by J. C. Wilder
For a vampire, blood in any form or temperature was acceptable sustenance. Warmed blood was preferred, body temperature was best, but in a pinch, chilled or frozen would work as well. Unless it was the blood of a were-animal such as a werewolf or were-cat, then only warm would do. Drinking it cold would be like drinking the finest French champagne at room temperature. The true flavor would be spoiled.
Sinjin took a drink of the coveted liquid, enjoying the warmth that shafted through his body. Spicy and sensual, the blood had a distinctive bite, not unlike that of fine Scotch whiskey. Heat streaked down his throat and spread through his abdomen, sending tendrils of fire to his extremities until even his toes felt the warmth. As his body absorbed the liquid, a heady sense of well-being pervaded his senses.
Were-blood, in small quantities, sharpened the senses and exhilarated the drinker. Consume too much, though, and feelings of euphoria would leave the drinker feeling super-human and prone to acts of idiocy.
Needless to say, were-blood was a coveted drink among vampires and, due to its unusual affects upon their nervous systems, it wasn’t unheard of to find a were-blood addict. Very similar to alcoholism in humans, constant craving and tremors from going too long without a drink were all symptoms of the addiction.
Even for addicts used to the effects of the drink, imbibing too much in one sitting was dangerous. The active minerals and hormones in the blood would begin to cloud the mind and dull the senses. After only eight to ten ounces, unconsciousness could result, leaving a vampire easy prey to those who wished him ill.
Nowadays, there were many who wished them ill.
Sinjin opened a desk drawer and located a small remote control. He pushed the red button and the sound of motors and sliding metal rebounded through the room as steel blinds descended over the windows. A similar sheet of steel fortified his office door. The sounds from the partially open window overlooking Bourbon Street faded as the blind slid into place, a metallic snick sounding when the latch engaged. He dropped the remote in the drawer and pushed it shut. He was completely secure in his lair, the room unreachable from the outside by sunlight or any living creature.
He dropped his feet from the desk and straightened, reaching for the carafe to refill his glass. None of this would have been necessary if it weren’t for Mikhail and his misplaced desire to lead the Council of Elders, the ruling body of the preternaturals. It was all because of his devious plans that the preternaturals, Sinjin included, had to live under a veil of constant, rigorous vigilance. Always on the lookout for someone who wished to see them dead, always looking over their shoulders and jumping at shadows.
In the past few years, Mikhail’s battle for supremacy over Alexandre Saint-Juste, the current head of the Council, had cost the lives of hundreds of preternatural beings and a few humans as well. Some had been innocent, mere bystanders in the madness, while others had willingly joined Mikhail’s army, lured by false promises and his charismatic personality.
Sinjin replaced the carafe. With every drink, the bite of the liquid decreased. Soon he’d have to discontinue his personal cocktail hour or wake with a thick head. That was a risk he couldn’t take as danger might lurk in any corner. Hell, it had arrived with a vengeance in his club.
Last night the battle had reached a new crescendo, resulting in a handful of deaths, including Cassiopeia, Mikhail’s right-hand fiend. Sinjin was convinced that Cass had broken their pact and was betraying Mikhail rather than acting on his behalf. He didn’t know this for sure and, since she was now dead, he’d probably never have the answer to that question, unless he found Miles and the diary.
The book the entire preternatural world now sought was once again missing, last seen with Miles as he made good his escape during the fracas last night. The diary contained a day-to-day chronology of Mikhail’s late wife, Elsabeth, and varying bits of information she’d gleaned about the origins of the Shadow Dwellers. As he’d never seen the book, he wasn’t sure how useful the information was. For all he knew, it contained recipes for stain removal and Irish potato soup. Only a select few who’d possessed the book had an inkling of what it contained, and most of them were now dead.
Cass’ revenant consort, Miles, had stolen the diary and they had used the information to concoct a serum to create a super-vampire, a mindless warrior who sought and destroyed as directed by the controller. But something had gone terribly wrong and the serum had resulted in the deaths of the handful of vampires who’d been selected as guinea pigs. Some had been ignorant of Cass’ dark plans. They’d only wanted a better life for themselves. Others had been driven by their own greed for financial gain or increased vampiric abilities. All had lost their lives for their unfortunate decision. Sunni was the only one to escape.
From what he’d seen, the diary spelled doom for everyone as long as it remained in the wrong hands. If the recipe for the serum had actually come from the pages of the diary, what other diabolical secrets lay within?
Once word got out that Miles had escaped with the book, everyone would be looking for him and not all who sought the tome would be willing to turn it over to Alexandre where it belonged.
Would Miles take it to Mikhail or would he venture out on this own as it appeared Cass had attempted? In either case, more would die unless the book was recovered and placed into the safekeeping of the Council.
Sinjin set the cup on his desk. His finger inadvertently brushed a pile of receipts and they slid to the side to reveal a small oval frame. His gaze locked on the hand-painted portrait, his heart giving a queer little jerk as familiar pale blue eyes seemed to bore into his soul.
