One of the women to my left gasped, as if I’d suggested something awful. Braun looked tired. “We can’t just elect a Master; the power doesn’t work that way.”
This was the part I didn’t understand. Something bound Families together; there was a bond between a Master or Mistress and their followers, and that bond had power. Whatever bond they’d had with Angelo had been broken without ceremony. The power in his blood had turned to ash. They had my sympathies, but I was losing patience. “Well, then you’ll have to figure out something else to do about it in the meantime.”
Braun said, “This isn’t your radio show, you can’t just run your mouth and make everything better.”
Ben snorted at that. “She can try.”
I resisted the urge to elbow him. “Formality, is that it? You want some of that old-school formality and structure? Okay, then. As the established alpha pair of the Denver werewolf pack, we are asking you, the established vampire Family of Denver and our longtime allies, for help. This isn’t just to protect the city, it’s … it’s for everything. Will you please help?”
He looked over, and I followed his gaze as it traveled along the line of vampires standing around us. An unspoken vote took place as vampires nodded slightly, or gave brief shakes of their heads. I thought I knew what the problem was, why a decision needed to be made at all: did they want to help us more than they feared what Roman and Ashtoreth would do them? I could understand why someone would want to flee. But my God, I’d managed to stick around, and if I could do it …
“Wait here,” Braun said, while one of the others, a short, prim-looking woman, went down the stairs into the lair.
The rest of the vampires didn’t break position. They reminded me of a wolf pack in uncertain territory, wondering when the attack was going to come. They wouldn’t much appreciate the comparison, but it made me aware of my own body language. I tried to relax, loosening my shoulders, taking calm breaths, lowering my gaze. Imagining my currently nonexistent tail dropping. Wolf for everything’s fine, we’re all fine here.
“We’re okay?” Ben whispered at me over his shoulder.
“Don’t know. I just don’t want a fight.”
“May not be an option.”
“Yeah, but I’m not going to be the one who starts it.”
The prim vampire came back up the stairs, dangling a set of keys from her hand.
“Well, that’ll make things easier,” I said, bemused. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but this was a nice turn.
While Braun and the woman led us to Obsidian’s back door, the other vampires drifted away—slowly enough that we could watch them go. Some went to the basement, some moved off as if they’d just been out for a stroll. I sighed, relieved. This wasn’t going to turn into a battle—good.
“You can put that down,” Braun said, eyeing Ben’s crossbow.
“Yeah, I’ll just hang on to it,” he said, grinning to show teeth.
Braun unlocked the door, then punched in a code in a keypad on the inside wall.
“Huh,” I said. “Good thing we didn’t just pick the lock, I guess.”
“What good’s a front if it doesn’t function like the real thing? We run this as a business.”
“But I never see the place open,” I said. “Does anyone even shop here?”
“You ever hear the saying ‘If you have to ask, you can’t afford it’?” he said.
“You can’t afford it,” the woman added. She had a faint accent, some brand of European I couldn’t identify.
Right. Okay.
For the first time, I looked inside Obsidian. We were in a back room, which looked like a typical back room, with a concrete floor and exposed ductwork, lots of metal shelves with various boxes stacked on them. A doorway in the corner led to the showroom, and I couldn’t resist. I knew we were on a mission and didn’t really have time for this. But it would only take a couple of minutes. I went snooping.
The front space looked like some old-world nobleman’s parlor, which I supposed wasn’t far from the truth. On the back wall hung half a dozen paintings in ornate gilt frames: complicated Renaissance art, filled with mythological figures, the paint cracked with age. The only other place I’d ever seen work like this was in a museum. And at the homes of Ned Alleyn, Master of London. Against another wall was a weapons rack displaying swords and spears, angry-looking spiked ironwork bolted to age-stained wooden staves, long grooved blades set in impractically ornate hilts. There were vases, candelabras, tables decorated with scrollwork, straight-back chairs with embroidered seats, faded and worn. It all smelled clean, but old. Dust in the cracks would never entirely go away.
