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Determined, he stalked through the place, peering into all the rooms, looking into all the closets, under the beds. Any place a scared girl would hide.
He didn’t find her. More telling, he didn’t find any of her dolls.
The goblin blood, however, was exactly where Ryback had said, its vinegar scent still pungent.
“By the gods,” he whispered. “What the hell happened here?”
He feared the answer, but also knew he had to find Serge. More, he knew where he had to look.
* * *
He’d been to Serge’s subterranean abode only twice, the first time accessing the underground corridors through the basement of the high-rise, and the second through a descent into a subway tunnel. They’d hopped the tracks, then entered the maze of tunnels through a maintenance door. With the sun now shining brightly, Nick had no choice but to take option one and hope that he could find his way through the putrid tunnels to the oasis that was Serge’s hideaway.
With luck, Serge would be there when he found it.
The basement had not been designed to connect to the city’s labyrinth of tunnels. And, indeed, it was not Serge who had forged the way. That task had fallen upon the misbegotten of the city, the destitute and homeless who searched for a place other than the street to sleep. How they had discovered the thin stone wall behind the industrial washing machines in the basement laundry room, Nick didn’t know. Someone had, though, then chipped away to create a narrow passage that could be accessed by shifting one of the machines slightly to the left.
Someone, possibly Serge, had finally become frustrated with the frequent movement of the appliance and had pushed it permanently aside, then situated a draped table in front of the access point. Ostensibly a place for residents to fold clothes, the table provided a permanent doorway for anyone who crawled beneath and pushed aside the drape.
It was, thought Nick, the kind of portal to hell that populated children’s nightmares. The place where they would disappear. Where the monsters would grab them.
He moved quickly inside the tunnels, passing these humans, these people who would look upon him either as monster or as savior. Had Serge turned any of them, he wondered? Had he made these gutter rats into their kind?
The possibility disgusted Nick. Serge would say he was a snob and, in fact, he would be right. Because there was a beauty to what they were. Nosferatu. Creatures born of night and filled with night.
They suffered, yes. And those who lost the battle within could spend eternity lost in torment. But if the battle could be won—if the beast could be tamed—then the world seemed to exist for their delight, the most powerful and feared of all the Shadow creatures. With strength and grace and abilities like none other.
It was intoxicating.
It was, he thought, divine.
And had it not been divinity that he had searched for, all those years ago in Venice? Had he not sought the face of God through his studies? Through examination of the stars? In the very art of his ancestors?
He shook his head to clear his meandering thoughts. He did not often think on his nature, as he did not want to tempt fate. Become too complacent—too arrogant—and the darkness would rise up and try to wrest control.
That had happened with Serge, he was certain.
The serpent had burst forth. The only questions now were how many had it killed, and how much of Serge was left.
Rats scurried around his feet, and he trod carefully on the metal flooring. The way was narrow in places, but when the tunnel widened, he could see people huddled together over Sterno cans, their eyes white behind filthy faces.
One foolish man stepped into Nick’s path, a metal shiv held at the ready. “Whacha doin’ down hae?”
“I’m out for a stroll,” Nick said. “You’d be wise to go your own way.”
“Smart man. Fancy man.”
“Deadly man,” Nick said, and bared his fangs.
That was all it took, and the man scurried away like the rats Nick had passed earlier. He didn’t stare in awe and wonder. Didn’t snarl and claim Nick was a monster. He turned and ran.
And that, Nick thought, was telling. These people had seen a vampire. Knew what one was, and what one was capable of.
He stopped, for the first time really looking at the people huddled together, their eyes fixed on him. He lifted his chin, sniffing the air, finding their scent. Heroin and sex. Blood and vomit. But they would know, and they would tell.
He took a step toward the closest one, and she scooted backward, her halter top falling open to expose a flaccid breast. “Get away, get away, get away.”
“You know me?”
