Once Bitten, Twice Shy (20 page)

"Smoke and mirrors," I murmured.

"What?"

"Now. Make it loud."

He raised his voice. "It'll be all right, honey." He clutched at me, gave my arm a comforting pat and stepped us forward. We'd almost reached the entry doors. He waited until Derek and his entourage emerged. "Don't pass out on me now, it'll be okay."

I obliged and sagged, keeping one hand firm on the back of his jacket. It took an effort not to hit my knees. All I wanted to do was puke until my stomach was dry as an AA meeting.

"Look honey, a wheelchair!" Cole maneuvered us into Derek's path, blocking his way. "You're leaving, right?" he asked them. "We need the chair, man. My girlfriend's really sick."

"Get out of the way," growled one of the goons. He shoved Cole backward and I let go of him. This time I did fall, right into Derek's lap. I flailed my hands and managed to slap the bug onto the uninjured side of his neck.

"So sick," I muttered. Derek shoved me off his lap, leaving me in a crumpled heap. I considered just staying there. Hell, I was two yards from a hospital. Eventually somebody would discover me here, tuck me into a nice, clean bed, maybe pump me full of tranquilizers. I could legitimately sleep for a week.

Fortunately the person who hauled me off my butt was Cole. My hospital fantasy had barely played itself out before he'd strapped me back into the Mercedes. Actually, the seat felt even better than my fantasy bed. Love those luxury models.

I managed to focus on the road as Cole pulled away from the hospital entrance. The SUV was probably twenty yards ahead of us and gaining. "How close do we need to follow?" Cole asked.

I tried to remember what Bergman had told me about receiving distance. They drew further ahead of us and, as my nausea lessened, my brain kicked in. "Just close enough to keep them in sight."

We fell further behind and I sat up straighter, wiped the sweat off my upper lip, ditched the wig and the beret.

"Feeling better?" Cole asked, cocking a raised eyebrow in my direction.

"Much."

"That wasn't an act, was it?"

I shook my head. "There's something so far off about that man that every time I get near him I feel like the earth's about to break orbit."

Cole absorbed my reply with quiet attention. "Then we'd better find out what he's up to. Are you hearing anything yet?"

"No talking. Kind of a steady thrumming sound. Knowing Bergman this thing is so fine-tuned I'll be able to hear Derek's pulse but his conversation will sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. Wa, wa-wa, wa, wa."

"Who's Bergman?"

I held up a finger. "Someone's talking," I whispered.

"—Assan isn't too happy with you," said one of the guards. His voice was throaty and strained, probably lined with decades of nicotine buildup. I immediately dubbed him the Marlboro Man.

"I was just following orders." It was Derek—whining. "It's not my fault somebody decided to play superhero."

"Who was it?"

"A girl with red hair and a man with a foreign accent. He had a cane. Said his name was Jeremy. I don't remember anything more about her."

"Well between them they managed to smoke Jonathon and both your victims."

Jonathon must've been the doorman. It seemed strange to think of Boris and Svetlana as Steele's victims, but that had been her take on the situation last night as well. The final experiment, my mind whispered, transferring the mutated virus from human to vampire. What did that do to the vamp? What did it do to the virus?

"The Tor-al-Degan's ritual is tomorrow. The senator's even coming," chided the Marlboro Man.

"How should I know that?" asked Derek. "I just do what he tells me, and he never tells me more."

"Well here's what he's telling you now," said the other guard, his voice hard and sharp as an axe blade.

A loud, scraping sound drowned out part of Axe's message. Derek must've scratched his neck, or else gulped loudly, because all I heard was, "—Undead tonight, and you're snagging him two new vampires."

"Tonight?" The whine had reentered Derek's voice. I suspected it never stepped very far aside. "I've lost so much blood. Surely tomorrow—"

"—will be too late," snapped Marlboro Man.

Again the interference kept me from getting the complete reply.

"—afterwards?" said Derek.

"Leave them to us," said Axe. "We'll make sure of it."

The third time was the charm for the bad guys. The sound that had kept parts of their conversation from me resumed in earnest and when it finished, I couldn't hear anything more. Derek had killed the bug.

