Page 35 of The Vampire's Thirst
Running was tiresome. Being on alert 24-7 was tiresome. Being alone, for the most part, was tiresome. Sure, he occasionally shagged a female. Mostly pros. He was a wham-banger. No time for soft words and gentle ways.Nope. Go deep and head home.
Just once, Miller would like to spend the night with a woman in his arms, maybe one who’d ask about his day.
“How was your day, babe?” “Not so bad, luv. I escaped these Aeternals chasing me. How was yours?”
Enough with the sob story. Haul ass.
From the last rooftop, he charged into the stairwell and exited at street level. The late-nighters crowded the area. He counted on hidingin the foot traffic. Taking off his jacket, Miller turned it inside out. Now instead of plaid, it was black. He took a New York Yankees cap out of a pocket and slammed it onto his head, pulling the bill over his eyes.
In front of his destination, Miller risked a brief backward glance, seeing no one unexpected.
The ex-Royal Marines commando and ex-MI6 operative opened a wide door into Grand Central Station. At this time of day, it wasn’t busy. He’d have preferred crowded work traffic. But…
Studying the marquee, he found the next train out of the city. If he hustled, he could catch the Northbound to Poughkeepsie. Wherever the hell that was. It wasn’t here. So that was good.
Ticket in hand, Miller jogged toward the platform. As he arrived, the train was loading. He took a window seat in the nearest car so that he could see who came along the walkway.
Pulling the cap tight over his eyes, he covered his jaw with his hand as he stared at the passing people. All looked good.
No supes chasing him. How did they keep finding him? He’d moved on each time, burying his tracks. Changed identification. Laid low.
After a while, the knobhead with fangs would show. The guy was also the same bloke who tried to jack him off the street nearly a year ago and had bitten into his neck. That’s when Miller became serious about running. He might as well be starring in a remake ofButch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “Who are those guys?” But he knew who they were.
Miller was the lead tracker forCustodes Templii, the ancient group responsible for the offspring of the creators of the three realms. As such he was aware of Scath, Aeternals, and the descendants of the Blood Coven.
Fifteen hundred years ago after the Karmic Schism, the Cambion from Wales insisted the Blood Coven stay behind on Earth with their families rather than relocate to Scath with their own breed. He ordered them to scatter and hide.
Soon after, fearing a time of danger would come, the Cambion foundedCustodes Templii.Twelve trackers were chosen from the descendants of the original coven to monitor their own bloodlines, documenting births, deaths, moves, and oddities. Since the powerful mage had no offspring, no one covered his line. It dead-ended with him.
That time was now. Cerberus, identity unknown, was snatching coven descendants from Earth.
As the train chugged out of the station, no strange men hurried along the platform. Safe for now. He was certain no one was tracing him throughCustodes Templii. His contacts changed out burners all the time. So what was happening?
Maybe he’d question his new best friends. Braelyn and her hulking Aeternal mate.
****
Thestranger strode out the back door of Fang’s, exiting into an alley ripe with the stench of lost dreams, waste, stale food, and booze. Degenerate Aeternals lined up in front of a shifter, exchanging cash for packets containing amber-colored dust.
Shoving to the front, the visitor new to Covenkirk said, “Karth, my man. I hear you’re the male with the Gold Dust.”
“Yeah? Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Roark. I’m buying.” He held out rumpled bills and shuffled from foot to foot, anxious.
Karth eyed him. Then he dug into his pocket. “Here. First one’s free. If you like it, come back for more.”
Roark’s hand shook as he snatched the fix and shoved the money back into a pocket. “I need something to take the edge off. Ya know?”
“Don’t we all.” Karth turned his attention to the others in line.
Back inside the bar, Roark ambled over to the nearest crapper. Inside a stall, he took out a paper, ran a line of homegrown, and sprinkled Karth’s shit on top. Rolling it tight, he twisted the ends and lit up.
Taking a long, deep drag, he let his head roll back on the metal door and waited.
Yeah. There it was. The buzz.Damn, that’s good.
He took a second hit. Then another and another.
