The Scarlet Deep

  One call to Terry, and Carwyn and Brigid were sent to help.

  “Why does it always end up being a ship?” Brigid groused on Anne’s left. “Every time, a ship.”

  “We were out in the desert in California,” Carwyn added, standing on her other side.

  “That was one time. Every other time? Ship. Bloody water vampires.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to work for one, love.”

  “I’m going to end up drowned again. Or blown up. Possibly both.”

  “It’s not like you can die from it.”

  “If you put a Taser on me again, so help me…”

  Brigid kept complaining while Carwyn laughed quietly at his mate. Anne ignored them both and leaned forward, wishing she had more comfortable clothes like Brigid wore. She hadn’t expected to be doing any heroics, and the wool slacks and delicate blouse she was wearing would surely be ruined on whatever greasy old freighter Jean traveled in.

  Fine, it probably wasn’t greasy. Jean loved his luxuries. Any ship Jean Desmarais traveled in was likely to be as well equipped as a yacht. But Anne still wished she had practical clothing.

  “This isn’t going to end well,” Brigid said.

  Anne said, “Jean’s not even on the ship, Brig. Terry’s gone to his house in Kensington to speak to him. All Murphy and I have to do is take a look at his freighter. I don’t know why he sent you two.”

  “Better to be cautious,” Carwyn said. “How sure is Murphy that—”

  “Ask Patrick,” Anne said, nodding toward her mate. “He’s the one convinced it’s Jean.”

  Anne wasn’t as sure, to be honest. It wasn’t just that she liked Jean, it was that it seemed ludicrous that anyone would kill one immortal, severely injure another, and alienate established allies over losing two employees.

  It’s not losing two employees, Anne. It’s the knowledge those employees had.

  Murphy did have a point. Terry’s blood-wine had taken a giant leap forward when he’d hired Jean’s winemaker. And if Leonor had hired his other man… It was a form of industrial espionage. Hardly unexpected in the vampire world, but still costly. Added to the financial loss was the loss of face. The Frenchman was constantly battling immortal factions in Paris and Lyon. He had little stability in his home country. Terry’s underhanded dealings had damaged their relationship, possibly far more than Terry or Gemma had realized.

  “Patrick?” she called softly.

  He turned and held out his hand. Anne went to him, leaving Carwyn and Brigid sitting near the mast where Tywyll and a young human piloted the ship.

  “What is it?” he said, pulling her closer when the cool breeze gusted over the river. “Are you cold?”

  “No, of course not. Why does Jean travel in a reefer?”

  “He doesn’t. At least, not officially. I imagine Terry has no idea this boat is docked in the port.”

  But her father knew. Of course her father knew. Not that he considered it a priority to share information unless someone asked very nicely and followed the question up with gold.

  “Do we know how many he might have on board?”

  “No, but your father says there are more human guards than anything else.”

  She sighed. “This seems like a waste of time. Shouldn’t we go back to town and help Terry? The Dutch—”

  A low rumble sounded from his throat. “Terry knows exactly what to do with Jean if he is the one behind this.”

  “Rens’s brother—”

  “If Jean is the one coordinating Elixir shipping in the North Atlantic, Ireland has the first claim. We lost the first vampires and the first humans to Elixir death. Jean Desmarais is mine. The Dutch can take their revenge elsewhere.”

  Anne stood silent. She knew it wasn’t merely vengeance that urged her mate on. It was standing, as well. Ireland had been hit first, and she had the first blood claim. If Jean Desmarais was guilty, the night was going to turn very, very bloody.

  DOCKS, in Anne’s experience, were never truly quiet. They bustled at all times of night, though she’d become a stranger to them in her time away from Murphy. From the great steam vessels he’d inherited from his sire to the modern oil-fed tankers, he owned some of them all. And though he’d been born on land, the ocean had become his second home.

  Jean Desmarais’s ship was a midsized reefer, a refrigerated ship ostensibly used to ship luxury foodstuffs like caviar and cheese. Whether it was carrying anything else was the question Murphy wanted to answer.

