“Take me down there,” I whisper.
Adrian looks at the paramedic, who gives a hesitant sigh. “One minute,” she says.
He scoops me up and carries me downstairs. I draw in a sharp breath as his arms scrape the burns on my back.
Adrian kneels in front of Shane, still holding me. Shane is cradling Jeremy’s body. They’re both covered in so much blood, it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins.
Shane keeps singing, and the lounge is so silent, I can hear the soft piano in my head. The melody’s serenity belies the lyrics’ unbearable pain, one that Shane and Jeremy understand well, one that I’ve only just begun to grasp.
Behind me, four other Control paramedics are setting up three stretchers, for Jeremy, Leon, and Billy, who’s lying on the blood-soaked floor, unconscious, a stake protruding from his back.
Shane begins the last chorus, which will drift off into a repeated, “Sing to me.” I try to watch Jeremy’s lifeless face, but it’s too hard. Instead I focus on the front of his Dashboard Confessional T-shirt, remembering when he saw them in concert last year, how excited he was to snag front-row seats. Afterward, he walked around starry-eyed for days.
His T-shirt moves.
I hold my breath. That wasn’t what I think it was.
The C in “Confessional” twitches. But Jeremy can’t be moving. He can’t be alive. People don’t come back to life—not people broken in half who are beyond the help of vampires and defibrillators.
Shane reaches the last line, stretches it out.
I interrupt. “Keep singing.”
“What?”
“Just do it,” I tell him, never taking my eyes off Jeremy’s chest. “Start the song over.”
Shane doesn’t question, just takes it from the top. I want to reach out and touch him, but I know what I’m capable of now. I could kill his magic with one drop of doubt.
But right now I have no doubt. I remember how Shane pulled me out of the land of the dead, twice. I remember the power of his voice.
Apparently it’s no longer just for me.
Jeremy heaves a choking breath, and everyone gasps.
“He’s alive!” Adrian sets me down carefully, then reaches for Jeremy’s wrist. “His pulse is erratic but strong.” He pauses. “And getting stronger.”
“Keep singing, Shane. Just like you are.”
Shane nods at me and keeps going. His voice shakes a little, probably with the temptation to go louder, bolder. But that’s not what this song is like.
Jeremy’s eyelashes flutter and he moans softly.
“Don’t move,” Adrian whispers, his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.
When he finishes the song again, Shane gently lays Jeremy on one of the stretchers. The paramedics go to work, strapping him down and putting a brace on his neck.
Adrian carries me back upstairs to my own stretcher. Shane follows close behind. I feel a weird thrill, knowing I have nothing to hide from human doctors.
As the EMTs lift me up, Shane bends over and whispers in my ear. “I saw Kashmir before they took him away. Do you know what you did?”
I nod. “I guess I’ll be staying in the Immanence Corps.”
He glances downstairs toward Jeremy, whose raspy voice is telling the paramedic that yes, he can feel it when his toes are squeezed. Then Shane looks back at me. “I guess I’ll be joining you.”
• • •
Colonel Lanham agrees with that assessment. Not only did Shane save Jeremy, but he also sang Billy back to life after one of the other Enforcement agents pulled out his stake. Adrian recommended a Neil Young song, so Shane went with “After the Gold Rush.”
“It says here you used to sing it to your childhood dog?” Colonel Lanham looks up from the incident report, arching his eyebrow.
“When she had cancer, sir.” Shane sits in the chair next to me in front of Lanham’s desk. His posture is straight, but not stake-up-his-butt Enforcement straight. “It seemed to help her sleep.”
I hate when he makes me want to kiss him at highly inappropriate times.
Lanham finishes reading the incident report, or at least pretends to. I find it hard to believe he didn’t have the thing memorized before we arrived. When he came to visit me in the hospital Tuesday morning, we discussed how I’d overcome Kashmir by de-vamping him.
