Demon's Kiss (21 page)

She didn't answer.

“So there's another important thing he neglected to tell you.” He drew a breath, certain from her pursed lips that she wasn't going to say a word. “I've heard of vampires who make slaves for themselves. They drain their victims, then give them only a small amount of their own blood, rather than doing a full exchange. The result is a vampire very much like Gregor's drones, mentally. Physically, though, they're as weak as kittens. Gregor's drones are powerful.”

“He chooses powerful victims with less-than-average intelligence levels.”

“That alone wouldn't be enough to account for it, though,” Reaper told her. She was young, he knew that. She probably didn't know a hell of a lot about her own nature. Possibly only what Gregor wanted her to know.

He spotted a sprawling warehouse in the distance, far off to the left, and sent out his senses to investigate. The place gave off no indication of human presence. Of course, it was the dead of night. Still, it was worth checking out. He picked out the winding shape of a side road that led to it, but couldn't see where that road connected with this one. So he kept driving until he found a road that went to the left, took it, and then another, until eventually, he located the place.

He pulled the Mustang to a stop and shut it off, looking around without yet getting out. There were rusty piles of scrap metal, old barrels, uneven stacks of wooden pallets. Some of the windows in the giant teal-colored steel building were broken. Others were boarded up. No Trespassing signs hung crookedly in two places along the front, their colors faded. A third sign lay on the ground, where weeds were growing in the doorway.

No one had been using the place for quite some time.

“Why have we stopped?” Briar asked, her tone impatient.

“Because we've found our place.”

“Good. I can start trying to contact Gregor, then. He'll home in on my position and destroy you all.”

He knew she would do just that, and that it was only a matter of time before Gregor stepped outside the walls of that radio-silenced mansion and heard her signal. “Gregor has offered to trade Topaz back to us in exchange for you and Vixen. And I'm considering it. But if he attacks before that, I'll never give you back to him, even if I have to kill you to ensure it. I promise you that.”

“If he attacks you, you won't survive.”

He reached to her, ignored the way she flinched away when his hands touched her head, but only until she realized he was taking off the blindfold. He removed it, and she blinked, rubbed her eyes and stared at the area around them.

“Do you have any idea who I am, Briar? Have you even heard of me? Has your beloved Gregor told you anything about me?”

She turned toward him, meeting his gaze.

“I'm an executioner. I am a professional killer. It's what I did in life, for the CIA. It's what I do now, for the undead.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “You murder your own kind. And you're proud of that?”

“Only those who need killing, Briar, for the good of the rest of us.”

“Oh, and who gets to decide who needs killing? You?”

He frowned, searching her face, wondering just how little she could possibly know about her own kind. “Rogues need killing. There's no choice in that.” The confusion in her eyes told him that she didn't even understand what the term meant.

“Briar, vampires do not just go around killing mortals at will and leaving bodies to be found. It's forbidden among us. We feed from blood banks, mostly. Some prefer living blood, but there are ways to do that without committing murder.”

“Right. Take just a little and leave them to tell the tale. How is that preferable to leaving a body lying in the street to be found? At least the body can't talk.”

“You leave them with the memory of an erotic dream. Nothing more. They never know.”

“How?”

“With the power of your mind, Briar. You focus, you command them, and they obey. If you tell them to remember it as a dream, they do.”

She lowered her eyes. “And the marks in their throats?” Her question was a mere whisper.

“Vanish the moment they are touched by the sun. Gregor didn't teach you these things?”

She didn't confirm or deny it. “So other vampires…never kill?”

“Oh, some do. They take serial killers, rapists or child abusers. They're performing a service, really. But even they take care to dispose of the bodies where they will never be found.”

“Because if they're dead, then the marks in their throats don't heal?”

“Exactly. And because a body drained of its blood causes a lot of questions. We do not wish for the world of man to know about our existence. Some do already, and it's caused nothing but problems—they tend to want to hunt us down and exterminate us.”

“Humans are stupid.”

“Why would that be stupid? If they think we're all like Gregor and his band, it would be stupid of them
not
to try to eliminate our kind before we eliminate theirs.”

She turned, reached for her car door and opened it.

