Michaela shouldn't have let emotion get the better of her the night before. But the sight of her father, and the unavoidable connection that seeped into her like oily scum on water, had yanked her back to that long-ago night on the Jersey Shore. The night her mother had died at the hands of her hated, despicable father.
The sounds and images had pounded at her brain, obscuring everything else. Closing down logic and reason. She should have shuttered her emotions and gone after him. She could easily have tracked him by the traces he’d left behind of his vampire power. Unique traces, like a fingerprint or signature.
Now it would be harder, since the trail of power had dissipated. But at least now she had a start. She glanced at the grainy black and white photos Jesus had handed her just moments before.
The images had come from several CCTV cameras around their building, a nearby bank ATM, and traffic and police security cameras.
“I look like him.” She had his eyes and dark coloring. Her mother had been lighter, like sunshine, her hair a gorgeous blond streaked by the sun.
“Maybe. But you’re your mother's daughter. She’s the one who gave you spirit and courage,” Jesus said, brushing away the fall of shoulder-length hair that hid her face from him.
Yes, Michaela’s mother had molded her into who she was, only sometimes she didn't feel so courageous. But now was not the time to lose spirit or hope. She was finally on the verge of doing what she had wanted to do all her life.
And yet, somehow, the thought of killing her father left a flat taste in her mouth.
She shot a sidewise glance at Jesus. “Do you ever feel like what you do isn't enough?”
Jesus took the photos from her hands and twined his fingers with hers. “For a long time, I thought I was happy doing what I was doing. Or, if not completely happy, at least satisfied.”
She raised her head to study him. “There's a big difference between happy and satisfied.”
He hunched his shoulders. “Yeah, there is. It took you coming into my life to see that. To know what I was missing.”
She raised her hand. “Not now, J. I don't need this now.”
If not now, when? But he didn't press. She was skittish when it came to commitment, and with everything else on her plate, maybe now really wasn't the time for this discussion.
“You told me you could sense him,” he said. “Can you follow his undead power like a bloodhound?”
She nodded. “I can, but I haven't sensed it before. Even though talk amongst the Slayer circles had hinted that Connall had come to New York.”
“Connall?” he asked.
“That's his name. Connall Burk. He was turned sometime during the Siege of Wexford in 1169, during the invasion of Ireland by the Normans.”
Jesus let out a low whistle. “Wow. That makes him old enough to be a vampire elder.”
“Thankfully, even vampires have enough sense not to have crazies like Connall on their council.” Unlike some of those whose judgment she questioned on the Slayer Council. That lack of judgment weighed heavily against her joining them. But not doing so was likely to result in a death edict. Either way, she was between a rock and a hard place.
“Connall had sided with Diarmait mac Murchadha, who had been deposed as King of Leinster and exiled from Ireland. After a series of skirmishes and a raid on Wexford, Diarmait was able to regain his crown, but unable to control Connall, who had been turned while protecting Diarmait in battle. He banished him, and ever since, Connall has been waging a war of his own against humanity, especially women. Some say it was a woman responsible for the wound that made Connall vulnerable to a vampire attack.”
“You know your history,” he said, and by the edge in his voice she knew he was thinking about how much effort she had put into the pursuit of vengeance—to the detriment of everything else in her life. Including him.
She shrugged. “You know what they say. Those who refuse to learn from history—”
“Are doomed to repeat it. I don't want that, either. I want you alive and well.” He exhaled. “So with that as a start, where do we go from here? Where would he hang out, do you think?”
She considered. “Not The Lair, or even The Blood Bank. Those clubs are not rough enough for him.”
Jesus pursed his lips. “How about Dark of the Moon?” he suggested, naming the shifter bar he had told her about during his last FBI case. “That’s about as rough as it gets.”
She shook her head. “Vampires and shifters don't mix, but you’ve got the right idea. There's a cemetery near that bar, and rumor has it the catacombs beneath can be accessed via one of the family vaults. The catacombs are where the fang hags go.”
“’Fang hags’? Is that like—”
“Women who have somehow discovered that vampires are real and like to get laid or bitten by vampires. They think it's sexy. Well, until one of the vamps loses control and rips out her throat or drains her dry. Some vampires call them ‘feed bags.’ ”
“Didn't realize it was so common,” he said. “I thought vampires and shifters guard their existence from humans.”
“They do, but mistakes happen and secrets get out. It’s not that common, or you'd be more aware of it,” she said as she pulled on her leather duster and reached inside to check the various weapons tucked into the lining. “Still, best remember that most vampires are not like the goody-two-shoes variety you've become acquainted with.”
