“My younger brother is one of the leaders,” he says. “After Gideon’s compound was raided by the Control, those of us who were in thrall to Gideon and his three progeny were taken away.” He lowers his voice. “With him and Lawrence dead, and Jacob and Wallace in custody, it would’ve been too painful for us to stay.”
I nod. Lanham had explained to us that the Control placed the compound under the agency’s supervision rather than shutting it down. They figured the remaining two dozen ancient vampires posed less danger in a place where they could be monitored than if they were roaming the streets and countryside looking for food. Practical to the core, the Control. I have to admit I admire that.
“How many of the compound’s, uh, guests stayed behind?”
Ned shakes his head sadly. “We called ourselves that, didn’t we? ‘Guests’? We were prisoners, plain and simple. Walking blood banks.”
“But you told me last summer that the vampires didn’t hurt you. That you had medical care and shelter and food. Even a home school for the kids. It was like a commune, you said.”
“I was in denial. I was trying to impress you, per my orders, convince you to stay. Show you we were sane.” He gives an embarrassed smile. “You weren’t fooled, were you?”
“You weren’t crazy,” I tell him, though to be honest, he still has that cult light in his eyes. “You were manipulated. I’m sure if I’d stayed longer, I would’ve been a willing guest, too.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.” He smiles down into his cup, rotating it with one hand while the other hand holds the stirrer straight up in the middle of the coffee. “But looking back on those years, it sure seems nuts.”
“Were you bitten a lot?”
“One hundred seventeen times.” Ned winces, as if the admission alone pains him. “What about you?”
“Just the once so far.” Not true (it was twice). “Hurt a lot.” Totally true (it was agony).
“It gets easier. Too easy.” He shakes the ice in his empty water cup. “So who was it?”
I flick the salt crystals off my stale soft pretzel, choosing my words carefully. “This guy. He wants to be my boyfriend.”
“He only says that so he can drink you. There was a woman once who had me fooled. Before I found out that we could never, you know.” His voice dips as he stares into his coffee. “They all lie.”
To keep him on my case, I say, “No, this guy’s different. I think he loves me.”
“Of course you do.” Ned puts his hand on the table near mine. “They’re so persuasive.”
I try not to feel sleazy as I cash in on Ned’s newfound concern for me. “So tell me more about this group. What are they called? Where did they come from?”
He hesitates, probably wondering whether he can trust me.
I push the sympathy card. “For me to feel comfortable asking you guys for help, I need to know more about you.”
He gives a quick nod, his savior complex kicking in. “The Fortress has been around a long time, I think a hundred years. There are chapters all over the world. Secret, of course. Most of us would be carted off to the funny farm if the authorities heard our stories.”
“What do they do besides run these halfway houses?”
He looks uncomfortable, and begins to fold his paper napkin in a way that reminds me of Shane. “I can’t really tell you.”
“But I need guidance,” I say in my best imitation of a confused, frightened female. “Can you help me?”
Ned snaps open a bag of chips and eats one, then another, as if mulling over his next words. “I help run a support group you should join. The leader is a psychologist, so it’s not just a bunch of us sitting around talking about being bitten. Though that is the name of the group.”
“What is?”
“The Bitten.”
I almost spew my coffee.
Ned rolls his eyes. “I know, kind of a dorky name. I wasn’t there when they formed the group. Our next meeting is Tuesday night in Frederick.”
Hmm, that’s where Travis said the new cult was located. “I’ll be there.”
He brightens. “Fabulous!” His voice lowers. “There’s just one thing. To keep out the posers and reporters, they ask newbies to show their wounds.”
I gape at him. I hope he means metaphorical wounds.
“Your fang marks,” he says. “The fresher the better.” He angles his head. “Did he bite your neck? I don’t see it.”
That’s because it healed months ago. “No, it was, uh, somewhere else.”
Ned blushes. “Don’t feel embarrassed. You can show Dr. Shelby in a private room. She’s seen everything.” He looks away and wipes his mouth with his paper napkin. I bet his skin looks like a topographical map.
“So if I join the group, can I find out more about the Fortress? It sounds exactly like what I need.”
He hesitates. “Just come to the meeting, and if you like what you hear, we can let you in on more of the agenda. It’s important to protect the Fortress at all costs.”
I chuckle. “Aren’t fortresses built to protect people instead of the other way around?”
Ned looks unamused. He leans forward. “When I was forced out of Gideon’s Lair, I lost my will to live, until the Fortress saved me. Some of us need to serve something larger than ourselves to feel complete.” His fingers clutch at the napkin, ruining its careful folds. “What’s the point of living if it’s just for yourself?”
I nod solemnly, letting my eyes go soft and vulnerable, with a tinge of moral righteousness. It’s a hard look to pull off, but he seems convinced, especially when I add, “I’ve never met anyone like you, Ned.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Everyone I know, they only think about getting ahead, taking what they need. No one really cares about anyone else.” I let the back of my hand brush his palm. “But you’re different.”
He wraps his hand around mine. “I guess we’re sort of soul mates.”
I try not to think about his 117 bites. “How long were you at Gideon’s compound?”
