The arts barn was a huge building that impressed even Damian when he saw it. “Natan must have won grants and subsidies to afford a studio here. I can’t believe carving gargoyles pays this well.”
The corrugated-iron-sided building looked like an aircraft hangar, with tinted glass panels at the top of the twenty-foot high walls, which ran for a hundred yards. The iron was painted an ochre brown, and Soho Arts Barn in Art Deco lettering ran across the length of the building. In smaller letters, only three foot high, was written “enter here” and a big arrow curved toward a small man-sized door that would have been overlooked otherwise.
Riley adjusted her coat over her shoulders again. The katana hanging from the reinforced lining tended to pull down the left front. She suspected she would get used to this, but for now, it was awkward and made her feel like a criminal. The carbon knife was also tucked away in the lining.
She had emerged from the bathroom in time to see Damian pack a switchblade into his jeans and a short-handled knife into his boot. The knife in his boot was compressed carbon. He had weighed up a flat, short sword before reluctantly returning it to the umbrella stand and opening the apartment door to usher her out.
Now he stood looking at the arts barn across the road with a frown.
“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” came a low voice from behind them.
Riley turned, barely startled. She had recognized Nick’s voice immediately, even at the low pitch he’d given it. He was standing at the mouth of the alley behind them, his arms crossed, leaning against the wall of the building.
Damian glanced at Nick, then back at the arts barn. “You’re thinking of the night Peter Grey died. That was a warehouse. Not even close.”
“But it’s an interesting juxtaposition of circumstances, all the same.” Nicholas straightened and stepped between him and Riley. “I didn’t appreciate the summons, even if the idea is sound.”
Damian kept his gaze on the barn. “You wouldn’t have come here any other way.”
“You brought her along, though. That was stupid.”
“You can’t keep her wrapped up in cotton wool.”
“I’m standing right here, guys,” Riley reminded them.
Nicholas glanced at her. “You should be back inside the warded apartment where it’s safe. I don’t suppose you’ll return there now, will you?”
“As this was my idea?” She laughed.
“You’re not ready,” Nick said flatly.
“Never will be if you don’t let me out,” she returned.
“And you will never get to protect a single soul if you’re dead,” he snapped.
She flinched, but managed to keep the reaction from showing on her face. “We’re just going to talk to the guy, Nick. What’s eating you? That this was my idea? Or that it wasn’t yours? Or that I’m doing something that you didn’t specifically tell me I could do?”
Nick grimaced. “Will you, just for once, listen to me and not argue every single point?”
“She wouldn’t be Riley if she did,” Damian said softly. “She’s like Tally. You couldn’t push Tally around, either, and that’s what you don’t like about this.”
Nick thrust a hand through his hair and sighed.
Riley stared at him, her mind working hard. Her heart, too. She was like her mother? She had known from both their initial reactions to her appearance and from Damian’s photo that she looked like her mother, but her appearance had always been such a negative thing that this had not struck her as being a particularly joyful piece of news.
But to know that she was like her mother in other ways, in the way she acted, in her doggedness—that was different. If she was even a little bit like the great Natalia Connors…well, it brought a small glow of comfort to her. It also brought home to her in a very real way the truth of her heritage, that Natalia Connors really had been her mother.
Riley let herself enjoy the warmth of the thought for a moment. She leaned into Nick, who was glowering over Damian’s pronouncement, and pushed at him with her hip. “Ah, just accept it, Nick,” she said, with a teasing note. “Who knows? You might get to like it, having a bossy bitch who doesn’t just roll over at your every command.”
She saw his eyes narrow a little. Then Nick moved more quickly than she could follow, for her back was suddenly bent over his arm, her torso stretched, his hand in her hair as he pulled her head back to extend her neck back, back, back, so that her face was lifted up to look directly into his. His blue eyes looked directly into hers, unblinking.
“There are certain commands of mine you will roll over and obey without pause or question, Riley Connors. Accept that.” His voice played along her spine like fingers over piano keys.
She swallowed. “Let me up.”
