Chapter 11: Blood-Prince
Neal scrambled along the edge of the woods, avoiding the broad stone steps leading up the hillside to the house. Peter and Dean should have pulled up to the front door a few minutes ago. He didn't intend to break in till they'd already started their discussion.
He waited for a few more minutes before making a closer approach, using the time to slip on a pair of gloves. He'd debated using them. Why should he worry about leaving fingerprints at a vampire manor? In the end, he decided they helped him get into cat burglar mode. With guests at the house, he didn't expect Lutar to have activated his security system. Did a vampire ever feel the need for alarms?
He scaled a wall to arrive on a terrace on the second floor. French patio doors opened off the house onto the terrace. He suspected it was one of the main bedrooms. He crept up to the doors and then sneaked a peek inside. By the size of the room, it was the main bedroom. The decor was fitting for a vampire. Heavy Gothic furniture. Black satin sheets. Smoky lavender accessories. He exhaled in relief when Angela wasn't sprawled out on the bed, attired in a black lace negligee, blood dripping from her neck. He had to stop imagining her as Mina.
The patio door was unlocked. Lutar wasn't worried about intruders. Did he keep familiars? Mozzie had told him about the companions of supernatural beings. Giant dogs, hawks who'd prey on the unsuspecting. But there were no snarls or wing flaps when he entered the room. He quickly scanned the furnishings. The only unusual item was on the dresser—a collection of small violet-colored glass bottles. He removed the cap of one of them to sniff the contents. A faint floral fragrance that he couldn't place. Was it a drug? He felt a little light-headed after sniffing it. He grabbed five bottles and stashed them in his portfolio.
He then retrieved a small oil can from his case and oiled the hinges of the door into the hallway before opening it. Old houses often had squeaky doors. No point in ringing the doorbell.
The bedroom he'd entered was at the end of a wide hallway. The carpet was a welcome sight. Less chance of creaky floorboards.
Light came from under the closed door of the adjoining room. He paused to listen to the faint clicks of fingers on computer keys. There were likely three, perhaps four people inside. They couldn't all be secretaries answering Lutar's fan mail. Would he be so brazen as to run the identity fraud operation from here? The vampire Dean had interrogated said the operation was being run out of Maryland. Had he lied? A final attempt to screw hunters?
A dangerous situation had just gotten worse. Assuming he could find Angela and steal her away, he'd need to leave Peter and Dean in a house with multiple bloodsuckers. They were supposed to make their departure after receiving his signal, but that couldn't come quickly enough.
He snuck up to the massive staircase. He could hear voices below. He crept down the first step to get a feel for the layout. The stairs opened onto the salon. Dean and Peter were sitting in dark leather chairs with Lutar by the fireplace. Lutar was facing the glass patio doors on the south side of the house. If Neal took Angela by the outside terrace and down the steps on the west, Lutar shouldn't be able to observe them. But first, he needed to find her.
He retreated upstairs and began testing the doors, a slow process since he needed to squeeze a couple of drops of oil onto the hinges of each one before opening them.
He found Angela on the third attempt. She was fast asleep on a sleigh bed, resting on top of pink embroidered satin sheets. No black lace negligee as he'd feared. Instead, Michael's Angela was wearing gray sleep shorts and a lavender tank top with a design of two bunnies kissing inside a heart. That had to be a gift from Michael.
He carefully scrutinized every inch of flesh that he could see. No wounds or bite marks of any kind. Not even a bruise.
The room, like the main bedroom, looked like a set piece for one of the Gothic romance novels that Sara was so fond of reading. The tall ornate headboard and tufted sofa were covered in crimson velvet. The wallpaper was bronze damask. Thick burgundy curtains shut out the light. Dark wood crown molding and heavy walnut furniture made the atmosphere sensual and oppressive. He didn't see any of the violet bottles he'd found in Lutar's room.
Angela looked so peaceful. He knew Dean would take out his machete and have it ready just in case, but how could he explain it to her without revealing the truth? Instead, he retrieved the dart and slipped it inside his shirt sleeve.
"Angela, time to wake up," he whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. He had his hand ready to clamp over her mouth if she tried to speak or scream.
Her eyes slowly opened. The pupils were blown wide, the irises barely visible—a confirmation she'd been drugged. Her eyes slowly focused as she gazed first at him and then around the room. When she started to speak, he hushed her with his finger on her lips. After she nodded understanding, he breathed easier.
