Through a Crimson Veil

by Patti O'Shea

  Yet she was worried about him.

  The knowledge gave him a strange warmth. No one had ever been concerned over his well-being, not even as a child. But Mika cared; she’d fussed over him as he’d gotten ready to leave. Conor wiped a hand across his mouth, trying to get rid of his smile. Either she was the best thing that had ever happened to him or the worst. He wasn’t sure which.

  Demons lied, he reminded himself. She might only be pretending to be troubled by the attack on him. Ben, his former mentor, had told him repeatedly to never trust anyone until they’d demonstrated their integrity beyond a shadow of a doubt—and even then, he’d said to beware. Mika hadn’t proven a damn thing yet. Even if she had dived forward to save his life.

  It could have been a selfish act, since he was her defender. Maybe she’d thought that by protecting him, she was protecting herself. That could be why she was worried about him leaving the house.

  He’d nearly slipped. The urge to reassure Mika had been so strong, he’d started to tell her that he could defend himself against such a threat. Luckily, he’d stopped himself in time. She’d become suspicious when he used the word assassin; his explanation would have made her even more so.

  Conor sighed silently. He wanted to question her, since she obviously knew things about the demon who’d tried to take him out, but he wasn’t sure how to ask without tipping her off. Somehow, he had to find a way. Mika lived in Orcus; he might never have access to such valuable firsthand information again.

  As he left the tourists behind, the crowds on the sidewalk thinned and part of Conor relaxed. Too many people left him tense, edgy. He’d always wondered if that was a demonic trait or a personal one, but there’d never been anyone to get answers from. Until now.

  The lighting grew more sporadic, the lamps fewer and farther between, and he became more at ease. He’d always felt at home in the darkness, and that was a demon thing.

  Conor paused and took a deep breath. He had a better handle on his frustration now. It continued to simmer in the background, but it wasn’t clawing at him, not at this moment. Of course, it helped that Mika was miles away.

  Taking another deep breath, he studied the area. He was a couple of blocks from the bar, but he had plenty of time before he’d arranged to meet his contact. Ben had told him years ago that nothing happened in Crimson City that Nat didn’t know about, and Conor had always found that to be true. If Nat couldn’t provide a hint of what was after Mika, no one could.

  Mika. Conor found himself reaching beneath his jacket for his comm unit and stopped. Damn, he had it bad. Calling just because he hadn’t heard her voice for an hour? Shaking his head, he let the denim settle back into place.

  Conor took a few steps, then stiffened. He zeroed in on the energy sig, identified it. Rogue vampire. Something about the way it approached suggested an assault. At last, someone stupid enough to take him on. He suspected his grin was feral.

  Come on, you son of a bitch, let’s go, he thought.

  He didn’t bother drawing a gun, and he had no plans to use energy blasts or fire; he was putting this one down bare-handed.

  Chapter Six

  Mika yawned, bored already, and slipped the book back into place. She eyed the shelves and took a deep breath. Did McCabe really need so many damn references? After more than an hour of searching, she’d only made it a third of the way through the bottom shelf. It was a tedious task, since she had to check each volume carefully to make sure nothing was tucked inside.

  If only she knew what format the spell was in, everything would be so much easier. Was it part of a grimoire? Was it written on a napkin and stuffed in some drawer? Even if the incantation had originally been part of a book, that didn’t mean it still was. All Conor needed was the words. It could even be on a memory stick slipped in his computer, but Mika didn’t think so. She knew her vishtau mate well enough to guess that he’d have it on paper. Somewhere.

  She reached for the next dusty book and crossed her legs, cradling the ancient text in her lap. Her eyes drifted to the computer and she thought about checking her messages. Instead, she forced her eyes back to the tome in front of her. The members of the Council weren’t the most patient of demons, and she’d be wise to accomplish as much as she could before they instructed their minion to meet her for a report.

