Blood Hunt (15 page)

“Five minutes on the carpet,” Apollo whispered in my ear. “I promise.”

He lied. The butterflies in my stomach turned into vampire bats, flapping in a frenzy, as we pulled up for our turn on the walk of fame. Apollo got out first and reached in for me. I willed myself not to trip on my heels or step on the hem of my gown or anything else and, for a wonder, it actually worked. I got out—if not smoothly then at least without bloodshed—and hit the on-switch for my smile. Luckily, I had some experience at that anyway from my circus days. My fear of heights had kept me out of my family's high-flying act, but I'd still had to make myself useful with dancing bears, hoop-jumping poodles and about any other act that made patrons go “Awww!” Once I'd gotten too big to be cute, the Rialto Brothers had tried to make me sexy with sparkly leotards and the whole nine yards. If they'd had Spike and Roslyn at their beck and call, they might even have succeeded.

As soon as my feet hit the carpet, I felt overwhelmed. Fans screamed from behind barricades, security guys easily the size of a circus strongmen stood by to hold back trouble. Cameras aimed our way like the eyes of a thousand spiders, with which I had some experience. They were nearly as terrifying.

I kept my smile in place and my arm through Apollo's. My clutch gave me something to do with my other hand. Otherwise, I'd have been at a loss.

Then the first microphone came our way. It stopped in front of Apollo, and a short male reporter with spiky hair, hipster glasses and a bright purple ascot in lieu of a tie stepped up to ask what lovely lady he was escorting and whether it was true that he'd just signed Thalia Day away from her former agency. Apollo had a…I'd never known what to call it—a glamour, an aura, a
presence
? Something that was as natural to him as breathing that he had to focus on dimming down when he didn't want to get tackled by willing women…or men, for that matter. Now he dropped the shield or whatever kept it in check, and I almost staggered back with the power of it. The entertainment reporter in front of us, who I was fairly certain I should know, suddenly licked his lips and gasped for air as though Apollo had stolen it all.

Apollo smiled and I heard women in the crowd sigh and shush each other for the chance to hear what he had to say.

“This lovely lady is my girlfriend, Tori Karacis.”

“Tori Karacis!” the reporter repeated loudly, a hand going dramatically to his cravat. “The same woman who was pictured with you in New York with, dare I say it?
Wings
.” He leaned in closer with the microphone, and if I wasn't mistaken, his cameraman leaned in as well.

Apollo laughed, and it was enough to send shivers all through me. The good kind. “As you can see, she's completely wingless tonight. Well, except for those tattooed on her back.” He gave me a little spin, and I followed his lead, showing off my ink for the camera. “The only thing that flares is her nostrils when I make her mad.”

I swatted Apollo and the reporter laughed, all very theatrical. “Who could stay mad at you?” he asked.

“No one,” Apollo answered, “which is just the way I like it.”

Another limo must have pulled up and disgorged its passengers, because suddenly the reporter's gaze flitted past us.

“Enjoy the premiere,” he said, by way of dismissal, and rushed forward a few steps, leaving us in his wake while he tackled the next guest.

It went on and on like that. A woman aimed her way toward us and then ran interference, guiding us to the reporters she wanted us to chat with, body-blocking us from others.

“Tori, Natashya. Natashya, Tori,” Apollo said in rushed introduction to our body-blocker. “Natashya's my PR person.”

“Charmed,” she said. “Now, you're going to want to talk to Nicole Kent. She's the one with the hot sheet…”

And on it went. “Who are you wearing?” “Is it true about Thalia?” “What do you say about the rumor—” “Is it true the mishaps on your last film cost—” Sometimes we were pulled off into small alcoves with banners or other insignia, sometimes not.

My teeth were in danger of breaking from how hard I was clenching them together to keep my mouth shut. The reporters didn't really want to hear from me, although every once in a while I was called on to do my spin and show off my ink. I didn't mind this so much, as it gave me a moment to relax my smile before my facial muscles went into spasms.

And then we came to a stop as we waited for the trio in front of us to finish up. A sudden throaty laugh rose up above the others, and I felt Apollo…flare. There was no other word for it. Through our link, I felt a sudden awareness, maybe even sexual. No, definitely sexual. As if all of the sudden his libido had sat up and taken notice.

“Who is she?” I whispered. “And also, down boy.”

The woman the voice had come from was in an electric blue dress with side seams that…didn't exist. Instead there was silver lacing holding the front of the dress to the back. Very thin silver lacing leaving a couple of inches of honey-gold skin clearly visible all the way up her sides.

