by Tricia Owens
I must have fallen asleep. I was jolted awake by the sound of the phone ringing. Gritting my teeth, I dried off and limped to the phone.
“Hello, is this Arrow?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Oh! It’s Hayley. The bar hostess? I fill in for Sheridan when she takes her breaks?”
I rubbed at my eyes. The bath had done wonders for me and I no longer felt as achy, but I was tired and wanted to sleep. “What do you need, Hayley?”
“I’m sorry to call you, but—I know you’re her friend and I’m worried.”
That woke me up. “What happened to Sheridan?”
“Oh! Nothing. But it’s just, I was watching from my place at the hostess stand when she made a call. She looked upset, which Sheridan never does. Then she called me over and asked me to watch the desk for her. Which she does—but this time she told me she didn’t know how long she’d be. And if you know Sheridan, she’s very structured. Her breaks are always exactly fifteen minutes long.”
Hayley was testing my patience, but I grew concerned anyway. “Did she say where she was going?”
“Only that she had to speak with Elliott.”
I tensed. “Thank you for calling me, Hayley. You did the right thing.”
“Oh! I’m glad.”
I hung up as she continued speaking, my mind on my two friends. A glance at the clock showed I’d slept in the bathtub for over twenty minutes. Plenty of time for Tower to have looked at the hard drive and seen something he’d then told Sheridan, his vampire hunter. Why she’d felt the need to call Elliott, I couldn’t guess, but none of this sounded good.
I redressed and grabbed my guns. I had the hunch that all the tension surrounding the vampire’s presence in the Sinistera was about to reach its peak. The question was who would remain standing at the end.
Chapter 13
Elliott stared at the doorway of the Skyline Bar. It was a VIP amenity on the eighth floor that opened for guests after six in the evening, so currently it was empty. The blue underlighting was on, though, giving the floor the look of a misty, ethereally blue lake. He stood braced beside the bar, the only weapon he could bear to wield personally—a Taser he’d bought on his first day of work but had never activated—clutched in one sweaty hand.
Dark shapes were gathered about the room. He ignored them to focus on the doorway.
One of the elevators chimed pleasantly as it arrived on the floor farther down the hall. A dozen seconds passed before Sheridan entered the bar on soft, measured footsteps.
“I was afraid of this,” she said quietly as she paused just inside the doorway and studied the Taser he held extended before him like a flashlight.
“You called me here to tell me why you need to kill him. I can’t let you do that.” Elliott wished his voice didn’t shake. He wished he sounded as if he were one hundred percent committed to this course of action. He was far from it, but he had to do something. Just like Arrow, he had to back up what he felt strongly for or else he’d lose all respect for himself.
“He’s a dangerous animal, Elliott.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Mr. Tower informed me that when the Count was participating in the government’s experiments, his DNA was tampered with. Without his knowledge or consent.”
Elliott breathed shallowly, telling himself not to panic. “What does that mean? Tampered with how?”
“Psychically, he’s bound to a vampire hybrid that they created in the lab with V-Recode. The scientists control that hybrid. Do you understand what that means, Elliott?” Sheridan took a step closer. “It means the government can manipulate the Count through that connection with the hybrid. It means he’s a weapon for them. Who’s to say that the Count’s determination to hurt The Architect isn’t being driven by government forces?”
Elliott didn’t want to believe it. It turned the Count into a pawn, and Elliott had always admired how free the Count was, like a wild, untamed, animal.
Sheridan could also be lying. She had good reason to.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said.
Her surprise at the change of subject couldn’t quite cover her flinch of pain. That was confirmation enough for Elliott that she wasn’t solely driven by what Mr. Tower had told her. She had her own agenda to achieve. While he didn’t blame her, it made him sad.
“This isn’t about my father,” she said coolly.
“I think maybe it is. At least partly. It doesn’t make you evil,” he assured her. “I can’t imagine how much his death must have hurt you. But there has to be more to what happened to him than what you told me. I can’t believe the Count would murder him for no reason. The government had nothing to do with that.”
“Of course, there’s more to it,” she said as she moved deeper into the bar. She reached the end of the bar, six stools away from him, but didn’t draw any nearer. “My father wasn’t a stranger to the Count. That’s why I said the Count is capable of killing for malice.” She sighed, as if she regretted what she needed to say. “Elliott, my father was Enoch. The previous Head of Security. Your former boss.”
Elliott nearly dropped the Taser. “How is that possible? Why did I not know?”
“I believed it would interfere with his duties as your superior if you were made aware that he was my father, so I requested that he not tell you.” Sheridan smoothed her fingertips along the surface of the bar. “I was the one who secured the hiring interview for him. My father didn’t want the job, but I begged him to try it out. He’d been…having difficulties at home. I’d hoped that a job would keep him emotionally occupied.”
Elliott reeled. His impressions of Sheridan’s father were not good. The man had been condescending to him and interpreted Elliott’s shyness as proof that he was stupid. And then there was that fateful day…
“Sheridan,” he asked nervously, “do you know what happened on the day that he—that the Count killed him?”
She stared down at her fingers on the countertop. He did, too, watching as they turned white from the pressure she exerted.