I looked at my watch. More time had passed than I realized. Time enough, at least, to ensure that I had fully recovered for my next meeting.

"What did they say?" asked Cole.

I hesitated, but he was already in it to his neck. So I told him what I knew. "Have you ever heard of the Tor-al-Degan?" I asked.

"Nope. But I know some people who might have."

"Me too. And I've got to meet Bergman there in half an hour, so let's try her first."

"Works for me." I gave him the address and Cole took the next left, heading us away from Derek and his companions. At least now I knew what destroyed my balance every time I got close to the man. The virus he carried must be as lethal as Aidyn and Assan had advertised. Though why those two thought it needed to become a vampire cocktail I could not fathom. And where the hell did this Tor-al-Degan fit in? Obviously it was a key component in the plan, or Assan wouldn't have been so pissed about his 'final experiment' interfering with the ceremony. And in my experience, senators never showed up anywhere unless it benefited them in some way.

As it did so often, my brain looped back to the original question. Why did Derek need to hook vampires for his vicious little boss? It made no sense, no matter how I looked at it. Hopefully Cassandra would clear up the whole situation.

Cassandra's Pure & Natural was a tiny brick storefront in a predominantly Cuban neighborhood. Bins of fresh apples, oranges and grapefruit sat on the sidewalk beside the door which was equipped with the most soothing set of chimes I'd ever set off. Inside, the walls and aisles carried a surprisingly wide selection of spices, herbs, vitamins and natural remedies for everything from erectile dysfunction to the common cold.

I asked the cashier, a petite old woman with gleaming white teeth and blinding red hair where we could find Cassandra. She directed us to the back of the store, where shelves full of fresh-baked breads, rolls and sugar-free desserts made my stomach growl.

As soon as Cole caught sight of Cassandra he yanked off his glasses, spat out his fake teeth and wrapped them in his fishing hat, which went into the waistband of his sweats. Literally. He'd probably have to cut the lure to separate them. But at the moment he seemed pretty oblivious. All his concentration centered on Cassandra as she added some bran muffins to a glass case that already contained a full load of fiber-filled goodies for folks forced to make regularity a priority.

A slender beauty with black velvet skin and hair that fell in braids to her waist, Cassandra moved with the grace of a dancer. She wore a canary yellow blouse, red flowered skirt, beaded moccasins and enough gold jewelry to keep e-bay shoppers bidding for weeks.

"How may I help you?" she asked in an accent that made my Midwestern drawl sound pale and asexual.

"My name is Lucille Robinson," I said. "This is my friend, Cole Bemont." He nodded, doing a nice job of keeping his drool in check. "I—we—need a translation."

She nodded. "I assume you heard of me through a mutual acquaintance?"

"Yes, um, you would probably know him as Vayl."

Instant sympathy filled her warm brown eyes, but all she said was, "Yes, I remember him." She leaned aside, caught the cashier's eye and said, "We're going upstairs for awhile, Rita." To us she said, "Follow me, please."

Cole managed to keep his tongue from rolling out onto the stairs as we trailed Cassandra's swinging hips to the second floor. It made me laugh inwardly to see him, smitten, as it were. But I was glad I'd seen the show. It confirmed my feelings for him. I might love him someday, but never in the way I'd loved Matt. Never in the way I could, maybe, if I found the guts, love Vayl.

When we reached the landing at the top of the stairs I was surprised to find the three doors that opened to it, well, open. The one to our left revealed an apartment's living room and kitchen. A bathroom stood directly in front of us and a gypsy den sat on our right. That's where Cassandra led us, into a large room, the walls of which were covered in silky materials that ranged from blood red solids to dark gold prints. The new colors I saw within those familiar shades pleased my eye and my spirit. Somehow, despite the fringed pillows on the black couches and the multitude of candles on the large central table, the room maintained an exotic dignity.

Four dark wooden chairs with more curlicues than Shirley Temple sat around the table, which must've been crafted soon after Vayl's transformation. Cassandra sank into one of the chairs and motioned for us to join her.

"I sensed that I would be entertaining
three
visitors today," she said, her voice as satiny as the wall coverings. "Are you expecting another?"

"Actually, yes, we are meeting a friend here. He should be arriving any time now," I said.

