Drinker of Blood Read online

  “Where is it?” she asked again.

  “Shh. Be still and pay attention.”

  To what?

  “Everything.”

  Caleb did as Gray ordered. He stood motionless, letting the world come to him. The wind kissed his cheek, rubbing together the branches of the live oak above. Beneath the rattle of leaves and groan of bark against bark, there came a sort of wet smacking sound.

  Oh hell. It was right above them.

  Caleb looked up, just in time to see something large and dark hurtling down toward him.

  * * *

  The demon’s weight smashes Gray into the ground.

  Anger surges through him as he manifests—this creature has dared to ambush him, as if he were its prey.

  Normally, demons flee him unless cornered. Even the least cunning among them have an instinct for survival. He believed the grendel would run if it scented him, or at least attempt to conceal itself.

  In not doing so, it has made a deadly mistake. Its last, if he has anything to say about it.

  The grendel tries to bite, but his thick, kevlar-lined coat resists the maw full of misshapen teeth. He twists, gets a hand free from beneath himself, and drives his claws into its shoulder.

  Or tries to. His claws fail to pierce its rough, purplish hide by even the smallest amount.

  “Oh fuck,” Caleb says. Gray cannot disagree.

  The grendel’s strength is immense, and it pins him to the ground. One of its hands grips his other wrist, grinding the bones together until they shatter. Gray bellows in pain, then kicks it, hard.

  Its grip loosens, so he kicks it again, this time using Caleb’s telekinesis in conjunction with the blow. Together they heave it off him. The moment it is away from him, Zahira fires.

  Her bullets do no more damage than his claws. One bounces off the creature’s skin; the hot lead strikes Gray in the leg, tearing a hole through denim and into flesh.

  The grendel rises to its full height, the top of its head brushing the lower limbs of the tree. It is taller than the average human, its body hairless and muscular. Skin the color of a ripe eggplant covers it, and its eyes burn a hateful yellow. Its mouth splits in a grin, revealing uneven teeth, and it reaches into the tree above it to yank down Pochron’s ravaged corpse.

  “Is it…taunting us?” Caleb asks. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Does it?”

  It does not matter. We will kill it either way.

  Zahira has abandoned the useless Glock and begun to chant. But the demon is too strong; her exorcist’s power can find nowhere to hook into its essence.

  Gray’s wrist straightens, bones mending, and he leaps for the demon. Even if he can’t break the skin with his claws, perhaps he can still use his strength to hold it down. If they can find some way to contain it, they can summon John. Surely he can exorcise it.

  The demon’s fist slams into Gray’s face like a sledgehammer, breaking bone and striking him to the earth. Pain and rage snap through him, and he snarls, staggering back to his feet. Before he can regain his footing, the grendel rushes him.

  The grendel’s punch buries itself in his stomach, rupturing vital organs, snapping ribs, and heaving him through the air. For an instant, all is weightless pain—until his back smashes into the brick wall of the academic building.

  They collapse into a heap at the base of the wall, broken skull and back screaming in agony. There is a blinding flare of light, parts wrenching back into place. Fear bubbles up from Caleb.

  “Oh hell, he’s too strong for us.”

  They open their eyes; blinking against the damage their body fights to heal. The grendel stalks across the brick patio toward Zahira. She backs away slowly, still chanting, her useless Glock thrust out in front of her.

  No. Zahira is their mortal. This demon will not take her from them.

  Gray roars as he comes to his feet. Blood fills his mouth, spills from pulverized organs, but they will not let the grendel have her.

  Their distraction works; the grendel turns away from Zahira and back to them.

  “We’ve got to take this thing down.”

  Agreed. But he hesitates. Perhaps it can be exorcised. But I cannot see how to stop it without damaging the host.

  Caleb’s resolve rushes through them both. “It’s him or us. Whether or not the forty days are up, we’ve got to kill this fucker now.”

  Gray springs at it, even as it rushes him again. His claws can’t puncture the gnarled skin, but they catch on it long enough for him to grapple with the demon. He drives his head forward with all his strength to sink fangs into its flesh.

