Possession-Blood Ties 2 (13 page)

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thought and action until I just wished this was all over, for better or worse. Because then, at least, I would know. I wouldn’t have to fear losing Nathan if I’d already lost him, wouldn’t have to squash down my hope if it was already fulfilled. Max’s arms were strong around me when he pulled me against his chest. His voice wavered only slightly when he whispered in my ear. “It might not even come to that.”

“What’s the plan, then? I can’t just take this lying down.” I sniffled a little, sure it was the recycled air of the cabin wreaking havoc on my respiratory system, not my emotions overwhelming me.

“I know you can’t.” He paused. “What did the Oracle tell you?”

“She said I should ‘seek the toothsome ones in the land of the dead.’ All I can think is that she meant the Fangs.” I grimaced at the memory of the uncouth vampire gang I’d met at Cyrus’s mansion. “Do you think they could raise someone from the dead?”

Max sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. They actually started out as a mystic cabal. They did a lot of ceremonial magic, raising demons and stuff, before the motorcycle thing started getting mixed in. Nowadays there’s a pretty healthy blend of both. They’ve got enough mystics left that the Movement is afraid of them. They devote a huge block of training to learning about them.”

“Well, that takes a load off of my mind,” I said, sarcasm dripping from each word. “So, would they be able to make the Soul Eater into a god? Because that’s the other bomb the Oracle dropped.”

“A god?” Max’s eyes actually bulged at the suggestion. “I…hope not?”

“Great.” I leaned my head back and closed my own eyes, trying to calm my mind. If I decided it was impossible now, how would I feel when we were actually in a position to solve this mess?

“The thing is, they have these witches,” Max continued. “They still actively train them. And you know how bad it can be going up against one of them.”

Ugh. Witches. The very idea of them made my skin crawl. The granola-crunchy earth worshippers that came into Nathan’s shop calling themselves witches had no idea of the true power that existed out there. It was a frightening force, capable of destruction I’d never known. Until I’d met Dahlia.

Dahlia had been Cyrus’s most fervent admirer, until he’d made the mistake of trying to serve her as the main course at a dinner party. She’d managed to get herself turned, though I didn’t want to imagine the fate the poor vampire who’d supplied her with blood had met. After that, she’d calmed some. She was still out there, though, with the power of a true sorceress and the strength of the undead.

“Could Dahlia have had a hand in this?” I asked.

The mention of her made Max visibly uncomfortable. He’d been thrown on her mercy the night I’d killed Cyrus, but he’d somehow escaped. I didn’t want to know what she’d done to him to put that haunted look on his face. “Do you think she would want him back?”

Dahlia hadn’t been able to kill Cyrus, but she’d wanted him dead. She’d definitely felt some twisted variation on love for him. But she was as unpredictable as the wind.

“Probably not,” I had to admit, answering my own question.

“Well, let’s concentrate on ‘the land of the dead.’ I know the Fangs like it around Barstow down in California, because I’ve been sent out there a couple of times on assignment. It’s pretty dead out there.” He made finger quotes around the word dead.

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I nodded slowly. “Are you suggesting we go and check it out?”

“I can’t go on a road trip. I think out of the two of us, I’m the best one to find out what happened to Nathan. You, on the other hand…”

I shook my head. “Not by myself.”

“Nathan taught you how to take care of yourself,” Max reminded me. “He taught you how to fight. You’ll run into less trouble looking for Cyrus in the middle of nowhere than you will hanging around your apartment with assassins casing the place.”

I was about to point out that Nathan had only taught me self-defense, not imbued me with nonklutziness, but Max was right. It would be no skin off my back to drive out to Barstow. It would definitely be a hell of a lot easier than waiting around for someone to hunt down Nathan and kill him, and I’d never been a good damsel in distress. I was a

“hands-on” damsel.

“I just wonder who they’re going to send after Nathan.”

Max sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

For a second I wondered if the flight attendant had quietly burned to death in the galley, but then I caught the scent in question. It wasn’t the burning hot dog smell of vampire flesh on fire, but a smell rather like exotic perfume. Still, it wasn’t so distracting we couldn’t ignore it. “No, I don’t, Scooby.”