  “Go by the water, lad,” Tywyll said, coiling a length of rope around one arm as his young human assistant held the boat steady in the evening chop. “Too many blasted humans on the docks.”

  “As I don’t have anyone here on my payroll, I’d have to agree,” Murphy said. “I’ll swim over and see what the situation is. Give you the signal if you can approach.”

  Murphy stripped off his shirt and toed off his shoes before slipping into the black water with deadly grace. Within moments, she saw him at the side of the vessel. With a silent surge, the water beneath him pressed up, lifting Murphy to the lower deck before it sank back into sea. He disappeared for a moment, and Anne knew he was scouting the deck of the ship.

  After only a few minutes, he was back, waving to them. Tywyll steered the barge closer, and the young man took a length of rope and tossed it to Murphy, who quickly tied the length to the railing. Brigid was the first to cross, followed by Carwyn scrambling across the rope with unexpected speed. Anne was just about to cross before her father pulled her aside.

  “Be careful.”

  “We’re just looking around, Da.”

  Tywyll’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like this. The boat’s too quiet-like.”

  “You worry.”

  “Aye, about my girls.” Tywyll nodded toward the boat. “You and the lad. Yer good, then?”

  She nodded.

  “And he makes ye happy.”

  “He does.”

  Her sire nodded. “He’s grown, but he’s still got a temper. Mind you, temper ain’t a bad trait to have for a long life. Keeps you moving when things look dim. A bit of hot blood never hurt a vampire as long as he knows how to rein it.”

  “Are we done, Da? I think they’re waiting for me.”

  Tywyll sniffed. “I’m yer da. They can wait.”

  “Tywyll—”

  “I’ll wait for ye here. Don’t like these big ships none. Don’t be long.”

  MURPHY grabbed her hands and helped her onto the deck. She was barefoot, having left her useless heels back on the barge.

  “What’s the story?” she asked as they climbed the stairway to the upper deck.

  Carwyn said, “Murphy put the deck crew to sleep.”

  “The bridge?” Brigid asked.

  “We haven’t gone there yet.” Carwyn looked far up at the row of black windows overlooking the deck. The ship had been painted a gleaming white with red trim. The massive superstructure with the bridge on top towered over the now-empty deck.

  “Why don’t you two check the bridge?” Brigid said. “See if you can find Jean’s office. Anne and I will go belowdecks and look around.”

  Murphy narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know—”

  “Feck’s sake,” Brigid said. “Anne’s better than either of you at keeping me from burning the place up. You good with going below, Anne?”

  Anne paused and thought about it. Brigid would be more than enough protection from anyone who might be a danger to her. They would just have to stick together. And Anne could keep her friend from igniting in the close quarters even better than Carwyn could. Murphy would be able to, as well, but he was also the only one who might be able to decipher any clues that Jean or his people had left behind.

  “I agree with Brigid,” Anne said. “Murphy, you’ve got to search the offices. The paperwork won’t make sense to any of the rest of us. You’ll know what to look for.”

  Carwyn slapped Murphy’s bare shoulder. “I’m with you, then. As soon as we clear the b
ridge, I’ll follow them down.”

  Murphy gave a swift nod and pressed a quick kiss to Anne’s mouth.

  “Be careful,” he said before he walked behind the bridge and began to climb silently.

  Anne and Brigid approached a sealed door.

  “Do you know anything about boats?” Brigid asked.

  Anne smiled. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on one of these monsters, but I think I can stumble through.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  MURPHY FORCED HIMSELF TO REMEMBER that Anne was an imminently capable vampire who was paired with one of his fiercest soldiers. His worry must have shown on his face though, because Carwyn slapped him on his shoulder.

  “If you’re wondering if it gets easier, it doesn’t.”

  “Thank you. That’s reassuring.”

  “She’s not a fierce woman like my Brigid. It’s not her nature. But Anne is smart. They’ll be fine.”

