And so it went with all the “deaths.”
For Tamsin, they had found a suitable woman on the streets who no one would miss. No, there was not a person on earth who would care about yet another transient gone absent—not on a night when one of the world’s biggest stars fell from the heavens.
In no time, Sorin and the Servants had transported Tamsin Underground without anyone Above being the wiser. Though Sorin was able to partially close Tamsin’s throat wound, the cut ran deep. It would require the doctor’s skills to complete her now.
While the Servants gathered with the rest of the excited Underground in the emporium where they awaited Tamsin’s arrival, Sorin brought the new Elite to the Master.
He was only just slipping into the secret room himself, his aura shining. After he flipped on the radio, they heard the devastated voice of a dead-of-night DJ yelling and crying about tonight’s Internet broadcast. The Master’s aura brightened further, a halo surrounding an eclipsed sun.
The finest resurrection of all, Sorin thought. My master. Thank the day for this new Elite. Thank the day for his awakening at the terrible rise of the activities Above.
While the vampire they called Dr. Eternity settled his child on a bed of silk and rose petals, he spoke, profound sadness weighing his tone.
“They say my son was destroyed.”
“It is for the best. In the end, Robby caused an information leak and changed the retrieval mission of him and his father into a convenient erasure. Between this rogue Elite and Lee Tomlinson, it has been made clear that betrayal will not go unpunished.”
“At what price?”
“You were once taught to withold mercy from traitors.”
“Yes.” A simple acknowledgment had never sounded so sorrowful.
The Master laid a hand on Tamsin’s self-inflicted wound. “One lost child is ushered out by the birth of a new one. Makes sense.”
“We will grieve Robby properly. And Marla Pennybaker’s mind will be wiped, leaving no trace of tonight after she is returned Above.”
“No trace except for Limpet and Associates—something we weren’t able to solve. I know that, Sorin. I know it very well, and we’ll lock our community down until we know how to proceed, for the time being.”
Relief glowed through Sorin. Perhaps the Master was planning aggressive action now. Perhaps he would soon be ready to vanquish their enemies.
The Master’s aura flickered as he healed Tamsin Greene. Her skin had gone pale with the loss of blood, but her flesh was blooming back to its gorgeous, smooth, dark shade with the absorption of the Master’s power. Her lips reddened.
Yet, just as she was becoming a reflection of her human self again, the Master went a step beyond, suffusing her with the true nature. The Allure she would be trained to control.
It began with her skin, which hushed a feathery mist of ghostly white—so light that her limbs seemed to float on air. Her eyes brightened open, irises mirroring a swirl of inhuman shades, hints of the afterlife, glimpses of places she would never be able to retire to now that she was without a soul.
Sorin thought of the room with the hundreds of vials—a hell on earth.
Fully turned now, Tamsin was breathtaking. Slowly, she sat up, put her hands to her face. When Sorin held up an outdated looking glass, she gazed upon herself.
Like all of the Elites, she fell in love with the new image. She drank herself in, laughing and complimenting.
From the corner, the DJ on the radio was accepting phone calls from fans in hysterical denial.
“You’re a legend,” the Master said to his child. “And when the world has grieved and made you more of a goddess than you ever thought possible, you’ll go back to them.”
“But not until after the rest of the procedure,” she said.
Unlike Robby Pennybaker, Tamsin was accepting of the necessary steps because the doctor’s success rate in creating new careers for the Elite was astounding.
Tonight, after returning Tamsin to her more human form, the doctor would see to her recovery. She would stay Underground for decades, long enough to make her an even bigger legend. Years of experience predicted that the public would yearn for another Tamsin Greene, would crave a remedy for their nostalgic love of a talent who had died too young.
Meanwhile, she would train to “act human” and control her new powers. Underground, she would feed off Servants and Groupies who were addicted to an Elite’s angelic beauty and glamour. She would be pampered and worshipped, young and ageless, never changing until the doctor stepped in once again.
