Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn (15 page)

He looked up as his captain and his
tresora
entered. “What have you learned from your people?”

Aldan nodded to Burke, who said, “The household staff have not noted anything out of the ordinary, my lord. The visitors have kept to their rooms for the most part, and what minor disruptions they have caused have not been intentional. No one has been observed on the penthouse level, near the stores, or anywhere inappropriate. Earlier I sent a sample of the stock that was poisoned over to the blood bank to be tested, but that will take some time.”

“Copper-tainted blood could not do this to me,” Lucan said. “Captain, what of the men?”

“They’ve no love for the visitors, Master, but they’ve seen naught to alarm them. The strangers have shown no untoward behavior.” He hesitated before he added, “Vander, the one you fought the other night, has remained behind under guard. As appointed leader, he requests a moment to speak with you about his men.”

Lucan had no interest in listening to any complaints about ill-treatment, but Vander had served with the other men in his group, and had likely witnessed some or all of them using their talents. “Bring him to me.”

Glenveagh and Sutton flanked the visitors’ leader as he strode into the office. “Suzerain.” Vander performed a shallow bow. “My brothers have asked me to speak on their behalf and ask as to why we have been removed from the household.”

“Some cowardly bastard has used his ability in an attempt to challenge my rule,” Lucan told him. “My first thought was to kill all of you; that would instantly eliminate the threat and give me an enormous amount of personal pleasure.”

Vander looked confused. “My lord, my men and I would never use ability against you. You have provided us with—”

“Shut up,” Lucan said as he rose from his desk. “One of you is going to die tonight; answer my questions truthfully and it may not be you. Now, what ability have you, Mr. Vander?”

“I am a treasure finder,” he muttered. “Nothing of great value can be hidden from me.”

“How exceedingly profitable.” Lucan came around the desk. “Demonstrate it for us. Now.”

Vander jabbed a thumb at Glenveagh. “This one carries in his left pocket a watch and chain.”

“Which I consult often enough for it to be noticed by anyone,” Glenveagh said. “Hardly hidden treasure.”

Vander gave him an unpleasant look. “What of the woman’s locket in the pouch on your belt? Is it meant as a love token for your Scot?”

Before the guard could lunge, Aldan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not so easily won, little man. You must romance me first.”

Lucan resisted the impulse to smash their skulls together. “Glenveagh, open the pouch.”

The guard unsnapped the flap and took out a delicate chain. “I purchased it as a gift for Christian,” he said as he held it up to show Lucan the heart-shaped pendant. “Next month is her birthday.”

“The Pearl Girl.” Vander smiled. “I fancy a piece of that myself. Think earbobs would persuade her to spread her—”

Aldan plowed his massive fist into Vander’s face, and watched him sag. “Forgive me, Master. I fear my knuckles are overly fond of Miss Christian.”

“Aye, and my sword,” Glenveagh muttered.

“Enough.” Lucan picked up the glass of bloodwine Burke had brought him earlier and dashed it in Vander’s face, rousing him. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head, or my men will cut it out.”

“As you command, Suzerain.” Vander spit out a shard of tooth. “You have seen my talent. What more do you want?”

“Who among your men can control the mind and body of another?” Lucan demanded.

“None.” Vander looked bewildered. “I have never seen such a . . .” He stopped and licked his lips. “No man I serve with has that ability.”

Lucan leaned in. “Do you think me a fool? You have seen this done. Who was it?”

“It was when I sought out the girl, Christian,” Vander muttered. “He used it to compel her to deny me. Your particular friend, the one who looks like a lad.”

“Jamys.” Lucan straightened. “His ability only affects mortals. Try again.”

“But I heard him say . . .” Vander averted his gaze. “It must be another unknown to me, my lord.”

Every lightbulb in the office exploded as Lucan grabbed him by the throat and rammed him into a wall. “Tell me, or die.”

“I heard him talking to the girl,” Vander wheezed out. “He wishes territory of his own. And when I tried to take her to my rooms, something happened.”

Lucan released him. “What?”

“I cannot say. One moment I was with the girl, the next I was in my rooms.” Vander rubbed his throat. “I could not say how I got there. I had no memory of it.”

