Lover's Bite (17 page)

“Yes,” Vixen said to the man. “This is Topaz, and this is Seth. They're friends. Good ones.”

He glanced at each of them as they were introduced, but only briefly. “I'm Reynold. This is my mate, Crisa.”

Crisa gripped Reynold's forearm and stared hard at Vixen. “Could you show us?”

Reynold shot her a quelling look, but before he could say anything, Seth spoke. “It's not a parlor trick, hon. Or a spectator sport.”

“Yeah, and she's not some kind of circus bear waiting to dance for you,” Topaz snapped.

Crisa lowered her head quickly. “I'm sorry. I've made you mad. I've made them mad, Reynold, haven't I? I didn't mean to. I only wanted to see her change into a fox. I've never seen a vampire change into a fox before.”

She continued muttering as she walked away, head bowed. Some of the others stepped out of her path as she moved amongst them.

Vixen frowned after her.

“She's…different,” Reynold said softly. “She meant no offense, she just doesn't…understand some things.”

Mentally, Topaz realized as she delved into the girl's essence a bit more deeply, Crisa was childlike. An innocent. “I'm sorry I snapped at her like that. I didn't realize,” she told Reynold softly.

“She'll have forgotten all about it in a few minutes.” Reynold turned, waving a hand at the large room before them. A small bar, perhaps six feet long and made of pounded copper, took up one corner. A handful of stools stood in front of it, and there were small overstuffed chairs and settees grouped around tiny coffee tables in various spots around the huge room. Behind the bar, built into the wall, there were refrigerators. It didn't take much imagination to figure out what they contained. The liquor bottles on the shelves were clearly just there for show, in case some mortal should venture too near. The layer of dust on them ought to give away the truth, but an ordinary human wouldn't notice.

The lights were electric, but muted by amber shades that gave them a softer glow. The place was painted in red and yellow, lined with clay pottery, some of which held cacti and desert flowers. The walls were decorated with figures of skeletons playing various musical instruments and dancing, and, here and there, crosses made of tiny
papiermâché
skulls. Topaz smiled, recognizing the symbols of
Dia del Muerte,
the Day of the Dead. Brightly colored handwoven rugs lined the floors, and Mexican music played softly from unseen speakers.

“Welcome to Casa Crisa,” Reynold said. “We created this place as a haven for our kind. There are so few places where we can gather, socialize, feel…well, somewhat normal. Of course, its existence is a well-kept secret. Only the locals, those we know and trust, are aware of it.”

Topaz nodded, and slid onto a stool in front of the bar, running her fingers over the copper surface. It was old.

“Why don't you tell me what brings you here?” Reynold asked. “Clearly, you have a purpose.”

“What makes you think so?” Seth asked.

“Our kind don't usually seek out places with an abundance of sunshine, my friend. Those who come to Mexico usually come for a reason.” He eyed Topaz. “And I sense the reason, in this case, is yours. Tell me what you're looking for, and maybe I can help.”

She nodded. “I'm looking for Mirabella DuFrane.”

He frowned hard, then turned toward one of the refrigerators in the back and opened it. “You mean the famous actress?” he asked. He was inserting a tap into a plastic bag with the Red Cross logo on it. He filled three glasses and set them on the bar. “Here, on the house.”

Seth and Vixen slid onto stools flanking Topaz.

“Thank you,” she said. “And yes, I do mean the actress. Everyone believes she was killed, but I know she wasn't. She was transformed. Brought over. She's one of us.”

“And how do you know that, child? Gossip? Tabloids?”

Topaz sipped from her glass. “I know it because she transformed me, ten years ago.” She took another long drink, the blood soothing and empowering her. Her comrades had already drained their glasses, she noticed.

The reed-thin vampire frowned hard, clearly not believing her claim.

“And before she brought me into
this
life, she brought me into the other one,” Topaz went on, starting to feel as if she really were sitting at an ordinary bar, drinking alcohol. The thought took her back. A tiny, not unpleasant buzz was beginning to take hold. “The original one.”

“I don't follow,” Reynold said.

