by S. J. Harper
“Son of a bitch.” She snatches the key out of the air.
“What is it?”
Liz’s expression tells me I don’t want to hear the answer.
“Liz?”
“It contains magic,” she says, handing it back to me. “A locator spell of some kind is attached to it. And it’s a fairly powerful one at that. Think GPS only less conspicuous and more reliable.”
“Your magic?”
“No.”
My world shifts. In the space of a moment, the solid ground beneath me changes to quicksand. The honesty and trust that I so value in my relationship with Kallistos begins to give way to something else. Something blacker. Darker.
“Shit.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Even if the key means what he said it means, I know now that it also means something else. I toss it back into my purse. “He wants to keep tabs on me.”
“Maybe to protect you,” Liz says.
“Like property.”
“Like a lover he doesn’t want to risk losing. A King always has enemies. Being close to him puts you in danger. Don’t stew over this. Talk to him.” My cell phone is sitting next to my purse on her coffee table. She tilts her head toward it. “Call him.”
I pick it up. After all, even Seamus said I could be used against Kallistos. How did he put it? I’m a vulnerability.
I put it back down. Still, Kallistos should have told me—should have asked me—if I wanted his protection.
Liz watches my face, sees the indecision in my actions. “He could track you dozens of ways. He didn’t have to give you a key in order to do it,” Liz points out.
She’s right, of course. But he could have been honest with me. Should have been honest. Regardless of his motives, I feel betrayed. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
“Then when?”
Liz’s question registers in the back of my mind, but it fades as something else captures my attention. The television. “Hold that thought.”
Constance Bertram is speaking to a reporter. Her words scroll across the bottom of the screen . . .
Witchcraft. It has to be. Point Loma Academy is a hotbed of Satan worshippers. The school administrators may be afraid to acknowledge what’s going on in the school. But I am not. Three girls missing now. Three! How many more have to be sacrificed before action is taken?
Pictures of Julie, Hannah, and Sylvia flash on the screen. Liz grabs the remote and turns up the volume. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”
I nod.
My phone rings. My shoulders bunch. “Johnson.” I connect the call.
“Are you near a television?” he barks, without preamble.
“I’m watching it now, sir.”
“What the fuck, Monroe? Did you and Armstrong know about this?”
I feel a headache coming on. “We interviewed her by phone earlier. It was all going to be in our report. She didn’t come across as credible and—”
He cuts me off. “The phones are ringing off the hook. Reporters from every television station are calling to ask if we believe three girls have been kidnapped by some damned Satanic cult. News crews are setting up outside the field office. I need an update now. I’ve scheduled a press conference in two hours. You and Armstrong better get here with a statement I can use. You have one hour. And, Monroe, it had better be something real. Something concrete. Something that will shift attention away from this raving lunatic, Bertram.”
He’s gone.
“Let me guess,” says Liz. “The shit just hit the fan.”
“I have to call Zack.” Unfortunately, his cell goes straight to voice mail. He’s turned it off? Furiously, I leave him a message. We need to talk. Call me as soon as you get this. We’re due at the office in one hour.
Liz is studying my face. “Zack is AWOL?”
“Had some kind of important meeting to attend. Werewolf business.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Now? In the middle of a case?”
I shake my head, too irritated to reply rationally. I take a deep, calming breath. “Liz, I have to come up with a statement for Johnson. Now, more than ever, I need to pick your brain about this.” Quickly, I fill her in on the case. Everything, including my “interview” with Rain and our conversation with Constance Bertram just an hour or so ago. “Bertram must have contacted the media right after we spoke with her.”
I rub a palm against my forehead. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“Sure.” Liz heads into the kitchen. When she returns a few minutes later with two aspirin and a tall glass of ice water, photos of the missing girls are once again flashing on the screen.
“Three victims, young, innocent, blond. For someone who practices black magic, they could be a valuable commodity. But I’ve heard no rumors of such activity in the area. And I have extensive connections.” She sits back down. “Then again, anyone who would do such a thing would be discreet.”
I pop the pills into my mouth and rinse them down with a few swallows of water. “Taking three girls at once, though, is hardly being discreet.”
Liz agrees with a nod. “I don’t think this has anything to do with witchcraft. And certainly not with three teenagers playing with a Ouija board. But—”
“Between Rain’s memory being wiped and a tenuous connection to Wicked Ink, I’ve got a bad feeling a vampire is mixed up in this.” I gather up my phone and handbag. “I should talk to Kallistos.”
“Yes! That’s what I was saying.” She releases a sigh, then wraps her arms around me and gives me a fortifying hug. “I love you, you know. Hang in there.”
Kallistos’ words roll around in my head: You may be irresistible. But I’m not. At least not where you’re concerned . . . I can walk in the light, but I’m not of it. I’ve done things, had to do things, will continue to do things. Do you understand?
I wasn’t sure I did then.
Now I’m beginning to.
“Come on, Liz. I meant I need to connect with him about the case. Three missing girls trumps the disaster that is my love life.”
