The Marquis (The 13th Floor), Page 2

  Harriet’s hand went limp in his. She’d sleep the day away and regain her senses when she woke. Marc laid her hand on her stomach with a gentleness that his big hand rarely experienced and stood.

  “The vamp fled to his apartment.” Xanthus hadn’t moved. His gaze drifted to the news on the television.

  “Stay with her while I go deal with him.” Marc didn’t wait for the young man to respond. He was almost blinded by Xanthus’ honor whenever he opened his psychic vision to him.

  Marc stormed out of his apartment and down to the far end of the hall. The lights flickered as if feeling his anger. Heat surged through his body, hotter than even when he faced off with Vetis. He pounded on the door numbered 1306.

  When Kiral opened the door, Marc slammed his fist into his face. Kiral staggered backwards and caught himself on a chair. Marc came at him again, but the vampire didn’t fight back. He held up his hand, licking at his bloodied lip.

  “Marc! Stop! I didn’t kill her. It’s—”

  Marc hit him in the gut, and when Kiral doubled over, he dragged him up by his hair.

  “You junkie scum. That girl lives here under my care.” He hissed. The world was fuzzy around the edges. He wanted to break every bone in the vamp’s body, fill his guts with stakes, and leave him on the roof for the morning sun.

  “She lives here? On this floor? I’ve never seen her before.” Kiral’s tone was strangely like Harriet’s, dreamy and happy.

  Marc narrowed his eyes. He could smell Harriet, Harriet’s blood on the vampire, but nothing else. It didn’t mean much. His senses weren’t the best lately. Yet he had seen Kiral high and this wasn’t it. Unless he picked up a new drug, or rather drugged victim of choice.

  “You’ll leave her be. You’ve traumatized the poor girl enough. What’s gotten into you? You drink something?” Marc released the vamp, but didn’t move away. “I saved your ass earlier and you run off to find another hit?”

  “No.” Kiral shook his head, black hair flying about. “No, I didn’t. I wandered around for a while, and it was a fight. I felt like I was losing my mind. I’d come so close. If you hadn’t—” He cut himself off and then smiled. “I came back here and when I ran into her in the stairwell. Oh, she smelled like nothing else in this world. I couldn’t help myself. And I swear, I swear she didn’t fight me. It was as if she wanted it too. She’s better than any high. She’s like tasting heaven.”

  Marc’s jaw clenched as his hands slowly opened and closed. He wouldn’t dare say anything about Harriet and how she lived. That was her business. And her tasting like heaven, well, neither of them would know about such a thing as he did. Nothing on earth came close to such a feeling. And to top it off, one day they might know the feeling, but Marc never would again.

  He looked away, down to the floor. Chest tight, and rage, sorrow, and regret waging war.

  “I need to see her, Marc.” Kiral’s plea brought his attention back to the situation at hand.

  “Just leave Harriet alone. She has a tough enough life without you stalking her.” Marc pushed the vamp back and turned to the door. He paused, and said over his shoulder, “She’s all right. After a good rest and a meal, she’ll be fine. Go clean yourself up and forget about her.”

  “Harriet? Like the old woman across the hall? Is she her granddaughter, or great-granddaughter?”

  “Let it go, Kiral.” Marc shook his head, more at himself than the vampire. He shouldn’t have said Harriet’s name. Where was his head? Kiral was an addict. They didn’t just let things go. He knew the type. Vetis was one of them.

  CHAPTER 4

  Marc kept his distance from the crowd and watched as the EMTs carried out the bodies. They moved like ants in a line, focused and with purpose. Though sheets covered the corpses, the stench still crept out above the throng of living people. Some bodies bulged oddly in places and others weren’t bumpy enough.

  The fire had been extinguished, but the row of townhouses was devastated. Most of the bodies came from the house on the end. Reporters shouted questions if it was a house party gone bad or a big family of immigrants who were crammed into a small home. The only answer anyone received was “no comment.”

  Walking around closer to one of the ambulances, Marc breathed in deep. Fire and charred flesh. More particularly, charred dead flesh. It had a different smell.