Painted at the turn of the twentieth century, Bliss had sat for the portrait only under duress. She’d acquiesced when he’d gotten on his knees and begged her, albeit in jest, that if she did not sit for the painter, he would expire on the spot. Every evening for several weeks she’d dressed in a pale pink dress, drawn her hair back into a loose roll and sat for the painter, all the while glowering at Sinjin who’d hovered in the background, making faces at his beloved to encourage her soft smile.
The artist had captured the inner essence of the young woman. Her eyes were alight with laughter and love, her soft lips curved in a tenderhearted smile as she’d teased with her lover over the painter’s shoulder.
But it’d ended far too soon. Mortianna, her mother, had driven a wedge between them that even love couldn’t scale. Bliss had left him and they didn’t speak for many years. Through mutual friends they’d kept track of one another until he’d run into her one cold evening in Edinburgh. They’d spent the night at an inn, sitting by a fire, talking until the wee hours of the morning. From that night on, they’d resumed a tentative friendship, risking her mother’s wrath and his life.
Several times a year Bliss had come to visit him in Scotland until her death late last summer, another victim of Mikhail’s machinations. Her final journey to the Highlands had been in a rose-strewn coffin. On a moonlit night in late autumn, her friends had laid her to rest in a field of heather.
Sinjin picked up the portrait and ran his finger over her glass-covered cheek. The were-blood almost deceived him into believing he could feel her skin beneath his fingertip. His gut twisted in an anguish that never seemed to end. Would the pain of his loss ever fade to a manageable level? Would he ever be able to look at this portrait and not want to lie down and cry like a child?
Someday…
When they’d rekindled their relationship, it had been a close friendship only. Other than a chaste peck on the lips or a hug from time to time, their love had been purely spiritual. Both of them had wanted more, they’d admitted to each other. But they’d also known that should word ever get back to Mortianna, they both would be in danger and it was too much to risk the wrath of the most powerful witch in the world. In the end, all their precautions had been for naught.
Since her death, how many times had he wished they’d had one more night, just one more where he could’ve held her and loved her as they’d desi
red? But it wasn’t to be. She was gone and he was left behind, destined to be alone for the remaining years of his life.
Eternity had never looked so bleak.
Sinjin realized it was time to lay his love to rest in his heart as he’d laid her body to rest in the ground. His logical mind knew it, but his heart was having the most difficulty.
“I loved ye more than anyone in the world.” His traced the blonde sweep of her hair with his gaze. “Ne’er had I looked upon a beauty such as ye, and ye stole my breath along with my heart.”
He retrieved his cup and downed the contents, enjoying the increasingly muzzy sensation that swirled about his head and dulled his senses. The only time he could bear to remember the past and think about what he’d lost was when he was drinking. Sober, the pain was far too much to bear.
“But now ye’re gone and I’m left here among the living. Wasn’t meant to be I guess.” His voice was raw as he set down the empty cup to clutch the frame with both hands. “As long as I live, ne’er will I love another as I did ye for ye’ll always hold my heart. I’ll not let another woman touch it.”
He cleared his throat. “Mayhap in another life I will see ye once more and we’ll walk under the moon and share our hopes and dreams as we used to. I look forward to that time. Goodbye, Bliss, my love, my friend.”
When he crossed the room, he barely noticed when he banged his shin on a low table by the couch. Sliding his fingers under the frame of a painting hung near the sealed door, he felt for a small latch. Finding it, the watercolor swung away to reveal a wall safe. Punching numbers into the keypad, the lock released and the safe door swung open.
Sinjin ignored the stacks of gold coins, some loose and some contained in clear rolls, the bundles of yellowing packets of papers and several small boxes when he shifted things to make room for the portrait.
He gazed at her face one last time as if to memorize every line, even though he knew her face as well as his own. As he slid the painting into the niche he’d created behind some old ledgers, a tear slid down his cheek. Shutting the door, he moved the watercolor back into place, sealing her in darkness along with his memories.
* * * * *
New York, NY
No…it can’t be. She could not be this lucky…
Elena Vasquez set the wooden lid on the desk, her gaze glued to the contents of the box. Midnight blue velvet shrouded the item, but the cloth was rumpled as if it had been hastily replaced. Bunched on one side, the top layer failed to hide its secrets completely. Through a gap in the fabric, the corner of a book was visible.
Heart pounding, she pulled the book and its velvet shroud from the box and set it on the desk next to the lid. The velvet slid away as if the book itself could no longer bear to be confined. Her breath caught when the worn brown leather cover was revealed in the dim light from the desk lamp.
She pulled a small flashlight from her pants pocket then hunched over the book to inspect the binding. Without touching the cover, she noted the gatherings before turning it to open the back cover to study the end sheet construction.
It was probably Venetian in origin, and at least several hundred years old. She flipped through the pages, scanning the cramped writing and ink drawings. She could tell from the even edges that all of the pages appeared to be intact. She closed the book. The edges of the cover and the pages were worn as if they’d been well used over the centuries yet competently maintained.
The leather was scarred but not outrageously so and, judging from the dull gleam and supple texture of the leather, someone had known what he or she was doing with regard to the proper care of antique books. Contents notwithstanding, the value of the book was minimal as there was no illumination, no rubification and the binding wasn’t gilt.
