Seduced by Crimson (14 page)

The gunfire fell silent as everyone watched. Would the vamps be in time? Would they succeed where mortal man had floundered?

It didn't matter. The demons had the explosives rigged to blow, but the vamps had the element of surprise, and that was enough. While one vamp held off the demons in an ugly one-on-three battle, the other ripped the C5 off the support column and took off. Two demons went after him, but the third simply grinned and pressed a switch somewhere.

The resulting explosion knocked everyone to the ground.

Dead vamp hero. Dead pursuing demons. Dead detonator-demon too, as the remaining vamp got in a few lethal blows and a kick, effectively smashing the demon into a grease spot along the column. But the freeway remained. And the subway, presumably, hadn't been touched. Score one for the good guys. And one too for the demons, with the death of that one heroic vampire.

"One survived!" Patrick said, gesturing to the vamp. The fang was bleeding from a number of wounds and would need to feed soon, but he still lived. So that was good news.

Or maybe not, because Xiao Fei just grunted and turned away. From her expression, she'd clearly wanted everyone in the group to wipe themselves out, leaving only humans.

"We really are going to have to work on your ability to embrace all forms of life," Patrick said as she began to move past the battleground.

"Vamps aren't alive," she shot back. "That's why they're called the undead."

"
Un
means not," he countered. "Undead. Not dead. Ergo, alive."

She rolled her eyes. "Trust an academic to split hairs."

He had a retort ready, something really clever about the uneducated confusing categories and obscuring facts, but he never got a chance to voice it. An unholy cry split the air.

In truth, the shrieking must have been going on for a while, but the high-pitched wail of the child had been drowned out by the megaphone and battle cry, gunfire and explosion. But now Patrick and Xiao Fei both heard it clearly, especially as they rounded another corner and came upon the source: a child half-buried under his mother's body, screaming bloody murder. Which was exactly what had happened; his mother had been murdered by a stray bullet, or perhaps by more than one. The whole area had been right in the firing line, and pockmarks were everywhere.

"Where was she going?" Patrick asked, his eyes scanning the deserted block. He didn't want to draw fire if there was a demon lurking nearby.

Xiao Fei shrugged, but in a stiff way. In fact, her hand where he gripped it was ice-cold. She moved like one divorced from reality, and she was turning away from the child. He tugged her back toward the alley. He felt no demon energy, and so he moved quickly to the child.

"Leave it," Xiao Fei said. "The police will hear the wails. They'll take care of it."

He glanced toward the freeway. The noise from the passing cars roared through this particular area, and the child was growing hoarse. "They'll never hear him," he said, gingerly feeling the mother's neck.

She was a werewolf. She'd half-changed in death. The child was still wailing. Patrick shifted the body off the boy, but the toddler wouldn't let go of his mother even when his legs were free.

"Hush now," he crooned. Not that it had any effect. Patrick forced the child to let go, lifting the tiny thing easily into his arms. "Here. Take him while I search for identification." He offered Xiao Fei the child, but she remained out of reach.

"It's a werewolf," she said. She didn't seem to object to the child; she was only stating the obvious.

He frowned at her. "Come on. We shouldn't stay long."

"We shouldn't be here at all," Xiao Fei snapped, her large eyes still pinned to the child.

"Then help me finish this quickly." He was beginning to lose patience. Again he offered her the boy, who was straining toward his mother, wailing like the very devil and kicking his legs hard now that the blood had returned to his limbs. Xiao Fei stepped forward reluctantly. Patrick didn't wait for her to second-guess herself. He shoved the child at her.

"Don't let him wriggle free," he warned.

The prick to her pride worked. She lifted her chin and tucked the child close to her belly. "I know how to hold a kid!" she snapped.

Patrick began searching the mother. No ID. Little money. Nothing to give them a clue as to her identity or that of her child. And then another explosion boomed.

His head snapped up. He'd felt the explosion all through him. It had come from the direction of downtown—the Harbor Freeway, if he had to guess. Whatever had happened, they had to get moving. Xiao Fei apparently agreed, as she was already shifting toward Chinatown. He was at her side in a moment, and they started moving in unison.

Their progress was just like before: hugging buildings, skirting fences, keeping low. Xiao Fei led, since she knew where she was going, but this time she held the sobbing child in her arms. She shifted the toddler. The child wrapped his arms around her neck and buried his face against her cheek, his sobs slowly softening into tragic hiccups.

"I can hold him now if you like," Patrick offered. Xiao Fei was so small, he feared she'd have trouble with the boy's weight.

She just shook her head. "He looks like a real boy," she commented.

"He
is
a real boy," Patrick snapped.

She didn't answer. Instead, she picked up speed.

He didn't know if it was his imagination or not, but Patrick was sure he heard another battle nearby: sirens, screams, and the roar of fear like that of an angry ocean. The sounds beat at him, muddling all his senses and wearing away his rationality.

"Is this what every war zone is like?" he wondered aloud as they paused to scan a dark street.

Xiao Fei shifted her gaze to him, and he could see fathoms of horror in her dark eyes. "Every moment, every day, and for long after the fighting stops," she answered. Then she tilted her head against the child, unconsciously stroking her forehead against the boy's hair. "You taste the fear in the air, smell it in the stale sweat. You merge with it to survive so you don't stand out, but then you become part of the problem." Her voice trailed off into a shudder that rocked her whole body, though he could see that she tried to suppress it.

He reached out and stroked his finger across her dirt-stained cheek. "So be part of the solution," he said.

She raised her chin. "Right now, I only want to survive." And with that, she turned and made the last dash into Chinatown.

