Now Comes the Night (8 page)

Paul groaned. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands—so roughly Damian suspected he was trying to hold his tears at bay. “This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.”

“Or, then again, perhaps it was.”

“No.” Paul opened his eyes and fixed Damian with a woeful gaze. “I had a feeling, all right? All day long I
knew
tonight was going to be special. That I was going to meet someone. I didn’t know how or when, but I
knew
. Then, when I was dancing, and I opened my eyes and saw you standing there, smiling at me… It was fate.”

“There’s no such thing as fate,” Damian replied, startled by the boy’s words and the remembrance they’d sparked in his own mind, the memory of his own feelings the night he’d first set eyes on Conrad and been so certain that he’d met his destiny. “There’s only this world, Pablito, and the choices we make.”

Paul frowned. “What’s that you keep calling me? Pablito? What’s it mean?”

“It’s nothing.” Damian shrugged. “Forget it. It’s just… It’s just another way of saying Paul.”

“Oh. Well, I like it. I guess I should think up a special name for you too, huh?”

Damian shook his head. “I don’t think so, Paul.”

“Why not?”

“You already know the answer to that, do you not?”

Paul bit his lip and gazed at Damian for another moment, his expression doubtful and uncertain. “Well, can I at least just…” A blush heated his cheeks. He swallowed hard and glanced pointedly at Damian’s crotch. “You know…?”

“No.” Damian’s cock twitched at the unspoken suggestion. It was far too tempting a thought and completely impossible. “You know I can’t allow that.”

“Please? I mean, why not? It’s not like I’m gonna
tell
anyone. It’ll be our secret and you don’t even have to touch me, if you don’t want. Just let me touch you. I just… I really want to. Please?”

Damian shook his head. “Enough. It’s out of the question. I said no and I meant it. And, speaking of which, I hope you know you must never tell anyone
anything
about tonight.” Now would be the time to enforce that suggestion, to impress his will upon the boy. Damian’s gut clenched at the thought. A wave of nausea swept over him. Making the decision to defy a direct order from Conrad always left him feeling physically ill, but occasionally it had to be borne. He could not justify this decision to tamper with the boy’s mind. It was too dangerous and totally unnecessary. “You would do best to forget that it even happened. In fact, I hope you will.”

“Forget? Are you kidding me?” Paul’s eyes smoldered as he met Damian’s gaze. “I’m
never
going to forget you. Ever. When can I see you again?”

“You can’t!” Damian snapped. “I’m sorry,
niño
, but things are not always what they seem.” He stopped and swallowed hard again, hearing Conrad’s voice in his mind, speaking virtually the same words to Damian’s younger self so many, many years ago. “The truth is you’re simply too young for me, Pablito. Nor am I at all what you think me. I would be taking terrible advantage of you if I allowed things to go any further. As it is, I’ve taken enough from you already.” Taking a deep breath, he let some of the force of his will seep into his voice in order to give the boy’s mind another small nudge. “Get out of the van now, Paul. Go into your house and go to sleep. When you wake up tomorrow, this will all seem like a dream.”

Without another word, Paul opened the door and climbed out of the van. He closed the door, then turned and leaned in through the window. “I
will
see you again. I know it.”

Damian smiled sadly. “Goodnight, Pablito. Pleasant dreams.”

Chapter Four

December 21, 2009

Marc stood on the roof of the warehouse where he seemed to be spending all his waking hours these days and stared down at the streets of San Francisco. He focused his senses, forcing his awareness out into the night. A heavy fog was creeping over the city. Already his view of the Bay Bridge was obscured. Buildings slowly disappeared, one by one, into the mist. He paid them no mind. What he was seeking could never be discovered using eyesight anyway, not even with his superior night vision, not even if he still had two good eyes to work with instead of just one.

He closed his eyes, lifted his face to the sky and breathed in deeply, tasting the fresh air as it filled his lungs, willing himself to catch the faint, elusive fragrance he sought. He’d heard it said that sharks could sense a small amount of blood from as far as three miles away. He had no idea if that was really so, but he had no doubts at all that he could do the same—and without the blood having been spilled first, which was considerably more of an accomplishment, at least to his way of thinking.