  It hadn’t been a house party, but a vampire nest. Hunters were careful these days. Whoever did this wanted to attract attention.

  Marc grunted. Vetis. The bastard had started his quest already. No rest for the wicked.

  At least he could be assured that Vetis wouldn’t catch Kiral during the day. Marc would have to make sure Kiral didn’t go wandering at night, either. Not only to protect from Vetis, but if his former Master wanted the vamp too, he’d have to lay low.

  He cursed himself for not saying anything earlier. Yet he knew he shouldn’t interfere. Marc was no longer bound, but old habits where hard to break. And he was an old dog.

  Shaking his head, Marc left the scene. Carmine wouldn’t hurt from the loss of vamps. Ones that gathered in groups were usually bad news. Vetis did him a favor ridding the city of them. Marc hadn’t known there was a kiss of vampires in Carmine. Perhaps he didn’t know his city as well as he had thought.

  He’d been spending too many nights at Mae’s café. Now that would have to stop until he found some way to rid himself of Vetis.

  Marc prowled the neighborhood before heading back downtown. His thoughts felt sluggish. He hadn’t had to think of strategy in several years. Memories of battles flitted through his mind, but they had grown foggy with time. None applied to this situation any which way.

  He had to take out Vetis himself. Vetis was a trickster demon, an overgrown imp. He rarely fought with his fists. Words were his weapon of choice. Vetis was wily, but overconfident and not the brightest demon in the underworld.

  A trap might work. A spell would be even better. Something so Marc didn’t have to go face to face with Vetis.

  The fact he was thinking like that frustrated him. He never hid behind his minions or his Master during a fight. He once had strength, skill, and power. Now he had a soft body, gray hair, and only enough mojo to smite a new demon.

  Weak. He was useless. Perhaps he should let Vetis have his head and then maybe have a bit of glory in those that remembered him when it was presented to the demonic court.

  Walking by a coffee shop, he breathed in the rich aroma. The scent always brought him back to Mae. Mae and her big brave heart.

  A human body he might have, but he was not to be underestimated. That’s what Vetis would do. He wouldn’t expect Marc to fight any other way than he used to. Marc would find a way and prove that he was still superior to that bastard.

  He nodded, back straight and chin up.

  Harriet might know of a spell, if she didn’t end up screaming that he was going to die. Or perhaps Meira, the harpy in apartment 1304. She’d been around long enough and demons were no strangers to her boss.

  “I’ve had days like that too.”

  Marc startled at the voice, tensing up ready to fight. How could he let someone sneak up on him in broad daylight? He was making Vetis’ job much easier for him.

  He sucked in a breath when he saw Mae. He shook his head and let loose the air in his lungs. His hands unclenched and his shoulders dropped. A different feeling kept his stomach tight. “Days like that?”

  “Days where so much is on my mind, I’m walking blind.” Mae smiled as if determined to drive his worries away. Another day, he might’ve let her.

  “Is it that obvious?” His pace slowed to match hers without thinking. She was dressed in some sort of stretchy pants that hugged her hips and rear. Her ponytail bobbed with her steps as if tempting him to touch it. Beautiful, sweet, and playful.

  “I’ve been walking beside you for nearly a block.” Mae chuckled. “I’d suggest you come running with me, but I don’t think you’re a runner. You seem to me more the type to work out
your troubles lifting some weights or hitting a bag. You’ve got big hands.” She tapped the back of his closest hand with a finger. “Did you box?”

  “I did some fighting in my younger years.” Not the sort she was thinking. Marc’s punch once carried the force of a wrecking ball.

  “You have that look.” Mae nodded and nudged him with her elbow. “I’ll have you figured out sooner or later.”

  He couldn’t stop a grin. “I actually think you might.”

  They shared a look for a few steps. She crinkled her nose cutely and looked away first to dodge a post. Marc wanted to hold her hand. She didn’t have pampered hands, but he knew they were softer than his. Warm and accepting.

