Consecrated ground, p.20
Consecrated Ground, page 20
Nothing. No disjointed images like in her dreams, no seemingly split vision, no sensation to indicate that she had connected with the crows at all. Only an odd queasiness that might very well have been because of the damned boat. She opened her eyes with a sigh. Bartholomew still faced ahead, and the boat still slowly slid across the water.
The lights of Black Rose City loomed before her as more details of the dock came into view.
Several docks, in fact, as a dozen more boats like this one were revealed, all moored along the river. A few workers—humans, she’d imagine—bustled about the dock. One saw them approaching and ran to meet them.
Bartholomew said nothing to the new arrival as he tossed a rope towards the dock. The thrall caught it, secured the boat, then stood back while they disembarked.
Bartholomew extended an arm towards the city. “This way.”
They walked along a four-lane central street in a heavily trafficked area. Unlike in Calvert, the night life thrived. Businesses lined the street, all of them open, the windows and storefronts free of graffiti, not a barricade in sight. At first, a few people attempted to approach them but one gesture from Bartholomew and they fell back or scattered altogether.
Evidently, this particular vampire was more than just a messenger.
Though no one approached them again, some of the braver passersby called out to her, taunting her for being human.
“Such a pretty donor,” one called.
She tried to stare them down, but so many of them gathered on the streets as they passed. Dozens of vampires—until she was so outnumbered, she could no longer keep track.
“Maybe when the boss is done, she’ll share,” another laughed.
The more they shouted, the higher she held her head and the more she pulled into herself, summoning her own power and presence. If any one of them tried anything, she’d make them pay for it before the rest of them killed her.
A seething anger prickled in her veins, but if this was what stood between her and saving Leigh . . .
This time, she felt the crows when they approached.
When they passed a giant storefront, its front wall mostly glass, she caught her reflection in her peripheral vision. In her wake, lit by streetlights and shop signs and the mostly full and golden moon itself, hundreds of crows swarmed in formation, landing on buildings, streetlights, and power lines.
The vampires on the street stilled now as she approached, and the catcalling stopped.
She guessed the vampires didn’t know what to make of her either.
She wanted to move faster. Every minute that passed was another where she didn’t know what had happened to Leigh.
Six blocks later the storefronts gave way to large houses, followed by a park perhaps four square blocks in size. Amber streetlights yellowed every surface, and monstrous oaks and cedars towered over a children’s playground in the park’s center. Two vampires laughed and smoked like malevolent fairies near the children’s play structures. One of them, a gangly man dressed all in black, was swinging back and forth on the swing set. The other, a woman in an out-of-place red cocktail dress, called out to Bartholomew, then quieted once she saw Joan.
The swinging stopped but they both stayed where they were.
Across the street from the park, an imposing three-story stone and lumber manor house stood, backlit by the moon. Bartholomew led her between the two lampposts up the cobblestone path. Above the door, a bleached elk skull with huge eight-point antlers had been mounted, its base set into the stone. Torches flickered in the faint breeze on either side of the door—pure theater considering the recessed lighting.
Bartholomew let himself inside and gestured for her to follow.
Joan took a deep bracing breath, though she tried not to make it too obvious.
The foyer was well-lit, but she didn’t notice much of the furnishings besides the fact that it was all dark wood. She was too busy looking for threats.
Bartholomew stepped to one side and opened a door to a small closet. Inside, there was nothing but empty shelves.
“Your weapons,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
Panic washed through her before logic dominated.
If they wanted her dead, she’d be dead. She removed her weapons and stashed them all on one shelf. While she was at it, she took off her jacket—slowly, so as not to reveal the stiffness from her injury. Her arms were free now in case she had to call out the heavier spells. The greater range would be helpful.
Joan clenched and unclenched her fists. She hadn’t felt this . . . aware, this dependent on only her powers to protect her, in a long time.
It wasn’t an altogether unwelcome feeling, not with new power coursing through her, but she prayed none of that was necessary.
If she expected some grand theatrics, she was disappointed. The house was mostly empty. From somewhere, she heard the strains of classical music—some rather tinny harpsichord nonsense that grated on her nerves. She saw a human or two, but they looked like servants and glared at her in suspicion. The house was cool but not cold, and some of the halls and rooms were dark. The sharp scent of antiseptic failed to mask the odor of old death.
Finally, Bartholomew stopped before double doors. After a muffled acknowledgment from inside, he opened one of them and gestured her forward. He didn’t follow.
Bartholomew closed the door behind her once she’d crossed the threshold and stepped into the room.
It was a study.
As large as the entire main floor of Joan’s house in Calvert, this was more of a library with wall-to-wall bookshelves. An oak desk, some eight feet wide, stood at the far end of the room, and four tables—two on each side—created an aisle down the middle of the space.
There were no windows, and a small fireplace provided little warmth. Books covered every surface—the shelves, the tables, the chairs. There were even stacks on the floor.
