Les vampires de Manhattan Page 10

  “Because only the Angel of Death can unlock the secret of this page. The last page in the book of Hell.”

  Mimi knew what to do. She removed her sword and made a small cut on her wrist, letting her blood bleed on the page. It absorbed it, and the paper was awash with her sapphire-colored blood, until the page revealed words in the Sacred Language of Angels.

  In morte vita est. Regulus Mane resurget.

  In death is life. The Little King of the Morning will rise again…

  Underneath the writing was a silver pentagram.

  “Kingsley, what is going on?” she asked, with a feeling of dread and dark premonition as he bound her wrist with a bandage he removed from his pocket. He was prepared as always.

  But Kingsley shook his head to indicate he wanted to concentrate as more words were appearing, dark words of a dark prophecy, and together they began to read.

  Mimi opened her eyes. They were still sitting in the same coffee shop. Only seconds had passed since they had entered Kingsley’s memories. He opened his eyes more slowly than hers and released her hand. His face was troubled and grave. She remembered his face on his wedding day, his laughing eyes, his soft, fervent declaration of eternal love. She wanted to tell him that she regretted every moment away from him, and sitting across from him right then, watching the shadows fall on his face, she wanted nothing more than to take it all back. There had to be some way to fix what was broken between them, a way for them to be together without giving up her own life. There had to be. They couldn’t just give up on each other.

  “Kingsley…,” she said, then remembered the other image she had seen—and her doubts returned, just as quickly brushing away any thoughts of romance or reconciliation for now. They had a lot to sort out, and on some level Mimi knew this conversation, this mending of their relationship, couldn’t be rushed.

  “Yes?” he asked, busy writing notes on his napkin. He was translating a few more sentences from the page they had just read.

  “Never mind,” she said, just as he shoved the napkin across the table to show her what he’d written.

  In death is life. The Little King of the Morning will rise again as the White Worm brings eternal darkness to poison the gift of the Heavens.

  “There’s no mention of Hell’s Bells?” Mimi asked.

  “Hmm, that is odd,” he said. “But the Little King of the Morning is the Prince of Heaven, Lucifer, of course, the Morningstar, the Lightbringer.”

  “What’s his white worm, though? A worm on the loose in the city? Like alligators in the sewers?” She smiled.

  Kingsley smiled. “Worm is a common name for devil, demon. Which means it could be anyone—a dark angel bent on revenge,” he said. “A demon loyal to Lucifer who seeks to avenge its fallen master.”

  “ ‘In death is life,’ ” she mused. “But Lucifer is dead. Schuyler fulfilled her prophecy. There’s no way for him to return. He’s gone.”

  “Or so we believe,” Kingsley whispered.

  “We saw it with our own eyes,” Mimi said. “We won the War.” Hadn’t they? Or was their victory so short-lived?

  “Yes,” he said, troubled. “But what if we missed something? What if there was something else?” He stared down at his glass, and when he looked back up at her, she saw the pain and sadness in his eyes from the first day he had sought her company. He needed something from her—he was guilty of something, but she didn’t know what—and if he didn’t tell her, then she wouldn’t be able to help him. She wanted to tell him he could trust her, she would be there for him, but the words were caught in her throat.

  “Kingsley…”

  “No. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. It’s too dangerous. I should never have involved you,” he said, looking at her mournfully. Then his face changed, and his jaw was set, and Mimi felt suddenly afraid.

  He stood up from the table with an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry about me, darling, you know I can take care of myself. Thanks for the help with the book.”

  “But—” she said. But what about us?

  Was this good-bye? Truly? If Lucifer was back to menace the Coven, didn’t he need her help? Wasn’t that why he had sought her out in the first place?

  What was holding him back?

  Mimi wondered if she should call out after him and ask him where he was headed. But his words from the other evening rang in her ear. Do you really think you can ask me that…?

  She had left him and so she had no right to ask him anything. No right or claim to him at all. And so she watched him walk away without knowing when she would see him again.