  Stopping at a corner to wait for a light, he turned his head away from her to glance across the street. Vetis grinned and wiggled his fingers at Marc. He waggled his eyebrows, pointed at Mae, and made a lewd gesture.

  A growl rumbled in Marc’s chest. No. This wasn’t happening. He couldn’t let it happen.

  A truck rattled by, blocking his view, and when it was gone, so was Vetis.

  “Marc?” Mae’s hand rested on his elbow. “Is everything all right?”

  No, he was damned. He shook his head. He wouldn’t let her become a part of this. The world needed Mae Hopkins. He needed her to live.

  “I just remembered something. I have to get some stuff done at the building before I leave town for a while.” Forever. Even if he managed to beat Vetis, he couldn’t stay in Carmine. Others would come after him. Vetis probably bragged to half the demons in Hell about what he was going to do. Marc wanted to smash the bastard into the ground, make him less than a pile of dust.

  “You’re leaving town?” There was sadness in her voice. His chest tightened. “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know.” Marc scratched at his beard and tugged on it. “It’s complicated.”

  The light changed and they walked across the street. Mae was silent for another minute before speaking, “Well, you know where I am. I’ll always listen.” She hesitated and then took his hand into hers. “Come see me before you leave? Just for one cup?”

  The way she was looking at him, Marc couldn’t do anything but nod. He was an idiot. “One cup.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Harriet was still resting and Meira wasn’t home. The paint in the hallway darkened to a deep green. Marc slammed his fist against the wall. A furious fire burning hotter within him.

  He had doomed Mae by being seen with her. How could he be so stupid? And then he agreed to see her again. He was doubly damned. He deserved a long and painful death.

  Once upon a time, human casualties were nothing. The Marquis would’ve torn through without a single emotion weighing him down. Neither did he enjoy such massacres nor did he loathe them. He did as he was ordered with deadly efficiency for a reward he had foolishly believed would be coming in the end.

  There was no happy ending for him. Whether he’d be beaten by Vetis or die a weak old man alone and forgotten. Marc’s stomach churned at the thought of either option.

  Mae deserved a better end even if he didn’t. Thinking of her smile made him groan.

  He leaned against the wall, and a chill settled around him. Best way to do so would be to surrender himself. Put up a bit of a fight for a good show or else Vetis would know what he was doing. Once Vetis had him, he wouldn’t waste his time on anything else.

  Every instinct within him screamed with their protests. Marc had spent centuries listening to such pleas. He could ignore his own.

  One cup. One more cup of coffee with her and then he’d end it. End himself.

  Walking down to the end of the hall, he pushed on the door. It refused to budge. He frowned and gave it another shove. Nothing.

  There was no other way off the 13th floor. If he could fly, perhaps, but he was no angel. Far from it.

  With an unearthly roar, he pounded on the door. He punched and kicked and rammed it with his shoulders. Everything had been so simple until Vetis came along. He had almost been happy.

  Marc’s chest heaved. He gave the door one final smack and pressed his forehead against it.

  For the first time since he had entered his Master’s service, he had almost been happy. He had a good safe place to live—one that was presently locking him in—but one that had sheltered him and kept him sane for decades. He watched over the other tenants, outcasts like himself. It had given him purpose. The city was his territory, his domain, and he knew every inch of her. And, of course, there was Mae. Her smile was all he needed to sustain himself.

  Happy. What was he thinking? He didn’t deserve it.

  He didn’t even deserve that one last cup of coffee.

  The door softly clicked and moved under the weight of his head. Marc peered through the crack into the stairwell. It was dark and empty.

  “Thanks,” he said, patting the door frame. He almost apologized for his outburst, but walked forward to go down the stairs instead.

  The walk down thirteen flights helped clear his head, but stepping out onto the ground floor, Marc was greeted by people screaming on the street. He dashed out the front door as a woman came tearing toward him, slipping under his arm to get in. She wept hysterically, but he didn’t smell any blood on her.

  The stench of death surrounded him.

  A few people bravely peeked into the buckets hanging from the light poles only to shout out with horror. One old man had a bowl full of water he dumped into a bucket. The flames fizzled out, and he vomited into his empty bowl.

