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Carpe Noctem Book Three
Never the Twain Chapter Nine
by Lianne Burwell
January 2002
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For a moment, when Mac woke, he had to fight off a feeling of 
vertigo. The bed he was in was covered with a gingham-print 
comforter in a pastel color that definitely wasn't his style or 
Vic's. There were no windows in the tiny room, and the bed was 
the only piece of furniture, other than the straight-back chair 
that his folded up clothes were sitting on.

His dreams had been disturbed, but he couldn't remember the 
details. He did remember his mother's face looking down at him 
with a proud expression, clapping her hands as he did... 
something. He wasn't sure what. It was after that that the dreams 
turned dark and muddy, full of shouting voices and violent 
crashes.

Mac sat up, stretched, and scratched at his shoulder. It was 
probably just the story Sofia had told him, combined with the 
violent run-in with the mugger. A young gypsy woman, promised to 
a man she wasn't interested in, eloping with a handsome stranger 
she'd just met only to have her family turn their backs on her. 
Like something out of a romance novel. Of course, knowing his 
dad, she'd gotten the short end of the stick.

Nah, that wasn't fair. His dad might have been a conman and a not 
great father, but he'd loved her. He didn't talk about her often, 
but Mac remembered a few times when his dad, tongue loosened by 
liquor, had described her to him. The words he'd used had almost 
glowed, and the tears in his eyes had been genuine. No, his dad 
had loved her dearly. Maybe that was why after she died, he never 
seemed to take anything seriously, least of all his own safety. 
At least the last time his dad had popped into his life, he'd 
regained his zest for life, even if he *had* proved it by 
sleeping with Mac's boss.

Mac glanced at the photo sitting on top of his clothes and 
wondered where his dad was. He'd received a couple postcards, a 
Christmas card, all of them without a return address, since his 
visit to Toronto, but that was it. Maybe the next time they ran 
into each other he'd sit the old man down and have a long, 
serious talk with him. Maybe. Of course, considering there'd been 
an eight year gap between the last two times they'd been 
together, it could be a decade or more before they were in the 
same room again.

Carefully setting the picture aside, Mac got dressed. The clothes 
were wrinkled, and in a few places there were stains that that he 
shied away from examining too closely knowing exactly what had 
made the rust-colored spots. Finally as presentable as he was 
going to get, he left the room.

The tiny guest room he'd slept in was in the basement of the old 
house, damp, but reasonably comfortable. It made him wonder just 
how much contact Sofia had with the world of the Kindred, since 
not many people put a spare room in the basement. The stair 
creaked loudly underfoot as he headed up to the kitchen, giving 
the woman plenty of warning that he was on his way up.

He found Sofia sitting in the kitchen, sipping on yet another mug 
of tea. Outside the window he could see the fading red glow of 
the sunset. The weather still hadn't broken, and the heat was 
oppressive. The hair of Sofia's bangs were plastered to her 
forehead with sweat, and he wondered why she insisted on drinking 
hot tea instead of something cooler. He also wondered why she 
didn't invest in an air conditioner, but that was a different 
matter.

"Good evening," she said, smiling over the rim of her mug. 
"There's a package of blood in the refrigerator. Help yourself."

Turning, Mac pulled open the door of the bright yellow appliance. 
The baggie was right in one of the door shelves. He pulled it out 
and sniffed it. It was hard to tell through the plastic, but it 
smelled okay. It also smelled human. He raised an eyebrow.

"Mugs are in the upper cabinet behind you. If you prefer it warm, 
the microwave is over there," she said with a wave.

He followed her directions and pulled out a mug stained by years 
of use. A nip with his teeth punctured the baggie and he poured 
it into the mug. He decided to forego the microwave though.

Out of the plastic, the blood smelled better than good. "I must 
say, this is the best stocked kitchen I've ever come across," he 
said lightly, sitting down.

"Not exactly," she said, the corner of her mouth quirking up, not 
missing the implied question. "But I have very good contacts, so 
I arranged to get you some breakfast while you were asleep."

"Thank you."

He sipped in silence, after discretely checking to make sure that 
the blood hadn't been drugged or otherwise tampered with. If it 
had been, it was too discretely done for him to notice. Then a 
thought occurred to him. "Did your checking cost you anything? I 
mean, I can pay you for your time..." She waved him off.

"All it cost me was a little time. Do not worry. Besides, it is 
always good to be on a Prince's good side. By helping you, I do 
that."

