Mark of the Harbinger (Book 1)

12 - A Darkling and a Disguise

The desire to run home and hide under my bed was overpowering. I wanted to cover my eyes and bury my head in the proverbial sand, but I knew that would accomplish nothing. There was nowhere I could hide—nowhere I could run—that was beyond the reach of Havik and the eye of the vampire cadres. Only the Fae existed outside their control. Desperate as I was, I still wasn't about to sell myself into the service of one of the Courts.

I was a coward, not suicidal.

So, though I shook with dread and my intuition blared warning, I drove Sibbie to her apartment to drop her off, then started toward the west bank. Night had fallen fully by then, meaning all those who woke with the dusk were out in force, followed by the deluge of tourists and thrill-seekers. The magic fugue hung thick over the jammed streets, the neon lights as vivid as a noonday sun piercing the haze.

I inched my way through the blaring horde of traffic to reach Nera Court, and by the time I cycled through its distinguishing roundabout, there wasn't a parking spot to be found in any of the accessible lots. The preternatural swamped the street, the malaise of their magic and emotions drifting in the open car window enough to give me a headache. The air smelled of violence and anticipation, hunger and desire. 

I ended up parking at the tail end of a fire lane in one of the less frequented alleyways, praying the area's obvious disuse would spare my poor car from any unwanted attention. On the phone, Havik had said to meet him at the shop in an hour. It'd been almost two hours by now, but there was nothing I could do about that. The vampire hadn't called back, so he was either waiting still—or was busy planning my torture. 

Maybe both.

With one hand on my bag, I jogged through the evening crowd, trying to remember the right twists and turns to take through the dense byways. The magic was so thick in the court I could feel its physical pull, parting like a gossamer veil, though the feather-light touch of it dragging on my skin remained. Just once, I pushed through a spot of violence so fresh it took my breath away—but I kept moving, not stopping to see what crime I had narrowly avoided becoming involved in.

There was always violence in Roccia Nera—violence, crime, feeding, and death. Maybe I could reach out and stop what I saw happening, but doing so would simply reveal my identity, not stop the violence. I'd be locked up and killed, and maybe it was cowardly to think so, but I valued my own life more than I did any ideals of justice or the safety of a dimwitted tourist canoodling with a hungry vamp in a backstreet.

I didn't like the violence, but I couldn't stop it.

Soon, I found the right lane. I had only to search for the rumbling storm of the Fae's magic and head in its direction. Two vampires waited at the white alley's mouth, one lounging against the building's wall in a puddle of sullen darkness while the other sat cross-legged on the ground with a cellphone in his hand.

They were Havik and the younger, auburn vamp who'd chased after me at Alfie's house. I almost didn't recognize the former: he wore the simple, unadorned outfit of an upscale waiter instead of his normal waistcoat and cravat. The modern clothes looked strange on the vampire, as if he were a piece of old artwork stripped of his gaudy frame, left ragged at the edges. Judging by his restless shifting and subtle grumbling, Havik wasn't fond of the look either.

That was just too odd to understand. First, his daughter goes missing, next his café was taken over. Now Havik was a waiter?

"Um...." I approached the two, fervently tucking my sharp ears into my lopsided braid. "I'm, uh, here." 

Havik's keen eyes snapped to me and he smirked from his great height, tossing a hand toward the sliver of moon visible through the court towers. "You're late, Ms. Winters."