Storm (The Storm Chronicles Book 6) (8 page)

Du Guerre pressed a control on the wall and the ramp began to roll down with a whine that was loud enough to make Raven’s fangs ache in her jaw. Wind began to whip around her legs and she clamped her hand around one of the cargo chains. The attendant clipped the rappelling cables to her vest and nodded encouragingly.

“Nothing to it, Fürstin Ravenel.”

Raven walked to the end of the ramp and saw that the Osprey had matched speed with the ship as best they could, but the ship was still a moving target. Du Guerre was right, there was no way she would land on the narrow walkway if she rappelled down. The ship would have moved before she got down.

“I’m not sure we can land there without peril,” Du Guerre said.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

She unclipped the rope and tossed it aside.

“What are you doing?” Du Guerre asked.

“Finding my familiar.”

Raven stepped off the platform and fell. She’d timed it almost perfectly and her boots touched deck just outside the hallway door. She slid on the blood-slick wood and caught herself on the rail, then looked up to see Du Guerre leaning out of the Osprey, an astonished look on his face. He pointed at his ear and Raven pulled the radio out of her vest’s pocket and stuck it in her ear.

“Impressive, Ravenel,” Du Guerre said.

“Coming?” Raven asked.

Du Guerre paused. “As I said, Ravenel, my talents are less physical than yours. It is too dangerous for me to follow. I will join you when I can. Be careful and stay in contact.”

“Du Guerre, don’t you leave us down here!” Raven yelled.

“Trust me, Ravenel.”

“Never again,” Raven replied.

The Osprey moved off and Raven turned to the door behind her. She was on the starboard side of the ship, according to the label. The last radio contact with Aspen had been on the opposite side. She pulled the door open and stepped into the narrow hallway beyond. The hallway was paneled in wood, with faux-antique light fixtures that sputtered as if the bulbs were dying. The door on the far side was ajar and slid back and forth with the ship’s movement, banging on a headless corpse stuck in the gap. Raven drew the shotgun from its place over her shoulder and crossed the distance to the next door, which she estimated was only a quarter of the way across. She pushed the door open and rolled the corpse over. It was male, dressed in black tactical gear. The nametag on his vest said McNally. Raven was no expert, but she’d seen enough bodies to know that his head had been removed cleanly. The spine sticking out of his neck was severed straight between the vertebra, indicating it had been a sword or other heavy, sharp blade.

She made a quick search of his body, hoping to find his radio or anything else that might be of use, but found nothing but blood and a handful of 9MM cartridges. She pulled his dogtags out from under his vest and slipped them into an empty pocket.

“I’m sorry, Agent. I’ll make sure your family gets these.”

Raven straightened and looked at the rest of the corridor. There were signs of obvious struggle; the walls were spattered with fresh high-velocity blood patterns and gouged by something, likely the sword that had removed Rand’s head. The floor glittered with expended cartridges and a Beretta M9 pistol was stuck in the wall as if rammed there by incredible force. But there were no bullet holes in the walls. Raven pulled the weapon free and ejected the magazine. Five fresh rounds were within, meaning that Rand had fired ten bullets into the taget and it had kept coming.

Raven jumped when her radio crackled. “Ravenel, are you there?”

“Yeah, Francois, I’m here. I found a member of the tactical team they sent aboard.”

“Alive?” Du Guerre asked.

“No. Something took his head off,” Raven said. “I’m heading aft.”

“Understood. The weather is getting worse, I was unable to board. I will try again once the weather calms. I will contact you again soon,” Du Guerre replied.

Raven rolled her eyes. “Marvelous.”

She continued across the hallway, her weapon held ready. The ship rocked and lurched beneath her as she moved; she could almost feel the engines struggling against the worsening weather.