Mac's eyes narrowed. "Princes don't like Ravnos," he pointed out, 
something he'd heard more than once. As well, he knew he'd never 
mentioned being associated with the Prince of the city.

"Unless they work for her," Sofia said, but didn't seem inclined 
to explain just how she knew that. The hairs on this back of his 
neck were starting to prickle. He set the mug down.

"Well, in that case, I really should be going," he said, standing 
up, trying not to look as nervous as he suddenly was.

Sofia's dark eyes seemed to be laughing. "If you insist," she 
said, standing up as well. "But before you go, there's one last 
thing..."

Her hand darted out too fast for him to duck, and she had his 
pendant -- draba, she'd called it -- held tightly in her fist. 
Mac shifted slightly, fangs dropping and a low growl in the back 
of his throat, but she didn't try to yank it away from him. 
Instead, she closed her eyes and started chanting softly in a 
language that was vaguely familiar, even though he didn't 
understand a word.

For a moment her hands seemed to glow. Then a shock ran up the 
leather cord holding the pendant around his neck, rocking him 
backwards, almost knocking him off his feet.

Almost as quickly as she'd grabbed him, Sofia let go and he 
staggered back a couple steps until he ran into the counter. The 
pendant fell back against his chest and he hissed. It felt almost 
burning hot, even through his clothes. Luckily, that quickly 
faded, and he tucked it back inside his shirt almost protectively 
once he thought it was safe to touch. "What the hell was *that*?" 
he spat.

"You need to know what that can do, but it is too drained by time 
and disuse. I simply... recharged it, so to speak."

She looked a little drained herself. Her skin was pale and there 
was a faint sheen of sweat on her face, although that was 
probably the heat. Still, Mac kept his distance. He wasn't sure 
just how far he trusted her anymore. She knew too much, about him 
and about his boss.

After a moment, Sofia seemed to be recovering, and she turned 
away from him. "I'm expecting visitors in a little bit. You're 
welcome to stay--"

"No thanks," he said quickly. "I need to get going anyway. But 
thanks for the information."

She nodded. "If I learn anything more, I'll call you."

"Right."

Mac quickly drained the mug, then rinsed it out and set it on the 
drying rack. All of the sudden, he couldn't wait to get out of 
there, but it didn't hurt to be polite. As soon as he was done, 
though, he headed for the door. Sofia accompanied him, but 
stopped at the door. "Watch to see what the draba does, now that 
it has new power. Call me if you have any questions."

"Yeah, right." Mac waved and headed down the street at a brisk 
walk. There was a corner store at the end of the street where he 
could call for a cab. He could have done that at the house, but 
he was feeling increasingly uneasy. Something was wrong.

He had just reached the parking lot of the convenience store and 
was flipping through the phone book hanging from the pay phone 
there to find the number for a cab company when his cell phone 
rang. He let the phone book drop and pulled it out. "Ramsey."

"Mac, where are you? We've got another one."

>>>~~~<<<

The sun went down and Jackie woke in slow stages. For a while, 
she wasn't even sure just where she was, although she quickly 
realized that she was home, in her own bed. She shifted over onto 
her side, and groaned as severely strained and well-used muscles 
made themselves felt.

That was enough of a surprise to make her eyes fly open. She 
couldn't remember ever being this sore before, even before her 
change. Not even this sort of sore.

Even with Kindred healing, every part of her body was making 
itself felt, but especially the area between her legs. Shifting 
again, she heard something roll off the bed and hit the floor, 
and she had a pretty good idea what it was. Now she remembered 
the encounter with LiAnn. She also remembered coming back to her 
apartment with the woman, even though LiAnn had refused to answer 
any of the questions she'd managed to ask before they'd ended up 
in bed. Then LiAnn had uncovered Jackie's not so little box of 
toys, and after that she hadn't had the opportunity to do more 
than scream.

Jackie rolled onto her back and stretched, no longer caring about 
the aches and pains, a big smile on her face. Oh yeah, she'd 
screamed all right. Especially after LiAnn had taken that strap-
on and used it in every possible way, including a few that Jackie 
had never heard of before. She'd screamed, and she didn't care 
who might have heard her. She assumed that the item she'd just 
heard hit the floor was that well used piece of equipment.

She sat up in bed gingerly and looked around. She was alone in 
the room. "LiAnn?" she called out. Silence answered her.

The feeling of sated satisfaction was starting to fade, replaced 
by a sinking feeling. She left the bedroom to check the rest of 
the apartment, and wasn't really surprised to find herself alone 
in the place. She almost might have thought that she'd imagined 
everything if it weren't for the well-used feeling.

