Forged in Flame

by Rabe, Michelle

  She caught sight of Lucian in the middle of the dance floor as he stared at the walking wounded and dead. The elongated nose of his mask had been splattered with blood, lending an even more insane appearance to his costume. He tilted his head to the left as though questioning something. He met her gaze for a long moment before removing his hat, and he bowed with a flourish.

  If I find out you had anything to do with this, I swear, evidence or no, I will end you, she thought not knowing if her Grandsire could hear her thoughts. Morgan didn’t think so, but the slight hesitation in his step as Lucian strolled through the carnage, into the foyer, caused her to pause.

  What a shame. This has to be done. She did a final, quick walk-through, her heels echoing in the empty house.

  Once in the foyer, she pulled shadows around herself as Richard had taught her near the beginning of their training. Satisfied she wouldn’t be seen, Morgan called fire to her palm. The flame started out small but soon expanded to something about the size of a softball. She held it in her palm, feeding it more energy until it glowed blue at the center and flickered with tongues of red and orange around the outside. Satisfied it would do the trick, Morgan bounced the ball in her hand twice before tossing it into the center of the now empty dance floor.

  Thanking the Gods that they’d had enough walking wounded to clear out the corpses, she watched as the ball of flame exploded outward, fire flowing from the epicenter devouring the mix of alcohol and lamp oil she’d ordered poured over the floor. Flames spread out across the floor slithering like living things seeking prey to devour.

  “Morgan,” Christophe whispered, breaking her out of her reverie. “Time to go.”

  “I’d say it is past time,” she replied.

  “Well, I tried to get you to leave earlier, but you weren’t so keen on listening,” he joked, linking arms with her.

  “You might say the party wasn’t so hot at the time. I had to wait.” Morgan said with a yawn.

  “Time to get you home,” he said, knowing that using her ability often left her exhausted.

  As they crossed the front entrance threshold, he heard the roaring crackle of flame as it fed on wood, cloth and any other fuel it could find. Christophe and Morgan stepped into the night as a police car, blue lights flashing, pulled up to the curb. He tensed and readied to make a move, but Morgan laid a hand on his arm and shook her head.

  Without speaking a word, Christophe steered them onto the sidewalk and away from the house. When they were about half a block away, he turned back and noticed the cop standing near the open door of his car, speaking into the handset of his radio. He paid them no mind as if he’d never seen them. At his side, Morgan stumbled and cursed under her breath in a language Christophe recognized as her native Gaelic dialect. Her grip on his arm tightened, and he realized she must have used sorcery to hide them from sight.

  “Are you casting?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “You just have to make it out of sight. The corner isn’t far.”

  “No. We have to get back to the house. We’re both covered in blood.”

  “It’s Halloween, no one will think it’s strange for people to have blood on them. Besides, I can use my natural charm and good looks to convince them not to ask too many questions.”

  “We’re doomed.” Morgan groaned, trying to lighten the mood before she tripped on the hem of her skirt.

  Christophe caught her, and lifted her into his arms. Cursing himself for not thinking of it before, he started running. He didn’t pay attention where he went beyond heading in the general direction of the house and putting as much distance between them and the mansion as possible. He dodged the few people on the streets, looking for a place where they could hide. He slowed and checked the street. Breathing a sigh of relief when he found that most of the house lights were dark.

  “Morgan.” he said, giving his mentor a gentle shake.

  “We have to get home.” She sounded beyond exhaustion.

  “First, you need to get your feet underneath you. Do you have that flask?”

  “In my bag.” She held out the small drawstring purse she wore on her wrist.

  Christophe took the bag, opened it and fished out the silver flask engraved with her initials and a Celtic knot pattern. He opened it and passed it to Morgan. She accepted the flask with a smile and gulped three long swallows.

  “What do you think happened back there?” he asked.

  “Somehow word got out about Zachary’s ball and The Order decided to have a little fun,” Morgan answered, taking another swig from the flask.

  “If that’s their idea of fun, I’d prefer to stay on their boring side.” He stood and looked around, again checking for either threats or a cab.

  28 - San Francisco, CA - October 31, 2012

  Christophe carried Morgan up the walk to the front door, not wanting to set her down. He kicked the bottom of the door several times, praying that Nicholas was home. Christophe shifted Morgan’s weight. His keys were in his pocket, but he couldn’t reach them with her in his arms. How am I supposed to do this? I suppose I could prop her against the wall…

  The door opened revealing Morgan’s husband wearing only a pair of black sweatpants. His sandy hair appeared more burnished gold with droplets of water clinging to some of the ends. The knock at the door must have interrupted the elder vampire’s shower. He frowned, blue-gray eyes darkening as he stepped out of the way, letting Christophe step past with his burden.

  “What happened?” Nicholas demanded as he closed the door behind them.

  Without looking, he reached out and tapped a code into an electronic panel mounted beside the door frame, to reset the alarm. He stepped in front of Christophe and held out his arms. The younger vampire transferred Morgan to his arms and Nicholas turned, walking upstairs toward the master bedroom without a word.

  Christophe shook his head and followed. “You missed a killer ball.”