Cassandra nodded, the golden studs that lined her ears shining with reflected light. "Rita will send him up when he arrives. Would you like to show me what you need translated?"

I pulled the paper Cole had traced the symbols on out of my front pocket. I took care not to touch her as I handed it to her. Vayl might need the services of a Seer, but I preferred to leave my future a blank. My new senses told me that if Cassandra touched me, she would tell me things I didn't want to hear. I was inclined to believe them.

I'd never doubted Cassandra's abilities. Charlatans don't stay in the biz long when vamps join their clientele. But even if I had come into this thinking Cassandra's upstairs gig was a fraud, her reaction to the symbols would've convinced me otherwise. She dropped the note onto the table in front of her as if she'd been burned. Her face tightened into a mask of fear and the soul behind her eyes cringed like a spectator at the Holocaust Museum.

"Where did you see these?" she asked, pointing a wavering finger at the symbols but making sure she didn't touch them.

"They had been carved into a dead body," Cole told her, "actually, two dead bodies on two separate occasions."

Cassandra fingered a crucifix at her neck and muttered under her breath in, well, oddly enough it sounded like Latin.

"What are you saying?" Cole asked.

She looked at him grimly. "A prayer for your protection."

Cole said, "Why do we need God's protection in this, Cassandra?"

"These symbols," she said, "are powerful runes designed to trap the soul, after death, to keep it from ascending."

I recalled the scene in the restaurant, when Harry's beautiful blue soul went flying into the wild blue yonder. What if it had remained stuck there, straining to be free? The image made me flinch.

Cole shook his head. "How is that possible?" he asked.

Cassandra made a visible effort to pull herself together. "When people die violently, their souls do not immediately break free," she explained. "During that short delay the soul can be contained inside the body by branding these runes on the skin around the death wound."

"So,"
ugh, leant believe I'm saying this
, "then what do you have? Zombies?"

"That is a possibility." Cassandra looked as revolted as I felt. "Another explanation is that a
rail
, or hell-servant, trapped the soul until his master could arrive to eat it."

I couldn't help it, my mind suddenly supplied a picture of a red-skinned, horned demon picking its teeth with a purple claw as a waiter cleared the dishes from its table.

"How was the soul?" the waiter asked.

"Not bad with butter and lemon," the demon replied. "In fact, I'd have to say it was finger lickin' good."

I know, I know,
not
funny.

"Aside from the obvious biblical explanations," I said, "why would a demon eat souls?"

Cassandra shuddered. "For the fun of it," she suggested, "or perhaps because it had been called to do so by a vengeance-minded human who was willing to pay the price."

Great, that's what I need right now. It's not enough that I have to stop a mega-terrorist from spreading some godawful virus. Now I get to chase down a psychotic netherworlder with the munchies too.

"There is a third possibility," Cassandra said.

"What is it?"

"Demons are not the only monsters who eat souls. My people tell a story of how, once, an evil emperor named Tequet Dirani made it his passion to rule, not only this world, but all the worlds beyond this one. He summoned a Kyron to help him."

"What's a Kyron?" asked Cole.

Cassandra started to look ill as she described something that sounded more like a George Lucas creation than the real deal. "It is a beast built for destruction. Its presence can herald a plague or a nuclear meltdown. And it can rip through the walls that divide universes like a wrecking ball."

"Sure sounds like a demon to me," Cole murmured.

"Not at all. It will destroy in any cause, good or evil. It is, like the djinn, at the mercy of its master's whim."

"Only genies don't scarf down somebody's essence every morning for breakfast," I pointed out. "So how do you master something like that?" I wondered. "How do you beat it?"

Cassandra didn't realize I was waxing rhetorical.

"You control it with food," she said. "Souls, to be specific. Likewise, you might be able to beat it by starving it."

"Is that how the emperor's Kyron died?"

"Oh, Kyron don't die," Cassandra said earnestly, "they simply become weak enough to bind."

Somehow I didn't think she meant bind as in 'Yo, Henry, go find me some rope.'

"Bind how?" I asked, feeling suddenly exhausted. I eyed one of the couches speculatively. How offended would Cassandra be if a perfect stranger collapsed there for, oh, say three days, more or less?