Chapter One
Maxine Parker’s life ended with the sound of a knock on her front door.
Squeak. Clack, clack, clack.
A brass ring in bad need of oiling let out its preemptive squeak before the figure on the other side rapped it against its plate. Not urgently, not impolitely, and with nothing except simple social propriety.
It did not help the sense of dread she felt as she sat on the stairs of her home, gathering the skirts of her long navy dress around herself as she stared at the back of her front door, wondering if she should simply ignore the call of those on the other side. She did not know who was standing there, summoning her to answer, but she could sense one thing from them—death.
Maxine was very good at sensing death. Especially as of late, considering what had befallen Boston. Murder came to the city on the inky wings of the night, summoned by a crimson moon that never wavered and, by some means, defied the motion of the Earth to remain full.
Most of the residents of the city ignored the screams and howls in the darkness, the sounds that belied what hunted its prey was not human. The papers attributed the disappearances and remaining gore to a pack of wolves or coyotes that had taken up residence in the Boston Common and the Public Gardens.
But wolves could not leave a man’s head impaled on the wrought-iron railing of the Granary Burying Ground. But the papers kindly skipped over the details of that particular night. No need to incite a panic. People might run for their lives.
Many had already done exactly that, but many either believed they had no reason to fear or they had nowhere to go. As for her? She fit in neither category. Her excuse for remaining within her walls was far less valid. Or far less sane, at any rate.
It was the whispers she heard in the night’s calls that inspired her to remain. There was an intelligence behind the death, and it was calling to her. She could not understand why, or for what purpose it bade her stay, but she felt compelled.
Spirits whispered often to Maxine, and she always listened. They had successfully guided her through her life up until this point, and she would never refuse their council. She had some part to play in what had befallen her city. She believed in fate without question. Perhaps not that all choices were immutable, but that some were inevitable, like death.
Death came for all, no matter the choices that were made. No matter the circuitous path a mortal might take to escape, all roads must someday cease. And whoever knocked upon her door felt like such things. The end of one journey, and the beginning of another.
Her life, as she knew it, was now over.
Squeak. Clack, clack, clack.
The soul that stood on the other side of her door was still patient and wonderfully polite. That was the first indication that it was not a ravager from the gates of Hell come to rend her asunder. More importantly, it was barely before noon and the sun was out, and therefore that meant those who waited for her—and they were plural, she now realized as she felt three distinct emotions on the other side of her door—were not a pack of the demons that now stalked the night.
But that did not mean they did not her bring danger all the same.
Rubbing her hand over the back of her neck, she shut her eyes and let herself reach out through her mind’s eye instead to focus on those standing on her stoop. Two men and a woman. The older of the two men caught her attention first. He was stern, resolute, dignified, and felt every inch a soldier. The younger man was easily distracted, his emotions flitting from one to another with little hesitation. He was bored and nervous in the same breath. The woman was eager, excited, and anticipated greatly the answering of the door.
Standing from the stairs, she brushed her hands down the folds of her dress and reached for the black silk gloves she always kept tucked into her bodice, even while inside her own home. She slipped them on before heading to the front door to answer it. The gloves were necessary. Immensely so.
Unfortunate as they may be, they were for the benefit of everyone.
Taking a breath, she let it out, steeling herself for what might come. She sensed a magnitude about this moment. This was why the spirits had called her to stay.
My life is about to change.
She was not a psychic in the truest form of the word. She could not see the future. She could only see the present and past—often in rather excruciating detail—and it was easy enough to see the strings of where she stood and predict the next thread that was to fall in the loom.
And a black stitch fell into place in front of her.
Fate was fate. It could not be avoided.
Maxine opened the door.
Upon seeing her, the older man who had been the source of the knocking pulled his hat off, and a young, beautiful blonde woman elbowed the other man beside him. The young man jumped and nearly ripped a wide-brimmed leather hat, a style rarely seen on the east side of the Mississippi, off his head. The over-eager action knocked a hand-rolled cigarette from behind his ear. He scrambled after it, and the woman rolled her eyes.
If death has come to me, it comes in a strange guise.
“Excuse me.” The older man interrupted her thoughts. “Are you Miss Maxine Parker?”
