K. R. Treadway
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Blood and Lace: Chapter 23
🕑 Added 2024-05-19 20:27:13 +0000 UTC
“Good—”
The door slammed before Nicholas could say “luck.” He peered through the passenger window but only saw a young couple out for an evening stroll. She’d already vanished.
Don't take it personal. She had to do it.
From any rational point-of-view, Della severing herself from most of her emotions was advantageous to both of them. Though remarkably in touch with her feelings—based on what she’d shared about vampires—Della’s sensitivity cut both ways. Her recent trauma had resulted in dangerous anxiety spikes, and she couldn't afford to risk one where she was going. So he accepted the logic of bringing the predator to the fore.
But it didn't make the gulf between them any easier to bear.
Follow her example. You’re on an operation. Act like it.
The internal admonishment had sounded a bit too much like his mother, but he couldn't argue with it—which made it even more like his mother. His mouth twisted in a humorless smirk.
Just do everything you can to help her.
That was better. The confusing flux of his emotions responded at once, braiding together into a single purpose: supporting Della. He took a deep breath and held it. On the exhale, he felt himself finally settle into a state of relaxed alertness. Time to get to work.
Nicholas put the truck in drive and pulled into the light evening traffic, pointing the car back towards uptown. His destination—a six-story parking garage at the edge of the business district—was quite different from Della’s.
“A tobacconist,” he murmured quietly. “Of all things…a tobacconist.” Their recent conversation kept playing in his head, the moment when Della had finally pulled back one curtain and revealed a piece of her world to him.
“This information would doom countless vampires if your guild knew of it.”
She looked up at him from the couch, her fingers continually entangling and pulling apart in her lap. It was a very un-Della-like motion. Nicholas sat down on the coffee table, close enough that he lightly hemmed her legs in with his. “Hey,” he said softly, waiting until her gaze settled on him. “I know it's a big step…but I won't share this with anyone. You have my solemn oath.”
“Still trying to sound old fashioned?”
He shook his head, keeping her eyes with his. “Not this time. I mean every word.” He hesitated, but the uglier part had to be said as well. “And if they find out about us, if they…interrogate me…” An image came unbidden to him. Strapped in a chair while his mother watched him being taken apart. He sucked in a steadying breath. “You’d know it when I didn't come back. There would be time to warn your people.”
“Let us not speak of that,” she whispered. After a long moment, her hands stilled. She tilted her head, and finally gave him a sad little smile. “You are a strange hunter. All right…tonight I will be paying a visit to Roger Sharp, a tobacconist who keeps a shop near the boutiques on French Street.”
“A…tobacconist?”
“A vampire. Also an associate of my father’s for more than a century.”
“So an ancient vampire…who runs a cigar shop.”
A corner of her mouth tilted up. “It’s somewhat more than that.”
Three blocks from his destination, Nicholas pulled his battered work truck into a space that was probably occupied by a luxury SUV during the day. He craned his neck to look at the gleaming facades of the surrounding office buildings…safe to say he was probably the first hunter of his cell to operate in the danger zone of the city center.
Without permission, of course.
With something of a gallows grin, he pulled his duffel out of the truck and started walking. The streets seemed eerily empty. But no witnesses was a good thing, right? After a few blocks he ducked underneath a toll gate and entered the parking garage.
Security lights bathed the oil-stained cement in a yellow glow and revealed how empty the space was save for a smattering of cars. He quickly located the door to the stairs and was relieved to find it unlocked. The confined stairwell had sour-tasting air, but it was completely concealed from view.
Nicholas set his bag down on the second floor landing and shrugged out of his windbreaker. He took a moment to rub his bruised forearm and scratch the burning itch around his bicep. Perils of a vampire girlfriend. He gave a sarcastic snort. Don't get ahead of yourself, Nicholas.
Unzipping the duffle, he hauled out his gear belt and buckled it on. He clipped the emergency staker to his hip and retrieved the flash blinder. Damn straps always got tangled on these things. He shook it until they tumbled loose.
The hand-me-down contraption had a dubious appearance, its previous owner’s sarcasm evident in the crude “FRONT TOWARDS LEECH” scratched on the dented housing. Hopefully the thing still worked. Most hunters ridiculed the blinder as much as the emergency staker, but Nicholas had studied it as an analyst and was convinced it was undervalued.
He slipped the straps over his shoulders, tightened it onto his chest, and pulled his windbreaker back on. Suppressing his impatience, he took the time to carefully wrap the blinder’s pull cord around one of the jacket snaps before buttoning it closed. There. If his coat was ripped open, the blinder would fire.
Nicholas picked up the duffle and continued up. He exited at the fourth floor and rechecked his surroundings. No cars at all, just faded yellow lines receding into the distance.
