Shadow Rising

Page 17

The phone in his pocket began buzzing, as though Drake had sensed Damien thinking of him. He wasn’t much in the mood to talk, but the conversation had to happen sometime. It was, at least, better than sitting here composing terrible poetry about Ariane’s virtues. He pulled out the phone and put it to his ear.
“Tremaine.”
“Did you plan on calling to let me know about Thomas Manon?” Drake’s voice was tired, irritable.
That, Damien thought, was what being all work and no play did to you.
“I was indisposed this evening. And I knew you’d hear about it anyway.”
A snort. “I hope whoever indisposed you was worth the ass-chewing you’re about to get. I also hope you got something out of the man before he left us to sing in the choir eternal.”
Damien looked up, wishing absently that the lights didn’t block out the stars. Nights at his family’s country manor had been pitch dark, the sky scattered with stars like diamonds thrown across velvet. Sometimes he would lie out in the garden, breathing in the scent of roses, and stare at them…
He frowned. He hadn’t thought of these things in years and hadn’t particularly wanted the memories back. So little good was in them. Though what little there was, Ariane had caused to surface. He didn’t understand why. It was deeply troubling.
“I was there, Drake. I was the one who found him. But since I was plagued with Grigori trying to kill me all evening, it didn’t really cross my mind to pick up the phone.”
He knew he sounded peevish, but Drake ignored it. Instead, the weariness vanished from the Shade Master’s voice, cold fury taking its place.
“Trying to kill you? Tell me who it was, and I’ll have Shades crawling right up Sariel’s ass. I don’t care who he thinks he is—we have a contract!”
“I don’t think you need to do that quite yet,” Damien said, and explained, piece by piece, the events of the evening. He embellished a little where he felt it was necessary and omitted where his vanity dictated, but overall Drake got the whole picture. After Damien finished, there was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Figure out how to take advantage of this yet, Drake?” he asked blandly, smoothing a wrinkle out of his khakis. If anyone could turn a liability into an advantage, it was the vampire he was speaking to.
“Actually, I’m just trying to figure out why you haven’t called the Grigori in over this little… what’s her name again? Ariel?”
“Ariane,” Damien said.
“Whatever. If they find out you’re running around with her, Damien, it isn’t going to look good. You know they want her back.”
“They’re not paying me to bring her back,” Damien replied, surprised to find himself irritated with Drake. The nature of the work had never been a point of contention between them. Not even when he’d decided to enjoy a mark’s favors before turning her in, a thing that had happened occasionally in the past.
“A little goodwill never hurt,” Drake shot back. “What do you care? You hate people in general. Turn her in and get over it. You’re shallow; it shouldn’t be hard.”
“Lovely. Look, she’s going to help me find him, Drake.”
The response was quick and cutting. “You ass. I’m not paying some fugitive to do your work for you.”
Damien sighed, knowing what was coming. “She’s going to help me find him. Ariane doesn’t want anything, just wants to know her friend is safe. With another Grigori involved, she could be very useful. We know nothing about them, Drake.”
“You’re sleeping with her.”
“No,” Damien spat. “I’m not.”
“You must be,” Drake said. “Because I have never, in over two hundred years, heard you willingly partner up with someone else on a job.”
“Yes, well, she’s not so much a partner as she is simply a means to an end. A useful tool.” The words were unusually bitter on his tongue. How many had he said such things about? Hundreds. And he’d meant them. So why did the words sound so ugly this time?
“Anyway, things change.”
“Not with you, Damien, no, they don’t. It’s one of the things I like about you. You’re predictable.”
“Ah. I love being damned with faint praise,” Damien replied. “Look, Drake, Ariane is useful and wants nothing in return. I can’t see how that’s a problem.”
“Oh? Tell me something, Damien. Is she beautiful?” Drake asked, his voice deceptively calm. “And don’t bullshit me, because I can find out easily enough. She probably sticks out like a sore thumb.”
“She’s… yes. She’s quite beautiful,” Damien replied grudgingly. He hated being treated like this, lectured as though he were a willful child. But since Drake paid the bills and signed his paychecks, he had to take it. To an extent.
“White hair? Purple eyes?”
