henri dunn 01 - immortality cure (5 page)

BOOK: henri dunn 01 - immortality cure
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Cazimir let out a sigh.

“What do you want? Payment for using the incinerator?”

He smiled at that, with lots of fang. I pressed my tongue to my own dull incisors automatically. “I want you to promise me that if you have not destroyed whatever remains of this Cure yet, you will do so immediately. That is what I want in payment.”

I could have lied, but he probably would have known I was lying. Besides, if Cazimir or one of his vampire friends wanted to refuse to let me go and kill me now while they had the chance, letting him know the Cure was still in the world wouldn’t hurt my cause.

“Fine. I’ll destroy it. As soon as I track it down.” Except for one vial, which I’d use to bribe a Weeper into turning me back. The Blood for the Antiblood. Seemed like a good deal to me.

“Track it down?”

“I told you, I didn’t kill him. And whoever did stole some of the Cure. So if you happen to know of any vampires sulking around the city lately looking for the serum, now would be a super helpful time to tell me.”

Cazimir looked like he’d rather swallow rocks than consider the possibility another vampire might want the Cure, but he was much older than I was, and he’d ruled many self-made vampire courts. He knew how often new vampires regretted their choice, and how many more met the sun or jumped onto a pyre to end it. “You know I don’t consort with such unsavory people.”

I shrugged and stood. “All right, then. If you hear about another vampire turning human, call me. And maybe don’t kill them until I get a chance to ask them some questions, okay? I have a murder to solve.”

I walked to the door with my fists balled, trying very hard—and failing—to steady my frantic heartbeat. Every part of my human brain wanted to get the hell away from the monster in the room, and no amount of me telling it that showing fear to a vampire was a very bad idea seemed to help.

But he didn’t fly across the room with his vampire speed to stop me or have his mortal guards block the front door. He let me go. His guards pulled my car around for me like some kind of valet service (apparently they had parked it in their lot to spare me a parking ticket; go figure). I’d have to check the thing for bugs or tracking devices when I got home, but otherwise, I was out. I’d survived Cazimir’s Factory of Horrors.

Now I just had to find a killer, retrieve the stolen vials of the Cure, and find a vampire willing to trade me the Blood for being restored to mortality. How hard could it be?

I should learn not to ask.

CHAPTER 4

I
woke up around two in the afternoon, relieved that I didn’t have to go to work tonight but dreading trying to solve a murder. I thought about saying fuck it and letting it go. After all, it wasn’t my problem. I hadn’t killed Ray, and if Neha wanted someone on her side, she should have thought of that before she stuck a needle full of poison into my arm.

But.

There’s always a goddamn “but.”

Depending on who’d murdered Ray and why, Neha might be in danger. She didn’t really deserve my help, but I deserved hers, and there was no way she could synthesize an antidote if she was dead. Assuming she was willing to do so, of course. I knew jack shit about the kind of science involved in making potions, drugs, and serums, so it wasn’t like I could check her work. For all I knew, she was trying to create a better, stronger Cure.

And the killer had taken what she had left of the Cure. Meaning not only did I need to get it back to have any real hope of an antidote, but if I wanted to try and trade some sad sack vampire the Cure in exchange for vampirism, I’d actually need a vial of the Cure to trade.

I had to track down the killer if I wanted either of those options available to me. And given that Caz had made it pretty clear I didn’t have a ton of friends left among local vampires, and my sire had been MIA since I got a regular heartbeat, I couldn’t afford to close any doors.

I sighed, got up, and hit the shower.

Three hours later, I sat at a small wrought-iron table outside of a coffee stand on Broadway, on Capitol Hill, keeping myself under the shade of an umbrella. Too much sun on my skin made me feel itchy, like the spell might break and the sun would blister and burn me at any moment. The warmth of it was simultaneously incredible and terrifying, and I could only take it small doses. Besides, my skin could still burn, like any human’s. More slowly, true, but sunburns weren’t one of the more pleasant aspects of mortality, and I preferred to avoid them. I’d even bought bottles of sunscreen, although I kept forgetting to put it on.

