by Elle Jasper
I glanced at Riggs; at his baggy shorts, his Eminem T-shirt, and his Nike Airs, and then, his shaggy hair held in place by a red bandanna. “Nice headband, Riggs,” I said, noticing he had one holding back his bangs.
“I wore it just for you, babe,” he said, grinning. He inclined his head. “Wanna spar?”
I grinned back. The little turd knew I hated being called babe. “Oh yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Luc let out a whistle, clapped, and smiled, the hoop in his lip silver and, in my biased opinion, so him. “Yeah, baby—some action! Step back, folks—kids, wannabes”—he glanced at his parents—“and the elderly.” He grinned and backed toward the wall. “Poe’s got the floor.”
I rolled my eyes at him—what a nerd. I pointed at him. “You’re next.”
A round of oooh’s went through the donjon.
Elise Dupré smiled broadly at me. “That I’ll be looking forward to, darling.” She turned to Gilles. “We’ve got that auction on eBay, darling.”
“Oui ,” he answered, and, grinning, the two left the donjon.
I felt pretty certain she hadn’t particularly appreciated being called elderly. It was one thing to think it, but to say it? Eesh. I did think it hilarious that the matriarch and patriarch of the family raced to eBay auctions.
Riggs sauntered to the center of the mat, whipped his Emenem shirt over his head, and tossed it aside, leaving a pretty impressive six-pack (for a kid) exposed. Good God, that boy thought his boat rocked. Before he had tendencies, he was just a smart-ass adolescent with a cocky attitude. Now he had . . . powers. And while his experience had matured him some, he was still, well, pervy, cocky Riggs. Now he and his ego would be impossible to live with. He needed an attitude adjustment.
I was going to kick his ass.
With a quick glance at Eli, whose wicked grin told me he’d just read my thoughts, I met Riggs on the mat. The others watching clapped, Phin whistled again, and Riggs began to circle me. I let him—for a few. You know, he had to show off a little, for the other Flies, and I gave him that. He did some pretty amazing wall jumps (where he ran toward the wall, then sort of ran up it, then flipped over me), some sick leaps directly over my head, and a few cool roundhouse kicks. Yep. He was one impressive little shit-with-tendencies.
The moment he landed from his roundhouse, I crouched and swept his legs with one kick. Riggs hit the mat, back down with a smack. Everyone laughed, clapped—whatever.
Riggs stared up at me from the floor, grinning, as I extended my hand. He took it, and I pulled him up. He leaned close. “See? I knew I’d get you to touch me,” he said in my ear. “Babe.”
Then, all at once, several things, none of which I had any control over, hit me hard.
Quick as lightning, Riggs grasped my forearm and whole-body flipped me. As I went airborne, that same sick sensation I’d experienced with Seth came over me; I knew another awful image was about to fill my brain. My body went limp, and shadows fell behind my eyelids. I saw nothing, heard nothing—couldn’t speak, and I don’t remember even hitting the mat. I remained weightless in some dark, cloudy fog, where nothing else existed, as if I’d totally left the donjon. Finally, a sound—a heartbeat. I can’t tell you if it was mine or someone else’s. At first, it was muffled, but it grew in tone and intensity.
Then, slowly, my vision returned. Blurred at first, it went in and out of tune like an old TV set, and finally, it focused on . . . I blinked several times. A girl. In a bar. No, a club. In a booth. Music banging. Punk music banging. Surroundings unfamiliar. Girl unfamiliar. Girl totally wasted. She was a partier, midtwenties, heavy black eye makeup, Marilyn Monroe–ish, white-bleached bobbed hair with orange streaks. Her black leather strapless bustier barely contained her heavy breasts. She leaned over the table, picked up the glass of her mixed drink, and licked first the rim, then her dark red lips. Her brown eyes were hazed, and her pheromones were so pungent, I could smell them. She was horny and wanted me, only . . . I wasn’t me. Of course I wasn’t me. I wasn’t into girls. She saw him; not me. I could hear her heart beating erratically. She reached out for my hand, grasped it, and I looked down. The hand wasn’t mine. It was male; older, rough-skinned, not Victorian’s smooth pale skin. I knew that, though.
