Then, when she was in the middle of a particularly energetic leap, pain exploded in her shoulder.
She fell to the floor in a heap, grabbing her shoulder, searching for the wound her mind insisted was there. Except there was nothing. She closed her eyes against the relentless throbbing, the bass of her stereo making the floor vibrate beneath her.
And she felt him, stanching the flow of blood from his shoulder, then gritting his teeth in pain as he made his way clumsily down a fire escape, using only his left hand, his right arm cradled to his chest. When he reached the ground, he ran, each step jarring the wound on his shoulder.
“Gabriel!” she gasped. But of course he couldn’t hear her.
Her long history of illness and doctor’s visits had made her no stranger to pain. Jez coached herself to ride the tide of Gabriel’s pain, a calm, dispassionate voice in her mind telling her to breathe in deeply and breathe out slowly.
It would have been easier if she weren’t feeling … other things as well. Remorse. Confusion. And, of course, the ever-present anger. Anger that hadn’t been relieved by anything he’d done tonight.
Jez shivered as she lay on the floor and concentrated on breathing. The CD played on, and she wished she had the strength to get up and shut it off. But the pain sapped her will, and only half her mind seemed to be in the apartment with her. The other half stalked the streets with a very dissatisfied, angry Killer.
Eventually, the pain let up, but the flood of emotions didn’t. This was supposed to be his revenge. It was supposed to feel good, supposed to ease some of the pressure that had been building up inside of him for centuries. Instead, he felt fucking guilty! Jez felt his snarl in her own throat.
He’d made his way to a more populous street, mortals crowding around him even though it was past two in the morning. She couldn’t actually see through his eyes, but she could feel his distaste for the press of humanity around him. She felt his control balancing on a razor’s edge, the anger so fierce it demanded he find an outlet.
Then he brushed by someone, and she felt something … strange. Almost like a sense of recognition, though that wasn’t the right word for it. The rage crystallized inside him, no longer a formless, roiling mass but now a guided missile. And he began to follow whoever it was who’d touched him.
Jez opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to see nothing, to feel nothing, to put some walls up to separate her from her maker. Because she knew what she’d just felt in him. Knew he’d chosen a victim, chosen a mortal to kill just for the pleasure of venting his rage. He didn’t need to feed, wouldn’t need to for another couple of weeks, but that wasn’t going to stop him. And she didn’t want to be riding along with him when he did it.
It worked, amazingly. Suddenly, she was alone in her own head. There was no longer any pain in her shoulder. The CD had finished, leaving the apartment shrouded in the city’s equivalent of silence.
Jez blinked and was surprised to feel the dampness of her eyes. Gabriel was about to kill someone in an effort to fix whatever was broken inside him, or at least to make the pain of that break go away for a little while. And it wasn’t going to work.
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, running down the side of her face and dripping into her ear. She squinched her eyes shut in an effort to stem the flow.
Looking at Gabriel was like looking in a mirror. So much anger, and it all arose from an abiding hurt. One that no act of desperation or defiance would heal. In fact, ten to one he’d feel worse after the kill instead of better.
She scrubbed her eyes, obliterating the tears. Tonight was just another sign that he was way too fucked up for her to get involved with. When she’d wanted to stick it to her Gram, she’d gotten pierced and tattooed. When Gabriel struck out, he killed people. Jez had given up her wild ways and found she didn’t miss them. Gabriel, however, couldn’t give up the kill even if he wanted to.
He was just another self-absorbed, self-destructive addict. Like her mom. If he wanted to wallow in his anger, then that was his problem, not hers.
But none of these logical arguments stopped her from wishing she could reach out to him and make him see how badly he was hurting himself in his attempt to hurt Eli.
8
CAMILLE STARED OUT THE window at nothing as the jet soared through the darkness of the night. Bartolomeo had fallen asleep almost as soon as the plane had lifted off, and now his snores rivaled the plane’s engines for sheer volume. Disgusting creature!
