“I don’t know.”
“How should we play this?” I asked him. “Do we go up there and try to take him down? We don’t even know if he’s alone.”
“I haven’t seen anything to indicate anyone else, have you?”
“No, but that might only mean that they’re really, really good.”
“Shit,” he cursed. “You’re right.” He leaned out of the small room, looking back and forth down the halls. Seeing no one, he said, “Between you and me, I’m tempted to say, ‘Let him have it.’ Maybe it’s time this dynasty rolled over and died. It’s been badly, stupidly run for decades. The Barringtons are coasting on their reputation, getting by because they stay so insular nobody knows how weak they’ve grown. Christ, the big fucking babies all bolted for their ironclad closet the moment that alarm went off!”
“They do seem a bit skittish.”
“I’m not saying they’re fragile. I’m saying they’re dumb, and they were given power without responsibility. They took it, and they wrung it dry.”
“And now you want it, don’t you?” I asked him levelly, even as I tried to track the sound of footsteps above—and I watched one more camera feed go dark. “You want to move in and take over.”
“I’d do a better job.”
“I bet you’re right,” I said, and I meant it. “But are you seriously proposing a coup d’état to a woman you just met half an hour ago?”
“No, I’m proposing that you go back to San Francisco and tell the Renners the truth—that this place is a sham, and that the Barringtons let a burglar kill their father one night in the back bedroom.”
“That’s how he died?”
“That’s where I found all the blood. They moved his body up onto the roof to cook it when the sun came up. But he didn’t smoke himself to ashes. He bled out in the guest room after someone broke in. This someone, I bet.”
The third camera went down. One tiny square was left, wobbling on the roof—up at the edge of some gable or rain gutter. Whoever it was, he was knocking down dominoes and getting ready to come inside to play. But he didn’t want to be seen, or recorded at any rate.
I met Clifford’s eyes and didn’t blink. “What are you saying, Mr. O’Donnell?”
“I’m saying, let’s get out of here while the getting is good. You and I go our separate ways, you deliver your message to San Francisco, and you have a new ally when the Barringtons fall. I don’t know who that is upstairs, and I don’t want to know. Whoever it is, I’m sure his grievance is legitimate, and I don’t feel like standing between him and some righteous retribution.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted.
“Then let’s go.” He was pleading now, so desperate to get away and to get out from under the political thumb … for how long? Hadn’t he said he’d known them for forty years?
As they say down there, bless his heart.
I said, “I’d love to, and maybe I will. But I’m not leaving without my ghoul.”
“Well,” he said, shaking his head, “that’s your call. But I’m going to hit the road—and get out while I can. It’s been nice chatting with a rational person for a few minutes.”
“Likewise,” I told him.
He turned to run but stopped himself and faced me again. “One last thing. You really will send in the Renners?”
“Like the fist of God.” Something brilliant dawned on me, and I added, “If I can ask you for a little favor in return.”
“How little?”
“Very little,” I assured him. “I’ll give you a call about it later.”
“It’s a deal. And it’s time for me to take advantage of some vacation time.”
“Good luck,” I said with a wave.
“You too.”
He disappeared with a bang—the sound of him striking off down the tiled floor—then I heard nothing at all. His departure was swift, smooth, and utterly seamless. I didn’t even hear any doors open and close, but the alarm for the front door made a little chime and its blue light began to blink.
Just like that, Clifford O’Donnell was gone, and with him my sole ally of any supernatural power.
As I shut down the security systems one grid at a time, I considered my strange new … friendly acquaintance. Older than he looked, certainly. Confident and strong, and tired of being in the background—second fiddle to a pack of weaker creatures. I sensed a whiff of eau de old cop about him, like maybe he’d been a real investigator, back in the day. It sure parlayed nicely into a seneschal position—even a position that was only part time and odious.
I flipped the last switch to deaden the final alert, leaving the house utterly undefended from a security point of view. And I wondered if that wasn’t why I’d taken such an instant liking to the guy—that eau de old cop. He dimly reminded me of my dad.
“There,” I said to the control room.
It didn’t say anything back. Not a blip or a beep, or a tiny flickering light. I’d disabled the whole damn thing, or so I was reasonably confident.
Grimly, it occurred to me that should I encounter this intruder, I wouldn’t have much time to explain my helpfulness, but that would have to be okay. If his grudge was with the House, it might not be with me. Maybe we could do that whole “my enemy’s enemy” thing and skip off into the night, holding hands.
Or maybe I’d just do my damndest to avoid the fellow, get my ghoul, and get out of Dodge.
I heard scrabbling up above—not nearby, but on the other side of the house. Someone was slipping down off the roof and hunting for a window to kick in. Unfortunately for that someone, all the windows were the same shatterproof (bulletproof?) design as the ones in the living room. He was meeting with difficulty.
Not a pro, then. A pro would have a cutter or, in a pinch, a little C-4.
Good to know. Definitely somebody with a grudge, not a hired gun.