Kashmir himself is now in Control custody, one of their few human prisoners. Since he didn’t die per se, none of his progeny felt the agony they normally would at a maker’s death. They may never feel it, since he’ll eventually die as a human.
As Kashmir’s conspirator, Anca Codreanu-Petrea is also awaiting trial. Since Jeremy technically died but was brought back to life, the Control hasn’t decided whether to try her for accessory to murder or accessory to attempted murder. Such are the dilemmas of law enforcement bureaucracies.
Lanham closes the report and turns to Shane. “You appear to have what the Immanence Corps has termed the Orphic ability. You can call the dying back to life with your voice.”
Shane sinks a little deeper into his chair. “So that’s a thing, then. I’m not the only one who can do this?”
“You are the only, but not the first.” Lanham tilts his chin down. “The previous Orphic agent had an accident on duty and is currently in a coma.”
“When you say ‘on duty’ ”—I give him the side-eye—“you mean trying to save someone?”
“Precisely. The subject was too far gone, and the Orphic agent tried too long and too hard. They were drawn into a near death themselves.”
“Shit,” Shane says. “I mean, shit . . . sir.”
“Every ability has a cost and a trade-off.” Lanham looks at me. “As you well know, Griffin.”
I fidget with the bandages on my palms, which still have second-degree burns from the magic shock. “I don’t suppose whoever else has my power is still alive, huh? It’d be nice to get some training.”
Lanham pauses, then says, “Agent Griffin, no one has ever had your power of neutralization before. You must learn to control it.”
“I had to concentrate really hard to de-vamp Kashmir. I doubt I’d accidentally do it by shaking hands.”
“You never know what you’re capable of until you develop your abilities.”
“Let me guess: the Immanence Corps will teach me.”
“I think you’ll teach them as much as they’ll teach you.”
“The fact that it literally stopped my heart is a good incentive not to use that power ever again.”
“Removing someone’s vampire nature is an extreme example. Vampirism affects a person’s entire being. It’s more than a supernatural ability. But if you were to interfere with, say, a telepath trying to win money at the poker table, or a pyrokinetic agent in the process of starting a fire—each a part-time ability—you would probably feel a smaller shock.”
Somehow I am not comforted.
“We would start you off with something small,” he proposes, “like one of the IC’s telekinetic agents trying to move a feather. Under full medical supervision, of course.”
I sigh, wondering if I actually have to believe in people’s alleged superpowers to neutralize them, or if my disbelief will be my best weapon. “I suppose a transfer to the Contemporary Awareness Department is out, huh?”
“Out of the question. They need both of you in the Immanence Corps.”
“When do we start?” Shane asks. “I’m suspended until mid-January.”
“The investigation into Project Blood Leash 2.0 is complete, and the committee will present its findings on January second.”
I lean forward a little. “And?”
“I have it on good authority that they expect to accommodate all the vampire agents’ demands. Things will be back to normal soon thereafter.” He opens his calendar. “You are both to report for duty on Tuesday, February first, for a year’s full-time service.”
“Wait—full time?” Shane looks angry. “What about WVMP?”
“You have
over a month to find a suitable disc jockey replacement. Potentially you could maintain your satellite radio duties, since that requires only a few hours per week.”
Shane lets out a breath, relieved. “Just for a year. I’ll make it work.”
I hope he does. Even as a human, he needs music like most people need air. And with his Orphic ability, his music will be like air to the dead and dying.
I’m just glad this power is in Shane’s hands and no one else’s.
• • •
It’s a good thing Shane and I, and our friends and family, are no longer being stalked by psychotic vampires. Planning a wedding is stressful enough.
Lori’s maid-of-honor dress had to be refitted at the last minute, due to what she calls a “baby bump” and what I call a “burrito bump.” Her morning sickness has ended, replaced with an obsessive craving for Taco Bell.
In other bridal party news, a still-recovering Jeremy is now a groomsman instead of an usher. After his run-in with Kashmir, we all decided it would be best if he had a job that involved doing nothing but standing there, looking happy. Which he does more often these days, having finally lost his vampiric aspirations. “Nothing like dying to make you realize death sucks,” he told me.
