Silver-Tongued Devil (22 page)

“Sabina, I have to.” Rhea looked me in the eye. “Maisie is too important to the entire race to keep him out of this.”

“What if he says no?”

She smiled a small, cunning smile. “You leave Orpheus to me. By the time I’m done with him, he won’t just agree, he’ll give us his blessing.”

I prayed she was right. Because if her potion didn’t help my sister, nothing could.

After I left Rhea to go talk to Orpheus, I was alone and restless. I returned to the apartment, but no one was back yet. Probably for the best, since I wasn’t exactly in the healthiest state of mind.

The normally comfortable space did little to soothe me. I felt itchy and restless. If I stayed there, I’d just end up sitting around and stewing over the Maisie situation. As I paced by the kitchen for the tenth time, my eye caught a Necrospank 5000 T-shirt Erron had given Giguhl the night before. Seeing it brought back the revelations he’d shared.

It’s not that I didn’t trust Erron. But his report made me curious to know more about the mysterious Master Mahan. If nothing else, maybe facing the situation would make the damned dreams stop.

Deciding I needed to do something productive, I headed to the library on the second floor. I didn’t really expect to find a ton of earth-shattering exposés on the life of Cain in a mage book collection, but I was desperate for anything that would take my mind off Maisie.

After grabbing a few books from the shelves, I took a seat in a leather armchair next to an arched window. The moon was high—three-quarters full—and loomed over my shoulder like it wanted to read, too.

The first book I scanned was called
The Book of Moses
. I’d never heard of it, but it sounded vaguely biblical. I was surprised to find a book of mortal mythology in a mage library, but I guess it wasn’t all that strange. After all, mages live in a world dominated by mortal culture. Not being familiar with the mortal myths myself, I quickly ran through the pages and stopped when I got to a quote about Cain.

And Cain said: Truly I am Mahan, the master of this great secret, that I may murder and get gain. Wherefore Cain was called Master Mahan, and he gloried in his wickedness.

That certainly sounded accurate since the Caste of Nod referred to Cain as Master Mahan. But the book didn’t give any details about when or why Cain created the Caste, nor did it shed any light on his reasons for wanting to bring on Lilith’s return to the mortal realm. I slammed that book closed and grabbed the next. According to the introduction, it contained a collection of oral histories passed down through vampire families.

I flipped to the chapter on Lilith and started reading. When I got to the part about Lilith and Cain’s first meeting, I stopped scanning and read every word.

As far as love stories went, it was fairly typical. Banished boy meets bad girl. They cavort by the Red Sea for a few decades. Create a new race of immortal, bloodthirsty offspring. Then, predictably, boy loses girl to demon king of the underworld.

That’s where things got a little fuzzy. The vampire texts chronicled how Lilith married Asmodeus and became Queen of Irkalla. There was some talk of how she shunned life on earth to make little demon babies. But Cain? I couldn’t find any documentation about him after he fled the Land of Nod to nurse his broken heart. Not all that surprising since vampire society was matriarchal. They worshipped Lilith and pretty much ignored Cain’s existence except as a sort of damned sperm donor.

Unfortunately, the other books didn’t offer much more in the way of details. I slammed the last one shut with a sigh. Glancing at the clock, I realized I’d just wasted two hours and had not much to show for it. Maybe Erron had been right. Maybe worrying about Cain was a waste of time.

I laid my head back against the back of the chair with a sigh. When I opened my eyes, my gaze was drawn to the painting that hung over the library’s fireplace.

“What are you looking at?” I said to my father, whose painted eyes seemed to watch me with judgment.

Cursing, I rose to approach the picture. I’d seen it several times since moving into Prytania Place. But now I noticed a framed photograph on the mantel under the painting. I’m not sure how it got there or who added it, but I’d never noticed it before.

Seeing an oil-and-canvas rendering of a face was one thing, but staring at a photograph was different, more intimate. The stark black-and-white image made him seem more real somehow. He was standing next to a river—probably the Hudson, which ran along the border of the estate in Sleepy Hollow. All around, bare trees and a light snow on the ground indicated it was winter. Despite the stark surroundings, he was laughing at whoever took the shot.