“Aphrodite,” he said quietly…and not happily, I was glad to note.

“Yes,” she said, spinning around as though she'd heard him, which I couldn't imagine was possible with all the background noise. Still…

“Apollo!” she said, pushing aside the men to either side of her—one silver-haired and the other blond and twenty to thirty years his junior. She threw open her arms, and Apollo had no choice but to snub her or disentangle from me so that he could receive her embrace. They stopped short of an actual hug, grabbing each other by the elbows and doing the kiss to each cheek. “What a pleasure to see you!”

The cameras were full on us now, and I wondered what would be made of the spectacle. I'd browsed Yiayia's godly gossip site a time or two for research, and I knew from it that Aphrodite was essentially the current Mayflower Madam. I wondered what she was doing on the red carpet.

“Oh, but where are my manners?” Aphrodite asked. “Let me introduce you.” She let go of Apollo to latch on to the silver fox beside her. “Apollo, this is Fletcher Alvarez, world famous producer. We're discussing production of my memoirs. Fletch, this is my dear old friend Apollo Demas.”

Fletch held out his hand dutifully, but it was me he was looking at. “Well, well, and who is this?”

He took his hands back from Apollo as soon as humanly possible and grabbed
my
hands in his tightly enough so that I couldn't easily escape. It struck me that he and Aphrodite were perfect for each other. Both had that predatory gleam in their eyes.

“
This
,” I said, tired of letting Apollo speak for me, “is Tori Karacis. I'm a friend of Apollo's.”

“And a media darling in your own right, isn't that true?” asked the blond boy…because now that I looked, he really wasn't much more than a boy. Twenty-one or twenty-two, maybe, but in such a way that he could play a teenager if the role required it.

“Ah, the feathered femme fatale,” said the reporter who'd been interviewing the trio, trying to insert herself back into the conversation. Apparently, she'd seen my tabloid photos…and who hadn't. But I'd been war-battered then, far less femme fatale than an avenging angel. And my wings were
not
feathered.

“I prefer silk to feathers,” I said, showing off my gown.

The reporter tittered, and the blond boy, surprisingly, came to my rescue. “I'll drink to that. In fact, I shall. Let us be off in search of champagne.”

He took my other arm, leaving Aphrodite with a single escort. I glanced at her to see how that went over, but she looked more fondly amused than irritated, and I was relieved not to have made yet another enemy as we headed into the foyer. It was absolutely opulent with its high, frescoed ceilings, gilt accents, chandeliers and wall sconces giving off soft golden lighting. Arrayed all around us was more beauty than the mind could possibly process…and that was just among the assembly. I expected familiar faces everywhere I looked, and I wasn't disappointed, though I was surprised by the number of faces I
didn't
recognize.

Blond boy flagged down a passing server, liberated two flutes of champagne and handed me one, leaving Apollo to fend for himself. Luckily, snagging champagne was well within his capabilities.

My new friend clinked his glass against mine, made as if to drink and then paused with the glass nearly to his lips. “But wait, I haven't introduced myself yet, have I?” There was a certain glint in his eye that made me think for a second of Hermes. It was set off by a trench-deep dimple on his right cheek.

“No, you haven't.”

“Roman. Roman Accor.” He said it like
Bond. James Bond
.

“You might know him better as Eros,” Apollo said, his voice distinctly dry. “Or Cupid, but that brings to mind cherubic little boys flitting around in cloth diapers, and we all know you're not nearly so innocent.”

I stifled a smile by taking a sip from my champagne. Now that Apollo mentioned it, my mind's eye couldn't help but picture Roman in the traditional Cupid costume. It was…an interesting image.

“Now, now,” Aphrodite cut in, snagging her own champagne and one for her companion. “Can you still be so bitter all these many years later? He said he was sorry.”

Apollo shot a glance at Fletch, but the producer was scanning the crowd, raising his glass here and there, presumably to acquaintances or business cohorts, and paying no attention whatsoever to the conversation.

Still, Apollo leaned in closer to Aphrodite. “He turned Daphne against me. She begged to be turned into a
tree
.
A tree
, for gods' sake. Even leaving aside the heartbreak, do you know what that does to a man's ego?”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. “Oh, like you had a shot to start with. Daphne had taken a vow of chastity.” She said it in the same way someone might mention drinking hookah water or licking Steve Buscemi's toes.

