Endless Night (14 page)

The other line rang and I took a deep, shaky breath and let it out as slow as I could.

“That was fast,” Mikes voice came over the line and I nearly broke down in tears. Not that hearing his voice made me sad. His voice, him in general, held a deep seeded role of protection in my brain. I knew I could never tell him what had just happened. Fuck, he’d have the white coats here in a heartbeat to haul me off to the nut house. Nope, he would never know what had happened. At that point, I didn’t think anyone would ever know. That was all I needed, the girl who offed two vampire boys nuts up in the House of Porte, vampire haven, in New Orleans covered in imaginary blood pouring from a fantastical wound. Nope. I’d keep my crazy to myself for now. Thank you very much.

“Mike,” I said finally, my voice sounded terrible and I knew he’d pick up on it. Without letting him question me, I continued, “I know that symbol. I can’t talk, but I wanted to let you know it’s not a vampire thing.” I took another deep breath in and let it out without alerting the cop on the other line I was trying to maintain my composure. “It’s a voodoo thing.”

Even saying it out loud, I felt like an idiot. Even knowing with damn near one hundred percent certainty the tattoo on the staked, and presumably headless, girl in the photo was the same I’d seen on the sign at the voodoo shop of horrors.

“How do you know that?” he asked too inquisitively. He trusted my insider information most of the time so I was sure he was trying to get out personal information more than evidentiary material.

“I just do. And yes, I’m certain. You might be looking in the wrong end of the occult spectrum. I gotta go. But you should know, whatever you have to do to find these people, don’t forget they really truly believe in everything they’re doing and will do anything they can to achieve their fictional power. Good luck.”

I heard him start to talk, to question me and everything I’d ever said or done in my entire life, but I didn't have the time or the emotional wherewithal to deal with it, so I hung up without another word.

I sat on the floor clutching my phone in my hand, when my door opened and a lovely man stepped through it.

“And how, in the world, did you end up on the floor in that amazing gown?” he stood in the doorway with his hands on either hip like a mother would do.

Not another word escaped his lips before he came and swooped me up from the floor and onto my feet. I was standing before I knew it and on stable legs to boot. I didn’t know how he did it, but just his presence seemed to make me forget about how horrid life could be.

“Are you alright?” Cyrus asked with caring eyes.

I let myself get lost in the shimmering green that lay between his thick, black lashes for a moment before I answered him.

“Better now.” The only halfway sane response I could muster after all that insanity I’d just encountered.

“Are you certain? I have a feeling there is something you’re holding inside,” his brows drew together and he peered into my face in search of my hidden thoughts.

“Just an interesting few days. Lots of stuff to put down on paper.” He wasn’t buying it. “You know, for the book.” His eyes narrowed and I felt his unwavering concern burrow into my conscience. “Detective Petersen is having some problems with a case. He needed my help with it and it shook me up a little is all. I’m fine
.” I smiled the best I could and tried to step around him.

His strong hands held my arms not allowing me to pass. “That’s not like you. Must be a terrible case.” His voice held so much distrust, I could feel it tickle along my skin leaving behind an eerie sense of guilt.

“Yes, terrible. Not something I’m interested in helping him with further either, so I hope he’s able to close it on his own.”

“Likewise. I’d hate to know what could’ve gotten the likes of big tough Dylan Hart frazzled.”

“Just more graphic than I was prepared for. I’m sure he has it all under control.”

“Were you able to assist him in his…needs?” He asked this as if he thought perhaps I had something going on the side with Mike.

“I answered his question. I hope it helps the case,” I responded bluntly. I didn’t do well with intrusive boys. Even sexy would-be vampire boys with a death grip on my tender arms.

“Yes,” his grip loosened and his eyes softened their gaze. “Well, shall we? Our car is waiting.”

I didn’t say anything more. Cyrus offered me his arm and I took it cordially. After all that had happened, I really wasn’t in the partying mood, but it’d seem out of sorts if I were to opt out of the big to-do and stay behind all alone in that big creepy house. Although, staying behind would give me the opportunity to check under the stairs. If there even was an under-the-stairs. I hadn’t noticed a door there before so Lord knew if it was even real. The thought crossed my mind, but I ditched the idea quickly when I thought of being alone in that house with my phantom blood loss. Whatever it was, it scared me, and I wasn’t about to stick around and find out if it would happen again. Shit, for all I knew, it was that creepy fucking mirror that was the culprit all along. Not me. Not crazy ol’ Dylan. Nope, the haunted mirror did it.

