Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (15 page)

Damien
hissed and pinched her hip, hard. Myra, on the left, blanched and lowered her
head. The others sat open-mouthed. Only Rinj looked amused. He made some
adjustments to his pressed chinos and gave her an intense stare. An interested
stare.

That
wasn’t quite the effect she was going for.

Damien
drew her back and positioned her behind him. “Why are we here, Samuels? Certainly
not to exchange pleasantries, as delightful as that’s been.”

Samuels
stubbed out the cigarette and lit another, the smoke drifting lazily toward the
ceiling. In the background the generator and sump pumps hummed and ka-chunked
with a white noise easy to ignore. It seemed like a strange place to die.

Not
that she could envision anything
good
about dying. It was just… she
wasn’t quite ready. And she really didn’t want to give the asshole sitting
smugly in front of them the satisfaction of dealing that particular card.

“Yes,
well, perhaps you are right, Rochon. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Damien shifted his weight, centering himself. Samuel’s next words made no
sense. “As they say my boy, ‘Houston we have a problem’.”

“Problem.”
Damien kept his voice flat and unemotional. Magda gave him props for the
effort. She was sure she’d not be able to under the circumstances.

Samuels
motioned toward the end of the table. “Rinj, if you would?”

Both
Magda and Damien shifted right to give their full attention to the man who
never spoke during Council business. That he did so now bode ill for their very
limited futures.

“Sammy
has a way with words,” Rinj said, displaying small even white teeth, the tips
of his fangs almost dainty. “As you can see, we are down a couple of members
due to unfortunate circumstances. At first we assumed they were accidents.” He
did the annoying finger quotes and moved on. “However, lately we’ve been coming
to a very different conclusion, particularly after hearing some disturbing news
from our counterparts across the Pond.” Rinj counted off on his fingers, “Two
of our members die in accidents, a High Council advocate goes missing in
Germany, another in Romania.”

Damien
tensed, his shoulders going rigid, a definite
uh-oh
given their very
recent history in Roma land.

Rinj
tapped a forefinger mindlessly on the metal table,
tap tap tappity tap
,
the sound echoing even over the noise of the machines holed up in some cubby
behind the faux walls.

The
man sighed and continued, “As you know, not everyone is on board with the
Council’s directives and leadership. We have factions disputing our hegemony
over keeping our presence secret from the human world, and within them there
are cadres with cells arguing over what coming out of the closet might mean to
our species.” He glanced down the row, then at the two standing in front of
him. “So far no faction has achieved anything other than sideshow status.”

Samuels
interjected, “…and that might be changing. Myra?”

Everyone
shifted eyes to the petite woman.

“We
have had some very public incidents, primarily in L.A. and Vancouver, of
extra-curricular Goth and Vamp subculture activities. Their posturing is
usually taken with a grain of salt but within the last six months we’ve come
across evidence of real feedings.”

Damien
said, “So? They’ve always mimicked the cinema and the mythology. That doesn’t
sound like anything new. It’s just humans acting out.”

Myra
continued, “I agree. And very often the deluge of late fall movie releases will
generate a rash of new allegations and sightings. But this time… they’ve
drained the victims.”

“You’re
sure of that?” Damien sounded skeptical.

“We
sent Torrence and his squad to investigate after the first one. The second
attack occurred while they were there. His team managed to get on site. The
evidence was irrefutable.”

“Still,
Myra, it’s one, maybe two rogues. Send the hit squad, deal with it.”

Samuels
said, so quietly they had to strain to hear him, “It’s far more than one.”

Damien
stilled, considering the implications. “Are you implying that these so-called
cells have gotten their shit together enough to be a threat?”

“That’s
exactly what I’m implying.”

“Are
they coming to my city?” Damien’s voice was pinched, the anger boiling just
below the surface.

Rinj
said, “No. You have a good organization in place. Your Havens are under control
and monitored constantly. We do not believe that this will be their first
target.”

Samuels
stood, six-foot-two of dark menace, and said, “We believe that Gotham will be
their next base of operations.”

“What
do you want me to do, Samuels?”

“I
want you to come to New York City to manage our system of Havens and to build
an infrastructure within the subcultures. We need to strengthen our defenses
before branching out to the other nodes.”

“You’re
saying we’re vulnerable?”

“Yes.
And I need you by my side to fix this.”

“Why
me, Lord? You know I don’t play well with strangers.”

“Ah,
my boy, but you do play well with humans.” Samuels picked up the throwing star
and handed it back to Magda. “And you like them. I don’t know why and I don’t
really care. But you are the only one who can do what needs to be done.”

“When
do you want us there?”

“Is
a week too short to set your affairs in order?”

Magda
cringed. She had no problems dropping everything on a moment’s notice. Catrina
on the other hand was a drama queen. She was not going to appreciate having to
pick up and move.

The
Council members all rose, indicating the meeting was over.

Rinj,
now that he’d broken the silence barrier, seemed anxious to chatter. “So, my
dearest Magda, would you be so kind as to accompany me on a round of your
famous jazz bars and eateries?”

Mind?
Actually no, she didn’t. The man was strangely attractive, his Japanese
American heritage giving him an exotic look and his reputation for… endurance
apparently was well-documented.

And
having Damien glare at her with disapproval, and dare she say it… jealousy,
made the offer even more enticing. She smiled brightly and said, “Tomorrow
evening?”

“Perfect.”
Rinj joined her and took her elbow, guiding her toward the door.

Damien
stomped ahead of them but paused when Samuels called out, “One more thing,
Rochon.”

“What?”
Damien’s voice shouted ‘last straw’ through clenched teeth.

“Make
sure you bring
everyone
in your little entourage.”

