Blood Curse (17 page)

Rialto quickly straightened. “A library, perhaps?” He recalled his own vision of Aria hunched over books at the library. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he filed that fact away for the moment, too tired to think it through. “This is the second time you've seen Eron. He must have something to do with this."

"Are you suggesting he has committed the murders?"

Rialto felt Seta's hard glare hit him like a physical blow. He'd always suspected there was something more than friendship between her and Eron, something more than the normal bond between a vampire fledgling and her sire. Judging by the icy look in her eyes, he knew he was right.

"Of course I'm not suggesting that, Mother, but he is somehow involved, whether it is with his consent or not. When was the last time you saw him?"

"Too long. I've tried calling out to him, but he doesn't answer."

He saw the doubt shadowing Seta's face and the genuine worry. She didn't want to believe Eron had anything to do with these senseless killings, but Eron had been in both of her visions and he wasn't answering her. Being her sire, he could always sense her whereabouts and hear her when she called. So why was he ignoring her?

"Do you think he's . . ."

"No!” Seta hurled her answer before he could finish the question. “If he was . . . dead, I'd know. I'd feel it."

"What do you feel?"

"Nothing.” She shrugged her shoulders in frustration. “Not death, not pain, not . . . anything."

"Is that normal?” Rialto knew Seta could feel him as if he were part of her, could read his mind clearly with or without his consent, but they also shared the bond of mother and son. Rialto had only sired one vampire, but she hadn't lived long enough for him to fully understand how the bond between sire and fledgling worked.

"No, darling, it's not normal. If we're far apart, I might not be able to feel him completely, but I've never lost him altogether. There's always a . . . I don't know . . . a faint buzz, an electricity I can sense."

"How long has it been gone?"

"Months,” she answered sadly. “Before these murders started."

Rialto could practically see the wheels turning in her head, but he didn't comment. He knew her too well. If he kept pressing the fact that Eron definitely had something to do with the killings, she would continue to argue why Eron couldn't possibly be involved. If, however, he let her think it over herself, she would realize how much sense it made. Not that it did make much sense. Eron was a powerful vampire, having lived far longer than Seta. He was a good vampire, too. He wouldn't willingly kill an innocent, but how anyone could overpower or manipulate him was beyond Rialto's scope of imagination.

Together, he and Seta continued to walk the streets of Baltimore, dipping in and out of parks and alleys, opening their senses for any signs of evil. She chanted spells whenever they weren't in earshot of tourists and passersby, and he kept his eyes and ears open, searching for something, anything, that would give them a clue as to who was committing these atrocities. He was a good bounty hunter, but that involved hunting criminals and deadbeat dads. Mortals left trails, and the scent of fear and evil brewed under their skin, seeping out through their pores. Whatever they were searching for now knew how to cover up the smell.

Books. Blood. Needle. Eron

Rialto tried to piece together the images from Seta's visions. What did it all mean?

The man laughed as he pushed the needle into the vampire's flesh and watched the powerful blood fill the tubing which led to a gallon jug. He had enough blood to last him years, but he never stopped stocking his supply, mostly because the vampire never stopped replenishing what was lost each night. The vampire race's healing was amazing. He had studied them for years and now had a real-life vamp to experiment on. He had burned him, cut him, made him endure cruel torture, but each night the ancient vampire's body was healed, showing no signs of previous abuse.

"How are you doing tonight, Eron? Just hanging in there?” He laughed at his joke, watching the shirtless, manacled vampire glare at him from where he hung from the wall, bolted to the hard, cold brick by his wrists and ankles. Ordinarily, a vampire could not be contained in such a way, but every night he took enough blood to weaken the powerful beast until he was barely able to move, let alone attack. He also took blood at regular intervals during the day to make extra sure the vampire couldn't regain his full strength.

He never sank his own teeth into human flesh. He used the stolen blood, injecting it straight into his bloodstream, bypassing the disgusting task of actually tasting it. That was what separated man from beast. He was still a man, a strong, mighty man, whereas the animal on the wall was a parasite.

