Old Sins, Long Shadow Page 20

  “Of course,” Drew said quickly. “Whatever you need. Just name it.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Marc glanced at his friend in surprise. It wasn’t like Drew to be so hasty. They didn’t even know what the woman wanted yet.

  Georgia’s smile turned brittle. “Oh, my need is for nothing onerous, I assure you. I’m just seeking information. Conrad has expressed his concern regarding some unusual activities that may be going on here in the city. He’s charged me with the task of investigating the matter.”

  Conrad concerned? Marc frowned. “This is the first I’m hearing of it. Exactly what’s he concerned about?” Had Damian known Conrad was calling in outside help to deal with some mysterious matter? No wonder he’d had been so angry last night. The last secret Conrad had kept from them nearly cost him his life. No way would Marc go through that again.

  “Why don’t we all take a seat?” Drew suggested, indicating one of the more secluded tables. Once they were seated he turned to Georgia. “I confess I have heard rumors,” he said quietly. The look he gave her was grim, almost fearful. “But only very recently and please understand it was never my intention to withhold this information without cause. I have been unable to verify the report, as yet, and thought it best to wait for corroboration before bringing so potentially serious a matter to Conrad’s attention.”

  Georgia nodded. “Of course. Such caution is to be commended. I’ll make certain Conrad understands you were not being derelict in not reporting this news to him before now.”

  “Thank you,” Drew replied, sounding vastly relieved.

  Marc sighed impatiently. He wondered if Conrad was even aware of how universally he was feared. He couldn’t possibly be happy about it if he was. “So what are these dire rumors?”

  Drew grimaced. “It’s the same thing I mentioned to you earlier, Marc. It appears that humans are being systematically taken from the streets. As I understand it, the victims are drugged, abducted, kept for a few hours, and then dumped back out on the streets again. Their memories of what happened are vague, but in each case a significant portion of their blood has been taken and their bodies show signs of having been mauled. There have been a number of deaths but, so far, these have been put down to fairly mundane causes: exposure, malnutrition, drug use. Several victims have even claimed they were attacked by vampires although, so far the authorities have not believed them.”

  Georgia shook her head. “I suppose we must be grateful we live in such a skeptical age.”

  “I don’t know how long it’s been going on,” Drew continued. “Months perhaps, possibly longer, and no one seems to have any idea how large the problem is. It’s the city’s more undesirable elements that are being targeted, you understand, so it’s possible most of the crimes are not even being reported.

  “Well, I’m not convinced this has anything to do with the matter I’m investigating,” Georgia said. “But it’s troubling nonetheless. I’ll pass the information along and see if I can learn anything more about it. Did your informant have any suspicions as to who might be behind these attacks?”

  “No one seems to know that either.” Drew shot Marc an apologetic glance and added, “I probably should mention that the number of ferals in the city has been on the rise for some time and they’ve been unusually active of late. I don’t think we can rule them out.”

  Marc glared at his friend. “Seriously, dude? You’re obsessed.”

  “Ferals,” Georgia repeated slowly. “It’s possible, I suppose. They aren’t generally as well organized as this behavior would suggest. Nor is it usual for them to attack in groups. Also, why would they spare their victims’ lives—to say nothing of going to the trouble of returning them to the streets?”

  “Maybe they don’t realize they’re hurting anyone,” Marc suggested. “Perhaps they’re just hungry and don’t know any better?” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Was he arguing for or against this stupid idea anyway?

  “For someone who professes to have no prior knowledge of the situation, you seem to have given the matter a great deal of thought,” Georgia murmured, staring at him through narrowed eyes. “Why is that?”

  “It’s merely the subject of ferals he’s given thought to, my lady,” Drew answered hastily. “We’ve discussed it at length. Marc has a certain…academic interest in the subject.”

  “Really?” Georgia’s gaze stayed steady. Marc returned it. “I would have guessed your interest was more personal. Although, that hardly seems possible, given your obvious naïveté on the subject. Tell me, have you ever even seen one?”