In a few thousand years, a god was bound to have some bad relationships, but Apollo seemed to have more than his fair share. The story with Daphne had started with Apollo taunting Eros about his archery skills and Eros taking offense by unleashing one of his golden arrows on Apollo to inspire love for the nymph Daphne and then taking aim at her with one of the lead arrows that caused revulsion. The resultant pursuit was the stuff of epic poetry…and ended with her begging for escape and her father turning her into a tree. Why a tree was a mystery to me, but myth and legends were full of those kind of stories.

I looked to the blond boy, Eros, who seemed content to let them battle it out. He met my gaze and winked, dimple still clearly in evidence. Weirdly, it was not entirely without effect.

“Darling,” Aphrodite said suddenly to her companion. “Isn't that Layton Jennings over there. Didn't you want to have a chat with him?”

He dropped a quick kiss to her cheek and was off before the words had faded, raising his glass to catch the attention of a tall, gorgeous, African-American man with a smooth head that absolutely needed no adornment.

Oddly, I felt a pull of my own and looked up to scan the crowd. Even more oddly, some instinct had me not only searching, but sniffing, scenting the air as though I could catch a whiff of…blood.

Only it wasn't a scent. It was a pull, a tug, as though something called to me blood to blood.

Richie had to be somewhere close by.

I couldn't see him, not in the throng. But I knew he was there. I could feel him. I didn't imagine Ian was far behind…or that it meant anything but trouble.

Chapter Fifteen

Through our link, Apollo sensed my sudden high alert.

“What is it?” he asked, quietly.

I leaned in close to murmur, “They're here.”

As if on cue, the “they” who actually joined us were Hermes and Sigyn.

Hermes actually dressed up very nicely, his mischievous eyes a glittering accompaniment to his night-black tux and his gold vest. Sigyn was in a matching dress of liquid gold which left one shoulder and arm bare and the other covered by a long sleeve ending in a crystal cuff. But I didn't really have time to appreciate the cut.

I was so distracted searching out the Roland brothers that I missed it when Hermes stared too long at Aphrodite's décolletage, though my attention was drawn back when he gasped suddenly at Sigyn's elbow in his gut.

“I think we'd better mingle,” I said to Apollo. Meaning, of course, hunt down our killers. I'd never thought to find them here and didn't even want to think about who they must have killed to get in.

“After you,” Apollo said, sweeping a hand out to lead the way.

I took a step forward and realized that Apollo wasn't behind me. Aphrodite had stepped into his path. “Not so fast,” she said. “I've heard that Athena is in town, which means something big. You need to tell me if something's brewing. I have to protect my investments.”

Apollo stared down at her, though he didn't have to look far. She was a tall woman. Apollo seemed to weigh the advantage of moving her bodily out of his path versus simply answering her question.

“This is not the time or the place,” he said tightly.

“Oh, lover.” She said it for my benefit, I was sure. “When else am I to ask? You don't call. You don't write. I never, ever see you anymore.”

I shot him a glance at the clear implication that she
had
seen him in the past…in a professional capacity. He didn't blush, but then he'd had ages to get over that sort of thing. It wouldn't have taken him very far in the entertainment industry…especially not in the direct-to-video films in which he'd gotten his start.

“Fine then. Quickly. We're not looking at a war—yet anyway—but if Set gets free…”

“Set?” she asked, loud enough in her alarm to draw glances from all around us.

“Right now we're searching out his new recruits, which is why we have to go. A word of advice—if the Roland boys are patrons of yours…you might want to put them on the black list. If they call, notify the police…or us…right away.”

Her eyebrows arched nearly to her hairline. “Then they're guilty? Truly? I never kiss and tell, of course, but it's hard to imagine such fine young men having anything to do with murder.”

Fine young men?
Was she kidding? Jessica said they'd been a handful even before all of this…but if they'd at least been respectful of women, whether by nature or fear of losing their privileges at the escort services, then maybe Aphrodite had seen them on their best behavior.

“Er, they may not be quite themselves,” I said politicly.

At that moment, Apollo's head snapped up, his attention riveted by someone across the room, over Aphrodite's shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he said suddenly. “I see someone I have to talk with. We'll have to continue this another time.”

Aphrodite gave a pursed-lip pout at the clear dismissal, but Apollo was already moving past. “Later then,” she said, her voice full of promise. “Don't be such a stranger.”

I could tell through our link that it wasn't one of the bloodlust-boys who'd caught Apollo's attention, and I stood for a second in indecision. I could go after him or I could use the moment of Apollo's distraction to search for the Roland twins myself. I hesitated, focusing on the call of the blood I'd consumed to the blood still running through Richie's veins. My prey, it seemed, lay in the same direction Apollo was headed.