Trying to pick out the specific tinge of one individual blood-taste, in a city populated by over eight hundred thousand beating hearts—all those flavors competing for his attention—that was a good deal more complicated. For something like that, a three-block radius was probably about the limit of his range.

The air behind him seemed to tremble as it made contact with a solid object. Marc re-oriented on the disturbance, easily picking up the now-familiar markers of heartbeat, breath and scent that, combined, could belong to only one person. Nighthawk.

“Any news?” Marc asked without turning.

A heavy sigh rent the air. “Fuck. I thought I was being really quiet that time.”

“You were.” Marc opened his eyes and continued to gaze out at the city. People were gathering in the alley below him. At this small distance, he could already guess how each would taste. His pulse quickened. Saliva flooded his mouth. He was hungry, but his appetite would have to wait a bit. “Very quiet. How many times do I have to tell you that it doesn’t matter? Even when you hold your breath like you were just doing, I can still sense when you’re trying to sneak up on me.”

“Yeah, well…that’s still damn creepy, if you ask me. Even for us.”

Marc turned to gaze curiously at the taller man. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about do you?”

Nighthawk shook his head. “Not a clue. Sound, I get. Smell, I get. Sight—even if you had eyes in the back of your head like it sometimes seems you do—that I’d get too. But this sensing thing you keep talkin’ about, all that stuff about the air moving around us in some kinda crazy pattern only you can detect? That’s where you lose me, every time. Sorry, boss, it’s all just weird and creepy.”

Weird and creepy? That was just great. Now it was Marc’s turn to sigh. He thought he’d left that kind of thing behind him when he gave up trying to be human and accepted being a vampire. Apparently not. Apparently, he was both weirder and creepier than even the other monsters were used to. Fan-fucking-tastic. “Any news?” he asked again, desperate for a change of subject.

Nighthawk shook his head. “Nah, there’s still no sign of either of your ladies. All’s I know is neither of them have been back to their nest—what’s left of it, that is—and they haven’t been seen in any of their usual haunts either. They’ve both gone to ground in a major way. I haven’t even been able to discover if they’re together, although word on the street says that’s not too likely. Apparently there’s no love lost between ‘em anymore, even though, back in the day, they were supposedly thick as thieves. Closer than sisters. Hell, they may actually have been sisters, for all I know. Or lovers. Or who knows what else.”

Marc frowned. His mood had gone sour with the very first sentence—everything else was just noise. “Don’t call them
my
ladies.” Audrey was a psycho bitch who’d put out his eye and tried to kill him. She was no one’s idea of a lady, least of all his. Elise, on the other hand…what he wouldn’t give to learn what was up with her, where she was, why she’d run. Maybe he’d balk at parting with his one remaining eye, but pretty much anything else was up for discussion.

Was she running
with
Audrey, or from her? Or was it Marc she was running from? And did he even care?

There was no mystery as to why he wanted Audrey found. She was dangerous, a loose cannon. She needed to be stopped and nobody seemed to be doing anything about that but him. Plus, she owed him for his eye and for the injuries she’d inflicted on those he cared about. The thought of dealing out a little revenge was not without appeal.

His motivations with regard to Elise were nothing but murky—even to himself. There was nothing clear or remotely civilized about the emotions she inspired in him. His feelings were savage and raw. Three months ago, it would have terrified him to feel this way. Three weeks ago, it might have given him serious pause. Nowadays he was completely beyond caring.

There was an icy-hot rage burning continuously in the center of his soul, or at least that’s how it felt. There was a sense of some tremendous pressure building within him, but whether he’d expand to encompass it, or simply explode—that was anyone’s guess.

He didn’t know for certain that Elise was the key to his continued survival, the only thing that might possibly help calm him down, but it sure as hell felt that way. That’s why he needed to know she was okay. He needed to find her, go to her, wrap his arms around her… Then he’d sink his teeth into her throat, mark her as his own, and show her who was boss. He needed the truth and, damn it. He’d have it too—right from those pretty red lips. Someday, and soon if he had anything at all to say about it, he’d learn for certain whether or not it was she who’d betrayed him. He’d hear her beg forgiveness if it was. Then—regardless of what she’d done—he’d take her to bed and love her until the moon set and the sun came up and they were both too exhausted and too sated to move.

