The Den of Shadows Quartet (2 page)

I have lived in this world for three hundred years, and yet I have broken one of its most basic rules. When I stopped last night to hunt after visiting Tora, I strayed into the territory of another.

My prey was clearly lost. Though not native to New York City, she had thought she knew where she was going.

The city at night is like a jungle. In the red glow of the unsleeping city the streets and alleys change and twist like shadows, just like all the human — and not so human — predators that inhabit it.

As the sun set, my prey had found herself alone in a
dark area of town. The streetlights were broken, and there were more shadows than light. She was afraid. Lost. Alone. Weak. Easy prey.

She turned onto another street, searching for something familiar. This street was darker than the one before, but not in a way a human would recognize. It was one of the many streets in America that belong to my kind. These streets look almost normal, less dangerous, though perhaps a bit more deserted. Illusions can be so comforting. My prey was walking into a Venus flytrap. If I did not, someone was going to kill her as soon as she entered one of the bars or set foot in a café, which had probably never served anything she would wish to drink.

She seemed to relax slightly when she saw the Café Sangra. None of the windows was broken, no one was collapsed against the building, and the place was open. She started toward the café, and I followed silently.

I sensed another human presence to my left and reached out with my mind to determine whether it was a threat. Walls went up in an instant. But they were weak, and I could tear through them if I tried. The human in question would feel it, though that did not matter to me.

“This isn’t your land,” he told me. Though I could sense a bit of a vampiric aura around him, he was definitely human. He was blood bonded to a vampire and probably even working for one, but not one of my kind. He was not a threat, so I did not even bother looking into his mind.

“This isn’t your land,” he told me again. I knew he could read my aura, but I was strong enough to
dampen it, so to him I must have felt young. Even so, he was very foolish or he was working for someone very strong — possibly both. Since there are no more than five or six vampires on Earth who are stronger than I, I had little to fear.

“Get out,” he ordered me.

“No,” I replied, continuing toward the Café Sangra.

I heard him draw a gun, but he had no chance to aim before I was there. I twisted the gun sharply to the side, and he dropped it so that his wrist would not break. My prey’s eyes went wide as she saw this, and she ran away blindly darting around the corner. Stupid human.

I stopped veiling my aura, and my attacker’s eyes went wide as he felt its full strength.

“Is that all you were armed with?” I scoffed. “You work for my kind — you must have more than one gun.”

He went to draw a knife, but I grabbed it first and threw it into the street hard enough to slam an inch of steel into the ground.

“Who — Who are you?” he stammered, afraid.

“Who do you think I am, child?”

I tend to avoid most of my kind, and destroy those who insist on approaching. Because of this, few recognize me. “Whose are you?” I snapped when he did not immediately respond. I received only a blank stare in return.

I reached into his mind and tore out the information I wanted. Those of my line are the strongest of the vampires when it comes to using our minds, and never have I found a reason to avoid exercising that power. When I found what I sought, I threw the human away from me.

I swore as I realized who this human belonged to.

Aubrey … He is one of the few vampires stronger than I. He is also the only one who would care about my presence in his land.

I had been in this part of New York City before but had never encountered Aubrey or any of his servants here. Yet, according to this human, the place belonged to my enemy.

My attacker smiled mockingly Perhaps he thought I was afraid of his master. Indeed, I fear Aubrey more than anything else on this Earth, but not enough to spare this boy. Aubrey would learn about my being on his territory one way or another, and this child was bothering me.

“Ryan,” I crooned, finding his name as I read his mind. He relaxed slightly I smiled, flashing fangs, and he paled to a chalky white. “You made me lose my prey.”

Before he had a chance to run, I stepped toward him, placing a hand on the back of his neck. As I did so I caught his eye, whispering a single word to his mind:
Sleep
. He went limp, and did not fight as my fangs pierced his throat. I could taste a trace of Aubrey’s blood in the otherwise mortal elixir that ran through Ryan’s veins, and that taste made me shiver.

I did not bother disguising the kill. If Aubrey wished to claim that street, he could deal with the body and the human authorities. Either way Aubrey would feel my aura and know I had been there; very few would dare to kill one of Aubrey’s servants on his own territory.

Though I feared Aubrey and dreaded what would
happen should I confront him again, I refused to show that fear. That was the first time our paths had crossed in nearly three hundred years; I would not show that I still feared him.

Aubrey … Hatred flickers through me at the thought of him.

The long-stemmed rose lies on the scarlet comforter over my bed, its petals soft, perfectly formed, and black.

I pick up the rose, cutting my hand on a thorn, which is as sharp as a serpent’s tooth. I look at the blood for a moment as the wound heals, reminded of a time long ago; then absently I lick it away. My mind returns again to the time when I was still Rachel Weatere — a time when I was given another black rose.

Then I did not lick the blood away.

“R
ACHEL
,” L
YNETTE SAID
to me. “You have a caller. Papa is waiting with him.” Her tone reminded me of a pouting child.

Nearly a month had gone by since Lynette had been burned. My sister was unaware of Alexander’s tortured mind; she knew nothing of the powers that he was so afraid of, and believed the fire to be an accident.

Alexander had not spoken to me again about the things he saw, though I recognized the moments when the visions surfaced in his mind. I alone noticed when his face went dark and his focus changed, as if he was listening to voices only he could hear.

When I reached the door, I saw what had made Lynette unhappy. The caller was a dark-haired, black-eyed young man whom I knew only vaguely. Lynette was fourteen, and she resented the attention the boys in town paid to me, though she would never have said so aloud.

