The woman had died trying to save her child.
They would have killed him first and made her watch, and while she screamed and begged them to take her instead, and fought like a desperate animal to tear free of their grip, they sucked the little boy dry and drew the Seal of Auren with a knife into his tiny pale chest, then turned on her.
An icy cold front had hit that week, and the boy was wearing a San Antonio Spurs jacket over his gray turtle-neck. A knit cap with the Spurs logo was still on his little tawny head.
At least, based on the small amount of blood that had run from the carving, the child had already been dead when it was drawn. As small as he was it wouldn’t have taken long, and it was unlikely the child had been in much pain.
David stood over the bodies silently while the Elite searched the scene. He kept a tight rein and an iron shield over his emotions, but no one dared approach him.
Faith knelt beside the two—posed deliberately with the woman’s arms around her ten-year-old and his shirt and jacket torn open—and dug into the woman’s purse for her ID. “Kimberly Mason,” she said quietly. “And Charlie.” She removed a small photo and held it up, showing Kimberly, Charlie, and another woman smiling for the camera at a lakeside picnic, probably that very summer. “This is Susan Davis, her partner.”
The link among the victims had arisen after he’d put a team on researching their identities: most of them were gay or lesbian; one was transgendered; one woman worked at Planned Parenthood. The rest were Jewish. It was classic Blackthorn, purging the world of perceived sin via a blatant disregard of the Sixth Commandment.
He wondered if Susan Davis was still waiting for her wife and son to come home tonight. Was she worried yet? Time of death had only been three hours earlier. There had been movie stubs on the victims, and the latest Pixar film was playing at the Westgate Cinema—were they due home yet, or had they been on their way to grab dinner?
“The police are on their way,” Faith added. “They’ll handle next of kin.”
He could just imagine that. This was Texas. The police would look for someone else besides Susan Davis to call, and it was possible that she would end up hearing from an estranged relative that her world had just come to an end.
Children tasted young and sweet and full of life. They were so innocent and still so full of possibility. Their minds and hearts were still unjaded by decades of grinding reality. But they were dangerous—addictive—and tended to bring down the law much faster than dead adults. The drive of the species was to protect its young.
The little boy had blue eyes just like his mother.
Suddenly the Prime felt very, very old, and very tired.
In thirty-six hours there would be a sensor network covering the entire Austin metropolitan area that read the heat signatures of every living thing that passed through it. It was keyed specifically to follow the lower body temps of vampires and could track their movements, creating a near-real-time grid of the city accurate to a single block. The last thousand sensors were being installed tonight, and after a day and a half of calibration and final tests, the whole thing would go live . . .
. . . too late to save Kimberly and Charlie Mason.
The Elite all froze when he moved. He stepped forward and went to one knee next to Faith, then reached over and closed first the child’s eyes, then the woman’s.
David looked up at the others, and when he spoke it was calmly, firmly, and with deadly purpose. “As of tonight,” he said, “we are at war.”
Twelve
Scott had been single for two days, and there was a condom burning a hole in his pocket. Restless, he haunted the bars all night, looking for somebody, anybody, to take home who didn’t remind him of Kenny. No blond hair, no blue eyes, no skinny soccer players. The perfect thing would be a huge hairy top in biker leather, but those were thin on the ground in Austin.
He’d never been good at the bar scene. He and Kenny had met at the library, for fuck’s sake, both reaching for the same Proust. It turned out they were in different sections of the same lit class at UT. The pretense of being “study buddies” had lasted about an hour before they were screwing like mad rabbits. Scott had only been out since he’d moved here for college. Kenny was a senior and had a Tantric master’s gift for giving head.
Scott left the Torch Song half-drunk and irritable, the remains of his third—fourth?—martini leaving him a little green around the gills.
“Fuck this,” he mumbled, digging in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. He’d started again about an hour after he’d come home from class early and found Kenny in the shower with that bony jerk-off from the lacrosse team. At least now there wouldn’t be anybody bitching about the taste of tobacco on his breath.
It was a cold, nasty night, promising sleet. He was starting to really hate Texas; it was unbearably hot in the summer and messy and wet in winter. Spring and fall each lasted about four gorgeous days. He’d spent the last warm afternoons of the year out at the lake with Kenny and his friends. They’d skinny-dipped and made out passionately, smelling of cocoa butter and sex.
He puffed the cigarette angrily and stalked down Fourth Street, ducking his head against the damp wind. What was anyone doing out on a night like this? Hell, what was he doing out? Even if he did get laid, it was so cold he’d probably get his dick stuck to someone’s tongue.
His car was in a paid lot a few blocks away, and though in the back of his mind he knew he probably shouldn’t be driving, he didn’t much care—the streets were virtually empty.
He came around the corner of the Spaghetti Warehouse, and started, gasping. “Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
The young woman standing in front of him tilted her head to one side, her brown hair falling limply into her too-bright eyes. “No problem.”
He stepped to one side to let her pass, feeling a little uneasy under her unwavering gaze, and she continued to stare at him as he started walking again. There was another reason to transfer schools: Austin was full of freaks. Worse yet, they were proud of it.
He heard a footstep behind him and turned, head snapping around hard enough to make him dizzy.
The girl was standing a foot away from him.
“Is there . . . do you need help?” he ventured. She was starting to really creep him out—she looked like she was on drugs, or like she hadn’t slept in a year. She was incredibly pale, with hooded eyes that seemed hyper-aware, and her body barely seemed to move as she stared at him.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m hungry. How about we have a bite?”