  With a loud sigh, she flipped open the book and started leafing through it. Some of her boredom vanished as she realized the text wasn’t English, but in something archaic. It was demonic, too. Where the hell had he found this?

  Some instinct told her McCabe could read this book, and that intrigued her. How had he learned when he hadn’t grown up in Orcus? Even she had to concentrate to make sense of what she was looking at, and she’d received some education in the tongue.

  Now that she had an idea of what she was perusing, it was easier to decipher the weird spellings and odd handwriting. Her training in the old language was incomplete, but she knew enough and could guess at the rest. Unless she was misinterpreting badly, this was a magic primer. But what she read reassured her—everything here was earthbased. She continued scanning anyway, just in case.

  Mika was nearly at the end of the volume when she turned the page and found a sheet of paper. It was folded in half and she put the text on the floor to open it.

  McCabe’s writing was easily recognizable after having gone through his desk last night. His boldness and assurance came through in each slash of the pen, but there was an immaturity in the way the letters were formed that made Mika think he’d written this when he was much younger.

  The sight of instructions on how to kill a Kiverian dismayed but didn’t surprise Mika—Conor carried a lot of hate for his father. She found it easy to imagine a teenage boy intending to avenge his mother by killing the demon who’d sired him. McCabe hadn’t grown out of this desire, though—he still wanted his father dead.

  With care, she refolded the paper and slipped it back into place. Conor talked about keeping his evil side caged, but Kiverians weren’t inherently monsters; they were simply dark. It was easier for them to justify malevolent actions than it was for many other demons, but their course wasn’t preordained or anything.

  Strangely, he’d put himself on the path he loathed. She’d told Conor she was worried about him, that he needed to learn to integrate his demon nature with his humanity. This proved she had cause for concern. If Conor murdered his father with the coldness and calculation his notes indicated, it would be his breaking point. She felt sure of that. He would become what he most hated, and there would be no way for him to contain it. By denying that part of himself, he’d guaranteed there was nothing to keep it in check should the worst happen. And with each action he took afterward, it would become easier and easier to ignore his conscience.

  McCabe wouldn’t believe her if she told him this, though. He was so certain his self-control would hold no matter what.

  Mika brought a hand up and rubbed her forehead. Somehow, before she left this world, she was going to have to help Conor learn to accept his nature and forgive his father. She dropped her arm and sighed. While she was at it, maybe she’d negotiate world peace too. That couldn’t be any harder.

  He was ready when the attack came. The rogue’s first blow would have killed him—if Conor had been completely human. His grin widened. This might be an interesting fight after all.

  He used his speed to avoid the second strike, sending his opponent flailing into space. A boot to the vampire’s ass sent the creature to the ground, but he rolled to his feet almost instantly. “You’re not human,” he said. “Not going to be so easy a lunch.”

  “No shit,” Conor replied. “You gonna run like the coward you are, fang boy?”

  It was the coward part that was the right button. Conor could see it in the vamp’s eyes, but the vampire didn’t move and Conor didn’t either.

  “What are you?” the vampire asked.

  Conor didn’t answer verbally. Instead, he sent an illusion into the vampire’s
mind—one he knew would cause fear. Some demons could project imagery over their real bodies, but he’d never been able to do that. The best he could manage was to make one person think they were seeing something they weren’t.

  In the deception, he shapeshifted into a being with large, leathery wings and black eyes that glowed red. He increased his size, making his body huge, and added fangs and claws. For the hell of it, Conor also covered his illusory form with dark, impenetrable scales. It was cliché demon, but going with the obvious worked best.

  For a minute, he thought he’d laid it on too thick and that his opponent would run, but then the vampire gathered his courage. Conor watched him sail past. He sighed; the creature had tried to attack the illusion. He quit projecting—he wanted to work off some frustration, not watch an acrobatic act.

  He got his wish.

  The next attack came at full power. Conor used his forearm to block the strike and delivered a hard blow with the heel of his hand to the vampire’s throat. The two combatants broke off, circled, came at each other again.

