by Trisha Telep
We raced to the end, veered around the corner … and found a single parking space, enclosed on all other sides by soaring walls.
“No, no, no,” Marguerite whispered.
I pointed. “A door.”
As we ran to it, Marguerite pulled out her lock picks. I tried the handle, just in case, but of course it was locked. She pushed a pick into the keyhole.
Footfalls pounded down the service lane. She stopped and turned.
“Just open—” I began.
“No time.”
She looked around, then her chin shot up. I followed her gaze to a fire escape. I ran for it. She boosted me, and I grabbed the bottom rung. I scrambled up, hand over hand, as fast as I could. At a shout, I looked down to see the woman skidding to a halt at the end of the alley … and Marguerite, still on the ground.
“Marguerite!”
“Go!” When I didn’t budge, she glowered up at me, fangs extended as she snarled, “Go!”
She ran at the woman. I climbed, slower now, fingers trembling, forcing myself to take each step, my gut screaming for me to stop, to go back for her. But I knew she was right. I had no defenses against a gun. She did. I had to get away and trust she’d follow.
When I reached the top, I turned. The first thing I saw was the woman, unconscious on the ground. Then the two men, one holding Marguerite in a head-lock, the other with his gun trained on me. I hesitated. He fired.
The bullet hit the brick below my foot. He lifted the barrel higher. I lunged onto the rooftop, heart thudding. The metal fire escape groaned as someone began to climb it. I scrambled to my feet and took off across the roof.
I got away. As soon as I did, I realized I had to go back.
They’d already tried to kill Marguerite. She was just an obstacle to getting me and, now, a way to get to me, to lure me in. She’d survived being shot, but now that they knew what she was, they’d know how to kill her. I shivered just thinking about what they might do to try to convince her to give me up. And when they couldn’t, they’d kill her. No question.
I shivered, gulping icy air as I stood pressed against a wall, catching my breath. Then I closed my eyes and listened. No one was coming. I kept listening, trying to hear the roar of the dam to orient myself. It was close by, just to my right. I turned the other way and started walking.
I found them in the same service lane we’d run into. They’d backed a van in and had the rear doors open as one of the men dragged Marguerite, hands behind her back, gagged and struggling, toward it.
As I strode into the alley, the driver leapt out, raising his gun.
“I come in peace,” I said, lifting my fingers in a V.
He paused, half out of the van, his broad face screwing up in confusion.
I raised my hands. “See? No pistol. No switchblade. Not even a ray gun.”
The witch I’d taken out earlier came around the other side of the van, approaching slowly. I watched her lips, ready for the first sign of a spellcast.
“I want to make a deal,” I said.
She didn’t answer, just stopped, her gaze traveling over me like she was looking for a hidden weapon. The driver eased back into the van, door still open, radio going to his lips.
“You can stop looking for her,” he said. “She’s right here.” Pause. “Yeah, it’s the O’Sullivan kid. Says she wants to make a deal.” His voice dropped. “Better hurry.”
The other man resumed dragging Marguerite to the van.
“Uh-uh,” I said. “Put her in there and I’m gone. This deal is a trade. You take me and you let her go.”
Marguerite shook her head wildly, her eyes blazing. I looked away and focused on the witch.
“You do want me, right?” I said.
“We do.”
“And you aren’t interested in her.”
Her lips twisted with undisguised distaste. Marguerite told me that’s how other supernaturals see vampires—unnatural and inhuman, worthy only of fear and disgust. They would kill her as soon as they could. I was sure of it now.
I continued, “So you take the prodigal science experiment home to the lab, and the vampire goes free. Fair enough?”
The witch hesitated, then nodded. “Come along then, Kathy.”
“It’s Kat.”
A flicker of annoyance, quickly hidden. “All right then. Kat. Come—”
“I’m not coming anywhere until you release her. She’ll walk this way. I’ll walk that way. Crisscross. Everyone’s happy.” Except me, going back to that horrible place, those awful experiments. I pushed the thought away. I was valuable, so I’d survive, which was more than I could say for Marguerite if I didn’t do this. She’d given up her freedom to look after me. Now it was time for me to do the same for her.