“Captain, take the guards and search the stronghold for Jamys Durand.” He helped Vander to his feet. “Burke, find Christian and bring her to me.”

“A moment, Captain,” the
tresora
said, and then informed Lucan of the phone call he had received from the girl. “I know from the manner in which she spoke that she was not under Lord Durand’s or any Kyn’s sway,” he added, giving Vander a disgusted look. “Nor would he have left with her if he meant to challenge your rule.”

“Perhaps he feared being found out,” Vander suggested. “Your lady saw him with you at the pier, did she not? And no other Kyn there but him.”

“My knuckles begin to itch, Master,” Aldan said. “Might I scratch them another time?”

“Leave him with me,” Lucan said. “All of you. Get out.”

The men left with reluctance, and as soon as Lucan closed the door, Vander shuffled to his feet. “I regret exposing your friend’s betrayal, my lord, but ’tis better to know there is a knife at your back before it is used.”

“I have known Jamys Durand his entire life.” Weary now, Lucan returned to his desk and dropped in the chair. “And his father, all of his kin. They are obsessed with honor.” He shook his head. “He could not have done this.”

“That may be. I have heard talk of the boy’s mother,” Vander said carefully. “Is it true that she handed her family over to the Brethren?”

Lucan thought of how he had found the Durands in Ireland. “Yes, and the evil bitch died for it.”

“My own mother was a common street whore.” Vander came to the desk and began idly straightening the objects nearest the edge. “She led my father on a merry chase, right to the gallows. She held me in her arms so that I might watch his neck being stretched.” He picked up a framed photo of Samantha standing on the beach and looking out at the sea. “Your lady is as clever as she is lovely. She understands this time, and the strangeness of the world. Any man would count himself fortunate to own her.”

“I don’t own Samantha.” Lucan took the photo from him, and then went still as he saw the web of cracks in the glass covering Samantha’s image. “I love her.”

“Doubtless she knows it,” Vander assured him. “What I most admire is your patience with her, and her determination to live a separate life from yours.”

Lucan turned the frame facedown on the desk. “We share the same life.”

“Yet she is gone from here at the worst possible time, to do this . . . police work, is it?” Vander shook his head. “Were she mine, I would never let her wander from my sight. Not when an enemy is poised to attack. But perhaps there is another reason for her absence now.”

Lucan looked up. “Samantha would never betray me.”

“Of her own accord, no, perhaps she would not. But this boy, Jamys, can seize minds, and control bodies, you said.” Vander looked sympathetic. “I pray she has not fallen under his influence. Given your feelings for her, he would be a fool not to use her against you.”

Lucan picked up the phone and dialed Samantha’s mobile, but the line went immediately to her voice mail. Panic welled up inside him, but when he tried to rise, his legs refused to obey him. “Help me to my feet. I have to find her. I have to get her away from him. If he has used her—if he has so much as touched her—”

“That is not all you must do, my lord,” Vander said, and smiled as he reached out to touch his shoulder. “But please, do let me help you.”

* * *

Jamys didn’t ask any questions as they left the museum and drove back to the boat, which gave Chris time to consider how much to tell him. She tuned the car radio to a Cuban-American station she liked and let the lively beat of salsa fill the silence.

If she had believed in God, by now she’d be convinced he was punishing her. After all she’d done to forget the past and make herself a better person, he probably wouldn’t be able to resist dragging all that old shit back into her life, or dropping it right in front of Jamys. Maybe this proved there was a God, because nothing else could have hurt her more than this. It was the perfect celestial fuck-you.

She parked the car and stared at the boat for a while.

“Come and rest with me,” Jamys said. “We need not begin following the map tonight. You are tired.”

That she was. “I don’t think we should wait. I can’t come with you on the boat, either.” She ran her hand over the top curve of the steering wheel. “I’m going to see the guy who sold the journal to Gifford, and find out where he got it.”

“I will go with you,” Jamys said.

She shook her head. “We can cover more bases if you follow the map and I check out the journal.”

“Is that the only reason?” he asked gently.

“No.” She unfastened her seat belt and faced him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I was a really messed-up kid, and after my mom died, I didn’t really care what happened to me. I just . . . shut down, you know?”