  There were a few muttered curses when they entered the bridge, but the three humans working were no match for their speed or their amnis.

  Murphy grabbed one of the human’s mobile phones, pleased that the man had a watertight, shatterproof—and thus fairly vampire proof—case covering it. He gingerly put it on the table and grabbed a pencil, hoping the phone wasn’t password protected.

  He was in luck.

  The screen came to life with the slide of the pencil eraser. Murphy put it on speaker and immediately called Ozzie.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Have you heard from Terry’s people? Have they found Jean?”

  “The house in Kensington was empty ’cept for a few humans. I ain’t heard more than that. I imagine they’re still looking. If he’s disappeared, that don’t look good.”

  “No,” he muttered, “it most certainly does not. Oz, I’ll keep this phone close. Call when you hear anything.”

  “Will do.”

  If Jean had abandoned the house in Kensington, he could be coming back to the ship. Or he could have other properties in London that Terry didn’t know about. Terry and Jean had been doing business for over one hundred years. He likely had a hundred bolt-holes and backup plans.

  Carwyn was looking around, oddly quiet.

  “Thoughts, Father?”

  The other vampire didn’t rise to the bait. “Hmm?”

  “You’re very quiet over there.”

  “Eh, well…” He shook his head. “It’s Jean.”

  “What about Jean?” Murphy was searching through the ship’s log, but nothing looked out of place. He needed to find Jean’s quarters or his office.

  “He helped us in Rome.”

  Murphy stopped and waited for Carwyn to finish his thoughts.

  Carwyn continued. “Jean… helped break my best friend out of prison. Helped to keep Beatrice sane. I don’t just consider this man an ally. He is a friend.”

  And suddenly, Terry sending Carwyn to help Murphy and Anne wasn’t such a mystery. He hadn’t done it for Murphy. He’d done it to keep Carwyn away from the ugliness of tracking a friend.

  Murphy said, “Sometimes, people do things you wouldn’t expect when money is involved.”

  “He doesn’t need money,” Carwyn said bitterly. “If he did this, it was because his pride was wounded. Is pride so precious? Is it worth killing over? Worth betraying friends?”

  “I betrayed the woman I loved because of pride,” Murphy admitted. “I broke her trust. I might have lost her forever, if she weren’t so forgiving. Pride is… seductive. Addictive. And a harder habit to break than any drug. So yes, Jean might think Terry and Leonor’s slights were worth killing over.”

  “He saw what this did to Lucien,” Carwyn said. “And he ships this poison anyway? He has no excuse.”

  “Carwyn—”

  “If he did this, I never knew him,” Carwyn said, an edge of steel cutting through his sadness. “If he could lie like this…”

  “Come on,” Murphy said. “Let’s look for proof before we condemn him.”

  Carwyn nodded, but Murphy knew in his gut that he was right.

  Oleg’s daughter Zara might have been pulling the strings, but Jean Desmarais had willingly become her puppet.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ANNE AND BRIGID WERE CHECKING the holds. Unfortunately, Jean’s ship had been fitted with many compartments, not just one larger hold. Some were refrigerated. Some were not. They came across only a skeleton crew of humans that Brigid subdued—mostly with amnis—and stuffed in one of the rooms. If the tiny woman had to rough up a few of the more aggressive crew members, that was hardly Brigid’s fault.

  “How many more, do you think?” Brigid asked as they climbed down to the third deck.

  “I don’t have any kind of map,” Anne said. “So we’ll have to check door-to-door, deck by deck, if we want to search everywhere.”

  Brigid huffed. “If you were going to transport Elixir, where would you store it?”

  Anne laughed. “That’s a joke, right? Pallets can be stored—” She broke off when she heard a thumping sound coming from below.

  Brigid and Anne both looked down.

  “No voices,” Anne said after a few silent moments.

  “There’s no way to keep our steps silent on this bloody boat.” Brigid started toward the stairs. “Follow me. Stay behind.”

