Blood Legacy Page 5

  Suddenly, the scalding hot water didn’t feel quite hot enough. A chill raced up my spine.

  “Then, a month ago—the brutal assassination of Lucio Bressov,” Finch said.

  “Transactions,” I echoed, from his earlier comment. “What kind of ‘transactions’ do you think these records are about?”

  Finch cleared his throat. “Well, it’s all gross speculation at this point, of course.”

  “Of course.” I scrubbed the rag between my thighs. With a flash of heat, I remembered the feeling of Victor Bressov’s fingers down there, goading me to climax. And then that brief, tantalizing touch of his cock, ready to plunge into me—

  Thirteen families, Raven. Get your mind out of the gutter and back on the task at hand.

  “But you said yourself that these are Violetta Stregazzi’s files, and they’re residing on Bressov Industries servers.” Finch said. “What if she and Bressov are behind the Phantom Coup?”

  I clenched my thighs shut against the rag. “Well, we’ve always suspected that one or both of them want a bigger role in controlling the Republic.” But my heart was hammering away in my chest. Oh, god. Was I playing bedroom games with a vicious, politically motivated murderer?

  Well, of course he’s a murderer, a taunting voice in my head answered me. He’s a Vampyr, isn’t he? What good are they for, besides killing?

  Well, the fresh memories of pain from that morning answered the question of what else they were good for, but I knew what my conscience meant.

  I glanced through the frosted glass at the dark blob of Finch. Was he snooping around my compartment? I hurried up my washing, determined to keep him out of my stuff. Especially that Uptown package.

  “If Bressov were involved, though, wouldn’t he have jumped at the opportunity to take Lucio’s seat at the Coven of Families? As of this morning, he still hasn’t made up his mind.” There—done washing. I shut off the water, cracked open the stall door, grabbed my towel from its hook on the wall, and threaded my towel through the crack.

  “No? That’s not what the Stream says.”

  My chest tightened. I hastily wrapped the towel around me and staggered back into the room, where Finch’s finger hovered over a Stream video selection on my wall panel. He called it up—a perky olive-skinned Vampyr from one of the minor Families was standing in front of a news desk. She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

  “Great news, dear citizens of the Sanguine Republic! The Coven of Families should be back in session very soon. Lord Victor Bressov, the Bressov family’s nomination to fill the seat vacated by the—” the broadcaster’s vacant eyes crossed as she squinted at her monitor off-screen—“tragic and untimely demise of Lucio Bressov—intends to announce whether he will accept the nomination at tonight’s gala in New Sanguinus!” She shifted her weight, thrusting the opposite hip out to the side and setting off a glissando of sparkles from the glitter painted on her face.

  “If he accepts, then the Coven will reconvene very soon, and it’ll be back to business as usual!” She forced an awkward giggle. “But if he declines, it could be a hotly contested race, as the seat would then open up to all Vampyr families, including those who don’t currently have a seat in the Coven. Either way, it’ll make for an interesting night, and you can watch it all unfold live on the Stream.”

  Finch powered off the wall panel. I looked down, realizing I was dripping all over my compartment’s floor, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Victor was a powerful—and power-driven—man, of that I had no doubt. The proof was in my bruises. But somehow, he didn’t strike me as someone determined to kill—his own “brother,” no less—to gain a seat on the Coven. Then again, if Finch was right about the meaning of those vague transaction records as being part of a larger conspiracy, involving Violetta Stregazzi and possible others, besides . . .

  “Hey, girlie, are you okay in there?” Finch stepped toward me and made a show like he was rapping his knuckles against my forehead. “You look lost in thought.”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “It was a long, grueling day.”

  Finch tilted his head to one side; though his dreadlocks were wrangled back in a ponytail, they shifted with the movement as if they had a life of their own. “This can’t be easy for you, being right there in the lion’s den. Look, baby, if you don’t think you can handle this . . .”

  If I didn’t think I could handle this, what? Ten hours ago, I would’ve been dying for a way out of the situation, but even then I would’ve known Finch’s offer for empty lip service. Here it came now—he brushed my cheek with the side of his hand. I shivered, but was relieved to find it was only from the cold as water evaporated off my skin. Well, maybe not completely. But his touch certainly didn’t rile the same desperate passion in me that it once did.

