Defending the Lost Read online

  Whatever they had planned, she had a feeling it involved her and the search for Robin’s parents.

  Knowing this, she had no idea where else to start her search for Robin but over there. She ran along the rooftop and leaped to the next, feeling the rush of excitement in her muscles, the air on her face as she leaped, and then…the building’s rooftop gave way under her feet as she landed.

  “Oh, shit!” she screamed as she crashed halfway through the old roof, clinging to the edge with her claws so she didn’t drop into the darkness below. She pulled herself out and rolled onto her back, just breathing and staring up into the myriad stars.

  Damn! She was going to have to remember that this wasn’t New York.

  With two quick breaths she pushed herself up and moved to the edge of the roof, more cautious this time. Her legs had gotten cut up by the near-fall and her pants were tattered now, but the wounds were healing nicely. That was a definite plus of having Michael’s blood in her—healing was much quicker than it used to be.

  This time she aimed for the edge of the roof when she jumped, knowing it would provide more support. While it was riskier because she could more easily fall if she misjudged the distance or her trajectory, she wasn’t so worried about that.

  Most of the night was spent this way, leaping from building to building, then going down to the street, sticking to the shadows and seeing what she could find. It had been fairly quiet, except for a couple of warehouses near the water.

  She had gotten close and seen men and women dressed in army fatigues working on military maneuvers. It wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, but after lingering for a moment to try and pick up Robin’s scent, she’d decided the woman wasn’t nearby.

  As the night wore on she found herself caring less and less about sticking to the shadows, and was soon walking along one of the old main streets. It was more polished than the others, and several shops were open.

  She paused at one, where an old Chinese man at the counter was painting an oil canvas next to him. It struck her as odd, because his counter had dumplings on it ready to sell while he just sat there painting.

  A moment in here wouldn’t hurt her search, she supposed. Maybe he would be able to tell her something.

  “How much for a dumpling?” she asked. He glanced over, waved her off, and went back to painting.

  With a frown, she walked over, set down a coin, and pointed at the dumplings. He eyed her skeptically, assessed the coin, and then simply nodded and handed her a dumpling. She knew that coin was worth at least several or that she should get some change, but the man just went back to painting.

  “You speak English?” she asked, irritation rising in her voice.

  “Not to slaves who shouldn’t have that much money on them to begin with,” he replied, not looking at her. “Now get lost and I’ll pretend I never saw you.”

  She leaned over the counter, picked up the bun, and took a bite. The last time she’d had a barbeque pork bun was in a village outside Paris where she’d found a Chinese community. It had been building up as the poor were pushed out of Old Paris, largely to create a safe haven, or so the leadership said. Various ethnic groups had formed communities and some of the best food could be found there, at least until Donovan or his underlings found them and wreaked their havoc.

  This bun was twice as good as that one had been, and she found herself wondering what else she had been missing out on in New York.

  “You ever thought about exporting these?” she asked.

  The man just scoffed.

  “You really must be sick of it all, huh?” he asked. “The Games are just around the corner, and you’re walking around as if you don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re chosen.”

  “What would happen then?” She took another bite, blocking him out for a moment as she lost herself in ecstasy.

  “Listen, crazy woman. If you don’t get the fuck out of my shop—”

  She had his shirt bunched up in her hand in a flash of movement, pulling him close. “No, you listen. Just tell me what the hell the Games are and what’s going to happen to those chosen, or I’ll take you into the backroom and go all Sweeney Todd on you!”

  “S…sweeny toad?”

  “Just… It’s from a story someone told me once. Point is, you die, someone eats you in one of your dumplings or whatever. Now speak.”

  His eyes went wide as she pushed a hint of fear into him. “It’s something new the Council is trying…to keep us all scared, I say, though they claim it’s some ancient tradition to keep morale up and keep us loyal to them. Hell, if the threat is that we get thrown into a pit to fight for our lives while the rest of the city watches, yeah, I’d say that’d keep us loyal.”

  Her grip loosened as she took this in. “Fuck…you’re saying slaves will be chosen to basically be slaughtered in front of the masses?”

  He nodded.

  “And if I were looking for two older slaves, say in their late forties, early fifties?”

  “You’d better hurry.” He pushed her hand away, glaring. “The other rumors say this is a system of age control, to keep the slave population young, healthy, and terrified. Kill off the older ones, so each of those remaining understands that they have to earn their right to live.”

  Valerie looked down at the delicious pork bun and found that she suddenly didn’t have an appetite.

  “These Games aren’t going to happen,” she stated. “At least, not like you expect they will.”

  He laughed, but when he saw the look in her eyes, his laughter faded. “You’re crazy, lady.” He glanced at the door, and she could tell he wanted to ask her to leave but was too terrified.

  “Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” she told him, making her way to the door. She stopped there at a box of Chinese sweets, and took them. “I think you owe me at least this much change. Oh, and you can eat the rest of the pork bun, dick.”

  At least now she knew what was going on, but it was just one more worry to throw on top of the others.

