Coldstorm (Heart of a Vampire, Book 7) (7 page)

He didn't need to point to the dark stains on the ground to tell her where the victim had been left.

A lingering pall of violence and darkness prickled over Anca's senses.

Matt drew closer, disrupting the remnants of magic.

Her mind spun as layers of the past fell over her. "Step back and stay out of my way," she said abruptly.

He gave her a hard look, but moved up to the sidewalk along the building without comment.

Old magics of passing Arcaine mixed with the power of the earth spirits—weaker in town as expected—before washing over her.

Her clothes were tugged by invisible hands, a few spirits rising up to show her what they thought she should see.

She felt the magic in this town as a gentle tingling caress on her skin. Beneath it was a scratching prickle, from the evil done here. She heard the whisper of distant music—singing birds, chirping insects, the wind rustling through leaves. She tasted the bite in the air. Smelled the recent death, it's stench growing stronger the more she searched.

The colors of magic rose around her. Yellows, golds and greens from the earth, pale, faded, here among the concentration of townspeople and industrialization.

A thin strand of glacial blue lay tangled throughout the bloodstain. It had the same look and feel as the magic she'd memorized earlier, from the men Matt pointed out as belonging to the local pack. "A pack shifter was the victim?"

"Yes."

Anca focused on the pale remnants surrounding the blood. Thick bands of the strong rosy-peach of mortals rose in layers upon layers. Probably the police who'd investigated the scene.

One band stood out, its mortal hues twined with a shockingly bright ribbon in a rainbow of colors. It reminded her of the sweetly-bitter taste of the Council's power. Had to be the local Keeper of the Peace. She needed to talk to him. Soon.

Of the magics that could only belong to the murdering Rogues, she sensed almost nothing.

The faintest of light gray flecked with pink from a vampire. Another almost invisible thread. She could only guess the white lines might have once been the silvery blue of a wolf shifter.

Unlike the victim's clear residual presence, the attacking shifter's magic was as faint as the vampire's.

Finally, she faced Matt.

"Find anything?" He hooded his gaze too fast for her to read him.

"No. It's all too faint." Though it shouldn't be. Especially not for her.

No one could hide their magic from a Judge. She could see through such things. This appeared more like something had washed the residual magic away—but only that of the Rogues. Highly unlikely. "I'll try the other places here in town, but I might not get much in the midst of so many townspeople. I do better in nature."

He nodded as if he understood, then led her from east to the west, crisscrossing up and down as they hit the reported crime scenes. She didn't find anything more than at the first site.

Frustration welled inside her. The sun quickened its path across the sky, soon reaching its zenith. Matt guided her down empty alleyways and mostly deserted streets.

After a while, he asked about her magic.

For some reason, Anca found she didn't mind answering. She tried, only to finish with, "It's hard to explain. It's Romani magic."

On a road lined with apartment complexes, he stopped at the entrance to another alley.

This victim had been one of the clan vampires. There were a few more hints of magic here, probably since the body had been left a few feet inside and along one brick wall. Not many had walked through contaminating it.

And whatever had blocked the traces of the Rogues at the other sites wasn't in full effect here.

Both the gray-crimson strands of vampire and the ice blue of wolf were clear, tangled around the bloodstains.

The Rogues had definitely combined strengths, Arcaine working with Arcaine. Nothing the council hadn't already known. But she got a slightly better look at their magics.

A feel she'd not forget.

Matt leaned against the opposite wall, watching her work while staying out of the scene. "So you have Gypsy magic?"

Her reply was cool. "If you choose to call it such."

"Don't like the term?"

"It depends on how you mean it. It's clear you don't like me." Watching him instead of studying the scene, she rested a hand on her hip.

Lips twisting into a defensive scowl, he met her gaze. "I don't dislike you."

"Don't you?"

"No." He stepped away from the wall. "I despise those you work for. I dislike being assigned to babysit you. But until you show you intend to harm someone here, I have no specific grudge against you personally."