Since the Barringtons were still AWOL and I wasn’t sure how to find my way to the basement, I wasted a few minutes fluttering back and forth between hallways, looking for stairs. I found a set going up, but nothing going down. I wished I’d thought to ask O’Donnell where the entrance was, but I hadn’t, and now he was gone, so screw it. And then I remembered an old place of mine, years ago, and how the stairs to the basement area had been just off the kitchen.
It’s an old architectural hang-up, left over from the days when people stored food in their cellars. Or if you asked me in a pop quiz, that’d be my guess.
Back to the kitchen I ran, and sure enough, I’d gone right past the door several times without seeing it or realizing its purpose.
I got it now, though. I grabbed the knob and yanked, and met a lot of resistance. The thing was barricaded like a motherfucker from inside, and I noted when I began to beat upon it that it was steel-reinforced. It probably had a bracing bar on the other side—the kind you need a goddamn blowtorch to cut around if you ever expect to open it.
More often than not, the simple precautions are the most difficult to bypass.
(I, for one, have always fantasized about the day I can have a moat.)
Adrian! Adrian, can you hear me?
Is that you upstairs?
Yes, come open the fucking door.
I’ll try …
“Do or do not, there is no try,” I muttered.
I heard motion on the other side, and an argument, and what sounded like close-quarters fisticuffs … and then a grating slide of something metal being moved out of the way.
Adrian burst backward into the kitchen and crashed against an island’s countertop. He was holding a metal crossbar, and brandishing it at someone on the top of the stairs.
Sheriden bulleted through after him, holding—I swear to God—a sword, and swinging it like maybe she knew how to use it. It was the fancy kind, like Renaissance faire freaks hang up over a fireplace mantel but never actually use. Even so, it looked sharp enough to do some damage.
She didn’t see me, so she was easy to catch. I nabbed her from behind, took
her sword away in a flash, and shoved her headlong back down the stairs with prejudice. Adrian heaved himself forward and slammed the steel door shut, then leaned against it for good measure—and jammed the crossbar through the latch to keep it fastened. Nicks, swipes, and a fairly deep cut blossomed red through his sweater and along his forearms. There, where he’d held up his arms to defend himself, the wounds were deepest.
“Jesus, Adrian!” I took one of his hands, attempting to better assess his damage.
He yanked it away from me and said, “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Good to hear, you fucking liar. What the hell was that?”
“That was a crazy bitch with a sword.”
“I gathered that much,” I told him. “Is there anyone else down there?”
“No one who’ll do any damage. I had to kill one and beat the shit out of the other one to get them off me. They knew, Ray. They knew I wasn’t a ghoul, and they didn’t like it.”
“Shit, man. I’m sorry. And I let the Barringtons just … lock you down there with them.”
“I’m the one who insisted on coming. And there’s nothing to be done about it now,” he added under his breath. He reached for a dish towel and wrapped his right forearm. “And I didn’t learn anything about my sister, so all these stitches in my future are for nothing. Hey, where is everyone?” he asked mildly.
Oh yeah. He didn’t know.
“I guess you couldn’t hear it down there, but there’s been some excitement up here. An alarm went off. Someone’s trying to break in.”
He stopped his makeshift swaddling and eyed me. “What? Like, right now?”
“I assume. I disabled the security system, but it took me a few minutes. Maybe it’ll help the guy.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you all about it on the way home.”
“Where are the Barringtons?”
“Hiding behind their pool, I think. That’s where they went, and I haven’t seen them since. I assume they’re still there, ostriching themselves and eating paint chips, or whatever it is they do in their spare time. I don’t know. Actually … I have an idea.”
“Oh no.”
“No, it’s a good idea.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
Despite the fact that he was clearly injured, having him back at my side made me bolder. After all, I now had free rein of the McMansion (so far as I knew) and a hot tip on a crime scene. Also, I didn’t hear any more ruckus from the would-be intruder.
“Do you hear that?” I asked Adrian.
“What? No.”
“Me either. Maybe the burglar gave up.”
“And maybe I’m your dear aunt Rose.”
“Well, you kind of are.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We’re still leaving, don’t worry,” I assured him. “But we’re going to take a little detour first. Stick close.”
“What are we looking for?”
“A bedroom with a lot of blood in it.”
“Whose?”
“William Renner’s,” I said. “And they’ll have tried to clean it up, but I’ll still smell it if I find it.”
“Not a suicide?” he asked, falling into step behind me. He was clearly in pain, so I kept up a pretty good clip as I went down halls, opening doors.
“Not a suicide,” I said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and starting to climb them. “He died in one of the extra bedrooms.”
“There could be a dozen in a place like this.”
“I bet there aren’t more than six or seven, and I’ve already breezed past a couple of them with nothing to hide. Up here, I bet.” I climbed the steps two at a time because no, I didn’t seriously believe the intruder had given up and moseyed on home, and I likewise didn’t really think that the Barringtons would stay conveniently holed up all night.
Adrian lagged behind.
“Stay close!” I commanded.
“I can’t—you’re going too—”
“Fast, yeah, sorry. Then stay there. I’m just going to do a dash, okay?”
“Fine,” he said. It told me he was tired, from fighting downstairs I assumed, more from the loss of blood. Though over my shoulder I saw him in a flash, just before I snapped around the corner, and his right arm was absolutely crimson.
