Vamped Up (16 page)

Chapter Twenty

“Don’t believe everything you read in modern vampire literature. We’re not undead. We don’t sleep in coffins. And for goodness sake, we don’t glitter in the damn sunlight.”

Vampire socialite Vicki Hart, overheard telling a newborn vamp fan

“Y
OU WANNA RUN
that by me again?” Ruan asked as they parked his Tahoe in the financial district and hiked across the Embarcadero.

“I’m walking through the front door.” Dante adjusted his belt, his gun, his boot knife, and the ammo crisscrossed along his back. “And you’re going to walk in right beside me.”

“They gonna search us on the way in?” Ruan eyed his belt. “I’m not too keen on going anywhere empty-handed.”

“No search. Considering the kind of people in the market, they know weapons find their way in anyhow. Seems to keep the clients level-headed if they know the therian beside them is packing too. Mutually assured destruction of sorts.”

Ruan shoved his shoulder-brushing golden hair beneath a black SF Giants ball cap, then curved and pulled down the bill. “You know, I’ve been skulking around this part of San Francisco a hell of a lot longer than you and haven’t heard anything about an elder black market going on anywhere around here. Don’t you think someone would have busted up this elder-selling party by now?”

Dante smirked. “Not if the place is organized by therian elite and if you get mouthy you get dead.”

“You sure seem to know a hell of a lot about it.”

“More than you know,” Dante huffed, wishing it weren’t the goddamned truth.

Ruan shot him a pissed-off look that screamed he wanted to be filled in here and now, but here wasn’t the place and now wasn’t the time. They were already being monitored. Therians were twitchy bastards, Ruan had to know by now, and if it’s one thing they craved more than anything, it was control. Whether that control was over vampires or the flow of information, they’d keep their traps shut about the black market and their eyes on anyone who came within a mile radius of the warehouse.

As they stepped up on the curb, Ruan strode ahead a few paces. Dante caught him by the scruff of his coat. “Wait.”

Ruan stopped, pulling out the tracking record pocketed from ReVamp. “It says Juan Carlos’s place is at Pier Thirty-Five.” He pointed to the stone building perched atop a giant pier jutting out into the bay. “That’s Pier Three, so it looks like we’ve got a long walk ahead of us. Why’d you have me park way the hell down here?” He scanned the sky for the arching moon, no doubt figuring as Dante had, that they had about six hours of night left.

“It’s not thirty-five.” Dante corrected. “It’s three-five . . . as in three
through
five.”

Ruan checked the gold-plated numbers at the peak of the building in front of them and scanned over the next two. “There’s nothing between Pier Three and Five,” he said, thinking aloud, his gaze coming to rest on the open stretch of dock. Not many people walked around this part of the city at night, and the ones that did hustled to their destinations, their faces covered by scarves or coats. Ruan squinted into the bay, over rolling waves glistening with ribbons of moonlight. “Something’s off here. Look.” He nudged his chin at the cresting waves.

They crashed against the wood posts of the piers . . . but at different speeds. On the far side of Pier Three and on the opposite end of Pier Five, the waves were silent monsters, building heavily and slowly. Right between the piers, though, the waves were short and choppy with foam heads, like they were breaking against invisible barriers far out at sea.

Ruan stepped right to the edge of the wooden railing, propped his foot up on the bottom slat, and went elbows-down on the top. Dante did the same, except when he reached the railing, he whispered,
“Aprirligaza commando.”

Ruan’s gaze whipped around and set upon him with a fire that could’ve singed the hairs off his head. His mouth gaped open. His skin paled.

“What?” Dante jerked back, unsure whether Ruan was going to take a swing or ask him more questions.

“Those words . . .” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple jumping, then shook his head. “Nothing. I thought that I’d . . . nothing. It’s nothing.”

“You sure, man?” Dante asked, placing an arm on his shoulder. “You don’t look so good.” Ruan looked borderline-sick, the pallor of his skin changing from white to a light shade of green that nearly matched his aqua eyes.

“It’s just that earlier when I fell asleep, I thought . . . I think I might have said those same words. What do they mean?”

What the devil was he talking about?
He couldn’t know Valcish, the language of the elders. At least not the powerful ones who cast the spell on this place. The only reason Dante knew them was because he’d worked for Juan Carlos and needed the passage to clock in.