In the middle of the ship, she paused. A mural had been painted on the wall with great skill and horrifying detail, depicting the evisceration of a young woman attended by people in Crescent Star uniforms and presided over by someone who was no doubt supposed to be Captain DaSilva. As she watched, blood began to drip from the woman and Raven reached out to touch it. At the moment her fingers touched the blood, the painting exploded in a cascade of blood and offal that swept her off her feet and slammed her into the far wall. She fell to her knees and gasped for breath, choking on the fluid filling her mouth. The blood continued to pour from the image and Raven began to slog through it, heading for the far door, which slammed shut as she approached. She gripped the handle and yanked; a force resisted her, but it wasn’t a match for her strength. She wrenched the door open and slipped through the gap, letting it slam shut behind her with a sound that echoed like the door of a tomb. She leaned against it and fought for breath. It was several moments before she was able to breathe normally and even then the smell of blood in her nose made her stomach rebel. She swallowed the sensation and struggled upright. She was in the far hallway, she could see the distant port door where rain streamed in from the storm outside. The floor was wet and slick with blood weeping around the door behind her and every step made a squishing noise.

Halfway down the corridor was another door. This one lead into another hallway with doors on either side; the portside first class staterooms. From what she could see, the paneled walls were stained by rain and time, the doors fastened tight.

Raven hefted her shotgun and entered the corridor, her senses stretched. The lights flickered and she heard what sounded like a child’s laughter from somewhere ahead. Raven followed the sound until it faded. In that moment the lights flickered and died, bathing the corridor in darkness. She flicked on the shotgun’s tactical light and turned a slow circle. There was no movement, not even wind from the storm outside. The only sound was the distant rumble of thunder and Raven’s own breathing.

She turned back and started walking again, using a cross step that let her provide the smallest target possible. She reached the first water-tight door without incident and stepped through into the next section. Here, the walls were coated with a thin film of yellowish ooze mixed with blood; a concoction that rolled down the walls like a child’s discarded oatmeal.

The smell of death was almost overpowering, but it was better than the slick, coppery scent of blood that had been stuck in her nose for the last several minutes. Raven covered her nose with her elbow and strode past the mess, the shotgun held ready. Things she didn’t want to speculate on squished and crunched under her boots as she moved down the dark hallway.

She was near the next section when the ship suddenly lurched again. She fell to one knee and the lights flickered to life. Raven squinted in confusion; everything spun and shifted around her in a kaleidoscope of color, light and sound that left her dizzy. She closed her eyes against the light and forced herself to calm down. When she opened them again she saw the corridor as it must have been in 1971. Gone were the stains and the stink of death and blood, replaced by pristine carpeting and the scent of baking bread somewhere in the distance. A steward walked past carrying a tray laden with wine, cheese and fruit and a young girl dressed in a pink floral dress and a sunhat sat in the corner playing with a doll.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

Raven blinked and looked up into the face of Rupert Levac.

II

7800 S Essex Avenue, Chicago, IL 5:00 p.m.

Levac had spent the afternoon running down the location of the remaining copies of Nine Gates. Most had either been destroyed or were in the hands of collectors in Europe and had been for the last hundred years ago; book collecting appeared to run in families. He had, however, found two copies in the city and had left messages with their owners that he would like a word with them. Sable, in the meantime, was attending Court in Raven’s stead. Levac had cringed at the thought, but after seeing the way Lady Valentina handled her in Boston he decided that everything would be fine. Or as fine as it ever was in a family full of vampires. One she had left, he’d decided the day had been long enough and driven his old Nash Metropolitan to the modest apartment he shared with his fiancé, Sloan Patlii. Sloan was a were-eagle, a cuāuhtli, by birth and a doctor by trade who worked the Emergency Room at Mercy. Her schedule was erratic, but he knew she would be home that evening, and he wanted to be there when she got home.

He unlocked the door to the apartment and stepped inside at just after four in the afternoon. The sweet scent of fresh citrus wafted through the apartment and he smiled; she’d beaten him home and was making dinner. He dumped his paperwork on the side table, kicked off his shoes and hung his coat on a hook by the door before moving through the small foyer and into the living area. The apartment wasn’t big, but it was clean and close enough to the hospital that Sloan could walk. Or fly, depending on the moon cycle. The living area consisted of a television, small sofa and a recliner big enough for two. A door at the back led to the spare bedroom he used as a home office for his painting while the archway to his left would lead to the large bathroom and master bedroom he shared with Sloan. The open galley-kitchen was on the far side and Levac could see Sloan bent over her cooking. Her white-blonde hair was pulled into the bun she wore at work and she wore no makeup. She wore nothing but a robe that was as pale as she was. She must have felt Levac smiling at her because she looked up and grinned.