"Babysit me?" She raised a brow. "And you imply you expect me to what? Suddenly start trying to kill everyone around here?"

He paled a shade as she struck a nerve.

His earlier comments came back, about watching a Judge destroy whole villages, killing all, including the innocent. Of the destruction of home. And the heart.

She wondered again at his words, and their meaning for him.

For she'd also lived through such a thing. The devastation of it remained in the depths of her soul.

Old, yet still raw emotion in his honey eyes held her captive.

A strange familiarity, a shocking glimpse of understanding passed between them.

Other thoughts coalesced in Anca's mind, painting a larger picture of who this man might be.

Trusting her instincts, she asked, "Where were you born?"

"Spain." He scowled, as if surprised he'd answered.

"I thought you had the look of a Spaniard." And it confirmed most of her suspicions. "Your King said you're about half his age. So born somewhere around the end of the fifteenth century, yes?"

"1472. So what? What does that have to do with anything?"

"What year were you turned?"

"1504." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

She slowly crossed to Matt and leaned against the wall, near where he'd recently stood. For a long moment, the silence stretched taut.

Anca broke it softly. "There is a story well known throughout the Council. A tale of Spain in the late fourteen hundreds."

He tensed, looking away. His jaw tightened.

Though it went against what she thought she should do, Anca's instincts propelled her to lay a hand on his arm. She felt the strangest need. To comfort him. "The story tells of a group of Judges who broke from the Council and rampaged across your homeland."

He snorted in disbelief. "Broke from the Council? You're trying to tell me they weren't sanctioned?"

"Yes." At his flinch, she softened her tone even more. "The story continues that two of the Judges disappeared without a trace. The third brought an army of vampiric conquistadors to the New World, in search of the riches of Cibola. And a vast supply of blood."

"Francisco Vázquez de Coronado," Matt spat harshly. "At least, that was the last name that damned
bastardo
was known by."

A few things became all too clear fir Anca.

Coronado had been well known for his bloodlust. A vampire Judge who'd broken from the Laws of the Arcaine, the tales of how he made a legion of vampires to serve him were full of nightmares.

With barely a sound, she asked, "Were you one of Coronado's vampires?"

"I was."

"He turned you?"

"He did."

"He was one of the Judges you watched destroy villages?"

"He was."

"And here, in this new world, you were one of his conquistadors, fighting alongside him." The statement held no blame.

For those who survived and woke as a vampire, the first battle was against the all consuming lust for blood.

Then the fight to control all their newly awakening powers, before the magic burned them up.

But the struggles to survive the turning weren't the worst part.

Because for the vampires who made it through found themselves under their Sire's control. The stronger the Master, the more control exerted. Until even a man once ruled by peace, would without hesitation take up arms against the innocent.

"Coronado died in 1554, in Mexico City," Anca finally said.

"Of consumption." His tone was bland.

They both knew well their kind didn't die of illness.

Matt would have been a vampire for just over fifty years. If he was truly as powerful as his King said, as she suspected, he could have taken out his Sire.

To kill a Judge, even a Rogue, without approval of the Council was punishable by death.

To kill one's maker was punishable by death.

Anca had a feeling he'd done both. And she suddenly wondered about those other two Judges, who'd just disappeared after ravaging parts of Spain and Europe.

A tight heat grew in her chest at the thought. She forced that line of thinking far away. Because if Matt had done such things, committed such crimes, wouldn't it be her duty to carry out the lawful punishment?

The idea struck her cold.

There were some recently who contested a few of the ancient Laws of the Arcaine. One happened to be the unwavering penalty for killing one's Sire. The protestors claimed that sometimes, there was a good reason for a vampire to do so.

If Anca recalled correctly, the petition came from this very town.

With a bloodthirsty Judge as one's sire and forced to do unspeakable things for his perverse pleasures, if anyone had a good reason to kill their maker, it would be Matt.

She shoved such thoughts away and concentrated on the now. "I'm sorry for what you must have suffered. I assure you, none of it was sanctioned by the Magic Council. They had Judges on the trail of those who'd become corrupt."

