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  She looked up as Joe closed the phone. “How’s Perry?”

  “I talked to Errata. He hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  “Oh.”

  Joe grimaced. “Lore filled me in a bit more. Now that the police know you’re still in the area, they’ll be looking for you that much harder. It’s better if you don’t go back to Lore’s place.”

  Talia glanced at the frost-painted windows, dreading the cold outside. “How late are you open?”

  “As long as you need.”

  She gave him a startled glance.

  “Hey,” he said, picking up a knife and cutting the end off of a lemon. “Take it easy. That’s what friends are for.”

  Talia took a breath to speak, but changed her mind at the last moment.

  “Thank you,” was all she said.

  Chapter 21

  Thursday, December 30, 7:30 p.m.

  Downtown Fairview

  Darak was walking downtown, minding his own business, when the guy a block ahead walked through the alley wall.

  For a moment, he wondered if that last blood donor had been knocking back more than Jell-O shots. She’d been the cheap and cheerful type, but he hadn’t expected chemically altered. It would be a sad day when vampires had to start demanding organic.

  Or, something might be more sinister than a funky meal.

  Lengthening his stride, he covered the distance to the piece of old brick wall. His boots scrunched on snow and sand, the buckles and metal bits on his jacket jingling in chorus. It was cold enough that the bricks wore a rime of frost that sparkled in the streetlights.

  He pounded on the spot where he’d seen the figure disappear just to be sure there hadn’t been a door. Back in the day, secret passages were denarii a dozen.

  His breath came out in a puff of surprised steam when his fist passed right through the bricks. Gah! He snatched his hand back. He’d seen too many ghosts to enjoy that.

  Except that his hand felt like it was crawling with ants. Magic. Someone was using spells to take a shortcut.

  An unexpected ripple of triumph curled his lips. After Michelle’s ghost had fled, he had looked long and hard but had found no real clues to the spell caster’s identity—but this was something. There might be two or three magic users in a city at one time, but not a whole phone book of them. In his experience, one always knew about the others. If he could find the man who walked through walls, he’d be on his way to the necromancer.

  Portals closed fast, sometimes in seconds. Without wasting another moment, he pushed through, feeling as if an entire swarm of bees was pressed against his body.

  And stepped into an old corridor. It felt clammy, like a basement. The floor was covered in worn green broadloom, the wallpaper flocked red vinyl. A hotel? Something skittered by on the floor. An abandoned hotel?

  He was alone. Seconds after the figure used the teleportation spell, the magic would have begun to decay. Darak had followed, but he hadn’t gone as far. His quarry was somewhere up ahead.

  He sniffed the air. Yes, there were other vampires nearby. He began marching toward the smell, the heavy thump of his boots barely muffled by the thin carpet. A feeling of profound creepiness descended on him. Outside of his own movements, the place was utterly silent.

  He pulled out his Smith & Wesson. It was a .357 Magnum loaded with vampire-ready ammunition. He was a “just in case” kinda guy.

  A pair of fire doors blocked his path. He was tempted to kick through them, doing the bad-ass thing, but magic made him wary. He opened the door a crack, looking and listening. He could hear male voices now, and detected maybe a few dozen individual scents. The long hallway ended in a meeting room. One of the doors was propped open with a chair, the barely padded kind found at wedding banquets everywhere. The chair was kept company by a pair of vampires holding assault rifles.

  Darak opened the door slowly and went through, sauntering as if he had every right to be there. One of the guards started talking to his shirt cuff.

  How many voices did he hear? Three? Four? It would be better if he asked nicely and they told him what he wanted to know. Then they could all get on with their nights. But he was always up for a good Plan B.

  Through the doorway, he caught a glimpse of a long, bare table and more of the banquet chairs. Vampires, mostly male, were sitting and standing around it, looking at a large map. His view was eclipsed by four more males hurrying to intercept him at the door, presumably called via shirt cuff intercom. Better than the shoe phone, he supposed—but then few humans that age would have remembered Maxwell Smart.

