Falling from the Light (The Night Runner Series Book 3) (2 page)

He stuck out his elbow but, because I wasn’t born in a Jane Austen book, it took me a second to comprehend was he was doing. Inviting me to touch him in front of the crowd. I raised my hand and he grabbed it and wrapped it around his arm, which he then clamped to his side. I bumped against him and my brain fought a war with my body as he pulled me along.
Run away.
Stay calm.
Fake a seizure.
If you didn’t bring Alka-Seltzer to foam up, nobody’s going to believe you’re seizing.

Through the mad scramble of ambient energy, Malcolm’s concern brushed against me.
I know
, I thought, as the Master walked me past the other vampires. Most were trying for blank, but I saw the raised eyebrows and widened eyes, the mouths moving sideways to whisper to each other. An object of vampire gossip. Great.

He led me into a glassed-in enclosure at the end of the room. The glass was transparent, but warped and silvery, making everyone outside of it look like they were stuck in a fun house mirror.

Bronson released my arm and I plopped into a chair, then clamped my hand around the cold champagne flute that he shoved at me. He pulled the door closed and ran his hand along the seams. The energy retreated immediately, leaving only the feel of him. Conversation started up again outside, but it sounded tinny and far away. That was weird.

The vampire sank into a massive easy chair and, as he did so, his face retreated into shadow. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his ankle on his knee. The candles on the low table between us flared before resuming their normal dance. I wished my glass held vodka, or laudanum, or something hallucinogenic so I could pretend I was somewhere else.
There’s no place like home, there’s—

“The glass is formulated to dampen interference as well as sound, so we may speak freely,” he said.

“That’s great,” I replied when it seemed like he wanted an answer.

Alaska ran wild with stories of Bronson, his displays of power and temper. You only had to read the news with a semi-intelligent eye to see how he influenced human government there. People who sought power or used it to manipulate situations, like he was doing now with his silence and shadows, freaked me out. Maybe I’d been condescended to or dismissed by too many cops and the shitty kind of social worker as a kid, but I wasn’t a big fan of people who wanted you to know they had authority over you. Who wanted you to acknowledge your inferiority to them before they’d help you even when it was their goddamn job.

Not that I was about to mouth off at him while wearing a bad red-carpet dress and holding his champagne. While trapped in his magical fishbowl.

“Sydney Kildare,” Bronson said, the feel of his voice so strong it was like he was hammering my name into his memory. “You wish for news of home, yes?”

I clutched the glass, now sweating in my hand, and cleared my throat. “Yeah, that’d be great,” I managed. “How’s it going?”

“War is an ugly thing,” he said immediately. “You will be discouraged when you see it again. The scars through the city. All the ruination. So many lives lost in this futile quest. It is being rebuilt, as quickly as I can manage. It will be good again. Stronger.”

O…kay. It was like being talked to by a politician who didn’t care that I wasn’t registered to vote. “It’s… That sucks,” I said, “what happened.”

I took a shaky sip from my glass, searching my brain for anything I could say in response.

“I was really sad to hear about Lucille. She was… I liked her.” His former secretary, quirky and personable for a sucker, had been killed in the coup that Bronson had quashed.

He surged forward before catching himself, but his gaze bored into mine when I glanced up in reaction to the movement. His eyes were blue—dark, dark blue—and inside of them power and anger burned a bright white flame.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, shrinking back.

He grimaced around his fangs as they dropped, then cocked his head to the side, staring at my neck where my pulse was probably visible. My heart found another gear and the only thing that kept me from throwing myself at the walls and trying to escape was the knowledge that Malcolm would not have brought me here if he thought I was in danger. I hated being scared.

Bronson reclined, dangling one arm over the chair and turning his head to survey the crowd. But I could still feel his attention on me, a cold floodlight. His face smoothed out and his voice went monotone. “I am sorry, too.”

In the corner of my vision I caught Malcolm hovering at the edge of the crowd. I wrung my hands around the stem of the glass and pressed my heels into the carpet.

“I understand you were instrumental in the uncovering of this poison,” Bronson said. I swallowed, fear abating just enough that I understood he was talking about a drug that Malcolm and I had recently discovered. It was made by a human pharmaceutical company, but suckers were using it to suppress their vampire hunger. It worked like a charm, for a while. Then the unquenchable hunger surged up with a vengeance, sending vampires on mindless, blood-soaked rampages.

“I hope I helped.”

“Do you understand the danger this substance presents, to both our kinds?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Other than feeders, couriers were the only humans who regularly walked into vampire homes and establishments. My understanding of the danger was acute.

“I would like you to do something for me. A favor.”

