Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion) (3 page)

“Gimme that.”

I let her grab the book back. She was way too smart for that trashy kid magic they sold in occult stores—why bother with something wannabes read? But I didn’t ask, because I had trouble taking interest in something that wasn’t directly related to
me
. “So, the invoking thing...how’s that working out for you?”

She ignored me. “Nice jacket.” An exaggerated inhale through her nose and her face scrunched up. “Ugh, when did you start smoking?”

“I didn’t—the charming gentleman I killed and stole it from did.” I reached into one of the pockets, pulled out a small pack of cigarettes, and tossed them on the table. “You’re welcome to what he had left.”

“No thanks.” Her chair scraped on the kitchen tile floor as she rose, hardcover book in hand. A tall, dark walnut bookcase with a heavy bottom sat next to the couch, and she moved to set the book at eyelevel. I had long suspected she kept all the good magic stuff hidden away in her fireproof safe—which she didn’t think I knew about—and leaving ol’ Raven’s Grimoire up there confirmed my suspicion it was filled with shit spells. She paused there, skirt swirling around her feet as the wind kicked up and blew through the open window, and eyed the books for a moment. “I didn’t think you fed in this area anymore.”

“I don’t, not since Dustin got that little heroin problem after feeding on too many addicts. I think that was a valuable lesson for us all—you are, indeed, what you eat. But someone follows me, he doesn’t live to tell about it.”

Her green eyes glanced back at me, sharp and alert. “Was it random?”

“Probably. He seemed surprised when he realized I wasn’t human.”

A smirk lifted the corners of her lips. “Imagine that—someone who hasn’t heard of you.”

“Fucking tragedy of biblical proportions, I’m telling you.”

She moved to the tall cabinet next to the shelf, a four drawer number in white that looked out of place between the antique pieces. But then she was a shitty decorator. Hadn’t even painted in the couple of years she had the place to herself. Of course, neither had I before her, but I was going for grungy apartment at the time and the discoloured walls kept up that theme.

Not locked
, I thought as she went for the top drawer of the filing cabinet. No key, no magical barrier keeping it closed that required her witchy words to open. The well-oiled wheels hummed as she hauled it open, then again when she found what she searched for and closed the cabinet.

Mishka turned to face me, large manila envelope clutched in both hands. For a fraction of an instant, she paused there. Then perhaps overcorrecting after the intermission, she sped forward and her bare feet carried her back to the table. I waited, nails still going
click click click
on the table until she slid the envelope to me and took her seat.

My last name,
Lain
, was written on the front in big fat Sharpie letters. So formal. “This is my shiny new contract?” I slid my fingernail along the sealed flap to open it.

“Yeah.”

An eight-and-a-half by eleven, black and white photo waited inside along with a single sheet of typed information.

The photo was snapped from far away, I guessed: zoomed in and everything but the target had a touch of blur. A man stepped out of a car and I saw him from the chest up: dark business suit with crisp creases and a no-nonsense tie, thinning hair, and one of those faces that conjured images of a beaten leather catcher’s mitt. Behind him, a limo—dark, probably black—and three broad-shouldered bodyguards surrounded him.

A light over the dinette table cast shadows over the brief synopsis of info on my target. I might have guessed him to be fifty or so, but...Jesus, age
seventy-four
?

“Who is he?” My gaze flickered to Mish, briefly, taking in the fidgeting of her hands, before dropping back to the photo again.

“Sean Charles O’Connor...the Fourth.”

“I can see his name right here—I meant
what
is he?”

“Warlock.”

Huh. Don’t play with them too often.
Modern covens, typically, have money and they’re total fucking snobs—I didn’t deal a whole lot with those types these days. The odd rogue, like Mishka, was a different story. Her type wasn’t backed up by the cash and monarch-like organization.

So some warlock, probably with a coven, with a contract on his head...and no details on the info sheet regarding why.
Or
payment... “That’s some great anti-aging magic he’s got. What—is he threatening to sell his secrets to Hollywood’s richest, and some plastic surgeons have hired me?”

“He’s the leader of a rivaling coven.”

“Exactly whose is it rivaling?” I looked at her and raised a brow. “Mommy and Daddy’s?”