“I
don—”

“
Everyone
,
Damien. Don’t disappoint me.”

Magda
muttered, “You won’t like him when he’s disappointed.”

Rinj
chuckled low in his throat. “You didn’t really think we wouldn’t find out, now
did you?”

Shit
shit shit.

The
man patted her arm. “There, there, my love, I have enough energy for
both
of you.”

I’ll
just bet you do you muthafu—

CHAPTER THREE

Fais Do Do

“You
don’t disappoint, my dear.” Rijn stretched to his full five-foot-eight, using
the shackles to brace against. “However, I must warn you…”

Trina
looked up, curious. Her English was still hit or miss. She made up for that
with inventiveness and impeccable technique.

Rinj
groaned, “Don’t… don’t stop.”

Magda’s
eyes flicked nervously to the two-way mirror, then back to the examination
table Damien had filched from somewhere. She wasn’t comfortable knowing he
observed, let alone approved, of Catrina’s tender ministrations to one of the
ruling Council’s own.

So
much for keeping their prize a secret.

Moaning
something guttural in Japanese, Rinj arched his back, hips pumping and
swiveling against the sound Catrina manipulated with exquisite ease. With slow
movements she rotated the device, then withdrew it, ignoring the hiss of
disapproval from Rinj. His penis jerked spasmodically, the tip leaking in anticipation.

Magda
knew Damien would be getting off on watching their subject twist and beg for
more. Averting her eyes she backed along the wall, hoping to exit without
anyone noticing.

Wishful
thinking. Catrina sing-songed a command in her native tongue, a mishmash of
Romanian and Vlax, the accent peculiarly Hindi in tone. Whatever she said
brought Damien out of hiding. He brushed past her and approached the prone form
of their captive, his face set in a respectful mask.

Rinj’s
face was flushed, the complexion oddly florid against his coal black hair. If
he had any qualms about openly displaying his lust and sexual preferences, he
hid it well.

Damien’s
voice settled silky smooth in the musk-filled silence. “You were going to warn…
my ward?”

Her
Sire leaned in close, head cocked to the side, listening intently to whatever
whispered entreaties, or excuses, the man made. Though older than Damien by a
century or more, the two men seemed equally matched in power. Appearances,
however, could be deceiving.

Catrina
had been the one to recognize the essence of Rinj’s needs immediately. Almost
telepathically. Something Magda knew all too well but she preferred for her
offspring to keep the gift to herself, at least until they determined exactly
what the Council had in store.

For
all they knew Rinj was playing them, allowing Trina the dominant role while
acting submissive. Other than enjoying a certain sexual prowess, not nearly
enough was known about the man, the lack of substantiated rumors a gnawing
concern. He could have the ability to block Catrina’s gifts, since such
misdirection wasn’t unheard of.

Anything
was possible. Even she and Damien had yet to plumb the girl’s abilities to
their satisfaction. That left too many questions, though one thing Magda was
certain of… Catrina would die to protect her Sire.

Less
certain was which of the two of them would qualify at any given time.

It
made living with Catrina a crap-shoot and a challenge.

Rinj
continued to babble, a mix of Japanese and English in a tone that sounded
authoritative, threatening and demanding, all at the same time. Like the client
he was.

Damien
nodded acquiescence and backed away, murmuring, “Arigatō,” over and over.
When he turned to look at Magda, his face was etched into carefully smoothed
lines, giving nothing away.

So
much for Rinj’s apparent submissiveness. Her lord and master had been verbally
handed his ass on a platter with Catrina the designated serving wench. Magda
was inwardly tickled at his apparent comeuppance. Her Sire’s ego and arrogance
would get them into deep shit someday.

Fortunately
for them, this wasn’t going to be that day.

Damien
swept past her, lips set in a grim line. Magda followed him into the hall, then
stutter-stepped with surprise when he turned right, away from the adjacent
viewing room.

“Damien?”
she whispered, long-forgotten habits too ingrained to cast off. Rinj and
Catrina would hear her for as long as they stayed on that level. Picking up the
pace, Damien trotted down the hall like the devil himself was on his tail.

For
all she knew, that might be the case. Being around Catrina, or any Romani, had
that effect on humans and vamps alike.

Taking
the stairs two at a time, Damien disappeared into the pantry, slamming the door
and effectively isolating himself from everything happening below ground level.
She was sure he’d regret having missed the screams of pain and howls of ‘oh
shit, that’s good’ that followed her up the stairs.

****

Magda
spent the rest of the early evening hours assessing what she and Catrina would
need to box up and ship to New York City. Damien had left abruptly, taking only
Gabriel and a small arsenal. Damien wasn’t looking for protection; she’d be
nothing but an interference and a conscience. To feed his hunger for blood he
needed a tracker and Gab was the best. The tracker had mutely shrugged when
Magda raised a questioning brow before closing the screen door on their
retreating forms. She watched them, two hulking giants, mount crotch rockets
and careen into the soft, humid night.

They
would paint the darkness in shades of pain and retribution. She hoped Gabriel
had enough sense to keep his master away from the Havens and their loyal human
and supernatural clientele. There was nothing like a vampire bloodbath to set
ambiance back to the dark ages. There were a few for whom that might hold a
certain appeal, but, for the rest, she guessed… not so much.

What
was happening in the sub-basement niggled at her consciousness. She was too
aware of the fact that a girl of twenty-something should not be so… adept. It
pointed to specialized training from an early age and although Trina never
spoke of her youth, Magda gleaned sufficient insight from between-the-lines,
enigmatic statements and reactions to surmise that she’d been a victim of the
flesh trade. And, knowing the Roma, it wouldn’t surprise her that as a child
she’d been given over to either the Turks or the Magyars in return for
political, and other, favors.