Personal Demon (4 page)

Instinct. There were no coincidences in the psychic world.

There were rumors. Rumors and secrets, and unexplained silences.

And he’d run into something strange his very first night in town. The young woman was the strangest part of the entire incident. Stinking little mortal who dared to think of herself as a vampire hunter. Not that there had been any stink about her—there was no decay of murder tainting her mind. But—

Had she been wearing a sulphur-based perfume?

Christopher swung his long legs over the side of the bed and scratched his flat belly as he stood. In the bathroom, he stepped under the hottest setting of gushing water the shower could manage. As steam rose around him, Christopher Bell threw back his head and laughed.

If you couldn’t laugh at yourself, what was the use of living forever?

What a farce last night had been!

They’d been like a line of ducklings following one after another in the rain. There’d been the woman, the vampire following her, the vampire hunter, the one human hunting the hunter, and Christopher following them all until he cut off the game and approached his personal vampire hunter. He’d found out what she was doing following the strigoi following the woman, but why had the mortal been following her?

Or had her stalker been a mortal? Perhaps the hint of sulphur in the wet air had been from that other, unknown, person. Christopher should have approached the stalker instead of playing the Victorian gentleman.

Now he was going to have to find them again, the hunter and the one hunting her.

Why?

Because there was a vampire involved somehow. That was as good an excuse as any for catching a whiff of sulphur perfume again.

T
he face in the mirror wasn’t his own, not yet. He didn’t mind that particularly, as he hadn’t been as good-looking in his proper life as he was now. There was vulnerability in the soft features, the big eyes. He was a hard man in a stranger’s body. He must make changes to make the outside form his own.

He wanted to grow a beard. He ought to have a beard. He’d had a fine, bushy, thick beard when he was himself. He’d grow one soon, after the full change, when his Master didn’t require him to hide anymore. But for now, he spread the warm shaving cream over his cheeks and throat and picked up the razor.

He used a straight razor, of course. He’d acquired some old, comforting items that he could use in the privacy of his home. The razor, pretty glass oil lamps, an antique surgeon’s kit, a Victorian letter opener—lovely, useful old things he kept in his room. What the others kept to remind them of their pasts he didn’t know. They all had a right to at least a small amount of privacy as long as there was nothing incriminating, nothing that could be used against the Master.

He scraped the razor over his cheeks, making them smooth, clean, making his handsome face the same as that of every mundane man out there. Anonymous. He had no complaint about not standing out, being one of the crowd. Camouflage. Survival.

He’d been so close to catching her the last time. Such a waste. At least the Master didn’t blame him, was giving him this second chance. Had told him to draw it out if he wanted to, at least for a while. The idea of causing fear before striking was pleasant.

Except.

He snarled in frustrated anger.

Except this time he wasn’t the only one the Master called upon to feed him fear and death. He was still the favored one, but not the only one. Despite jealousy, he saw the Master’s logic. At least the Master had appointed him the leader of their little murder club.

This time he would survive. The magic was far stronger. He would grow. He’d been reborn into this new body, but it would take so much more to make the final change.

He placed the bright, sharp edge of the razor against his throat. He looked into his eyes in the mirror.

“You made a mistake last night,” he told the handsome man he saw in the glass. “You missed her—the one you promised to take. Do you want someone else to pluck the magic out of that woman?”

All the souls taken this time must be full of magic. The Master admitted to their little group that his accepting the sacrifice of just any life had been a mistake in the past. No mistakes this time. They had all bowed before him and pledged to bring only magical gifts to build the necessary power. To create horror, fear, anger all around them as well. They’d all been so sincere in their vows, so eager to please.

He couldn’t trust any of them.

The sacrifices had begun to trickle in. Slowly and carefully until now, selecting the kills, testing the magic, refining the spells. The Master said the time was right to pick up the pace. The Master urged them into a friendly competition to be grisly and gruesome, and kill, kill, kill.