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Reluctantly, she dragged her attention away from the window to look at Brigitte, who had slid into the seat across from her. Brigitte smiled, then toed off her expensive shoes and stretched.
“I was wondering if you’d be so good as to satisfy my curiosity,” Brigitte said. “Obviously, the Maître hates your son with an impressive passion. Everyone knows something happened between them before your family fled to America.” She stuck her lower lip out in a pout. “But no one seems to know exactly what it was, and the Maître isn’t talking.”
Camille glanced sidelong at Bartolomeo, who was far too deeply asleep to hear their conversation. Yes, she could well imagine why he’d want to keep the details a secret, though she was rather stunned he’d managed to do so.
“I’d be happy to tell you about it,” Camille said. “If you’ll tell me why you’re coming to America with us.”
Brigitte laughed. “Well, that’s no great secret. Obviously, you know the rules where born vampires are concerned.”
Apparently, she expected a response, for she looked at Camille pointedly. Camille nodded. “The last I knew, the Seigneurs had decreed that no born vampire should be allowed to live.”
She laughed again. “Oh, no. It is not the Seigneurs who made that rule. It is Les Vieux. The Seigneurs are merely the enforcers of the rule. But because my mother is La Vieille de la Nord, I am the exception.” The twinkle of mirth left her eyes. “At least, I have been so far. As long as her pet Seigneurs are strong enough to control me, I have her protection. But I’m getting old enough to be dangerous. My mother’s maternal affections are as changeable as yours. When I become old enough to pose a real threat, she’ll have me killed.” She made the statement with no inflection in her voice, as if it hardly mattered to her. The intensity in her eyes belied her seeming nonchalance. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for decades now, but I couldn’t figure out where to go. Now that I know I have a potential kindred spirit in America, it seems the obvious choice.”
Camille narrowed her eyes at the girl. “But you know why we’re going there.” Was Brigitte going to interfere with the plan to kill this supposed “kindred spirit” of hers?
“Yes, I know. And if he’s weak enough for you two to kill him, then he’s of no interest to me.” The offhand contempt in her voice pricked Camille’s temper, but she managed to keep her mouth shut. “I only plan to observe,” Brigitte continued. “I’ll neither help you nor hinder you.”
“And where does Henri fit into this equation?” Camille asked, looking past Brigitte to where Henri sat just out of hearing distance. He was staring at the two of them with great intensity, but Camille couldn’t read his expression.
Brigitte waved her hand dismissively. “He’s my fledgling. He’ll do as he’s told.” She smirked. “Perhaps he and Gabriel shall become fast friends.”
Camille highly doubted that.
“Now,” Brigitte continued, “I’ve answered your questions and it’s your turn. What did your son do to the Maître?”
The corners of Camille’s mouth tightened to think about how Gabriel had shattered her life with his lack of restraint.
“Eli, my maker and husband, was the Maître de Paris. Bartolomeo’s maker came to visit, bringing Bartolomeo as part of his entourage. He and Gabriel took an instant dislike to one another. Gabriel kept trying to pick a fight, but Eli wouldn’t allow it.” Eli had always kept Gabriel on a tight leash. It had been for Gabriel’s own good, but th
e boy had always been too hot-headed to see that. She shook her head. “My son had little self-restraint. He knew it would be a death sentence to reveal he was born vampire, and he was less than a hundred years old. He had to pretend to be weaker than he was, and he didn’t much like it.”
“I can sympathize,” Brigitte said with a slight smile. “But go on. What happened?”
“Gabriel slipped Eli’s leash. As a visitor in our territory, Bartolomeo was naturally forbidden to hunt. But Gabriel had heard of the disappearance of a couple of local peasant children, and for some reason he believed Bartolomeo was responsible. He followed Bartolomeo to the house where he was staying and caught him in the act of raping a little girl.”