“Five and a half years. When I got out, it was like the world had passed me by.” He pulls out his cell phone. “These things take pictures now.”
“Yeah, a lot’s happened. So where is this Fortress—”
“Hold still.”
I realize he’s taking my picture with his phone. “No!” I lunge forward to grab it, but he yanks it out of reach.
“Too late.” Ned examines the screen. “Oh, that’s a nice one.” He snaps it shut and leans in his seat to insert it in the belt clip on his khakis.
Whoever these Fortress people are, I don’t want them with a free mug shot of yours truly. For a moment, I consider throwing coffee on him, then stealing the phone while he’s distracted.
Oh, what the hell. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I point behind him. “You think that girl behind the counter’s a vampire?”
He turns, and I tip my cup across the table into his lap. Ned shrieks and leaps up.
I gasp. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Are you burned?”
“No, it wasn’t hot anymore.” He shakes the coffee off his hands. The front of his pants are soaked. He makes to put his phone in his pocket before realizing it would get wet, so he sets it on my side of the table, away from the puddle.
“I’ll buy you another pair of pants right now.”
“No, that’s okay—”
“I insist.” I grab a stack of napkins from the empty table beside us and hand him several. I wipe the tabletop with the rest, swiping the phone into my other hand while he carefully blots his soaking crotch.
Phone safely in pocket, I crouch in front of him and dab the napkins against his thighs.
“Really,” he says, somewhat breathless, “you don’t have to do that.” He puts his hand over mine, though not to remove it. “But thank you.”
Ha. I was pretty sure he wasn’t gay.
From my knees, I give him my sauciest gaze. “You sure I can’t put
you in another pair of pants?”
His eyes widen. “Uh . . . on second thought, that’d be real nice.”
“Think nothing of it.” I stand, hook my arm through his, then turn us toward menswear. “Join me in the fitting room?”
He gives me an amazed smile, then glances back at the table. “Where’s my phone?”
“I’ll hold on to it until we get you changed.” I risk a quick brush of my fingertips over his hip, a move he could interpret as an accident.
“Thanks, Ciara.”
We reach the menswear fitting room, where I wait outside Ned’s cubicle until he tosses his pants over the door.
I grab them and scurry out. “Be right back!”
It takes about twenty seconds to find a replacement for his generic khaki trousers, then another five minutes to delete my photo from his phone, search fruitlessly for other pictures, and copy the numbers of his entire contact list and recent calls on the back of my store receipt.
He declares the trousers a perfect fit and invites me inside the cubicle to give him a second opinion.
I decline.
Dexter greets me at the door, knocking the large shopping bags of cheap housewares out of my hand and spilling their contents. He grabs one of the blankets and shakes it, hard enough to dislodge the cardboard wrapper.
“Glad you approve.” I scratch his head, sparking a butt - wiggle seizure. “How much have you destroyed your new home?”
A quick inspection of the apartment reveals no chewed furniture, though the kitchen floor is covered in an eviscerated box of cereal. Hundreds of Cheerios—which comprised my entire food supply—lie uneaten but crushed into a fine oaty powder.
On the shopping list on the refrigerator, I write MORE DOG TOYS and BABY LOCKS FOR CABINETS.
The cold, damp night air coats my skin as I take Dexter out for a walk. I tug up the hood of my coat to warm my ears, then shove it back down when I realize it blocks my peripheral vision. After two weeks of living with David, I find myself spooked at being alone again.
A car door slams behind me, making me jump. I turn to see a bulky man get out of a black Lexus about twenty feet away. My heart starts to pound as I wonder why someone with an expensive car would be in my neighborhood.
Wait. This isn’t my neighborhood. It’s Elizabeth’s. Rich people are supposed to be here.
The man gives me a casual wave, then engages the car alarm with a chirp. I wave back, and we continue our mutual anonymity.
When he disappears, I pull up my hood again. This is a safe area. The condo association probably has a neighborhood watch, or can afford to pay for its own private police force.
Dexter drags me over the shiny wet sidewalk toward a large shade tree at the corner of the parking lot, where my apartment building ends and another begins. In the space between the buildings is a small playground with a swing set and sliding board. It’s empty now, of course, glowing in a sulfurous orange light.
Dexter circles the tree three times before choosing the perfect place to leave his mark. He doesn’t have much ammunition, due to his low levels of liquid intake. He lifts his leg just as a car drives by on the road, its tires swishing through the puddles.
The sound fades, and in the silence, I hear a creak behind me, steel against steel. I turn my head, but the hood cuts off my vision. In front of me, Dexter freezes, leg raised.
Another creak, louder, from the playground. I turn quickly.
One of the swings is swinging in a wide arc, its seat empty.
The wind, right? But then wouldn’t both swings be moving?
The swing’s momentum slows, and its seat sways and turns on its chain in such a way that tells me someone pulled it up and let it go.
But who? And where the hell are they now?
I step back, fear zinging over my skin like static electricity as I sense I’m being watched. It’s not the cold, slithery feeling I got when Gideon stalked me. It could be a younger, less sinister vampire, or “just” a human attacker.
Something bumps into me from behind, and I let out a yelp before realizing it’s Dexter.