“Platinum blond. And her eyes are more of a light violet,” Damien replied, not thinking about how his quibble would sound until it was already out of his mouth. Drake’s beleaguered sigh came through loud and clear.
“You listen to me. I need this job. I want this job. This is a connection I’ve waited hundreds of years for. How the hell do you plan to get anything done running around with a Grigori fugitive?”
Damien stared into the distance and considered how to answer this. He didn’t rightly know the answer. In all his long years, among all the women whose skirts he’d gotten under, no one had ever made him quiver the way Ariane had with just a simple touch. None had made him purr like a spoiled house cat. And when she’d gotten her hands on his cock, he’d nearly embarrassed himself and gone off right then, a thing that hadn’t been a problem even when he was an untried youth.
For some reason, Ariane threatened his control. For that reason, she was almost certainly bad news. But slinking away from her would do no good now, and in any case, his pride wouldn’t let him. No woman had ever bested him, and it would stay that way. Besides, Ariane was right about one thing: They were on the same path. From a realistic standpoint, pooling their knowledge and resources made sense. At least, it would if he could detach himself the way he’d always been able to before.
Finally, he gave Drake the only answer he had. “I’ll make it work. You’ll just have to trust me.”
Drake groaned. “Do I need to remind you how many Shades we’ve lost over the years who’ve said the same thing to me? Famous last words, Damien. Women and work don’t mix. I’m just surprised I have to tell you that.”
“She’s nothing to me,” Damien said flatly. “I’m surprised you’re taking issue with my decision to use the sort of resource that rarely comes along.”
Drake was silent again. Finally he said, “All right, Damien. You’ve never broken my trust in the past. But let me make one thing very clear: She screws this up, and I will teach you a lesson for the ages. You like to play, but this isn’t a game. This is my business, and that crescent moon you wear means I own you. Forget where your loyalties are, what your job is, and you will be reminded in the strongest way possible. Is that understood?”
Drake’s voice had roughened, deepened, and Damien shifted uneasily on his perch. He rarely heard the man like this, but it was never a sign of anything good. It was also a reminder that for all the years Alistair Drake had had to pile on a veneer of civility, he’d sprung from a dark and blood-soaked time where his personal body count had been incredibly high even before he’d been made immortal. The barbarian still lurked beneath… and Damien knew he’d do well to avoid provoking it further.
“Understood.”
“Good. Update me when you have something.”
Then he was gone. Damien pulled the phone away from his ear, looked at it, and then set it back down beside him. He breathed in deeply, taking in the scents of the city below him, the night sky above, keeping his mind carefully blank and open. But before long, her face surfaced in his mind again.
Drake was right—he’d never wanted to bring another vampire on board and had never complained about betraying someone if the money was good enough. But that had been before. Before the Lilim, before he’d somehow won back Ty’s friendship and forged another with Vlad Dracul.
He was changing. This strange infatuation with Ariane was just another symptom. And he needed to make it stop, because as little as he liked it, what Drake had said was true. His unchanging nature was what made him so good at his job.
“Doesn’t matter,” he told himself softly. “None of it. Just the job.”
The problem was, he could say it all he liked. What he needed to do was start believing it again.
Oren waited until the still, small hours of night to emerge from the shadows outside the abandoned building. The pulsing and pounding from the music next door had just ceased, and he’d busied himself watching drunken humans, in ones and twos, in small groups, stagger into cabs and cars. He could smell their blood. He wanted it, badly.
And he took great pleasure in crushing the need inside himself.
Discipline was key. Denial was strength. These were things that vampires like Ariane would never understand. She had been born of weakness, carrying it still, infecting the bloodline by her very presence. She was a symbol of all that the Grigori stood against… and yet somehow, she had been allowed to live.
It was her fault he was so poisoned with rage, threatening his control.
Shaking off the dark thoughts that he wore more and more like a shroud, Oren spread his massive wings and, with barely a flicker, was at window level and letting himself in.
The smell hit him like a fist when his feet hit the floor. The scent of the Shade’s blood was everywhere, dark and insidious, tempting. Oren’s fangs lengthened instinctively, and it took him a moment to lock the hunger down again. He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to deal with the smell, the need. Then he walked to where a pool of blood was still drying on the bare floor, his eyes moving over the cut wires.