Blood and Kisses (21 page)

The room tilted. Thalia thought her legs would fold. She fought the rolling sensation in her stomach. And she’d believed she’d covered her disability. She forced herself to speak lightly. “The whispers are true, but exaggerated. I don’t use my magic frivolously, but I have more than enough to get the job done. Gideon and I have already fought the rogue once. He is very ancient, very powerful, but we
will
stop him.”

She paused to collect her thoughts, and an unnatural lull settled over the group. Mina spoke into it. “My visions are rock solid. I believe this ‘rogue’ as you call him, is much more than just an ordinary vampire gone feral. I believe he is part and parcel of the danger we’ve been expecting.”

Thalia spoke with a conviction she wasn’t sure she felt. “That may be true. But if it is, it changes nothing. I’ve got this.”

Mina walked around the long table and laid a fragile,
café au laite
hand on Thalia’s arm. “I’m sorry, dear, but we have to be sure.”

Gideon boiled with anger. He didn’t bother to ask himself why he was so incensed. The demon within stirred. He dug his fingers into his palms, driving him back, but was only partially successful.

They had no right to do this to Thalia. He could feel her pain at this betrayal. Her frustration at being undermined by people she’d trusted her whole life. He yearned to intercede, but she had to do this. This was her fight. The woman who was brave enough to accost a strange vampire on a darkened street, strong enough to set aside her grief in order to find her cousin’s killer, and tough enough to drag Gideon back from the edge of madness, could surely handle this. He swallowed his rage, banking the burning coals of fury beneath the ashes of reason. She didn’t need his protection, however much he wanted to give it.

Thalia’s face was white, her full lips a thin line. “What are you going to do?”

“What I propose, dear, is a vote.”

Thalia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was unprecedented. Her face felt numb. “What kind of vote?” She forced the words through insensate lips.

“Heath has expressed the desire to take over as Champion. The council has decided to let the community vote. You will be a candidate, as will Heath and anyone else who wishes to step forward.”

The force of Mina’s personality could no longer hold the crowd in check. The assembly disgorged a roar of frenzied discussion. Witches and mages shouted and jumped to their feet. One young witch dumped the contents of her punch glass on the head of the mage sitting next to her, whether intentionally or by accident Thalia couldn’t tell. It stained his white hair and beard pink.

Another crack of thunder caromed off the walls. “Calm down.”

Mina’s magically augmented words filled the room, rivaling the thunder in its volume. Thalia struggled against the urge to put her hands over her ears.

The roar diminished to a low buzz. “Is there anyone else who would like to nominate themselves or another as a candidate?”

Heads swiveled back and forth as each person looked to see if another would step forward.

Karla stood up. “I don’t want to nominate anyone. I just want to say that I am perfectly satisfied with the Champion we have. If there’s going to be a vote, I think it should be about whether we vote at all.”

There were some approving nods and murmurs. The tension in Thalia’s chest eased momentarily.

Mina sighed. “Very well. All in favor of holding a vote, raise your hand.”

Karla crossed her arms over her skinny chest, as did a few others, but the majority raised their arms.

Thalia’s ribs seemed to compress, preventing her lungs from expanding. If that many people wanted a vote, surely they would be voting against her.

Mina didn’t bother to count. “It seems there will be a vote. I’ll ask one more time. Are there any other candidates?” No one spoke. A few people shifted in their seats as if undecided, but eventually subsided, apparently unwilling in the end to take on such an onerous job.

“Fine. We’ll proceed. It would be better if this were a private vote, but in the interest of speed, I’ll ask again for a show of hands. Everyone who wishes Thalia to remain our Champion, raise your hand.”

Thalia held her breath as her gaze swept the crowd. Less than a third raised their hands. Her stomach lurched. She swallowed hard against the sick feeling rising in her throat. The Kents had been Champions for more than ten generations. It seemed like a bad dream. What had she done to deserve this?

“Everyone who wishes Heath to be our new Champion?” A forest of hands raised. “Those abstaining?” Two or three hands lifted. “It’s settled. Heath is our new Champion.”

It was over.

The room seemed to darken, and Thalia had the odd sensation that she’d ceased to exist. She felt as isolated and out of her element as a dolphin in a tank. How had this happened? What did she do now?

The short term was clear. No way would she allow Lily’s killer to escape, but after that, what then? She stepped back, and Gideon put a hand on her slender back. His touch anchored her and everything came back into focus. She straightened. She wasn’t going to let them do this to her.