  Conor found his own momentum used against him as he went sailing over his foe’s shoulder. He rolled as he hit the ground and came immediately to his feet, but his attacker was there first, ready to land a punch. Conor grabbed the vampire by the arm, whirled him into the side of a building. The vamp’s shoulder hit the corner, but while Conor was able to bang him against the brick once, he couldn’t hold him there.

  The creature hissed and dove at him. Conor went down, the vampire atop him. With his hand at his enemy’s neck, he turned, getting on top, but it only lasted an instant before he was on his back again. Conor grunted as they rolled and he took a punch to his kidney.

  Enough of this shit, he decided. He used his Kiverian strength to push the vamp back. The creature stumbled but didn’t fall. It didn’t matter. Conor was on his feet, ready for the next attack.

  He blocked three blows in rapid succession before he delivered a roundhouse kick to the vamp’s chest. Conor moved closer, and used the ridge of his hand to strike his opponent. The vampire moved and Conor’s blow went off target. Damn.

  With a quick whirl, Conor avoided a fist to his face and let loose with a front kick, leaving his attacker staggering. Conor ducked, avoiding another swing at his head, then used his demon strength to leap in the air and elude the foot aimed at his knee. He came down behind the vampire, and hit the side of the creature’s neck before grabbing an arm and twisting it. Conor drove the bastard’s head into a brick wall several times before the vampire broke away.

  Then came the moment of truth: As he launched his next attack, the vampire left himself wide open. Conor pulled his arm back, then drove his hand into the creature’s chest and tore out the heart. Time seemed to hang suspended before his opponent fell to the ground.

  It didn’t take long before a dead vamp turned to dust, but Conor didn’t feel like dealing with the remains for any amount of time. The same demon power he had that froze living things also worked in reverse—it speeded up physical processes. He directed that energy to the heart he held, turning it to powder. Then, crouching down, he touched the corpse and did the same thing.

  At last Conor straightened, looked down at the pile of coarse particles on the sidewalk and tugged the sleeves of his jacket back to his wrists. That was the nice thing about killing vampires—once they turned to dust, there was nothing to worry about.

  A quick glance verified that there were no witnesses to the fight. Conor rolled his shoulders, easing the kinks. There were a few sore places, but nothing that wouldn’t heal in an hour or two, and the physical exertion had done a lot to work off his frustration. Taking a deep breath, Conor headed for the bar.

  As he neared it, he slowed. Once, it might have been a neighborhood tavern, but those days were long past. The building’s red brick facade looked bleak, without even a splash of graffiti to add color. But then, the local gangs would think twice about irritating the owners and regulars of this establishment. Conor opened the heavy, wooden door and stepped inside.

  Hole in the Wall was mostly a werewolf hangout, and the shadowy, almost nonexistent lighting made them feel at home. He paused, his eyes scanning all occupants. The place was mostly filled with the dogs, but Conor picked up the energy of the occasional vampire and human too. Not the brightest move to come here. Why chance catching the attention of this group of killers?

  Aside from the dimness, there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that gave the place away as a hot spot for monsters; it could be any booze joint in America. The wooden floor was battered and scarred, booths ringed three walls of the building, and tables filled the open floor. Along the fourth wall was a long, highly polished bar with stools.

  Satisfied that everything was normal, Conor began searching for his contact. Nat—no last name—wasn’t easy to spot, not even for a half-Kiverian hunter. It took two sweeps of the room, and even then Conor didn’t think he would have succeeded if the man hadn’t moved. Nat stepped out of a crowd waiting at the bar and, with a jerk of his head, signaled for Conor to follow.

  The table the other man chose was in a corner at the back, somewhat secluded. Conor found it interesting how the best seat in the house remained open, but then Nat had that kind of luck. If the word luck applied.

