Marjorie M. Liu - A Taste of Crimson

They are dirty beasts, but that is the way of it. We will throw the dogs a bone, Michael. Throw them a bone, and watch them lick our fingers.

Throw them a bone, Michael murmured. He pressed his tongue against fang, tasted sweet blood. Far below him, at street level, the vampire envoys floated single file down the narrow alley, winding around Dumpsters and rusting cars. Night, a cool breeze, the scent of rain, wet-concrete shining with reflected light from apartment windowsthe vampires were shadows passing over slick grit and filth.

Michael scanned the path ahead of them. He sensed no movement, no scent of human or steel. Nothing of the mechs, the mechanically enhanced humans of whom the city had so recently become aware. Nothing, even, of the wolves.

They are dirty beasts . Celestines words still whispered in his mind, her dry-silk voice soft, damning. Michael watched the top of her head, third in line behind Frederick: the envoys leader and Dumonts hand-chosen negotiator.

Celestines pale hairless scalp stood out in stark contrast to her black belted robes. Michael imagined dropping on her, dislodging vertebrae with quick fingers, immobilizing her just long enough to keep her from the negotiations with the wolves. She was a bad choice for these talkstalks that had to succeed. Michael was not a man to admit weakness, but he could eat his pride this once. The humans had proven themselves strong in their first covert offensive against the vampires, and though it had been thwarted and the man who had ordered the assassinations was dead, other enemies existed. The promise was still there, the taste of violence.

The humans know we are vulnerable, soft in our luxury and unprepared for a hard fight. Worse yet, we have proven to them that we are aware of their existence. Now they have nothing to lose. They know we will come for them.

Michael had been alive long enough to know the dangers of calculated desperation. The danger to them all would be greater than ever, and despite his mixed feelings toward his own kind, the species had to be protected at any cost.

Even if it meant an alliance with the wolves.

I would have been a better choice as an envoy , Michael thought, and almost laughedjust as Frederick had laughed outright when Michael had challenged his part of this assignment.

So, now you wish to rejoin our kind? The outsider, reclaimed? A joke, Michael. You are the Vendix, the punisher, and that is all you are good for. You are not a diplomat. You do not do well with words or tact. Simply do what is expected of you. Hunt. Watch our backs from above. Keep us safe from traps.

Be a thug. Muscle. A hired sword.

Bitterness bloomed inside Michaels mouth, down his throat and into his chest. The horrors of his past, the crimes he had committedthree hundred years later he still paid. He would always pay. It might be that redemption was something he would never be allowed to find. His role in society had been burned on his body for eternity-Michael gripped the ledge he crouched upon, then jumped. An embracewind cushioned his body, sheathed him tight. He floated, toes pointing downward, arms ioose at his sides. Black hair fell over his eyes; he pushed it aside, brushing metal. The gold filaments laced into his thin braids felt cooler than his skin.

He flew above and ahead of the envoys, scanning the shadows. Nothing at first, just the stillness of deep night. A rare quiet for the heart of the city, without the crush of traffic and quick-paced bodies. Perfect and lovely. This was the city Michael loved best, full of peaceful solitude. It was the kind of city to get lost in, without eyes to judge or pry.

For a moment, he thought he heard singing, faraway lilting, a mans voice rimmed with shadow. Michael thought, That does not sound human and then he stopped listening to the music, because less than twenty yards ahead of the envoys something large moved.

Wolf.

Michael sank swiftly, noting from the corner of his eye Fredericks slowed movement, light flickering off the lead envoys rings. Silk flared around Michaels legs as he alighted on the ground; he brought back his right hand, brushing the hilt of his sword, and looked deep into the gloom.

Hello, he said quietly.

He saw sleek fur, wiry legs. Golden eyes and glittering teeth. A low growl rumbled like thunder in the night air.

Michael did not respond. He waited, patient, aware of the envoys behind him, the heavy weight of their stares. He sensed their impatience. Irritation. Immortals, in a hurry. The irony was not lost on Michael, but it was trou-bling: a sign of nervousness that the missionand Frederick, as its headcould ill afford. The wolves would smell weakness.

Bones crackled. The wolfs jaw shifted, receded. Fur smoothed into naked skin. Muscles rippled in forelegs, expanding, elongating; paws became sinewy, masculine hands. Michael did not avert his eyes. Vampire and werewolf locked gazesbrown to goldenuntil, at the very last, when the animal had become man and there was nothing left but sweat and burning eyes, a hoarse note emerged from the werewolfs throat and became, Hello.

We are expected, Michael said.

The werewolfs spine popped. He was tall, with pale broad shoulders. A faint scar ran up his left cheek. Silver dusted his hair, although he had a relatively young face.

The Grand Dame Alpha is waiting. Im supposed to lead you underground. His distaste was evident, profound.

Michael felt breath on the back of his neck. Frederick said, We are ready.

Michael twisted sideways, stepping close to the alley wall. The werewolf frowned as Frederick passed between them, followed closely By the rest of the envoys. The vampires each floated at least six inches off the ground, giving them a secure advantage in height. Michael heard the werewolf mutter obscenities, his feet slapping hard against the pavement as he loped ahead.

Michael watched the faces of every vampire who passed, noting their focused indifference with amused detachment. The only one who met his eyes was Celes-tine, and her dark gaze was sly, smug. Her thin red lips tugged upwards, and then she was gone, gliding past him down the alley. The record-keeper followed, and then the seven guards, their long embroidered robes con-cealing more weapons than they revealed, most of which were modernhandguns, stun rods, small explosives.

Quaint. Not very elegant.

Michael fell into a floating step behind the last guard. He sensed a tremor run through the vampires body, and smiled grimly. Psychopath, assassin, murderer, executionerall of these were names other vampires had given Michael. All of these were names for their fear.

He almost touched his cheek, caught himself before he could show that sliver of weakness. The tattoo hurt. Centuries old, and still it pained him. Ink laced with gold did not heal properly, even in vampire flesh, and it would never fade or be absorbed by his body. He was marked, forever. Vendix. Punisher. Condemned to be alone.

Michael drew back, drifting higher, following the envoys at a discreet distance. No more werewolves revealed themselves. He watched as the envoys were led to a wide sewer grate. The werewolf guide leapt over the rusty steel bars and in one fluid motion swept down to yank them open. The hinges were surprisingly quiet; Michael heard only a faint squeak.

A voice rose up from the darkness of undergroundhollow as a tunnel, brittle with well-worn age, feminine in a way that might have once been lovely but was now only wise.