  Marc moved to the nearest post. His height allowed him to see the bucket’s contents without having to get too close. Rage and disgust boiled up in him.

  A head sizzled amongst burning garbage. Unrecognizable, but human.

  How many buckets were there? How many people had died?

  Sirens blared throughout the city and the screams echoed from every block. Carmine would have nightmares for months. Vetis’ first attack on his city would leave it scarred forever.

  Vetis was never the subtle sort. Nor was he patient.

  Mae.

  Marc raced down the street, cutting through an alley to the café. Only a little time had passed since Vetis saw them together, but a few seconds was enough to kill. A few minutes were enough to do it painfully and paint the walls with blood.

  He pushed past a group of college students huddled together by the front of the café and ran inside. Two young women sat on the stools at the far end of the counter, one holding the other and rubbing her back as they both cried.

  “Mae!” Marc’s bellow rattled the cups on the counter. He jumped over it and looked into the kitchen. “Mae!”

  One of the women screamed at his shouts and the other shushed her. The less hysterical one sucked back a sob and spoke, “She isn’t here. I don’t know ... She isn’t here.”

  Marc gripped the counter. What did Vetis want? Did he wish him to look in every flaming bucket in the city searching for Mae’s head? It was just like the bastard to play some sort of sick game—

  “What’s going on? Is everything all right here?” Mae rushed inside. Her hair was wet and loose. She started toward the women and then paused when she saw him. “Marc. Thank goodness you’re okay.”

  His knees felt weak. She was alive and unharmed. He needed a chair.

  The big plate glass front window shattered and the women screamed. Shards sprayed across the floor like chaotic musical notes. A black equine beast jumped through and skidded to a stop. Its hooves clacked too loudly on the black and white tiled floor.

  The scent and gore of a thousand deaths clung to the snorting monster. Its eyes gleamed red and teeth too big for its mouth snapped. On top of it sat a rider dressed in the finest of rags. Rotted flesh was visible through the tears and around the collar where it lacked anything above. A howl that sounded like “heads” rang out from the hole where its head once sat.

  The younger women dove behind the far end of the counter, wailing hysterically. Mae w
as the closest to the thing. She stood frozen with her terror.

  The headless rider snapped a whip, and it wound around Mae’s neck. It jerked her closer to the demonic stallion and the bloody blade in the rider’s other hand. She stumbled, unable to keep standing, and it saved her from an immediate beheading.

  Marc threw himself over the counter and into the side of the beast. He bounced back a bit, and the monster kicked at him, grazing his right shoulder. Snatching the rider’s wrist that held the sword, he yanked with all the strength he could muster. The rider didn’t budge.

  The stallion reared and knocked Marc backward. He fell against the counter, smacking his head and cutting his hands on the broken glass. His psychic vision kicked in as he cursed his inability to pull the rider down. He growled when he realized why he couldn’t.

  It wasn’t a rider and its mount, but a single creature. No, even that was wrong. It was a construct. Greater demons could create them out of lesser demons. Marc had made armies of them when he served in Hell. The fact that they were lesser demons made them no less dangerous, and he hadn’t the power to smite them as a whole.

  Mae screamed his name as she was pulled off the floor. Her feet dangled as the rider drew her up, choking her with its whip.

  “Mae!” Marc grabbed a stool in both hands and swung. The first hit the stallion’s front leg, breaking into several pieces as it snapped the limb. The second stool smashed into its rear leg, and a satisfying crunching sound told him it had connected with its knee.

  To destroy a construct meant to take apart its pieces. It fell, rolling to one side. Mae was dragged with it.

  Of course, that was easier said than done. Taking a leg from a broken stool, Marc rammed it down the rider’s neck before yanking the whip out of its grip. With a practiced flick, he unwound it from around Mae and yelled at her to get away.

  Mae scuttled back and into a booth. Her hands fluttered to her bleeding neck. Marc had never seen her scared of anything. She looked younger, fragile. Humans were so easy to break. And he had almost lost her to this infernal construct.