So far he hadn’t killed anyone. He had to prove that he was the best, he’d always been the best. He had to be the one they still looked up to.

“Do you want one of the others to beat your count?” he asked himself, sneering at the knowledge that his count was zero. “They swear allegiance to the Master through you, but every one of them wants to replace you.”

He let the razor slip, just a little. He inhaled a sharp breath between his teeth at the pain. It was only a little pain, only a drop of blood that he gathered on his fingertip. Exquisite pain.

He closed his eyes, remembering bestowing the gift of pain, taking the gift of death.

“Ah, the good old days.” He chuckled.

He was so grateful those days were his again. So glad to be back in the world. He would be more careful this time. But maybe he was being too careful.

He should have made the kill last night. The shadow he’d sensed behind him last night had been imagination, nerves. It had been the cold, the rain, the wind, the surprise of headlights turning onto an empty street.

Now he had to start all over again. He had to seek out the woman again, and this time, kill her.

He rinsed off his face and combed his hair. He put on a fresh shirt and a coat with deep inside pockets full of his favorite tools.

He smiled as he walked out the door. Perhaps he’d failed once, but the thrill of the hunt always made him happy. Maybe he wouldn’t approach her for a while, but someone was going to die. That night would be the night!

I
vy didn’t like working nights, considering that her evenings were generally already spoken for over at the Vampire Hunters Academy. But exhaustion from the night before forced her to rearrange her schedule, taking a sick day from her physical-therapist day job, and making evening arrangements for her part-time fitness job so she could get some rest during the day.

Ella Orbinski was trying to get back into shape after having twins. She was attending the holiday wedding of her best frenemy and was determined to be a size four again by December. Ivy understood completely and sympathized. It was her job to work Ella’s ass off, and so she was spending the early evening in the fitness center coaching, coaxing, training, and not really listening to her client’s chatter about friends, family, reality TV, and, especially, the babies.

Ivy appreciated maternal gushing, she really did, it was natural and right in theory. But she just didn’t comprehend
the joyous part of motherhood. The need to reproduce drove the species, taking responsibility to rear the offspring insured species survival. But there was a fun part of it? Not in her personal observations.

Her own mother wasn’t exactly the loving type, but with good reason, so Ivy didn’t really mind. A large, adoring family helped make up for her father’s absence—may he burn in hell—and her mother’s lukewarm affection. Mom had married and moved away from Illinois when Ivy was thirteen, leaving Ivy with the family. Dad, well, she knew he’d been in prison a few years ago—not every member of the familia was born to be a great con artist or magician. Ah, what a fascinating bunch they were!

But it’s all good,
she thought.

You smell of sweat.

Ivy’s head came up sharply, but she carefully didn’t look around the exercise room. What was she going to do? Wave her arms and yell, “Vampire! Run!”

Besides, what if the vampire in question had a fitness-center membership and had every right to be there?

Not that she immediately saw any vampires—and even if they used tanning booths, she knew one when she saw one. From the corner of her eye she could see a half dozen people running on treadmills. On the other side of her, a pilates class was gracefully rolling around on big, pastel, plastic balls.

Ivy said something encouraging to Ella, then she turned around slowly and carefully.

Nope. No one sporting fangs was there. The voice had been in her mind, but not nearby. How could that be?

Funny thing, that—smelling sweat in your head. What sort of girl are you?

Ivy pushed down the slight prick of fear. If the vampire was going to pick up emotions from her, it was going to be
her annoyance. She would like to inform him that the term
girl
was impolite, politically incorrect, but direct telepathic content wasn’t something she could do.

You’re a girl to me.

And the vampire should not be able to lift thoughts from her head. She’d been taught psychic shielding by some very good tutors. She practiced it now. She imagined slamming a door in the vampire’s face. Very hard. She hoped it hit his nose.

Ow!

Ivy hid a smile and concentrated very hard on her client. She even paid attention to every word Ella said. She urged Ella to work harder, and harder.

