Midnight Bites

by Rachel Caine

  “You. You’re her Protector?” A vampire Protector was, at least on paper, someone who looked out for the humans assigned to him or her—a mutually beneficial arrangement, blood deposited in the blood bank for a guarantee of safety. Problem was, it was too often a one-sided loyalty.

  “She was the property of one of my . . . employees,” he said. “Said employee was killed by the draug during the recent unpleasantness. I believe I’ve inherited her.”

  He said it as if the girl were an old piece of furniture he’d been left in a will. Hannah felt a weary surge of anger. “Didn’t do a very good job of it, did you? Protecting?”

  Oliver gave her a silent, warning stare, and then he said, “What suspects have you?”

  “Have a little patience. This isn’t CSI. We can’t just run a funny-colored light around and find the killer in ten minutes.”

  “I thought it usually took a full hour for that, although I admit that I am not fully au courant on the rules of television dramas these days.” When she didn’t give him the satisfaction of a comeback, he lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “I want to be kept informed. Send me updates when you have them.”

  He started to turn away. Hannah took a step toward him—fast, before he could pull his usual disappearing act. “Wait. What do you know about the girl? Friends? Enemies?”

  “I know nothing worth telling you. Now get to work.”

  He was gone almost before the last words reached her ears. Typical vampire nonsense. Morganville was the ultimate in seagull management style: fly in, crap all over everything, fly away. And still, she’d made the choice, for whatever insane reason, to return here to her toxic hometown after her deployment with the military ended. She’d imagined she could make a difference.

  Some days, she was still convinced of that . . . but maybe not today.

  “Chief?” One of Morganville’s uniformed patrol officers at the end of the alley gestured toward her. “I think you should hear this.”

  She walked toward him, and as she did, she spotted the red convertible parked at the curb, and the girl lounging against the fender. Pretty, spoiled Monica Morrell. She’d gone blond highlights again for the summer. Unfortunately, it suited her, and so did the skintight tube dress she had on. It showed off curves and perfect skin. Even the sunglasses were designer. How she managed all that flash when her family had lost everything . . . but then, she’d probably terrified people into buying all her goodies. It was her life strategy.

  “Chief Moses,” Monica said. She somehow made it sound mocking, as if it were some kind of honorary title she hadn’t earned. People like Monica made it hard to hold on to that professional smile. “I didn’t know you were still in charge. I thought somebody more, you know, important would have the job by now.”

  Really tough to hang on to that smile. “You have some information, Miss Morrell? I’d sure love to hear it.”

  “Fine.” Monica yawned and inspected her fingernails, which were a perfect dark blue to match the dress. “I was driving by about noon and saw the body in the alley.”

  “Body? Last I heard, she wasn’t dead.”

  “Well, she looked it. Anyway, I’m the one who called it in. So I guess I saved her life.”

  “Probably.” Hannah didn’t want to say it, but sometimes you had to give the devil his due. “She’d been lying there for hours, bleeding.”

  “Can’t blame me for that. I didn’t get the memo.” Monica cocked her head to one side. “Huh. You’d think the vamps would have come running to the all-you-can-eat, what with the blood everywhere.”

  That . . . was actually quite a good observation, and Hannah had to pause to consider it. Under all the hard gloss, Monica Morrell was clever, if not smart. “Did you see anything else?”

  “Like some weirdo lurking in a hoodie? Miss Scarlet in the library with a candlestick? Nope. Just the girl and the blood.” Monica was quiet for a second. “I know her. Lindsay. I mean, it’s not like we’re besties, but she wasn’t a total loss. I don’t suppose you’ll ever figure out who did this, though.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

  “Well, it’s Morganville, and she’s just human, so why bother, right?”

  “It almost sounds like you don’t care for that. That’s a change, isn’t it? I thought the vampires could do no wrong; don’t you have that on your family crest?”

