The stench of blood and feces overpowers, stretching his flesh full of horror as he fights not to gag and fails—his stomach turning inside out within his throat, red bile spilling through his fingers onto the red, red earth and it is ugly—the only light from fire, fueled by bodies burning while Malachai reaches close and pulls out a small charred limb, takes a bite—“tastes good,” he says and laughs, and he has brought him here, led him, and blood soaks through his boots, through flesh into soul—and the children, the children are crying—he is crying—he cannot stop himself, the bleeding, the dying—and he runs—he runs—
Michael’s eyes snapped open. He heard screams—shrill, tortured cries—and held himself still, trying to calm the frantic racing of his heart. Blood roared through his head; he forced himself to unclench his fingers from the bunched-up sheets.
“Dreams,” he whispered, taking a deep breath. “Just dreams.”
Dreams of the past, memories to be relived in the agony of the present. So much time had passed, and still the horror lived within him. It was no wonder he rarely slept.
Of course, he could also blame his restlessness on the execution he had carried out just before dawn. The message he received at the police station had contained three pieces of information—a name, a location, and a particular code known only to him.
Authorization had finally been given for the Vendix to carry out punishment against Simon Pierce, a slack-jawed asshole who had been caught draining humans to death on at least three separate occasions. And the only punishment for a vampire who repeatedly killed humans with sane, deliberate intent … ?
Death.
Michael closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of Simon’s arrogance draining away into abject terror. The century-old vampire had tried to fight—he carried a gun, of all things—but when Michael had a job, nothing, not even bullets, got in his way.
The bullets were around somewhere, scattered on the floor after being removed from his body. He would have to clean them up before Keeli arrived … if she did. He might have presumed too much, telling her to come to his home to discuss the investigation. Of course, with Keeli he seemed to be doing a lot of things that did not make sense.
He thought of her, locked behind silver bars, stopped short by the poison that had already taken its toll on her wrists. He had not realized until that moment how sharply she had insinuated herself under his skin. Impossible. He’d known her for such a short time, and yet, to see her injured …
I did not mean to touch her. I did not.
But she did not pull away.
Sharp knocking, the rap of bone against wood, made him sit up. He stared through the cracked gloom of his stained and shoddy studio, wishing he could see through doors. Was it Keeli? Had she already been released? He glanced at the window, and caught the faint rim of sunlight peeking through the bottom edge of the blind—a spot missed when he’d taped down the flimsy plastic.
The knocking continued. Michael pulled on his pants. He tucked a small shiv into one deep pocket. Three steps and he stood at the door. He leaned to one side of the battered frame and said, “Who’s there?”
Quiet, and then, “Darling. Open the door.”
He almost refused, but it had been a long time. Not long enough, perhaps, but there were some things within himself he could not fight. He opened the door.
Celestine stood before him, dressed in a formfitting pinstripe suit, a black wide-brimmed hat set rakishly over her brow. Sunglasses were tucked into her breast pocket. She carried a slim briefcase.
“I’m here to read you your rights,” she purred.
“You’re only a lawyer.” Michael stood back to let her into the room. “The most you can do is take my rights away.”
“Good enough.” Celestine breezed past him and stopped. “Filthy,” she said, staring at the studio. “You’re lucky I like you enough to come to this ghetto. I swear, if any of those homeless freaks touch my Lamborghini, I’ll rip out their throats.”
Michael shut the door and leaned against it. “What do you want, Celestine?”
She glanced at him, and in her eyes he read the same old fear—fear masked by arrogance, conceit. Lust. How long had they known each other? And still, no change.
“I’ve brought your money.” She tapped the briefcase with one long nail. “I’m sure you need it.”
Michael gritted his teeth. “We had an appointment for the drop-off. Tonight, at the park.”
“Change of plans. We have to go back to the dogs, Michael. Last night was completely useless. They won’t even consider letting us use their tunnels. Not even in return for a sizeable sum of money.” She sneered. “Dogs. That head bitch practically licked her crotch during negotiations.”
Remembering his brief encounter with the Grand Dame Alpha, Michael highly doubted the accuracy of that last barb. Celestine was much more likely to commit inappropriate licking in public.
“Anything else on your mind?” Michael felt certain she must know about the latest vampire murder.
Celestine smiled; slow, seductive. “Anything and everything. You know my tastes.”
Michael tried not to react. Curious. If Celestine did know about the murder, she wasn’t saying anything. Michael wondered if the council were trying to keep the latest crime secret in order to aid negotiations with the werewolves. If and when the news broke, life would become even more difficult for both sides. Vampires like Celestine would surely use the opportunity to denounce the wolves and end the negotiations. Arrogance, self-reliance—taken too far.
