Blood Oath
Page 33
Dylan went back to the sun and the sand and the babes and the beer, but it didn’t feel the same. He watched the TV coverage about the White House attack and saw the faces of the men and women who’d been killed. Khaled had almost done it. He’d almost taken out the president. Dylan couldn’t believe he’d gotten away clean.
In the mornings, when he woke up hung over and faced the brilliant Mexico daylight without any chemicals in his system, Dylan thought about what he’d done. He tried to tell himself he was the real victim here. He was just along for the ride. Khaled was the bad guy. If Dylan hadn’t helped him, it would have been someone else, right?
And he didn’t get paid, either.
It usually took several beers for any of that to sound convincing, even to him.
He was tired from hanging on the beach all day. Too much sun. He decided to stay home and watch TV. Still, he couldn’t lose the feeling that something was wrong.
Maybe it was the guy. There’d been some guy, some snot-nosed punk in a suit, hanging around the resort all week. He seemed official, somehow. Asking questions. But then he’d gone, and he never even talked to Dylan.
So why was he still so jumpy?
He drank more beer. Flipped channels.
The screen popped and went dead as all the lights went out in the apartment. Dylan dropped his beer. The power had been cut.
That wasn’t too unusual in Mexico. He stood up anyway. His heart was slamming itself against his rib cage. His hands and legs shook.
He heard something on the patio. When he went to check, the door was open. He knew he’d closed it.
That was enough. He’d seen plenty of horror films, and the victims always made the same mistake: they waited around to find out what was going to happen.
Well, screw that. He ran for the apartment door.
He stumbled. Tripped over a coffee table. Then bounced off a wall.
Only it wasn’t a wall.
Someone else was in the room, in front of him, blocking his path.
He was dressed all in black.
Dylan tried to push past him. The man shoved him, spilling him over the couch.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he sputtered. “This is my family’s place, you’re in big trouble—”
The man spoke, in a voice as cold as anything.
“Dylan Weeks,” he said. “My name is Nathaniel Cade. You are guilty of treason.”
“No,” Dylan said, struggling to his feet. “You got the wrong guy, I never—”
“You violated the bodies of the dead. You broke their trust. And you betrayed your country.”
Cade was suddenly right in front of him again. Nothing human could move that fast. Dylan was knocked back down to the floor.
“I’m not here to argue,” Cade said.
Dylan didn’t like how that sounded. He got on his knees. “Please. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Cade looked amused.
“Sorry?” Cade said. “You’re sorry?”
Dylan nodded. “I swear. I had no idea.”
“That changes everything.”
For a split second, Dylan thought he might be off the hook. Forgiven.
Then he saw Cade smile and saw the fangs.
Dylan tried to scream.
Cade didn’t let him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
These people gave their time and effort to make this book better than I could alone. Many thanks are due:
Alexandra Machinist, my peerless agent, who also has the coolest name in the literary world; Rachel Kahan, both for her sharp edits and the inordinate amount of faith she showed in the manuscript; Lauren Kaplan, Ivan Held, and all the people at Putnam; Kris Engskov, former personal assistant to President Bill Clinton, for his help with the interior of the White House and its security procedures (I’ve taken liberties with the actual layout, and, of course, Mr. Engskov did not reveal the existence of a presidential vampire to me. I assume that would be classified); Claire Dippel (no relation to Konrad, at least as far as I know); Elizabeth Pontefract; Bryon Farnsworth; Amanda Rocque; Britt Mc-Combs; John Rember; Ahren Heidt; Randal Eymann; William Heisel; the whole sick crew at Big Action! and, of course, my first reader and one true love, Jean Roosevelt Farnsworth. I should also thank my daughter, Caroline, who tolerated her father typing at the keyboard while she waited with wet diapers.
The true story of Andrew Johnson’s pardon of a vampire can be found in The President’s Vampire by Robert Schneck, which investigates the facts first turned up by Charles Hoy Fort in Wild Talents. The Washington Prophecy is based on a story from Oval Office Occult: True Stories of White House Weirdness by Brian M. Thomsen.