The ringing in my ears has leveled out to a sort of vibrating whine. Over it, I can barely make out some kind of muttering. I turn to Lilith and see her lips moving.
“WHAT?” I say, all the excess adrenalin-fueled hyper-energy from the fight forcing its way out of my lungs. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
Lilith bends from the hip, getting her face close to mine, then says in a voice that pierces through the ringing veil with no effort at all—“I said, you’re hot when you’re desperate.”
I blink at her.
“You’re doing it again,” I say. I swear I’m talking at normal volume, but I hear my own voice as a muffled whisper.
“Doing what?”
“Saving me.”
“Am I now? Wow, I never would have noticed.”
“Where’s your book?”
“I finished The Pirate’s Mistress hours ago. The ending was disappointing, I didn’t realize the pirate was going to give up high-seas crime for her vanilla girlfriend. You mind if I get another book the next time I’m at your place?”
Staring up at her, I suddenly realize how utterly, utterly exhausted I am. I let my shoulders sag, dropping the spray paint can on the floor. “Why not. Knock yourself out.”
She grins. “Sweet.”
I pick myself up off the floor one limb at a time. Everything aches, most of all my face. I’m probably sporting a lovely pair of shiners right now. My stomach is going topsy-turvy, its frosted contents declaring their distress at the roller coaster ride. But I did it. I won. I fucking won.
I find the guy with spray painted eyes groaning in a heap on the floor. I haul him upright by the lapels, grunting with the effort. Lilith watches curiously.
“Where is he?” I demand.
“Van,” he gasps. “Outside. Down the road.”
I drop him and limp my way outside. Lilith follows, but makes no move to help me walk. The van and its blacked-out windows are parked on the side of the long, empty road. “Dick, you in there?” I shout. I don’t get an answer.
I roll open the door and there he is, bruised and battered but alive. Both his hands are cuffed to the ceiling handle, and there’s a comically long strip of duct tape wound over his mouth. He yells, the sound muffled.
In a second, my brain catalogs the image of a tin can fixed to the inside of the car, a grenade, and a string leading from the grenade to the door I just opened. My sigil glows on my stomach as a pair of arms like iron bands wraps around my middle; they yank me away from the van just as its interior is engulfed in flames. Is that me or Dick screaming? The flames unfurl at breakneck speed directly at my face—they never quite reach me, yet I feel my skin open up into a dozen phantom blisters. Rushing air, foggy sky. Concrete against my back, sparse, dead grass poking my cheek. I lay stunned and confused, my hearing completely shot, my vision blackened with temporary spots.
Something is happening in my throat—I roll over onto my side just as all four cupcakes force their way up my esophagus in mush form, and I puke them all over the filthy ground. As I cough and sputter and wipe my mouth on my sleeve, an angel comes to me, wearing a halo of orange flames.
“Lilith,” I croak, “Lilith, your hair’s on fire.”
She stops, drops, rolls, and then springs back up, batting away some remaining smoke rising from her singed ends. I swallow the bitter remains of bile in my throat—hello, lasagna aftertaste—and pull myself up onto my elbows to watch the van. It’s now a charred, warped mess burning like a garbage fire on the side of the road. When the smoke shifts I see Dick’s tar-black, withered hands still cuffed to the ceiling handle. They’re not moving.
“Dick…” I murmur. Lilith pauses in her battle with her still-sizzling hair and raises an eyebrow at me. I can’t hear what she says, but she’s wearing a confused look.
“No, that’s his name,” I say. “His name was… Richard…”
The van burns.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Charity is for Bleeding Hearts
“One body was found in the wreckage and is currently being identified. Police are investigating…”
I watch the news listlessly. My phone keeps ringing on the bed next to me. Jenny’s number. I don’t pick it up. I’m sorry, Jenny. I’m so, so sorry, Dick.
