Ghost Soldiers (17 page)

Xiesha sat on the couch. Three small candles burned on the end table beside her, making her face appear strangely magical in the warm orange light. A skein of yarn filled her lap like a curled-up cat. She looked up and smiled, but the smile turned to a frown almost at once. “Your clothes are full of holes.”

“And you're knitting. I think that's even more shocking.” Easier to be a smartass. Safer. “When'd you transform into a little old lady making booties?”

“This is called crocheting. And please don't change the subject.”

Maria rubbed her temple. Her eyes ached. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this bad. Not just physically tired…but weary, body and soul. Oh that's right—no soul now. The darkness ate her soul. She snorted a bitter, amused laugh.

Xiesha's right eyebrow lifted. “One usually doesn't find being riddled with bullet holes a source of merriment.”

Maria walked to the worn couch and flopped down. She toyed with a frayed strand of thread on the arm. “What can I say? I'm a freak.”

“Maria,” Xiesha chided.

“All right, goddammit. Somebody set me up. Laid a trap in the alleyway. A real fucking gangbang too. Ghost soldiers.”

“Spirit entities? Cojocaru's people?”

Maria gave a wry smile. “No. It's just a name for assassins brought over from Sicily. But they must've had inside information.” Maria leaned forward and put her head in her hands. God, her eyes
hurt
. A slow unrelenting ache that didn't seem to be fading at all. “Which means I've been betrayed by somebody in the know. Not exactly rare in my line of work, but hey, it always stings a bit.”

“You must allow me along every time from now on. To back you up. No more pride. We have too many enemies.”

She mulled that over. It hadn't been about pride. Not really. Well, maybe a little. Of course, she didn't know how she'd explain away Xiesha's presence to her people. Which meant more rumors, more discontent. “Let me think about it. I'm laying low for now anyway, 'til I can uncover who sold me out. Those shooters had crucifixes.” She gave Xiesha a look. “They
knew
.”

The thick blue crochet needle stopped halfway through a stitch. “The assassins had holy objects? Religious hit men?”

“It's not like Catholics don't wear crucifixes…” She frowned. “But it was like they knew exactly how the damn things would affect me.”

Xiesha stayed quiet for a long while, resuming her crocheting. “Someone knows what you are.”

“Yeah. That's what I figured. But how the hell did they find out? I didn't exactly put an announcement in the paper. Those weren't Thorn knights.”

“The Thorn might be after us now, but they'd never tell anyone what you are. Spreading knowledge violates their codes…” Xiesha shook her head. “It could be Cojocaru. His Nassid might be playing politics. Setting you up because you turned his offer down, especially if he wants to deal with the Blackstone wolves.”

“Things just keep getting better and better. Now excuse me while I go lay out in the sun and tan, save myself the trouble of being betrayed again.”

Xiesha held up one slender, perfectly shaped hand and splayed her fingers. “I've found the number of people one can truly and fully trust can be counted on the fingers of one hand.”

“You're not cheering me up.”

“I'm sorry. Would you like to crochet with me?”

Maria laughed. “I think that's the last thing I want right now.”

“I find it very relaxing.”

“Yeah? Will it keep my mind off my problems—a hundred and one of them and multiplying exponentially by the day? Will it stop me from thinking about Karl?”

“It helps…diminish my worries.”

Maria looked her in the eyes. Xiesha stared back, unblinking, shimmering slightly in the candlelight.

“I'm lonely, Xie. And I'm scared. Everything's falling apart. I can't hold it all together—it just breaks into smaller pieces.”

Xiesha gave her a beautiful smile, serene and warm. “Karl calls me Xie. I believe that's the first time you have.”

Maria shook her head. Who cared how many times she'd called her Xie, Xiesha, or hey glowy weirdo with the shotgun and the trippy magic? The disconnect between them yawned wider than ever. Maria stood to go.

“No, wait, please,” Xiesha said. “I must have said the wrong thing. But you calling me Xie caused me to think of Karl, and it made me feel good for a moment instead of bad.”

