The Deadliest Bite (15 page)

“Only if you buy me a white shirt with fringe
and
sequins.” Cassandra said, “Done,” just as Astral made a matter-of-fact suggestion: “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”

They al stopped and stared down at Bergman’s robokitty, who had paused when she noticed Cassandra do the same. She looked up at them and said, “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

“What does that even mean?” asked Cole as he peered off into the dark, cupping his shooting hand with his free one and pul ing the Beretta up to shoulder height. He went stil , raising his nose as if sniffing the air.

Dave motioned for them to stand perfectly stil . Moments later he and Jack had disappeared into the pines.

“Wow,” whispered Bergman. “He’s good.”

“He’d better be back soon,” Cole final y whispered.

“What is it?” Cassandra asked.

“Something’s here.”

Bergman slapped his hands against his cheeks like he was trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. “How can you tel ?”

Cole rol ed his shoulders as if he suddenly felt the need to stay loose. “It’s hard to describe. It’s like the back of my brain itches. Sometimes, just by the way it’s irritated, I can tel what’s set me off.

Like a vampire. Or a fairy. But this time”—he shook his head—“I’m not quite sure.” Bergman stepped to his side. “But maybe you could be sensing something innocent. Hunters do that. And you’re kind of a hunter. So maybe it’s a raccoon. Or a frog.” He squinted into the woods.

“Ribbit?” he ventured hopeful y.

Cassandra had also closed ranks. But she’d turned so that she could detect movement behind them. “Is your gun going to be effective against whatever you’re sensing?” she asked Cole.

Cole shrugged. “It’s loaded with holy silver. So it’l slow down a vamp or kil a Were. It’s just that this thing doesn’t
smell
like that.”

Dave and Jack rejoined the group so quietly that even Bergman forgot to jump. “I found the grave site,” Dave said. “But it’s being guarded.”

“By what?” Cole asked.

Dave rubbed his jaw, which made Cassandra start to play nervously with her rings. Already, like a good poker player, or a loving wife, she’d begun to pick up on Dave’s stress tel s. He said, “It’s a Rider.”

Cole swore under his breath, another sign of bad mojo. Only Bergman stil hadn’t ful y caught on to their predicament. He asked, “What’s a Rider?”

Neither Dave nor Cole acted like he wanted to answer, so Cassandra clasped her hands together, her eyes so luminous she might have been channeling her inner oracle as she told him, “It’s a big, hulking brute that latches on to its victim, digs in, and then sucks out al the thought and emotion, until there’s nothing left but a staring, slobbering husk.”

“So it’s a vampire?” asked Bergman.

Cole turned to him. “Think of it as the first vampire. In the same way that scientists consider Neanderthals the first salsa dancers. Not quite, but without that link you’d never have Vayl.”

“So…” Bergman struggled to stay in the classroom part of his brain. “It’s, what, less evolved?” Dave nodded. “It doesn’t turn its victims. It tortures them. Gets into their blood and melds their minds into truth machines. Tel me something, Miles. Have you ever seen a person take a good look at himself in the mirror?”

Bergman shook his head.

Dave said, “I did once. Friend of mine, ended up punching the glass so hard he needed twenty stitches to put his hand back together.” He leaned in closer, trying to explain a creature whose power even he had only heard whispers of. “Most of us spend our whole lives tucking our weakness under the mattress, hiding our fears inside the closet, pretending we’re not miserable shits to our spouses and kids. Not because they deserve it. Because that’s just who we are. Riders turn people into horses, jerking the reins so they have to face their own miserable bitchiness, prejudice, and petty crap. The more you fight, the harder those spurs dig in until you’re literal y bleeding al over the carpet. Feeding the monster on your back. If you don’t give in, pretty soon you’re dead. But if you can face the horror, walk through your own nightmare without flinching too much, you can buck that Rider and cut his fucking throat.”

Dave pul ed a knife from a sheath he’d hidden inside the pocket of his cargo pants. “So which one of you thinks you can pul that off?”

Saturday, June 16, 10:45 p.m
.