Vampires didn’t ask for favors. They ordered, they influenced, and they demanded. But they didn’t ask. I schooled my expression, attempting to appear agreeable while my mind revved up, trying to get out ahead of whatever he might say.

“You will go to the Southwest United States. He will be addressing that insurrectionary for me.” He flicked a finger toward Malcolm.

Mal was chatting with a pair of men, his smile a little too wide. His vassal Soraya, who hadn’t been dolled up but rather was wearing her kick-ass clothes—black pants and a collarless black shirt—hovered at his back. I didn’t love seeing them together, but I did appreciate her watching out for him.

Bronson smiled. “While he is engaged, you should go to Goya Worldwide. Explore. Report back to me what you find.”

I glanced up sharply. “You want me to spy for you?”

“It is in both our best interests to know more about how this drug is getting from their laboratories to my people. About where it will next be distributed and how widely.”

God, if that stuff got out to more than a few curious vampires… There would always be someone who wanted to try it. Malcolm said the hunger was the hardest part, that constant, gnawing need…and the fear that came with it, of snapping, of going too long without and losing control. And Radia worked, until it didn’t. I’d love to kick down a door and swagger in—a big hero—and stop it. But cases of it had been tested, and the bottles had contained nothing but skin serum. Someone was altering it in small batches, which went to specific buyers.

“I could maybe ask for a tour of the facility, but I can’t infiltrate the place or hack their records.” And anyway, why didn’t he have someone who could do that? Vampires had thousands of humans working for them, including mercenaries and legal teams that disguised vampire enterprises through digital subterfuge. Not every nation was pro-undead, but most vampires were for getting rich. Surely he had someone more suitable for this kind of thing.

“There are few I can rely upon,” he said. The candles flared again and I almost gasped at the blast of power that came from him. “The new soldiers have yet to prove themselves trustworthy. You were loyal before and, though I did not even ask, you assisted me here.”

I groaned internally. What he saw as loyalty was nothing more than me doing my job then getting caught up in an investigation Mal was running. I hadn’t done anything with the objective of helping Bronson. I was helping friends and other runners. Radia, Goya’s drug, made monsters out of vampires. True monsters.

“I want you to do this thing,” he said, and influence flooded out with his words, a cold infiltration, trying to stamp his wish into my head until I believed it was my own. It must have been habitual, because Bronson knew it wouldn’t work on me.

“I’ll see what I can find,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “But, unless there’s a smoking gun lying around in their lobby, I don’t see how I can be much help.”

He smiled, cheeks rounding, and leaned forward. He took the glass from me and set it on the table before taking both my hands between his. The fire from the candles parted around his outstretched arms. My throat clicked when I swallowed. Dimly, as if from a great distance, I felt Malcolm, the sharp edge of his anger.

“You must only do what you are capable of. I will never ask for more than that,” Bronson said warmly, each syllable dropping a dreadful weight. “If you bring me something I can utilize, I will take that into consideration when next I decide how to use my servant.”

I nearly snapped that I wasn’t his servant, then realized he wasn’t talking about me. My stomach rolled and I had to swallow to keep it from coming up. He tugged on my hands until I stood.

“I see that you understand.” He reached out and I flinched. His lips shifted, and fangs raised ridges beneath his closed lips. “If I were you, I would not mention this to your paramour. You wouldn’t want him to be distracted while hunting. Richard Abel is a skilled adversary. A slip in concentration could be costly.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Undead energy crashed against me when he ushered me out. Noise flooded my stalled brain, and I practically stumbled off the platform. Eladio reached out and I straightened, not wanting him to touch me. Not wanting any vampires to touch me. My head was light and nausea circled my stomach as I searched for Malcolm.

He appeared in front of me, wearing a private smile, like we were the only two people in the room. But his eyes were bright. Gold smoke flooded his irises. There was a noise behind me, Bronson’s voice, too quiet for me to properly hear. Malcolm’s expression hardened, and then he was gone. He brushed past, the familiar stroke of his fingers registering on my skin. I turned, clumsy and slow compared to him.

Malcolm was nowhere in sight. Bronson was gone. All eyes were focused on the door to the kitchen, still swinging slightly. It was like I was watching a movie and the scene had changed while I nodded off. Soraya remained, standing with her back to a column, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Eladio herded me along and I was glad for the long dress. It hid the way my knees were shaking.

The big vampire jerked the door open and poked his head into the hallway. He nodded, gesturing for me to pass as he returned to scanning the crowd. I’d never been so happy to leave a room in my life.

