Let's get something clear right up front.
I'm not Harry Dresden.
Harry's a wizard. A genuine, honest-to-goodness wizard. He's Gandalf on crack and an IV of Red Bull, with a big leather coat and a.44 revolver in his pocket. He'll spit in the eye of gods and demons alike if he thinks it needs to be done, and to hell with the consequences-and yet somehow my little brother manages to remain a decent human being.
I'll be damned if I know how.
But then, I'll be damned regardless.
My name is Thomas Raith, and I'm a monster.
The computer in my little office clamored for my attention. I've got it set up to play Nazi Germany's national anthem whenever I receive e-mail from someone in my family. Not Harry, my half brother, naturally. Harry and e-mail go together like Robert Downey, Jr., and sobriety. I mean the other side of my family.
The monsters.
I finished cleaning off the workstation and checked the clock-five minutes until my next appointment. I took a quick look around my boutique, smiled at one of my regular customers, playfully scolded the young stylist working on her, and went back down the hall, around the corner, down the narrow stairwell, and then through ten feet of claustrophobic hallway to get to my office. I sat down at the desk and nudged my laptop to life. The virus scanner pored over the e-mail before it chimed again, a soft sound that a human wouldn't have heard from the end of the hall, much less from upstairs, and pronounced it safe.
The e-mail from [email protected] was empty, but the subject line read, Re: 0b.ll.vl.0n.
Oh.
Super.
Just what I needed.
I never really enjoyed hearing from that side of the family, even when the subject was something boring-like business pertaining to the war between the Vampire Courts and the wizards' White Council, for example. Whenever Lara wanted to get in touch with me, for any reason, it was bad news.
But when it was about an Oblivion matter, it was worse.
I had Lara's number on the speed dial on my cell phone. I gave her a ring.
"Brother-mine," purred my eldest sister, her voice pure honey. It was the kind of voice that would give men ideas-really bad ideas, though they'd never realize that part. "You hardly ever call me anymore."
"I've hardly ever called you, Lara. Period." I ignored the lure she was sliding into her voice. She'd fed very recently-or was doing so at the moment. "What do you want?"
"You received my e-mail?"
"Yes."
"There's a project I think you'll be interested in."
"Why?"
"Take a look at it," she said. "You'll understand."
The line was supposedly secure, but we both knew how much that was worth. Neither of us would mention any details over the phone- and we certainly would not use the word oblivion. Too many Venatori had discovered, too late, that the enemy had very sharp ears, and that they would swiftly carry the war into the homes of those careless enough not to guard their tongues.
It had been nearly eight years since I had been involved in the Oblivion War. I suppose I had known I couldn't avoid being drawn back into the fight forever. Lara, the only other Venator in the White Court, was largely occupied with her current responsibilities-namely, spending her days manipulating our father like a puppet on her psychic strings and ruling the White Court from the shadows behind his throne. Naturally, if something came up, she would pass it along to me to deal with.
"I'm busy," I told her.
"Grooming pets?" she said. "Trimming their fur? Checking for fleas? Priorities, brother-mine."
Lara is most annoying when she has a point. "Where do you want to meet?"
She laughed, a warm little sound. "Tommy, Tommy, I'm flattered you want to be with me, but no. I've no time to spend playing games with you. I've sent a courier with everything you need and… Mmmmmm." Her voice turned into a sensual little purr of pleasure. "You know the stakes. Don't ask too many questions, brother-mine," she murmured. "Don't start using that pretty little head for anything taxing. Go back to your apartment. Talk to the courier. Take the job. Or you and I are going to have a very… ahhhhh…" Her breathing sped up. "A very serious falling-out."
I could hear other soft sounds in the background, and another voice. A woman. Maybe two. Most of my family isn't what you'd call particular, when it comes to feeding on mortals.
"I'd tell you that you were a much nicer person before you got into the power-behind-the-throne game, Lara," I said. "But you were a bitch then, too."