  13 THE SECOND WORST

  THE BANGING WAS NOT IN HER HEAD, Ara realized, even though it sure sounded like it was in her head, because she could feel her head throbbing, but that heavy thumping that had escalated to a barrage was actually the sound of a fist knocking on her door. She dragged herself out of bed and opened the door a crack to find a pale yellow eye staring back at her. She jumped back. “Edon, what the fuck? I’m off duty,” she groused, unlatching the chain and letting him inside. He was holding a brown paper bag and two cups of coffee in a cardboard carrying tray.

  “Venators are never off duty. Haven’t you learned that by now?” he asked, entering the room and shoving one of the coffees her way.

  She accepted it, took a sip, and was glad to find it was made with a copious amount of milk and sugar. “Thanks,” she said, shutting the door behind him.

  Edon took a slurp from his cup and looked her up and down as he dug into the bag and pulled out a cruller. “Maybe you should think about putting some clothes on?”

  Ara looked down and realized she had answered the door wearing only her black tank top and underwear. “Didn’t take you for a prude,” she mimicked. She walked toward the alcove where the bed was hidden and rescued a pair of sweatpants from a dirty pile on the floor. “What?” she asked, when she walked back to the main room to find Edon shaking his head at her.

  “God, Scott, you really tied one on last night, huh?”

  “What do you mean? Ouch, my head hurts,” she groaned, closing her eyes.

  “You’re having what the mortals call a hangover. Comes from drinking too much alcohol. Told you to drink some water with each cocktail, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “Alcohol isn’t supposed to affect vampires,” she said, rooting through the brown paper bag he had brought and picking out a jelly doughnut. It was sticky and sugary and exactly what the doctor ordered.

  “Riiight.” Edon clicked his tongue. “What other fairy tales do you believe in? Santa? Easter bunny? No, tell me, I’m curious.”

  “Shut up! It’s common knowledge that vampires can eat and drink whatever we want and it doesn’t affect us.”

  “Seen Lennox lately?”

  “So he’s gained a few,” Ara said. She thought about it and wondered if Edon might have a point—and if so, maybe having another doughnut wasn’t the best idea. Then she decided she didn’t care; she had other, more important things to worry about than what she ate. “I’ve never had one before. A hangover, I mean. I see why mortals complain about it all the time. It’s awful.”

  “Maybe you’ve never had so much to drink before,” he said reasonably. “You were putting them away last night.”

  “Or maybe there was something else in the drinks?” she asked.

  “Or maybe you’re just a lightweight.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Gladly.”

  She stared at him, a half-eaten doughnut shoved in her mouth, speechless for once and unsure of how to respond. It had been a while since anyone had noticed she was a girl, and the last time it had happened hadn’t turned out all that great for her, come to think about it.

  “I’m kidding. Don’t get too excited. You’re not my type.” He wiped the edges of her lip with a napkin, showing her that it was caked with powder. “Where’s the garbage?” he asked, balling up the bag and his empty coffee cup.

  “Over
there,” she said, motioning to a dark corner of the galley kitchen.

  Edon opened the garbage bin and made a face. “Jeez, think about cleaning up a little, will you?” he said, as he pulled the overflowing trash bag out of the can, pulled the corners up, and tied them together. He moved to the sink and began to wash the dishes, running hot soap and water over the crusted pots and pans. “How long have these been in here? You’re lucky you don’t have bugs.”

  “Go ahead, make yourself at home,” she muttered. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  When she came out of the bathroom, he had taken out the garbage, wiped down the counters, stacked the dishes, and was kneeling on the floor wiping down the linoleum. He looked up at her and showed her the huge ball of gray fuzz he had peeled from the walls. “This is disgusting. It’s called being a grown-up, Scott. Try it sometime. You live like an animal. What are you, depressed or something? This is not a sign of a healthy mind.”