Her eyes narrow. “I know. But at some point you’re going to have to stop avoiding it.”
“I’m not avoiding. I have a plan.”
“Which is?”
“Ignore it for now. Deal with it later. I’ve got to start working on this statement. I’m going to head over to the Palomar. With luck Zack can meet me. Keep your ear to the ground?”
She nods. “If I hear anything, I’ll call you. Go.”
I do, my head spinning with thoughts about Kallistos and the case. By the time I get to my car, I’m weighed down by questions for which there are no answers.
My cell chimes.
The incoming text is from Zack. He received my voice mail along with one from Johnson. He’s wrapping up his lunch appointment and is ready to meet.
I type, Come to the Palomar.
First and foremost, we have to deal with Johnson’s request. What can we say? That no, it’s probably not a coven of witches or a satanic cult that’s responsible for the disappearance of three girls.
It may be vampires.
And, by the way, my lover is their King.
CHAPTER 13
I slide the key into the lock, turn the door handle, and slip inside the penthouse.
The only sound I hear is the low hum of the air conditioner.
I’m alone.
The two-story penthouse is enormous, but I feel claustrophobic. I drop my purse and the bag containing my laptop on the sofa, then walk over to the floor-to-ceiling panels of glass that separate the indoors from the balcony and push them aside. Despite the warmth of the day, I can feel a breeze coming off the ocean. The streets below are filled with cars. San Diego has a population of 1.3 million people. One of them had to have seen something, heard something, has to know something.
I head back inside and wander over to the kitchen. I grab a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and pour myself a glass. Johnson will be able to discredit Be
rtram fairly easily. With a little finesse we can craft a statement that will allow the press to read between the lines and encourage a few follow-up questions.
I send a text to Kallistos.
Can you reach Simon?
I pull my laptop out and set it up on the dining room table. Before I have a chance to sit down, my cell chimes.
He’s with me. What’s up?
I hesitate. Consider calling. Decide against it.
Need to show him something.
I wait for a response. A full minute passes. Halfway through the second, a response comes through.
On our way back from OC. Meet you at the Palomar in ten minutes?
It’s not really a question, of course. He knows I’m here.
I resist the urge to take the key card out onto the balcony and use it for target practice. Instead I spread the photos out on the table and stare into the faces of the missing girls. I start to organize my thoughts in preparation for writing Johnson’s press statement. At first I just let them flow, reordering as I go. Within a few minutes, the blank page on my laptop is full of notes. And I’ve managed to boil it down to five concise talking points.
1. We’ve found no evidence that any of the victims were involved in the occult.
2. Yes, as was reported by several local news stations, the girls used a Ouija board while on a college trip. They’ve all seen an episode of Charmed and read the Harry Potter series. Those things don’t make them witches or Satanists.
3. They are victims.
4. What we need to focus on are solid leads from credible, reliable sources.
5. The Bureau has dedicated significant resources to this investigation and we are following up on several key leads at this time.
Then I dial Garner at the office.
“How quickly can you get a hotline in place for tips?”
“How soon do you need it?”
I smile. “In time for the press conference.”
“Done.”
I email a draft of the talking points to Zack and tell him to get here ASAP. I’m about to begin writing the statement in earnest.
My progress is interrupted by the whir of the door’s electronic lock. I look over my shoulder in time to see Kallistos cross the threshold, Simon right behind him. The two men couldn’t be more different. The vampire King is tall and imposing. Today’s suit is a black-on-black pinstripe, his shirt a deep aubergine. His normally piercing blue eyes have an almost violet cast.
Simon is a good foot shorter than Kallistos. Dressed in a pair of baggy khaki cargo pants and a rumpled T-shirt displaying a map of Middle Earth, he looks more like a scruffy college student than someone worthy of the title of operational director.
Kallistos is ahead of him by several steps. His tie is off before he reaches me, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. For a moment I forget I’m angry. But then he bends down to kiss me and I remember. His hair brushes the side of my cheek. His mouth covers mine. I try not to stiffen, not to pull away.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. Then he glances at the photos on the table and draws his own conclusion. “Still no progress on the case?”
I close the lid of my laptop.
“Actually, that’s why I want to speak with Simon.”
“You want me to solve a case the FBI can’t? Bring it on!” The high-strung genius pulls a Red Bull out of the worn, leather messenger bag that’s slung over his shoulder, pops the top, and takes a sip.
I tilt my head toward the photos on the table. “These girls are missing. We believe we’ve found a connection between them and Wicked Ink.”
No comments. No questions. No arguments. His messenger bag slides to the floor. He pulls out his laptop, some other hardware, and a handful of cords. “May I?” he asks, holding his phone above the photos. “We use facial recognition. I can upload their images and do a comparison against our database.”
I give my consent.
Kallistos sits down alongside me. “Tell me about this connection.”
“It could be nothing,” I tell him. “But it’s the only real lead we have—”
We watch, silent, as Simon scans, clicks, works the keyboard. In a few minutes, the computer sounds.
