“You have some good stuff here,” he told her. “Story’s not quite there yet, is it?”
His instincts were good, whether he believed in art or not. She glanced at the script. “I’m still working on it.”
There was a CD playing quietly on the stereo, David Bowie’s Diamond Dogs as background music on continuous replay. She’d had this need to listen to “We Are the Dead” just as the doorbell rang. She’d let the music keep playing as they talked. She’d been in movies too long not to think that one of the problems with real life was the lack of a soundtrack. This was her fourth such meeting with production executives, the second one this evening. Even though she was playing each meeting as though it were part of a structured act in a script, she was still getting nervous from being around so many people. She thought she was doing a pretty good job of keeping her nervousness under control, of staying focused on her objective.
You really ought to get out more, Valentine, she told herself. She noticed that her hand shook as she reached to pick up the blue ceramic mug she’d set next to the pile of script pages on the coffee table. No, I shouldn’t. She took a sip of coffee, then focused her attention on Art Rasmussen. She caught his gaze. “Talk to me,” she said as “Future Legend” began to play again.
Rasmussen thoughtfully rubbed his jaw, obviously uncomfortable at the intensity of her gaze. “Sex is good. Sex sells. But does the vampire have to be the heroine’s boyfriend? I’m mean, the guy’s dead. The dead can’t get it up.”
“He isn’t dead; he’s different.”
“Of course he’s dead. He’s a vampire. And he’s Arab.”
Not that again! “Turkish and Egyptian,” she explained, not for the first time. First her agent, and now every executive she’d talked to was concerned with audience identification with the hero. “I’m emphasizing his being Egyptian for a reason.” Because he is, she added to herself.
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t care.”
He pretended not to hear. “Black, I can see. Snipes opened Blade. Denzel, Will Smith, they could make it work.”
She went on. “You see, Selim is a prince. Every other vampire knows he’s a prince, but they think he’s an Egyptian prince. Ancient Egyptian. They’re thinking pyramids and pharaohs, and he’s letting them believe he’s thousands of years old.”
Art Rasmussen did not see the obvious humor. “And this is important how?”
“Because he’s an Enforcer of the Law, but he’s only about two hundred years old. Here he is, in charge of the city, bossing all these ancient strigoi around, when, in fact, he’s just this wet-behind-the-fangs kid. They all think he can take out any one of them any time he wants, so they always back down; but the truth is, almost any nest leader could take him on. They couldn’t kill him, but—”
“Nests,” Rasmussen interrupted. “You’ve got it structured like a kind of vampire Mafia. That’s good. I like that. Different families running different parts of the city, fighting each other. With this Selim keeping everything in checks and balances.”
“Think of him as the marshal of Los Angeles,” Valentine went on. “He makes sure everyone keeps to their own territories, sets up what kills are allowed between Hunts, makes sure no humans find out about the vampire community, enforces the Laws.”
“Laws? Vampires have laws?”
“They used to when I—All societies have laws,” Valentine hastily corrected herself. “That’s what makes Selim the hero. He’s upholding the Laws.”
Rasmussen looked disgusted. “He’s a vampire. Vampires are evil. I’m not making a movie about a vampire hero. No studio will support this; I don’t care how it’s bankrolled, I don’t care who’s pitching it.”
“Think of it as very hip, cynical, and postmodern.”
“There are no good guys.”
“Rather like in real life,” she suggested with a smile. “Tarantino never has good guys. Moral ambiguity sells these days. I’ll put explosions in it,” she offered. “Car chases. More sex. Vampires love sex. How about a human villain for the vampire hero to fight? No. I don’t like that. I want it to be about real vampires’ problems. It’s a story that needs to be told.”
He stood up. “I think it’s been nice meeting you.” He didn’t say, You’re crazy, lady, but he didn’t have to. He was shouting it inside his head loud enough for Valentine to wince from the volume.
“I am not,” she answered his thought. She pointed at the couch. Sit.