I sipped my latte and ate a bagel I’d grabbed at a store down the street on my way over, along with a bag of groceries that had taken me a ridiculous amount of time to pick out. At least at restaurants, meals were ready-made and I could just point to something on a menu. Ninety years as a blood-drinking fiend doesn’t teach you how to grocery shop. I’d scoped out the carts of fellow shoppers, but most of them had given me weird looks when they saw me examining the contents of their carts.

Food was hard. Blood was easy. Sure, it could be a pain in the ass to get, but at least I knew what I was looking for. I could keep bottles of the stuff on hand, too, for emergencies. Older blood isn’t as tasty, but it’s very drinkable. Human appetites are too varied. Too many options. Too much prep work and planning.

Once I had enough coffee in my system for the synapses in my brain to fire, I tried to come up with a plan of action. I’d never been a detective, but spending nearly a century as a murderous monster had taught me a thing or two about why people killed each other.

Ray hadn’t had much in the way of a personal life as far as Neha knew. And according to the cop shows I saw on television, drugs were a pretty good motive for murder. Ray made and sold party drugs. Logically, it was probably why he’d been killed. I sent a few messages to Neha, asking for more details about this Alana person who distributed their drugs. She sent me back a description and a place to find her: a nightclub.

“Of course it’s a nightclub,” I said to myself, standing and gathering my trash from the table. It was only late afternoon. The club would probably open at eight or nine, but I doubt it’d be worth going before dark.

I wandered down Broadway for a bit and then headed home to put my groceries away and kill time before getting dressed in club-appropriate attire.

I was not a modern dance club kind of person. Nothing against them, but it’s never been my thing. Give me a swinging jazz club and I could have a good time. Modern nightclubs are several decibels louder and far more crowded. Between the thumping bass, the blaring strobe lights, and the throngs of sweating bodies, it’s a terrible place to hang out if you happen to be a vampire with heightened senses. And even without those, I wasn’t looking forward to the experience.

Sadly, the nightclub, Movement, located ironically only blocks away from the Factory, was where Neha and Ray’s drug dealer spent most of her time.

I put on a black dress with cap sleeves and a skirt made of fringe that stopped at the knee. Sort of a retro-inspired design that reminded me of the kind of dresses I’d worn when I was human the first time around, back when we called bootleg gin “coffin varnish.”

I ran a brush through my dirty-blond hair and left it down, which I couldn’t do on work nights. Restaurant dress code meant hair had to be up. It was still strange to me to having hair fall past my shoulders. I was used to having shorter hair. I’d had the same hair curling at the base of my chin for over ninety years, and suddenly it was growing on me again. Another hazard of mortality.

I did “club makeup” (eyeliner, eye shadow, and a little glitter) and then called a car with an app on my phone.

M
OVEMENT WAS
along a strip of dance clubs in Pioneer Square. Even though it was a Tuesday, it was summer, and there were lines of people snaking out around the building behind velvet ropes. I got in line between some women in short pink dresses and very high heels and checked my phone. I didn’t see anyone who looked like Alana Chen, the drug dealer, but then, I doubted she waited in line like a plebeian.

The line was slow, crawling toward the door at a snail’s pace. I’d figured this would be a quick in-and-out, but it was turning into a total waste of my night off. When I got to the front, the bouncer let the women ahead of me in and then closed the rope in front of me. He gestured for my ID, so I handed it over and he scrutinized it carefully. I swallowed, and smiled at him when he looked up to compare me to the photo. The ID was a fake, of course, given that I’d been born in 1903, but it was a good fake. I tried to keep my heart rate steady and not look flustered. I’d been turned at the age of twenty-three, luckily, and had no problems passing for legal drinking age. I’d met vampires turned younger—some much younger—who spent their entire immortal lives fighting against their perceived ages.

It suddenly hit me that I was almost twenty-four. For the first time in nearly a century, I might have a birthday mean something. That thought was both hilarious and terrifying, and I struggled to keep my composure.

