The Good, the Bad, and the Undead

by Kim Harrison

  She inclined her head as way of dismissal, the second flute of champagne Glenn had brought resting easy in her grip. Three young men lurked behind her, sulky and well-groomed. I was glad I didn’t have her job, though it looked as if the perks were great.

  Glenn’s shoes sounded loud on the concrete as we made our way back to the front gate without the help of Matt and his golf cart.

  “You’ll tell everyone good-bye for me?” I asked, meaning Nick.

  “Sure.” His eyes were on the huge signs with their letters and arrows pointing to the exits. The sun was warm when we found it, and I relaxed as I went to stand at the bus stop. Glenn came to a halt beside me and handed me my hat. “About your fee—” he started.

  “Glenn,” I said as I put it on, “like I told your dad, don’t worry about it. I’m grateful for them paying off my I.S. contract, and with the two thousand Trent gave me, I’ve enough to see me through until my arm heals.”

  “Would you shut up?” he said, digging in his pocket. “We worked something out.”

  I turned, my gaze dropping to the key in his hands and then rising to his eyes.

  “We couldn’t get approval to reimburse you for the canceled class, but there was this car in impound. The insurance agency salvaged the title, so we couldn’t put it up for auction.”

  A car? Edden was going to give me a car?

  Glenn’s brown eyes were bright. “We got the clutch and the transmission repaired. There was something wrong with the electrical system, too, but the FIB garage guys fixed it, no charge. We would have gotten it to you sooner,” he said, “but the DMV office didn’t understand what I was trying to do so it took three trips down there to get it transferred to your name.”

  “You guys bought me a car?” I said, excitement bubbling up into my voice.

  Glenn grinned and handed me a zebra-striped key on a purple rabbit’s foot key chain. “The money the FIB put into it just about equals what we owed you. I’ll drive you home. It’s a stick, and I don’t think you can handle shifting gears yet with your arm.”

  Heart suddenly pounding, I fell into step beside him, scanning the lot. “Which one?”

  Glenn pointed, and the sound of my heels on the pavement faltered as I saw the red convertible, recognizing it. “That’s Francis’s car,” I said, not sure what I was feeling.

  “That’s okay, isn’t it?” Glenn asked, suddenly concerned. “It was going to be scrapped. You aren’t superstitious, are you?”

  “Um …” I stammered, drawn forward by the shiny red paint. I touched it, feeling the clean smoothness. The top was down, and I turned, smiling. Glenn’s worried frown eased into relief. “Thank you,” I whispered, not believing it was really mine. It was mine?

  Steps light, I walked to the front, then the back. It had a new vanity plate: RUNIN’. It was perfect. “It’s mine?” I said, heart racing.

  “Go on, get in,” Glenn said, his face transformed by his pleased enthusiasm.

  “It’s wonderful,” I said, refusing to cry. No more expired bus passes. No more standing in the cold. No more disguise charms just so they would pick me up.

  I opened the door. The leather seat was warm from the afternoon sun and as smooth as chocolate milk. The cheerful dinging of the door being opened was heaven. I put in the key, checked that it was in neutral, pushed in the clutch, and started it up. The thrum of the engine was freedom itself. I shut the door and beamed at Glenn. “Really?” I asked, voice cracking.

  He nodded, beaming.

  I was delighted. With my broken arm, I couldn’t safely manage the gearshift, but I could try all the buttons. I turned on the radio, thinking it must be an omen when Madonna thundered out. I turned “Material Girl” down and opened the glove box just to see my name on the registration. A thick yellow business-size envelope slid out, and I picked it up off the floor.

  “I didn’t put that there,” Glenn said, his voice carrying a new concern.

  I brought it to my nose, my face going slack as I recognized the clean scent of pine. “It’s from Trent.”

  Glenn straightened. “Get out of the car,” he said in a hard staccato, every syllable laced with authority.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have had Quen bail me out.”