He forced a smile. “Wrong tree, honey. And worst pickup line ever, by the way. Excuse me.”
Her hand shot out and seized the arm of his jacket, and he tried to wrench away, but her grip was like iron. To the left and right he heard more footsteps, and before he knew what was happening he was surrounded.
Oh God, I’m gonna get bashed. I should’ve called a cab. Where’s my phone? Should I scream? Oh God.
They half dragged, half carried him off the street toward a shadowy area next to a building that was roped off for construction. He tried to fight—he was in good shape, he should have at least been able to throw off the girl—but they were insanely strong, and there were three of them. The darkness beyond the building yawned at him, and some instinct told him if they got him over there, he’d never come back out.
A hand clamped over his mouth just as he took a breath to shout for help.
The only coherent thought he could seem to summon was the Hail Mary. He hadn’t said it in at least five years. Those Rosary beads were long gone.
Please, Jesus, please, they can have my wallet, just please don’t let me die . . .
He struggled again as the shadows surrounded him, and whimpered desperately.
“Shut up, faggot,” one of them hissed. “If you’re good, we’ll make it quick.”
Another one laughed. “Right.”
They pushed him to the ground, one grabbing his face and wrenching his chin back to expose his throat.
“I’m first this time,” the girl said with a wicked smile. To his horror, as he watched, her teeth started to grow longer, curving down over her tongue.
Raw fear made him writhe as hard as he could, which only made them laugh. Their ghostly white faces grinned down at him like baby demons.
Then, suddenly, everything . . . stopped.
The three heads hovering over him snapped up, nostrils flaring wide as if to catch a strange scent. The girl’s fingernails dug into his arm until he could feel himself bleeding, but the pain came to him from a distance—his heart had all but stopped in his chest, and time had slowed to a crawl.
Something yanked one of the two men up off Scott and hauled him backward, flinging him into the bright orange pylons that tumbled over like bowling pins.
The other two leapt up, growling like animals, but in the next second there was the sound of metal singing through the air, and with a gushing spray of blood, the second man’s head flew off.
Scott screamed and rolled backward away from the blood, and though it mostly missed him, he felt hot droplets strike his face. He scrambled away toward the opposite wall and curled up in a ball, bile climbing the back of his throat.
He heard the girl’s strangled cry, and he looked up in time to see her beheaded as well.
There were five people in the alley with him now, all dressed identically in black uniforms of some kind. They all had swords.
Swords.
He’d heard that trauma could make people insane.
One of the figures separated itself from the rest, cleaning the bloodied blade of his sword on the shirt of one of the dead . . . people. He was dressed differently than the others, in a long black coat, and his eyes were a strange deep blue ringed with silver around the irises. He carried himself as if he were their leader, and indeed, as he scanned the wall above the bodies, his voice had the clear authority of a seasoned military officer.
“Paint it here,” he said. “Leave them beneath it. Elite Nine, see to the boy.”
Scott found himself being helped to his feet by a brawny, dark-skinned man whose grip was surprisingly gentle. The man set him on his feet like he weighed nothing at all and looked him over, and though his eyes were as alien and cold as those of the girl, he made absolutely no move to threaten Scott. “He’s not hurt, Sire,” the man called back over his shoulder. “This time we beat them.”
The dark man, the one with the coat, turned his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Good. Give him cab fare and send him home.”
“Wait a minute,” Scott stammered. His tongue was thick and unresponsive in his mouth. “What the fuck is going on? Who are you people? I mean, thank you for saving me, don’t get me wrong, but . . .”
The dark man looked at him for a moment, and Scott felt another ripple of fear.
He approached Scott in almost an arc, the way Scott had seen horse whisperers approach skittish colts on TV, and came to stand close by . . . too close. Scott found himself staring, his breath catching, at the weird necklace the man wore, a heavy pendant set in silver. The stone caught some light that Scott couldn’t see and seemed to glow.
“What’s your name?” the man asked, voice just loud enough to carry. It was the kind of voice that traveled directly from Scott’s ears to his cock, and even through the fear he felt his jeans tighten.
“Scott Summers,” he answered. “Like on X-Men.”
“Well, Scott, here’s what you’re going to do,” the man said, leaning even closer so that all Scott could see were the endless pools of his eyes. His voice became hypnotic, rhythmic. “You’re going to go home and throw your coat in the garbage, and in the morning it will be as if this never happened.”
“But . . .”
“Repeat what I just said, Scott.”
“I’m . . . I’m going to go home and throw my coat in the garbage, and in the morning it will be as if this never happened.”
“Very good. I’m sorry you had to see this. It’s not your concern.”
“It’s not my concern.”
The man smiled. It was a blindingly beautiful smile. “Is there anything you need besides a cab, Scott Summers?”
Scott smiled back, his world full of blue eyes. “Your phone number?”
A chuckle, low and beguiling. “Tempting. But you’re better off going home alone tonight.”
He walked away. The large man who had helped Scott to his feet guided him out of the alley, over to where a Yellow Cab was already waiting. “Wow,” Scott muttered, twisting his head to watch the retreating form of the man in the long black coat.
His guide laughed. “I think the saying goes, ‘That’s too much car for you.’ ”
Scott shrugged, allowed himself to be bundled into the cab, and was already asleep before the car had pulled away from the curb.