“Welcome home, my love. Tangerines stir-fried with chicken and bamboo shoots sound good?” she asked.

He smiled back and swept her into his arms. “It sounds delicious. But what’s for dinner?”

She bit his ear then kissed him before replying, “That’s dinner. You have enough cheeseburgers when you’re at work. I don’t want you to die of a heart attack.”

Levac rolled up his sleeves and rummaged in the refrigerator for a soda. “No fear of that. Since being partnered with Raven I’ve lost close to sixty pounds.”

Sloan nodded and went back to her cooking. “That is because you are her familiar. You share her vampiric metabolism.”

Levac popped the top of his soda and took a long drought. “Well, whatever it is, it’s better than exercise.”

Sloan didn’t reply, and something in the hunch of her shoulders made him pause. He set the can aside and hugged her from behind. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sloan replied.

“Something.”

He kissed the back of her head. “Sloan, Raven is my partner, my best friend. Yeah, we had feelings for one another and probably always will, but that is over.”

Sloan turned. “Is it?”

Levac smiled. “It is. I have you, she has Aspen and we are far better as best friends than as anything else. Besides, my fiancé can kill me with a sword and hers can turn me into a frog, I think I’m safer not upsetting anyone.”

Sloan smiled back. “Good. How is she? Any word?”

Levac shrugged, a complicated gesture when holding Sloan, one that made her go up and down in his arms. “Last I heard, she was on desk duty. Aspen texted me last night that she was going on a case, but Raven had to stay home.”

Sloan turned back to her cooking. “I am certain Raven wasn’t happy about that.”

“Aspen didn’t say. I texted Ray this morning, but she didn’t answer.”

Sloan glanced at him. “Is that normal?”

“It wasn’t until a month ago, with her dad. Since then, yeah. Aspen said she isn’t talking much. Finding out her dad was alive and she had a sister, it’s been hard and Ray isn’t one to share how she feels,” Levac said.

He pulled a pair of bamboo plates down from the cupboard and set them on the dining table with chopsticks and napkins. Sloan followed and served them both healthy plates while Levac got glasses of tea. They sat together and Sloan bowed her head in a prayer. Levac didn’t join in, not because he didn’t believe on some level, but because he still didn’t understand the ancient language Sloan was speaking. When she finished, she picked up her chopsticks.

“Have you felt her? I mean, through your familiar connection?” she asked.

Levac fumbled for a bite of chicken. He wasn’t exactly an expert with the sticks. “I drew on it earlier, I know she is out there and alive. She tries to keep me blocked from anything else.”

Sloan picked up the piece of chicken he was stumbling with and offered it on the end of her own chopsticks. “Why does she block you?”

Levac ate the bite and smiled. “Because she respects my privacy. She made me a familiar to save my life, not to have me as her, I don’t know, property or whatever.”

Sloan nodded and ate a bite of her own dinner. “That is almost unheard of in vampire society. Most vampires consider elevating a familiar to be the highest honor, not a lifesaving measure.”

Levac shrugged. “Raven considers most vampire rules to be nonsense. She felt awful about the connection when she found out, but I know her choices were to let me die or make me a familiar and share her strength.”

Sloan smiled. “I, for one, am grateful she didn’t let you die.”

Levac leaned sideways and kissed her. “Me, too.

Sloan gripped his tie and held him close, her eyes inches from his. Levac looked into her golden gaze, kissed her again and ran a hand through her hair. “Believe me when I say I love you, Sloan. Raven will always be in my life and would be even if I wasn’t her familiar, but it is you I am in love with, you I asked to marry. Not her.”

Sloan traced a finger along his jaw. “I love you, Rupert.”

She kissed him again and Levac forgot all about the meal she’d prepared for them.

III

Chicago, Tempeste Manor, 5:30 p.m.

The sun had sunk low beyond the horizon and an evening snowsquall was looming on the horizon, a mass of black clouds shot through with grey and silver blown by the chill western wind. Sable flipped her coat’s collar up against the wind and hurried up the steps to the front of Tempeste Manor. Though she had only seen it in person once before, it was just as she remembered it, with its imported stone construction, high turrets and gothic archways it looked as if it belonged in a B-grade slasher flick and not sitting in a suburb on the outskirts of Chicago.