  Both fangs snap against its skin, sending a spike of agony through their skull. The only blood that fills their mouth is their own.

  The grendel lets out a croaking laugh. Its huge hands close on Gray’s throat and thigh, ragged nails biting deep as it hoists him above its head.

  Then, with a shout of triumph, it hurls him into the nearest pillar of the gazebo.

  Concrete shatters under the impact, as do bones. With a low roar, the entire structure collapses on top of them, burying them in rubble and dust and darkness.

  * * *

  “That fucking sucked,” Caleb said. He sat on the steps leading up to the academic building, his skin smeared with dried blood and dust, his hair a clotted snarl. The sight of fading purple on his cheek twisted John’s heart. He was almost glad he hadn’t been here to see the full extent of the damage. If Gray was still healing bruises, it must have been bad.

  The campus was on lockdown, and SPECTR agents swarmed the area, but had yet to find any trace of the grendel. Forensics had set up around the tree where the grendel had stashed its second victim. Hunter Pochron.

  “Alhamdulillah, it decided to run,” Zahira said tiredly. “My bullets did nothing against it, and it was too powerful for any attempts to drain or slow it using etheric energy.”

  John nodded. “It must have decided continuing the fight wasn’t worth it, even with Gray down.”

  “No.” Caleb rubbed at his face, then winced when he pressed on the bruise. “Ouch. Damn it.”

  “I’ll see if the EMTs have any ice packs,” John said. He touched Caleb’s shoulder, though what he really wanted to do was pull Caleb into his arms and never let go.

  “We’re fine.” Caleb waved him off. “But, no, I don’t think it ran off because of anything we did. It left because it got what it wanted.”

  John sat back on his heels. “What do you mean?”

  “It laughed.” An edge of dark thunder rumbled beneath the word, Gray’s displeasure bleeding into Caleb’s voice. “Most demons piss themselves when Gray shows up. And why wouldn’t they? He’s coming to fucking eat them. But this thing grabbed Pochron while we weren’t looking, set up an ambush, then deliberately showed us his body like it was taunting us with it. Then it fought us to a standstill and walked off.”

  John frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t just not scared—it took delight in beating us. Beating Gray.” Caleb ground his teeth. “Yes, you were beaten. For fuck’s sake, five minutes ago I coughed up a chunk of our liver. We didn’t win this, so quit sulking.”

  “It’s okay, Gray,” Zahira said. “We all have our off days.”

  “And the grendel won the battle, not the war,” John added. “We have to figure out how to get through its skin. There might be some way of softening it—Florida water, or incense, something that interacts with etheric energy. Has Gray ever fought one before?”

  “If he had, we wouldn’t have ended up buried under the gazebo,” Caleb said. The bruise had finally vanished from his cheek. “I guess you were right about them not being that common. There have to be more of them than there are drakul, though, since it takes a lot less energy to summon them, comparatively speaking.” He paused, an odd look crossing his face. “Maybe another drakul out there has killed one.”

  “Which doesn’t really help us, since we don’t know where any are to ask them,” John pointed out.

  Caleb stared down at his hands. “Yeah. So, how did they kill the one in Beowulf? I was a crap student in high school.”

  “Beowulf pulled its arm off,” Zahira said doubtfully. “That seems…unlikely, to say the least.”

  “I think we can agree that was just embellishment on the part of the poet,” John said. Which was a damned shame, because they needed something. “I’m going to have to research this. As far as I know, no grendel’s been seen in at least a couple of centuries, maybe longer.”

  “Maybe a little research first would have helped,” Caleb muttered.

  John’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right. I assumed Gray could take on anything we came across. I left it all on your shoulders, instead of doing my part of the job.”

  “Oh, don’t be that way.” Caleb bumped his knee against John’s leg. “And you’re right—Gray’s normally up to just about anything. And he’d like me to assure you, the next time he meets the grendel, he’s going to eat it. Not that he has a plan to make that happen, of course.”

