Rajmund (Vampires in America #3)

Rajmund (Vampires in America #3) Page 7

Emelie laughed. It was a low, sensuous sound. “He'd eat me alive. You're the only one, Raj, and we all know it.” She glanced over and away before reversing to brace her back against the cold metal.

"What if I don't do it?” Raj asked quietly. “What if I decide not to get rid of the old man?"

She gave another graceful shrug. “I'm yours, Raj, body and soul. You made me, you own me. My loyalty is yours whether you stick with what you've got or take on Krystof and the whole Northeast.” She paused to lean closer. “But I'm also your friend. And as a friend, I need to understand what's going on so I know whether or not to be worried. You and I both know that Krystof can't last much longer. If you don't take him out, someone else will, and then we'll have a fight on our hands because whoever it is will want this city for himself. Krystof might be content to fester in Buffalo, but no one else will be."

Raj studied the beautiful woman who'd somehow had the strength to become his lieutenant in the dog-eat-dog world of vampire politics. She'd meant what she'd said about being his friend, and her loyalty touched him somewhere he didn't want to admit to. “You know,” he said. “Raphael told me right out that he thought Krystof had lost it. So did Duncan."

Emelie's face showed her surprise. “I thought those guys played it closer to the vest."

"Yeah. It gets better. He offered me an alliance once I take the territory."

"Excuse me?"

Raj laughed. “That was pretty much my reaction, too. He wasn't that blunt, of course, but the meaning was pretty damn clear."

Em absorbed this new information. “Well,” she said finally. “You are the obvious choice. I mean, if he thinks Krystof needs to go, you're stronger than anyone out there, and you know the territory."

"Yeah,” Raj sighed. “And I'm sure as hell not going to stand back and let someone else move in on us, so I guess—” His cell phone rang, playing a distinctive tune that could only mean one thing. “Fuck,” he swore and yanked the phone out of his pocket.

"My lord,” he answered.

"Rajmund,” his Sire, the Vampire Lord Krystof, said silkily. “How did the visit go?"

"Quite well, my lord."

"Excellent. You can tell me all about it when you get here."

"My lord?"

"Something's come up, Rajmund. I'll need you in Buffalo for a time."

Raj frowned, wondering what the old man was up to. Krystof had given Raj the rich territory around New York City for a reason. It kept him happy—and far away from Buffalo. Sure, the old man was curious about Raphael's visit, but they could have handled that on the phone. So why was he being called back now?

"Something, my lord?” he asked.

"Something rather ugly."

"What does that—"

"You'll find out when you get here."

Raj was tempted to ask what kind of trouble could possibly have come up in fucking Buffalo that the old man's usual flunkies couldn't handle. But that flirted too closely with rebellion, and he wasn't ready to show his hand yet. “Very well, my lord,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I can fly at first dusk tomorrow—"

"Fly tonight, Rajmund."

"My lord—"

"You have a private jet.” Krystof's voice turned petulant. “Use it. I'll see you an hour after sunset tomorrow, and I'll expect a full report on your visitor.” The old man hung up.

"Fuck!"

Emelie just looked at him. Her vampire hearing would have given her both sides of the conversation, enough to understand Raj's anger. “We're going to Buffalo?"

"Not we. I need you here; I don't trust anyone but my own, and besides, I don't want Krystof knowing about you yet, not officially. He might be senile, but he's not blind."

"You can't go there alone, Raj. At least take a few of the guards with—"

"I am capable of defending myself, Emelie. Besides, I'm not supposed to have guards."

"He's got to know you're making your own. His spies—"

"His spies can report anything they want, but if I show up surrounded by my own children, he'll have to do something about it. I'm not ready to push him yet. I'll go alone. Call the airport and get the jet prepped.” He calculated the remaining hours of darkness and swore softly. Damn that old man. “And tell them I'm on my way."

Chapter Seven

Buffalo, New York

It was cold. So cold. Regina shivered in her thin jacket, wishing she'd worried more about staying warm when she'd dressed for Katie's bachelorette party and less about looking good. Note to self: next time you get kidnapped, wear a decent coat. Her desperate chuckle became a sob of terror as the heavy metal door clanged open once more, sending tremors through the concrete floor. She pushed herself back against the wall, feeling the hard chill of the metal bed frame low against her back. She'd heard someone crying again last night. A cell door had clanged open and she'd been so grateful it wasn't her they were coming for, so desperately glad she wasn't the one crying, begging.