“Please.” Nick’s face hovered just above hers.
Riley could feel her attention narrowing down to just Nick’s eyes. Locking in. Being caught. He was doing it deliberately. “Let me go,” she whispered helplessly. “You know you have me cornered. That’s unfair.”
In a move that made her dizzy, she was abruptly put back on her feet. Nick held her steady until the dizziness past, and she realized that the expression on his face was bitter. “You’ll have to find a better card to play than that,” he told her. “Life is unfair, and nothing will change that, not even you.” He let her go, his hands dropping away like she was an unwelcome parcel.
Damian was watching beyond Nick’s shoulder, and Riley focused on him, confused and hurt. What had she done to cause that flood of bitterness in Nick?
Damian shook his head, the slightest movement, and she understood that she should not probe the matter now. She turned to face the barn across the street once more, her insides churning with the swiftly changing current of emotions moving between them. She couldn’t seem to keep up. There was too much she didn’t understand.
“Natan lives here as well as working here?” she asked, striving for a normal tone.
“With this much square footage? I would,” Damian replied.
“The man will be at home then, won’t he?” Nick said and stepped onto the road, barely pausing to look for traffic.
Riley plunged into the traffic after him, Damian following her, and they weaved through the cars and jumped onto the narrow sidewalk running beside the barn together.
Nick didn’t pause. He strode straight over to the small door and cranked on the handle. The door opened without resistance.
Damian went first, looking around carefully. Nick pushed Riley in after Damian, then closed the door behind him.
Inside was an empty foyer, with a bare, unpainted concrete floor. It was about eighteen feet square. The walls were painted soulless white and were unadorned. It was as if all the zany art effects had been used up by the exterior painting and there had been none left over for the foyer.
Three doors led off the foyer and each had their own intercom system next to it, and a nameplate over the intercom. The one on the immediate left was Natan’s.
Damian pressed the buzzer on the intercom, his other hand in the pocket of his coat.
After three minutes there was no answer, so he pressed again, this time holding the buzzer down for a good ten seconds.
They waited another thirty seconds.
“Who is it?” came the annoyed demand.
“I’m from the gallery,” Damian said, speaking loudly. “I have the new pro—” And he stopped speaking, dropping his finger from the intercom.
Nick pulled Riley away from the door, pushing her firmly to one side. He stepped up to the edge of the door himself, flattening himself against the wall to one side where Natan would not see him at first when he opened the door.
“What are you doing?” Riley demanded.
“Talking our way in,” Damian shot back.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she sighed. “You’ve forgotten basic human psychology.” She stepped back in front of the door, undid her coat, swiftly unfastened the top buttons of her cardigan, and ducked under Damian’s arm. “Let me talk,” she told him.
“What—” he began, but then the door opened.
Natan was a very short man in his mid-forties. He had a badly receding hairline. What hair he did have, though, grew as a wild and long fringe around the back of his head. He had a drop-away chin and very large, round brown eyes that looked permanently startled. Even so, they still widened when they saw Riley.
She smiled. “Hi there! We’re from the gallery.” She dropped her voice down a little, making it nice and throaty. “We came to pick up your bio for the new program.” She blinked her eyes at him and titled her head.
“What program?”
“The new one?” She put her hands on her hips and cocked one hip, jutting it forward. “They didn’t tell you? That just figures, doesn’t it? They didn’t tell me until this morning!” She giggled, and recalled the name from the manager’s office she and Damian had broken into yesterday. “Mr. Sandford thinks your profile hasn’t been brought out enough, so he wants to redo the programs. Build you up more. We need your new biography. A longer one. You’ve got one, right?”
Natan’s gaze ran over her, lingering on her cleavage. She could see him dismiss her as harmless. Coupled with the use of Sandford’s name, and the appeal to his ego, it packed away his defenses completely.
Natan glanced at Damian.
“This is Damian, my driver,” Riley explained, relegating Damian to a subservient role in Natan’s mind.
Natan stepped aside. “Come in.”
Riley felt Damian’s hand stroke the back of her neck. A quick touch, then it was gone.
