The bouncers, hostesses, and bartenders were all vamps, and those humans still here looked too drunk to care about politics, murder, or even finding a partner for the rest of the night. Mostly they’d glommed on to the staff members still on duty, apparently seeing the lack of a crowd as their chance for some one-on-one time with their favorite Noctule bloodsucker. Salt had three females and two males ringing him as he stood by the back door, all laughing and begging him for some scrap of attention—a personal word, a kiss, or the ultimate nip on the neck. Thor, not to be outdone, had half a dozen women crammed into the booth he sat at.
At Noctule, Cade allowed the same kind of flirting that went on at strip clubs—a few kisses, a little touching, and creative ways of leaving tips. But there was to be no blood, no nudity, and no sex. It was a fine line he and the club always had to walk. He had to permit enough flirtation for good business, but not enough to generate complaints.
As soon as he made his appearance, though, most of the mortals detached themselves from their chosen hosts and pasted themselves to him, grabbing his shirt, handfuls of his hair, and basically any part of his body they could lay their little hands on. He was well known to most of the club regulars, rare as his forays were into the club proper, and he played the hospitable host, smiling and doling out kisses. On any other night, he might have relished the attention, but not tonight. He bent to kiss a short but ardent admirer and signaled Thor over the top of her head to start closing the club for the night.
They herded the patrons out over a chorus of whiny-drunk objections, but none of the humans were sober enough to protest overly much. Cade left the others to clean and close up, but he called Thor over. “Upstairs.”
Once in his suite, Cade pulled off his shirt, sank into his favorite leather chair, and pulled his mortal-mussed hair behind his head. “Well, it’s been a night.”
“What did you find out?” asked Thor.
“Not a lot. It was a professional hit job. Three rounds, two to the chest, one to the head. She died instantly. I don’t know about witnesses. It was too early to hear. I gave a statement to Rat about my meeting earlier tonight.”
“The truth?”
He stared at Thor and wondered if his tyro had ever suspected Cade’s true relationship with Her Honor. “Yes, the truth.”
Thor lifted his brows. “Just asking.”
“How many calls?”
“The phone never stopped ringing. The media I blew off like you told me to.”
Cade didn’t like that—not for what Thor had said, but for what he didn’t say. Cade didn’t care what the media wanted, and Thor knew it. He was stalling. “And the calls from my brethren?”
Thor looked down. “Yeah, a lot of calls.”
Cade kept his patience. “Thor.”
Thor kept his head bowed, but raised his gaze to Cade’s. “I told them what you wanted me to tell them.”
The look of the club fighter shone in Thor’s eyes—cold and focused. The steel blue gaze almost held anger and challenge as well, but not quite. It was an attitude he’d always liked in his tyros, and in Thor in particular. A tyro whose fear manifested itself in the whites of his eyes was useless as a young warrior in training. “Tell me what you’re not telling me. What was their reaction?”
Thor raised his head. “Not good.”
He just looked at Thor.
“All right. It was bad. A few expressed understandable concern, but some were more than upset. Maybe it was because they were talking to me instead of you that they were so bold, but they said they felt betrayed. That you’d promised peace and the good life if they voted for Deborah Dayton. They said they think it will go bad for us, no matter how we behave.”
“Who?”
“The usual suspects, but Phryne was the most vocal.”
It figured. Phryne was to the undead what Deborah Dayton had been to mortals—the crème de la crème of the Sisterhood of Royal Bitches—vocal, opinionated and not afraid to get down and dirty with the boys. Phryne had always opposed Cade’s ways and had refused to go along with Cade’s plan to back Deborah for mayor. She’d called it “kowtowing to the mortals” and only a few months ago had opened the vampire club Vamphasia to rival Noctule.
“And what about you, Thor? Are you behind me one hundred percent?”
Thor blinked. “What kind of question is that? I’m your tyro. Of course I’m behind you.”
“Listen to me. I need to know who I can trust if this all turns to shit. Tell me the truth. You won’t be punished if your views differ from mine.”
Thor rose and paced around the room. “Jesus, Cade . . .”
Thor was right. It was an unfair question. Cade didn’t trust anyone. “Never mind. I’m going home.” He put his hand on Thor’s shoulder in a conciliatory gesture. “Call me if you need to.”
THOR WAITED UNTIL Cade was gone before spitting out the profanities he’d been biting back. “Son of a whoremongering old goat!” Truth. Cade wouldn’t recognize truth if it bit him, gave him a hickey, and fucked the hell out of him. And Cade was just as blind to trust.
How could he even think about doubting Thor’s loyalty? He and Cade had known each other for over a hundred years, since Cade had first come to Black-Eyed Susan’s, the finest sporting house in the Levee, and taken in one of Thor’s fights. The men in the crowd had jeered him, calling him “Pegleg” instead of “Peleg,” and the whores had cheered him, chanting, “Sweet, Sweet, Sweet,” but Cade had taken him seriously. Thor always won his matches, no matter how bloody he got. Cade had told him once he admired that. At the time Thor had been more interested in his five dollar winnings and his pick of the ladies for the night, but the comment had never been forgotten.
