henri dunn 01 - immortality cure, page 1
THE IMMORTALITY CURE
A HENRI DUNN NOVEL
TORI CENTANNI
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Thank You For Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Tori Centanni
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, or institutions is completely coincidental.
Editing by Eliza Dee of Clio Editing Services
Cover art by Rebecca Frank
Ebook formatted with Vellum
For my mom, Deborah Centanni,
who hated all the “terrible” vampire books I read in high school
CHAPTER 1
I watched the sunlight spread out across Lake Union like a glittery yellow curtain floating on the top of the water. The sky was shades of orange and pink too bright to seem real. Even after six months of being human, I was still awed by how beautiful the sun was.
Then the impatient snapping of a customer broke me out of my reverie.
I twisted my neck around so fast I was half-surprised it didn’t break. I fixed the asshole at table ten with a glare. He was wearing an Armani suit and holding his martini glass out in my direction.
I smiled my most vicious I-am-going-tear-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth smile, but it was far less effective without fangs. It was almost nine thirty—summer sunsets come late in the Pacific Northwest—and this couple had been here since seven. The woman kept looking at her phone, yawning, and clearly hoping he’d take the hint that she was ready to go. She hadn’t had a refill on her martini in almost an hour. “Another round for you both?” I asked, sparing her a sympathetic look.
I could practically see the woman’s eyes roll back in her head. She wanted to go. From snatches of conversation, I’d ascertained this was a first date, one set up by someone this woman clearly didn’t want to offend by excusing herself to the restroom and sneaking out the door.
“I’m good,” she said with a half yawn. Then she feigned looking around the room, as if she hadn’t already noticed that place had emptied out around them, with only a single occupied table remaining in the far corner, and even as we spoke, that table was signing their check and getting ready to leave. “Oh wow, are you closing?”
No points for acting skills, but she was making an effort to politely end this date. “We stop seating at nine on weeknights,” I said. Technically, Le Poisson did not close as long as customers were still inside. I’d heard horror stories from coworkers about servers stuck at work until after two, when our inability to legally serve tables more wine finally persuaded customers to leave.
“We should probably get the check,” she said, smiling pleadingly at the man. He looked at her like she’d slapped him, his arrogant smile sliding off his face for a second before he recovered.
“I’ll have another Grey Goose martini, and two olives this time,” he said, handing me his glass. He glanced over at the woman, eyes lingering on her cleavage, and then his face darkened, probably realizing that wherever he’d thought this date was heading, it wasn’t going to end in him tearing off her purple blouse. “And the check.”
What an asshole. He was exactly the kind of entitled dickhead I’d have happily drained of blood, back when I was capable of that sort of thing. I supposed I could still manage it with the right tools, like that guy on that serial killer show, but it wasn’t the same as having fangs of my own.
I put his drink order in, printed the check, and then delivered both the cocktail and the bill to the table. I refilled her water, so she’d have something to sip while he nursed his last drink. And boy, did he nurse it, continuing to talk himself up the entire time; when I went to grab his credit card at ten o’clock, he was telling her about his vacation home in France. The woman looked like she was mentally crossing France off the list of places she would ever visit.
I made a note of his name out of habit. Before, back when I was a monster, I used to bartend and often found my victims that way, identifying the worst, most arrogant customers and then finding out if they were guilty of crimes worse than harboring a massive ego. A surprising number of entitled douchebags also turned out to be rapists, white-collar criminals who stole from their employees, and even murderers.
I gave the man his credit card slip to sign and went into the back to finish folding napkins so I could get the hell out of there. This was my sixth shift in a row and I was ready for my day off tomorrow. It had been much easier to be polite to assholes when I knew I could kill them afterward if I wanted.
I retreated to the server station, rolling my tongue around in my mouth. How did it always taste so sour? I swore I could feel the bacteria multiplying. I pulled an Altoid tin out from the shelf under the point-of-service computer. I kept it there because the tin rattled too loudly to keep in my apron, and popped a mint into my mouth.
Max was leaning over the counter, counting his slips and adding credit card tips into the computer as needed. Most tips are now on cards, which means less cash in hand. I missed the old days, when I could bartend and walk with a wad of cash. The computer would calculate how much the bussers, food runners, and cooks got, and the tips would appear on everyone’s paychecks. One thing a lot of people don’t realize about tipping is that servers are obligated to tip out a certain percentage of their sales to the rest of the staff, so when you stiff them, you stiff everyone.
He looked up from his slips. “Rough night, Henri?” he asked.