“As you likely were aware,” she said slowly, “my father held a great deal of animosity toward supernatural beings.”
“I was aware.” Elliott recalled the ugly insults Enoch had muttered whenever they’d crossed paths with the Count. The vampire had never stopped to confront them about it, but Elliott had always worried that the Count was aware of everything the Head of Security said about him. It turned out he’d been right to worry.
“My father saw vampires and their ilk for the monsters that they are,” Sheridan said, “and he was opposed to the pass that humans give them. Supernaturals are not cohabs. They don’t make an effort to assimilate with humans or to adopt our customs. They live apart from us, and in the case of vampires, are active threats against us.” She dropped her hand from the bar and smiled wanly at Elliott. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened that day. He ran into the Count. My father, never one to hold back his thoughts, told the Count what he thought of him. As was his right. And because he dared to be honest, the Count tore his throat out, nearly decapitating him in the process.”
“No, Sheridan.” Elliott’s voice trembled even more now. “The Count killed your father because he hit me.”
Sheridan stilled. “What?”
“He hit me. To be exact, he slapped me. On the face.” Elliott touched his left cheek and was startled by the heat he felt there, as though the slap had recently occurred. But the heat wasn’t from that. It was from the burn of humiliation. Grown men punched other men; they didn’t slap them. But then, Enoch hadn’t considered Elliott to be a man.
“My father wouldn’t have,” Sheridan protested, but her voice—and her conviction—seemed to waver.
“Maybe he never ran into someone like me before.” Elliott forced himself to hold her shocked gaze. “He found out that I’m not attracted to women. It…disgusted him. He thought it made me weak.”
Her cheeks went pale and he thoug
ht he saw awareness darken her gaze.
“He wasn’t as tolerant as he could have been,” she admitted. “We all have our faults. That was one of his. It didn’t make him evil or deserving of death.”
“The Count saw him do it. That’s…that’s why he attacked your father. To defend me. He cares about me. He’s not a mindless animal.”
“He cares,” Sheridan repeated, as though stunned.
“Yeah. He was furious. So I guess, when it comes down to it, it’s my fault that your father is dead. If I weren’t who I am, Enoch wouldn’t have felt the need to hit me for it. And if I didn’t have a sort of, well, relationship with the Count, he wouldn’t have attacked Enoch.”
Emotions raced across Sheridan’s face, transforming it in ways he’d never seen of her before. She was usually fully composed—polite and friendly and reserved as the perfect receptionist should be. Even when it was just the two of them talking, Sheridan never completely let down her guard.
But now, it was as though her carefully constructed house of cards was tumbling down around her.
“He wasn’t the warmest of men,” Elliott ventured. “Was he?”
A stricken look crossed her face.
It prompted him to ask softly, “Did he ever hit you?”
She shook her head, mute, but he could tell that she was lying.
Elliott briefly shut his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sheridan.”
He thought of his past interactions with her, how she never actually shared anything personal about her family or what her life had been like before joining the Sinistera. Now, he thought he understand at least a part of the reason for that.
“Maybe he wasn’t a model father,” she said shakily, so unlike herself that Elliott felt embarrassed for her. That was wrong, though. This was Sheridan at her most honest. This was better than the emotionless robot she was at other times.
“My father taught me loyalty. He told me it’s the most important thing you can possess. It doesn’t matter that he made mistakes with me—I owe him my loyalty.”
“I believe in loyalty, too, Sheridan, but it can’t be blind. That’s what Arrow’s taught me. You can’t accept everything without question. You can’t just go along.”
But that prompted her to shake her head. “I don’t care about the government. I’m loyal to people. Like Mr. Tower. And…my father. Even though he wasn’t the best man.” She took a step closer as her features gradually settled and stilled. It was as though the breeze that had rippled the surface of a pond had died out, leaving the waters serene again. “If I were to attack you now, would the Count show up to defend you?”
Elliott tightened his grip around the Taser, his pulse skyrocketing. “Sheridan, no. Please. We’re friends.”
“I know. And this has nothing to do with you. But I promised myself that I would avenge my father and I will.” She glanced down at the Taser he held. “And I’m sorry to say that that won’t do you any good against me.”
“I was hoping it would change your mind,” he admitted sadly. “Since it hasn’t…you should know that it’ll be dangerous for you to manipulate Time in here.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of them.”
He gave a short whistle. The shadows around the edges of the room abruptly burst into motion. Sparrows, dozens of them, collected from throughout the hotel, flew through the room, causing Sheridan to duck, though the small, brown birds weren’t attacking her directly.
“To throw Time you need a clear line of sight,” Elliott said above the sound of their flapping wings. He whistled again, and the birds began to fly with purpose, making random patterns in the air, always keeping themselves between him and Sheridan, partially obscuring his view of her. They stirred a wind that lifted his hair. “At the speed you’d be traveling, anything getting in your way would be like a bird hitting the engine of a jet plane.”
Sheridan’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “I wish you weren’t so clever, Elliott.”
