Pretty When She Kills (6 page)

“I didn’t feel charitable tonight. Plus, I was a bit hungry.”

Rachon laughed heartily. “Ah, maybe you did learn something from The Summoner after all. Now about that visit...”

“You may bring two of your people with you. No more.” Cian’s tone was brisk, hard, and non-relenting. He knew how to deal with Rachon. It was best to not allow her an inch from the beginning.

“Just two?” Rachon sounded annoyed.

“My cabal is small. Two should be sufficient.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. I’ll call you tomorrow to negotiate the terms of your visit,” Cian finally said.

“Excellent.” Rachon’s voice was cautious. “Until tomorrow.”

Terminating the call, Cian stared through the windows toward the state capitol building.

“Are we fucked?” Amaliya asked, her hands on her hips.

“Not yet.” Cian tapped the cellphone against his chin. “But Rachon is up to something.”

“Of course she is. She fucking hates our guts! We killed The Summoner!”

“It’s something more than that. If she wanted revenge, she would have moved against us by now.” Cian frowned, sorting through the knowledge he had of Rachon and his past dealings with her. “I wish I could figure out what she wants.”

Clutching her hair in tight fists, Amaliya growled. “Fuck! We should just run!”

“We’ll be fine.”

“There are only two of us, Cian!”

“We will be fine, Liya,” Cian said firmly.

“But she’s dangerous, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“How dangerous is she?”

“As dangerous as I am,” Cian answered.

“Which means?”

“We’re very close to being fucked,” Cian admitted.

“Well, shit,” Amaliya sighed.

“Come here,” Cian said, holding out his hand.

With a frustration sound, Amaliya slid into his arms. Tucking her head against his neck, she curled up, her feet resting on the armrest.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we, Cian?”

“Maybe. But not without a fight. We’re both powerful. We have the hunters on our side, too.”

“They’ve never killed anything before, Cian.”

“No, but I do think they can rise to the occasion.”

“Rachon is coming to kill us. We both know it.”

Amaliya’s lips were soft against his neck and he slowly stroked her long hair. Cian wasn’t sure of Rachon’s motives and he was sure that attempting to kill both of them was not out of the realm of possibility, but she tended to maneuver in ways that were mystifying.

“You’re a badass necromancer that can call zombie hordes to your side in an instant,” Cian reminded her.

“Yeah, if I spilled blood in the cemetery the same night.”

“We’ll deal with Rachon, then deal with Santos and Etzli.”

“And live happily ever after?”

“Of course.” Cian grinned at her. “What else will we do?”

“Die horrible deaths.”

“Pessimist.” Cian kissed her soft lips lovingly.

“Realist,” she answered.

“Badass,” he whispered against her lips. Sliding his hand up under her shirt to rest against the small of her back, he said, “Now, to finish this night properly...”

The fear in her voice faded, replaced by desire. “Yes, please.”

Cian pressed her lips to hers and set aside his worries for another night.

Chapter 5

Rachon set her cellphone down on the battered kitchen table. A soft breeze ruffled the curtains over the kitchen sink and brushed against her cheek. The checkered dish towels, cracked black and white vinyl floor, and decor heralded back to another era. Rachon’s mother had rather liked the Forties and Fifties and kept the house suspended in time. Her mother, known to everyone as Mother Delia, was in the living room watching the late night talk shows with Prosper.

Outside, children played in the moonlight, their squeals and laughter mingling with the boisterous voices of her neighbors. The Sullivans were having a family reunion that was running late into the night. The smell of the crawfish boil turned her stomach, but she rather enjoyed the sounds of the party. The music made her sway a little as she stood contemplating her conversation with Cian.

When Etzli had told her that Santos planned to test Amaliya’s power, Rachon thought it was a foolhardy move, but not unexpected. Santos wanted Amaliya for himself, but he’d have to find a way to capture her. Testing her powers was the best way to determine the woman’s weaknesses and determine the best plan to acquire her from Cian. Of course, this meant killing Cian, but Rachon knew from experience the Irishman would not die easily. He was stronger, older, and more resourceful than most of the vampires in North America.