Her face tightened into a scowl. Mishka had virtually disowned her family during her teenage rebellion, and left one of the more prominent covens in the northern hemisphere. Became a rogue. I supposed I was partly to blame; late one night when the kid caught me stealing from her wealthy parents, Jeffrey and Heaven Thiering, she not only showed me to her father’s safe, but tracked me down the next day and camped out on my doorstep until I agreed to let her stay with me.

The unlikely friendship we struck up when she was sixteen had blossomed into a business relationship as well. Proving herself useful in my transition from high class thief to full-blown hitwoman, four of the past seven contracts I’d been given came through her. And Mr. Sean Charles O’Connor the Fourth would be number five. The witch had great contacts.

Her chair creaked as she shifted and arranged her hands on the table. “Heaven contacted me. This is just your basic blood feud five centuries in the making, and they think it’s time to deliver a major setback to the O’Connors. Take out the head of the coven and it will cause chaos. You in?”

“What are they paying?”

“Five hundred.”

“There had better be more than three zeros attached to that number.”

“No—they said five hundred G’s.”

I stared at her for a moment. That wasn’t funny. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Plus any expenses—”

“No.”

“—and whatever you can grab on the way.”

Now that got me thinking. In the sheet of information, the Thierings specified that they wanted it done at his home, which meant if I was quick about it, I could probably find and crack open his safe while I was there. But doing the job at a heavily guarded mansion was going to be tough, even for a vampire. Important people rarely had mortal guards...and since the number of undead assassins and thieves was on the rise, they could quite possibly be prepared to take me out.

And I’m not just a thief anymore, damn it.
Sure, I subscribed to the ‘want, take, have’ philosophy, but that wasn’t how I made my living now. How fucking embarrassing to be expected to make up the rest of the money just
stealing
?

“No deal.” I leaned back in my chair. A whiff of smoke drifted up from the jacket, tickling my sensitive nose. “You can call them back and tell them I said there’s no way in hell I’m doing anything for less than a mil.”

“As disgustingly rich as they may be, you know damn well my family doesn’t have that kind of money lying around. Jeffrey’s got that gambling habit, and I don’t think his spell-casting skills are getting any stronger, ’cause he still sucks at roulette. And now, if we get O’Connor out of the way, it’s going to get ugly, and almost everything they’ve got will be going into protection.”

I can’t believe
she’s playing this goddamn game with
me. Mish knew how I felt about money—I liked it even better than I liked boys. And I really like boys. “Then it seems they can’t really afford to be doing business. One murder seems rather pointless if it’s going to leave them bankrupt.”

“I don’t even expect a cut of this,” Mishka said. “No commission. Personally, I’m not sure I want to be in this business anymore. But this isn’t just about money—if you’re the one to take out the leader of the O’Connor coven, you’ve got it made. No more petty theft—”

“Hey, when I thieve, it certainly isn’t petty—”

“It
is
compared to this.” She leaned forward, arms sliding across the table and green eyes focused on mine. “Zara, this is big. Bigger, I think, than you know.” Her words were heavy, an unseen weight tipping them toward ominous.

My skin went prickly, itchy, all creepy-crawly with annoyance. I didn’t like ominous and I didn’t like her implication. “And
I
think I’ve got more perspective, Mish—I do have a few centuries on you, remember.”

The corners of her lips twitched and the thin line between her brows deepened. “But you don’t know how we work.”

Of course I knew. I couldn’t
not
know—I was over three hundred goddamn years old. Covens were filled with hereditary witches and warlocks. The covens were in a constant struggle to have better, stronger magic than one another, and the most powerful ones had been around for centuries. I knew that if I was the one to take out a major player, I would be highly respected...but I also knew that he was worth a lot more than what I was being offered.

“I only do charity if you’re registered with the government. Gotta think of my taxes, honey.”

“You’ve killed for less.”

“Yeah—humans. Anything supernatural that might cause me problems, I want six figures. Rich guy like this? Seven. You know that.”

“Kill O’Connor and you’ve hit the big time.” Her voice took on a higher pitch and she shifted in her seat. I was missing
something
, but suspected she wouldn’t let me in on the secret. “Several covens have been after him for a while. He needs to go.”