We were feet from the front doors when I decided to drop my bag. The purse fell and coincidently slid toward the foot of the stairs. I let out a fake sigh and moved away to grab it from its convenient position near the area there would be a door visible in the side of the staircase. As nonchalantly as I could, I leaned over, stopping all breathing on my part by way of synched corset, and slid my eyes upward toward the side of the stairs. If I could have breathed, it would have been a gasp. There, just as in my dream, a small door sat closed tight under the stairs. Well, at least I knew there was even a door there in the first place. So, in theory, there was a chance there were also rows and rows of shiny wood coffins hidden down there too.

Fuck ghost hunting. I’m huntin’ vampire.

Chapter Fourteen

Trying my hardest to put the bloody event of my psychotic break behind me, I rode quietly in the back of a shiny black Rolls Royce. A nineteen-thirty’s model if I were to guess. Hey, I didn’t know much, but what I did know was always random and likely learned from television. Or stalking. Some stuff I learned from stalking.

Something in my subconscious kept making my hand linger to my phantom wound. Checking for thick, warm blood. Nothing. The drive lasted just over twenty minutes and of the dozen times I checked, there was never a sign I was bleeding. I knew I probably looked really stupid with my little dance, but it was like a tick, I just couldn’t stop. I laughed a bit to myself when I figured, if I were bleeding from a hole in my throat, the two Sanguinarians I was in the car with would likely alert me by kindly cleaning it up with their mouths. The laugh faded to a sinful grin when the image in my head became Cyrus cleaning my bloody mess up with
his
mouth.

Forget about your sin, give the audience a grin. Always l
ook on the bright side of life...or death.

The song played out in my head as we drove and my fear lifted a little. I’d always been the type to let shit roll off, never really letting anything sway me either way, just kept pushing on. I thanked years of therapy for that one. But it felt like recently
, I’d allowed all the macabre that surrounded my life to seep in and change my way of thinking, of reacting toward situations. I guess brutally killing two people had a negative effect on someone. It was natural after all. But my ‘whistle through it’ and ‘hey, fuck you, guys’, attitude seemed to be the most affected. Why else would I be hallucinating ethereal injuries if my thick candy coating was up and running? Nothing should be penetrating it and causing quite that reaction.

I do have a history of being given hallucinogens in the presence of these bloodsucking freaks. Maybe it really isn’t me after all.

“Here we are
.” The Irish accent of the asshole driver brought me from my thoughts to the present.

Our car pulled through a set of wrought iron gates that seemed to open on their own. A southern spectral perhaps? We were in the mecca of haunted shit, but I doubted it. Motorized gates were much more likely in this scenario. A long sweeping drive slung us from the street to the valet directly in front of the few steps leading to the entrance. All outward appearances told me this was probably once a house. Like the one we were spending the weekend in, only bigger and marginally less creepy. My door opened and a solemn man in a fancy hat
, stood somber-faced, holding it open for me. My heeled-boot held strong as I slid out of the killer car as smoothly as I could. Cyrus took the place of the man in the hat and again held his arm out for me. Such a gentleman. It seemed to be a new development during our weekend getaway. He never really struck me as the old fashioned type before, but then again, I really didn’t know him that well. From my experience, people tended to surprise you and threw a curveball when you were least expecting it.

The two of us waited for his Primus to retrieve his lady from the passenger seat and lead us inside. I had discovered quickly that nothing was done without the head guy doing it first. In our case, that was Malcolm. I really hadn’t had the chance to get to know any of the other Primus…
es? Primusi? Oh, fuck it. I didn’t know any of the other head honchos so I didn’t have anything to compare it to within the bizarre blood-drinking culture, but in my opinion, he took his seat of power a little too literally.

