Laws of the Blood 2: Partners (10 page)

“You’ve been out of the loop, Char—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Almost as much as I have,” Della finished. “Things don’t stop being bizarre unless you live in the weird every night.”

This—advice?—made a certain twisted sense to Char, even though she resented Della reading her mood and thoughts so well. “I’ve never lived in the weird, as you put it.”

“I remember.” Della gave her a look of pure hatred. “Jimmy kept you sheltered.” There was nothing benign in her smile anymore. “Jimmy’s gone now.”

Char was tempted to taunt back that at least Jimmy Bluecorn wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t that unkind. And talking about their equally lost vampire lovers would only hurt them both. “Tell me about your missing people,” she said. “You think they were killed?”

“Throwaways always getting killed. Drugs kill ‘em. Drink. Weather and accidents and violence.”

“Your people, though.” Char looked around furtively. The other people in the room were giving them plenty of space for private conversation. She supposed you learned how to give and get privacy in such a communal world, but Char still settled for euphemism in this room
full of mortals. “They went into the night?”

Della laughed. “I haven’t heard that term in a while. Haven’t heard anything from the community—until somebody decided to use me to find her lost cub.”

“But did you decide to help?” Char pushed her empty plate aside and leaned across the table to grasp Della’s wrists. “Why send those news clippings? What about your missing people?”

“Some of the ones who didn’t come back should have.”

“You think they were killed?”

Della nodded, shook her head, and shrugged.

Char almost screamed at the futility of trying to hold a conversation with this woman. She shouldn’t have come to Della. Then again, she hadn’t consciously come to Della. She recalled setting out to check the city on her own . . . then she was here.

“What’s wrong with the city?”

Della smiled in a most disturbing fashion. “You feel it. Places you can’t go.” She touched her forehead. “More holes in your head than there should be.”

Char considered a moment before answering. “It’s what I don’t feel that’s . . . bothering me.” She almost said
scaring
but remembered in time that Enforcers weren’t scared of anything.

Della’s smile turned to laughter. She said, “Magic’s in the air.”

Char formed a question, but someone across the room caught her attention before she could speak. Her gaze shifted from Della to the small, compactly built man who had just stepped away from one of the groups. He was
dark-haired, his saturnine features enhanced by a goatee. A black T-shirt showed off muscular arms covered in colorful tattoos. He picked up a battered jacket and slipped into it while Char watched.

“I know that man,” Char said. She just didn’t know where she knew him from. “Who is that?” she asked Della.

Della barely glanced the man’s way. “Been sniffing around. Undercover something, but he doesn’t smell like a cop.” She looked at him directly this time and smiled a slow, thoughtful smile. “Got the gift, though.”

Interesting,
Char thought. She didn’t think she’d ever met the wiry, tattooed man, but she definitely knew him from somewhere. Was he the one who’d shot her? She hadn’t gotten a good look at her assailant in the clearing. And she knew what Della meant about his demeanor.

Char released her hold on Della’s wrists. She closed her eyes and looked around the room with more than mortal senses. The place was heavy with despondency and fear under a fragile overlay of contentment caused by a huge meal and a bit of holiday spirit. Individual sparks of consciousness blended into the overall aura in the place. The bearded man’s aura stood out in this emotional mélange, a spark of awareness that was different and guarded, but he didn’t feel like the man in the clearing. It was his face, not his mental signature that was familiar. Still, he was an outsider among this pack of victims.

“Wolf hiding among the sheep,” Char murmured and received a slight nod from Della when she opened her eyes. “A woman died last night. Is he the murderer?”

“You are the Hunter. You tell me.”

Char did not give herself the luxury of taking offense.

Nor did she take the time for more of this question-and-answer game with the lost companion. The man walked past the table where she sat and out the door. Della’s gaze followed him thoughtfully, the loneliness naked in her eyes. Char gave the former companion a last glance but dared not offer sympathy. She got up and followed the familiar stranger out. She’d have a little talk with him outside.

But the man moved fast, and she moved too cautiously. He was already out of sight around the corner by the time she reached the street. Out of sight, perhaps, but Char had other senses to follow him with, even in this landscape full of blank spots and psychic craters.

“
I
SMELL A
vampire.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The Disciple watched the Demon leap in front of the Prophet and thrust his fanged snout into his face. “This nose isn’t ridiculous.”

The Disciple was tempted to laugh for the first time in years, but he kept quiet and backed away from where the pair faced off in the center of the room.

The Disciple was surprised when the Prophet did not rise to the perfect opportunity to insult the Demon. Instead, the Prophet put his hand on what passed for the Demon’s shoulder. “Your paranoia is understandable, but we’re safe. There are no vampires in Seattle. That’s why we picked Seattle, if you’ll recall. Everything will be all right. Everything is fine.”

The Demon clearly didn’t know what to make of the Prophet’s mild show of concern. “There’s a vampire nearby. I feel it in my bones.”

The Prophet pointed toward the bed, where the Angel was occupied with two lovers. “Of course you smell a
vampire. The little monster stinks up all of creation when he’s in heat.”

The Disciple hated to hear the Angel spoken of like that, but he held his tongue—or the Demon might hold it for him, before swallowing it. The Disciple’s guts clenched painfully as a vivid image of the Demon’s eating habits flashed through his head.

“Maybe you’re right,” the Demon said. “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter to me,” he added.

The Prophet rubbed his jaw, his expression sour. “No. It wouldn’t.” He turned the same sour expression on the Disciple. “You’re not much use, are you?”

The Disciple turned his gaze humbly from the Demon and the Prophet. He caught sight of the Vessel, passed out on the floor, still holding the empty wine bottle. He’d been unconscious for a long time now. The Disciple suspected the Vessel was just avoiding facing the anger of the Demon and the Prophet because they’d come back empty-handed the night before.