  “Look, the vampires do what they want—we both know that—so let’s not get all Internet rage-aholic about it. Nobody’s going to go on strike for better living conditions. So enough already. Am I done?” Monica waved a hand in Hannah’s face that she was very tempted to flex-cuff, just on general principles. Too bad she had no real reason.

  “Sure,” Hannah said. “Get off my crime scene.”

  Monica got behind the convertible’s wheel and pulled away with an insolent squeal of tires that was probably meant as a middle finger, but Hannah didn’t much care. She was used to disrespect. When she felt it was necessary, she drew the line, but Monica didn’t matter enough to deserve the effort. Hannah had already forgotten her before the smoke faded from the tire scratch.

  She walked back to the place where a girl named Lindsay had silently hung on to her life alone, waiting for someone to come save her. All that blood, dried on the pavement. Vamps must have known she was down and bleeding. Why not check it out?

  It was a really good question. One that deserved an answer.

  Hannah documented the scene with meticulous care, took all the necessary samples, and logged the evidence.

  And then she went to ask Oliver some questions at his coffee shop, Common Grounds.

  • • •

  Eve Rosser—no, Eve Glass these days; hard to get used to that—was on duty, and was her usual Goth-chipper self. Hard to tell under all that dyed-black hair, pale makeup, and abusive eyeliner, but she was a pretty thing. Not delicate, no—strong. Had to be, growing up in Morganville. She’d taken her fair share of trouble around here, survived, and even thrived; Hannah respected that. As usual, Eve had nothing but a bright smile for her as she approached the counter.

  “Chief! Hang on a sec, let me think—how about a corretto? I just learned how to make it.”

  “Doesn’t that come with a shot of booze?”

  Eve’s dimples deepened. “Why, Officer! I think it might.”

  “Then I’m going to have to pass, and I won’t even cite you for attempted bribery. How about just a straight-up coffee?”

  “One of these days, I’m going to expand your horizons, Chief—see if I don’t.” Eve got out a chunky white mug with the Common Grounds logo and poured from a carafe in the back. “Here you go. Hot and black.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to need to talk to Oliver.”

  “Don’t we all? Because it’s payday and he’s nowhere to be seen, and I’d really like my sweaty, coffee-scented, pathetically small check.”

  “He’s not here?”

  “Nope. Hasn’t been in all day. It’s weird. He’s usually here, or at least calls.” Eve shrugged. “Guess he’s busy.”

  Hannah sipped her coffee and thought for a while in silence. Oliver being oddly busy—not to mention being all up in her crime scene business—was something that gave her pause. Not going to learn anything sitting around drinking Colombian, she thought. She idly scrolled numbers on her cell phone, considering, and then selected one and dialed.

  Three rings. One more than courtesy, but at last, the line picked up, and the head vampire Amelie’s cool, calm voice said, “Chief Moses. I’m surprised to hear from you.” The implication was pretty clear that mere human cops didn’t have the Founder’s permission to call up to chat.

  “This isn’t a social call,” Hannah said. “Did you send Oliver to dig around in the assault of a human girl?”

  The pause was long, which was suspicious, but it also didn’t tell her muc
h. Amelie’s silences were never telling, just ominous. “Oliver’s business is none of yours,” she said. “And I know nothing about this girl.”

  “Then how about this? The girl was down and bleeding, and no vampires came to check it out,” she said. “Must be a good reason why.”

  “Must there?” Amelie had a gift for sounding completely uninterested; had to give her that. “I’ll have to look into it.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve got Oliver doing right now?”

  Silence. Deep, dark, uninformative silence. And then Amelie said, “Thank you for your call. Do let me know how I may assist you in the future.” The same disconnected, disinterested tone, and then dead air.

  Hannah wasn’t sure if she’d burned a bridge or built one, but either way, she’d taken her best shot. She put the phone back in her pocket and glanced up. Eve was staring at her. She quickly looked away to wipe down the bar.