  “Don’t get cute, Christophe.” Nicholas’s words were little more than a growl as he walked toward the open double doors at the end of the hall.

  “I’m not,” he insisted, still following as he rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to ease some of the tension. “Actual deaths were involved.”

  Nicholas paused and looked at Christophe for a moment before he laid Morgan carefully on the bed. She’s going to be pissed that I didn’t clean her up first. I’ll just remind her that it’s not her bed anyway. Nicholas He grabbed the throw from the foot of the bed and placed it over her before leaning down to press a kiss on her forehead.

  “She’s used her power tonight. She wouldn’t be so warm if she hadn’t.” He turned back to Christophe, satisfied that Morgan would be fine for a while. “What happened, Christophe?”

  The younger vampire raked both hands along the side of his head, turned and started back down the hall. “I think I need a drink first.”

  Nicholas caught up with him, “You sound like Marcus.”

  “The Old Man’s got a few things right.” The pair walked in silence down the stairs and into the formal sitting room.

  Nicholas hovered near the door, watching as Christophe stepped behind the bar. He waited, shifting weight from one foot to the other and back again until the younger vampire had poured himself a drink and began sipping it while leaning on the smooth mahogany bar.

  Unable to wait any longer, Nicholas said, “Talk to me. I need to know what happened. She’s exhausted and covered in blood.”

  Christophe tossed back the remainder of his drink and poured a second one. “There was an attack at the ball. Some kind of poison in the champagne for the midnight toast.” Christophe shook his head. “Everyone who drank it is either ill, dying, or dead.”

  Nicholas tensed, he stalked forward, a calculated look on his face. “If everyone who drank the champagne is ill, dying, or dead… how come you aren’t?” Nicholas rocked back on his heels. “And while you’re at it, what the hell happened to my wife?”

  “We didn�
��t drink the toast.” Christophe shook his head, still not believing how close they came. “I saw something that no one else did. I’m not explaining this right. Since it was a costume ball, the atmosphere was surreal, and I don’t mean just the guests and their costumes.” He took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes, remembering. “Early in the evening I noticed that the servers were all wearing identical masks. Normally, I would have chalked it up to my Blood Brother being his usual flamboyant self, but there was something weird about it.”

  “Define weird.” Nicholas perched on one of the bar stools and poured himself a drink.

  “The masks had no mouths, or noses, but there was a design over the right side. As Zachary was offering his toast, I realized that the design was a rose. A black rose.”

  Nicholas froze, his drink halfway to his lips. He set the glass down and turned his gaze on Christophe. “A Black Rose?”

  Christophe frowned. “Yes. When I realized what it was, I remembered something I’d heard recently… rumors that fly around The Dracul from time to time.”

  Nicholas shook himself and stared at the drink in his hand. “You’ve heard rumors about The Order of the Black Rose?”

  “That’s the name I’ve heard, not often, but a time or two. So mister big bad Assassin, answer me this… what the fuck is The Order of the Black Rose? And why does it have you spooked?”

  “The Order is supposed to be a myth.” Nicholas wiped a hand across his forehead. “They were a group of humans who would do anything within their power to rid the entire world of our kind. Their members didn’t care what methods they used. To them, the ends justified the means. I even heard they had driven a vampire to madness and turned him loose on the area where they believed the Council to be holed up.”

  “You talk about them in the past tense. What I saw tonight was anything but.”

  “If what you saw was The Order, we have a major problem.”

  “Fill me in because we may have more than just one new problem.”

  Nicholas took a moment to let the younger vampire’s words to sink in. “Samair. You think he’s stirring up trouble?”

  “From what I’ve heard, he sees Zachary as a threat to his power. Considering my blood brother’s blood ties, he’s right to.”

  Nicholas shook his head and rubbed his temples with one hand. “That’s a bridge we’ll have to cross if we get there. I don’t want to borrow more trouble if I can help it.” He took another sip from his glass and set it down on the counter. “So, what happened at the party? Explain why Morgan is passed out and covered in blood.”

  Christophe poured himself another glass, held it up, looking through the amber liquid, considering where to pick up his story. After a moment, he sighed and began the second part of his story. He explained how Morgan had directed the cleanup, getting frightened donors out and coordinating moving the sick and deceased vampires. He finished with Morgan setting the building on fire and then fleeing the scene.

  “So, as I said, she used her ability?”

  “Yes,” Christophe let out a disbelieving laugh. “It was pretty amazing. Though, obviously it took a lot out of her.”

  “I’ll let her sleep.” Nicholas shook his head and sighed. “I hope this is just overtaxing and not more permanent damage.”

  “Well, I know she didn’t drink any of the poisoned champagne.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her tonight and let her rest. Hopefully, that will be enough.”

  “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

  “I was a little busy myself.” Nicholas offered a weak smile.

  “Hunting for Jayson?”

  Nicholas scoffed. “Yeah, same old, same old.”

  “Has Eric’s human been any help?”

  “Not yet. She’s still on the fence,” Nicholas took a deep breath and let it out. “She’s doesn’t quite believe what she’s seen and heard.”

  “You trust her?”

