Hellbent

by Cherie Priest

  The Barrington clan had assembled in the living room—a spacious, vaulted spot immediately to the left of the front door with its two-story portico. Again I considered the insult of showing us through the back, and I wondered if the pressure plate hadn’t been the goal, rather than a subtle nod to their own perceived superiority.

  I didn’t yet have enough information to form a conclusion, so I let it go.

  If Adrian had made note of the slight, he said nothing. I wanted to glance back at him, to exchange a look or just see how he was taking this, but I didn’t dare. And I could smell him, anyway—tension, but restraint. Fear tempered with curiosity.

  Though I obsessed over it, I didn’t think his pheromones would set off anyone’s alarm bells. His physiological reaction was perfectly normal, in my estimation. Maybe a more seasoned ghoul wouldn’t have felt so ill at ease; but we’d worked his newness into our backstory.

  The Barrington family, or those who felt like being present, lounged about the oversized room. They were scattered across a curved, elongated couch and its matching separates, and all the furniture in this particular area was the same bone-pale shade of white, which made some sort of statement, I assume.

  Sheriden bobbed her head at the room in general—with a specific flinch of eye contact directed toward a man standing by a fireplace. What the hell he needed with a fireplace in Atlanta I’ll never know, but he stood beside it like Vanna White awaiting a vowel call.

  My initial instinct was that this was the man in charge. My second instinct was to override that, and suspect that he was the ghoul’s master or lover. This second instinct gained traction when a woman at the crux of the couch’s arc spoke first.

  “You must be Raylene Pendle, or is it Emily Benton? Max’s note was not especially clear on that point.”

  “It’s Pendle,” I informed her, not wishing to have them thinking of me on a first-name basis. It’s hard to demand respect, but I could ride on the formality. “Emily Benton is a public identity and a false one. I wouldn’t be so rude to your House as to insist upon it.”

  This drew nods of approval, so it must’ve been the right answer.

  The same woman said, without getting up, “Welcome to our home. Won’t you join us?” She gestured at a plush white seat next to the fireplace. The obsessive-compulsive in me wondered how they kept from getting ash all over it, and then remembered that this was Georgia, and it surely didn’t see a lot of use.

  “Certainly.” Now I had a chance to look toward Adrian. He looked good, and not half so queasy as I felt. “However, you can see that I’ve brought an assistant.”

  “Sheriden will see to your ghoul. He’ll be established downstairs, where we have a fully finished basement. It serves nicely as temporary housing, or space for guests of a certain stripe.”

  “Understood. Thank you, Adrian, that will be all then.”

  I shouldn’t have said it out loud; I should’ve just projected it, or made the attempt. Too late. And probably, not too big of a deal. For all the Barringtons knew, I was only trying to be polite and not “whisper” in front of them.

  Somehow, watching Adrian leave this time was harder than the first time, in San Francisco. It wasn’t any great mystery. There, he only had to play along. Here, he intended to play along and investigate his sister’s … disappearance. Here, the risk was greater.

  I refused to think about it and concentrated hard on the matter at hand as I took my seat in what did, in fact, turn out to be a man-eating chair of the cushy persuasion. It was virtually impossible to sit with any dignity in that thing; there was no support, only the velveteen pillowing of foam. I did my best, and tried not to feel any resentment at what was likely a deliberate—if admirably subtle—power play.

  I do not think it was irrational of me to suspect it. The entering via back door, the cushy and undignified chair … I could call it a coincidence, but all I needed was a third strike to go straight to conspiracy. These people liked to make sure visitors knew their place, and I suppose it’s their House and that’s their prerogative, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

  “My name is Theresa Barrington,” the woman in charge said to me. “My husband Paul and I”—she indicated the fireplace lurker—“are chief in this House.”

  As if I couldn’t have guessed.

