Bad Blood (18 page)

F
i ran back into Chrysabelle’s house, her stomach a queasy mass of knots, her mind a million whirling thoughts coming as fast as her breath. “Doc? Doc! Where are you?”

Damian, the new comar, ran in behind her. Blood dripped from his sacre, a slice across his ribs and a second on his shoulder. Velimai followed, a nasty bruise on her cheek.

Panic rose in Fi’s chest like bile. If not for Chrysabelle’s new security system alerting them to someone on the grounds, they might all be dead. Which made it all the more important she find Doc. “Have you seen Doc? Is he still outside? He went out there to patrol the grounds.”

“I didn’t see him. That vampire…” Damian blinked hard and took a step back toward the door. He grimaced in pain. “Got Saraphina.” He staggered. His sacre dropped out of his hand and clattered to the floor. “I think there was poison on that bastard’s blade.” He went to his knees and his eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed.

Fi rushed to him, cradling his head. Velimai kneeled beside Fi. Her fingers started to move, but Fi’s brain was in no place to process.

“I don’t know what you’re saying. Can you take care of him while I go look for Doc?”

Velimai nodded and made motions toward the door like Fi should go.

“Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She took off for the door, then skidded to a stop. “If I don’t come back or if anything happens to me, I’ve gone after Doc and I’ve got a pretty good idea that if he’s dea—” She couldn’t bring herself to speak the word. “If he’s not here, he went to Preacher’s. That’ll be my next stop.”

Velimai signed,
Okay.
Then her hands twisted in the sign for luck.

Fi dashed outside. Saraphina’s sacre lay on the ground, glowing softly in the security lights. Fi scooped it up. She wasn’t entirely sure how to handle a blade like that, but it was better than being totally unarmed. “Doc?” she said softly, suddenly unsure if she was completely alone. They’d only seen one vampire, but the underground motion sensors had picked up movement in the side yard
and
in the front yard where Damian had taken a hit and Saraphina had been snatched. They shouldn’t have gone outside, but with Velimai’s scream to protect them… Except that hadn’t worked for some reason.

Fi hadn’t recognized the male vampire, but that didn’t mean Tatiana wasn’t involved. She stayed close to the house as she made her way around. Doc wasn’t anywhere. She set the sword down and shifted to her ghost self, then floated above the roofline until she could see the entire property. No Doc, but Mal’s old sedan was still there. That meant if Doc had left, he’d done it on four feet.

Back to the ground and corporeal form. She grabbed the sacre and jumped into the car, laying the blade on the
seat next to her. Keys were in the ignition. It had been a long time since she’d driven, but in her current state of mind, she could probably fly a plane if she had to. Doc needed her. She could feel it. The engine jumped to life. She programmed the GPS for Umberto’s in Little Havana, the only landmark she could think of there. A minute later, Mephisto Island was disappearing in her rearview mirror.

The drive felt like it took a year and a half, enough time for her to formulate a plan if Doc wasn’t at Preacher’s. She knew that Mal was with Creek and Chrysabelle and that the three of them planned on going to New Orleans with Mortalis as soon as Dominic gave them permission to use his plane, so her best bet was to hit Seven and see if she could catch them there if Preacher’s didn’t pan out.

If she missed them, then… she didn’t know what. Wait for them to get back? While who knew what was going on with Doc? Didn’t seem like a very good option. There was always a chance he’d gone back to the freighter. But why would he leave Chrysabelle’s without telling Fi where he was going?

Deep down in the recesses of her mind, she knew why. She just didn’t want to give credence to the thought because that seemed too much like making it real.

The witch’s spell. The smoke they’d both walked through in the belly of the freighter. The one that had made them both whole again. She would have closed her eyes if she hadn’t been driving. If the witch had done something to Doc with that spell… Fi exhaled a sigh that was almost a sob. It was her fault. She’d convinced Doc to go through the smoke. Whatever was going on, she had to find him.