On a pedestal in the back, near a desk with a computer and a stack of ledger books, sat an old Spanish helmet, with arched crown and sloping brims. A conquistador’s helm.
“Is this his? I mean, was it his, back in the day?” I asked the woman, who followed me in. No one had to ask who I was talking about. Rick, Ricardo, former Master of Denver who said he’d once followed Coronado. A real conquistador. Retired, now.
“No, I don’t think so. Not that exact one, anyway. But I think he has it because it reminds him. It’s one of the items marked Not for Sale. There are several.”
I wished I’d thought to ask Rick to show me around, to tell me the stories. And even Arturo before him, though I was pretty sure Arturo thought I was a nuisance. He might have told me stories if I’d thought to ask. If I’d had the courage to ask. Burying the pangs of regret, I returned to the back room.
Ben said, “You know what you’re looking for?”
“Something old. You know—Roman. Some kind of artifact from Pompeii or Herculaneum.”
“So, relatively old,” the woman said archly.
“Yeah? So how old are you?” I said to her. She just rolled her eyes at me. “Do artifacts from Pompeii ever hit the collector market?”
“Occasionally, but most of them have been acquired by museums.”
“I’m not sure this would ever have been catalogued. Really, I don’t have a clue what this could be.”
“Isobelle,” Braun said to the prim vampire with the key. “You’re the appraiser, you see everything that comes through—what is there?”
“A crate came in a few days ago that Angelo wouldn’t let me look at. Wouldn’t even let me open it. He said he was holding it for someone.”
“That’s it,” I said. Looking at her, almost but not quite meeting her gaze, I said, “Thank you.”
She gave a quick nod and pointed me to the crate in question, maybe a couple feet on a side, stashed in a corner out of the way so a casual observer wouldn’t notice it. A dozen labels were taped over one another on the outside. This thing had been all over the world. If I peeled back the layers, I bet I’d find it originated in Split, Croatia—where Roman had retrieved it, where the thing’s existence had first come to light.
So, this was it. Time to dig in. I pried at the edges with my fingers but couldn’t budge it. The lid was nailed down.
“Can you help me with this?” I asked the vampires. Isobelle found a crowbar and popped the lid off with little effort.
With an air of discovery, and more than a little anticipation, we dug through piles of shredded paper used as packing.
“I feel like I’ve landed in an Indiana Jones movie,” Ben observed. His crossbow and the stark overhead lights in the warehouse-ish back room made the whole thing feel like a film set. Braun huffed in agreement, which made me like him a little better. Slightly better.
Isobelle and I kept digging. And digging.
“Bugger this,” she muttered, and tipped the crate over. I jumped back, startled. She pawed through the spilled packing material, kicking paper away, until the stuff was spread all over the floor.
Except for the several square feet of packing material, the crate was empty. I must have stared at it for a full minute.
“We’re too late,” I said.
“Looks like it,” Braun said.
&nb
sp; “What now?” Ben said.
“Back to square one,” I said, leaning against the wall and rubbing my face.
“Is this bad?” Isobelle asked. “This is bad, isn’t it?”
“It means whatever he’s got planned is going to happen soon,” I said. And I had no idea how to stop him.
“I hate to say this, but I think Kitty’s right,” Braun said. “We have to get everyone together and batten down the hatches if we’re going to get through this.”
“I thought we could stay isolated,” Isobelle said, crossing her arms, looking hunched in and unhappy. I wondered what her story was: art appraiser turned vampire, or the other way around? “Not have to pick sides, not get involved.”
“I’m hoping this will all be over soon,” I said.
“One way or another,” she answered.
We left the building to find Cormac standing in the parking lot, armed with his crossbow and a dozen stakes hanging off a bandolier. Various vampires were keeping their distance, glaring and waiting for an opening.
“Whoa, wait, stop!” I said, jumping between Cormac and the vampires. He didn’t lower his weapon. Maybe because he knew a bolt through my heart wouldn’t kill me. Still, I was a little put out.
