A murmur went up. Wide-eyed disbelief morphed inexorably into recognition at Tzadkiel’s mention of the office his brother Lyandros had once held. As one of the mora’s leading triumvirate, or archon, only its Justice Giver could dispense judgment on a War King. Likewise, only its King Ruler could veto a War King’s decisions.
Dryas made a slicing motion with his hand, cutting off the men’s chatter.
“Nothing of the old ways remains. The office of Justice Giver died with your brother Lyandros.” Dryas stepped closer and knelt, as did the men behind him. “Sire.”
Though he had been almost certain his brother had perished that horrible night, twenty years ago, the confirmation was a blow. Tzadkiel put out a hand, supporting himself against an ironwork lamppost.
“Rise.” The command rang hollow, lost in the despair that filled Tzadkiel’s chest.
Dryas stood, and the men with him.
“There is no archon?” Tzadkiel searched Dryas’s face, seeking confirmation. He might have misheard. Must have misheard. “You have chosen no Justice Giver? No King Ruler?”
A safeguarding triumvirate, stronger than one individual, unbreakable in its guardianship, the archon was their governing body. All three offices—Justice Giver, King Ruler, and War King—had been held by Tzadkiel’s blood-born family, as had been the mora’s tradition. Though Tzadkiel’s family was gone now, why had these offices not been filled with those whose lineage was nearly as ancient as his own? Those he, and his father, and his grandfather before him, had sired through the blood rites the gods had afforded in lieu of procreation?
“As glad as we are to know you are alive, it is dangerous for us to gather, sire.” Gaze scanning his one-time troops, Dryas added, “It is unsafe for you here. It is not safe for any of us.”
“Dangerous? Unsafe?” Tzadkiel returned the words, lip curled. “Since when are the Sons of Pollux cowards?”
Anguish briefly drew Dryas’s mouth and brow into warring lines. As if unable to bear the humiliation, the general looked away. Tzadkiel pictured his strategoi as he’d been in the old days, shield high and xiphos raised, leading a charge with his battle cry. A pang of longing for kinship and welcome rent Tzadkiel’s chest so thoroughly, that when he looked down he was surprised he did not bleed.
“There is much you have missed.” Dryas motioned toward the shadowed arbor from which he’d emerged, and Tzadkiel followed. In the summer, vined plants would grow up the sides of the arbor, their leaves fluttering in the wind to form a canopy between the ground and the sky. On this eve, only the vines’ skeletal remains reached through the openings like so many grasping fingers.
“Where have you been?” Dryas asked. “Why have you not returned before now?”
Tzadkiel sat on one of the stone benches, as his court—such as it was—assembled around him. “I was tortured and held by the hunters for nearly two days, and—”
Dryas’s outraged gasp, echoed by the rest of the men, forced Tzadkiel to pause. He raised his hand to stave off their anger. While he understood their reaction—would have joined in, had he been in their place—they did not have time for such luxuries as sentiment.
“They shot me with a tranquilizer, then injected acid and iron into my veins to dampen my magic so I would not heal.” He left out the gorier details, knowing they’d only incite more fury. “I managed to kill them all thanks to their carelessness; however, I was not strong enough to come to you before now. I barely knew my own name with that poison running through my veins.”
Dryas cupped the sides of Tzadkiel’s face and brought their foreheads together. Tzadkiel gripped one hand in solidarity, managing a reassuring smile before he drew away.
“I am here now, though, old friend. As you can see.” Tzadkiel took in their ragtag band. “We will weather what remains of this overlong storm together.”
“Where were you?” Dryas shook his head, memory clouding his expression. “We searched everywhere.”
Though the cold seeped through Tzadkiel’s leathers, the damp did not, for which he was grateful. He was so damned tired of the dark and of the cold.
“Boston’s subways and tunnels have many dark places to hide. I must have lost my way and climbed into a disused pit connected to the tunnels near Cambridge Street. I remained there for some time.” He shuddered, and tried to disguise the involuntary gesture with a shrug. “I came to myself for any length of time only recently…because I was discovered by a man who wandered across my path, and…” Turning his face away to hide his shame, he forced himself to admit what he’d done. “And I fed.”
