by Liz Meldon
Huffing irritably, she punched at the correct button as the doors started to open—and petrified screaming blasted into the elevator the second they were an inch apart, growing louder as they opened completely. Delia’s hand hovered over the close door button. They were the same screams from her nightmares.
Bella’s daughter—the little girl they’d found in the Donovan heiress’s room. Her wails for her mother had haunted Delia’s dreams from the second she slipped into them until the moment she bolted upright that morning, sweaty, panting, and exhausted.
She should have pushed the button and left it at that. Instead, Delia slipped between the doors as they started to close. Seconds later the rotating gears signaled the elevator’s ascent, leaving her alone in an empty hallway. The light flickered overhead, casting shadows over the barren walls and the linoleum tiles. The décor was on par with Arthur’s floor—nothing—but the screaming gave it an extra touch of depressing.
But then again, Arthur would probably scream all day too if he could.
Sweeping her hair behind her ear, catching a whiff of the HQ-provided lavender shampoo she’d used in the process, Delia ventured forward. No cameras in this hall, nor the next, when she rounded the corner and faced a long, dimly lit corridor with a row of wide metallic doors on each side. It was like being in a funhouse where the mirrors gave the illusion that a hallway went on forever—only this one actually did.
And standing in front of one of the doors was the last person she had any interest in seeing, let alone speaking to.
Kain’s head snapped in her direction as soon as she stepped around the corner, and his hands dropped slowly to his side from their clasped position behind his back. His stern glare shifted to something more recognizable, and they stood there, staring at one another, as the screaming carried on. Finally, Delia gathered her nerve and pressed onward, but Kain met her before she reached the door. The shrieking stopped briefly when they met, only to resume when Delia glanced toward the spot he’d been guarding.
“What are you doing here, Dels?” he asked, sounding more tired than anything. If she wasn’t mistaken, he too was wearing the outfit he’d worn to the raid—only, unlike her, he didn’t look as though he’d had the luxury of a shower or much sleep.
“Hit the wrong button on the elevator,” she said distantly, her brow creasing into a frown. “What’s… Who’s screaming?”
“Who d’you think?”
She met his stare evenly, in no mood for another patronizing lecture. “It was a rhetorical question.”
“Go home,” he muttered after rubbing at his eyes and sighing. “Get some sleep.”
What appeared to be crusted blood under his short fingernails held her attention.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Guarding the door,” Kain remarked, then grinned, “and telling nosy fuckers to go home and sleep while they can.” She didn’t return the smile, and within seconds his own faded. “Dels, look… I’m sorry for what I said yesterday in front of the boys. It was uncalled-for.”
She pressed her lips together tightly before muttering, “Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Or was it something you’ve wanted to say for a while now?”
“It’s not…” He looked away, agitated. “Look, we get on, you and I. I care about you, but my personal and professional feelings are separate, and worlds apart, if I’m being honest. I was the team leader, but I said what I thought I needed to say without thinking. I’m sorry if it hurt your feelings.”
Her grip on her purse strap tightened. “Okay.”
Behind Kain, the screams were at a zenith, sounding more and more like words now. No. Stop. Please stop. It all sounded like the pleas of a single person, a woman—a Donovan daughter, probably. Her eyes drifted to the door again, wondering if she’d hear the cries in her dreams tonight too. They were nothing like the sniveling of a homeless dirtbag vamp she and a few other hunters had bagged somewhere downtown and were bringing in for questioning. These cries were those of real pain—real fear.
And they affected her more than they should.
Shaking her head, Delia hurried for the elevators. Kain’s footsteps didn’t follow.
“Where are you going?” he called when she was nearly at the end of the hall, elevators around the corner.
“Home,” she said without looking back. “To sleep. Like you told me to.”
He cursed softly, the word floating down the hall in a ghostly echo, but when Delia spared him a quick glance, she found herself looking at his back, his hands shoved into his pockets. She stood there, unsure, before carrying on and jabbing at the elevator button.
Her retreat from League headquarters through the library was a blur, one that her phone’s shrill bleating snapped her out of once she was on the stairs—the stairs where the Donovans had strung up the rats only a few months earlier. Flustered, a flushed Delia dug through her purse, struggling briefly before finding her phone at the bottom of all the junk she carted around in that particular bag.
Claude. The mere sight of his name brought a relief she’d never thought possible.
“Hey,” she said, lower lip wobbling, the tears evident in her voice. “How’s it—”
“Delia,” Claude said curtly, “were you part of the assault on the Donovan estate? Was that the big assignment you told me about?”
She wiped under her nose and headed for one of the pillars on the library front steps. It took her a few long seconds to process what he’d said, the odd feeling of worlds colliding knocking the wind out of her.
“Sorry, what?” was the best she could do.
“The Donovan takedown,” he repeated. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the tone of the Claude she knew—this was the frustrated Claude of whom she’d only caught glimpses. “Were you a part of that?”
“I…” A chilly blast of air wormed under her jacket, and she held the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she zipped it up. “Yeah, they put me on it. I didn’t know until recently it was because I’d made the news and some higher-ups thought it’d be good to include me—”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve all done?” He exhaled noisily in tandem with the sound of a car door slamming shut.
