“Gee. Sounds familiar.” I fake roll my eyes. “It took me hours to remember anything from the day it happened. Is it normal to not remember, or does it only happen if the death is sudden, violent, and unexpected?”
“Loss of memory is normal, but it returns relatively soon if the sire remains with their progeny when they awake. The one doing this is abandoning them right away. It could take months before we are able to find him.”
I fidget. This isn’t exactly a ‘the city is on fire’ type problem. More like littering. Can’t really say it doesn’t affect me, because it does. If some clueless new vampire ends up on television news, it will set off an epic tornado of political feces among the vampire community. The PIBs will lose their minds. No matter what type of disinformation campaign tries to discredit it, hunters will swarm the area. I doubt many of them are as reasonable as Damarco. Most see vampires and want to destroy us, not caring what sort of person we are. They only see monsters.
“What’s going to happen to the newbies?” I dig my toes into the carpet. Not sure what it is, but it’s amazingly plush and soft. Probably ridiculously expensive.
“It depends on how many the source makes. If they are stopped soon, perhaps nothing unless they refuse to follow the rules.” Aurélie gives a sad sigh. “If too many new vampires are made, we will ’ave no choice but to order them to leave the area or be destroyed.”
“I understand. How many are there so far?”
“Seven we are aware of. All young men about your age.”
Eep. “All of them? That can’t be a coincidence.”
Aurélie offers a slight nod. “Indeed. We thought the same. Per’aps this source vampire is, what is the word they… psychopath?”
It’s tempting to say Sybarite, thinking of Petra, but I don’t. Aurélie snickers anyway, picking up my thoughts. Most Sybarite are legit artists. I’ve only met one who twisted their all-consuming drive into something close to being a serial killer. And ack! There could be some crazy vampire out there preying specifically on young guys—and Hunter is right in the target range. The only thing keeping me from irrational panic is knowing he won’t have much reason to go into Seattle until next semester starts. The odds of him ending up a victim of this guy—or woman—are honestly pretty low, but then again, this is my crazy vamped up life we’re talking about.
Nah, probably not. Honestly, my boyfriend being turned into a vampire could end up being a good thing. It’s nothing I’d ever actively pursue, but it would hardly be the end of the world. Worst part would be feeling guilty he could never have kids or an ordinary life—but being with me has already done that to him. He’s so into me, it would come off as creepy if not for my ability to read minds and see it’s honest love and not psycho stalker obsession. The boy doesn’t care what shape his life takes on as long as he gets to spend it with me.
Aurélie gives me that ‘you really ought to consider it—or leaving him’ look she usually does whenever she catches me thinking about Hunter. We’ve discussed it before. She thinks I’m being ‘tragic’ by letting him stay mortal, grow old, and die. It’s not like he asked and I’m refusing. If he asked, it would probably take him about fifteen minutes to talk me into it. Not sure I’d be able to bring myself to do it, though. Not only would it be too difficult to essentially kill the man I love, being his sire and lover goes way too far into creepy territory. Yeah, I know it happens all the time—both in reality and in vampire fiction—but I can’t help but feel icky about it.
Ugh. If this weirdo out there does pick Hunter, they might be helping us both.
But I still hope he doesn’t.
Yeah, contradiction. That’s my name. A vampire who loves being a vampire but gets too sad at the idea of her boyfriend not being alive anymore to share the gift with him.
Aurélie giggles at me again.
16
Schrödinger’s Cop
Didn’t leave Aurélie’s place until well after two in the morning.
Not a complaint. It’s weird to say, but I never imagined simply hanging out and talking could be so entertaining. No electronics involved. Straight up ‘partying like it’s 1699’ as Weird Al said. Maybe it’s the immortality. Not having a time limit to my existence could explain my tolerance for not trying to cram every minute of wakefulness as full of as much distracting stimuli as possible. Something tells me the psychological community won’t take ‘vampirism’ seriously as a cure for the negative mental effects caused by the saturation of technology in our society.