  The four newcomers all had assault rifles, too. One of them looked like the figure who had gone through the wall. Well, magic portals were one way of ensuring a fast commute to work.

  The first of the newcomers caught sight of the Magnum. In a blink, he lunged for it. He was fast for a vamp, but Darak was older, faster, and overall meaner. The vamp hit the wall and the next one was on his knees, the Magnum at the crown of his head, before the rest had their eyes focused on the problem.

  The guy on the floor was panting, a thin sound trickling from his mouth. Darak hadn’t even warmed up. He heard the click and rustle of the assault rifles getting ready and aimed. “It’s going to take a lot of bullets to bring down this much Undead body mass. I can take you all out before it starts to itch.” A lie, but if you said it with the right amount of bravado, it usually worked.

  “What’s your business?” said the lead flunky.

  Good. Questions made things better. Darak slid the Magnum back into its holster, but didn’t let his hostage up. “Darak of Clan Thanatos seeks audience.”

  He didn’t have a clue with whom, but that’s what he’d come to find out.

  More shirt cuff dialogue. Up close, he could see curly wires leading to the vampires’ ears. He wondered how many of this happy gang there were, and how far they were spread out. What the hell had he stumbled on? Darak felt the stirring of misgivings.

  Finally, the one in charge nodded, motioning the others aside. Darak barely resisted the urge to step on his victim. He let him up instead. The guy scrambled away on all fours for a few feet before getting to his feet and running behind the others. Yeah, he had a future as muscle. Not.

  Turning his shoulders to fit through the door, Darak pushed past. He took his surroundings in at a glance. The room was large enough to seat a hundred people. Chairs and folded tables were stacked along the wall, some sitting on a platform on casters, as if they would be rolled away at any minute. Cheap chandeliers hung from a damp-stained ceiling, the glass baubles fluffy with dust. Otherwise, there was no furniture to get in the way of a fight.

  Then he looked back to the vampires gathered at the table. His heavy tread hitched when he saw who was in the center seat. He’d found his necromancer. Mothereffing Sons of Dis!

  “Looking for someone, rogue? Or should I say Brute? That’s what they called you in the arena, is it not?”

  Belenos, King of the East, gave him a beatific smile, and what a horrible smile it was. Darak’s eyes watered with the desire to look away. Belenos had been a warrior of the north, as tall and strong as a Viking ship’s prow. Now he was a mass of scars, one eye completely gone. He was using his right arm, but something about his movements looked wrong. There was no way he would swing a sword freely until it healed—if it healed. Beheading his victim must have been hard.

  “Yes, this is what the bitch queen did to me.”

  “Omara?” Darak was perversely impressed. It took talent—and sorcery—to hurt a vampire that badly.

  “She broke the law, maiming another monarch.”

  He was wrong. Technically, she hadn’t broken any rules. Killing was forbidden; punishing for trespass was not. The story went that Belenos had been trying to kidnap one of the local witches at the time, so Darak didn’t have much sympathy for the poor-me routine.

  “If she hates you that much, why are you in her territories?”

  “Frank, aren’t you, gladia
tor?”

  “Saves time.”

  “You don’t bow to royalty?” He made a gesture to a flunky, who began to roll up the map. Whatever was on it wasn’t for sharing.

  “No.”

  “I thought as much. Are you in town to cheer on the democratic election?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not buying this move by Omara to put her puppets in public office? It would take a fool not see she’s moving in on the human power structure.”

  “I don’t do politics, any flavor.”

  “Ah, yes.” Belenos looked amused. “Your reputation for utter neutrality among the vampire kingdoms is remarkable. I’d say you hate all us monarchs equally. If you had a weakness, I’d say it was a taste for Robin Hood dramatics in favor of the downtrodden.”

  “I don’t do tights and lacy shirts, either. Clan Thanatos is a mercenary unit.”

  “Is that why you’re here? For a job?”

