Blood Guilt (3 page)

If I were his foster mother…

Well, you’re not. You can barely look after yourself, never mind a dependent child!

Mocking herself, because in fact her parenting skills, or lack of them, had always been irrelevant—vampire hunting was a 24-7 job that didn’t allow the distraction of young family or even the relationship necessary to acquire one—she stood back out of the way of people heading into the pub and tried to drag her thoughts back to the important issues.

She needed to know what so many strong vampires, at least some of them foreign, were doing here. She needed to know if the vampire who threatened Robbie really could get him later, and if he really was her own family’s killer. And…

She came around to it carefully, trying to avoid it and knowing she couldn’t. She couldn’t take the chance.

She turned and retraced her steps back along the road to the alley that led to the pub’s back court. She expected him to be gone. She hoped he’d be gone. She hoped she’d made a mistake in identifying him. After all, it had been dark, and how likely was it to encounter two vampires from her past in one afternoon?

More likely if one of them had made his home in Scotland.

Her heart beat faster as she walked into the yard, hands once more grasping the stakes in her pockets. The dark heap of mostly dead vampire had gone. Which meant, surely, he’d either died or recovered. She swallowed. Neither possibility made her feel good.

She stood still where she’d last seen him, wishing she’d brought a detector, while she quartered the court. She thought the vampires had vanished, but she couldn’t be sure. At any rate, she’d learned long ago never to make dangerous assumptions.

To her left, the barrel no longer sat flush against the wall. There was a gap of blank darkness between.
He could be masking. Any of them could be masking.
She stared hard at the gap between the wall and the barrel, walking slowly toward it until it resolved into a body.

Without warning, a light came on, shining out from the pub wall. Mihaela froze, waiting for someone to appear, but there was no door as such into the yard, only barred windows and the trap through which beer was delivered to the cellar. Perhaps someone inside had just remembered to switch on the light for security reasons.

Mihaela approached the barrel, withdrawing the stake from her pocket. She gazed down at the injured, blood-spattered vampire, illuminated now like some gothic-novel illustration. Pale skin, dark, untidy hair with just a hint of auburn shining through. He wore a rough wool workman’s jacket over his usual jeans and T-shirt; his arm and one leg were bent at grotesque angles, and he stank of enough alcohol to repel a down-and-out. But it was still, unmistakably, the vampire Maximilian.

Chapter Two

Mihaela sank to her knees, her stake raised for the kill. Unbidden, she remembered the vision of this vampire that haunted her dreams: his face cool and calm above hers as he efficiently staked the vampire who would undoubtedly have killed her. She remembered her own stupefaction as she’d gazed up at him amid the carnage, stunned by what he’d done and terrified as to what it meant. They’d fought on the same side in that battle to save the hunters’ library from the insane Luk’s marauding hordes of undead; but she’d never expected a vampire to trouble to save her life.

It was a debt.

You can’t afford debts to vampires. You can’t take the chance. He was here when the others were; Robbie was drawn to him, whether or not he spoke in words…

She stared down at the scored, bleeding face, still handsome with all its injuries. He wasn’t the disreputable twenty-year-old he appeared; he was a six-hundred-year-old vampire with a penchant for treachery, who’d once commanded the strongest community of undead in the world.

Of course, he’d betrayed his creator in order to do so, and when that power was finally wrested away from him by yet another vampire, he’d seemed to disappear off the face of the planet. Although no one had believed he was actually dead, neither had anyone laid eyes on him for two hundred years until he’d come out of hiding to fight, bizarrely enough, for the newly awakened Saloman. Nevertheless, he was probably still the most powerful being in the world after Saloman, his creator. If he chose to exercise that power.

But he didn’t. He’d left Saloman to come back here. Why? Escaping the world again as Elizabeth said? Or did he have other plans?

It didn’t matter. With a vampire of this caliber, this unpredictability, you didn’t take chances. For Robbie, if for no other reason, she had to kill him.

Her fingers twitched restlessly on the stake. “You saved my life, you bastard,” she muttered.

His eyes opened, almost blinding in their directness. They didn’t blink. He made a strange, choking sound in his throat, as though he were trying to laugh and was prevented by some unspeakable internal injury.

Shit.
Slowly, she lowered the stake, although she kept tight hold of it. Maximilian, it seemed, had nothing to say, simply looked at her. Like Saloman’s, his deep, intense eyes were layered with centuries of violence, murder, and pain; yet Maximilian’s were reflective rather than opaque, which made them, curiously, less scary.

Mistake. Never forget that he
is
scary.

Beneath her, the world seemed to shake. Not simply in her mind, this time, but in sudden, heart-stopping reality. She reached out instinctively to hold on, as a flowerpot crashed off an upper window-sill, landing barely a foot away from them.