“What are you talking about?”
“Delia, are you at the League now?”
“Just leaving—”
“Under no circumstances should you interact with any vampire your High Council has seen fit to work with. Do you understand?”
“What? No, Claude…” She hurried down the steps and merged into the usual mid-morning downtown foot traffic. “Where are you? I’m coming to your place—”
“Don’t,” he told her. “I won’t be there. Go home. Wait for me to call you.”
“Claude—”
“Please tell me you weren’t a part of this. That you didn’t know.”
Delia stopped amidst the sea of pedestrians, the headache that had started in the accounting wing threatening to explode into a full-blown migraine. “What are you talking about? We apprehended a clan who was butchering people, vamps and humans, in case you’ve forgotten.”
He was quiet for so long that she thought he’d hung up on her. After checking, she said his name once more, her cheeks wind-kissed.
“Go home, Delia,” he said, softer this time. “Don’t let anyone in until you hear from me.”
“But—”
“Even if you think you know them,” Claude added sharply. “Lock the doors and keep your phone on you. Do you understand?”
“Can you just tell me what the fuck is happening right now? Claude, you—”
“Please trust me,” he urged. “Can you do that?”
“I trust you to tell me what the hell this phone call is about the next time you call,” she said tightly as she started walking again, this time in the direction of her apartment. She moved with purpose, easily gliding around the slower walkers in front of her. “But I’ll do it. Just don’t keep me in the dark.”
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A hypocritical request, she realized.
“I’ll do my best,” Claude told her. “Now hurry home and lock the door.”
And with that, the line went dead.
*
The ringing in his ears continued long after the wailing stopped. Kain stood there, like he’d been told, because he was a good soldier. He followed orders. He looked to his superiors for guidance. Hunting was the only thing in his life he hadn’t shot straight to hell. It was his mission, his purpose.
The fact that he felt like complete shit right now was probably because he hadn’t slept in twenty-plus hours—not because he’d listened to the torture of a vamp who reminded him of his little sister.
They’d been switching them out all day and all night, the Donovan family. First Shane, then Bella, then the next in line. Kain watched each one go in. He listened to their defiance—and then he tuned out their screams. There was no delighting in torture. There was only the celebration of a victory when all was said and done. This was a victory, just not the kind the other hunters thought. Only a few knew what the decimation of the Donovan clan meant for the big picture. And Kain was one of them.
Kain would survive this.
Because he knew how to obey. How to fight. How to be an asset, a weapon.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there. His phone had died a few hours ago. Delia had been the only one down to this level since the interrogation had started. He had no point of reference. But still Kain stood there, hands clasped behind his back, staring straight ahead, and waited for it to be over.
And it was. In a hail of gunfire and screams, it was finally over.
He stepped aside when the door behind him unbolted. Out came the High Council, Don Wentworth at the helm with Johnathon Warwick at his side. Viscous brown blood-splatter painted their faces, their hands, and the stakes gripped within them.
“Now, do be so kind as to show my son and daughter the armory again before they leave,” Warwick insisted, patting Wentworth’s cheek with a barbed smile. Kain’s insides turned at the sight, but he kept his features expressionless. “I’d do it myself, but I’m afraid I have a monarchy to dismantle, a king to crush, all that.”
“Of course,” Wentworth replied with a slight nod. “Be in touch when you’re through.”
There was a flash of something across Warwick’s face—annoyance, maybe. But it was gone before Kain could get a better look, replaced once more by the vamp’s shark-like smile.
“Talk soon, Donny boy,” the vamp mused. His bloodshot eyes swept up and down the cluster of High Council members, as if appraising livestock, then darted briefly to Kain. That unnerving smile grew for a moment before he stalked down the hall, footsteps echoing in his wake.
“Tidy the chamber,” Wentworth ordered Kain with a nod toward the room. “Burn the remains.”
The reply was automatic by now. It had been for years. “Yes, sir.”
Stepping into the interrogation room, Kain was hit with the rank scent of death. Six bloody bodies lay against the wall, brownish blood smeared behind them where they’d been shot. It reminded him of the photos he’d seen of the old Russian monarchy—Tsar Nicholas Romanov and his family. Gunned down. Brutalized. What the hell had Shane Donovan done to Johnathon Warwick to warrant such a merciless death? Kain didn’t need to know. All he needed to know was that it was time to clean up the mess.
After moving the brutalized bodies into a single pile, he hurried out of the room. Through the empty corridor he went, off to find the necessary supplies to sweep the murder of a clan leader and his family under the rug.
At least these ones would be burned after they’d been staked; Kain couldn’t say the same for the rest of the vamps in the clan. Good thing the incinerator was soundproof. There were more than a few hunters who wouldn’t be able to stomach the screams.
Those were the ones who wouldn’t make it to Christmas.
And he wouldn’t mourn for them—he couldn’t. This was natural selection at its finest.
