“I know,” Vayl said.
The vamp’s name, Aidyn Strait, rang bells all over Top Secret Land. He’d spent all of his long, long life trying to solve scientific problems using horribly unscientific methods, leaving a trail of mutilated bodies stretching back to the eighteenth century.
According to his file, which even now stared at me from the screen of our laptop, his latest venture was getting vampires to breed vampires, not through an exchange of blood, but through traditionally human methods.
So how did the vamp version of a fertility specialist end up with the human version of a make-over artist? The connection was tenuous, but visible. Aidyn’s funding came from a pharmaceutical company called JetVitale, one owned by a known ally of the Raptor, who had, as we knew, recently hooked up with the Sons of Paradise through Assan. It was certainly feasible to believe Aidyn had come up with this virus for the Raptor. And it wasn’t hard to guess where the terrorists fit into the picture.
Vayl took a sip of his beer and gave me a nod of thanks.
“What’s Pete saying?” I whispered.
Vayl cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “He is extremely upset that someone tried to kill us tonight.”
“So he doesn’t want to fire me?”
Vayl held up a finger, listened for a minute, then shook his head. “Jasmine,” he said, “your job is—how you say—solid. Pete would never fire one of his best agents.” Especially one that I cannot do without.
I didn’t read his mind. I just knew, somehow, that was what he was thinking.
“Oh.” I drained my beer, marched into my bedroom, closed the doors, buried my face in the pillows, and burst into tears.
Sometime later I felt Vayl’s presence beside me. The bed sank as he sat down.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m great.” I turned to look at him, made sure he could see my smile. “Our assignment has turned into a bioterror nightmare. I nearly died tonight. My boss yelled at me for five minutes straight without stopping to take a breath, and in between I spent six hours staring at a computer screen. I think I may get cancer from the radiation. And I feel better than I have in a long time. Weird, huh?”
Vayl brushed a curl away from my cheek with a forefinger, which, oddly, made my insides quiver. “Unique,” he said, “which is what I have come to expect from you.”
Once in a great while a very private person will get that ask-me-anything look on his face. When you see it, you have to be ready. As soon as those soft brown eyes crinkled at the corners, I pounced. “Look, you’ve never really explained why you chose to work with me.”
“No?”
“Nope. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed the ride. And I hope I spend the rest of my career working with you. But I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve been racking my brain for six months and I haven’t been able to come up with one truly viable explanation as to why a vampire who’s been around nearly three centuries needs an assistant. Pete gave me a song and dance that made him look like a gorilla in tap shoes. So . . . why me?”
He waited a while to answer, shaking his head slightly every now and then as if he was trying out reasons and discarding them one by one. Finally he said, “After what happened to you November last, most people would have simply curled up and died.” I stared at him, ready to walk if he even brushed against the heart of my pain. “You did not. You survived, but with Gifts that have only just begun to surface. I felt you needed help to develop those Gifts.”
“And?”
“You are correct: there is more. I must ask you to be patient. When the time is right, we will both know.”
Nuts. “Okay,” I grumbled. I suddenly wanted my cards. I took them off the bedside table, and as I did my eyes strayed to the clock. “It’s almost dawn,” I said. “Do you need me to help you set up the tent?”
Vayl has never slept in a coffin. Now that I knew he was phobic, I suspected lying in one probably gave him the heebie-jeebies. I don’t know what his sleeping arrangements are when we’re home. Hell, I don’t even know where his home is. But when we travel he brings a custom-made tent that covers his entire bed. The material is impermeable to light, so if someone was to accidentally open a curtain or something, he wouldn’t singe. I’d love to have one myself, just because the kid in me thinks it would be a real hoot, like camping out only without the bugs.
“No,” Vayl said, “I will be fine. Besides, you must be tired.”
As soon as he said the words, I could hardly keep my eyes open. “Okay then,” I mumbled as I rolled into my velvety pink pillow. I felt him slip the cards from my hand. Heard him whisper, “Good night, my avhar.” But I was so tired I thought he said the whole thing in Romanian and none of it sank in.
