The Graves of Saints (5 page)

But you didn’t. It’s only been a day, so you didn’t
. Octavian knew it was the truth. He hadn’t called hotel management because it was only a day and wasn’t
it just possible that Nikki was pissed at him, or pissed at the world, and hibernating? Of course it was. Perhaps she’d learned about Keomany’s death somehow, or had some other
emotional crisis that had caused her to retreat from the world for a while. Anyone might decide to hide from the world for a single night and day.

Except she wouldn’t
. The thought turned that anxious knot in his gut to lead. After all they had been through together, all of the horrors they’d faced and the dangers
they’d survived, Nikki would have known what her radio silence would do to him. Even if he’d somehow pissed her off so badly that she never wanted to speak to him again, she’d
make one last exception to tell him that.

The taxi drew up in front of the Sofitel. Peter shoved two twenties through the hole in the partition and didn’t wait for change. He jumped out of the cab before the doorman could reach it
and raced for the hotel’s revolving door. A young, perfumed couple in Euro fashion were speaking to the concierge and all three shot him a disapproving glance as he stormed past them,
glancing quickly around for the elevator and then hurrying toward it.

‘Sir?’ called a front desk clerk. ‘Is there something I can . . .’

Octavian ignored him. His haste and demeanor had raised some concern in the lobby – he could hear two employees talking worriedly as he hit the “up” button and waited
impatiently – but he didn’t mind if they wanted to send security after him. If there was a rational explanation for Nikki’s silence, he could simply apologize.

He prayed that he would have to apologize.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open and he stepped in. For half a second he frowned and stared at the bank of buttons, trying to remember Nikki’s room number. It had been in his mind
just a moment before and now he couldn’t recall it and wanted to scream and shatter the rows of buttons, wanted to lash out with a wave of destructive magic that would obliterate the elevator
and the shaft above, wanted to tear his way up the stairs and wreck everything he passed along the way.

Seven-two-seven. That was it.

He exhaled and pressed the button for the seventh floor.

When the doors slid open on five to reveal a middle-aged man in a suit holding an ice bucket, the urge toward violence rose again. Then he noticed that the man’s shirt was untucked and
that he wore no shoes – only black socks with a hole at the left big toe – and his frustration dissipated. The businessman had had a long day and wanted to put something on ice for
tonight. Octavian couldn’t blame him.

The guy flinched when he saw Octavian’s glare.

‘Going up?’ Octavian said.

With a wary nod, the businessman stepped in to the elevator. He said nothing as they rode up two more stories, but when the doors opened again and Octavian stepped off, the businessman wished
him a good night. Could it be night, already? Not quite, but the day was coming to an end.

‘You, too,’ Octavian replied, the sentiment sounding emptier than any words he’d ever heard himself say.

As he rushed along the corridor, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He slipped it out, thinking it must be Nikki, but the screen said
unknown caller
. If her phone was broken it
might be her, calling from another line. He touched the screen to answer.

‘Nikki?’

‘Peter, it’s Leon Metzger. I think you and I need to have a chat.’

Octavian grimaced. Metzger was commander of Task Force Victor. A call today could only be related to Charlotte showing up at the Shadow Registry to sign the Covenant and telling them about
Cortez. Octavian had called ahead to tell them she was coming and not to make it difficult for her, promising to explain himself in greater detail soon. But not today.

‘Leon, I can’t do this right now. I’ll get back to you.’

Commander Metzger started to argue, but Octavian ended the call. He held his phone as if it were something alien, staring at the hotel room door in front of him.

727.

He knocked, calling out her name. Several seconds ticked by and he lifted his hand to knock again, but faltered. A faint odor emanated from behind the door, and the moment he’d caught the
scent it became stronger. For a second, he refused to accept it, but he knew that smell all too well, and always had.

Octavian splayed the fingers of his right hand against the door and slumped forward, deflating so badly that he nearly sank to his knees. Ice seemed to flow through his veins and he shuddered as
the sick knot in his gut twisted harder. For a moment he feared he would be sick.

