Vampire Dragon (31 page)
Darkwyn kissed Bronte’s ear and communicated the only way they could in here, telepathically.
They think I’m a fake.
They think I’m a fake.
You are.
She nuzzled his neck.
Well, half fake. True dragon, fake vampire. And do you really want the world to know it?
She nuzzled his neck.
Well, half fake. True dragon, fake vampire. And do you really want the world to know it?
Darkwyn sighed. He didn’t like being a fake. It occurred to him that none of them were who they said they were—not him, Bronte, Zachary, his brothers, the vamps, the role players.
It’s a fake world after all.
He could practically hear the words put to music. Where had he heard that tune?
It’s a fake world after all.
He could practically hear the words put to music. Where had he heard that tune?
“Behind me,” the reporter continued after a commercial, “is the Salem vampire spot known as the Phoenix, which houses an eatery and pub appropriately called Bite Me, and a vampire nightspot known as Drak’s. After the national attention started by Rudder yesterday, the Phoenix was set ablaze last night, under suspicious circumstances. An investigation reveals bullets embedded in walls, inside and outside, everything scorched around the edges. On the roof, the popular tourist spot seems to have been struck by lightning—talk about the wrath of the gods. The sad turn is that the owners, Bronte McBride and her twelve-year-old nephew, Zachary Tucker, were found in the rubble. They did not survive.”
Darkwyn’s legs gave, and without choice, he sat on the stairs.
Bronte sat beside him.
I always aspired to be found in rubble. But, of course, I’m not dead.
She rubbed her cheek against his sleeve.
Darkwyn, what about Zachary?
I always aspired to be found in rubble. But, of course, I’m not dead.
She rubbed her cheek against his sleeve.
Darkwyn, what about Zachary?
He smoothed the lines of panic from her face with a finger, one by one, to soothe and reassure her.
Zachary is no more dead than you are. Get with the television show.
Zachary is no more dead than you are. Get with the television show.
I think you mean program. You believe it can’t be him, right
? she asked, seeking reassurance.
I mean, like you said, Zachary and I have a soul connection. A living bond
, she repeated for her own sake.
I believe that . . . when I’m not scared to death. Bit of a pun that.
? she asked, seeking reassurance.
I mean, like you said, Zachary and I have a soul connection. A living bond
, she repeated for her own sake.
I believe that . . . when I’m not scared to death. Bit of a pun that.
Look
, Darkwyn said. Cameras panned bodies being wheeled out of Drak’s on stretchers to the coroner’s wagon.
, Darkwyn said. Cameras panned bodies being wheeled out of Drak’s on stretchers to the coroner’s wagon.
Dumbfounded beside him, Bronte raised her hand to touch her face.
Yep, I’m alive.
Yep, I’m alive.
You look damned good for a dead woman.
He kissed her, quick, given their location.
Shouldn’t we get out of here before the guard snaps out of it?
He kissed her, quick, given their location.
Shouldn’t we get out of here before the guard snaps out of it?
He only gets sober on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But yes, let’s get out of here so I can collect the evidence and slay our past for Zachary, and everyone else I cared about who suffered or died here.
You cannot admit you loved any of them
, Darkwyn said.
Are you hiding shame behind that mask? No, don’t answer. I’m trying to figure this out. At first I thought hiding was a gimmick to promote Fangs and Drak’s. Then you told me about your past, and I realized it was a device to avoid being recognized by the mob. Later, I thought maybe you wore a mask to hide your guilt for not saving Zachary’s mother, or you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror because you didn’t save her.
, Darkwyn said.
Are you hiding shame behind that mask? No, don’t answer. I’m trying to figure this out. At first I thought hiding was a gimmick to promote Fangs and Drak’s. Then you told me about your past, and I realized it was a device to avoid being recognized by the mob. Later, I thought maybe you wore a mask to hide your guilt for not saving Zachary’s mother, or you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror because you didn’t save her.
Bronte huffed
. Your point?
. Your point?
You’re hiding from yourself. You’ve got to take off the mask and give yourself permission to be you. To love yourself.
She stood, spine straight.
Too
straight.
Not today, thanks. Today, I have to avenge my sister and find her son, or die trying.