"Why are you doing this?” The vampire's voice was weak and raspy. It pleased him immensely that he had the power to make the ancient being frail and helpless.

"I told you. Revenge.” He leered at the vampire as its blood continued to fill the jug, noting that it seemed to be coming out slower than usual. His brow crinkled in confusion as he noticed a greenish color at the vampire's side, close to his back. Moving in closer he saw that it was a bruise. “What is this?"

"Don't you . . . remember?” The vampire glared down at him, looking as though it took all his strength to do so.

"Why didn't you heal during the day?” He looked at the jug on the floor. It should be full. Why was it only halfway filled?

He tore the needle from the vampire's side, quickly bandaging the small hole that remained and studied his pallor and the wound.

"You're dying!” He sealed the jug for storage and ran his hands through his wild mane of red hair. “How long has this been happening?” He thought of all the jugs of blood he'd collected. If Eron was dying, losing his power, it was possible that most of the blood he had in storage wasn't strong enough, wouldn't last him long enough.

He had mostly been feeding the vampire cow's blood. On the occasions that he killed, he brought that blood to him, but maybe the thinning agent he used to get the blood to pour out the body affected the quality. Obviously, the vampire needed more blood if he was to survive.

"I'll have to kill more women,” he said to himself, again studying the vampire. “Or else bring you live bait."

He stored the fresh jug of blood in the freezer and left the laboratory, entering another room in the basement level of his home. This room was dark, carpeted in black and painted the same. Red pentagrams covered the walls, and a large one was painted into the center of the carpet. Before it stood an altar, covered in dozens of candles.

"The master will know what to do,” the man said to himself as he began the ritualistic lighting of the candles.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Aria turned off the taps and wiped her hands on the towel hanging on the nearby rack on the small bathroom's wood-paneled wall. She'd vomited twice in the last thirty minutes, but she no longer felt sick and feverish. Her nausea was due to the memory of the images she'd seen in her dream and the remembrance of the smell of blood and death. It was so hauntingly real that when she thought of it, she still felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes. Rialto had lived that nightmare. No wonder he seemed so hardened, so adamant they couldn't be together.

But she wasn't an innocent like Antonia. She knew what Rialto was, yet . . . did she want a vampire's life? She still felt the pain of her parents’ deaths. Could she endure the pain for eternity, adding to it the death of new loved ones she would meet? She gazed at her reflection in the mirror hanging over the sink. She was pale again, white-looking. Was Seta right? Was she hiding from what she was?

Pickahoe was an awful little town for a biracial child to be raised in, and her mother's fears had been warranted. They'd left town the night after their car had been blown up, a week after their dog was poisoned. And it was all because of the black blood that flowed through her veins. But was she ashamed?

No.

She loved her father. Jesse Michaels was a warm, loving man. He had loved her mother with all his heart and soul combined, and he would have given her the world if he could. But the pair was doomed from the start. Both were too poor to leave Pickahoe. They never married, but instead had met in secret. Aria hadn't been planned, and if not for the uncanny paleness of her skin, they might have all been killed or driven out of town upon her birth.

Jesse had been murdered in his own home while a white supremacist group was passing through. The local police said they had no leads even though they knew exactly what happened to him. Everyone knew. Word leaked out Jesse was seeing a white woman, but fortunately Mary's identity hadn't been discovered. If it had, she and Aria would have met a cruel fate that night, as well. As it turned out, it was another year before the town put two and two together. It was then she'd realized that her first boyfriend, Brad, had figured out who her father was and let it slip that Jesse was seeing a white woman. The only reason he hadn't told anyone about her and her mother was because he hadn't wanted anyone to know he'd been fooled by a half black girl . . . until he got drunk at a graduation party and confessed all. One week later her mother had dreamed about them being attacked, and they'd boarded a flight to Baltimore with little money and no definite place to go. Aria Ayers became Aria Michaels, finally free to take her father's name.