  “I can do this. He’s not as scary as he seems, at first.”

  Finch arched one eyebrow and laughed, though it sounded bitter to my ears. “You sure about that? I mean, the stories I’ve heard . . .”

  “Like what?” I took a step back from him, pressing up against the shower stall.

  “The usual rumor mill junk—I’m sure you’ve heard it too. Sick games he plays with his Donors, and that they burn out even faster than usual. All the Bressovs are that way—the backhanded dealings, the abuse and scumbaggery. You know how it is with the old Families. Money, power, and centuries upon centuries of life at the top of the food chain keeps them full of themselves.”

  “Lucio wasn’t so bad,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, and look what it got him.” Finch ran his finger around the curve of my shoulder and along my reedy arm. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  He leaned forward. His breath was hot, and spicy with the smell of a real-meat meal. For the leader of a ragtag band of freedom fighters, he sure ate well. His eyes locked onto mine; his pressed his mouth forward.

  But all I could think of was Victor Bressov and the alluring, shapely shelf of his lips. The swift flick of his fingertips . . . I tightened one hand into a fist and turned my head the other way. “No.”

  “No?” he repeated, eyebrows raised. Had I ever denied him before? Usually I was the one chasing after him, pouting when he blew me off to head to some clandestine meeting or to run some minor operation.

  “Just . . . not tonight. Please.” I ducked out from under his arm and turned away from him. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, is all.”

  Lordy, did that barely begin to cover it.

  “Okay, Raven, I’m sorry.” Finch grabbed at my towel. “Listen, how about you get some rest—”

  The towel pulled away from my backside in his hand. He didn’t make a sound, but he didn’t have to. I could feel his gaze running over my bruised and battered ass like the blade of a knife. I tugged the towel back into place, but it was too late. He knew. He had to have known.

  “ . . . Yeah. Just get some rest, kid.” He smiled sadly. “Only those who die can truly live,” he added, echoing the Resistance’s slogan.

  His footsteps rang through the tiny compartment, and the door swooshed open and shut behind him.

  I slumped against the door to my wardrobe, letting the cold from the plastic seep into my cheek. This was going to get real complicated, real fast.

  But I didn’t have time to worry about what Finch thought of me. My presence was required at the social event of the season, which, if the Stream video was to be believed, might just be the most important event to befall our Republic since Lucio Bressov’s assassination. I squeezed and shimmied and stuffed and tucked and fluffed my way into the absurdly expensive dress Victor had sent me, and tried (unsuccessfully) to stop myself from imagining how that dress would feel if Victor were to also peel it off of me.

  Chapter Four

  I felt completely ridiculous riding the mag lift up to street level in my couture gown and metallic corset. Not many humans traipse around this late at night—not any you want to encounter—so at least there was room on the lift for me to breathe, but between the meta
l binding my waist and the tight fist of anxiety that had hold of me, it was little comfort. A grim-mouthed old Laborer eyed me up and down, probably guessing that I was headed Uptown, and sighed to himself. Traitor, indeed.

  Once I reached the street level, I transferred to a horizontal mag train that actually had seats and smelled like it had been cleaned sometime in the past century. There were a lot more Vampyrs on the train, hopping on and off as it slithered between the looming towers of New Sanguinus, but I took comfort in knowing that the other humans on the train were traitors like me—ones who had simpered and ass-kissed their way into one of the Families’ good graces, selling out our race so they could enjoy an apartment proper and a view of actual sky. Not that we ever glimpsed the sun in New Sanguinus—the Vampyrs in charge of the cumulogenerators saw to that.

  Finally, the train deposited me at the raised platform near Bressov Towers. I stared up at it—and up. The black glass, carved with elaborate art deco shapes inlaid with gold, soared into the twinkling stars. Leave it to the Bressovs to request the omnipresent clouds cleared out for their party after sun had set. I clattered down from the platform and approached the grand entrance, sucked in my breath, and marched toward the red carpet.

