Sketched

by David Alan Jones

  “Would you be available to meet with Director Burhari on Thursday at noon?”

  “I’ll be honest—what was your name?”

  “Ugo, ma’am.”

  “Ugo, I simply don’t have the time right now. Couldn’t she call me herself? I’d be happy to discuss anything she wants on the phone or on a face chat.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t do, Ms. Carver. The director doesn’t trust open phone lines, especially those attached to mobile networks. She is, however, excited to meet you face-to-face. It would take less than an hour if you like.”

  “I simply can’t,” Rose said as she stepped into the convention center behind Watts. “Please give her my apologies.”

  “Very good, I shall do that, ma’am.” Ugo sounded disappointed. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  Turning down a potential ally left a bad taste in Rose’s mouth. She wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice at the moment, but that didn’t change the facts. At best, joining Buhari’s consortium would distract from her true aims. At worst, looking for help when her new allies could provide nothing due to simple distance might end up hurting the slinkers. Better to say no now rather than string anyone along, either the consortium or the Order.

  “This place is nicer inside than out,” Matt said.

  Rose slipped her phone into her dress pocket. “Yeah, I’m impressed.”

  This building had once been a cotton mill owned by the now defunct Stevens Corporation. That company had rebranded itself in the late 90s, changed its name, and moved all production to Malaysia, leaving behind dozens of plants to decay over time.

  At some point, a smart investor had bought this one and converted it into an upscale meeting place for corporations, multi-level marketing cults, and politicians. Now that Rose knew more about managing a political campaign, she wasn’t certain which of the latter two best described their little enterprise.

  Where the factory floor once contained sprawling pieces of industrial equipment, some of them two and three stories tall, it now offered all the amenities expected from middle managers tasked with hosting corporate parties and training events. One end of the space housed a bar, shuttered at the moment. The other sported the kind of stage Rose associated with old school rock concerts and traveling televangelists. Several hundred folding chairs fronted the stage, all empty save for a handful in the center.

  Gloria Torres, dressed in a conservative pin-striped pants suit, stood on the floor below the stage, chatting with the people there. She stopped when she saw Rose and the others approaching.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Torres said as if she were speaking to a crowd of thousands rather than dozens. “I present to you the current leaders of the Order, Rose Carver and Matt Snow.”

  The crowd, most of whom probably knew nothing about either Rose or Matt, dutifully applauded. Rose smiled and found she wasn’t forcing the expression. She wished she had thought of gathering as many slinkers as possible for a private chat with Torres before every rally, but that had been Matt’s brainchild. It showed locals they could have a voice in Society and regular government, and it seemed to be working, at least in cities where they managed to find any slinkers. Their sort didn’t advertise their whereabouts, but Matt had spent years wrangling them for his father. Using those skills for good, he could usually coax at least a handful to turn up in exchange for a few bucks or some free food.

  “How is everyone this evening?” Rose asked.

  The crowd made a collective sound of contentment. They wore a range of clothes from dirty and careworn to fresh off the rack. Their hygiene ran much the same gamut. One or two smelled ripe, and not just with body odor, but the eye-watering scent of heavy alcohol or drugs. Others looked like professionals here for a business meeting. Rose had noticed more and more of this type at rallies and other events in the last several months. Without Society stepping on their throats every time they dared use their gifts, some were finding success in the world, and they wore it well.

  “Has Gloria answered all your questions?” Rose let her gaze flit from person to person, inviting them to speak with a soft push of charm.

  “I have a question.” A young succubus raised her hand. “I like the idea of sending a slinker to represent us, but we’re talking about the real American Senate here, right? That’s what you’re running for?”

  “Yes,” Torres said at once. “The real Senate, not just some nonexistent position in Society.”

  “Does that mean our votes actually count? Everyone in my family says all the races are rigged. Society decides who gets in and who doesn’t. Is that a lie?”

  “Your votes count,” Matt said. “Society doesn’t rig elections.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said the young woman, though she sounded doubtful.