Maria sat back down. “Yeah. All right, yeah. It's just, I can't think of him without this needy ache inside. Smoldering—I don't know—like coals inside my chest. It scares me sometimes. I'm so worried about him. Not having him here when I need him scares me too. But
needing
him scares me.”

“You love him. If you didn't miss him, you'd have cause to doubt that.”

“Like it's that simple. I had this dream. Karl, in
this
warehouse, which just happened to be on fire. And there was another vampire. Some blue-haired bitch. Not only that, they had some kind of weird—I don't know—like lightning between them. This glow connecting them together. I don't know what the hell that means.”

Xiesha frowned, not meeting her eyes.

“You know, don't you?” Maria said. “Tell me.”

“I don't know for certain. But it may represent the link between Master and sireling.”

“Bullshit. Karl would never make another vamp. No way.”

“True. It would be hard to imagine him doing so. So your dreams are likely nothing. Your mind projecting internal fears into images. You have more pressing troubles than doubting a man you know loves you.”

Maria sat back against the cushion. “You should run a radio call-in talk show.”

“I've often thought about doing so.”

Maria's mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”

“No, that was a joke.” Xiesha grinned.

“Karl was right. You have one broken sense of humor.” Maria laughed anyway and felt a little better.

“Karl had street contacts,” Xiesha said. “Perhaps they might have relevant information? They may know which of your people have expressed discontent.”

The rumor mill always churned. People loved to talk, even people sworn to silence, and sometimes information filtered down to the gutters. You had to know who to ask. Still, it was an outside chance at best.
Omerta
was not a code often broken. “Worth a try, I guess. I'll check it out. Put it on my To Do list right after Buy Toothpaste and Raid Local Blood Bank.”

Xiesha gave her a serene nod. “Be sure to take me along if you need backup.”

“Yeah, we'll see. Sometimes these things require more finesse than a shotgun.” Maria stood again. “I'll leave you to your knitting or whatever. What are you making anyway?”

Xiesha held up something that looked like an overlarge, misshapen black glove. “These will be for Karl. To keep his hands warm in the winter.”

It took a second before she could speak. “You…you realize those fingers are way too big.”

“He needs somewhere to put his claws. Otherwise he'll only shred through my gloves and I shall have to start over.”

They stared at each other. Then Maria started laughing and Xiesha joined her, filling the air with her delicate little laugh that somehow reminded Maria of chiming bells at Christmas, rich and pure and golden. For a moment the weight on Maria's shoulders felt a little less crushing, the loneliness less sharp.

The moment didn't last.

Chapter Eighteen: Old Friends

Bucharest seemed less welcoming than the last time Karl had been here. Colder. Forbidding. The city was old, and felt it. Magic in the streets and stones raised the hair on his arms when he and Bailey hurried past areas flush with power or where ancient spirits still lingered.

“How long?” He'd stolen a long black coat to conceal the sword, bound his burns in clean bandages and pulled on gloves, though the aura from the metal made his skin crawl when he gripped the sheath. He had a feeling he'd need the sword again before long.

Bailey kept scanning the dark buildings, her eyes glowing a soft red. “Almost there.”

The hour was late, well after one a.m., and the streets far north of the Old Center section of Bucharest, far from tourist spots, held a kind of solemn desolation. Potholes marred the rough cobblestone, and the air stank of smog—a car exhaust, electric
al fire and ozone reek that made him regret his vampire senses. A high-density housing complex built during Ceauşescu's reign slouched on the corner, slumped in a pattern of brown and faded gray, its ground floor marred with slashing graffiti. Packs of dog
s went slinking through the alleys and courtyards, but howled and fled as he walked past.

The plan had changed. They'd raced south and Cojocaru had pursued, the thrice-damned succubus ghosting along behind them, a shadow never giving up the search. Karl suspected they were being flushed toward something, herded, penned in, but his options for escape kept shrinking. He needed weapons. He needed a way out of the country. For all his bold words about cutting loose from the Thorn, he was on his way back to one of them now, gambling that Bailey's friend Anca, who'd helped get him into Eastern Europe, could help him escape it again. A risk born of desperation. Very good chance he might have to kill his first Thorn knight. Very good chance he walked toward his destruction.

