Spellcasters (77 page)

“I’m not concerned about retaliation.”

“Good. Then you can go home, Cassandra. I can get what Lucas wants without you.”

Cassandra’s lips curved as she reclined against the cushions. “You need to work on your bluffing, Paige. Your technique is far too obvious.”

I grabbed my purse and headed for the bedroom.

“It won’t work, Paige,” Cassandra called after me. “Your only other vampire contact is Lawrence and he’s been in Europe for two years. You’ll
be lucky if he remembers your name. He certainly won’t rush back here to help you.”

As my fingers grazed the bedroom door handle, I stopped. I knew I should take the high road, phone my contact, and ignore her taunts. But I couldn’t, not with Cassandra. I flipped open my Palm, clicked on my phone book, found an entry, strode back, and held it up for Cassandra.

She read it and blinked. And, in that small reaction, I took more pleasure than I liked to admit.

“Aaron?” she said. “When did he give you—”

“After we rescued him from the compound. He told Jeremy and me that anytime we needed something vampire-related, we could call him.”

“Jeremy might not appreciate your calling in a joint favor that doesn’t benefit werewolves.”

“Which is why I’ll phone him first. But we both know he’ll tell me to go ahead.”

“Werewolves rescuing vampires?” Jaime murmured. “Someday, you have got to tell me this story. Well, Cass, looks like she’s trumped you. Time to lay down your cards and go home.”

“Is she here for a reason?” Cassandra said.

“I don’t want to bicker with you, Cassandra,” I said. “I appreciate what you did this morning, helping us hunt for Stephen, but please, go on home. We can handle this.”

As my tone softened, the fire leached from her eyes. She sighed and reached for my Palm.

“Let me call Aaron,” she said. “Save your marker for another time.”

I hesitated. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea. Unless I seriously misread things, Aaron seemed pretty miffed with you back at the compound.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“The last time he saw you, you turned him over to an angry Romanian mob and fled for your life. Call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s much wiggle room for misunderstanding there.”

Across the room, Jaime snorted a laugh. Cassandra glared at her, then turned back to me.

“I didn’t hand him over to the mob,” she said. “I simply left him there. I knew he could handle himself. Anyway, none of that matters now. We’re back on good terms.”

“Such good terms that you don’t have his phone number?”

She plucked the Palm from my hand, marched into the bedroom, and closed the door.

Two hours later I was boarding a plane for Atlanta, to meet with Aaron. Unfortunately, I was not alone, having been unable to convince Cassandra that she had better things to do. I tried to be gracious by saying I’d understand if she preferred to fly first class. My kindness, though, only provoked a similar outpouring of generosity, and she treated me to a first-class seat next to hers.

I’d brought my laptop and, as soon as we were seated, set to work catching up on my business e-mail. Cassandra stayed quiet until the plane lifted off.

“I hear from Kenneth that you’re trying to start a new Coven,” she began.

“Not really,” I mumbled, and typed faster.

“Well, that’s good.”

I stopped, fingers poised above the keyboard. Then, with great effort, I forced them back to the keys and resumed typing. Do not rise to the bait. Do not rise—

“I told him I couldn’t imagine you’d do anything so foolish.”

Type faster. Harder. Do not stop.

“I can understand why you’d want to. It must be very hard on your ego. Getting kicked out of your Coven. And as Leader, no less.”

I willed my fingers back to the keyboard, but they ignored my brain’s command, and kept clenching into fists instead.

“I suppose it was very satisfying for you, those few months as Coven Leader. You’d obviously want to recapture that sense of importance.”

“It was never about being important. I just wanted to—”

I stopped and resumed typing.

“You just wanted to do what, Paige?”

The flight attendant stopped by. I ordered a coffee. Cassandra took wine.

“You wanted to do what, Paige?” Cassandra repeated when the server was gone.

I turned to look at her. “Don’t needle me. You always do this. You’re like one of those sitcom mothers-in-law, poking and prodding, feigning interest, but only looking for a soft spot, someplace to sneak in an insinuation, an insult.”

“Isn’t it possible that I’m not feigning interest? That I really do want to know more about you?”

“You’ve never been interested in me before.”

“You’ve never been interesting before. But you’re finally growing up, and I don’t just mean getting older. In the last year or so, you’ve matured
into an intriguing individual. Not necessarily someone I’d choose to be stranded on a desert island with, but conflict of opinion can make for more interesting relationships than common interests. If I challenge your opinions, it’s because I’m curious to hear how you defend them.”

“I don’t want to defend them,” I said. “Not now. Your questions feel like insults, Cassandra, and I don’t want to deal with them.”

To my surprise, she didn’t say another word. Just sipped her wine, reclined her seat, and rested for the remainder of the flight.

V
ampires are a race of city dwellers. That may seem obvious, since it’s far easier to kill undetected in a city with hundreds of annual unsolved murders, rather than in a small town that might see a single homicide a year. In truth, though, that’s not a major factor in their choice.

Real vampires aren’t the marauding bloodsuckers you see on late-night TV, racking up a dozen victims every night. A real vampire only needs to kill once a year, though they must feed more often than that. Feeding is easy enough—if you ever pass out in a bar and wake up the next morning with a hangover that seems worse than normal, I’d suggest you check your neck. You may not find the marks, though. Unless you know what you’re looking for, vampire bites are nearly impossible to see, and the aftereffects are no more debilitating than donating blood on an empty stomach.