Two in the morning ended up being a bit late to go to Hunter’s, so I went home, checked on Sierra—who slept peacefully and didn’t show any signs of paranormal problems—then spent the rest of the night playing video games in my room. Talk about slam-shifting without a clutch. From an almost ‘medieval court’ soiree to feeling like a pair of pre-electrical-revolution women passing time together straight to a video game marathon. It’s like how my Dad has Enya, Rush, Metallica, Celtic folk music, and heavier metal in his playlist. One second, there’s peaceful flute music, then all hell breaks loose.
I slip over to Hunter’s house the next afternoon almost as soon as I wake up. He’s surprised to see me out during the day when it isn’t even raining. Their house is still basically a construction project. It’s this freakin’ huge two-and-a-half story beast with a wraparound porch, but two-thirds of it would be considered uninhabitable by anyone with First World sensibilities or a passing knowledge of structural engineering. Hunter’s asshat of a father intended to fix the place up and ‘flip’ it for a profit. Sure, after I compelled him to take off and never return, there’s no way he’s going to finish. ’Course, he bought the house when Hunter was like three and hadn’t fixed even one room yet. Safe to assume he’d never have gotten around to it, anyway.
Hunter, however, has decided to help his Mom out by attempting some repairs. He picked up a bunch of books from Home Depot or whatever and is teaching himself how to replace drywall, re-do floors, and re-tile bathrooms. The heavy-duty structural stuff (like collapsing floors and holes in the roof) is going to take more than some DIY books, though. His mother’s new job pays much better than her last one. She ought to be able to afford real contractors to do the heavy lifting in another year or so.
We spend all afternoon to dinnertime ripping out moldy drywall in a bedroom on the second floor. The house is basically two ‘normal’ houses stuck together. It used to be a four-family home, each story divided into two separate apartments with their own kitchens and bathrooms. His dad renovated the side they live in into a two-story single-family home, but the ‘empty’ part of the house is still two separate apartments. If they ever fix it up enough to pass inspection, his mother might rent them out for some extra income.
Hunter appears to enjoy the work. We joke back and forth about him starting a contracting business. Think he’s contemplating it as a backup plan if anything forces him to stop pursuing a degree. He’d likely need to work for an established contractor to learn for a few years before having any real chance of making a go of working for himself. He’s kinda in my boat, not sure what he wants to study. So far, he’s taking a generic liberal arts curriculum. The only thing he knows for certain about his future is he doesn’t want to go into education. His mother used to be a teacher. She lost her job a little over two years ago to some kind of cutbacks. When I met Hunter, she’d been jumping from one minimum-wage thing to another while using all her free time to find a better job… at least when she hadn’t been hiding from the father. Hunter’s Dad didn’t like her working at all. Yeah, he’s a real jerk. She liked teaching, but it doesn’t pay enough to support two sons and a house on her own. I helped her get an office job.
By the time my phone rings a little after six, Hunter’s thinking about civil engineering or whatever degree program will help him get into the Forestry Service. One thing Washington State has plenty of is forests, and he likes the outdoors. Another thing making me hesitate at the idea of his becoming a vampire—he won
’t be able to be a ranger.
My phone rings.
There aren’t many people I’d allow to interrupt my Hunter time by phone. I don’t recognize the caller ID, so I ignore it. Alas, it begins ringing right away again. Telemarketers don’t call back right away if you decline their call. Worried it might be Ashley or Michelle stranded post-car-accident on the side of the road using a borrowed phone, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Miss Wright?” asks a fairly ordinary sounding man. Uh oh. He’s kinda got cop voice.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wolent. Your assistance would be appreciated with a minor matter.”
Oh, crap. I clench my fist and make a ‘grr not now’ face at Hunter. “I’m kinda in the middle of something at the moment. How important is this?”
“Fairly. The window of opportunity is small. Do you recall picking up an antique vase for your uncle?”
