HAPTER ONE
Ryder Shinji pulled his matte black Ducati Panigale to the side of the road, the tires crunching in the gravel of the small pullout that looked down over the bay. The bike’s growl tapered off as he cut the engine and stepped off. He wiped the sweat off his face—he’d been cruising straight for almost six hours, and it had taken its toll on him. He flexed, felt his muscles under the Kevlar jacket creak as they readjusted. But at least I’m back, he thought, putting a leather-booted foot on the metal railing and looking out across San Francisco below. The Golden Gate Bridge was illuminated with lights, an iconic marker of Americana that had become, for Ryder, a way to announce to that he was home.
He pulled off his helmet, and his dark black hair unfurled back, long on the top and shaved close at the sides. Although his Japanese ancestry was almost four generations back, and that was by vampire standards, the distinctive high cheekbones and dark noble eyes had passed down. He tugged at his jaw, and made a clucking sound with his tongue as he surveyed his home and put his helmet back on.
Even though he felt a surge of relief at being home at last, he couldn’t escape the fact that there were other, darker forces that had drawn him away from it. As he clambered back onto the Ducati and the bike woke up again, a metal monster underneath him biting at the reins of the handlebars, he tried to recollect the events of the past week. It had started, he remembered, with his cousins contacting him who were further north in Seattle the Rosa brothers Aram and Zach had been selected to protect the human Diplomat, an important figure who was meant to oversee the transition of power. The vampire nation was selecting a new leader, and in the wake of events, and quite by accident, Aram had been elected to preside.
Can hardly believe the carefree playboy managed to become the standing leader of the entire vampire nation, Ryder remarked to himself, and had to smile. The silver-haired devil would be a good leader, though. Even though Ryder was one of only two remaining members of his own house, he had put his whole faith and support behind his cousins.
But that wasn’t the reason they had called on him. He shook his head. Maybe William would know what to do. He wondered where his stepbrother was right now. Probably getting into trouble, he thought, and pushed the throttle on his bike harder, winding between the traffic that clotted the Golden Gate Bridge. On the Ducati he was like a fish in water, moving almost effortlessly. It was true; he felt a certain thrill, a certain je ne sais quoi when he and the bike were one, a single entity moving together.
He headed further south and took the scenic way past the Oakland Bridge, heading toward his mansion in the Berkeley suburbs. As he passed under streetlights, he could see it up ahead, a massive pagoda-style structure that he knew had been modeled on his great-great-grandfather’s castle back in modern day Japan. It stood out like an exotic masterpiece among the other western-style houses, and he took a certain pride in it. The elegant wooden structure was nearly two centuries old, and the dark red varnish of the house could glow like blood when it caught the last rays of sunshine. The pagoda itself was embodied both the rich cultural heritage of warriors that the Shinji Clan had spawned in its long history, but also the enormous wealth that it had accumulated in that time.
To look at Ryder one would never assume he was a billionaire, despite the fact he excelled in showcasing only the most expensive and top-quality merchandise, including the plated helmet and high-tensile carbon fiber Kevlar jacket that he now zipped down as he entered through the tall gates of his residence. It wasn’t about opulence though, he didn’t believe in the sort of vanity that affected others of his race, especially those born into noble families. Rather, he was simply a stickler for quality.
He parked the bike in the turnaround next to a traditional koi pond, and smiled as the slurping red and white mouths rose to the surface, breaking the stillness as they pleaded for food. Inside, he took off his shoes and entered into the main hallway. Tall, elegantly-carved wooden columns lined the room, and had been hand-carved into giant dragons, so that it always looked as if the mansion were infested by mythical beasts.
“William?” he shouted, setting his helmet down. The middle of the hallway was empty, but someone had left the lights on. He frowned and shouted his name again. Although living in the lap of luxury, both he and William neglected the use of butlers or maids but, he reflected, it would have been nice to have had someone greet him upon returning home.