Brigitte’s nose wrinkled, and she cast a look of disgust on the Maître. “No wonder he doesn’t want anyone to know what happened.” She gave Camille a pointed look. “And he will never introduce you to the Seigneur, not with the threat that you might reveal his history.”
Camille blinked in surprise. “Why should the Seigneur care that the Maître raped a little girl four hundred years ago?”
“Because when the Seigneur was mortal, he had a young daughter who was raped. He will turn a blind eye to whatever his people do to adults—as long as they do not draw attention to themselves—but to harm a child in his territory is a death sentence.” She looked at the still-snoring Maître. “Now I understand why he seemed so agitated when you arrived.” She turned back to Camille. “But you haven’t finished the story. Your son caught the Maître indulging his perversion. What then?”
Camille gritted her teeth. “Gabriel indulged his own perversion. When he’d discovered Bartolomeo was poaching, he should have reported the breach to Eli. Eli would have demanded his death, and Bartolomeo’s maker would have had to hand him over or fight Eli. Although Eli was no more than a Maître, everyone knew he was old and powerful enough to be a Seigneur if he wanted. No one with an ounce of common sense would have fought him, especially not over such a blatant breach of protocol.
“But if Gabriel had reported the poaching to Eli, Bartolomeo would have died a quick death, and that would not have satisfied my dear son’s lust for cruelty. So instead of following protocol, Gabriel attacked Bartolomeo. They were approximately the same age, but Gabriel overpowered him easily, not bothering to hide his superior strength because, as he later explained, he did not expect Bartolomeo to live to tell anyone.
“My son then proceeded to remove his, er, equipment.”
Brigitte’s eyes widened, and she gasped. Camille couldn’t read beyond the surprise in her face. Was she shocked? Horrified? Gleeful?
“The girl Bartolomeo had been tormenting had been severely burned with a hot iron. Gabriel then took that hot iron to him. He says he cauterized the wound.”
Another gasp, and Brigitte looked more closely at the sleeping Maître. “If that’s the truth, then one might suppose he has artificially stuffed his pants.”
Camille had thought the same herself, but she felt no desire to take a closer look. “Unfortunately for all of us, Bartolomeo’s maker interrupted Gabriel’s fun before Bartolomeo was dead. Gabriel was forced to flee into the sunlight, and that was the end of the charade.”
Brigitte nodded sagely, then cocked her head. “What happened to the little girl?”
Camille gave her a disdainful look. “She died, obviously. She’d seen far too much to be allowed to live.”
“Naturally. But did your son kill her?”
“Yes.” At least, he said he did. Eli had accepted it as the truth. In his typically sanctimonious manner, he’d acknowledged that the girl’s death was necessary while still managing to convey his disapproval of Gabriel’s action. Gabriel had pronounced the death of a peasant child no great loss, which had infuriated Eli, just as he’d no doubt intended. It had turned into a stunning row.
The whole incident made Camille wonder how a man as wise as Eli could be so blind to the evidence before his face. How could he believe Gabriel indifferent when he’d gone to such brutal lengths to punish Bartolomeo? But then, Eli had never been able to see straight where Gabriel was concerned. He’d once confessed to her that he considered fathering Gabriel to be his “greatest sin.” And yet he hadn’t hesitated to uproot them all when Gabriel’s life was threatened.
Brigitte nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you. The story was most enlightening. I very much look forward to meeting your son.”
And with that, she retreated into her own thoughts, ignoring Camille so thoroughly that she might as well not have been there.
Camille shook her head. She still didn’t understand what Brigitte was after. And now she knew for sure that Bartolomeo had no intention of letting her return to her home after she’d helped him kill Gabriel.
Somehow, she was going to have to use the two of them against each other. Otherwise, she’d never get out of this alive.
9
JEZ LAY ON HER back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The physical pain was gone, but she still felt like she was being crushed by the weight of Gabriel’s pain.
Despite her attempt to cut off contact between them, she’d felt him kill. And it had been nothing like the previous kill she’d experienced with him. No pleasure in it whatsoever, just a desperate attempt to vent his rage and his confusion.