  Sleek private limos swooped down from the air, their prows shark-like, and deposited furred and flocked Vampyrs onto the carpet before me. It seemed like a nearly endless stream of them—skin and hair and eyes of every possible shade, yet nearly all dressed in black or jewel tones. Though my dress was dark, it was probably the brightest color here. I waited for an opening between the couples and clusters and approached the bouncer, alone, shoulders pulled back.

  “Hand,” he said.

  I held out my left hand. He ran the scanner over the back of my hand, and it chirped cheerfully and turned green.

  “The lift to the grand ballroom is just inside, on the right.” He smiled without humor. “Just follow the crowd.”

  The marble-lined grand foyer was positively cavernous. Rounded settees dotted the landscape, interspersed with spiky, painful-looking metallic sculptures and vases spewing blood-red roses, white lilies, and other flowers that must have been shipped in from the farmlands at unfathomable cost. Vampyrs lounged on the settees, surrounded by their entourages of other Vampyrs and Donors alike. I entered the lift—it was bigger than my compartment in Undertown—with only a single Vampyr and his Donor, whom he kept chained on a delicate gold leash. Her hollowed-out eyes darted toward me; even painted with gold leaf, there was a darkness shrouding her gaunt face that made my stomach churn. I leaned against the lift wall and closed my eyes.

  Deep breaths, Raven. Pretend you’re on another mission. Play it cool.

  The lift doors opened onto a scene of complete and utter chaos.

  The grand ballroom must have been at least five stories tall, with a ceiling that came to a high point, echoing the pointed top of Bressov Towers. The upper three stories, I wagered, were occupied by shifting, chaotic holographic lights that fluttered through a sequence of geometric patterns and dark images, spraying their glow onto the dancers far below. While the grand hall was dimly lit, I imagined it was still plenty bright enough for Vampyrs, with their keen senses, to see everything that was transpiring. I hoped my eyes would adjust quickly, as well—I didn’t relish the thought of stumbling around blind in a cave full of predators.

  A million smells washed over me as I stumbled onto the slick marble floors: perfumes and cologne, expensive and ancient vintages of wine, and a heady bouquet of sweat and musk. For creatures so concerned with the smell of our blood, these Vampyrs sure know how to stink up a room themselves. But then an Administrative strode past me, decked in tux and tails, discreetly spritzing a crystal-cut bottle in his path that seemed to instantly neutralize the bodily odors, leaving behind only the pleasant, enticing scent of a faraway buffet.

  Couples and trios whirled around the main dance floor to a bizarre musical blend of operatic symphony and electronic trills. The only music we get down in Undertown is whatever pop dreck they pipe down the Stream; while this music’s subtleties were lost to my untrained ear, I could tell it bore a good deal more intricacy and subtleness than the bland Vampyr crooner of the month they were always showcasing on the Stream vids.

  But I had no intention of dancing, even though the beautiful flounce of my gown’s skirt was designed for it. Not that I had the first clue what I intended here. Would it satisfy Victor enough to catch sight of me, and then I could go? Or did he mean to finish what we’d started in his office?

  Something fluttered in my chest at the thought of it, and warmth swelled deep down. Foolish mortal and her foolish hormones.

  “My, my, don’t you smell just divine,” someone purred from behind me. I whirled to find myself face to face with a pale-skinned Vampyr with curly white-blonde hair dangling down the length of his brocade waistcoat. “Such clean blood, too. I don’t suppose you’re a wandering tray of hors d’oeuvres, are you?”

  “I don’t see a leash on her,” said a tall, trim Vampyr with deep brown skin. In contrast to his Edwardian attire, she looked like she was fresh off an interstellar shuttle, her dress all sharp angles and triangular shoulder points. “Honey, are you looking to be a Donor? Because you’ve got my patronage.”

  The first man tangled his hand in one of my curls where it spilled over my shoulder. “I know they like to do things by the book here at the Bressovs’, but we can get the registration filed in a hurry. I’d be delighted to sponsor you.”

  “You’ll share, right?” the woman asked with a pout.

  No, wait—that wasn’t a pout. That was her lips distending as her fangs started to emerge.