Flipping it over, I unlatched the rear of the frame and removed the cardboard backing. On the upper-right-hand corner, someone had written “Tristan, February 1954.”

My stomach performed a triple backflip. The picture had been taken just fourteen months before I was born. Had he already met my mother? Vampires have a twelve-month gestation cycle, so he’d either just met her or was just about to.

My heart thudded loudly in my chest. I turned the shot back over and studied it. His eyes sparkled with mischief—or was it the look of a man in love? I couldn’t tell. I guess it didn’t matter. Not really. Because while that one moment had been frozen for me to see almost fifty-five years in the future, back then time had marched on for my father. He’d met and fallen in love with my vampire mother. And that fateful introduction had cost both of them their lives.

As long as I’d been among the mages, I’d done little to learn more about my father, except what Rhea and others insisted on telling me about his “heroic life and noble death”—their words, not mine. Maybe I should have made more of an effort since, after all, I’d inherited his magical specialty. But what was the point, really?

He’d died before I was born. Rumored to have been murdered by Lavinia’s goons when she found out he’d knocked up her daughter. No one ever found the body, but there’d been blood in his rooms. Probably they’d dumped his body somewhere. Either way, he was never in my life, except as a… damned sperm donor.

If it hadn’t been my own history, I might have been amused by the Shakespearian irony of it all. But I’d spent most of my life paying the debts from my parents’ mistakes. So all I felt was resentful. And hollow.

I shoved the picture back into the frame and turned away. Looking back at the books, I made a decision. It was time to leave the past alone. Ancient history—Cain—and more modern history—my father—were just skeletons. There was no real meat to them. What really mattered was the present. And the future. It was about time I embraced the former and took steps to ensure I was ready for the latter.

As for the past? It was time to let it rest in peace.

21

W
alking into Vein the next night was like arriving home after a long day at the office. I’d fully intended to be at the bar sooner, but the New York subway system had other plans.

I normally would have flashed over to the club with Adam, but he’d spent another evening out at the Crossroads dealing with security, so I told him I’d just meet him there for Giguhl’s first Roller Derby bout.

After three months of living in New York, I still hated public transportation with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. I hated the confusing schedules. Hated the crowds of people who didn’t give a shit that in my old life I would have ripped out their jugular for bumping into me. And I definitely hated the smell, a charming perfume of sour trash, hobo piss, and body odor. Considering it was January, I wasn’t looking forward to experiencing the tunnel funk during the hellfire summers.

Anyway. After that nightmare, walking into Vein was like entering an oasis. I might have a more generous attitude toward humans in general, but I preferred the company of vampire hustlers, prostitute nymphs, and mage drug dealers to being surrounded by dirt-nappers.

Speaking of vampires, Alexis sat in a booth across the bar with a few of Tanith’s lackeys. She saw me come in and held up her beer in salute, but she made no move to approach me. Thank the gods. The last thing I needed was to endure that harpy’s attention. Especially when she’d probably just use it as an excuse to gloat about the fact there’d been no more murders since she offed Tiny. She seemed the type who’d really enjoy delivering an aggressive I-told-you-so.

Earl stood at his usual station behind the bar. His ever-present dirty dishrag worked the same spot on the bar over and over, like he was trying to clean his way through the wood.

“Hey, Earl,” I said, taking a seat on one of the stools.

He nodded, Earl’s version of a warm greeting. A raised eyebrow indicated he was listening for my order.

“I’ll take a Bloody Magdalene. Make it a double.”

The other eyebrow came up to join its mate. Like all good bartenders, Earl was an excellent reader of body language. But it wouldn’t have taken an expert in behavior to figure out I was in a bad mood. A conscientious bartender made it his business to remember the preferences and habits of his customers. The small gesture told me he was recalling that since I’d been back in New York I usually stuck with imported beer. That meant the change to blood and vodka was cause for speculation.

“What?” I snapped. I didn’t mean to be bitchy, but my craving for blood made manners impossible. Ever since I’d denied my craving during sex with Adam, bagged blood wasn’t cutting it. I’d had three bags before I left the apartment, but I was still hungry.