  Jaw tight, Glenn opened the door. My car started chiming. “Get out. I’ll have it looked at and bring it over tomorrow.”

  “Glenn …” I cajoled as I opened the envelope and my protests wavered. “Um,” I stammered. “He’s not trying to kill me, he’s paying me.”

  Glenn leaned to see, and I tilted the envelope to him. A muttered oath came from him. “How much is that, you think?” he asked as I closed it and shoved it in my bag.

  “I’m guessing eighteen thousand.” I tried to be cavalier, ruining it with my trembling fingers. “It was what he offered me to clear his name.” Brushing the hair from my eyes, I looked up. My breath caught. Visible in the rearview mirror was Trent’s Gray Ghost limo sitting in the fire lane. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. At least, I hadn’t seen it. Trent and Jonathan were standing beside it. Glenn saw where my attention was and turned.

  “Oh,” he said, then a concerned wariness tightened the corners of his eyes. “Rachel, I’m going to go over to the ticket booth right over there …” He pointed. “… and talk to the lady about possibly buying a block of seats for the FIB’s company picnic next year.” He hesitated, shutting my door with a solid thump. His dark fingers stood out against the bright red paint. “You going to be all right?”

  “Yeah.” I pulled my eyes from Trent. “Thanks, Glenn. If he kills me, tell your dad I loved the car.”

  A trace of a smile crossed him, and he turned away.

  My eyes were fixed to my rearview mirror as his steps grew faint. Behind me came a roar of fans as the game began. I watched Trent have an intent conversation with Jonathan. He left the angry tall man and ambled slowly to me. His hands were in his pockets and he looked good. Better than good, really, dressed in casual slacks, comfortable shoes, and a cable-knit sweater against the slight chill in the air. The collar of a silk shirt the color of midnight showed behind it, contrasting wonderfully with his tan. A tweed cap shaded his green eyes and kept his fine hair under control.

  He came to a slow halt beside me, his eyes never leaving mine to touch upon the car even once. Feet scuffing, he half turned to look at Jonathan. It stuck in my craw that I had helped clear his name. He had murdered at least two people in less than six months—one of them Francis. And here I was, sitting in the dead witch’s car.

  I said nothing, gripping the wheel with my one good hand, my broken arm sitting in my lap, reminding myself that Trent was afraid of me. From the radio, a fast-talking announcer took over, and I turned the radio almost off. “I found the money,” I said as way of greeting.

  He squinted at me, then shifted to stand by the side mirror to put his face in shadow. “You’re welcome.”

  I peered up at him. “I never said thank you.”

  “You’re welcome anyway.”

  My lips pressed together. Ass.

  Trent’s eyes dropped to my arm. “How long until it heals?”

  Surprised, I blinked. “Not long. It was a clean break.” I touched the pain amulet about my neck. “There was some muscle damage, though, which is why I can’t use it well yet, but they say I don’t need any therapy. I’ll be back on the streets in six weeks.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  It had been a quick comment—and it was followed by a long silence. I sat in my car, wondering what he wanted. There was a jittery cast to him, his eyebrows a shade too high. He wasn’t afraid, and he wasn’t worried. I couldn’t tell what he wanted. “Piscary said our fathers worked together,” I said. “Was he lying?”

  The sun glinted on Trent’s white hair as he shook his head. “No.”

  A sliver of ice dropped down my spine. I licked my lips and brushed a spot of dust from the steering wheel. “Doing what?” I aske
d casually.

  “Come work for me, and I’ll tell you.”

  My eyes went to his. “You are a thief, a cheat, a murderer, and a not-nice-man,” I said calmly. “I don’t like you.”

  He shrugged, the motion making him look utterly harmless. “I’m not a thief,” he said. “And I don’t mind manipulating you into working for me when I need it.” He smiled, showing me perfect teeth. “I enjoy it, actually.”