I failed. I brought my big guns, I fought so hard, and… he was ready for me. Icy Eyes. He didn’t underestimate me, even though everyone else does, didn’t dismiss my chances of defeating his stooges and getting to Dick alive. He just didn’t count on Lilith. If it weren’t for her…
She’s gone now, fucked off to wherever she goes when she’s not either saving my life or pestering me. Maybe to fix her hair. She helped me all the way to the nearest subway stop, let me get back to the hotel myself. I don’t know why she went to all that trouble. But then again, she seemed shell-shocked too—she didn’t see the grenade trap any sooner than I did, and I’m sure the only reason she reacted in time was because of the sigil.
Gods. Dick. I didn’t mean to… he was just a regular guy with no idea what he was up against. Because I didn’t tell him. I just assumed he was enough of a coward to stay out of the way. Stupid, stupid… I opened that door. I ran headfirst into that parking lot. I didn’t come downstairs in time. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…
I—I have to do something. I’m still more bruise than body, but I can’t go to Luce; she’s busy. And besides, I can’t face her right now. I need to keep going with the case. I need to make sure Dick didn’t die for no reason. I need to… I need to…
I still need to check on that evicted family, don’t I? That’s what I’d been planning on before I got sidetracked. It’s a better lead than nothing.
When I leave, my shoes don’t make a sound on the carpeted floor.
***
When I ask the family’s former landlord where they might be now, he sniffs and raises his nose. It’s an alarming sight, given how hairy his nostrils are. “The Talleys?” he says. “How should I know where they are? They probably went where all the useless bums in the neighborhood go.”
I’m too tired to give that statement the eyebrow-raise it deserves. Instead, I demand elaboration with a blank, unmoving stare.
His knees quiver slightly. “The shelter, I meant the shelter. The homeless shelter? It’s only four blocks down from here, sank my rent prices like the Titanic when it was built. You can’t miss it.”
When I get to the place, I find out it’s a family shelter; the only people allowed in are women and children. I almost regret coming. There’s a debilitating fog of hopelessness oozing from the building into the sidewalk cracks, crawling up my shoes and clinging to my legs; maybe it’s always like this, or maybe my newly traumatized brain is just picking up on familiar signals. Either way, it’s not pleasant.
As the breeze picks up, I secure my scarf around my nose and mouth. A piece of paper flutters to the ground next to me, and I take a passing glance at it; it’s yellow and blue with the words “ECSED ENTERPRISES” printed across in bold lettering. Wait. I’ve seen that before. Not the words, the design, the blue and yellow. Where…? And why is the memory so blurry?
Because I saw it through a phone screen, in one of Dick’s pictures.
I snatch the flyer off the ground before it can flutter away, then rifle through the pictures on my phone until I find it—there it is, the exact same advertisement, in the home of one of the missing people. As I’m comparing the two images, mind racing like a filmstrip, someone taps the back of my shoulder. I turn to see a pale, gaunt woman looking to be in her forties, holding a sleeping baby close to her chest. The woman is shivering, her brows creased in pain and worry.
“Excuse me, but are you planning to apply to that program?” Her brittle blond hair reaches all the way down to her elbows, where the fabric of her coat is worn tissue-thin. The baby murmurs; she rocks it absentmindedly.
I check the ad again. “I’m not sure yet. Do you know anything about it?”
She shakes her head. “I only know what’s on the
advertisement. I think it’s supposed to be a job offer? Not the most lucrative one, but it has free housing too, and if you’re broke and homeless it sounds good enough…” Her narrowed eyes don’t match up with what her mouth is saying.
“You’re saying, it sounds too good?”
She nods. “That’s what I told my daughter when she insisted on applying with her brother. They’re both only sixteen, but the shelter wouldn’t let Nathan in because he’s a boy—Natalie threw a fit about it, nearly got us thrown out. I couldn’t do anything about it, not with the baby, but Natalie saw that program as some kind of golden ticket; if she and Nathan could get in, they could both have a place to stay while making some money. I told her there was no way it could be that easy. We argued about it, and one morning when I woke up, she was gone…” Her eyes are wet, but no tears fall.