  “Unfortunately, that’s because they have no need to rig elections,” Matt went on. “If they don’t like someone in Congress, they nullify that person’s position either by charming them or simply outvoting them in a bloc. That’s why they don’t mind humans winning seats in either the House or Senate. They’re easy to control and can’t possibly offer any challenge to our kind.”

  “But she can?” A wizened incubus in the second row pointed at Torres. “Won’t a slinker be a threat to the elitists’ power?”

  “Definitely,” Matt said.

  “Then they’ll just kill her.” The old incubus threw his hands in the air.

  “Not if we can make agreements with the elites,” Rose said. “Even as we speak, the Order is pushing to build alliances with members of Society willing to hear our case.”

  Several people moaned; others laughed outright and shook their heads.

  “Might as well try signing a treaty with some ISIS fighters while you’re at it,” said a grizzled man in a trucker hat. “In fact, I’d bet you’d do better with them.”

  “I’m not going to lie,” Torres held up both hands as if to show she carried no weapons. “We don’t have a magic pill that will make Society recognize us. But we do have numbers. I’d wager there are more slinkers in Georgia than there are elites in Washington. In fact, I guarantee it. You vote me in, you’ll be sending them a message, one that will resonate. Sure, they’ll still be able to stymie my votes, but every time they do, they’ll be forced to remember me, and how a band of slinkers put me in office. If there’s one thing people with power fear, it’s the loss of power. You vote me in, the first slinker ever to win a seat, you’ll show them we have power to match theirs.”

  Matt, his lips turned up in a half grin, nodded his approval. “Exactly.”

  “I still say they’ll kill you,” said the old man down front. “You’ll have a convenient accident or simply disappear one day, never to return.”

  “That might have happened five years ago,” Rose said, doing her best to keep her voice cheerful despite the guy’s dire predictions about her friend. “Or even a year ago. But we’re too big for that now, too organized. I know many of you have never heard of the Order. It’s not like we can take out ads on the internet, but we have thousands of members now, and we’re growing every day. Gloria will never be alone while in office. She’ll have Order bodyguards surrounding her everywhere she goes. Society has already seen what we can accomplish when we band together. They know better than to try pushing us around.”

  Some of the slinkers must have heard about the fear factory. They were nodding along with Rose’s points. Others looked thoughtful, though she could tell she hadn’t yet convinced them all.

  Tanner Watts, who had taken up a position at the back of the auditorium, waved a hand, signaling that the event would soon begin.

  Matt wrapped up their talk with the slinkers by admonishing them to support Gloria in November. He and Rose joined Tanner while Gloria headed backstage for a touch up on her hair and makeup and a chance to rehearse her speech.

  Rose admired Torres for taking on this role. She hadn’t wanted it. She didn’t like making speeches unless they involved sending recruits on ruck marc
hes or storming enemy hard points on the battlefield. But something had changed over the last weeks and months of her campaign. Where early on she faltered or stumbled over her words during rally talks, her delivery had improved over time such that her speeches no longer sounded canned. She spoke from the heart and people listened.

  “I think she can do it,” Rose said as she, Matt, and Tanner climbed a set of stairs to a small viewing area cut off from the main hall. It was set up like box seats in a stadium with comfortable luxury chairs, one-way mirrored glass with a view of the stage, and a stocked fridge.

  “She will,” Matt said confidently.

  Tanner pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket. “We’re all set up here. Open the floodgates.”

  Despite the enclosed space, Rose heard the sound of people pouring into the auditorium below. Succubus guides dressed in security vests directed them to the stands. The turnout wasn’t as large as Rose hoped, especially considering the amount of money the campaign shelled out for internet and satellite radio ad spots, but it was decent. Torres’s centrist platform avoided views from either the extreme left or right, which attracted a fair share of human voters in the current polarized climate. Planting dozens of Order ops meant to charm the crowd in her favor didn’t hurt either.