In the living room she found a piece of paper addressed to her, 
folded into precise quarters, sitting at the exact center of her 
glass coffee table. The paper looked like it was handmade, a 
mottled green in color, and she could swear that the ink had been 
applied with a brush. She wondered where LiAnn had found the 
materials for it, since there was no way that she'd hidden a 
stationary set in the outfit she'd been wearing.

She picked it up and unfolded it. Down one side of the sheet were 
delicately drawn Chinese characters. She had no idea what they 
meant. She could always ask Mac for a translation, but she wasn't 
sure about that. Not yet.

The rest of it was, thankfully, in English.

"You really should be more careful. You never know what you're 
inviting in. I'll see you again, when you least expect it." There 
was no signature.

Jackie was frowning at the note when the phone rang. Still 
running her thumb over the rough texture of the paper, trying to 
identify what it was made of, she picked up the phone. "Jackie," 
she said, sniffing the paper. There seemed to be some sort of 
perfume on it, but she couldn't identify it. Not quite floral. 
Definitely exotic.

"What the hell is going on?"

The words, nearly shouted in her ear, made her drop the paper. 
"Dobrinsky?"

"The security system in your apartment isn't responding, you 
haven't been answering your phone, and an operative with a key 
couldn't get your door open. What the hell have you been doing?"

Jackie recovered the note and set it down next to the phone, 
shaken. "I don't know. I just woke up."

"Nearly two hours after sunset?"

Jackie twisted to see the clock in the kitchen only to find that 
the man was right. It *was* well past sunset. "I... I don't know 
what happened," she stammered.

"Well, get your ass downtown. We've got another one."

>>>~~~<<<

Vic pulled up to the curb about three blocks from the crime 
scene. He would have preferred closer, but he also didn't want to 
attract undue notice. "Ready?" he asked Mac.

Mac finished tucking his shirt tails into his pants. He'd asked 
Vic to bring him a change of clothes when he picked him up, and 
had proved himself amazingly flexible by changing in the car 
while Vic was driving without attracting more than the occasional 
second glance from people passing by. Of course, it helped that 
his new car had tinted windows that kept anyone from getting a 
good look in.

Mac hadn't said why he needed a change of clothes, though. The 
wrinkles were expected, since he'd been wearing them for more 
than a day, but there were a few stains that made Vic's nose 
twitch.

There was also something else hanging around the man, something 
electric. The air around nearly crackled with it. Whatever it 
was, it actually seemed to be interfering with the radio, 
resulting in only static. Vic had finally given up, shutting it 
off.

"So, what do we know?" Mac asked.

"Not much. The kid, Khalil Armen, was a student at U of T taking 
evening classes during the summer. He's been ditching classes 
lately. According to what his friends told the police, they 
haven't seen much of him lately. Apparently he went gaga over 
some girl. Was even writing poetry about her."

Mac nodded. "The arts link. Do we know anything about the girl?"

Vic snorted in disgust. "Not really. The cops didn't bother 
getting a description. The friends never met her, didn't know her 
name, so they didn't bother asking any further."

Mac rolled his eyes. "Even I would know enough to ask them if 
he'd described the girl to them."

"Yeah, but would you really consider a girl to be a suspect if 
you were a cop?" Vic had to point out.

"Of course not. But what if he was with her before he got killed? 
She might be a witness. She might be a potential victim."

"That would have been my take, but not everyone thinks that way," 
Vic said. What he didn't say was that he wasn't surprised by the 
lapse. Even back when he'd been a cop, he hadn't exactly been the 
standard.

They headed down the block to the main strip. It was only an hour 
past sunset, a faint glow still in the western sky, but the neon 
lights were flashing and the music was blaring. He did notice, 
though, that the people -- mostly in their late teens and early 
twenties -- were walking in even larger groups than before. He 
also noticed several cops moving along the sidewalks, but he 
ignored them.

The alley where the body had been found was a little way from the 
main strip. It was still blocked with yellow crime-scene tape. He 
could have jumped it easily, but the chances of being notices 
were too high. Instead, they stopped at the mouth of the alley 
and looked.

Mac's nose was wrinkling. They could both smell the slightly 
rancid tang of dried blood and fear, and underneath it, something 
else. Something... Vic shook his head. For a moment he smelled 
something dead. Long dead. But not quite dead. Something 
definitely not human.

"Let's go," he told Mac, heading back towards the strip and the 
clubs.

