Archangel's Legion(42)

Since the dead vampire was living in this part of town, she must’ve been a backup dancer and not yet a lead . . . had probably embraced the near-immortality of vampirism so as to have more time to pursue her dream of the stage. Elena understood why someone would sign on for a hundred years of slavery on the back of such overwhelming desire; dreams could be a commanding force.

Belle had been a dancer. Long legged and with a thousand dreams in her eyes as she practiced in the backyard. She’d laughed when Elena tried to copy her, but it had been the affectionate laughter of a big sister, and many times, she’d stopped her own practice to teach Elena how to do the moves.

“Like this, Ellie. You have to become the music, become the air.”

Sadness weighing down her shoulders, Elena whispered, “I’m sorry,” before leaving the bright little room, its color and flamboyance a painful foil for the small, rotting body that lay curled up on the bed.

As she went through the house more carefully, she noted another poster, this one from a Hollywood blockbuster that had a sticky note at the top proclaiming Extras rule! Then there was the marked-up television script on one bedside table, a musical score on another, next to a violin of glowing wood so beautiful, Elena didn’t dare touch it.

“They were artists,” she said to Keir, watching as he examined the body of the girl in the living room. “Dancers, actors, musicians. Must’ve banded together to rent this place so they could save on costs.” It surprised her. “I always figured after a hundred years of service to an angel, vampires would come out with at least some savings.”

“Not every angel is generous.” Keir kept his eyes on the body, his hands gentle and respectful as he opened the girl’s shirt to check the progression of the disease. “It’s an unspoken rule that the blood kin who complete their Contracts should be given enough money on leaving to begin a new life, but that sum is open to interpretation.”

He closed the sides of the shirt, doing up two buttons so it wouldn’t gape. “Then,” he said, shifting to look at the male, “there are the vampires who come out of their Contracts so used to being told what to do that they have no idea how to manage their money and end up going through it like water.”

“The musician,” Elena said, “I think he spent his money on his violin; the actor on drama classes, from the brochures I found in her room; so these five, at least, were working toward something.” There was a vibrant sense of promise in every room of the house, the kind of energy that said all five had been on the same wavelength. “It seems so unfair. They were the good ones, the ones who did their hundred years, and this is their reward?”

“Life is rarely fair, Elena.” Keir’s voice held the echoes of thousands of years of existence. “But this, at least . . . no, it should not have happened.”

Finding nothing in the living room that might provide a clue as to how all five roommates had apparently been infected simultaneously—a fact that seemed to negate their blood donor theory—Elena moved on. Ransom returned while she was in the kitchen. “Raphael is one scary motherfucker,” was his greeting.

Elena’s hand tightened around the edge of the fridge door, the cold air seeping into her clothes to scrape over her skin. “Cici?”

“Sleeping like a baby. And yeah, your scary boyfriend’s returned to the Tower to deal with something else.” Lines of strain around his mouth, he blew out a harsh breath. “Part of me is glad Cici won’t be haunted by this horror, won’t wake up whimpering and screaming night after night, but we took a piece of her life, Ellie.”

“I would rather die as Elena than live as a shadow.”

She’d said that to Raphael once, and he’d kept her faith, hadn’t messed with her memories. Maybe that was why she’d become complacent, forgetting he’d do so to others without blinking. Even to the people who were more her family than Jeffrey would ever be. “I’m sorry,” she said again, door edge digging into her palm from the force of her grip.

Ransom shoulder-bumped her. “It’s not your fault. I’d have had to report this to the Tower whether or not you were with Raphael. Only difference is, I’d have been wiped, too, and never known it, so thanks for having my back.” Bending, he began to move things around in the fridge. “Hey”—utter motionlessness—“did you see this?”

Alerted by his response, she pushed the door wide and bent down beside him. “Blood.” Bottles of it, tucked away in back of the second shelf. Most vampires preferred the vein, but bottled blood was like fast food—every city vamp had some within easy reach. “Supplier?”