Laws of the Blood 2: Partners (2 page)

The Starbucks was crowded on this rainy autumn night, but Char was certain no one but she had heard the
dhamphir
’s words. She wished she hadn’t.

She whirled around to protest the unfairness of such a dirty job being given to her, but of course the
dhamphir
was no longer behind her or anywhere in the coffee shop. The dead traveled fast and all that hyperbole. Where he’d come from she didn’t know, where he went she didn’t care—as long as it was somewhere far away from her. The woman who was behind her in line gasped as Char bumped into her, and Char stepped aside rather than offer excuses or apologies. She moved to the back of the other line and indulged in a bit of sulking while waiting to order her latte.

Why me?
she wanted to howl into the night—though it would disturb the other patrons who’d come in out of the cold rain if she were to make a fuss. She did not go around disturbing people. Okay, occasionally she had to kill them, but she hated the idea of upsetting anyone she didn’t have to. No reason the patrons of Starbucks should be burdened with the knowledge that she’d been ordered to commit a murder. The floor was wet and the windows steamy; the place was full of warm bodies and the rich scent of coffee. Jazz played on the sound system, barely audible over the buzz of conversation. The lines waiting to order stretched all the way to the door, and every spindly chair at every tiny table was full. Bodies brushed against hers, and the sound of laughter filled her ears, only serving to emphasize to Char how alone she was in the night. She liked to think of herself as serving
and protecting. But then, she supposed, so did Jebel Haven.

Jebel Haven could not possibly be his real name. Come on, was anyone really going to be named something as wildly heroic as that? She knew all about Jebel Haven, or at least as much as was possible to learn from a long way away from the man. She’d made a point of following his career, which was probably why she’d been picked to eliminate him as a threat to the Strigoi. She could argue that she didn’t see why he was a threat, but arguing with the Council would get another Enforcer sent after her, and eventually Jebel Haven was going to kill a strigoi, and mortals simply couldn’t be allowed to do that. That was the Enforcers’ job.

Jebel Haven was a good name for a crusader; Char gave him that. She was of the opinion that if you were going to be a superhero, you needed a cool name to go with the gig. Problem was, comic book writers had grabbed all the good hero names long ago. You had to do your best with what was available. Char wasn’t
exactly
her real name, either, but Charlotte McCairn just wasn’t a very good name for a vampire, especially not an Enforcer, a Keeper of the Law, and a daughter of the Nighthawk line. She went by Char, as in burnt and blackened. Like charcoal rather than simpering, silly Char, pronounced Shar—bleah! She’d considered calling herself Cairn for a while but figured that at some point someone would call her Rocky, and she’d have to kill them.

Kill them. What an awful thing to joke about. One did, though, easily, and such casual references to murder
made no sense. Committing murder was serious business and should be treated with respect. And handled strictly by hardworking professionals such as herself. Except that Enforcers were supposed to be involved with executions rather than indiscriminate violence . . . which brought her thinking back to Jebel Haven.

Char put murder out of her mind for a few minutes more until she picked up her order and left the coffee shop. Her original plan for the evening had been to settle down in a quiet corner and watch the world go by for a while. She had a copy of today’s
Oregonian
with her in case there was no one interesting in the place to strike up a conversation with. If she didn’t make direct contact with humanity, that was okay, too; just being out among people was a relaxing pastime sometimes. She knew she spent way too much time reading books and working with databases. Pity Istvan had put a hard, abrupt end to any semblance of normal, ungeeky, civilized behavior for this late-autumn evening in Portland.

The rain had slowed to a cold drizzle by the time Char stepped outside. She took some pleasure from the moist air while she walked. She walked a long way and eventually found that she was in her favorite spot in her favorite park. And what a symbolic and sentimental choice her subconscious had chosen, the place being a memorial to fallen war heroes. Truth was, she hoped it was the smell of witch hazel and roses that led her to the Garden of Solace, even though the scents were faint at this time of the year. Her sense of smell had become keener since she’d become a Nighthawk. Her wits, however—well, she worried about them a lot.

For one thing, Char now realized that she’d forgotten about her latte, though she still held the cold cup of coffee in her hand. She dumped it onto the ground and thought of libations and sacrifices and muttered, “Oh, come on, it’s only a Grande from Starbucks, Char.” Besides, the goddess, if the goddess had ever existed, would prefer blood to coffee. Char didn’t, but it was a little late to mention an aversion to the stuff at this point. Blood had its place, of course, and could be delicious under the right circumstances. But
never
in her wildest dreams had she ever suspected she’d crave the taste of another living being’s heart.

“I was a vegetarian once, you know,” she said, though there was no one around to hear her. Char did that a lot—talked to herself. Came from being alone too much, she supposed. Of course, she’d never been very good socially. Being a vampire had helped her natural shyness for a while. Then she’d changed into a Nighthawk, and nobody wanted to hang out with her anymore. Nighthawks didn’t have a lot of friends. Probably because they ate them under the right circumstances. That tended to put people off.

Speaking of putting things off, long, lonely walks in the mist weren’t going to help her forget her troubles or that she was now Haven’s trouble. Char sighed loudly. There was nothing she could do but to go home and consider the best way to kill a man. And what she needed to pack for a trip to Arizona.

Home was not a nest, with a household and companions and all the other trappings of strigoi society. She knew some Nighthawks lived perfectly normal lives, but
she wasn’t up to it, not yet. Maybe never. She hadn’t been involved with anyone since Jimmy left, not in any emotional way. She was pretty certain she was a one-vampire woman who had ended up a lone hunter. But that was all right, because Enforcers needed to focus on the job rather than having personal entanglements. Char knew her destiny was to be more like the scary, psychopathic Istvan than Marguerite, Portland’s other Enforcer. Portland’s real Enforcer, actually. Char was allowed to hang around because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or she hadn’t until a few hours ago. Now she had somewhere to go and didn’t want to go there.

