Mercy of These Bones

PrologueWarsaw, Poland November 2007 The night pulsed around him. The throb of blood rushing through slim, delicate veins filled the buildings Mathias flew past. Traffic on neighboring streets made the earth rumble beneath his feet, and the slivers of light from windows, from streetlamps, from corners of humanity too much of a blur for him to concentrate upon danced at the corners of his eyes. The city writhed with tantalizing life, but all of it was lost to any indulgence he might take right then. All he was able to focus upon was eluding the wolves at his heels. They pursued with a relentless tenacity that had belied their innocent demeanors back at the club. Bored beyond belief, Mathias had approached the small brunette in their midst to ask for a dance, but when he’d pulled her outside afterward for a late night sip, her three friends had been waiting. With weapons. Brass knuckles. Switchblades. Stakes. If he hadn’t been alone, he would have stayed and fought. Hell, if he’d had a few more drinks in him or had fed since the previous night, he would have stayed. But getting jumped in the dark with his hard c**k in a hot fist and his fangs in mid-bite didn’t encourage the notion of a back alley brawl. Especially when one of the stakes came dangerously close to actually connecting with his back. So he ran. Through Warsaw’s winding streets. Past neighborhoods he was only lately becoming acquainted with. He expected to lose them after a few blocks; they were only human, after all. But he didn’t. Their footsteps remained steady and sure, pounding in pursuit. Even when he quickened his pace, they simply did the same, and Mathias pushed his body further, wishing he’d thought to feed before resorting to satisfying his boredom. Except why should he? Feeding and f*****g went hand in hand, and he was never more content than when he was on the prowl. He’d had no reason to think tonight would be any different. When you could pretty much live forever if you so chose, the days had a tendency to smear into a mishmash of the same over and over again. Like a kid’s finger-painting. Lots of broad strokes that all looked the same. He should have known better. A few years earlier, before Moscow, he probably would have. Of course, a few years earlier, it would’ve been unlikely for him not to have someone watching his back. Behind him, Mathias heard them getting closer. He didn’t know how far he’d run or even where the bloody hell he was, but he knew that he couldn’t keep up this bruising pace indefinitely. He had to choose. Either stop and risk a fight or lose them once and for all. He opted for the latter. He preferred fights he could win. Buildings had thinned around him, leaving him few options for hiding. Though it was a risk, Mathias deliberately slowed down in an attempt to gain his bearings, and when he spotted the theater tucked into a dark corner, he nearly grinned in relief. He knew the theater like the back of his hand, courtesy of long hours spent there with Tati. It held corners of privacy his pursuers would never find, dark spots made intimate with the trappings of its so-called art. It was the perfect escape. He swerved into the side alley, racing along the smooth wall to the rear of the building. There, he bypassed the double doors that led backstage, and instead leapt into the air to grab the sill of the window in the second story costume shop. The humans wouldn’t be able to follow him with this route, he reasoned. If they determined which building he’d used to hide in, they would be forced to enter through the ground level, which would give him ample time to evade their chase. The window was unlocked, as Mathias had known it would be, and he slipped into the comforting darkness with a ghostly grace. His landing was silent, only the creak of the glass within its wooden frame betraying any sound at all, and he closed it with every sense he had sharpened, listening for hints that he would be followed. Nothing came. Only Warsaw’s whispers reached his temporary haven. The room was cooler than he’d anticipated, devoid of the usual lingering signs of the theater’s bustle, but it was still considerably warmer than the winter air outside. Backing away from the window, Mathias sniffed as the scent of sewing machine oil and make-up prickled his nose, obscuring any other revenants that might have haunted the walls. Everything always felt keener when he was hungry. As soon as he was free of this hunt, he would find somewhere to feed without fear of being caught out. He needed fuel to refresh his strength after such a punishing run. A floorboard creaked beneath his weight when he moved beyond the costume shop. In spite of the life that existed outside the walls, the theater sat in expectation of its next production, holding its breath while it waited for new actors and young blood to return and draw fresh audiences. Mathias stole through the corridors, searching out his favorite place in the venue, and emerged onto the end aisle of the dress circle. His mouth slanted as he glanced downward at the maw of the abandoned stage, and his fingers trailed along the velvet seats he walked past. So much good had come to him because of the theater. Even now, his mind’s eye automatically bathed the stage in light. He heard the whisk too late. Pain lanced through his shoulder, and Mathias whipped his head around, his fangs already descended, his eyes gleaming silver in the darkness as he hissed at whatever had plunged the stake into his back. The figure that had struck retreated into the shadows, affording him precious seconds to reach around and grasp the edge of wood protruding between his shoulder blades. It came out with a squelch, but he barely had time to toss the bloody stake away before another shade separated from the darkness. He blocked this attack, lashing out with his