  She turned just in time to notice the scent of someone approaching, having been distracted. With a quick side-step she was out of his way, but not before he nearly knocked into her. He paused, glaring at her.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he commanded, then continued down the street.

  Except, Valerie caught another whiff from him, one that confused her. It was Robin’s scent—faint honey fresh from the comb.

  Why the hell did this man have Robin’s scent on him?

  He glanced back, but she was already in the shadows so she could follow him. When he reached the next street she dashed forward, keeping out of sight. Staying unheard.

  If this son of bitch had hurt Robin, he would be found shredded to bits across the city the next morning. Because she needed to know where he was going, she held herself back from doing it right then and there.

  They passed a street market where he bought two soups and a side of fried chicken wings, then made for a building opposite, pausing at the entryway to pull out his key.

  She watched and noted that the outside door didn’t require the key, so there must be a series of apartments inside. When the door had closed behind him, she nonchalantly meandered across the street, ducked inside, and saw him disappear into the first door on her left.

  Instead of just bursting in, she listened to the doubt in her mind. Robin had taken off, and this man had bought two soups, and smelled of her.

  Valerie suddenly realized with a sickening feeling that she had never really asked Robin about their situation. What were they? Oh, they had passion and a definite connection between them, for sure. But if the woman was here, fooling around with this man, would Valerie be justified in her anger?

  She wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that she had to know what exactly was going on in there. Instead of waiting or bursting in, she went back out the way she had come in and around to the windows on the side of the building.

  It was dark enough that others likely wouldn’t notice
her and she would be able to see inside without a problem.

  To her surprise, there was Robin, accepting one of the soup containers and then sitting down across from the man as if they were old friends.

  Valerie rubbed her hand across her mouth, trying to decide what the right move was here.

  She sighed, knowing the right move didn’t really play a role in this situation because she was who she was. Valerie wasn’t the type to just walk away, and she wasn’t the type to spy.

  No, her way was to go in head-first, so that’s what she did.

  She marched right back around to the front, pushed through the outside door, stopped at the inside door, and knocked.

  When the man opened the door slightly to see who it was, he frowned, glancing at her torn slave clothes.

  “I’m guessing this is a friend of yours,” he stated, stepping aside to let Robin see Valerie.

  Robin nearly spilled her soup as she stood, confusion creasing her brow. “How…what?”

  “Did you find them?” Valerie asked. “Because if not, I hope you have a damn good reason for sitting around some strange man’s house eating soup with him.”

  “Wait.” Robin stood, eyes going wide. “You don’t think…you do! You think the two of us are having a thing here?” She looked at the man and laughed. “Me and him?”

  “Hey,” the guy protested. “I’m not so bad that it’s laughable.”

  “It’s not that,” Robin told him, setting her soup down and walking over to Valerie. “It’s that I go for a little less meat between the legs.”

  Valerie frowned as Robin put an arm around her and kissed her cheek, watching as realization dawned on the man’s face.

  “Ohhh…” His eyes flitted back and forth between them, and then he laughed. “Oh! And…and this is the one you were talking about?”

  “You told him about me?” Valerie asked, still annoyed enough to hardly pay any attention to the way Robin’s hand was moving lower on her backside. Apparently the woman thought it was funny that Valerie had shown a hint of jealousy, but that’s all it had been. A small, insignificant nothing…more of a curiosity than anything else. “How can you possibly think you can trust this man?”

  “He’s helping, believe it or not,” Robin replied. “He put me up here, and has been asking around with his colleagues."

  “Really? And did he tell you about the Games and what’s going to happen there?”

  “I wish I knew,” the man said. “See, I’ve been able to find out there’s a coup planned, and…” he glanced at Robin, who nodded for him to continue, “and it involves vampires, or Forsaken as you call them. Something big will happen on the night of the Games, but that’s all I know.”

  Valerie turned to Robin, holding her by the shoulders. “Dear, I think your parents will be thrown into a sort of arena to fight for their lives, along with other aging slaves. It seems we’ve gotten here just in time.”

  “Holy shit,” the man exclaimed. “Yeah, that…that does gel with everything I’ve heard, though I hadn’t put the pieces together.”

  A cloud came over Robin’s eyes and she looked into the distance. In that moment, Valerie would’ve been willing to bet that she could’ve said anything and gotten no reaction.

  Finally, Robin turned to them and growled between gritted teeth. “At least we have our mission now.”

  “We do?” the man asked.

  She nodded. “Infiltrate the Gathering, find out what we can about the coup and see what we can do to use that to our advantage. Then we put a stop to the Games.”

  “I feel like I missed something this time,” Valerie interjected. “Gathering?”

  The man shifted on his feet, nervously. “There’s a celebration held each year to commemorate the time when the Council took control and brought a supposed peace to our city, though peace and terror walk a fine line here. All the elite wear the fanciest clothes they have been able to find, old tuxedoes with the holes patched, stuff like that, and they pretend they are the top of society, the pinnacle of man.”

  “Basically it’s an excuse to get drunk and pass out,” Robin explained.