“On so many levels,” she murmured, noticed that she held the key to her apartment in her hand, and wondered why.

Char focused her attention and realized that she was staring at the dark, blank wood of a door and that she was home, at least in the physical sense. She shook her head, annoyed at being so out of it tonight. It was a good thing no one had attempted to assault her on her evening ramblings, or they would have ended up a tasty, wholesome snack before she’d been able to stop herself. Thinking of people as snack food showed how undone she was by Istvan’s appearance once more in her orderly, quiet life. Not that she’d actually gotten a look at his appearance, per se, not this time, but the
dhamphir
’s taking an interest in her was no more welcome this time than the other times she’d communicated with him. Been communicated at by him? Yes, that said it much better. The last time he’d talked to her, he’d told her he didn’t think she was up to acting as an Enforcer yet, and she’d
readily agreed. Now it seemed he had changed his mind.

Of course, she had to go out into the world sometime and prove her mettle. She knew that, but she had enjoyed her two quiet years doing research and compiling data on subjects relating to the strigoi. It was useful, important work that she’d taken far beyond the strict parameters she’d begun with. Highly classified, as well. In fact, she strongly suspected only she and Istvan knew about it, that it was his idea. They would both be in big trouble with the Strigoi Council if they—whoever
they
were—ever found out about it. In fact, she suspected one of the reasons Istvan wanted the information was so that he could find the Council. But why he wanted to do that since he was their voice and hand, at least in North America, Char quite firmly refused to think about.

Besides, she didn’t like the idea of leaving town so close to the holidays. She had an invitation from Marguerite’s nest for Thanksgiving. She didn’t get invited out often. And then there was Hanukkah, Christmas, and Blessing of the Knives coming up. “Maybe I can put off killing Haven at least until after Blessing Day.”

With that thought in mind, Char unlocked the door and went into her dark apartment. Of course, she needed a better excuse than multicultural merrymaking if she was going to put off carrying out a direct order from the Strigoi Council.

Char had barely turned on the living room light and taken off her old blue raincoat when she realized someone was about to knock on the door. A tight knot formed in her stomach, and her hands balled nervously into fists. Natural shyness warred with predator instincts, and the
result was that her diamond-sharp claws pierced bloody indentations in the tough skin of her palms. The knock sounded, low and fast and frantic.

“Coming,” Char called to the vampire in the hall. She snatched a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wiped her hands, then stuffed the Kleenex in her pants pocket before turning the handle. The tiny cuts were already healed, her claws safely retracted, but the scent of blood lingered on the air. Not such a bad thing, she told herself, in the home of a hunter. She was still blushing when she opened the door. A woman stood outside, a thin, pale wraith of a woman. At least that was the impression Char had at first sight. The woman was actually short, matronly, and comfortably plump, but Char could tell that the stranger’s spirit was worn thin with worry. “Yes?” she said to the other vampire.

The woman looked up and down the empty hallway, then pointedly at Char. “May I come in?”

The legend about vampires having to be invited into human homes was not true. However, no right-thinking vampire would enter another strigoi’s home uninvited. To do so was a gross insult, a breach of territorial rights that led to the sorts of dominance games Enforcers actively discouraged in this modern age. To enter an Enforcer’s home uninvited was tantamount to offering yourself as the Enforcer’s next meal. Sort of like being a self-delivering pizza.

Char grew queasy at this thought. She stepped back and said, “Please come in.”

Once the stranger was inside, Char took the woman’s coat, made room enough for her to sit on the living room
couch, and said, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? And you are?” she added almost as an afterthought, trying to sound cool and in control as well as polite.

The woman dismissed Char’s courtesy with a slight smile. Then she turned a worried expression on Char and said. “My name is Helene Bourbon. I need your help.”

A ripple of emotion went through Char that was so strong she had to quickly sit down in the chair across the narrow coffee table from the couch. She sat on a pile of paper and books, of course, but she ignored that. Help? Someone actually needed
her
help? She was thrilled. Excited. Happy. Terrified. Definitely terrified. Puzzled. Why would anyone need her help? This was the opportunity to aid her community that she’d been hoping for and dreading with equal zeal.

“This is an eventful night,” she said and found that she was rubbing her forehead. She even tried the old nervous habit of pushing her glasses up on her nose and then remembered that she hadn’t had to wear glasses for years. Yes, she was shaken. First Istvan and now Helene Bourbon putting in appearances to shake her out of her quiet, circumscribed life. “I’ve heard of you, Ms. Bourbon,” Char said to her visitor. “Your nest is down the coast.”

“Near Yachats. And I’m too old to be comfortable with being called Ms. Of course, I was never anyone’s Mrs. And Lady Helene does sound a bit silly these days. Never mind.” The woman made a sweeping gesture, as though waving away her own facetious words. Char had noticed that Helene Bourbon had been looking anywhere but at her, but then the woman made an obvious effort
to make eye contact with her. She said, “I’m nervous about being in your presence, Hunter.”

It shocked Char that a vampire would be afraid of her, but that
was
supposed to be one of the perks of the job. She knew who Bourbon was, some of the woman’s past as well as her present occupation and address. She wasn’t a lady in the heraldic sense of the word, and she wasn’t one of
those
Bourbons, but she never actually
claimed
to be. Char thought everyone was allowed at least a little vanity. So, rather than reveal that she had secret knowledge, Char asked, “What brings you to Portland?”

Any sign of nervousness disappeared in the woman across from her, and all her concern rushed back. “I’ve come about my missing nestling,” she told Char.

“
I
’
VE COME ABOUT
my son,” the woman said.

She stood just inside the doorway, with Baker behind her.