Blood Legacy (7 page)

But all I could think of was Victor Bressov and the alluring, shapely shelf of his lips. The swift flick of his fingertips . . . I tightened one hand into a fist and turned my head the other way. “No.”

“No?” he repeated, eyebrows raised. Had I ever denied him before? Usually I was the one chasing after him, pouting when he blew me off to head to some clandestine meeting or to run some minor operation.

“Just . . . not tonight. Please.” I ducked out from
under his arm and turned away from him. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, is all.”

Lordy, did that barely begin to cover it.

“Okay, Raven, I’m sorry.” Finch grabbed at my towel. “Listen, how about you get some rest—”

The towel pulled
away from my backside in his hand. He didn’t make a sound, but he didn’t have to. I could feel his gaze running over my bruised and battered ass like the blade of a knife. I tugged the towel back into place, but it was too late. He knew. He had to have known.

“ . . . Yeah. Just get some rest, kid.”
He smiled sadly. “Only those who die can truly live,” he added, echoing the Resistance’s slogan.

His footsteps rang through the tiny compartment, and the door swooshed open and shut behind him.

I slumped against the door to my wardrobe, letting the cold from the plastic seep into my cheek. This was going to get real complicated, real fast.

But I didn’t have time to worry about what Finch thought of me. My presence was
required
at the social event of the season, which, if the Stream video was to be believed, might just be the most important event to befall our Republic since Lucio Bressov’s assassination. I squeezed and shimmied and stuffed and tucked and fluffed my way into the absurdly expensive dress Victor had sent me, and tried (unsuccessfully) to stop myself from imagining how that dress would feel if Victor were to also peel it off of me.

Chapter Four

I felt completely ridiculous
riding the mag lift up to street level in my couture gown and metallic corset. Not many humans traipse around this late at night—not any you want to encounter—so at least there was room on the lift for me to breathe, but between the metal binding my waist and the tight fist of anxiety that had hold of me, it was little comfort. A grim-mouthed old Laborer eyed me up and down, probably guessing that I was headed Uptown, and sighed to himself. Traitor, indeed.

Once I reached the street level, I transferred to a horizontal mag train that actually had seats and smelled like it had been cleaned sometime in the past century. There were a lot more Vampyrs on the train, hopping on and off as it slithered between the looming towers of New Sanguinus, but I took comfort in knowing that the other humans on the train were traitors like me—ones who had simpered and ass-kissed their way into one of the Families’ good graces, selling out our race so they could enjoy an apartment proper and a view of actual sky
. Not that we ever glimpsed the sun in New Sanguinus—the Vampyrs in charge of the cumulogenerators saw to that.

Finally, the train deposited me at the raised platform near Bressov Towers. I stared up at it—and up. The black glass, carved with elaborate art deco shapes inlaid with gold, soared into the twinkling stars. Leave it to the Bressovs to request the omnipresent clouds cleared out for their party
after sun had set. I clattered down from the platform and approached the grand entrance, sucked in my breath, and marched toward the red carpet.

Sleek private limos swooped down from the air, their prows shark-like, and deposited furred and flocked Vampyrs onto the carpet before me. It seemed like a nearly endless stream of them—skin and hair and
eyes of every possible shade, yet nearly all dressed in black or jewel tones. Though my dress was dark, it was probably the brightest color here. I waited for an opening between the couples and clusters and approached the bouncer, alone, shoulders pulled back.

“Hand,” he said.

I held out my left hand. He ran the scanner over the back of my hand, and it chirped cheerfully and turned green.

“The lift to the grand ballroom is just inside, on the right.” He smiled without humor. “Just follow the crowd.”

The marble-lined grand foyer was positively cavernous. Rounded settees dotted the landscape, interspersed with spiky, painful-looking metallic sculptures and vases spewing blood-red roses, white lilies, and other flowers that must have been shipped in from the farmlands at unfathomable cost. Vampyrs lounged on the settees, surrounded by their entourages of other Vampyrs and Donors alike. I entered the lift—it was bigger than my compartment in Undertown—with only a single Vampyr and his Donor, whom he kept chained on a delicate gold leash. Her hollowed-out eyes darted toward me; even painted with gold leaf, there was a darkness shrouding her gaunt face that made my stomach churn. I leaned against the lift wall and closed my eyes.