He sighed and marched to the back of the pagoda where it opened into a large rectangular courtyard. Here his father’s bonsais, nearly as old as he had been when he had finally died, were still growing, arched and hackled, stunted metaphors of what time did, even to the nearly immortal creatures that ruled the night. There was also a white gravel garden. He fondly remembered training here in his youth.
“Long time ago,” he mused out loud, but only the stars seemed to hear him. He sat down cross legged and took off his jacket and shirt. The smell of sweat assaulted him and he straightened his back and closed his eyes. In the cool night air, he tried to center himself with an ancient meditation exercise, but it didn’t work. “What the hell am I supposed to do, Aram?” he said out loud, cursing his cousin for placing such an impossible—and seemingly convoluted—task in his lap.
There was a whistle behind him, and he smirked but kept his posture, pretending he hadn’t heard anything. A dark, lithe shape blended into the dark, scrambling on padded feet across the tiles, making hardly a sound. You can’t hide from me, Will, he thought.
A slight differential in air pressure. His eyes snapped open and he sprang forward off the deck of the patio, completing a front flip and landing barefoot on the gravel as he turned around, his arms open in a defensive stance. The dark figure had landed behind him, almost like a whisper, and he saw the blunted end of a rosewood training sword dented into the wood where he had been moments earlier. The figure stood up and pulled a black scarf away from his face. His short brown hair fanned outward and he grinned.
“Nice try, William,” he said, relaxing and giving him a chiding look.
“Almost had you.” He shrugged. “I missed you! I thought you were going to be gone for another few days, though. Have the house all to myself. Guess I need to cancel my party,” he joked.
“Thought I’d be gone longer too,” he said, grinning.
William had been one of his only playmates growing up, and one of the few Changed vampires that had ever been inducted into a noble house. His parents had belonged to the human council, and both of them had often played together, much to the chagrin of both their houses, but it made little difference that he was human and Ryder was vampire. They had been inseparable until the fateful autumn when the skinny man had acquired a rare form of leukemia at twenty-two. That should have been the end of it but he hadn’t given up, and neither had Ryder.
It was prohibited to Change another human without proper sanctions, and even then it was a dangerous process. Ryder could still, sometimes, picture him in the hospital bed, weak and dying, and his silent plea, I don’t want to die. Against all the rules of his race, he had helped him, made him into one of his kind. He had paid the price, of course, but it didn’t matter. William had lived. And according to custom, he had been inducted into the family.
“What were you talking to yourself about?” The young man stepped back. His face seemed impossibly round in the dark. He flicked the wooden practice sword in his grip, admiring the heft and balance of it.
He sighed. “My cousins have more or less gotten themselves tangled in something over their heads,” he said, and motioned back to the pagoda as they walked. “They want me to look into some supposed brotherhood of assassins. They’ve already tried to thwart the magistracy of the vampire nation but luckily Aram and Zach managed to overturn them.”
“I heard the news,” Will said. “Aram’s the new leader now, huh? How does he like it?”
“He hates it.” Ryder grinned. “And so he should. But that’s what makes him an ideal leader—we need someone who is naturally suspicious of power to actually wield the power we give him. In any case, they’ve tasked me with tracking down these assassins.”
“Why you?” he said, already knowing the answer. His tight Lycra shirt and black cotton pants barely made a sound as he moved past him into the house, and went to the large ornate kitchen where he put on an ancient cast iron pot.
Ryder flinched and sat down cross-legged at the short flat table in the middle of the tatami-matted room and wiped at his brow. “I guess he figures if anyone can track down assassins, than a vampire house who once belonged exclusively to an assassin class is the key but I think he’s overestimated us. The Shinji Clan hadn’t been warriors for centuries. Well, I guess you’re now an exception to that,” he said, gesturing at his outfit. “What were you doing anyway?”
“Practicing.” Will shrugged with childlike diffidence. “The way you taught me. We may not be assassins anymore, but no harm in keeping our skills sharp.” Ryder had to admire Will. Since he’d been Changed, he had reveled in his new strength, training under his guidance with an enthusiasm that was impressive. “The question is,” Will continued, taking the boiling pot of water to the table and squatting down cross-legged across from his blood-brother, “what’s your next move?”