“She was,” Topaz said, “
is
…my mother. And I want her. I want my mother.” Tears welled in her voice, and her throat went tight. And just as she realized something was very wrong and lowered her gaze to stare at her now empty glass, Seth's head clunked down onto the bar on her left. Vixen slid in slow motion off the stool on Topaz's right, sinking to the floor. She lifted her head and sent Topaz a goofy smile before she closed her eyes.

Topaz faced Reynold again, blinking at him as he swam in her vision. “What did you put in our drinks?”

“We protect our Bella,” he said softly. “And you aren't the only ones out there looking for her. So until we know for sure what you want, we have to take…precautions.”

 

The woman who opened the door in response to Jack's knocking was beautiful, with dark hair and eyes like a Gypsy's. She wore a low-cut black halter dress that hugged her all the way to the floor. She was tiny in stature, with an innocence about her eyes, and a youthful aura that suggested she wasn't any older than Jack himself.

“What can I do for you two fine vampires tonight?” she asked, her voice sultry and suggestive as she stood in the doorway and stared them up and down.

Jack looked at Reaper. Reaper looked back, then frowned and turned his gaze past the woman to scan the inside of the house. Jack followed his line of sight. It was quiet inside. Beautiful mortal women lounged around here and there in revealing clothes, their skin abnormally pale, their throats bearing the telltale marks that would disappear with the touch of the sun, so long as they were alive to see it when it rose.

“They work for you?” Reaper asked.

The woman nodded. “My name is Rosa. This is my place.” Her accent was thick. “You can wipe those judgmental expressions from your faces. The women are here of their own free will, and they are
very
well compensated. And well pleasured, besides. At Rosa's place, everyone wins.”

Jack frowned and nudged Reaper. “I'm not getting it.”

“It's a whorehouse, Jack,” Reaper said. “Mortal women service the needs of vampires. Blood, body, whatever, for a price.”

“Obviously you did not know that before you arrived,” Rosa said. “So tell me just what it is you
do
want,
señor.
Why have you come here?”

“We're looking for someone,” Jack said softly. “Mirabella DuFrane.”

The woman's eyes widened, and she turned and shot her gaze around the room. The women who'd been lounging around got up and hurried away—down hallways, up stairs, through doors that closed behind them. From above came the sound of footsteps rushing around.

His voice would have carried to any vampire within range, of course, Jack thought.

Rosa looked past them into the darkness of the yard. Reaper and Jack turned, as well, and saw several vampires, mostly men, but one or two females, sailing downward from second-floor windows to land easily on the grassy lawn, then speeding away. Rosa pulled the two of them inside and closed the door.

Jack looked around in surprise. The place seemed abandoned now. Oh, there were still mortals around, quivering in their rooms, but every vampire had left the building, except for the one who stood before them.

Rosa rolled her eyes. “There goes one of the most profitable nights I was ever going to have. Thanks to you.
Dios,
what is the matter with you, mentioning that name? Are you loco?”

“I didn't know it would cause such a stir,” Jack said, and if he sounded a bit defensive, it was because that was how he felt. She acted as if he'd committed a cardinal sin.

She frowned. “You are not from around here, yes?”

“No.”

“Then why have you come?”

“Look,” he said, irritated that he had to repeat himself. “I'm here because I need to find Mirabella DuFrane before someone else does. Someone who might be dangerous to her.”

She lifted her perfectly arched, raven-black brows and studied him. “How do I know you are not the ones who are dangerous to her?”

Jack started to assure her of that, but Reaper held up a hand. “Then you do know where she is,” he said, cutting straight to the chase, as usual.

“I know she is near. But she has friends, vampires, who protect her beyond all reason. No one gets near her. She does not go out to feed. They bring sustenance to her instead. If she grows bored, they smuggle her out into the countryside, or sometimes even out of the country, going to elaborate lengths to disguise her. They adore her as if she is a goddess. And when anyone comes around asking questions about her…”

She stopped there, lowering her gaze.

“What? Does this gang of hers do something to them?” Jack demanded. “Are they killers, Rosa? Are they rogues?”

She shrugged. “I have never seen any bodies. I only know that those who ask questions, and those who answer those questions, tend to vanish. Most have never been heard from again.”

“Most?” Jack repeated.