Suicide. There weren’t enough warriors left from the first war to stand up against the humans. Those who had survived that round of death were the same vampires struggling now—and unlike in the past, wits and money would not be enough. Michael knew that this time, if the humans truly set themselves to the task, they would not stop until all the vampires were gone. And after them, the werewolves would be next. Kill or be killed. Leave nothing to chance.
Leave no one alive. Because all it took was a bite …
Celestine tilted her head; the tip of her tongue darted out. She swayed close. Michael stood very still, waiting, as she pressed her body against him. Soft.
“You’re thinking you should kill me,” Celestine said, and she was right. “Not a stretch, really. It’s what you’ve been doing for some time now. Murdering our kind.” She touched his cheek, and Michael jerked his head away.
“I control our kind,” he said, the old argument coming quick to his lips. “Those I kill cannot be allowed to continue. It’s because of them the humans are threatening us. Feeding indiscriminately, like animals. Humans don’t deserve to be treated as cattle.”
Celestine smiled. “You act so pure, Michael. But you’ve taken your pounds of flesh, taken them in your teeth and sucked dry the lifeblood of human after human, razing them down to husks.” She nipped his chin and Michael smelled blood on her breath, fresh and sweet. She whispered, “You remember what it’s like, don’t you? The hunt. The kill.”
Michael lifted his chin, breaking off another attempted kiss. Celestine laughed, low. “You should see your face! What tragedy.” And then her smile faded and she leaned even closer.
“Why don’t you touch me?” she breathed against his throat.
He almost did—a habit borne of loneliness—but as his gaze fell upon Celestine’s pink lips, he was reminded of hair just that color, hot and wild, a riot of color surrounding a delicate stubborn face. The scent of anger, sweat. Warm skin. The memory of a memory, running wild on the steppe—
“Michael.” Celestine leaned harder into his body, her breasts full against his chest. She dropped the briefcase and it hit the ground hard. Her hands drifted down his stomach, fluttered across his groin. Michael grabbed her wrists.
“You should go,” he said, trying to hide the strain in his voice. “Thank you for bringing my money.”
Celestine stared, her perfect oval face caught for one moment in rare surprise. And then her pink lips tightened, hard and flat.
“You refuse me?” she asked in low, clipped tones. Michael said nothing. She had a right to be shocked. He had never refused Celestine, not once during the long years they had passed in and out of each other’s lives. Secret, always secret—but a respite nonetheless. Someone to be with, if only for a short time. Quick, shallow pleasure.
Celestine cared nothing for him. She had always made that clear. She came to him only because it was forbidden, dangerous. Because, long ago, they had shared a common enemy.
That no longer felt like enough.
She bared her teeth, grinding against him—violent, thrusting motions. Michael braced himself against the door. He closed his eyes, willing his body not to respond. It was easier than he’d thought.
Celestine whispered, “You’re not even hard.”
“I don’t want you anymore,” he said, and was startled at how easily the words left his lips, how good it felt to say them.
She froze, and for one moment Michael felt sorry for her. Just one moment.
Celestine raked her nails across his face—faster than he could move to block her, a cutting swipe, sharp, burrowing deep into flesh. Michael did not flinch. He savored the warm sting, tasting blood as it trickled from his upper cheek and lip into his mouth. He instantly wanted more. It was a reminder of what she was like—of what they were all like.
Michael grabbed Celestine’s wrists and pushed her away. She stumbled, but he moved with her, watching as enraged triumph quickly dulled to horror.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“You forget yourself,” he said, tasting her terror and savoring it as a rare moment of honest emotion. “You forget what I do.”
Celestine hissed at him, but beneath her anger he felt her tremble, coil away from his body to keep him from pressing against her. Why don’t you touch me? He remembered her words, and felt a smile rise up his throat, bitter.
“You wouldn’t dare!” she cried, as he turned them both and pushed her to the door.
His smile finally emerged, humorless and cold. “I dare many things, Celestine.”
Defiance rose up in her eyes, then, hardening her full lips. She twisted—once, twice—and Michael set her free. Her hat fell off and she stepped on it, one sharp heel denting the fine thick cloth. Snatching it up, she looked at him over her shoulder and bared her teeth.
“The others humor you because they think you’re necessary, but you are nothing, Michael. Nothing. Just wasted blood in a wasted body. I hope the humans kill you.”
Celestine wrenched open the door and froze.
