Kitty’s Big Trouble (20 page)

I wasn’t sure I’d recognize normal any more if it bit me in the ass.

“Where are we going?” Anastasia asked.

“This is the spot on the map, at the mouth of the alley,” Grace said. “But there’s nothing here, so we have to go underground.”

“There’s not much underground here, is there?” Henry said. “The tunnel system’s an urban legend. The real tunnels were all destroyed in the earthquake back in ’06. The previous ’06, I mean.”

“I don’t care how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve been alive, you don’t know Chinatown,” Grace said. She glanced back at Anastasia. “None of you do.”

“I’ve known Chinatown for a hundred and fifty years,” Anastasia said.

“But it’s not the same. You act like China hasn’t changed in eight hundred years. All you know is what you think you know, but that isn’t always what’s real.”

Anastasia sneered at Grace, the puny mortal who had only a fraction of her years. She must have really hated needing the magician’s help.

Grace wasn’t done. “What about your ancestors? You keep holding mine over me, but what about yours? I bet it’s been centuries since you’ve made any offerings to them—that’s why you’re having all this shitty luck. Maybe you should be heading to a temple—”

Anastasia reached and caught hold of Grace’s neck. Grace gasped, and I jumped, lunging forward to grab hold of the vampire’s arm.

“Anastasia, stop,” I said.

She glared down at Grace, imperious and dispassionate, while Grace blinked back, struggling for breath. I squeezed Anastasia’s arm. “Let go.”

She did. I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t. Grace slumped against the wall.

“I have stepped outside the cycle,” the vampire said. “I have no descendants to burn offerings for me, so I burn no offerings for anyone else.”

“Your ancestors remember you. It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been dead, they’re still watching—”

The vampire shook her head and turned away. She murmured, “I’m sorry, Grace Chen. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

Grace would have been justified in walking away right there. But she reached into her bag and, frowning, said, “Let’s get this over with.”

We all turned to the door. Cormac tucked his cross and stake back into his jacket.

Grace pulled the candle and lantern from her bag and handed them to Cormac, who lit the lantern while she shouldered open the door at the base of the stairs. The second oil lantern had evidently been abandoned. Once again, the candle was our only light. We entered a dark tunnel.

“Where does this go?” Henry asked, and Grace shushed him.

Grace led, and Cormac and Anastasia kept close to her; Henry, Ben, and I followed, constantly glancing over our shoulders. The flickering candlelight created shadows, in which I was sure I saw demons.

I’d have thought I’d eventually get used to the feeling that ghosts were moving at the edges of my vision; that tingling feeling had settled into my spine and it wasn’t any more comfortable now than it had been at the start. This wasn’t my world down here, and I got the impression that I wasn’t welcome. None of us were. We’d escaped the tunnels last time—that didn’t mean we would again. A rat in a maze must feel like this, closed in, only able to see the paths in front of you and behind, wishing you could somehow see above it all, to see what terrors lurked ahead.

On our last trek, we’d moved forward with some amount of purpose, confident that we’d find what we were looking for at the end of the journey. This time, we walked cautiously, uncertain that any amount of vigilance would help us. I didn’t think any of us believed that we’d find the Dragon’s Pearl just lying there, waiting for us to take it.

“Ben, Kitty—you guys smell anything?” Cormac called back to us.

“I need a shower,” Ben said. “That’s about it.”

“Hm, shower,” I murmured. “Incentive for getting this over with and getting out of here as quickly as possible.”

Our footsteps sounded loud on the floor.

“We ought to be getting close,” Grace whispered.

We turned the next corner and saw a glow ahead. It could have been anything—a stray lamp, the first light of dawn breaking through a street-side aperture. But as we approached, it took on the quality of a lantern burning—yellow, warm, dancing. Whether we found ourselves in a room, in another part of the tunnel, or in some kind of alternate reality, someone was there, waiting for us. My nostrils widened as I tried to take in as much air as I could, hoping to sense what was waiting for us. I only smelled burning wax, heat, and lingering smoke. It masked whoever was there.