Maybe what Dante’d overheard was right. Maybe Ruan did somehow write bits and pieces of the ancient scrolls. “It means ‘
Open. I command you.’ ”

At his words, the air shook in front of them, wavering with layered images of a three-story brick warehouse. The air vibrated for seconds . . . minutes . . . an image taking form slowly. When the warehouse finally solidified mere feet in front of them, Ruan clamped his jaw closed and backed away.

The place was gigantic, with tall wooden pillars supporting a patio cover with thick black swag draping over the top and down to the sidewalk. Flickering red bulbs in gothic iron sconces flanked the front door that was worn and grouted from salty sea spray.

“Devil’s daughter,” Ruan cursed. “The maware is blind to vamps. How’d therians manage to trick an elder into lending them that one?”

“Rumor has it a corrupt vampire elder is at the top of this whole gig, working the therians.” Dante waited for the guard to arrive at his post and grant them entrance, lowering his voice just in case. “This maware is the most powerful one on record. Only those who have been to this place on formal invite can call upon it again.”

“And those words? Where are they from? How do you learn them?”

“You have a ton of questions for me, Ruan, but it’s obvious you know more about elders and their language than you’re letting on.”

Puzzled, Ruan crossed his arms, sizing up the building from the blacked-out over-arching windows to the vaulted roof peaking thirty feet above their heads. He surveyed the Embarcadero, watching random groups of city-goers bustle in and out of a trolley two streets down, oblivious to the new, magical addition to the street. “No one can see us,” Ruan realized. “Even on the doorstep.”

The door creaked open. A seven-foot-tall bear of a therian crowded the massive doorway. “That’s the idea,” Bear growled, his silver eyes slithering from Ruan to Dante. “Good to see you, my man.” He slapped his claw-like hands against Dante’s shoulder. “Been too long.”

“I’ve been busy.” Dante ignored the look Ruan shot him. “You gonna let us in or what?”

“If you’re here to see Roxy, I’ll have to let her know you brought someone else to party with you. She’s not too keen on doubles, but you knew that already.” He laughed, two deep chokes bellowing out of his wide mouth. “It was good of you to try to get me in though.”

Lord below, what he’d done to silence the voices . .
 .

When Bear motioned for the transmitter on his belt, Dante put up his hand. “No need for that this time. I’m just here to talk and she doesn’t know I’m coming, so if you could keep it quiet, that’d do just fine. There any open tables on the floor tonight?”

The burly shifter glanced through the clipboard in his hand, flipping papers back, his silver eyes scanning the list of high-rollers on bidding row. “Sure. Anywhere in Section AB will work.” He opened the massive door, moving against the wall to allow Dante and Ruan to walk through. “You get Roxy to change her mind, you know where to find me,” he called behind them.

The foyer was lit by flickering taper candles on the walls and a row of dim running lights along the baseboards. It was like they were walking into a regal movie theatre from the turn of the twentieth century.

Once through the brick and tile entry, Dante pushed aside long velour curtains that ran from ceiling to floor. He turned and watched Ruan scope out the main room. Even though Dante had been to this place countless times and its setup and inner workings bored the living daylight out of him, it brought him a twinge of pleasure to watch Ruan experience it for the first time.

Instead of a boxy three story warehouse like the place appeared to be from the street, the building was hollowed out in the middle. Stairs on the right spiraled down to the basement; it hovered at water-level and was designated to house merchandise—elders included—and handle the transfer of money. Stairs on the left curved up to the second level, a loft where Juan Carlos lived. But the entire middle of the warehouse was open and spacious like a miniature coliseum, with darkened stadium seats circling the sides.

As a pale-skinned, red-eyed aristocratic vamp wearing a blue pinstripe suit walked by with a blood-doll on each arm, Ruan grabbed Dante by the elbow. “What the hell’s going on? A vamp? This place is supposed to be therian-run.”

“Don’t tell me you think all vamps are honest and good misfits?” He laughed. “Where there’s money and power to be had, all kinds of creatures come out of the woodwork.” He nodded to a group of vamps seated in shadows in Section O across the way. “There’s probably an elder in that bunch trying to extinguish another and burn their shade a little brighter.” He nudged his chin at a row of packed seats near the bottom of the ring. “From the looks of it, there’s even a curiously wealthy mundane or two amongst us as well. If you look around hard enough you might even catch a celebrity or two. I caught Marilyn Manson in here once.” He held up his hands. “No joke.”