Ryder rubbed the back of his head. He still felt blitzed from the long ride south. “I’ll try to do some research tomorrow. The archives at Berkeley University might have something. Unfortunately, I don’t have the same sort of library as my dear cousins.”
Will smiled and sipped at the tea in the rough china. He had a youthful vigor to him that could sometimes be mistaken for naiveté but Ryder knew better. If he was the older brother, tempered and careful and wary, then Will was the perfect complement: motivated and eager, and just daring enough to push Ryder in the right direction when he needed it.
“Need help?” Will asked.
“Nah, don’t worry about.” Ryder looked out the window. “Besides, since you’re a Changed now, the sunlight affects you just as much as me. And we don’t need two vampires running around San Francisco. I’ll be in my bike gear, I should be fine—I don’t need to worry about you.”
“You worry too much.”
Maybe so, Ryder almost admitted. He straightened his back again and sipped at the tea—it was strong, the way he liked it. The many scars across his hairy chest bent the angle of the rice-lanterns, and seemed to emphasize themselves even more. Something still troubled him. Aram had seemed almost petrified of this nameless foe when Ryder had convened with him and the patron of the Rosa House was not one to blush from danger easily.
What’s going on? Ryder wondered, and narrowed his gaze.
*
Lisa Knopfler pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. The tortoise-shell frames looked as if they’d been carved from an actual turtle, and the small, thin lenses cut her gaze at a definitive angle, so that it always looked as if she were scowling or giving a sarcastic remark when she looked up from her books. Around her, the smell of lignin and musty pages lifted into the air, and she smiled. Something about their scent always made her happy and evoked memories of wandering around her grandfather’s old estate back in Kentucky.
It was pure luck, she figured, that she’d managed to acquire a job as an assistant librarian. She had quailed during the interview process, stumbling over her words and wringing her hands together, until even the Dean of the University behind his ornate desk had seemed to grow uncomfortable. But her resume was immaculate, there was no doubt about that; she had an uncanny memory, borderline eidetic.
The tall, strawberry-blonde woman couldn’t explain it, herself. She seemed vaguely unaware of her gift, which had set her apart from her colleagues and classmates. After flipping through a book once, it was like the entire thing had ingrained itself in her memory, page for page. She needed only to think of it, and the book in her mind would readily open to the designated spot. It was a miracle, a one-in-a-million chance, something fickle as the weather. One synapse out of place, or aligned in a different order, and she had become a prodigy.
Her friends, of which she had few, had always wondered why she hadn’t put her talents to better use—she could easily have done anything, and excelled at it: lawyer, doctor, professor. But if there was one thing that marked Lisa more than their memory, it was her aloofness. Able to memorize and remember everything instantly, she got bored easily, and would wander from one topic of interest to another, on a weekly basis. This week, she was learning about Ecuadorian flora and fauna, specifically every genus of discovered orchid in the cloud rainforests of Mindo.
“Yoo-hoo,” a sharp voice called out behind her, “day dreaming again?
Lisa turned and saw her supervisor, Mme. DeFleur, waving at her—the forty-something French national was the director of the library, and was equal parts headmistress and best friend, but you never knew which version you were going to get until it was too late.
“Mme. DeFleur, good morning,” Lisa balked. At twenty-five, she had grown into her figure, and the baby-fat that had once cursed her in high school was gone now. In its place were sharp curved cheeks, a round petite chin and thin nose that tapered upward at the end just enough to warrant her description—though she hated it—cute.
“Don’t DeFleur me,” the French woman snapped, straightening her tweed jacket and skirt, and even Lisa had to keep from laughing out loud. Don’t deflower me. “I thought I told you to categorize all those indexes on the third floor? Have you done that yet?”
“N-no, I was just about to,” Lisa said, and cursed herself for having forgotten. “I was on my way up there now.”