  “Yes, actually. Enough to know they’re not quite as terrifying as everyone thinks.”

  Georgia raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Of course, I don’t personally find them terrifying at all, but that’s just me.”

  Drew groaned quietly. “Marc, you’re insulting the lady. I’ve told you before, your experience is not typical. You really don’t understand yet what you’re dealing with.” He turned to Georgia, his expression apologetic. “There’s been one feral in particular that’s been making a nuisance of itself. A young girl. Marc’s taken it in hand, so to speak, and it really has shown marked improvement. It’s actually quite astonishing.”

  “She has shown marked improvement,” Marc corrected. “And it’s not astonishing at all.”

  “How very fascinating,” Georgia purred. Her voice was dangerously soft. “And what does Conrad have to say about all of this? I assume he’s been made aware of your interest?”

  At the mention of Conrad, Drew flinched. Watching the color drain from his friend’s face made Marc’s blood boil. Georgia might be able to frighten Drew, but if she thought the mere mention of Conrad’s name would give Marc pause, she could think again. He set his teeth and glared at her with cool disdain. “Since everyone’s so interested in Conrad’s opinion, I think I should find out. I’ll talk to him about it when I get home. But he’s really not the ogre you all seem to think. So if you’re expecting fireworks, prepare to be disappointed.”

  To his surprise, that brought a smile to Georgia’s face. The hint of challenge was still there, but overlaid with an altogether warmer look. “We’ll see,” she answered. “Either way, this should prove most interesting.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Damian heaved a sigh after the front door closed on the last of the job applicants. He was content with the night’s work, pleased with the choices he’d made. His appetite was replete. He supposed he had Conrad to thank for that, even though he surely hadn’t had Damian’s pleasure in mind when he’d suggested increasing the staff.

  Still, whatever Conrad’s intention had been, it was Damian who had benefitted. It was nice to get a taste of fresh blood. He’d always enjoyed a wide variety in his diet and never could understand why it was that some vampires preferred to sample the same blood time and again—Julie for example and, as anyone who knew him could certainly attest, Conrad himself.

  Conrad…

  Just thinking about him was enough to cause the all-too-familiar aching to begin again in Damian’s fangs, the rumbling in his gut—as though it had been days since he’d last eaten, rather than mere minutes.

  After the excesses of the night before, he would not have been surprised if he’d found it difficult to summon up a sufficient appetite to see him through tonight’s interviews; but such had not been the case.

  Despite having stuffed himself the previous evening, thanks to Conrad he’d still gone to bed hungry, woken up famished and could easily have auditioned another half a dozen applicants, had they been available.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Conrad asked, stepping out of one of the salons and startling Damian so badly he almost jumped. Speak of the devil.

  Damian scowled. His heart was racing—a show of weakness that angered as much as embarrassed him. He willed it to slow and turned his frown on Conrad. “What did you say?”

  Conrad, his eyebrows raised, pointed at the door a
t Damian’s back. “Are you coming in or going out?”

  “Neither,” Damian snapped. “I was merely closing the door. I’ve been interviewing potential employees all evening—your idea, if you’ll recall. The last of them has just left.”

  “I see.” Conrad studied him for a moment, lips curving up in an unmistakable smirk. “I trust you found them to your liking?”

  “They’ll do.”

  What was that look on Conrad’s face? Relief? Satisfaction? Triumph? Damian ground his teeth together. Had Conrad really meant to imply that Damian was no longer free to come and go as he pleased, to feed where and when it suited him? He’d thought they were beyond such petty issues of control, but perhaps he was wrong. With Conrad, anything was possible.

  “Was there something you required?” Damian asked, forcing his face to reveal none of his anger. How would Conrad respond if he were to lie and tell him he was on his way out, that he planned to spend what was left of the night roaming the streets, taking his food, and his pleasure, where he found it? Would he refuse to allow me to go? Am I a prisoner here now?

