by Rachel Caine
“Mama?” The little girl tugged at her mother’s pants. “Daddy’s in the dark place.”
Mrs. Ramson froze, eyes going wide, and then looked directly at a plain white door off the hallway.
The dark place. That sounded horror-movie creepy, but Hannah knew what the little girl meant.
The basement.
She walked straight for the door, ignoring Mrs. Ramson’s frantic lies, and pulled it open. It wasn’t dark. All the fluorescent lights were on downstairs, and she went down fast and quietly, one hand on her sidearm.
Best to be ready.
Matt Ramson was destroying evidence. Too bad, but on the positive side, there was too much for him to get rid of quickly—beakers of chemicals, an entire Breaking Bad set covering most of the basement’s square footage. He was wearing a protective breathing mask as he poured chemicals into a hazardous materials barrel.
“Matt,” Hannah said.
He whirled, saw her standing on the stairs, and she saw it in his eyes. Not just horror. Not just misery.
Guilt.
There were a lot of things he might have done, in that moment. He might have run, or charged her, or gone for a weapon.
Instead, he just put the beaker down, sealed the drum, and removed the breathing mask as he sank down on a plastic chair in front of a table. Defeated.
“I was trying to do good,” he said. It might have been to Hannah, or maybe to himself, or maybe he was talking to his sister half the town away. “The first stuff didn’t work. Should have worked, but people got sick. I had to test it. I had to.”
“So you gave it to your little sister?”
“I told her it would help keep the vampires away. She was happy to do it.”
“At first.”
He nodded, turning the mask in his hands. “She started feeling sick, and wanted to stop. I told her it was natural, just the body starting to adjust, but she . . . she wanted out. When I asked her to keep going, she said she was . . . she was going to tell Oliver. Our Protector.” The scorn he put into the word was hot enough to burn. “You know what he’d do.”
“Stop you.”
“Kill me. Make me disappear. I couldn’t let that happen. I have kids!” He looked up at her then, eyes shimmering with tears. “I just . . . I wanted to protect her. I’ve got a blood disorder, you know. And a donation waiver. They don’t want what I have, and if I can give it to other people . . . It’s not supposed to make her sick. Just . . . not so tasty.”
“Why’d you hit her?”
“She was walking away and calling Oliver. I hit her to stop her, that’s all. Just to stop her from calling him. I didn’t mean to . . .” He put his head in his hands and sobbed. “I thought she was dead. I thought she was dead.”
Hannah shook her head, walked over to him, and—as kindly as possible—got him up and handcuffed. She was just snapping the ratchet on his left wrist when she heard a slight creak on the stairs, and looked up to see Oliver standing there, watching her.
He wasn’t trying to look like anything but what he was now—a dangerous predator. There was a shine in his eyes that wasn’t quite full-on vampire, but was definitely not human.
“You may go,” he said to Hannah, and glided down the rest of the steps. “This is mine to do.”
“Hell if I will,” she said, and tightened her grip on Matt’s arm. He was still sobbing messily. “This has nothing to do with you, Oliver. Or the vampires. It’s a human crime, and that makes it totally my jurisdiction.”
He set foot on the cellar’s floor, never taking his eyes from her, and kept relentlessly coming on. “Are you really going to make this so difficult, Chief Moses?”
She pulled her gun and pointed it at his chest. “I believe I am.”
He stopped. Red glowed in his eyes, and she had to suppress that very natural human panic that bloomed inside, that need to fight, to run, to act. She had to act calm if she couldn’t be calm. She had to remain in charge.
Oliver slowly cocked his head to one side, then shifted his attention to Matt Ramson. An expression of revulsion narrowed his eyes and compressed his lips. “A mewling coward,” he said. “With rotting blood. Keep him, and I wish you joy of it. But you, Ramson: Listen closely. If your sister dies, I’ll pay you a visit again. Prison bars won’t protect you. Neither will our brave Chief Moses.”
“Back off,” she ordered, and got that eerie stare again. “Last warning, Oliver. Leave this family alone.” She shook Matt roughly. “Stop crying and revoke his invitation if you want to protect your wife and kids.”
He gulped in enough air to mumble the right words, and Oliver was forced back, as if blown by a wind. He stumbled over the stairs, but went on his own from that point. The look he threw back at her was viciously unfriendly. He hung on to the doorframe long enough to call down, “I’ll be seeing you, Hannah.”
And then the wind caught him again, to buffet him down the hall. She heard the front door open and slam.
“Keep them safe,” Matt said. “Please, keep my family safe.”
“I am,” Hannah said. “I’m just sorry it has to be from you. Upstairs.”
• • •
Booking Matt Ramson filled up hours, but she made sure he was safely behind bars, and that her best guys were watching out for any vampire bullshit, just in case. She hated the next part, which would be the toughest, but it was also her job. Serve, protect . . . inform the relatives.
When she arrived at Morganville General, though, she was surprised to see Monica Morrell walking down the hall toward her, clearly leaving Lindsay Ramson’s room. Monica hadn’t even dressed up for the occasion; she was almost plain in a hoodie, jeans, and flat shoes, with her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. No makeup.