Implicit in the statement was that he’d broken their vow—not to drain a man who was unwilling to be turned, and who was not an immediate threat or active foe. Even now Tzadkiel felt the man’s blood, weak though it had been, pulsing sluggishly through his veins, healing him and reawakening his abilities.
“You were not yourself. No one would blame you.” Dryas touched Tzadkiel’s shoulder. “He would have—”
“No.” Tzadkiel shook his head, emphatic, and met his general’s eyes. He would own his actions. “He would not have harmed me.” Swallowing hard, he squared his shoulders. “But it is done, and I am here now. So tell me. What has come to pass in my absence?”
Tzadkiel’s quiet, commanding demeanor, much like one he might have assumed in the general’s tent on the battlefields of Troy, drew Dryas closer, seeming to settle him. Time and place peeled away until Tzadkiel could almost feel the tight leather straps of the shin guards and the weight of his shield resting high against his thigh.
“The coven has been taking over the Common.” Dryas leaned forward to draw an outline in the snow. Tzadkiel recognized the rough geography of Boston Common and the Public Garden, separated by Charles Street. “They fought the weres at the Public Garden last summer, but the weres lost, as have we, in our attempts to reclaim the space.”
Though he did not interrupt, Tzadkiel wondered how the coven and pack warring against each other could be anything but good for the mora. Dryas held up a finger, catching Tzadkiel’s frown.
“We have made some progress, regaining a small corner.” Dryas made an x on the topmost portion of his map. “But the coven are doing something that keeps us out of the mora’s stronghold.” He made another x, indicating home. “Ultimately, we believe they intend to claim the entire space as their own, excluding all other supernatural creatures and hoarding the magic of the Common for themselves.” Dryas’s expression grew hopeful. “Perhaps, however, now that you’ve returned, we can use your abilities to take them unawares?”
Tzadkiel shook his head, extinguishing the light in his strategoi’s eyes. “At least not until I’ve communed with the gods in ceremony using the kylix. I need strong magic—strong blood—to restore my full abilities.”
At his full power, Tzadkiel could feed his strength to his mora, direct them with mere thought, and encourage them to acts of bravery and commitment that men on their own found difficult to undertake.
“Given the campaign-like nature of your map, I take it you’ve had some allies in taking that portion of the Public Garden?” Tzadkiel surmised the space to be closest to the Boylston Street side.
“Yes, but we won’t last. A few of the weres, who helped us only briefly, were killed. They and their Alpha have retreated to one of the harbor islands.” Dryas’s expression was grim as he stared down at the makeshift map. “Also, the coven has found some other power to animate the dead to use as a makeshift army.” The general’s dark eyes lifted. “The Morgan has also convinced some of our number…to defect and share our secrets.”
Rage clenched, fist-like, behind Tzadkiel’s breastbone. That any of his people would ally with the male coven leader, the Morgan, was a blatant betrayal. Those who had helped their enemies would be shown no mercy when the time came to deliver justice. That was, if the Morgan didn’t kill them first once he no longer required their aid.
Tzadkiel forced himself to speak calmly. “And what is this you mentione
d of the mora’s stronghold?”
“It is only accessible to those who have allied with the coven. Even if our people had not scattered, we cannot enter unless we find a way to open the door.”
Tzadkiel scrubbed a hand over his face. That at least explained his own difficulties in crossing onto Boston Common, and his inability to enter their stronghold.
“What is the center of the spell?” He dropped his hand, disgusted with his own powerlessness. “The rite, whatever it was, must have been cast using a strong focal point to repel us from our home so effectively.”
“We have not been able to determine the exact point, but we believe it is in this area.” Dryas drew a line between Frog Pond and the Park Street T stop to Parkman Bandstand.
Tzadkiel nodded his understanding. There was a ley line here, that much he knew. Concentrations of power that ran through the earth, ley lines acted like rivers of magic. Where they met, the energy could be channeled using ritual objects. Sometimes what bound these lines was artificial, other times a natural part of the landscape.