“That’s great! You’re doing great! Think of how you’re going to look in that slinky LBD.”

You’re torturing someone, aren’t you?

“What?” Ivy boiled with indignation.

“What?” a confused Ella asked her.

He was being deliberately provocative, and his thoughts had an English accent.

“Let’s wrap it up for the evening,” Ivy told her client. She patted Ella on the shoulder. “Use the treadmill for a cooldown,” she said, sending Ella on her way.

Ivy closed her eyes for a moment once she was alone. She concentrated on her shielding.
Calm, girl, steady. Don’t call yourself, girl,
she added. She had the feeling she’d get laughed at by her unwanted mental visitor if he could overhear.

She headed for the showers, needing to perform a quick cleansing, strengthening ritual with flowing water before she headed out to vampire hunt again.

And just what did he mean that her brain smelled of sweat?

Euww.

C
hristopher had known nothing about magic in his daylight years, except for some vague memories of fairy stories the nanny had read to him. Magic had no reality or substance, and certainly no part of his life until a strigoi woman led him into an unknown world.

He’d always known he was different, odd. Mentally defective. His family had never spoken those words out loud, but they had engaged tutors and teachers and Mr. Morse to help him compensate for his odd way of experiencing things. What was wrong with him had a name these days; every illness and condition had a name these days. But he hadn’t realized he was the odd one until he was taught that not everyone tasted colors or smelled emotions—or read thoughts. He was taught to hide his weaknesses, and functioned very well in the real world. He had a very successful naval career. He was able to disguise that he was a freak of nature.

Of course, it wasn’t until he was kidnapped into the
unreal
world that he came into his own, a freak among freaks, some far more powerful than he in the beginning. He’d come into his own, but he still didn’t consider himself a magician although he had participated in several necessary rituals once upon a time.

The woman he was looking for, though, now she knew something about practicing magic. Dark or light, he couldn’t yet tell. White witch or black, she’d managed to block him out after the briefest contact. Then she’d totally tossed him out with a ritual.

He felt like the inside of his head had been dipped in water—which smelled of flowers, and the scent still lingered. He admired her skill.

He’d learned long ago that there were plenty of mortals who hunted his kind to offer as sacrifices for the darkest of
dark magic. Darker even than the magic necessary to make a mortal into a vampire. Perhaps her plan last night had been to snatch the young strigoi for an evil purpose.

Was she white or black? He’d touched on some darkness inside her, some hint of evil before she’d pushed him out.

“And I’m not having any of that, young lady, if that’s why you’re vampire hunting.”

It had taken hours staring out the window of his hotel room at the city lights. He wanted to be out there, but it took privacy and much concentration to get a psychic lead on his witch. Now, poof, it was gone. He was going to have to actually physically track her down.

“Wasting my time,” he complained. “You’re going to pay for that,
girl
.”

He thought his best chance would be in following that lingering scent of flowers.

F
rankly, Ivy wanted to scamper home and hide under the covers. Or at least get caught up on a month’s worth of stored DVR shows from the safety of her warded bedroom, or, more likely, read a book.

Vampires didn’t talk to her. Vampires couldn’t talk to her. She was special—immune. Her psychic talent was wired differently from normal people’s. Or so she’d always been told, and believed. What was so fucking different about this English one?

Goddess! Just thinking about him sent hot streaks of fear blazing through every part of her.

Then stop thinking about him,
she told herself.
Do something instead.

Acting on her own good advice, she scampered across town to her aunt Cate’s magic shop. Besides, it seemed like the safest place in the world just then.

“Hot chocolate,” was the first thing Ivy said when the shop door closed behind her. “I really need a cup of hot chocolate.”

A warm, sweet cup of cocoa was always Aunt Cate’s first step in making one of her family better. Tea if that didn’t work. A glass of strong Irish whiskey, or a sedative, if nothing else worked.