I’d heard al the talk in Cole’s camp and it had made me half crazy. It was my job to go decimate the Rider, not hear that one of my crew was about to risk his or her life in my place. Especial y since the creature couldn’t have picked that particular cemetery to guard randomly. It had been sent by Roldan and Brude in another attempt to destroy us. I hated that we couldn’t deal with the Rider directly, and that the pain of watching one of our dearest friends fight, and possibly die, in our place would make those two bastards crow.

Plus I knew Astral’s mutterings about cowboys weren’t random at al , but another push to find Zel Culver. And
soon
. I wasn’t sure who’d been pul ing her strings, and while I appreciated the direction, I also hated the fact that I couldn’t fol ow it right this minute. But here I was, stuck in rock-around-the-clock mode, circling the lacedraped chaise where Queen Marie had taken her last breath along with Vayl, Raoul, and Aaron like we’d started a game of musical chairs only, damn, somebody had forgotten the props. So we just kept cakewalking while Raoul tried to conjure the stubborn old monarch to the site of her last human breath.

I could almost see her lying there, surrounded by her children and loyal servants. Mourned aloud even as they silently divided her loot among themselves. That alone would’ve given me reason enough to return. I’d have haunted those bastards to the fifth generation. And I kinda hoped she stil scared the shit out of them on a daily basis.

“So what are we doing?” whispered Aaron. “Is this like a séance?” He held his hands in ours delicately, as if he thought Raoul and I were stil pissed enough to break a couple of fingers.

I said, “I’ve never seen a séance yet that wasn’t three parts stage show and one part bul shit.

Real Raisers use an inborn power cal ed the Lure to pul spirits from the Thin. From what I understand it makes them smel extra good to the dead, especial y when they’re dancing. It’s like a gazel e flirting with the danger zone of a lion pride. The pride’s fascinated, right? Glued to the picture. But if they’ve already eaten, they just watch. Raisers have a similar ability to convince the spirits they’re stuffed. Since none of us were born with that power, we’re going with this simpler, less entertaining technique.”

We final y stopped, which must have meant Raoul had coiled our energies around the spot to a satisfactory degree. Aaron’s arms crossed over his chest as he watched my Spirit Guide pul a silver dagger from the sheath hanging at his side. He’d looked so relieved to be able to strap it back on when we were pul ing our weapons out of the trunk of the Galaxie that I’d felt a fresh spurt of guilt for making him ditch his uniform. Sometimes you just need your familiars around you. Aaron didn’t see that, maybe because the dagger was glinting like a razor as Raoul put it into motion. “What’re you going to do?” he asked.

“Sacrifice,” I said.

Vayl grimaced at me. “Must you taunt the boy?” he asked.

I considered the pudgy youth who stil refused to dump his country’s fear of
others
despite everything he’d seen so far. “Yup.”

Raoul stepped forward. “Hold your arms over the chaise,” he commanded, just like he’d dropped back into the field and we were his loyal troops. We did as we were told, even Aaron, and Raoul made a smal slash above each of our wrists one after another, including his own. Fol owing his lead, we turned our arms so the blood could fal on the lace coverlet, watching the black cloth dampen as the droplets hit and soaked in.

Raoul said, “Queen Marie Alexandra Victoria of Romania. We beg an audience.” He waited. We al did while Aaron looked up, down, and around like he figured a gang of skeletons was going to jump out of a hidden doorway any second now. He whispered, “That’s it?

Ring-aroundthe-rosy, blood, and begging, and you think the ghost of a dead queen is just going to drop in on you like you’re her favorite cousins? I should’ve
known
you guys were a bunch of posers

—”

“Aaron.” One word from Vayl accompanied by a look that could freeze erupting volcanoes, and our tagalong shut the hel up. Just in time for the scent of violets to waft through the room.

“Do you…?” I raised my eyebrows at Vayl and Raoul. They nodded to show that they’d detected the odor too, stronger now, centering on the chaise under our noses. A rumble shook the room, or maybe it was the whole castle, because we could hear the distant shrieks of a terrified woman. A shiver ran across my shoulder blades and I turned toward the flower-painted door just in time to see two soldiers wearing uniforms I dated to World War I lead a majestic creature through the entryway as if it had been opened and the room prepared for them. She held her head high, as if the spiked platinum crown resting on her rich brown hair weighed nothing more than its gumbal machine knockoff. Her blue gown looked vivid against the gold wal s I could stil see glowing through it, providing a surreal backdrop to the light golden cape she wore over it. Two long ropes of pearls swayed back and forth across her breasts as she walked toward us, fol owed closely by the rest of her party, two ladies wearing pale pink-and-white lace scarves over their dark ringlets and two more cavalrymen in knee boots over tan trousers and hip-length tunics set off with gleaming buttons and shining swords.

