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Authors: Keri Arthur
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glanced over my shoulder and met his gaze. “You can see in that ink?”
He withdrew Valdis. Her fire flickered across the dull concrete walls and danced through the darkness. “I will sense more than see if anyone nears.”
I stepped to one side and waved him through. No one could ever accuse me of letting valor get the better of sanity—at least not when it came to stepping into dark vampire pits.
He moved into the stairwell, his steps barely audible on the concrete. I followed, keeping close, my fingers itching with the need to reach out and touch him—to keep a physical connection between us as the door silently closed and the shadows pressed close.
The walk down seemed to take forever, but in reality it was only a few minutes before the stairs gave way to a long corridor. The air here was cool and musty, and surprisingly free of the scent of vampire. Black tiles lined the walls and the floor was covered by a dark red rubber matting that swallowed all sound.
Valdis’s bright flame lifted the darkness, revealing the doorway at the far end of the corridor. It was metal and extremely solid. Not something that would be broken down in any great hurry.
I glanced behind me, wondering if our astral-traveling Cazador was still following us.
No,
Azriel said.
He awaits on the street.
Wonder why?
Azriel shrugged.
Maybe Hunter fears that one of the vampires in this place will sense him and give warning.
Maybe.
And it was good to know that we weren’t going to be shadowed absolutely everywhere.
The door opened as we approached. The room beyond was small and somewhat intimate in its feel. While the black and red theme continued here, electric wall sconces gave the room a muted warmth and the combination of blackwood furniture and well-padded sofas lent it a feeling of casual elegance. A small desk hugged the right side rear of the room, and behind it sat a woman. Like the room itself, she was black, from the tips of her hair to the leather pumps that were evident underneath the desk.
“Brett Marshall waits for you in the main room, Ms. Jones,” she said in a smoky sort of voice. “Please go in.”
Two doors—which I hadn’t actually noticed until that point—slid silently open at her words, revealing a larger, darker room. The air that wafted out was filled with the aromas of vampire, blood, and hunger. A shiver ran through me as Amaya’s hissing began to filter across the back of my thoughts.
I glanced at Azriel.
How many people are there?
A dozen vampires, and at least twenty humans.
Distaste ran through his thoughts.
They are thralls, and yet not.
I frowned as I walked warily into the darkened room, wondering how someone could be a thrall and yet not. But the question went unanswered. Either Azriel didn’t know or he wasn’t saying.
The former,
he said, voice full of censure.
You really need to start trusting me more, Risa.
I do trust you—to watch my back and keep me alive.
What I don’t trust is that you’re ever going to be completely honest with me.
I have never been dishonest with you.
No. But you never tell me everything you know, either.
Sometimes it is better that way.
And that is why I trust you to keep me safe but not to keep me informed
.
A shadow loomed in front of us, forming into a long stick of vampire. He had carrot red hair and the eyebrows and beard to match, and his eyes were a merry blue. He smelled faintly of lilac and soap, which was a damn sight more than could be said about the other vampires in the room. It seemed they were upholding Aunt Riley’s pet peeve about certain sections of the vampire community—or the great unwashed, as she tended to call them. They were usually younger in vampire years, although—again according to Aunt Riley—there were a few guardians who apparently had an aversion to cleanliness, too.
“Risa Jones,” the vampire said, stopping in front of us and holding out his hand. “I’m Brett Marshall. Pleasure to make your
He withdrew Valdis. Her fire flickered across the dull concrete walls and danced through the darkness. “I will sense more than see if anyone nears.”
I stepped to one side and waved him through. No one could ever accuse me of letting valor get the better of sanity—at least not when it came to stepping into dark vampire pits.
He moved into the stairwell, his steps barely audible on the concrete. I followed, keeping close, my fingers itching with the need to reach out and touch him—to keep a physical connection between us as the door silently closed and the shadows pressed close.
The walk down seemed to take forever, but in reality it was only a few minutes before the stairs gave way to a long corridor. The air here was cool and musty, and surprisingly free of the scent of vampire. Black tiles lined the walls and the floor was covered by a dark red rubber matting that swallowed all sound.
Valdis’s bright flame lifted the darkness, revealing the doorway at the far end of the corridor. It was metal and extremely solid. Not something that would be broken down in any great hurry.
I glanced behind me, wondering if our astral-traveling Cazador was still following us.
No,
Azriel said.
He awaits on the street.
Wonder why?
Azriel shrugged.
Maybe Hunter fears that one of the vampires in this place will sense him and give warning.
Maybe.
And it was good to know that we weren’t going to be shadowed absolutely everywhere.
The door opened as we approached. The room beyond was small and somewhat intimate in its feel. While the black and red theme continued here, electric wall sconces gave the room a muted warmth and the combination of blackwood furniture and well-padded sofas lent it a feeling of casual elegance. A small desk hugged the right side rear of the room, and behind it sat a woman. Like the room itself, she was black, from the tips of her hair to the leather pumps that were evident underneath the desk.
“Brett Marshall waits for you in the main room, Ms. Jones,” she said in a smoky sort of voice. “Please go in.”
Two doors—which I hadn’t actually noticed until that point—slid silently open at her words, revealing a larger, darker room. The air that wafted out was filled with the aromas of vampire, blood, and hunger. A shiver ran through me as Amaya’s hissing began to filter across the back of my thoughts.
I glanced at Azriel.
How many people are there?
A dozen vampires, and at least twenty humans.
Distaste ran through his thoughts.
They are thralls, and yet not.
I frowned as I walked warily into the darkened room, wondering how someone could be a thrall and yet not. But the question went unanswered. Either Azriel didn’t know or he wasn’t saying.
The former,
he said, voice full of censure.
You really need to start trusting me more, Risa.
I do trust you—to watch my back and keep me alive.
What I don’t trust is that you’re ever going to be completely honest with me.
I have never been dishonest with you.
No. But you never tell me everything you know, either.
Sometimes it is better that way.
And that is why I trust you to keep me safe but not to keep me informed
.
A shadow loomed in front of us, forming into a long stick of vampire. He had carrot red hair and the eyebrows and beard to match, and his eyes were a merry blue. He smelled faintly of lilac and soap, which was a damn sight more than could be said about the other vampires in the room. It seemed they were upholding Aunt Riley’s pet peeve about certain sections of the vampire community—or the great unwashed, as she tended to call them. They were usually younger in vampire years, although—again according to Aunt Riley—there were a few guardians who apparently had an aversion to cleanliness, too.
“Risa Jones,” the vampire said, stopping in front of us and holding out his hand. “I’m Brett Marshall. Pleasure to make your
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