“I am.”
Her opinion of him carrying the air of a soldier was matched by his appearance. He had short, dark hair graying at the temples. Kept in a style that was all function and no form, he was every ounce the utilitarian creature she expected. His eyes were creased at the edges, and she knew it was from worry and not from laughter. He had seen grief. He had seen loss. He knew death, and he knew it well. The children behind him—they looked not much younger than Maxine herself, but they felt more youthful all the same—were marked with their own tragedies, but not nearly to his extent.
She could picture flashes of their memories in her mind’s eye. Bits and pieces of what they carried around with them in their souls. She had to push them away to keep from being overwhelmed. But she saw a trail of blood had led them here to her. They may not mean her harm, but they brought harm all the same.
The older man reached a hand to her. She hesitated for a moment before meeting him, taking a moment to ensure that she still wore her gloves. It was a reflexive action.
“My name is Alfonzo. Alfonzo Van Helsing. And I am hoping we might speak with you.”
***
Walter rose from his bow. He kept his gaze downturned. The sunlight hurt his eyes. It did not trouble his Master, who stood in front of a window, gazing out at the city beyond, pale hands clasped behind his back, his forefinger and thumb rubbing slow circles against each other as he thought.
The elder vampire cast an imposing and stark shadow over the floorboards and across his own shadow, mingling them together into one. Walter may not wish to stare into the sunlight, but he did not worry about it burning him overmuch. It would take significant and direct exposure to harm him, although its presence was hardly enjoyable.
He did not speak. He would wait until his elder addressed him. He knew better than to interrupt his thoughts.
Walter did.
His compatriot did not.
“Why can we not hunt in the streets at night? Your monsters can. It is a travesty and gloriously unfair,” Zadok whined from where he sat, draped on a chaise lounge by the wall, far out of the reach of the sun’s late-morning rays. His feet were up on the back of the wood frame, his head hanging off the portion where his feet were intended to go.
Walter shut his eyes to keep from rolling them.
His Master kept his voice even and devoid of the annoyance Walter was certain was there. “They are allowed a few a night. They are not free to kill with abandon, and I will not command them to starve. You have taken three pets since we have arrived in this city. You are not bereft.”
“One died last night.” Zadok squinted over at the window then covered his eyes with his arm. “I’m down to two.”
“That is your fault. It is no concern of mine.”
“I didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”
“I fail to see how that changes my statement. Make do with your two remaining toys, Zadok, and be happy I allow you that much.” The elder vampire paused. “Walter.”
“Yes, Master?”
“The ghouls are becoming too bold. They killed a man and left his head on a rail the other night. They must take their prey and eat below grounds in the tunnels. Ensure those responsible for the misstep are dismembered and fed to the rest.”
“As you wish, my Lord.”
“Tell Mordecai he is to see that the rest are kept hungry for a week. I will not have them ruining my plans over their insatiable bloodlust.” The elder vampire’s voice was a low rumble and did not need to be loud to be heard. It carried easily in the room, especially to their preternatural ears. “And tell Mordecai to keep his lust leashed as well.”
“I will do my best.” Walter felt his eye twitch. He was not fond of Mordecai. It was nothing personal. They were simply very different men. Attempting to convince the captain of his Master’s demon horde to keep his desires curtailed was quite like attempting to hold back the tide with a teacup.
Mordecai was an incubus, after all. Some things couldn’t be helped.
“Soon, this city will be ours, and those within it will be the same. We will stretch our grasp, and we will etch our new kingdom into this fledgling country. You will all be fed as much as you can desire. But now is the time for patience. We must play the game. One must not spook the flock if one wishes to catch more than one sheep.”
“Yes, Master,” Zadok said through a heavy sigh. The Frenchman did not care to be lectured, yet often found himself in precisely that position of his own accord.
The elder vampire tilted his head to the side slightly, long black hair falling along his shoulders in dark tendrils. “Both of you must stay on your toes. We have unwelcome company in our city. I smell them on the air. Hunters have come.”
Walter felt his eye twitch. “How many?” While he was not overly concerned, any hunters always meant more, and more meant trouble.
The elder vampire paused. “Three.”
