Midnight Bites

by Rachel Caine

  He gave her a smile that showed off even, white teeth—hiding the fangs—and stood up with an easy grace. “Good luck on that thing,” he said. “Sounds like human on human to me.”

  “Maybe,” she said. Her gaze followed him out the door. “Maybe so.”

  • • •

  Hannah interviewed Lindsay’s boyfriend, Trip; he’d been eager to help, clearly knocked off-balance by what had happened, but he hadn’t had much to offer. She had a pretty clear sense that he was just what he seemed: a well-meaning guy with no real drama. Lindsay had good taste in stable guys. That hadn’t helped her much, in the end.

  Halfway back to the station, her cell rang. She glanced down and saw it was Oliver’s number. When she answered, she didn’t even have time to deliver her standard Chief Moses greeting before his voice was growling at her.

  “Let’s get one thing crystal clear, Chief Moses,” Oliver snapped. “You don’t summon me for information. I summon you. That is the natural order of things.”

  She counted to three, just to make sure she didn’t sound ruffled. “I need to understand why the vampires avoided that crime scene. You’re the one who can tell me.”

  “Can I?” She waited him out. It was a long wait, one that crawled up and down her nerves, but she was finally rewarded with an irritated sigh. “Very well. She had an unusual scent to her blood. Off-putting.”

  “Does she make regular blood bank donations?” Because Morganville residents were required to, and as her Protector, Oliver would have first choice of those donations.

  “She’s running behind,” he said. “Two months behind, in fact; she was just added to the list for a visit from our Bloodmobile. Prior to that, her blood wasn’t unusual in any way.”

  “What can cause that kind of change?”

  “Illness. Some types of drugs, perhaps.” He paused for a second. “It occurs to me that she’s not the only one falling behind in the past few months . . . more than normal, I think. Now, I trust that’s enough information for you to pursue your investigation. Call me again, and I won’t be as welcoming.”

  He ended the call without another word. She was fine with that, because her mind was busy working. Morganville always had some percentage of people who got behind on blood donations at the blood bank; usually the collectors let it slide at least three months before they started active pursuit, which involved driving the Bloodmobile to the deadbeat’s door. She hadn’t paid much attention to that; people knew how the system worked, and it ran without much police intervention.

  But maybe it was worth a trip to the blood bank just to see what was going on.

  • • •

  The receptionist at the blood bank was Leanna Bradbury; the Bradburys were original town residents, though the family had thinned out through the years, and Leanna was the last of them. Given her charming personality, it wasn’t too likely there’d be any more after her.

  As Hannah pushed her way through the front door, the electronic bell dinged, and Leanna looked up. She didn’t bother putting down her romance novel, and from the expression that crossed her face, she wasn’t any too pleased to have a visit from the police. “Help you?” she asked, and then a shade too late to be polite, “Chief?”

  “I’m looking for information about Lindsay Ramson’s donation record,” Hannah said.

  “Are you?” Leanna’s plucked eyebrows rose up slowly. “Well, I don’t know. I think I have to run that by Director Rose before I can let you see any actual records. There are federal regulations about—”

  “Leanna, this is Morganville, not Dallas, and you’ve never so much as set eyes on anybody from the federal government, and you never will. Don’t give me bullshit.”

  “I still have to call . . .” Hannah gave her a steady glare, and the words trailed off into mutinous silence. Leanna’s broad jaw set stubbornly. “Fine,” she said at last. “Come with me.”

  She pushed away from the desk. There wasn’t anyone in the shabby waiting room; the old magazines fluttered in the cold, dry breeze from the air-conditioning, but that was the only movement in the room except for the broad sway of Leanna’s skirt backside as she led Hannah down the hallway, past the slightly murky tank with its lazily swimming fish. The place always smelled sharply antiseptic, but there was some undercurrent of smell to it, too—something Hannah had never been able to pinpoint, and was a little glad she couldn’t. She made her donations here, but she never lingered. No one did. There were treatment rooms on either side of the hallway, each with empty donation stations. It had the oddly unsettling look of a movie set, waiting for actors.