He nodded and reached beneath his leather jacket to make sure the grip of the Tec-9 was easily accessible. Then he trailed his hand down to the magazines on his belt. She knew they were loaded with silver-plated bullets for maximum takedown power. Satisfied with his preparations, he finally met her gaze.
She kept her gaze chilly, her features neutral, giving no clue to the roiling state of her emotions.
Her Slayer face.
“Ready?” he asked.
“More ready than I've ever been.”
***
The ornate iron fence marked the limits of the Marble Cemetery along East Second Street while high, red brick walls defined its outermost edges and isolated it from the nearby residential buildings. Locked gates blocked a walkway down the center of the quaint garden-like setting. Marble monuments in varying sizes decorated the vaults of some of New York City's wealthiest and most influential residents of the day.
Jesus was surprised that even as a native New Yorker he hadn't known of the cemetery's existence. It was not that far from where he lived and worked.
He walked to the wrought iron gates and yanked on the lock and chains, but the entrance was well-secured. That didn't stop Michaela, who sauntered over and removed some lockpick tools from an inside jacket pocket. With a few quick twists of her wrist, she stepped back as the lock fell away, opened.
“As impressed as I am, I’m not really comfortable breaking the law. This has to be illegal,” he grumbled as she undid the chains and carefully slid the lock back on to hide their passage.
“I could just have leapt over the fence, but figured you might need a little help. Seeing as you’re older than me,” she said, unperturbed. “And it’s not like we’re disturbing anything. We’re FBI agents chasing a suspect.”
He bit back a rejoinder as she marched ahead of him, straight to one of the largest monuments. The base of the six-foot marble obelisk had a date in the same range as many of those he had noted on the other graves: 1841. He ran his hand across the date and name that had been worn nearly smooth by the passage of time—and apparently many hands.
“Step back, J,” Michaela warned as she placed her hand toward the uppermost portion of the obelisk and pushed.
The marker shifted and moaned as if in pain. Michaela pushed again, a more forceful two-handed shove, before the heavy marble leaned away from them with a louder groan. It came to a rest at nearly a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Beneath the marker, a three-by-three foot entry had been dug out of the ground by hand, judging by the claw marks left behind in the clay-like dirt.
He whipped out a flashlight, sweeping it along the edges of the tunnel. Ancient-looking wooden slats formed a ladder and when combined with a series of handholds carved out of the dirt wall, he judged that they should be able to climb down the tunnel. Though it would be a tight squeeze for him.
She must have been thinking the same thing. “Are you sure you'll fit?”
“I'll be able to get down,” he said testily.
She frowned. “I'm more worried about getting out.”
So was he. “Let's go,” he said, and to foreclose further argument he squeezed himself into the space. The wood beneath his feet squeaked under his weight, so he offset it with the handholds as he inched downward, feeling the walls close in on him within just a few feet of the entrance. It was dark as hell, the black void swallowing the meager flashlight beam.
Thankfully, he soon touched level earth, emerging into a larger, horizontal tunnel. A musty breeze wafted through it, bringing a smell of decay and mold.
He pointed his flashlight up the tunnel entrance, helping Michaela pick her way down. Once she was beside him, he swept the light around the space they were in. The tunnel was at least eight feet high and wide enough for several men to walk abreast, and footprints covered the earthen floor.
“They go eastward, toward the river,” he said.
Michaela bent and peered at the ground, searching for other signs, like telltale drops of blood, but there were none. Closing her eyes, she pulled in a deep breath, scenting the air for blood. A hint of it, metallic and acute, teased her nostrils. Reaching deeper with her Slayer senses, she detected vibrations, like the low beat of a bass.
Vampires. But not many. And none powerful enough to be Connall, judging by the signatures of the power, but maybe these vamps could lead her to him.
She pointed. “That way. I’m sensing some undead, but not him.”
Nevertheless, she pulled a small pistol crossbow from beneath her duster and nocked a silver-tipped arrow onto it. Aiming it in front of her, she strode forward with Jesus at her back. The sweep of his flashlight provided bursts of illumination against the dirt walls of the tunnel and the makeshift wooden beams and rock foundations that kept the whole structure from collapsing into itself.
As the beat of vampire grew stronger, along with the coppery scent of blood, Michaela signaled Jesus to stop and whispered, “We're almost there. See that bit of light straight ahead?”
His breath fanned across the side of her face as he leaned forward to peer ahead. “Yeah.”
“I sense three, maybe four vampires. A couple of humans, still alive.”
“Odds are in our favor,” he said dryly.
She chuckled “Definitely. Keep the light off. It'll give us a moment of surprise. Maybe enough to get the upper hand on them.”
