The reports were still sketchy. All anyone knew for certain was that the Indian Pair and their entourage had been taken out in full view of the Shadow District of Mumbai, caught by surprise . . . by humans . . . and not the small group that had shown up in California, but more than a dozen, all of them faster and stronger than any average vampire, and able by sheer numbers and shock value to overwhelm the Elite bodyguards Varati had with him.
India’s warriors were not amateurs. They weren’t equal to Deven’s or David’s, but still, to overpower them would have taken a skill level far beyond most vampire gangs, beyond that of a great many lower-shelf Elite. Even accepting that it was magic, Deven couldn’t conceive of such a thing. Not once in seven centuries had he seen a human successfully attempt to fight an Elite—the average vampire Hunter was much smarter than that and worked within the limitations of the human race, using projectile weapons and traps rather than face-to-face combat. There really weren’t that many Hunters, and they usually worked alone, so most Primes ignored them unless they became a nuisance.
This was something altogether different.
India was still in a state of shock, and violence hadn’t erupted yet. Red Shadow intelligence was that a member of Varati’s Court was poised to make a move on the Signet but was waiting a few days to let any warring factions take each other out first.
Word had gone out to the entire Council about Morningstar and what they might be capable of, but the other Primes were proving themselves no smarter now than when they had met in Austin; some denied it was even possible, others insisted Morningstar had no reason to come after them. Only a few heeded the warning and increased security.
The others were in for a nasty surprise.
Sacramento was, as usual, quiet that Thursday night. For the first time in a long time, the Prime took to the streets himself. He generally preferred anonymity, remaining an unseen and whispered-about presence, but subtlety had flown out the window when Morningstar started attacking Primes in public. He knew better than to think his presence would scare Morningstar away, but hopefully at least a few of their thugs would recognize him and it would be made clear that they were being watched by the Signet. If nothing else he might learn something.
Jonathan had not liked the idea. Not a surprise. If Varati, his Queen, and a cadre of their Elite had been massacred by these people, a single Prime without any guards would seem an easy target.
Deven smiled slightly. A great many people far more powerful than these lunatics had fallen bleeding to the street because of such assumptions.
He was feeling remarkably well that night, which probably accounted for some of his bravado—he’d had another session with Nico, and this time instead of being drained for days, he’d immediately felt like another veil had been stripped from his eyes and every cell in his body had been infused with new life. Two weeks ago he might have been afraid to go into battle, but now he was out looking for trouble like a spry young vampire of 250.
Thinking of the Elf nearly made him falter, though. They were pretending nothing had happened that night on the balcony . . . but Nico haunted his thoughts, and it was all he could do not to seek out the Elf’s company, even just to talk. Deven tried telling himself they could be friends, and that friendship was better than nothing, but though Deven had many faults, lying to himself was not generally one of them. If he let himself feel any affection for Nico at all, it would only get worse. The Elf would be done healing him soon, and then he would leave, and Deven would never see him again. That was what he wanted.
Deven nearly snorted. So lying to himself was one of his faults after all.
There were few humans out so late, and even fewer vampires on the hunt. Word had gotten out about the strange new threat in town, and most were staying close to home until they heard from the Signet that it was safe again. At least so far Morningstar didn’t seem to have any interest whatsoever in humans . . . but just to be safe, Deven sent out warnings to all the mortals he was aware of who associated with the Shadow World. He knew a few weapons artisans, a forensic expert or two, and of course key members of every city and state government in the West.
As he walked the thought arose, unbidden, of the last time he had prowled the streets . . . the night he had fallen to his knees outside St. Anthony’s like a proper penitent . . . the night he had first looked up into those dark violet eyes that promised such peace. He had craved that peace so deeply in that moment . . . but now what he craved from the Elf was a little less peaceful and a little more elemental.
Damn it . . . stop thinking about him. Stop.
