Mercedes let me go. I collapsed, clutching my neck and coughing. I could feel bruises where she’d squeezed. Hardin touched my shoulder.
For the first time that evening, desperation touched the singer’s voice. “Arturo. Three hundred years on this earth and you won’t even fight for your life? I don’t believe you.”
Arturo let out a bitter chuckle. “Three hundred years on this earth and I was never once my own man. I see it so clearly now. And I thought I had nothing left to learn.”
A look passed between him and Rick. Then, Rick struck.
I flinched at the speed of it. This wasn’t happening. I kept telling myself this wasn’t happening.
Rick struck at Arturo’s neck, biting into his throat. Arturo’s head whipped back. His teeth bared in pain, and his hands dug into Rick’s arms, the tendons of his fingers taut against his skin. One of his legs kicked out, but Rick braced him to hold him in place, to keep him upright. Rick’s mouth stayed pressed to his throat, lips working as they sucked, for what seemed a long time.
Mercedes looked away.
I noticed it in Arturo’s shirt first—the fabric of the sleeves collapsed. The effect spread to his pants. The clothing wilted, withered, then the fabric itself blackened and crumbled, turning to ash. The body within decayed—three hundred years in a few minutes—shriveling, desiccating, turning black, turning to ash. It spread to his neck, his head, his golden hair turning white, then to powder. And still Rick pressed his face to it. He dropped to his knees, supporting Arturo—what remained of Arturo—as he disintegrated.
Finally, when nothing was left, Rick straightened, sifting gray ash through his fingers and wiping it from his face.
The dust smudged the front of his clothing and streaked his sleeves, which also showed stains of blood.
Arturo wasn’t an evil person. An ambiguous person, maybe, who’d done some pretty bad things. But I hadn’t wanted to watch him die. It was him or Rick, I kept telling myself. Him or Rick.
Rick turned to Mercedes. “I have his blood. Blood is all, and all that was his is mine. His land, his people, his power. Mercedes, you go, you tell them that this city is mine, and that it is well defended.”
“I should arrest you. For murder. Both of you,” Hardin whispered. Her eyes had gone wide, shocky almost.
“He died three hundred years ago,” I whispered. Was it still murder? Semantics, at this point.
“You have no jurisdiction here, Detective,” Rick said.
Mercedes had to collect herself. Her expression froze in an indifferent mask, and she smoothed out her skirt and jacket.
Before she moved away, she said, “Kitty, you kept asking about my age. You should know, because I want you to, that I am older than them both.” She indicated Rick, and the dust on the floor that had been Arturo. Then, she walked away, through the door, vanishing into shadow.
Hardin was staring at that dust. To Rick she said, her voice hushed, “Tell me you play by a different set of rules than he did. That I won’t find warehouses filled with ripped-up bodies. Tell me I won’t regret helping you.”
“You won’t,” Rick said.
It couldn’t be that simple. The Long Game, she’d said. I wondered who Rick would have to defend his place against, and what he would have to do against them.
“This is so Twilight Zone. I need to go check on my guys,” Hardin said, running a hand through her hair. “I’m going outside for a cigarette.” She reached into her pocket and went out the door.
Rick slouched, like he was tired. “It’s over.”
“But she’s still out there,” I said. My voice cracked, still injured. “Mercedes. What if she comes back? You could have stopped her.”
“No, I couldn’t. Her status protects her. I’d forfeit everything I’ve won if I destroyed her.”
Vampire politics. I didn’t care anymore. I had work to do. “Rick, there’s a problem. Detective Hardin’s people have pictures of Dack at the Brown Palace—”
“What?” Rick said. He still had Arturo’s ashes smudged all over him. My stomach turned, and I swallowed back bile.
I said, “They went over security footage from the hotel and found pictures of Dack going to see her. I think he’s been telling her and Arturo everything. He’s your spy. It makes total sense—she knew your people were at the warehouse and told Arturo, she told Dack to call 911 so when the police came breathing down Arturo’s neck he’d need her help to get the situation back under control. He even saved you because she wanted you alive to put more pressure on Arturo.”
Rick didn’t react right away. His gaze turned to Arturo’s chair. His expression was impassive. Then, all he did was whisper, “Not Dack. I don’t believe it.”
“You want me to go get the pictures? What else would he be doing there?”
He turned away, giving his head a shake, a harsh movement when I was used to seeing nothing but grace from him. “Damn,” he murmured.