Something crashed in the kitchen and the lounge went so quiet that, through the wall, I could hear pans ringing as they settled onto the floor. Even from that distance, the air twisted under Bronson’s energy. He was exerting an alarming amount of power. I rocked to a stop and Soraya appeared, shoving me out the door.

“I can walk,” I hissed.

Her eyes were mere slits, but orange fire spilled out, brightening the hallway. She wasn’t a member of the Bronson fan club, not since he’d tried to purchase her and only Mal’s intervention had ensured her freedom. But something about her expression seemed too strong for that old a grudge, and Eladio’s face was red with anger.

“What’s going on?” I said. Another crash, and vampire energy rattled through the building. It wasn’t only the Master now. It was both Bronson and Malcolm, and while the Master’s force was filled with aggression, Mal’s was decidedly the opposite. My knees locked. Soraya’s hand closed around my arm, hard enough to bruise. Her mouth pinched tight and her brows drew together.

“What’s Bronson doing?” Waves of Malcolm’s pain crashed against me and I had to open my mouth to breathe. “Did he do something wrong?”

“Not him,” Soraya whispered, her voice distorted around her lowering fangs. Her gaze bored into mine as her lips drew back. “You. Bronson is educating you.”

I’d said I would do what he asked and now he was using Malcolm—hurting him—to ensure compliance. Soraya dragged me forward.

“Bastard,” I ground out.

Eladio grunted. “Now you see.”

Oh, I saw, all right.

“
S
o tiny for
such a large airplane,” Mickey said, wobbling through the plush chairs crowding the steel box we were in. “
Mira
, touch the other side then touch me.” She balanced with her feet wide apart, difficult since we were inside an airplane ascending at a steep angle. She brushed the wall with her left hand and reached for me with her right.

As a courier in Santiago I’d been underpaid and overworked, and eventually discovered that my boss actually resented runners. On the plus side, I’d met Mickey. She had a penchant for bizarre hairstyles, an unstoppable appetite, and mad skills as a mechanic. What she didn’t have any longer was a job, and that was my fault. I’d lost my taste for diplomatic relations around the time the boss let on that she considered runners a pestilence. You try to hold your tongue when someone’s spitting in your eye.

Mickey wanted to celebrate unemployment with a trip to the States and, when I’d mentioned it in passing to Malcolm he’d suggested she come along. I wasn’t sure whether he thought I needed the company or that her presence would keep me out of trouble. Not that I intended to find any.

And while she was good company, right then I wanted Malcolm instead. A human had driven us to the airport under the watch of a bristling Eladio, who’d stayed only long enough to stow us in one of three large, metal containers in the back of the cargo plane. They were like small, square camping trailers filled to the seams with insulation. The energy that powered the undead was incompatible with electronics after extended periods of time or in large bursts, so the only way they could function near it was with a lot of metal and insulation in between. The containers were a little unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as engine failure and a subsequent watery death.

Malcolm was here. His familiar warmth had shivered over me a couple of minutes before we’d taken off. I needed to see him, to know that he was okay.

“When’s your family getting back?” I asked Mickey, trying to distract myself from the worry that had burned through my chest and was now igniting my shoulder blades.

“They will return from the lake late tomorrow, or tonight depending on when we land. It will be lovely. Fun cousins and warm hugs everywhere. It has been almost ten years. How often do you see your family, Sydney?” She still overemphasized my name when she said it. I’d been working under an alias and, when I’d revealed my actual name, she’d been so horrified you’d think I told her I was the dingo that stole her baby.

“Not often.”

“Why?” She shook her head, uncomprehending.

I’d left home at sixteen, sick of being hit, more sick of my mother for defending my father after he did it. There was always an excuse. He was stressed. He wasn’t feeling well. I’d been too loud or too messy, or I’d provoked him. Being a worthless drunk probably did make him feel like shit but I didn’t consider my existence to be provocation. Long after I’d run away, Mom found me through a high school friend. She’d left him, and we’d spent a few months meeting at coffee shops and movie theaters, getting to know each other outside of someone else’s shadow. Then one day she’d looked over her shoulder after meeting me and, when I’d asked what she was nervous about, she’d smiled that sweet smile of hers and lied.

“My dad and I aren’t friendly. Mom’s pretty much incommunicado now that she’s back with him.”

“That’s sad.” Her hands dropped to her hips when we started to level out, but she still stood like she was straddling a creek. “Family is the one thing that should last forever.” Her dark eyes were somber, but her lips quickly curled into a soft smile. Clearly she came from a good family, not one with a drunk full of lazy delusions of grandeur and a woman whose memory was so short she forgave him before the marks had even faded.