  At the end of the hall was a closed door with a sign that read NO ADMITTANCE. Before they reached it, Leanna turned left, to another door. OFFICE STAFF ONLY. Inside, a workstation with a fairly new computer and printer, a copy machine, and ranks of filing cabinets. Leanna made straight for the computer, logged in, clicked keys, and began printing pages.

  Hannah looked at the labels on the cabinets. On one side of the room, the blue cabinets were marked DONORS. The other side, the red side, had only a single file cabinet marked CONSUMERS.

  No mystery about that. The only odd thing was the vampires had allowed those files to be kept. They didn’t usually allow that kind of thing from the human population; too much info on individual bloodsuckers made them feel vulnerable. Not that their particular preferences in drinking plasma would make much difference.

  “Here we go,” Leanna said with false cheer, and gathered up the sheets as the last of them hissed out of the printer. She straightened them with the religious concentration of an obsessive, and then stapled them with a single, sharp rap of her hand on the stapler. She held them out, and Hannah took them. “She’s not the only one in that family who hasn’t kept up with donations. Her brother—oh, wait. He’s got a medical waiver. Some kind of blood disorder.”

  “Did she have one?”

  “It’s not in the file. Her results looked like she was fine, up until this last one. Then she fell behind.”

  “Thanks.” Hannah folded the pages and put them in her pocket.

  “Those are confidential, you know.”

  “So’s my investigation,” Hannah said.

  “Investigation?” Leanna really hadn’t taken her nose out of her book, apparently.

  “Lindsay Ramson,” Hannah said. “She’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh . . . I think she was due to get a visit from the Bloodmobile this week. Should I reschedule that, or—”

  “She’s in a coma,” Hannah cut in flatly. “So I don’t think rescheduling would be such a great idea right now. I’ll let her family know you were concerned.”

  Leanna looked stricken, then bitterly offended. “Why, I had no idea she was so badly hurt—don’t you go saying something like that! Why, they’ll think I’m some kind of monster.”

  “Yeah, Leanna, it’s all about you,” Hannah said. “Thanks for this.”

  “I’m telling Director Rose about this!” Leanna called after her as she left.

  Not for the first time, Hannah thought it was a damn shame that as the law, she no longer got to flip people off.

  • • •

  The next stop, after a fast lunch at Marjo’s Diner, was the Glass House on Lot Street. The old Victorian was ramshackle, but sturdy; the paint was fresh, and the kids were doing a decent job of keeping the place looking nice. Eve had put up a wind chime made of black, shiny skulls that clattered in the hot breeze, and someone had shoved a threadbare old armchair out on the porch, but other than that, it was just the same as always. A mirror of her grandma’s old Day House.

  Hannah knocked on the door and stepped back to wait. It didn’t take long before she heard footsteps, and knew she was being checked out through the security peephole. Locks snapped back, and Claire Danvers offered her a quiet, calm smile only a little nervous around the edges. “Hannah,” she
said. “Hi. What’s up?”

  “I’d like to get your opinion on something technical,” Hannah said. “If you’ve got the time.”

  “Sure.” Claire stepped aside, and Hannah followed her in and closed the door behind her. By common Morganville courtesy, there was no invitation given, and Hannah made sure the lock was fastened. Second nature to folks here in Vampire Town. “What is it?”

  “Got some blood analysis that I’d like you to see. I figure you’ve seen enough working with your crazy vampire boss to be able to spot anything interesting in it.”

  Claire led the way back through the living room. Shane Collins was sprawled on the couch, asleep, with a comic book covering his face. Wolverine. That seemed appropriate. Neither of them commented on him, and Claire led the way into the kitchen, to the table.

  “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

  “Sure,” Hannah said. Her Common Grounds fix had worn off, and she had the feeling it might be a long night ahead. Claire pulled the pot off the burner and filled two cups, then carried them over. Hannah slid the folder over in exchange for the coffee, and Claire sipped as she opened it up to read.

