Forged in Flame (8 page)

“Morrigan.” Her name whispered on the breeze, the ancient pronunciation she seldom used anymore.
 

At first, she didn’t answer, her will asserting itself. Instead, she halted progress and forced herself to scan the area. All around her, claw-like branches reached out as though they wanted to catch and drag her into their skeletal embrace. She started walking again… Curiosity, not compulsion, driving her this time. When a strange figure dressed in black from head to toe appeared from the shadows, she stopped. It wore an odd, shapeless coat that dragged the ground. The being turned to face her, but not before she caught sight of its long, grotesque beak-like hooked nose. Something in the back of her mind pinged with recognition, a thrill of trepidation running through her, breath catching in her lungs as her throat tightened.
 

“Who are you?” she demanded.
 

“Who are you?” The mocking echo of her own voice continued until the sound was too faint for even Morgan’s vampiric hearing.

The shadowy image turned its head, and she shuddered as a memory surfaced in her subconscious, a title drifting through her mind,
Plague Doctor
. Completing his turn and now facing her, eyes glowing red, it reached out toward her.
 

Morgan shook her head and began backing away, knowing she didn’t want it to come near enough to touch.
 

Laughter filled the void, a high pitched, scratchy mockery of true mirth, and it sent needles of ice lancing to Morgan’s core. She screamed. Morgan turned, her feet getting tangled in her skirts as she tried to flee. The ground opened up and she twisted. Her high-pitched scream echoed in her ears as Morgan fell through the black, with the earth following.
 

9– San Francisco, CA – October 3, 2012

Zachary slipped through the door and closed it, being careful to make as little noise as possible. He didn’t want to draw the attention of the vampire on the dais at the front of the room, not yet. Though he’d cleaned up after setting fire to Claire’s house, the acrid scent of smoke still clung to his clothes. He waited for several seconds, watching to see if The Lord of San Francisco had seen his entrance. Satisfied that his entrance had gone largely unnoticed, he wove his way through the crowd, recognizing several men and women he counted among his friends.

Claire wasn’t the first, several other friends had gone missing or turned up dead in the last few days. He had tried going through proper channels, contacting the local enforcer, to no avail. The process had caused a headache and a dawning realization that Daniel, a decent man had been replaced by an idiot, a bigoted fool of the worst kind… and something of a world-class bitch.
 

He worked his way through the crowd moving toward the dais where Samair sat. The Lord of San Francisco held court, seated on an ornate throne, head and shoulders above his people. Zachary always tried to avoid these kinds of gatherings. He didn’t know how Samair did it, but somehow he managed to maintain control over a diverse group of Nomads, most of them more powerful than he. The crowd around Samair was a strange mix of sycophantic lackeys, power-hungry back stabbers, and those who were simply trying to survive. Zachary shivered, and for the first time in eighty years wished he had not severed ties with his Sire.
 

Zachary knew from firsthand experience that Dynasty had its issues, but vampires who behaved like Samair would be brought in line, continuing insolence, not tolerated. He needed to know whether or not chaos reigned in his adopted home.
 

I’m not going to get answers by hiding in a crowd.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the empty space between the dais and the crowd. Waiting a couple seconds before clearing his throat, it worked to catch the other vampire’s attention.
 

 
The Lord’s dark eyes snapped to where Zachary stood, locking on the vampire who dared interrupt him. Zachary didn’t flinch. Instead he met the other vampire’s ironic gaze with cool indifference. Samair’s stare drifted up and down as though sizing up an enemy.

Schooling his features into a neutral, almost bored expression, Zachary waited.
I am not going to blink. Samair is not stronger than me. He won and has held this city on the shoulders of others. I am getting sick of putting up with his shit.

After several seconds of the strange nonverbal standoff, Samair flinched, shifting in his chair, trying to mask his discomfort. Still Zachary waited. The silence created tension to the point where he heard shifting of feet and rustling of clothing from the crowd behind him. Samair needed to make the first move, but it’d been a long night.

I want nothing more than to go home and take a long, hot shower. Unfortunately, that isn’t in the cards… not yet. First, I have to Samair and find out what he’s doing to maintain order in his territory.
 

“Why, Zachary,” Samair leaned forward and laced his fingers together in front of him, “what are you doing here?”

“Do you know that your subject, Claire Danvers, is dead?” Zachary paused, letting his words sink in, giving them time to have the desired effect. “I believe she was murdered in her sitting room.” Zachary saw a flicker of doubt mixed with fear cross Samair’s features before it vanished.

“So, why haven’t you contacted the Enforcers?”
 

“As you may or may not be aware… and I really don’t know if you are or not… nor do I care—” Realizing that he’d begun to babble, Zachary stopped himself by being blunt. “The Council’s longtime City Enforcer, Daniel, is dead.” He paused, waiting to gauge any forthcoming reaction. Behind him, muted whispers filled the room, but he kept his eyes on Samair. When no response surfaced from the dais, he continued. “It appears to have been some sort of car accident, not shocking considering his love for those machines and the sensation of speed. His replacement, however, is not very, how should I say…” Zachary paused almost a full minute, “…pro Nomad.” He had taken a page from his Sire’s playbook. She used unexpected silences with a deft hand and had spent a century learning from her. “The new one, Nora, told me, not in so many words, as the humans would say, to take a long walk off a short pier.”

“We have no need of the Council’s Enforcers. We can see to our own.” He parroted a line Zachary had heard a million times from more vampires than he cared to count.
 