He found himself staring down at his phone, which he still clutched in his left hand. It remained defiantly still and silent.

There would be no call from Nikki. Not ever.

He stuffed the phone into his pocket and took a deep breath. With a thought, he sent magic flowing up his arm. A crackle of dark green fire glowed around his right hand as he grabbed the door
knob and released a focused burst of concussive sorcery that blew the knob inward, tearing out the locking mechanism. He pushed on the door and other bits of the lock and the wood around it gave
way before he strode across the threshold and into the room. There were other scents within, the sorts of perfumed soaps and air freshener spritzes that one would expect to find in a French-owned
hotel.

Nikki lay in bed, curled beneath the covers in a picture of peaceful repose that would have been adorable, if not for the dreadful paleness of her skin, and the utter stillness of her form. And
the spatter of blood on the carpet, and the light spray of it across the bedspread.

Octavian breathed her name. His chest ached with the suffocating weight of grief and tears began to slide down his face. In his long, long life he had lost so many that he had loved, and had
seen so much death and suffering that he often thought himself immune to it. But as he watched her lying there in the false comfort of the twisted tableau her killer had created with her corpse, he
could hear her singing still, not just the songs that she had written but those that had been her favorites by other artists, the ones who had inspired her and spoken to her heart and given her the
faith in herself to allow her to speak to the hearts of others. He could see the crinkle of her nose when she smiled and hear the lilt of her laugh. He could recall the curve of her body when he
pressed himself against her in bed after a long day and the smell of her hair when he buried his face in it.

He felt small and broken as he walked over and knelt beside the bed. Growing numb, he drew back the bedclothes. Nikki was naked. Her skin was alabaster pale and there was not a drop of blood
under the sheets. Her killer had carefully arranged this picture of her for him to find.

Octavian stroked her hair, pushed it back behind her ear, then bent and kissed her cold lips. Rigor had long since set in and showed little sign of dissipating, which meant she had been dead at
least twelve hours, though he knew it was longer than that . . . probably shortly before he’d left Massachusetts for Vermont, or soon thereafter.

With both hands, he rolled her slightly to get a look at the underside of her neck. The wound there was ragged and gaping, a chalky pinkness of torn flesh flecked with brownish dried blood.
Other than what had splashed onto the carpet and sprinkled the bedspread, it was all that remained of her blood.

All the rest had been drained from her.

It hadn’t been blood he had smelled from outside the door, though that odor was also much too familiar to him.

No, the scent had been that of death. The death of his love.

He kissed Nikki’s forehead as he returned her to the illusion of sleep and drew the bedclothes up to cover her again. Tears were drying on his cheeks. Eyes narrowed, he stood and glanced
about the room, cold, murderous rage building inside of him. He had been a warrior and a vampire and a sorcerer, had faced demons and madmen and true monsters, but he had never wanted to kill more
than he did in that moment.

Octavian took a breath, and then another. In a few minutes, he would use his phone to call Leon Metzger back. The police would have to know about Nikki’s murder, but Task Force Victor
would want to be on top of it as well. No Shadow had done this; it had to be a rogue vampire. And Nikki hadn’t been chosen at random. Someone had wanted to hurt him or to send him a message
or both. Octavian had problems with the way Task Force Victor went about their work, but he would provide them with whatever information he could.

As long as they stayed out of his way. As long as they understood that whoever had done this would die by Octavian’s hand.

Moving around the room, he began to study everything more closely – the walls, the windows, the carpet, the pattern in the bloodstains. For decades while he was still a vampire, after he
had abandoned the coven to which he had belonged for centuries, Octavian had lived amongst humans without killing for blood. He had taken only what was freely given, or what could be gotten through
other means. During that time he had blended into human society by crafting an identity for himself in which he could interact with people. Influenced by films and novels and television, he had
become a private detective, and found that he learned a great deal from his clients and from his enemies. And he helped them, trying in some small way to begin to atone for the horrors he had
committed over the ages.