“Why the hell didn’t you wait for me?” Cormac said.
“No good reason,” I answered. “But hey, we’re all friends here.”
His frown at that was very familiar.
Ben finally put away his crossbow, to set an example maybe. He went over to Cormac. “It’s okay. I think we’re done here.” Then, Cormac lowered his.
“We’ll get out of your hair. Thanks again,” I said to Braun.
He made an ironic bow while Isobelle just frowned. They were vampires, immortal; all they had to do was lie low and they’d get through whatever was about to happen. I bet Angelo had thought that, too.
I grabbed the guys and hauled them back to our cars at the front of the building.
“Well?” Cormac said. After looking us up and down he added, “Jesus, you guys got thrashed.”
“Sort of,” Ben said. “It’s healing.”
“Yeah, I don’t think it’s even broken anymore.” I stretched my arm; it was feeling better. Cormac narrowed his gaze.
“Did that go how you planned?” Cormac asked.
“About,” I said.
“Roman’s still out there,” Ben said. “And whatever the Manus Herculei is, he’s got it.
Cormac glanced at his watch. “It’s not long until dawn. He likely can’t do much else tonight.”
“Not like he hasn’t already done enough,” I muttered.
“Roman’s in town, he has to be. Daylight hours, we’ll go hunting,” Cormac said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to sleep.” He stalked to the driver’s side of his Jeep without a backward glance.
“Thanks, Cormac,” I said uselessly.
“You sure you guys are okay?”
We didn’t answer right away, which was telling. Finally, Ben sighed and said, “Relatively speaking, yes.”
Cormac nodded, didn’t question further. He made a wave and that tight-lipped expression that passed for a smile.
Ben loaded our gear back into the trunk—except for the crossbow, which he wanted to keep up front with us.
“I can never tell if he’s angry,” I said, watching the Jeep pull away.
“Naw, he doesn’t get angry,” Ben said. “He gets even.”
* * *
IN THE end, sleep was an awesome idea. Cormac was right: daytime was a much better time to be hunting vampires. Evidence said Roman was in Denver. Between Amelia and Tina, maybe we could scry for his location, then flush him out into the sunlight.
All the way home, I was still mulling over the night, chewing like a dog with a bone. Playing the whole scene over again, wondering what clues I missed. I could still hear Angelo screaming my name as he crumbled to dust. Ben waited for me as I climbed tiredly out of the car.
I looked at the coin still hanging around my neck. It had all happened just a few hours ago.
“I can’t believe Angelo’s gone.” He’d worked so hard to stay unnoticed, out of power and therefore out of trouble. I remembered him at New Moon, leaning back in his chair and smirking like we were all beneath him. Playing the stereotypes, but still a reluctant Master. “I can’t believe I had to kill him—” I just started crying. Waterworks. All that stress, it just broke.
We stopped, right there on the walk leading to the front door. Ben held me. Didn’t say a word, didn’t try to say everything would be okay. I sobbed on his shoulder, and he was there through it all.
Finally I cried myself out into sniffles and eye rubbing. Ben’s shirt was soaked with tears and snot, and he stood and took it. Then he put his arm around me and we walked into the house.
* * *
I DIDN’T sleep well. I kept jerking awake and sitting up, wide-eyed, like I expected to find monsters in my room. Monsters other than Ben and me. But nothing was there, just the usual collection of shadows and ambient light. My arm still ached, but the bone was apparently healing the way it should. In a few more hours it would be back to normal.
Every time I woke up, Ben woke up to ask what was wrong. A couple of times, I awakened to find him already sitting up, studying the room with narrowed, wolfish eyes.
“What the hell is wrong with us?” I groaned at one point, flopping back onto the pillow.
“Too much stress for too long,” he groaned back, stretching next to me and wrapping his arms around me, like I was a big, comforting pillow. And that was just fine.