She stood and led me out of the booth. The leather miniskirt she was wearing hardly covered her ass, and the bustier was laced in back, revealing bare skin. I noticed a tattoo on her lower back. It was Death’s fingers, his long skeletal bones spread out across her, beckoning; it was my work. I had inked her before. She was laughing, stumbling as she made her way to the exit. She was pulling me, and I could feel her hand in mine; yet . . . it wasn’t me. But I could feel whoever it was. I knew what was going to happen; I could feel the anticipation of the kill inside me. I tried to move my lips, vibrated my vocal cords, and tried to warn her. I tried to scream, and deep inside me, I felt immense anxiety to warn her. It was no use. I was speechless, useless, not really even here. I could do nothing but watch—watch and be horrified.
The girl pushed out into the night, and the air was muggy, heavy; the faint scent of salt clung to my tongue. She hung on me as we walked, and she half stumbled, half pulled me along the sidewalk, drunkenly laughing, until the lights from the club, the thumping music from within, became dull and barely there. I heard only her heartbeat. I tried to yank back, but my body wasn’t really my own. Long shadows fell across her, and she pulled me into an alley. The scent of mingled mold and urine and brine reached my nostrils, and she fell against the brick wall, staring at me with her wide, drug-hazed, lust-filled eyes. How stupid she was; how utterly freaking ignorantly stupid.
A zipper closed the front of her leather bustier. She grasped the metal tab and pulled it down to her waist. Her breasts spilled out, and she grabbed my hands, pressing them to her skin. Inwardly, I resisted. Again, it was no use. Her head fell back, and she moaned.
It was the very last sound she ever voluntarily made.
The heartbeat I felt wasn’t mine, but hers, and it resonated within my head, strong, heady, and I lunged at her bared chest. Her moan died in a liquid curdling sound as her body fell hard to the cobbled ground; I followed her down. Blood, bone, and flesh flashed before my eyes, a vicious carnage that nauseated me. I couldn’t pull away, I couldn’t look away. Yet the need, the hunger—the horror—roared within me. Liquid warmth flowed down my throat, sweet, intoxicating, and my throat constricted as I sucked.
“Riley!”
My head snapped, hitting something hard, and my cheek stung as a hand smacked it. My eyes fluttered open, and I stared up—into the widened eyes of Riggs. He was straddling me, I was flat on my back on the donjon mat, and his hand was raised to give me another smack. His hand never reached my skin.
“Don’t do that again, kid,” Eli said, his voice edged with threat, a death grip on Riggs’ hand. “Get off her.”
Riggs moved—fast, and then I was looking into Eli’s eyes as he bent down on one knee and hovered over me. He stared, hard, for several seconds, and I knew he was digging in my brain. With a stern look, his gaze traveled over my body, then searched my face. “Yeah, I am digging. What the hell’s going on, Riley?”
Seth squatted down beside me and leaned over. “Ri? You okay?”
“I’m okay, Seth.” I sat up. “Seriously. No worries.”
Behind my brother stood Phin, Luc, and Josie; behind them, Zetty, Riggs, and the others. They all looked at me as if I’d grown another freaking head. “What?” I asked, glancing at all of them, then back to Eli. I stared silently, frustration and a little anger growing faster by the second. Tucking my foot under my ass, I moved to stand. Eli pushed me back down. In the next second Zetty was standing there, pinching dust from his protective pouch and sprinkling it over me.
He muttered something in Tibetan.
“Zetty, stop it!” I said, waving my hand in front of my face. “What the hell?”
“You got some bad stuff in you, Riley,” he said in his heavy Nepali accen
t. “It needs to come out.”
I glared at him. “Well thanks, Zet-Man. I’ll see what I can do.”
Zetty glared back, then moved away. Eli was there, doing his share of glaring.
“Tell me,” he said, his frown deepening and his blue eyes growing dark. “Now.”
I frowned back. “Jesus, Eli. Chill.”
He continued to stare, waiting for an answer.
I sighed. “It was another daydream. Very realistic—”
“How realistic?” he asked.
I looked at him, blocking out everyone else from the room. I focused solely on Eli. “Very. I see a kill. Feel it. As if I’m the killer.” With my thumb and forefinger, I rubbed my closed eyes, digging hard into the sockets, trying to erase the images, the feelings. “I ... feel his emotions, his desires, and they’re so gross—”
“Is it Victorian Arcos?” Eli asked.
The fury in his face was almost frightening. “No,” I answered. “But he’s male. In the daydream, when I reach out, it’s not my hand but his.” I shook my head and looked at him. “It’s freaky, and I hate it.” I inhaled. “Can I get up now?”