  They were dressed to match—something I didn’t notice until I’d had a chance to stare at them from my triangulated position. Not identical-clothes-matchy. More like prom-dates-matchy. She wore a blue dress that cost more than the Lexus we’d parked outside, and he wore a gray pin-striped suit with blue accents.

  They didn’t sit together, like one might expect. Several others lingered between them, and beside them.

  “Theresa, Paul,” I acknowledged in greeting. “And this is the rest of the House?”

  “The important members,” Paul said bluntly. I took an instant dislike to him—not for his bluntness but for something else, some other weird, vague malice. Everything about him screamed bland and cruel. There was nothing good or even useful about him, I could sense it.

  Theresa gave his declaration a smear of propriety by introducing the rest. She went around the room, starting with the young man to her left. “These are our children, Gibson, Raleigh, and Marie.” Gibson, at least, was no biological relation to either one of those slick brunette weirdos. He had a Nordic look to him that was so severe it almost made him appear albino. The other two shared a cornfed similarity that could’ve been family resemblance, but might’ve only been regional.

  I turned my attention pointedly toward a short, heavyset man who had parked himself by the foyer entrance. “And you?” I asked, making it clear that I did not intend to speak through Theresa at any length.

  He answered for himself, and I appreciated it. “Clifford O’Donnell,” he said. And since he did not specify any family relationship, I assumed he was merely an affiliate, not a relation.

  Theresa cleared it up by saying, “Clifford is an associate from Macon. He often serves as our seneschal, particularly when we feel the need to send someone out of town.”

  “Or when out-of-town trouble comes knocking?”

  “Then too,” he said without taking his eyes off me, or even blinking. “They called me here to see about William Renner when he died, and likewise they’ve summoned me now—due to your appearance. I assume you intend to investigate the matter.”

  “They dragged you all the way back here from Macon on my account?”

  “I came back of my own accord.”

  Paul Barrington chose this moment to interject, by way of shifting the subject or simply annoying everyone. “He’s a helpful man, our Odo is. He’s the one who mailed William Renner’s ashes. It’s a good thing, too. Heaven only knows when one of us would’ve gotten around to it.”

  I ignored the casual rudeness inherent in his statement, and latched instead onto the nickname. It seemed safer. “Odo?”

  Clifford made a face that stopped just short of an eye roll. “A ridiculous contraction, but that’s beside the point. I come when I’m needed, and I leave when I’m not.” He drew a breath like a sigh in reverse, let it out, and told me, “I try to keep the peace—something easier said than done in a climate such as this.”

  He blinked, and I knew I liked him—for a relative value of liking anyone. He was telling the veiled and toothless truth, but telling it at the Barringtons’ expense, and right under their noses.

  “Fair enough,” I said, trying not to smile at him. His small insubordination made me a little bold. “I, too, am interested in peacekeeping of all sorts. However, I am here to discuss a violent matter and I hope we can discuss it openly, without delays, evasions, or games.”

  The blond wonder said sharply, “Is that what you think we do here? Play games and evade questions?”

  “I have no idea how you comport your House,” I lied diplomatically. “This is my first visit to your fair city, and my interest is purely on behalf of another party. If this is a situat
ion that will require a light touch, and some ambassadorial understanding, I hope we can come to an arrangement. I have no wish whatsoever to create any conflict or confusion, so I hope you’ll agree that we should be open with one another to the fullest extent possible.”

  Odo coughed. It would’ve been a better cover for a snort if vampires were more frequently congested.

  Marie, who was more of a girl than a woman yet, or had been at her death, sat forward in a display of earnestness. “We’re absolutely prepared to cooperate,” she said—prematurely, as it turned out.

  Her father did not bother to hide his snort. He said, “Cooperation implies that we’ve done something wrong, and need to account for ourselves. This is no such case. Watch what you offer, Marie.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” she said stubbornly.

  “Everyone has something to hide,” her mother murmured. “But my child’s impulsive statement of good intent will stand. Ask us anything you like, and we will attempt to be helpful. We wish no ill blood between Georgia and California, certainly not on the eve of the convocation. We only wish to help our West Coast friends. Though perhaps I could ask you something first.”