He got out his side, noticing at last that the others were already walking around the place, trying doors, checking things out. He joined Briar in front of the car, then walked beside her toward the abandoned warehouse.

“When a vampire kills at will, kills innocents, leaves evidence behind,” he told her, “he is known among our kind as a rogue, and for the good of all of us, he is hunted down and destroyed. It's how we survive.”

“And Gregor is a rogue,” she said softly.

“Gregor is the most dangerous, deadly rogue in the history of our kind, so far as I know it.”

She looked him squarely in the eye. “You're a very good liar, Reaper. But I'm not an idiot.”

“You don't believe me?”

She held his gaze steady, shaking her head side to side, very slowly. “We are predators. They are our prey. It's the natural order. And if you think I will believe that an entire race of predators, aside from a few so-called rogues, has made an agreement not to take the prey nature has provided out of some idiotic sense of morality, then you are wrong. But it was a lovely story, all the same. You should write fiction.”

And with that, she turned, lifted a foot and kicked in the white door of the warehouse. “You're vampires!” she shouted at the others. “If you want to go in, then stop messing around trying locks and just go in.”

J
ack was heading down the vaulted second-floor corridor, on his way back to his own room and the woman who waited for him there. He'd accompanied his boss most of the night, in search of the enemy, but without luck. Fortunately, there was still enough darkness left to make the most of this opportunity to…renew his acquaintance with Topaz.

Her face flashed in his mind's eye, and he tripped over his feet, then had to stop to get his balance again.

Damn. There hadn't been sex like the sex with her since he'd left her. Or before. Or…ever. If nothing more, he had to admit that much. She was the best. So if she was willing…Who the hell was he kidding? Of course she would be willing. He was Jack Heart, for God's sake. King of cons. Talking people into doing things he wanted them to do was his stock in trade.

He smiled to himself and noted the spring in his step as he moved again along the hallway. But then he stopped short, because of what he heard.

“Yes, sir. I know that, but Rivera isn't alone. He has a band, of sorts, helping him. And he's moved them all to a new location, along with two of my own recruits, taken against their will.”

Jack frowned, because he had never heard Gregor address anyone as
sir.
The boss's tone was uncharacteristically respectful, too. Almost apologetic. And who the hell was
Rivera?

“I
will
find him. I plan to arrange a prisoner exchange. By the time I finish with Reaper, the entire vampire community will believe
he's
the one in need of annihilation. The mortal world, as well. He'll be hated, and he'll be hunted. He'll have nowhere to turn, and his little gang will be history—dead, all of them. At his hands. And
then
he'll be at my mercy.”

Jack frowned. Just how the hell did Gregor plan to fulfill such huge promises? And what made him think he could convince Reaper to kill his own crew? He was one of those moral vampires, from what Jack had seen. One of those ethical saps who did what was right. So Reaper's real name was Rivera, huh? Interesting.

“Yes, sir, of course I intend to bring him to you once I have him. That goes without saying. I do need a couple of things from your end, however.” There was a pause. “Nothing major. But we've suffered some losses here. I need you to send me more drones.”

So Gregor wasn't making the drones himself, then? Hell, this had just gotten pretty interesting. If Gregor wasn't making them, then who was? And how?

“A dozen should do. And there's one other thing. You told me you'd give it to me when I needed it, and that time has come, sir. I need you to give me his triggers.”

Triggers? What the hell…

“Yes, sir. I won't use them unless absolutely necessary. Good. No, let me grab a pen.” Jack heard the sounds of drawers opening as he stood just outside the slightly open door to Gregor's suite. “I'm ready. What's the word that activates him?”

Jack heard the pen scratching across the surface of a pad.

“And to deactivate?”

Again with the scratching.

“Yes, sir. Yes, I understand. I'll report in just as soon as it's over. Thank you, sir.” The telephone hit its cradle.

Jack straightened away from the door, even as he felt Gregor's attention turning his way. Too late to walk away. Gregor knew he was there. Nothing left but to try to act as if he had only just arrived. He lifted a hand, knocked on the door and tried for all the world to act as if he hadn't heard a damned thing.