“And the kylix?” Tzadkiel asked, referring to the ceremonial cup that was the focal point of the vampires’ own magic.
The kylix had once belonged to Pollux himself, and aided the mora’s every ritual, imbuing them with the will and power of the god. Tzadkiel would need the cup to perform the blood rites that would restore him to full control of his faculties.
“It is still in your chamber, in the stronghold, as far I know. We have not been able to enter in order to reclaim it.” Dryas’s stricken gaze met Tzadkiel’s own. “I have failed you, sire.”
Features once filled with strength and confidence had been worn to a haggard sharpness. Dark eyes sank into a too-lean face and possessed an edge of feral intensity. No wonder the mora’s greeting had been less than welcoming. It had seen many changes thanks to Tzadkiel’s inability to return since his run-in with the hunters, and none of them good.
“No.” Tzadkiel dropped his boot from the bench and paced away and back again. “It is I who failed you.”
He laid a hand on Dryas’s shoulder in solidarity and determination. “We’ll reclaim what is rightfully ours, my friend. I swear.”
Dryas opened his mouth to speak, but a sound like rushing wind—though with a clear, high cry behind it—brought all their heads around.
“The coven,” his general said. “We must not be caught together. Their magic is too strong at present. It is better to strike them from behind, as dishonorable as that may be, and live to fight another day.”
Gods help them if their ancestors could see them now. Tzadkiel, however, was in no physical condition to disagree with his strategoi. He allowed Dryas to make the call.
“I will come to you at the new moon,” Tzadkiel promised as they scattered in opposite directions. “Gather as many of our mora as you can, and bring them with you to the…” He searched his memory for a flat, open space, from which they might spot their enemies’ approach. “Is there still an open lot on Summer Street, across the canal?”
Dryas nodded. “Yes, sire. It is used for vehicles now.”
“Good. We will meet there.” He clasped Dryas by the shoulder one last time. “I will have a plan for us then.”
Dryas slipped into the night, and Tzadkiel, cloaking himself in darkness, did the same. When he crossed into the more populated tourist areas near Tremont, his steps slowed. Light spilled onto the pavement at his feet. Wishing for strength, and for allies, or for at the very least revenge, he gazed up at the windows of a posh drinking establishment. Across the way, the Granary Burying Ground—along with the tree he’d perched in earlier—stood silent sentinel to the revelry. Men whom Tzadkiel had counted as allies in his mora’s long fight against the hunters were buried in that hallowed ground. A nascent plan formed in his mind, and the spirits of those men seemed to whisper their approval.
Yes. The idea was elegant in both justice and symbolism. He needed blood strong with magic. If it were drunk in ceremony, and the ancient cup containing it raised in supplication to the gods, the resulting surge in his power would be great. If the offering were virile, strong enough to heal him fully and allow him to disperse the power to his mora, perhaps the resulting magic might even give him enough power to overrun the witches and banish them from the Common for good.
This all required the blood of a man with rare qualities, magic chief among them; but also darkness and evil—a darkness so black that it would negate Tzadkiel’s oath against taking the blood of the unwilling.
There was only one man he would sacrifice in so crude a manner—one whose blood was strong enough to accomplish all Tzadkiel required. He looked toward the drinking establishment the hunter had entered earlier. Knowledge and intent collided. Yes. There was such a man. And Tzadkiel knew just where to find him.
Chapter 3
Benjamin was drunk enough to be uncertain he hadn’t begun to hallucinate, but sober enough to remember the weapon secreted in his boot. He’d already downed his third Scotch when the creature walked into Whiskey Tango. The thing’s aura was like nothing he’d seen since developing his second sight. A majestic purple, it pulsed and vibrated with a heat that sang from across the room.
He focused on the glow. The creature moved toward the bar, and the color flickered then faded, leaving a current-like trail before winking to nothing. Benjamin’s hand lost its grip on the empty Scotch glass, and the tumbler met the table with a rocking thud that preceded the sound of shattering glass.
