Laws of the Blood 1: The Hunt

by Susan Sizemore

  “So,” he said, trying to chill the mood—and because he was jealous. “Who’s this blond you’ve been seeing?”

  Siri snatched her hand out of his. She waved it airily, “Oh, just a guy.” She sounded unconcerned, but she radiated confusion, uncertainty, sudden fear. She leaned close to his ear to whisper. “Watch your eyes.”

  Not just his eyes. His senses shifted. It was too bright under the lights. He saw too much: body heat, and emotions that rose like coloredflavored steam off the people around them. His hearing was keener as well. Hunger was a leashed need. And the Hunting instinct—

  An image formed in his mind of jumping onto the court, of taking the players down one at a time before the gaping crowd. The pale, polished wood ran with red, circles of paint were covered with slippery blood. He threw back his head and laughed.

  Siri hit him, a hard smack on the shoulder. “Down boy.”

  Selim blinked. What happened? Oh, yes, a fit of jealousy threw him over the thin edge of sanity a moment ago. He was back now. A quick check of play on the court reassured him that he’d only been hallucinating. Good. Eating the players was no way for a fan to behave during the playoffs.

  Selim pressed his palms against his temples as he heard Siri say to someone nearby, “He’ll be fine. He got into some bad acid in the sixties.”

  The someone laughed. “He wasn’t born in the sixties.”

  Selim lifted his head and looked deeply into the concerned citizen’s eyes. “I’m older than I look. Go away.”

  Siri was equal parts frightened and flattered by Selim’s erratic behavior. “Yevgeny,” she promptly answered his no-nonsense look once they were as alone as it was possible to be in a crowd of many thousands. “It was business,” she promised as he continued to glare. “I think he was with Jager. He was pissed about being cut loose, wanted to talk about it but couldn’t quite bring himself to trust me. I’ve seen him twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “In public both times—if that’s any of your business.”

  “It is.”

  “I met him at a strig hangout on Sunset the second time, when Jager came after me. It wasn’t a date.”

  “You were wearing something sexy.”

  “I’m glad you noticed. I had to blend in, didn’t I?”

  Selim’s eyes were large and dark, but in a normal way as he listened to her explanation. The expression in them was stern and suspicious, but there was nothing otherworldly about it. She was just glad to have his attention. “I almost didn’t come tonight,” she told him. “I did my best to stay away from you. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  His hand closed over hers again. “I need you with me.”

  “As personal assistant?” She bit her tongue after the bitter question was out. Damn. She hadn’t come here to get into a discussion of their problems. But if he wanted to get into a discussion—

  “You feel like a woman with a grim purpose,” he said, as the quarter ended.

  The Laker Girls came out to gyrate briefly to loud electronic music. Siri sat forward, pretending to pay attention to the cheerleaders while trying to decide how to answer, how to begin. She couldn’t come right out and say, ‘I know what you’re up to, and I’m not letting you get away with it.’ He wouldn’t listen to her arguments in favor of her species—even though he should.

  The players came back on the court for the second quarter, and the music faded from heavy to a dull roar. The sound system was drowned by the crowd noise anyway. Selim leaned forward beside her. He ruffled through her expensively cut short hair. She hated when he messed with it in public, and he knew it. She didn’t complain. She certainly didn’t object as his hand came to rest on the back of her neck. It was warm there, comforting. She arched against his palm, like a cat. She didn’t need to think to react to his touch. She couldn’t help but react, she couldn’t close her eyes and do anything but react, even if she wanted to.

  He whispered, half aloud, half in her mind. “There’s something important you want to discuss.”

  Even though she knew it was the wrong tack to take, she couldn’t help but think back, You don’t want to kill people.

  No, I don’t.

  A jolt of pleasure went through her. Relief. Hope. She knew he hadn’t meant to let her hear the thought, but there it was, out in the open. He had something she could work with. It was called a conscience. She turned to look at him.

  He struck at her hope before she could say anything. “This isn’t about me, Siri.”

  She ground her teeth in frustration. “I understand that.” She didn’t. Not quite. There were lots of things she didn’t understand, even though she’d thought she knew so much. She had to try once more. “I know it has to happen. But . . .” Blunt words were impossible. She didn’t have time to worry about this being the wrong place to talk. He was willing to start a riot to cover his ass—the hunting vampires’ asses. She had to talk him out of it, find alternatives. “Couldn’t you make them take the bad ones?”

  Selim scratched his jaw and pretended to look like he was thinking about it. She could tell by the anger in his narrowed eyes that he wasn’t interested in her opinions, didn’t want to hear them. As far as he was concerned, they’d had this argument, and he’d already won it. Bastard.

  “There’s no need for good people to die,” she pleaded.

  “Why not? Martha, my love?” His voice was soft, sarcastic, and cutting. “Good people die all the time.”

  She bridled for the usual reason. No one called her Martha, especially Selim. She could hear an echo of Larry Jager’s mocking voice with Selim’s use of her name. Jager had called her Martha a moment before she ran from him. Was Selim trying to rattle her with the reminder? If so, she tried not to let it work.