Eli didn’t answer me, but he grasped my hand and pulled me up.
“So what’s causing it, Eli?” asked Phin. He ran a hand over his short blond hair and stared at his brother. “I don’t like it, Bro. Something’s up.”
Eli kept silent, his gaze trained on me. “Yeah.” He inclined his head. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I asked. “You know I don’t like to be bossed—”
“Now, Riley,” Eli said, his stern expression edgy. “I mean it. To my parents’ study. They’ have to know.”
Phin and Luc were already halfway across the donjon floor. My gaze lit on Seth’, and then on Josie, who stood right next to him. She looked at me, eyes fixed and reading me as though she could see straight through me. She picked up on my apprehension. “It’ll be cool,” she said with encouragement. “Eli’s right. Mother and Papa can help.”
With Eli’s hand on my elbow, I made my way to the Duprés’ study. Phin and Luc had waited. Eli reached around me, caught my gaze and held it, then turned the antique cut-glass knob and pushed open the door. I walked through a mixture of jasmine and the scent of a sweet cigar kicked up by a whirling ceiling fan as I entered the room. In the next second, a breeze grazed my cheek; Phin and Luc were across the room. I hadn’t even seen them move. My gaze lit on Eli’s parents, seated at a large mahogany desk near the window. Elise studied something on the computer’s flat-screen monitor. Gilles leaned over her shoulder, obviously interested.
“Take the bid up to twenty-five pounds, love,” Gilles said to Elise.
“Ah, and then we’ll wait and snipe,” Elise said, typing in her request. Gilles looked up and smiled at me. “On eBay. I’ve a penchant for antique pocket watches.”
“Papa,” Eli said, his slight French accent catching my attention. “Riley has . . . an issue. We need your counsel.”
Gilles rose and walked to me, stopping no more than a few feet away. His profound stare struck me. “What is the matter, ma chérie ?” He cocked his head. “Dreams, I see,” he said, nodding, before I could answer. “Of kills? Tell me.”
I glanced at Eli, and he nodded. I continued. “It’s as if . . . I’m him. The killer. And it’s not Victorian Arcos. It’s another male, and I’m seeing through his eyes. I can feel him. He attacks and feeds, but I can’t stop what he does.” I shook my head. “I try, but I can’t speak, move, or control his actions. It’s as if I’m . . . behind his eyelids.” I looked at Eli’s dad. “I recognized the last victim by her tattoo. It was my work.”
Gilles stroked his smoothly shaven chin; clear blue eyes the same shocking color as Eli’s regarded me. “You’ve a vampire’s venom inside you, Riley,” he said. “Yet you say it is not Victorian.” His gaze, curious, sought mine. “How do you know?”
It wasn’t that Gilles frightened me; he didn’t. I trusted him, just as I did Eli. But whenever I was around him, the feeling that I’d snuck and done something wrong and had just been busted overcame me. I’d been caught with Mary Jane stuffed in my locker in eighth grade once, and the school security guard had walked right up and caught me stuffing the plastic baggy in my backpack. He’d dragged me to the principal’s office, and it was that feeling. Gilles Dupré was an extremely profound soul.
Gilles smiled, clearly amused. He truly loved to read my thoughts. “Again, chérie. How do you know that it is not Victorian? It can be no other, oui?”
“I ripped Valerian’s heart out myself,” Eli said quietly.
“I helped Phin burn the rest of his body,” said Luc. “No way can it be him.”
“That leaves Victorian,” said Phin. He moved to stand next to me, folding his arms over his chest. “You have only the venom of the Arcoses. Like Papa said, there can be no other.”
I shook my head and looked first at Phin, then at Gilles. “I’ve seen his hand—it’s . . . rougher in texture, older skin, leathery. Definitely not Victorian’s young pale skin.”
Gilles glanced at Elise, then directly at Eli. “This concerns me, then. My only other guess is that another is projecting himself into you.” He regarded me closely. “You’ve obviously captured another’s attention.”
“Pissed them off is probably more accurate,” said Luc, and he looked at me. With a flip of his head, his shaggy dark blond hair swept out of his eyes. “Could’ve been any of the newlings,” he said. “Or possibly someone they’ve since turned.”
