Stormwind (The Storm Chronicles Book 3) (3 page)

Creed whimpered and tried to squirm away. “My apologies, Mistress, I had no idea! Please let me make amends for my transgressions.”

Raven thumbed back the Automag’s hammer. “Not a chance, skinjob. You’ve killed and killed again. I’d put you behind bars if it would do any good, but you’ll just switch with a guard and be out in a handful of hours. That isn’t a chance I’m willing to take.”

With that she squeezed the Automag’s trigger once, twice, three times. Creed shook with each impact, his skull shattering and leaking grey ichor into the imported hardwood floor.  He then began to dissolve leaving only the body of Jammer Creed, lifeless and limp.

Raven knelt next to the body and closed Creed’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Creed. You get to take the fall. Damn. You were just some poor bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes this job really sucks.”

She stood and turned to find Francois who was standing a few feet away, his hands on his hips and his eyes glowing blue. He didn’t look happy.

“I know that look,” Raven said. “It usually means you want to break something.”

“You destroyed my bar!” Francois yelled.

Raven rolled her eyes. “One table and some goo on the floor is hardly the whole bar. Besides, I know you got a fat bankroll for selling me down the river…twice. You can afford the cleanup.”

Francois stepped forward. “Ravenel, I didn’t…”

Raven raised the Automag and leveled it at Francois’ heart. “Finish that sentence and they will be sweeping you up with Creed’s body.”

Francois raised his hands in surrender and stepped back. In turn Raven holstered her pistol and fished her phone out of her pocket. She called in the details to her Lieutenant as she left the bar, ignoring Francois’ whispered, “I love you, Ravenel.” Killing him just wasn’t worth the argument with her mother.

RAVEN SPENT THE EVENING FILLING out reports explaining why she’d shot Creed a total of five times and why there were an additional three slugs pulled from the club’s floor. She hated to lie on official paperwork, but it was either that or tell the truth and get locked up in Chicago-Read Mental Health Center as a delusional psychopath. She’d take a few white lies over that any day.

She pushed the paperwork away just before eleven and stretched, her back popping loudly in the empty squad room. She rubbed her neck and looked at her desk.  A stack of reports sat in her out box, a few long forgotten messages sat in her in box and her shiny new report sat in the middle on top of a blotter her father had used at the very same desk. Other than that, there was a picture of her and Aspen sitting on the hood of the Bass, a picture of her father and a small commendation for heroism in the fire that destroyed twenty-three city blocks. Not much for all the cases she and Levac had solved over the last couple years. She knew Levac kept a binder of all the weird cases they had solved together. He kept it stashed in his bottom drawer, but she rarely looked at it. She knew every weird case by heart.

With a sigh she picked up the picture of her and Aspen. Aspen was grinning like a twelve year old, her purple hair held in braids and Raven was smiling, something she knew she didn’t do often enough. She couldn’t for the life of her remember what Levac had said before snapping the picture, but it had been funny.

Aspen had left Chicago for parts unknown three weeks after the picture was taken. She’d sent a post card from someplace in St Louis and Raven could still feel her somewhere not too far away so she knew the kid was okay. But it didn’t keep her from missing the purple haired geek.  She’d forgiven the girl’s betrayal long ago. Aspen hadn’t asked Xavier to make her his familiar and she’d fought him as best she could. Maybe Aspen just hadn’t been able to forgive herself.

Raven frowned and put the picture back. She needed to get out of there.

She grabbed her things, flicked out the lights and headed down the back stairs. She would call Levac and make sure he was okay, grab a cab and head home.

The night air hit her like a wall and she pulled her leather jacket around herself to keep out the worst of the chill. A pink tinted full moon hung over the city and illuminated the mostly empty parking lot in the gruesome shade of watery blood. Raven folded her arms and watched the odd moon for a minute before a vague flapping noise caught her attention. She turned her head and realized what she thought was some equipment covered by a tarpaulin was actually a car under a suede-cloth cover. Her eyes took in the shape of the car and her heart beat faster. She walked toward the shape and plucked a black envelope from the cloth. Red ink read “My Darling Ravenel.”

