Darkyn - If Angels Burn Part 31

Blood flowed from his mouth into hers. Alex choked, but he kept her from taking in any air by keeping her nostrils pinched shut. It wasn't kissing like last night, though. He was doing it to get his blood down her throat. Alex strained at the straps holding her down, but she couldn't get an arm free. She tried to spit the blood out, but being flat on her back and unable to breathe made it impossible. Cyprien stayed on top of her, keeping his mouth sealed over hers, his glacier blue eyes staring directly down into hers.

Flesh to my flesh, blood to my blood.

Why she stopped fighting, Alex would never know. She simply did. She swallowed the blood from Cyprien's mouth, and when that was gone, she let her head fall back against the table. No euphoria this time; she shuddered as she felt his blood slam into her desiccated stomach like a hot fist. She didn't taste blood in her mouth anymore; she only felt it spreading through her, like the warmth he had given her last night. Better than the warmth.

Way better.

Alex turned her head and saw the wound on his wrist had already healed over. Her fangs ached. She wanted to sink them into him and have more. More and more and more...

"Master, it is Tremayne. He will be here in twenty minutes."

eliane's voice calling to him from the top of the stairs worked better than a bucket of iced holy water. Cyprien rolled off her and reluctantly released the straps. It took Alex a few seconds to climb off the table, and by the time she did a faint red mist had descended over everything.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h. He did it to me again.

Alex didn't waste time with words. She threw her fist and hit Cyprien in the chest. Drinking the blood he'd forced down her throat put a little extra power behind the punch, and he went flying across the room, where he crashed into a storage cabinet. Gla.s.s shattered; liquid splashed. He was back on his feet in a blink, wiping the fresh blood that trickled from his mouth.

He didn't yell; he didn't try to hit Alex back. He held out his long, slim artist's hand. "Come here, Alexandra."

Oh, s.h.i.t. This is the part Anne Rice got right.

She wanted to. She might be a blood-dependent fanged mutant, but she still had needs, and Cyprien could stroke every one of them until they sat up and begged.

She could do things his way. Take his hand, follow his orders, kiss his amazing a.s.s for the rest of forever. He'd love it, and he'd make sure she loved it. And somewhere along the way, Alex was pretty sure she'd lose what was left of her soul.

"I'm going after him," Alex told him. She retrieved her tranquilizer gun. "If you try and stop me again, I'll shoot you first."

"Don't get close to him," was all he said.

"Too f.u.c.king late." With the taste of Cyprien's blood still hot in her mouth, Alex stalked past the startled secretary, and strode out into the night.

Michael had no time to prepare his household for the high lord's visit. He merely stationed extra guards around the property and inside the mansion, and sent Heather and the other nurse to a nearby Kyn home.

eliane refused to leave.

"Phillipe has not returned," she told Michael as she set out a tray of blood-wine canisters and gleaming crystal goblets. "The high lord will expect you to be properly attended, if not by your seneschal, then by your tresora."

"He does not come to inspect us." Michael hoped not, anyway. A glance down confirmed that his clothes were filthy and torn, with his own blood staining one shirt cuff. There was no time to change. "eliane, most humans do not survive meeting Tremayne."

"I am not most humans." She gave him a sunny smile and carried a vase of wilting flowers from the room.

Tremayne arrived five minutes later, cloaked and masked, accompanied by ten of his personal guard. They came into the mansion like a dark tide, swelling and eddying around the high lord, weapons ready, eyes sweeping the path ahead, around, and behind.

Michael took his position at the end of the entry foyer and bowed. "Welcome to La Fontaine, my lord."

"Good evening, Cyprien." Tremayne's masked head moved, and something gleamed in the narrow slits that served as eyeholes. "What a charming little place you have. I think this is the first time I have seen it."

"I believe it is." Michael turned slightly as eliane came to stand beside him. "My tresora, eliane Selvais."

"You honor us with your presence, High Lord." eliane executed a flawless curtsy.