Two tough guys stood on either side of the double doors; they looked armed and were likely off-duty cops. Or rotten ex-cops looking for work. Trust me. This was how they paid the bills
, moonlighting. Seemed a bit overkill on the security, but judging by my need to be at least moderately protected, I was not about to pitch a fit. I was more than happy to leave those gun-wielding commandos to their duties as long as that meant they were keeping out vicious little voodoo mamas with the rest of the riffraff.

Malcolm stopped at the entrance and waited for the doors to open. The two bouncers stood at their posts as if they were the royal guard. I was actually half expecting their duties to extend to opening doors, but I was dead wrong. Instead of instantly being allowed in, our foursome stood on the large white porch in succession, waiting like losers. Finally, the doors opened from the inside out and two obvious staff members stood at each. They wore what one could assume to be traditional Victorian garb. Black on white, spats, coat tails, the works. No hats.
Just discretely combed hair pulled back into ponytails at the nape of their neck. At first, I thought it odd that two men would have hair long enough to put in a ponytail, but then I realized one was a woman. Dressed as a man, she nearly mirrored the man on the other door. Maybe they were siblings, I didn’t know. In any other circle, I’d ask. I learned my lesson with this group; never ask more than you were willing to pay for in a pound of flesh. Or a bucket of blood. Hey, who knew a group of basement-dwelling pale faces could ever be so damn creepy if given the proper tools to survive in society. Thank you, modern media.

Granted they were not above law. Let’s face it, they weren’t celebrities or anything. These types of people might still be stuck playing role
-playing games in their parents’ basements had there not been a serious shift in social acceptance thanks to pop culture. Now, they afforded grand masques and public social events where youngsters flocked in droves and spent their parents’ hard-earned money for a moment in the life of a bloodsucking fiend from beyond the grave. Or mommy’s basement.

As had occurred once before at the summit in the teahouse, a hostess greeted us at the door and took our names. She escorted our party to yet another set of doors where another hostess met us and detained us in a holding pattern until she was able to open the door with zeal and introduce us all properly.

“Presenting, Master Malcolm McTavish.”
Say that five times fast
. “Primus, House of Cailleadh and escort, Mistress Tatum Price.”

The two pranced into the beautifully decorated ballroom making eye contact with as many guests as they could on their way.

“Presenting, Sir Cyrus Atossa, Secondus, House of Cailleadh and escort, Mistress Dylan Hart.”

It was our turn to make our grand entrance. Firmly attached to his arm, Cyrus and I stepped into the oversized ballroom with what felt like a hundred eyes on us. Some looked at me with a disappointed glare. Others smiled and seemed to approve of the two of us together. I spotted Dominika seated with Marienne at a table near the back. Neither acknowledged our eye contact. Most of the guests, mostly the girls,
just stared at sexy Cyrus in his fancy costume. I was fine with that. I knew, unlike our first meeting and the others that followed, I was likely going to spend the rest of my weekend with him. I was also becoming strangely aware of the feeling I was being pranced around like a steer at auction. I was stuck in my own thoughts, as I usually was, while Cyrus led me around the innermost section of the shiny wood dance floor.

I noticed the looks from the guests when we first entered, but there was no reason now for them to be watching. A thought flew through my slow brain. It was possible this weekend was some sort of setup. Judging by what I knew of Tatum, I was fairly certain she played a major role in this. If it were true that was. Malcolm hated me as much as I hated him, so I doubted greatly my presence was any of his doing. That left Cyrus himself. What motive would he have to ask me to be his escort on this strange vacation? Tatum had been the one who originally invited me along. She even insisted with all her might that I
come, even as I vehemently protested. I might be dumb. I wasn’t stupid. Yeah. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about this vacation, no matter how much research it would prove to offer. But it was Tatum who originally convinced me I needed this for my health and my soon-to-be work of fiction. Not to mention how strongly she’d assured me I’d be going to keep her company only to leave me hanging with the sexy Secondus for the weekend.

Cyrus had coincidently been forced to retrieve me and all my shit from my place on our way to the airport. My room was placed directly across the hall from his. Our outfits were obviously an intentional and well thought out coordinated set. It was a big job, even for the likes of Tatum Price. There was absolutely no conscious reason I could find that would cause Cyrus to be the mastermind behind this. Shit, I shot him five months before and hadn’t spoken to him since. No man, no matter how hard up, waited around for a girl for five months. It just wasn’t done.