He sighed, returning his thoughts to the present. He oversaw the closing of the club, tallying receipts and making out the deposit, but his mind lingered more on Cade than the job before him. He wondered just how deep the shit was that Cade had stepped in and how much would end up on him if he let Cade walk all over him.
He wouldn’t put it past Cade to declare he couldn’t trust Thor, then bail out and let him clean up the mess. Thor had already gotten a taste earlier tonight when he’d had to field all the complaints thrown at him by the undead community. Like a herd of spooked cattle, they’d bellowed their fear. Maybe he should disassociate himself from Cade now, before the stampede started in earnest.
He set the alarm and locked the club, taking the car to make the night deposit. No. He couldn’t abandon his doyen. He was in a position of trust, even if that trust was hard to see. He’d made a commitment to Cade. If Thor was the one to break it, who would give him a second chance?
CADE WALKED BACK to the townhouse, too angry and frustrated to see anything but the thoughts in his head. A professional hit. The three words echoed through his mind over and over. Hell, it could mean any number of things. Someone could have found out about their affair and killed Deborah to get at him. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. It could have been a mob hit. The mob had offed one of Chicago’s mayors once upon a time. It could have been political. Deborah’s election had been an upset, and while women, the undead, and those supporting her pro-peace and pro-rights platform had been pleased, just as many dinosaurs in city government opposed her philosophy. But enough to kill her? Or was the hit strictly personal? Most of a politician’s skeletons were exposed long before an election rolled around, but Deborah had always been a private person, and her affair with him proved she was willing to take risks. It was conceivable she’d gotten involved in something very dangerous and very secret—gambling or an illegal operation. Old debts and old boyfriends didn’t go away.
He had to know. He had to know who the enemy was. And when he found him, there’d be no walking the line, no concessions, no compromises. Just one more dead body.
Chapter Five
La
Vantum
1707
CHENANGO STOOD outside the palisades surrounding La Vantum and watched as Niano and five other women climbed into the boat at the river’s edge. Niano was laughing, as were the others, but he didn’t understand why. She was going across the river to Le Rocher, the Rock, to the white man’s fort in the sky, to be defiled and disgraced.
Did she think a trinket meant a Frenchman cared for her? Did she think one night of laying down with him meant a real marriage? Chenango spit into the water that dusk had turned the color of the white man’s silver.
Perhaps this was the river of tears the Manitou had foretold would come. He could imagine no sorrow greater than losing Niano’s love to the evil that danced atop Le Rocher. He had heard enough stories to know the truth. All the men in the village knew the truth. The nightly celebration was no more than free-flowing drink for the French. The promised gifts were no more than glass beads or tinkling cones for the women. And the “marriages” were as false as the promises, lasting but for a few days at most. Yet Niano had willingly shunned him for this. He couldn’t understand it.
There had been no such evil on Le Rocher five summers ago. Five years ago the Great Father Henri de Tonti had still ruled Le Rocher. The Great Father had been a good man, wise, virtuous and truthful. The colony of tribes around Le Rocher had grown, the enemies of the Inoca had been defeated and driven off the land, and life was good.
But Tonti had left, and new men had come to rule Le Rocher, evil men who loved nothing but their own pleasure. They cared nothing for the Inoca, except for whatever womanly flesh they could entice with their trickery.
The women’s songs faded as they neared the far shore of the river. Niano would never be his now. He was a man, full grown, strong and skilled in the ways of a warrior and hunter, but she had turned away from him, all for an evil promise. She would return with the seed of a Frenchman in her belly, but she wouldn’t return to him.
Darkness hid the boat from his sight, and he could see only the glow of the camp fires deep within the fort on Le Rocher. He turned away, not to the village, but to the forest. He wanted to be alone, to search for understanding. The night was warm enough to bring a sheen to his skin, and it was alive with the creatures of the night, but none of them threw forth the answers he sought.
Never fear the evil, the Manitou had said, for it will make you stronger.
He had found evil, but what strength could he possibly gain from this?
He pushed farther into the forest, driven by his anger, lured by the moonlight, until he came to the clearing he had come to ten summers ago, when he had embarked on his quest.
Sitting as he had sat then, a figure came to him, appearing at the edge of the clearing as though it were a living shadow. At first Chenango thought it was a Black Robe, a priest, like the one who’d taught him as a child so many years ago, for the figure wore a long robe and hood that hid its face. But there was no silver cross around this one’s neck as there had been on the priest.
“Qui êtes-vous?” asked Chenango in the white man’s tongue. “Who are you?”
“L’enfer.”
Hell.
Chapter Six
CADE SAT ALONE in the townhouse and watched the news coverage for the remainder of the night. The news channels recycled the same footage over and over, and a parade of commentators, political pundits and analysts dissected, speculated on, and regurgitated the life story of Deborah Dayton.
Cade wasn’t mentioned in the stories by name, which was fine with him. Since Hell he’d striven to stay out of the media spotlight, refusing to give interviews and statements and avoiding photo opportunities like an outlaw on the lam. Articles had been written about him, of course, but the lack of direct quotes and verified information in such pieces only added to the mystique he projected to the public.