“We’ve got a hit. Julie Simmons.” Simon turns his laptop so we can see the display. Her name is flashing underneath the image Simon scanned and uploaded. The images of Hannah Clemons and Sylvia Roberts appear, too. Alongside them a blur of faces pass by as the facial recognition software searches the database for their images, as well.
Kallistos leans forward and for the first time takes a long, hard look at the faces of the victims. “How long could this take?”
“I entered some parameters to narrow it down. Female, blond, eighteen to twenty-five.”
I shake my head. “The other two victims are under eighteen. Of course, they might have lied or had fake IDs. We know Julie has a tattoo and that she got it at Wicked Ink.” I turn to Kallistos. “I interviewed someone who went with her. She’d been put into thrall. I believe a significant portion of her memory was wiped.”
“You couldn’t recover it?” Kallistos asks.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Simon pauses the search. “Let me try something. These girls fit the profile for the YBV program. Some of those participants are as young as fifteen.” His fingers fly across the keyboard.
The search restarts.
Simon takes another hit of his Red Bull.
Kallistos leaves the table and heads for the bar.
“YBV.” I search my memory. Then I remember. The first time I interviewed Simon, it was in his office in the basement of Wicked Ink. Rose took me down. We passed the big refrigerated units used to store blood. One of them was marked YBV. When I asked Rose about it she replied—
“Young. Blond. Virgin.” This time it’s Simon answering. “It’s a signature blend. Very popular.”
I turn around and glare at Kallistos’ back. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re tapping kids to boost your blood supply?”
The computer sounds.
Hannah’s name now appears under her photograph.
Kallistos returns with a generous pour of scotch. “You make it sound so nefarious. Since the Blood Emporiums have been put into place, vampire-on-human assaults have decreased considerably. But you know that. These girls are willing. We place careful limits on how much and how frequently we allow them to donate. And they are compensated. They are giving up something they don’t require, something that without effort they can make more of. How much are we paying?”
Simon and I answer in unison. “Two hundred per week.”
“You can hardly accuse us of exploitation,” Kallistos reasons.
“It’s more than double the going rate,” Simon chimes in. “We explain everything to them up front, the risks, the benefits, the compensation package, grounds for termination, the necessary security measures—”
I feel another headache forming behind my eyes. “By ‘necessary security measures,’ do you mean wiping their memory?”
Simon nods. “Yes. Yes, but only after they sign and agree.”
“Sign and agree? Some of these girls are minors. They couldn’t legally agree to anything.”
“Well, yes,” Simon concurs. “But it’s the formality that lends credibility.”
The pressure behind my eyes increases. “So, you tell them they are contributing to some boutique blood blend for vampires and get them to sign a consent?” I ask.
“Not exactly.”
“Why do they think they are donating blood, exactly?”
“We hint that it might be used for top-secret medical research.”
“You hint?”
“We require them to fill out a questionnaire for government clearance and to sign some major confidentiality statement.”
“Then you mess with their free will. Take away their memory. Eliminate any chance that they’ll change their mind.”
“No. Their memory is only wiped reg
arding our procedures. They can quit anytime they want. They believe they are contributing to an experimental medical program that may benefit all mankind.” He pauses. “And in effect, they are.”
I shoot him a black look. “And by benefiting mankind, you mean keeping mankind safe from rogue vampires.”
“It’s working, isn’t it? And by the way, have you any idea how hard it is to find young blond virgins in Southern California? I’m telling you, this is a win, win, win,” he insists.
Kallistos has been listening quietly. I reach for his scotch, take a sip, savor the bite, then place the glass down on the table. “You approved this business plan?”
“How do you think we keep attacks down and blood in stock? We can’t simply let donors go without taking precautions. We’re vampires, Emma. We need blood to survive. We need human blood to survive. This may not be ideal. It may offend your sensibilities. But it’s a system that’s working.”
“For who? Not for these three girls!”
Kallistos rises from his seat and circles around the table to where Simon is sitting. “Check for other missing girls. Others who have missed appointments.”
I open my laptop and fire up my computer. “Give me the names of anyone who’s missed an appointment. I’ll have to cross-reference.”
Simon frowns. “Please. Child’s play.” He makes a grand show of cracking his knuckles. Then he pulls out a set of headphones from his messenger bag, plugs them into his laptop, and goes to work. Seconds tick by. The silence in the room is broken only by the clacking of keys and Simon’s superspecial rendition of Prince’s “Kiss.”
The house phone rings. Kallistos answers, listens, then mutters, “Oh. My day is complete. Send him up.” To me, “Armstrong is here.”
“Things blew up this afternoon,” I tell Kallistos, wondering why I should explain. But I continue. “A former teacher of the Academy went on record with the press, saying there were connections to the occult. Johnson has scheduled a press conference. Zack and I have to put together a briefing in the next twenty minutes.”
“The Emporiums can’t be implicated,” Kallistos says. “There’s too much at stake.”
“Too much money to be made, you mean?”
