Midnight Bites (45 page)

Michael put a five-dollar bill on the counter, ordered a drink—the vampire standard, Red Bull and blood—and as Oliver mixed it and capped it, he said, “Rozhkov.”

There was just the slightest hesitation in Oliver's smooth, practiced movements, but it was enough to let Michael know he'd hit the jackpot. Oliver put the cup on the counter between them and said, “In my office. Terrell, take the wheel.” He stripped off his tie-dyed Common Grounds barista apron and hung it on a peg as he flipped up the pass-through on the bar.

Oliver's office was dark—just enough low light to be comfortable for vampires, not enough for humans to make out details. Michael sat
in the guest chair as Oliver took the desk side; it was just a plain task chair, nothing special, yet Oliver always made it seem like a throne. He had the presence of a ruler. Like Amelie.

“Rozhkov,” Michael repeated. “Tell me about him.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It's not. It's Eve's.”

Oliver sat back, eyelids coming down to hood his gaze; he steepled his fingers together and was quiet for a moment before he said, “Tell me why.”

“Eve's sleepwalking. Last night, she did it with a knife. Rozhkov took blood from her, and I think he's doing this.”

“Why in God's holy name did you allow that to happen, Michael?”

“I didn't
allow
anything,” Michael said. “Eve did. He said he was family, and he was sick, and she could help.”

“Family.” Oliver's voice sounded heavy on the word. He fell silent again, gaze gone far into the past, and then finally blinked and straightened again to put his hands flat on the desk. “Yes. I thought we'd restrained him better than this.”

“You—knew about this?”

“Not about Eve. Rozhkov has a certain—mental instability. He believes that if he eliminates all human members of his family, he will become the most powerful vampire on earth. It's not true, of course. It's nonsense. But he believes it. He's been hunting down and destroying his family for generations.”

“You could have warned us about him!”

“Why would I?” Oliver's look at him was irritated and impatient. “She is no more related to him than she is to me. Rozhkov killed his bloodline off long, long ago. But since his prophecy of great power failed to come true, he conceives these notions—delusions. If I'd known he had fixed himself on Eve, I would have warned you.”

“You said you thought you'd restrained him. What did you mean by that? He was walking around free.”

“He's under the care of Dr. Goldman, who gives him drugs to lessen his abilities. You might have noticed that he seems . . . different.”

“I thought he was sick. He was drugged?”

“It should have been enough to free him from his delusions. Evidently not. How far has it gone?”

“She's been sleepwalking. Last night, she almost stabbed me.”

Oliver looked away, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Then he has her,” he said. “She's in his power. There's no breaking that, Michael. It's how he destroys—not by his own hand, but by taking control of his victims. He's destroyed many families this way—silently, in the night, without bloodying his hands.”

Michael swallowed, though his mouth and throat felt dry and clenched with aching thirst. “How do we stop him?”

“How do you think?” Oliver shook his head. “No human platitudes, boy. This is vampire business. We've tried the soft approach to him; it's time for the sword. Rozhkov is a threat to your wife. If you want to protect her, it's your right to face him.”

Oliver's look was long and measuring; he wanted to know, Michael realized, that he'd step up. That he
could
step up. “Do I really have to prove myself to you? Again?”

“No,” Oliver said, and leaned forward to busy himself with a folder of paperwork on his desk. “You see, I know very well that you loathe being a vampire, in your heart. You cope well enough; you let very few of us see your conflict. But in this particular case, you have to prove your convictions to yourself, or stand aside, because what you are fighting for is a great deal more than your childish feelings. Now leave.”

“Not until you tell me where to find him.”

“Are you ordering me?” The question was calm and a little amused, but Michael wasn't fooled. There was steel underneath it. Steel with a sharp, sharp edge.

“Yes,” he said, and slapped his palms on the desk to lean into Oliver's space. “I am.” He felt that warm tingle in his eyes, and knew they were flushing bright, threatening red.