CHAPTER SIX
You know how sometimes real sounds can invade your dreams? Like one time, I was napping on the couch and dreamed I was interviewing Steven Tyler. Then I woke up and there he was on MTV talking to some bimbette who asked such stupid questions I was glad to wake up and find it wasn’t me.
Now I dreamed Vayl and I were discussing the mission. I said, “So what do you think this virus does?” And Vayl answered by making a strange trilling noise, like he had a cricket stuck in his throat.
“How do you think it gets transferred?” I asked.
“Trrrill.”
“And what’s the deal with the Raptor? I mean, doesn’t anybody ever say, ‘No, we would prefer not to play with you because you’re a big, fat creep.’”
“Trrill.”
“Vayl, it’s so weird, you sound just like my—”
“Cell phone,” I mumbled. I opened my eyes, stared at the glittering handbag on the bedside table, a little worse for wear as a result of its trip to the floorboards during last night’s wreck. Beneath the bag, where I’d laid it before we left, sat my personal phone. Ringing. Which meant it was either Evie or Albert, neither of whom did I feel like talking to at—I glanced at the clock—too damn early in the morning.
I said a very unladylike word as I reached over to pick up the phone and my ribs reminded me to fight dirtier next time some hulking bruiser wanted to trade blows. “Do you have any idea what time I went to sleep last night? I mean this morning?” I waited. Nothing. Oops, forgot to press the button. I might actually be glad about that later.
Beep. “Hello?”
“Jaz, I’m so glad you answered.”
“Evie . . . have you been crying?”
“It’s either that or pound Dad over the head with a mallet.”
Crap. I am so not up to this. “What’s he done now?”
“More like what hasn’t he done.” Evie really didn’t belong in our family. Too sweet. Too anxious to please. It tended to bring out the worst in the rest of us, including Albert.
“Okay, what hasn’t he done?”
“He hasn’t taken his insulin every day, or followed his diet, or minded the infection in his f-f-foot.”
“I thought we hired a nurse to do that for him.”
Evie took a deep, trembling breath, but she still started crying again, hard enough that I didn’t understand what she said next.
“Evie, all that bawling can’t be good for the baby, so cut it out.” I knew I sounded stern, but bossiness is the main perk of big sisterhood. And she did calm way down, way quick.
“Now, first of all, where’s your husband? He’d be having a cow if he knew you were this agitated over Albert.”
“Tim’s in Philadelphia on business.”
“Okay, after you get off the phone with me, call him. It’ll make you feel better. Now, what about the nurse?”
“Dad fired her.”
“What?” I felt the prickling along my scalp that signaled Big Anger. I wished I was the Queen of Hearts so I could just order my little card soldiers to cut off Albert’s head. “When?”
“About a month ago.”
“A month! But I’ve sent him two checks to cover her salary since then.”
“Me too.” Tears had crept back int
o Evie’s voice. I could just imagine her sitting with her elbows on her little breakfast table, her straight, honey-brown hair sweeping forward to cover her face as she dropped her forehead into her hand. “Apparently Dad’s been using the money to buy donuts, beer, and cigarettes. Now he’s sick, the infection’s spread to his heel and up his ankle. The doctor at the veterans’ hospital says he may have to amputate, but he won’t know for sure until he examines Dad, and Dad won’t go!”
“What. A. Dumbass.”
“Jasmine!”
“Well, he is.”
“No, I am, for not keeping better track of him. But we’ve just been snowed under at work with this turnaround.” She was an engineer for Trifecta Petroleum in Indianapolis. Can anybody say free Indy 500 tickets? Yeah, baby. “And by the time I get home I’m so tired I can barely move. But that’s no excuse—”
“Yes, it is. The last thing you should be doing is driving to Chicago to look after the original Grumpy Old Man. He’s the one who’s abusing himself, not you, so quit feeling guilty.”
“Does that mean you’ll call him?”
“Yeah, right after I hang up with you.”
“I’m getting ready to go to work, but you can call me back later tonight to let me know how it goes, if you want.”