Around dawn, after time had stretched and contracted until I had no idea when it was, the bed vibrated, like someone had grabbed hold of the mattress and shook it as hard as they could. I looked for who was pulling the prank—no one. I grabbed Ben’s arm; he grabbed back.
A crash sounded, as something elsewhere in the house fell off a shelf and broke.
Then the shaking stopped. The quiet after was profound.
“What was that?” Ben said. His eyes were wide.
“Was that the house? Is the house falling down?”
Knocking pounded the door. “Kitty?” Tina called.
“Tina, are you okay?” I grabbed my bathrobe and went to open the door. Ben pulled on pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.
She looked a lot better than she had when we got back from Albuquerque, but was still pretty banged up. That didn’t stop her from looking panicked, her eyes wide. She said, “That was an earthquake.”
Somehow that didn’t sound right. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve lived in L.A. half my life, of course I’m sure. That was at least a five-two. I didn’t know Colorado even had earthquakes.”
Ben had his phone in hand and started scrolling through news sites until he found a streaming clip. “… still waiting for confirmation from the U.S. Geological Survey. The tremors seemed focused in Denver, Arapahoe, and Jefferson Counties…” The narration went on, describing initial reactions and warnings to get to a safe place and call the gas company if you smelled gas. I took a long sniff and didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. But all my hair stood on end and the air seemed charged.
“We’re on a major mountain range; there are plenty of fault lines,” Ben said. “We get quakes, but never anything big, not like this.”
The phones started ringing then: Ben’s, mine, Tina’s, the land line. I grabbed mine and had a dozen text messages pour in. I answered the call from my mother first.
“Kitty, are you all right?”
Yes. Well, no, but not because of the quake. I needed half a second to answer, which probably worried her. “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine—what about you and Dad? Cheryl?”
“Oh, thank goodness. Can you believe it? A real earthquake, here? Your father says to check your roof and foundation. Check the whole house for cracks, you might not see any damage right away, but the house might not be safe.”
I wasn’t even thinking about that. “Yeah, Mom, I’ll do that—??
?
“Nicky and Jeffy were crying when I called Cheryl. I can hardly blame them, this is just terrifying—”
“But you’re all okay?”
“Yes, we’re fine.”
“I think I need to get off the phone, Mom. I’ve got about a million messages coming in, we should probably free up the lines for real emergencies. You heard about the gas thing—you guys have any gas leaks?”
Her voice went distant as she lowered the phone and shouted at my father, “Jim, do you smell gas? Is there a gas leak?”
He called back, “Do you smell gas? Is there gas?”
“I don’t know, I’m asking!”
“I don’t know—”
“Mom,” I interrupted. “Just stay alert and be careful, okay? I’ll call you back later.”
“Okay, Kitty. Be careful. I love you.”
Ben fielded a call from his own mother—much briefer than my talk with my mom. Ellen O’Farrell was happy with a simple yes, we’re fine—and then the lines got overloaded and the calls dropped off.
“I can’t get hold of Cormac,” Ben said after trying half a dozen times to reach his cousin. I thought of his run-down apartment building, built of concrete a few long decades ago, and tried not to worry. Nothing in this town was made to withstand earthquakes.
“He’s fine,” I said, willing it to be so. He was smart, strong; he could handle himself. Not being able to reach him didn’t mean anything.
After dressing, we migrated to the kitchen, where we turned on the TV and started the coffeemaker.
The local news channels were in breaking-story heaven. Every geologist in Denver was getting fifteen minutes of fame. Some neighborhoods lost power, some buildings had been evacuated. I gave silent thanks that ours hadn’t, allowing us to have coffee. I desperately needed coffee.
Eventually, I sat on the sofa, hot mug grasped in both hands, watching the TV screen intently and not hearing a word. The images were enough—a ramshackle warehouse in Wheat Ridge had collapsed. A small bridge in Littleton had cracked in two. A fire had started in a house where a gas main had indeed broken.