Matt's voice was hard. "If you say so. Are we done here?"

At her nod, he strode away, keeping enough distance between them to insure quiet.

It worked for her just as well.

She didn't like the puzzling things stirring inside of her. The man was distant. Aloof. And irregardless of what he'd said, he harbored a dislike for her. For being from the Magic Council.

Yet she'd felt the need to try and comfort him. Both with what she told him, but also, the inkling of an urge to draw nearer when the pain of his past slammed into her.

One that matched the hurts buried deep in her heart. She understood him. His fury. His emptiness. The desperate aloneness in the back of his gaze.

Caught up in her thoughts, Anca didn't realize where they were until the diner's parking lot loomed ahead, packed with a late lunch rush.

Matt led her to his SUV. "We'll have to drive to the rest."

They headed out of town, to a deserted farm with acres of scrubby fields around a charred husk of a building. Once a house, or a barn. From the appearance of the blackened frame, the fire had only happened a few months ago.

Matt parked in shadows stretching from a forest to one side of overgrown fields. "This place," he told her, "was used by Montgomery himself, then more recently, a demon."

Anca got out of the SUV. The moment her feet touched the earth, magic sprung up, closing around her and jerking her into the memories of the spirits living here.

Exerting control before it swept her away, Anca watched the afterimages of a fuzzy, dark haired woman—a vampire based on the aura remnants—sneak across the field. She entered a dilapidated farmhouse, the image superimposed over the burnt shell.

A taller man appeared, black hair, dusky skin, his aura one she'd seen earlier. He was clearer here, his magical imprint strong. So this was the Keeper of the Peace. Native American by the look. Now she understood the power of his aura.

Shaman.

The magic unfolding before her surged stronger. The scene changed. The thin layer of time continued to slip, showing her the more recent past.

Demons and other dark creatures lay in wait throughout the field. The house still stood, an oppressive structure black against the night.

Another female vampire came, panic and fury and hatred strong.

The earth spirits' magic dimmed. They could only show her fragments from this battle, when the farmhouse had burned.

Anca closed her eyes, breathing deep, ignoring the lingering stench of death and rot and decay.

Finally, the spirits released her. Instead of the soft, soothing feel she normally received, the magic remained agitated, restless.

And begging for help.

Anca glared at Matt. "Why has this place not been cleansed?"

He looked at her with confusion.

"Dark magic was spilled here, again and again. It's seeped into the earth, is slowly strangling the spirits of this place. Why has it not been cleansed?"

He shrugged. "Not my area of expertise. For that one, you should probably talk to the Keeper."

Yes.

The Keeper who was also a shaman.

He should know better.

T
he number of ghosts wandering aimlessly around the old farm churned Matt's gut. All those who'd lost their lives here for the rampaging of evil.

Anca continued to stare at the field and burnt farmhouse.

Though she couldn't possibly see the ghosts, he could have sworn he saw sympathy in her smoky blue eyes.

But he doubted it.

Only the frozen hearted worked for the Council. It's what the bastards required most from anyone trusted with their secrets. Cold, unquestioning loyalty.

He certainly didn't like finding out that the horrors of his past were stories told among the Council. And they claimed the Judges had acted on their own?

Doubtful.

Information that that would be well known through the Arcaine. Not even the Council could keep such things secret.

No.

It had to be an excuse, something told to new recruits. Perhaps as a boogeyman tale. The thought nearly made him laugh at the bitter irony.

Him. A boogeyman for the Council and its Judges?

But Anca believed the story. She certainly didn't condone the actions of the Judges, or Matt's Sire.

That was something, he guessed. Though he wasn't sure what, or even why he cared.

Anca brushed a few loose strands of long raven hair from her face, sighing as if some immense weight had settled over her. Her pink, bow-shaped lips moved silently. After a long moment, she headed back to the SUV. "All of this is too old. Besides, the magic overlaps. A great many evils were done here, over a long stretch of time."