“What the…?” She found she’d grabbed on to the barrel with one hand and the vampire’s jacket with the other, listening to odd sounds of objects falling over in the darkness, cries of surprise from inside the building and from the street beyond.

As the world stilled, Maximilian’s hand grasped her wrist like a vise. An electric charge seemed to shoot from his fingers. She whipped back the stake, staring down at him, but he was frowning, almost…anxious.

“That shouldn’t happen,” he said with strange urgency. “Not…natural.”

They were the first words he’d ever spoken to her and seemed to fit what she knew of him: impersonal and to the point. Still, although Britain was not in an earthquake zone, even here the odd minor tremor did occur from time to time. She doubted this one had been strong enough to do any real harm. Before she could tell him so, he let go of her wrist and made an odd, lurching movement, hauling himself into a sitting position.

Mihaela scooted back, raising the stake higher with more threat than serious intention, for his head lolled back against the wall.

His right arm hung uselessly by his side; his leg was still bent wrongly at the knee.

“What’s the matter with you?” Mihaela said harshly. She didn’t want to see the vampire’s pain, to feel any sympathy; not for
this
vampire. “Why aren’t you healing?”

For answer, he glanced down at his bloody wrists. “Not enough blood.”

She stared at the wounds in both wrists, in his neck and face. They’d bitten him, draining him to weaken him for the kill. It was a tried-and-tested method by which weaker vampires could kill a stronger enemy. They couldn’t otherwise draw enough blood from him in a single bite to drain him—even if they could get close enough and stay attached to his vein.

She swallowed. “I thought you were just drunk.”

“That too.”

“Will you be able to move from there before sunrise?”

“Oh yes.”

Defeated, because it seemed she couldn’t kill him after all, she stood up, turned her back on him, then stopped. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

There was no sound, no movement behind her. It didn’t matter whether or not she killed him. Without blood, he wouldn’t heal, and she doubted he was strong enough to take any.

Good.

Only, the sun would come up eventually and turn him to dust.

Save her the trouble.

“Shit and shit and
shit
!” She spun back around.

“Tell him,” Maximilian said. “About the tremor.”

“Saloman?” she said, dropping to a crouch beside him. “
You
tell him. I don’t like to talk to the bastard. Are both your legs broken?”

“Only one leg.”

Though who knew in how many places. Or however many other bones. No wonder there were layers of pain in his eyes. And it would get worse.

****

Afterward, she was never sure how they managed it. He didn’t even seem inclined to cooperate at first, and it struck her that this enigmatic being had grown too used to not giving a damn. A strange thought concerning a species she’d always known cared for nothing but blood and continued existence. Until Elizabeth had fallen in love with the Ancient vampire Saloman and shown her that, like humans, vampires were not all the same. But she wouldn’t think of that now.

She opened her mouth to command him, but abruptly, before she could speak, he pulled himself up, took his own weight on one leg, and leaned his better arm across her shoulders. Like that, they walked and staggered out of the yard and along the street, Maximilian dragging his broken leg behind him. It must have been agony, but no sound of it passed his lips. The only sign of his pain was the trembling of his whole body.

It felt weird, holding the cool, hard body to her side. Never in her life had she been this close to any vampire, except in combat; and now that she was, she wished it was any vampire but this one. She tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on finding the closest hotel to drop him at. She couldn’t take him to the hospital. Too many questions would be asked, and they’d spot pretty quickly that he wasn’t exactly human. The resulting furor might please Saloman, but Mihaela was not yet ready to have the reality of vampires thrust on the world at large.

Fortunately, the first person she asked directed her to a cheap Travel Lodge only a couple of streets away.

“Your man all right there?” he asked, nodding at Maximilian. “You want a hand with him, aye?”

“Oh, no thanks,” Mihaela said hastily. “He’s sprained his ankle, that’s all. Had a few too many. He’ll be fine.”

She kept a close grip on Maximilian during the encounter, half expecting him to lunge at the stranger for blood, despite his weakness; but oddly, when she could spare him a glance, his gaze was on her face.

He didn’t speak throughout the entire journey. By the time they found the hotel, her body felt on the verge of collapse. Everything ached. Only the fact that Maximilian must be suffering considerably more kept her going. Leaving him propped up against the wall at reception, she went and booked a twin room in her name, since that seemed easiest. His head leaned back against the wall; his hair fell over his eyes. And yet, as she came back to him, she could feel him watching her every move. If he was recovering already, she would have to watch her back. Or at least her neck.

It was unspeakable relief to drop him on the bed. He landed with his back propped up on the pillows and his uninjured leg half on the bed. As she fell back to draw breath and rub her aching shoulder, he leaned forward and with his good arm lifted his broken leg onto the bed, straightening it into position at the knee and pushing at his thigh. It made ominous cracking sounds that caused her stomach to heave.