He eyes widened, his shoulders strained under his dark silk designer jacket, but he promptly obeyed.
Don’t move, my dear. And stop thinking so loud.
“Nod if you can hear me,” she said.
Rasmussen nodded. Slowly. He stared at her, his gaze having gone soft and worshipful, quite without any choice in the matter. There was surprise and outrage buried deep inside him, but the surface of his mind was detached from it. The surface was hers, and all she’d done was barely suggest that his brain pay attention. The telepathic connection had come almost too easily. She guessed she still had it. What a shame.
Valentine sighed. “I hadn’t planned on doing this the easy way,” she told him. “I really hate this sort of thing. But a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do, I suppose. Too bad.”
She rose to her feet and approached the human. It required touch to go deeper inside. She was small, delicate-looking. He was tall and beefy, not at all bad-looking, though she didn’t find the collagen he’d had injected in his lips attractive. It didn’t make him look younger or sexier, just vain. It would have to go. No, no, she reminded herself. He wasn’t going to be that kind of slave. She’d outgrown her interest in playthings. Her movement was tentative at first, as she rested a fingertip on his artificially puffed lips. They were soft, and really felt quite—nice.
“Mmm,” she murmured and cupped his face with her hands. Her skin absorbed the warmth of his. Heat spread through her, a simple pleasure, unfamiliar and unwelcome, but marvelous all the same. Maybe she could play with him . . . a little. They were more like cats than owls in some ways, despite the emblem they’d adopted for themselves thousands of years ago. He moaned at the dual touch of her mind and hands on him. Moaned with pleasure and alarm. She tried not to enjoy his dual reaction. This was a business deal.
“You see, sweetheart,” she explained as she probed deeper into Rasmussen’s thoughts, “I’ve always liked to think of myself as the only vampire in this town—barring producers and studio heads, and agents, and—well, you know what I mean. I’ve spent far more time with you human vampires than with my own kind. But they’re out there, on the move, and I can use that. Have to.”
Valentine stroked his face and throat, let the need build in both of them. He was addicted to power. He was beginning to learn what it was to be addicted to subservience. “Vampires invented d/s games, did you know that, darling?” She let him nod. “Well, not games. I’m the real dom, and you’re the real sub.” She let him put his hands on her and lick his lips. He was beginning to sweat. She went on, digging mental hooks deeper into his consciousness as she spoke. “I prefer living a quiet life and playing by your rules when I have to play at all. But I’ve been having this really big problem with writer’s block. Until I came up with the best idea I’ve ever had. The idea is to tell the truth. Nobody tells the truth in this town. But I’m going to, and you’re going to help.”
She stepped back, abandoning sensation for clear, precise thought once more. Rasmussen was horny, humble, and ready for the next step. She wasn’t. “I hate this crap,” she complained as she went into her bedroom. She came back with a very specialized blade. She approached the couch, held the dagger up in one hand, and sliced open a fingertip on her other hand with it. “Ouch. Damn. Here.” She stuck her bleeding finger in Rasmussen’s mouth. He didn’t need any instructions to begin suckling. As she whispered powerful words, blood and magic flowed out of her, a few drops at a time, and into Art Rasmussen.
Valentine threw back her
head and laughed. “You don’t need the gift to be a natural-born bloodsucker, I guess.”
He did have the gift, of course, just a little. Enough for her purposes. She’d had to go through three meetings to find someone with just the degree of mental talent she needed. She’d been intending to do this since having her agent arrange the meetings. Why else take a face-to-face when there were faxes, phones, and E-mail in this day and age? She just liked pretending to herself that she was above her kind’s usual parasitical behavior. And which kind would that be? she wondered. The strigoi or the moviemakers?
She ruffled Art’s perfectly arranged hair. “Hey, it’s real.”