“Wait! Heath,” she said loudly for everyone to hear. “I challenge you to a contest.” She turned to Mina. “If I can defeat Heath in the ritual of power, would that satisfy the council?”

“We’ve already voted.” Heath looked belligerent. His face was set, his hands fisted, his thick brows low and straight over narrowed eyes.

“So we can vote again.” Thalia lifted her chin and stared him down. He couldn’t have everything his way.

Mina glanced between them, her dark eyes assessing. She nodded once as if making up her mind and turned to address the crowd who were speaking excitedly amongst themselves, clearly taken aback by this sudden turn of events. “Raise your hands, if it is acceptable for the winner of the ritual of power to be our new,” she bowed her head to Heath, “or old,” she bowed her head to Thalia, “Champion.”

Every hand shot up. It was unanimous. Thalia had bought herself a bit more time. She wasn’t dead yet.

The ancient’s ultra-sensitive ears detected the rhythmic pat-a-pat-a-pan of rain hammering the roof of the Tomb. Gods, he loved that name! He’d thought it hackneyed before, but now it seemed perfect. Gideon couldn’t have known how
apropos
it would be. He smirked and resisted the impulse to laugh out loud. Nothing could dampen his ebullient mood.

He smoothed his thinning hair and scrutinized his reflection in the smoke-clouded mirror behind the bar. The glass was a bit wavy with age, and the silver had worn away in places, but it did the job. He looked a bit thin. He stroked his jaw. His skin was still elastic. He leaned forward over the sticky, scarred, teak surface of the bar to get a closer view. His eyes were beginning to sink in, but only the most perceptive eye would detect that.

Still presentable.

He hadn’t fed yet. His strength was running low. He could almost feel his energy bleeding away, but couldn’t remember being this satisfied. And it had been such great fun. The shocked expressions on the detectives’ doltish faces when he’d attacked almost compensated for the loss of their precious blood.

He could still feel the thrill of watching the one named Poole gasping for air. No doubt the man wore the imprint of his fingers even now. Perhaps he’d go back and find him again later. He could come to enjoy playing with his food.

He was amazed at how well his impersonation had worked. He loved the media. Gideon’s face was smeared all over the news like mud on a white shirt. The police were watching Gideon’s house, the phony crime scene he’d set up, and the Tomb. Stakeouts they called them. There was a pun in there somewhere. Not that he actually wanted them to catch Gideon, but dodging the police would keep his old adversary off-balance.

Of course, it also made it a bit more challenging to pick a victim.

Or did it?

He had thought the police might shut down the nightspot, but they’d decided Gideon might return to choose a new mark. He brushed the consciousness of some of the officers, delving into their histories. Several of the policemen and women knew the Champion. Convenient, but not surprising considering her mortal career as private investigator.

He inhaled, savoring the pungent aroma of adrenaline and fear that infused the hazy air. Rochesterians were scared. Oh, they pretended everything was normal. There was a rather reckless gaiety suffusing the human patrons of the club. He could hear it in their thoughts, but he didn’t have to read their minds to see it in their too bright smiles, exaggerated laughter, and wild dancing.

Cattle bleating in a pen
.

They put on a good show, but deep down they were terrified. And well they should be.

He probed the thoughts of an undercover police officer in torn jeans and an unseasonable, though trendy, black leather jacket. Jackpot!

The thirty-something sandy-haired man was speculating that Damek had kidnapped the Champion. Although, of course, the man didn’t think of her that way. He was a petty through and through. The officer had always admired her. Had wanted to date her, but she’d seemed oblivious to his overtures. He couldn’t believe she’d willingly go with a wanted man. She was too honest, too by-the-book.

Quickly bored by the man’s banal thoughts, unrequited attraction was so trite, he was relieved when the man’s cell phone rang.

He let him answer it. Then he found the digital signal in the air and blocked it. Being the dutiful officer the man was, instead of hanging up, he moved toward the door to reacquire the signal. The ancient manipulated the signal again. He let it out and pulled it back like a fishing line, luring his foolish victim gradually toward the door. Ah, the wonders of modern technology. He really should get a cell phone. Perhaps after he ate the policeman, he’d take his phone.

A fresh, moisture-laden breeze diluted the smoky air near the exit as the officer stepped outside, braving the nearly torrential rain. The heavy steel door slammed behind him. The ancient felt the sweet smart of his fangs lengthening in heady anticipation. He preferred to feed on women, but a young healthy man would do in a pinch. Already imagining the ambrosial flavor of the man’s rich blood, the intoxicating euphoria of the Claiming, he tailed him out the door.