Since a vampire bite is rarely fatal, it would be easy enough for vamps to live outside the city and commute for their annual kill. It might even be safer. The problem is that pesky semi-immortality. When you don’t age, people notice. It may take a while, but they eventually start to ask what brand of moisturizer you’re using. The smaller the town, the more people pay attention, and the more they talk. In a big city, a vampire could stay in one spot for fifteen to twenty years, and never hear more than a few snide Botox comments. Plus, there’s the whole boredom issue. Small towns are great for raising a family, but if you’re single and childless, Saturday nights on the front porch swing get a little dull after the first hundred years.

So, vampires like the city life. In North America, they also prefer the sunshine belt, with over half of the continent’s vampires living below the Mason-Dixon line. Northern winters probably lose their appeal pretty quickly when you realize you could lie on the beach all day and never risk so much as a sunburn. And it’s much easier to bite someone in a tank top than to gnaw through a parka.

Cassandra had arranged to meet Aaron in a bar on the south side of Atlanta. I’d never been to Atlanta, and our quick taxi ride from the airport to the bar didn’t provide much opportunity for sightseeing. What I noticed most was how modern it was. It looked, well, it looked like a northern city, very high-tech, very efficient, very un-Southern. I’d expected something like Savannah or Charleston, but I saw little that reminded me of either. I suppose if I’d considered my history first, I’d have known better than to expect much Old South in Atlanta. General Sherman took care of that.

The taxi drove us to a neighborhood best described as working-class, with row houses, postage stamp–size lawns, and streets lined with ten-year-old cars. The driver pulled up in front of a bar sandwiched between an auto-supply store and a Laundromat. The sign on the door read
LUCKY PETE’S BILLIARDS
, but the
BILLIARDS
part had recently been stroked out.

Cassandra paid the driver, stepped from the car, looked at the bar, and shook her head. “Aaron, Aaron. Two hundred years old and you still haven’t developed an iota of taste.”

“Seems fine to me. Hey, look, the sign says Fridays are Ladies’ Night. Cheap beer after four. Is it past four?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I spotted Aaron on my first survey of the bar. I would say, with some certainty, most women would spot Aaron on their first survey of any bar. He’s at least six feet two, broad-shouldered, and tanned, with sandy-blond hair and a ruggedly handsome face. Aaron sat at the end of the bar, engrossed in a beer and a cigarette, and ignoring the glances of a secretarial quartet behind him. As Cassandra approached, she took in his muddy work boots, worn jeans, and mortar dust–coated T-shirt.

“How nice of you to dress up for me, Aaron,” she said.

“I just got off work. You’re damned lucky I even agreed—” He saw me and blinked

“This is—” Cassandra began.

“Paige,” Aaron said. “How’re you doing?”

“Good.” I slid onto the stool beside his. “How have you been?”

“Keeping out of trouble.” A quick grin. “Mostly. And watching my back a little better. Still damn embarrassing, getting kidnapped like that. Beer?”

“Please.”

He motioned to the bartender. “I won’t ask you, Cass. There’s nothing here you’d touch. Probably not even the patrons. Are you going to pull up a stool or just stand there?”

“This hardly seems the place for a private conversation,” she said, then wheeled and headed for a booth near the back.

Aaron shook his head. I ordered my beer and he took a refill on his. As he pushed aside his empty glass, he noticed his cigarette in the ashtray and stubbed it out.

“It’s not enough that I’m a vampire, I gotta kill people with secondhand smoke, too.” He pushed the ashtray up beside the empty beer glass. “I heard a rumor about you hooking up with the Cortez boy. That true?”

I nodded, took my beer from the bartender, and laid down a five. Aaron waved it back and exchanged his fresh beer for a ten, with a murmured “no change.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I owe you more than a cheap beer. Now, this Cortez, it’s Lucas, right? The youngest? Doesn’t work for the family?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s good, because someone was trying to tell me it was the next older one. You don’t wanna get mixed up with those Cabal guys. But, now, Cassandra said she wanted to talk about a Cabal situation, and since you’re here, I’m assuming you’re involved. But if you’re with Lucas, and he doesn’t work for the Cabals …”

“Let’s go sit with Cassandra and I’ll explain.”

I told Aaron the story. When I finished, he leaned back and shook his head.

“Fucking unbelievable. We need that kinda trouble like we need a stake through the heart. You find this loser, you make sure the Cabals know the rest of us had nothing to do with it.” He took a gulp of beer. “I guess you want to know whether I have any idea who might be behind it. I’m also guessing you’ve already checked out John and his gang.”

“John?” I said.

“John, Hans, whatever he’s calling himself today. You know who I mean, Cass.”

“Oh,” Cassandra said, lip curling. “Him.”

“Well, you’ve told Paige about him, right? His little anti-Cabal crusade?”

My head snapped up. “Anti-Cabal crusade?”

She frowned. “When did he start this?”

“Oh, only about a decade or so ago.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Aaron shook his head. “No, it’s just the first time you’ve heard it and paid attention.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Aaron turned to me. “Guy’s name is John, but he calls himself Hans; thinks ‘John’ isn’t a proper name for a vampire. He’s one of the New Orleans vamps.”