  The man was an enigma, someone Conor had never been able to pin down. For starters, he couldn’t read Nat’s energy signature and that was weird. Demons read everyone’s sig, even other types of demons, but this man’s pattern remained ambiguous. One moment Conor would pick up vampire energy, the next it would be werewolf or human or some type of demon. As many times as he’d met with Nat, Conor had never had a clear idea of what he was.

  Even the man’s appearance was changeable. Tonight, his hair seemed to have reddish highlights, but at other meetings it had been totally dark. If Nat were human, his age could be anywhere between thirty and forty-five. If he wasn’t human, there was no way to guess. Conor knew one thing, though, his contact had the eyes of a predator; they were watchful, always taking in his surroundings. This was no innocent.

  A waitress came over, and Conor ordered a beer then waited impatiently as Nat bantered with the woman. For someone so gregarious, it was strange the way he’d vanish. There were times when Conor searched high and low, times when he’d needed information badly but was unable to find a trace that Nat existed. On other occasions, the man practically flagged him down to pass on intel.

  Everything about Nat raised questions, but his information was always one-hundred-percent accurate. Conor wasn’t going to risk alienating his informant by probing too closely. Not yet.

  Finally the waitress left, and Nat turned to him. “So,” Nat said quietly. “What do you need, my friend?”

  Conor quirked a brow. “Since when do you resort to bullshit, my friend?”

  The corners of Nat’s lips turned up, but the expression was so slight, very few would have caught it. “As charming as ever, McCabe. It’s a wonder you haven’t driven her off yet.”

  Although he was careful to display no reaction, everything in Conor went still. “Her?” he asked.

  “Your houseguest.”

  Raising his other brow in question, Conor didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what his informant was aware of, but he’d do nothing that might put Mika at greater risk. The fact that Nat knew about her strung Conor’s nerves tight—and made his demon side rage within him.

  “Play dumb all you want,” Nat said, “but you didn’t sneak her into your house. Lots of people are aware of her presence.”

  “People, or things?” Conor asked, tacitly admitting that Mika existed. His contact was right; he hadn’t brought her into his home covertly. Hell, he’d seen Mrs. Howell, his elderly next-door neighbor, peeking out her window.

  Nat nearly smiled. “Both.”

  The waitress returned, halting conversation. Conor stood, dug some bills out of the front pocket of his jeans and paid for the drinks. He added a generous tip, which earned him a smil
e of thanks, but the woman was enthralled by Nat. As Conor sat, waiting for the flirting to end, he opened his beer and took a swig. His source seemed to be in no hurry.

  Mika was like a damn lightning rod. It shouldn’t surprise him that others noticed her. Her life, her vitality, shone from her, and even he found himself fascinated: He wanted to watch her, to be part of her orbit. Maybe all Mahsei were like her, but Conor doubted it. Mika was special.

  He raised the bottle to his lips. If it were only sexual attraction, it would be easy. But it wasn’t. She had him engaged on so many different levels, he didn’t know which way was up. And he was beginning not to care.

  Mika was half demon, half Japanese and complete trouble. Damn, if he didn’t want more of her brand of chaos.

  A chuckle made him lower his beer back to the table and focus on the man sitting across from him. “What has you so amused?” he snapped.

  When Nat only shrugged, Conor scowled. He was willing to bet his preoccupation had been obvious, and Mika was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford. He might have faith in his contact’s info, but he didn’t know or trust the man.

  “What have you got for me?” he asked.

  Nat gave another shrug and said, “Depends what you want to know. Might have nothing. Might have a lot.”

  Oh, hell, they were going to play games—just what he needed. Nine times out of ten, Nat would be upfront, but then there were the meetings where Conor had to ask precisely the right question. It irritated him in the best of circumstances, but with Mika in danger, he had no patience for this. His demon half roared inside him, pulled harder to get free. Conor had to pause and get control before giving Nat a warning look.

  “Interesting,” the man commented. He leaned back in his chair, and this time made no attempt to suppress his smile.

  Conor ignored the comment and the smug expression. “Tell me what you know about the demons in the area,” he said.