  “Usually,” the man corrected her. “This year it’s an excuse to get drunk and hold the Games. I’m guessing the alcohol will serve the purpose of removing the inhibitions of those who can’t morally sit by and watch innocents be slaughtered.”

  “I find the term ‘innocent’ quite confusing in its meaning nowadays,” Robin noted. “But I’ll tell you this—my family and others like them fall as close to that line as anyone I know.”

  “When is this ball, and where do we get our hands on some dresses?” Valerie asked.

  The man cringed, glancing between the two of them. “You’re sure about this?”

  Robin nodded.

  “The only place I know of to get dresses would be from the elite themselves.”

  “Meaning we have to find out where they live and take them.”

  “And do it on the night of the Gathering while ensuring they are otherwise incapacitated, so they don’t go raising alarms.”

  “Great,” Robin said, smiling at Valerie. “Our first big night out together. Should be fun.”

  Valerie smiled back, taking her hand. “It’s all going to work out. You know that, right? I’m going to make sure of it.”

  Robin considered the comment, then replied, “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

  “Come on then,” the man interjected. “We have some planning to do, and ladies to stalk in order to figure out who you two could pass for.”

  “Pass for?”

  “Yes, lucky for you the Council barely pays attention to the rest of us, but that doesn’t mean a couple of outsiders can just go waltzing in there. That is, unless you plan on just killing everyone there.”

  “No, not yet,” Robin replied. “Not like that, anyway.”

  His eyebrow raised in concern, but he added, “Then let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  New York

  The clouds were yellow with a dark grey lining, signaling the first storm to hit New York since…well, since they had started calling it New York again. Sandra looked up at that sky from the rooftop garden Diego had made for her, trying to force herself not to wonder how he was doing.

  Clouds like that wouldn’t mean much to a bunch of Weres and vampires, but that didn’t help her like the idea of her man being stuck out there in a storm. He was tough, but she had seen his softer sides, the sides that only she knew about.

  Like when he would put his head on her belly and sing a lullaby in Spanish. She didn’t understand a word of it, but she certainly understood the way his eyes glistened when he was done. Or how he would stare out at the city sometimes, his hand slowly clenching hers tighter and tighter until she had to tell him it hurt. The last time that had happened he’d confessed that he couldn’t imagine his child growing up in a city with so many problems, in a world that was so much worse.

  “That’s why we’re trying to make a difference,” she had commented.

  He’d looked back out at the city, caressing her hand now, fingers pressing into it as if their hands were making love. “No,” he told her. “That’s why we will make a difference.

  Damn, she loved that attitude.

  He was going to be an amazing father…if he lived long enough for that to be a reality.

  At moments like these, all alone in this big city, she let her imagination get the best of her. Her doubts started to rear their ugly heads, and doubts tend to grow when feeding on loneliness and insecurity.

  “You up here?” a voice called, and she turned to see the pirate woman Platea.

  “Maybe I am,” Sandra replied with a smile. “And maybe you should have a seat next to me and enjoy this view before it’s ruined by that storm coming in.”

  Platea nodded and took a seat. She had a kind look to her in spite of the hardness in her face, something sharp in her eyes. With her hair in a bun her features were given more focus and
the skin pulled tighter in a way that reminded Sandra of an attack dog. Luckily, this attack dog was on her side.

  “You know,” Platea began, looking at the city around them, “when I first asked Cammie what treasures she could give us, I had no idea what she meant when she threw New York at me.”

  “And now?”

  “Clara loves it here. I love it here.”

  “Jackson’s treating you two well?” Sandra moved on the bench so she could face the woman. “You know he’s had his ups and downs here.”

  Platea laughed. “So I hear. I also hear he used to date the Vampire Princess herself.”

  Sandra winced. “I’d think you all wouldn’t want to call her that, not after the whole Prince situation up north.”

  “A corrupt prince doesn’t cancel the good deeds of a great princess,” Platea replied. “Plus, that guy was self-titled. He came to us as Edward, then started calling himself the Prince. You know, Prince Edward Island. Was his name even Edward, though? Half of us doubted it, said he took the name from some old pirate. Edward Teech, and from what I hear our Prince wasn’t half the man that pirate was.”

  “According to some ancient story lost long ago.” The thought of what had come before pulled at Sandra’s heartstrings, considering how much of it they would never know. She considered the lady whom she would guess was almost twice her age and asked, “What brings you up here?”

  “Mostly I just wanted a friend,” Platea admitted. “But I’d also heard you were the one responsible for bringing wine to the land, and I have to say, merci beaucoup. We found an old wine cellar up north once, back in my nomadic days. It was like heaven until the stuff was gone. I…I wanted to offer my help at the café.”

  “A former pirate who loves wine?” Sandra laughed. “Sounds like I might be out of business before too long.”

  Platea smiled and nodded. “I won’t deny my love for the liquid bliss, but honestly, I’m cutting back. A glass here and there as a reward for hard work? Some coins to buy a purse? Some new shoes, maybe?”

  She held up one of her shoes and Sandra cringed—her boots looked like the backside of a cow that’d been whipped to death.