  “Thank you, my dear,” Conrad responded with careful politeness—answering the question Damian had almost forgotten having asked. “But, no. There’s nothing I need. I’m quite well.”

  Well? Is that what he’s claiming? Damian studied Conrad’s face, suppressing the desire to snort in disbelief. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes hooded and Damian doubted he’d taken anyone’s vein in a week. He felt a pang of remorse. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? Shall I not summon some food for you?”

  “No,” Conrad answered, his voice harsh, eyes blazing for an instant. Then the fires were banked and that same, strange smile stretched his lips once again. “Thank you, but I’ve not yet so decrepit that I’m incapable of feeding myself, you know.”

  “No. Of course you’re not.” Damian berated himself mentally for his clumsiness. What man liked to be reminded of his weaknesses? Even if he still had any right to be concerned about Conrad’s well-being, or to scold him for not taking better care of himself, he should know enough to keep his mouth shut. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire for the evening.”

  Damian inclined his head in a slight nod, then fled for the stairs—quickly, before he could give in to the desire to say or do something, anything, to rattle Conrad’s self-control.

  What’s wrong with me, he wondered as he closed the door to his rooms behind him. Was he so desperate for Conrad’s touch now that he’d risk violence just to get him to lay hands on him? Why ask, when he already knew the answer? Yes. Always.

  Even last night, beneath the fear and the humiliation and the outrage at being manhandled by Conrad—and with Georgia, of all people, standing witness to it—there had been desire, exhilaration, a deep-seated pleasure. Oh, and the need. Dios mio. That furious, frustrated, helpless need that could never be fully assuaged.

  However compelling that need became, and no matter what the temptation, he knew he must not give in to it. Never, ever again. The risk was simply far too great.

  Feeling himself in need of a reminder, Damian wrapped one arm around his torso seeking out the damaged flesh he’d earned himself the last time he’d tested Conrad’s self-control. As his fingers traced over the scars that scored his back and shoulder the memories flooded his mind. Anguish. Horror. Disbelief. How could he do this to me? How?

  Still, if pain and a few more scars were all he had to fear, he might have risked it again. No, he would have risked it, many times over, during the course of the past forty years. But there were worse things in life than physical pain—and that he must never forget.

  Not content with merely disfiguring him, Conrad had followed up on his attack by ordering Damian to leave, to pack his things and go—without even being allowed to wait for nightfall. He’d been sent away, exiled; denied even the sight of Conrad’s face, or the sound of his voice, for far too long.

  A low groan escaped Damian’s lips. More memories surfaced. An echo of the great loneliness he’d endured whispered darkly. His heart was beating too fast again. He crossed the room and hurled himself into the chair Conrad had been sitting in the night before—hoping a faint trace of his scent might remain.

  He hated that it had come to this; hated that his fear could so far unman him he was all but licking the upholstery in search of comfort. It was pitiful, but not altogether surprising. It was all part of the price one must pay for eternal life.

  He’d heard it said this same soul-searing sense of alienation was what led feral vampires to go insane and caused chaos to erupt within nests that had lost their sires. He could well believe it. He knew for a fact he would gladly let Conrad kill him before he’d allow himself to be banished again. Or, failing that, he’d simply kill himself.

  “So, really, what are you using it for?” Nighthawk gestured at the crate of venom he’d just delivered. “You trying to create a new club drug? Diet food? Anti-aging serum—what?”

  His would-be sire smiled serenely as she continued unpacking the cups and making indecipherable notes on her clipboard. “You can keep asking all you like, just don’t expect an answer. As I’ve said before, it’s better you don’t know.”

  Better for who? Nighthawk gritted his teeth as the need to remain cordial fought with the instinct to demand answers. He needed her. He had to remember that. He needed what she was offering him. That was the only thing stopping him from ripping the bitch’s fucking head off, that and the trio of muscle-bound goons who made up her bodyguard. One or two of them he could have taken, no problem; against the four of them together, he didn’t stand a chance.