“I’m sure at least a couple of these covens would be willing to pay more then,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll go to them.”

“The word is they already have someone. Someone good. If you don’t act quickly, someone else will, and you’ll be left with nothing.”

Damn, and I thought I had her there. I couldn’t even let myself consider doing it, though—as respected as I would be in my field for this hit, if it got out I did it for mere pennies I’d never get a decent contract again. Self respect: no matter your profession, you’ve gotta have it.

“Then someone else will have to do it.”

Mishka’s pale green eyes darkened, and she chewed at her bottom lip.

Keep debating, witch. I don’t say yes ’til you start talking.

Slowly, silently, she stood. Back to the living room she went, stepping softly and skipping the cabinet.

In the far corner, a lamp sat on a square table with a long burgundy cloth draped over it. Mish knelt in front of it, cast the cloth aside—goddamn, I
knew
she had a safe!—and angled her petite self so I couldn’t see her twirl the combination dial. A click and it opened, then slammed shut again before I could glimpse the contents. Sneaky witch—it was like she didn’t trust me or something.

Another manila envelope, this time with no one’s name printed on it. Her throat worked as she swallowed nervously and walked back to me, skin going almost as pale as mine. She sat once more only when the envelope was in my hands, and even then she poised on the edge of her seat.

I sat back casually. It never pays to look rattled even if you’re wondering what the fuck is going on.

Tension thickened the air, palpable and weighted. The envelope tore open easily, a rough sound in an otherwise silent room. Inside was another photo, headshot taken from somewhere high. Young man in his twenties, dark hair to his chin. His cheekbones were high and sculpted, nose straight. Full lips—the mushy kind girls love to kiss—were pulled into a frown that did nothing to spoil an otherwise incredibly pleasant face. I might like money more than boys, but my heart went pitter-patter nonetheless when appreciating such a fine specimen.

No accompanying information. I glanced up at Mishka.

Her face was starkly pale, eyes grave, and she spoke next in a chilling low voice. “Ten million if you take out his son too.”

This was getting interesting.

Chapter Three

Preparations

Someone throws ten million bucks at you, you accept. Even in Canadian dollars.

But I’d lucked out on the genetic lottery: I was both pretty
and
smart. If someone throws ten million bucks at you and
every molecule in your supernatural body is thrumming with worry
, you at least pause.

“The son?”

Mishka didn’t reply. She’d stopped even looking at me: gaze was locked on the chrome tabletop, as if she glimpsed something in its depths beyond her own reflection.

“The son’s worth nine-point-five million dollars?”

The silence dragged on.

“Do you mind telling me what in your Heavenly Goddess’s name is going on?”

“Will you do it?” Her whisper held an edge, a rasp—a sharp, broken thing that didn’t sound like the rogue witch I knew and sometimes liked.

So I chewed. Dragged that silence on and on, ’cause hey, she wasn’t being too forthcoming with the detes and I’m a bit of a sadist at heart. My long nails drummed on the table, emphasizing the quiet and—I hoped—pulling her nerves taut.

“Do I still get my expenses covered?”

A relieved sigh passed her lips and her eyes dropped closed. Colour touched her cheeks once more, a blush spilling over her face and down her neck.

“I’d still like to know a bit more about what’s going on,” I said.

She sighed again, this time weakly. Maybe the late hour
was
getting to her. “Like what?”

Age is an ugly, ugly thing. There’s a nice moment in time, usually your late teens, when you’re flawless; you’re past gawky teen but show no signs of aging. Lucky me was stuck that way. But even Mishka, now twenty-four, had the
tick tock
of death’s clock all over her. My sharp vision narrowed in on the fine creases around her eyes, the skin that lost a bit of its firmness, its glow.

Being aware of the mortality of those around you is something you can never quite be prepared for. Even if you’ve seen it happen for centuries. Even if you don’t keep friends for long. Undead like me—the immortals—live in the moment. The now. What else is there? Feeling frozen there in time while everyone else moves on is just unsettling, and left a twisting in my gut and dryness in my throat.