“Well hurry up, dear!” Mme. DeFleur insisted, throwing a dismissive wave at her. Her slightly pudgy ankles pressed out against the black stockings she had chosen that day, and her slightly silver-streaked hair was expertly coiffed, though a few strands had come loose. “And Lisa, make sure it’s done right. Don’t start reading the reference books all of the sudden, for God’s sake—last time I found you bent over a bibliography with such captivation I thought you were reading a tabloid. Hurry up now.”
Lisa bent her head low and wandered past, adjusting her glasses again. Her thin form was neatly hidden under her white blouse, and her small breasts barely registered whenever a gust of wind rocked the fabric. Still, there was something almost nubile about her, something that hinted at a tempting and deceptive sexuality without ever being explicit about it. Her own skirt was slightly too short, coming up several inches above the knee, and she had forgotten to put on her own stockings. Her soft, flat-heeled shoes slapped softly on the tiles as she headed for the spiral iron stair case that led up to the second level.
Light was beginning to seep in through the massive avuncular windows and cast the floor and bookshelves in a kind of paused, creamy light. This was her favorite time of day, before the actual day had really started, but morning was already through its motions. It happened to slant through the dusty glass, and caught small particles in the air, illuminating them into golden columns. She frowned and tried to focus, pushing out her broad full-bodied lips.
Mme. DeFleur hadn’t been wrong about her. She tended to do that, sometimes, almost against her will—she’d be organizing books back into the book shelf according to their number or genre and suddenly she would be bent over, squatting on the back of her heels, reading them instead.
Not this time, she thought. She found the reference area where she’d been the day before—the cart was still there, along with a stack of books she had neglected to put away. She huffed, and bent down, and the pencil skirt moved up her tan legs, the small stitched tear up one side flashing the tender flesh underneath.
Against the bookshelf, the tall ladder leaned upward toward the highest alcove, and she put two of the reference books in her hand and began to climb carefully with her other hand. This was one part of the job she didn’t like so much. She didn’t have a complete aversion to heights, but when she reached the top of the bookshelf she was able to look out and see the whole vista of the library under, and it always gave her a slight pang of vertigo. Lisa swallowed, braced her hand on the rung, and slipped the books into their selective spaces. She was so absorbed returning the books, she didn’t notice the man across from her who was sitting at the table, hidden in the shadow of the wall where the angle of the sun passed overhead of him. She gave a little squeak of surprise, not so much because he had a dark and curiously handsome expression, so much as the fact she thought she was alone.
The world spun again and she felt her heart stop for an instant as her foot slipped on the ladder and she began to fall backwards. Her mouth opened to scream but no sound came out as she felt the open air behind her rise to meet her—it was like falling into a void. And yet, curiously, her thoughts weren’t even on her own safety. All she could think of was what Mme. DeFleur would say.
Lisa closed her eyes, waiting for the hard impact on the floor. But it never came. Something soft braced her neck and back and she heard a mild grunt, then the distinct smell of aftershave, which smelled like sandalwood.
Slowly, almost afraid to wonder at what had happened, she opened her eyes. Strong features looked down at her, vaguely Asian. His eyes were like dark pebbles that had only darkened more with rain or oil, and the fringed edge of his hair caught the light of the sun coming into the library just briefly as he lifted her up and pulled her back into the shadow of the wall. She was aware of the fact that his hands were under her, one hand splayed against the rigid muscles of her spine, the other looped under her knees. Her skirt was perilously low, near enough to glimpse her panties if she wasn’t careful, and she blushed. His strong chin managed a timid smile as he propped her up, and supported her until she could shake the wobbles from her legs. Distractedly, she straightened her skirt and hair, one after the other—her reddish ponytail bounced against her back.
“Are you all right? That was a near thing,” the man said, extending his hand as if he wasn’t sure whether she might fall again, and she managed a crooked smile.
“I-I’m okay, really,” she stuttered. “I was terribly clumsy, I’m sorry. These ladders are so tall, and when I get to the top—if I’m not careful—I get dizzy. I’m really very sorry to have troubled you.”