  Brigid was about half her size, but Anne didn’t argue. She was well aware she wasn’t a fighter. She followed Brigid down the stairs and opened the door to the lower deck.

  “Keys,” Anne said, coming to an abrupt stop and tugging on Brigid’s arm. “The crewman who tried to shoot us was wearing keys, but none of the doors so far have been locked.”

  “Let’s go back,” Brigid said, climbing two decks up. “If we delay, that might confuse whoever is down there. Confused prey is better than expectant prey.”

  PILED in one of the equipment rooms under the deckhouse, most of the humans were still sleeping when they returned. A few were waking and confused, so Anne put them under again. Her mental influence with humans was particularly strong.

  “Found them,” Brigid said, raising a crowded ring of keys.

  “Now we’ll see what they’re trying to hide,” Anne said, walking out of the storage room quickly.

  There had been something in the crew that had spiked her hunger, even though she’d fed before they met with Oleg at the Cockleshell. She shouldn’t be feeling hungry. She hadn’t in days. The infusion of Brigid’s blood, combined with what she’d taken from Murphy, had put an end to the bloodlust that had plagued her.

  But Murphy had taken her blood earlier that evening, and she wondered if she was feeling the effects.

  “Anne?” Brigid waited for her in the hallway.

  “I’m coming. Sorry.”

  THE scuffling came from behind a locked door. No voices. But definitely footsteps. It was the only sound in the low-lit passage, despite the doors that stretched into darkness.

  “This fecking door…” Brigid had been trying each key without success, but there could easily have been forty on the ring. Anne leaned against the opposite wall, watching her and keeping an eye out for anyone approaching. She wondered how long it would take Carwyn and Murphy to check the bridge.

  “Shall I try?” she asked Brigid. “Just to give your hands a rest.”

  In truth, Anne was worried that Brigid was so irritated she’d break the key off in her hand if she ever managed to turn one.

  “No, I’ll calm down.” Brigid took a deep breath just as there was a creaking down the hall.

  Anne turned her head.

  It sounded like a door, but she didn’t hear footsteps except those coming from the locked room. Freighters were noisy places, and she couldn’t swear that it wasn’t the normal swell and shift of the metal on the water.

  “Anne, stay here,” Brigid said, looking over her shoulder

  “I’m just going to look. I can see that door cracked open. It’s probably just the shifting of the boat.”

  “
Do you think it could be another door to this room?”

  Anne looked at the door that had cracked open. “Different number. I doubt they’d be connected. The ones on the deck above weren’t. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Stay in the hall where I can see you.”

  “Yes, mam.”

  She walked down the passageway, hands braced on either side, enjoying the cool dampness of the air. When she got to the door, she pushed it farther open and peered into the dim compartment.

  Anne saw a low light she hadn’t noticed when they walked past, but she thought the door must have been closed.

  “Do you see anything?” Brigid asked.

  “There’s a light, but no one that I can see. No footsteps.” She angled her head in, trying to get a better look. “The door probably opened when the ship—” The freighter tilted again, and the light illuminated a tiny figure huddled in the corner.

  “Anne, what is it?”

  “There’s a child.”

  “No!”

  Anne heard Brigid’s shout a second after she ran into the room, then the door slammed behind her, and Brigid’s voice was muffled by steel. Anne turned, expecting a threat, but there was only a slip of a man—hardly more than a teenager—staring at her as he leaned up against the door.

  “It locks automatically,” he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. “You’re one of them. You can help us.”

  The relief of a mortal opponent fled when she saw the glassy sheen of the man’s eyes. Then the figure at Anne’s feet threw off the blanket that had been covering it, and a gust of sweet pomegranate permeated the room. Anne’s fangs dropped with a piercing rush. Her throat burned. Her gut twisted in acute hunger. Desperate, raging hunger, as if she hadn’t fed in months.

  Oh, Jesus, no. Anne bit back a growl.

  “Please,” the young man said desperately, holding out both arms, which were littered with angry red bites. “Please, you have to bite us. It’s been too long.”