She stepped in, Damian following. Nicholas stepped around and through the doorway, and Natan frowned. “Who are you?”
“This is Nicholas, my bodyguard,” Riley explained. “A girl can’t be too careful these days.” She beamed at Natan. “You understand, don’t you?” She pushed her chest out at him.
Natan nodded, although he looked wary. “Sure,” he said slowly. He stepped backward, rubbing his hands on his grimy tan trousers. “Well, the computer’s over here. I can print off the long bio for you.” He turned and headed for a computer desk against the wall.
The studio was an unfinished portion of what must have been an original aircraft hangar. The raw concrete floor was still unpainted and in places, the concrete was stained with old oil stains from aircraft and vehicles. The iron walls were unlined. Brand new steel heating pipes and outlets hung overhead, blasting heat into the space below, and looked oddly silver and shiny in the old space.
The big studio was dotted with massive hunks of stone that Natan was working on. Each was at various stages of development, and step ladders stood beside each, as well as portable working lights to shine upon the areas where Natan was working.
There was a bed and small fridge, computer desk and microwave to one side. The living quarters.
“While you’re doing that, could I ask a couple of questions, too?” Riley tapped Nick on the shoulder and pointed to the book open on the table next to her hip. The ancient illustration showed a gargoyle in full flight, and the gargoyle was drawn in fine detail. She nodded toward the nearest carving. The gargoyle taking shape was a replica.
Natan was bent over the laptop on the desk. “Like what?” he asked absently.
“Like, how did you meet Azazel?” Nick asked.
“Who?” Natan asked, still working the computer.
“The man who gave you this book, who told you to carve gargoyles,” Riley said.
“The demon who brought them to life,” Damian added.
Natan’s head jerked up. He looked at each of them, one after another. “You’re not from the gallery,” he said at last.
“Where’s Azazel?” Nick said. “Where did you meet him?”
“Who is Azazel?” Natan said. “And what do you people want?” He stepped sideways, but Nicholas moved faster. He reached over and picked up the phone and shook his head as he disconnected it from the wall.
“It’s the real name of the demon that brought your creations to life,” Damian told the little sculptor. “What name did he give you?”
“Jeremiah.” Natan swallowed. “He…is a demon?”
“What did he tell you he was?” Riley asked.
“He said he was a wizard. Like…” Natan sighed. “Like Gandalf.”
“You have to stop carving the gargoyles, Natan,” Riley told him. “You have to stop giving Azazel his raw material. You know what he is doing with them, don’t you?”
Natan blinked. “He brings them to life. So what?”
“He gives an old foe of humans’ life,” Nicholas corrected. “Have you not been following the news? These creatures feast on human flesh. The police have been searching for a serial killer that you created, Natan.”
Natan flinched. “There’s no evidence to connect them with the murders. Nothing.”
“He knows,” Damian said softly.
Natan looked away.
“You have to stop,” Riley repeated.
“Why should I stop?” Natan flared, rounding on her. “Why? Six months ago I was living on the street! Now look at me! Now I’m somebody! Now I have cash in the bank. Now I have a bank account to put the cash in! People respect me! I’m making money hand over fist all because I can copy a picture out of a book and create the same thing in stone. Why on god’s green earth should I stop?”
“Because people are dying, Natan.”
“People die every day,” he said flatly. “My stopping won’t change that.”
Riley stared at him, horrified.
Laughter sounded from behind them and they all spun around to face the source.
From behind the half-completed gargoyle nearest Natan, a man stepped. He was in his late thirties, and had longish hair that brushed his collar, and midnight-blue eyes. A strong jaw. He was a handsome man, with wide shoulders and a determined set to his chin. He seemed familiar to Riley. “Isn’t that shockingly practical for a creative?” he said.
Both Damian and Nicholas stepped closer to her, bracketing her.
“Azazel, aping Carson Connors is just going to piss me off even more. You have to know that he and I never got along,” Nick said. His hand rested inside his coat.
The man smiled, showing even white teeth. “I thought I would show a pleasing disposition. The woman, here, has never had the honor, after all.” He nodded to her.