Blink. Say what? Is this some kind of Bourne Identity code phrase nonsense? “Umm… the frog perched on the steeple in the rain?”
“Mr. Wolent is unconcerned with the minor damage to the car that occurred during the ride.”
Ack! “Oh, that vase. Yeah, I remember.”
“Excellent. Mr. Wolent would appreciate it if you could pick the vase up from the storage facility before dark. Preferably soon.”
I cross the room and bonk my head against Hunter’s back a few times. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds important. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Where am I going and who am I looking for?”
“Parking garage downtown. Second Ave and Union Street. Fourth floor. There’ll be a cop there. Ask him what time it is and say a crow stole your phone.”
Wow. Okay. They really are using spy code stuff. Kinda cool, if a bit lame. “Got it.”
“Bring the vase to the manor once you pick it up.”
“Can do.”
“Great. Mr. Wolent sends along his thanks. He likely won’t be awake or available when you arrive. No need to lurk around waiting for him.”
“Cool. On the way.”
I hang up.
Hunter wipes sweat and drywall dust from his forehead. “Another mysterious phone call?”
“You know.” I shrug. “Stuff no one wants to talk about on cell phones. Even if the stuff about the NSA listening to everything is conspiracy nonsense, they don’t want to take the risk it isn’t.”
“What crazy mess are you stuck in now?” He grins. “Anything I can help with?”
“Just picking up a package and taking it somewhere. You don’t have to stop working. It’s not even going to take me an hour, most of it driving.”
“Not flying? Oh, duh. Still daylight.” He glances at the window. “Must be something valuable or dangerous if they’re asking you to move it during the day.”
I lean against him. “Ugh. Thanks for making me nervous.”
“Sorry.” He kisses me.
“Mmm.” I return the kiss. “You’re right, though. Only reason they’d ask me to do it now is daylight. Probably worried about the Oblivare trying to steal it back. Weird though.”
“Weirder than a jar of souls?”
Oops. Yeah, I told him all about the chase and crash. Maybe I shouldn’t share everything with him, but he’s easy to talk to. “Sun’s out. So, the man who just called me is most likely a mortal thrall, or someone paid well enough to keep secrets. I’m supposed to meet a cop, who has to be another thrall since he’s obviously taken the reliquary out of the police impound or evidence locker or whatever they call the place where stuff found in burning cars goes.”
“It’s weird for them to have enthralled cops?”
“No.” I chuckle. “From what I hear, they have agents pretty much everywhere. The weird part is why are they asking me to go get it and not having the cop take it to the manor? Wolent has mortals working for him, both employees as well as thralls. Some are both.”
Hunter kisses me again. “The Universe saw us being happy together and had to do something about it.”
I squeeze him, thinking about the serial-vampire-maker out there. “Don’t say that too loud.”
“You sound worried.”
“If I say ‘nah, it’s nothing,’ you’re going to be dead by tomorrow.” I chuckle. “Got a vamp out there randomly turning guys your age into vampires and abandoning them.”
“Oh. Hardly the worst thing a creep could do to me.”
Yeah, don’t have the time nor the desire for this conversation again. “Right. There’s gotta be a reason. Maybe it’s dangerous for humans to be near the reliquary, or maybe they can’t have the cop go anywhere near Wolent’s house. Just in case, you stay here well out of reach of ancient evil. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“All right. Looking forward to tonight.”
“You and me both.” I grab two fistfuls of his shirt and pull him closer, kissing him while fantasizing about what we’ll be doing to each other later. Ack. Better stop or it’ll be dark before I ever go out the door.
I have to be the only teen in Washington State—heck, America—who thinks of driving as annoying.
Any normal person my age would be thrilled to have a car they could use whenever they needed, even if it is ancient as cars go. Dad’s old Sentra won’t win any beauty contests, but it runs. Traveling long distances during daylight hours requires the car, mostly because I don’t own a bike anymore and walking would take so long I might as well wait for dark and fly. Problem being, the whole point of this assignment is finishing it before dark.
