Blue-Blooded Vamp (8 page)

Cold sweat bloomed on my skin along with fear in the pit of my stomach. “How in the hell would he know that?”

I’d always had the star mark on my right shoulder, but the one on my left? That one I’d earned only a few days earlier. Somehow, when my sister had died, her birthmark had transferred to my left shoulder. Probably there was some mystical significance to the transfer, but it hadn’t yet revealed itself. Until that happened, I used it as a talisman—a symbol that my sister, though dead, was still with me in spirit. She had my back now.

“I’m sure I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Regardless, he said you’d go by one of two names.”

I frowned. “What was the other name?”

“Maisie Graecus.”

My skin crawled like someone had just played hopscotch across my grave. Hearing my twin’s name thrown about so casually made my stomach lurch. But hearing that Abel was expecting one of us to come find him made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Neither Maisie nor I had ever met Abel.

Giguhl’s head popped up from the bag. “What the fuck?”

Dicky’s eyes narrowed at the cat. “You’re lucky Abel’s a friend, girl, or I’d kick your ass out again for bringing a demon into my bar.”

I let that pass and squared off with the male. “So what’s this message?”

He shook his head. “Not here.” He waved us back toward the hallway. “It’s not safe.”

“You know what else isn’t safe?” I said, my tone dripping menace. “Jerking me around. I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me who Abel really is.” Something told me that if Abel knew that much about me, I’d better find out his real identity sooner rather than later.

He crossed his arms and chuckled. “Now who’s jerking who around?”

“What do you mean?” Adam said. “It’s a fair question. If Abel really left a message for Sabina, then you obviously know his real identity.”

The bartender raised a brow. “That’s the rub, see. Because when Abel told me the names of the females who might show up with the twin birthmarks, he also said another interesting fact. One that leads me to believe you’re lying about not knowing who he really is.”

I raised my hands in an inpatient gesture. “Well?”

“After he told me the names of the female who’d come looking for him, he said I should treat the one who showed with respect because”—he leaned in to whisper—“she’s his daughter.”

The floor fell out from underneath me.

“What do you mean?” Adam demanded. “Are you saying Abel is Tristan Graecus?”

“Well fuck me sideways,” Giguhl said. “The dude we’re looking for is your dead dad?”

A hush fell over the bar. Dozens of gazes burned into us. A few mages even rose like they were expecting a fight—or looking for one.

“I think we’d better take this conversation someplace
more private,” Adam said. He came up behind me and put a steadying hand on my shoulder. Good thing, too. I was either going to hurl or fall down. Or both.

“I already told ya that,” Dicky said, looking annoyed. “Come along, then.”

As the bartender led us back to his office, shock completely robbed me of the ability to speak or think clearly. I had that feeling you get when you pray that you’re in the midst of a particularly fucked up nightmare. But something told me no amount of pinching would make this moment less real. Tristan Graecus was alive?

What. The. Fuck?

The office was little more than a cramped storage room with a paper-strewn table, kegs of beer, and nothing but crates to use as seats. Good thing I liked Erron and loved Adam because I was basically wedged in between them. I held the bag containing Giguhl close to my chest, partially out of concern for space and partially because I felt the need to hang on tight to something I could trust.

“There now,” the bartender said with a relieved sigh. “Now we can speak openly. We’ll begin with introductions. The name’s Richard Green, but you can call me Dicky seeing as how you’re Tristan’s daughter and all.”

“You know Erron and Sabina,” Adam snapped. “I’m Adam and the demon’s name is Giguhl. And you can start by telling us how the hell you know so much about Tristan Graecus.”

He obviously still hadn’t forgiven this guy for his earlier treatment. I liked to imagine his indignation was for my benefit, but I knew the bombshell about Tristan Graecus had to be affecting him pretty badly, too. After all, he’d
grown up believing my father was a revered martyr to all of magekind.

“I’m the unofficial leader of the expat mages in Rome. It’s my business to know lots of people.”

“Who is the official leader?” Adam asked.

“There aren’t many native mages in the Eternal City. Most left when things started getting hairy—or hairier, I guess—with the vamps a few months ago.”

