by Jenna Barwin
“Now, Henry, you must understand,” the mayor began.
“I understand nothing. Dr. Patel is Leopold’s envoy. Your actions violated the treaty—you will bring war down on us.”
The mayor harrumphed. “The town attorney looked into it. We have no obligation to host an envoy for longer than a few weeks, at least, not without something more substantial than what she is selling. There’s been too much concern because of the attacks.”
“Public opinion should not sway you from doing what is right.”
“We’re a democracy, Founder. You should know that as well as anyone.”
“Then perhaps instead of Rolf, you will be facing me at the next election.”
The mayor’s eyebrows shot up. “Now, now, there’s no reason to do anything drastic. If Dr. Patel and Leopold come up with proof the project is legitimate, well then, I’ll reconsider it.”
“The dance is in two nights and I intend to have Cerissa on my arm.” Henry scowled at the mayor. “For the sake of your political career, you had better accept whatever proof she provides.”
* * *
Cerissa knocked on Leopold’s door. When he opened it, he looked surprised. “Cerissa, dear girl, what are you doing here?”
“We have work to do. They think our project is fake. If you want the lab built here, we have to act quickly.”
He held the door only partway open, blocking her from entering. “I see,” he said. “Why don’t you come back at midnight?”
She put her hand on the door, pushing a little. “Why can’t I come in now?”
“I’m about to have dinner.”
“So?”
“My dinner is not coming from a bag.”
“Oh,” she said, followed by “Oh!” when she finally understood what he was saying. “But Leopold, live feeding—”
“Is nothing for you to worry about. The Hill will never know if I have some local Mordida strange.”
“But if we don’t fix this by tomorrow, I can’t attend the next dance.” From the look on his face, Leopold didn’t care. “I’ll miss a perfect networking opportunity,” she added quickly. “And I’m on probation—they’re going to kick me out if I don’t have proof in a week. That’s the mayor’s order.” She showed him the letter.
He snorted. “The mayor’s order? We’ll see about that.” He glanced down at his watch. “Give me half an hour, just long enough to feed and get rid of her.”
“Leo, who is it?” a woman asked from inside the apartment.
“Just my niece,” he said, hooking his head to the right, indicating the direction of the building exit. “She won’t be staying.”
He raised his thumb and pinky to his ear and mouth, pantomiming a phone call, and whispered, “Thirty minutes. We’ll fix this.”
* * *
Cerissa left Leopold’s apartment and drove over to a nearby coffee shop. The restaurant’s name was advertised in big orange lights, the interior mocked up to look like a fifties diner. She was quickly seated by a window—the place was almost empty at this hour. The tabletop’s pattern looked like old-fashioned linoleum, edged with shiny chrome. She ordered a slice of blackberry pie and tea to justify her use of the booth.
The mayor is an asshole kept circling through her mind. She wanted to drop a handful of silver coins down his pants and give a new meaning to “that itching, burning sensation.”
She placed a pad of paper between her knife and fork and pushed the tableware out of the way, leaving her computer tablet on the bench seat next to her purse. The blank page felt overwhelming. Where to start? A mix of anger and panic tightened her chest.
She glanced up when the waitress delivered her order. Oozing out of the blackberry pie, the filling looked more like glop than berries. She took one bite and pushed it away.
Karen had told her to think outside the box. She started with a clean page and wrote “20 hours” at the top—if she was going to walk into the dance on Henry’s arm, she had to come up with a way to convince the mayor by tomorrow night—the night before the dance. Then she wrote “proof” in the center of the pad and drew a tight little box around the word. Symbolically, everything else would be written outside the box.
She wrote “blood” and circled it. She wasn’t ready to bring a clone to the Hill, so she started to cross “blood” out, but stopped herself. This kind of brainstorming required her to let the ideas flow—she could eliminate rejects later.
She then wrote “tangible proof” on the page. Not specific enough. She needed something to wow them, something flashy. “Morph,” she wrote. Morphing would be tangible proof she wasn’t human, but it proved nothing about the project, and the results could be unpredictable, not to mention the Protectors would give breech birth to a cow if she did.
The most tangible thing she could visualize was a rock. What would a rock prove? Throw it through the mayor’s window, maybe? It would be emotionally satisfying, but not proof. She wrote it down anyway. Rock. Dirt. Real estate. Nothing new there—she’d been shopping for weeks and nothing had changed—she didn’t have enough money to buy the parcel she needed. She wrote it down anyway and circled it, not that it did any good, as buying wasn’t an option. Wait—“option.” She wrote it down, but needed something more, a concept she knew existed but couldn’t remember.
She powered up her tablet and searched for Sierra Escondida’s website, starting on the town’s homepage. Nothing. She clicked through a few links. There it was, on the planning department webpage. She opened the PDF and quickly skimmed through it. This just might work. She sat back and smiled.
* * *
Sierra Escondida Planning Department—the next afternoon
Cerissa yawned, something she didn’t do too often. Five hours of sleep usually sufficed, but she had no time for sleep, not if she was going to get this done in time. Signs of an impending sunset were visible through a nearby window in the Sierra Escondida planning department annex, which was located in the business district. Daytime businesses needed access to the planning department, and by placing it in the business district, the town kept unknowing mortals off the Hill.