She lifted her head, met his eyes. “All.” Her lips pulled into a smile. “And that is why it is imperative you leave here right now. I have no doubt at least one of my clients this evening is lurking, waiting to see how long you stay. I must not give the impression I have told you anything, even the tiny amount I have.”

“Where can we find her?” Reaper asked.

“I do not know.” She opened the door, shoved them out and shouted, “I do not know what you are talking about, I tell you. Get out! Already you have ruined my evening's profits.”

What about this gang of hers? Where can we find them?
Jack sent the message to her mind alone, blocking out the probing intellects he felt lurking, listening in.

Casa Crisa.

She slammed the door in their faces, and they looked at one another, shook their heads in frustration and headed back to the car.
You drive,
Reaper said, targeting Jack alone.
I want to scan…Yeah, as I thought. She was right, there are at least three vampires lurking in those woods.

I thought I felt someone trying to read our thoughts.

Reaper nodded.
Think she's being paranoid?

Yes, and I think maybe she has reason to be.

“What the hell is Casa Crisa?” Reaper asked, when they were far enough away that eavesdroppers were no longer a problem.

“That's the name of the place where we sent the others.”

Reaper swung his head around fast. “Shit.”

“I couldn't have said it better.” Then he stepped on the gas and prayed.

“L
ock them up,” Reynold ordered. And as the other vampires who'd been lurking about the place surrounded the three fallen strangers without a question or a pause, he took Crisa by the hand.

“Come, little one. We have to go.”

“Where are we going, Rey-Rey?” She grinned broadly as she asked the question. “Are we going to Bella? Are we going to see Bella?”

“Yes, child.”

She clapped her hands and bounced excitedly. Then she raced behind the bar and returned to his side, a blindfold in her hands, which she immediately tied around her own face. “I remember the rules. See?”

“I do see. You're a very good girl, Crisa.”

“I
am
good,” she assured him.

Smiling, Reynold took the innocent by one arm and led her out of the establishment, his haven and theirs, and into the night. They had one vehicle, which they shared. A hybrid they'd pooled their resources to buy. He put Crisa into the passenger seat and fastened her safety belt, then he got behind the wheel and drove.

She didn't fuss about the blindfold, didn't fight, or try to peek or cheat or take it off. A normal vampire would, he thought, be able to find the place again by sensing it, by feeling the way the car moved and memorizing the directions, or by recognizing the sounds, both of the road and the air around them, and the smells and the feel of the place. But Crisa wasn't a normal vampire. She was impaired in some way. He didn't know whether she'd been that way in life, or whether something had happened since she'd been brought over, or perhaps during the transformation process. She had never told him. He wasn't sure how to ask, much less whether she would understand what it was he was asking. He wasn't even sure if she knew why she was the way she was. Sometimes he didn't think she was even aware of her own differences.

So he left it be. It didn't matter how she'd gotten to be this way—she was, that was all. It couldn't be changed by picking it apart or analyzing it. And he loved her as much for her innocence as for anything else.

He drove over the winding back roads, one and then another, until he should have been hopelessly lost. He wasn't, though. He knew this place. Knew it well.

Finally he stopped alongside a rambling fence in the middle of nowhere, got out and moved a pile of deadfall aside, revealing the gate it had hidden. He opened the gate, drove the car through, then stopped to get out again, close the gate and hide it once more.

Back behind the wheel, he took the winding path-like road to the miniature castle that was home to the legendary Mirabella DuFrane. He pulled the car, a boxy hatchback, to a halt in front of the stone structure. “You can take the blindfold off now, Crisa,” he said.

She did, and, as always, she gazed in ever-new wonder at Mirabella's home. It was truly one of a kind, this place. It looked like a castle but was no larger than an ordinary house. Its exterior was composed of hand-hewn stone, imported from a real castle in Europe. It boasted a pair of towers, one on either side of a square, two-story center structure.

Reynold didn't make use of the giant brass lion's head knocker on the arch-topped front door. Instead, he turned to the tiny keypad tucked to one side, hidden by the leaves of a potted fern, and went to punch in the pass numbers. But he hesitated, fingers poised, free hand pushing fronds aside, as he noted the green light, glowing steadily. It was supposed to be red.