I couldn’t imagine Mickey, with her sunny nature, having to help her mother to bed after she’d stumbled home from selling blood to vampires in order to feed the family. Maybe that’s why I liked being around her so much. She believed that good things were supposed to happen on a regular basis.

We were in the air and Malcolm was with us. That was a good thing. I took a deep breath and stopped popping my knuckles. “Tell me, Mick, how many of you are we going to find in Phoenix?”

“Nine cousins, two aunts, one uncle, and a step-uncle. And there are twelve in Montana, three uncles and five aunts—two of them ex-aunts—and kids. The family is growing constantly, like a black hole that gobbles up the galaxy one Sunday meal at a time.” Her arms shot out again, brushing the wall and reaching for me. “Come on, before I fall over.”

“So we’ll kick it tomorrow, then you can fall in with the Black Hole Gang. Call me when you’re ready to drive to Montana. Or if you get bored.” Much as I would like to find something, I couldn’t imagine my “surveillance” of Goya was going to be extensive. I slid my skirt up to my thighs and mimicked Mickey’s position. We were like two stars wobbling at each other as the plane bounced through mildly turbulent skies.

The wall was cold, just like the air was cold. Even the seats—four of them bolted to the floor in a spinning, pumpkin-colored cloverleaf pattern—were stiff with cold.

“I’d also like to go to Neiman Marcus,” Mickey said, “and maybe have a one-night stand.”

“Is that the sort of thing you plan for?”

“If you had not had sex in ten months and had a limited amount of time, what would you rather do?” Our fingertips wiggled in empty air. “You have arms like a T-Rex.”

“My arms are perfectly normal. If they were two feet longer,
that
would be notable. Besides, you’re wearing jeans and I’m plugged into a dress full of restrictive boning.” We dropped into the chairs, both tensing until the cold relented to our body heat.

“It’s really lovely. You look so…” Mickey wrinkled her nose, looking me over as I shuffled the material back down my legs. “Glamorous, I guess.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“It’s not you, is all.” Mickey pulled her legs up and spun in her chair. “I cannot wait to get to Arizona. Is it going to be hot? I haven’t been warm for months.”

“The forecast calls for over a hundred degrees every day.” I didn’t hate winter, but that sounded a little extreme. Like, skin-cracking-open-and-flaking-off extreme. The feel of Malcolm drifted closer and I sat up, flinching when Mickey kicked off of my chair as she rotated past.

The latch on the rear door of the container opened and a swarthy, sullen vampire with thick black muttonchops stepped through, followed by Malcolm. The noise of the open cargo hold filled the container until Mal shut the door. He didn’t look hurt. He wasn’t bleeding or moving as if he was protecting broken parts. I relaxed a little and clasped my hands in my lap.

He gave Mickey an appraising look which ended as soon as she smiled and dropped her feet to the floor. The only thing less threatening than Mickey was a basket full of kittens and cupcakes.

“He belongs to you,” Malcolm said, angling his head toward the other vampire. He was using his serious voice, low and impassive, which meant that this was an Official Conversation subject to Formal Vampire Protocol–type stuff.

“What do you mean?” I didn’t like where this was going. Muttonchops, whose name was Thurston, had been a bodyguard for a low-level vampiress who’d gotten hooked on Radia. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up just remembering the last time I’d seen her, monstrously bloated with blood and more than half-crazy. If my suspicions were correct, Thurston had been in love with Livia. After her death, he’d been dragged into the service of an A-hole and had kidnapped me. He’d apologized profusely and I believed he was sorry. Since then, he’d been floating around us like some kind of long-faced footman, waiting for additional punishment to fall.

“I am your servant,” Thurston said flatly.

“Address her properly or I will throw you from this plane.” Malcolm straightened his cuff. He’d said it calmly, almost offhand, but it wasn’t a bluff. If Thurston didn’t comply, he was going to have to do it. Which meant that he was willing to do it. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my mouth shut.

“I am your servant,
mistress
.” Thurston bowed his head in a way that appeared genuinely respectful, but he watched Malcolm from the corner of his eye.

“When I’m away,” Malcolm said, speaking to me but watching Thurston right back, “he’s yours to command. At all times, your safety is his first and foremost priority. If you don’t find him useful, I’ll remove him from your service. Sit.”

The last was said to Thurston, who sank into a chair, his shoulders folding down around him like broken wings. I practiced deep breathing as Malcolm turned and walked out.

This vampire had no hive to protect him and, as far as I could tell, no means to support himself. He was essentially homeless. Threatening him with death—a really dramatic, gruesome death—just because he resented his position was overkill.