I hung up on her before she had a chance to reply and went back upstairs, thinking. It was always good to get as much thinking done as you could, before the actual mind-boggling crisis came down. That way, when it got there and you only had half a second to decide what to do before something from beyond the borders of sanity started ripping at your soul, you could skip the preliminaries and go straight to the mistake.
When you deal with someone like my sister, you never take anything at face value. She was up to something. Whatever it was, it included putting pressure on me to hurry. Lara wanted me to rush into the situation blindly. If that was what she wanted me to do, it was probably a good idea not to do it.
Besides, I didn't want Lara to start getting used to the idea that I would run to do her bidding every time she snapped her fingers. More important, I didn't want to get into the habit of obeying her. It was an important first step toward becoming ensnared by more inflexible means, the way she had done to our father.
Anyway, I had a business to run.
And I was hungry.
Michelle Marion, eldest daughter of the Honorable Senator Marion of the Great State of Illinois, had arrived a minute or two early for her haircut. My clients almost always did-especially the young ones. Michelle was a brunette, though you couldn't tell that by looking. Only her hairdresser knew for sure.
"Thomas!" she exclaimed, smiling at me, pronouncing it with the Latin emphasis. "What have you done with your hair?"
I had cut it a bit shorter after getting a rather large section of it burned off by a flaming arrow fired by a faerie assassin-but that isn't the sort of thing you share with your customers when you're supposed to be a flaming French master stylist. "Darling," I said, taking her hands and kissing her on either cheek.
The Hunger inside me stirred as my skin touched hers. The demon gleefully danced through her for a heartbeat or two, and as it did, she shivered, her heart rate rose, and her pupils dilated. The Hunger told me what it always did about Michelle. Though she looked sweet, gentle, and kind, her repressed desires, far darker, would make her easy prey. Fingers tightening in the back of her hair, feeling a man's body press hers against a wall-that was the stuff of her fantasies. She would follow me to the hall downstairs without hesitation. I could take her there. I could fulfill her desires, feed the Hunger, draw away her life, and take my fill. I could leave my mark ripped into her mind and soul so that forever after she would come to me willingly, eagerly, yearning to be taken again and again and agai-
Until she died.
I pushed the Hunger back down into the corruption that passes for my soul, and I smiled at Michelle, slipping on the accent as easily as an Italian leather glove. "I grew bored, so tediously bored, darling. I had half decided to shave it all, just to shock everyone."
The girl laughed, her cheeks still flushed with excitement, in the wake of my demon's touch. "Don't you dare!"
"Have no fear," I assured her, tucking her arm through mine and walking her to my station. "The men who prefer such things aren't really my type in any case."
She laughed again, and I kept up the inane chatter until I could lean her chair back to the sink and begin washing her hair.
The Hunger lunged forward, eager as always-and I let it begin to feed upon the girl.
Michelle's eyes glazed over slightly as I went through the wash-very slowly, very thoroughly, working a full-scalp massage into the process. I felt her mind slip into idle fantasy as the thin warmth of her aura pooled around my fingertips and slid up into me.
The Hunger screamed for me to do more, to take more, that it wasn't enough. But I didn't. Feeding would have been… delicious. But it might have hurt her, too. It might even have killed her. So I kept on with the steady, gentle circular motions, barely tasting of her life force. She sighed in bliss as her fantasies dissolved into a gentle euphoria, and I shuddered with the need to give in to my Hunger and take more.
Some days, it was more difficult than others to hold back. But it's what I do. It's what I have left.
Michelle left about an hour later, hair trimmed, color retouched, blissfully relaxed, flushed, happy, and humming to herself under her breath. I watched her go, and my Hunger snarled and paced about restlessly in the cage I'd built for it in my thoughts, furious that the prey had escaped. For just a second, I found myself turning toward her, my weight shifting as if to take a step forward, to follow her to someplace quiet and-
I turned away and went back to my station, beginning the routine of cleaning. Not today. One day, doubtless, the Hunger would gain the upper hand again, and feed and feed until it was the only thing inside and there was nothing left of me.
But not today.