The corridor opened into a room; fanning out, we all saw him at the same time. A man, pale, his dark hair shorn close, his face stern, angular. He wore conservative clothing, a dark button-up shirt, black trousers, and a long overcoat.

It was Roman. He stepped back, his eyes widening for just a moment before he donned his stony, superior mask. I’d have sworn he looked surprised to see us.

“You do have the pearl!” Anastasia said.

“Anastasia,” he said simply, flatly. He might have been greeting her as they passed one another on the street. “It’s been a long time.”

She hissed at him, teeth bared, fangs showing, furious. When she sprang forward, Henry grabbed her, moving in front of her to force her back. At the moment, she didn’t look like a cool and collected player. What showed on her now was hatred. Henry had to wrap his arms around her and lean into her to keep her in check.

Roman looked at each of us in turn. I had an urge to grab Ben with one hand, Cormac with the other, and run hard the other way. Get me and mine out of there. Save ourselves while we still could. If this was a trap that Roman had set, we had little chance of escaping.

Then, I
really
looked.

Five candles burned in a circle around him, and he’d drawn symbols on the floor in red chalk. He, too, had a map of San Francisco spread before him, but his was drawn directly onto the floor, and I only recognized it by the shape of the coast. The streets were all different, wrong—twisting and haphazard, branching oddly and ending in wide blocks or dead ends. It was a map of the phantom tunnel system. Roman wasn’t just a vampire, he was also some kind of magician. He’d had lots of time to pick up hobbies here and there, one gathered. He was casting a search spell as Cormac had, to try to find the Dragon’s Pearl.

We hadn’t found the pearl at all. We’d found him, also searching for the pearl.

“Cormac?” I murmured, in lieu of a more useful question. His spell had gone awry, evidently.

“Huh,” he said. “Weird.”

Ben’s hand closed on my arm, transmitting his tension. Were we going to run? Fight? Those were the wolves’ choices. My choice was usually to talk. I had to swallow a couple of times, because my voice stuck.

“So, have you found it?” I said finally.

Roman cocked his head, and I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed. Maybe he was trying to decide. “The elusive Katherine Norville,” he said. If only he had a handlebar moustache to twirl.

“Not really. I’m pretty easy to find.”

“Yes,” he said. “You keep throwing yourself in front of avalanches.”

Yeah, about that … “I guess this means you haven’t found it, either.” Roman—not omnipotent. I should have been pleased.

“It’s mine!” Anastasia shouted. “I’ll find it! You’ll never get it, you’ll never have its power!”

“You were my slave, and you’re still little more than that, aren’t you?” Roman said to Anastasia, dismissing her with a glance, without a wasted emotion. “It’s only a matter of time. One of us will find it. If you do, I’ll simply take it from you.”

Someday, I would get the long and sordid story about those two and all the centuries they’d been at each other’s throats. But enough of the witty banter. I squeezed Ben’s arm. “It’s time to go, I think. Henry, get her out of here.”

“Henry, wait,” Roman said.

Henry stopped. His attention turned to Roman, drawn as if on a thread.

“Bring her to me.”

Henry moved toward him, steps slow and heavy. He tilted his head, and his expression turned pursed, confused, as if he could not understand why he was obeying. And yet he kept moving.

“Henry, stop,” Anastasia said, and he did. But he didn’t let her go.

“It’s all right,” Roman said. “It’s going to be fine. Bring her here.”

The anxious lines in Henry’s face went slack as his will vanished. Anastasia struggled, pulling against his grasp as he dragged her forward.

This wasn’t happening. I didn’t care if Roman thought he was god-emperor of vampires, this wasn’t happening. I sprang at Henry, hoping to knock him off balance enough that Anastasia could break free. Then I hoped she’d have the sense to get herself out of here instead of going after Roman again.