“I did the same when I learned how my mother had betrayed us to the Brethren.” He took her hand in his and stared out at the bay. “Alexandra Keller said I was catatonic, but she was wrong. I was aware of everything. My shame kept me locked inside myself.”

Chris had known street kids who had done that, withdrawing into themselves so far they became like ghosts. “When I was in school, I used to wish I could take an eraser to myself, rub out all the mistakes, and do things over the right way. Life would be so much easier if you could do that.”

“Only if you live in the past.”

“Which we don’t.” She forced a smile. “Come on, I’ll program the navigational computer with the map’s course.”

“Christian.” He waited until she looked at him before he said, “There is nothing you could do that would make me think less of you.”

Jamys said such beautiful things, as if he knew exactly at the right moment what she needed to hear. He probably even believed some of them. “Thanks.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek before she climbed out.

It appeared as if all the dockside fisherman had called it a night, and most of the boats moored near theirs looked likewise unoccupied. Chris almost started to relax when she spotted a figure sitting in the shadows at the edge of the dock. He had a line in the water, but no tackle box or bait bucket, and had pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head. As they drew closer, she spotted the black gloves on his hands and stumbled.

Jamys caught her arm, his gaze also on the hooded man.
I see him. Get on the boat and go below.

Chris took out the gun in her purse and concealed it and her hand in the side pocket of her jumper.
No, I’m not going to do that.

The man’s back straightened, and he reeled in his line before standing and turning toward them. “Evening.”

The voice wasn’t Lucan’s, but Chris didn’t relax. “Howdy.”

The fisherman walked toward them, still holding his pole, and then stopped beside the sailboat. He inspected them and the boat with casual interest. “This yours?”

Jamys shifted in front of Chris. “Yes.”

“Beautiful craft.” He pulled back his hood to scratch at his close-trimmed beard, which looked like snow against his dark complexion. “You run charters?”

What Chris assumed was a glove was just the natural color of the islander’s dark skin. “No, sorry.”

“Truly a shame. I imagine she flies over the waves.” He nodded to Jamys and walked on.

Chris thumbed on the safety before returning her gun to her purse. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like an ass.” She glanced at Jamys, who was still watching the fisherman depart. “It’s all right. He’s not a threat to anything but the fish around here.”

“As you say.” He still waited until the man disappeared from sight before he followed her onto the boat.

Chris charted a course on the nav system and chose a small marina where they could meet when Jamys reached the Keys. “I’ll probably get there first, so I’ll take care of renting a slip for the day.” She saved the data and checked the maritime weather forecast feed. “You’ve got clear skies and calm seas, but if you run into any problems, just give me a call on the mobile.”

He switched off the equipment. “You have not told me about the man you are going to meet.”

Chris didn’t like to think about Stryker, much less talk about him, but she could give him the edited version. “His name is Leonin something long and Russian, but he goes by Stryker. He operated some specialty nightclubs and private party houses in Fort Lauderdale, until the city got tired of his activities and invited him to relocate anywhere else. He moved his entire operation down to Key West, where the locals aren’t nearly as judgmental.”

“Why would they judge him?”

“Stryker collects old books only as a hobby. His real business is the personal fantasy trade. He dabbles in fetish and same-sex clubs, but the big money comes from his private parties. He rents houses and sets them up as theme scenes for swingers.”

Jamys looked perplexed. “Swingers?”

“They’re people who like to have sex with multiple partners,” she explained. “He throws orgies for the ones who like to dress up in costumes and role-play.”

“What do they pretend to be?”

“Ancient Romans. Movie stars. Anime characters.” She sighed. “And vampires.”

Chapter 14

C
hris made sure she would reach Key West before Jamys did by driving there as fast as she could without stopping or getting caught in any of the tourist speed traps. Crossing the Seven Mile Bridge that connected Marathon with the Lower Keys was considered passing the halfway mark, but she wouldn’t relax until she hit mile-marker zero.

She hadn’t lied to Jamys about Stryker; she simply hadn’t volunteered certain details. While she didn’t know exactly where Stryker himself was, she knew precisely how to find out.