Pink hair, a small pale face. Blue eyes bright as sky. Lips quirked in a smile or a frown. Michael felt himself go very still; a strange ache thumped against his ribs.
“I came at a bad time, didn’t I?” Keeli said.
Reminder to self: bald is not a good look on a woman, even if she is a vampire.
Keeli braced herself, the wolf raising hackles beneath her skin. The woman in front of her looked ready to kill, and if the blood running down Michael’s face was any indication, she’d already made one good attempt.
The woman snarled; sharp teeth glinted in the poor yellow light of the hall. Keeli’s own response rose in her throat. She stamped down the growl, struggling against the wolf. She wasn’t here to fight. Of course, she wasn’t here to eavesdrop, either, but she had done a pretty good job of that.
Son of a bitch has no friends.
Nostrils flared; the woman’s eyes shifted, a melody of uncertainty, rage—and finally, ugly comprehension. Her lips curled into a sneer. “Michael,” she said, her gaze never leaving Keeli’s face. “I understand now. You’ve decided to sleep with the dogs.”
Oh. Bring on the hurt. Before Keeli could say anything, though, Michael reached past the other vampire and grabbed her hand. His was cool, electric. She was so shocked, she did not protest as he dragged her into his darkened apartment, practically throwing her behind him.
“Hey!” she gasped, but Michael ignored her, leaning close to the other vampire.
“Better a wolf than you, Celestine,” he said quietly. The woman’s jaw dropped. Michael shut the door in her face.
Better a wolf than you?
“You’re nuts,” she said, astonished. She stared at the back of Michael’s head, taking in the glitter of his braids, the straight line of his back. “What the hell was that?”
He turned to meet her gaze. Dark eyes, like she remembered. Deep-set, quiet eyes. It took an effort not to flinch. Every time she saw those eyes it was difficult to speak, to think.
Vampire voodoo, she thought. But no, vampires couldn’t do that sort of thing. Smoke and mirrors, lies for humans to tell each other, to make fear.
“Michael,” she said, because he still had not answered her question, and she could not bear to look at him for much longer. She was afraid of herself, of her reaction to the sudden hunger in his eyes, the loose grace of his body, his sheer presence—
Celestine screamed something obscene from the other side of the door. The hinges rattled. Michael did not act as though he noticed. Blood covered half his face—scarlet, gruesome. The door shook.
“Werewolves don’t heal as quickly as vampires,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made her heart ache. She did not like that feeling—it was too personal, something to be identified as prologue to a more intimate emotion. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
“I can take care of myself,” Keeli told him. “Besides, I think it’s you she’s pissed at. What did you do?”
Michael glanced at the door. “I told her the truth.”
“Some truth. What was it? That you’re married? Gay? Got genital warts?”
Michael’s gaze snapped back to her; his lips twitched. “Worse than that.”
Keeli laughed out loud. “Your ass is so fried.”
“Maybe.” This time he did smile. “But the door isn’t that strong. She’s not trying very hard.”
“No real conviction, huh? That’s the problem with vampire chicks. All talk, no action.” Keeli stopped, tapping her chin. “Or it could just be the warts. Are you that contagious?”
“I am not diseased.”
Keeli shrugged. “Whatever you say, man. I’m sure you’re all clean ‘down there.’”
“Maybe you’d like to check for yourself.”
Keeli’s face flushed warm. So much for teasing. She stepped away, putting some distance between herself and the vampire. He was beginning to smell familiar, and that bothered her. She glanced around his apartment, thankful she could see well in poor light. It was a studio, really, with battered wood floors and cracked walls. One window with the blind taped down. An unmade bed was in the corner, and on a table shoved near the bed, an assortment of weapons. She thought she smelled roses, but this placed looked like poison to flowers. The rest of the neighborhood wasn’t much better.
What is a vampire doing in a dump like this? It certainly wasn’t anything she could have imagined. In fact, she’d thought Jenkins was high on crack when he’d given her the address.
The door shuddered; Keeli jumped. She had forgotten about Celestine. Crazy vampire chicks paled in comparison to being up close and personal with Michael’s magnetic presence. She listened hard, and a moment later heard the fading whisper of cloth. Hoped the winos sleeping in the stairwell didn’t get kicked or bitten.
“Keeli,” Michael said, and she squared her shoulders against the sudden tightness in her belly, the slow stir of his voice sinking into her skin. “I’m sorry about this. That you’ve become … involved in this case. I should have argued more.”
Keeli looked at him, surprised. “You couldn’t have stopped me. This is what I want. Besides, no matter what you say, I do owe you.”