“I asked you a question.”

The Disciple offered no excuses for not having found a suitable victim for the sacrifice. “I’m not much use,” the Disciple answered.

“Not here, you’re not.” The Prophet pointed to the door. “Get out there and hunt.”

The Disciple didn’t bother mentioning that he knew the streets would be practically deserted tonight. He didn’t bother begging to spend more time in the presence of the Angel. The Angel was using the slaves tonight, anyway, oblivious to the needs of the Disciple. He had
failed his task last night; he deserved to have the Angel’s love turned away. He might fail tonight. He said, “I will try.” He gave one last, longing glance at the Angel on the bed, then hurried from the sanctuary.

It was a feast day of gluttony. The Disciple couldn’t even think the name if he didn’t want his insides to twist in disgust. He knew that most of the restaurants in his best hunting place in Pioneer Square would be closed. The bars would be open, and the scent of alcohol wasn’t as hard on him as the greasy, rotting stench of solid food. To get to the square he’d have to pass the Witch’s homeless shelter. He dreaded the sight of her standing by the door and sneering at him. But maybe she wouldn’t be there tonight. Maybe she’d be stuffing her face just like all the other swine.

He smiled at the thought of the Witch bitch being no better than other mortals, and the thought gave him strength. The Disciple squared his shoulders once he was outside and took in a few deep breaths of cold, night air, ridding his lungs of the last of the brimstone odor of the Demon. He started up the sidewalk confidently, happy to be on the hunt alone. The Vessel had his place in the great scheme of things. The Vessel’s job was to make the kill, to channel some of the energy of the death back to the Prophet, to store the rest. The Prophet spread the magic. The Demon kept watch. The Angel gave life everlasting. And they all fed the Angel. But the Disciple was the hunter. His duty, skill, and privilege was to bring the Angel slaves and prey for the sacrifice.

He sent up a prayer to the Angel as he set forth. “Let me bring new blood to you tonight, for whatever purpose
you see fit.” He would hunt for the Angel. With that thought in mind, the Disciple was certain that fate would let one of the gifted fall into his hands.

And fate was kind when he set out with a pure heart and purpose. He skirted past the homeless shelter on the other side of the street, and no one was there to see him pass. Then, around the corner and a few blocks past the Witch’s dwelling, he spotted a man standing beneath a corner streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. The buildings all around were dark. There was light traffic on the street, but a quick look around assured the Disciple that he and the smoking man had the block to themselves. Best of all, the stranger had the gift.

Even at a distance, the Disciple felt the low-level hum and crackle of energy from the stranger. He’d heard the basic gift called many things: personality, charisma, sex appeal, intelligence, focus. Sometimes it was combined with ESP of some sort. A few rare beings were born with the charismatic energy, the psychic abilities, and a fierce will to control them. The Disciple had the complete gift and knew this gift was the reason the Angel would make him immortal. The Prophet had the gift, but the Disciple sensed a weakness in him; the Demon was a mockery of the gifting, but the Disciple would be One with the Angels.

But not tonight.

Santini was much better looking in person than in his mug shots. Char hadn’t recognized the bearded man until he stopped under a streetlight and lit a cigarette. She hung back in the shadows to watch him, and the
connection clicked when he turned his head. It had to be Santini. She had files on the entire Tucson pest control operation. But what was one of Haven’s partners doing in Seattle? Why had he been at Della’s? Della’s words came back to her.
“Been sniffing around.”

Implications buzzed at light speed through Char’s head. For an instant, she was back in the mountainside clearing with the shotgun blast ringing in her ears and the pain in her gut. She knew exactly what sort of man shot first and didn’t bother with questions: Haven. Jebel Haven, the self-proclaimed vampire hunter, was in Seattle. Looking for real vampires this time?

“Oh, shit.”

Char was not given to swearing, but the circumstances seemed dire enough to warrant it. But consternation did nothing but freeze her in place and make her lurk back deeper into the shadows. She was an Enforcer. She had fantasized about her first field assignment, but no one had given her a handbook outlining what her behavior should be under the circumstances. Mortal law enforcement officers had it easier. They went to a police academy, took tests, served an apprenticeship with more experienced officers. Marguerite had not been an enthusiastic teacher, and Istvan had given her no pointers on how he’d gotten to be everyone’s worst nightmare. One just picked it up as one went along, Char guessed.

“I hate being a rookie.” Hating it didn’t change the fact that she needed to respond rather than watch. If she wanted to find out what Santini was doing in town, she had to approach him. “I can do that.”

She moved forward the several steps she’d
unconsciously retreated. Santini took a look up and down the street, still calmly smoking. She was certain he was unaware of her presence. She was smiling with a sort of fierce pleasure as she took another cautious step forward, anticipating a short conversation with this mortal who thought he knew about vampires.

But the stick-figure man walked across her path and into the circle of light first. His shadow had the shape of a praying mantis, and it fell ominously across Santini. Char paused to study this development as the mortal vampire hunter turned to look at the newcomer. Santini’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Char gaped, wondering why she hadn’t felt the newcomer’s approach.

“Do you want to live forever?” The skinny wraith’s voice was beautiful, deep and seductive.

He looked like a drunk or drugged-out derelict and sounded like the voice of God. He looked like a slight breeze would blow him over, but psychically—Char shook her head, partially to clear it. She faded into the shadows, wrapping them around her to escape detection, not that she really needed to. Psychically, this weirdo was off the scale, but all that talent was focused on seducing Santini.

Santini did not appear to be the seducable type. He flicked away his cigarette butt, and drew a knife from inside his coat with a smooth, economical gesture. “Yeah,” he answered. “Do you?”