She stood at the service counter, waiting while the planner went through the application checklist for a second time. Bored, she glanced around. The large room was painted a bland institutional beige. Modular gray cubicles carved out desk space for the land-use planners who worked for the town. Stand-up signs littered the counter and provided instructions for filling out applications.
Last night, Leopold had been good to his word, joining her at the restaurant and agreeing to her plan. Now, all she had to do was wrap up here, and make it back to Gaea’s before her presentation to potential investors tonight.
“Have you prepared a preliminary environmental assessment?” the planner asked.
“We only obtained the option to buy this morning.” She handed him a copy of the purchase option agreement. “We plan on completing a full Environmental Impact Report on the project.”
“An EIR?” he asked. “Why not try for a mitigated neg dec?”
Neg dec was shorthand for a “negative declaration,” a review process under California’s environmental law taking less time to complete. “We understand an EIR can take longer. We want the certainty you get with an EIR. They’re less easy to challenge.”
“All right then,” the planner replied, taking a rubber stamp off the counter, changing the date, and pounding it onto the application. He then stamped the extra copy she’d brought with her. The planner handed her back her stamped copy.
“Thank you,” she said, hugging the paperwork to her chest like a prize.
“Just remember, we have thirty days to determine whether the application is complete. If it isn’t, you’ll have to provide additional information before we can process it.”
She was fine with his answer. Thirty days was better than zero. She left the planning department building and drove straight to the mayor’s office.
* * *
Since rising, H
enry had tried multiple times to call Cerissa. Each time it went to voicemail. When his phone rang and her name appeared, he quickly answered the call.
“All is well,” were her first words once he had the phone to his ear. “I’m on my way back to Gaea’s for the presentation. The mayor seems mollified. I’m off probation.”
“How did you accomplish it so quickly?”
“I contacted the real estate agent and told her I would double her commission if she could get us a signed sales option by noon. The vacant land had been on the market so long that the owners were more than anxious to do it. With the option to buy locked in, we don’t need a loan right away, so Leopold didn’t have to sign as a guarantor and we have more time to raise money from investors.”
“And the land option satisfied the mayor?”
“I took it one step further. I contacted a local company in Mordida, one specializing in large-scale land-use projects. I offered them a similar bonus to get the zoning applications completed today, at least enough to pass the initial plan-check phase. Spent all the capital Leopold invested and maxed out my credit cards, but I don’t care—it worked. The mayor gave me a thirty-day pass to remain on the Hill while the plan-check process is completed.”
He took a deep breath, relief flooding through him. “I wish I could attend your presentation.”
“I know you’ll be there in spirit.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said, wishing he could see her tonight. “I’ll pick you up at eight for the dance.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He could almost hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll wait for you at Gaea’s.”
* * *
Email To: Mayor Winston Mason
CC: Marcus Collings, Town Attorney
From: Vice Mayor Rolf Müller
Subject: Leopold’s Envoy
Mayor:
I am appalled to learn you gave Leopold’s envoy permission to attend the dance. I demand you place a motion on the next town council agenda to reject Leopold’s biotech project. We must remove his envoy from the community once and for all.
The Covenant forbids unmated humans on the Hill. No loyalty bond seals her lips. Her presence here is a threat to the security of Sierra Escondida. We cannot allow this to continue. It must end now.
Very truly yours,
Vice Mayor Rolf Müller
* * *
Email to: Vice Mayor Rolf Müller
CC: Marcus Collings, Town Attorney
From: Mayor Winston Mason
Subject: Re: Leopold’s Envoy
Rolf:
Leopold’s envoy has applied for approval of a development project. We can’t agendize it yet; the project has to go through all those preliminary legal stages, which are overseen by the town attorney. I cannot legally put it before the council until those steps are complete. As far as ejecting Dr. Patel goes, now that we have proof of Leopold’s intent, I don’t view her presence as the threat you do. If you insist the council discuss this issue, I’ll place it on an upcoming agenda, but it will not be the next meeting—that agenda is already full and I don’t see it as the crisis you do.
Warmest regards,
Winston
* * *
“You can’t send that,” Tig said, looking over the mayor’s shoulder at the iPad he was typing on.
“My message to Rolf wasn’t meant for your eyes.”
“If it wasn’t, why are you writing it in such a public place?” Tig looked around Jose’s Cantina to see who else was there. She wouldn’t find Jose—he was no longer among the living. After his death, the founders kept the Cantina open, a casual place to gather, play a hand of poker, or just gossip. Jayden was so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep early, so Tig had pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and headed over to Jose’s. She craved more company. Even the mayor would do, so she took a seat next to him.
The mayor tapped “send” on his email to Rolf. “That should put Rolf over the edge,” he said. “Elections are a good eighteen months away, but it doesn’t hurt to start early.”
An unsettling thought—she was used to working with the current mayor, even if he could be difficult at times. But Rolf? If he became mayor, how long would she stay chief of police? “You think Rolf will run?” she asked.
