Raj raised a hand and deflected every ounce of that power and more back on its owner, driving Mick to the floor and pressing down on him until his joints groaned and he screamed in agony beneath the crushing weight.
"Yield,” Raj demanded softly. “Yield and serve me willingly, or you die right here, right now."
Mick twisted beneath Raj's greater strength, his face contorted with rage and pain as he fought to the last shred of his power. He pounded the floor with one fist, driving it through the old wooden planks and shattering the bones in his hand before finally forcing his gaze up to meet Raj's implacable blue stare. He ground one word from his ruined mouth. “Master,” he said.
Raj nodded and released him, and then immediately drew off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, slicing his own wrist with a slash of his fangs. “Do you come to me of your own free will and desire, Mick?” he asked formally.
Mick's eyes met his briefly in surprise, but then he nodded, his hungry gaze lowering to the bounty of rich blood so tantalizingly close. “I do, my lord."
"And is this what you truly desire?"
"My lord, it is my truest desire."
Raj lowered his bloody arm to the vampire's ruined mouth. “Then drink, Mick, and be mine."
Mick closed his mouth over Raj's wrist, drawing the powerful blood into his body with great gulps. Raj could feel the tug not only on his wrist, but on his very soul as yet another vampire became his—his to command, his to live or die. One more stone added to a burden of responsibility that was already too heavy.
When he felt the bond seal into permanence, he withdrew his arm from his new minion's eager mouth. He didn't bother to wipe it clean. The wound would heal on its own in a few minutes, and there was nothing in this room he cared to clean it with. He rolled down his sleeve, drew his jacket back on, and stood to survey the assembled vampires. Some stared in open-mouthed shock, others seemed almost relieved. It was a testament to the failure of Krystof's authority that not a single one of them protested his takeover, or even made a dash for the exits to report in.
"This house will reopen in two nights under new management,” Raj announced. He glanced down at Mick who was already beginning to heal with the surge of Raj's blood through his veins. “Mick will see to its proper administration. Won't you, Mick?"
"Yes, Master,” Mick said fervently. When he looked up this time, his gaze held nothing but respect. “We've been waiting for you a long time, my lord."
"I know,” Raj said somberly. “But I'm here now.” He spun around and left the house the way he'd come in, ignoring the vampires who knelt in obeisance as he passed. In taking Mick's oath, effectively stealing him from Krystof, he'd openly declared his intention to overthrow the Vampire Lord. It was possible Krystof's mind was so weakened that he wouldn't even notice the loss, or that he'd just write it off to rivalry among his minions. After all, he'd brought Raj to Buffalo to clean up his mess. But whether Krystof appreciated the true significance or not, Raj knew what he'd done. And he knew it could only lead to the ultimate confrontation with his Sire. He also knew he should be reeling in triumph at the ease of his first victory, and a part of him recognized the importance of this night. But all he could feel was a keen awareness of the terrible burden that was about to be his. The burden every vampire lord carried, the weight of thousands of vampires who would draw their next breath by his will alone. He climbed into the comfort of his BMW and turned for the city, trying to remember when he'd ever felt this alone.
It was nearly dawn when he pulled into the garage of his private lair. He'd meant to drive by the warehouse near the airport and check on Em and the others, but he'd found himself sitting on the docks of Lake Erie instead. He watched as the longshoremen unloaded a single, huge cargo ship, the giant cranes lifting big, metal containers so different from the crates and barrels, and even occasional livestock, that had been the norm when he'd worked these docks log ago. Until a chance meeting had brought Krystof into his life. He'd often thought about that night—if he'd gone straight home after work to the mean, little room he'd rented for far more than it was worth, or if he'd stopped at the bar a block further on instead of the first one he'd come to, feeling flush with money in his pocket on payday. A whim, not even a real decision—such an insignificant thing to have changed his life forever.
Buffalo, New York, 1830
Rajmund made his way back to the table, dodging flying fists and stumbling drunks, balancing three mugs of foamy beer which sloshed liberally over his fingers to join the layer of old spills lacquering the filthy floor. It was a seedy place, this tavern, set on the edge of a dark pier and stinking of wet grain from the docks only yards away. But it was one of the few bars that would serve him and his friends, immigrants the lot of them, with accents as thick as a slice of his mother's bread, when they could come up with the American words at all, which wasn't often and not nearly fast enough.
He sidestepped an Irish headed for the bar and slid into the chair Maciek had saved for him, dropping the mugs onto the table with a thud and a final splash of golden liquid.