Naturally, the emphasis on daylight makes me think Wolent knows of Oblivare in the area who really want their soul jar back. I wouldn’t put it past someone like St. Ives to try to take it, too. Her motivations might not be sinister, but no movie involving a mad scientist ever depicted an experiment going properly. Even if she merely wants to study this thing, the end result is going to suck. Or, maybe I have her figured wrong and even she isn’t reckless enough to toy with the energies contained within the reliquary.
Whatever, I’m not being paid to think here. Just drive a package from point A to point B. I’m not being paid at all, really. Only a phrase.
The parking garage is fairly close to the water, roughly four blocks east from the Seattle Aquarium. This means I have to drive into Downtown Seattle. Irritating, but it could be worse. I don’t live in LA, Atlanta, New York City, or anywhere in New Jersey. I think Dad said something about Los Angeles traffic being listed as one of the top twenty causes of mental breakdowns in the country on some study. No idea if he’d been joking.
Anyway, it takes me about forty minutes to drive from Hunter’s house to downtown Seattle and the parking garage in question. I hang a left off Second Ave into the garage. Powder blue quarter-walls on each of the levels of an otherwise concrete-grey building make it look like a giant late-Eighties era IBM computer case. Hmm. I probably shouldn’t get a job as an architectural critic.
On the fourth level, I spot a cop sitting in his car, which he’s parked in a non-spot, one of those areas intended for official vehicles or maintenance workers. There are no other cop cars in sight, so I’m hoping he’s my contact. I pull the Sentra into an available spot far enough away not to be overly conspicuous, then walk over to the police car.
The cop gets out when I’m about twenty feet away. He’s on the taller end of average height, probably Native American, and giving me a ‘you gotta be kidding’ sort of expression. Far as I can tell from here, he appears to be an ordinary Seattle Police officer. Can’t sense if he’s a thrall or not due to being offline, so I try my best to act casual.
“Excuse me, officer. Do you know what time it is? A stupid crow flew off with my iPhone.”
Officer Trujillo—according to his name badge—chuckles. “They always come up with the weirdest lines. Are you seriously who I think you are?”
“Depends on who you think I am.”
“A friend of a mutual friend. Little young to have, umm, loyalty in your blood?”
/>
“Yeah. I’m who you think I am. Also, not quite as young as I look.”
The cop laughs, heading for the trunk. “Yeah, that”—he wags his eyebrows at me—“energy drink sure is good for keeping the wrinkles away.”
Wow. I honestly don’t know how legit spies put up with all the oblique references and subtle hints. The guy seems nice enough, but two minutes of this weird banter is already making me want to scream. “Sure is. So, you found granny’s lost vase?”
“Yep. Right here in the trunk.” He pats it. “One sec, let me get it open.”
“Probably shouldn’t open it.”
“I mean the trunk.” Officer Trujillo pulls a key fob out of his pocket.
He looks at it for a little too long. These things aren’t exactly Space Shuttle console complicated. Two, maybe three buttons tops, all labeled with pictures so obvious even a flat-earther could figure out which button unlocked the doors and which one opened the trunk.
Finally, he pushes a button and the trunk pops open. The instant a gap exists between trunk lid and car, a sheet of faintly glowing violet smoke escapes, rushing into his chest.
Uh oh. Not good. Think I just figured out why Wolent wanted me to pick this thing up and not a thrall. I have questions though. Like: how’d the cop get it here in the first place? I don’t, however, have time to find the answer.
Officer Trujillo looks up from the key fob and stares at me, his pupils glowing like purple laser pointers. Gonna go ahead and assume this isn’t normal, and I’m probably not looking at Officer Trujillo anymore. At least, not mentally. His smile’s gone, too. The whump of him slamming the trunk shut again makes me jump.
“Your interference will no longer be tolerated,” says the cop in a voice three octaves too deep to be human.
Vampire Innocent | Book 12 | Ancient Vampire Death Cults & Other Annoyances Page 14
