Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion) (13 page)

“Given that you are currently removing a bullet from my abdomen, I would venture a guess that you failed Vampire Killing: 101.”

A faint smile flickered across his lips. His head bowed and hair fell over his brow. “That wouldn’t be the only class. My memories of standard demon classification are also a bit hazy, but I don’t recall vampires being listed among any of the ranks.”

“It’s because we don’t count to the snobs who write your demonology textbooks.”

“Though I’ve heard your race often spoke of with contempt, given your considerable physical assets, I hardly see cause for it.”

“Are you hitting on me, Nate?”

He all but rolled his eyes. “Strength and speed.”

“Yeah and I’ve got great tits too.”

He ignored that comment and dug a little deeper. “You can hold your own against most demons that can enter this realm, and virtually all humans. I naturally assumed part of the contempt for your race came from envy.”

Oh,
ouch
, I hoped he found that fucking bullet soon. “That’s a nice thought, but I doubt it. The rest of the supernatural world is populated with highly skilled mortals. Even you—a warlock, the product of centuries of selective breeding—require a lot of practice to use your innate magical abilities. Half-demons don’t even survive unless their human parent passed on certain genetic attributes that mesh with the demon genes, and demon-possessed humans all must have certain biological prerequisites that let them use their otherworldly power.”

“And vampires?” He finally had the bullet, and it landed on the table with a soft
clank
. Thank
god
. I eased myself onto my stomach so he could work on my back. No pain bothered me now; nothing like some vampire endorphins kicking in to make bullet surgery a walk in the park. Of course, talking and keeping my mind off being poked and prodded with sharp instruments helped.

“Demonic parasite,” I responded. “The equivalent of a human virus, but with a certain level of intelligence. You won’t find it in your common classification books because it is inconsequential in its native demon world. And in the human one, anyone can become a vampire. Well, I mean, it’s hard and time consuming to make one
and
not all survive the change. But it’s the poor, inept man’s answer to the pursuit of demonic power. No skills required, no knowledge of anything necessary. Essentially, I’m a host. My mortal blood was drained by a vampire, and he gave me enough of his to infect with the parasite.”

“Did that kill you?” Another bullet hit the table. One left.

“Briefly. What happens is the demon works its way to your brain. Then
you
get put in a sort of stasis while
it
gestates, usually for a period of ten or eleven years. All the strength, speed, agility, and quick healing capabilities are to protect it. It goes through the host’s body, altering the genetic makeup, doing away with the parts that are useless to it—like, say, some human reproductive organs—and strengthening the ones that can help it, like bones and muscles. It kinda meshes together other stuff, like the liver and that, so I still filter and synthesize toxins. And I have a kick ass immune system.”

“And the feeding of blood is necessary?” The last bullet was finally out, and Nate moved to the sink to wash off his hands while I sat up. I hurt from top to bottom but I’d feel good in twenty-four hours or so.

“Yes, to keep the parasite—and me—alive and in this wonderful state of youth. And now, if you’re ever on Supernatural Jeopardy and a category about vampires pops up, you’ve got it made.” I picked up the three tiny bullets and turned them over in my hand. “That was pretty fast. You’ve had some experience doing last minute emergency surgery?”

“A bit.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile.

Huh. Interesting. “I thought you didn’t get in gunfights.”

“I don’t. Anymore.”

Curiouser and curiouser. He was still focused on washing his hands, too. Ignoring me. Guess I’d find something else to do if he didn’t want to play sharsies regarding his past.

I left the kitchen and started for the bathroom.

The water shut off sharply. “Zara.”

I halted.

“About Mishka—”

“Shower now,” I said. “Talk after.”

Swift steps touched down on the floor and a hand locked on my arm before I got too far. I tensed and glanced over my shoulder, clumps of bloody hair cutting across my face. Gave him a look of warning.

But Mr. Authority was back. He held my gaze fiercely, grip a vise on my arm. “I
need to know
about Mishka.”

I pursed my lips, gave his hand on my arm a pointed look, then lifted my eyes to his again. Cocked a brow. Said nothing. Tension simmered in the air, brushing my skin—an electrical storm about to hit.