Deep breaths, Raven. Pretend you’re on another mission. Play it cool.

The lift doors opened onto a scene of complete and utter chaos.

The grand ballroom must have been at least five stories tall, with a ceiling that came to a high point, echoing the pointed top of Bressov Towers. The upper three stories, I wagered, were occupied by shifting, chaotic holographic lights that fluttered through a sequence of geometric patterns and dark images, spraying their glow onto the dancers far below. While the grand hall was dimly lit, I imagined it was still plenty bright enough for Vampyrs, with their keen senses, to see everything that was transpiring. I hoped my eyes would adjust quickly, as well—I didn’t relish the thought of stumbling around blind in a cave full of predators.

A million smells washed over me as I stumbled onto the slick marble floors: perfumes and cologne, expensive and ancient vintages of wine, and a heady bouquet of sweat and musk. For creatures so concerned with the smell of our blood, these Vampyrs sure know how to stink up a room themselves. But then an Administrative strode past me, decked in tux and tails, discreetly spritzing a crystal-cut bottle in his path that seemed to instantly neutralize the bodily odors, leaving behind only the pleasant, enticing scent of a faraway buffet.

Couples and trios whirled around the main dance floor to a bizarre musical blend of operatic symphony and electronic trills. The only music we get down in Undertown is whatever pop dreck they pipe down the Stream; while this music’s subtleties were lost to my untrained ear, I could tell it bore a good deal more intricacy and subtleness than the bland Vampyr crooner of the month they were always showcasing on the Stream vids.

But I had no intention of dancing, even though the beautiful flounce of my gown’s skirt was designed for it. Not that I had the first clue what I intended here. Would it satisfy Victor enough to catch sight of me, and then I could go? Or did he mean to finish what we’d started in his office?

Something fluttered in my chest at the thought of it, and warmth swelled deep down. Foolish mortal and her foolish hormones.

“My, my, don’t you smell just divine,” someone purred from behind me. I whirled to find myself face to face with a pale-skinned Vampyr with curly white-blonde hair dangling down the length of his brocade waistcoat. “Such clean blood, too. I don’t suppose you’re a wandering tray of hors d’oeuvres, are you?”

“I don’t see a leash on her,” said a tall, trim Vampyr with deep brown skin. In contrast to his Edwardian attire, she looked like she was fresh off an interstellar shuttle, her dress all sharp angles and triangular shoulder points. “Honey, are you looking to be a Donor? Because you’ve got my patronage.”

The first man tangled his hand in one of my curls where it spilled over my shoulder. “I know they like to do things by the book here at the Bressovs’, but we can get the registration filed in a hurry. I’d be delighted to sponsor you.”

“You’ll share, right?” the woman asked with a pout.

No, wait—that wasn’t a pout. That was her lips distending as her fangs started to emerge.

Oh, god. Adrenaline spiked through my veins. I stumbled back, prying out of the man’s grasp. “I’m not a Donor. And—and I’m not going to become one. Please—”

The man crossed his arms, expression darkening. “Well, if you don’t want to donate, maybe you shouldn’t have such delicious, clean-smelling blood.”

Right—because it was totally my fault these spoiled Vampyrs treated humans like their personal property. I all but ran away from the pair and clung to the wall. But maybe he had a point—maybe if I got a drink (or five) in me, it’d ward off some of the more aggressive Vamps with their personal space issues.

And I had plenty of reasons to grab a drink right about now.

I found the bar running along one creamy marble wall—it was made of luscious ebony wood with gleaming brass fixtures. The bartenders looked like human administratives, the sort of sycophants I’d been frowning upon on the mag train ride over here—but who was I to judge? All these humans had to do was kiss the right Vampyr ass to get their cushy life topside. I’d let one paddle me silly, and come back for m
ore. “A vodka tonic,” I said, sliding into one of the plush leather bar chairs, pain shooting off the welts on my butt as I did so. “Better make it extra dry.”

