henri dunn 01 - immortality cure (15 page)

“The groupies?” I supplied. Bea nodded.

I swallowed, picturing the cranky Fiona as a scared human girl. She had been what, eighteen, nineteen when she’d been turned? I guessed that “itchy” was Bea’s way of saying she’d started to get restless. Mortal familiars/groupies can be happy for a couple of years if their vampire friend treats them well. But time has a way of eroding that goodwill. The longer they go without being given the magic they desperately want, the more they start to turn to drugs and alcohol or anything else. The more they start begging and pleading for the Blood. They become unstable, and when people who know where you sleep during the day get unstable, they become a risk.

“What happened?”

Bea looked around like another immortal was going to melt out of the shadows. “She threw a fit. Broke a window. Tried to kick down a door. The vampire she was shacking up with, Eleanore, lost her temper at Fiona’s tantrum and got careless. She hit her. Hard.”

I winced. With vampire strength, that probably meant a fatal blow.

“Thomas swooped in and turned her. He was pretty new in the Blood himself—a couple years, I believe—but she wasn’t his first rescue transformation. He was furious at Eleanore. He insisted she should be punished and the living situation for the mortals in the Factory should be changed.”

“I bet Caz didn’t like that.” Caz was like a rich white lady with her small yappy dogs. Damned if he’d be separated from his pets or told how to live.

“No. But it’s Caz’s factory. It’s not like he had to listen. It was other people who got mad at Thomas preaching at them like he had any right. Guy’s been a vampire for less than three years and he wanted to tell everyone else how to live, even as he turned several other mortals. They called him a hypocrite. Some of them thought he should be kicked out. But of course, Lark wouldn’t have that.”

No, she would not. “But why wouldn’t Lark take Thomas somewhere he’d be happier?” I asked. I figured maybe a half a dozen vampires lived in Cazimir’s factory at any given time, and most were not permanent residents by any measure. The rest were passing through, stopping in for a night or a week to catch up on local vampire news and gossip. Vampires crave company, but we’re—they’re—often vagabonds and nomads. Both for practical reasons—a person who never ages or changes raises suspicion if they stay in one place too long—and for less practical ones.

“I don’t know,” Bea said. She hesitated, pushing her glasses up into her hair and meeting my eyes straight on with her baby blues. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I said. “Fair’s fair.”

“Were you really so unhappy being an immortal?”

I whirled, taken aback by the question. “What? No. I was never—I didn’t want to become this.” I gestured to my very human frame. “I
liked
being a vampire. This was done to me against my will.”

Bea raised an eyebrow and pushed her glasses back down. I could tell she didn’t believe me. “And yet you couldn’t outmaneuver a mortal with a needle?”

I let out a breath. There was no point in arguing. Admitting that I’d helped Neha try to find a Cure was tantamount to confessing to treason, anyway. “It’s complicated,” I said instead. “Was there anyone with a specific grudge against Thomas? Someone who wanted him out of the picture?”

“He wasn’t beloved, but he wasn’t loathed,” Bea said. “The general consensus was that he was naive and that in a decade or so, he’d learn that it’s easier to keep mortals who know about us close.”

“That doesn’t really point me toward his killer.”

Bea shifted on her feet, a human habit that betrayed her thoughts loudly. She thought I’d killed him. Great. Even the sweet librarian vampire thought I was guilty as hell.

“I didn’t hurt Thomas. I had no reason to.”

“I didn’t say that you did,” she said reasonably. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I looked around the massive library, as if a book with a clue on the front might leap off the shelf and land in front of my feet. That didn’t happen.

“No,” I finally said, defeated. “Unless Thomas had any arguments with anyone you know about recently.”

Bea shook her head again. I thanked her for her time and left the library. With nowhere else to go, I felt defeated. By all accounts, Thomas was opinionated and a little annoying about his views, but no one had a good reason to kill him for it. Lark, his sire and lover, was powerful and respected. Killing him outright or kicking him out of the Factory would have been tough. So it was more likely someone stuck him with a needle full of what they, presumably, thought was the Cure.

I had no leads, no clues, and no idea who might have killed Thomas. Or rather, too many ideas. Anyone in the Factory was a suspect, beyond Lark herself, and that was assuming that she hadn’t gotten her hands on the Cure in order to undo what she saw as a mistake, if she felt Thomas really was unhappy being immortal. And that was a theory I refused to articulate to her face.