Breaking into a quick jog, he arrowed towards the chest-high wall at the edge of the deck. The cement was cold against his fingers as he leaned over to check the streets. Again he was struck by how empty this area seemed to be after 5pm. The nearby specialty shops and fancy restaurants meant there was probably some foot traffic, but the business district itself seemed…desolate.
He exhaled, watching his breath stream into the cool night air. The sight lines were just what he had hoped for. By craning out slightly, he could see the exterior of the cigar shop three blocks away.
Nicholas walked a short distance and sidled into a narrow space between the wall and a massive support column. From here he would be obscured from anyone in the garage. Partial cover only, but better than nothing. He set down the duffle, removed both scopes and—with a self-conscious smirk—his baseball bat. The sense of protection it provided was likely an illusion, but sometimes illusions were all a hunter had.
The tobacconist was in a corner location right at the edge of the city’s active nightlife, housed in a beautiful brick building whose charms had just started to fray. Checking it through the optical scope, Nicholas could make out the modest hand-painted sign: “R. Sharp Tobacconist.” His position gave him an excellent vantage. From here he had eyes on the front of the store and the narrow alley that accessed the back entrance—the one preferred by Mr. Sharp’s real clientele.
“So it’s a place for vampires to…hang out?” Nicholas frowned at her.
“Not quite,” Della replied. “It’s neutral ground. A place to negotiate. Share news.”
“News? Isn't there some kind of…online forum? Like a vampire Discord?”
She blanched. “Gods, no. Even those of us who use the internet are horrified at the thought. Secrecy is second-nature to us.” At this her jaw set.
Nicholas gave her a sympathetic look. “When we have time, I'll share some of my secrets—the kind that make me as uneasy as you feel right now.” She nodded, but still looked troubled. His heart twinged. He clasped his hands and rested his chin on them. “So…it’s a place for friendly gatherings, formal meetings, and info sharing. Anything else?”
Her eyes still hadn't returned to his. “Food.”
“Food.” His brow furrowed, then grew into a scowl. “Della, are you telling me there are human slaves?”
She gave him a look so withering he wanted to apologize.
“Roger employs servants who provide blood to vampires willingly. They are compensated,” she added. “What you call ‘slaves’ are known as thralls to us, and they are outlawed…if that decree hasn't already been revoked in the short time I've been…indisposed.”
“Okay.” Nicolas raised his hands. “No need to go down that path.” He sighed. “These humans…they’re really willing?”
“You know the pleasures of the sharing, Nicholas. For some, the prospect of being regularly fed from in a safe environment is highly desirable.”
Nicholas rubbed the bridge of his nose, but the tension behind his forehead didn't abate. The revelation of humans serving as lunch was deeply disconcerting, but he couldn't pretend he didn't understand why some might be tempted. Not while he was looking into her pale blue eyes.
He shook himself back to the present. No doubt Della would be in position by now. He pulled the small headset from his jacket pocket and put it on, adjusting the microphone to be further from his face than usual.
“Della, can you hear me?” He checked to make sure it was on. “It’s Nicholas.”
“Who else would it be?” With her emotions dialed as low as the volume in her earpiece, Della’s sarcasm was about as gentle as battery acid—but he was still relieved to hear her refined speech through the crackles of interference.
“Glad to hear your voice. I'm in position.”
There was a pause. “Are you well hidden?”
Nicholas glanced over his shoulder. “Could be better…but this place is empty. In the meantime I’ve got eyes on the shop. Both entrances.”
“And you’re sure you can detect my kind from there?”
“Brought a thermal scope. It won’t be a problem.”
“I will wait ten minutes,” Della said. “Let me know if you spot any of the blood.”
“Will do. Line’s open in the meantime.” Nicholas's voice was flat and metallic in her ear. It was strange speaking to open air and hearing a reply. With a phone there was a medium to talk through, but this felt more like communing with a spirit.
Della pretended to take a sip of the latte she had bought on the walk to Roger’s store. She leaned against the white pebbly wall of the gaudy fashion boutique where she’d decided to wait. The tobacconist shop was two blocks over and still out of sight. In the meantime she could blend in by pretending to drink coffee and read whatever it was that Nicholas had grabbed for a prop. She glanced down at it.
“Clean Slate, O’Donnell’s non-selective solution for…”
“…commercial property clearing.” Nicholas’s voice held a hint of his grin even over the connection. Della felt a flash of annoyance at forgetting the line was open.
“Focus on your task,” she snapped.
“Sorry.” His response was muted and pure business. “Won't happen again.”
For some reason Della felt compelled to soften her reaction. “You…have my condolences if you’ve actually read this dreadful pamphlet.”
“Heh, thanks.” Life had returned to his tone and she immediately felt better. Even in this state she was…responsive…to his moods, as if a tether connected them no matter how remote her emotions. The strange intensity of it was as unfamiliar as it was unexpected. She muttered irritably.
“Didn't copy. Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Keep watching.”