Murky navy blue, like midnight shadows, played over his eyes again; for an instant I suspected there was more power in their depths than he’d led me to believe. Then he blinked and his grip slackened.

Good boy. I’d hate to have to kill him, though the look he was giving me suggested this showdown was delayed, not over.

“Shower now,” I repeated. “Talk
after
.”

I finished walking to the bathroom and closed the door before he could throw a fireball at me.

Chapter Thirteen

Mishka

I found the shower invigorating. With the bullets out of my body, my strength was returning, and the hot water soothed and relaxed all my muscles. By the time I turned off the water, dried my body, and brushed my hair straight, I could almost forget I’d been shot at, beaten, and had a variety of objects thrown at me.

Almost.

At least my hair was in better shape. Soaked in the shower for five minutes with expensive conditioner, the knots fell away easily and now it hung in wet ropes against my back. I wrapped myself up in my satin, sapphire blue kimono and wandered out into the main room.

Nate sat on my couch, his cell phone to his ear. Bloody shirt but otherwise looking well; he’d scrubbed down his arms and cleaned the blood splatter from his neck.

“Tomorrow at noon, then?” He glanced at me as I curled up on the other side of the sofa, his expression unreadable. “All right.” He hung up and cast the phone on my coffee table.

“Important meetings?”

He shook his head. His hair gleamed, like he’d run wet fingers through it too. “Just trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Yeah, if you make any progress on that, let me in on it, okay?”

“Agreed.” A beat of silence passed and then slowly, reluctantly, Nate turned to face me. Blue eyes found mine, achingly beautiful and pained, and for a moment my heart gave a sick thump again. I knew that look in his gaze, understood it on a level I couldn’t name. Words paused at his lips. At last he spoke, though there hardly seemed a reason to for the same question was on both our minds.

“Tell me about Mishka,” he said softly.

Witch. Bitch. Got herself blown up.
“You were the one married to her,” I reminded him. “You should probably start.”

“Tell me about when she hired you,” he said instead.

I launched into the details of our meeting earlier that week. I told him exactly what she told me—about his father, about the reason for the hit, and eventually about him. At times he seemed to listen without hearing me, his azure gaze drifting to the floor. As I got to the part where she offered me more money to kill him, his brows furrowed and he took in a breath as if he was about to speak, but still he said nothing.

When I finished my account of the events leading up to the party, I watched as he digested everything. Five minutes. That was
all
I was giving him. If he didn’t start talking, I’d resort to my favourite form of persuasion...starting with the bones in his fingers.

I hated being the only one sharing.

At last he spoke, and the words came out deceptively calm, only the edges jagged. Smooth broken glass, ready to cut if I stepped on it wrong. “A few things trouble me about what you’ve said,” he began.

Just a few?
“Like the part where she hired me to kill you?”

“That goes without saying, but it isn’t what I was referring to. First of all, we planned this about three weeks ago—she was supposed to hire you then.”

Huh
. “I figured that, because the kid she sent over with my fake ID said he had known about it for several days.”

Nate nodded. “I gave Mishka the invitation for you then.”

Ah, so that’s why I was able to get into the house without a problem, despite Jamie’s attempt to keep me out. That made sense. Why fake an invitation if Nate could get her a real one? Whatever the kid forged, Mishka probably trashed when he gave it to her to seal it with magic and just exchanged it with the real thing.

“My father gave me one for her, though he made it very clear he didn’t want her to come.” Nate leaned back on the couch, tipped his head to gaze up at the ceiling. I bit back a comment about him getting blood on the sofa fabric; I had
some
tact and recognized it wasn’t the time for that discussion. “He berated me for her not showing up tonight, but didn’t seem surprised.”

“Yeah, I think I overheard you guys arguing.”

He gazed at the ceiling, like he saw something there. Probably memories, playing in his head. “The second thing that bothers me about this relates to the money. You’re certain about what she said?”

“It’s money—trust me, I’m sure.” I went over the numbers for him again.