“Only three?” Zadok snickered. “Send me after them tonight. I will deliver their heads to you by dawn. I will—”
“One of them is a Helsing.”
Zadok fell silent. Briefly. For as long as Walter suspected the Frenchman was ever capable of staying in such a state. It lasted a whole fifteen seconds, which was a remarkable feat on his part, before it shattered. “Merde.”
The older vampire chuckled and turned to face them, crimson eyes shining even in the dim light of the room. “Walter. One last thing for you, once you are done with the ghouls and Mordecai. This is a delicate matter. I trust you to treat it accordingly.”
He would complain about being sent on so many errands while Zadok had neglected to receive one, but he knew better than to speak his thoughts for two reasons. It would result in little more than having his arm torn from its socket and fed to the creatures who lingered below. And Zadok could not be trusted to fetch the mail, let alone be given a task of any importance.
So, he simply nodded and said nothing. “What is it, my Lord?”
His sire smiled. It was an unkind one. It was the expression of the pleasure of a predator moments before the kill. “The hunters have gone out of their way to meet with a young woman. I will need to find out why. Find me everything you can learn about one Miss Maxine Parker.”
Bowing low again, he folded one arm at his back and the other at his waist. “It shall be done.”
May the gods help you, Miss Parker. For I have seen that look on him before, and it spells your doom.
***
Maxine made tea.
What else was one supposed to do with guests? Manners demanded she serve them tea and cookies. She might have spent the better part of her life living in a Roma caravan, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t first been raised in “civilized’ society and taught all the ways she was meant to act.
Even if she was rather terrible at such things.
Even if she did hate it.
She guessed she hated it precisely because she was terrible at it. People rarely hated things they were good at. Focus, simpleton. She poured her three guests their tea and sat at her spot at the table, filtering her own through the strainer and into her teacup. She took it with a single cube of sugar and nothing else.
The younger man in the leather duster and hat apparently took his with four cubes. She couldn’t imagine it tasted anything like actual Earl Grey by the time he was done. She couldn’t help but smile at him, finding his sweet tooth disgusting and charming at the same time. The young man smiled back. “And you are?” she asked.
“My name is Eddie Jenkin.” His accent was thick and labeled him clearly as somewhere west of Boston. Although being east of Boston and still being American was rather a trick, so she supposed it wasn’t hard.
“And I am Bella Corallo,” chimed the blonde woman. She had a beautiful smile, one full of happiness and life. One that perfectly covered the tragedy Maxine could sense dwelled in her past. She wore it better than the other two. It might even be invisible to the naked eye.
But Maxine’s empathic gifts extended to more than just her ability to read emotions. Flashes of memories came with it. Images of Bella as a young girl, cowering under a bed, weeping. Clutching a ratty stuffed animal to her chest as blood pooled on the ground nearby.
As for Eddie, there was more grief than there was fear. A loss—something taken from him. A small body in his arms. But both flashes of sensation carried one thing in common. Tears.
“What is it?” Alfonzo broke her out of her thoughts. “Are you all right, Miss Parker?”
“Hm? Yes. Sorry.” She shook her head and forced a smile back on her face. “Forgive me. It isn’t often that I am around people with such stories. It is hard not to get lost in the hallways looking at the paintings on the walls.”
“I…don’t think I understood anything you just said,” Eddie muttered. He glanced at Alfonzo as if to ask if she was crazy. She didn’t take it personally. Most people assumed she was. Or they were too afraid to accept what it might mean if she wasn’t.
She shut her eyes. Correction—she tried not to take it personally. It still stung. She opened her eyes again after a moment and knew her smile was now marred with the sadness that always seemed to plague her. “What is it that brings you all here?”
Alfonzo was the one to answer, and she wasn’t surprised. He was clearly their leader. “You were recommended to me by a colleague. He said you are quite talented in your ability to identify artifacts and answer certain…enigmatic questions regarding personal histories and motivations.” He scratched at his stubble with his fingertips. It was obvious he wasn’t a diplomat. He was dancing around the subject with all the grace of a drunken boar.
Maxine laughed at the piss-poor attempt.
“What?”
“I am an empath, Mr. Van Helsing. Is that what you’re implying?”