"Easy there, Rajmund,” Maciek said in Polish. “There'll be nothing left for drinking."
"Raj,” Rajmund corrected. “I've told you, Maciek. The Americans don't have the tongue for Polish names. Call me Raj."
"Raj,” Zosia said, her voice a low, sultry purr that made him think of dark corners and lifted skirts. Preferably hers. “It makes no sense, Rajmund."
He shrugged and leaned over to steal a kiss from her luscious lips. “Perhaps not, my sweetness, but the Americans like it, no? And we're all Americans now."
"Maybe you are,” she said, lifting a shoulder to brush him away. “I'm still Polish.” Rajmund slung an arm around her and grinned, ignoring Maciek's frown of disapproval. His friend's brain was stuck back home in Poland where a proper girl would be spending the evening with her mother, not drinking in a filthy tavern with the likes of Rajmund Gregorczyk. But they weren't on the docks of Gdansk anymore. This was Buffalo, New York. America. And this was their future.
Maciek drew a long draft off his beer and put it down on the table. He wiped his face with the back of one dirty hand, spreading nearly as much of the thick foam around his scruffy beard and moustache as he wiped off. “I'll tell you what I think,” he began.
But they never had a chance to hear what Maciek thought. The door flew open with a shudder, as though a storm was blowing off the lake fit to tear the building down around them. The thick wood slammed against the wall with a sound like a ton of bricks hitting the dock.
Silence. Every head in the place turned toward the empty doorway and stared. More than a few crossed themselves and muttered a prayer to the Virgin. A man stepped into the silence. A rich man. Raj could tell by his clean clothes, his white hands and buffed fingernails, his neatly combed hair. And the disdainful look he was passing over the assembled drunks.
There were others with him. Strange, Rajmund thought, that he'd not noticed them before, though they'd certainly entered the bar first. There were four of them, two in front and two flanking the rich man to either side, their bulky physiques and meaty fists describing them, just as the rich man's fine clothes had him. They were bodyguards, hired muscle to ensure the rich man's white hands stayed clean.
The dandy sniffed once, immediately raising a delicate white handkerchief to his nose. “Well,” he said in strongly accented American. “They will have to do."
What followed next was a blur of blood and violence, as the four bodyguards tore into the crowd, their mouths gaping wide with impossible fangs, their fingers curled into claws like some sort of vicious beast. The hardened men in the tavern, men who tossed two hundred kilo crates like children's toys, screamed in terror, crawling on the filthy floor now slick with red as throats were torn and blood spilled everywhere. Rajmund grabbed Zosia and threw her behind him, backing against the wall and trying to remember if there was a rear door and if it was barred. He saw Maciek pick up a heavy chair and swing it, breaking it across the back of the one of the beasts, but the creature turned and laughed—laughed—as it sank fangs into Maciek's throat and he began to scream.
Behind him, Zosia was screaming as well, her voice rising above the others, a shrill female cry in the room full of men. Rajmund saw the rich man notice, although he no longer looked so fine as he had—his expensive clothes were stained with dark blood and gore, his white hands buried in the flesh of a dead Irish whore. He raised his head, his eyes glowing like an animal's in the dim light until Rajmund thought surely he could feel the heat of them against his skin.
"Quiet, Zosia,” Rajmund hissed. He could feel her trembling behind him, her hands clinging to the thin fabric of his shirt.
The rich man smiled and began walking toward them, gliding through the chaos as if God himself was clearing the way, men and monsters brushed aside as if they were no more than silk curtains. “What are you doing here, boy?"
Raj stared in shock. The monster was speaking to him in Polish. “I . . . I work the docks,” he stuttered, not knowing what else to say.
The rich man grinned and it was a horrible sight. “Not anymore."
A single swipe of one delicate, white hand tore out Rajmund's throat. He fell to his knees, feeling the warmth of his own blood as it drained through his fingers to join the growing pool on the floor. Zosia screamed his name, and he watched helplessly as she was dragged over his useless body, her heels kicking weakly as the rich man buried his teeth in her neck and drank.
The last thing Raj saw before a curtain of black fell over his eyes was Zosia's lovely face slack with death, her once bright, blue eyes pale and lifeless.
Rajmund opened his eyes to darkness. He could see men, no not men, monsters moving in the shadows, could heard their growls of pleasure as they sucked the juices from bits of meat he didn't want to think about. Was this death? Was this the hell the priests had warned him of, the corruption of his soul they predicted if he left the lands of his birth and traveled so far away?