“I gave her twenty-five million for my father,” he explained. “Nearly everything left to me after my mother died. I offered more, but she said it wouldn’t be necess—”

“Twenty-five?” I repeated, my eyes wide. My fingers clenched into fists that cried out to hit something. “That bitch! She wanted to keep it for herself—”

“But there was no need.” The dark, hard edges to his voice went real sharp then, air around him thrumming with a mix of hurt and anger. “With my father dead, everything of his would go straight to me, and she knew that meant it was hers too. She had no reason to want to keep it...unless...”

“Unless?”

“She needed it to pay for something else.”

Pay for
what
else? Mishka had everything she needed. She had a trust fund of roughly thirty million that was kept safe so her gambling-addicted father couldn’t piss it away. Of that money, she had never touched a cent, not once to my knowledge. Of course, my knowledge of her wasn’t too complete, apparently.

“Why did you want your father dead?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he said softly. Darkly.

Alrighty then. Pay for the man to be killed? Fine. Tell me
what
the big fucking deal is? Apparently that was complicated and none of my business.

I racked my brain, struggled to come up with a motive beyond the obvious...and was still stuck with the obvious, so that’s what I tried first. “The money?”

Nate shook his head. Avoided my eyes. “I don’t need money.”

And it wasn’t power—wasn’t to take over his father’s position. He didn’t want to be at the gathering, didn’t even dress up for the event. Had that Johnny Cash vibe going on with all the black, like he was attending a funeral, not a party. And if he knew his father would be murdered, he would’ve made an effort to keep up appearances—he would’ve done whatever he normally did at his dad’s parties. Which turned out to be brood and mostly avoid the guests. So no, Nate had no interest in taking over for his father as the head of O’Connor’s coven.

What was I missing, then?

I could play lie detector—I knew tons of vampires who got a kick out of it. Listen close for the target’s heartbeat, become in tune with their body heat and try to guess when they’re lying or not. But a lot of humans were better liars than I was at detecting lies. Besides, Heaven owed me since I saved her life. She might share some gossip with me.

I let the subject of his father’s murder drop. “Why did Mish want you dead?”

A snort and the tightening of his lips. His eyes went dark as he sat up straighter and stopped staring at the ceiling. “I have no idea.”

“Maybe you had better tell me about this ‘marriage.’ Mishka never mentioned it to me.”

“I suppose it was part marriage, part alliance,” he said. “What she said about the family blood feud was true. The O’Connors and Thierings have hated one another for centuries. Covens are concerned with power and, more recently, money. Heaven Thiering is a relatively strong witch, but Jeffrey could do little that would pass as real magic. With his gambling draining their funds, you can see how weak they were becoming.

“Mishka, on the other hand, is...” He froze for a moment, then I blinked and it passed; he was composed again. “Mish
was
incredibly powerful. More so than I suspect a lot of people knew.”

“And your coven was looking weak as well,” I said, the pieces falling into place.

He nodded. “Though we have an unfathomable amount of money, nearly all of my immediate family is dead, and of the others, there isn’t anyone too powerful left that could hold on to our wealth. My brother, Sean, could have. His abilities were unsurpassed but he died in a car accident.”

“So two well-known covens get together, and you’re unstoppable,” I filled in.

“Right, but we didn’t tell our families, not right away...” His eyes clouded, voice went weary. He swallowed tightly and hair brushed his face as he tipped his head forward slightly. “I knew vaguely of her—I think I ran into her once or twice over the years—but we only met up five months ago. Last month we eloped. It wasn’t just about combining our covens, it was...I loved her. And I thought...”

This was getting way too emotional for me. “You don’t have to finish that one.” I chewed on all this for a moment, fidgeting in my seat. Ah hell, I’d try again—question rephrased this time. “Why did
the two of you
decide to assassinate your father?”

His lips parted then pinched together again, jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth. And he still stared straight ahead, not meeting my eyes, just leaving me with a view of his profile. “Just after we were married, I told my father. He wasn’t happy that it was to Mishka Thiering, but praised the idea to keep our bloodline going. Shortly after that, someone tried to kill Mish. We traced it back to my father.”