But now, with two minutes until I walk down the aisle, I am doubting that wisdom. I can barely breathe from the nerves.
Our wedding is being held at the Sherwood fire hall. Not the most glamorous location, but with our history of special events involving explosives, we figured it was the safest place to be. It was also cheap.
Noah, who replaced Jeremy as usher, offers my mother his arm. She takes it, then spies me peeking out from the hallway beyond the coatroom. Mom gives me a mischievous wave, then proceeds, looking happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“You ready?” Monroe asks me. He’s wearing a white tux with a black shirt and tie, which looks amazing. For once, he left the hat at home. I’m sure many people will wonder why I’m being walked down the aisle by someone who is not only clearly not my relative but is also the same age as I am. Whatever. He’s the closest thing I have to a father, even now.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the scent of the red roses in my bouquet, then step forward toward the closed doors leading to the hall. “I’m ready.”
“Yay!” Lori scoots over to take her place in front of me. Regina, my only bridesmaid, glides in front of her. Inside the hall, the prelude music continues. When the song changes, that’s our cue for Spencer to open the hall door so we can enter.
Behind us, the outside doors crash open, letting in a cold blast of December night air.
I’m ready for another ambush, and not ready to have my wedding ruined by more rogue vampires. In a flash I lift the right side of my skirt, yank out the small holy-water pistol from my garter belt, then aim for the three men coming through the door.
“Hallelujah, I’m just in time!”
I lower the pistol slowly, staring at the white-haired man in a tux flanked by a pair of U.S. marshals. “Daddy?”
“Surprise, pumpkin!” Ronan O’Riley spreads his arms for a hug. “They gave me twenty-four-hour leave to attend my only daughter’s wedding. Isn’t that fabulous?”
I shake my head with disbelief, then nod. “Fabulous . . .” Every emotion pinballs inside of me at once. I don’t dare move, due to the competing instincts to embrace and slap him. “But you know I hate surprises.”
He takes a step back and puts his hands up. “Hey, don’t do to me what you did to that birthday clown.” The laugh lines around his eyes straighten and droop as he realizes I might actually kick him in the kneecaps. “I thought you’d be happy.”
Lori puts her hand on my arm. “We can add a father-daughter dance.”
That’s what breaks me. I lower my head and blink hard so the tears can fall from my lashes to the floor instead of streaking my face with mascara. Every time I imagined my wedding, this was what I secretly wished for.
“Ciara.” My father steps forward. “I’d be honored if you would let me walk you down the aisle.”
Behind me, Monroe clears his throat. When I turn to him, he bows his head and steps back, conceding his place at my side.
I blink away the last tear, straighten my posture, then speak to the two guards.
“Take him to the side entrance. He can sit in the back.”
Ronan’s eyes widen as they lead him away. “But, sweet pea, I’m your father.”
“Which is why I’m letting you stay. Enjoy the show.” I watch them lead him toward a door on the side of the fire hall. “Regina, tell them we’re ready.”
She salutes me as she passes. “That. Was totally awesome.”
I smile, knowing what the word means coming from a child of the eighties, when it was more than just a default description for anything remotely cool.
Regina cracks open the door and flashes a thumbs-up to Rick, Shane’s former donor and front man for Vital Fluid. I hear his acoustic guitar begin the procession music.
I’m still shaking from the encounter with my father, yet somehow calmer about the wedding itself than I was ten minutes ago.
On cue, Spencer opens the doors. I stand off to the left so no one can see me. Regina sweeps forward, provoking gasps of admiration verging on worship from the crowd inside.
Lori gives me a wink and a smile before she sets off. The audience sighs with a series of “Awws” at the sight of her cuteness, enhanced by the little bulge in her belly, so obvious on her tiny frame.