  “Yeah, for now.” Nicholas sighed and shook his head. “I don’t want to go into it right now.” He drained the last of the brandy from his glass. “Look, Christophe, I know you’re supposed to go back to LA tomorrow, but would you consider remaining in the city longer?” Nicholas asked, his mind spinning out of control.

  “You’re fine with Morgan staying in town?”

  “No, I’m not.” Nicholas chuckled, a nervous laugh. “But I know my wife, and I know she’s not going to leave me in San Francisco with everything going on. Besides, she’s got a lot to do here.”

  Without hesitation, the younger vampire answered. “I’ll stay.”

  “Thank you,” Nicholas whispered. He stood and walked behind the bar, setting the glass in the sink. The maid would take care of it in the morning. “I hope I’m overreacting, but I don’t want to risk it.”

  “I understand.” Christophe finished off his own drink and placed the glass on the counter. “Look, we’re not going to figure anything out right now. Why don’t we call it a night? Go upstairs, take care of Morgan, and fuss over her. You know she’ll complain, but what she won’t tell you is that she really does enjoy it.” He chuckled as a slight smile creased his cheeks.

  “Sage advice, my young friend. You’re welcome to stay here and sleep. There’s one open guest room on the second floor and another on the first.”

  “Thank you, I think I will.”

  “See you this evening.” Nicholas stood and went back upstairs to the master suite.

  When he reached Morgan’s side and touched her cheek, she still had a fever, even above normal human temperature. He knew he should try to get her to drink some of the brew that sustained her life and kept the magic in her blood in check, but she looked so peaceful and couldn’t bear to disturb her.

  Instead, he went down to the study where’d he’d set up his office and grabbed a few things before returning to the bedroom. Pulling one of the high-backed wing chairs over so he could sit beside Morgan, Nicholas settled in with his laptop to work.

  29 - San Francisco, CA - November 5, 2012

  Grace walked back to her desk, cup of hot, crappy coffee in her hand. Voices filled the room, inspectors, cops and witnesses all talking at once, blending to create a continuous cacophony. Partial walls of each cubicle helped muddy the sounds making it a muffled mess. She sat down at her desk, set the coffee down, put her headphones on and hit play on the next digital recording the tip line had flagged for her. In theory, the tip line helped focus the investigation. In truth, it served to scatter resources best put to use elsewhere. She yawned and sipped her coffee; the bitter taste burned the back of her throat.

  “Can I help you?” the operator’s nasally voice asked.

  “I have a tip on the vampire killer,” the caller said.

  “Name please?” the operator replied with a yawn.

  “I would like it to remain anonymous.”

  “There’s a substantial reward for information leading to the capture of this killer.”

  “I will remain anonymous.”

  “Your call. What’s your tip?”

  “You’re missing three victims.”

  “What?” The operator sounded alert, no longer bored.

  “What?” Grace echoed setting her coffee aside as she grabbed a notepad and prepared to take down the information.

  “There are three deaths your department has missed: Victor Black, Amy Young, and Corrine Curtis.” The caller delivered the information in a deadpan manner. No inflection.

  “How do you know this?” the operator asked, trying to keep the caller on the line. Greeted by silence, the operator spoke again. “Hello? Are you still there?”

  The call continued for another minute, as the operator tried to get the caller to respond before the line went dead.

  “Shit.” Grace slammed her hand down on her desk, enjoying the sensation that skittered up her arm for a moment before. Fingers flying across the keyboard, she researched every database available on the three victims.

  She cursed in a whisper as
her hand flew across the page, jotting the notes she would need to take to her lieutenant.

  Victor Black, 27, white male last seen on October 1 at The Catacombs, a Goth club in the warehouse district. Found the next morning on the beach near the Presidio, forearms slit. Since he was found in the water, no blood. Medical examiner ruled it a suicide.

  Corrine Curtis, 24-year-old Native American female, last seen on September 15 at Chrysis, a techno club in the downtown area. Found in her apartment, two days after an apparent suicide. Cut her femoral artery in the shower. Trace amounts of blood found in the drain.

  Amy Young, 30, Asian female, last seen leaving a movie with friends on August 5. Found in an alley six days later near her home in the heights. Remains had been subjected to extensive scavenging before they were found and the ME couldn’t pinpoint cause of death.

  When the third victim had been sketched out, she laid all three files out on the desk next to each another.

  No obvious connection. Two clubgoers and one moviegoer, all about the same age, but different ethnicities and various locations. Either the tipster is full of shit or I’m missing something. Think like a vampire, think like a vampire.

  “What the Hell am I thinking? God, what happened to Eric and Roberts that they thought I’d buy all the vampire crap? Like a cheap set of Hollywood rip-off fangs would convince me. What if they’re not lying? What if there’s more we’re missing because we’re not looking in the right place?”

  Grace pulled up her case notes, even though she’d looked at them hundreds of times and began reading them again after adding in the new information. It wasn’t much, but she had a gut feeling. More than once she’d managed to convince her lieutenant to go along with her hunches because her instincts were usually proven right.

  Half an hour later, Grace stalked back to her desk and threw the papers on top of it, garnering several concerned looks from her fellow inspectors. The meeting had not gone as she had hoped. If she were being honest, it went as well as it could.