The door was already unlocked, the system disarmed.

“Bella?” he asked. A shiver worked its way down his spine as he moved closer to the door, closed his hand around the knob and pushed it open.

“Where is she?” Crisa asked, her innocent voice devoid of any hint of concern.

“I don't know, love.” He stepped into the foyer, which spread wide, with curving staircases at either side leading up to the bedrooms, one in each tower, and one along the hallway in between. “Bella?”

“That's not right,” Crisa whispered. She rubbed her arms as if she were chilled and stared off to the right.

Reynold followed her gaze and noticed then that a small table was cockeyed, the embroidered doily dangling off one side, and the lamp balanced precariously on a corner, ready to tip off at the least instigation.

He frowned and moved farther inside, straightening the lamp on his way, his eyes scanning now, as were his senses.

“Something happened here!” Crisa cried, just as Reynold's senses began telling him the same thing. “The air here is angry. Can't you feel it?”

He could. There had been a surge of emotions. Fear, anger, resistance, rage. There had been violence. As he walked the length of the place, he found more signs of struggle, a clear path of it from the front entry through the long hallways to the back door. Paintings hanging crookedly on the walls; a broken vase, with water and fresh flowers, had been dashed to the floor; an umbrella stand was tipped over; and the back door was standing wide open, with the doormat half in and half out. And as he inspected the damage, he could visualize what had happened here. In his mind, he saw Bella being held, dragged, forced, clinging to everything she passed in an effort to keep from being taken. The portraits. The umbrella stand. Her feet dragged the doormat half out with her, and there, in the paint, were the marks of her fingernails in the wall and in the woodwork around the back door.

“Someone has taken her,” he muttered. Then he moved through the back door and down two steps to the ground below, where he saw tire tracks. He opened himself up to feelings, impressions, and knew it had been a while since everyone had left. “They're gone,” he told Crisa. “They've been gone more than an hour, maybe close to two.”

“But who would do that? Who would take our Bella?”

“I don't know. But I have a good idea.” His anger built, and he gripped Crisa by the arm, then led her back through the house and out the front door to where they had left the car. “Come on, love. We need to ask a few questions of our
guests.
”

 

Casa Crisa was abandoned. Empty. Jack sensed it before he even pulled to a stop beside Seth's illgained and much beloved classic Mustang. He dove out of the car, his mind scanning the surroundings, his senses probing deep, his gut calling out for Topaz.

But there was no reply.

“Jesus, they're gone! All three of them. Gone!” Arms out at his sides, he turned in a slow circle, stopping when he faced Reaper.

The Grim One's face was a study in concentration. He almost seemed to be sniffing the very air for clues.

“What the hell do we do now?” Jack asked.

“What we don't do is panic.” Reaper's tone was calm and cold, and he looked at the ground, then walked a few steps and stared off into the distance. “There are tire tracks here. Lots of them, but they mostly head off in the same direction.”

“Mostly?”

“If we can get our hands on anyone who was here tonight, I can make them tell us what they know. I guarantee you that much,” Reaper said. “If the CIA taught me anything, it was how to extract information.”

Jack suppressed a shiver, because Reaper's tone made it pretty clear this was the kind of thing he'd had to do before—something he knew he could do well. And that was chilling.

And yet, Jack knew he wouldn't hesitate to resort to torture if it meant getting Topaz back alive. Torture, hell. He wouldn't balk at murder. Or worse. God only knew what was happening to her right now. He remembered her time in Gregor's hands, the torture she'd withstood, before he'd managed to intervene. What if…?

Reaper clapped him on the shoulder. “Stop imagining the worst. It isn't going to help matters.”

Jack nodded. “If they hurt her—”

“If they hurt her, or Seth or Vixen, they're going to die slow. We agree on that, Jack.”

“Good.”

“Let's go inside, see if we can find any clues.” Reaper glanced at the sky. “We have six hours till sunrise. Let's make use of them.”

 

“They've been gone an awfully long time,” Roxy said.

She was lounging in a chair on the wide deck of the bungalow, facing the ocean, watching the waves roll in beneath the night sky. The sea breeze blew over her face, and she could taste the salt with every breath.