  He shrugged and grinned, doing his best to appear harmless. “Hey, give a guy a break, all right? I’m just trying to plan ahead. Just getting a feel for how much more you might be needing. Like, should I be looking to increase production, or thinking about shutting it down?”

  She slid her gaze in his direction for an instant, amusement glittering in her eyes. “How very considerate of you to be so concerned. I’ll let you know if there’s to be any change.”

  Shit. She really wasn’t going to tell him. Nighthawk swallowed down his annoyance. He wanted to wipe that smirk from her face with the back of his hand. He wanted to make her beg—and he didn’t even care what for. Just to see her on her knees was reason enough. He hated operating in the dark like this. Hated that she’d put him in the position where he was lying to his people, his friends; betraying his own kind. Not that they wouldn’t do the same to him. And sure, it was for their own good, but that kind of logic was only going to save his ass if things worked out the way they were supposed to. Right now, the book on that was still wide open.

  He glanced around. It had to be something scientific, but what? Their surroundings, other than looking like something straight out of the Bad Sci-fi Cliché Factory, gave nothing away. The warehouse was dark, mostly empty—save for the standard-issue medical equipment and packing-crate walls. It looked to be part shipping company, part science lab, part…prison cell? What the fuck?

  He shot a suspicious frown in the ice queen’s direction. “Hey, what’s this? Is this new?” Curious, he wandered closer to the large cage, noting the heavy steel frame, the reinforced, chain-link walls, the cuffs and hooks and other restraints. Oh, yeah, that’s not creepy at all.

  “Yes, actually. It is new.”

  “Huh. Didn’t know you went in for this sort of thing.” He wove his fingers through the mesh and tugged experimentally. “Very sturdy.” He gestured at the goons. “Y’all planning to hold cage matches in here, or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What’s it for then?”

  “Don’t you mean who’s it for?” she asked, still with the same cool amusement.

  “Guess, you got me there,” Nighthawk laughed, feeling anything but amused as his gaze slid over the cage’s furnishing: the bare cot, the single chair, the self-contained commode. All of them metal. All of them bolted securely to the floor. Al
l of them looking as though comfort was the last thing they were built with in mind. “You expecting houseguests, or what?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not for you. Unless you keep asking questions.”

  The goons chuckled. Nighthawk nodded, smiling, feigning indifference. “Glad to hear it.” Maybe he could at least believe her about that. After all, she needed him, didn’t she? Maybe. Or maybe not. It was kind of hard to tell. “Guess that’s my cue to shut up, huh?”

  Queen bitch smiled, so serenely sure of herself. Nighthawk blew out a frustrated breath. What the fuck was she up to anyway? And how desperate did he have to be to be making pacts with the devil?

  Twenty years desperate, that’s what.

  Twenty bloody, fucking, long years. That’s how long he’d been an outcast. Hunted by vampires no different than himself, by people he’d once called friends. Forced to fend for himself, without house or sire or clan. Trying to make his own way in a world where things no longer made any sense.

  Why should ferals be looked down upon, forever marginalized, forever vilified, when they were the only real, true vampires left in the world? Fierce and free, independent of anyone’s rule, they should be worshipped, emulated, revered. That was so far from the case he was willing to sell his soul—and the souls of all the others too—for a little bit of safety, a little peace of mind, an end to the constant struggle just to make it through another night.

  When she came to him with her proposition, the first chance for a decent life in two decades, how could he turn her down? All he needed to do was assist her in her bid to seize control of her clan—something she stood a pretty good chance of doing with or without his help, far as he could tell. And, in return, she promised that when she came into power she’d extend the protection of her house to him and to all the ferals in the city.

  He was a goddamn hero for making this deal on their behalf. Someday, they’d see that. Someday, he’d be the crown prince of the feral nation and he’d damn well make them see it! Assuming she was successful that is, and not a two-faced, backstabbing, conniving whore.