When the witch didn’t move, I said, “I’m not going anywhere. You guys have guns, spells, demonic powers, whatever. I have zip. Just let her go, so I’m sure you’re holding up your end of the bargain.”
Another brief pause, then the witch signaled to the man holding Marguerite. He released her. As she walked toward me, I headed for the witch, my gaze still fixed on her. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Marguerite pull down the gag, mouthing to me, trying to get my attention, trying to tell me to wait for her signal, then run. I ignored her. I had to go through with this.
I was about five feet from Marguerite when a truck backfired behind me, the sound cracking like gunfire. I jumped and spun. That’s all I did. I didn’t lunge. I didn’t run. I didn’t even back up. It didn’t matter. I’d moved, and when I did, I heard the pfft of a silenced shot.
Marguerite screamed. I felt her hit me in the back, the blow so hard it knocked me off my feet, and as I fell, I twisted, and saw her running toward me, still three feet away, too far to have hit me. A spell, it had to be a—
I hit the pavement, flat on my back, blood spraying up from my chest.
Blood. Spraying up. From me. From my chest.
I lifted my head, looking down at myself, and saw—and saw—and saw—
“You shot her!” the witch screeched.
“She was trying to—”
“You were waiting for an excuse. You …”
She kept shouting as Marguerite dropped beside me, tears plopping onto my face as I lay on the pavement and all I could think was, I didn’t know vampires could cry.
“… like Davidoff’s going to complain,” the man was saying. “I gave him the excuse to test his secret experiment …”
The voices drifted away again. Or maybe I drifted. I wasn’t sure. The next thing I knew, I was sitting up with Marguerite’s arm around me, her face buried in my hair, tears wet against my scalp as she whispered, “I’m sorry, mon chaton. I’m so sorry.”
“… just get the body in the van …” the woman was saying.
Body? I jerked up at that, looking around wildly, reassuring myself I was alive. I could still see them, could still hear Marguerite telling me it would be okay, everything would be okay.
Marguerite had me on my feet now, her arm still around me as she whispered, “We’re going to run, Kat. We must run. Do you understand?”
Run? Was she crazy? I’d been shot. I couldn’t—
Everything went black. Then, suddenly, I was on the sidewalk, running as she supported me. The pain in my chest was indescribable. Every breath felt like a knife stabbing through me. Marguerite had one hand pressed to the hole in my chest, trying to keep it closed, but it didn’t matter. The blood ran over her fingers, over my shirt, dripping onto the pavement. Yet somehow we ran.
As we stumbled onto the road, a truck horn blasted. We kept going. The truck tried to stop, brakes and tires squealing. We raced past it, cutting so close that the draft as it passed nearly toppled us. The truck screeched to a halt. The driver shouted. Our pursuers shouted back, but they were stuck on the other side of the vehicle, out of sight.
We ducked into the first alley and kept going.
As we ran, the ground tilted under my feet. I tried to f
ocus, but could see only a haze of dull shapes. Then I heard something. Water. The thunder of the dam, growing closer with each step. I heard Marguerite too, on her cell phone. Emergency. Shooting. The dam. Ambulance. Police. Please hurry.
What was she doing? I couldn’t go to a regular doctor. I’d been told that all my life, even before I went away with Marguerite. In an emergency, call home. Don’t let them take you to a hospital. My parents said it was because they wouldn’t understand my condition. True. They just hadn’t mentioned that the condition was being a genetically-modified supernatural whose blood tests would make the doctors call the guys in the Hazmat suits.
I guess that didn’t matter now. I needed immediate medical attention. We’d deal with the fallout later.
The roar of rushing water grew steadily louder. Then another sound cut through it. The wail of sirens. I remembered seeing the police cars downtown. That’s why Marguerite had asked for the police—they’d get here quickly, and that would scare off our pursuers. In an emergency, she always said, cause a scene and get the humans involved. No supernatural would risk doing anything with them around.
