Forged in Flame

by Rabe, Michelle

  9– San Francisco, CA – October 3, 2012

  Zachary slipped through the door and closed it, being careful to make as little noise as possible. He didn’t want to draw the attention of the vampire on the dais at the front of the room, not yet. Though he’d cleaned up after setting fire to Claire’s house, the acrid scent of smoke still clung to his clothes. He waited for several seconds, watching to see if The Lord of San Francisco had seen his entrance. Satisfied that his entrance had gone largely unnoticed, he wove his way through the crowd, recognizing several men and women he counted among his friends.

  Claire wasn’t the first, several other friends had gone missing or turned up dead in the last few days. He had tried going through proper channels, contacting the local enforcer, to no avail. The process had caused a headache and a dawning realization that Daniel, a decent man had been replaced by an idiot, a bigoted fool of the worst kind… and something of a world-class bitch.

  He worked his way through the crowd moving toward the dais where Samair sat. The Lord of San Francisco held court, seated on an ornate throne, head and shoulders above his people. Zachary always tried to avoid these kinds of gatherings. He didn’t know how Samair did it, but somehow he managed to maintain control over a diverse group of Nomads, most of them more powerful than he. The crowd around Samair was a strange mix of sycophantic lackeys, power-hungry back stabbers, and those who were simply trying to survive. Zachary shivered, and for the first time in eighty years wished he had not severed ties with his Sire.

  Zachary knew from firsthand experience that Dynasty had its issues, but vampires who behaved like Samair would be brought in line, continuing insolence, not tolerated. He needed to know whether or not chaos reigned in his adopted home.

  I’m not going to get answers by hiding in a crowd. He took a deep breath and stepped into the empty space between the dais and the crowd. Waiting a couple seconds before clearing his throat, it worked to catch the other vampire’s attention.

  The Lord’s dark eyes snapped to where Zachary stood, locking on the vampire who dared interrupt him. Zachary didn’t flinch. Instead he met the other vampire’s ironic gaze with cool indifference. Samair’s stare drifted up and down as though sizing up an enemy.

  Schooling his features into a neutral, almost bored expression, Zachary waited. I am not going to blink. Samair is not stronger than me. He won and has held this city on the shoulders of others. I am getting sick of putting up with his shit.

  After several seconds of the strange nonverbal standoff, Samair flinched, shifting in his chair, trying to mask his discomfort. Still Zachary waited. The silence created tension to the point where he heard shifting of feet and rustling of clothing from the crowd behind him. Samair needed to make the first move, but it’d been a long night.

  I want nothing more than to go home and take a long, hot shower. Unfortunately, that isn’t in the cards… not yet. First, I have to Samair and find out what he’s doing to maintain order in his territory.

  “Why, Zachary,” Samair leaned forward and laced his fingers together in front of him, “what are you doing here?”

  “Do you know that your subject, Claire Danvers, is dead?” Zachary paused, letting his words sink in, giving them time to have the desired effect. “I believe she was murdered in her sitting room.” Zachary saw a flicker of doubt mixed with fear cross Samair’s features before it vanished.

  “So, why haven’t you contacted the Enforcers?”

  “As you may or may not be aware… and I really don’t know if you are or not… nor do I care—” Realizing that he’d begun to babble, Zachary stopped himself by being blunt. “The Council’s longtime City Enforcer, Daniel, is dead.” He paused, waiting to gauge any forthcoming reaction. Behind him, muted whispers filled the room, but he kept his eyes on Samair. When no response surfaced from the dais, he continued. “It appears to have been some sort of car accident, not shocking considering his love for those machines and the sensation of speed. His replacement, however, is not very, how should I say…” Zachary paused almost a full minute, “…pro Nomad.” He had taken a page from his Sire’s playbook. She used unexpected silences with a deft hand and had spent a century learning from her. “The new one, Nora, told me, not in so many words, as the humans would say, to take a long walk off a short pier.”