  “Do you believe that stuff we told the slinkers?” Rose asked after the announcer had taken the stage and was on the verge of introducing Torres.

  “Which part?” Matt took a sip of non-alcoholic beer. Rose didn’t see how he drank it; she couldn’t stand the stuff.

  “How we’ll find a way to make the elites pay attention once Gloria’s in office. I can’t help thinking about that old man insisting they’d kill her.”

  “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but senators are rarely assassinated.”

  “But they are silenced. I can’t think of anything more infuriating than watching her try to make changes in Society—in America for that matter—only to have them ignore her, and us, completely.”

  Matt took a long draw from his bottle, collecting his thoughts. “To answer your question, yes, I believe what I said. There’s no question Society will attempt to neutralize us.”

  “You mean neuter us.”

  “For sure. But we’ll fight. They’ll pay attention because we’ll give them no choice. There are too many of us to do otherwise.”

  Someone knocked three times on the skybox door.

  Tanner frowned, his gaze on Rose and Matt. “I told Myra to call if she needed anything.”

  Rose drew hearing, smell, and discernment. She expected to catch a whiff of cologne or perfume from whoever stood on the other side of the door. A pungent odor, one she never expected to encounter again, filled her nose instead. She stood up.

  Matt followed her lead. “What is it?”

  “Open the door.” Rose drew speed, strength, and dexterity, causing her breath and heart rate to speed up simultaneously. “We’ve got an uninvited guest.”

  Tanner opened it to reveal a young Hispanic vampire named Rubio.

  Matt tensed and shoved his luxury seat aside with drawn-bolstered strength that sent it screeching across the floor into the wall, clearing the path between him and the vampire.

  “Hello, Rose Carver,” Rubio said, moving only his lips. He stood supernaturally still, like a creature made of obsidian. Not even Matt’s sudden move had goaded the vampire into flinching or showing the least bit of reaction. He wore an expensive-looking dark blue suit with a sport coat and no tie, his collar open at the throat. His black hair stood up in a rakish spike.

  “What are you doing here, Rubio?” It took Rose a moment to master her instinct to fight. She had no particular beef with this vampire besides his creepy nature. Her quarrel had been with Rubio’s father, Clemente, whom she had killed back in Mexico. Had Rubio tracked her down for revenge?

  Slowly, Rubio tucked his chin against his chest so he peeked at her through his brows, his dark eyes glinting in the overhead lights. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came to give you a ride.”

  “A what?” Rose glanced at Matt, who kept his gaze fixed on the vampire. “A ride to where?”

  “Someone important would like to speak with you. He has asked me to act as intermediary. Will you come?”

  “Who?”

  Had the Irish sent someone new to harass her? Far as Rose knew, Alice McAleese was their leader, or at least their representative in the States. Perhaps she had sent one of her bodyguards to have a chat? Did the Irish use vampires that way? Rose had no clue.

  “I cannot say. Not here.” Rubio still hadn’t moved.

  “You know what? No. I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t give a damn who sent you to fetch me. Go tell your boss that.”

  Without a warning even Rose’s amped-up senses could detect, Rubio swept into the skybox like a rush of wind. One moment, he stood in the hall, Tanner between him and Rose, and the next, he took up a position with his forehead pressed against the glass, his gaze on the crowd below.

  Rose and Matt jumped back in unified surprise. His face flushed, likely as much from embarrassment as sudden anger, Matt threw a punch at the vampire’s jaw.

  Rubio caught it with one hand, never lifting his head from the glass, but otherwise remained still.

  Slowly, sheepishly, Matt withdrew his fist and stood staring at it as if he had never seen it before. Between the two of them, Rose was faster. She possessed a much deeper draw on speed and far more votaries, but Matt was no slouch. He could move many times faster than any human, and with more precision than most succubi, yet Rubio thwarted him like an adult play boxing with a child.

  Tanner, who had little speed to draw from, marched toward Rubio, fists curled. “He’s fast, but he can’t stand up to all three of us.”