She flicked off the light and straightened, tucking the flashlight back into the pocket of her form-fitting cargo pants, careful to run her finger over the Velcro flap to secure it. Nothing was worse than attempting a graceful exit only to have something fall out of her pockets and create a racket. It took only one stunt like that to end a career and quite possibly a life.
Right now, she was trying to save her life, not end it.
If this book was the famed diary of Elsabeth, it was much, much more than just any antique book and its value went well beyond monetary. To some, this book possessed destructive powers of untold dimensions. It held the knowledge to annihilate the life of every preternatural who walked the earth.
To others, those like her, this book offered a second chance at life. A normal, mortal life. The life she craved to return to. To both sides of the battle, its value was priceless.
Her fingertips ached to stroke the leather without the protective barrier of her calfskin gloves. Any well-schooled burglar, and she had learned at the knee of the best, knew lesson one was to keep all gloves and clothing in place to enable a clean getaway. Even though she knew it was foolish to the extreme, she removed her glove and gave in to her temptation.
An unfamiliar trickle of ice moved up her arm as she brushed bare fingers over the cover. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention even as a low growl formed in her chest. Startled, she withdrew her hand, her eyes darting around the room, looking for any threat to her safety.
Lifting her head, she scented the air. The myriad aromas, tangled to the human perception, were sharp to hers. Each scent was distinct to her werewolf senses. Wood, leather, paper, dust, human sweat, stale coffee, cigarette smoke, burnt wood from the fireplace and the sharp tang of gun solvent. Underlying it all was the scent of evil, a scent with which she was very familiar.
Reassured that all was as it should be, Elena sank into the wide seat of the desk chair, her gaze returning to the book. The age was right, now to check the contents. She had to know if this was the diary before she did anything stupid like steal a Venetian book of erotica or treatises on the rights of man.
Opening the cover, she randomly selected a page, relieved to see it written in English.
Late this eve my child and I stole from our home to pay a visit to Arianwen, the local wise woman. I told her of the changes I’d seen overcome Manfred and the fears I have for my son. Everyday Manfred grows more irrational as he pursues the dark path. I feel the darkness closing in upon us.
I love my son Niall, he’s all that I hold dear and I fear for his safety. Each hour that passes he becomes more aware of the world around him and as he does, my fear increases as well. How long until Manfred discovers my shameful secret, the curse I have brought upon my house, my son, my heart?
I long to take my son and disappear into the darkness but Arianwen cautions me against this action. She said Niall has a great destiny to fulfill and Manfred is a key to my child’s future. As his mother, it is my duty to see my son through it.
For him and only him, I bide my time.
With her heart in her throat, Elena slowly closed the cover. The book was genuine, or a copy at least. Elsabeth, the author of the diary, was the first and only wife of Mikhail, the vampire who currently waged war upon the Council of Elders.
Manfred was Mikhail’s human name and Niall was Elsabeth and Mikhail’s son. The current wild rumor among the preternaturals was that Renault, the oh-so reclusive werecat, was actually their son. Wouldn’t that add quite the twist in the ongoing dramas?
She picked up the diary. Contained in this book was the key to the secrets of the Shadow Dwellers. It was hard to believe that this little diary had caused the death of so many in the pursuit of its knowledge. Now it was in her hands. Many wouldn’t think twice of killing her to possess it, not that she was afraid—she’d never run from a fight in her life.
In her opinion, the other preternaturals, the vampires, revenants, were-cats and witches, never did understand what was really important in life. In the past ten years, they’d constantly gotten themselves into a tangle over one thing or another and almost all of it added up to nothing. That was the main reason why the werewolves refused to join the society of the Shadow
Dwellers. In Elena’s opinion, the theatrics were a bit much and the majority of her fellow wolves agreed with her.
Regardless of how she felt about the Shadow Dwellers, possession of the book brought forth the question of what to do with it. Seeing as the wolves weren’t part of the current brouhaha, a smart wolf would turn and walk away from the diary and the problems it presented. However, with things being as they were, in its current hands, the book would surely mean the destruction of many. Being the relatively moral creature that she was, when it suited her that is, Elena wouldn’t abide needless death. Even though vampires were already dead, they were alive in some sense and she wouldn’t be a party to their destruction.
Now the were-cats were another matter.
A slow smile curved her mouth. The destruction of the were-cats, skittish creatures that they were, wouldn’t break her heart. They were a prissy bunch to begin with and they gave all the were-creatures a bad name. As far as she and the other werewolves were concerned, putting them all on a boat to Timbuktu and then sinking it was a perfect solution.
Her smile faded. No, that wasn’t true. She didn’t wish the were-cats ill. She glanced at the unconscious man lying on the floor a few feet from the door. Unlike some, she went out of her way to avoid hurting people, innocent people at least. The man on the floor was anything but innocent, his soul awash with the blood of his gullible victims.
The man they called Miles lay on the Persian carpet like so much discarded clothing. A revenant and a demon of the first water, a man who walked in the darkness and took great delight in torturing people with his intellect and physical strength. This time, he’d lost the battle. That would teach him to threaten someone who could fight back on his terms.