I excused myself from the group and made to follow the path Apollo had opened in the throng when a hand to my wrist pulled me up short. My fists clenched into claws, and I knew the look on my face was anything but friendly as I glanced up ready to fight whoever held me back.

It was Roman…Eros, pressing something into my palm. He released me before I made an issue out of it and met my glare with a wink and a dimple. “In case things don't work out with Apollo,” he said. “My personal number is on the back.”

My mouth fell open, but I bit back a response. There was no time and, really, I didn't have the words for his cheek.

I tucked the card down into my bra and kept going in the direction I felt the tug.

Apollo had stopped beside a doe-eyed brunette with Sandra Bullock's girl-next-door approachability mixed with Cindy Crawford's abundance of hair and Julia Roberts's smile. In other words, Thalia Day…in the flesh. She was smaller than I thought she'd be. Even with her sky-high heels, she only came up to my shoulders. Unlike most of the other starlets, her dress was positively demure in a pale peach fabric with shimmer but no sequins, crystals or bangles. The only embellishment was on the straps that held up the top of the dress and then…as she turned, I saw that all the detail was in the low back with more of the beaded straps crisscrossing.

I wanted to stop. Oh, how I wanted to stop. I'd been a fangirl of hers ever since
Still Waters
and
Becky with a Brain
, which hardly anyone else even remembered.

As I went to pass, Thalia threw her arms up and cried, “Apollo!”

She enveloped him in such a hug I felt the smallest little twinge of jealousy. Thalia hugged with her whole body. Her whole heart, it seemed. I'd always wondered if all the warmth that came across on screen could possibly be genuine. Now I knew.

I was nearly out of her orbit when she spotted me, freezing me in the intensity of her smile like it was a searchlight and I'd been pinned down in my escape. “And you must be Tori!” she said, releasing Apollo and clasping me in a hug every bit as encompassing as the one he'd received.

I stood frozen in her embrace, anxious to track Richie down before I lost him again, but unable to bust free. Or maybe unwilling. Social conventions were as hard to break as other bonds.

“Thanks for making him happy,” she whispered in my ear.

I wobbled just a little bit when she let me go. Star-struck, I had to admit. A little overwhelmed.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” she said, at the look on my face. “Don't worry, it'll pass!”

Someone—a small, unobtrusive man with dark hair, a close-cropped beard and an impeccable suit in a room full of tuxes—whispered in her ear, and she said, “Oh!” and smiled around, including everyone in her sweep. “Trevor says they're opening the doors. I'm just going to pop into the ladies' room to freshen up. I'll see you all inside.”

Suddenly something kicked in my chest so hard, I thought it would burst open. That call, blood to blood, was abruptly more like a sonic boom than a pulse. A combination of the proximity of Richie's blood and my precog trying to tell me it meant
very bad things
…as if I might think otherwise. I whipped my head around, trying to spot him, sure he must be right behind me or somewhere close enough to kiss…or kill. Apollo caught my concern through the link and looked around as well.

“Close now,” I said. “I'm going to follow Thalia to the ladies' room.” The precog had kicked up at her announcement. Either the danger was to Thalia and I'd be there to protect her or it was to me and maybe I could lead the bloodthirsty brothers off to somewhere isolated and take care of the problem. Richie said he'd be coming for me. Maybe he thought getting me somewhere public would hamstring me. I wouldn't want to go all gorgon in the face of so many cameras. But he and Ian would be captured on film as well… Of course, if “Richie” wasn't in control of his own body, maybe the power calling the shots didn't give a hot damn.

“Go,” Apollo said. “I'll keep watch out here.”

The man in the suit started to usher others toward the door, and I heard Apollo make some excuse, but I was off like a shot in the direction Thalia had gone, cursing that I'd already lost her. The crowd had swallowed up her petite form, and I wasn't tall enough to see over them.

My ankle twisted as I swerved suddenly to avoid crashing into a tuxedoed gentleman built like a linebacker.

“Hey, pretty lady, what's your hurry,” he asked as I grabbed on to a bicep the size of my head to steady myself.

I sent him a smile of apology, nearly breaking my neck I had to crane it so high, and released his arm to stumble off. If I could have kicked the shoes off, they'd have been long gone.

I hit the art deco bathroom door and burst my way through. Inside was…no one. No threat. No battle. No starlet even.

“Thalia?” I called.