Marc hustled over. “Let me get that for you.”
“Sorry.” Benjamin never tore his gaze from where the thing had stood. Had he imagined the strange aura? Perhaps nobody was there at all?
“The creat—the man who just came in? I mean did a man just come in?”
The server answered with a bewildered, “Yeah…”
The how the hell did you know that note in Marc’s response told Benjamin he’d nearly given away too much. Having special magic abilities was one thing. Letting normal people know about them, however, tended to win you a one-way trip to Mass General, or a spot on the latest so-called reality freak show. Neither of which appealed.
“Windy night,” Benjamin offered without being asked. “I felt the breeze and smelled his cologne when he came in.”
“Oh.” Marc, curiosity dampened, stood. “I guess you have super hearing and the ability to smell stuff better because you’re blind.”
Benjamin breathed deep and dug for patience. It wasn’t the honest term blind that pissed him off. It was the things people came up with to explain how he functioned that made his blood boil. Blind people sometimes did have a better handle on their other senses, but only because they paid more attention to them than sighted people did. Even he wasn’t unusual among his ancestors. He had a sixth sense for magic, but it wasn’t something his kin hadn’t developed as well. Sighted or not.
Somehow, Benjamin managed not to snarl. “Just tell me what he looks like.”
“Uh…” The table shifted as Marc ostensibly grabbed its edge to steady himself and peer over his shoulder. “Yeah. Jeez. Wow.”
Benjamin crossed his right foot over his left knee, bringing the knife in his boot within easy reach. “What does that mean?”
“Depends on whether you want to be able to walk the next day.” Marc’s laugh was throaty. “With a body like that, and an attitude to match, he’d probably fuck you into next week and not stick around to see if there was anything left.”
Benjamin snorted. Just like Marc to assume he was after sex.
“When have I ever left here with anyone?” Benjamin asked, momentarily diverted.
“Maybe you should.” Marc laid a hand on his shoulder.
Benjamin shrugged off his touch. “What makes you think I’m gay?”
He’d spent most of his life trying to defy expectations people had of him—the blind man, the orphan, the wealthy eccentric. He wasn’t afraid of claiming his sexuality. That a mere acquaintance, however, had stumbl
ed upon such intimate knowledge of him was neither welcome nor comforting.
“You talk when you’re drunk. Just like everyone else.” Marc leaned low and intoned, “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”
Secrets? Plural?
Recoiling, Benjamin stopped himself from asking Marc what else he had revealed while washing the vampire stink from his sinuses. He imagined he might have said quite a lot, and he didn’t even have all that good of an imagination.
“Want me to get his number for you?” Marc’s voice retreated as he put a little distance between them. “Or I could get him a drink from you?”
“W-what?” Benjamin sputtered. “No.”
“He’s looking at you.” Marc nearly purred the observation. “And he’s wearing leather pants…”
“Leave him alone,” Benjamin growled, fingers flexing automatically in search of a drink. Gods save him from people’s matchmaking impulses. “And stop feeling sorry for me. I don’t need your charity…or his.”
And that’s what it would be. Charity. If the man were staring at him, he was likely trying to figure out if Benjamin were an easy lay or just a target for scar fetishists. Nobody who approached Benjamin for sex wanted to stick around, and he preferred it that way. Marc’s description of this man, however, made the idea of being pity fucked—even into the mind-blowing oblivion the server had described—something to be avoided at all costs.
Marc paused, and Benjamin could feel his considering gaze. “Do you really not know how good looking you are?”
In absence of a glass, Benjamin snatched up the damp shreds of his wadded-up cocktail napkin and began tearing it to tiny bits. He could feel the scars around his eyes with his fingers. He knew what he must look like.
“Oh, sure.” He hurled several chunks of sodden napkin onto the floor. “Because a guy with disfiguring scars who wears sunglasses all the time is so mysterious and sexy.”
“Actually, the sunglasses are rather intriguing.”
Benjamin’s chin whipped up. That had definitely not been Marc’s voice.
Surrender the Dark Page 4