“It was no trouble at all,” he said, his smile widening. The sheen of his skin was pale, like he hadn’t gotten enough vitamin D, and yet there was an energy and healthiness to him that ran contrary to his pallor. It’s his eyes, Lisa thought. Something about them was alert, active. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“If you hadn’t caught me, I probably wouldn’t have been.” She stopped and looked past the bookshelf toward the desk she’d seen him at, only seconds ago. It was a good twenty feet away. She blinked, wondering what had just happened. Had he really been able to cross that distance in the time it had taken her to fall. “How did you…? I mean—”
He seemed to predict her question and shrugged. “I saw you teeter for a moment, and was already on my way over here. I think you must have passed out, but still been hanging onto the ladder for a second. Good thing, too.” He tried to sound convincing, but Lisa still couldn’t imagine how he had made it to her in time. It was almost superhuman. “I’m Ryder, by the way.”
Lisa took his outstretched hand and shook it, surprised at how cool it was. In her experience, most men’s hands were clammy, sweaty, especially when they talked to her. She hadn’t made the connection that most of them found her utterly beautiful and became nervous at the prospect of talking to her.
“Lisa, Lisa Knopfler,” she said, adding her surname with an amount of formality that she suddenly regretted. And here’s my badge number and portfolio, she thought sarcastically. In truth, she was no better at talking to guys than guys were at talking to her. “Erm, anyway, thank you very much… uh, Ryder? That’s an unusual name.”
“It is, isn’t it?” the man offered, another beaming smile on his lips, “I guess my parents thought it sounded cool. My last name is Shinji.”
The name ran through her mind like a photon, lighting up every instance she’d heard the name and connecting them all together like a loop-the-loop constellation in her brain. She looked him over again, noticing the open black jacket, heavy duty stitching, and the thin black cotton shirt underneath. He was built, not so much like a bodybuilder, she decided, but like a fighter—muscular and toned, but in a way that was efficient rather than showy. She tried to imagine what his job could possibly be.
“Shinji… not… Shinji Electronics?” she said, remembering the iconic three bladed symbol that belonged to many of the electronic products that had become popular in America—the last time her eyes had accidentally skimmed a newspaper (she remembered, it was while crossing the street and she’d looked over a plump businessman’s shoulder at the Wall Street Journal) the Shinji Corporation, as a privately held company, had put even Sony among its competitors.
The man seemed taken aback that he had been so easily recognized. He sighed and rubbed the back of his head absently, and winced with a good-natured shrug. Lisa noticed him take another step backwards, half an inch, out of the light coming down through the windows. “Ah, this is embarrassing. To be honest, no one really recognizes me in public and I like it that way. But… yeah, that’s my family’s company actually.”
She nodded, impressed. “I suppose I can understand that,” she sympathized, trying to forget that he was actually a billionaire, with stocks that could have bought a small island. “Erm, it seems unusual for you to be here… I mean, Berkeley University?”
“Actually, I’m here doing some research,” he admitted.
Lisa’s heart was still racing from the fall off the ladder, and the unexpected rescue. She looked past Ryder again at the table and noticed he was looking through references. “Well, I’m actually the assistant librarian here. Is there anything I can help you with? I mean, I figure I probably owe you,” she mused. Let Mme. DeFleur scold me later, she thought. Something about Ryder fascinated her.
He grinned and led her to the table. “Well, if you insist. I’m looking into the possibility of a secret brotherhood… perhaps, a brotherhood of thieves or assassins. They would be apolitical or rather, they would have specialized in political killings. It would be old, quite old, probably dating from the 5th century or earlier.”
“That’s not much to go on,” Lisa said, taking a seat beside him.
Ryder gave a compliant shrug. There were plenty of other details he couldn’t rightfully tell her. “I know,” he mused, “but if it helps, they would have been active in the areas of Romania.” In truth, Ryder’s knowledge of his own family history was limited to Japan, but the vampire nation had begun in Eastern Europe. He tried to remember what Aram had told him. “Maybe referenced as monsters… or… having to do with blood ceremonies.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow and scanned the old tome in front of them, leaning over the pages. Ryder caught her scent, something citrus, and his eyes couldn’t help but notice that her blouse had come undone during her fall—the top button was undone, and as she bent toward him the tops of her breasts beamed back at him from behind a light blue bra.