Michael shook his head; Keeli held up her hand. “Tell me one thing,” she said quickly, wanting to lay things out before she got too deep. “Tell me why you did it. I want to know why a vampire would stop a werewolf from killing a man. Why you helped me with the police.”
Anger stirred in Michael’s face. For a moment, Keeli thought it was directed at her. A terrible thing—the enraged woman of earlier had nothing on this man in darkness, in sheer suppressed rage—and Keeli felt herself stand on the edge of it. A muscle twitched in Michael’s face, and then it was gone, calm restored. A neutral, empty mask. In a low voice, he said, “You were not yourself. I could see that. No one should be punished for the things they do in madness.”
Keeli fought for her voice. “I was myself, Michael. I knew what I was doing. And I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life, that almost-murder, the taste for the kill. I wanted to kill him.”
“Yes, you did,” he said, surprising her. “And it made you sick afterwards. Horrified you. Don’t pretend it didn’t.”
“How could I?” Keeli whispered, reliving that moment. “How could I live with myself if I forgot?”
“Some do forget,” Michael said, and she sensed a terrible strain on his body. His cheek drew her eye—that golden glitter, duller in shadow. The tattoo looked sinister. “But you’re not the kind with a bad memory. I saw that in you. It’s why I helped. Your heart isn’t that cold.”
“You see a lot for a vampire.” It was difficult to speak. Keeli had to force the words out—anything to fill the silence made heavy with his presence, the energy between them. Gibberish would be enough, though Keeli was happy she wasn’t quite yet to that stage. She was an idiot, yes—standing in a darkened apartment, alone with a vampire, fit the definition quite nicely—but at least she didn’t have to sound like one. She had some pride left, and maybe even enough crazy courage to follow this thing through.
“I see enough,” Michael said, quiet.
She almost touched him. Appalling, crazy. Keeli balled her hands into fists. She did not understand this vampire—why he lived in a shit-hole or fought with other vampires—how he could say these things to her and act like he meant it, when really, really, he was probably just trying to use her, to make her nice and pliant. She didn’t understand him—none of this—and what she didn’t understand in people always made her nervous, and what she didn’t understand in herself …
Why the hell am I here?
Because of promises and honor. Because Jenkins clearly expected her to wig out on him and Michael. Because of what the officer had told her about the crime in question.
The body was found on Fourth and Lexington, near the old bakery. Familiar territory, huh?
Yeah. Maddox territory. Double-oh-crap. Something had to be done, and fast. If Keeli had been given a chance to speak to her grandmother, the old woman might very well have agreed, regardless of the stigma attached to any liaison helping with the investigation.
But partnered with a vampire?
Keeli had no idea what Granny May would say, only that Jas had been waiting at the police station at six a.m. with money for the five-thousand-dollar fine (how Keeli was going to pay that back to the clan, she had no idea), and she had refused to go with him. That had been an hour ago: no doubt her grandmother had heard it all by now.
“I’ve got business to take care of,” she’d said, and Jas—swearing at her—had been unable to keep up. That’s what living in the underground all the time did to a wolf; made him slow. Keeli knew topside, had an unerring sense of direction in Man’s world. Unnatural, maybe—it had taken long years of walking the street, seeking out every scent and nook and cranny—but it was worth it. Most wolves did not care enough—or were too scared—to go deep into the sun and moon and breeze. Not Keeli. This was her city, just as much as it was any human’s or vampire’s, and she meant to stake her claim, even if it were just with the soles of her boots. Until the government started locking up every werewolf behind silver bars, that was a right she was going to exercise.
In the meantime, I’ll just keep digging myself deeper and deeper.
Michael continued to stare. Keeli frowned. “What?”
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“You’re too deep for me. Brain cannot compute.”
Michael’s lips twitched; Keeli suspected that was his version of a smile. “Would you like to sit down?”
“This isn’t a social call.”
“We need to talk about the case.”
“We can talk on the road. I promised Jenkins we’d get started on this thing, and the sooner we do, the sooner we can finish and go our separate ways.”
Michael touched his face; his hand came away wet, bloody. “I need to do something about this. It will take a little time.”
“Oh,” she said, her defiance deflating just a little. “Yeah.”
You weren’t raised to be this bitchy. You wouldn’t act like this if he were a human or a wolf. But hello? Vampire?
Still, guilt. Keeli scowled. “Do you have any rags? Paper towels? Antiseptic?”
Michael frowned and she fluttered her hands at his face and chest. “You need someone to look at you. I’ll … help.”