“Trying night,” I corrected. “And exhausting.” Being physically tired was still not something I was used to. After being an immortal monster for almost a century, having muscle aches and sore feet was a relatively new experience. And not a welcome one. Not that being human again was welcome in the first place.
“God, I hear that. I worked at RJ’s this morning. I am ready to collapse.” Max, like most people in the industry, worked two jobs. He’d gotten me a job at RJ’s Diner, but no amount of willpower could make a morning person. I gave up after I slept through my alarm three shifts in a row. They would have fired me anyhow. I saved them the trouble.
“You off tomorrow?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Covering for Tara. Like always.”
We both rolled our eyes. Tara was a college student who seemed to be sick or have an emergency twice a week. She was also the manager’s friend’s daughter, and therefore would never be fired, no matter how many times other people had to pick up her slack.
“What about you, Miss Henrietta? Big plans?” Max smiled.
“Sleep,” I said, and Max laughed.
Finally, Asshole and his date left. He’d added exactly fifteen percent to his check, which was better than I’d expected. I hoped the woman took an Uber home and never called him again.
Twenty minutes later, I was done with my sidework and ready to go. I kicked off my black work heels and put on sneakers. The relief was instantaneous. Seriously, how did feet get so sore? Wasn’t that their job, to hold you up? I shoved my heels into my work locker, grabbed my purse, and headed out the back door.
Le Poisson sat on a hill overlooking Lake Union. My car was parked a block away in a pay-to-park lot that overcharged, but it was better than being late when I couldn’t find a spot on the street. Our lot was reserved for customers, the chef, the manager, and whoever was lucky enough to be employee of the month (hint: not me). I was walking up the street toward the lot when someone got out of a parked SUV and came toward me.
I snarled. The woman put her hands up in the air. My breath caught in my throat.
The woman was Neha Holkar. She wasn’t wearing the lab coat I was so used to seeing her in, but the clothes she usually wore beneath it—a blue blouse and black slacks—were familiar. She was a little taller than me and more slender. Her black hair was short and wavy. It had been long the last time I’d seen her, and she hadn’t had such dark circles under her eyes. But it was Neha all right: the woman who’d stolen my immortality.
“YOU REALLY THINK I won’t kill you because I lack fangs?” I asked. Neha winced but stood her ground. Credit where credit is due: she’d never had trouble controlling her fear. Human hearts and primal brains tend to shout “Danger!” but with practice, people can learn to rein in the impulse to flee. And Neha had had a lot of practice.
“I don’t think you’ll do it here, a block from your place of employment.” Her voice sounded steady.
“After what you did to me, why do you think there’s anything on this planet that will ke
I had to admit that was a little over the top. So when Neha laughed, I couldn’t really blame her. But I was glad to hear that her laugh was shaky. It was a chink in her confident armor. I couldn’t hear her rapid-fire heartbeat anymore, but it was reassuring to know that despite the cartoonish nature of my threat, she was still a little bit scared of me.
She met my eyes and the smile dropped off her face. She cleared her throat. “I saved you.” Quiet, unsure.
“You damned me!”
She winced again. Good. I wanted to hit her over the head until she understood the pain I was in. Neha and I had been friends—or I’d thought we were. She was a bit of a wildcard but, hey, so was I.
Neha’s girlfriend, Kate, had been turned into a vampire by more or less random happenstance (wrong place, wrong time … or right place, right time, depending on your point of view). Like a lot of people turned under duress, she hadn’t taken to it well. Neha had built an entire illegal laboratory on the back of synthesized party drugs to search for a Cure. But she hadn’t found one quickly enough, and Kate had lost patience. She’d lost the will to keep existing as a monster and thrown herself into the sunlight, ending it all. Neha had been wrecked, but she hadn’t stopped her quest. And for some stupid reason, I’d helped. I’d donated my preternatural blood. I’d listened to her theories and come up with my own.
And then, about six months ago, she’d jabbed a needle in my arm and injected me with her Cure.
It worked. Suddenly I was human again. A twenty-three-year-old woman with dirty-blond hair, a short stature, and a series of fake identities going back over ninety years.
My vampire cohorts, horrified at the sight of me human again, demanded answers. They quickly decided I was a traitor, and I was lucky to get away from them with my life, such as it was. They refused to turn me back, afraid my blood was tainted with the Cure and would ruin them, too. I was cast out as a Blood Traitor and left to my own devices.
And now, Neha wanted me to thank her. Her girlfriend may have wanted a Cure, but I had been happy as a vampire. I liked being a vampire. I killed bad guys or didn’t kill at all. I was powerful and strong and immortal.