Or, at least, what used to be Dexter. He stands rigid, one forepaw slightly raised, his muzzle pointed at the playground. Nostrils flaring, ears twitching, he takes a stiff step forward. My grip tightens on the leash so hard, the leather pinches my skin.
“What is it, boy?” I whisper, as if he can tell me.
A rumble starts deep in his chest, so low in tone I can barely hear it. Beneath his black coat, the muscles of his back and legs bunch into tight, trembling cords.
His lips curl back into a snarl, arranging the scars on his face into a fearsome war mask. He steps forward, pressing against me as he brushes by, putting himself between me and the playground. My gaze darts back to the swing, which continues to slow.
Dexter lunges, but I’m ready for him. He hits the end of the leash, then rears on his hind legs and lets loose his booming bark, the one that must be registering on the Richter scale at a distant geological research center. Every snarl and growl reverberates through the leash to my hand, and I feel a surge of invincibility.
Feet crash over dry leaves, and a shadowed figure races away through the wooded area behind the apartment buildings.
Dexter barks a few more times, then reduces his voice to an indignant growl. Lights flicker on in windows around us.
“Good boy.” I tug his leash, grateful that he didn’t tear off my arm. “Let’s go inside.”
He shakes himself hard, then gives me a broad doggy smile and wags his tail. We return to our building at a brisk pace, before anyone can yell at us.
Back in our living room, I give Dexter an hour - long belly rub while we watch TV. He might be a monster, but in this world, maybe a monster is just what I need.
12
Time the Avenger
Monday morning I meet with Lori, David, and Shane in the station lounge to report the latest.
Shane paces as he listens to my stories of Ned and the stalker. “You think it’s a coincidence?” he asks me.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” I slouch over to the coffee pot on the credenza, exhausted from a poor night’s sleep. Dexter kept me up with his constant patrolling, his nails clicking over the hardwood floors. “But it might not be Ned stalking me. It could be anyone from the Fortress. Or there could be another secret nut-job organization out there who wants to mess with me. But I’ll send Travis the contacts I got out of Ned’s cell phone and see if he can find any connections.”
“Wait a minute.” David turns to me from the card table, where he’s been sitting, deep in thought, since I began. “When did Ned say the Fortress was formed?”
“About a hundred years ago.” I finish pouring the coffee and reach for the sugar. “But who knows if they told him the truth?”
“I wonder . . . ‘‘ He rubs his knuckles against the side of his face. “That would have been around the time of the schism.”
“What schism?” I snap the three sugar packets before ripping them open.
“The Control.”
We all stare at him. “The Control schismed?” Shane says finally.
He spreads his hands. “It wasn’t a major split. About five percent of the organization resisted the changes that took place around the turn of the twentieth century.”
Shane narrows his eyes. “Changes like not hunting and slaughtering every vampire they see?”
“Exactly.” David looks at me. “It was around the same time they started allowing female agents—though they weren’t called ‘agents’ until the Control changed its name. Before that we were all ‘warriors.’ “
My shoulders sag. “So these schism people blamed the policy change on the influx of women.”
David nods. “They said the Control had gotten soft. They said there were some places women just didn’t belong. Namely, in power.”
“Jerks,” Lori says.
David puts his hands on the table. “Here’s the kicker. The people who schi
smed from the Control called themselves the Citadel. I’m not a walking thesaurus, but a citadel is a lot like a fortress.”
“Music gives women power,” Shane adds. “This fits with their attacks on our programs, why this Family Action Network only blocks our signal when women are on the air.”
“So FAN is connected to the Fortress.” I turn to David. “Which explains why they used Control technology for that booby - trapped cross. Maybe they still have a connection inside the Control.”
“A sympathizer.” David frowns. “Maybe a disgruntled agent, someone who’s not happy with the way the Control operates. Or an ex - agent with a vendetta.”
This is getting more complicated by the minute. I stir the sugar into my coffee. “Colonel Lanham said someone stole Dexter.” Another memory pings my brain. “He also said they suspected my dad’s bodyguard of helping him escape.”
David frowns in his automatic response to any mention of my dad. “Maybe that guy’s a double agent for the Fortress now.”
“I’ll try to learn more about them at that Bitten meeting.”
“You’re not going alone.” Shane folds his arms in a rare don’t - argue - with - me pose. “It’s not safe.”
“You can’t come with me. These people know vampires. They’ll sniff you out in a second.”
A small, high voice says, “I’ll go with you.”
I turn to Lori. “But Ned says they need to see wounds—”
“I know.”
“—and you haven’t been . . .’’ My voice fades as I notice her avoiding my eyes.
She let that bloodsucking redneck get his fangs into her.
“Lori.” I fight to keep the anger from my words. “You said you didn’t want Travis to bite you.”
She shrugs, looking at her toes. “I changed my mind.”
“You have no idea what—”
“Leave her alone.” David’s tone is deadly sober. “It’s not your place to judge.”
Lori gives him a tiny smile. A look of understanding passes between them. They like being prey.
“Just be careful.” I swallow my self - righteous disgust and squeeze her shoulder. “I’d love it if you came with me to the meeting.”
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