I forced a smile and unclenched my jaw. “Hi, Thurston.” I managed to stop myself from apologizing for Malcolm’s harsh actions. Vampire Protocol didn’t allow for apologies from the winners.

“Mistress,” he said. The word was a solid, begrudging thing. I didn’t blame him.

“This is my friend Mickey.” I jerked my thumb in her direction and she scooted forward in her chair. She’d been wide-eyed around Eladio, who radiated menace and disdain. Sad Thurston was somehow even more exciting for her. “Mickey, this is Thurston. You’re both from Santiago, so if you’ve got a secret gang sign, now’s the time.”

Mickey greeted him in Spanish, which drew his dark, leaden gaze to her. She was a chatterer, infectiously sweet, and she spoke his native language. Recent experience had taught me that could be a comfort on a very basic level. Maybe she could soften him up.

“Would you guys excuse me? I might be a while.” I scooped up my backpack and headed for the back. Thurston rose fluidly beside me. I pivoted so that my back was toward the wall and held up a hand. “Please, stay. And, you know, be nice to her.” I didn’t say no biting, but I glared at him so he understood that my friends were not playthings. He dropped his chin so fast it was like he’d been knocked out by an invisible foe. Or by the reminder that Mal would kill him if he did anything wrong. I gritted my teeth to keep from cursing.

It was colder in the open bay of the massive cargo plane. The floors and walls were a series of symmetrical metal braces intersected with nets meant to secure goods we weren’t carrying. I opened the next box and stuck my head in. Soraya stood in the center of the room, arms crossed over a fitted red turtleneck. The candlelight flickering from the end tables on either side of a leather couch caught the whites of her eyes and the red of her lips. The mahogany skin of her hands looked soft and smooth, and her nails were short and pink. A couple weeks ago, another vampire had lopped off one of her hands. I was glad—and creeped out—to see that it had grown back.

“How’s it going?” I asked, closing the door behind me. To say she wasn’t good with small spaces was an understatement. She blinked slowly, her long lashes brushing her cheeks, then lowered herself onto the couch.

“Fine.”

The hard-ass liar. I smiled tightly and crossed between the couch and two straight-backed wooden…thrones, I guess. Weird that each box had its own design. “Excellent.”

“Thurston is of the old discipline,” she said as I grabbed the handle. I paused. “He wronged you and expects to be punished. In his mind, he cannot assume a place of worth. He has to earn it, and have it bestowed upon him by others.”

I glanced at her. Her hands rested on her thighs, and she was so still she could have been stuffed.

“Just because he expects to be treated badly doesn’t mean we have to do it.”

Soraya shrugged. “He’s existed within constraints for twice your lifetime. It is paralyzing, the notion that you have to make a decision of your own for the first time since you can remember. You can use him as you like, but you should not hesitate to strike him. It will make him more comfortable.”

There was no way me punching the guy was going to make anyone more comfortable.

“That is screwed up.” I grabbed the sides of my stupid dress and pulled it up from where my backpack was trying to shove it off.

“No, that is normal,” she said, “
mistress
.”

I growled. She knew I hated that, the titles that vampires gave to the humans they didn’t want treated like crap. Still, it was good to see the hint of a smile on her face as I left the container. Her sense of humor made Sora less scary. But only a little bit.

The last box in the plane was the largest, stretching at least twice as wide as the others. It must have been the penthouse cage, separated from the others by about twenty feet, whereas the first two were only a couple of steps apart. I knocked twice before going in.

It was dark inside. Not candlelight dim, but fully blacked out. I closed the door and swung my pack off my shoulder. Malcolm moved from my right to my left, pacing so silently that I felt but did not hear him.

“So, hi.
Buenos dias
.
Buongiorno
. Hello. I think we missed that part of the greeting before.”

“Hello.”

He’d endured Bronson’s treatment, and we were leaving. Maybe, as quick as that, he was over it. Or maybe Thurston wasn’t the only male on this plane who was used to being kicked around.

“You’re angry.” He didn’t ask it like a question. I held up a hand, disorienting since I couldn’t see it, but I knew that he could.

“Soraya gave me the lowdown so you don’t have to explain.”

“But you’re still angry.”

“Why did you bring him if you’re prepared to end him?”

The warm buzz of his energy softened as he approached. His chest materialized beneath my hand. He covered my hand with his, and the feel of him coursed over and around me.

“If I’d left him behind, he would have been executed. At least here he gets to make the choice of whether to continue his existence.”

“What? Why?”

“It is Bronson’s territory. Even if Bronson does not swear it, his fealty isn’t negotiable. He assaulted you while I wore the cloak of power.”