Microsoft Word - The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance.doc (74 page)

Sara and one of her men ran up, dirty-faced and panting.  Forkface grabbed Tomas, yanked the axe out of his back and threw him over a shoulder. Then they ran.

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The doorway collapsed behind them, dust billowing into the air while rocks and gravel nipped at their heels. The entire tunnel system was buckling, floor heaving, ceiling threatening to crush them at any moment. His helper lost his footing and they both went down, Tomas managed to catch himself on arms that, while unsteady. Actually seemed to work again. He grabbed  Sara, attempting to shield her, at the same time she grabbed for him. And amid stones falling and dust clouds choking them, they braced together, Sara saying things that Tomas couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. But their small patch of ceiling held and, after they limped across the boundary from the caves to the old temple, the  rumbling gradually petered out.

They emerged at last into the jungle, where a mass of dazed people huddled together in small groups under the dark, star-dusted sky. Forkface dumped Tomas unceremoniously beside a small pool just inside the temple, where people were scooping up water in hats, hands or flasks. It was green and it stunk, with slimy ropes of algae clinging to the sides, but nobody seemed to mind. Some were hugging, more were crying and one, amazingly, was laughing. Tomas blinked at them, disbelieving, seeing for the first time in 400 years the Day of the Dead celebrated in this place by the living.

Jason brought him some water in an old canteen and, while  Tomas didn’t particularly need it, he drank it anyway. The fanatic came over to join them  after a moment. It seemed he’d been delegated to lead the way out while Sara and her remaining associate remained behind to rescue Tomas. He seemed perturbed that they hadn’t brought him any bones, and eyed  Tomas speculatively for a moment before moving off, muttering.

Tomas’ whole body hurt and he was ravenously hungry, but he was alive. It didn’t seem quite real. “How did you do it?” he finally asked Jason.

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“I didn’t. I only woke them up.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Inca kings were believed to watch over their people  even after death, and to demand good behaviour of the living.  Any who defiled them soon learned that they also had within  their power to reward or to punish.”

“That’s a myth.”

Jason smiled, an odd, lopsided effort. “Really. It seems

strange, not to mention expensive, to tie up most of the revenues  of the state in the care of creatures who have no ability to hurt  you.” He shook his head. “The ancient priests prepared the royal  dead well. I only had to give them a nudge.”

“You mean  ”–

His  eyes went soft and dreamy. “They said that they had been watching Alejandro for a long time. And they were hungry.

“Well they’ll have the whole court to snack on now, once  they finish with him,” Sara commented, stopping by after  locating enough local people to serve as guides for everyone  else.

Tomas had a sudden image of vengeful Inca monarchs pursuing Alejandro’s vampires through the halls where they had once done the same to humans. He smiled.

“Attacking that thing on your own was insane,” Sara said

bluntly. “I like that in a person. Want a job?”

Tomas just looked at her for a moment. He was a first-level master, one of only a handful in the world. Others of his rank were either sitting in governing positions over his kind or were

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powerful masters with their own courts. They were emphatically
 
not
 
running around with a motley crew of mercenaries carrying  out jobs so crazy no one else would touch them. He’d killed  Alejandro, or close enough by vampire law. He could assume  his position, round up whatever  vampires had made it out before  the cave-in and claim to be the new head of the Latin American

Senate. That would put him beyond the jurisdiction of the North  American version  –  which wanted him dead  –  and his master  –who wanted him back in slavery. He could rebuild Alejandro’s empire and walk these halls once more, this time as their master.  He would be rich, powerful and feared . . .

And, in time, just like Alejandro.

“Well?”

Sara didn’t seem to be the patient type. It was something else they were going to have to work on. They weren’t touching, but she was standing so close that he could smell the vestiges of her perfume mingled with gunpowder and  sweat. It was strangely comforting, like the lingering warmth of a touch even after it’s gone. Tomas looked up at her face, surrounded by stars, and, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he saw a future.

“Where do I sign?”

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V ampire

U nchained

Nancy Holder

I n the tunnels beneath Central Park, New Y ork City

H
 
igh midnight, vampire’s delight; black as a coal mine or an empty mirror; the wind shrieked like the bringer of the one true death. It was raining hard enough to soak through gravestones, and the damp, slimy brick tunnels stank like a bog. Vermin squealed in the candlelight  as the vampire nest of 16 waited for Andrew Wellington, their sire. Firelight from twin, old-fashioned wooden torches set in sconces on the wall flickered on glowing red eyes and jewelled fangs. Fear and bloodlust floated in equal measures through the tunnel like a miasma.

And yet, it was a better place than the city above them. New  York was a war zone, over-run by Supernaturals  –  rival vampire nests; voodoo
 
bokors
 
with their zombies and
 
loa
 
gods; succubi and incubi . . . the list seemed endless. A group  of human magic

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users called the House of the Blood had ripped the veil between

good and evil and the world writhed in chaos.

All I wanted to do was give our people safe harbour, Liam  Cadogan thought. He was Andrew’s second-in-command, and there was good chance his life  –  such as it was, for he was a vampire  –  was about to end.

Struggling against the grip of the nest’s four strongest enforcers, Liam bared his fangs in futile rage. He hissed and snarled, his vampiric nature taking over; he was cornered and  he was in fatal danger. A few of the nest laughed; others stared in horror; a few more drew back into the shadows  –  the guilty ones, his allies.