  I felt my face warm. “You are so full of yourself, Trent,” I said, wishing I could shift the car into reverse and drive over his foot.

  His smile widened.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You called me by my first name. I like that.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. “So throw a party and invite the Pope. My dad may have worked for your dad, but you are scum, and the only reason I’m not throwing your money back in your face is a, I earned it, and b, I need something to live on while I recover from injuries gained from keeping your ass out of prison!”

  His eyes were glinting in amusement, and it made me furious. “Thank you for clearing my name,” he said. He went to touch my car, stopping as I made an ugly noise in warning. He turned the motion into seeing if Jonathan had moved. He hadn’t. Glenn, too, was watching us.

  “Just forget it, okay?” I said. “I went after Piscary to save my mom’s life, not yours.”

  “Thank you anyway. If it means anything, I’m sorry now for putting you in that rat pit.”

  I tilted my head to see him, holding the hair out of my face as the wind gusted. “And you think that means anything to me?” I said tightly. Then I squinted. He was almost jiggling where he stood. What was up with him?

  “Scoot over,” he finally said, looking at the empty seat beside me.

  I stared at him. “What?”

  He looked past me to Jonathan and back. “I want to drive your car. Scoot over. Jon never lets me drive. He says it’s beneath me.” He looked over at Glenn skulking beside a pillar. “Unless you would rather have an FIB detective drive you home at the posted speed limit?”

  Surprise kept the anger out of my voice. “You can drive a stick?”

  “Better than you.”

  I looked at Glenn, then back to Trent. I slowly sank back into the seat. “Tell you what,” I said, my eyebrows rising. “You can drive me home if we keep to one topic on the way.”

  “Your father?” he guessed, and I nodded. I was getting used to this deal-with-a-demon business.

  Trent put his hands back in his pockets and rocked back and forth once on his heels in thought. Bringing his attention from the blue sky, he nodded.

  “I do not believe I’m doing this,” I muttered as I threw my bag in the back and awkwardly shifted over the gear stick to the other seat. Taking my red Howlers cap off, I wound my hair up into a bun and jammed the hat back on against the coming wind.

  Glenn had started forward, slowing as I waved good-bye to him. Shaking his head as if in disbelief, he turned and went back inside the ballpark.

  I buckled my belt as Trent opened the door and slid into the front. He adjusted the mirrors, then revved the engine twice before pushing in the clutch and shifting it into first. I braced myself against the dash, but he eased forward as smoothly as if he parked cars for a living.

  While Jonathan hurriedly got into the limo, I snuck a glance at Trent. My eyes narrowed as he took it upon himself to fiddle with the radio while at a stoplight, not moving even when it turned green. I was ready to smack him for messing with my radio when he found a station playing Takata and turned it up. Peeved, I hit the set button.

  The traffic signal changed from green to yellow, and he sent the car leaping through the intersection, slipping ahead of oncoming traffic amid squealing tires and horns. Teeth gritted, I swore if he wrecked my car before I had a chance to, I’d sue his ass.

  “I won’t work for you again,” I said as he gave the irate drivers behind him a friendly wave and merged onto expressway traffic. My anger hesitated as I realized he had intentionally sat through the green light so that Jonathan would be forced to wait until it changed again.

  I looked at Trent in disbelief. Seeing my understanding, he floored it. A shiver of excitement struck me as he shot me a quick smile, the wind pulling his short hair to hide the green of his eyes. “If that helps you sleep, Ms. Morgan, please, continue to believe so.”

  The wind tugged at me, and I closed my eyes against the sun, feeling the pavement hum all the way to my bones. Tomorrow I’d start thinking about how I was going to get out of my agreement with Algaliarept, remove the demon mark, get Nick unbound as my familiar, and live with a vampire who was trying to hide that she was practicing again. Right now I was riding shotgun to Cincinnati’s most powerful bachelor with eighteen thousand six dollars and fifty-seven cents in my pocket. And no one was going to stop us from speeding.