He was near one of his favorite spots in Sacramento, a large dance club similar to the Black Door in Austin; it was a hunting ground established by a member of the Court in order to create a safer space for feeding, for both vampire and mortal alike. Having some form of regulation over public hunting was key when it came to keeping a territory quiet; the vampires felt free to drink from humans, but the clubs were an attractive place to find healthy specimens without the risk of exposure.
It was well known that the Prime hunted there, which made it that much more popular among law-abiding vampires. He frequently partook of both the local cuisine and the local Ecstasy.
He was about five blocks from the club, deep in the dark heart that beat within every city, when he heard something.
He paused, looked around, analyzing. Empty street corner, three-story buildings on all sides, one streetlamp, two alleys that dead-ended. Well within range of the nearest motion sensors, and four minutes from the nearest patrol route, where a team would pass by in approximately two minutes. Depending on the situation it would be possible to run either back the way he’d come or straight ahead. The best way to escape, however, would be to Mist.
He stood right where he was and waited.
They emerged from the darkness, all dressed in black, and he watched them curiously for a moment as they emulated, but didn’t come close to matching, vampiric grace or menace. They were all armed much as the Elite would be, with swords and stakes, knives of various kinds.
Deven let them surround him, looking from one to another, calculating their relative strengths and weaknesses; strangely, they all had very similar facial expressions, not quite blank but not entirely there, either.
Theory: The magic that gave them their strength put them in some kind of trance or otherwise worked its will over theirs. Who, then, was their puppeteer?
Finally, there were twelve Morningstar surrounding him . . . but they didn’t make a move. They were waiting for something.
“Good evening,” came a deep male voice.
Deven turned toward the sound slowly, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
A man emerged from the alley, and right away his appearance set off warning bells in Deven’s head; he was dressed as a priest, all in black with a clerical collar. Short, fine brown hair crowned his head, over a pale, somewhat sickly-looking face with calm, intelligent brown eyes. Aside from the outfit he was perfectly ordinary, not at all threatening, the very image of an approachable and sympathetic clergyman.
Deven said nothing but continued to wait. The human would keep talking; they always kept talking.
“You must be the Prime of this territory—O’Donnell, is it? Of Irish descent.”
Deven held back a snort. “You got Irish from O’Donnell? Genius.”
“I hear you were once a man of the cloth like myself.”
Deven smiled slightly. “I suspect it was a different kind of cloth.”
His smile was returned. Again, Deven was surprised; he had expected anyone associated with Morningstar to be a raving lunatic, but this man was perfectly composed, even friendly. Usually a human who knowingly faced a vampire—let alone a Prime—was either craven or crazy, trying to escape or seized with suicidal bravado. “I am called the Shepherd,” he said.
“Are you the leader of this Order, then?”
The Shepherd shook his head. “I am one of many around the world guiding our soldiers to their destinies.”
“What destiny would that be, besides pissing me off?”
Another smile, smug; this Shepherd thought he had the upper hand, whether through knowledge or numbers.
It was cute.
“Surely you understand that vampires have to die,” the Shepherd said reasonably. “It is our sacred task to wipe the stain of your existence from the earth. Your Circle, however . . . we have something very special in mind for you.”
“I’m flattered,” Deven said. “But Varati wasn’t one of our Circle.”
“That was a test run. We will eventually destroy the entire Council, felling them one by one.” The Shepherd walked in a slow circle around Deven, perhaps to be intimidating. “But beyond the fact that you are all deviants, sodomites, and idolaters—”
“Deviants and sodomites?” Deven asked, feigning incredulity. “I have no idea what you mean.”
The Shepherd obviously heard the sarcasm but started to say, “Leviticus—”
“Oh, fuck Leviticus,” Deven said. “Get creative. Come on, I’ll help you—I promise I’ve done much worse things than suck cock. I’ve killed hundreds of people. I’ve tortured, done a bit of maiming. I’ve cursed the name of God more times than I can count. I helped a man commit adultery—great big gay adultery, at that. That should be worth an honorable mention, shouldn’t it?”