Gregor yanked the door wider and stood staring at him, his eyes so full of suspicion that Jack felt an icy finger slide over his spine. He suppressed a shiver and pasted a big grin on his face. A grin he felt fading as he saw Gregor's displeasure and heard his gruff excuse for a greeting.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to see you before heading to bed. Is anything wrong?” He glanced past Gregor. The desk stood there, with the notepad on it, pen beside it, top page already ripped off. What Jack wouldn't have given for a look at whatever words Gregor had scribbled there. Beside the desk was a birdcage, hanging from its floor stand, and a poor imprisoned rat, Gregor's pet, on its hind legs inside. It stared out at Jack with hate in its beady eyes.

“What, you mean,
besides
the fact that Reaper and his band of do-gooders eluded us yet again?
Besides
the fact that they still have Briar and Vixen, and
besides
the fact that we lost a dozen drones in that fire tonight?”

“Yeah,” Jack said with a wink. “Besides all that.”

Gregor scowled.

“Sorry. I know it's not funny. So what's our plan, boss? What do we do next?”

Gregor lifted his brows and looked at Jack. He seemed to give his words some thought before he spoke. “I'm going to arrange a prisoner exchange. Briar and Vixen for Topaz. They have no way of knowing she's changed sides, after all.”

His heart sank a little. “When?” he asked.

“Two hours past sundown.”

“Oh.” Then he wouldn't have her for very long at all, would he? Damn. And meanwhile, he knew Gregor had a whole hell of a lot going on that he hadn't revealed to his own right-hand man.

A hell of a lot. Which confirmed what he'd begun to suspect. Gregor no longer trusted him. And the journey from not trusting him to staking him out to await the sunrise, or hosing him with a flame thrower, was a very short one.

It was probably getting close to time for Jack to either cut his losses or hedge his bets. He was going to have to change sides and get the hell out of here, or else win back Gregor's trust. Either plan would take a grand gesture of some sort.

“Well, I'm off to bed, then,” Jack said. “Good sleep, Gregor.”

Gregor grunted a reply and slammed the door.

Jack went about five yards down the hall, then waited, knowing Gregor would emerge. He never went to his rest without first walking the entire house—a touch of OCD, or maybe just a control issue. He liked to make sure everything was in order before he closed his eyes.

As soon as Gregor was gone, Jack slipped into his rooms. He crept past the desk and the caged rat. The damn rodent watched his every move as if planning to report back to Gregor at the first opportunity. Stupid. And impossible, thank the gods. He moved through the sitting room and into the bedroom. Then he crossed to the painting—it was titled “The Offering,” and depicted a nude woman bound and lying on a slab of granite, clearly terrified and awaiting God only knew what. Jack pulled on the frame, and it swung out, on hinges.

He paused there, sensing something, someone, another presence in the room.

His gaze was drawn to a large, sheet-draped square in the corner of the room. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. Too much. There was too much to do right now, and very little time. He focused, punched in the combination he'd acquired and memorized long ago, and opened the door.

Then he took the stacks of bills that waited inside. There were far more of them there than just the ones he'd contributed. Nonetheless, he took only what he'd given. Half of the five hundred grand he'd taken from Topaz. Five neatly banded, fat, fragrant stacks of fifty thousand dollars each. He looked around the room and didn't find what he was looking for, then hurried into the adjoining bathroom to grab a towel. He dropped the bills into the towel, knotted it into a bundle, picked it up, closed the safe and righted the painting.

And then he turned to go.

A sound from behind the sheet brought his head around. “I absolutely promise I'll find a way to help you. Hell, I can't do otherwise, now, can I? But it can't be tonight. Soon, though. Very, very soon.”

Then he left, closing the door behind him and praying Gregor would never know. Everything in him rebelled against leaving her there. And yet, he couldn't risk giving himself away too soon. He needed to figure out which way the wind was blowing, come up with a story to get himself and Topaz clear of Gregor's wrath, and then come back for her. Doing otherwise would only ensure that they would all end up as munchies for those damned drones.

 

They sat around Roxy's gas lantern as if they were sitting around a bonfire at summer camp, and Briar hated them. It wasn't a new emotion. She hated most everyone. Always had.

