Byron

  Things got easy, and Byron was almost convinced they’d stay that way. He’d settled into a pleasant schedule. Wake up, kiss Rory and make breakfast—which sometimes would lead to something a little more stimulating than coffee. Afterwards, she’d be off to work at the clinic and he’d go onto his own job.

  His personal occupation was as the liaison to the vampires. A position, the spiritual leader of Alma, known as the Catherine, nominated him for. It had been the best fit, a living man who, up till a year ago, had been a vampire himself. Until an old crone named Mara lifted the curse for an unknown price.

  The hardest part of his job was finding the brood. Maybe it was habit, but they didn’t care to haunt an area too long. Most times, he’d find a few taking refuge in an ancient underground lair from back when his maker, Galena, was still around. The cave-like environs contained hand-dug tunnels leading around the camp of refugees outside Alma’s walls. Along with crude listening devices that functioned similarly to the tin can and string contraption he’d decked out his tree-house with as a boy. The vampires built the hideout as a Plan B, assuming Galena’s protection deal failed with the colony’s first Catherine.

  His night vision not what it used to be; he didn’t care much for going in the lair alone. “But it’s a necessary evil,” he muttered. With a scattering of curse words whispered under his breath, he lifted the fake rock that served as a door and crept inside.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he glimpsed a few shapes stirring. A woman’s voice called, “It’s just Byron. Calm down.” A torch was lit and its flicker hit the bright copper hair of one named Molly. She asked, “Can you see?”

  He nodded. “What’s the news?”

  “Rumors abound,” she replied, and smoothed an errant lock behind an ear. “We’ve heard echoes of a Daughter called Grace making a lot of accusations about your Catherine.”

  “My Catherine, huh?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Or do you call her queen?”

  “Are you ever going to stop throwing me shade, Moll? I’m working for your sake just as much as hers.”

  She dismissed him with a waved hand. “Vic was awful fond of saying things like that too. Did you kill him for my sake as well?”

  “I wouldn’t say I killed him exactly.”

  “And I wasn’t saying I minded. Although, I don’t know what on earth you’d call leaving him in so many pieces other than murder? Vic forcing Sharona to drink the tainted water was barbarous, but that’s not why you did it. Is it?” She tilted her head at him, the same way actors playing therapists would when there was television. Molly told him once, she believed it made her appear less threatening. But instead it made her look more alien.

  “Well, no. Do vampires ever do the right things for the right reasons?”

  A wicked gleam lit her eyes, and she smiled so wide her sharp fangs pressed against her pouty bottom lip. “Corruption is our way. Yes. On that note, watch out for this woman, Grace. She seems to have weaved quite a web. If what she says is to be believed, your Catherine doesn’t have long for this world.”

  “What’s the plot?”

  “Didn’t hear all of it—we can only make out so much—but she seemed confident that a trial would leave your Catherine hanging from the gallows. And, oh, she plans a witch hunt after she’s in control. Seeing as how you’re one now, I thought you might like to know that little detail.”

Byron wasn’t clear if it was correct to describe himself as a witch—or a warlock as his friend Billie said male witches should go by. Sure, he had an ability like the rest. But, unlike them, Mara gifted him his power. Also, he wasn’t a Starfall, meaning he didn’t come from a far-off time like the rest of the group. Molly didn’t care about the difference. From her tone it was clear her words dripped with mockery. So, he left it at, “Anything else?”

  She frowned and said, “Well, yes. Don’t you have something for me?”

  He pulled open the satchel on his shoulder and gave her a few bottles of blood alternative. An elixir the Brit punk from 1980 turned drunken alchemist, Sven, created. “This should set you and the rest here up for a little while. They’re doing their best to keep up with demand, but you seem to have taken too much of a liking to it. Surpassed what I expected any of you’d use by a mile.”

  Molly licked her lips and said, “My compliments to the chef.”

  Byron lingered next to her. From how lovingly she eyeballed the bottles, he’d made a mistake in giving the other unseen vampires’ portions to her to disperse. “Really?” He asked.