  “Tough talk from a wolf,” she said grimly, even if his shot had hit the mark. She had been feeling a little low, she thought, and had sort of let things slide around here since… well… she didn’t want to think about it. Her apartment was so much nicer now that it was clean. Edon was a puzzle. He looked like a deadbeat, but he obviously didn’t live like one.

  “Wolf dens are cleaner than this cesspit. If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to keep a better house,” he scolded, putting away the dustpan and the broom. “You don’t even own a vacuum. Not even a handheld.”

  “Edon, why are you here, by the way? It’s our night off. Unless you’re freelancing as a maid on the side.”

  He looked sheepish. “Sorry. Chief found out what we were up to last night—” he said. “And he wants to see you in his office.”

  “Shut the door,” Sam said, closing the venetian blinds on the interior windows so they could have privacy. Ara noticed a few of her colleagues shooting curious glances her way, and she flushed. She would never live down the past, and she hated the fact that there was now this awkwardness between them.

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  Sam perched at the end of the table. “I’m disappointed in you, Ara.”

  She felt the flush on her face turn to a burn.

  “I understand you guys need to let off some steam, but trashing a bar, harassing humans, and passing out is not condoned by this office.” He coughed into his palm. “Bloody shots?”

  “It was all in good fun,” she said sullenly. Everyone else was doing it that night—even the untouchable Deming Chen, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

  “Right.” He sighed. “If a witch didn’t own the Holiday, we’d be in trouble. But thankfully she’s the understanding type.”

  “Like you,” she said.

  He frowned. “Look, after everything that happened, I can’t give you any breaks, Ara, and you know exactly why. Besides, your record is abysmal,” he said, picking up a folder with her name on it. It was her Venator file, which included every infraction she had ever committed against the rules of the Coven. “Death Walks. Dream intrusion. Disrespecting a commanding officer. Noncompliance with standard safety procedures. Another black mark and you’ll be kicked off the team. I won’t be able to shield you this time.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, saluting him.

  Sam sighed. “So far, what you’ve got is the second-worst conduct record in the history of the Venators.”

  “Who was the worst?” she asked, honestly curious.

  “Kingsley Martin,” he said with a hint of a smile. His former commander. Another legendary hero. Ara had quite enough of those.

  “All right, get out of here.”

  She did.

  14 REGRETS ONLY

  THE LONG TABLE WAS SET IN A ROOM right off the garden, so that the French doors looked out onto a beautiful landscape and twinkling lights, which were complemented by the delicate floral arrangements, exquisite white roses and green pea tendrils in square vases dotted by small tea light candles. The crystal and silverware gleamed, the linen napkins were folded and starched, and the group—an exclusive and elite group that ran not only the Coven, but the city at large—was laughing and smiling over champagne glasses. Oliver caught Finn’s eye in the center of the glamorous bunch, a willowy collection of New York’s most beautiful art enthusiasts.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked when he saw the lines crinkle around her eyes.

  “Nothing, nothing…” Finn smiled brightly.

  “Let me guess, Ivy hasn’t shown up,” he said.

  Finn nodded.

  “Maybe she’s late,” he said. “You know how artists are. Divas. And from what you’ve told me, Ivy has a bigger ego than most.”

  It was a private dinner for the artists who were part of the Red Blood exhibition thrown by their Blue Blood patrons. Everyone was there: Jonathan Jonathan in his trademark plaid suit, Bai Wa-Woo in a dress that looked like it was made of Big Bird’s yellow feathers, even ninety-year-old Hershel Song, the most seasoned and arguably the most famous artist in the collection.

  “Yes, you’re right, that must be it,” Finn said.

  “She’ll show up,” he said. “You told me yourself she’s flighty, and you only added her at the last minute because she begged to be included.” Oliver was trying not to feel too agitated himself. Finn was a little touchy when it came to Ivy, who was a friend of hers from college—from her life before the Coven—something Finn kept reminding him of.

  “Yes, of course, it must have just slipped her mind,” Finn agreed. “This is so embarrassing, though.”

