Possession-Blood Ties 2 (31 page)

The sentence switched unfathomably to Italian, and he lost his ability to read it. Shaking his head, he grasped her other arm. “‘The seed of Pilate will be sown on barren fields, the harvest of atonement will mock him as killer of the lamb. Let his blood be on our heads and the heads of our children.’”

“Wolves,” Bella said quietly. “All of us stem from the descendants of one man. The Christ-killer.”

Max released her and stood, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Pontius Pilate?”

If he’d believed in God it would have freaked him out.

“It is a curse. We seek ways of atoning, to repay the blood debt.” She chuckled bitterly.

“But how great is the debt of a dead God?”

“I’ve read the Bible. He was supposed to die.” Great, now they were having a theological discussion. “It kind of ruined the end if he didn’t.”

She shrugged, a little too easy in the acceptance of her fate. “Judas Iscariot burns in hell, as well, but the story would not have been fulfilled if he had not betrayed Christ. There is no rhyme or reason to God’s wrath. It is something I have come to accept.”

It was a heavy thought, and it weighed down Max’s mood considerably. “That seems kind of pessimistic and lazy to me.”

She pulled her jacket on, momentarily drawing his attention back to her cleavage. “We hear the story of our burden every day as children. When I came of age, my father had it branded into my skin. It is a reminder that this curse is a part of me.”

Max chuckled. “I suspect this has more to do with the differences between lupins and werewolves than either side lets on.”

A slight smile tilted her lips. “You vampires think you know everything. But you are right. The recent division over science versus magic only served to widen the rift between our factions and drive us to align with the Movement. Lupins cling to the old Roman ways, while we werewolves have embraced the earth.”

The admission seemed to close the subject. She turned back to The Sanguinarius, leafing through the pages as though her mind wasn’t really on the material contained there. Max cleared his throat. “I’m going to get something to eat before I try and read any more of Nathan’s handwriting. Want anything?”

“Does a vampire have anything to eat, besides blood?” Some of her teasing humor was back in her voice.

It relieved a bit of the angry tension between them, even if it seemed forced. “I’m sure

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he’s fresh out of kibble, but, yes, there’s food. Contrary to popular belief, we can eat. Some of us even enjoy it.”

She followed him to the kitchen, which seemed smaller than usual when she was in it. Max grabbed the teakettle from the dish strainer beside the sink and turned to set it on the burner. Bella picked that moment to try and squeeze past him, and they bumped into each other awkwardly.

Their mumbled apologies did nothing to ease the other kind of tension Max felt. He was too aware of his body, definitely too aware of her body in relation to his, and far too aware of what he wanted their bodies to be doing.

“You want me.”

He opened his mouth to give her what would probably be a shocked, not witty response, but he choked on his own spit and coughed violently for a long minute before catching his breath. Smooth, Harrison.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” she assured him. “I am very good looking. And to a vampire I must seem very exotic.”

“I’m not attracted to you,” he wheezed, pounding his chest with his fist. “If anything, I’m barely tolerating having you around. I don’t like werewolves.”

She laughed. Not a friendly laugh. A mocking laugh. “Right.”

“Is it really that unbelievable to you that someone might not find you attractive?” He tried to sound arrogantly amused, but it didn’t come off that well. He turned to the refrigerator and opened the door, searching for another bag of the premium B positive he’d found before. “Listen, I’m sure that as far as your species goes, you’re a catch. But I’m not into the whole doggy-style thing.”

“We would not have to do it doggy-style.” She pressed against him, full body, front to his back. Her hand snaked across his shoulder, to his jaw, urging him to turn his head. He did. His body came with it. He slipped his hands into the back pockets of her jeans and pulled her hips forward. “So, you were coming on to me earlier.”

“I did not realize how blatant I would have to be to get your attention.” She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, not on the lips, but at the corner of his mouth. Her skin was shockingly warm, but he knew it was just because he was room temperature. She spoke again, her voice a low, sexy whisper against his cheek. “We are not in an ideal situation. But I am attracted to you. And we are adults. What’s the harm in releasing some of that…tension?”