Unless that man is Michael Petersen.

Our rotation was finally over
, and Cyrus led his cow to her seat. I felt a skeptical look set in on my face as I took a seat in a linen-covered chair at a well-set table. Centerpieces stood elegantly with reaching, white branches jutting from tall, fluted crystal vases. All of the linen was a matching white, making it all look like winter with the sparkling crystal. The only light came from the hundreds of deep red, tapered candles perched atop each table in dramatic crystal candelabras. Red roses stuck deliberately from the tops of each fluted vase making it look as though the white branches were growing from pools of blood. If it weren’t for the obvious vampire presence, I’d have said this was a wedding. A fucking fantastically decorated wedding at that.

Trying hard to keep my mind from flipping back to the horrific incident in my room with the blood and all, I decided to direct my energy to finding out why I was being pranced around the room like cattle at auction.

Cyrus took his seat beside me and I waited a moment for him to get nice and settled. It seemed the rest of the guests were seated at tables with their respective Houses, mostly the higher-ups and a few others I didn’t really recognize from the summit at the tea house. Each round table sat about eight people, all of which were dressed in the same over-the-top matching Victorian inspired garb. Malcolm and Tatum were sitting a few seats away from us, but sharing our eight-seat table. Apparently, we would be joined by four more guests. Wonderful.

“So,” I began. “I need to ask you something. I’m just going to be blunt about it.” As if there were any other way? “And I’m going to expect you to be honest with me. Please know I am fully prepared to beat the shit out of you at any given moment so choose your words wisely.” I paused for a moment to allow Cyrus a chance to acknowledge he heard and understood my words. He looked blankly in my eyes and nodded. “Good. Why am I here?” No reason to beat around the bush. I’d kept my voice lower than my average boisterous tone out of respect for the other guests who were all engaged in their own tightknit conversations, but I minced no words.

“On this earth? Or in this room?” Cyrus asked, avoiding the original question and in turn lighting a fire in my ass that had before only been a stack of kindling.

“Why am I along for this bloody strange ride? Aside from Tatum being here, I see no reason to be asked along. None that make sense to my vampire-ignorant mind anyway. I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

Taking the chance at being seduced by those perfect emerald eyes, I glared into them trying to elicit fear in the gorgeous man. I doubted it worked, but he did start talking.

“I asked Tatum to invite you,” his voice was low and rumbling and as sincere as I could imagine him to sound. In the end, he and I weren’t all
that
familiar with each other. Not in that sense anyhow. It seemed a camaraderie had been building out of necessity and fear of being lonely, but if it weren’t for this weekend, it was likely I would have continued living my life trying to avoid his existence as I had the five months we didn’t speak in the first place. Hey, when you shoot a guy and put him in the hospital for a week, you had the right to assume there would never be a real relationship there. Besides, aside from desperately wanting to see what he had hiding under those lovely man-panties, I really had little interest in an honest to goodness boyfriend-girlfriend thing. And a part of me presumed he was the type to not put too much stock in relationships as well.

“Why?” Always good to know the intentions of others. In sexually tense situations, it could be easy to forget that everyone had a motive. What that motive was defines the good guys from the bad guys.

“I wanted to see you.”

Oh. Is that all? Come on cockle-pus I wasn’t born yesterday.

“You can’t call a bitch up on the telephone? A text? A fucking homing pigeon? Was it necessary to bring me all the way here to have a conversation?”

“Alright,” he huffed. “Primus and
Secondus are required to bring an escort to the Masque. These public events are not for us. They are a way to integrate into society and allow our culture to show they are not the dangerous child stealing freaks the media makes them out to be. If we, as the hierarchy, appear to live normal lives. Have dates,” he ran a hand over mine and I jerked it away. “Tonight is for our community only, I chose you as escort. This is not a requirement. It is my choice.” He touched my hand again; this time I let him. If only for vanity. A traditionally dressed waitress appeared with a cloth-wrapped bottle and poured bubbly champagne into expensive looking flutes.

“And what of the public? So far I have attended one public event. Not exactly the mecca of vampire culture. More like a nightclub.” Like the few I’d already been familiar with.