“Blood ceremonies and assassins, 5th century,” she said to herself, and though her eyes were scanning over the parchment like pages, in truth she was scanning through her own archive, the one that housed itself in her brain. It appeared like a bright flashing sign, and she stood up. “Now that you mention it… let me see.”
She walked to one of the other bookshelves and Ryder got up, but didn’t follow her. It was curious, she noticed, almost as if he were avoiding any direct contact with the sunlight. On the table next to the other reference she saw black leather gloves, an equally black glossy motorcycle helmet with a tinted visor.
Lisa pulled out another old book, leather-bound and dusty, and brought it over. “Here, yes, I knew it—look.” She pointed to another passage and Ryder squinted. “This is an old tale, apocryphal, but it goes back almost to the Hittite invasion of Egypt. A mysterious army—or brethren—who were vicious, bloodthirsty raiders.”
Ryder’s interest intensified and he looked over the Latin sentences. “Can you keep translating?” he asked. He had his own sheet of paper and pencil and began to scribble.
Lisa pushed her glasses up. “Uhm, let’s see… they were known to have sharpened their teeth, I think that’s what this says. And they drank the blood of their enemies, in order to gain strength. It looks like, yes, they eventually became favorite mercenaries of other kings, acting as assassins. They were feared by everyone, and though they had no name for themselves, peasants and nobles alike began to call them by... by…”
She stopped, and Ryder lifted his chiseled features toward her, his eyes slick and deadpan and eating into her. “What is it?” he asked, finally.
She pursed her lips. “Well, I mean… it’s not an exact definition, just… huh,” she scratched her eyebrow, “I guess the best translation would be… vampire?”
Ryder gulped, and stared at her. He seemed to hold her gaze for the longest time before he grinned again and wrote something down in his journal. Lisa continued to stare at the page—it was a crude approximation, but the word vampire seemed to suffice. She looked again at Ryder beside her, and wondered what the young man could possibly be researching.
“If I may ask,” she blurted, without realizing it, “erm, why are you interested in this stuff? It’s quite… unusual, isn’t it? Very occult. I mean, interesting, but…”
“It’s for my thesis,” he said quickly, stuffing his journal back into his knapsack, “that was actually very useful, Ms…. Knopfler, was it?” He held out his hand again and she went to shake it, but instead, he brought it up to his lips and kissed the back of it lightly. “Really, quite interesting.”
“You… you’re going already?”
“I have some other things I need to verify first,” he said, “why, do you suppose there’s more information you can lead me to? I must say; I was surprised at how quickly you were able to come up with that reference book. Almost like you’d been reading the same book only recently.”
She blushed. “No, no… it’s ah, something… I’m good at remembering things,” she decided, folding her hands in front of her and fiddling with the hem of her short skirt. She readjusted her glasses again and tightened her mouth. “Uhm, I can’t think of anything else, but… but if I do—”
Ryder was already flipping a laminate card from his pocket. Of course he has a card¸ she thought, you stupid girl—he’s the owner of a mega-corporation. She took it gratefully, staring at the simple plaque. It just had his name and a number. Nothing more.
“If you do, Ms. Knopfler,” he winked, raising his helmet to her in a sort of salute, “please contact me—any time, doesn’t matter. I’m extremely grateful.” He turned to go, seemingly in a hurry, and she wondered what could possibly have prompted his reaction. Blood ceremonies, assassins, vampires? It didn’t make any sense to her, but she felt relieved she’d been able to help him.
“You can call me Lisa,” she said quietly but he had already disappeared.
She took in a deep breath, and realized her heart was still beating quickly. It couldn’t be from the fall, could it? As she put her hand to her chest and slipped her fingers lower, their tips brushing the blue edge of her bra, she could feel her pulse. Not fast, but heavy, like thunder. Why is it beating so hard? she wondered.