On the street ahead the neon lights from Umberto’s restaurant shone like a carnival ride. Little Havana was mostly dark otherwise, a few dull glimmers from windows where folks were up and still had juice in their solars. If Umberto’s could afford to run their electric, business must be good. She drove by slowly to look through the bars on the windows. Place was full.

A block up, she found a parking spot under one of the dim streetlights. She parked and got out, tucking the sacre through the belt in her jeans. In other parts of Paradise City, walking around with a sword hanging off your hip might attract attention, but in Little Havana, people did what they had to do to stay safe.

Putting on her best touch-me-and-die attitude, she strolled to Umberto’s and went inside. The customers gave her and her sword a wide berth, and while her Spanish was passable, she didn’t understand a lot of the things being said. Still, it was pretty plain they weren’t exactly thrilled an
Americana
with a three-foot sword had just interrupted their
ropa vieja.

She beelined for the bar, finding an open space with no problem.
“Hola.”

The bartender, a fat man with a thin mustache and a wandering eye, waddled over wiping a glass with a rag of questionable cleanliness. Lovely. He nodded at her.
“Buenas noches. Que te puedo hacer?”

“Hables ingles?”

“
Si
. What do you want to drink?”

“Nothing. I need some information.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “I have paying customers,
señorita
.”

“I just want to know where the old Catholic church is.”

He shrugged. “And people at the other end of the bar want more
cervezas
. It is a cruel, cruel world.”

Time mattered more than playing games with this butt munch. She dug into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a twenty, and slid it toward him. “Where’s the church?”

He took the plastic bill and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “You don’t want to go there.
Muy peligroso
.”

She already knew it was dangerous. What she needed to know was its location. Her hand went to the sword’s hilt without too much thought. “Tell me. Now.”

“Or what? You going to cut me,
comebola
?” He laughed and a stream of Spanish slipped past his puffy lips too fast for her to understand.

If only Mal were here. One look at his vampire face and this guy would need fresh pants.
His face
. The image gave her an idea. Mal wasn’t the only one with a second nature. She’d never done it before, but she had nothing to lose. The next step was whipping out the sword, and that was a big step. She climbed onto a bar stool, leaned over, and grabbed Fatty by his shirt. When he was inches from her, she called up the darkest part of her ghostly presence. The part she’d used to haunt Mal in the years after he’d killed her. The part she’d hidden away when Doc had come into her life.

The dark emptiness of death spread through her, trying to transform her whole being, but she used her anger to control it and hold it on her face alone.

Fatty dropped the rag he’d been holding.
“Santa Maria.”
He scrabbled at her fingers, trying to pluck them off his shirt. His black eyes reflected her sunken ones, the deep hollows of her cheeks, the torn and ruined flesh of her neck.
“La iglesia—”

“In English,” she said, the words as gravelly and cold as the darkness within her.

“The church is that way.” He pointed, hand shaking. “Two blocks down, two blocks right, one left.”

She released him and the ugliness she’d summoned, sliding off the bar stool and back to her feet. “
Muchas gracias
, fat boy.” She sauntered out of the bar, making deliberate eye contact with any customer who looked her way. Few did.

She drove the man’s directions as fast as she could, saving the last block to walk. If Preacher was there, if he had Doc, a little surprise could be good. The tiniest bit of light twinkled through the church’s few remaining stained-glass panels. She tried the massive double doors, but they didn’t budge at the first try and she didn’t fight them for fear Preacher would hear her.

On the side she found an open door tucked under a small overhang. Cautiously, her hand on the hilt of the sacre, she crept inside. The twinkle she’d seen coming through the windows came from a stand of votive candles flickering in red glass cups. She hung by the door, letting her eyes adjust while she scanned for Preacher or Doc.

She didn’t see or hear either of them, so she ventured into the sanctuary. A worn spot marked the floor before the altar. Like someone kneeled there a lot.