Alexander was looking at the visitor with a dark
gaze. I remembered his confession to me about the things he saw, and how he could hear the thoughts in minds around him. I was afraid to know what he was seeing and hearing now.

Turning away from my brother, I looked at our visitor. He wore black breeches and a crimson shirt. The color was too bold for the time; the dyes for such brilliant hues were expensive. The whole outfit had probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

“Please come in,” my papa was saying. “I’m Peter Weatere, Rachel’s father, and this is my son, Alexander. This is my other daughter, Lynette,” he added as we joined them. “And of course you know Rachel.”

Papa assumed that, since our visitor had asked for me, he knew me. But I had seen him before only in passing, and the one time I had spoken with him, I had not been told his name.

“Aubrey Karew,” the young man introduced himself, shaking my father’s hand. I heard the faintest trace of an accent, though I could not place it. I had not been given much exposure to different languages.

I looked up, and Aubrey’s eyes seemed to catch me. They sent shivers down my spine. Something kept me from looking away, as if I was a bird caught in the eyes of a snake.

“How may I help you, Mr. Karew?” my father was asking. I tried to keep my eyes down, as was proper, but could not. Aubrey’s eyes were hypnotizing, and I could not force my gaze away from them.

Then this strange young man handed me a rose, which I took without thinking. I should not have been taking gifts from young men my father had barely met,
but the way this man’s eyes caught me had startled me, and I took the rose before I even realized what it was.

“Mr. Karew,” my father said, frowning, “this is rather improper —”

“You’re right,” Aubrey said.

Papa stood dumbstruck. I looked at the rose, which I was still holding. It was beautiful — such long-stemmed roses did not grow in the northern colonies. For a moment I thought it was deep red, but soon I realized it was black. One of the thorns caught the skin of my hand, drawing blood, and I transferred the rose to my other hand, hoping no one had noticed.

I looked back up at Aubrey, whose eyes had fallen to the cut on my hand, and another shiver went down my back. He turned abruptly and left. He was gone before anyone could say a word.

My father turned to me, his face stern, but my brother intervened.

“It is too late to discuss our visitor rationally We need to sleep before the bell rings for church tomorrow.” I knew my brother well, and I recognized his tone: he did wish to discuss Aubrey, but not with my father. Papa nodded; he respected my brother.

Alexander had been the only one in my family who noticed my cut. After my father left, he took me out to the well to wash it, his expression worried.

“What is wrong, Alexander?” I asked him, still holding the rose, though I hardly noticed that I was doing so. “You look as if our guest had a serpent’s tongue.”

“Perhaps he did,” Alexander said, his voice hushed and dark. “A black-eyed boy we have never seen comes to our door and offers you a black rose. You take his
gift and cannot seem to put it down, even after it has drawn blood from you.”

“What are you saying?” I whispered, shocked.

“I may not have signed the Devil’s book, but that does not mean there are not creatures out there who belong to him.”

“Alexander!” I whispered, shocked by the implication. He had all but accused this Aubrey Karew of being one of the Devil’s creatures.

I looked at the rose, which was still in my hand, and then put it deliberately on the ground, trying to convince my brother — and perhaps myself — that such an action was possible.

Even so, my gaze remained on its black petals, and I realized how Alexander had felt when I told him to speak to a cleric after Lynette’s accident. What would be said should I explain to a preacher about the black rose I had accepted? After all, I had heard that people signed the Devil’s book with their blood, and my blood had been drawn.

Alexander walked back into the house silently, and I watched him leave, not knowing what to say. I could not deny that the rose was beautiful in a way — perfectly shaped, just opened. The color, though, was the color of darkness, death, and all the evil things I had been told of: black hearts, black art, black —

Black eyes. Hypnotic black eyes.

I did not like to believe that I might have accepted a gift from one of the Devil’s creatures. I convinced myself that I had not.

Perhaps if I had believed —

Perhaps nothing. What could I have done?

The next day would be my last day in that world — my last day to speak to my papa, my sister, or my brother, and my last day to draw a breath and know that without it I would die. It would be my last day to thank the sun for giving light to my days.

I would argue with Alexander and avoid my papa. And, like all humanity, never once would I thank the sun or the air for its existence. Light, air, and my brother’s love — I took them all for granted, and someone took them all away.

My last day of humanity … Rachel Weatere would die the next night.

I
PULL MY THOUGHTS
from the past, not wanting to dwell on that night, and my gaze again returns to the black rose. I wonder briefly where it was grown. It is so similar to the one Aubrey gave me three hundred years ago.

I hesitate to pick up the white florist’s card that has been lying beneath the rose, but finally snatch it from the bed.

Stay in your place, Risika
.

The rose is a warning. Aubrey did not like having his servant killed on his own land, and he is reminding me of my past.

I hunt in New York again this night, careful not to stray onto Aubrey’s land but refusing to give up my favorite hunting grounds out of fear.

I stop in his part of New York for only a moment. I have burnt the card and leave the ashes in a plastic bag on the front step of the Café Sangra. I take orders from no one.

Some vampires, like some humans, know nothing other than submission. They do not wish to rise in power. But those vampires are rare. Few vampires will allow themselves to show fear of another, for as soon as you are proved weaker you become the hunted. The hunter hates being hunted, chased, or wounded. If it did not, it would not be an aggressive hunter, and those who cannot be aggressive are hunted down while they shiver and hide because the night is dark.