A shiver ran down her back. This is not my father, she reminded herself. But now she knew where she recognized him from—Damian’s photo and from the mirror she looked in every day. Her father’s eyes were like her own except in color.
“You’ve raised the original six, Azazel. Your work here is done,” Nick said. “Why are you still here?”
“I knew you would stop by to see Natan. How else would I pick up your trail?” Azazel shrugged. But his gaze flickered toward Riley, and it seemed his eyes glowed hot and red just for a moment.
She shivered. Nick had been right all along. Azazel wanted her dead. That was his primary goal this time around. He wanted vengeance. Why had she even left the apartment? She had been safe there. She wasn’t ready for this. Nick was right, she was wrong, dammit.
Damian’s fingers curled around the back of her neck, under her hair. It was like a secret hug. Riley drew in a deep breath. And another. She felt calm return.
Lifting her eyes once more, she looked squarely at Azazel. She didn’t know if demons found a direct gaze challenging, but she hoped so. He wasn’t looking at her, but when her gaze fell upon his face, his glance swiveled to her as if he felt the weight of her look. He smiled. “I look forward to meeting you in the dark, little one.”
“Why wait?” she asked, reaching inside her coat for the hilt of her katana.
His smile broadened. “Your watchdogs would not permit it.”
“You mean, you’re too gutless to attempt it in daylight. Don’t bullshit me, Azazel.” She pulled out the sword.
Natan, behind her, gave a breathy little moan.
Azazel’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes took on a flat, opaque look. “You have no idea what you are inviting, girl.” His voice was different. Thick.
“Yeah. I do,” she said.
“Tell her,” Azazel spat at Nick.
Nick shrugged. “If she wants a piece of you, I won’t stop her. Not this afternoon.”
“Nor I,” Damian added.
Riley couldn’t help smiling as she stepped out from between them. She flipped the katana up into the high ready position and waited for him, her senses ready.
In the distance, she heard a police siren, but ignored it. Sirens sounded all day long in Manhattan.
Azazel looked from one to the other again. His fury built higher. “She is untested! You would let her go up against me?”
“Yep,” Nick said, sounding astonishingly laid-back.
The sirens were drawing closer and Riley frowned. Were they coming here? There were a lot of them.
Azazel moved. He couldn’t move as fast as Nick and Damian, but he could move pretty damn fast anyway. He reached inside his denim jacket and pulled out a thick gun-shaped weapon and fired. Riley threw herself out of the way but even as she jumped she realized she wasn’t the target.
Damian was thrown backward by the impact. He lay clutching his stomach, gasping.
The sirens were right outside the building now and had halted there. Riley whirled to look at Natan, who held up a cell phone. “Text message,” he said sheepishly.
She scrambled backward to where Damian lay, watching Azazel. Azazel waved the thick gun in the air. “Gargoyle toxin pellets,” he pronounced. “There’s more than one way to defeat you, and most of them I don’t have to lay a finger on you to bring you to your knees. Try to cure your vampire lover of that, human.” The triumph in his face was awful to look at it.
The demon jerked his head up as the door to the studio was rattled by the police, turned and strode away around behind the half-completed gargoyle, and was gone.
Nicholas was kneeling over Damian, trying to lift his hands away so he could look at the wound. “Let me see,” he said, his voice low but even. “Damian, let go. Let me see.”
Damian’s hands fell away, revealing blood and an open wound that showed deep damage and horrible black track marks scoring his flesh, rippling under the surface of the skin. He was writhing as the black moved in all directions along his torso from the wound.
Nick made a breathless sound as he looked at it.
Riley put her sword away as the studio door shuddered under the pummeling of the police again.
“Open up! New York Police Department!”
“Help! Help me!” Natan screamed. “They’re armed!”
“Christos help us,” Nick muttered. He looked at Riley. “Find the hangar doors. Now.” His blue eyes were steady, relentless. He slid an arm under Damian’s shoulders and lifted him to his feet.