That made sense. Mages and vamps had always been sworn enemies, but it wasn’t until last October that the hostilities had coalesced into an actual threat of war. Even though I knew all this, hearing the tensions had also affected mages and vamps abroad surprised me. I’d never given much thought to how the actions of the American dark races might influence the actions of those abroad. But it made sense, I guess, since although the centers of power for the races existed in the States, their reach extended worldwide. And since Rome had always been vampire territory, it wasn’t a surprise the mages had fled.

“You said Abel is Sabina’s father?” Erron prompted.

Dicky’s face tightened with suspicion. “Yeah. I’m going to need some proof that you’re really Sabina.”

My mouth fell open. “You need proof? Fuck you. You need to prove to me that you’re telling the truth. How do I know you don’t work for Cain?”

Dicky threw back his head and laughed. “Sure, a mage working for the father of the bloodsuckers. Are ya drunk, girl? You came here looking for me. What I want to know is why you’re looking for Abel if you didn’t know he was your father?”

I took a deep breath to quell the cocktail of annoyance and panic stewing in my gut. “Assuming Abel really is Tristan Graecus—”

“He is.”

I rolled my eyes. “I was told my entire life that my father was dead, that he died before I was born, in fact. So you’ll forgive me for being a tad suspicious when you suddenly claim that he’s not only alive but also the world’s foremost expert on all things Cain.”

Dicky raised his hands. “I don’t know what to tell you. I have been friends with Abel for going on a decade now, but he told me his real name only a fortnight ago when he delivered the message. Said it was important I know his real identity in case something happened to him and one of his kin came looking for him.” Dicky sighed and shook his head. “And now he’s disappeared, so there’s no way to ask him to sort this out.”

I frowned. “Disappeared? When?”

“Three nights ago,” Dicky said. “He was supposed to come by the bar that night but never showed.”

I closed my eyes and willed the fist in my throat to disappear. Three nights earlier, the night Cain murdered Maisie, he’d figured out how to break the spell that kept him in a coma. According to Erron, Abel had captured Cain a decade earlier and placed him in a state of suspended animation. The fact no one had heard from Abel since told me Cain’s first item of business after gaining his freedom was to punish his captor.

Giguhl piped up. “Maybe Abel escaped before Cain could kill him.”

Dicky pursed his lips. “If he did, why hasn’t he contacted me for help?”

“He could be hiding out. After all, if he’s alive, he’d be high on Cain’s To-Kill list, right?” Adam said. “Any idea where he’d go if he did escape?”

“I was hoping you might know,” Dicky said, looking directly at me.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “None of this makes any sense.”

“You mentioned a message?” Erron prompted.

The Brit went over to a set of shelves that held supplies. He moved a few bottles around in what seemed to be a pattern or code and then suddenly the shelves popped away from the wall. He pushed the whole thing aside, revealing a secret room. “Follow me.”

Adam and I exchanged tense looks. Erron, however, didn’t seem fazed by Dicky’s behavior and followed him into the room. I was tired of the mysterious bullshit, but I knew if I wanted answers, I’d have to follow him, too. And, holy shit, did I want answers.

The room had a recessed floor that required a couple of steps down. “What is this place?” I asked, ducking under the low stone arch to descend the stairs. The air here had the musty heaviness of age and the temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees.

“Originally it was a tomb, left by the Etruscans. But since then, the various proprietors have used it for different purposes. The cheese maker who owned this building before I opened the bar used it as an aging cellar for his pecorino.”

“Really?” Giguhl exclaimed. “I don’t suppose you got any more of that cheese lying around?”

I shot the demon a glare.

“What?” he said defensively. “It smells fucking delicious in here.”

Actually, it smelled like feet and wet stone. I rolled my eyes at the demon and shot Dicky an apologetic look. “What do you use it for?”

He snapped his fingers and the room was suddenly bathed in the warm glow of hundreds of candles set into niches in the walls. Niches that used to house cheese
wheels and bodies. Now, the shelves without candles stored antique bottles filled with herbs and mysterious liquids. “This is my spell room,” he said. “The bar is a front for my magic solutions business.”

“Magic solutions?”

He nodded. “Sure. Italians love homemade remedies. Took a while for word to spread that a Brit had some skill in potions but now I supply all sorts of elixirs to little old ladies and lovesick boys.”

