There were no bodies to bury, of course, so the markers lay only a few feet apart. Hundreds of other markers lined up to our right, all for vampires who had died in the line of duty over the last century. The sight reminded me of the crosses stretching over the fields of France after World War One.
When the service was over, Shane and I stood before the marker of a vampire we’d never met.
“So this is our choice,” I told him. “Die in the line of duty, or fade into obscurity.”
Shane shrugged, his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “We also get a tombstone somewhere with our human name and a fake death date, courtesy of the Anonymity Division.”
“But our real selves can never be buried.” I thought of the zombies, crawling, stumbling, moaning without sound. “Then again, we can also never be turned into running carcasses, so that’s a bonus.”
“You want to bag the reception?”
“No, let’s stay for a little while.” I looked at him. “I’d hate to waste that suit.”
He grunted, twisting his upper lip in disgust. “Just half an hour, then I need to leave for the studio. Regina’ll kill me if I’m late. We need to get on a regular schedule again, get life back to normal.” He winced and brushed his fingertips over my back. “I mean, you know what I mean.”
I forced a smile, though I knew he didn’t need me to fake a good mood. Now that the zombie attacks were over, I would have plenty of time to focus on the new me. Oh joy.
We followed the others into the reception room in the basement of the Control headquarters. Black cloths covered every table, and a small buffet was set up on one side of the room for human consumption (consumption by humans, not of humans). There was a cash bar that offered a small assortment of booze, plus blood served at three different temperatures—iced, room, and body. We ordered a pair of red wines.
Spencer and Monroe stood off to the side, looking awkward despite being two of the best-dressed people in the room. I headed toward them, my stomach flipping at the thought of speaking with my maker.
Monroe had been staying here at headquarters the last two days, withstanding a slew of tests and questions. It seemed that the night my maker had walked out after my turning, Petrea had kidnapped him as a vampire test subject for his own undead-puppetmaster spells. He didn’t know at the time that Monroe had made me, only that he worked at WVMP. Maybe he thought Monroe’s advanced age would make him “undeader” and therefore more susceptible to suggestion.
“Hello,” I said to him when we joined them. “It’s good to see you.”
He nodded, avoiding my eyes.
Shane turned to Spencer. “My band’s looking to add some surf rock tunes to our set list. We want a really authentic sound, none of that digital crap. So what do you recommend as far as reverbs and pickups?”
Spencer brightened, and began to rattle off the names and models each of his favorite artists once used. I took a deep breath and used the opportunity to try again with Monroe.
“I heard they held you captive in a cubby hole in the church basement all week. I can’t believe Shane and I were right there Sunday night, upstairs.”
“I heard you,” he said softly, “but I couldn’t call out. When you got hurt…” He touched his chest. “I felt it.”
“It was nothing,” I added quickly, “not compared to what you went through.” I kept my breath steady. “I didn’t know why, but I had to go into that church. I must have sensed you there, even when I was standing in the street.” My babbling came faster as I let my gaze wander over the gray walls, the polished floors, anywhere but his silent face. “I never really understood the blood bond before, even though I’ve seen it with Regina and Shane. I thought that was just them. So maybe we should—”
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
His eyes pierced mine, and I fought the urge to run away.
“Nothing, I just thought we could—”
“Little girl, I gave you life.” His voice was low but hard as steel. “I brought you back from the gates of heaven and hell. I held your soul in my hand.” He extended his hand, his thumb and first two fingers pinched together as if holding a small object. “I coulda let you go.” He snapped his fingers apart, dropping the imaginary thing. “I coulda let you bleed.”
I made my tongue work long enough to say, “Thank you.”
“I don’t want your thank-yous.” He loomed over me, dark eyes gleaming. “I don’t want anything but to get you out of me.”
My throat froze. “What do you mean?”
“You changed me. You put your disease in me.”
“My chicken pox?”
“No.” He blinked slowly. “Your doubt.”
Anger warmed me enough to release the words. “That disease saved your skin. Probably saved your life.”
“Hah.” He set his empty glass down hard on the table. “Some kinda life now.”
He stalked toward the door, dragging what felt like half my blood with him. Spencer followed, shaking his head and muttering, “Just give him time. Give him time.”
Shane slid his arm around my waist to steady me. “Listen to Spencer. Go slow.”
I nodded hard and quick, hoping the motion would jerk the tears back.
“Griffin.”
I let out a breath, grateful for a distraction from my emotional implosion, and turned to Colonel Lanham.
“What’s the word, sir?”
He straightened the lapel of his dress blacks, which looked somber without the medals—eschewed, I assumed, for the occasion. “I’m sorry to say, Petrea was working under the aegis of the Control. Part of a black ops effort to find a way to control vampires. The cadaveris accurrens were simply practice.”
Project Blood Leash resurrected. No doubt the cheerleading routine was a test for the spell’s precision.
“His spell worked on all of us vampires in the church.” Shane looked at me. “But it seemed different for you and Monroe, like Petrea had your minds and not just your bodies.”
“It’s possible,” Lanham said, “that the chicken pox virus made Griffin—and by extension, Mr. Jefferson—more like a CA than the average vampire.”