  “Lindsay Ramson?” Claire glanced up at her, startled. “She was attacked, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” Hannah said. “Word travels fast, I see.”

  “If Monica’s involved, it does. Do you think she—”

  “No,” Hannah said. “I don’t. She’d never have stuck around to claim credit for finding her if she’d done it in the first place. And she’s easily bored. That girl was attacked a whole lot earlier.”

  Claire nodded and went back to the blood tests. A small frown grooved itself between her brows as she shuffled papers. After a few minutes, she began laying the papers out in a specific order, turned toward Hannah.

  “Something’s happening to her,” Claire said. “See this result, right here?” She put her finger on a particular value. It had an impenetrable chemical code for a name, so Hannah just shrugged. “It means that something was happening to her blood. Just this last entry, though; the rest look pretty normal. I’m not a doctor, though. You’d need to have someone else look at it. She stopped giving blood, though, so I can’t tell if it got better, or worse.”

  “What effect would these changes have had on her blood?” Hannah asked. “What you’re pointing to?”

  “I’m not . . . really sure. But I think it would have made her anemic. Fewer red blood cells. Maybe it’s something like leukemia.”

  “Maybe,” Hannah said thoughtfully, and drank her coffee as she stared at the printed pages. “Maybe.”

  But in that case, why try to kill someone who was already so ill?

  She was so immersed in the thought that she almost failed to hear Shane coming into the kitchen, but her peripheral vision caught the motion and yanked her vividly to attention. She looked in his direction, and it must have been too quickly, because Shane came to a sudden stop, holding up both hands in surrender. One of them still held the rolled-up Wolverine comic. “Don’t shoot, Officer,” he said. “I’m not armed.”

  “And not dangerous,” she said, at which he looked preciously wounded. “Good morning.”

  “We keep night-owl hours around here. Best to stay awake when the creatures of the night prowl.” He advanced on Claire, who was still absorbed in the paperwork, and did a B-movie loom with clawed fingers.

  She ignored him, except to say, “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Why? Has all the Coke run out?” He veered off to open the fridge and pulled out a frosty can. “Thank God. You had me scared.” Shane popped the can’s top and slid into the third rickety chair at the table, and ran a hand through his bedhead-messy hair. He gave Hannah a charming smile. “I’m going to be happy you’re here, and not get all paranoid about why you’re here.”

  His eyes met Claire’s, and held, and so did his smile. She returned it, dimples and all, and reached over to take his hand. “She’s asking me to look at something.”

  “Smart-girl stuff, got it. What’s the deal?”

  Claire’s smile dimmed. “A girl got hurt today. It’s her blood tests. Hannah thinks that it might have had something to do with why she was attacked.”

  “Attacked? Is that 1950s code for . . .”

  “She wasn’t raped,” Hannah said. “She was hit in the back of the head with a blunt object and left to die.”

  “Oh.” Shane sipped cola and fidgeted slightly in the chair, gaze fixed in the middle distance. He seemed to be debating something, and finally he shifted and looked Hannah in the eye. “Look, you’re Captain Obvious, and encouraging vampire resistance is kind of your deal with that, so I’m probably not telling you anything you don’t already know, but . . . was she one of the guinea pigs?”

  “One of the what?”

  “Oh, man. You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” When Shane wasn’t immediately spilling it, Hannah leaned forward, and he leaned back. “Tell me what you know. Now.”

  He looked torn, and miserable, but he shrugged. He didn’t look at Claire, although she was staring directly at him, eyes wide. “I only heard it through the grapevine. I thought for sure you’d already be all into it.”

  “Shane.” She put her impatience and implied threat into it, and he looked away again, focused now on the sweating can of Coke in his hands. “Now.”

  “Some older guy thought he’d mastered some kind of treatment that was supposed to make blood less tasty to vamps. He was dealing it under the table at a couple of clubs. All I know is it made some people sick, word got around, and he quit selling it. Said he was going to test it out more first.”

  “Who was it?”