Marguerite lowered me to the ground, my back brushing against a metal railing. A cold mist of water sprayed my neck. When I blinked, I could focus enough to see we were at the dam. Police lights strobed against the buildings, the sirens deafening now.
There was no sign of our pursuers. This trapped them worse than the truck. They couldn’t approach. We were safe.
“Mags,” I whispered. I tried to say more, but could only cough, pain ripping through me, bloody spit splattering my clothes.
“Shhh, shhh.” She kissed the top of my head, tears raining down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, mon chaton. So sorry. I should have told you, should have warned you. You are so young. So young.”
Told me what? Young? Too young for what? To die? No. She couldn’t mean that. I was fine. The ambulance was coming. I could hear the siren.
Doors slammed, and a police officer shouted for Marguerite to step back. Her trembling fingers fumbled around my neck, finding my necklace. A Star of David. I wasn’t Jewish, but we always said I was. Just part of the cover.
When she found it, she breathed a sigh of relief, murmuring, “Bien, bien.”
Why good?
“Step away from the girl,” another officer shouted.
“I love you, Kat. You know that, don’t you?” She kissed my forehead again. “I love you and I’ll never leave you.”
She stood then. I tried to call out to her but couldn’t. The fog was descending again and it took everything I had just to focus, just to see her, a faint shape in the grayness as the mist from the dam and the fog from my brain swirled together.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” she whispered. Her fingers grazed my chin as she stepped back.
I twisted my head to watch her as she climbed onto the railing. The police shouted. I shouted, too, but only in my head, shouting her name over and over, telling her to stop, to come back, not to leave me …
She blew me a kiss and mouthed, “I’ll see you soon,” then back-flipped off the railing. The last thing I saw was Marguerite plummeting down, out of sight, into the river a hundred feet below.
And then …
Nothing.
I woke up cold, a chilled-to-the-bone kind of cold, with only a thin sheet pulled up to my chin. Under me, my bed was rock hard. I stretched and my muscles screamed in protest.
Damn, I really needed a workout.
I laughed at the thought. I’d been shot in the chest. Something told me it’d be a while before I was training again.
I inhaled, and resisted the urge to gag as my nostrils filled with the stink of antiseptic and chemicals. The smell of a hospital, bringing back old memories. I shivered. At least I wouldn’t be going back to that hospital again. Almost worth being shot.
I wiggled my fingers and toes. God, everything ached and I was freezing. Did they have the air-conditioning on? My bed was so cold it was like lying on a marble slab.
I rubbed the bed … and my fingertips squeaked across the surface. I stopped. Mattresses didn’t squeak. Was it covered in plastic? Did it need to be? Had I pissed myself?
I lifted my head. It took some effort—my head was flat on the bed. No pillow? I looked down and caught the flash of my reflection. I was lying on a metal table.
I jumped up so fast I nearly tumbled to the floor. I looked around. Metal. All I saw was metal. Metal table. Metal equipment. Metal trays covered with metal surgical instruments.
Had I woken up in surgery? Oh, God. Had they finished? My fingers flew to my chest, finding the spot under my left breast where the bullet had—
There was no bullet hole. No stitches. No bandages.
And no heartbeat.
I shook my head sharply, and pressed my fingers to the spot and closed my eyes, trying to feel …
There was nothing to feel. My chest didn’t move at all. No heartbeat and no breathing.
As I turned, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the bank of metal berths behind me. I saw me—just me, same as always, tanned skin, brown hair, green eyes, gold pendant gleaming on my chest.
I caught the pendant and ran my fingers over the points of the star. The Star of David. Now I knew why Marguerite had been so happy to see me wearing my pendant. So they wouldn’t embalm me.
I heard the words of the man who’d shot me. Like Davidoff’s going to complain. I gave him the excuse to test his secret experiment.
An excuse to test whether their genetic modification had any effect on my supernatural blood-right, my destiny. To die … and rise again.