  “Go ahead,” I told her, not that I wanted to leave her in the interrogator’s seat, but I was willing to give a little before I started taking.

  “You aren’t part of the San Francisco House, are you, dear? Something about your accent … I don’t know, but it doesn’t say ‘California’ to me.”

  “And yours doesn’t say ‘Georgia peach’ to me, but we make our homes where we find them.” Never lie when you can misdirect. Or, um, only lie when you’re reasonably certain no one will call you on it. Take it on a case-by-case basis, that’s my advice. “Regardless of my hometown, I am here with full authority of the Renner Household, and that ought to be enough to place me in fair standing. If you’ve found some problem with the paperwork or the permissions—”

  “All was in order,” Clifford—Odo, whoever—said quickly, like he was cutting off a more incriminating response, should anything blurt forth again from one of the children. “You are well within your rights to ask anyone in this House anything about Mr. Renner, whose passing came as a most unexpected and unfortunate event. We have extended our deepest condolences and regrets on the matter.”

  I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume that he didn’t know such condolences and regrets had been submitted via email. “Thank you for the confirmation, Mr. O’Donnell,” I said, giving him a “mister” whereas I’d called the rest by their first names.

  It could be written off as a civilized nod between family lackeys, or so I supposed. Just like coming in through the back door and being assigned a man-eating chair could be written off as incidental.

  I wished he’d step inside the room and quit hanging about by the exit, as if he’d like to scram at the first possible opportunity. If I was going to meet any real cooperation in that joint, it’d almost certainly come from him—I could deduce that much already. But he stayed where he was, casually leaning his stocky self against the doorway.

  “Honestly.” Theresa frowned and shook her head. “I wish I knew what all this fuss was about. There was nothing we could have done; William was a grown man in every respect, and what he did was his own decision.”

  “Are you suggesting that Mr. Renner committed suicide?” I tried to keep the astonishment out of my voice. It was a bold fabrication on her part, if she intended to stick by it as a story.

  “I’m not suggesting it. I’m telling you outright, the man offed himself from our roof. It was embarrassing for everyone, and if anyone should feel any modicum of obligation or uncertainty, it should be the San Francisco people who allowed him to travel so far without assistance. The poor man was clearly in an unrested state of mind.”

  “Unrested?” What a stupid word. I could’ve sworn she’d made it up on the spot.

  “You know what I mean.” She gave a lazy hand-flap. “He wasn’t himself the entire time he visited, and when we found what was left of him on the roof one night, it’d be an exaggeration to say that anyone was surprised.”

  “Surely you aren’t suggesting that the San Francisco head of House came all this way merely to ‘off himself’ on your premises? If he was feeling that fragile, he could’ve done an easier job at home—and he wouldn’t have left his son in a fraction of his present turmoil.”

  Paul said drolly, “Suicide is selfish.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said, struggling to keep my disbelief in check. “It also feels …” I started to say “unlikely,” but checked myself before I wrecked myself, as the kids are putting it these days.

  “It feels sudden, I imagine.” So said Raleigh, I believe.

  He was a smallish man with cold eyes and a pinched shape to his face that would’ve implied nearsightedness if he’d been alive. As it was, he just looked like the kind of guy who’d shoplift for kicks.

  I seized the word. “Sudden, yes. There was no indication in San Francisco that he was unwell in any manner, much less—” I stopped. I was about to ask if anyone else heard what I was hearing—a thin, high-pitched beep coming from deeper within the house.

  I didn’t have to ask it. Everyone sat up straight at the first chime, rigid with varying states of alarm and discomfort. Odo immediately vanished, with Raleigh and Gibson dashing off in different directions—all but bouncing off each other in their haste to vacate the premises.

  Marie cringed and clutched at her “mother.” “Not again,” she gasped. “Mother, do something!”