  Shane shrugged again, still not willing to risk direct eye contact. “Never met him, Hannah. Sorry.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I know. It’s complicated. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend. You know how it is.”

  “A girl is lying in a hospital bed with her skull crushed,” Hannah said, and stood up. Shane, startled, did look this time. “I don’t know if you’ve lost your courage, or your humanity, but either way, if you find it, give me a call.”

  Claire took in a deep, startled breath, but said nothing. Shane slowly stood up. It was hard not to be aware of how tall he was, how broad-shouldered, and how still and hard his face had gotten.

  “Don’t go there,” Shane said. His voice had gone deceptively soft. “This isn’t my fault.”

  “It is if you know something that could be vital to finding this son of a bitch.”

  “Maybe it’s a vampire who did it. You going to go arrest him, Chief? How do you think that’ll go? Slap on the wrist. Hell, if she’s in the hospital, she didn’t even die. Amelie probably won’t even make him pay a damn fine!”

  “Are you done? Because I can promise you, not every crime in Morganville is caused by vampires,” Hannah said. “And I will bring this man—or woman—to justice. You have my word.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got that in Morganville. Justice.”

  “We won’t if we don’t fight for it.”

  The silence stretched. Claire reached out and put a hand on Shane’s arm, and he almost flinched at the contact, so intensely was he concentrating on Hannah. “Shane,” she said, in a steady, quiet voice. “Tell her. It’s important. Don’t make this some us-versus-them issue if it isn’t.”

  “And if it is?” he said, but then shook his head. “You’re right. Okay. The word is that the older guy selling the stuff was named Matt. That’s all I heard. I didn’t ask for details because I didn’t want to know. Don’t know if that even helps anyway.”

  Matt. Matt.

  For a second, it didn’t connect, and then it did.

  Then it all made a horrible kind of sense.

  • • •

  Matt Ramson wasn’t a
t the hospital when she stopped there; his mother was, still sitting silently at the bedside of her pale, bandaged daughter. Hannah waited a moment, out of respect, until the haunted woman’s eyes rose to meet hers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. How is she?”

  “No different,” Mrs. Ramson said. Her voice sounded as if it came from far away. “They’re saying it’ll be a good sign if she wakes up soon. But it’ll be a miracle if she’s the same girl she was before.”

  “Miracles happen,” Hannah said. “You hold on to that.”

  Mrs. Ramson nodded slowly. “Father Joe was here. He told me the same thing.”

  “He ought to know, don’t you think?”

  “That new Baptist minister was here, too. And some of her friends.”

  That seemed like a good opening, so Hannah asked, “Did the rest of your family go home?”

  “My husband’s gone to get us some dinner, but my sons had to go. They’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Hannah thanked her and, for a moment, rested her hand lightly on Lindsay’s. She bowed her head. It was partly prayer, and partly promise. I’m going to see it right.

  Then she left and drove to Matt Ramson’s house.

  It was dark, so the place was shut up tight, in true Morganville fashion; the street outside was deserted, but most of the houses had brilliant lights burning inside and out. False security, but that was better than none, Hannah supposed. The house was a sprawling seventies-style ranch thing, one floor, and a couple of colorful kid-sized bikes leaning up against the porch railing. She knocked on the thick wood door, and it opened up to show her a tired-looking young woman with a toddler clinging to her leg.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Chief Hannah Moses. I’m here to see Matt.”

  “Matt?” His wife looked suspicious, and afraid, and took a long step back. “He’s not here.”

  Didn’t have to be any kind of a human lie detector to hear the stress in that lie. “I’m going to step inside,” Hannah said. “Is that all right?”

  “I . . .” The poor woman didn’t know what the right response should be. Vampires couldn’t cross thresholds uninvited, and Morganville residents always took it as a sign of respect to enter to prove humanity—it was almost an instinct. And that instinct smashed into her need to cover for her husband, and paralyzed her long enough for Hannah to step across the doorway and ease the door shut behind her. “I don’t think you should be here. Matt’s not here!”