Kevlar on the thighs and high leather jackboots. At the collar of her coat gleamed the bladed edging designed to keep away vamps looking for a thick, juicy vein. “Well, you seem to fit the bill, Miss, er…Lark. You’ve been knighted?”
“As are all who serve the Order. If you need reassurance that I can do the job, Principal Caufield, you’ve only to check with Rook, as I’m sure you have. But I am here now, and I assume you wish little time wasted. A third of your pack has been slain?”
He nodded and exhaled as he settled back in the office chair. “Yes, a third. Utter insanity. Eight of my pack slain in a month’s time. The culprit is the vampire Domingos LaRoque. He is mad.”
“Truly?” Lark hated to think of madness overtaking any man, yet while her tone professed lacking belief, her heart believed. Too deeply. “Or is he merely angry over crimes the Levallois pack perpetrated against him?”
The principal leaned forward, eyeing her with some concern. “You show pity toward a vampire?”
“Not at all. I simply want to deal with the facts. Lies complicate things. So tell me the truth.”
“Very well. To cut through the bullshit, it is no secret the pack engages in the blood sport.”
Illegal fights that pitted captured vampires against one another to the death, but those fights only occurred after months of starvation and forcibly induced UV sickness. Such callous disregard for the sanity and welfare of those not their breed was a good reason for Lark to not let down her guard around werewolves.
“Domingos was an odd one,” the principal continued, thumbing his chin in thought. “Normally the vampires we engage in the sport last a round or two before expiring. But LaRoque lasted six months. That vampire possessed a twisted will to live. Even the UV sickness could not defeat him. Although I believe it made him mad—literally. He’s a dangerous opponent. Can you take him out before he murders the remainder of my family?”
“Of course.” Lark nodded once and then, before turning to leave, said, “The first time I lay eyes on Domingos LaRoque will be the last time he takes a breath.”
The pack had spread out as he’d thinned the herd. Heh. He’d stood good to his word upon breaking out of that hellacious complex. But no time to celebrate. He had a werewolf to track—if he could just keep the music in his head from distracting him. It wasn’t even a song. More like a gathering of distorted violin chords, like a cat in heat yowling for attention. That, and the slithery whispers that never left him alone. He never understood any of the words, if they were words; it was just an eerie constant murmuring. It was enough to drive a man mad.
“Been there, done that. Still doing it,” Domingos muttered.
He banged the side of his head against the brick wall where he hid in a dark alley. That helped. Joggled his brain. Focused him. Until the cacophony resumed.
Clenching his teeth, he smacked a fist to the side of his skull. Ah, silence.
“Finally,” he muttered, and snuck forward through the night.
Cool shadows calmed him and relaxed his muscles. Always tense lately. Ever on guard. A man couldn’t find peace with so much to tend, both mentally and externally.
Didn’t matter. So he was mad. He dealt with it as best he could. Besides, the madness proved an advantage when he leaped for his prey and ripped out its heart. Yet that wasn’t Domingos LaRoque who stood holding the pulsing heart. That was the phoenix inside him.
That other vampire. The one you drank dry in order to survive.
Heh.
A clatter focused him on a mangy scent on the dark Paris streets. The werewolf was not using stealth. The dogs were not known for grace or silence.
Feeling his veins tighten in anticipation of the deed, Domingos crept forward. He would have his revenge. Again.
The wolf spoke with someone. Female, and…mortal. He scented her blood, sweet and tainted with floral perfume. Good thing he’d fed an hour earlier. But damn, the last thing he needed was a mortal witness.
Domingos turned and looked down the alleyway he’d come from. He clasped his fingers over the brass-framed goggles that hung from around his neck. He wore them always; be it day or night, he never ventured outside without them. If he so much as looked toward UV light, his vision went completely white.
What was that? A shadow moved not half a block away. Had he passed someone without realizing? Did another wolf follow him?
Never let down your guard. Stay alert. They are everywhere. Snap out from nowhere to grab you and take you back. Don’t go back!
Disregarding the werewolf putting the moves on the mortal, for he hadn’t yet verified if it was from pack Levallois, Domingos slunk back the way he had come. Inner whispers forced him to snap his head back and forth, as if he were a headbanger with Tourette’s. The move was not successful. Yet in between the clamor of distorted musical notes and hideous whispers taunting his brain, he managed to pick up a heartbeat. Calm, yet aware.
Casting his gaze across the rooftops—two stories up—he ran a short distance and made a leap, landing on the slate tiles with ease, for his bare feet gripped the smooth tiles and held him there. Squatting, he clasped an arm about his tattered leather pants and leaned over, much like a gargoyle, seeking the mysterious shadows below. Yet unlike the gargoyle, he was not positioned—and had no intention—to protect.
Down the alley, the werewolf laughed counter tempo to the click of the mortal woman’s heels. His prey had hooked up. Lucky bastard.
You don’t need a woman. You seek only the blood from those who tortured you.
He wasn’t sure the wolf had been Levallois, and he wasn’t about to take out the wrong wolf.
The violin scratched at the inside of his skull. Domingos made to slap his head but paused. A curious shadow moved below. And he wanted a closer look.
He could do this to a sound track—even one that screamed like a burning cat.
Leaping, Domingos descended with a grace that loosened up a chuckle. He sometimes forgot that his inner madness manifested in voice. The shadow, alerted by his laughter, dashed between buildings as he landed on the cobbled street crouched, fists to the ground.
Another chuckle echoed into the night. Domingos laughed at himself from the grandstand. His other self—that sane self—could never quite manage belief in the antics perpetrated by the phoenix, the true darkness within him.
But he’d given himself away.
Quickly, he slipped into the shadows, becoming but a heartbeat. He listened, straining to hear the mysterious other over the insistent skull clatter. Cars rolled by, exhaust fumes billowing into the night. The werewolf’s scent lingered, yet he knew that ship had sailed. Pity the mortal woman should she not expect an animal in her bed tonight. The moon was half crescent, so the wolf needn’t shift, unless that was his thing.
Forget the wolf, Domingos thought. I want to play with the mystery shadow. He scented her now. Yes, female. And close by. As if it was her intent to remain. Could she have been tracking him?
Interesting.
He