  “Do in drug dealers, murderers. No need for innocents to suffer. No need for families to have to mourn,” she said, mindful of how odd the conversation would sound if anyone was listening. Then again, maybe not. What was odd in Los Angeles? Especially here in the courtside, expensive season ticket seats? They could be talking over a script idea more easily than discussing the real events of the future. Which reminded her.

  “Who do you want to play you in the movie?”

  That got his attention. Every muscle in Selim’s body tensed. The terrified energy that shot from him gave her a brief, blistering headache. After a moment, the pain in her head cleared, but the grip he had on her arm was crushing. She squirmed. “Selim!”

  He relaxed and carefully stroked her bruised arm while she looked at him anxiously. After a deep breath, he said, “Sorry.” He shook his head and offered a lame smile. “It was like somebody walked over my grave.”

  “Which is somewhere in Egypt, right?” she asked jokingly.

  “Somewhere in the Middle East,” he agreed. “What do you mean, ‘play me in the movie’?” Siri felt the strain of worry beneath his light tone.

  “New vampire movie in the works,” she answered. “Tentatively titled If Truth Be Told. Preproduction press release said that it’s about real vampires. Who do you want to play you?”

  Selim looked at the court as a player came to the free-throw line. Siri watched Selim rather than the shot. He was pale. Living at night tended to make vampires that way naturally, but a tanning booth helped give a certain healthy glow to his honey gold complexion. Right now he was pale beneath the tan. Siri found this most worrying. His reaction to her mention of a movie was very, very interesting. Siri smiled to herself and eagerly grabbed onto the chance of diverting him from causing a very real riot.

  “Well?” she persisted.

  His laughed was forced. He looked around and pointed. “How about that scary-looking guy in the sunglasses?”

  She peered across the court and spotted a balding man wearing sunglasses. He was on his feet, shouting at the iniquity of Shaq missing an easy layup. “Jack Nicholson?”

  Selim looked offended when she made a gagging noise. But it was just an act. He was acting human, making fa
ces, while other senses raced and played inside his head. He was good, but she could feel the difference. No one else who looked at him would see anything odd about the slender man in the seat beside her. He was dying for details and afraid to ask. Siri was not used to Selim fearing anything, hadn’t even thought it was possible. This was very interesting and scary.

  “What do they mean, ‘real’?” he asked after a considerable silence. Then he relaxed a little. Enough to sigh and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re not the only one who does the vision thing, Siri, my love.”

  Tingling electricity ran up her spine. The Danger Will Robinson warning went off in her head, but her reality didn’t shift into events happening elsewhere or when. The vision had already occurred, but to Selim, not her. She wasn’t used to that, either. It seemed unfair, somehow, that someone sitting right next to her would have a vision, and she’d be unaffected by it. “Isn’t that my job?”

  “It’s your gift. Mine, too,” he added. “Sometimes. You know that.”

  She’d forgotten. “What did you see?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t talk about it. Probably not important. Daydreaming while I’m awake.”

  She didn’t think so. “Oh.”

  She didn’t push it. After a few minutes of being held by him, she didn’t want to talk at all. It felt good to have him touching her. She wanted to concentrate on the hard-muscled feel of him against her side. She wanted to enjoy being wrapped in his embrace, to go with the pleasure of physical closeness and never mind his plans for the future. Lives were at stake. Souls, too, including her own. She couldn’t stand by and let innocents die. So, if he was freaked by the possibility of another schlocky vampire movie getting made, it behooved her to encourage his interest in the project.

  “Do you want me to find out more about this film deal? Maybe Joseph can get his hands on a fax of a working script.”

  “Can he do that?”

  She nodded. “He says he gets scripts all the time. Kamaraju’s companion works for a big agency, too. Lisa handles a lot of scripts when they go into circulation. Shall I contact them?”

  He rubbed his jaw, still pretending only casual interest. “Sure. It might be fun to see what Hollywood means by ‘real.” ’ With his arm still around her, he urged her to her feet. “There’s somewhere I have to be,” he told her. “Can you give me a ride?”

  Like she was going to let him out of her sight if she could help it. She kept her tone as casual as his. “Sure. Your wish is my command and all that.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Valentine breathed as she stared at the television screen.

  “What?” Yevgeny asked, without taking his attention off the printout in his hands.

  “He saw me.” She laughed breathlessly. The old, leather-bound book she’d been reading slipped off her lap. It fell to the floor with a heavy thud that startled Valentine. Yevgeny didn’t pay it, or her, any mind. She shivered and searched the crowd at the Lakers game for another glimpse of Selim. The camera was more interested in play on the floor right now than panning past the celebrity-filled front seats. A moment before, Selim’s face flashed by on the screen just as an impulse told her to look up. Their eyes met, though miles separated them. His expression froze, the big dark eyes set in his long, triangular face widened. Maybe he didn’t see her, not the woman sitting on a couch with a book in her lap and a companion curled up beside her. But Selim saw something.

  “This is not good,” she murmured.

  Maybe it was the book that brought them together. There was magic in the book, and she didn’t mean just written-down spells. Words had their own power. Every writer knew that. Some magicians did, too. Selim’s name was in the book. The name of every Enforcer of the Law was in the book. And how they were made. How all vampires were made, though there was more than the one, traditional way. Very few vampires knew that.