It was soft and thick and smelled wonderful, a sensual delight to touch. She’d tried to forget how good this felt. Valentine wanted to resent Rasmussen for forcing pleasure on her, but it felt too good just now for her to be grumpy. She let the blade fall from her hand. It landed on top of the pile of script pages, leaving a small splatter pattern of her, damp red on the white paper. Valentine closed her eyes, listened to David Bowie’s seductive voice, and let the throb of exhilaration within take over for a few moments. But only for a few.
Art Rasmussen let out a piteous, hungry groan when she pulled her hand away from his mouth. He looked up at her with begging, puppy-dog eyes. She wanted to let it go on, too. “No,” she told him firmly and wiped her wet finger on her slacks. “I want to work with your studio, not make you my baby.” She pointed at the door. The cut on her finger was beginning to heal. Time for him to get out before she put a few puncture wounds in his skin. “Go home now,” she told him. “Call me this time tomorrow night. No, make that Wednesday.” She wanted to do another treatment, nail the outline for sure. She had some research to do before she could really get into the final draft. “After the playoff game,” she added as Rasmussen headed obediently for the door.
He glanced at her over his shoulder and ran a hand through his mussed hair. He smiled, his eyes full of love. “Fine. I’ll call you then.” He blinked, and puzzlement was added to his adoration. “Something seems to be missing. What do I do now, call you Mistress, and grovel?”
“Nah,” she said, waving toward the door. “Just go on home. And don’t expect me to be wearing some kind of dominatrix rig when you see me again.” Valentine felt a stab of guilt over the need she had just forced on Rasmussen, and she relented a little. There was someone she’d heard about. Valentine had her own suspicions about the girl, since she’d heard about her off and on for at least sixty years. She gave Rasmussen her name.
He’d obviously heard of her. “I don’t use hookers.”
Valentine shrugged. “Just a suggestion, sweetheart. In case you get the itch I have no intention of scratching.”
He took it well, but then, of course, he was in no condition to argue with her over anything. “Okay.” He grinned. “Can I see your fangs?”
“No. Go home. Men,” she grumbled as the door shut behind Rasmussen. “They always want to see a girl’s fangs.”
“I’m a tit man myself,” Yevgeny said as he came out of the bedroom. When she turned toward him, he was leaning against the door frame, arms folded. “Of course, I didn’t used to be. You’ve got the best pair on the planet.”
“Tits?”
“Those, too.”
He was tall and blond and broad, arrogant as ever. Valentine’s bare toes curled in the thick carpet as he looked her over. She hadn’t let him come to her in a long time, but her reaction to him was just as strong as ever. That was why she hadn’t let him come. He was here now, and she wanted him. She told herself it was because of what she’d been doing with Rasmussen. The truth was, she always wanted Yevgeny.
Besides, she owed him. He wasn’t likely to let her forget it. There was only one way for her to pay. Besides, she wanted to.
He held his hand out toward her. Fire caught between them.
“Oh, what the hell,” she murmured, and went into the bedroom with him.
Chapter 7
“DID I SAY you could come in?”
“Do you think you can keep me out?”
He’d taken the elevator. Siri had taken the stairs and was waiting for him at his door. Siri hadn’t spoken a word to him since they left the shopping center. Hadn’t even reacted when he’d kissed her cheek before getting out of the car. He’d assumed she was too shocked and angry for communication. He’d told himself that was all for the best, that she’d get over it if they left it alone, but he knew it for a lie. Now here she was, at the place where he wanted her, which was also the place where she shouldn’t be. He’d miscalculated again. He didn’t know if it was Siri or celibacy that was driving him crazy. Both. Oh, and there was this Hunt thing he was attempting to deal with.
“It’s late,” Selim told his companion. “Nearly dawn.”
She looked at her watch. “You’ve got time.”
“Go home.”
“No.” She tapped her foot, making sharp rapping sounds on the hardwood floor.