Then she fell. Or at least, that was what he first assumed. But he realized, too late, that she’d dropped to a sprinter’s stance—low, on one knee—bringing her beneath the level of the swirling birds. Sheridan disappeared.
She reappeared instantly in front of him.
He didn’t have time to cry out. Sheridan jumped up from the ground at him. Reflexively he thrust the Taser out and pulled the trigger, not even sure if the angle or distance was right.
They were.
The leads hit Sheridan in the upper shoulders. She didn’t make a sound as her body jerked taut, spine bending backwards. Horrified, Elliott released the button but her body continued to twitch. After what seemed like ages, her body collapsed to the floor. He dropped the Taser and dove forward. He just managed to slide his hand behind her skull before it hit the floor.
“Sheridan! Oh, Sheridan.” He cradled her against his chest as the birds continued to swarm above them in a soft susurration of wings.
Something heavy hit the floor and rolled out from beneath her. Elliott stared at the silver stake with eyes that burned.
“Call off your birds, pet.”
Elliott’s head jerked up at the sound of the Count’s voice. The vampire hovered in a corner of the room, well away from the avian tornado.
“If you’ve come here to finish her off, I won’t let you,” Elliott said shakily. “She’s still my friend.”
“The stake she would gladly drive through my heart she would have driven through yours, too.”
“No. She wouldn’t have. We’re friends.”
“You know nothing of her, nor she of you.”
“Just like you and me?” Elliott asked. “Does that mean we aren’t friends, either?”
The Count said nothing, but his dark eyes bored into Elliott. Maybe he was trying to intimidate Elliott into obeying him, but with Sheridan in his arms, Elliott found his backbone once again.
“You killed her father. I don’t blame her for how she feels. I won’t allow her to hurt you, but that goes for you, too. No one else is going to die. I won’t allow it.”
“The pet has a bite.”
“Maybe.” Elliott swallowed, unable to completely banish his nervousness. “Or maybe I just want things to work out. For all three of us. With Sheridan as my friend and you as my…”
“What?” the vampire murmured when he trailed off. “What will I be to you?”
Elliott couldn’t bring himself to voice his hope. He wasn’t even sure that it was possible, or that it was good for him.
“Call off your birds,” the Count repeated softly.
Though there was a chance that doing so opened him and Sheridan up to attack, Elliott whistled the birds to perch again. It was a risk, but sometimes risks were worth taking. He hoped that was true in this case.
He watched warily as the Count glided forward through the now still room, until he hovered an arm’s length away.
“Tell me why you’re in this place,” Elliott asked as he tipped his head back to meet the vampire’s dark eyes. “Why the Sinistera?”
“Because my dignity was stripped from me. Because your precious Architect must pay for the sins of his father. I was promised a cure for vampirism, but instead they mutilated me. They will pay for that betrayal.”
“A cure for vampirism?” Elliott couldn’t hide his surprise. “But that means—that means you wish you were human.” When the Count said nothing, Elliott murmured, “I thought you despise us.”
Fingers brushed over the top of his head, lightly ruffling his hair. Unable to bear holding the vampire’s gaze while being touched by him, Elliott bowed his head, trembling.
“Vampires are not born. They are made. Once, I was an insect as you are.” The Count’s forefinger grazed the top of Elliott’s ear, making him shiver. “Insects, though weak, have their advantages. They are able to congregate without the aching pain of bloodlust tearing at their insides. That…appeals to me. I have not known companionship for a very long time.”
“I
’d always assumed that you were proud to be a vampire,” Elliott admitted softly. “I’m sorry that it’s not what you want, that someone did this to you and made you different.” He swallowed and summoned his courage. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re m-magnificent. You would be as a human, too,” he added hastily, “but there’s nothing wrong with you now. At least, not in my eyes. I would love to be your companion.”
His entire body burned with embarrassment. He waited for the vampire to laugh and taunt him for expressing his attraction. But the fingers in his hair continued to caress him, and no laughter came from the Count.
“Vampirism means that you will only ever be my pet,” the vampire said, his voice vibrating like a bass note in Elliott’s ears. Sheridan was wrong; the Count could feel regret. Elliott heard it now, roughening the consonants. “I will always thirst for your blood. I will always see you as prey. Why do you think I wish this condition gone from me and why this betrayal cuts me so deeply?”
Elliott breathed harshly at the Count’s admission. Joy beat fiercely in his chest. But it was tempered by the realization that nothing could ever come of the Count’s desire to be human. Dr. Febrero hadn’t cured him. And if what Tower had revealed to Sheridan was true, the Count might one day dance to the tune of the government.
“You and I are in an impossible situation,” the Count went on as he lifted his hand from Elliott’s hair. Elliott missed it as he would the sunshine on his cheeks. “You defend Sheridan, who seeks revenge on her father’s behalf. You work for The Architect, against whom I seek my own revenge. The stars align against us, pet. Unless…”
Elliott raised his head again. The Count had drifted a foot farther from him, teasingly just out of reach. His eyes were hooded by shadows, but his striking bone structure still filled Elliott with a painful longing.
“Unless what?” he asked, hopeful.
“Unless you side with me, pet. In all things. You and I against all. We find a cure. Together.”