  “Let me talk to him.” Oliver walked over to Murray Anthony, who was stuffing his face with little crab cakes.

  Murray smiled at him nervously. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I tried—we’ve been trying to track her down for days now. The museum wants to talk to her, too.”

  “Anything wrong? Does she not want to be in the exhibit? With all the controversy?” Oliver took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He knew the flowers—roses, deep in bloom—were supposed to smell wonderful, but he smelled nothing. One day he would ask the Coven doctors what was wrong with him.

  “No—you know Ivy doesn’t bother with gossip and the tabloids. She loves a party.”

  “Find her, then.”

  “Will do. She’ll be at the opening for sure,” Murray assured, even though he looked as if he didn’t believe it himself.

  Oliver went back to Finn, who looked decidedly ill. “Oliver—about Ivy, there’s something you need to know—”

  “Yes?” he asked, distracted by the sight of Sam Lennox entering the party suddenly. The chief never came to these things. Something must be up. “Hold on, sweet…”

  He made his way toward Sam but was interrupted by Chris Jackson barreling toward him. She greeted him with air-kisses on both cheeks. “What a wonderful party,” she said. “Finn outdid herself. Is she all right? She looks a bit pale.”

  “She works too hard,” Oliver said shortly. “I don’t know what I would do without her.” He returned her tight smile. This was the world he was part of, one in which empty smiles hid dark hearts. Outwardly his face was placid, but inwardly he was haunted by the image of the pentagram on his office floor. How long had Chris been in his office the other day? Was her visit a warning? A way to tell him that she was the one inside? And if she had been the one to do it, what did she want? And why kill a mortal girl to get it? What was her agenda?

  “Well, I just wanted to say hello as I can’t stay,” she said. “It’s the opening night of the symphony as well.”

  “Now who has a busy schedule?” Oliver smiled. “Good to see you, Chris. Excuse me,” he said, finally making his way to the chief. Sam looked out of place in the beautiful room; his suit was shabby, and he looked older and grayer than ever.

  “We’ve had a security breach,” Sam said, without waiting for pleasantries. “None of the alarms were set off and the cameras didn’t pick up anything, but I’m convinced someone broke into
the Repository.”

  Oliver kept his calm. “How can you be sure?”

  “There are a few seconds missing on the time stamp. Like someone messed with it or caused it to skip. And here’s the thing. It’s happened before but we only noticed it now. We went through the records, and there are several unaccounted moments.”

  “What did they take?”

  “That’s the thing. Nothing. We can’t figure it out. Nothing’s missing. We had all the clerks go through the archives. Everything is where it should be.”

  He frowned. “What do you recommend?”

  “Lock and fortify.”

  “If we go into lockdown, whoever’s behind this will know we’re on to them,” Oliver said, considering his options. “We can’t show our hand just yet. Do everything you can, but do it quietly.”

  “There’s another thing. We found another body.”

  “Mortal?”

  “Yeah. Bitten. Just like the other one.”

  “Where?”

  “Out by Fort Greene, not far from where we busted that Neph hive the other week. Another young girl. We’re IDing her now. We’ve got a killer out there. Serial from the looks of it.”

  Oliver cursed. “Do you think they’re related? Was there a pentagram?”

  Sam nodded. “Big and bloody. We’re keeping this one quiet for now. You still planning on performing the ritual at the ball?” he asked. “The investiture?”

  Oliver nodded. “Yes. At midnight. The center of the museum will be cleared for the stage, and Finn and I will be in the greenroom right before and then I’m to make a grand entrance Finn has orchestrated down to the last detail.”

  “We’re going to have to double up on the Venators,” Sam said. “I called in a few more from overseas. They’ll be here by Saturday.”

  “Sam, so good of you to join us,” Finn said, coming between the two men and putting a hand on Oliver’s arm. “Are you staying? I’ll have them set another place.”

  The Venator chief shook his head and looked uncomfortable. “No, ma’am, I’ll be heading out in a bit. Just had some news to share with the Regent. Thank you, though.”