Too
straight.
Not today, thanks. Today, I have to avenge my sister and find her son, or die trying.
FORTY-FIVE
Bronte left him reeling with that jarring thought and
went to the landing at the turn in the stairs, a landing as wide as the huge Gothic door beside it.
went to the landing at the turn in the stairs, a landing as wide as the huge Gothic door beside it.
Shaken by her readiness to die in this attempt, he followed and saw her press a series of numbers on a keypad by the door. The tiny light on the keypad turned green. She scoffed. “Sanguedolce is so sure of his invulnerability, he didn’t even think to change the code after we left.” The door clicked, and Bronte went in.
Darkwyn could now safely assume that attic was a vast expanse where unwanted furniture and ugly statues went to die.
Cameras
, she communicated, and covered her lips with a finger. One by one, she clicked switches, and covered each camera lens with flat paper caps well-hidden around each camera. “All done,” she said out loud. “The sound’s off and the cameras are covered with the exact photos of the angle in the room each camera would view. Whoever’s watching the security screens will see and hear an empty, quiet attic, as usual.”
, she communicated, and covered her lips with a finger. One by one, she clicked switches, and covered each camera lens with flat paper caps well-hidden around each camera. “All done,” she said out loud. “The sound’s off and the cameras are covered with the exact photos of the angle in the room each camera would view. Whoever’s watching the security screens will see and hear an empty, quiet attic, as usual.”
“Zachary’s idea, I presume?”
“Of course. He was ten; the year before we left. He played up here for hours. Nobody ever comes up, though we forced it once. For the longest time, we let them see us playing with some old non-digital cameras we found. One goon finally came to check, and saw they were empty of film. After that, I managed to sneak a digital camera in. For some reason, Zachary knew how to use it.”
“I’ll bet he did.”
“For getting you this close to killed, I should set you free when we get back,” Bronte said as she went to a giant old bed frame, its pieces stacked against a wall, unscrewed a thick-turned bedpost, reached in, and pulled something out.
“Without you, Bronte, I would wither and die, so do not consider condemning me to your notion of freedom.”
“Right, because you can’t be free if you’re dead. We’re both gonna die here, you know.”
“I beg to differ.” And he meant that for all deities in begging/prayer range.
At an ancient dressing table, she removed a drawer, slipped off the back to reveal a cubby with something shiny. She
click
,
clicked
the objects together and looked up at him. “Cartridges loaded. Can you shoot a gun?”
click
,
clicked
the objects together and looked up at him. “Cartridges loaded. Can you shoot a gun?”
“There was a gun up here?”
She took a faded old jean jacket off the back of a chair, shook the dust off, and slipped it on. “There are lots of guns up here. Zachary Tucker, the elder, expected to die early and hard, so he hoarded some protection, little good the guns did him. Wanna see ’em?”
“The guns or the old man?”
Must stop picturing Zachary on his way to the morgue. I heartily regret reading about death on earth.
Must stop picturing Zachary on his way to the morgue. I heartily regret reading about death on earth.
“Not the old man,” Bronte said. “He’s worm food.”
“Worm’s meat!”
Squawk.
The sound came from the round attic window. Through it, an upside-down parrot stared in at them. “The finished product of which we are the raw material: Worm’s meat.”
Squawk.
Squawk.
The sound came from the round attic window. Through it, an upside-down parrot stared in at them. “The finished product of which we are the raw material: Worm’s meat.”
Squawk.
“That bird’s gonna get us in trouble,” Bronte said, “and I don’t think he’ll be any quieter if we let him in.” She went to the window and touched the gun to the glass.
“Puckin’ A!” The bird squawked and disappeared, leaving his calling card on the glass. “Didn’t poop on the girl . . .” they heard from a distance.
She set the guns on the table. “There’s an antique machine gun in that corner. But Zachary and I never played with it.”
“Played with? It’s a wonder you didn’t kill yourselves.”
“Learning was a matter of self-defense.”
“Scary self-defense. Do you realize what you just did?”
“Scared the noisy bird away? This is a matter of life and death. I had to do something so he wouldn’t get us killed.”
“Because that’s how you were brought up. It’s always a matter of life and death here, isn’t it?”