"Where am I?" she whispered, her voice slurred.
"Lutar's house. Do you remember how you got here?"
"I came to see him. I . . ." She shook her head groggily. "I can't remember."
"I'll explain later. We need to leave, now. Michael's waiting for you." When she smiled sleepily at the mention of his name, he knew she'd be all right.
He texted a brief message to Peter and Dean that he'd found her. He also warned them about the office. Maybe the people inside weren't vampires, but his instinct was telling him not to count on it.
Angela's legs buckled under her as soon as she tried to stand. Neal quickly slid an arm around her for support.
"What happened to me?" she whispered, looking dismayed.
"You were drugged. Don't try to talk. I'll carry you if you can't manage." He tightened his arm around her waist. She was barefoot but he didn't see any shoes and didn't want to waste precious minutes in the search.
He guided her to the doorway, pausing a moment to listen before opening the door. A faint voice could be heard, probably coming from the room where he'd heard the computers. He opened the door a crack and risked a look down the hallway. The door to the office was open. There was no mistaking that accent. Hagen. Correction, Crowley.
Peter had been right. The inescapable conclusion? Crowley was working with Lutar.
He backed into the bedroom and texted Peter and Dean once more.
#
Crowley flecked a speck of dust off his black jacket as he materialized in the tank—his term for Lutar's computer center.
Time to check on his sharks.
The trio were feeding happily. They were conducting phishing attacks this week. When Crowley took over the reins of Nesarat Holdings for Electra, the company was living off investments made decades ago, a relic of an era long gone. Some of their reserves dated back to the time of the Medicis. Yes, they were financially solvent. But where was the thrill? The rush? Electra was so cautious. Hiding behind the façade of a bookseller when she could live in regal splendor was no way for a goddess to act.
Back in May when they planned for the arrival of the new generation of pure-bloods, Electra was still living in the Dark Ages. Her sister Gemma was partly to blame, what with her antiquated ideas of fiefdoms. She'd tried to convince Electra that the pure-bloods should set themselves up as princes, ruling estates from manors as they'd done for centuries. The homegrown vampires would be their serfs—their thralls—their little smudges. Crowley rolled his eyes, causing one of the sharks to glance nervously at him.
It had taken all of his powerful persuasion skills to convince Electra she needed to get modern. Why live off the meager pickings of the land when they could rule an empire of computer hackers?
Gradually he'd won her over, and in the process, she began to have a new appreciation for him. What would Electra be like in bed? His bed? He could introduce her to the thrills of the King of Hell. Why bother with Cheekbones when she could have him?
Crowley closed the lid on that pleasant daydream for another time. He had a headache to vanquish—the headache that was Lutar. Why Electra considered him to be her favorite was a mystery. As far as Crowley was concerned, he was a curse. The Queen of the Stars had messed up badly when she created that doofus. First she made him too talented. Compounding her error, she gave him too much sex appeal. Heady stuff for a prince barely a month old. His ego was unsustainable. Already he'd attracted far too much attention.
Electra insisted on a small fiefdom, so her humble servant had obliged with Shepherdstown, but he could have told her she was sending the Titanic straight for the iceberg. Big cities were the prize territories for the twenty-first century, not rural hamlets. Urban metropolises provided anonymity. There was safety among the masses. You'd think Electra would appreciate that.
She'd ordered Lutar to renounce the Caffrey wench, but he doubted her darling boy obeyed her. There'd be hell to pay—literally—if he hadn't. Pure-blood princes couldn't hold a candle to a demon when it came to physical persuasion of the non-subtle kind.
He turned to focus on his local sharks. He'd brought in one vampire from Eastern Europe to teach his two newbies. He now considered Drasko to be his lieutenant. The kid had earned the privilege. Sharp, ruthless, he knew how to control bloodlust—not only his but the newbies. Discipline, that's what they required and Drasko had a cruel streak that made him a natural leader. As long as he didn't forget who his boss was, he'd go far.
The operation was proceeding smoothly. Drasko had turned two hackers, and already no one would recognize them for the college students they used to be. Crowley had selected them personally based on knowledge acquired from his new meatsuit, Hagen. Who would have thought online gaming could provide such rich recruiting opportunities? These kids were perfect. Estranged from their families with no morals to speak of, they lived for the thrill of playing their video games. Crowley simply provided them with an even better game to play. ID fraud, ransom attacks, phishing for profit. The world was their new arena.