  “Actually,” Rose put a hand on Tanner’s chest, “from what we just saw, I have a feeling he might. You been making a lot of blood ties lately there, Rubio?”

  “You’re going to come with me,” Rubio said, ignoring her question. “You’ll want to in about ten seconds.”

  “Why is that?”

  Before Matt finished speaking, Rubio pointed at the crowd. As if by his direction, no fewer than fifty faces turned to gaze at the skybox, pallid faces, ageless faces, each baring a double row of sharpened fangs. They held that pose for three seconds before turning, en masse, back to the stage, Torres and the rest of the crowd none the wiser.

  A cold shiver raced through Rose’s body.

  Tanner’s radio squawked as four voices tried to speak at once, asking if anyone else had seen what just happened and what they should do about the vampire infestation in their midst.

  “You’re bluffing,” Matt said, his voice quiet but serious. “Those are humans down there. You massacre them, you’ll expose vampire kind. And even if you can somehow cover it up, the old coven kings will rip you to shreds.”

  “What coven kings?” Rubio whispered. “Your friend, Piper Ross, has put the fear of Dios into their sour hearts, those she hasn’t killed outright. They no longer come to America. How do you think I have gathered so many votaries? There is no one to stop me.”

  Rose and Matt shared a glance. They knew Piper had been attacking other covens, but had she really taken out enough of the old guard to frighten off what remained?

  “Then why hasn’t she stopped you?” Rose asked, at once curious and fearful of the answer.

  Slowly, Rubio turned to face her, as expressionless as a cadaver. “Because I have a friend.”

  He pulled a phone from his pocket and held it up so they could see the screen. An image appeared that set Rose back on her heels and left Matt staring open-mouthed.

  Jason Kraft, disgraced former senator and leader of the Indrawn Breath, the rebel faction responsible for taking over Society and plunging the United States into an ill-advised and, thankfully, short-lived invasion of Mexico, stared out at the world with a knowing smile.

  “Matthew, Rose, if you’re watching this, it means Rubio has tracked you down. I�
�m sending this message because I think it’s time the three of us sat down for a chat. Neither of you will want to do that, of course, but perhaps this will change your mind: Barbara Griffith is dead. I have my suspicions as to the culprit, though I doubt you’ll like my conjecture. Either way, the results are the same. Society’s about to plunge back into turmoil, and I honestly don’t know how to stop it.”

  8

  Better the Devil

  Rose felt the charm the instant she exited the convention center. Succubi in the vicinity were attempting to control her. The feeling was distinct from vampire charm. It put her in mind of a boa constrictor coiling around her head and squeezing until her brain ached, whereas the vampire charm felt more like rats gnawing at her defenses. They weren’t strong enough to control her—few succubi were these days—but they might wear her down given time.

  Matt felt it too. He scrunched up his nose and scanned the parking lot, though the area looked empty.

  “You have succubi working with you?” Rose asked.

  “Some.” Rubio glided down the convention center steps like a shadow, arms pinned to his sides.

  “More than some,” Matt said. “This is concentrated charm I’m experiencing. Either you’ve got a dozen, or the ones you’ve got all have more votaries than the norm.”

  “You better not have harmed my sentries.” Tanner withdrew his radio. “Stevens, Myra, do you hear me?”

  “Five by five,” said Gregory Stevens, one of Tanner’s deputies on guard for the night.

  “I read you,” Myra said. “Who’s the man in front of you? And why are you all leaving? I thought you planned to stay till the end.”

  Rose couldn’t spot them, but they obviously had eyes on her and the others. She wanted to swipe the radio from Tanner and demand to know how the sentries had let dozens of vampires slip into the rally, but she had a feeling she knew the answer. Stevens’ next call confirmed her suspicion.

  “Myra, who are you talking about?” Stevens sounded confused. “I only see Tanner, Rose, and Matt. Is there someone else nearby?”