A hunch whispers in my ear. “Sorry, ma’am, this is going to sound forward and a little bit creepy, especially if I’m right, but—does your surname happen to be ‘Talley?’”
She rocks bodily away from me. I see her eyes dart as she absorbs the details of my appearance, searching for warning signs—the ill-fitting jeans and shirt, the obviously new, cheap cardigan, the pink scarf concealing my neck and mouth, the twin black eyes and open cuts on my knuckles—her grip on the baby tightens and her feet shift, ready to sprint.
“Wait!” I blurt. “Please wait, I know this looks bad, but I swear I’m just here to find out what happened to your kids—it’s bigger than just them, people are going missing everywhere, I got your name from your old landlord and you’re the best lead I’ve had so far and please don’t leave—”
She runs.
Well. I could have handled that marginally better. But at least now I know why the Talleys’ address was in Joy’s book of prophecies; those two kids were taken by whoever took Joy, Aden, David, and everyone else. And if the kids were taken by Ecsed Enterprises, it stands to reason the rest of the crowd was too.
As the sound of a baby’s wailing echoes down the street, I check the flyer again. It has a phone number and an address. I debate calling the number. On the one hand, I could collect a lot of information before even setting foot on their home turf. On the other hand, if I mess up the call, they’ll know I’m onto them and adjust accordingly. And Icy Eyes might come to murder the shit out of me.
A walk-in confrontation it is.
***
I enter the clean, white reception area of what appears to be a simple clinic. It’s empty except for a blond woman in a lab coat puttering around behind the desk—her head pops up like a meerkat’s when I enter.
“Heya hon, welcome to Ecsed Enterprises!” she chirps. Her voice sounds strained, like she’s purposefully setting it an octave higher than usual. “Are you here for the Second Chance program?”
I open my mouth—
“What am I saying, of course you’re here for the program, everyone’s here for the program.” She says it like she’s reminding herself of a script she’s only vaguely memorized. She pops back behind the desk and emerges with a clipboard and pen. “Just sit down and fill out this form, then let me know when you’re finished, alright?”
Her grin is wide and weirdly glossy. Her makeup is caked on, flaking across her cheeks and forehead, and her hairline is crooked. But the strangest part of it all is her eyelashes; they’re thick and full and balanced and don’t look artificial at all. In fact, they’re the only real things about her, apart from the pale blue irises that are so light they may as well be clear pools of water.
I say nothing, take the clipboard, and sit down by the wall. I study the form quickly. It asks for a name, phone number, whether I live with family… and then the whole rest of it is about medical history. No, I don’t have a history of drug use, prescription or recreational. No, I have never experimented with ‘alternate medicine.’ No, I haven’t gotten a blood, organ, or marrow transfusion anytime in the last year.
As I puzzle over the significance of those questions (and lie about most of them), I happen to look up—and lock lenses with a camera in the corner of the ceiling. The smooth, black dome mocks me. I squint at it through puffed-up eyelids.
“Are you finished?”
The receptionist’s pale, pale face is right in front of me—I have to actively resist the urge to jump out of my skin and flee the premises as a naked skeleton. I can hear her breathing; it’s way too fast, and her pupils are blowing up like balloons the longer she looks at me.
Ah. Vampire.
“Almost finished,” I say, quietly. I flip up the pages, hiding my pen from the receptionist, and scribble a quick sigil onto the clipboard itself. It looks something like a stylized eye with a hexagonal pupil. My hands are still scraped up from the warehouse, so it only takes a little picking to peel off a scab. I press a drop of blood into the center of that hexagon, cover the clipboard with the paper forms, and offer the whole thing up to the receptionist. She snatches it with an erratically quick swipe, then scans the form.
“Oh good, looks like you’re eligible!” There is way too much glee in that statement. “Just one last thing, I’m going to have to take your blood.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Don’t worry hon, we just need enough to verify what’s on the form. After that we can let you know immediately whether or not you’re accepted, so, better to just get it over with!”
Oh. Oh no. No one’s coming anywhere near me with a hypodermic needle, much less a hungry vampire working for these Ecsed bastards—but the black, shiny dome on the ceiling begs to disagree. I cannot blow my cover while I’m being watched.