“Was Claire not one of our own?”

“I cannot watch over each member of my flock every hour of the day and night.” Samair had a sympathetic expression, but glee flickered in his eyes.
 

“What of the others?” Zachary tried to rein his temper in, knowing that it would do no good. “Have you not noticed the rapid decline in our numbers?”

“Dribs and drabs. Perhaps they have moved on, taken a vacation.” Samair shifted in his seat, leaning toward him. “It is nothing to concern yourself over, Zachary. Go back to your shop and your artifacts. Leave this matter to those who can and will take care of it.”

“Who will see to it?” Zachary asked. “Claire was a friend. I had to put her corpse to the torch so the human authorities would not find it. Who am I supposed to ask for updates? The Enforcer refuses to help… as do you, apparently.” His feet had started moving while he spoke and soon he found himself a few feet from where Samair sat.

The Lord of San Francisco stood, so Zachary found himself looking at his chest with the option of craning his neck to an uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes. His expression seethed with malice and something bordering on contempt slithering through every syllable. “You are distraught, Mister Amberhill. I suggest you return to your home unless you wish to make a formal challenge.”

“I do not wish to lead.” Zachary shook his head. “I do, however, wish you would,” he said without malice or spite before turning on his heels and stalking out of the room.

Less than an hour later Zachary sat in his study. Surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves filled with leather bound books, antique furniture, and a Turkish rug, he refused to think of it as anything else. To the left of his workspace were several stacks of small ivory and silver embossed envelopes. Each bore a name and address within the city, written in the sure hand of his assistant. They were invitations to his masquerade ball, every guest chosen for a reason. Now he sat at his desk with a blank invitation and an empty envelope before him. On the opposite wall, a flat screen TV flashed with images of the news dealing out a daily dose of death and destruction. He turned his attention back to the invitation, knowing that sending it was a serious breach of protocol.
 

“But if I don’t send it, then what do I do?” he spoke to the empty room, needing to hear his own voice. “Sit and watch more friends die? How many lives does it take before enough is enough?” He ran a hand through his hair and chewed on his lower lip. “When do lives outweigh protocol?”
 

He swallowed hard, picked up the fountain pen, feeling its heavy weight between his fingers as he placed its nib against the invitation and began writing. Two words—a simple name—yet they were among the most difficult words he’d ever written. He slipped the card into the envelope and sealed it with a dollop of wax imprinted with his family crest before he had the chance to change his mind. On the front of the envelope, he wrote the name and address with quick, sure strokes. Satisfied that even though he addressed the missive generically to the nightclub she owned, it would find its way to her hand.
 

Zachary placed the envelope on the stack with the rest, slipping it into the middle so it wouldn’t be seen and questioned. He had enough doubts, and if anyone else found out what he was doing, he would back away. Wishing for other options, he knew there weren’t any.

He pushed away from his desk, left the room, and closed the doors behind him as he entered the hallway. With contingency plans beginning to run through his mind, Zachary made his way up to the second floor to sleep. Why worry about the outcome? She might not accept.
 

“Samair may be content to sit back and wait for a few more bodies to turn up before he starts looking into who or what is killing our kind, but I’m not.” Zachary knew he had to find out who had killed Claire.

10

Morgan stepped out of the limousine into the chilly night air. A few feet in front of her a lighted red carpet led from the sidewalk over a massive lawn to a huge open-air courtyard. She glanced at Christophe, dressed like an eighteenth century pirate with a deep blue frock coat and black hat. He extended his hand to her and together they strolled the carpet. Ahead of them, large old-fashioned spotlights were placed around some of the arches surrounding the courtyard, lighting the crowd within.
 

They walked arm in arm to the entrance, where the host stood dressed in a Revolutionary War era British military uniform, a black and red mask covering his eyes. He turned and smiled at Morgan as she handed the herald the invitation. They shook hands with their host and made small talk as the crier announced them to those in attendance. Then Morgan and Christophe waded into the sea of revelers. Costumes ranged from historical, to grotesque, to fantastic and simple. Christophe bowed deeply with a flourish of his hand and they swept onto the dance floor while the chamber orchestra struck up a waltz.
 

Guests swayed to the melody from a court dance dating back to the Renaissance age, moving in time to the rise and fall of the music, changing partners as the centuries-old dance required. As she passed from one partner to the next, she lost track of Christophe, his sapphire coat and hat lost among the sea of vibrant costumes. A wave of dizziness washed over Morgan, as a fog began closing in. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. When she opened them again, a grotesque goblin mask with twisted horns and a long, crooked, hooked nose stared back at her. Morgan pushed away from the man. She staggered back a few short steps and bumped into another pair of dancers. Turning to apologize, she caught her breath. Their masks resembled the last one.
 

What’s going on?
Trying to fight through the cobwebs clinging to her mind, it was like catching and holding a bubble. Thoughts slipped away or her concentration burst at the slightest touch.

She changed partners again and found herself in the arms of a vampire that matched her height, his face hidden behind a fourteenth century Venetian plague doctor mask. The grotesquely long nose, forced Morgan to lean away so it didn’t bump into her as they moved. Her dance partner’s lips were curved into an exaggerated smile, and he wore a long black coat that brushed the floor. She tried to study his eyes, but the mask had red glass over the openings. Somewhere she had remembered hearing that the glass would help ward off the evil that caused the Black Death.