It was possible that if Leo’s liver-eater son, currently known as Immanuel, and Adan (and by loyalty, Ka N’vsita) were part of one group, that sometime in the 1900s, all three somehow entered de Allyon’s service. Some peculiar version of the Rule of Three?
And later they met the Firestarter, who hated vamps, but... if the Onorios were going to betray the vamps and take over from them, then Aurelia might have joined in a relationship with de Allyon. It would have been a relationship that was destined for treachery from the beginning, but that was vamp life in a nutshell.
But there was no proof. Unless the proof was in these journals or other records from HQ.
I checked my email and discovered that Alex had sent me the translation ofLa Historia de Los Mithrans en Los Americas, so I grabbed the Glob from my closet and the small box that contained that original version of the history text from my room. I placed them both carefully on the table. I’d been sent a translation before, but I hadn’t studied it with the full text on the screen and the original book open on my desk. I opened the box and looked inside at the small, nondescript leather-bound book. The first time I touched it, the leather had a slimy texture, even through the gloves I wore. Now I was barehanded, but I was protected, as I lifted the book out, the Glob already absorbing any energies that might have been woven into it.La Historia de Los Mithrans en Los Americaswas small and very heavy: a history of the early years of vampires in the Americas, with important stories about de Allyon’s life. The paper was thick, with a heavy cloth content, and there were drawings in the margins.
The first time I saw it, Sabina had sent word that I would find page 134 of interest. I turned again to that page and the drawing of a Spanish conquistador in plate armor, one boot resting on the dead body of a naked tribal man. The dead man’s hair was unbraided, tangled on the ground, a pool of his blood leaking from a large throat wound.
His hands were furred and clawed.
Just like my father’s when he died.
Other naked tribal people were on the ground at the feet of the Spaniard, and two had yellow eyes like mine. Only one was alive, fear etched on the woman’s face in stark black ink lines. Softly I spoke his name, “Lucas Vazquez de Allyon. El Rival de la Muerte.” Death’s Rival.
Lucas de Allyon had known about skinwalkers, had killed skinwalkers. Below de Allyon’s name was a small pen-and-ink miniature of the vampire in his fully human guise, his eyes and hair dark, his forehead wide, nose Roman, wearing a Vandyke beard. The artist had captured the man’s power, his domineering personality, the brutal curl of his lips. And his disdain for anything and anyone who wasn’t him. I returned to the drawing of the conquistador and his living and dead prey, staring at the terrified yellow-eyed woman, at his feet.
On the next page was another miniature, showing de Allyon wearing cloth pants, a puma skin over his shoulders. The puma’s head was propped on his shoulder, showing killing teeth. At his feet were more mountain lions, one with a human head, another with human hands and feet. One was a melanisticPuma concolor. All were bound and bleeding from many wounds, but the largest wounds were at their throats where fangs had torn them out. De Allyon, had been a vamp, and he had killed my kind and drunk their blood. The protectors of the Cherokee had been captured and slaughtered to feed the blood appetite of a Naturaleza vampire.
In the next drawing, de Allyon was vamped out, fangs down, his eyes black and scarlet. He was sitting in a gold chair holding a golden bowl, filled with blood. Blood streamed from his mouth and down his naked chest.
The last drawing had been too small to see without a magnifying glass. But, knowing what it was, I made out the image of a priest holding a sword in one hand, a blazing cross in the other. He was running, dark robes flying behind him. He was being chased by an armored man on a black horse.
Had de Allyon had access to the iron Spike of Golgotha? Had he been the one to make the disks that helped power time circles? Had he been the one to mix skinwalkerblood with the holy iron? I touched the Glob. It was warm against my fingertips. There was a disk of the iron spike inside the Glob. And a lot of my skinwalker blood. Had de Allyon been trying to make a magical amulet like the Glob? If so, why?
In the years after Ka was transformed into an Onorio, had de Allyon gained possession of her? All the bad things that had been swirling around in my mind like a rancid stew came to the surface: I made tenuous connections between my own black magic in melding with Beast; Leo’s son being eaten, which allowed the Cherokee Skinwalker man to fool everyone into believing he was Immanuel; and Ka and Grandmother.
I remembered Sabina’s visions. Was it possible that Sabina had smelled the foul stench ofu’tlun’tathe night the Firestarter attacked her and her chapel burned? Had Grandmother been there, watching, helping? I tried to relax so I could pull up the memory, but it was indistinct and wouldn’t come to the front of my mind. It was like trying to slice fog with a knife. I couldn’t remember.
I didn’t have enough information.
Fear trickled through my blood like ice water as I remembered the Rule of Three needing three aligned Onorios. If my fear was right, they needed Bruiser and also maybe a B-twin, and the wedding invitations had made certain that all of the Onorios who aligned with me were in one town at the same time.
Worse. How might a very,veryold skinwalkeru’tlun’taplay into all this? With Ka and Monique aligned with theu’tlun’ta, there was considerable leeway for multiple combinations for the Rule of Three.
Grandmother was ancient. How long had she been hiding the stench of the liver-eater? And how old had Immanuel’s skinwalker been? Who was Immanuel’s skinwalker before he ate Immanuel?
And... was it even possible that Grandmother was the yellow-eyed tribal woman lying at de Allyon’s feet?
Something dark and dangerous slithered through me, the knowledge that no matter what parts of my possibilities were right, I was close to putting it all together, and it wasbad.
This was the problem in trying to think like vamps. All of the context was bound up in the past.
I/we are best hunter,Beast thought at me.I/we do not fear predator. I/we are not prey.
Yeah,I thought back.Okay.
It was too late for me to call Grandmother and ask all these things. That ship sailed long before she tried to bite me. But maybe Aya could help me put the puzzle pieces together. I’d have to tell him everything, show him the evidence. Could he keep it family and not make it a PsyLED case?
As if I had never seen one before, I studied the cell phone I had placed on the desk. And watched as my hand took the phone and pulled up Aya’s number again, though I didn’t tap it for the call to go through. Not yet. I turned my free hand over and flexed my fist, watching the knobby knuckles and too-long fingers as they opened and closed.
I remembered the holy water trailing through my human fingers. I hadn’t befouled the water yesterday, despite being a paranormal killer. Maybe God could even use someone as violent as me to do some good.
I had been the hand of God that took down Death’s Rival, de Allyon. I had taken his head.
That was good. Except God said we were supposed to love our enemies. I kinda sucked at that.
I still hated de Allyon, a flaming bright hatred that burned and ached inside me. Even dead, I hated him for the things I had read in the history book. His death would never be enough for Vengeful Cat. Never enough for me.