other arm to send his assailant flying over the railing. There was no time to see if the man survived before the first returned, blocking the exit back into the bowels of the theater, and Mathias whirled on his heel to race up the aisle. It wasn’t until he was on the upper balcony that he realized he’d never heard a single heartbeat. “Shame on you, Mathias…” The soft soprano was the last thing he expected. Turning toward her voice, something hard caught the side of his face, shattering against his cheekbone. Immediately, his skin began to sizzle, and Mathias clawed at the burn, growling in pain as his fingers came away wet. Holy water. Bloody hell. It was already starting to sear when he wiped his hand off on his jeans. Though he was still vamped out, his vision was blurred, the pain excruciating. He rubbed as much of the water off his face as possible with his shirt sleeve, but his mind whirled more from fathoming why it was happening than the agony of it. The sole warning he got of the next attack was the click of a trigger being depressed. Everything tunneled down to the arrow embedded in his chest. There was no doubt she’d been aiming for his heart; only her consistently bad aim had saved him. But just because he wasn’t incinerating to ash didn’t mean the wound didn’t hurt like hell. The shaft was sticky with seeping blood as he pulled it out, scraping against his ribs each inch of the way. Though biting the inside of his cheek kept him from screaming in pain, Mathias still backed away when Tatiana appeared out of the darkness, a pale wraith against the rich tapestry of the wall. She carried a crossbow ready in her arms, and her pale blue eyes gleamed even without her vampiric visage. “You’re so predictable,” she said. Her mouth curled into a sneer, and the icy beauty that he’d loved for the past four years assumed a brittle quality. “I knew you would come here. I just had to get you close enough.” The railing of the balcony pressed into his thigh. “Very funny, Tati,” he snarled. “Care to tell me what the soddin’ hell you’re doing?” One thin brow arched upward. “Am I not being obvious enough? My mistake.” Dodging her second shot would have been a lot easier without two bleeding holes in his upper body, but Mathias managed to twist away anyway, his gaze never leaving Tati’s face. “What’s this about?” he tried again. “If I’m being cuffed for something you think I did, the least you can do is give me a chance to explain.” Personally, he couldn’t think of a thing that might have driven Tati this far. He’d worshiped her ever since he’d first laid eyes on her, dancing in a forgettable program in a tiny hole-in-the-wall theater in Moscow. He’d followed her from show to show, wined and dined her. He’d turned his life upside down for her, siring her when death threatened to tear her away from him, abandoning everyone and everything he knew in favor of being at her side. He would do anything for her, had done anything for her. It made little sense for her to turn on him like this. Tati shrugged, a nonchalant roll of her narrow shoulders that didn’t budge the weapon in her arms. “There’s nothing to explain. Let’s just say…I’m bored.” Reaching for another arrow, she smiled, though it left his heart cold. “Tonight’s been the most fun I’ve had in ages.” A flicker behind her revealed one of his assailants from the dress circle, and Mathias had little doubt that the humans who’d chased him—and what was Tati doing recruiting humans anyway?—would be waiting nearby. Bleeding as he was, there was no way he would survive a full-on assault. Unseen, he curled his hand around the railing, bracing his weight. “Boredom hasn’t improved your aim,” he commented, deliberately adopting a casual tone. “But then again, you were always a better lay than a vampire.” His blunt words took her by surprise, her eyes narrowing in anger. But that moment of hesitation where she processed the emotion was all Mathias needed. And wanted. Tati’s frustrated scream rang throughout the darkened theater when he vaulted over the railing. * * * * She stared at Ignacy in disbelief. “What do you mean, you can’t find him? Is there ash? Blood?” The burly man took a step away, the stake he clutched tight in his meaty grip lifting into a defensive position. “Lew and Bazyli are still searching, Miss Kirsanova. He was hurt too badly to have gone far.” Tatiana knew that; the scent of Mathias’ blood still coated the air. But she knew something the Poles she’d hired to help her didn’t. She knew how tenacious Mathias could be, given the proper circumstances. And she knew how angry her betrayal would make him. She also knew that if anybody learned he wasn’t ash, she would never survive the week. She let her mouth relax into a smile, tossing the crossbow aside as if done with it. “You’re right, you’re right. I worry too much. I know this.” Tatiana waved an elegant hand to shoo him away. “Go help the others. I’ll wait here for your report.” Ignacy’s exhalation whispered across her cool skin. Though his anxiety was still a tangible beast coiled inside his belly, he was not as tense as he’d been when he’d arrived to tell her the less than good news, and he turned away from her with his hand already slackening around the stake. Tatiana flew forward, fingers curled into claws to sink into Ignacy’s shoulders. Her fangs were next, and she fought her distaste when his acrid blood gushed down her throat. So she sucked hard, and she sucked fast, and as soon as she felt his pulse flutter against her tongue, she shoved him as hard as she could, sending him crashing through the railing to the seats below. She spat the residual blood in her mouth to the floor. She would wait outside for Lew and Bazyli to return. Whether they returned with good news or naught, she would get rid of them the same way. There would be no witnesses. One down. One to go.