“Better,” Oliver said, unperturbed. “Save your aggression for the one who needs it. You may find him at his shop in Founder's Square.”

“He has a
store
?”

“Did you think he simply haunted graveyards? He owns a shop that sells flavored teas. He won't be at the counter; he is not as . . . hands-on as I. But he will be in the rooms above.” Oliver flipped a hand at him. “Go.”

Michael did, pushing his anxiety and fury back until his eyes were blue and normal, and he could force a smile for the people outside in the coffee shop.

Then he went to find Rozhkov.

•   •   •

The tea shop was something he'd never paid any attention to before. It was closet-sized, just big enough to serve two or three at a time. Shelves of dusty jars of product, and a very bored woman behind the counter who barely looked up from her copy of
Romantic Times
when he came in. The clean, flowery scent of the teas was overwhelming. Then she came back for a second look, folded the magazine, and brightened up. “Oh, hello,” she said. “How can I help you? We have a special on Earl Grey and some of the Tazo flavors. I can brew you up samples, too.”

He didn't have the heart to go full vampire on her; she seemed so happy to see a customer. “How about”—he picked one at random—
“Blueberry Bliss Rooibos?” He had no idea what it was, but it sounded like something Eve would like.

“Sure!” she said brightly, and grabbed one of the dustier glass jars. “I'll just make you up a cup to taste. Wait right here.”

She went through a beaded curtain to the back, and Michael quickly scanned the shop again.
The rooms upstairs,
Oliver had said.

He took hold of the shelves on the right, and pulled. They swung out. Behind them was a door—locked, but he snapped it easily enough and pushed it open. There was a handle on the shelf from the other side, and he pulled it to behind him as he entered.

Stairs. It was utterly dark, but he could make out silvery outlines, enough to find his way. Michael took them quickly, knowing that Rozhkov would have heard the lock breaking, and was at the top in only a second.

It was still long enough for Rozhkov to be ready.

Michael ducked the swing of a sword that would have easily decapitated him, and lunged forward, connecting hard with the bony, sinewy body of the other vampire. It would have overwhelmed a human, broken bones, but it hardly rocked Rozhkov back a few steps, and he kept his balance to drive a fist hard into Michael's chest. It pushed Michael back, and he swayed back to avoid the next slash of steel.

Rozhkov looked strong, and cocky, and he gave Michael a broad, fanged grin. “Boy,” he said. “How long have you been in our life? You're hardly more than an infant to me. Give up. I don't need your life.”

“You don't need Eve's.”

“Ah, but I do. It's destiny. She was drawn to me.”

“You came to
us
.”

Rozhkov shrugged. Logic didn't matter, of course. “Her blood is
true, and when she dies, I will take her energy. It is how I live. How I grow greater.”

“You're insane,” Michael said. “Last chance. If you let Eve go, we can end this peacefully.”

“Why in the world would I desire such a thing?” Rozhkov put the tip of the sword against Michael's throat. “
Peacefully.
You threaten me? You're nothing. Nothing but a whisper in the dark.”

“No,” Michael said. “I'm the dark.”

He let go.

The thing he hadn't said to Oliver, the thing he hadn't said to anyone, was that the reason he fought his vampire nature so hard, the reason he loathed it so much, was that it was so incredibly
easy
. As easy as relaxing, and falling, and being . . . something else.

He grabbed the sword's edge, ignoring the pain of the cut, and twisted the weapon out of Rozhkov's hand, snapping the man's wrist with the crisp sound of breaking twigs. Part of him—the small, trapped human part—screamed for it to stop, but the vampire didn't listen. Rozhkov was prey. Rozhkov was enemy.

Michael tossed the sword into the air, grabbed it with two hands as it fell, and swung with all his might, aiming cleanly for the vulnerable, narrow throat.

It hardly gave any resistance at all.

Rozhkov was saying something, or trying to, when he died. Michael didn't bother to listen. He stared down at the man's face as it went still, then slack, and the malice in the eyes faded into nothing.