Selim unlocked the door and let her walk in ahead of him. It was just as well to capitulate on this. A shouting match out in the hallway might call attention from his neighbors. The walls of his home were thickly insulated. No screams would ever disturb the neighbors from the inside. He knew that from experience. He’d been living in the same apartment for over sixty years, and nobody had heard anything yet.
She followed him down the long entry hall like an angry little shadow. Her gaze stabbed him in the back, irritating as a wasp sting. What her emotions did to him was even worse. He’d had a rough night. He was drained. Tired.
“You do know I’ve already got a headache?” he questioned as they reached the living room.
“Am I making it worse?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Redheads. And their tempers. Why were vampires always so attracted to redheads?
Selim turned on Siri. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her, but if he did that, it was likely he’d kiss her. That would just be giving in to what she wanted, what they both wanted. Then he saw her face, blazing with fury and disgust. Maybe that wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe that wasn’t what this was about. It hurt him to think that her show of temper wasn’t about the way he was hurting her lately. What was the use of—
It was too close to dawn. He didn’t have time for this.
“What?” he demanded.
A start of fear went through Siri when Selim turned on her. His pupils were wide, a hint of fang bulged beneath his lips. A glance at his hands showed her that the nails were sharpening. Her heart slammed hard in her chest, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “What are you going to do? Eat me alive?”
“It’s too late for that, we’re already married.”
Her fear didn’t lessen any, and laughter died in the tightness of her throat. She saw what he wanted to talk about, what Selim was finally ready to talk about. She let it go. It hurt like hell to throw away the opportunity, but she wouldn’t let him distract her now. She glanced out the arched balcony doorway. Faint gray light showed beyond the fanned-out tops of the pair of palm trees just outside. Selim was right. He didn’t have much time. Better to get to the point then and not waste it.
“What did you mean by telling Sterling that he could kill Moira Chasen?”
Selim’s features had settled into a more human cast by the time he spoke, which somehow made his words more chilling. “I meant he can kill Moira Chasen.”
Siri suddenly found it very hard to stand. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected the answer. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want—need—to hear it. It was just that she didn’t know what to do about it.
“You can sit down,” Selim said. “You look terrible. Do you want a drink?”
Solicitous as ever, he helped her to the old camelback sofa, then went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of ice water for her. Siri had fought down her revulsion and regained her temper by the time he returned. She thanked him for giving her the time for tha
t. Taking the tall, frosted glass from him as he bent over her, she asked, “What am I supposed to do with this? Throw it in your face?”
He slid to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of her. “I’d prefer that to your throwing breakable objects this time. Cold water might help keep me awake.”
“That won’t work.”
He shrugged. “They say people need less sleep as they get older.”
Siri balled her hands into fists to keep from reaching out and ruffling his thick, dark hair. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t be cute.”
Siri looked around the room rather than at Selim. He was radiating persuasive charm at the moment, and she didn’t want to be affected by it. Having him close to her never helped when she wanted to be clear-headed. She often advised him to move out of this old building, to get rid of all his accumulated stuff, but for the moment she was glad of all the tsatkes, photos, and things he kept around. Every horizontal space was covered with the mementos of a longer-than-mortal lifespan. Things she could look at. Things she could throw if the need arose.
The carpet was old, Persian, the pattern deep red and gold and cream. Soft and thick, comfortable to sit on. Comfortable to make love on, as she well knew. Except for the computer and a thirty-two-inch television set she’d given him two years ago, the furnishings in the big penthouse were mostly from the 1920s and ’30s. They reminded Siri of the set of some sophisticated, witty old black-and-white movie. Only she was feeling far more film noir than screwball comedy right now.
She finally looked back at Selim. She wasn’t any calmer, nor was his look of patient concern in the least bit endearing. Having lived through one Hunt when the prey deserved to die had been bad enough. She didn’t see how she could survive one when it was murder rather than execution. Her soul wouldn’t survive that. Neither would Selim’s, and she knew he had a soul. “Why would you let Sterling kill that girl?”
Laws of the Blood 1: The Hunt Page 6