Bailey led the way, heading down another, narrower street. Her head turned to track every little night sound of the city—rats, dogs, cars and people—her nostrils flared as she scented the air, despite the smog reek. Dark shreds of clouds scudded across the sky, moving fast as if racing toward the horizon. She stopped in front of a three-story gray building, its stone façade cracked at the foundations and haphazardly patched in others, and a narrow pediment over the doors had reliefs and molding worn so smooth by weather that he couldn't distinguish them. He scanned around, searching for any tremor or sensation indicating an ambush, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Faint rap music rattled one of the windowpanes, bass and rapid-fire Romanian words.

“Here,” she said. “And listen. We even get a B.U.G. Mafia soundtrack.”

“Bailey, if this goes sour, we could end up with your friend's blood on our hands.” He felt the smoke of fear in her mind, through their link. “I'll do whatever I must to get back to Maria, but are you ready for this?”

“No.” She passed the callbox buzzers and pulled open the door, which had been propped open by a half-crushed soup can. “But we were friends. Maybe that'll be enough. I've got my fingers crossed.” She turned and showed him her hands, and true enough, her fingers were crossed.

They climbed a narrow stairwell, and Bailey led the way down a long hall filled with the smell of people mixed among scents of corn and sour cream, alcohol and mildew. He followed behind her, still searching for traps and signs of ambush but again finding none.

Bailey stopped at a door near the end of the hall with no nameplate and no number. She knocked twice and waited. Karl moved to the side of the door, out of the path of any bullets that might tear through the wood. He reached out and pulled Bailey beside him. She glanced at him, frowning, and though her eyes flashed a little, she didn't protest.

“
Cine-i acolo
?”

“Bailey Fletcher.”

A long silence. Karl glanced behind them down the hall and listened intently. No strange sounds. No sense of strange magic…

The voice finally spoke again. “What are your words, Bailey Fletcher?”

“I serve God. I serve the Thorn. I serve the people.”

The door swung open a crack and a woman peered out. She was young, Bailey's age, with dark eyes and a strand of nearly black hair curving along her cheekbone like a crescent moon. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Karl.

“He's cool,” Bailey said. “He's with me.”

The door swung wide enough to let them in. “Get inside.”

The room was small, with bare plaster walls, sparse and worn wooden furniture, and an incongruous massive and intricately carved dining room table. He swept the apartment with his heightened senses, but the woman was alone. He could feel lots of silver though, and the unsettling aura of holy objects close by—hardly surprising since this woman belonged to the Thorn.

The woman shut the door and leaned against it. She wore plain clothes, slacks and a blouse, and she was more striking than pretty. She glanced at the wrapped sword in Karl's hand, and a look of purest rage flashed across her face.

Bailey turned back to her, smiling. “Anca, we need help—”

Anca pulled a semi-auto pistol from behind her back. Karl threw open his coat and yanked the sword from its sheath so fast the blade blurred silver. The pistol barrel had barely begun to swing toward him when he stopped the sword blade scant millimeters from Anca's throat and held it there, unwavering. Anca stared at him, wide-eyed, absolutely still, fear-scent drifting from her pores. A strong holy aura pulsed beneath her blouse. He could see the silver chain, but the holy object remained hidden. He wouldn't give her a chance to pull it free or use the Makarov pistol he could sense was loaded with silver-jacketed bullets.

Bailey stared at the half-raised pistol, then at the blade. “What the hell, Anca? You want to gun me down? Me?”

“A Watcher came here, told me.” Anca swallowed and her throat clicked. Her gaze never left Karl. It seethed with bitter hatred, and venom poisoned her words. “You killed her. You cut her from me and made her a monster,
puţoi
nenorocitule
!”

Bailey stepped in front of the gun, put her hand on it and lifted it until the barrel pressed against her chest, over her heart.

“Bailey—” he warned, but she held out a hand to him.