*
The last time Claude Grimm had been forced to deal with a crisis as king of the Harriswood vampire clans was… Well, in the near three hundred years he’d been living in the area, never. He had heard the stories from other kings around the country: clans squabbling, rogue vampires swooping in to usurp the monarch, discovery by the general populace that real vampires were in their midst.
Harriswood had had a brief brush with the latter, but the human political and law enforcement beast had a brilliant PR team to keep the story from sticking. They spun it and spun it and spun it until the Safe Choice grocery incident was no more than a common robbery, and his darling Delia a woman with an unquenchable thirst to survive a bad situation.
In his opinion, he’d had a pretty easy go of things as elected ruler. For the most part, the other clans had listened to the edicts he set. Rules were generally followed—it was the best he could hope for, given the brutal nature of his subjects. Hunter leagues were created to maintain order amongst unruly American vampires, so detached from the old European ways that they required a little extra monitoring to keep the peace.
Unfortunately, the fact that he hadn’t ever needed to assert his authority may have been the cause of all this. He had too much faith in the clan leaders. He had always preferred a hands-off approach, hoping that these vampires, all well into their first or second century of existence, could handle disputes like adults.
Apparently he was mistaken. Apparently he had a band of unruly children in his kingdom instead.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Elov posed the question in Swiss German to keep their hired driver from understanding. They’d traveled from the estate to Jimmie’s Place in relative silence, nothing but the unobtrusive classical music tinkling from the radio to break the tension. Claude’s gaze shifted from the back of the driver’s seat to Elov, his closest confidant and oldest friend; Claude had turned the man himself centuries ago, sharing with him his ability to walk in the daylight. Where would he be now without him? Bookkeeper, spy, clan liaison, historian—Elov wore many hats, almost as many as Claude.
“It will set a better precedent if I go alone,” Claude remarked, falling back to his mother-tongue with ease. “Show them that I don’t need the numbers to put them in their place.”
Them. Claude suspected it was only one clansman who needed to be put in his place.
Funny. After all this time, he’d always thought Shane Donovan would give him the biggest headache. The Irishman had been a pesky thorn in his side for years. As the head of the largest regional clan, his people were all over the place. His daughters made headlines for all the wrong reasons. He was purposefully disrespectful whenever he and Claude were in the same room together. If anyone was going to drag Claude out of the easy comfort of his day-to-day living, he’d always expected it to be a Donovan.
Instead, he had been summoned by Johnathon Warwick—of all people—for a meeting with the clan leaders. Johnathon Warwick, leader of the smallest Harriswood clan. Johnathon Warwick, who raced greyhounds and invited Claude to high tea at least once a month and showed his prized tulips at flower shows every spring. Johnathon fucking Warwick.
The vampire had sent an envoy to Claude’s door yesterday, hours after word reached him that the League had arrested the entirety of the Donovan clan—an absurd and most certainly illegal act—with the message that the king’s presence was required at a meeting with all the local clan leaders the following afternoon at their usual place. The way the message had been worded left Claude thinking that somehow there would be severe consequences should he not heed the summons.
The fact that the clan leaders had the sheer gall to threaten their king…
Something was wrong. Something had felt wrong for a few months now, but he had hoped the others could work it out amongst themselves without needing a king’s intervention.
Clearly he had miscalculated.
“I can be there in an instant,�
�� Elov reminded him as the driver pulled into the back lot of the bar.
“I’m not worried,” Claude said, though the look his old friend gave him suggested Elov was harder to fool than the rest of the Grimm clan’s advisors. He cleared his throat. “For my physical safety, anyway.”
“No, that’s something for me to worry about, highness.”
“Keep the car running,” Claude said to the driver in English, placing a gentle hand on the human’s shoulder. “This won’t take long.”
Their eyes met briefly in the mirror, Claude’s bright blues holding the muddled hazel gaze. “Yes sir.”
“Good.” He climbed out of the town car’s backseat with ease, smoothing a hand down the front of his pressed jacket. He’d opted for red, a visual reminder for the vampires in attendance of the title he bore, paired smartly with a crisp white dress shirt and a pair of grey slacks. The sun glinted off his shoes—all he needed was his crown. It hadn’t seen the outside of its carrying case since the night it was given to him, but perhaps it could have served a purpose now.
“Let me at least sweep the area before you go in,” Elov requested from the other side of the car. His door slammed shut in tandem with Claude’s, mouth fixing into a thin, exasperated line when the king waved him off.
“Stay,” Claude ordered, tapping the car’s roof before heading for the bar’s back door, thick chunks of de-icing salt crunching underfoot. Elov did as he was told—undoubtedly with much tooth-gnashing and knuckle-cracking. He shot the blond vampire a grin before yanking the door open and slipping inside.
Jimmie’s Place, known in certain circles as the it-place to drink for vampire hunters—and the local clan leaders had chosen it for team huddles long ago for that very reason. Who would think to check upstairs while having a pint? Still, Claude would have preferred something a little better maintained. As soon as he stepped inside, the scent of cheap draft beer pummeled him even harder than ever, and the floors looked noticeably sticky. Old photographs lined the walls, years of dead hunters immortalized.
