He opened the envelope, stuck his finger inside, and brought out a couple of the white grains I’d gathered in Lord Galm’s Collection chamber. He smelled them, then took his omnipresent cigarette out of his mouth and gingerly touched his finger to his tongue.
His reaction was immediate. “Jesus Christ!” As soon as the holy name passed his lips, his mouth burst into flame.
I grabbed a beer out of the claw of a demon at a nearby table and splashed Shrike in the face, hoping to douse the fire. It worked: the flames died, leaving Shrike’s lips charred and his tongue blackened.
“I’ve told you before, kid, you’ve got to be careful what you say when you’re upset!”
The demon had risen from his chair, and was coming toward me, his leathery gray lizard hide turning battleangry red. I tossed a couple darkgems at him-her? it? who could tell?-to pay for another beer and that ended the matter.
“Do oo know what dis stuff is?” Shrike said as best he could with his ravaged mouth.
“No, that’s why I asked.”
He looked around to see if anyone was listening, then leaned forward. “It’s veinburn.” He leaned back. “Ashully, it’s prolly a good thin’ I swore. Maybe burned ou’ the shit ‘efore it got inna my shystem.”
“C’mon, Shrike, it was only a couple grains.”
He took a puff on his cigarette, and while his mouth didn’t heal all the way, it improved noticeably. I bet the Surgeon General would’ve been surprised to see that.
“It doesn’t take much to get you hooked.” His speech was a little clearer, too. “Where’d you get it?”
“Never mind. Is it new? I’ve never heard of it before.”
“New and nasty. It’s really strong and highly addictive-even for Bloodborn.”
Bingo. Sometimes I love being a detec-doing favors for people. “Who produces it?”
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised if the Dominari have a piece of that particular action.”
“Makes sense.” I said. “I’ve got another question for you.”
“Shoot.” Shrike’s mouth was almost completely healed now, just singed a little around the edges.
“You seen a vampire named Varma tonight?”
“Varma? You mean the one who’s Lord Galm’s bloodchild, right? Yeah, sure. He was out on the dance floor last I saw him. That was probably, oh, an hour ago, maybe less.”
“Think you could make a quick circuit of the club for me, see if he’s still here?”
“Sure. Be back in a minute.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, became solid, and blew out a long stream of gray-white smoke, his body turning transparent as the smoke left his lungs and then fading altogether until he was gone. The smoke Shrike had blown out wafted purposefully toward the dance floor.
“That’s his travel form?” Devona asked. “Interesting.”
“Yeah, Shrike’s got his own style, that’s for sure.”
She leaned close to me so I could hear her better over the music. “I’ve been thinking. I have an idea of how Varma might have been able to get into the Collection chamber and past the wardspell on the Dawnstone.”
“Go on.”
“Even though Varma isn’t biologically Lord Galm’s child, the transference of blood necessary to turn a human into a vampire makes him Galm’s son in a metaphysical sense. It’s possible that since the door to the chamber and the wardspell both are keyed to recognize and permit access only to Lord Galm, they could be made to recognize someone who shares the same blood-provided this someone had the right magical help.”
“Are you sure?”
“Remember, I’m no mage; I was taught only enough magic to monitor the spells on the Collection chamber. But from what I understand, it might be possible.”
The way things were going, the Dawnstone would be back in Lord Galm’s Collection before he returned from the Renewal Ceremony. Devona would hang on to her position and her dignity, and maybe, just maybe, she could convince her father to help me stave off my dissolution.
I should’ve known better. Life-and death-is never so easy.
“Matthew Richter?”
I turned around. “Yes?”
Before me stood a tall raven-haired woman in a red mini dress. She might have been pretty if her features hadn’t been so sharp, her expression severe. Her eyebrows met in the middle. A sure sign she was a lyke.
“My name is Thokk. Honani and I were littermates.”
Her dress ripped away as she began to change.
ELEVEN
Thokk was a mixblood, like Honani, but where he’d turned out a hodgepodge mess, whoever engineered her had done the job right. She was primarily lupine, the most common wildform for lykes. After all, as Waldemar once told me, the word lycanthrope comes from the Greek: lykoi for wolf and anthropos for man. But the term, and its abbreviated version, lyke, has become common parlance for any of the shapeshifters under Lord Amon’s rule. Still, Thokk displayed signs of other animals in her mixblood lineage too-her stomach was hairless and scaled, resembling a snake’s, and her gray fur held a greenish tint. Her eyes were reptilian as well, cold and staring, and when she opened her canine jaws, long, curved fangs sprang forward, glistening with venom.
“You killed Honani, zombie.” Her barely intelligible voice was a deep growl with a slight hiss to it.
I was aware of the club-goers around us abandoning their tables, having decided that being in my proximity at the moment wasn’t conducive to their continued good health. I didn’t blame them.
“Technically speaking, he’s not dead,” I pointed out. “His body’s still alive.” I was uncomfortably aware that I still was carrying the soul jar containing Honani’s spirit in one of my jacket pockets.
Thokk pulled her head back and in a single liquid motion, jerked forward and spit a stream of venom into my eyes. If I’d been alive, the venom probably would’ve started me shrieking, perhaps cause me to fall to the floor in agony and Thokk would’ve moved in to finish me off. But I felt nothing and calmly wiped the venom away with my tie. My vision was a trifle blurry, but it was nothing I couldn’t deal with.
“What good is the body if the soul is gone?” She swayed back and forth, her torso undulating bonelessly.
“According to some folks, zombies don’t have souls, and I feel just fine,” I countered. “Besides, Honani’s body does have a soul. It just happens to be a new one.”
For a second I considered offering to give Thokk the soul jar which contained her brother’s spirit, thinking it might placate her. But then I realized she’d probably attempt to return it to its original body, evicting Kyra from her new home. I couldn’t allow that.
“Your littermate was a killer, Thokk, and he got what he deserved,” I said. “End of story. Now why don’t you leave, unless you’d like some of the same?”
She hissed and came at me.
I reached under my jacket and drew the 9mm from my shoulder holster. The gun was loaded with silver bullets, but one would be all I needed to take care of Thokk. I aimed and started to squeeze the trigger.
But I was too slow. Thokk’s arm lashed out and she smacked the gun out of my hand, sending it tumbling through the air toward the suddenly deserted dance floor. The Phantom of the Paradise remained at his station, though, to keep the throbbing dance beat going, either because he was too caught up in his work to flee or because he wanted to provide some appropriate background music for my battle with Thokk. Thoughtful of the bastard, wasn’t it?
I reached into my jacket, but Thokk was on me before I could pull forth anything from my dwindling supply of surprises, slamming into me and coiling her python-supple arms around my midsection, pinning my arms to my sides. She lifted me off the floor and began squeezing.
I felt pressure, but no pain. I couldn’t breathe, but all that meant to me was that I couldn’t pull in any air to make my voice work. Still, I was concerned. If she snapped my spine, I’d survive, but I’d be unable to walk. And after I was immobilized, it would be a simple matter for her to take my head in her hands and crush my skull. Once my brain was destroyed, no amount of preservative spells, no matter how powerful, could restore me.
I was wracking my dead excuse for a brain, trying to get it to come up with a brilliant plan that would, if not