“What?” she snapped when she saw Hannah’s eyebrows rising. “It’s a look.”
“It is,” Hannah agreed. “And it looks pretty good on you, Monica.”
“Oh, please.”
“You here to visit Lindsay?”
Monica shrugged just enough to make it clear she didn’t care enough to put effort into her disinterest. “Figured I should. Seeing as I saved her life and all.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Well, you know, I’m not a bitch twenty-four/seven.”
News to me, Hannah thought, but she kept it to herself. “Any change?”
Monica gave her a blank, disbelieving look. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“She woke up half an hour ago and told her parents her stupid brother Matt was the one who hit her in the head. Imagine that? I saved her life, and now I solved your crime. Damn, I’m good!” Monica gave her a wide, superior smile, lifted her chin, and did a runway walk past her and toward the elevators . . . which, of course, opened before she pressed the button. Life just worked that way for Monica. It seemed, sometimes, like God had a terrible sense of humor.
Hannah went to the door of Lindsay Ramson’s room. The girl was sitting up, awake—bleary, but talking. She sounded good. More than good. Her parents were holding her hands, and for a moment, there was a sense of peace in Hannah’s soul.
Lindsay’s father saw her then, and stood up to say, “Chief Moses—”
She nodded. “I know,” she said, and saw the relief ease the tension out of his face. “I’m sorry. I’ve got Matt in custody. We can talk about all that later. For now, I’m just happy you’re doing better, Lindsay.”
Lindsay smiled. She still looked pale, and in pain, but brave. Brave, and strong. “Is it true that Monica saved my life?”
“She called nine-one-one, so I suppose she helped. I’d say the doctors saved your life, and you saved it, too, by hanging on so tight.”
“Bad enough my brother tried to kill me, but now I owe Monica? God hates me.” Lindsay moved her head a little, and winced. She reached for the button
by her side, pressed it, and the painkillers did their work. “It’s not Matt’s fault, exactly. He tried to do something good, but he got scared. I shouldn’t have pushed him. Mom, I’m sorry. . . .”
“No,” her mother said firmly, and patted her arm. “No, honey. You don’t be sorry. Matt will be all right. You’ll be all right. It’s a miracle.”
Lindsay smiled and closed her eyes, and drifted off to a drugged sleep. Hannah left them, and on the way out of the hospital, she hesitated, then entered the chapel where she’d originally talked with Matt. It was empty, so she went up front, sat on the pew, and said a prayer of thanks.
“Miracles don’t often happen here,” said a voice next to her, and Hannah controlled the urge to flinch. It was a quiet, calm voice, not warm but oddly reassuring.
“Founder,” Hannah said, and turned to look. Amelie had taken a seat next to her on the pew without a sound or a whisper of disturbed air. She wore a cold white suit, and her hair was done up in its customary crownlike swirl. Beautiful and icy. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I think you mean that ironically,” Amelie said. She continued looking straight ahead, at the nondenominational stained glass behind the altar. “Oliver was investigating reports that someone was tainting the blood supply. The attack on the girl was incidental, but significant, because her blood was contaminated. I am sorry I withheld the information from you. It might have speeded your investigation.”
“Might have,” Hannah said. “Next time, tell me.”
“I will.” Amelie was quiet for a moment. “Do you think it was? A miracle?” Almost wistful, the way she asked it.
“I’ve got no idea. Why?”
“Because I would like to still believe in them. Miracles and signs. An age of wonder and promise, where all things were possible.”
“All things still are possible,” Hannah said. “Good things and bad. But maybe we’ve got a clearer idea that we’re the ones causing them.”
Amelie nodded. “Good work today, Chief,” she said. “I’m pleased.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“That,” Amelie said as she stood up, and her guard seemed to materialize out of nowhere to stand at her back, “is why I’m pleased.”
Hannah watched them leave, and then looked back at the altar.
An age of miracles.
Maybe it was, after all.
ANGER MANAGEMENT
It occurred to me, post–Bite Club, that Shane might need some counseling for his anger issues. It’s common knowledge he has them, but they made an epic appearance in that book, and surely if he didn’t seek some help, someone would seek it for him . . . leading to this Amelie-mandated counseling session with Dr. Theo Goldman, who is the closest thing the Morganville vampires have to a mental health professional.
I didn’t do right by Dr. Goldman and his family when I introduced them, and I apologize for that; my first attempts were clumsy and awkward and painfully badly drawn, and I hope that their characterizations improved in later books. But this portrait of Theo is, I think, somewhat more flattering, if not where I’d like to take the character someday.
But mostly, it’s Shane being Shane, and maybe growing a little bit from his experiences. Baby steps, Shane. Baby steps.
“What do you think makes you the angriest?” my newly appointed shrink, Dr. Theo Goldman, asked. He was puttering around at his desk, straightening papers, adjusting the angle of his pen, not apparently paying much attention to the answer.
I wasn’t fooled. The fact was, Theo Goldman was listening carefully to everything . . . words, pauses, the way I took a breath. Vampire senses were a bitch that way. Goldman was probably listening to my heart rate, too.