  Darak thought quickly. His misgivings were turning into full-scale alarm bells. The map on the table, from what he’d glimpsed, had looked like a diagram of the sewers. Whatever Belenos was up to was going to be on a big scale. “The opposite. I’m looking for whoever started the fire at the medical clinic. I could use a skill set like that on my team. Necromancy is a rare talent.”

  “I’m flattered,” Belenos said dryly. “But I’m otherwise occupied.”

  Got you, bastard. Hearing the confession gave Darak a spark of satisfaction. “Too bad. We pay well.”

  “Maybe I have a job for you instead,” the king said. His look was thoughtful. “You could be exactly the tool I need.”

  “Yeah? We don’t come cheap.”

  “Then what does it take to buy your time? What do you want?” Belenos fixed him with his one topaz eye.

  I want to go home. I want to kiss the soil of Rome and walk the streets a free man. As an outlaw, as the murderer of his noble sire, it was the one thing his size and strength couldn’t win. The Undead never forgot a crime.

  The spike of painful longing came unbidden, as if summoned by the sorcerer-king’s gaze. Darak turned his head away, focusing instead on the table. Besides the rolled-up map, there were candles, an incense burner, and a small quartz ball no bigger than a plum sitting on an ornate gold stand. Magic.

  The king was watching his face. “I see there’s something you want. If it’s within my power, it’s yours. A small price to pay for a job well done.”

  Amnesty? As a king, Belenos could arrange it. Maybe. Possibly. It wasn’t out of the question.

  Yes it was. Belenos was scum. Instead, Darak named a ridiculous figure, just to see what would happen. “Half up front.”

  Belenos shrugged, as if that were coffee money. “Agreed, but once you’re paid I get a hostage to hold until the job is done to my satisfaction.”

  “Standard terms.”

  “It won’t be straight combat. I’ve got other allies—or perhaps I should say interested parties—who are prepared to cover the usual assault activities. I would need you for more targeted work.”

  “What are our orders?” Darak asked, tension roughening his already gravelly voice. For a fee like that, the stakes had to be high. What the hell is going on?

  Belenos sat back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “That’s something I can’t tell you until the time comes. And when that will be depends on the weather.”

  That’s interesting. “How many men will I need?”

  “More is better. Many of the best fighters are out of Fairview at the moment, but I understand there is a pack of hellhounds doing guard duty. I’ve run into them before. Nasty brutes.”

  Darak grunted. He remembered the hound in the Empire. Young, serious. Carried himself like he’d seen more than a few battles. “When do I need to have the men readied?”

  “When the airport is opened again.”

  “What’s the signal?”

  “I’ll find you.” Belenos’s eye flicked to the quartz ball on the table. So he’s using it for remote surveillance. “You’ll have your instructions then. In the meantime, bring your hostage to the pier midnight tomorrow and collect the first half of your payment. And don’t think you can take my gold and run. I’ll be watching your every move. Go about your usual business. Muster your men, but do it quietly.”

  “I’ve done this before,” Darak said dryly, a little offended.

  Beneath that was a well of anger. He was looking at the necromancer who had hacked off the head of a human woman, and the atrocity was clearly the farthest thing from Belenos’s mind. Men like him had sent the gladiators into the arena for an afternoon’s sport. Men who thought lives came cheaper by the case lot.

  Darak masked his disgust behind the blank obedience of a hired thug. “Is the mark coming in by plane?”

  Belenos fixed him with a wary stare, perhaps realizing that he’d been far too obvious. Maybe torture had damaged his wits as well as his body.

  Darak guessed he wanted someone killed. Someone high level. Who better than a band of known rogues to bear the blame? Using them gave Belenos deniability.

  The king’s fingers twitched, the one sign that he realized Darak had cornered him. “Yes. I provided an incentive so that individual would arrive ASAP.”

  Ah. “The fire.”

  They crossed glances. Darak kept his face brutish and stupid, exactly what Belenos would believe of a former slave. He wants us to kill the queen.