There would come a time, quite soon, when he would need to rely upon the savagery of the warrior and the vampire. But first he had to figure out who had done this thing and then he had to find
them. The crisis in Hawthorne, Massachusetts would lead to others, and soon. Evil must already have been tearing at the crumbling barriers that kept it from the world.

None of that mattered.

The world would have to wait. The only thing that mattered now was blood – the blood that had been shed and the blood that he would spill in return.

‘I love you,’ he whispered, knowing even as he spoke that Nikki’s spirit would be long gone. Wherever she was, she could no longer hear him.

So he spoke to the person who had been in the room with her when she died. The monster who had killed her.

‘I’m coming,’ he said.

Brattleboro, Vermont

The doorbell rang while Tori was scrubbing pots. She almost called for Cat to see who it was, but then she recalled that her wife was in the shower. It had been a long day,
full of tears and hard work, of grief and hopeful preparation. Tori found it difficult to look forward to the equinox with the pain of Keomany’s death so fresh. She had become like a sister
both to her and to Cat, a constant reassuring presence, and her absence would leave a dreadful void.

‘Damn it,’ she whispered, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes.

It had been like this ever since Octavian had shown up with the news, and with Keomany’s ashes . . .
in a damned wine bottle
. She’d be fine, and then the tears would
start.

Frustrated with herself, even though she knew that her grief was entirely to be expected, she rinsed her hands and shut off the tap. The doorbell rang again as she dried her hands with a
dishtowel and she tossed it onto the counter as she hurried out of the kitchen. She and Cat had an agreement; at dinner time, one of them cooked and the other one cleaned up afterward. Since
Cat’s culinary achievements rarely went further than sautéed vegetables or tofu stir fry, Tori tended to be the one making the meals. Tonight, one of their sisters in the craft had
brought fresh swordfish, and Cat had gleefully prepared it blackened Cajun style, with dirty rice on the side, the one dish she really felt confident in making. If they’d had time, Tori would
have made a light gumbo to go along with it, but today hadn’t been the day for such things. A quiet night of reflection with the woman she loved, a nice meal, a glass of wine . . . these were
all she required to find contentment tonight.

And perhaps there would be more to look forward to, tonight. Cat had a strange reaction to death, and always had. It made her angry and it made her want to seize life with both hands and
squeeze. It made her want to scream and to laugh, but especially it made her want to lose herself in love and in mind-shattering orgasms – both giving and receiving. This had gone unspoken
between them, but Tori knew her pattern. For herself, she would rather have mourned quietly, shared memories of Keomany, and left it until the equinox to make love, as they always did at the turns
of the year. But she knew what Cat needed, and she would open her heart and her body to provide that solace.

That plan, however, did not allow for unexpected visitors.

It was strange, getting a knock on the door. Most of the employees had gone home by now, and the earthwitches who had arrived from out of town for the equinox had all pursued their own plans for
the evening. Several of them, those Cat and Tori knew best, had originally been invited to stay here at the orchard house, but as if by mutual agreement – and perhaps that was the case
– they had all retreated to hotels upon learning of Keomany’s death, giving their hosts time to mourn.

Tori cocked her head, trying to see through the tempered glass panels in the front door. She flicked on the outside light, turned the lock, and pulled the door open.

‘Ed? What’s wrong?’

The orchard foreman stood on the front steps, breathing hard and looking at her with wide eyes. Ed Rushton had been with them for three years, overseeing all of the harvesting at Summerfields.
Fifty-one years old, tall and powerfully built, he always wore a baseball cap to protect his balding pate from the sun. Night had fallen, and now he clutched his cap tightly in both hands.

‘Best you just see for yourself,’ he said, nodding, and he started down the steps. The ATV he used to motor around the orchard sat on the dirt road, fifty feet from the front
door.