Two waitresses carting drinks and drugs slinked past, barely giving them a second look. It was a good thing the majority of staff had changed since Dante worked for Juan Carlos, otherwise their entrance might not have been as low key as he’d hoped. Looking around the room, Dante realized he only recognized two people: Bear at the door, and Violet slinking over with a tray of sin.

Taking in the elite workings of the place, Ruan swiped his hand over his mouth and pinched his bottom lip. “Holy hell.”

“Yup.” Dante nodded. “If it’s hell you sought, you came to the right place.”

Violet, a waif-thin blood-doll with spiky purple hair, breasts pushing out her corset top and bite marks littering her neck, zoned in on Ruan. She carried a pad of paper and an assortment of bloodlust-enhancing drugs on a tray, her elbow propped on her hip. “What can I get you, sugar?” she sang, winking at Dante as she snaked an arm around Ruan’s middle. “AB? X? Brunette?”

Blood, drugs, women. The three things that kept this place on the map.

Ruan slanted her a look. “How ‘bout a seat?”

Her color-drained lips parted into a smile as she walked toward the left quarter of the stadium. Her chain-wrapped boots clicked so loudly on the black stone floor, Dante barely heard her say, “Right this way,” before she led them to their seats.

Ruan followed first, his attention on the therian guards poised against the walls and the cameras high in the corners, instead of on the woman in front of him who’d willingly give her vein for the erotic rush of a single bite from any vamp in the place. She’d charge for her professional services, too, and be well worth the wallet drain—Dante knew first hand.

As Ruan sat down and breathed deeply, probably wondering how this place went undetected for so long, Dante took his seat, then asked Violet, “What’s on the schedule tonight?”

“You . . .” She knelt beside him, showing she was bare beneath her latex miniskirt. “Haven’t seen you in months. I’ve missed you,” she said, her fingers massaging his shoulder.

His cock twitched, remembering their romp on Juan Carlos’s desk last winter. She’d silenced the voices, all right. Gave him issues for damned near a month along with it. For weeks he couldn’t touch a woman without thinking of their sex-capade and had to resort to torturing his body other ways until his head cleared of her screams. There were some things that just shouldn’t be combined in his opinion: blood-drunk orgasms and self-mutilation being two of them.

Dante adjusted in his seat and clamped down the need rising in his gut. He could feel the intensity in his eyes, changing their color from muted yellow to swirling gold. The voices couldn’t surface just yet . . .

He got an idea—a way to get them to an elder and out without attracting unwanted therian attention. “Any available rooms tonight, Violet?”

Violet swiped her tongue over her lips, letting the pink tip linger in the corner. “Downstairs . . . room three is vacant. Want me to round up a couple friends? I remember how needy you were last time.”

Shaking his head, feeling Ruan’s eyes boring into him, Dante closed the flaps of his coat over his straining groin. “Let’s keep it me and you tonight. Give me five minutes and I’ll meet you there.”

She leaned over Dante’s lap until her breasts pressed heavily against his erection. “What about you, hot stuff?” she asked Ruan. “Whatcha into?”

Ruan kept his eyes on the center floor that was now lining with guards and robed attendees. Dante didn’t recognize a one of them. Must’ve been new recruits. Juan Carlos had been busy this season. Seats around the auditorium filled fast with the snobbiest elite of the paranormal races in the city. Shadows cloaked their identities . . . for the most part. It was clear to sense who was mundane, vamp, or therian, but faces and names remained anonymous. Until they made their final purchases at least. Whispers spread through the great room.

Ruan cleared his throat. “I’m just here to watch the show.”

She stroked Dante’s lap, a wicked gleam in her eye. “That’ll cost extra.”

As she rose, relieving the pressure in Dante’s groin, he grabbed her and dragged her back down. “Clear it out down there if you can,” he said, forcing desire to rise in his eyes. How long had it been since a woman drove him mad with need—more than physically? He’d been filled with pure primal need to silence the voices within for so long, he wasn’t sure it was possible anymore. There’d never be anything sensual or sacred. Nothing to beat life back into his heart. It was damn pathetic. “For what I plan to do to you tonight we’ll need some privacy. We wouldn’t want anyone to hear your screams, now, would we?”