Because, before her release to a Servant Above who would maintain her career, she would undergo an alteration. Most stars had taken part in a process similar before coming Underground anyway, so it was a familiar procedure.
In the final phase before a comeback, the Elite went “under the knife,” as the doctor called it. With preternatural efficiency, he would use all the skills he had been taught by a human Servant—a plastic surgeon—over fifty years ago. He would transform Tamsin’s face. Give her a new identity. Work with such speed that the still-young vampire could not heal before he was finished. And, when he was done, her flesh would wrap over cheekbone and chin implants, the star bearing only an eerie resemblance to her old self. Simple cosmetic changes that did not require surgery would aid in the rest of the masquerade, completing her fresh look.
But the most important element was this: Allure shining through her eyes, convincing anyone who looked into them that she carried the essence of a dead legend—a familiar star who would have aged so tragically during the passage of years. Then, when the public noticed her eternal youth, she would return Underground to start again.
Better than Botox. And longer lasting, as well.
Although not everyone knew it, this doctor was the best career fixer in town.
Tamsin and her mirror were still enjoying an intense affair. “A legend. Just like Jim Morrison.”
The Awareness between the Master and Sorin wavered, like a human chuckle.
“Your new family is waiting,” the second-in-command reminded her.
The Master rested a hand on Tamsin’s head, thus altering her to the quasi-human form that would house her Allure. He looked into her multi-colored eyes.
“Secrecy, my love,” he said. “I don’t exist for anyone except you and your siblings. Remember that.”
She nodded, knowing the price of revealing the true Master. Back to mortality. Back to aging and eventually withering away. And for a professional who was so accustomed to signing non-disclosure agreements in her contracts, this step presented no difficulty.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, kissing his hand with fervent gratitude.
Then Sorin led Tamsin up from the bed, guided her out of the darkness and through the tunnels. To the emporium.
As the doors opened, the haremesque grandeur embraced them. Cut glass, rich velvets and brocades, heady incense and flesh.
Her fellow Elites—the ones who had yet to be released—stood before her, flanked by the Groupies, then a handful of Servants.
She marveled at the familiar faces: the action hero, the wild rapper, the misunderstood music idol, the gorgeous, puppy-eyed comedian—all who had died.
All old faces here to welcome their new sibling.
Old faces that had never aged during this process of becoming new faces.
Jesse Shane, whose own “death” had been designed to provoke strange, neverending speculations, raised a glass of warm blood to his little sister. “Long live the new Tamsin Greene.”
The rest of the crowd repeated his words, their voices a merry chorus.
“Long live the new Tamsin Greene!”
And, years from now, after the final change when she returned Above as a different actress/singer, that’s what the press would be saying, too.
Here’s to the new Tamsin Greene.
Never knowing she was actually the old Tamsin Greene.
Twenty-Eight
The Re
covery
It was midday at the hospital, where Dawn and Breisi sat with Kiko, keeping vigil over his bed. Although they’d taken quick showers at their crash pads to clean the blood off their skin, they hadn’t gotten any sleep, and it was wearing on them.
But they could always get some shut-eye in this room, Dawn kept telling herself as she forced her eyes open. She was holding Kiko’s fingers in one injured hand and nursing a coffee with the other while she watched TV. On the other side of the bed, Breisi fiddled with her locator receivers, trying to goose some kind of response out of their silence. Both of them wanted to spend as much awake time with their partner as possible, because tomorrow, when Dawn and Breisi got back to tracking Frank and this Underground, Kiko would be in surgery.
Since his L1 vertebra had burst into his spinal column, he’d sustained damage to his spinal cord but hadn’t severed it, thank God. In order to stabilize his back, the doctors planned to use plates and pins and, although it’d take about a year for him to make a full recovery, the professionals were telling him that he’d be walking fairly soon after the operation, with the help of a brace and rehabilitation.
All the same, Kiko kept insisting he could continue working. His brain was still good, he’d muttered in one of his more lucid moments. Didn’t need surgery onthat.