“Are you sure you don’t smell that?” Max got to his feet. “Get up, take a look around.”

“What about the seat belt sign?” I asked, hesitant to unbuckle.

“Chance it.” There was no humor in his voice. He strode to the door of the galley. I stayed right on his heels. The flight attendant, who was applying a Band-Aid to the back of her burned hand, jumped.

“Is anyone on this plane except for us?” he barked. She shrugged, her mouth gaping. “Well, the pilots. But other than that—”

Max didn’t question her further. We split up to search the other parts of the plane—I don’t know what for, but Max was so agitated I didn’t bother asking. He took the cockpit and galley, while I searched the bedroom. Though our departure from the Movement was hasty, someone had thought to leave a cellophane-wrapped fruit basket for us. That would be nice, if we were vampire rabbits like Bunnicula. The reference pulled a bittersweet memory to the surface of my consciousness. I’d mentioned the children’s book the night after Nathan had helped me escape Cyrus. That was when Ziggy, Nathan’s adopted son, had died. I sank onto the bed, crushed by the weight of my sadness and the heartbreak I’d felt for him that night.

“You think I let him die?” Nathan’s accusing voice rang through my head. I’d said cruel, bitter things to him, but in the end it had been a kind of therapy for both of us. He’d broken down and cried, and I had held him on the floor in the ruins of a breakfast he had destroyed in his anger. We had been out of blood, and had to settle for human food rather than drink the last bag Ziggy had left behind.

I narrowed my eyes at the fruit basket. Human food was a last resort. A vampire would have left a nice, body-temperature bag of O Neg as a housewarming gesture. Max came in just as I stood and grabbed the basket.

“Son of a bitch! I knew I smelled a dog.” He kicked the bed, then sat on the edge as I tore open the cellophane.

“I believe the expression is ‘I knew I smelled a rat.’” Inside the basket were apples,

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cherries, oranges and a cluster of delicate blush blossoms clinging to a slender branch. My face fell. “Oh.”

“Dogwood,” Max said with a sneer of disgust. He grasped the twig and snapped it, then ground the pale flowers on the carpet with the heel of his boot. I followed him back to the cabin, where we buckled in just in time for takeoff. “She was here. She wanted us to know she was here. And she’s already got a head start on us,” he said, raising his voice over the whine of the engines as we took to the sky. “I should have known it the second I saw that bitch in Breton’s office. He had no intention of letting me go after Nathan, not even when he gave me the kill order! She was already on the fucking job! She hopped another jet and took off while we were still in the building. She even had time to leave us a ‘gift.’”

All I could do was lean back in my chair and try to calm myself. The Movement was trying to sabotage us. The Soul Eater was going to become a god. My first sire had risen from the dead. My current sire had two assassins tailing him. And the only thing that could stand in the way of all this chaos was me.

As night drew closer, Cyrus found himself enjoying Mouse’s company. She’d made them as decent a lunch as they could manage, though that wasn’t saying much. Still, he’d appreciated her effort.

She’d been good company, too. He’d thought it detrimental that she’d stopped fearing him, but now he found her chatter an excellent way to pass the time. She still grew emotional, and that was a bother, but he trusted that would pass eventually. They’d spoken of it over their lunch. She’d told him of her family, or lack thereof. She was an orphan. Her parents had both died; she didn’t give a reason. There was a sister, but she’d moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career, and ended up seduced by the easy money to be found in pornographic films. The last Mouse had heard, her sister had escaped from a court-ordered stay at a rehabilitation facility for some kind of drug addiction.

After that, Mouse’s only family had been the church. Cyrus had made a face at that, and she’d taken deep offense. Her faith had sustained her this long, she’d admonished, and she wouldn’t be mocked for it.

The unfortunate, dead priest had been new to the parish. He’d been set to retire when he’d heard of the struggling church in the small, desert community, and he’d agreed to lead them until a new shepherd could be found. The nun had been with the parish since it had formed twenty-five years earlier. Both of them, Cyrus had reflected, had had awful timing. Mouse had agreed, looking down at her untouched sandwich. It was only when she sniffled that he realized she’d started to cry.