  Not a bad week’s work, all things considered.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank Will for his help and inspiration with the jewelry of the Hollows, and Dr. Carolinne White for her invaluable assistance with much of the Latin. But I’d especially like to thank my editor, Diana Gill, for giving me the freedom to push my writing into areas I’d never thought to go, and my agent, Richard Curtis.

  E-book Extras

  Hollows Timeline

  Of Vampires—Living and Not So Living

  Pixies and Fairies. Yes, There is a Difference.

  Music as My Inspiration

  E-book Extra

  Hollows Timeline

  1953

  Watson and Crick discover the DNA double-helix model. Collaborating with Rosalind Franklin, they use Cold War funding for their own research instead of for space and unconventional weapon development. This greatly advances the understanding of genetic manipulation as the US develops genetic weapons instead of nuclear. Space exploration fizzles out.

  1958

  Rosalind Franklin continues her research, helping to push genetic understanding up for the following twenty years and giving us a wealth of genetically produced drugs in the 1960s.

  1962

  Genetic insulin becomes readily available.

  1966-1969

  Turn begins and ends. The T4 Angel virus transported by a tomato designed to feed the people of the third worlds.

  1979

  Ivy and Trent are born.

  1980

  Kisten is born.

  1981

  Rachel is born. Personal computers become available.

  1995

  Trent and Rachel's fathers die. Leon Bairn quits the I.S. and is assassinated to keep his findings quiet.

  1997

  Rachel graduates High School and starts classes at a two-year school.

  1999-2003

  Rachel interns with the I.S.

  2001

  Ivy joins the I.S. as a full runner after graduating from a four-year course of study.

  2003

  Rachel and Ivy work together during Rachel's last year as an intern.

  2006

  Rachel quits the I.S.

  E-book Extra

  Of Vampires—Living and Not So Living

  * * *

  Published in conjunction with

  Cincinnati’s FIB Inderland Department;

  FIB Inderlander Handbook, issue 7.23

  By Rachel Morga

  * * *

  Even before the Turn, vampires have held a place in literature as figures of power and terror, lusting after both our blood and will. They’re capable of horrific actions with no sense of remorse, instilling humans and Inderlanders alike with a healthy respect born in fear. But even more dangerous than a hungry vampire is trying to confront one in ignorance. It is with this in mind that I agreed to put on paper the distinctions that separate the big-bad-ugly wannabes from the really big-bad-uglies. Both can kill you, but if you know their limits and liabilities, this very powerful, manipulative branch of the Inderland family can be understood and handled in
a successful manner. And if that fails, shoot ‘em until they stop moving.

  Living vampires are either high-blood—vampires conceived within a living vampire and therefore having an inactive vampire virus fixed into their fetal genome to modify their development, or low-blood—humans bitten by an undead and existing in a tenuous, halfway-turned status. Only an undead vampire has the active form of the virus that can infect a human. The virus happily settles itself within cells of the blood-producing bone marrow of its new host and immediately goes dormant. Very little of the vampire’s abilities or liabilities are imparted to the hapless human.

  Bitten humans half-turned are at the bottom of the vampiric rung, constantly currying the favor of their undead sires for a chance to ingest more of his or her blood in the hopes of achieving a higher level of vampire characteristics. With their human teeth, human frailties, and lacking any blood lust but in their imaginations, they’re little more than a willing source of blood to the undead and an object of hidden ridicule to the rest of Inderland.

  Low-blood vampires rightly live in fear that the undead who feed on them will become careless and accidentally kill them, conveniently forgetting to finish the job and bring them back as an undead. And whereas a high-blood vampire is born with status that he or she carries into vampiric death, low-blood vampires must fight for theirs. They can be very dangerous if they start to overcompensate, becoming ruthless to measure up to their sire’s expectations. Just punch them in the gut, and they’ll fall like any other human.