I slammed my weight on his arms to break that grip. Instead, we all crashed into the wall. I didn’t have much that worked against vampires, but I tried, jamming my elbow into his throat and biting a meaty bicep. I didn’t want to hurt him, I just wanted to rattle him. Shake him loose from Roman’s control. I had no idea if it would work.

Anastasia wrenched free with a snarl, and I scrambled away from them both.

She was getting ready to pounce at Roman again. I grabbed her arm.

“Go, get Grace out of here,” I said. “You guys have to find the pearl before he does.” Her expression twisted with the indecision—stay to fight her nemesis, or be the first to get the artifact. The big-picture goal must have won because she took Grace by the hand, and together they ran. “Henry?” I said, hoping to get through to him. “Henry!”

He was staring at Roman, still entranced, waiting for the next instruction.

“Kill the wolf,” Roman said to him, and Henry looked at me.

So much for that.

“Ben,” I hissed, looking for my husband. I didn’t have to look far—he stood behind me, shoulders hunched, ready to attack. I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the doorway. “We gotta go.”

I thought Cormac was right with us, on the same page—escape and regroup. But during the commotion, Anastasia’s outburst, and Henry’s enslavement, he’d clung to the wall and worked his way around the edge of the room. He was going to do something stupid; it wasn’t going to work. I kept my wide-eyed gaze on Roman, hoping not to draw any attention to the hunter, who had slipped Wyatt Earp’s polished stake into his hand.

He lunged, stabbing the stake down toward Roman’s back. The strike was perfect—the careful stalking, the patient waiting, and the pounce that came without warning, without a flinch. Any wolf pack would be proud of such a hunt.

Roman saw it coming anyway.

The vampire pivoted back, arm raised, cracking his fist into Cormac’s face. The hunter fell, limbs loose, crumpling to the stone floor. Blood streamed from a split lip.

Ben and I sprang to protect our family. Hunting as a pack now, we went low and high, me for Roman’s legs and Ben for his throat. Not that either target would have any impact on the immortal undead. If we chewed long enough maybe we could rip his head off. If only Roman would give us the opportunity.

The vampire punched, putting his whole body into the strikes, one fist into Ben’s face, the other into mine, in almost the same movement. I hit the floor and saw lights. Roman stood, immovable as stone. We were never going to win this fight, and in my gut Wolf whined, kicking with an urge to flee.

Roman moved before the doorway, blocking our exit while the three of us were still picking ourselves up off the floor. This would be the perfect chance for someone standing in the doorway to put a stake in the guy’s back, but Grace and Anastasia had fled; the hallway behind Roman was empty. Well. At least they’d gotten away. Roman didn’t appear willing to give us a chance to do the same.

In the absence of any targets directly in front of him, Henry had paused, looking at Roman and waiting for the next command.

“Henry!” I called. “Henry, please, wake up! Help us!”

“Henry, sleep,” Roman said. The younger vampire closed his eyes and slumped against the wall, not even bothering to fall all the way to the floor. He seemed suddenly childlike and helpless. How could I ever think of a vampire as helpless?

The walls felt like they were getting closer.

“Cormac?” I whispered. I sounded hoarse, Wolf’s voice on the surface. Still holding the stake, he nodded. If we could distract Roman, we might get a second chance. Roman couldn’t fight all three of us at once, could he?

Actually, he could.

He moved too fast, and his senses were too good. No matter how we tried to game it—one or two of us attacked from the front while another of us waited to ambush from behind, or all of us tried to jump him from three different directions—he was always ready. To strike first, to step out of the way, to grab one of us and slam us into the other. He’d survived for two thousand years. He knew
a lot
of tricks.

We were getting pummeled, but we kept going because we could take a lot of pummeling. My injured leg had gone stiff, throbbing with pain. Cormac—he’d slowed down and half his face was bloody. He couldn’t take much more of this, but how did we stop it? Roman was playing with us, catlike.