Unlike downtown, there was no chaos here; all was battened down and silent. And yet Xiao Fei was right; fear was a palpable force here, a sour taste that permeated the air and numbed the mind. The residents of Chinatown had already settled into bunkers well-stocked with old, ugly memories.

"This way," she whispered.

Patrick followed easily. He guessed correctly about where she was heading: back to the acupuncture shop. She had supplies of her own to collect.

He followed her to the shop door, where she fumbled with the key. The boy wouldn't surrender her now, so she ended up passing Patrick her purse. He opened the door with her key as she called out softly in Cantonese. He didn't understand the words except when she said her name and maybe his. She was calling a warning to whoever might be inside. Then they slipped in and quickly shut the door.

The shop was dark, and Xiao Fei left it that way. It also felt deserted.

"I'm going upstairs," she murmured. "To get…" Her voice trailed away. She apparently didn't want to say exactly what she was getting. Too bad. He wasn't leaving her side. He moved as silently as he could, but he still felt like a lumbering ox next to her. He didn't know the store like she did and kept running afoul of herbs and tables of ointments.

"Shhh!" she hissed, when he banged his shin and cursed under his breath.

He didn't bother to respond. They'd made more noise in the street, where no walls muffled the sounds. Still, the tomblike feel of the store accentuated every sound and every imagined terror. He pressed his lips together and doggedly followed her up the stairs to her home.

"Home" was of course an exaggeration. It was one room and an attached bath. A microwave and hot pot rested on a card table right above a tiny refrigerator. A single plastic cup and bowl were stacked nearby. On the opposite side, a sleeping bag was spread open in the corner next to a stack of books, all of the how-to variety. He saw
Beginning Plumbing, Basic Accounting
, even a standard
Care For Your Plants book
.

Which brought him to the thing she coveted. The item that had brought her to her bedroom in the first place was the phoenix persimmon and three small cuttings. They sat in a place of honor right beneath an expensive grow light. The leaves were dark, the tiny flowers dark red bloodstains bursting out right beside long, sharp thorns.

It was too early for the plant's pale white fruit, but apparently Xiao Fei knew how to store those for long keeping. Without releasing the child, she grabbed a small plastic container of the dried fruit and pushed it awkwardly into her purse. A Glock went in next. Then she gestured to Patrick, to the cuttings and the light. "We need those. Can you carry them?"

He nodded and did what he could to efficiently store the plants. From his research, he had a good idea how important they were to Xiao Fei's physiology. But he didn't have exact details. "How often do you need the fruit?" he asked.

She glanced sharply at him. "I don't," she said. Then she shrugged. "I'll live just fine without it. I'll just wish I were dead."

"Pain?" he pressed.

She nodded, then gestured to her purse. "One a week can keep me happy. Fewer if they're fresh."

Patrick frowned as he remembered how few she had in her small container. "You're cutting it awfully close," he said.

"Growing season is right around the corner."

He nodded. Assuming, of course, that the plants survived this war. "So… this accents your blood connection to the Earth, right?"

She was turning toward the door, but stopped to stare at him. "My what?"

"It makes your blood more… earthy." Then he frowned, gesturing vaguely. "I don't know how to explain it. The text my mother found wasn't very clear. It said the fruit strengthened your connection to the Earth through your blood."

"There are texts on me? On Phoenix Tears?" She sounded horrified.

"Only one, as far as I know. Written by an old monk named Wang."

"Wang Bun Rong?" Her eyes widened.

Patrick nodded. "Sounds right."

"I know him. Knew him. At the temple. He was the keeper of secrets." She frowned. "He wrote about us?"

"Pseudoscience stuff. Mostly guesses and simple observations."

"And you have it?"

He nodded. "Mom found it on her last trip to Cambodia. Bought it for ten dollars U.S."

Xiao Fei rolled her eyes. "So much for our national treasures and most closely guarded secrets."

"Mom said they didn't know what they were selling."

Xiao Fei shook her head. "And now it's here."

"Right when the information is most needed. Kinda makes you think she was meant to find it. And that I was meant to find you," he added.

Her gaze hardened. "Don't flatter yourself. No great God is guiding your destiny." She readjusted the sleeping toddler's weight on her hip. "Unless you want to claim his mother was meant to die, too."

Patrick kept silent. He didn't pretend to understand the workings of the higher powers—God or Mother Earth or even Buddha. But that didn't shake his faith that there was something out there helping him.

"Let's go," Xiao Fei said, her face set in hard, angry lines.

He nodded, and then they were moving again. Down through the shop and out the back where another set of narrow stairs clung tightly to the building. She was down them in an instant and tapping on the door in a clear rhythm. There came an answering series of taps. And a third set from her.

"How can you remember all that?" Patrick asked.

She glanced back at him. "Popular Chinese lullaby."

Not a bad idea. And one that clearly worked, for the door cracked open. Xiao Fei slid through before he could draw breath. Patrick had to duck and twist his large frame to squeeze into the narrow opening, but he got through. He felt more than saw the door shut. It was heavy wood that sealed with a deep, satisfying thud. Then he had to wait a few moments for his eyes to adjust.

It was still full night outside, but the lights of Crimson City kept everything in a perpetual neon-accented gloom. Not in here. A single candle flame flickered, but did little to relieve the darkness, so Patrick quieted his mind and expanded his senses as only an adept druid could. Mentally, he felt the earth, the air, even the water and metal that surrounded him.

A basement cellar. He felt the nearly dead energy of poured concrete around the variety of herbs and spices that he could taste on the air. But mostly he felt the fear that enveloped Chinatown, magnified once by the surrounding building, then again by the even smaller space inside this room, given off by the people who huddled inside in terror.