I was impressed. And chil ed.

Because Queen Marie had chosen to stay in the Thin rather than move on. That meant she’d sacrificed her soul’s salvation in exchange for power, manipulation, greed, and the random cannibalization of her fel ow spirits. And she looked wel fed.

I curtsied just the way they’d taught us to in spy school and said, “Queen Marie, my name is Jasmine Parks. It’s a true honor to meet you.”

She raised her hand up to me, palm out, which seemed to be a signal to the guards. They glanced back at their ruler expectantly. She gored me with her pitiless blue eyes and said, “Kil her.” CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Saturday, June 16, 10:50 p.m
.

The woods beside Pelisor Castle seemed to fal as silent as the grave-searching half of our crew as they tried to figure out what the odds were of any one of them successful y overcoming a creature so ancient even vampires gave it a wide berth. While Cassandra, Bergman, and Cole debated the wisdom of fighting a battle that was real y Vayl’s, Astral and Jack stared at each other until Astral said, “Bad Moon Rising” in a low, even tone. Jack huffed. Cole told me later he suspected my malamute was in ful agreement.

Dave murmured a couple of lines from Creedence Clearwater Revival’s hit: “Don’t go ’round tonight./Wel it’s bound to take your life.” He looked around the circle at the others. “But we have to.

Vayl’s depending on us.” He shook his head. “No, I’m his brother. Or as close as he’s ever going to get. I’m the one who has to do this.”

Cassandra’s gasp had barely cleared her mouth before Bergman grabbed the knife out of her husband’s hand. Luckily my twin had lightning reflexes or Miles might’ve stabbed them both in the exchange. As it was Dave backed off fast, leaving our tech guru to stand in the middle of the circle holding Dave’s survival knife, looking down at its doubly lethal edges, one serrated, one sharp as a razor.

“Are you sure about this?” Cole asked him. “I think that blade is thicker around the middle than you are.”

Bergman dropped his arm. “You can’t do it. Even when you don’t have horns you’re a hel -raiser,” he said.

Cole’s nod admitted that his brush with demon-kind minimized his chances of winning a battle with a beast like the Rider. Bergman went on. “Dave has to find out where Vayl’s kid ended up, so he’s out. And Cassandra’s pregnant, so—”

A chorus of shocked denials and surprised gasps from his group along with distracted confusion from mine at his announcement. “Wel , crap, don’t any of you have even the tiniest shred of observational skil s? She keeps rubbing her stomach, which she’s never done before. She’s been kind of nauseous. And she married Dave without tel ing Jaz, when we al know she would’ve loved to have her and Evie there, and probably even that horrifying old colonel they grew up with. They had to do a quickie wedding so they could fake the kid into thinking he was legit. Which”—Bergman glared at the expectant parents—“if it has half a brain, you’re so not getting away with.” Cassandra put her hand to her mouth as Dave pul ed her close. “We didn’t want anyone to know until we were sure…” She took a shuddering breath. “I have lost babies early on before. I’m stil not out of danger.”

“What did the doctor say?” asked Bergman.

“That I’m fine.”

He waved his hand at her. “Then relax. As long as you don’t let this Rider jump you, I’m thinking you’l be changing real y disgusting-smel ing diapers in another six months. Which, as I said, leaves me to deal with…” He trailed off, biting his lip. “I can do this,” he whispered.

She held out her hand, realized the last thing he probably wanted right now was for a psychic to touch him, and pul ed it back. “I’l pray for you.”

“No offense,” he replied. “But how is your new relationship to the gnome-god going to help me?” She shrugged. Among her many talents, she’d recently rediscovered her original gift just in time to pul off a last-minute save during our mission to kick some fanatical gnome ass in Australia.

However, Bergman did have a point. As the oracle to Ufran, she probably didn’t have a whole lotta pul in the human arena. Stil , she said, “You’re very thin. Maybe he’l take a liking to you.”