I wrinkled my nose. “So we were zombiefied?”
Lanham frowned at my phrasing. “In a sense. Until Petrea died and broke the spell that raised the cadaveris.”
“That explains why I felt so brain dead, and why my head feels clearer now. I just figured I was defective.”
Shane rested a reassuring hand on my back. “But a vampire can’t carry a virus,” he said to Lanham, “so how would Ciara’s fogginess affect Monroe?”
“The answer, I believe, is more metaphysical than physical.” Lanham looked away and declined to elaborate.
I decided to help him out. “When I died, I think the virus had already changed my essence or my soul or whatever, making me more like the CAs. Monroe shared my death and resurrection with me. I could feel him taking and giving back more than just my blood.”
Shane gave a solemn nod of understanding. It was a vampire thing.
“What I don’t get,” I continued, “among other things, is why Petrea would act against vampires when he was one himself.”
“That’s exactly why they chose him,” Lanham said. “Who would suspect the most senior undead member of the entire organization?”
“He was just following orders, then?” Shane asked.
“Hardly. His ancestors, that Romanian nobility”—Lanham said the word with a slight sneer—“have had such a goal for centuries.”
So Petrea wasn’t a fascist after all. I still wondered about his wife, though, who was now under investigation.
“Their biggest fear was the revolt of the unworthy,” Lanham continued. “After Petrea lived through the nightmare of communist rule, he was more determined than ever to fulfill his family’s dream.”
Shane sighed. “Takes the self-hating vampire to new heights, huh?”
“That can’t be all it was,” I said. “Petr
ea told me that a rogue vampire turned him and killed his family. Maybe he wanted to control vampires to keep them in line. Keep us in line, I mean.”
“A reasonable impulse, taken to unreasonable lengths.” Lanham rotated the glass of whiskey in his hands, staring into its amber depths. I’d never seen him so subdued, almost broken. “The Control has always been split,” he said, “between those who would take a heavier hand with the undead and those, like me, who prefer a rational, pragmatic approach. But this development could tear the agency apart. Some of the vampire agents are threatening a strike, or worse.”
I noted that a certain one-armed vampire agent had declined to stay for the reception. “Captain Fox made it sound like there was a cover-up.”
Lanham nodded without looking at me. “Petrea wasn’t authorized to move forward with the project so soon. He took the opportunity when he saw Tina do the ritual.”
“So did Tina have the power to raise the dead?”
Lanham shook his head. “He did his own spell over the same grave after she left the cemetery. Then he procured one of the blood samples she’d given during Indoc as part of the weekly health screenings, when she was already infected with chicken pox but not sick yet. He paid the cemetery manager to apply it to the graves, then activated it himself at night. At least, that’s what his surviving IC agent claims.”
Ah. Good thing Elijah didn’t kill them all.
I asked Lanham, “Did the survivor say what Petrea planned to do that night in the church?”
“Originally he wanted to compare how the spell worked on CAs versus your maker, so that he could move on to the next stage of his vampire-control project.”
“Then why did he tell the zombie to kill Monroe?”
“Probably because you arrived. At such a young age, your maker’s death could have killed you, or debilitated you so badly your comrades would have focused on saving you rather than stopping Petrea.” He tilted his head. “That’s just a conjecture, since he didn’t survive to explain.”
My gut twisted in a mixture of fear and guilt. “Do Tina and her mom know I killed him?”
“Only that he was dispatched by one of his fellow agents in self-defense. His subordinate was unconscious at the time, so your secret is safe with those you already trust.”
I glanced at Shane and thought of Tina’s words to me. Blood is in our blood.
“A counselor will be contacting you,” Lanham told me. “Killing in the line of duty is never easy, even less so when it’s a fellow agent.”
“Okay.” I swallowed hard and bit my lip to keep it from trembling. I hoped the counselor could help me erase the image of Petrea’s dimming eyes and bleeding heart.
“I should get back to the families of the fallen.” Lanham said. “Griffin, I’ll see you in six weeks.” He reached to shake my hand.
I blinked myself back to the present. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He lowered his hand. “Pardon?”
“My contract states that I’ll join you when I finish college, or three years from signing, which would be this coming December.”
“And you’re graduating next month.”
“Only if I can finish my last class at home. See, it starts at seven p.m., which is before evening twilight.” I gestured to my flammable body. “Bad for vampires. I sent my request to the Office of Academic Affairs, but the campus is still closed from the plague. If they say no, then I’m afraid I won’t finish school until December.” I pinched my brows together in a phony show of regret.
Lanham’s impassive face tightened. “I see,” he said. “When will you know?”
You mean, when will I decide? “Soon.”
He turned slightly and seemed to be studying the far wall, where the black-and-white portraits of the dead-undead vampire agents had joined the Gallery of the Fallen.
“It might interest you,” he said, “that in the last sixteen months, our research division has garnered much intelligence by studying your blood. Answers to questions concerning your nature.”
“Really? Like what?” Why hadn’t he told me before?
“I regret that we cannot share that information outside the agency.” Lanham turned on his heel and marched away. This time, he didn’t offer to shake our hands.
