Blood and Kisses(13)

He swore and slammed the side of his fist against the sturdy wooden window frame. There was no way he could risk going after them and leaving Thalia alone.

He felt her come up behind him. “They’re gone.”

She braced her hand on the frame and lifted her leg to climb through. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s go after them.”

Gideon gripped her wrist. She hesitated, turning her blue eyes toward him questioningly.

“You couldn’t keep up,” he said gently. “And I’m not leaving you behind. It could be a trap.”

Thalia sighed and lowered her leg.

While she finished packing, Gideon kept watch at the window, anger still surging through him. How could he have been so lax? He had failed to detect their presence until it was almost too late.

“I’m ready.” Thalia held up her small suitcase in the bathroom doorway. “What should we do about the window?”

“I can still feel your wards. They should keep out any average housebreaker. Do you have duct tape and plastic garbage bags?”

She nodded and went to get the items.

After sealing the window, they went out to the car. Gideon opened the passenger side door and, leaving it ajar, went around and slipped into the driver’s seat. Spirit bounded onto the passenger seat and then into the backseat. Thalia placed her small, soft-sided suitcase on the floor mat in the back, slid into the seat and fastened her seatbelt.

Thalia, Spirit said. Did you look closely at this picture?

Gideon looked over the seat to see what Spirit was talking about. The familiar was indicating the newspaper Gideon had thrown on the backseat earlier in the evening.

Thalia released her seatbelt and leaned between the seats. She had changed, and her orange T-shirt rode up exposing the smooth, creamy skin of her hip. Gideon looked away.

“Gideon. I knew this woman.” She handed the newspaper to him, folded so he could see the picture of a dark-haired woman about Thalia’s age, grinning at the camera. How many innocent faces had he seen over the millennia? They came and went like shooting stars. Their lives were so short it should be easy to brush away the injustice of their violent passings. Instead they burned into his memory.

Ironic when he barely remembered the details of the faces of those he had slaughtered those many eons ago.

Thalia gestured to the newspaper. “I went to school with her. She was in all my classes. I didn’t realize it before because her last name changed from Connor to Reese.”

“Did you get your mother’s book?”

Thalia nodded. “It’s in the suitcase.” Her beautiful eyes grew solemn in her pointed face.

“After what just happened, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you knew both victims. Or that they were killed near the Tomb.”



He scanned the thoughts of the woman heading toward the door. She was tall and slender with long shiny brown hair, but her looks weren’t important. Did she know the Champion? It was difficult to find humans who frequented the Butcher’s bar and knew the Champion. Unless they were witches.

He grimaced as he remembered how close he’d come to taking a witch the other night. He’d only discovered his mistake at the very last minute. Witches. He curled his lip back in distaste. What a waste of human prey. He’d almost killed her anyway just for spite, but had decided it would take too much time.

He rose from his stool at one of the high tables. The Champion and the Butcher were the talk of the bar. Their association vied with the murders as the topic of the day.

Vampires didn’t trust anyone they couldn’t read or control, they hardly trusted each other, and witches considered vampires little more than worthless parasites.

His plan was working. His reward was near. After so many long centuries of waiting, he would have both his revenge and incredible power. He smiled as he followed his unsuspecting prey out the door.



In the dream, a soft breeze ruffled Thalia’s long hair as she walked, head up and alert, to her car down the dark quiet street. She wasn’t herself in the dream; she was taller, younger, freer. Grace, that was her name, and she stood on home turf, not far from The B.B. and C. Her flip-flops shushing against the pavement the only sound as the wind died down. A strange smell raised the hair on the back of her neck.

Seeing her car across the street, she tucked her hand in her pocket, groping for her keys. The sound of a distant bark cut like a rifle shot in the distance and she flinched, almost dropping them.

Damn. What was that stink? The odor held a pungent tang, like something decaying. She glanced around. With the recent murders, she couldn’t be too careful. She supposed she should have stayed home tonight. She had an early class in the morning, but she and her friends had done well on that evening’s belt test, and they’d wanted to celebrate.

She was a regular at the Bell, Book, and Candle, but her friends, all male, had never been. The memory of their reaction to the Goth club eased her nerves, and she grinned. At first, they’d made fun of the bar and its clientele, but as they’d noticed how incredibly attractive most of the women were, their reservations had disappeared, and they’d begun to enjoy themselves. When she’d left them, they’d each been busy pairing off.

The breeze strengthened, tossing a tendril of hair into her eyes, and a fresh wave of that terrible odor crashed over her. It was thick and foul, a mixture at once sickeningly sweet and repulsively sour.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The smell seemed to trigger some primordial response in her body, like an animal scenting a poacher. Adrenaline surged through her veins. Her heart began to speed.

She sucked in a deep breath, suddenly choking on the vile smell. Tears of fright filled her eyes. What had she been thinking of to leave the bar alone? She looked over her shoulder. There was nothing there. She struggled to stay calm, but the smell overwhelmed her. It was more than a collection of scent molecules driven by a careless wind. A shiver rippled through her. Her body recognized the smell for what it was, the incarnation of evil. Death come calling.

Grace began to run.

“Thalia!” Gideon’s beautiful voice wrenched her from the dream. She caught her breath. Her eyes opened to find that glorious face leaning over her. His dark eyes liquid with worry. His full lips no more than inches from hers. Her heartbeat, which had started to slow when he’d banished the dream, leaped back into frantic mode.

“Gideon.” She sat up, forcing him to move back, then ran her hands through her ruffled hair, still recovering from the all-consuming terror of the last few minutes.

“You were yelling in your sleep.” His face was grave and tender, as if he had awakened a child from a nightmare. The thought further dampened her spirits. From his point of view, it must be true. She, after all, was no more than an infant in his terms, and she had been having a bad dream.

Fragments of the dream flowed back, a stream of twisted images, and Thalia sighed.

Another prophetic dream. One she had a feeling she was already too late to prevent.

She placed a hand on his corded forearm, her voice husky with emotion and sleep. “I think there’s been another murder.”





Chapter 8



“Gideon!” The manager of the Tomb, Tom Delgado, greeted him nervously as they entered. The tavern was curiously empty for a Friday night, but sunset had just fallen. A couple slow-danced alone on the dance floor, several men sat at the bars, sipping imported beer, a couple of witches chatted at one of the high tables.

The Tomb was, in essence, just a large, low-ceilinged chamber with two long bars running the length of the east and west walls. The northern wall sported a low stage and a dance floor. Tall, round tables with high-backed barstools filled the area between the bars and the dance floor. Mirrors lined the walls behind the bars.

The witches occupied the west side of the tavern, the side that held their separate entrance, the vampires the east. No physical barrier defined the two spaces, but each community was careful to stay in their area. Only the humans, mostly unaware of the true nature of the supernatural patrons of the bar, crossed easily back and forth.

Tom had taken over for his father, Antonio, when he’d retired. Cam was his mother. The Delgados had served Gideon since before he’d come to America and were his partners in the tavern. Human, in his early thirties, with spiky black hair and sun-bronzed skin, Tom was one of the few people Gideon trusted.

The man nodded in Thalia’s direction, but swiftly turned his attention back to Gideon.

“The police have been here. Everyone knows you own the bar.”

Gideon sent a wave of calm over his employee. He made it a practice not to manipulate the Delgados mentally, but Tom was unusually agitated. “Don’t worry, Tom. It’s still early. The business will recover. Meanwhile,” He handed Tom a wad of hundreds. “Tell your mother to take a vacation until this blows over.”

Mindful of the few vampires present, Tom lowered his voice. “I’m not worried about the bar! It’s you I’m worried about. Even if you’re not a suspect, all this attention...”