Until her voice was sandpaper-rough from shouting his name and his was worn to a whisper from urging her for more and more and more. Until they could do nothing but sleep, all day long, in each other’s arms, and wake up the following night just in time to do it all over again. Until she understood that she belonged to him. Until she knew it in her bones. And until he was certain, beyond any possible doubt, that she would never betray him again.

But that knowledge, that certainty and that much pleasure was clearly not something he was going to achieve tonight. Which left him frustrated and furious beyond anything approaching reason.

Turning his back on Nighthawk again, Marc snarled, “So, let me see if I have this straight. You basically came up here tonight to tell me nothing. Is that what you’re saying? Or is there something else you want to waste my time with?” He made no attempt to apologize for his rudeness, or the fact that he was taking his bad temper out on the feral. Nighthawk was both big enough and tough enough to take it. He’d also been stupid enough to have beaten up on Marc’s spawn, albeit before either of them had known Heather for what she was—for that alone, Nighthawk was lucky just to be alive. He was lucky he was still topside and able to bear the brunt of Marc’s anger at all. He was lucky Marc had felt himself bound to honor the promises he’d made to protect him—despite the mistakes Nighthawk had made.

The inexplicable feeling of responsibility Marc harbored, on the other hand, and not just for Nighthawk and Heather, but for all the ferals—that sense of needing to care for them, guide them, provide for them—that went way beyond simple luck. That fell into the realm of ideas so monumentally, dumb-fuck stupid that Marc didn’t even have a name for it.

Why was it so important for him to help them? What was it that kept him coming back here, night after night?

Nighthawk cleared his throat. “Actually, I just came to tell you that the food’s started to arrive. The alley’s already packed with prospects. Looks like we’re gonna get a good turnout tonight after all.”

The food. Wasn’t that just perfect? Marc’s gaze strayed involuntarily to the crowd in the alley. No wonder ferals weren’t well-liked. Ever since Marc had initiated the idea of holding raves at the warehouse as a way of giving the unclaimed, nestless vampires known as ferals a safe place to eat—under his strict supervision and rigid control—he’d had to deal with this type of attitude. From all of them, really, but Nighthawk was the worst. Tonight, Marc had had enough.

His temper spiked off the charts. “Don’t call them that!” he snarled, almost choking on his anger. The memory of every lesson that had ever been drummed into his head from the time he was a baby screamed in outrage. “Show some respect.”

“Aw c’mon, man.” Nighthawk shook his head. “Respect for what, huh? They’re nuthin’ but
kine
. The gamers got that part right at least—even if they were only talking about themselves. They come here, they bare their throats for us, they let us use them however we want. So, whaddaya think? Maybe we should send ‘em flowers afterward? Or would candy be better? You know, to make them think we still respect them after the bleeding’s stopped.”

Marc turned his head to glare over his shoulder at the man. “Get over here. Now.”

Nighthawk didn’t so much as blink. He was at Marc’s side in an instant. Marc had to struggle to hide his surprise. Yeah, it had been an order, but so what if it was? He figured any one with half a brain would surely have said “thanks, but no thanks”. Nighthawk had a brain—though it seldom seemed able to keep up with his mouth—yet, all the same, there he was, jumping at Marc’s orders as though he had no choice other than to immediately obey.
Interesting
.

“Look at them.” Marc rested a hand on Nighthawk’s shoulder and directed his attention toward the small group of people gathered on the asphalt three stories below them. Nighthawk looked. He stood on the very edge of the roof, with Marc by his side, and a shudder wracked his frame. His chest heaved and his heart pounded as fast as a vampire’s heart ever could. Marc didn’t blame him for being nervous. A fall from this height probably wouldn’t kill him, but it would still hurt like hell. “Tell me, what you see down there.”