While he went off to get the drink, I distracted myself from both my hunger and my guilt with a scan of the bar. I hadn’t seen Vein this busy since the early days of Demon Fight Club. A good sign. Also not a surprising one. If the dark races enjoyed watching two demons kick the shit out of each other, chances were good they’d go crazy over chicks on wheels having catfights.

A few moments later, Earl slid the highball in front of me with a nod. “Thanks, Earl.” I tried to infuse my tone with the apology for being short with him earlier. He didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he went back to scrubbing the bar with his gray rag.

The mix of blood, vodka, horseradish, and Tabasco hit my tongue like liquid fire. Earl’s way of letting me know he wouldn’t put up with being disrespected. I looked over to catch the bellicose vampire grinning at me like a crocodile. My eyes watered and my taste buds screamed, but I lifted my glass to acknowledge he’d won this round. Besides, once you got past the taste of burning, the drink was actually pretty delicious.

I spotted Adam making his way toward me before I’d taken my second bracing gulp. I called to Earl. “Put it on my tab, okay?”

Another eyebrow raise.

I glared back. “Slade knows I’m good for it.”

He gave me an it’s-your-funeral shrug. Then he drifted away to fill another order.

I turned to smile at Adam. With a mouthful of liquor and my hot mage filling my visual space, my mood improved considerably.

“Hey there, hottie,” he said, sidling up. “Looking for a good time?”

I swallowed and flashed a little fang. “Watch yourself, mancy.” I ran a finger down his chest. “I like to play rough.”

“Thank gods.” He leaned in and gave me a fast, hard kiss. But he pulled away quickly, a grimace tightening his full lips. Realizing he’d tasted the blood on my mouth, I quickly wiped it away.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

He took a long pull from his beer. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.”

I took a pointed sip and smacked my lips. “That’s funny. I don’t know how you can
not
drink it.”

“Just be sure you brush your teeth tonight. Morning breath is a fresh sea breeze compared to the
hell
itosis of blood breath.”

I decided it was time to change the subject before the conversation turned ugly. “Did you see Giguhl?”

He took a swig of his beer and nodded. “I believe his exact words were ‘I’m as nervous as a nun at a porn convention.’ ”

I rolled my eyes and took another sip of my drink. I always enjoyed the quality of Slade’s blood. The stuff I got from the bank did the trick nutritionally but was the bloody equivalent to eating gruel. Slade’s blood, however, was top shelf and fresh. I preferred not to ask where he got it because ignorance allowed me to have a clean conscience.

“Anyway,” he continued, “we better head down. He said if you didn’t stop by to wish him luck he’d use your favorite boots as a litter box.”

Adam reached back and grabbed my hand to pull me through the crowd. I accepted it not because I needed his help but because I loved the feeling of being connected. I’d spent too many years steamrolling through crowds on my own. Besides, with him leading the way, my eyes were free to admire his ass.

He bypassed the aluminum risers that ringed the raised track and led me toward the locker room. Just outside the steel door, Giguhl paced and chewed at his claws. He wore green sweat shorts and a ringer T-shirt that read
DEMONS DIG VIOLENT CHICKS
. A clipboard and a whistle rounded out the look.

“Well if it isn’t Sporty Spice,” I called.

Giguhl’s head snapped up with a scowl. But when he saw it was us, his black lips spread into a smile. “Thank Asmodeus! I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss your coaching debut for anything.”

“Thanks, Red.”

“So how’s it going?”

Giguhl shook his head, making his horns cut semicircles in the air. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“You’ll be great.” I stepped in and put a hand on his huge green bicep.

“Oh, I know that.” He waved a claw. “It’s Pussy Willow. She’s mad she can’t play.”

“What? I thought she was on the team?”

“It’s the whole penis thing.” He shrugged. “Somehow the league found out she was smuggling extra equipment in her skirt. They’re refusing to bend about the whole ‘only biological females are allowed to be on teams’ thing. So I had to tell her she can’t play.”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “How’d she take that?”