Raven pulled the envelope open and read the note.

This came for you today. I heard about the Bass from that sweet detective Levac and thought I would have it delivered for you. She’s beautiful. Dominique will be waiting for you. Don’t be late.

All my love,

Mom.

Raven jumped like a happy schoolgirl and ripped the car cover from the vehicle. Beneath the suede-cloth sat a black and grey 1967 Shelby 500. She’d ordered the car from a custom manufacturer after her dad’s car had been destroyed by her brother Xavier. She’d reversed the two tone paint job and replaced the stock 428 engine with a twin-turbo 427 that was pushing close to one thousand horsepower. She had then added all the bells and whistles including lights, sirens, alarm system, ultraviolet fog lamps and a radio that would reach Moscow on a clear day. She’d thought she would need it if things kept getting worse. The weird cases were just getting weirder. The Shelby had taken longer to get in than she’d expected, but she was happy it had arrived just when she needed it most.

Raven ran her hand over the near frictionless paint job and walked around to the driver’s side. She popped open the door and slipped into a seat that felt as familiar as her own bed. She checked the ignition and center console for a key, but found nothing but the sales slip. She tossed it into the back seat; she knew she’d paid more than 140K for the car, she didn’t need to see the receipt. The trust fund was hers and at the rate she collected bullet holes she’d never retire anyway.

Raven glanced around the black interior with its chrome dials and knobs, custom Hurst shifter and discrete police radio, siren and light controls and she smiled, a thought coming to her.  She reached up and pulled the visor down, catching the keys as they slipped out. She folded the visor back into place and slid the key into the ignition. With a deep breath she turned the key and the engine roared to life, a familiar warm thrum that had always made her heart sing. It was almost like coming home.

She backed the car into the street, shifted smoothly into first and roared down the alley, loving how the new engine echoed off the brick walls.

Grinning like the Cheshire Cat she called Levac. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey Ray, what’s up?”

“I’m finished filing reports for the day and called to check on you. How’s the head?” Raven asked.

“It’s still attached, more or less,” Levac replied. “The paramedics gave me some pain meds and I’ve been right as rain ever since. How about you?”

Raven shrugged. “You know how I hate being less than truthful in my reports, but there really wasn’t much else I could do. Our suspect was a skinwalker, one of those German things that can take over the bodies of humans. It isn’t like I can put that in my report if I want to stay out of the psych ward with my very own padded cell.”

“No… I suppose not. It sounds like you’re in a car, I can hear an engine. What are you driving?” Levac asked.

“I’ll show you in the morning,” Raven replied. “You get some sleep and I will see you at the District tomorrow.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Levac said. “Catch you in the morning.”

Raven ended the call and punched the gas, thrilled with her new ride and the resurrection of her lost love.

THE FAMILY MANOR SAT SEVERAL miles outside the city on enough land to make a good-sized park. It had been built in the early 1800s before Chicago was even officially founded. Different Masters and Mistresses of the City had added on over the years until the house was part manor, part castle and part fortress. The odd pink moon hung behind the north tower and Raven frowned at it before pulling into the drive. She cruised past a collection of cars ranging from a 1960s hearse all the way up to a Pagani Zonda and pulled into the garage. She parked in her space next to her father’s old Chevrolet, locked the car and headed for the great room.

Raven’s mother, Valentina Tempeste, had redecorated in the last few months and the once airy but dark foyer was now made of all light colors and the windows in the dome far overhead had been replaced with stained glass. At midday the hall looked like the inside of an ancient cathedral.

Dominique, Valentina’s familiar stood near the door to the large dining hall, a leather garment in her arms. The young-looking blonde woman, barefoot as always, smiled at Raven and held out the clothing. “You are just in time, Miss Ravenel.”

Raven pulled off her torn blouse and bra and laid them on a nearby chair. “Dominique, you helped raise me. I think you can call me Raven, don’t you?”

Dominique blushed and looked down. “That would not be proper, love. Now let me get this on you.”