My face went slack as I watched him retreat. “Wait,” I whispered, though I knew it was pointless. He’d dangled the bait, and now it was up to me to bite—or swim away, clueless as ever.
Shane leaned close to my ear. “He’s bluffing, trying to suck you in.”
“I don’t think so.” My gut burned with the desire to know what I was all about—or what I had been all about, when I was human. “Sherwood did give us the option of having our papers graded by another professor, rather than canceling the course with three weeks to go.”
“Do what you want, but I’m going to boot camp this fall.”
I tugged on his tie. “And when you come back, no one will mess with you. Not if they want to keep their unlives.”
“Let’s just hope I’m not too late.” He took a sip of wine and cleared his throat, as if realizing he’d said too much. No doubt he worried, as I did, that by the fall, Jim would have long since lost control.
“Hopefully by then I can get the band off the ground,” he said.
I gave him a smirk, glad to be off the topic of my protection. “Always about the music with you, isn’t it?”
“Until the day I die. Again.”
I sipped my own wine, relishing the chance to taste something other than blood. “Regardless, I’m finishing that paper on the Legion of the Archangel Michael. Maybe Franklin can burn it and scatter the ashes over Aaron’s grave.”
Shane fell into a pensive silence, the kind that always ended with weighty words. “I’ve been thinking about that stained glass window, the one in that little church where we almost had our heads torn off?”
“I remember the place. Vaguely.”
“I bought into that idea my whole life, and my whole unlife. The idea that it’s easy to see who’s an angel and who’s a dragon. Who’s on God’s side. But when I saw the way you healed Monroe—”
“Monroe healed himself. I just convinced him to stop believing for a few minutes.” I lifted my glass in a virtual toast to my faraway parents. “Learned the art of persuasion from the masters.”
“You didn’t make him stop believing. You got him to believe in something bigger. Because you believe in something bigger. Something that won’t fit in a box.”
I felt the world tilt as I realized he was right. Something had given me the ability to believe, whether it was Monroe or Shane or death itself. It had been there for me when I needed It most.
Shane looked up, as if seeing the stained glass window again. “So when Saint Michael asks the dragon, Quis ut deus? ‘Who is like God?’ maybe the answer isn’t ‘no one.’” He turned to me. “Maybe the answer is ‘everyone.’”
“Even vampires.” My voice stumbled. “Even suicides?”
His face darkened for a moment, and I sensed he’d reached the limits of his mind expansion.
“Maybe.” His breath quickened as he took another gulp of wine. “Maybe even us.”
I gazed up at his profile and wondered if he’d ever truly let go of the things that haunted his soul. But his ghosts were a part of him, and I loved them as much as I loved the music he made and the kisses he gave.
My phone vibrated in the pocket of my suit jacket. Lori. “Sorry, I better take this,” I told Shane. “She’s probably having a last-minute freak-out over what to bring on their honeymoon tomorrow.” Lori and David had decided to keep their original travel dates and take their honeymoon before the wedding, to avoid the expense of changing tickets. With the quarantine lifted, airlines were no longer waiving their cancellation fees.
“I have potential good news,” she said. “We found a place available for the wedding and reception on Saturday, May 1. It’s the only opening before July. Can you make it?”
“Hang on.” I press
ed the phone against my shoulder and spoke to Shane. “Will I be people friendly in two weeks?”
“It’ll be a challenge.” He took my hand and lifted it to his lips. “But I’ve gotten to really like challenges.”
I gave him a wide smile. “So yes?”
He nodded. “Let’s go for it.”
Lori squealed when I told her. My thirst surged at the sound, and I started a mental What Not to Do Around Your Vampire Best Friend list for her (#1: high-pitched prey noises).
We returned to the studio in time for Shane’s show. Later that night, Regina took me to meet her least kinky donor, a forty-something lady who worked at the Social Security Administration and who made a perfect cup of Darjeeling tea. The experience was blissfully unblissful, and I hoped one day I could have my own collection of vanilla donors like her. But with my need for frequent drinks, I couldn’t be choosy.
As Regina drove us home on the winding back roads, I rolled down the car window. The night filled my nose with the scents of new life—seedlings pushing through the ground, eggs hatching, animals giving birth. The breeze lifted my hair, threading its fingers through the flowing strands and sweeping them across my face.
I stretched out my arm, permanently pale, and rode my hand over the waves of air, up and down, like when I was a kid, as my parents drove through the flat, endless, sun-scorched fields.
Unlike Mom and Dad, Regina didn’t tell me to stop. Instead she rolled down her own window and did the same with her left arm. We laughed at our winged car.
At that moment, it was almost like being alive. Much less, but also much, much, much more.
35
Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)
“How much more?” Lori asks me.
“About half a glass for each of us.” I pour the rest of the Cabernet, splitting it evenly between our glasses, then sit back on the station lounge sofa. Ah, back in the Now, where I belong.
“No, I mean, how much more alive do you feel now that you’re undead?” She stretches out her legs beside me, their Bahama/Greece sunburn set off by her cute yellow wedding rehearsal dress. “You just said it was almost like being alive.”
Bring On the Night Page 32