Five minutes passed. Apart from a few shoppers, the street remained largely quiet. Tension was coiling ever more tightly inside of her at the thought of the upcoming meeting. How would Roger react when he saw her? Their relationship had always been professional—even cordial—and their shared history was not to be discounted. But after the events at Lord Layne’s estate she no longer felt certain of anything. Maybe he wouldn’t even be there. He often—
“Activity.” Nicholas's voice made Della start. She nearly crushed the cooling coffee in one hand.
Keep your wits about you, child. The words of her mother from centuries past. A feral smile played about her lips. “Tell me.”
“I think…yes. Lower body temp. A male vampire just exited from the front of the store.”
Della frowned. “What’s he's dressed like?”
“What? Why?”
“Answer.”
“Hang on.” She heard some muffled static as Nicholas moved around. “Can’t make out much…shiny suit jacket and pants…no tie…a gold chain maybe? Looks like club trash, to be honest. Sleazy. Just walked out of sight, but he’s heading away from you if you're at that clothes store.”
Her lip curled slightly. “Most likely a Libertine.”
“Liber teen?”
“An…association within the blood. Amoral hedonists who hide their depravity beneath a veneer of boorish fashion and brittle philosophy. More of a gang than a club.” It was becoming dangerously easy to share these things with him. “They've plagued us for more than two centuries.”
There was silence for several seconds. "Della…these guys…do they always dress like that?”
She shrugged, then realized he wasn't present to see it. “More or less,” she agreed. “They consider themselves sophisticated, but vampires drawn into their empty rhetoric are rarely thinkers.” Drus excepted. She pressed her lips together, powering past the uncomfortable thought. “They like to turn humans indiscriminately—an act that the rest of us consider profane. Worse, they tend to turn those who are most like themselves: disaffected, poorly educated, and violent.” There was another long silence without reply. “Nicholas?”
“We cleared out a nest,” he began abruptly, “in 2011. A group of five. Took everything we had. Almost more than we had. I’d been working as an analyst for less than a year. I just remembered that the males all wore suits—I think there was one female in a cocktail dress. But all of them were filthy. Couldn't have blended in if they’d tried. We all thought it was bizarre. Suits. With ties even.”
Something in his tone made her hesitate before answering. “Your suspicions are correct,” Della said. “They were Libertines. I know of the group you’re talking about, Nicholas. Already quite debased when they arrived. They likely would have become feral within a year had your…colleagues not taken them out. For what it's worth, it was impressive work.”
“Can I ask you something?” She didn't respond. After a long moment he continued anyway. “Why didn't other vampires move against them? Monsters like that don't exactly promote peaceful coexistence.”
Della walked a few steps and threw the full cup of coffee sludge into a trash can. She tossed the brochure in after it. “Who’s to say we didn't?” she responded coolly.
“I think we would have noticed.” His voice had taken on a hard edge.
“Would you have?” Her own tone dropped a few degrees. She was distantly aware that her usual self wouldn't like the growing antagonism each was expressing, but she didn't have time for that Della’s feelings—or Nicholas's. This distraction was unnecessary. “I will enlighten you. What was the term you used? Nest? There were two ‘nests,’ Nicholas. The other one contained seven Libertines, and we dealt with it.”
When it finally came, his response was stunned. “That’s…I didn't realize.”
“We’re very good at not being noticed.”
“But why…I mean, could you have handled both?”
“Your hunters had already started their work. Helping was out of the question. We would have been at risk from both sides.”
He didn’t answer. There was no answer; the truth of her statement was obvious. “I’m guessing that many of you viewed a fight between us and the Libertines as a win-win.” His voice was thick with resentment, but Della wasn't certain it was directed at her. She was wise enough not to confirm his suspicion—better that he guess the truth than hear it from her own lips.
Instead, she made her voice as soft as possible. “Nicholas, we must keep our minds on our present task. I am not…equipped…to have this talk with you now.”
He sighed. “Yeah.” Then his voice strengthened. “You’re absolutely right. Forgot my game face for a second.”
“I will be counting on your help,” she reminded him, “so remain calm, my sweet—” sheep. Della caught herself just before the demeaning word slipped out. The term was pure habit—one she was trying to amend around Nicholas.
There was a sudden, pointed silence in her ear.
Oh gods. Della rubbed her forehead as she realized that her omission had made it sound like she was using a term of endearment.
“I'm here for you,” he replied.
The pure earnestness in his voice somehow reached the emotions she had cloistered at the edges of her mind. A strange shivery feeling moved through her, again tinged with that odd intensity. She swallowed, trying to regain her balance. “Have there been any more of my kind leaving or entering?”
“No one’s gone in or come out while we’ve been talking.”
“Good. I'm going in. Please remain silent so I can concentrate.”
“Unless there’s trouble,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Unless there’s trouble.”