Riley ran for the other end of the studio, where the old hangar doors would most naturally be, dodging the lumps of rock and stone that were Natan’s natural carving materials. She found the doors where she thought they would be, but they had been welded shut.
“Here!” she called. “But they’re welded.”
Nicholas came up behind her, Damian draped over his shoulders. He looked at the welding. “It’s spot-welded. Not a problem. Here, hold Damian up.”
“I can’t—”
But Nicholas had already handed Damian to her and she staggered under the weight of Damian’s almost unconscious body. Damian tried to thrust a leg out to hold himself up, but she took most of his weight herself, her thighs shaking and her back screaming. She could feel his blood soaking into her shoulder and chest.
Behind them, she heard the shouts of the police.
“Hurry!” she begged Nicholas, as he studied the hangar doors. He braced one door with a hand, took a breath and kicked the other door. His face was implacable. It took three hard kicks before the spot welds gave way. The door shuddered aside and pale late afternoon sunlight fell in on them. Nicholas blinked and winced.
Then he took Damian from Riley, hoisted him back onto his shoulders once more and strode out into the daylight. He turned for the street, but Damian caught at his arm. “The roof,” he said weakly.
“I’ll get you home,” Nicholas said firmly.
“The roof. No time. You have to get Riley away.”
Nicholas closed his eyes. “No, damn it. We can get you home.”
“The roof, Nick. Do as I say.”
Nick looked like he was in pain. Riley didn’t understand what was happening, but her heart was hurting just from looking at Nick’s expression.
Without another word, Nick carried Damian over to the fire escape, pulled down the first floor stair and climbed it. Riley followed, pulling the stairs up behind her. The building was a four-floor apartment building and they reached the roof before the police boiled out of the busted-open hangar doors and raced around into the alley. Nick had strength to spare and carried Damian like he was a pillow.
They watched the police race to the street, looking for them.
Nick lay Damian down on the roof and pulled his coat away to look at the wound. The black had spread and was a solid mass across his abdomen and chest now. Damian was fighting hard to breathe. It came in little gasps. He barely moved.
Nick hung his head. “I can’t…Damian…I can’t.”
“You have to,” Damian whispered. “Riley needs you.”
Cold washed over Riley as she realized the truth. Damian was dying. Really dying. Gargoyle toxin was the only truly fatal substance for vampires.
Riley picked up his hand. “Can’t you fight it?” she asked, trying to hold back her tears. Tears wouldn’t help now.
“Too far gone,” Damian whispered. “Concentrated. Too fast.” His hand squeezed a little, then loosened and she realized that was all the strength he had. It frightened her that he had weakened so much, so quickly. She glanced at Nicholas. He knew what was happening to Damian’s body better than she did, but he was too wrapped up in his own misery.
She bit her lip. “Is there pain?” she asked Damian softly.
“Not now. Not…physical.” He swallowed. “Kiss me. Both of you.” His voice was thready. A breathy whisper.
Riley realized she was crying, then. When had the tears started? Who cared? She pushed them away with her hand and leaned down to kiss Damian. His lips were cold and already the gargoyle toxin had begun to work, for the softness was being stolen. She wanted to stay kissing him until the end, but Nicholas deserved more.
She stroked Damian’s cheek, then forced herself away from him. It felt like she was tearing herself from him. It actually hurt.
Nick stroked his brow. “I don’t know that I can stand this,” he murmured.
Riley hugged herself. The agony in Nick’s voice was so hard to listen to. How could she have wondered if there was anything human left in him? Here it was, naked on his face, raw and painful to see.
“You will,” Damian whispered. “I want you to.”
Nick nodded. “All right. If I must.” His face crumpled for a moment, then he got it under control again. “You want to go now?”
“I have to.”
Nick nodded. He leaned down and kissed Damian deeply and longingly. When he straightened, Damian’s eyes were closed.
Nick stood up. “Love you,” he whispered, so quietly that Riley thought she might have imagined it. He turned to her. His eyes were bleak in the failing afternoon light. “I’ll get you back to the apartment. Come.”