Now, he was knocked out on painkillers, his compact form swathed in hospital gear. On the TV, a Dodgers game should’ve been on but, much to Breisi’s fan-girl impatience, the station kept interrupting the broadcast for local reaction about Tamsin Greene’s suicide. The news was inescapable, the coverage wallowing in sensationalism.
It seemed like the media had totally missed Tamsin’s message about exploiting her because now, more than ever, they were doing a hell of a lot of it.
A reporter was interviewing celebrities, collecting their grief in a montage of overkill. At the moment, a rising fifties-pop-inspired musician, Bradley Mistle, was wiping down his thick nerd-framed glasses that had fogged up from emotion.
A huffing Breisi muted the sound when her cell phone rang.
“What a circus,” the baseball fan said as she checked the number. Her eyes were ringed with red. “Let the dead rest in peace, I say.”
After last night, Dawn wasn’t sure how likely that was.
After Breisi pushed a button, The Voice came on speakerphone.
“Please tell me you’re getting some rest there,” he said.
“Yes,” both Dawn and Breisi lied. Aside from a couple of catnaps, neither of them had made much of an effort.
Breisi gave Dawn a conspiratorial nod. Dawn raised an eyebrow back.
“And how are your Friends?” the other woman asked.
“Like you, they’re recovering.”
In all the tragedy, Dawn had almost forgotten about how Jonah’s buddies—the ghosties from the office—had lost their battle with Robby’s superior powers. Earlier, The Voice had told them that his “Friends” had been drained of strength and had been summoned back to him when they realized they’d be of no more use at the Pennybakers’. Thus, their sudden disappearance.
She’d also gotten an answer about why Jonah had gone quiet on the cell phone when Nathan had shown up. In an unprecedented sharing of actual answers, The Voice had told her that, once Mr. Pennybaker had arrived with the Guards—commanding them, nonetheless—he’d suspected Nathan’s intimate involvement with Robby’s Underground. Since Jonah was adamant about hiding his presence from any forces that had come with the Guards, he’d protected himself by withdrawing from a possible threat, surrendering the chance to try to hypnotize either Robby or Nathan.
What the hell that all meant, Dawn didn’t know. But she was damned well going to find out.
Along with discovering where Frank is, she thought, I’m going to dig into all your mysteries, Jonah: what your friends are…what you are.
The Voice continued. “It’s good to hear you’re all secure.” Then he paused, tone softening. “Because, contrary to popular belief, I do care what happens to you.”
Even though the words hadn’t been aimed at Dawn, she felt her skin flushing, tingling with suggestion. And when Breisi pursed her lips, Dawn knew that she wasn’t alone in thinking maybe Jonah had spoken volumes more in that one little sentence than he had in the sum of all their conversations.
Clearing her throat, Dawn glanced at the bed sheets. Suddenly, there was too much intimacy in the air.
“And how’s Kiko faring?” Jonah continued brusquely, as if ignoring the previous odd moment.
Dawn patted her friend’s hand. “Slumbering away.”
“Sleep rebuilds the body.”
“Jonah.” Again, Dawn looked at the phone as if she were addressing him in the flesh. Wishful thinking. “You sound a lot more chipper than I would’ve ever predicted after what’s happened. Our clients ended up dead or missing. We still have no idea where Frank is—”
“Ah, but we’re much farther along than I’d hoped at this point. As I said, Robby leads us to the bigger picture—the main reason we summoned you.”
Dawn recalled Kiko’s description of his vision: Dawn, covered in the blood of a vampire, victorious. She’d been covered with red last night, all right, but she hadn’t reached the victorious part. That’s because she hadn’t fulfilled the prediction, The Voice had told her. Not yet.
“Beginning tomorrow,” The Voice added, “we shift focus in Frank’s investigation. To the Underground and this Dr. Eternity we heard Nathan Pennybaker speak of.”
“So it’s business as usual,” Dawn said, watching Kiko as he groaned in his sleep. “Almost.”
“And back to secrecy,” Jonah said. “We must work more quietly than ever. Surprise with these creatures is essential.”
