke the quiet by needling Armando. “The Queen’s sweet on you, daddy.”
“I’ve commanded you not to call me that.”
“She’s always asks who you’re sleeping with, shit like that.”
“And what do you tell her?”
“Whatever she wants to know—she’s the Queen! Do you two still have a thing?”
Armando only folded his arms across his chest and lapsed into silence.
Dreck glanced in the rearview mirror at Kit, caught her blushing. Better the kitsune find out this way than the other. Armando was not the man for her. Damn. He should’ve warned her—he’d been so busy with other things. Apart from young female spawns Armando took every decade or so—Cherise and Desiree being only the latest in a long string of failures—his brother-in-blood was still pining for Ursula, still unable to admit it. Some things never changed.
The road stretched on ahead, lulling him to sleep. He pulled over, made Armando drive, and caught some shuteye in the front seat. He dozed off until they crossed the Golden Gate bridge. By now, they’d left the Kingdom of Dagon. The San Francisco Bay Area lacked a single overlord, but housed numerous rogues, lawless clans, and outposts from neighboring vampire realms. But so long as they stuck to the roads and avoided the local Underworld, they should be okay. Still, leaving the safety of Dagon was a big deal.
Half an hour later, Colin called back, excited. “She’s turned off the 101, going west onto 92. Looks like she’s heading out to Half Moon Bay. I dunno what’s out there but the ocean.”
“We’re right behind you.” He faced the others in the car. “Start googling Catholic retreats and monasteries in the Bay Area.” That kept them busy, and soon enough they found Jordan’s likely refuge: Our Lady of the Coast.
They met a haggard and bone-weary Colin in Half Moon Bay. Jordan’s waystation of choice was a standard issue suburban Catholic Church inspired by Spanish missions, right down to the red barrel tiles on the roof. A community center and rectory was attached, along with a multi-car garage the size of a horse barn. The Jag was nowhere in sight, presumably garaged.
Everyone got out, eager to stretch their legs. Morning light played in the east, eternal reminder of the ancient enemy. It set the Spanish tiles aglow as if mocking them.
He joined Colin on the sidewalk. They gazed up at the large edifice. “We could bust in and g
rab her. Doesn’t look too secure.”
“Aye. Place looks looser than a brick shithouse.”
They chuckled. It was good to be back in the saddle again, among men he’d trusted and worked with for decades. Armando and Colin, his brothers in blood. “The police station is only a block that way.”
Armando strolled up. “Yes, they are too close to make a scene.”
“Agreed. What do we do, ring the bell?”
Kit strolled up. “Is Jordan in there?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you guys waiting for?”
What, didn’t she know? He wiped sweat off his forehead. “We haven’t been invited in. We can’t just walk into consecrated ground.”
Cherise joined them, scoffing. “That’s superstitious nonsense. You’re as bad as the Queen.”
“We need to do things right,” Armando insisted. “Or not at all.”
“Guys,” said Ingrid, “I’m not one of you. I’ll get her to come out. Promise.” She strolled up to the rectory in her silk ninja pajamas, calm as could be, and rang the bell. After a short delay, the door opened. Ingrid spoke to a man in a black outfit and clerical collar then vanished inside.
“The direct approach,” Dreck said. “Who’d a thunk it?”
A few minutes later, Colin’s phone rang. His brother glanced at the phone, grunted, handing it over. “It’s her.”
Why did his heart fly into his throat? He answered it. “Jordan?”
Her voice oozed anguish. “Why’d you follow me?”
“Why’d you run?”
“Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“I killed Ferdinand. I was the assassin, seven years ago. One of my first jobs for the Order—in and out, stab a guy at a music festival. And I did. And he died, and I stayed vigil over the body until morning, watched it turn to dust with the first light of dawn.”
The words dropped like an anvil from on high. “You killed Ferdinand.”