“I’ve conducted some informal polling. Rolf’s name keeps coming up. He’s probably started an exploratory campaign. I suspect Frédéric is working with him.”
“What does Rolf have to campaign about? You do a decent enough job running this place.”
The mayor scowled at her. She’d made the mistake of being blunt. “You’ve done a good job, Winston,” she quickly added. He was certainly better than the alternative. “You want to tell me what Rolf would do differently?”
“Leopold’s envoy, for one. Polling shows sixty percent of Hill vampires accept Cerissa’s presence on the Hill.”
“Then why did you have me deliver a warning letter?”
“Because the other forty percent can’t be ignored. Henry was right, but for the wrong reason. I couldn’t risk letting her stay in light of Rolf’s concerns, because too much was at stake if Rolf was right.” He scratched at his bald pate. “The girl has proven she’s serious about the project. Now I’m only doing what the treaty requires. Besides, from what I can tell, half of those who didn’t want her here are already part of Rolf’s base. The rest sway with the wind, and with proof the project’s real, spot polling shows they’re fine with her staying—for now.”
She quickly did the math. That meant eighty percent now supported the mayor’s decision to let Cerissa remain. “So you can afford to ignore Rolf’s base.”
“Exactly.”
She sat back in her chair, her conversation with the mayor sparking an idea. Until she came to the Hill, she’d never voted in an election. When she was mortal, Masaai women had no say in how things were run, and working for Phat, she had no interest. Jayden had only been on the Hill a year, but she could already see the look in his eyes. He’d voted his entire adult life—being shut out made him feel like an outsider. Maybe it was time to nudge things in a new direction.
“There’s something else to consider,” she said.
“What’s that?” the mayor asked.
“After the way Rolf put his foot in his mouth over the Rule of Two, if mortals were allowed to vote, you’d have an even larger percentage backing you against him.”
His gray eyes lit up. “You may be on to something, chief. You just may be.”
Chapter 43
Gaea’s house—later that night
Cerissa walked to the front of Gaea’s living room, stopping by the large marble fireplace. The mantel was higher than she was tall, carved with an intricate grapevine pattern, the fruit full and ripe. Dylan had placed an easel in front of it for her. She carried a collection of foam-core boards the architectural firm provided and leaned them against the fireplace, placing the first one on the easel.
She preferred using a PowerPoint presentation, but she’d had no time to prepare one. After leaving the mayor’s office, she’d barely had enough time to shower and change into a business suit.
Metal folding chairs in two rows looked out of place in Gaea’s elegant living room. The attendees filled the chairs—eleven resident vampires and a smattering of mortal mates. Not bad on such short notice. Some of the mortals came without their vampires. Blanche was in the back row, frowning at her.
“Thank you all for coming.” Cerissa flipped the paper cover from the first board on the display easel, revealing a large, colorful rendering of the research lab’s exterior, designed in a pleasing Mediterranean style. “Today, we took the first step to bring the Biologics Research Lab to Sierra Escondida.” She replaced the color rendering with a new board, an aerial photo of the lot—a photo the architect provided. “We now have an option to buy this parcel. We are seeking investors to take the next step—complete the land purchase and construct the lab.”
The next board was a l
ayout of the lab’s five stories.
A hand shot up in the audience, a pretty pale blonde woman, one of the five founders. Henry had certainly delivered. “What will the lab produce?” Abigale asked, holding up the colorful booklet Cerissa had handed out to each attendee. “Your literature speaks of biological medicines. Is that all?”
The moment of truth—Leopold had finally given the go-ahead, so she could tell them the lab’s real purpose.
“We’ve perfected a method to clone embryonic stem cells,” she replied. “Using that technology, we will be able to produce medicines, products like leather and, ultimately, blood for the treaty communities.”
A murmur ran through the small audience. Abigale’s delicate hand rose again. “How do you plan on cloning human cells without mortal authorities shutting you down?”
“Good question,” Cerissa said. “All of our research is legal. Using advanced gene surgery, we have created an organic machine to produce human blood.” She’d talked it over with Leopold and decided to avoid the phrase “human clone” for now. Creating genetically modified clones didn’t violate existing laws, but the concept came with too much emotional baggage. “Some of what we do won’t be eligible for federal grants because those funds can’t be used for research on new lines of stem cells—that’s why we need private investors.”
A male in the back raised his hand—Marcus Collings, the town attorney who was also a founder. “Will this blood be better than banked blood?”
Thank you, Henry. He had clearly primed the pump with these questions. “The blood we produce will be fresher than banked blood and, because of our storage mechanisms, won’t require preservatives or anti-clotting agents. We have every expectation it will be superior in taste.”
She fielded another dozen questions, using words to persuade them; she refused to use her aura to influence investors. Not only wouldn’t it be fair, but buyer’s remorse could set in once her influence wore off.
When the questions died off, she said, “We will email the full prospectus and investor forms to anyone who is interested in investing. Please sign up at the table by the door. And if you have any questions, I’m happy to meet with you one on one.”