“Come on, come on,” the receptionist beckons, nearly yanking me up out of the chair. “No wasting anyone’s time, yours or mine.”
She leads me down the hall, tottering unsteadily on a pair of conservative black heels—a dozen steps later her ankle tweaks, and she spits out a decidedly un-Barbie-like “Motherfucker!” I swear I hear a c-c-crack as she resets the angle of her foot, turns backward, smiles, and keeps walking. Okay, no fucking way a registered vampire heals from injuries that quickly. This one’s been feeding on live people, and recently at that. The hair at the back of my neck bristles.
She opens a door into a white, sterile room with a surgical bed against the wall and a metal cart carrying stainless steel medical tools. My saliva glands pinch and I taste salt in my mouth; bile rushes up in my throat, but I swallow it just in time. Oh gods. And to top it all off, there’s a camera up on the ceiling of this room too—son of a bitch!
“It looks intimidating, I know,” the vampire says, waving dismissively. “But really, I—I mean, we—only need a teensy, weensy, itty, bitty, likkle, tiny bit of your blood.” She heads over to the cart and snaps on a pair of blue rubber gloves, then holds up a vacuum tube the length of her middle finger. “See? It’s less biological material than a sperm donation. Not that I’m going to have you squirt into a bucket. Um.”
I try to focus my eyes on the tube, but every attempt makes my head spin. My pulse is throbbing across my scar, and there’s a pinching, squeezing echo of pain right in the center of it. My lungs are stuck in a half-inflated state, forcing me to take shallow, gasping breaths. What do I do? How do I get out of this? Is staying away from that needle worth the enemy catching my actions on tape? Can I even outrun a vampire doped up on fresh human blood? Well, maybe this one will trip on her heels again—but fuck, what do I do?
The answer is nothing. I sit on the edge of the surgical bed and do nothing while my heart pounds in my ears and my mind eats itself from the inside out. The vampire receptionist—and, I guess, de facto nurse—makes content little hummingbird noises as she preps the needle and tube with practiced, surprisingly competent movements. “Roll up your sleeve, please!”
I do. She doesn’t comment on the battle bruises or my shaking, ice-cold hands, just ties a rubber tube around my forearms and flicks the inside of my elbow until the bluish vein stands up. She cleans the area with a cold alcohol swab, then pi
cks up the needle.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but this is going to pinch…”
Time speeds up. Or rather, I become so slow that the events around me just happen and pass without issue or fuss. I even blink slowly, and as I do my vision is unfocused and bleary and that’s alright, because all I have to do is not look at the needle. Not the needle, not the nurse, not the bed with pipes at the frame corners where the hazy squiggles in my vision go marching up and down, up and down. Dissociation is an old friend, and I treat it to tea and biscuits as my blood spills into the tube at an agonizingly slow pace. It’s okay, if I don’t feel it, it isn’t real. If it’s not my arm, not my body, not my blood, it’s alright. It’s alright.
“…There. See? What’d I tell ya.”
Her voice seems to be reaching me through a thick, gelatinous haze. Turning my head toward her is a chore, and then I have to make an effort not to look at the blood-filled tube. An alcohol swab appears in my hand, and I press it against the needle wound while the vampire trots out of the room.
“Be right back, stay put!”
I float.
Wait. Shit. Bad, that was bad, I can’t wrap my head around it but that was bad—why was it bad? Can’t think properly—I crack my own palm against the side of my face, and that shakes me awake.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. She has my blood. She has my blood. I’m a blood witch, I should know better than anyone what kind of nasty, fucked-up shit you can do to a person with just a drop of their blood. I need to get it back, or at least sap my DNA out of it before I leave.
My head swivels as I search the room for a pen—there, the steel cart, and a Sharpie on top of it. I lean off the bed to snatch it up. I can’t leave this room—the camera up on the ceiling makes certain of that—so it’s a good thing that, for once, I thought ahead.
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