  Yevgeny put the script onto the coffee table. “I like the part with the kid. It’s intense. Fast.” He blinked and rubbed a hand across his face. “Why are you frightened?”

  “Frightened? Me?”

  He nodded.

  She glared at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why did I let you come back? When did I give you a key to my apartment?”

  “Fifteen years ago.”

  “I should have the locks changed.”

  “You never let anything change.”

  She slammed a fist into the softly cushioned back of the couch. He ignored her burst of temper. He bent over and picked up the dropped book instead. He ran his thumbs along the thick, cracked leather of the cover. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a romance novel,” she snapped. She reached for it.

  He moved it out of her reach.

  “Give me that. I was just getting to a good sex scene.”

  His smirked and tilted his chin toward the bedroom. “If you want a sex scene—” He let the book fall open to the page she’d been reading. He squinted at the squiggled marks made in ancient, faded ink. “What language is this?”

  “Linear A.” Though that wasn’t what they’d called it where she came from.

  “Ah.” He continued to stare at the page. Yevgeny had a gift for languages. Rather, a Gift. He picked knowledge of a language he’d never seen before out of her head while staring at the words, though she tried to block him. Either she was getting thoroughly senile, or his mind-reading talent had grown lately. Within moments he said, “Interesting.”

  She didn’t know whether to be panicked or amused. “That’s forbidden knowledge, you know.”

  He looked up briefly. “I guessed.” He went back to reading.

  His finger moved down the page while she leaned back and watched. She really ought to take the book from him, make him forget what he’d read. She should never have unpacked it from the safe where she normally kept it locked. She thought of it as a diary of sorts. Others might call it history or define it as a grimoire if they were into the study of magic. She’d taken it out to do a little research for the script, to refresh her memory a little, only to discover that memory had served. She’d gotten the details of the ritual right to begin with. She had gotten caught up reading, in being reminded of things she had forgotten, many of them best left forgotten. She’d barely noticed when Yevgeny arrived, only frowned at his intrusion when he settled beside her. He was the one who turned on the basketball game she’d been looking forward to, and then he promptly become engrossed in the first official working draft of If Truth Be Told. She barely paid any attention to the game until Selim’s awareness had called to her. Now, here was her estranged companion absorbing facts no mortal, and very few vampires, were ever supposed to know. Some things she was willing to share with the world. Others—no. No way.

  Valentine shook herself out of her wandering thoughts. She held her hands out toward Yevgeny. “Give me that,” she said in a tone that wasn’t to be denied.

  He glared, blue eyes sharp as lasers, but did as he was told. His resentment was an acrid, smoky stench against her vampire senses. No, giving this man secret knowledge was not a good thing. She put the book on the table in front of the couch and concentrated on her angry companion. “You feel like a volcano ready to blow.”

  He nodded tightly. “Let me go,” he begged. “It’s time. We both know it.”

  “I shouldn’t have let you come back.” She sighed and twined her fingers tightly together in her lap. “It’s being with me that makes you so—”

  “Hungry!” he snarled. He grabbed her by the shoulders, and she let him shake her like a terrier with a rat. “It’s not being with you that makes me burn. It’s just as bad living in the exile you forced on me.”

  “For your own good, my love. You don’t want to be like me.”

  He gave a harsh, pained laugh. He stopped shaking her, but his grip on her shoulders tightened. “You never asked what I wanted. One night I found myself in your bed. I don’t belong there anymore.”

  His bitter heartache scalded her.
Valentine felt tears burning in her throat and behind her eyes. How long had it been since she’d cried? “I know. I’m sorry. I tried not to. The loneliness—we have to take companions. If I could live completely alone, I would.”

  “You’ve lived alone for the last three years. Made me live alone.”

  “I—I thought it might help. That if we could exist apart, you’d get better.”

  “Better?”

  “There have been a few times when the spell’s broken. When it’s worn off,” she explained. “A few people have recovered from vampire bites.”

  His laugh was loud, raucous, and furious. The sound was as harsh as if he’d stirred a flock of angry crows out of the shadows of the room. “After fifty years?”

  “It was worth a shot!” she shouted back. Her voice was as piercing as crystal and as cold as arctic ice in contrast to his dark fury.

  Ice and crystal didn’t pierce him, didn’t calm him. “Not to me! I need the change, Valentine. I need the magic to make the change. I need your spell. I need to be born, Valentine.”

  “Someone has to die for you to be born. I don’t kill people anymore. I don’t bring killers into the world. You should be thankful that I won’t make you into a serial murderer.”

  He made the sharp, cutting gesture that was a symbol a companion shouldn’t know. “Break the damn cord and let me go!”

  She pushed him away with the slightest touch of a hand against his chest. “No.” There was no arguing with her tone. She saw in his eyes that he knew that. He stood, turned away. She let him. “Get out,” she added for good measure. Just in case he was in any doubt that this conversation was definitively over.

  “It’s over,” he agreed as he went to the door. “But believe me, Valentine. I’ll find a way.”

  He’d read the book, she realized after he was gone, and she’d done nothing about it. “Oh, shit.”