“You’ll help.” He drew the words out slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe her. Keeli’s cheeks flushed.
“Yes,” she snapped, glancing around the small apartment. There was a narrow door off to her right; just beyond, a bathroom. She really had no interest in knowing whether vampires kept their toilets clean, but since she was already in, she might as well go all the way.
Keeli stalked to the bathroom and switched on the light. Standard, nothing special. Toilet, sink, shower stall. She sniffed the air and was pleasantly surprised by the scent of disinfectant covering the faint remnant of blood-tainted urine. She turned to call Michael over and swallowed a gasp. He was right behind her.
Too close, too much skin.
You’ve seen men more naked than Michael. Wolves usually strip down when they shift.
Then why did this feel different? Hell, what was wrong with her?
“I can do this alone.” Michael reached past her to grab a towel hanging from a hook in the wall. His powerful muscles flexed beneath pale skin.
“You look like shit.”
Michael paused in his movements, effectively penning her in. Keeli forced herself to look at his face, and only his face. Which, in this light, was appalling. Just what had that woman done to him? And what was up with his tattoo?
“I’ve looked worse,” he said.
“Hard to believe. You vampires aren’t much for scrapping.”
His eyes hardened—dangerous, cool—and Keeli clenched her jaw, steadying herself. She smelled blood, his blood, and it was not unpleasant.
“You don’t know much about vampires,” he said, leaning close.
“I know enough,” she shot back, trying to steady her voice.
“Enough to help me solve a crime involving one? Enough to remain unbiased during the investigation? Jenkins told you, didn’t he? The body was found on Maddox territory. The murderer could be a member of your own clan.”
“‘Maybe’ isn’t the same as ‘is’,” she shot back, briefly wondering who had told him she was a Maddox wolf. “And besides, if you’re worried I’ll try to protect my kind or stab you in the back, don’t be. I don’t play that kind of dirty, even against people I don’t like. If a werewolf—even a Maddox werewolf—murdered a vampire, then a werewolf will pay.”
“Justice,” he murmured. “You’ll swear to it?”
“I already have,” she said. “When I promised you and Jenkins my help.”
“I want to hear it.”
Keeli wanted to add more wounds to his face. “Justice,” she ground out. “I swear it.”
Michael nodded, though he did not move away. His gaze flickered down to her lips, back to her eyes. “You are not going to have an easy time of this. The other wolves—”
“Are my problem,” she interrupted. “And considering everything else that’s going on, I hope they’ll understand why we have to work together.” Sheer bravado. Keeli wasn’t sure of anything, and it scared it. Terrified her.
Michael’s mouth twisted, wry. “You give your kind more credit than I would mine.”
Keeli snorted. “A word of advice. If you don’t want me to insult vampires, don’t give me openings like that.”
This time she saw a true glimmer of a smile. Michael lowered his arm and stepped back. “If you don’t want to join me in the shower, I suggest you move.”
Heat filled her cheeks; she hadn’t blushed this hard in years. How immature. Keeli pushed past him, hands pressed to her thighs to keep from accidentally brushing his naked torso. The back of her hand touched his hip instead; the contact was brief, but eloquent. Her skin tasted soft cotton, and beneath, so close, hard planes of muscle, bone.
Her breath caught; the door closed quickly behind her.
Standing in the middle of Michael’s dark studio, Keeli closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Slow, calming, breaths, meant to quiet a racing heart, a flushed body.
She felt wet between her thighs.
Michael was wet all over. Shivering.
The cold shower was not working. He wondered if it was another human myth, invented by men who liked to pretend there was a cure for lust. It seemed like a myth to him. A lie. He was still hard and the cold water pounding against his body was doing nothing to drive away the throbbing ache that had begun the moment Keeli brushed against his body.
You’re not even hard. Celestine’s whisper haunted him. If only that were still the case.
She is a wolf, he told himself, bracing his arms against the wall. You shouldn’t be feeling this.
Or maybe his powerful desire had nothing to do with Keeli. Maybe it was just his proximity to an attractive woman—a delayed reaction, perhaps, to his resistance against Celestine’s actions. His body, finally waking up.
And refusing to go to sleep. Michael clenched his jaw. This was impossible. He couldn’t stay in here forever. He thought of Keeli, waiting for him outside the bathroom, and stifled a groan as the ache in his groin intensified. He was wrong—this desire had everything to do with Keeli.
He turned the shower knobs; cold water changed to hot. Michael did not relax.
You can’t go out there like this.
Michael touched himself. He tried not to think of Keeli.
He failed.