  “So who was it? The girl, I mean.”

  “Lindsay Ramson.”

  “Oh shit!” Eve put her hand to her mouth in obvious dismay. “I know her. Is she going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it . . .” Eve mimed fangs in the neck, the universal sign for the most common kind of injury in Morganville. Hannah shook her head.

  “I don’t know what it was,” she said. “But damned if I’m not going to find out. You see Oliver, you tell him to call.”

  She counted out dollars, and Eve didn’t argue; they’d had that battle before over paying for things, and as police chief, Hannah didn’t like to be beholden to people like Oliver, even for so much as a free cup of coffee.

  She threw in a tip for Eve, which the girl tucked into her shirt with a nod.

  “Be safe,” Eve said.

  Hannah let a snort express her scorn for that thought, and left for the hospital.

  • • •

  Lindsay Ramson wasn’t dead, which was a nice surprise. Hannah had gotten so used to assuming the worst that she’d thought the poor girl would kick off. For a moment, as the doctor spoke, it felt like a heavy gray cloud lifted off her . . . and then settled slowly back down as he continued.

  “She’s alive, which is the good news. The bad news is that there are going to be significant issues,” the doctor was saying. “I don’t think there’s much danger of her succumbing to her injuries at this point; she’s proving pretty tough. That makes it all the harder to tell her parents that the injury to her brain is likely catastrophic. She may wake up on her own, or she may never wake up. If she does wake, she’ll almost certainly have severe impairments.”

  Hannah swallowed back the metallic, familiar taste of rage. “Such as?”

  “The blows to her head could have any of a range of effects, from loss of language skills to motor skills to vision. Seizures would be likely.”

  “Or she could recover just fine?”

  The doctor—his name was Reed, and he had a good reputation—looked weary. “That’s not very likely, Chief Moses. I wish I could tell you that I thought a miracle would happen, but it’s not often I see someone that severely injured still holding on. We might have already used up our backlog of miracles. I’m pretty sure that cognitive impairment is going to be part of the landscape.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “I know it’s not professional to ask, but . . . any suspects?”

  “Not any of the usual suspects, anyway. Crime scene was bloody.”

  “It’s not their usual method,” he agreed. “So you’re looking at . . . the human population?”

  “For now,” Hannah said, “I’m looking at everybody.”

  She dropped by Lindsay’s bedside. Her parents were there, mother and father, with a couple of siblings hanging back and looking shattered and uncomfortable. Mom and Dad were each holding one of the girl’s still, pale hands. The only sound was the steady, slow pulse of the machines. Her head was completely wrapped from the eyes up, but other than that, she looked unmarked. Pretty, in a fragile way that reminded Hannah of Claire Danvers from the Glass House.

  One of her brothers broke down suddenly in racking sobs and turned away. Hannah respected the family’s grief, but when the brother who’d wept left the room, she followed him to the chapel down the hall.

  “Matt?” She’d already done her homework on Lindsay’s family. She already knew all their names. “I’m very sorry about your sister.”

  “Thanks.” His voice sounded rough and uneven, but he took some deep breaths and got it under control. “Why? Lindsay was never any trouble to anybody.”

  “That’s what I have to find out. Are you sure there’s nobody Lindsay had problems with? Boyfriends? Maybe someone she broke up with?”

  “She was a shy kid,” Matt said. He was a big guy—Morganville right tackle in high school, she remembered, back in the day. In his thirties now, with the muscle softening to bulk. He worked at the father’s used-car place as a salesman. Married, two kids of his own. As the oldest son, he probably still felt responsible for Lindsay even though she was twenty-one and her own person in every legal way. “I know she’s had boyfriends, but it’s not like she talks a lot about them to us. I guess the most recent one was a kid called Trip. I think his name’s James Triplett, Jr. I’d probably want to go by Trip, too, if I was saddled with that.”

  “Trip,” Hannah said, and nodded. “I’ll check into him. Were they still together?”