  Oh, god. Adrenaline spiked through my veins. I stumbled back, prying out of the man’s grasp. “I’m not a Donor. And—and I’m not going to become one. Please—”

  The man crossed his arms, expression darkening. “Well, if you don’t want to donate, maybe you shouldn’t have such delicious, clean-smelling blood.”

  Right—because it was totally my fault these spoiled Vampyrs treated humans like their personal property. I all but ran away from the pair and clung to the wall. But maybe he had a point—maybe if I got a drink (or five) in me, it’d ward off some of the more aggressive Vamps with their personal space issues.

  And I had plenty of reasons to grab a drink right about now.

  I found the bar running along one creamy marble wall—it was made of luscious ebony wood with gleaming brass fixtures. The bartenders looked like human administratives, the sort of sycophants I’d been frowning upon on the mag train ride over here—but who was I to judge? All these humans had to do was kiss the right Vampyr ass to get their cushy life topside. I’d let one paddle me silly, and come back for more. “A vodka tonic,” I said, sliding into one of the plush leather bar chairs, pain shooting off the welts on my butt as I did so. “Better make it extra dry.”

  The bartender looked me over with pursed lips. “You’re sure you’re not a Donor?” he asked.

  “Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes, but held out my left hand. “Scan me if you have to.”

  He did, taking way longer than was strictly necessary to read the results on the scanner’s screen. Once he had, though, his whole demeanor changed, and he actually smiled at me. “One vodka tonic, coming right up.”

  I watched the oily sheen of the alcohol as he stirred it in the glass. “Why the change in attitude?” I asked. “Is it nice not to have to stare into the dead Donor eyes for once?”

  He flinched and set the drink in front of me. “I’d never say anything of the sort. No, ma’am, once I saw whose guest you’re registered as, I figured you could use some kindness from somebody.”

  His eyes trailed away from mine. I followed his gaze up, up, squinting into the darkened balcony at the far end of grand hall, where a few shadowed figures clustered against a thick stone balustrade. My eyes must have been adjusting to the dark, because even at a distance, I knew, without a doubt, who the two figures front and cent
er of the balcony were.

  The swirling light show glinted off his face, and I could almost swear he looked right at me then.

  “I, uh . . . I appreciate it,” I mumbled, and took a sizable gulp of my drink.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself. I found myself gauging the shrinking space between the silhouettes of Victor and Violetta. I had no illusions as to the nature of their relationship, volatile though it was. What really concerned me was whether Victor meant to turn me into an unwitting pawn in his power games with Violetta, or if I was something else to him entirely.

  Did he bend Violetta over a desk and ravage her from behind, like he’d started to do to me? My cheeks flushed at the thought of it. I’d scarcely gotten a look at his form, but based on my fingers’ fumbling, I’m pretty sure what I would find. That soft skin, pale but not pasty, stretched taut over the ridges of his muscles. They’d swoop into a luscious, knife-edged V—I’d felt that perfect swoop this morning as my fingers tried to blaze down his treasure trail before he bound me . . .

  Someone bumped into me from behind, and I became acutely aware of the fact that I was biting my lip so fiercely that I’d drawn blood. This gala was not the time nor place to lose focus—the Vampyrs I’d encountered earlier were proof enough of that. I swallowed more of my drink, letting it burn down my throat, but the delicious pain of it sent my thoughts spinning, imagining further pains I could endure at Victor Bressov’s hands . . .

  Perhaps the crack of a whip along my back, my wrists straining at an iron X, just like in that post-Donation hallucination . . .

  His tongue exploring my breasts, sucking and tweaking them with his teeth . . .

  I shook my head. Keep your wits about you, Raven. You’re going to need them now more than ever.

  “What are you doing, sitting over here all alone?” A shadow crossed over my shoulder as someone slid into the bar chair next to mine. I whirled around to face Nastasya Faudre, the member of Victor’s entourage who’d actually bothered to acknowledge me earlier this morning. Her bouncy dark blonde hair was flawless as ever, sweeping over one shoulder, its curled ends barely touching the top of her strapless green velvet gown. Her brown eyes looked positively gooey in the dim light.