As Rachon walked through the kitchen, the floorboards creaked under her feet. She would have to replace the floors soon and have the foundation checked. The old house was a money pit, but her mother loved it. Prosper hated that she and her mother lived among the poor. Prosper lived in the elegance and wealth of the French Quarter along with his brothers. Rachon couldn’t bear to leave the old neighborhood behind until she had to. She loved the sense of community, the beauty of the people, and the strength of will of those who had to work even harder for the simple pleasures of life. She kept her corner of the neighborhood free of crime as payment for the joy she received from watching the people who inhabited the homes around her around her living their daily existence. Besides, her mother hated being uprooted, so it was easier to alter to memories of her neighbors than actually upset the older woman.

The small house was tucked along the northern edge of the Ninth Ward in New Orleans. It was a simple white clapboard bungalow with a nice big porch surrounded by her mother’s lush landscaping. Her mother loved to putter around outside at all hours of the day. The house had survived the terrible wrath of Hurricane Katarina only because of the massive magical wards Rachon had placed on the property over the course of the previous century. The neighborhood had suffered massive losses though. She’d secretly funded the reconstruction of many of the homes through a dummy foundation. Sadly, there were still destroyed homes slowly rotting away on abandoned lots.

The neighbors thought Rachon was an artist, living odd hours, struggling to make it big. She sometimes chatted with them, but not very often. They could sense there was something off about her, something not quite right. Rachon had vivid memories of the many times she had been hunted by her owner’s henchmen and by vampire hunters, therefore she tried to keep a low profile.

“Mama, I’m going to check on the girl,” she said as she walked into the living room.

Her mother leaned over the arm of her leather recliner, the only new piece of furniture in the house for the last twenty years. The older woman was very tiny, with a delicate face and slim frame. She had been a house slave before Rachon had rescued her. She had pale green eyes, light brown skin, and her white hair was twisted into a bun on top of her head. Rachon’s father had been black as night with maroon eyes just like his daughter. He had died before she had rescued her family and burned the plantation.

“She’s such a quiet thing. I keep forgetting she is back there,” her mother admitted.

Prosper grunted at something funny on the TV, not really paying attention to their chat.

“I just want to make sure she’s okay.” Rachon pressed her hand against her mother’s cheek, feeling the soft warmth of her skin. Her mother had refused to become a vampire, but had agreed to take sips of Rachon’s blood to extend her life. Delia was very devout in her faith and afraid of losing her soul if she became a vampire. She prayed faithfully at church every day for her vampiric family. Rachon often wondered if God was listening.

“Oh, that girl isn’t okay, but she’s quiet. So it’s all good.” Her mother snuggled her face into Rachon’s hand as she raised her own arthritic hand to touch her daughter’s fingers.

“You tired yet?” Rachon asked, smiling as her mother kissed her palm.

“No, no. Don’t need sleep yet. Besides, that wild party next door won’t let me sleep. But they did have some good crawfish earlier. Mmmm...” her mother grinned.

Rachon lovingly kissed Delia’s cheek.

“Rachon, let’s make Rhianna into a vampire,” Prosper said from the sofa, grinning.

“Let’s not,” Rachon answered.

“Always ruining my fun...”

Delia laughed and playfully slapped his knee. “Always on the prowl for a pretty girl.”

“I got a pretty girl right here,” Prosper answered, resting his big hand over hers.

“Oh, you’re such a liar!

Rachon left them to their TV watching and banter. She slipped down the hallway to the room in the back of the house. The walls of the hall were covered with framed charcoal sketches of the family throughout the years. The faces of her cousins, aunts, and uncles were carefully captured with the sure strokes of a charcoal pencil. Over a century and a half of the same faces caught in various eras were lovingly recreated by her mother’s hand. Digital photos were framed and carefully arranged in one area of the wall, but they weren’t as remarkable or touching as the sketches.

Pushing the door open to the small bedroom, she peeked in at the young woman seated on the floor, her hands in her lap, staring at the TV.

“How are we doing, Bianca?”