Once Chris drove into the downtown area of Key West, she parked the Lexus in a metered lot and from there walked three blocks past the open bars and the closed gift shops to Free Wheeling. Although the front windows of the garage were dark, and the doors locked, she knew the owner kept the place open twenty-four hours a day.

Chris made her way around to the back lot, where rows of cars and bikes in various stages of repair sat parked behind a razor-wire-topped chain-link fence. The warped sheet of plywood that currently served as the garage’s back door hung slightly askew on its hinges, but it opened shortly after she rapped out an SOS on it.

The grizzly bear of a man who peered out at her didn’t offer a welcome. He did take a pull from his beer bottle before he demanded, “What the fuck you want?”

“It’s me, Bug.” When he didn’t react, she added, “Chris Lang.”

“Well, well. Little Christi Lang, all growed up.” He drained the bottle in his hand and tossed it in the garbage barrel to her left. “Your old man owes me two hundred bucks.”

Good luck collecting,
she thought. “I need to find someone, and I’ll pay you four hundred to help me.”

“Cash?” When she nodded, Bug shoved the plywood out another foot. “Come on in.”

Chris followed him through a dirt-and-grease-encrusted labyrinth of car parts, toolboxes, and motors to a card table with four folding chairs, two men inspecting the cards in their hands, and several mounds of poker chips.

“You remember Cody,” Bug said, nodding to the rail-thin mechanic in filthy coveralls on one side of the table. “Loot you don’t.”

Chris eyed the man in the polo shirt, whose appearance was so clean and neat that next to Bug, Cody, and the garage around him he resembled an alien life-form. “Hello.”

“I’ll see the cash first,” Bug said.

As a gesture of good faith, Chris took out her wallet and counted out eight fifties onto the table. That left her with a couple of twenties and change, but if she needed more money, Jamys could convince a mortal to donate to their cause.

Bug picked up the bills and held each one up to the light to see the embedded security strip before he shoved the money into the front pocket of his bib overalls. “Who’s worth this much to you, little girl? Not your daddy.”

Chris tucked her arms around her waist. “I need to find Stryker.”

“Shit, no, you don’t.” Bug went over to an ancient cooler and rummaged around in the floating ice until he pulled a fresh beer bottle from it. “Here.” He held it out to her, but when she tried to take it, he pulled it back. “You old enough to drink this, now, right?”

“You got wasted with my dad at every one of my birthdays,” Chris reminded him. “So, what, you can’t count now?”

Bug chuckled and gave her the bottle. “Still a mouthy little twerp. I always liked that about you, Christi. Forget about that ass-peddler and play some cards with us.” He sat down and picked up his hand. “Go on. Deal her in, Cody.”

“Bug.” Chris sat down in the chair beside him. “I’m not a little girl anymore. A lot is riding on this. Tell me where he is.”

Bug regarded her over the fan of his cards. “I’ll tell you after you play a hand. Bitch, and you’re outta here.”

Chris took a swig of the icy beer and sighed. “Deal me in, Cody.”

She hadn’t played poker since Frankie had taught her how during one of the summers they’d spent in the Keys. Still, it was like riding a bike, and in no time she had assembled a full house.

“I’m done.” Loot tossed his cards down. “You’ve known Bug for a while, Christi?”

“It’s Chris.” She parked the rest of the chips they’d fronted her in the pot. “And yeah, I’ve known him since I was in diapers.”

Loot leaned forward. “Do you know how he got his name?”

“No one does,” Cody put in. “But they think it’s because he won’t wear a face shield when he rides.”

“That’s not it.” Chris glanced at Bug, who threw his hand down in disgust. “You never told your friends?”

“No one’s fucking business.” He grinned as he looked over her head. “Your old man owes me two hundred bucks, though, Christi.”

“I heard you the first time.” Chris turned to Loot. “It’s not because of the bugs he eats on the bike. He’s named after the letters B-U-G, for—”

“Christi?”

The sound of the voice behind her made the cards fall out of Chris’s hand. She gazed over her hand-winning full house at Bug. “You knew he was coming here?”