But there was something else she’d noticed, another thread of emotion snaking through the anger and pain. Disgust. Some of it no doubt directed at himself, but more of it directed at his mortal victim. It was something she didn’t understand. He seemed to like mortals just fine. Why had this one spurred such a reaction in him? Because it had been something about this particular mortal, she was sure of it. He’d chosen his victim for a reason, had reacted to him in some odd way different from his reaction to everyone else.
She sighed and rubbed her breastbone, where a formless ache troubled her. He was still out there, roaming the streets, seething, hurting. So desperately alone. How could she feel that desolation in him and not want to help?
“You’re not alone, Gabriel,” she whispered into the air. “I know what you’re feeling. And I understand it.”
She closed her eyes and imagined calling out to him, following whatever psychic thread connected them, wondering if she could reach him. Probably, it was the height of stupidity to do so. If she did reach him, if he did come to her, she might be putting herself in danger. She understood that his anger overlaid a heavy base of pain, but she also knew he was perfectly capable of lashing out at anyone or anything around him.
And yet still she called to him, urging him to come to her, to talk to her, to share a moment of connection with another person.
She had no idea whether her call was working or not until she heard the front door of her apartment open. She sat up in bed and drew her knees to her chest. This could turn out to be a bad, bad idea. But too late now. He was here.
Moments later, he appeared in her bedroom doorway. His eyes were cold and distant, his posture wary.
“You heard me calling to you,” she said quietly.
Gabriel blinked, and a furrow of confusion appeared on his brow. “What?”
Was it possible he’d just turned up here by coincidence? True, he’d come to her every night since that first kill, but still … What she’d felt in him had suggested he planned to stay away tonight, to spend his time restlessly brooding.
Jez licked her lips, worried about how he might take this. “I felt a lot of the things that happened tonight. And I tried to use our connection to call to you.”
He curled his lip in a snarl, but she saw and felt his defenses going up, knew the angry face was a cover for fear. “And what happened tonight, my dear? Please, enlighten me.”
She met his eyes steadily. “You got shot, for one. And you didn’t enjoy springing the trap you’d set.”
The snarl grew more pronounced. “Anything else?” He took a step into the room, his posture radiating menace.
Jez’s heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to
continue, still holding his gaze. “You killed someone. A mortal you passed on the street and decided to follow.”
He laughed, a sound as brittle as breaking glass. “Indeed. I couldn’t let my dear father think I’d gone soft, now, could I?”
“That’s not why you killed him.”
Between one blink and the next, he’d crossed the distance between them. Suddenly, he was on the bed in front of her, hands gripping her shoulders, fingers digging in brutally as he glared at her from within inches of her nose.
“Don’t presume to tell me why I killed!”
The ferocity, the almost-madness, of his gaze should have frightened her into silence. But it didn’t. Even though he was hurting her with his brutal grip, she didn’t really feel afraid of him. She met his angry eyes steadily, not saying anything.
He was used to everyone being terrified of him. Even Hannah, who’d boldly traded quips with him, had feared him. No doubt, Jez was being foolish not to. But instinct told her she was in no danger, and she listened to her instincts.
Gabriel lowered his fangs, baring them at her. “I killed a boy tonight, just for the pleasure of killing. I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t feed. I just killed him.” His fingers dug in even harder. “I killed him because I felt like it. Because I’m a Killer, and that’s what Killers do.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyes widened in almost comical shock. “What?” He was so surprised, he forgot to keep up his crushing grip on her shoulders.
“Something about him set you off,” she said. “I don’t know what it was, but it was something. It wasn’t a random kill. And you didn’t enjoy yourself.”
He shoved her away from him with a sound of inarticulate rage. But considering his strength, the shove hadn’t been very hard at all. And he didn’t get up off the bed. Instead, he stared at the floor between his feet, his whole body radiating tension. And confusion.