And why did I come here, again? Well, I hadn’t really been given much of a choice.
I shifted uncomfortably on the couch, then stopped and held very still, as if that was going to somehow help me out. Goldman looked up briefly and smiled at me. He wasn’t a bad guy, for a vamp: kind of rumpled, a little antique looking, and he never seemed like he was tempted to rip my throat out for a snack. Claire trusted him, and if my girl said that, she’d probably put a lot of thought into it.
“The angriest,” I repeated, stalling for time. My throat felt dry and tight, and I thought about asking for some water, but it seemed like that might be weird. “You want that list alphabetically?”
“I mean in all your life, the angriest,” Goldman said. “The first thing that comes to your mind.”
“There’s a lot to choose from.”
“I’m sure something stands out.”
“Not really. I—”
“Go!”
The sudden, sharp tone of voice hit me like a needle, and I blurted out, “Claire!” I immediately felt sick. I hadn’t meant to go there, not at all, but it just . . . came out.
In the silence that followed, Theo Goldman sat back in his chair and looked at me with calm, unreadable eyes. “Go on,” he finally said. “What about Claire?”
What the hell had I just said? It wasn’t true, not at all. I didn’t mean it. I stared hard at my shoes, which were battered old work boots, the better to kick some vampire in the teeth with. In Morganville, Texas, you went with either the running shoes or the teeth-kicking shoes. I wasn’t much of a runner.
“Nothing,” I said. “It just came out, that’s all. Claire’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m not angry at her. I don’t even know why I said that.” That was good, that was calm and straightforward, and I checked my watch. God, had it only been fifteen minutes in here, in this nice paneled office, sitting on this comfy Softer Side of Sears couch? “Look, this is great and everything, but I really should be—”
“Why, then, did Claire come to your mind, with all of the terrible things I know you have experienced?” he asked. “You have another thirty minutes, by the way. We have plenty of time. Relax, Mr. Collins. I promise you, I’m here to help.”
“Help. Yeah, vampires are known for all their awesome counseling skills.”
“Does the fact that I am a vampire bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me! I grew up in Morganville—it’s kind of a big deal to sit down and play nice with one of you.”
Goldman’s smile was sad, and ghostly. “You do realize that just as all men are not the same, all vampires are not the same? The worst murderers I have ever met in my long life were breathing men who killed not for sustenance, but for sport. Or worse, for beliefs.”
“Don’t suppose we can just agree I’m screwed up and call it a day?”
He looked at me with such level, kind intensity that I felt uncomfortable, and then he said, “There are a surprising number of people who care about what happens to you. The fact that you are here, instead of behind bars, would seem to tell you that, I’d think. Yes?”
I shrugged. I knew it looked like I was the typical surly teen, but I didn’t much care what a vamp thought of me. So I kept insisting to myself, anyway. I’d gotten myself in it deep this time—deeper than it looked. Before, they’d let me slide because I was a messed-up kid, and then because I’d managed to end up on the right side (by their definition) of the problem, even against my own dad.
But this time I didn’t have any defense. I’d voluntarily gotten involved in the illegal fight club at the gym; I’d let myself get drugged up and stuck in cages to duke it out with vampires. For money. On the Internet.
It was that last part that was the biggest violation of all—breaching the wall of secrecy about Morganville. Sure, nobody on the Internet would take it seriously; it was all tricks, special effects, and besides, to the average visitor who wanted to come poke around, it was just another boring, roll-up-the-sidewalks-at-dusk town in America.
That didn’t change the fact that I’d risked the anonymity—the safety—of the vampires. I was lucky I hadn’t been quietly walled up somewhere,
or buried in a nice, deep grave somewhere in the dark. The only reason I hadn’t been killed outright was that my girlfriend had some pull with the vamps, and she’d fought for me. Hard.
She was the reason I was sitting here, instead of taking up a slab in the local mortuary. So why had I said her name when he’d asked me about being angry?
I hadn’t answered, even though the silence stretched thin, so Dr. Goldman leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against his lips a moment, then said, “Why do you feel you need to fight, Shane?”
I laughed out loud. It sounded wild and uncontrollable, even to me. “You’re not serious with that question, right?”
“I don’t mean fight when your life is in danger; that is a reasonable and logical response to preserve one’s safety. According to the records I’ve reviewed, though, you seem to seek out physical confrontation, rather than wait for it to come to you. It started in school, it seems. . . . Although you were never classified as a bully, you seemed to take special care to seek out those who were picking on others and—how would you say it?—teach them a lesson. You cast yourself as the defender of the weak and abused. Why is that?”
“Somebody’s got to do it.”
“Your father, Frank Collins—”
“Don’t,” I interrupted him flatly. “Just stay the hell off the topic, okay? No discussions about my freaking obvious daddy issues, or my mother, or Alyssa dying, any of that crap. I’m over it.”
He raised an eyebrow, just enough to tell me what he thought about that. “Then shall we discuss Claire?”
“No,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it. Weirdly.
He must have sensed it, because he said, in that gentle and quiet tone, “Why don’t you tell me about her?”