Where's Lutar?" he asked Drasko. Electra would insist on a report.
"At a meeting. A couple of representatives from NPR are here. They called this morning to make an appointment to discuss a documentary on Appalachian music."
Lutar had mentioned the documentary. More publicity. That was the last thing Lutar should engage in. They were probably filling his head with nonsense. Would he want to play Carnegie Hall next? As usual, it was up to Crowley to put a stop to it before it got out of hand.
He strode over to the surveillance console and pulled up the feed from the cam in the living room. When he saw who was there, there was only one word for it: "Bollocks."
Drasko looked at him, startled. "What's wrong?"
"Lutar's invited a hunter into his parlor. And not only that, he brought Dick Tracy with him." Where there was a squirrel, a moose couldn't be far behind. Was Cheekbones Caffrey with Sam? Double bollocks.
#
Peter glanced at Dean. "What now?" he muttered.
Lutar had received a call on his cell phone, excused himself, and left the room. A few minutes earlier, Neal had texted Peter that Crowley was meeting with others—possibly vampires—in an upstairs office.
So now they had one pure-blood vampire, a demon, and who knows what else. Much as Peter would love to arrest Hagen the art forger, the demon possessing him would be unimpressed by a gun and a badge.
Dean was staring over Peter's shoulder at the patio doors. When he craned his neck, Peter turned to look as well.
"Neal just left with Angela," Dean said. "He had his arm around her, but he didn't have to carry her. She wasn't fighting him." He stood up. "Let's get the hell out of here."
A good plan.
But by the time they stood up, Lutar had whisked back into the room.
He had Peter in his grasp before he knew what was happening. With a flick of his wrists, he flung Peter against the fireplace.
Lutar was no taller than him and quite a bit slimmer, but his hands had a strength that could only be described as supernatural. The worst was his face. His skin had become translucent. Molten lava seemingly flowed just below the surface as if he were the sun. Lutar's eyes blazed with the same fire. Peter felt himself being scorched by the flames. The heat was unbearable.
Dean grabbed his machete from his briefcase and rushed toward Lutar. Peter could see Crowley race down the stairs but he was powerless to warn Dean. An instant later, Crowley raised his hand, hurling Dean through the room till he crashed against a stone wall.
"Coming to spy on me, are you?" Lutar snarled. His fangs extended, he reached for Peter's neck.
"Stop!" Crowley glared at Lutar like he was a mischievous schoolchild. "Have you no finesse? You can't kill Dick Tracy. Do you want the entire FBI on your back? I know you've only been alive a month, but surely you can exercise a little more control." Crowley heaved a deep sigh. "Why I was chosen to be your babysitter . . ."
He turned to Peter. "As for you, I'd hoped I wouldn't have to gaze on your mug again. Didn't you learn your lesson in Windsor?" When Crowley took possession of Hagen's body in the witch's basement, he'd set the house on fire. Did he plan to do the same here?
Two vampires entered the room from a side door. They had their fangs extended but so far weren't making a move toward them.
"Control your rage, Lutar," Crowley scolded, "and use those brain cells. Surely you aren't all hormones? If you kill these two, what will happen? Their friends will find their bodies. You'll be exposed. You'll need to relocate. It's such a bother."
Lutar had now assumed his normal appearance. "What makes you think they'll be found? We could bury their corpses, or—better yet—burn them."
"Think of the time it will take." Crowley jerked his head in Dean's direction. "The squirrel's brother is probably on his way now and Cheekbones with him. Not that Cheekbones is a threat—I doubt you can be killed by a paintbrush—but his friends are a different story. Why go through all the hassle, when you have a much better tool at your disposal?"
"Charm them?" Lutar asked, scanning Peter doubtfully.
"Now you're catching on. Simply erase their memories and plant the ones you wish instead."
Lutar shrugged. "It won't be as satisfying."
"Sure it will." Crowley snapped his fingers at the waiting vamps. "Take them down to the dungeon. Don't you love that whoever built this delightful manor included all the finer touches? But we shouldn't be complacent. We may have company. I'll tell the lads upstairs to be—"
"Angela!" Lutar's voice was a howl of outrage. "Where is she?" He darted to the patio doors and frantically scanned the surroundings.
Crowley groaned. "Did you disobey Mommy Dearest?"
Notes: I patterned Lutar's castle after Berkeley Springs Castle, built in the late 1800s and about 50 miles west of Shepherdstown.