“Roger that,” he said, and they pushed forward. The sounds of laughter mixed with moans drifted down the tunnel. The aroma of blood grew more acute, calling to the demon within her. Normally she kept it leashed deep inside her, but now she released it for the conflict to come, needing the benefits that half of her would bring.
With the demon's night sight the tunnel ahead of her seemed bright, and she could pick out the individual footprints in the dirt along with the first signs of blood—just a few drops here and there. And some longer streaks, as if someone had been dragged down the tunnel.
The sounds grew more distinct, and she could discern different voices in the open area at the end of the tunnel. Hushed male voices, coaxing their partners to give into their desires. The moans of woman already being pleasured—before they would pay for that pleasure with blood.
At the entry, Michaela paused, scoping out the space ahead.
The formation here wasn't man-made, but rather a large, natural rock cavern, three times wider than it was high. The schist rock was threaded through with the Inwood marble that was more prevalent in the northern areas of Manhattan than down here. Against the dark gray rock, the pale marble appeared like skeletal fingers above the writhing bodies of the couples beneath them.
Prone on pieces of castoff furniture that had been brought below ground, there were three couples, and a threesome in one corner, all engaged in various acts of vampire depravity.
Michaela crossed over the threshold and Jesus assumed a spot to her right, Tec-9 held at the ready.
The vampires finally took notice. One by one, they raised their heads, their lips bloodstained, deadly fangs exposed, and snarled complaints at the interruption.
Until awareness of what she was dawned on them.
Almost as one, they jumped up from their meals and assumed fighting stances. But she had no interest in all of them. Just one.
The cadence of his power beat in sympathetic union with her own, claiming her as being connected to him through a common blood bond. She turned her attention to him. Young, blond, and attractive, there was something about him that reminded her of her mother. It was there in the sun-bleached hair and lean, athletic body. A swimmer's body, much like her mother's.
“You,” she said, motioning to him. “You're one of Connall's fledglings.”
“Aye, as are you,” he said, the rhythms of his native Ireland still alive in his voice.
“No, not a fledgling. I would not choose this life,” she said, meeting his gaze while keeping an eye on the other vampires. They had realized she had no interest in them and were backing away, heading toward the far side of the cavern and a secondary exit that would permit escape. She had no desire to follow.
She was here to hunt her father, and this fledgling might be able to lead her to him.
Fixing her attention on the handsome blond vampire, she jerked up her crossbow in warning. “Where is Connall Burk?”
The vampire set his hands on his hips and laughed. The sound echoed off the walls of the cavern and roused the fang hags from their passion-induced stupors. The ones who had lost their companions gathered their clothes and scrambled away in pursuit of their undead lovers, leaving behind just the blond vampire's feed bag.
“Kieran, honey. Hurry, baby,” she said as she lay there, pleasuring herself, lost in the oblivion of bliss caused by the bites on her body.
“Shut up, Siobhan,” he snapped.
“Kieran?” Michaela said. “So you're Irish, like Connall, but not long in the tooth at all. From your pulse of power, I'd say less than a decade.”
“Don't underestimate me, Slayer. Connall has taught me well. In fact, last night he shared with me how he took your mother. Twice, the last time as he fed from her dying body.” He held up two fingers to emphasize his point.
Rage bubbled up inside her, but she tamped it down and shrugged off Jesus's hand as he touched her shoulder. With a glance, she said, “Whatever happens, don't interfere, J. I want this one all to myself.”
That prompted another round of laughter from Kieran. “Kind of big for a lap dog, isn't he?”
Jesus pushed forward, but Michaela slashed her arm out to stop him. “He's mine. Stay back.”
She pushed the crossbow into Jesus's hand, reached into her jacket, and removed a long silver knife from one sheath and a freshly carved wooden stake from another. Taking a step toward Kieran, she said, “Tell me where he is, Kieran. I've no bone with you.”
Kieran lost some of his earlier cockiness at the sight of the weapons and her calm demeanor. He curled his hands into fists and assumed a fighting stance. “Connall will make sure I die a painful death if I betray his trust. Better I take my chances with a little git like you.”
This time it was Michaela who laughed as she advanced. “You think I'll make your death any less painless? Think again.”
He moved away from his companion to the center of the cavern, where he’d have room to move more freely. He had the advantage of size, with lean, powerful muscles. But from his stance and the way he moved his hands, he was more street fighter than trained boxer. She definitely had the upper hand in technique.
To test him, she rushed forward and threw herself into a roundhouse kick, slipping past his lurching defenses and connecting soundly with his head. He reeled back, looking stunned that she had gotten to him so easily. Wiping away the blood that dripped from his nose, he glanced at the smears on his hand. His expression twisted with surprise and anger. In a sudden movement, he charged her, arms outstretched.