“Do you think they're in some kind of trouble?” Ilyana asked.

“I don't know. I've opened my mind as much as I know how, even called out to them. But I'm no vampire. My skills in that area aren't anywhere near what theirs are.”

Ilyana, who sat in another chair, lounging just as Roxy was doing, was dressed in one of Roxy's gorgeous saris. They'd each chosen one from the collection Roxy had brought along. Both were silk, straight from India, and handmade. Roxy wore ruby and black; Ilyana was in multitoned green. They resembled, Roxy thought, royalty.

“We could ask
her,
” Ilyana said with a glance back toward the house.

Roxy followed her gaze upward to the second-story window of Briar's bedroom. Beyond it, the dark vampiress moped. She was moody, lethargic, all but silent, and as isolated from the rest of the group as she could manage to be while still being with them. It was as if she'd walled herself off in every imaginable way.

“She's not as bad as you think she is, you know,” Roxy said.

“No one could be as bad as I think she is.”

Roxy closed her eyes and deliberated before speaking. “She was tortured. Brutally. By the man she believed loved her.”

Ilyana sat silent for a long moment. So long, in fact, that Roxy didn't think she was going to respond at all. But then, at last, she did. She said, “So was I. By the man who fathered my son.”

“Fathered your—You have a son? With
Gregor?
”

Ilyana met Roxy's eyes. “He's like us. One of…the Chosen.”

“And where is he now?”

“Gregor has him. That's why I need to find him, and why I'm so frustrated by this delay. And if you tell any of
them
about this, Roxy, I swear—”

“But, Ilyana, they might know something. Jack, Vixen—God, Briar was there, with Gregor, in that mansion of his. Surely if there were a child there, one of them would have seen him.”

Ilyana met her eyes. “
I
was there with him. They never saw
me.
”

“But—”

“It's my secret to keep, Roxy. Respect this. We're kin, you and I, in some way I don't fully understand. It's in our blood, our bond. You're the only person I've trusted with this information. Please don't betray me.”

Roxy nodded slowly. “All right. I won't tell them. Or anyone. Even though I think you're making a mistake.”

“Thank you.” Ilyana sat up in the chair, put her feet on the floor. “If you think it will help speed things up, then I think we should go to Briar and ask for her assistance. If she rips out our jugulars for our trouble, well, I'll just hope she goes for yours first.”

“Lucky for both of you, I've already eaten.”

Both women gasped and turned sharply to see Briar standing in the pitch darkness of the bungalow's back door. They could barely make out her black silhouette. The screen door's hinges creaked as she pushed it open and stepped out onto the back porch.

“Don't look so shocked. You two have been calling out for Reaper and the others for an hour now. It's not like I could keep from hearing you. I just hope no unfriendly undead did the same. Now, what is it you want?”

Ilyana shot Roxy a look, and Roxy knew exactly what she was wondering. Just how much of Ilyana's secret had Briar heard?

Clearing her throat and facing Briar, trying to keep thoughts of Ilyana's son from her mind, Roxy said, “We're concerned about them. They've been gone longer than they should have been.”

“They're fine.”

“I would believe that if one group had made it back by now. But the fact that both groups are late seems to suggest that something's happened.”

“You worry like a mortal, Roxy.”

“I
am
a mortal, Briar.”

The dark bitch closed her eyes briefly, as if exasperated. “Just what do you expect me to do about this, anyway? Jump on a white horse and go charging to the rescue? Have you got some armor you want me to put on? A sword you want me to swing? Do I
look
like fucking Joan of Arc to you?”

Roxy bit back the retort that leapt to her lips, took a deep breath and counted to three because she didn't have time to go all the way to ten. Then she spoke. “I want you to contact them mentally and find out what's gone wrong. Would you do that for me, Briar?”

Briar rolled her eyes, but she nodded. “Fine.”

Then she turned to face the direction of the road and focused on the others. She was quiet for a long moment, and Roxy watched every expression that crossed her face. Her brows rose in surprise, then lowered in what looked a lot like worry, though they all knew Briar too well to suspect she would ever waste a moment's worry on anyone besides herself.