“I’ll try. But no promises. I’m in the middle of something big right now.”
“Me too. Unfortunately, I’m it.” She laughed a little—music to my ears.
“You’re so full of it,” I said. “I saw the last picture you e-mailed me. You’re gorgeous.” I meant it.
“Th-thank you.”
“Are you crying again?”
“Only a little. And in a good way this time.”
“Well, I guess that’s okay. Take care of yourself and Evie Junior, okay? You two are the only girlfriends I’ve got.”
“Okay. Love you. Bye.”
“Love you too.” Beep. She was gone, back to the normal, everyday life that I’d give my life to preserve.
I dialed Albert’s number, but before I hit the last digit I turned the phone off. He was an hour behind me, so he wouldn’t be awake until at least ten my time. I set the alarm for nine thirty and went back to sleep.
Psyching yourself up to talk to Albert Parks is like preparing for battle, a metaphor he’d probably appreciate since he’d done that a few times himself during his thirty-year stint with the Marines. You need to have all your resources in place before you make your big move. That’s why, before I called him, I showered, dressed in my comfy clothes (maroon sweats and an extra-large black T-shirt), and drank about half a gallon of coffee. Then I gave myself a pep talk.
“Okay, Jaz,” I said as I shuffled my cards for the hundredth time, trying to relax to the whish of a perfect bridge, “here’s the deal. You will not yell at Albert for at least five minutes.” I figured the call would be over in two, but I’m one to hedge my bets when it comes to losing my temper. “You will keep your opinion of him to yourself this time, and you won’t mention Mom at all.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” I told my closet door reflection, “but I’m not making any promises.” I nodded to myself. Then I called Albert.
He answered on the fifth ring. Not a good sign. His voice, when he said, “Hello,” sounded faint and weak.
Though he’d gotten himself into this predicament, he would now expect pity. Ugh! I grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room. “Hey, Albert,” I said, trying to sound pleasant and not overly concerned. “Evie tells me you’re not feeling well.”
“She’s a meddler, that one, just like your mother.”
I gritted my teeth. I would not argue with him over the fact that what he saw as meddling, we saw as Mom coming home early from work to find him in the sack with her best friend!
“I heard you fired your nurse.”
“Goddamn busybody. Always wanting to know what I was eating, always poking me with those damn needles.”
My Rage-O-Meter spiked. I could feel the veins in my forehead throb like war drums as my temper began to shred. It’s a fragile thing, my temper. Sort of like the pretty colored tissue paper you find lining gift bags. My inner eye watched it disintegrate into little raggedy-edged pieces that floated away to perhaps reassemble themselves in another place and time as my father whined, “She treated me terrible, Jazzy. And now I feel terrible.”
“Oh, for chrissake, Dad, you feel terrible because you’re not following your doctor’s orders. Evie’s going nuts worrying about you, and Dave and I don’t have time to come coddle you so you’ll quit trying to fucking kill yourself! So here’s the deal. We’re hiring you another nurse. You will eat what she says. You will take the insulin shots without complaining. And if you fire her, I will personally haul your sorry ass to the veterans’ home and dump you on their doorstep.”
“But—”
“Furthermore, you will make an appointment with your doctor today, and if he has to cut off your goddamn foot, none of us is going to pity you, because you brought it on yourself!”
“Jasmine Elaine Parks—”
“Don’t you dare pull your Dad voice out on me, old man. I know exactly what kind of game you’re playing and it doesn’t wash. You weren’t there when we were growing up. What makes you think your pitiful health is going to make us come to you now?”
There was a long silence, during which I’m sure Albert was looking longingly at his beer can while I was kicking myself for yelling at a decrepit old war hero. I knew he’d been an awesome Marine. He had a drawer packed with medals and an address book full of phone numbers of men who would still willingly die for him. He just never should’ve had children.
“I’m tired,” I said, suddenly feeling even older than his sixty-one years. “I’m working on a big account and it’s got me on edge. Evie’s call knocked me over that edge and now you’re catching the fallout.” It wasn’t an apology. He didn’t deserve one and he knew it.