Tremayne came forward and put one of his gloved, distorted hands under eliane's chin. "I've always admired your taste in women, Michael. It mirrors my own." He lowered his hand. "We will dispense with the usual formalities and speak privately. Now."

Michael escorted Tremayne to his formal drawing room, where the high lord's personal guard stationed themselves outside. Cyprien dismissed eliane and closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.

"I am very disappointed in you, Michael." Tremayne helped himself to a goblet of blood-wine, but left his mask and cloak in place. "You have come into possession of something that I have desired, most fervently, for six hundred years.

Yet you whisper not a word of it to me."

Michael feigned ignorance. "I do not know of what you speak, my lord."

"I speak of Alexandra Keller. You attacked her, you made her drink your blood-repeatedly-and she yet lives, and walks as a human." Tremayne's voice grew soft. "Where is Alexandra now, Michael?"

"Thierry Durand escaped. She is out with my people, looking for him."

"She operates on Kyn, and now she protects them. Fascinating woman." The high lord wandered around the room, inspecting the decor. "I am told she has not yet risen from a human death. Is this truth?"

"It is."

"Then she is priceless." He tapped a gloved finger against the lower part of his mask. "Now, what are we to call such a unique creature?"

My love. "I cannot say, my lord."

"Half human, half Darkyn. A Halfling? That suits, I suppose." Tremayne perched on the window seat and looked out into the night. "Why did you keep knowledge of this treasure from me?"

Michael thought of a thousand lies. Yet with Tremayne, the closest thing he had ever had to a father for six centuries, it was simpler to tell the truth. "I knew you would want her."

"You were correct."

"You can't have her."

A laugh burst from behind the mask. "I most certainly can, and will. She will accompany me back to Dundellan, and there she will stay."

"Alexandra will kill herself first."

"She is still human enough to die easily; yes, that will present a problem." Tremayne considered it for a moment. "It would appear you have your work cut out for you, Michael." "My lord?"

Richard gestured out toward the night. "You will go and find her. You will explain the glorious future awaiting her as the mother of a new army. Then you will bring her to me." He removed his mask and affected a ghastly smile.

"Seigneur Cyprien."

One of Richard's guards knocked on the door and looked inside. "There is a human demanding to see the doctor.

He is a priest, and says his name is John Keller."

Against his better judgment, John had stayed in his hotel all day. He watched game shows until he thought his brain would implode and he had to turn off the television. He slept in s.n.a.t.c.hes, waking whenever someone walked past his door. One time he yanked it open and nearly gave the hotel maid a heart attack.

He waited for the phone to ring, for it to be the man who had called him at dawn, for news of Alexandra.

He tried the star-69 trick, but the hotel's phone system didn't provide that service. He dared tie up the line long enough to call down to the front desk and ask if there was any way he could get the phone number of his early- morning caller. The operator apologized for the fact that there wasn't, and suggested he call information.

Because there was no room service, John left the room door open to walk twenty feet to the only vending machine on the floor. No soda, but snacks aplenty. He bought bags of chips, packets of crackers and cheese, and candy bars.

Most of them were stale, but he ate them, and drank water from the bathroom tap. He thought of what three men could do to his sister, and nearly threw up. To keep his belly settled and his imagination turned off, he turned the television back on.

Hope began to fade.

John had been about to call the police when the phone finally rang. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver and held it to his ear. "Yes?"

"Do you have a pencil and paper, Father Keller?" The voice had less of a drawl, more of a clip to it this time.

"Yes." The man recited an address, which John jotted down. "Where is this?"

"La Fontaine, a lovely home in the Garden District. You'll find your sister there. Don't call the police. Don't take any weapons. Just walk up, knock on the door, and ask to see her. Ask politely. And John."

"What?"

"When she comes out, grab her and run. Don't stop running until you are out of the country." The caller hung up.

John was not familiar with the Garden District or any part of New Orleans, so he stopped at a convenience store long enough to buy a city map. He found a quick route to the address the caller had given him and drove directly there. It was a mansion, protected by a high wall, gated and locked up tight. It took a minute for someone to answer the gate call b.u.t.ton and buzz him through. As soon as he stepped onto the property, he was flanked by two men.