  “We have no need of the Council’s Enforcers. We can see to our own.” He parroted a line Zachary had heard a million times from more vampires than he cared to count.

  “Was Claire not one of our own?”

  “I cannot watch over each member of my flock every hour of the day and night.” Samair had a sympathetic expression, but glee flickered in his eyes.

  “What of the others?” Zachary tried to rein his temper in, knowing that it would do no good. “Have you not noticed the rapid decline in our numbers?”

  “Dribs and drabs. Perhaps they have moved on, taken a vacation.” Samair shifted in his seat, leaning toward him. “It is nothing to concern yourself over, Zachary. Go back to your shop and your artifacts. Leave this matter to those who can and will take care of it.”

  “Who will see to it?” Zachary asked. “Claire was a friend. I had to put her corpse to the torch so the human authorities would not find it. Who am I supposed to ask for updates? The Enforcer refuses to help… as do you, apparently.” His feet had started moving while he spoke and soon he found himself a few feet from where Samair sat.

  The Lord of San Francisco stood, so Zachary found himself looking at his chest with the option of craning his neck to an uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes. His expression seethed with malice and something bordering on contempt slithering through every syllable. “You are distraught, Mister Amberhill. I suggest you return to your home unless you wish to make a formal challenge.”

  “I do not wish to lead.” Zachary shook his head. “I do, however, wish you would,” he said without malice or spite before turning on his heels and stalking out of the room.

  Less than an hour later Zachary sat in his study. Surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves filled with leather bound books, antique furniture, and a Turkish rug, he refused to think of it as anything else. To the left of his workspace were several stacks of small ivory and silver embossed envelopes. Each bore a name and address within the city, written in the sure hand of his assistant. They were invitations to his masquerade ball, every guest chosen for a reason. Now he sat at his desk with a blank invitation and an empty envelope before him. On the opposite wall, a flat screen TV flashed with images of the news dealing out a daily dose of death and destruction. He turned his attention back to the invitation, knowing that sending it was a serious breach of protocol.

  “But if I don’t send it, then what do I do?” he spoke to the empty room, needing to hear his own voice. “Sit and watch more friends die? How many lives does it take before enough is enough?” He ran a hand through his hair and chewed on his lower lip. “When do lives outweigh protocol?”

  He swallowed hard, picked up the fountain pen, feeling its heavy weight between his fingers as he placed its nib against the invitation and began writing. Two words—a simple name—yet they were among the most difficult words he’d ever written. He slipped the card into the envelope and sealed it with a dollop of wax imprinted with his family crest before he had the chance to change his mind. On the front of the envelope, he wrote the name and address with quick, sure strokes. Satisfied that even though he addressed the missive generically to the nightclub she owned, it would find its way to her hand.

  Zachary placed the envelope on the stack with the rest, slipping it into the middle so it wouldn’t be seen and questioned. He had enough doubts, and if anyone else found out what he was doing, he would back away. Wishing for other options, he knew there weren’t any.

  He pushed away from his desk, left the room, and closed the doors behind him as he entered the hallway. With contingency plans beginning to run through his mind, Zachary made his way up to the second floor to sleep. Why worry about the outcom
e? She might not accept.

  “Samair may be content to sit back and wait for a few more bodies to turn up before he starts looking into who or what is killing our kind, but I’m not.” Zachary knew he had to find out who had killed Claire.

  10

  Morgan stepped out of the limousine into the chilly night air. A few feet in front of her a lighted red carpet led from the sidewalk over a massive lawn to a huge open-air courtyard. She glanced at Christophe, dressed like an eighteenth century pirate with a deep blue frock coat and black hat. He extended his hand to her and together they strolled the carpet. Ahead of them, large old-fashioned spotlights were placed around some of the arches surrounding the courtyard, lighting the crowd within.