Other vampires here might have been mad about his preaching. Mortals might not have liked it much either. But since it didn’t seem like Thomas’s rantings were having an effect on how things were done, no one had cause to kill him unless they were simply fed up.

I rubbed my temples. A small ache throbbed behind my eye, a harbinger of a large headache to come.

I needed to get the bottom of Thomas’s murder before I became a casualty myself. But first, I needed a very stiff drink, and I knew just the bar to get one.

T
HE CROWD HAD DISPERSED
from the hall when I reached the second floor. I doubted that was a good sign for the sake of the sick mortals. The lack of commotion was more unsettling than the fervor. My mouth felt hot and I popped an Altoid.

Aidan was standing at the door to the sick mortals’ room, which was no longer open. When I looked at him, he shook his head. I took that to mean they were dead.

“I told him—” He stopped, let out a long sigh, and ran his fingers through his blue hair. “He’ll get over it. But he wants some time alone with them.”

I nodded, unable to suppress my surprise at the fact that Cazimir was actually mourning these people. I’d had no idea he actually cared for them. But maybe his nonchalance about his mortal pets was another affectation, like his outrageous French accent or elaborate wardrobe. Aidan might have been right: maybe he was planning to make him a vampire. If he was that upset about losing James and Ellen, he might be willing to do anything so he didn’t lose Aidan, too.

Aidan watched me, like he was gauging my reaction. “Do you need something? Because when he gets like this, it’s better to give him his space, trust me.”

Aidan was probably right. And since I didn’t need to incur any more wrath from vampires this week, I decide to let Caz be.

“Hey, what can you tell me about Fiona?” I asked.

Aidan’s tired eyes narrowed into slits. “That little brat? She didn’t deserve Ascension, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Why not?” I didn’t agree or disagree. I wasn’t sure vampirism was ever really deserved, nor that it could be earned. It just happened. Sometimes for the best. Sometimes not.

Well, I felt like
I
deserved it, but only because I’d been a vampire until it was unfairly stolen from me. My circumstances were pretty unique in that respect.

“Please. Thomas only turned her out of pity, because she’d have died otherwise. I say let the mortals who don’t earn it die. That’s the point. Either you prove your worth or you don’t.” I lifted my eyebrows. Aidan gave me a dark look and balled his fists. “I’ve proven my worth, okay? I’m ready for the Blood, and Cazimir is going to turn me. I don’t need to be a dumbass and nearly get myself killed for a pity turn.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “A pity turn? You’re joking.”

Aidan’s expression darkened further. He sneered and pushed himself off the wall, stepping forward, which put him about a foot closer to me. “There should be rules about Ascension. Or vampire dwellings like these become rat’s nests.” He gestured at the door behind him. “And rats are stupid and dirty and make a mess. Once Cazimir makes me a vampire, I’m going to talk him into implementing some rules.”

“Like what, no mortal pets allowed?” It was mean, but it slipped out before I could stop it. But the truth was, it sounded like Aidan and Thomas had agreed in some respects that something in the Factory needed to change.

Aidan shook his head in disgust. “You know, I was starting to like you. But if you’re going to cop an attitude like that, maybe you’re not worthy of the Blood after all.”

His point made and left to hang in the air, he stormed off.

I shook my head and bit down hard on the mint in my mouth. Sharp peppermint burned my tongue.

The Factory was full of reasons I’d never spent time here as a vampire when I could avoid it. I decided to go get myself that drink.

CHAPTER 16

T
he next night, as much as I hated the idea, I had to work. Rent wasn’t going to pay itself, and none of Sean’s cryptic visits had included handing me stacks of cash. So work it was. I tried not to let tomorrow’s deadline to solve Thomas’s murder weigh too heavily on the mind, but it’s not like an impending execution is the sort of thing you can really put out of your head. I did my best not to let it completely ruin my night.

Between trying to puzzle my way out of doom, my thoughts drifted to Aidan.