"Arms out," one said in a distinct Irish accent.

John held his arms out and was searched from neck to ankles. He was startled to see that both men carried submachine guns slung over their shoulders, and pistols in both shoulder and hip holsters.

"Name?"

John looked up at the house. "I'm here to see Dr. Alexandra Keller."

"Your name, lad."

"Father John Keller. I'm her brother."

John was escorted up to the front door and told to wait there. One of the men stayed with him while the other went inside.

"Is my sister here?" John asked the guard, who gave him only a flat, disinterested stare in return.

The man who came out fitted the description given to John by the Atlanta shopkeeper: tall, handsome, dark except for the odd shocks of white hair around his face. Icy blue eyes returned the inspection and lingered on John's clerical collar.

"You are Father Keller?" The voice was smooth, unshakably French. "I am." John stepped into the light. "Where is my sister?"

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Wherever you go, my darling, Angelica had said, I will be waiting for you.

Thierry moved through the shadows, through the tiny gardens of the strange houses, silent, searching for her, for something that looked familiar. Where is she? Why is she not here?

The strangely accented French spoken by the two men he had killed getting out of the house gave him the brief hope that he had somehow been returned to his native country. He thought himself in some distant province where the dialect differed from his own. But the few cars that pa.s.sed the houses were American models, and the street signs read in English.

Angel. My Angel. The sight of a fair-haired girl looking out her bedroom window caught his attention for a fleeting moment, but her face was too square, and her mouth too short. Angel would never have changed her appearance to look so common. Not her. Not her.

A newspaper stand on one corner gave him his location. The machine was locked, but he ripped it open and took out the bundle of newsprint. Hunger made him stagger back to lean against the lamppost. When he could focus on the small print, he found that he was in New Orleans, Louisiana.

America. How had he been brought here, and why?

Brethren.

He dropped the newspaper and moved out of the light. Escaping his prison had been remarkably easy, once he had dealt with the woman. He should have killed her, but at the time all he could think was to get out. He had to keep moving; the Brethren would send their butchers to hunt him, and he would kill himself before he let them take him back. They wouldn't catch him. He could climb. He could keep watch from above. His body was strong; his wounds were healed.

How is that? Why is that? He couldn't understand.

His mind wanted to run in circles, but there were black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and hunger burning deep in his gut. He looked around, found himself in an old part of the city. He climbed up the rain gutters of a house and looked at the surrounding territory. Houses, gardens, narrow streets.

A lit cross atop a steeple drew him like a beacon.

Killers. Murderers.

It was not Brethren, but it was. It was one of their temples, where they muttered their chants and stole from the living. Thierry circled around the little church, looked through the round, stained-gla.s.s windows. Burning candles.

Empty altar, vacant pews.

Behind the sanctuary was a short, squat building connected to it, also marked with their signs. The locked side door splintered when he forced it open, but the hallway behind it was dark and silent.

Thierry sniffed the air. He smelled dust, antiseptic, and human sweat. He followed the third scent, tracking it to its source: a hallway of four doors, behind which men, human men, slept.

None of the doors were locked.

He walked past the first room and placed a hand against it. The portly man sleeping on the other side of it dreamed of giving ma.s.s in a large cathedral. The dream was as dull as the man's sermon.

Thierry moved on. The room behind the second door was empty, and the man in the third room was dreaming of standing nude in line outside his favorite restaurant, while crawfish snapped at his toes.

He could not tear out the throats of innocent men, but he could make them tell him where the butchers were hiding.

Thierry turned around and slipped inside the first room.

Alexandra didn't want to get into the car with Phillipe. But he had seen her walking and stopped, and after admitting he had not found any trace of Thierry, he started threatening to throw her in the trunk.

"I have a gun, you know," she warned as he guided her to the car.

"I have a sword." He opened the door and pushed her inside.