  They walked arm in arm to the entrance, where the host stood dressed in a Revolutionary War era British military uniform, a black and red mask covering his eyes. He turned and smiled at Morgan as she handed the herald the invitation. They shook hands with their host and made small talk as the crier announced them to those in attendance. Then Morgan and Christophe waded into the sea of revelers. Costumes ranged from historical, to grotesque, to fantastic and simple. Christophe bowed deeply with a flourish of his hand and they swept onto the dance floor while the chamber orchestra struck up a waltz.

  Guests swayed to the melody from a court dance dating back to the Renaissance age, moving in time to the rise and fall of the music, changing partners as the centuries-old dance required. As she passed from one partner to the next, she lost track of Christophe, his sapphire coat and hat lost among the sea of vibrant costumes. A wave of dizziness washed over Morgan, as a fog began closing in. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. When she opened them again, a grotesque goblin mask with twisted horns and a long, crooked, hooked nose stared back at her. Morgan pushed away from the man. She staggered back a few short steps and bumped into another pair of dancers. Turning to apologize, she caught her breath. Their masks resembled the last one.

  What’s going on? Trying to fight through the cobwebs clinging to her mind, it was like catching and holding a bubble. Thoughts slipped away or her concentration burst at the slightest touch.

  She changed partners again and found herself in the arms of a vampire that matched her height, his face hidden behind a fourteenth century Venetian plague doctor mask. The grotesquely long nose, forced Morgan to lean away so it didn’t bump into her as they moved. Her dance partner’s lips were curved into an exaggerated smile, and he wore a long black coat that brushed the floor. She tried to study his eyes, but the mask had red glass over the openings. Somewhere she had remembered hearing that the glass would help ward off the evil that caused the Black Death.

  Morgan knew she shouldn’t be dancing with this strange vampire. She had to find Christophe and go home. Courtesy be damned, I want to leave now. She started scanning the crowd in search of her Blood Son when, something brushed up against the edges of her psyche. She shook her head, trying to clear it. As if reading her mind, her partner reached up, his cool, ungloved hand cupped her cheek. His touch sent a jolt through her. Morgan screamed and pushed him away.

  She caught sight of Christophe across the dance floor, his total attention on the redhead in his arms. The laughter of the party guests filled her senses, drowning out the orchestra as they continued to dance, oblivious to the drama playing out in their midst. The plague doctor reached up and removed his mask, revealing Lucian’s grandfatherly face. He smiled as a strand of salt and pepper hair slipped out from underneath the mask.

  Morgan took several steps back as a syringe filled with a yellowish substance appeared in his hand and he advanced on her. The crowd stopped dancing. The silence shattered with high-pitched laughter. Masks hid the reveler’s faces but not the madness within. From deep inside the sea of attendees, Morgan heard Christophe cry out, only to have the sound cut off in a choked gasp, as the laughter rose to a fever pitch.

  Lucian’s normally blue eyes had gone red like the lenses in his mask. He held out his hand as if in offering. Morgan met his strange eyes and stood her ground. A sad smile curling half of his mouth, as he nodded.

  The partygoers around her reached out and clawed at her, ripping her sleeves and scratching, leaving bloody trails on her arms. Synchronized and moving as though they’d been ordered to, the crowd pulled Morgan to the ground and held her down.

  Lucian approached and knelt at her side. He reached out and pushed her head hard to one side, raising the syringe above her throat and pushing the plunger. Morgan called upon all her strength and ability but struggled to free her arms—too many hands held her down. She screamed, feeling the heat within her reach a boiling point as the world around her shattered and she fell into oblivion.

  Morgan’s eyes snapped open, adjusting to the darkness in a moment. She took three deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves and shivering as the remnants of the unsettling dream drifted into the recesses of her memory.

  A quick glance at the wall clock reminded her that she still had two weeks before the masquerade ball. When she reached in the nightstand drawer for her dream journal, the cell phone rang. She knew who it was without seeing the caller ID. The Blood Bond is supposed to be helpful. Not give my husband a direct line into my thoughts. It’s damned near impossible to keep a secret from him anymore. She thought as she picked up her phone and tapped the bottom center of the screen to answer.