Yes, the mere scratching of the surface of the public theatre was fine by Cade. Only he and Deborah had known what really had happened that day three years ago when she’d approached him, and now only he knew.
She’d been as bold then as yesterday, a relative unknown in city politics who’d pursued him like a hunter until he’d agreed to meet her. And she’d been smart, too, coming to him not only to ask for his support, but to let him know in no uncertain terms what she could do for him. Oh, she hadn’t offered her body back then—that would come much later—but he hadn’t failed to appreciate her physical assets even during that first meeting. It had been summer, and she’d worn a sleek dress that had covered her body like a sheath does a knife. He couldn’t see what it concealed, but he knew without a doubt that underneath was a tight, firm body, indeed as dangerous as a weapon.
“Mr. Kincade,” she had said, “if you and I were to rule this city together, we could mend the wounds of war.”
Mend wounds, hell. She’d wanted power, but she was savvy enough to know a woman alone couldn’t fight the Machine. With the backing of hundreds of thousands of undead votes, though, she had a real chance.
The war had been hard on those in power, but they’d stayed in power because there’d been no one to oppose them. And the vampire vote had been dormant for seventeen years. Why did a vampire need to vote? The world was still the mortal’s world, as it always had been. But Deborah Dayton had promised jobs for the sucklings. She’d vowed to implement incentive programs for companies hiring vampires, affirmative action, and job training. She’d promised to revise ordinances against public hunting so that sucklings wouldn’t have to depend on bottled blood, and she’d promised more vampires on the police force and a more pro-active community policing approach to fighting crime.
Cade had agreed to support her. He’d seen the chance to be a working part of mortal city government, something few doyens, especially in the big cities, ever had. He’d agreed, and he’d sold it to his brethren. Everyone knew after the election that Deborah Dayton had gotten the vampire vote, but it was the surprise of the century to those in power who hadn’t seen it coming. It hadn’t been a campaign fought in TV ads, but during the night, in secret, vampire to vampire.
And so she’d won, against all odds.
Of course, the seeds of promise she’d hooked him with, as in any political campaign, failed to grow to fruition after the election. She was an outsider more than ever to those in city government, and while she had tried to fight for ordinance changes, she was overruled more than not by the city council. But peace had somehow ruled the city, in spite of everything, and that was all Cade cared about. That, and the unexpected perk his alliance with Deborah had given him—her body.
As the hour approached dawn, the images on the TV blurred, and the words of the reporters, analysts and the illuminati of the cable news channels melded into a static hum Cade no longer heard. He remembered the first time they’d had sex, nearly a year ago, two full years after their first meeting. He could have had her sooner, of course. A move on his part, coupled with the power of his mind and eyes, could have easily shredded her restraint, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun as watching his brash, brazen little Deborah slowly succumb to his charms. Her gradual descent into uncontrollable desire had been a thing of beauty to watch. Her eyes had betrayed her first, stripping him thread by thread of his fine linen and silk. He’d always dressed impeccably for their meetings, but for months he could feel her steely gaze on his crotch, fucking him in her mind, as if she could see and touch every inch of him. It had made him hard every time to see the rawness beneath her armor, and he’d patiently waited for the inevitable day that the fucking would be real.
He wasn’t sure what had finally cracked her resolve. Perhaps it had been the way he’d looked at her that night, peeling her prim and proper suit off with his restless gaze. Perhaps it had been his habit of parting his lips and running his tongue over the points of his fangs. But all the walls of her self-control fell that night without a word. She’d merely risen from
behind her desk and marched into her private sitting room. He’d followed, closing and locking the door, and she’d gone straight for his cock, unbelting and unzipping his trousers in gold-medal time. As fast as she was, though, he’d been quicker, already hard by the time he felt her warm fingers flank and attack his flesh.
“No blood,” was all she’d said. By omission, everything else was fair game. She’d had an athlete’s body, not hard and bony, but trim and tight everywhere, and he’d vaguely wondered where she found the time to work out. But she was just as appreciative of his body, and when she’d stripped him naked, the gleam of triumph and passion in her eyes was no less than it’d been when she’d won the election.
She’d been too impatient for foreplay, pulling him down on top of her on the wide sofa and spreading her legs to encircle his hips, but he, in his way, made her wait, a not-so-subtle reminder that he, not she, was the true power behind this collaboration of theirs. He’d allowed her to push the switch, but control of the ride was his.
He’d toyed with her small breasts like they were playthings, and teased her nipples as though they were candy, nipping, licking and sucking. She’d tried to exhort him with her fingers, but he made her wait until she writhed beneath him like a wild animal and grunted with an equal amount of what he suspected was impatience and pleasure. She clawed at his back, drawing the blood she was so adamant about not giving herself. He gave in to her demands at last, thrusting into her hard, not so much because he suspected she wanted it that way, but because he wanted it that way. But she didn’t complain about the hard sex, and for his part, he was pleasantly surprised to find that inside his steel queen boiled a molten core, hot and wet and fiery.
They’d had sex almost weekly ever since. This past spring they’d discovered that the roof park added variety to their trysts. But they never talked about the sex, either before or afterward. It was simply there, a part of their secret alliance, a sweetening of the political bond they shared, just the two of them.
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