At the end of one table, before the only chair not occupied by endless volumes, stood the room’s only other occupant.
However Joan might have imagined a First vampire might look, Elizaveta was the opposite of it.
She was tall for a woman—taller than Joan. Pale-skinned, she had a sharp, masculine jaw, broad shoulders and long black hair tied in an immaculate bun at her nape. She wore tailored slacks with a matching vest over a masculine dress shirt—all in shades of dark gray—and gloves to match.
Odd to wear them indoors. Vampires didn’t feel cold. Maybe her talons kept tearing into the pages.
Elizaveta didn’t move, but after a long moment, she spoke. “So, you’re the new power that has everyone in an uproar.”
Joan didn’t know quite what to say to that, though she found it alarming that people she didn’t know were talking about her at all.
The silence stretched on, and Joan twitched to take action. When was the last time she had been this close to so many vampires without killing anyone?
Elizaveta arched an eyebrow, more rakish than threatening.
“I must say it is my preference to ignore a request such as yours, but I wanted to get a look at you myself, and since the High Coven wasn’t going to let you in the front door . . . She gestured lazily toward the direction Joan had traveled from.
Joan wanted to deny that she deserved any attention at all. “I didn’t mean to . . . that wasn’t the goal.”
“If your intention was to remain anonymous, why come to the High Coven at all?”
Normally, Joan wouldn’t even consider sharing practitioner business with a vampire like Elizaveta, but her other concerns made the point moot.
“There’s a vampire lord blockading my town in blatant disregard of guild practices.”
“And you thought the coven would help you?”
Her flippant tone was irritating. Perhaps these issues were trivial to someone of Elizaveta’s age and stature, but they damned sure mattered to Joan.
“He’s killing my people, and I need help to put him down.”
She winced internally at her own phrasing. Telling a vampire about killing another vampire might not have been the best move.
“Well, best of luck.” Elizaveta focused on the papers before her, as if the matter was resolved.
“It’s not just that. I think he poses a greater threat to someone like you.”
The vampire frowned. “And why should I concern myself with a fly like Victor?”
If Elizaveta knew who he was, Victor was probably a little more than an irritating insect.
Joan conjured every argument she could think of, but nothing seemed substantial enough to make her case. She tread carefully. What would motivate a First?
“Because people might get the idea that guild power is slipping. If word gets out that vampires like Victor and Nathaniel are left alone, more of the young ones will strike out on their own and disregard the guilds. Without the guilds . . .”
Joan shrugged, implying the loss of membership and less control of information—which meant at best the loss of leverage and power, and at worst open war with the covens.
Without that leverage, Firsts like Elizaveta would be swatting more gnats than they could count with fewer resources to do it.
They stared at each other. Was Joan’s restlessness her own, or coming from the crows outside?
Elizaveta squinted. “I want to be clear about this so that there are no misunderstandings. I might be willing to assist in this Victor problem, but I’ll expect a favor in return.”
The thought of doing anything at the behest of a vampire seized Joan’s guts. These creatures were monsters, parasites on humanity, nothing but ill will and malevolence, despite how they presented themselves.
Owing a favor to someone as powerful as Elizaveta was foolish, not to mention insane.
On the other hand, if it got her what she wanted . . . no matter how distasteful it might be, she had to consider it.
“What favor?”
Elizaveta stepped closer. Joan twitched, expecting an attack, but Elizaveta arched her eyebrow again in wry disapproval.
That she’d almost lost her own composure pissed Joan off even more.
“One to be decided at a later date,” Elizaveta said.
An unknown future favor was worse, but Joan nodded. She had no other choice.
Elizaveta’s lips parted, fangs clearly visible in her wicked smile.
CHAPTER 18
Sprawled on her hands and knees on the polished hardwood floor, Leigh closed her eyes and pictured Joan, proud and tall. The image gave her strength.
Leigh hadn’t seen Pierce in years. She’d avoided him after the severe fallout of their brief nearly nonexistent tryst—Joan leaving, Trevon ostracizing her, Pierce bitter at her rejection. She had been sad when he was taken, but only because no one deserved this fate.
He had obviously adapted.
Now he held court over more vampires than she’d ever seen in one place, and even without considering their history, she was doomed.
To entertain their master, the attending vampires suggested ways Leigh might be punished for trying to save her own damned life. Gruesome and grisly, the tortures described nearly broke her, but she kept her tears in check and tried to tune them out.
Until Nathaniel spoke. “May I offer a suggestion, my liege?”
His liege. Had any of them ever been to a royal court in their lives? Everything they emulated probably came from old movies or bad television. Still, these cretins held her life in their hands. Let them play their games if it meant she got five more minutes without pain and stayed her own execution a little while longer. Even if they turned her into a vampire, it would still mean her death. If they changed her, Leigh would no longer be herself.
If there were a way to spell herself to death, she’d have done it long ago.
“Well, dear Nathaniel,” Victor said, lifting a goblet in salute. If it weren’t so terrifying and tragic, it would be laughable. “I’m not sure I should let you suggest anything, since you’re the one who lost her in the first place.”