The Shepherd clearly had not been expecting the conversation to take this particular turn, but he didn’t react until Deven stopped talking. “Beyond the fact that you are all deviants, you are also the only thing standing between our holy work and the destruction of the demon you call Persephone.”
“Aha,” Deven said, nodding. “Now we come to it. You were the ones who banished her in the first place, and now that she’s returning, you want to do it again while there’s still distance between her and us.”
“Until your Circle is complete, she is vulnerable. Our first mission is to stop the formation of the Circle.”
“And how do you plan to accomplish that?”
The Shepherd took a few steps back and made a quick gesture. “We’ll start with you.”
Dev looked around at the humans surrounding him. They were all drawing their weapons, preparing to spring.
A dozen superhumans, one Prime.
No contest.
They came at him from all sides, twelve against one, and he dropped flat on the ground so that their blades clashed into each other rather than meeting flesh. It was a cheap trick, but it almost always worked on people who dove into a fight rather than coming in slowly. The adrenaline of attack overrode self-preservation. He rolled to the right, hitting two in the knees and taking them down, using their bodies as a springboard, backflipping and spinning to take two heads in one stroke, with a third on the follow-through.
The remaining eight attacked in pairs, each from a different side; Deven met each blade with his, driving two pairs back toward the nearest wall.
They were good. They were very good. Whoever had trained them had been a master . . . but not an adept . . . and certainly nothing like the Alpha.
Another head hit the ground with a dull thud, its associated body not five seconds later. The humans were fast—fast enough to challenge him, which he liked. It was so hard to find warriors of his caliber anymore. Their style was a pastiche that wasn’t terribly elegant but was quite effective. One of them even showed some creativity in her attack strategy—so they weren’t just running through a program but could adapt.
He coaxed them all into a circle again and stood at the center, fighting them all at once. Another faltered, just for a second, just long enough for Ghostlight to slip in past his guard and slit his throat.
And there, Deven realized, was the problem with Morningstar’s plan: These humans might be fast and strong like vampires, but they were still mortal. Their leaders had sacrificed a Prime to imbue them with strength and then neglected to supply them with Kevlar.
Another man went down with a gurgle of blood, and Deven braced his foot on the body to pull the sword out of the man’s chest. Five to go.
He focused his attention on the one that seemed strongest. They fought along the alleyway just long enough for Deven to memorize his moves and then throw them back at him—the human favored a one-two-three combination that he used over and over, and it was child’s play to take it, reverse it, and use it against him.
Three . . . two . . . one . . . and the man got close enough that Deven seized him by the shoulders, spun him around, and broke his neck.
Deven turned back to the remaining three and pointed at them with Ghostlight’s dripping blade. “This is your last chance,” Deven said. “Leave my city now and abandon this foolish quest, or die here in the street choking on your own blood.”
He didn’t actually mean it, but he wanted to see if he was right, and he was—whatever was driving them would drive them until they killed their target or fell dead themselves. Kamikaze soldiers . . . not good.
They all three attacked at once, and he immediately shifted back into the power-dance sight that he shared with David—he could see their actions a split second before they were made. It was hard to do with two opponents, and nearly impossible with three, but he specialized in the impossible.
He dodged a punch, then used one human’s momentum to fling the other across the alley. When she got back to her feet and came at him again, he passed his shorter blade into his right hand, leaving the left free, and hit her so hard in the chest her sternum shattered and nearly got his hand stuck in the crisscrossing bones of her rib cage. She barely had time to scream—there was no more air in her lungs, no way to cry out, only the last wet sounds of her heart sputtering still.
He jerked free of her, letting the body fall to the ground in a heap. As he dropped her, he turned toward a faint noise and threw the knife; it hit the man coming toward him, the force flinging the human backward several feet before he fell down dead.
They’d saved the best for last, and this one showed no signs of tiring. Dev and the human circled around each other, blade on blade like the clanging of bells, until Deven snaked in and sliced open his arm. The human jerked backward but didn’t fall. As he regained his balance, Deven lowered his sword, spun, and kicked the man in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground unconscious.