I was glad I’d pushed pixie-faced Sheriden down the stairs. I hoped she’d broken her little pixie neck.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I was already out of his line of sight.
“Hurry, Ray,” he called behind me. “I don’t like this.”
I said, “Me either.” But I said it quietly enough that he wouldn’t hear it.
Okay, so I’d been wrong about the McMansion having only six or seven bedrooms. I counted at least nine in total, and there were five just on the second floor landing, where I shoved open doors and took a deep breath inside each space.
Room number three stopped me in my tracks.
I threw open the door—or rather, I bashed it open with my shoulder—and right as I was about to take a big ol’ sniff … I realized I wasn’t alone.
Somehow without me hearing it, the intruder had come inside. He’d done so by literally disassembling the window—with the big crowbar in his hand, I could only assume. So that was the scuffling noise we’d heard. I was amazed that he’d kept it so quiet.
An iron lever combined with a vampire’s strength equals serious brute force. See? It’s the simple things.
Another simple thing I halfway saw coming—the intruder wasn’t a “he.”
She was wearing black in the finest old-school tradition of such things, and a ski mask too—though why, I couldn’t say.
I knew immediately who she was. So would anyone else from that household; they would’ve recognized her movement, her body, her scent. They would’ve known her as one of their own, or that’s how they would’ve thought of her.
As for me, I thought of her in a possessive sense, too, though we’d never met before and shouldn’t be meeting now.
Not like this.
Not with her hands frozen over a dresser with a huge vanity mirror that doubled the whole room. Three of the drawers had already been pulled out, searched, and thrown down in disgust. Three more remained, and I was interrupting her.
All four of us—me, and her, and our reflections in the big square mirror—held the pose and held the moment, neither one of us sure what would happen next.
Our eyes grappled and locked, and hers flinched away. I saw what she was thinking; it was all over her, in her posture, her shaking hands, her shallow breaths. She didn’t know me. I was an unknown quantity. I might be a problem. She might be better served to try again another day.
Before she could act on it or look away from me, I blurted out quickly—while she could still see my mouth moving, before she either jumped me or ran: “Isabelle, you didn’t come here to kill them, did you? You set off the alarms to lure them away from the house. What are you looking for?”
And I prayed that she could read lips.
“You know my name,” she whispered back. The words were imperfect, dulled around their edges, but I understood them without difficulty. “How?”
“I know your brother.”
She didn’t react, except to tense even tighter, her whole body as rigid as rebar.
“He came here for you, wanting to know what happened.”
“You’re lying. He can’t be dead. He can’t be one of us!” Her refusal to believe ended on a shrill note.
“I’m not lying, but you’re right: Adrian’s not one of us. He’s my friend.”
“People like us, we have no friends.”
“Please, what are you looking for?” I moved slowly into the room, releasing the door and tiptoeing toward her. “I can help you look. I’ve turned off all the alarms. The Barringtons are hiding behind their pool.”
But now she was uncertain. She let go of the drawer’s glass knob. “Adrian i
s … here?”
“Downstairs. Look.” I extended a hand. I had some of his blood on my fingers. “He’s hurt. We need to get him out of here. Me and you, okay? We’ll get Adrian someplace safe. You can smell him on me, I know you can. You can smell him, and you know it’s him—just like I smelled that the two of you were kin.”
The poor kid had no idea what to do, and that made a pair of us.
“They kept my grandmother’s ring,” she said, in case it explained something. “Theresa kept it, and wouldn’t give it back. I saw her wearing it—she wore it to Chicago. There was a picture … and the ring was on her hand.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” I begged, desperate to not chase her away, not when I’d have to explain myself to Adrian. “Come with me, please! I can get us out of here. You can tell me all about it. I’m a thief, Isabelle. I’ll come back for it. I’ll get it for you.” I would’ve promised her anything at all to get her out of that room.
“Raylene!” Adrian shouted from downstairs.
“See?” I said to Isabelle, forgetting that she couldn’t hear. “That’s him!” Then out into the hall I asked loudly, “What?”
“We gotta go!”
I heard the sound of preternaturally strong fists banging something, and at first I thought of Sheriden, but no. The sound was coming from the house’s back, at the garage’s door to the interior, or so my ears suggested.
The Barringtons.
They were tired of burying their heads in the sand, and they wanted back inside their house. Had the door locked down behind them? A crash told me no, that it had only stuck or only locked, and whoever pushed behind it was really impatient to get some ass-whooping under way.
“Ray!” he all but screamed, and that was all it took.
I whirled out of the room and left Isabelle, not willing to beg her to stay if it meant letting Adrian get murdered downstairs. I was on him in a flash, a split instant before Paul Barrington could reach him.
I punched Paul in the throat—hard, since I had the weight of my full descending velocity to back it up. He choked and flew backward into the hall, where he made a very big dent in the far wall.
Theresa was right behind him. She came at us like a harpy, all wild hair and long fingernails and a face full of hate. Adrian pushed something into my hand. Sheriden’s sword.
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