Aria ran her fingers over the pale skin of her face. Was she ashamed of what she was? No. She had only been doing what she'd been taught to do: hiding her true self in order to survive. And she was tired of it.

Rialto had been tired of hiding after only a decade. She had felt that clearly as she'd sensed him nearing the clearing in the memory-dream. How had he managed to survive for so long hiding himself? She couldn't do it. Twenty-six years was already starting to take its toll and all she was hiding was her ancestry; Rialto was hiding his entire existence and that of those like him. Yet, the dreams they shared . . .

Something had led them to one another, possibly the same thing that had led her mother to her death. She couldn't ignore that. She'd ignored the common sense that would have prevented her from getting involved with Brad, the man who later led white supremacists to her father's door, the man who'd caused her mother to flee to a city where she was later murdered. It was all Aria's fault. If only she hadn't given in to her pathetic need to be accepted, her parents would still be alive.

She couldn't let Rialto die too. The witch had come to her for a reason, and her gut told her what that reason was. She was somehow linked with him, could somehow prevent his death.

Watch out for the vampire.

When her mother had issued the same warning in her dream, she'd assumed she was being told she was in danger from the vampire. Now she realized she was being told to protect him.

And that was exactly what she was going to do, even if it meant dying herself. She couldn't possibly continue to live with another death on her conscience.

Aria tore her gaze away from the mirror and exited the bathroom. The hallway she stepped into was long and narrow. Christian had led her beneath the church via a trap door, which was virtually invisible to the naked eye, under the pulpit. They'd walked down a long set of stairs before coming to a thick metal door which had to be unlocked with the use of ten separate keys and in a precise order.

From there, a long narrow tunnel snaked around the underground, widening in various places where a living area, bathroom, and bedrooms had been built. It appeared to Aria that the tunnels and rooms were dug out with a shovel, then boards were nailed into the earth to form floors and walls. Aria was thankful for the wooden planks, which seemed to be the only thing protecting her from the creepy-crawlies, and the well-built ceilings which kept dirt from tumbling down on top of her . However, the air was stale in the narrow passageway. Christian had apologized for the almost claustrophobic feel of the majority of his home, explaining that he rarely had mortal company and the closed-in space didn't bother him.

She slowly made her way down the narrow corridor, her only illumination coming from the flashlight Christian had given her. He kept lamps in the big rooms but allowed no light in the narrow tunnels, just in case someone ever did discover how to enter his dwelling. If that happened, the darkness would work in his favor. He'd explained that his keen eyes needed no light to see.

Light pooled into the tunnel as Aria neared one of the rooms. She caught the sound of voices, one with the trace of a Spanish accent, as she closed in. Rialto and Seta were back. Maybe now she could go home and rest in her own bed.

But something in her gut warned her she might not be leaving so soon. Aria flicked off the flashlight as she reached the opening to the room. Christian and Seta stood in the center, speaking to one another in worried tones, Seta's beautiful face was marred with a deep frown. When she sensed Aria's presence, her eyes turned dark and cold. Aria gulped, wondering if it was just her imagination that Seta was glaring at her.

"Where's Rialto?” she asked, noting that he didn't stand with them. She caught the look of pity Christian sent her way before she looked around the room and found Rialto lying supine on a chaise in the corner, his hands folded over his abdomen. It looked as if he was resting peacefully, but it was exactly the same way Aria's mother had looked in her casket.

"Rialto!” Aria ran across the room and dropped to her knees beside the chaise, placing her hand over his heart. She felt the slight beat beneath her fingers and let out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding. He was still alive, even if his heartbeat wasn't as steady and strong as it should be and his skin was much too pale, completely devoid of its normally golden glow. “Is he all right?"

"No, thanks to you,” Seta snapped, her dark eyes boring into Aria's so accusingly she had to blink, unable to withstand the weight of Seta's punishing glare.

"It's not her fault, Seta.” Christian admonished the vampire witch with a quelling glare of his own. “Rialto is fighting against fate."