She covered her heart with her left hand and raised her right. “Realizing that scares the daylights out of me, but I get it. I’m scared sick. I just held a gun to a bird. I wouldn’t have used it, but I’m guessing that’s how you get started in this game. You never plan to use it, but the day comes when you’re forced to, and you do.”
Both hands on her heart, she gave him a compelling look. “Do you still care about me? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”
Darkwyn opened his arms, and she came readily into them. She couldn’t love herself or her family, so she certainly didn’t love him, but she needed him, he told himself. And he was okay with that. “You’re not quite as ruthless as you think, because you figured it out on your own.”
“When you pointed it out. What would I do without you?”
“You don’t have to find out. We’re married.”
“Oh yeah.”
“So, do you think you could grab that evidence so we can get the bloody hell out of here?”
“Right.” She went to climb a table.
Darkwyn kept from reacting to her acrobatics, so he wouldn’t distract her and make her lose her balance.
On her toes, on the rickety table, she felt along the top of a beam and pulled down a book she blew dust off of. After hocking up a lung, she slid the book into a zipperless compartment that formed a false bottom on Zachary’s backpack.
Darkwyn admired her determination. “I take it you’ve been planning this?”
“Zachary has. His whole life. And I paid attention to his plans.”
She jumped off the table like an agile monkey. He watched her approach, stop in front of him, raise his T-shirt, and shove a gun in the waistband of his jeans.
Darkwyn swallowed. “Uh, I don’t like where that’s pointing.”
“I do. It reminds me how much power you have.” She pulled down his T-shirt to cover the gun and wrinkled his shirt at his waist to cover the shape of it. “Don’t worry, it’s a prototype, but it’s safe and shoots like a dream.” She slipped a watch on his wrist. “That’s the electronic safety.”
“Did Zachary invent it?”
“No, the inventor sent it to Sanguedolce to get backing. But the old guy threw it in the trash. Zachary later got it out and brought it up here. We tested it on the roof. You can buy them anywhere now. Somebody must have backed the guy.”
“How does it work?”
“The watch has a built-in electronic safety that disables the pistol when it’s not within a few inches of it.”
“So when I’m wearing the watch, the gun works for me only?”
“Right. If you’re right-handed, wear the watch on your right wrist, and the gun picks up a signal from the watch, lights up green, here,” she indicated, “and it’s ready to shoot.”
“If somebody grabs the gun, but I’m wearing the watch?”
“That little light goes red and the gun won’t shoot. So Sanguedolce or one of his goons can take it away from you but they can’t use it on you. Of course, they’ll have guns of their own.”
“Great.”
She put a different kind of gun into her corset, neat between her breasts, and it didn’t show at all.
“Can you get it out?” he asked.
“I’m betting I’ll have time. Inhaling will help.”
He chuckled. “I’d like to test your theory in a bed, without bullets, and with lots of time.”
She sighed. “Me, too.”
“Bronte, don’t go taking any chances.”
“Not here, I won’t.”
“You already did. You could have fallen off that table and alerted your stepfather to our presence.”
He and Bronte turned on a dime to the unexpected chuckle behind them. “No need to alert Sanguedolce,” said a raspy voice. “He is waiting for his daughter downstairs.”
Three goons clicked their guns in sync.
What did the thugs do, fly in on silent wings? Eerie. They were not the same men as at Drak’s, of course, but all goons looked the same to him. “How did you find us?” Darkwyn asked.
Goon number one stepped forward. “Lightning struck a circuit on our security system, and when it came back on, voila, every screen showed a picture of you two kissing on the roof.”
Darkwyn knew then that they faced a double fight because Killian had alerted the mob to their presence.
“Such passion,” the goon continued. “Good to know you care so much about each other. We, in the business, call that
leverage
. And we thank you for it.” The thug bowed. “Miss Sanguedolce.”
leverage
. And we thank you for it.” The thug bowed. “Miss Sanguedolce.”
Ugly secret
, Bronte communicated telepathically.
Sanguedolce adopted me. Do you wonder why I changed my name?
, Bronte communicated telepathically.
Sanguedolce adopted me. Do you wonder why I changed my name?
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