But she wasn't going to rip out their throats or devour their still-beating hearts or even try to escape them tonight. Not tonight. Gregor, the one person she
didn't
hate, had finally stepped outside the mansion's walls long enough to contact her mentally. And even as she'd damn near blown a gasket trying to let him feel where she was being held, he'd interrupted her to tell her to stay put. He'd said he would be meeting Reaper soon, setting up an exchange. He needed her to stay with his enemies for just one more day. There were things he needed her to do. She listened, memorized, tried not to let the inner conversation she was having show on her face, tried to feign interest in the nonsense going on around the lantern's white-gold glow.

“The story goes that Gilgamesh, the greatest king in the history of the land known as Sumer—or, as some call it, Sumeria—was the first vampire,” Reaper said.

Vixen, like a child begging for a ghost story before retiring to her girl-scout pup tent, had asked him about the beginning, and he was obliging her.

“What part of the world is that?” Vixen asked.

“Northern Iraq,” Seth answered, even though she hadn't addressed the question to him.

“When Gilgamesh's best friend died, the king decided to seek out the only immortal he knew of, the old man of legend who had been the sole survivor of the great flood.”

“Noah,” Roxy said.

“Exactly, only this was a far earlier version of the story. His Sumerian name was Ziusudra, or, to the Semites, Utnapishtim. So Gilgamesh sought him out, and the old man gave the king the secret to immortality. This was something the gods had forbidden him to do, so, as punishment, he lost the gift himself. The legends say the king lost it, too, that he dropped it into a river, where it was swallowed by a snake. But that's highly symbolic. The truth of the story is that Gilgamesh became the first vampire. But unlike Utnapishtim, who had lived as any ordinary mortal so far as anyone knows, the king had to feed on blood to survive, and he couldn't go out in sunlight. Moreover, becoming a vampire did not give him the ability to bring his friend Enkidu back from the dead.”

“But he lived on, yes?” Vixen asked.

“Oh, yes. He's still alive today. He goes by the name of Damien Namtar now. Utnapishtim made one other vampire—a rogue, who came to his cottage on the trail of the king, whom he intended to murder. He forced the old man to give him the gift, as well, and then he killed him and took his young nephew as a slave. He was the first rogue.”

“Wow,” Vixen said softly. “They were like brothers. The first. Like Cain and Abel.”

Briar rolled her eyes, unimpressed and slightly disgusted by the naive one's enthusiasm, but the gesture was lost on the little fox, who tilted her head to one side questioningly. “What about you, Reaper? How did you come to be a vampire?”

“I was working for the CIA. I was on a mission, in Syria, and I was ambushed, shot and left to die. Then this woman showed up.”

“Who was she?” Vixen asked. Her face was pale as porcelain in the lamplight, her eyes wide and her attention utterly riveted. Briar tried very hard to remain detached, but even she found herself vaguely interested in the story.

“Her name was Rhiannon. She was originally called Rianikki, and she was the daughter of an actual Egyptian pharaoh. And she never lets anyone forget that fact.” Reaper smiled just slightly, and Briar felt something dark rake over the surface of her temper. “I remember opening my eyes and seeing her, like some kind of demonic angel, leaning over me, this endlessly long raven hair touching my face, and she was looking at me with eyes so intense that it felt as if she could see right through me. She asked me if I wanted to live or die. And then she changed me.”

“So you were made by a powerful vampiress.”

“More powerful than you know. She was made by one even more powerful. You see, that slave boy, the one taken by the first rogue, later came to be known by a name you'll recognize. Dracula. He made Rhiannon. And Rhiannon made me.”

“And you made me,” Seth muttered, his tone one of awe.

“Oh, for Pete's sake, what difference does it make?” Briar snapped. “Who cares about lineage? It's not like it means anything.”

“It means everything, Briar,” Reaper said softly, and he turned to her when he spoke, looked deeply into her eyes. “A vampire's strength and powers are based on those of the one who made him, and the one who made them, and so on, back to the beginning.” He paused, as if to give her time to think about that. “You were made by Gregor, yes?”

“Yes.” She didn't offer any more.

“Why don't you tell us your story, Briar?” Vixen asked. She spoke softly, her voice trembling a little, as if she were still afraid of her.