  “Then I’ll do my best to get him that plan.” John patted Caleb’s arm, then rose to his feet. “Zahira, do you mind driving Caleb home? I need to go back to HQ and report to Barillo.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  Caleb looked up at him, brown eyes dark. “You want us to come with?”

  “No.” John forced a smile onto his face, so none of the trepidation he felt could show. “You go home and take a shower. You’ve got some liver in your hair.”

  “Ha ha,” Caleb muttered. “Go on, then. Have fun with Barillo.”

  “Always,” John lied. Then he turned away and started across campus to his sedan, and tried not to give away the deep sense of worry growing steadily in his gut.

  Chapter 7

  John stepped into District Chief Barillo’s office. Although a part of him would have liked to have brought Caleb, so Barillo could get the report from someone who had actually been there, he hadn’t even dared suggest it.

  John still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened between Barillo and Caleb in July. Barillo had dismissed the rest of them and kept Caleb behind, presumably for the sort of ass-chewing he regularly gave John. John had worried about leaving them alone together, simply because Caleb’s “screw the man” attitude would only make Barillo angrier.

  But when Caleb rejoined them, he’d said everything had gone fine. Except he’d been paler than usual, and there had been an uncharacteristic look of worry—or was it fear?— in his eyes.

  “Sir,” John said, doing his best to project respect. Like it or not, they all had to deal with the district chief. As the old saying went, honey attracted more flies than vinegar.

  Barillo’s dark eyes assessed John. Lines of strain had begun to show around them, and there was noticeably more gray in his short, tightly curled hair than before.

  The outbreak of NHEs had worn on them all. Before, the district chief usually had gone home at five, though he was always on call. Now, John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man leave before eight, if not later.

  “Starkweather.” Barillo scowled. “I’ve read your preliminary report. Am I to understand that Special Agent Noorzai and Mr. Jansen let some kid get eaten right in front of them?”

  Shit. “No, sir. Let me explain. They were interviewing Mr. Pochron about the first victim, Mr. Scheffler.”

  Barillo held up a hand. “Let me stop you right there. Why the hell were they interviewing Pochron?”

  “Both Scheffler and Wilkinson were connected with the college. I don’t think their deaths were just random. Neither was Pochron’s.” John forced his spine straight. “In light of this latest death, if we could get a warrant for their student records—”

  “Absolutely not.” Barillo leaned back in his chair. “Let me spell things out for you, Starkweather. This college? Their alumni go on to be congressmen and CEOs. You go requesting records, and the media’s going to think the college has something to hide. Trust me when I say, any damage to their reputation will not be looked upon kindly by a large number of very wealthy people.”

  John ground his teeth in frustration. “With all due respect, sir, how am I to investigate if I can’t follow our best lead? Scheffler and Pochron were best friends, at least according to Pochron, and now they’re both dead. As is the former Dean of Student Affairs. If we’re to keep anyone else from dying—”

  “Here’s an idea,” Barillo broke in. “How about your demon-sniffing vampire keeps a hold of the grendel next time. Don’t you think that would be a good way to keep anyone else from dying? As opposed to, say, harassing grieving friends and relatives?”

  Oh hell. John sent a swift prayer to Sekhmet before answering. “Mr. Jansen and Agent Noorzai attempted to apprehend the NHE, but its skin proved impenetrable to all of their weapons. There’s nothing anyone could have done that would have resulted in a different outcome, not with the knowledge we have now.”

  “Good try, Starkweather, but they failed. And you’re trying to cover up their failure with this obsession with student records.”

  John wanted to lash out. To make Barillo understand how badly Caleb had been hurt. To fucking get what it was like out there in the field, instead of playing armchair quarterback later on.

  “The grendel is a very dangerous NHE,” John said frostily. “We haven’t seen its like in a long time, and no one knew just what to expect. Its immense strength and impenetrable skin allowed it to effectively fight off Gray, without sustaining injury to itself.”

  Barillo flinched at the mention of Gray. He reached out, took a candy from the jar on his desk, and slowly unwrapped it. “Seems to me your pet demon lets NHEs get away on a regular basis.”