“Whose chair do you think you’re sitting in, sweet cheeks?” Bug jerked his head as he stood up, and Cody and Loot followed him outside, leaving her alone with the man behind her.

“Christi. Jesus. What are you doing here, honey?”

“Buying information.” Chris waited as he moved around to face her. “Hi, Daddy.”

He stared at her before he headed for Bug’s cooler. “I need a drink.”

Chris watched him. Over the eight years since the last time she’d seen him, Frankie Lang had put on fifty pounds, tanned himself to a muddy bronze, and lost most of the hair atop his head. He wasn’t fat, exactly; she could still make out some of the muscles in his arms and chest, and his surf-god face hadn’t bloated too much. Older chicks in dimly lit bars were probably still receptive to his bullshit.

But here under the naked bulb hanging over Bug’s card table, Chris could see that the booze had busted a hand’s width of capillaries on and around his nose. He’d always loved Southern Comfort, and from the faint yellowing of the whites of his eyes SoCo had returned the favor by fucking with his liver. She saw a scar on his chin she couldn’t remember, and the sulking droop of his mouth that she’d never forgotten. Unlike her, Frankie Lang had never growed up.

“Bug tell you to come down here?” her father asked as he sat down across from her. “I’m fine, you know. I laid off the hard stuff last summer.” He lifted his bottle and drained a third of the contents before taking a breath. He seemed to realize then that she hadn’t said anything, and tried again, this time with a wavering grin. “So, how have you been, kid?”

“How have I been?” She pretended to think. “When you didn’t come home that night, I was confused. When Mom started to fall apart, I was scared. Hungry, too—the food started to run out right after you and the money did. When the bank foreclosed on the house and kicked us out on the street, I was terrified. When they put Mom in the nuthouse and me in foster care, I was a basket case. But then, so was Mom.”

“That’s too bad.” He reached across the table and tried to take her hand. “Your mom’s doing okay now, though, right?”

Chris couldn’t believe it. Could not. “Mom killed herself two years after you bailed. Exactly two years to the day.”

He drew his hand back. “Sorry to hear that. Adele never was right in the head. Hey.” Frankie jolted back as Chris shoved the table into his chest. “It’s the truth, Christi. And it wasn’t because of me, either. She’d been seeing shrinks all her life, long before me.”

“So, what, you think she was better off slitting her wrists and bleeding out in the bathtub?” Chris demanded.

Frankie swallowed. “They told you how she offed herself?”

“I know how she did it because I’m the one who found her.” She wanted to describe every horrific detail so he could enjoy a few nightmares, but if she did, she’d puke up the beer. “After the funeral my grandmother blamed me for Mom’s suicide and turned me over to the state. I went back into foster care. Don’t you look at me like that. Like you’re sorry for me.”

“Can’t help it,” he muttered. “I am. No kid should have to deal with what you been through. If I could go back and change things, Christi, I would.”

“The hell.” The laugh that tore out of her hurt her throat. “I can’t believe you’ve been here in the Keys, all this time. I should have guessed. Drinking and screwing around were the only two things you were ever good at. Well, at least now I know.” She gestured at the door. “You can run away again now.”

He started to get up, and then dropped down. “I got one thing I gotta say.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’ve heard all I ever need to, Daddy.”

“It’s why I took off,” he snapped, and then looked immediately ashamed. “The night before, Adele got drunk and we had a fight about you. She said you weren’t my kid. That some other guy got her pregnant.”

“Mom told you that you’re not my father?” Chris asked, to be sure she hadn’t heard it wrong.

“Yeah.” He moved his shoulders. “I always suspected anyway. You don’t look nothing like me. When you were born, she swore you were two months early, but the doctors didn’t put you in that baby microwave thing after you came out. You were just little.”

For Chris it was a toss-up between weeping with relief and shooting him in the head. “Did Mom happen to mention who
is
my biological father?”

“It was some French guy she met a couple months before me, when she went to the Riviera with her folks. By the time we met, she was already a month gone with you.” He got to his feet. “So, okay, you need anything? Money? A place to stay?”

“I need you to get away from me, Frankie,” she said honestly. “Right this minute.”