The police report that the Agency had accessed said that the 
YooHoo! was the last place Khalil had been seen. They had to pay 
a cover charge to get it. Once inside, they made their way to the 
bar. At a club, the people who were going to know everything were 
the bouncers and the bartenders. The bar was going to be the best 
place to start.

Vic waved over the bartender and ordered them a couple a drinks 
that they probably wouldn't taste. When the kid -- he looked 
barely old enough to drink the liquor he served -- brought them 
over, Vic showed him his PI license. The kid didn't look 
impressed.

"You know anything about the kid killed last night?" Vic yelled 
over the din of the music. Next to him, Mac was restraining 
himself. Mac loved to dance. Vic wasn't about to tell him, 
though, that he was a pretty lousy dancer. Whatever made him 
happy.

"I don't talk to anyone but the police," the kid said, his jaw 
sticking out belligerently.

"I just want to..." The kid turned his back on him.

"Any ideas?" Mac said.

"Maybe a bouncer."

Mac snorted. "They're probably all under orders not to talk to 
anyone."

"Maybe, but we better try."

Unfortunately, the bouncer wasn't any more help. Vic was starting 
to get frustrated. Finally, he headed for the back hall where the 
bathrooms were. There, he called Dobrinsky.

"You got anything yet, Sport?" were the first words out of 
Dobrinsky's mouth.

"Hello to you too. Nothing yet. We're being stonewalled. I don't 
suppose the Director has anything to do with a club called the 
YooHoo?" He winced as he spoke. It was probably the stupidest 
name he'd ever heard for a club.

"As a matter of fact, yes. The owner is Kindred. Give me a couple 
minutes, and I'll see what I can do."

The line went dead, and Vic put the phone away, making a note to 
recharge it as soon as he got the chance. It was getting a little 
low. "Kindred owner," he told Mac who was waiting with a curious 
expression.

Mac blinked. "That's convenient. I wonder how many other clubs 
are connected like that."

Vic glanced around. The killings might have thinned the crowds, 
but there were still plenty ready to go out and party. Night 
clubs were prime hunting grounds. "Probably quite a few," he said 
as an over-ripe young woman winked at him. If he'd been inclined, 
he could have had her in the back alley, his fangs in her neck, 
before she realized she was in trouble. No wonder a Kindred would 
own a place like this.

They made their way back out to the bar where the bartender 
continued to ignore them. After a few minutes, a well-dressed 
man, his bearing almost screaming 'not human,' emerged from a 
back office and held a quite conversation with the kid, nodding 
towards Vic and Mac. After he left again, the kid came over, a 
sour expression on his face. "What do you want to know?" he asked 
grudgingly.

"Khalil Armen was in here last night."

The kid rolled his eyes. "Yes, he was."

"Was he with anyone?"

"Hell, no. He's been making a nuisance of himself the last week, 
in every few nights, looking for some girl."

"Who was she?"

The kid shrugged. "Hell if I know. Some chick he met, fucked, 
then couldn't find again."

"Did he describe her?" Vic asked, feeling a little exasperated.

"Tall, oriental, knock-out. Like I'd recognize her from that."

Vic thought about it for a moment, then pulled a picture of LiAnn 
out of his pocket. "So she might look like this?"

The kid glanced at the picture, and his eyebrows went up. "Maybe. 
If it is her, he's not the only one looking for her."

That caught him off-guard, and he exchanged glances with Mac. 
"Really? Who else is looking for her?"

"Some girl. Short, blonde, really stacked. Talked like an 
airhead, but who cares when she looks like that?"

Vic's eyes narrowed. "Thanks," he said, and slid over a twenty. 
The kid sneered, but he made the bill disappear quickly.

They made their way out of the place quickly. Vic's ears were 
ringing, and it felt like he was listening to the world through a 
cotton plug, but the feeling quickly faded. "So," he said to Mac. 
"We can tentatively connect the new victim to LiAnn or a look-
alike."

"And Jackie's looking for her too."

"Right." Vic pulled out his cell, but the battery light was 
flashing. "Shit. Can I borrow your phone?"

"Sure." Mac pulled his out of his pant pocket and handed it over.

Vic dialed Jackie's number from memory. It rang three times, then 
was picked up. "Hello?" Jackie sounded unusually tentative.

"It's Vic. We need to talk."

"Ah, I..."

"Now, Jackie. About LiAnn."

"All right," she said, sounding resigned. "We probably should do 
it in person. Where do you want me to meet you?"

END CHAPTER NINE