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  She widened her eyes. “Really what?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to share.” He looked past her, and called, “Molly has your guy's blood. Don’t blame me if you don’t get any.”

  “Sellout,” she yelled, and vanished into a far pocket of the lair. Two of her contemporaries shot out after her. A few crashes sounded, followed by a series of hisses.

  Byron backed out through the entrance. “At least, they didn’t jump me for the rest of the supply this time.”

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  He finished his usual rounds and headed home. Clouds billowed from the chimney, and he smiled at the thought of Rory attempting to prepare dinner. She did her best, but even she admitted her efforts were ham-fisted. His woman couldn’t make toast without burning it—let alone the more challenging risottos or gnocchis she tried to improvise with whatever grains were in season at the market. Still, she tried.

  He stepped through the door and checked to make sure the steam billowing from the top of their oven wasn’t the smoke of a fire. “I’m home,” he called.

  At the adjacent woodblock counter, she yelped, “Ow… Dammit.”

  He fell in alongside her. “Bleeding all over everything again?”

  She sighed. “I was cutting these damn carrots and lost my train of thought when I heard your voice. So then…”

  Byron pulled her hand into his, and he looked at the cut. It was just a little guy, no stitches required. He kissed the wound, removed a medkit he’d stashed nearby before cleaning and dressing it with gauze. “All better?”

  “Much, thank you.” Her mouth reached for his and they exchanged a kiss.

  “Didn’t ask me how my day went,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, I was busy bleeding all over the place.”

  “That was about what I expected after I noticed you were cooking.”

  She blew a loose curl of honey brown hair from her face. “So how was your day, asshole?”

  “About the same as always.” He leaned against the counter to admire her as she worked. “You should tell Sven they complimented his blood alternative. Fought over it a little today.”

  “Didn’t jump you this time, did they?” Her knife stopped mid slice and her light blue eyes scanned his body for injuries.

  “No. So I guess that’s progress. One vampire, Molly, brought something up, though. Apparently, Grace is plotting to depose the Catherine.”

  She frowned. “Who is this Grace anyways? I mean, the name sounds familiar, but all the Daughters look alike. Kinda like nuns with the whole flowing robes and holier than thou attitudes.”

  “Remember the one woman hate group from our first big meeting with the Catherine?”

  “Grace was the one who got kicked out? Doesn’t seem likely anyone would listen to her.”

  “No. I think I agree with you. It’s probably just Molly jumping to conclusions.”

  Rory finished cutting carrots and threw them into a pot on the stove. “Oh,” she said and snapped her fingers. “I keep forgetting to tell you, Doc is safe. Looks like he started the other half of the portal ritual last night.”

  With cars being little more than debris anymore, the only fast options for transit were horse—assuming you could find a live one—or vampire, except they weren’t too keen on being beasts of burden. Until Mara taught the witches portal magic, anyway. Byron never learned the finer points of the spell. But from what he understood, a ritual had to be cast on either side to create a point of entry between two places. It made little sense to him why they didn’t make a general station and connect them all there. But, if Rory was anything like the rest, chaos was just a natural thing for the witches.

  Byron felt himself smiling. “He did? Why didn’t Sven say anything about Doc when I saw him earlier?” He liked the former combat medic turned witch. Though not close in age, they were born around the same era. Doc had been in the middle of Vietnam when he jumped forward from 1967. While Byron became a vampire in 1959.

  “Sven’s probably trying to forget it ever happened. He was a real baby when Doc didn’t invite him to go along—not that he would’ve though. He’s busy re-branding the blood alternative. Wants to call it Mr. Sven’s Magical Elixir or something like that. It had a sketchy snake oil sounding name, whatever it was.” A pan next to the one Rory stirred blazed. She quickly pushed it aside, suffocating the flame under her cutting board in an all too familiar gesture.

  At least she has fire safety down.

  “Carrots for dinner?” she asked.

  Byron frowned. “Did you remember to wash them up after you bled everywhere?”

  Her eyes lit and then fell. “No…”