  Darak’s body went cold with the knowledge. Jupiter’s balls, he’s going to have revenge for what she did to him. Belenos would claim it was politics, but this was purely personal spite. Looking at the ruin of the king’s body, it wasn’t hard to understand.

  “Dismissed.” Belenos stood and snapped his fingers. A dozen of the other figures stood and gathered around him. It was a warning to Darak not to overstep the role of hireling.

  It sure as hell wasn’t a dance number.

  With a nod, Darak backed away, calculating the odds of shooting Belenos without getting shot himself. The math was ugly.

  He’d found out far more information than he’d hoped for. More than he’d bargained for. Now he just had to get the hell out of there and figure out what he was going to do about it. Belenos had to go, but he was a big fish with lots of protection.

  Darak had Nia and Iskander, but the rest of Clan Thanatos wasn’t even in town. If he took on Belenos tonight, he’d end up like Daisy, bleeding his last in a back alley.

  “Good night, rogue,” Belenos said absently. “I’m glad you came along. It’s been a busy night.” He turned to one of his men, the human Darak had seen walk through the wall. “So how is your sister, Talia? Did she mention me?”

  Talia. Wasn’t that the dead Michelle’s vampire cousin? The one he’d promised to protect? What does she have to do with any of this?

  “Good night, sire.” Darak made it to the door.

  The guards parted, letting him through.

  Darak stormed down the hall, back the way he had come. He had no idea how to get out of there, but would rot in hell before he asked for directions from Belenos’s drones.

  He pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed dial. “Nia. How fast do you think the rest of the clan can get here?”

  Chapter 22

  Thursday, December 30, 11:30 p.m.

  101.5 FM

  “Good evening, this is CSUP coming to you from the U of Fairview campus. I’m your hostess, Errata Jones. There’s a community alert going out tonight about a confirmed sighting of a Hunter believed to be the assailant who shot a popular Comp Sci teacher here at Fairview U, Professor Perry Baker. The details will be on the upcoming news, but for now let me shed a ray of light on exactly how dangerous these people are.

  “I mentioned that I’d found some of their manuals. Well, one of them makes pretty interesting reading. It’s a Hunter child-rearing manual, or basically how to raise a good little psychopath. Even their nursery rhymes are all about killing. Imagine your little ones singing this while they play in
the backyard:

  Vampires with the slice of steel

  Fairies cannot iron heal

  Silver kills the man-faced beast

  And demon hound has soul released

  The day mercuric metal drives

  Into his veins; Then death arrives.

  “Sweet, isn’t it? They know from the time they can toddle just what kills each and every one of us.”

  Thursday, December 30, midnight

  Empire Hotel

  The bar was the only part of the Empire open to the public. The hotel side, currently closed for restoration, was a tribute to Old Town’s bygone glory. High ceilings held the remnants of gold-leafed plasterwork and Italianate frescoes. Beneath the drop sheets covering the lobby floor was a marble mosaic. Joe had found the original chandeliers in the attic. What he hadn’t found was an electrician willing to bring the place up to code at a price Joe could afford. Part of the problem was that he wanted to convert the old gas fixtures to electric so he could keep the look of the original decor.

  “Why keep everything the same? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to update?” Talia asked.

  Joe gave her a guarded look as he led her up the winding grand staircase. “I have a sentimental attachment to the place.”

  His tone said no more information was coming, so she didn’t press.

  Derelict didn’t begin to describe the condition of the upstairs. A few bare bulbs hung from the high ceiling, giving just enough light to wind their way through a litter of construction debris. Wallpaper hung in shreds. It looked like a pipe had burst at some point, because water stains marred the plaster ceiling. Talia caught a faint smell of mildew.

  “I know, it looks like wolverines slept here,” Joe commented, stepping over a pile of paint cans. “I’ve cleaned out a couple of the rooms for personal use.”

  He took a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the double doors to a suite. He hit the light switch, which turned on a couple of tabletop lamps. “There’s no room service, but the sheets are clean.”