“Yeah, sure.” He gave her one last guilty look. “I’m sorry, kid. I just can’t . . . sorry.” He edged around the table and hurried through the back door.

Chris sat there and stared at nothing in particular until she smelled the sour citrus blend of hand cleaner and Budweiser. “You know about this, Bug?”

“He stayed with me right after he left Addie.” He parked a fresh beer in front of her before he sat down. “He’s not a bad guy, you know. Only reason he stayed with your mother long as he did was ’cause of you.”

“Until he found out I wasn’t his kid,” she tacked on. “Then he couldn’t get out fast enough.”

“Yeah, well, that was a real kick to the dick. If it helps, he stayed plastered for close to a year after.” He beckoned to Cody and Loot, who came in and took their seats. “You deal, Christi.” He shoved a new deck to her.

“Another time.” She pushed it back. “Where is Stryker?”

Cody made a ticking sound with his tongue. “That pussy has shark teeth, little girl.”

“Do you need the cop to leave the room before you tell me, is that it?” As Bug choked on his beer, Cody’s bottle slid out of his hand, and Chris looked at Loot. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”

“How do you know I’m a cop?” he countered.

“There’s an unmarked unit parked at the curb. You’ve got a standard-issue thirty-two in that ankle holster you think I haven’t noticed. Your haircut is regulation. There’s no money on the table because outside the rezes gambling is illegal in Florida, and occasionally you have to take a random department polygraph.” Chris offered him a polite smile. “And, of course, Loot isn’t your name because you’re loaded. It’s biker shorthand for Lieutenant.”

He smiled slowly. “You do know cops.”

“My best friend works homicide in Fort Lauderdale.” She eyed Bug. “Stryker.”

“He bounces around Sundown Estates on the east side of the island,” Bug said. “Worked out the deal with a Realtor who’s into whips and chains.” He removed a slip of paper from his bib, wrote on it, and handed it to her. “Entry code for the gate.”

She slipped the note in her purse as she watched Loot’s face. “You’re not interested in pursuing justice here, Officer?”

“I’m not KWPD.” His smile was serene. “I fly copters for the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department. Aviation Division, Undercover Operations.”

“A black-ops chopper copper.” She whistled a single descending note. “Glad I’m not smuggling anything past our borders.” Something occurred to her, and she turned her gaze on Bug. “No wonder you’re so damn antsy. You’re helping him, you narc.”

“Confidential informant,” Bug corrected, and gave her a wary look. “I don’t need that advertised, either.”

“My lips are Superglued.” She handed him the beer and got to her feet. “Nice seeing you again, Bug. Gentlemen, have a lovely evening.”

“Hey,” Loot called after her. “You never told us what the B-U-G means.”

She glanced back at Bug, who squirmed a little. “Only exactly what he is. Big ugly guy.”

* * *

Jamys diverted from the course Chris had set long enough to sail by Paradise, the boat owner’s private island. Photosensor lights illuminated one small pier that led from a cover into a dense thatch of palm and pine trees. Nestled in the center he spotted the tin roof of a large structure; that was likely the house. No vessels were moored to the pier, and the island appeared deserted. If Christian had been with him, he would have persuaded her to spend the coming day there with him, but she was waiting in Key West.

Would she be there waiting, or was it all a ruse?

Jamys had known something had changed the moment Chris had found the strange symbols on the journal’s bookplate. He thought at first she had been frightened, but then he detected the complexity of the dark change in her scent. She felt fear, yes, but there was more to it than that. He knew only too well how mortals smelled when they felt despair, and rage, and disgust. She had felt all those things, and winding through them an abysmal amount of regret.

Whoever this Stryker was, Christian despised him. He could hear it in her voice each and every time she uttered his name.

Jamys returned to the
Golden Horde
’s mapped course and reached the marina rendezvous point at Key West some two hours later, and saw Christian waving to him. He guided the boat to the empty slip she indicated, securing the sails and mooring lines before he climbed out onto the pier.

“You made it.” She hurled herself at him. “I was beginning to worry.”

“I took a slight detour.” When she began to pull away, he wrapped his arms around her and kept her close. “I think we should stop our search for the night. There is a place I want to take you. Come on board, and we can go there now.”