  “That isn’t so,” John snapped. “The raven mocker could fly, and the vila—”

  He caught himself. That time, Gray had been distracted, by something he still hadn’t adequately explained to John. Could the mystery NHE have anything to do with what Inverness had sensed in Battery Park? Caleb had said they’d originally scented the entity not far from there.

  The wrapper crinkled as Barillo balled it up between his fingers. “That thing gets to run loose in exchange for being useful. But honestly, I’m starting to think it isn’t half as useful as I was led to believe it would be.”

  Fuck. This wasn’t good. John felt as though a sword hung over his head, suspended by a thread as he sought the words that would keep it from falling. Except it wouldn’t fall on his neck, would it? It would descend on Caleb and Gray. “No SPECTR agent could have done half as good a job,” he said carefully. “I’m one of the top field agents in the southeast—I’m not saying that to brag, but to point out I couldn’t have brought in either the raven mocker or the vila without Gray’s assistance. Certainly not without a larger loss of life.”

  Not to mention Forsyth would have eaten his way through the low country, and they’d all be dead now if Gray hadn’t been there. But Barillo had already made it clear that any talk about Forsyth was off the table.

  “And maybe that says it all right there, agent.” Barillo popped the candy in his mouth and steepled his fingers together. “You used to be one of the top agents. Now you’ve come to rely on your little demon friend as a crutch. And you’re letting us all down in the process.”

  Fury stole John’s breath. His fists clenched, and his gut churned. “I assure you, I’ve done my utmost to serve this agency and this country,” he grated out. “As have Mr. Jansen, Special Agent Noorzai, and Gray. I would defend our actions to anyone.”

  “Would you?” Barillo sat back in his chair. “Get out of here, Starkweather. Scheffler and Pochron were good kids. Let them rest in peace, instead of trying to dig up dirt. Hear me?”

  John’s throat was almost too tight to speak. “Yes, sir.”

  He walked swiftly back to the office he shared with Caleb, careful to keep his face expressionless until the door was firmly shut behind him. Fury still trembled in his veins, and when he unclenched his hands, he saw his nails had made bloody crescents in the palms.

  Sekhmet, guide and protect him.

  He took a deep breath, then another, and tried to focus. Past the anger, past Barillo’s half-veiled threats, to the last thing the district chief said.

  “Scheffler and Pochron were good kids. Let them rest in peace, instead of trying to dig up dirt.”

  Except John hadn’t been trying to dig up any dirt. He’d only wanted the student records, to see what sort of connections he could make between them and Wilkinson.

  Which suggested there was dirt to find on them…and that someone was leaning on Barillo to keep it from getting out.

  * * *

  “You came,” Yuri said with a smile. He looked utterly at ease, sitting at a table in the rooftop bar, dressed in a stylish jacket and shirt. The breeze ruffled his long, pale hair. Night had fallen, and Charleston spread out before them, a city of gleaming lights.

  “Of course I did,” Caleb replied, dropping into a seat by him. Gray hovered close to the surface, eager for a glimpse of Dru. Later. Let me handle this.

  “Order what you like.” Yuri beckoned to a waiter. “My treat.”

  Caleb had left John on the couch, falling asleep over his tablet. He’d lied—again—claiming Deacon was going through a bad breakup and needed a friendly ear. It was the second night in a row he’d used the same excuse, but John had only waved a tired hand at him.

  Even if he hadn’t been meeting Yuri, he would have probably found some excuse to get out of the condo. Their defeat at the hands of the grendel had left Gray edgy and angry all evening.

  If only the alcohol would do anything to settle their nerves. “I miss getting drunk,” Caleb said, once the waiter left.

  “That is foolish of you.”

  Hush.

  “I’m Russian. Imagine how I feel.” Yuri winked at him. “Dru says hello, by the way. He’s very glad you came.”

  “As am I.”

  “Gray says the same.”

  The waiter brought Caleb’s drink: some hideously expense whiskey, served neat. Once they were alone again, Yuri raised his glass. “To new friendship.”