She ducked and landed a blow to his midsection with the hand holding the stake, doubling him over. But before she could land a second punch, he scrabbled away on all fours like a crab.
Whirling, she faced him as he came to his feet, the evidence of her blow a bright pink mark in the center of his body. His gaze met hers and she was gratified to see fear in it now. He had underestimated her. And had too much confidence in his own abilities.
Seeing his doubt, she urged him to concede. “Tell me where he is and you and your fang hag can go back to your little games. Just don't drain her.”
Kieran shook his head. “No. I do that and I'm a dead man, so I’ll take my chances with you,” he said, and hurled himself at her again.
Jesus stood by as Michaela and the vampire fought. She could sense her lover’s need to help her. But she was more than able to handle the clumsy young immortal. He came at her time and time again and she managed to land punch after punishing punch, until the vampire was barely able to stand.
Over and over she urged Kieran to tell her Connall's location, wanting to end the night without a death on her hands. But the vampire repeatedly refused, seemingly resigned to his death. Although she wouldn’t terminate him if she could avoid it, since as far as she knew, he hadn’t drained anybody. She couldn’t conduct a sanctioned killing without a documented reason.
Next to her, Jesus raised his weapon. “Just finish him,” he urged. “He’s never going to talk.”
When the vampire rushed at her in response, she met him halfway and used his momentum against him, sending him flying up and over her body to land with a resounding thud on the ground. The vampire lay there for a moment, stunned, but when he finally stumbled to his feet, she rushed forward to contain him. At that moment, Kieran's feed bag, Siobhan, surprised everyone by throwing herself at Michaela.
They went down in a tumble, and somehow Kieran’s lover managed to snare her arms, freeing Kieran to deliver a sharp blow to Michaela's wounded side.
She cried out in pain, and the vampire hit her again. She doubled over in agony.
From the corner of her eye Michaela saw Jesus aim his Tec-9, trying to find an opening. But he couldn't get off a clean shot. Kieran and the woman grappled with her, preventing her from moving out of his line of fire.
Charging forward, Jesus grabbed Kieran’s companion, and with one enormous yank, sent her flying through the air. But that action exposed Jesus’s side, and with one ferocious swipe, the vampire raked needle-like nails along his ribs, ripping through Jesus's clothes and slicing open his skin.
Jesus stumbled back, holding his side.
Kieran backpedaled, a stunned look on his face, as he stared at the stake buried deep in his heart. As he fell to the ground, Michaela ignored the vampire and rushed to Jesus’s side, concern etched onto her features.
“Are you okay?” she asked, trying to pull his bloodied hand away, but he held fast.
“You need something from him, don't you?” he said through gritted teeth. “Go. I’m fine.”
With a stiff nod, she returned to Kieran as he lay on the ground, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to survive. Blood pooled on the ground beside him as the silver-tipped stake prevented him from using his healing powers and his heart pumped out his life force in slow, steady beats.
She kneeled beside him. “It's not too late, Kieran. Tell me where Connall is.”
The vampire smiled and reached for her face, stroking her cheek with surprising tenderness. “He...said...you look...like her.”
“Kieran, please. Make it right. End your life with honor,” she urged, holding off on delivering the killing blow in the hopes the vampire would relent.
But the hand at her cheek dropped down and encircled her throat, the grip strong as he cut off her air, leaving her no choice.
With one swift swipe of her silver knife across his throat, Michaela ended his existence. His hand fell away as the blood gurgled from his throat. His eyes, wonderfully blue eyes like the ocean, went gray and flat, like the sea before a storm. But the storm that hit was within herself, she realized as she pushed off the dirt floor onto her feet, hating what she’d had to do.
The woman who had been with Kieran roused and crawled to his side. She wailed as she realized her vampire lover was dead, and cradled him in her arms, rocking and weeping over his dead body. “You’ll pay for this!” Siobhan cried, her eyes dark-rimmed from the mascara running down her face, pale from the anemia caused by one too many vampire bites.
Michaela stifled a smile at the B-movie threat, but as she met his lover's gaze, she saw that the woman really meant it.
Which might just help her search. If there was one place this fang hag might go for help with her vengeance, it would be to Connall Burk.
But just to be sure, she said between clenched teeth, “Tell Connall I will not be as easy to kill as my mother.”
With that, she whirled and hurried to Jesus's side, worried and angry. She shouldn't have let him come tonight—or to the Council meeting—no matter how much he had insisted. He was a distraction, and would compromise what she had to do. Even now, she was torn between seeing to him and following Kieran’s feed bag when she left.
But as he faltered on his feet and the blood ran freely down his side, she really only had one choice. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you patched up.”