Max couldn’t argue with that logic, so he let her pull him to the linoleum, mentally rehearsing the apology he’d have to make for committing unspeakable acts of carnal pleasure on Nathan’s kitchen floor.

18

Rocks and Hard Places

C yrus had fantasized about two methods of killing Carrie as he drove through the stark, burning desert.

One way would have been to pull down the curtain and let the sunlight hit her sleeping body. But he’d dismissed it outright. She would probably live long enough to wrap herself in the canvas and chloroform him again. The trip would be unpleasant as it was. It would be worse if he had to spend every day lashed to the passenger seat with bungee cords.

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That was what she had threatened, and he knew she’d do it. The other way was much more fun to fantasize about. He would pull over to the side of the road and climb in back with her, weeping and in need of comfort. When she tried to put her traitorous arms around him, he would sink the stake into her back. But with no one to drive at night while he slept, the trip would, again, increase in difficulty. Not to mention the fact he had no money and only the clothes on his back. He wouldn’t get far on those.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. No, that wasn’t the only reason. He couldn’t kill her, because every time he imagined it, he remembered the tender way she’d helped him care for Mouse, and then he thought of Mouse looking down on him from the proverbial white clouds of heaven and being disappointed in him. It was a silly thing to think of. He’d been dead before. He knew what happened. Washedout, blue nothingness. On one hand, he hoped Mouse wasn’t let down by the reality of the afterlife. On the other hand, his mortal soul dared to doubt she truly went to the same place he’d been when he’d died. Perhaps that realm was hell, reserved only for vampires and sinners. Despite her indiscretion with him, she’d possessed a pure heart. Guilt, an emotion that proved to be a real nuisance now that he bothered to feel it, clenched his gut. Maybe what they’d done together had barred her forever from the heaven she’d believed in so deeply. Those blasted saints she’d prattled on about had certainly been prized for their chastity. He wished for a moment there were some number he could dial, someone he could phone up and explain it all to. Listen, it wasn’t really her fault. Extenuating circumstances. You’d really be making a mistake if you blamed her. He thought of the stories she’d told him, the ones where the pure, good-hearted maidens believed so deeply in Christ and his Blessed Mother that even something so shameful as being unwillingly defiled by a man didn’t keep them from beatification. That certainly had to be the answer here. He’d been the demonic monster preying upon her flesh, never able to touch her soul.

Come now, let’s not be dramatic. He pressed the brake pedal with his left foot—he didn’t understand how Carrie thought he should be able to use only the right one—and rolled the van to a halt at a stop sign. There was a strange grinding noise, which he chalked up to faulty mechanics, and he rested his head for a moment on the wheel. Of course Mouse had gone to her heaven. It was impossible that she hadn’t. No man, God or not, could turn her away. In Cyrus’s mind, she rivaled the Blessed Virgin in purity. He pulled across the intersection and brought the behemoth van up to speed. How could what he and Mouse had done have been a sin, anyway? They were two consenting adults, and they’d done it out of love. Well, at least he had. She had as much as told him she was settling for the experience.

He wouldn’t let himself think that. She had loved him. And someone had taken her away. He didn’t solely blame Carrie for his pain. Though her actions had condemned Mouse, she would never have been looking for him in the first place if it weren’t for his father. In fact, Jacob Seymour had been responsible for the death of all of Cyrus’s loves. When he found him, Cyrus would make the Soul Eater pay.

“I’ve done everything you asked of me. How could you?”

The rustle of Carrie’s nylon sleeping bag in the back brought him to the present. Her voice sought him through the thick canvas drapes. “Are you praying?”

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“You were dreaming. Go back to sleep.” Prayer! What a novel idea. He was a human, after all. That meant God, if he existed, had to care about him. Enough of those door-todoor missionaries had told him that. Of course, they’d recanted and cursed him as the devil right before he’d killed them, but they would be happy to know their message had sunken in.