Raven rolled her eyes, but turned. Dominique wrapped the leather corset around the taller woman’s waist and laced it tightly. Raven ran her hand over the leather and found that her knives had been slipped into sheaths at her waist, which meant her mother was expecting trouble.

The athletic redhead turned and let Dominique put her official badge of office around her neck. The family crest hung quite visibly at her throat, the silver glistening wetly in the light.

“You look beautiful, Miss Ravenel,” Dominique said, bouncing on her toes.

“I feel like I’m stuck in a vice and my boobs look like a pair of barely restrained zeppelins,” Raven replied. “Why Mom insists on this crap is beyond me.”

“It is tradition, love,” Dominique said. “Now get inside, the Mistress is waiting.”

Raven kissed Dominique’s cheek and pushed through the doors into the dining hall. Close to fifty vampires were seated at the long oak table, a handful of familiars standing or kneeling nearby. Raven shook her head and moved to stand next to her mother.  The day she asked Rupert or Aspen to kneel was the day she ate the barrel of her own gun. Familiars were friends and confidants, not pets or portable snack trays.

Valentina sat in her chair, her leather dress cut to reveal far too much cleavage and thigh. Her black hair had been piled on her head, held in place with an antique comb and pin that dated back to twelfth century Germany. Her red-nailed hand was playing with a glass of warm claret while she listened to Evangelina, a vampire who had once followed Raven’s brother Xavier.

“…and what of Lord Strohm?” she was saying. “It is well known he didn’t die when you and your human lover claimed. Your right to the throne is in dispute until his whereabouts are determined and his assassin, if there is one, dealt with.”

“My late husband did indeed pass as Mason Storm and I reported before the council,” Valentina replied in a calm voice. “His subsequent means of resurrection is a mystery currently being investigated by my son Andre along with Igor. Regardless, my claim to the throne is not in dispute.”

“It is if Strohm lives!” another vampire, an Embraced named Lankan Choum, interjected. 

Valentina stiffened and Raven laid a hand on her shoulder. She knew what was being asked of her. She stepped forward, her eyes locked on Choum. “Strohm is dead. He’s nothing but ash sitting in a mausoleum and a charred sword sticking out of an ancient stone.”

“So you claim,” Choum said, swirling his own glass of claret. “I somehow doubt a half-breed, even a Fürstin such as yourself could have destroyed the great Lord Strohm. Where is your proof?”

“You want proof?” Raven asked, turning and walking around the table toward Choum.

“I do indeed!” the lanky vampire replied.

Raven stopped next to him, her eyes glowing green. “By the laws of the Totentanz no proof of my kill is required, save the absence of the deceased. This was decreed in 1366 due to the… volatile nature of vampires when their heart is pierced or head removed. I claim that Strohm is dead by my hand and sword. Do you dispute this claim?”

Across the table Evangelina leaned back, one hand going to her chest. Raven watched her from the corner of her eye and waited for Choum’s next move.

“You do not frighten me, Fürstin Ravenel,” Choum said. “You are a half-breed with no claim to the title you carry so proudly. Yes, I dispute that you destroyed Lord Strohm! He lives and Lady Valentina rules in his stead! You should both be bound in silver and locked in coffins for all eternity!”

Raven’s eyes narrowed and her hand moved in a blur. She drew one of her long silver knives and stabbed it through Choum’s hand, pinning him to the table. He screamed in pain and pulled at his wounded hand. Raven punched him in the throat to silence his cries, her other hand twisting the knife into the table.

“Let’s get this straight,” she said, addressing the rest of the room. “You’ve all heard the rumors. They’re correct. I am a Childe of Strohm, a day walking half-breed with all a vampire’s strength. And I killed the bastard some of you revere as some great leader to protect myself and my family. He was killed in self-defense as proscribed by the Totentanz and his death is a matter of record not a matter of debate. Discussion of his demise has no place here at court. Lady Valentina is the rightful Mistress of the City and I am her Fürstin. If you have a problem with my actions, like Choum here, bring them directly to me as the laws demand. Is that clear?”