Now I was just another human with an achy mortal body, waiting tables and trying to make rent.
I took a deep breath and, resisting the urge to physically lash out, stepped around Neha. If she was waiting for a thank-you card and a fruit basket, she had a long wait ahead of her. There had been nights I’d come damn close to burning her lab to the ground.
“Wait,” she said, and I stopped. I don’t know why I stopped. Maybe because there was a plea in her tone; because some part of me still thought of her as a friend; because when someone tells you to wait, it’s habit to wait. “I need help.”
I almost laughed in her face, but something in her voice made me turn around. “You have the balls to ask me for a favor?”
“Ray’s dead.”
That brought me up short. Ray was her partner in crime, or more accurately, her partner in what they lovingly and jokingly referred to as their “mad science.” His goal was to see if he could synthesize a drug that mimicked the symptoms of lycanthropy, a project I did not exactly agree with or endorse. Werewolves weren’t real as far as I knew, and I was not on Team Let’s Make Werewolves Happen. He was a little unhinged, and a little too in love with the supernatural, but he was always polite and sort of in awe of me, the way a lot of humans who learn about vampires are.
I didn’t love the guy, but he wasn’t the most annoying mortal I dealt with on a regular basis, and I’d never wished him dead (unless he started to make progress on his werewolf serum—then I’d have to reconsider).
“How?” It was the only logical question.
Neha let out a shuddering breath. “He was murdered. I don’t … I’m not sure what to do. I was hoping you’d help.”
“Help how?” I asked, incredulous. Neha had turned me human. That meant all of my superpowers were gone.
“I don’t know, Henri,” she said. She sounded so defeated it might have broken my heart if I had one. “He’s dead and I’m scared, and I don’t even know what to do with the body. I can’t call the cops.” She lifted her hands and dropped them again. “The lab is a mess.”
“Wait, he was murdered inside your lab?”
Neha nodded.
I let out a breath. “If I were still a vampire, I could help you dispose of the body. But since I lack supernatural strength and speed … ”
“I don’t know where else to turn.” She hesitated and then added, “What’s left of the Cure is missing, too. I had five vials, but the killer took it all.”
If I were smart, I’d have told her to fuck off. I didn’t owe her anything until she found me an antidote for this Cure of hers, and maybe not even then. Besides, I’d already given her almost everything, and she’d taken everything else I had.
But while I could chalk Ray’s death up to someone wanting his designer drugs, the fact that the Immortality Cure was out in the world made me itchy. I may not have been on happy terms with my brethren, but that didn’t mean I wanted vampires getting humanized against their will. “What else did they take?”
“I haven’t done a full inventory yet. Hard to focus when there’s a decaying corpse next to you. They took most of what was in the small storage fridge. Lots of Lemondrop. They probably think they’re all party drugs.” Neha shifted on her heels. “Please. I have no idea what to do with a body. Do this for me so I can keep my lab and try to concoct an antidote for you. It’s the only way you’re ever getting a serum to reverse the effects of Serum V-504.”
I shuddered at the name. So innocuous. So innocent sounding. It was named for the date Kate and Neha had met: May 4th. It would have been sweet if she hadn’t used it against the one vampire in the world who had tried to help Kate. Whatever vampire had turned her had been conspicuously absent, although I suspected that was more because Kate refused to go near them than anything else. She wouldn’t even tell me his name.
“You really think you can make an antidote?” I asked, gauging Neha’s reaction.
She nodded fiercely.
Part of me had a hard time believing there was a scientific solution to my problem, even if science had caused it. The serum had burned out whatever magic had made me immortal, but that didn’t mean immortality could be synthesized. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be. And even if it were possible, I had my doubts about how much effort Neha would put into finding one. Vampirism had destroyed the love of her life, and Neha couldn’t see it as anything other than a plague that needed to be eradicated. She might have owed me an antidote, but that didn’t mean she’d ever come through with one.
My best chance was to get a vampire to turn me back. Wait until I could convince them I wasn’t a traitor and my blood wasn’t tainted.
Or...
I realized that if I had a vial of the Cure in my possession, I could find some rogue vampire who might do me the favor in exchange for it. For every ten vampires who are happy being monsters, there’s always one sad sack who misses the sunrise. But in order to have that bargaining chip to strike a deal, I needed Neha’s lab to be operational, or at least I needed a vial of V-504. Which meant I needed Neha not to be in jail for murder, with all of her stuff confiscated as evidence.
“Fine,” I said reluctantly. So much for pajamas and cabernet. “I’ll follow you there.”