Dawn let go of Kiko and held up a hand in a mock—yet all too serious—vow. “Vampire hunter’s honor.”
Even if she sounded brave, a pall fell over her. How many creatures of darkness were out there? How many were hiding in the crevices of society, like Robby? Like this Underground?
And…just as disturbing…how many vamp hunters were there?
The image of Robby’s arm being sliced off by that long blade shadowed her again. She couldn’t help wondering where Matt had been last night while she was fighting vamps. Wondering who the hell had hired him, and why.
In her peripheral vision, Dawn noticed Breisi making a rapid swipe at her face. Crying. Damn it, what was she crying about? Kiko? Frank?
Then it hit her.Vampire hunter’s honor.
Dawn had taken Frank’s place, becoming the hunter he’d turned into. Except instead of just tracking vamps, she was tracking him. More than anyone, Breisi had to be aware of that.
The other woman smiled at the daughter of the man she loved. “We’ll find him,” she repeated. It’d become their mantra.
Before things could degenerate into an Emotion Fest, both women turned to the phone, seeking another place to look.
“I’ve gotta have more coffee,” Dawn said.
“And rest,” Jonah commanded before he hung up.
Stowing the cell, Breisi turned the TV’s volume back on. An old interview of Darrin Ryder, Dawn’s super favorite actor, was gracing the screen as a reporter voiced-over that the star was recovering from an attack last night. A supposed mugging.
Dawn grabbed back on to Kiko and mustered a little sympathy for Ryder. Not a lot though. Karma was a sneaky bitch, and she didn’t begrudge it some playtime.
A tiny squeeze tightened her fingers. She glanced down, finding Kiko half-awake, his gaze unfocused. Her heart constricted as he unlinked his fingers from hers, then reached out to touch the undershirt she’d worn after washing it.
Frank’s shirt.
“Bait,” Dawn thought she heard him whisper before he closed his eyes and drifted off.
Wait—had Kiko made contact with Frank again? Good news since, after some thinking, she realized that maybe Kiko got present-time clothes readings only if the subject had a conscience that still wo
rked. It made sense, because Kik had gotten a reading from the past via Robby’s old shirts—clothing he’d worn when he’d had a soul. Just as she hoped Frank still did.
Or was Kiko only reliving that one debilitating vision from the other night right now?
Or…Dawn thought of another possibility, a sad option. Maybe it was just the painkillers addling his brain.
Pain. Too damned much of it around here.
She picked up her coffee, started to down the rest of it, but found the foam cup empty.
Reacting to Dawn’s frown, Breisi rose from her seat, gesturing to the cup. “I’m going out for some tea. You want more caffeine?”
“Hell, yeah. As much as my body can hold without imploding.”
An image of vamp bodies sucking inward shook her.
Breisi must’ve been thinking much of the same thing, too, because as she left, she shot Dawn a stoic, knowing glance, then disappeared out the door.
Alone now, Dawn slumped farther into the chair, exhaustion trying to drag her down again. As she fought to keep her eyes open, the TV news continued, the name “Tamsin Greene” like a whisper deep in her brain, leading her toward sleep.
Suicide…Internet…blood…dead…
“Dawn?”
It was a whisper, too, just like all the white noise that had been fritzing through her head. The sounds of the TV floated away, becoming a part of the nothing.
Then something touched her arm.
She bolted out of her chair, blinking open her eyes as her heart pattered against her ribs. Fear and experience forced her body into a defensive stance as she tried to focus.
In the fuzz of Dawn’s tired vision, Jacqueline Ashley stood, dreamlike. She was dressed in fashionably faded blue jeans, a “Drive Hybrid” T-shirt, a baseball cap that she’d shoved all her hair into, and those damned sunglasses. Carrying some white papers and a bouquet of friendly flowers, her appearance reminded Dawn that she’d invited the girl over here to see Kiko, knowing it would cheer him greatly. She also suspected Jacqueline would appreciate the company.
Night Rising Page 30