  Matt shrugged, a little helplessly. “She doesn’t talk about that stuff to me so much. I know she brought him to Christmas dinner. He seemed like an okay guy, pretty laid-back. My dad didn’t like him, but she’s his little girl. Hell, I’ve got a daughter, and I’m damn sure going to hate every guy who comes near her.”

  “Lindsay didn’t have any sisters. What about close girlfriends?”

  “Sure, a few. I mean, in high school, some in college, but I don’t know who she’s hanging out with now.” That question, curiously, had made Matt uncomfortable. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I’m hoping she might have said something that could give us a lead.”

  He saw the sense of that, but reluctantly, and he finally gave a shrug. “I guess check her cell phone? I don’t know.” He did, though. He knew something and didn’t want to give it up; his body language seemed off. Hannah let him keep the secret for now, because the cell phone was in Lindsay’s effects, and she’d already collected it for processing. She thanked Matt, trying to be gentle as possible, but his gaze was already fixed on the nondenominational stained-glass alcove at the front of the chapel. Lost in his own thoughts, or prayers.

  She left him to it.

  • • •

  Lindsay’s cell phone was full of contacts; though Matt had described her as shy, she seemed a popular kid after all. Hannah sat at her desk in the Morganville Town Hall building and went through the list methodically, checking off those that she knew about already. That accounted for about half.

  She was still studying the list when one of Morganville’s two police detectives walked in and took a seat in the chair across from her desk. “Hey, boss,” he said, and put a folder in her in-box. “Got the final write-up done on the Garza robbery. The case is going to court next month.”

  “Slam dunk, Fred?”

  “Three-pointer,” he said, and made an invisible basketball shot. “Didn’t even have to get in close. Crowd goes wild.”

  She didn’t smile. She liked Fred, but she maintained a distance from those she had to manage; besides, he was a vampire. A vampire police detective. Trouble was, he was good at it—too good, sometimes. And she always felt that movie-star smile of his held just a touch too much arrogance for comfort.

  Fred always dressed in suits. Today’s was a nice gray thing, tailored and elegant, with a bright blue paisley tie and a lightly striped shirt beneath. His hairstyle still seemed faintly antique to her, as if he had to resist the urge to slick
it down in 1920s style, but he had fully embraced modern fashion.

  Hannah held out the phone list to him. “Anything jump out at you?”

  He studied it, and without looking up said, “Is this from your dead girl’s phone?”

  “She’s not dead.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged, as if it really didn’t matter to him, and then handed the paper back. “No vampires.”

  “What?”

  “No vampires in her calling list. Not a single one.”

  Staying well away from vampires was good survival strategy for a human in Morganville, but what was strange was that Lindsay hadn’t programmed in her Protector’s phone number. In Hannah’s experience, Morganville residents always kept their Protectors on speed dial.

  But Lindsay hadn’t. Even though her original Protector had died, she should have still had the previous number in the list, because people rarely remembered to delete contacts . . . and Oliver’s number should have been in there as her new one.

  “Anything else, boss?” Fred asked. “I’ve got a thing.”

  “What thing?” she asked, and glanced up to meet his blue eyes. He had very lovely blue eyes, wide and innocent-looking. He must have led a lot of victims to their deaths with that friendly look, and she’d long ago stopped taking vampires at face value. She’d never known Fred to step outside the lines of vampire good behavior, but she was always on guard for it.

  “One of my people asked me to be there for her daughter’s baptism,” he said. “That okay with you? Nothing burning a hole on my desk right now.”

  Vampires, as Hannah well knew, had religion—often the same one they’d been born into. There were Catholic vampires, and Jewish vampires, and Muslim vampires. A couple of religious institutions in town catered to vampires as well as humans with night services. Still, it was unusual to see a vampire attending any kind of daytime human religious ceremony, except funerals. “Sure,” she said. “Have fun.”