“Katiana.”
I glanced over to see Marguerite in the doorway. She stepped inside and pulled the doors closed.
I couldn’t have been asleep long, but she looked like she hadn’t fed in weeks. She was pale and unsteady, her eyes sunken and red.
“Guess you were right,” I said. “I’m not a werecat.”
Her face crumpled. I didn’t ask if she’d known I was a vampire. Of course she had. That’s why she’d been assigned to me. Why she’d taken me away. I’d always felt like Marguerite was more my family than my parents had ever been. Now I knew why.
I didn’t ask why she hadn’t told me the truth. I knew. Of every supernatural creature I could have been, this one would be the biggest blow, and she’d wanted to spare me the truth until I was older. I suppose she figured she had plenty of time before I needed to know. Time to let me grow up. Time to let me be normal.
A thought struck. “So, I’m going to be sixteen forever?”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “That was one of the modifications, with the experiment. You are supposed to live a normal life, with only the other powers of a vampire.”
Supposed to. That was only a theory, of course. No one could know for sure. I’d age or I wouldn’t.
“Someone’s coming.” The words slipped out before I realized I was saying them. I turned toward the closed hall doors, but didn’t hear anything. Still, I knew someone was out there. I could feel him.
A shark’s sixth sense.
The perfect predator.
I shivered. Marguerite started to hug me, then lifted her head, catching the same weird sense, and quickly handed me new clothing. I took it and we hurried to the corner. Whoever was coming down the hall passed the room without stopping.
“So what happens now?” I whispered as I dressed. “The Edison Group must know I’m here. They’ll be waiting for me to … rise.”
“They are.”
“And when I disappear? They’ll know. They’ll come—”
“I have made arrangements. Money can buy many things. The records will show you were cremated by accident. You cannot be reborn from that. They will think they have lost you. We are safe.” She helped me into my shirt and caught my gaze. “I know you have questions, Katiana. There is so much you must be wondering.”
There was. So much. So many questions. So many worries and fea
rs. Too many. I pushed them aside and focused on the easiest question, the only one I could deal with.
“Can we go home?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Then, right now, that’s all I want.”
She nodded, put her arm around me, and led me from the room.
One
BY THE TIME the train pulled into the station, and Lauren wound her way down the stairs and out onto the desolate stretch of York Street, the sun was only a pale yellow sliver of warning slipping fast below the darkening horizon. She didn’t like being out after dark—no one did these days—but she needed the job, and so here she was hurrying past empty storefronts, abandoned cars, and long-gone ironworks factories untouched by Brooklyn’s gentrification boom. It was July in the city, the heat bullying in its humidity. In the distance, the half-lit towers of the Farragut Houses rose like an ugly Lego attempt. She glanced at the tiny ad in her hand: Part-time assistant needed for Angelus House. Good pay and flexible hours. There was an address scribbled on the side, an address she’d been given over the phone when she foolishly booked the appointment for eight-thirty, an address she was now trying desperately to find even as her gut told her it was madness to be walking unprotected at this hour. A torn page from a newspaper scuttled along the sidewalk and got caught on her foot. BLOODLUST SICKO KILLS AGAIN read the headline. Lauren shook it from her shoe and hurried along.
Angelus House occupied a corner on one of Vinegar Hill’s cobblestone streets next to a litter-strewn, weed-choked lot surrounded by a rickety fence. It had been a small Victorian hospital that overlooked the Brooklyn Navy Yards at one point, but now tinted-glass privacy windows, thick iron gates, layers of graffiti, and heavy vines obscured its former limestone glory. Lauren buzzed, and when no one opened the heavy security door, she walked around the side looking for a usable entrance.
“You one of them, huh? You one of those freaks?” A dark-haired guy in a Knicks tank stepped out and dropped into a karate stance, brandishing a spray-paint can.
She screamed loud and high, which sent the guy running. A second later, a door banged open, and there was a guy offering her his hand.