“I’ll call the doctor this morning,” he said. I guess if I could make concessions, so could he.
“Good. I’ll call you when I find a new nurse.”
“Okay.”
Another awkward silence. This was the point at which many fathers and daughters would exchange little affectionate phrases like “I love you” and “I miss you.” We knew that. We just had no way to get there from here.
“So . . . I’ll talk to you later,” I said.
“Okay. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Beep. I found it terribly ironic that lately all my conversations with family members ended in a high, annoying sound.
I threw the phone on my bed, dropped down beside it. Before other things demanded my attention, I picked up the phone, dialed Evie’s number, and left a message for her to get me the number of the nursing pool we’d drawn the last woman from. Hopefully I could hire one who hadn’t yet talked to his old nurse and learned what an ass Albert could be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I woke to the sound of a doorbell.
“Hey,” I told the clock, “I went back to sleep. How cool is that?” Even better was the total lack of nightmares. I started to bounce out of bed, but my ribs turned it into more of a slow roll. Grief accompanied me to the door. Vayl had taped a note there.
Jasmine,
Before I went to my rest, I ordered you something special, since I know how much you hate to eat out. See you at dusk.
V
I looked through the peephole. Nobody. And the only inhabitant of the hall, when I opened the door, was a serving cart full of covered dishes. I imagined the waiter dashing back to the elevator after he’d rung so I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of him and think—gasp!—that real people actually ran this hotel. I supposed the employees did a lot of darting into stairwells and linen closets. Were they required to run sprints every morning before work to keep themselves in shape? Hmm, a definite thought. By the time I had the cart inside, the door locked, and the table set for my meal, I’d decided the entire staff met in the attic every morning
for calisthenics, and every one of them, maid, cook, and maintenance worker alike, wore matching pink leotards.
I uncovered the lids to each dish one by one, offering each plate a round of applause as it appeared. Number one plate held three small pancakes, a slab of butter, and a minipitcher of syrup. A mushroom omelet spread itself across plate number two, and plate number three held four slices of extra-crispy bacon. Vayl had also ordered coffee and a big glass of orange juice. I saluted his closed door with my mug and said, “To you, Boss. May you never realize how much I truly like you.”
As I ate the most delicious breakfast I’d consumed in months, I planned my afternoon. Since anything to do with Assan fell under Vayl’s domain, I tabled the whole issue and moved on to our more immediate problem. Four fairly well-informed killers disguised as religious fanatics did not just materialize and try to eliminate two Central Intelligence Agency employees. I wasn’t sure how they’d even found us on that highway, but I did have a theory. Someone must have told them we were after Assan, so they had probably watched his house until we showed up. That someone had taken a big risk too, because only a handful of people even knew we existed. That included Pete, the three senators on our department’s oversight committee, Bergman, and the woman I was about to call.
Our secure phone sat where we’d left it last night, beside the laptop in front of the unoccupied chair at my breakfast table. I swallowed my last bite and used that phone to call Martha. She answered on the first ring.
“Demlock Pharmaceuticals,” she said in her gravelly alto. She hadn’t smoked a day in her life, but you’d never know it by her voice.
“I need to establish an order.”
“Hold, please.”
Moments later Martha was back on a line that was now secure from her end as well as mine.
“What do you need, hon?”
Pete’s secretary called me “hon.” How cool was that? Of course, she could pretty much do as she liked. She might be a four-foot-eight granny with mocha skin and whipped-cream hair, but she could nail your ass to the floor with a single look. I asked her about it one time. She said it was the result of raising seven children, every one of whom still wilted beneath the Look like old lettuce. Never mind the only one of her kids without a PhD was an MD. All of them acknowledged her as the Supreme Leader of the Evans clan. Luckily she had her soft-spoken hubby, Lawrence, around to make sure her rule didn’t run to Fascism. Lawrence spent his weekdays teaching at the Southern Baptist Seminary and his weekends saving souls at Hope Baptist just down the street from my apartment. What a sweet man. And generous too, unlike some guys I was about to name.
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