God, Jesus, whoever I’m supposed to direct this prayer to, I’m sorry for what I did to her. Cyrus’s breath froze in his chest, as if someone had stopped up his lungs and the air couldn’t escape. Please, don’t hold it against her. Please, let her be okay where she is. Let her know I did—do—truly love her. It wasn’t a game this time. I swear it. It would be the last time he admitted it, to himself or anyone else, he decided. It hurt far too much, and what purpose could the pain possibly serve? He’d keep it at the back of his mind, until he’d found his father and gotten his revenge. It wouldn’t be easy. He would probably get himself killed in the process. But he would find the man who’d been a monstrous father and a crueler sire. He would find him and Mouse would be avenged.

When Cyrus woke me at sundown, dark circles ringed his eyes. I’d heard him a few times during the day, talking to himself in a way that suggested he didn’t realize he was actually speaking.

I probably looked as worn-out as he did. It was hard to sleep, to let my guard down when the person in the driver’s seat seemed to be slowly losing his mind.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I eased from the back of the van into the front seat.

“I have been better. I’ll survive.” He slid into the passenger seat and buckled himself in.

“But I need some food.”

I thought of the dwindling cash supply in the back. “Will fast food do?”

Surprisingly, he didn’t make a face or a snide comment, or reject the idea right out. He simply shrugged and said, “So long as it isn’t the one with that insipid clown.”

We rode in silence until the next town, where we found a burger joint with a drivethrough. Cyrus had a voracious appetite, and he tore through his meal with uncharacteristically bad table manners.

“You’re not a vampire anymore. That stuff is terrible for you,” I reminded him.

“This stuff is terrible, period.” He seemed to remember himself, and wiped his mouth with one of the cheap paper napkins. “It’s greasy and unpleasant, but I haven’t eaten in a day. I must bow to the demands of the human stomach.”

“So, they kept you fed, then?” What a bizarre thing to make conversation about. I understand the vampires who brought you back from the dead and held you hostage treated you well?

He didn’t look at me, but squinted at the starry sky through the windshield. “No. Mouse did most of the cooking. I do know how to microwave a hot dog, though.”

“Well, at least you won’t starve when you’re on your own.” It occurred to me then that I imagined a future for him beyond whatever would happen when we returned to Grand Rapids. With every passing moment, Cyrus was becoming more of a person and less of a monster to me.

He seemed suddenly uncomfortable with the subject, becoming more interested in his soda than our conversation. When he spoke again, it seemed a wall had gone up, closing off

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both the newly human Cyrus and the familiar, terrifying one who’d sired me. “So, the Oracle said the Soul Eater is trying to become a god. Did she say what type?”

Temporarily stunned by the fact he’d referred to Jacob Seymour by his common label and not as his adored father, I took a moment to answer. When the full import of his question sank in, it settled like a lead weight in my gut. “What do you mean, what kind?”

Cyrus sighed, clearly annoyed that I hadn’t done my research. “You know. A demigod? A sacrificial god? A god of seasonal rites or fertility?”

“I have no idea. She just said a god. You’ll pardon me for not inquiring further, but she was trying to twist my head off at the time.” I shifted in my seat. The long nights of driving were taking their toll on my tailbone.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway.” Cyrus waved his hand as though apologizing by way of dismissal. “They all basically involve the same process.”

“I had no idea vampires could just up and become gods.” The things they didn’t bother to print in The Sanguinarius.

“Anyone can become a god. All it takes is a collection of souls.” He paused in contemplation, his fingertips pressed together in a steeple. “They don’t even have to be dead. I don’t know why Father just doesn’t convince some UFO religion in California that he’s a messiah. It would be easier than the way he’s going about it.”

My brain shouted, Could you be more cryptic? When my mouth opened, the statement became a bit more polite. “And how is he going about it?”

With maddening slowness, Cyrus reached to fiddle with the dials on the dashboard console. He flipped the switch for the heater, then leaned his seat back. “Well, I’m here, obviously, and I wouldn’t be unless Father needed me. Since there’s only one ritual I know of that would need me alive, I can only assume he’s out to consume the souls of the vampires he created.”