As he spoke, he bent down and pulled an old leather-bound book from one of the shelves. I had assumed it was his magical grimoire, a book mages used to record their spells, so I was surprised when he opened it to reveal the book was hollow. The interior was lined in wood—cedar, judging from the scent that tickled my nose. Lying inside was a black velvet bag.

Dicky held the box out to me. “Take it.”

I frowned, wondering why he didn’t just hand the bag to me. It made my sense of self-preservation prickle. What did we know about this guy, anyway? For all I knew, he could work for Cain and this could be a trap.

I guess Dicky noticed the indecision on my face because he quickly explained. “Your father warded the bag. Didn’t want anyone to see it but you, I guess.”

Adam grabbed my arm. “Wait a second.” Turning to Dicky, he said, “There’s no ward on earth that is undone just by a certain person touching it. There’s usually some sort of magical key.”

The Brit smiled. “Righto. Only someone from Tristan’s lineage can open it. She’s going to have to prick her finger first and let the blood drop on the bag.”

I sighed deeply. Blood was serious. I was already up to my ass in debt to a god over blood sacrifices. “No way, dude.”

Even Erron, who until this point had remained quiet and unruffled, looked concerned. “What kind of trick are you trying to pull?”

“No trick.” Dicky shrugged. “Tristan wanted to be sure no one could see this except his own flesh and blood.” He nodded in my direction. “This was the best way to ensure that.”

“I think we’re going to need to see some proof this is really from Tristan,” Adam said.

Dicky’s smile fell. He stepped forward. “Are you sayin’ I’m lying?”

Adam didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Giguhl nodded his bald head vigorously.

The Brit blustered for a few moments. “I didn’t ask for this, you know. Just doing a favor for a friend.”

“Look, dude,” I said. “You said it yourself—these are dangerous times. We’d be idiots not to ask.”

“I’m tempted to kick you out again,” he grumbled. “But I suppose you have a point.”

His lips pursed in annoyance. “Look at the bag.” He held up the false book for us to gather around it. Sure enough, there was a symbol embossed into the velvet.

Silence followed. I frowned at him. “What the hell is that?” The symbol depicted a sword and chalice. I’d never seen it before, but generally anything involving a mysterious symbol spelled trouble.

Dicky frowned. “What do you mean? It’s the symbol of Abel. All his allies know about it.” His eyes widened. “You really have no idea what you’re doing, do ye?”

I threw my hands up. “No shit.”

“Wait a second,” Erron said. “He’s right. Abel was wearing an amulet with that symbol when I met him.”

“Anyone could have placed Abel’s symbol on that bag,” Adam said, crossing his arms.

“Janus, Minerva, and Jupiter,” the Brit exclaimed. “I don’t know what else you want from me.” He jiggled the box at me. “There’s only one way to find out if I’m telling the truth.”

I looked up, not at Adam whose opinion I had a pretty good grasp on, but at Erron. He had far more experience with both Dicky and Abel and thus had the most informed opinion of the three of us. “Do it,” he said, his expression grave.

Finally, annoyed and ready to just get some freaking answers already, I handed Giguhl to Adam and pricked my finger with my fang. I massaged the tip until a bright red drop formed. “Here goes nothing.” I blew out a lungful of air and slowly moved my hand to hover over the bag.

Everyone held their breath. The blood fell in slow motion. The instant it made contact with the velvet, a bright blue flame flared. In the blink of an eye, the bag disappeared and revealed a small, yellowed scroll. I couldn’t tell if it was yellowed from age or the effects of the flames, but either way the paper had seen better days.

No one moved. Then I realized they were all waiting for me to do something. With a trembling hand, I reached for the message. When my fingers made contact, a tingle spread up through my digits and through my wrist and up my arm. The mark on my left shoulder—Maisie’s mark—tingled. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation but it felt meaningful. I stilled, waiting for some sort of magical fallout, but… nothing.

“Open it,” Giguhl urged.

I looked up quickly. Erron, Adam, and the cat were leaning toward the box, their eyes lit up like treasure hunters on the trail of pirate gold. My heart thudded against my rib cage. My palms were sweaty but my skin cold.