  “Nicholai. I am fine. Just a nightmare,” she said without any other greeting.

  “They’re getting worse, aren’t they?” Her husband’s voice came over the line with a fine edge of frustration coloring his words.

  Morgan smiled, knowing that after seven centuries he still worried about her. The thought warmed her heart. “I’ll have another chat with Richard on the flight tonight. See if he can work on finding some way to keep the nightmares at bay.”

  “Good.” He sighed and through their shared blood, she sensed his relief.

  Morgan chuckled. “You worry too much, my love.”

  “After thinking I’d lost you three years ago…” During a slight pause, she heard him swallow hard. “I think I worry just the right amount, sweetheart.”

  “I love you too, Nicholas.”

  “Is that your way of telling me you want to go back to sleep?” She heard him shift in bed.

  “Goddess, no.” Morgan rolled over, getting comfortable. The thought of going back to sleep frightened her and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine.

  Nicholas chuckled. He sensed her unease. Her own stubbornness kept Morgan from opening up about it. I’ll just have to wait until she’s ready. Smiling, he shifted his grip on the phone and said, “Well, we seem to have about an hour or so before the sun goes down.”

  “Oh my.” She feigned surprise. “Whatever shall we talk about?”

  Nicholas chuckled, a masculine sound that sent a pleasurable thrill through her. “Well, I’m certain we can come up with something,” he promised.

  “Now I may have to hold you to that.” Morgan smiled. “So what do you have in mind, Mister Falstaff?” She snuggled down into her pillows and blankets as Nicholas spoke.

  Later that night, Morgan pulled up in front of The Dracul, stopping at the valet stand, she put the car in park and stepped out. Danny one of her two heads of security came out of the building and jogged over to the driver’s side of her car. The valet nodded and slipped behind the wheel, easing the car into a spot close to the doors.

  “Hey Boss. We weren’t expecting you.” Danny said.

  “Hey Danny,” Morgan shrugged and they started walking toward the main entrance. “I wasn’t planning to be here but there’s something that I need to take care of in the office.”

  “Whatever it is, it must be important.”

  “You could say that.” Morgan muttered as they crossed the threshold into the club.

  “I’m guessing you’re not going to want to be bothered?”

  “Not unless it’s Charles or Christophe.”

  “Charles isn’t in ti
ll later. He’s on a second date with that Senator’s daughter,” Danny said.

  “Oh, that’s not going to go well,” They wove their way through the crowd and Morgan paused at the base of the spiral staircase leading up to the office.

  “She seems like good people.”

  “Good human, my friend, and therein lies the problem.” Morgan said before she jogged upstairs.

  Fifteen minutes later, she sat behind the desk no closer to making a decision. She held the envelope in her left hand, tapping it against the fingers of her right. The continuing nightmares were leaving her feeling restless, but she wouldn’t have another chance to speak with Richard until she met him at the airport. So, she’d gone to the office hoping to find a measure of peace. Instead, she found nothing but a reminder of something that she could no longer ignore.

  Christophe stood in the doorway to the office, watching Morgan, waiting for her to notice him. After standing there for what felt like a year, he stepped inside the office and let the door close behind him. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. She remained focused on the small square card in her hand.

  “Morgan? Is the card going to come to life and eat you?” he asked, breaking the long silence. “Because if that’s the case, I’ll stick around to see. If it’s just a card, then I’d like to touch base and get back downstairs to the club.”

  “It’s an invitation,” she answered without rising to the bait or teasing him back.

  Christophe frowned. He’d given her a golden opportunity, and she hadn’t taken it. I know something’s bothering her, the question is, what. “Unless it’s the eighteenth century and, that is an invitation to visit Madame Guillotine…” He crossed the room and plucked it from her hand. “It should not elicit such a response, not even from you. I know how you distain parties.” The card looked to be a standard invitation, black with silver and purple metallic writing embossed on it.