Next, under her appalled but fascinated gaze, he took off his woolen jacket with quick, awkward movements, pulling it over his broken arm, which he twisted into position in his lap. Then he fell back against the pillows with his eyes shut. His jeans and black T-shirt were torn and stained with blood and dirt. In the harsh, electric light he looked as white as the bedsheets. But then, when she glanced in the mirror, so did she.

Hastily, she walked to the cupboard and found a glass, then went to the bathroom to fill it with water. It seemed the least she could do. When she returned to the bedside, his eyes were still closed. A lock of straight, dark hair had fallen across his face, adding a misleading impression of boyish vulnerability to the straight, even-featured face. He looked like an exquisite Renaissance statue, fine-boned with bulging muscles, carved in white marble. He looked dead.

It would save so much trouble if he truly were; if he would just explode to dust in front of her eyes…

So why did her throat constrict as she put the glass on the night table? It was bad enough pitying him; on no account could she let herself mourn him.

Saloman would. And so would Elizabeth, for Saloman’s sake if for no other.

She drew in her breath, dragging her mind back to this reality. There were things she needed to know from him. When would he be able to answer? If he chose to…

Blinking, she realized his eyes were open and staring at her. “You are strong,” he said, “even for a hunter.”

She shivered. His voice was low and deep, catching at something inside her. And he formed his words with care, as if unused to speaking. He’d been a recluse for centuries, hiding from his own kind as well as from humans.

“I’ve been a hunter for a long time,” she said.

“I know. I’ve seen you fight.”

She dropped her gaze. She’d seen him fight too. For her, on one occasion, which she really couldn’t afford to recall right now. “I brought you water,” she said awkwardly, waving one hand at the glass. She didn’t even know if vampires drank anything but blood. She’d been killing them for so long and yet didn’t know this simple fact…

The vampire inclined his head, in a gesture reminiscent of Saloman himself. They were impressive bastards. Dangerous, lethal, impressive bastards, she reminded herself.

She drew in her breath. “What do you want with the boy?” she blurted.

His thick eyebrows lifted in what looked like genuine surprise. “Nothing. I do not eat children.”

“He came to you. He ran from the others to get to you.”

“He’s psychic. He feels the presence of vampires, knows they can communicate with him as other humans can’t.”

“But not that they’ll drink his blood?” she snapped.

He shrugged, and his lips twisted in quick pain. “Probably not, since he doesn’t seem remotely frightened.”

Mihaela took a step nearer, closed her fingers comfortingly around the stake in her right-hand pocket. “And the other vampires tonight—who are they?”

“They didn’t introduce themselves.”

She let it pass. “Did they come for Robbie, or for you?”

“Not for me. None of them should have been able to sense me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Were you really drunk?”

“Vilely.”

“Then your mask could have slipped.”

He didn’t respond to that, just continued to look at her. His mask hadn’t slipped. But alcohol had surely made him easy to defeat. He might even have wanted that. If he were human, she would have thought there was something terribly wrong with Maximilian, some deep trouble in his soul. Except vampires didn’t have souls, whatever Saloman wanted her to believe. They drank human blood to maintain their own, unnatural existence.

Maximilian’s gaze dropped to her neck, as if he couldn’t help himself, and then away to his own still, white fingers lying in his lap.

“You’re wondering what to do,” he said at last. “Tell Dmitriu about the boy. Tell Saloman—or Elizabeth—about the vampires. There shouldn’t be so many here. Most of them are not British.”

She curled her lip. “I don’t discharge my responsibilities by laying them on someone else’s shoulders. Particularly not on—” She broke off, shrugging impatiently.

“Particularly not on vampire shoulders?” For the first time, there was feeling in Maximilian’s voice, even if it was only mockery. She opened her mouth to retort that there was no way she would ever consider pushing a child into the arms of Dmitriu or any other vampire, but before she could, he said tiredly, “Dmitriu will not hurt the boy, nor let anyone else. And some burdens are too great for one being—even a strong hunter.”

She closed her mouth and began again. “Why is this burden so great? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. And you need help to find out. Help beyond your hunter friends. The vampires are young, yet strong in their minds.”

Mihaela frowned. “In what way? How?”

“I don’t know. I had little time or ability to investigate. Saloman needs to know.” His eyes closed again, as if consciousness, existence itself, were slipping away from him. Frightened in spite of herself, she leaned over him, and his eyes snapped open. “And the tremor. Tell him that too. It’s important.”

Mihaela straightened, half-embarrassed at being discovered so close to him, at betraying any concern whatsoever. “You tell him,” she snapped again. “You can talk to him from here, can’t you?”

There was a pause, then, “No. Not today.”

“Because you’re too weak? Then tell him tomorrow, if you must.”

He moved so fast that she had no time to prepare. Her wrist was in his hard, cold grasp, and again she felt that electric frisson shooting up to her fingertips, spreading through her whole body. He said, “No games. Don’t be petty. It’s beyond that. Tell him.”