She jumped at the sound of metal on metal, close in the darkness. Her door opened and dim light fell in from the corridor, piercingly bright to her eyes which had grown used to the near total darkness of her cell. A man filled the narrow doorway, a dark silhouette with wide shoulders and a square head, eyes gleaming in the faint light. She scrambled off the bed and into a corner, tucking her knees to her chest, her whole body shaking with the force of her pounding heart. She clamped her lips tight, refusing to make a sound.

"I know you're there, little girl. You can't hide from me."

A cry of dismay escaped her lips and she heard herself sobbing just like the others, pleading. “No, please,” she whispered, staring up at him. “Not me."

Her protests crumbled as he drew closer, as his eyes bored into hers, clouding her mind with something sticky and warm. The light from the hallway faded until there was nothing but his eyes, his will, his desire. He reached for her, and somewhere deep inside she screamed.

Sarah rolled out of bed, not even stopping to turn on the lights in a blind dash for the bathroom. She fell to her knees and threw up, her stomach heaving uncontrollably as she gripped the sides of the toilet bowl, gasping for breath.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she begged silently, Not again. Please, God, not again.

She huddled on the floor next to the cold porcelain, her stomach empty, her throat burning. Repulsed by the smell, she slammed the seat down, reached up and flushed. Pushing back against the wall, she levered herself up to sit on the closed lid and turned on the water in the sink, splashing her overheated face, ignoring the water that spilled over the sides and onto the linoleum tiles. She grabbed a towel from the rack and covered her face, leaning forward until her forehead touched her knees.

It was all so familiar, the isolation, the cold, every heartbeat like a bass drum against her rib cage, every breath as loud as a bellows in the dead silence of her captivity. Theresa Bracco, the teenager from West L.A., and Julie Seaborn, a mother of two from Hollywood . . . and the others, the nameless others who'd haunted her dreams. The ones she'd tried to ignore. She remembered them all.

And she remembered what had happened when she went to her parents for help.

The institution they'd sent her to was more of a boarding school than an asylum—except for the locks on the doors. She'd been fifteen years old when she walked through those doors, and she hadn't walked out again until her eighteenth birthday when, as an adult under California law, she'd fled her parents’ tender care and reinvented herself. A new name, a new city, a new life. College, graduate school, a job. Just like everyone else. No one knew who she really was. No one. Not even her good friend Cyn knew the truth about Sarah Stratton. There was nothing to distinguish her from the millions of people who went to the office or to school, who worked hard and slept safe in their beds every night. And that was just the way Sarah wanted it.

But now the dreams were back, and with them had come the memories of all the women who'd cried in her nightmares and now lurked like ghosts, half-seen in the corners of her mind.

She stood and opened the mirrored cabinet, taking out her toothbrush and toothpaste with quick, determined movements. She couldn't do this again, she decided firmly. She wouldn't do it again. This wasn't some docudrama on television. This was her life. The years of working two jobs to put herself through college and graduate school, piecing herself together from scratch, from nothing. Helpless, frustrated tears filled her eyes. She let them come until she was nearly choking on toothpaste. She spit sloppily into the sink and rinsed her mouth, then forced herself upright. She gazed into the mirror, seeing the pink and gold reflection of sunrise just visible between the slats of her mini-blinds. And she couldn't help wondering if Regina was looking at the same sunrise, if that damp basement had a window somewhere, a taunting shred of freedom for her and the others. The ones she could hear crying in the dark.

Chapter Eight

Raj made a sharp turn down the alley without slowing, feeling the rear end of his big BMW sedan fishtailing slightly on the slippery pavement. It was that time of year in Buffalo when the weather couldn't decide if it was winter or spring, when one day could bring a last ditch snowstorm and the next a quick melt that might freeze overnight into slick ice. It was one of the reasons he hated this town. Too cold, too wet, too windy. And too goddamn dead, even for a vampire.

He punched the remote attached to the car's visor as soon as he made the turn. By the time he reached the garage, the door was fully open, and he slid the big sedan into the narrow space, closing the door behind him before he'd even turned off the engine. He was cutting it too damn close and knew it. He should have stayed put at the airport, but he hated sleeping in a public place, even a well-guarded one. He never felt really safe unless he was behind his own door, with his own security. He'd known too many vampires who had trusted others and were no longer around to bemoan their foolishness.