“Um, yeah,” she said, with an undertone of
what the hell
in her voice.

“Just checking,” I said feebly. “Show's about to start.”

I started in on the buckle of the sandal on my twisted ankle. When danger struck, I wanted to be ready. It meant leaning temporarily up against the wall for support. If I'd been smart, I would have moved away from the door first, but I'd been so sure everyone else was headed into the theatre…

The door smashed open, bashing my hip rather than hitting the wall. The blow overbalanced me in my one-footed stance and sent me reeling. I stumbled a few steps until I caught myself on a sink and looked up to see two demonic faces behind me in the mirror. The Roland brothers, suited up like ushers and each leering like a devil on a bottle of diablo sauce.

I wanted to yell to Thalia to stay where she was, but if they weren't aware of her already, I wasn't going to call her to their attention.

“You boys are in the wrong bathroom,” I said instead, hoping to warn her to stay right where she was.

“Oh, I don't think so,” one said. I could tell instantly that it was Ian…or whoever was riding along on his soul. The pull of Richie's blood gave him away. He was the twin closest to the door…between Thalia and escape.

Worse yet, he was the brother with a wedge in hand, which he kicked into place to jam the door shut and keep out any hope of reinforcements. A blow rocked the door just as he got the wedge into place, and I could hear Apollo calling my name, but I didn't have a second to respond.

Ian launched himself, coming at me dead on; Richie rushed me from the left. I dodged right, and my stupid ankle turned beneath me again. I vowed that if Apollo wanted to take me out in public again, he could damn well do it in combat boots. But that wasn't going to help me now.

There was only one thing to do—take footing out of the equations. I chanted the spell under my breath and felt the pleasure-pain of the wings bursting forth, unfurling and stretching in relief at their release from captivity.

The brothers had pivoted on a dime and were coming at me again, though Ian was a half-beat behind his brother, having checked himself momentarily at the sight of the wings. I flapped them hard, blessing the high ceilings, which gave me the room to launch. I kicked at Richie's hands, knocking them away as they tried to latch on to my feet and yank me down, then kicked off his head to leverage a blow at his brother, catching him right between the eyes.

If my wedges had been steel-toed or otherwise weaponized, they have packed more of a punch, but at least his head jerked back with the blow, and his eyes when they latched back on me were not entirely focused. Still, his grasping hands found my ankles and he yanked to pull me out of the air. I kicked hard, but he held on tight. The next thing I knew, he had a grip on my calf and then my thigh, pulling me down hand over hand. My wings beat frantically, but it was no good.

I cursed myself as a fool. I'd become so reliant on my supernatural arsenal, I'd forgotten the one absolutely mundane weapon I carried. I snapped open my little clutch, grabbed my pepper spray and dropped the rest. Before the contents hit the ground, I had the safety thumbed off on my canister and the stream aimed at Ian's face. I let loose with a burst, right in his eyes, and he screamed—one part fury and two parts pain.

He let go to claw at his face, and I kicked off, hoping to gain height before Richie could grab me in his stead. I nearly managed it, but he leapt up and grasped my shoe, twisting and yanking me down, a snarl on his face. Ian stumbled to the sinks and opened the faucets, splashing frantically and cursing at the burning. I knew from experience his face would be on fire.

I decided
screw it
and let myself drop like a stone. Richie couldn't handle the unexpected weight and had to let go. As soon as I touched down on the floor, I grabbed his head in both my hands and head-butted him full force. Pain bloomed, but I'd always been hard-headed, and he was the one to stagger back in pain. I followed up by mashing his instep and letting loose an uppercut to the chin. He wavered but didn't go down. Tougher than I'd thought. Preternaturally tough, as though he'd gotten something from Set's talismans besides bad dreams and bloodlust.

I planted my feet and whirled like a dervish, wings and feet flying, giving added force to the roundhouse kick I planted in his stomach. He grunted and toppled, but I didn't get to watch the fall. Ian hit me out of nowhere, tackling me at the waist, taking us both down to the floor. My right wing took the brunt of the fall, and I felt something snap between us. The pain flared like a supernova, but I grabbed Ian back, wrapping my arms around him and grabbing one of my wrists with the other hand to secure him tight. Locking him up like I was a human twist-tie.

“Run!” I yelled to Thalia, while I had both brothers down.

Apollo, I knew, was on the other side of the door. Maybe security as well. If Thalia could get it open, this could all be over. There was a split second's worrying delay, and then she burst out of the stall, running for the door.