  Theresa’s response was swift and direct. She rose up off the couch and backhanded the girl hard enough to have broken the neck of an ordinary mortal.

  Marie grasped at her face in shock. Blood oozed from between her fingers, via a crushed nose or busted lips, I assumed. To my surprise, her eyes hardened above those bloody hands, and in an instant she was on her feet and lunging at Theresa—who shoved her back onto the couch. Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought the little milquetoast thing had it in her.

  “You’re too fucking weak, dearest. Get in the safe room if all you’re going to do is cry!”

  “I won’t!” she burbled, and when she removed her hands I could see that yes, her nose was tweaked in a bad direction and there was blood on her teeth. “I won’t hide with you, not anymore!”

  Theresa bent forward and hit her again, hard enough to engage the girl’s rage or defensive mechanisms—and within the batting of an eye, they were tumbling together on the floor, wrestling and biting like kindergartners, flinging blood all over the weird white furnishings. Paul finally left the fireplace, where he’d been standing with one foot on the slate frontispiece like it was first base, dove into the spinning pile, and kicked them apart. “Not now, you dumb bitches! Get up—get moving! And you.” He directed one long, waxy finger at me. “Do your fucking job.”

  “My … my fucking job?” Pleasantries at an end already?

  “Seneschals keep the peace, and you’re here under our auspices. Go keep some goddamn peace.” He swung out a leg to clip his wife but she caught it and threw him—hard—right up against a window on the other side of the room. He crashed into the curtain-covered portal. It didn’t smash, but it crunched strangely.

  Shatterproof glass, as I could’ve predicted.

  “Keep the peace?” I damn near shouted at all the melee’s participants. “I don’t even know what’s breaking it!”

  “You’re an investigator. Investigate,” Theresa sneered, and now there was blood all over her face, too, and on her hands. It was also all over the couch and the carpet, and since this brawl didn’t look like it was excessively out of the ordinary, I shuddered to consider their cleaning bills.

  Paul crawled out of the curtains in time to chase the two women from the room, leaving me alone and very confused about what had just happened. The tweeting, pinging chime of the alarm still dinged through the premises undaunted by the scattering of all the occupants. I didn’t know wh
at had tripped it, and I didn’t know where to turn it off.

  Adrian? I sent it as hard as I could. Adrian?

  What’s going on?

  No idea. Can you get back up here?

  His answer was a garbled negative, and no matter how hard I listened or pushed, I couldn’t get anything more. I told myself that he’d sounded fine—concerned, but not threatened—and I should leave him wherever he was, in Ghoultown downstairs. Whatever wanted inside (assuming something was attempting to get inside) was trying it at night. This meant that it (a) was willing to take on real, live, awake, and pissed-off vampires, so therefore it (b) probably didn’t have much interest in the staff.

  Why was he/she/it trying to get inside now, anyway? I wondered it in a flash, and then jumped to a conclusion that was not at all reassuring, but somewhat logical: The intruder had seen us come in, and welcomed us as convenient distractions.

  Well, I had to tell myself something. Otherwise I’d barge downstairs (providing I could find it) and rip the doors off the hinges to get Adrian out, while swearing about how this was all a preposterously bad idea in the first place and vowing never to let him out of my sight again.

  Hey, the Barringtons wanted to act crazy?

  I would give them crazy.

  But not yet. I tried to be logical and treat this like any other case of me being inside a place with an alarm going off.

  Mind you, it’s not often that I’m sloppy enough to set off any alarms during my acquisitive activities. It’s happened a few times, I confess, but only a few. And there are protocols in place, things you do to minimize the damage and regain control over the situation.

  First things first. An alarm was going off. Something or someone had set it off. What or who? Couldn’t say.

  No sign of any assault on the grounds, not yet. I mean, no firebombs were going off and no windows were breaking. If anything, the place was eerily dead except for that beep, beep, beeping of the distant alarm.

  So, all right. The alarm.

  Where was it coming from, and how did I shut it off?