Cyrus had wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her nerves. She’d seen too much terror at the hands of these monsters. But he’d held back. He hadn’t trusted himself not to do something unthinkably cruel to her. And he wouldn’t allow himself to be that man now. It wasn’t that he disliked being a vampire. He’d been one for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. He didn’t want to accept his seemingly inevitable change on the sole basis of familiarity. Given the chance, he might grow to like humanity. And what was to say he couldn’t be as happy with a human life as he’d been as a vampire? The horror of his circumstances had lessened somewhat, and he’d come to enjoy the simple, human sensations he’d learned not to miss. He hungered merely for sustenance, not power and

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control. He laughed during companionable conversation, not at some cruel action he’d inflicted on another. As a human, he could be kind. He found he rather liked being kind. So, he’d done the only thing he could do. He hadn’t offered bland words of comfort or assurances that things would be all right. He’d simply changed the subject.

“We should have dinner tonight,” he’d blurted. When she’d looked up at him, her tear tracks gleaming in the sunlight, he’d continued in the hopes of seeing her expression change. “Make an event of it. I suppose I should celebrate my return to humanity.”

“I suppose,” she’d said hesitantly. “But we should save some food.”

“Don’t worry. I know those…people up there. I did some of them a favor once. I’m sure they’ll get us more.” She’d still looked doubtful, so he’d added, “They won’t let me starve to death. They raised me for a reason.”

After that, she’d acquiesced, and eagerly discussed lives of the saints and stories of the Bible. He’d tolerated it because it had made her feel better. Now, she stood over the small stove, making God alone knew what for them to eat, but she’d bathed and combed her hair, and she hummed while she worked. He knew she watched him as he changed into fresh clothing from the priest’s dresser. The damn black, polyester, button-down shirt would serve if he left it unbuttoned over one of the pristine white T-shirts. He turned and held his arms out at his sides. “What do you think?”

Mouse didn’t reply. She flushed, embarrassed, and turned back to the stove. He waited at the table while she dished out the food—small, rubbery chicken breasts in some suspicious sauce from a frozen dinner; canned carrots; macaroni and cheese—and they were about to eat when the door at the top of the stairs opened.

“I thought that was locked,” Cyrus whispered to Mouse, not meaning to sound so accusatory.

Her eyes grew wide with fear, and the pulse in her throat leaped visibly. He wanted to reassure her, but there was no time for that. Heavy footfalls came down the stairs.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, folks,” a voice raspy from cigarette smoke announced, before its owner came into view. Her face was contorted into its vampire form. Her shoulders were considerably wider than Cyrus’s. It took him a moment to realize she was a woman.

Mouse screamed and stood too fast, bumping the table and rattling the dishes. She looked as though she’d run, though there was no place to go except past the monstrous woman at the bottom of the stairs.

“Calm down,” he warned Mouse, standing slowly to approach her. “Come to me.”

She launched herself at him, winding her arms around his neck. She clutched him tighter as he tried to disentangle himself, but in the end, she had to let go.

“I’m not going to let her hurt you,” he said, rubbing his throat. There would be a bruise there in the morning, he was sure of it. To the vampire, he snapped, “What’s the meaning of all this?”

“We need to talk. Get rid of her for a minute.” The vampire gestured to the table. “It won’t take long.”

“Go ahead. Go,” he urged Mouse, giving her a push toward the other half of the apartment. He followed her, his eyes never leaving the vampire. What he would do if she tried to attack, he had no clue, but he hoped his warning gaze would make her behave. Mouse went cautiously to the bed and sat down stiffly, watching. The vampire kicked out

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the chair Cyrus had been seated in and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her leather vest, tapping them on the table. “Simon Seymour. At last we meet.”

“We haven’t really met. You haven’t told me who you are.” He grimaced at the realization he’d answered to his old name. “And it’s Cyrus now.”