Someone snickered.
“Still, I am merciful, and you have learned from your mistake with Sylvia. Make your suggestion.”
Nathaniel’s expression changed from one of reluctant deference for Victor to pure hatred when he looked at Leigh. She might have dropped her own gaze in some measure of self-protection—anything to keep from aggravating him further—but she couldn’t look away.
“The very worst thing you could do to her,” he said. “The most despicable and horrible fate that she could imagine, would also be the most nefarious blow to your new nemesis.”
Victor squinted. Cold anger mingled with something indecipherable and warped his expression. “I’ll raze that war witch’s claim from the earth no matter what, but a distraction won’t hurt.”
Joan had claimed Calvert?
“You’re right, of course. Perhaps once little Leigh joins this court she’ll finally have the attention she so craves.” Victor—Pierce—had deciphered Nathaniel’s meaning himself. “But first, let’s have a little opening entertainment, shall we? Bring in one of the donors.”
Leigh sobbed in horror.
Two vampires lifted her to her feet and held her fast, and sooner than Leigh could have imagined, a young woman was brought before her. Barely twenty, with vacant brown eyes and long auburn hair, the woman looked ravaged by withdrawal. Her lips were split and dry, her ochre skin pocked and blemished. Circles beneath her eyes sunk into her cheeks, and she stared at the floor.
Someone had taken the liberty of sinking bites into her neck and the insides of her arms.
Leigh groaned in discomfort. The woman was sickly and unclean, but her blood smelled sweet. Leigh’s stomach twisted but her mouth watered for the taste of what she would not let herself have.
Once, she had been this girl. No matter how hungry Leigh was, this reflection was too much to endure.
Victor and his entourage taunted her for what seemed like forever, laughing as the girl was pressed against Leigh’s chest, but still Leigh resisted. One of the vampires holding her dipped a finger in the girl’s blood and tried to swipe it across Leigh’s lips, but she turned her head. She fought the urge to dart her tongue out against her cheek, to taste it just once, but she spit on the floor instead.
Victor stopped laughing.
“I’m tired of this game. Tie her down and pour some down her gullet,” Victor said, cold as his eyes. “That ought to inspire her to join us.”
Leigh screamed as she was lifted from the ground.
A humming vibration swelled, rumbling through the floor and rattling the windowpanes. The deep thump of a helicopter in flight suddenly drowned her out.
Whoever was in that helicopter wasn’t expected, because Victor’s attention was no longer on Leigh. The rumbling intensified as the helicopter flew directly overhead, and then the rhythmic beat began to slow. It had landed nearby—right outside if the slowing whine of spinning blades was any indication. When the engine stopped altogether, the room fell silent.
Victor snapped his fingers at the guards at the far end of the room. “Well?”
Three men made haste in leaving. Leigh’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.
The sound of boots on tile and indeterminate shouts echoed back before silence fell.
One of the guards reappeared. A human thrall, he had short, shaggy brown hair and broad shoulders, and appeared to be unarmed.
“Master, it’s that war witch, the one who fought back when we tried to take Calvert, but . . .” He paused, confused and scared.
Joan was here? A different terror seized Leigh. Her own death was a foregone conclusion, but . . . how could she help Joan?
Victor’s faux grace collapsed. “Spit it out, you idiot.”
The guard gulped before he spoke again. “She’s here with another vampire.”
The tone of the party changed, and Leigh struggled to understand what was happening. What was Joan doing with a vampire? Did she know Leigh was here? A restless murmur rose from the attendees, and the vampires holding her let her fall to her feet.
Victor tapped a fingertip on the arm of his chair. “How interesting.” He glanced at Nathaniel and flicked his hand in a brushing-away gesture in Leigh’s direction. “Let’s save the surprise.”
Before Leigh could process his movement or attempt to free herself, or even warn Joan of the danger awaiting her, Nathaniel wrapped one arm around her waist and tugged her against his chest, his other hand covering her mouth.
He pulled Leigh into an adjoining room, where two chairs and a small table sat before an empty, long unused fireplace. Floor-length drapes covered what must be a window. On the other side of the chairs was another closed door.
Once inside, he kicked the door shut behind them, though she could still hear the voices on the other side. He tugged her to one side of the door where a tinted pane of stained glass allowed him—and Leigh—to see the new arrivals.
“Well, well,” Victor said, his voice muffled by the glass. He crossed his legs in artificial elegance. “If it isn’t the prodigal daughter.”
Joan stood as steadfast and intimidating as usual, clad in black with her hands at her sides. She most likely had weapons stashed on her person, but only the sword hilt at her waist was visible through the glass.
The vampire with her frowned when Victor didn’t speak to him first. He was shorter than Joan, and wore a dress shirt opened at the collar and dark gray slacks. He looked like a corporate attorney, except he wore aviators. Under different circumstances, that might have been comical.