The bartender looked me over with pursed lips. “You’re sure you’re not a Donor?” he asked.

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes, but held out my left hand. “Scan me if you have to.”

He did, taking way longer than was strictly necessary to read the results on the scanner’s screen. Once he had, though, his whole demeanor changed, and he actually smiled at me. “One vodka tonic, coming right up.”

I watched the oily sheen of the alcohol as he stirred it in the glass. “Why the change in attitude?” I asked. “Is it nice not to have to stare into the dead Donor eyes for once?”

He flinched and set the drink in front of me. “I’d never say anything of the sort. No, ma’am, once I saw whose guest you’re registered as, I figured you could use some kindness from
some
body.”

His eyes trailed away from mine. I followed his gaze up, up, squinting into the darkened balcony at the far end of grand hall,
where a few shadowed figures clustered against a thick stone balustrade. My eyes must have been adjusting to the dark, because even at a distance, I knew, without a doubt, who the two figures front and center of the balcony were.

The swirling light show glinted off his face, and I could almost swear he looked right at me then.

“I, uh . . . I appreciate it,” I mumbled, and took a sizable gulp of my drink.

I knew I shouldn’t,
but I couldn’t stop myself. I found myself gauging the shrinking space between the silhouettes of Victor and Violetta. I had no illusions as to the nature of their relationship, volatile though it was. What really concerned me was whether Victor meant to turn me into an unwitting pawn in his power games with Violetta, or if I was something else to him entirely.

Did he bend Violetta over a desk and ravage her from behind, like he’d started to do to me? My cheeks flushed at the thought of it. I’d scarcely gotten a look at his form, but based on my fingers’ fumbling, I’m pretty sure what I would find. That soft skin, pale but not pasty, stretched taut over the ridges of his muscles. They’d swoop into a luscious, knife-edged V—I’d felt that perfect swoop this morning as my fingers tried to blaze down his treasure trail before he bound me . . .

Someone bumped into me from behind, and I became acutely aware of the fact that I was biting my lip so fiercely that I’d drawn blood. This gala was not the time nor place to lose focus—the Vampyrs I’d encountered earlier were proof enough of that. I swallowed more of my drink, letting it burn down my throat, but the delicious pain of it sent my thoughts spinning, imagining further pains I could endure at Victor Bressov’s hands . . .

Perhaps the crack of a whip along my back, my wrists straining at an iron X, just like in that post-Donation hallucination . . .

His tongue exploring my breasts, sucking and tweaking them with his teeth . . .

I shook my head. Keep your wits about you, Raven. You’re going to need them now more than ever.

“What are you doing, sitting over here all alone?” A shadow crossed over my shoulder as someone slid into the bar chair next to mine. I whirled around to face Nastasya Faudre, the member of Victor’s entourage who’d actually bothered to acknowledge me earlier this morning. Her bouncy dark blonde hair was flawless as ever, sweeping over one shoulder, its curled ends barely touching the top of her strapless green velvet gown. Her brown eyes looked positively gooey in the dim light.

“Just enjoying a drink. I don’t suppose your kind do much of that, do you?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly. We enjoy your human food and beverage just as much, if not more, as your kind does.” She lifted a gloved hand to her mouth, revealing a delicate canapé, and took a nibble. “Of course, our bodies have no use for it, but since when has that ever stopped anyone? If you could eat all you wanted and never gain an ounce, wouldn’t you?”

“‘My kind’ isn’t exactly used to getting to eat all we want,” I said sourly. Her cheeks turned red. “God—I’m sorry. That isn’t your fault.”

“No, no, you’re completely right. The powers that be—” She waved her hand vaguely around the room, but there was no doubt who she meant—the Coven members convened on the balcony above. “They see humans as a necessary evil, some sort of livestock that must be tolerated and managed, and of course they look for the cheapest and most efficient means of doing so. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”