Tonight was his birthday, and I wondered if he was getting what he wanted. On the heels of such a massive loss, Cazimir was as likely to spurn Aidan and push him away as he was to pull him close and make him immortal. Then again, if this week had taught me anything, it was that I’d underestimated Cazimir’s affections for his human groupies. Which only made me angrier at Sean, whose affection was so damn touch and go I was never sure how deep it ran.

Sean wouldn’t let them kill me, I told myself, the way people tell themselves that it will be sunny on the weekends. It was ridiculously optimistic, but I needed to cling to something.

I still had no idea who had killed Thomas, just a few dozen suspects with no real motives and zero proof.

I’d hit the lab after my shift and then … well, there was no “and then.” I’d just have to find a lead at the lab. There wasn’t any choice.

Opening the restaurant was easier than closing it, but it still required more sidework than the middle shifts. Max was stuck opening with me and was in a mood because he’d worked from nine to three at the diner and had less than an hour between jobs. He was drinking something out of a fast-food cup that smelled suspiciously like Jack Daniels. I didn’t comment. I also didn’t blame him. The few breakfast shifts I’d worked had left me with nothing but sympathy for servers who worked breakfast or brunch. Diner serving was hard. It was dashing across the restaurant with plates before eggs got cold and back again for condiments and syrups and refills of coffee.

“Someday, I’m going to have a Friday off,” Max said as he came out of the walk-in with a plastic container full of lemons.

“Dream big,” I said, scraping dried wax from the bottoms of faux-crystal candleholders. I’d put new tea lights in them before setting them out on the tables again.

Max set the lemons down next to a cutting board beside me and pulled a knife from the magnetic knife rack hanging over the prep station.

“Seriously, I had the worst tables today and it’s not even the weekend yet,” Max said, cutting lemons into wedges. The bar prepped their own fruit, but the server station needed lemons for iced and hot tea and anyone who requested lemon in their water, which had been happening a lot lately thanks to a few viral articles going around the Internet on how lemon juice could melt away the calories you ate. Bullshit, of course, but humans love to believe in pretty myths. “This one guy wanted his pancakes burnt. And no matter how dark the kitchen got them, they weren’t done enough. Who wants to eat burnt bread?”

“No idea,” I said, wrinkling my nose and prying a hunk of wax from the bottom of one of the glasses. Cooked food was hard to get used to again after subsiding on a liquid diet for ninety years. Burnt food held no appeal.

“I swear, some people go out for breakfast just to make life hard for the restaurant staff.” The knife in Max’s hand slipped and he swore as it cut into his finger. “Fucking hell.”

“Shit,” I said. “Are you okay?” Crimson blood smeared the white cutting board. It would need to be sterilized and the lemons thrown away.

“I’ll live. Be right back,” Max said, sucking on the wound and heading off into the employee bathroom, where there was a first aid kit with alcohol wipes and Band-Aids.

I stared at the bright red stain and inched closer to it. My tongue felt dry, as if in need of hot, coppery blood to coat it. I wanted to taste it. Not out of vampiric desire, but out of curiosity. If tasting Ray’s and Thomas’s blood had helped me see their last moments, what would a living person’s blood do for me? A dishwasher and a sous chef were on duty, but they were out back unloading the chef’s car after a supply run. I glanced back to make sure neither of them had snuck back into the kitchen. Then, before I could think about it too hard, I poked my finger into the blood smear and shoved it into my mouth.

It was salty and tasted like copper. But then a flash of images hit my mind. A crowded dining room. The feeling of stress. A stack of plates in the window. Rushing to clock in before the time clock clicked over from five past the hour, when we were marked “late.” And then the images swirled away and a stream of thoughts raced through my mind like a radio broadcast.
Got to get through this shift. Is Javi going to say yes if I ask him on a second date? God, Henri’s been distracted. What the fuck is with this lemon demand anyhow? And there was a sharp pain and the sight of blood smearing cutting board.

“Henri?” Max’s spoken words jolted me out of this train of thought. “You okay?”

I nodded and swallowed uneasily. “Sorry. I was … distracted.” My words echoed Max’s thoughts. Thoughts I heard in his blood. Which shouldn’t have been possible. He gave me a “no shit” look and brought over a trash can. His finger was bandaged, and a blue rubber finger condom—as the chefs lovingly called them—had been taped over the wound to prevent germs from reaching any food he might touch.