Then Elizabeth, the sire’s consort  –  she went by Liz these days  –  glided from the darkness with a prize in tow. It was  Claire Rossi, his woman. His
 
human
 
woman.

Liam’s knees buckled at the sight of Claire, captive and afraid. Her auburn hair hung in sopping ringlets past the shoulders of her black raincoat. Her eyes, the colour of dark chocolate, stared out at him beseechingly from her heart-shaped face. Her breath puffed like steam as she panted, whether from the cold or terror he had no idea.

“No,” Liam whispered, heartsick.

“Yes. Oh, yessss,” Liz  replied with a cruel chuckle. “Come  on now, Liam. After all those years at his side, you know you  can’t hide anything from Andrew. Especially not someone as  fetching as your whore.”

Liz’s waist-length white hair dangled at the small of her back as she tossed her head, showing her jewelled fangs in the torchlight. Whatever they had planned tonight, Liam would drink them dry before he let them hurt Claire.

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So he supposed he was a traitor as his sire insisted.

Liz’s long scarlet fingernails pressed deeply against Claire’s beautiful neck. He wondered if Claire was wearing her crucifix.

Little would it matter.

Liz didn’t draw blood; that wasn’t her place. The other vampires watched on in silence, resembling Liz far more than he: bone white in the flickering flames, eyes glowing like red embers; fangs long and heavily decorated. Though almost all of them wore modern clothing  –  both sexes favouring black leather trousers and jackets, the same as Liam  –  he was the only one who looked completely human. Liam was pale, yes, but not bone white; his hazel eyes gleamed red when the  bloodlust was on him, but at no other time. And his hair was the same chestnut brown it had been on the night he’d been changed.

Andrew had told him that the centuries would leach his skin. That his fangs would grow and his eyes would glow crimson. But he’d been a vampire over 150 years and as far as he could tell  –  from videos and pictures of himself  –  he looked the same as ever.

Andrew had been wrong on a number of counts lately.

Flanked by torchlight, Claire’s trip hammer heartbeat pummelled Liam like physical blows. He wanted to tell her she wouldn’t die. He had lost one beloved woman; he would not lose another. Nor would he allow them to drag her into this twilight world of blood and death. She was a daughter of the sun, and she would remain so.

But to what purpose? He thought miserably. Demons cloud out her sun. Wraiths scream and caper like packs of animals.  Heaps of garbage line the streets; whole city blocks are on fire.  If I could take her away from all this, I would. But where could we go?

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Liz  grinned a challenge at him and rippled her finger against  Claire’s neck as if she were playing a cello, her favourite musical instrument. Her other favourite instrument was a cat-o’ -

nine-tails, and she’d asked Liam more than once if he would  care to play  with her. He suspected Claire was paying for his  constant refusals. Liz didn’t take rejection well.

As if she could read his mind, Liz hissed at him and pressed harder. Claire whimpered, and some of the vampires chuckled.  She was wearing black wool trousers and boots, and the neck of a red turtleneck sweater poked from above the black coat. She was exquisite, as always. A breathtaking woman, warm and passionate, far more sensual in her humanity than the wanton sexuality of female vampires.

Overhead, thunder rumbled. Liam heard the distant howls of the werewolves that had overrun Central Park, and the flapping of vampire minions’ wings as they clustered beneath the venerable old bridges.

Then he heard the familiar footfalls of his liege lord, his sire

Andrew Wellington.

For Claire and him, the nightmare was about to get worse.

He gazed steadily back at her as a ripple moved among the vampires. The men not restraining him dropped to one knee and all the women curtseyed. Liz stayed as she was, keeping Claire prisoner. Liam’s four nestmates held him tighter, as if they thought he would bolt and attack Andrew.

A wise precaution.

“Ill-met by moonlight, Liam Cadogan,” Andrew said as he  appeared in the black circle of the tunnel. His deep voice  echoed. He loomed tall and alabaster white, with white hair and  eyes that swirled like blood and long fangs that were not only

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jewelled at the tips but carved with elaborate Chinese-style bats,  like pieces of elephant ivory. He wore a black turtleneck sweater  and black jeans.

“Andrew, may the blood run red,” Liam said, inclining his

head. There was no sense antagonizing his sire.

“Don’t pretend,” Andrew flung at him. “It’s done. We’re . .

. done.”

Liam heard the pain in Andrew’s voice, and felt it, too. If only he could  make Andrew see why he’d done it  –  why he had parlayed in secret with the House of the Phoenix, seeking a treaty, an alliance. The Wellington Nest could never hope to survive the chaotic hotbed of New York if they walked alone.  The luxury of isolation was  over.

Andrew jerked his head at his four minions, who squeezed  Liam’s wrists and elbows so hard he thought the bones would shatter. The four  –  James, Steve, Lars and Thor  –  had been bodybuilders, bouncers and construction workers in their mortal lives. They were young as vampires and still in love with their own strength. Or maybe they wanted to hurt Liam to prove their loyalty to Andrew. Or maybe, like most of the others, they wanted to hurt Liam because they hated him.

“Chain the traitor to the wall,”  Andrew ordered.

“No,” Claire whispered under her breath. Andrew’s eyes  flicked her way and Liam gave his head a quick shake. Best she  keep silent.

Liam’s dark hair grazed the filthy tunnel wall as the four pushed his wrists and legs into manacles set into the mossy brickwork. He remembered the cuffs from their time living here, after the massacre of 1857, before Andrew moved them to a beautiful brownstone in the Upper East Side, where they still