A cold hand grabbed her arm, yanking her fingers off the sacre’s hilt. “Witch! Have you come for your mother?”

Fi jerked away, but Preacher’s grip was too strong. Why couldn’t vampires make more noise? “What? No. I—”

“Good, because you won’t find her. She’s dead.” A little dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth. He must have been out feeding.

“Who? Who’s dead?”

“The witch you sent to steal my child.”

“What? You’re crazy.” Did he mean Aliza? If she was dead, she couldn’t be working a spell on Doc. Fi kicked Preacher in the shin. He didn’t move. “Let go of me, you freak. I’m not here for your kid.”

He squeezed harder. “Then what are you here for?”

Telling him the situation wasn’t going to help, but what else could she do? “I’m looking for Doc. You know, the varcolai who lives with your best friend, Mal?”

Preacher’s mouth hardened into a scowl. “So he’s coming back here, is he? I got home just in time. Thanks for letting me know.” He pulled a camo-painted knife from a sheath on his belt. “I’ll be ready for him this time.”

A squeak from the floorboards drew their attention. Preacher twisted in the direction of the sound, dragging Fi with him.

Doc stood in the doorway on the opposite side of the sanctuary, a wrapped bundle in his arms and a full backpack strapped to his body. He must have helped himself to the kid’s supplies, too.

“Put my daughter down!” Preacher yelled as he dropped Fi and lunged for Doc, his knife out.

Doc’s eyes were glazed with the look of heavy drugs. Or magic. Fi leaped onto Preacher’s back. “Stop it. Hurt him and you could hurt the baby.”

Preacher slowed enough to grab her arms and flip her over his head. Her back made hard contact with the floor. The air whooshed out of her lungs. She gasped, trying to get it back. Preacher grabbed her up again and put the knife to her throat. “Put my kid down or your girly gets it.”

Doc stared blankly at Fi for a moment, then down at
the bundle in his arms before answering Preacher. “Don’t… hurt… her.” The words came out like the effort was almost more than he could handle. “Witch,” he managed, his gaze solely on Fi.

So he
was
under a spell. To let him know she understood, she nodded but stopped when the movement caused the knife’s edge to dig into her skin. Doc was in no shape to fight off Preacher, and she could defend herself. They could deal with the witch and the baby problems later. And now she knew where he was headed. “Go,” she mouthed.

Suddenly time seemed to slow down. Doc tossed the baby toward Preacher, who let Fi go to catch the child. As soon as Doc’s arms were empty, he turned, pushed through the door behind him, and ran into the night. The bundle of blankets unraveled in the air. Empty.

Preacher howled with anger and ran into the room Doc had come out of. The sound of things breaking followed him as he returned to the sanctuary, his face a black mask of fury. “He kidnapped my child.” He stalked toward Fi, the knife pointed in her direction. “I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to track him down and strip the hide from his flesh. You think I can’t find my own flesh and blood? No one will keep me from her.”

Crap. This had gone way worse than Fi anticipated. At least she had a way out. She whipped out the sacre. Wasn’t like she could take it with her anyway. She glanced behind her. About fifteen feet to the door, but Preacher had a vampire’s speed.

Preacher laughed. “You think that fancy sword is any match for me? I’m a vampire and a Marine. You don’t get more dangerous.”

The sacre fell from her hand. Now wasn’t the time to school him on just how mistaken he was. “Look.” She put her hands up as she slowly edged backward, concentrating on maintaining the image he saw. The longer she kept him busy, the more getaway time Doc had. “We can go after him together. He’s under the spell of the witch Aliza. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Nice try, but dead witches cast no spells.”

Twelve feet to go. “What?”

“Aliza’s dead. That’s what happens to people who touch my child.”

Okay, that was news. “Well, he’s under some kind of magic, then. He’d never steal your child. Someone is making him do this.” Eleven feet. She hoped she’d bought Doc enough time to get away.

“No more talking. Time to die.” Preacher lunged, slicing through her belly with his blade.