As always, the pale vampire just stared at the screen blindly. She rarely showed an inclination to do anything other than to gaze into nothingness except for when Rachon opened a vein. Then she would mew like a baby and latch onto Rachon’s wrist until she was sated. Though Bianca’s eyes never revealed any sign of comprehension when Rachon spoke to her, the girl had to understand her commands to bring forth the dead. Without fail, every time Rachon took Bianca into one of the many graveyards around New Orleans, the girl would summon the dead per Rachon’s request. Yet, she never responded to any other order, never revealed a smidge of awareness, and never said a single word.

Rachon knelt beside the girl, her fingers tracing over the silky, baby-fine white blond waves. Prosper bought her lacy, frothy dresses and Delia put ribbons in her hair. Maybe they did it because they thought of Bianca as doll-like. Bianca was beautiful and delicate, like a perfect human-sized doll.

Staring into the blue eyes of the girl, Rachon lightly stroked her cheek. “Pretty girl, how would you like to go to meet our brother and your new sister?”

Bianca didn’t blink, didn’t move, and didn’t do anything other than stare.

Kneeling, Rachon gently took the girl’s white hand between her much darker ones. “I have to obey the last order of our creator. His last edict. But I need you to do exactly what I say, can you do that?”

Not a twitch, not a flutter of the eyelashes, nothing.

“Why do you try? She doesn’t understand you,” Prosper asked from the doorway. His huge body filled the door frame.

Rachon shrugged. “I don’t want her to lose her shit when we travel to Austin.”

“I think you’re developing a soft spot for her.”

“Shut your face,” Rachon scowled, standing.

Prosper’s grin only widened. “You’re one of the most ruthless, bad ass, evil muthafuckin’ vampires in the South, and yet you can be sweet as pie when you want to be.”

Rachon placed her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. “I do what I have to do to keep us all safe. To keep us in power.”

“I hate that you still serve that pasty nasty Master even after he’s dead.” Prosper shook his head.

Eyes narrowing dangerously, she pointed a finger at her cousin. “If not for him, we would not be here. You wouldn’t be what you are, living your grand life. So shut your fucking face.”

“You still love him, huh?”

Rachon sighed, slightly shaking her head. “He was my Master. My lover. My salvation. I loved him and hated him.”

“You two were always fucked up.”

“Yeah, but now he’s gone. I at least owe it to him to do as he wished.”

Prosper shrugged dismissively. “What are we doing when we go to Austin? Going to kill Cian and that new bitch?”

Rachon glanced down at Bianca. The young woman was watching the flickering images on the old TV again.

“I have to take care of one last task for The Summoner.”

“If you kill them, I ain’t taking Austin. I hate Texas. You know, in a way they did you a favor,” Prosper said, his voice almost timid.

Narrowing her eyes, Rachon fought down the swift anger that filled her and fought the urge to punish Prosper for his impudence. Her long fingers flexed, the need for violence making them tingle.

Ducking his head in subservience, Prosper stood cowed before her.

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” she said at last, blinking her eyes so the heat in them would fade.

“Forgive me,” Prosper murmured.

“You may hate him, but I loved him.” And she’d feared him. Maybe that had been part of the allure of The Summoner. She had courted death and found love in his arms. The swath of destruction they had left in their wake when she had liberated her family had been glorious. She still remembered how the flames engulfing the plantation mansion had reflected in the fresh blood covering their bodies.

Crouching next to Bianca again, she stared at the pale creature thoughtfully.

“Maybe he made her because she looks a little like him,” Rachon said.

“Pasty,” Prosper agreed.

Rachon swept the whitish hair away from the lovely face. “Ghostly.”

Bianca turned her blue eyes toward Rachon. For a moment, Rachon thought she saw a sliver of clarity in their depths, then it was gone in the blankness of her stare. Slicing open her wrist with one long fingernail, Rachon watched the girl’s face. It did not alter as the girl gripped her arm and fed.

“You should have killed her, you know,” Prosper sighed, shaking his head. “She’s brain dead.”

Tenderly stroking the girl’s hair, Rachon just smiled slightly. “No, no, she’s much more than that. She’s his power incarnate. She’s now an extension of me. She gives me power as I give her life.”

With a grunt, Prosper wandered back down the hall to the living room.

Pressing a kiss to the silent girl’s head, Rachon whispered, “We will do great things together, won’t we, my little ghost?”