There wasn't that much blood, and what there was trickled out dark and thick.

Michael reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a silver-coated stake that he'd swiped from Shane's stash, and buried it in Rozhkov's heart, just to be sure. Then he put the sword down and closed his eyes.

The dark was a storm inside him, a force like a whirlwind, stirred and excited by the violence.
Yes,
it said.
Yes, this is you. This is how you are. How it will be.

He stood perfectly still, willing the darkness back into its carefully locked little box, forcing it with every ounce of what was left of his humanity. It was harder than ever before. So hard he was afraid that if he ever let it out again, no box would hold it.

That's not me,
he told himself.
I'm not that. I can't be that.

The terrifying thing was that he so, so easily could be. Oliver knew it. That was why Oliver had sent him, instead of doing it personally. It was the old vampire's way of teaching him a lesson.

Not this time,
Michael thought.

But he couldn't really be sure about the next time. Not at all.

The whole thing seemed to take a lifetime, but when he went back downstairs, the little shop was still empty. As he pushed the shelf back in its place and heard it click closed, the beaded curtain rattled, and the shop clerk bustled out holding a steaming cup of tea.

“Here you go.” She beamed, and held it out to him. “I think you'll just love it.”

It tasted of ashes and blood and fear to him, but he bought two bags anyway.

•   •   •

That evening, Michael found Chief Moses standing on their porch. Behind her, twilight had fallen, and the sky was a rich dark blue, painted through with the fading orange of sunset. She was bathed in the yellow glow of the bug light. Her hat was off and tucked under her arm in a strangely official way.

“I have some news,” she said.

“Bad news?” he asked her. She shrugged.

“Depends,” Hannah said. “Can I come in?”

She was human; she didn't really need an invitation. He nodded and stepped back to let her cross the threshold. She sighed, as if this was something she
really
didn't want to do.

“Can you get Eve?” she asked him.

“Sure. Why?”

“Just get her, Michael.”

He didn't need to; he heard the clump of her boots on the stairs, and knew she'd heard the knock. Claire and Shane were gone off on their own somewhere, so it was just the two of them in the house. Eve arrived breathless and flushed, still adjusting her top from where she'd pulled it on. “Oh, Hannah. Hey. What's up?”

Hannah nodded without any change in her poker-faced expression. “I need to show you a picture and see if you recognize the man in it.” She didn't pause; the photo was on her phone, and she clicked it on and turned it to show it to both Eve and Michael.

It was Kiril Rozhkov.

“What's he done?” Eve asked. She sounded resigned.

“He went and got himself decapitated and staked,” Hannah said. “From what I hear, not much loss from anybody.”

“You think we had something to do with it?” Michael asked.

Hannah shook her head. “Nope, but in his coat pocket I found this.” She reached into her own pocket and took out a plastic bag sealed with red tape. Inside was a photo of the two of them, the one that had been in the local paper announcing their marriage.

“I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't Shane,” Eve said. “Or Claire.”

“I know that, too. They're not the only ones in this town willing to stake a vampire now and again.”

“Then who do you think did it?”

“Doesn't matter,” Hannah said, still expressionless. “I'm not likely to get to arrest anyone.”

She knew. Her gaze settled on Michael, and stayed, and he felt a momentary chill. “Well,” he said. “I guess someone thought it had to be done.”

That earned him a very small, tight smile. “Guess so. I had a word with Oliver. He says it's finished.” Hannah returned the photo to her coat pocket, along with her phone, and nodded to them both. “Have a good day, you two.”

She left without another word. Eve stood where she was, lips parted on questions she obviously couldn't quite voice, as Michael shut the door behind her.

“Are you all right?”

Eve stared at him for a few long seconds. “I guess,” she said. “It's just—he said he was family.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her, very gently, lips and forehead. “Family takes care of its own.”

He stayed awake all night, haunted by the memory, the darkness, the violence, but she slept soundly cuddled against him.

And as dawn came, and he knew she was all right, he closed his eyes and slept with her, in the
light.