I closed my eyes, grasped the bridge of my nose, and swore in Romanian under my breath. “So what am I supposed to do? Watch innocent people die? Deal?” It’s what I’d done my whole damn life, right? Why stop now?
The room fell silent for all of five seconds; everyone stared at me. I figured the whole Dupré family had read my inner rant. At this point, I didn’t care anymore. Let’em read.
“We find him,” Eli said, that deadly edge back in his voice, his hand going protectively to the small of my back. I shivered. “And we kill him.”
Part Four
Mindless
“Everyone knows the phenomenon of trying to hold your breath underwater—how at first it’s all right and you can handle it, and then as it gets closer and closer to the time you must breathe, how urgent the need becomes, the lust and hunger to breathe. And then the panic sets in when you begin to think that you won’t be able to breathe—and finally, when you take in air and the anxiety subsides ... that’s what it’s like to be a vampire and need blood.”
—Francis Ford Coppola’s journal in Bram Stoker’s Dracula: The Film and the Legend
“I gotta tell ya—I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty tough Betty. A badass in my own right and proud of it. I’m not afraid of much, and if I am scared, I damn sure won’t announce it—to anyone. Unfortunately, my boyfriend and his entire family take privileges inside my private thoughts and know with certainty what scares me, what turns me on—and what pisses me off. All three of those emotions exist in heavy, intoxicating doses where this mystery bloodsucker is concerned, and the biggest fear I have is not that we won’t be able to stop him, but what it’s doing to Eli. He has become crazy-insane about what it’s doing to me. Heads are gonna roll—and I mean that literally.”
—Riley Poe
I thought I’d done a pretty fab job of holding it together after the terrors began. I mean, damn—I’d always fallen out in the throes of the terrors in front of someone, surrounded by, well, everyone. Yeah, they bothered me. Yeah, they were awful. And fuck-yeah, I wanted them to stop. The thing is I don’t sleep as much as I used to. Tendencies, you see. So that means my waking hours, when the terrors hit? There’re more of them—more opportunities for me to experience them. They do weird things to a mortal body, those terrors. I’m starting to feel different in a way I can’t explain. Just . . . not myself. And when I do sleep, I fall hard, as in coma-sleep. Eli is usually right there. Snooping in my brain.
H
e’s been on a wicked-dark edge lately that part of me totally digs, and yet part of me totally worries about. I could feel the tension in him; Eli isn’t known for his patience. I mean talk about a friggin’ stick of vampiric dynamite. So unlike his brothers who I know have the same frightening power; they just . . . contain it. Luc was so easygoing and laid-back, and Phin? I guess he was pretty much the same way. They had a good grip on their anger, their power. Eli? Ka-pow! All week at the shop, I felt his anger building. He’d done pretty well keeping it contained, but every once in a while, I’d see it; he’d extinguish it quickly. Today, though, he’d had enough. He’d parked his agitated ass right in the waiting area at Inksomnia and glared half the day while pretending to thumb through the tat design albums. Flip a page, glare. Flip a page, glare. Every freaking time I looked over at him. Glaring. At me. WTF? Nyx even noticed, but she thought we were just having a lover’s spat and left it alone. Today was Saturday, and she’d taken my last two clients so I could cut out early enough to get ready for the formal dinner at his parents’. I hurried upstairs. He followed. I felt his negative energy building, growing, festering, like some big, freakish reverse orgasm. The moment we stepped into the apartment, I shot a puzzled Seth a glance and stormed into my bedroom. I walked to the window and rounded on Eli. Ooh. I was fuming.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked angrily. “Jesus, Eli,” I said for lack of a better choice of words. “All week long, something’s been eating at you. What is up?”
Eli’s stare bore into me, his brows furrowed. “Nothing.”
I blinked. Did he really just say nothing? “You’re freaking kidding me, right? You know—never mind.” No way would I be able to force Eligius Dupré into telling me anything he didn’t want to tell me. Stubbornheaded vampire. I stepped toward him, nearly nose to nose. “Whatever it is that has you so pissed off, deal.” I poked his chest. “Chill out, come to grips with it, and don’t ever show your ass in my shop again. You got a problem with me, no matter what it is, talk to me. Privately. Don’t just . . . piss and pout about it all week. I can handle whatever, so don’t hold it in and get your balls in a twist stewin’ over it all day. Got it?” I gave him a final glare. “I freakin’ mean that, Eli.”