“I. Uh. Yes.” He blinked, clearly surprised she had come out and said it. She knew he was shocked. One, because she could see it clearly on his face. Two, she could feel it from where she was sitting a few feet away. Emotions traveled in the air around her like the scent of flowers.
“And you wish to request my assistance?”
Alfonzo cleared his throat and nodded. “We can pay you, if that is what you require.”
“It depends on the nature of the work and how long it will take me to complete.” She paused thoughtfully. “And the risks involved.”
The three of them traded glances.
Maxine sighed. “There are risks, then.”
All three of them nodded.
“Well, then,” she leaned back in her chair, “allow me to give you a piece of advice when dealing with someone with my talent. Do not lie to me. I can sense it as easily as I can see the sun. Do not hide things from me, as I will find out in due time. Tell me the full of what it is you wish me to do, and I will tell you if I can help you and whether or not there is a price involved.”
She often took unpaid work to help those who needed someone with her particular gifts. But that was not to say she was a fool, nor was she a pauper. She had learned how to turn her trade into an asset. It had bought her the brownstone she lived in, after all.
“How do we know you’re for real?” Eddie sniffed. “No offense.”
“None taken.” She watched him for a moment and let herself examine the “painting on the wall” a little closer. She let her vision go unfocused as she dug deeper into what she could sense from him. “I can prove it to you, Mr. Jenkin, but I fear it might become personal.”
After a long pause, and likely exchanged looks from the others, the young man reluctantly replied. “That’s…that’s fine.”
“I see you holding a body in your lap. A young girl. Blood stains her dress, her hands…and her mouth. You killed her. But you loved her. It was an act of kindness that made you do what you did.”
She heard a chair screech loudly on the floor as he jumped to his feet. That wasn’t an uncommon reaction to her gift the first time it was witnessed. She let herself come back to the moment and pushed away the rest of the memory. She looked up at Eddie and saw him staring at her wide-eyed in shock.
“You’re—you’re a psychic?”
“Yes, but I cannot read minds. Not like you may think.”
“Then how did you—how—”
“I read souls, Mr. Jenkin. And you carry that moment around with you like it is emblazoned on your sleeve, I’m afraid. It has come to define you.”
Eddie walked away, rubbing his hand over his face and went to stand by the window and gaze through the glass down at the street below.
She felt her heart break for him. The memory she had dredged up was the worst day of his life, and he was now reliving it thanks to her words.
Maxine knew she was an overly sympathetic creature.
Alfonzo reached into a leather satchel he carried with him and pulled out an object wrapped in red cloth. He laid it down in the center of the table, crimson velvet over white lace. He parted the fabric and revealed a small brooch lying in the center of it. She guessed that it had belonged to a man by its design. In the center was a ruby, thick and dark, the color of blood.
Instantly, it made her skin crawl. She felt goosebumps spread out over her arms underneath the sleeves of her dress, even in the warm summer air. When Eddie, Bella, and Alfonzo came to her door, she had known they had carried death with them. She had assumed it had been their own doing. It was not.
It was the doing of whoever had once owned that jewel.
Cold swept over her, and she felt as though something had breathed icy wind down her spine. She shivered and leaned farther back.
“You can sense it already,” Bella said, watching her with a bright-eyed look of awe and curiosity. “It’s true what was said about you. You read from more than just people.”
Maxine greatly disliked that she had a reputation. Reputations meant trouble. But they also meant business. And therefore, they were a necessary evil. “Why have you come to me?”
Alfonzo spoke up. “We need your help to find the creature who owned this.”
Creature. Not “man.” Mark those words. She watched them warily. “And tell me…who was it who once owned this?”
“The one we’ve come here to kill. The one responsible for turning the moon to blood and controlling that which runs the streets.”
No one commands the moon. “I told you not to lie to me. I told you not to withhold information. Already, you haven’t learned.” She shook her head. “Give me an answer, Alfonzo Van Helsing, or our time is over. To whom did this pin belong? Who have you come to Boston to destroy?”
Alfonzo paused before he finally said the words she knew he dreaded to utter. “The King of Vampires. Vlad Tepes Dracula.”