Monroe offers me his arm and I meet his eyes. We’re almost the same height, with me in my four-inch heels, but I will forever and always look up to him. For giving me life, then saving that life months ago, even if he can only be a small part of it. I know he’s trying, and this right here, walking me down the aisle? Huge.
The music changes, and we step into the doorway. Everyone stands.
For a moment I hesitate, intimidated by the attention. I’ve spent my life slipping through the shadows, playing behind-the-scenes manager/puppet-master to this hodgepodge set of vampires. Now everyone’s watching me.
By the looks on their faces, I’m doing all right.
We walk down the aisle just as we practiced, in time to the music, but not so precisely it looks dancy. My father beams with delight, even though he’s not in the spotlight himself. On the right side of the aisle, Shane’s family seems endless.
Halfway down I see Shane. He’s gazing at me like I’m the world’s biggest stack of pancakes. Except with more respect.
My mom peeks out from the front row. To my surprise, she’s not crying. Then again, she wouldn’t want to ruin her makeup.
When we reach the head of the aisle, Monroe goes to stand beside her, and she hugs him as he passes. He actually accepts the embrace. Miracles abound.
Shane takes his place beside me, looking younger and hotter than ever in his black-on-black-on-black tuxedo. He leans over and whispers, “Is that your dad in the back?”
“He busted in at the last second. I almost put that ‘something borrowed’ to good use.”
He smirks and glances at my thigh, where the holy-water pistol is safely holstered. “Sorry I missed it.”
“He wanted to walk me down the aisle, which would’ve totally taken away my moment. I was like, ‘Fuck that.’ ”
Of course, the music fades just as I am finishing that sentence. Our mothers let out soft gasps, but the rest of the crowd laughs. My face feels redder than the roses in my bouquet.
Which I just realized I’ve been holding backward the entire time. The plastic holder thingie is facing forward. Crap. Maybe the photographer can edit out my idiocy.
Then again, seeing the backward flowers might be a reminder of all I’ve been through to get to this point—scratch that, all we’ve been through.
I barely hear the warm words of welcome from the officiant, the same Unitarian minister Lori and David used for their wedding. She says something about marriage being a bold and courageous step, and I have to
avoid Shane’s eyes to keep from cracking up.
Franklin reads a Keats poem with more feeling than I ever would’ve expected. I notice he tries—and fails—to avoid meeting Adrian’s eyes.
We light a unity candle, something we wouldn’t have dared to do as vampires, then the minister turns to us for the vows. Shane and I flipped a coin to see who would go first.
“Will you take this man to be your husband,” she asks me, “to live together in the promise of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”
I take a deep breath from my core, just like my mom always taught me, so that all the realms can hear.
“I will.”
34
You Know You’re Right
We indulge our families by spending Christmas with them in Maryland, and then it’s honeymoon time.
On the way to our ultimate destination, we take a few days’ layover in Seattle, where Shane’s idol, Kurt Cobain, spent his final years.
It’s a dreary late December afternoon when we touch down at Sea-Tac Airport, twenty degrees colder than normal, and raining, naturally. But he wants to see everything, walk in Kurt’s footsteps, drink in the clubs where Nirvana and Hole played.
The next day is windy but sunny, so we take a bus then walk to the neighborhood where Kurt Cobain lived his last few months. Because the area is inhabited by the insanely rich, parts of the road have no sidewalks, and we nearly get mowed down by more than one Mercedes.
“This is it,” Shane says as we pass a high hedge wall on our right. “The park is just up ahead.”
“Park?”
He gives me an amused look. “Viretta Park. Where all the vigils and memorials are held.”
I’m relieved that we have a public place to go instead of just gaping at some stranger’s house. Courtney Love sold the place years ago. Can’t say I blame her.
We come to a high wooden gate. Shane pauses. “The greenhouse where he died—” He shifts his jaw. “Where he shot himself. It was behind the left edge of the house. Courtney had it torn down.”
Lust for Life Page 26