Finally, the bouncer handed back my ID and ushered me forward.

A woman inside the antechamber behind him said, “Twenty.” I handed over the money and she stamped my wrist, then let me inside.

I breathed out a sigh of relief. It lasted three seconds, because then I was pushed into the swirling masses and jostled between writing bodies. I moved around the edge of the club, tripping over ottomans where people stacked purses and coats, and took the long route to the bar, hoping to spot Alana along the way.

No luck, so I ordered a glass of merlot.

“Might want to stick to cocktails,” the woman waiting at the bar next to me shouted over the music. “Wine here is shit.”

The bartender smirked at this, clearly agreeing.

“Fine,” I said. “Just give me something with gin.”

I ended up with gin and tonic on the rocks and twist of lime. It was fifteen dollars. Yet another reason to avoid these places: outrageous drink prices on top of the absurd door fee. The woman beside me got her drink—it was pink and in a martini glass—and beckoned me to follow her. Not having any idea where to go, and not seeing Alana in the crowd, I did.

The woman had a table of half a dozen friends. Two of them left to dance as soon as I arrived, and the woman pulled a chair from the neighboring table over for me. In that corner, the music was less oppressively loud. It was still an effort to hear over it, but at least conversation could be had.

“I’m Erin,” she said, smiling.

I smiled back. Erin was pretty. A little older than my mortal years, with bright eyes, olive skin, and curly black hair held up by a jeweled headband. Her blue dress hugged her curves. She was exactly the type of woman I could fall for. And I had spent a lot of time learning not to get sucked into that trap. Loving a mortal as a vampire was like a bird being in love with a fish. You cannot be with someone from a different world without changing them, damaging them, and eventually killing them. One way or the other, you would watch them die. Better not to fall in the first place.

But as a mortal, my heart raced and my pulse quickened as she tapped my hand. I had to remind myself I was here on business, not to meet people. “And you are?” she asked sweetly.

“Henri,” I said. She introduced me to her friends, whose names I quickly forgot. They asked why I was there, and I claimed to have been stood up for a date. “Decided to just have fun alone.”

They cheered to that, raising their glasses, and I took a sip of my own drink. The gin was biting and tasted of pine. A rush of memories flooded back at the flavor. It wasn’t exactly like the illegal moonshine I’d drunk back in my first mortal life, but it was close enough to bring up images of those smoky jazz clubs and a set of very dangerous blue eyes.

After some small talk and half a drink, I asked, “Do you guys come here a lot?”

Erin shrugged. “Maybe once a week. The drinks are strong and the DJ mixes it up a lot.”

The drinks were, indeed, strong. The alcohol burned through my veins and made me feel light-headed. I leaned forward, closer to the gathered group, and asked, “Do you guys ever
party
?”

My meaning was immediately clear. One of the guys, Brian or Blake or Brad, grinned. “A party girl, huh? You really are trying to have a good time.” The girl at his side tugged on his sleeve and gave him a warning look. Brian-Blake-Brad sighed. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Me?” I laughed genuinely, amused by the thought. “No.”

“You have to say it,” the girl next to him said. Erin rolled her eyes. The girl stared me down.

“I am not a cop,” I said. “I just want to have a good time.” The uptight girl relaxed and leaned back in the booth. “Have you guys tried Lemondrop?”

Erin made a noise beside me and the grinning guy’s eyes went wide. “No. And neither should you. That shit will fuck you up worse than bath salts. It’s bad news.”

Erin nodded. “Seriously. There are plenty of
other
ways to have a good time.” She bumped my shoulder with hers. My skin felt hot where she’d touched it. I swallowed, steadying myself. I resisted the urge to finish my drink and buy a round for the table, and see where something with Erin might go. After all, being human had its perks. But I didn’t want to stay human. I needed to find Ray’s killer and get my hands on the stolen vials of Cure, before they could fall into the wrong hands.

BOOK: henri dunn 01 - immortality cure
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