by Holly Hook
“Ah. There's Silvia and Ember,” Emmy Jackson says from the other side of the room.
I whirl. Emmy's wearing her maroon-rimmed glasses today and a bright yellow, checkered blouse that screams eccentric. She rushes us, and though the silver-haired woman is just five foot zero, she almost crushes me and Silvia in her hugs.
“I finally made it,” I choke out.
Emmy releases me. “I'm so glad you did. We missed you last night. I'm glad you reached the hotel okay. It's just a short, easy ride from the airport.”
I gulp, wanting to tell her about the vampires, but now isn't the time to show nerves. And Emmy must be what? Closing in on seventy? She's made it this long going in and out of Washington and she even started Homes for Life after entering politics in her forties.
But so many others have gone missing here. Or ended their lives after entrenching themselves in politics for too long.
Emmy's encouraging to everyone, and though this is just my third Homes For Life gathering with her, it's clear she's cut out for this. It was her who made us be assertive at the statehouse. And it was her who said I had talent afterwards and should go to Washington.
What did she see in me?
“All four of you will knock them dead today,” Emmy says, pushing in her chair. “Remember, we're right and they're wrong. Also, most of the FHDA is in the Heart Party. If they don't take care of the vulnerable, they'll commit political suicide.”
Ah, the party of caring and too many rules.
I shift in my chair as my pulse quickens.
Partisan politics.
The ultimate destroyer.
I grasp the corner of my binder to the point of pain.
Silvia lowers her spoon. “Are you okay?”
I can't think about home now. “I'm fine.”
It's time to go. I sit with Silvia and Maisy in the back of a cab as we roll through daytime Washington. It's a normal city right now with lots of curvy tunnels and occasional views of the Capitol. Our driver is good, but I still grasp my seat.
“Just do what Emmy said you did back at the statehouse,” Silvia says.
“Those were human politicians,” I say. “Still scary, but without the extra terror factor. I could handle raising my voice at them.”
Maisy plays with the band around her art piece. “We have to try, hon. Florida doesn't have laws letting Dream Developers bulldoze people yet. I know it's Spade Party country out there, but it's easier to stop new laws than to make new ones.”
I gulp. The Spade Party is the party of opportunity, who want humans and vampires to be free and equal, but that also means letting companies do whatever they want. And vampires own most of the industries.
I wonder if the vampires throw us just enough crumbs to keep us from revolting.
“It’s easier to stop a new law than to repeal one,” Silvia says. “It's Spade country in Missouri, too.”
“So, you just graduated high school?” Maisy asks, eyes widening at me.
“Last month,” I say, glad for the change of subject. I'm too young for this. “I'm going to school for web design if I don't have to move.”
“Well, you already did a good job with that online exposé on Dream Developers,” Maisy says. “I shared that with everyone I know.”
“Thanks?” We enter another area with lots of wide buildings.
Our cabs slow and stop before a huge, cream-colored brick building with heavily tinted windows designed to block out the sun. And reality crashes back down. We're here. This is the Federal Housing Development Agency headquarters. The golden FHDA on the front and the seal of the home cradled by the sun (how ironic) gives it away.
There will be vampires in there.
They like their tinted windows and their armed daytime guards. Two stand by the glass doors, both huge human men with pistols on their hips. Familiars. I hear it pays well.
We get out and our two cabs pull away. Emmy has us all pose for a photo in front of the seal, and I force a smile as I stand with Silvia and Steven. She's happy and snapping her phone camera like we're at the beach. I don't get it.
Then we have the joy of going through security. The guards out front ask Emmy a lot of questions in low voices. She answers back. Then they take our ID's and scrutinize them before handing them back.
The first guard raises his radio. “Five, six, two, eight.”
I guess that's the code to let us in, because the glass doors open automatically for us.
And we enter a world of tan marble and glass. There's a reception desk in the middle of what could pass as a ballroom and some turnstile gates with two more armed, human guards. Yikes, what do they think this is? I thought it was an industry hearing.
“Wow,” Silvia says, eyeing the elegant, hanging lights. I know right away no sunlight is getting in, because the entire space feels artificial, and I see why. Two receptionists, women who could both work as A-list models, occupy the front desk.
My heart sinks. Next to me, Steven stares at the vampire goddesses, both dressed in elegant tan suits that match the décor. The one on the left is blond, with crimson lipstick and that same chiseled, supernatural look as the guys from last night, including the red-lined eyes. The other has perfect dark skin and her hair pinned up in what could be a golden clip.
“Step forward and sign in,” Gold Clip says, her tone one notch below an order. She has fangs, just like the rest of them. Her veined eyes linger on Steven, who takes a step back and almost stumbles, saved only by his cane.
My throat's dry. We're in the presence of predators. Even the guards in the room are silent around their masters. Four guys in suits wait near the entrance to a metal detector room, and they're all in sunglasses that say don't mess around with us. Sheesh. This is a hearing about FHDA's programs, not Fort Knox.
Emmy nods to us and motions us forward with a tiny hand flick.
I force myself to the counter. We sign in, and the receptionists are silent as they put our names in the computer. Friendly conversation must not be the rule here. Even Emmy says nothing as they enter her name.
Crimson Lipstick motions us to the metal detector room, and though the suited guys seem to be human, my neck prickles under their stares as a uniformed guard instructs us to empty our pockets for the detector. We get through that part, and then we re-emerge on the far side of the reception desk.
“So we passed the test,” Emmy says as our group slowly comes back together.
I hug my binder. “Do they expect someone to go postal on the FHDA people or what?” I keep my voice down, though Gold Clip sneaks a glance in my direction.
Silvia just grins at me.
“Really. Is this normal?” I ask.
“Completely normal, though security is higher than usual.” Emmy gets walking. “The auditorium is this way.”
Auditorium. Gulp. And after the reception ladies, what are we going to face?
Emmy leads us up a ramp that circles the auditorium. We pass pictures of new housing developments, apartments mostly, and other framed photos of lucky families gathered in front of their new homes. FHDA really likes to pat themselves on the back.
They need to get high fived. In the face. With a chair.
Okay, so that explains the security.
“Notice there are no photos of condos,” I say.
“Trust me, I do,” Silvia hisses.
Our group reaches the top of the inclined hallway. Emmy stops at the double doors. “Choose your seats.”
It's a big auditorium with seats facing a stage at the bottom. Most of the occupants are human men and women in dresses and suits, but a few vampires sit scattered around the room. There are maybe forty or fifty people. There's a long table set up onstage, and all four chairs hold the leaders of the FHDA.
Three out of four are vampires. All but the man seated at the far end of the table is too stunning to be human. The two other men are vampires, too, but one's scrolling on his phone and the other taps his fingers. Those two are the least dangerous-look
ing vamps I've seen so far. But I hate that they're bored.
A woman sits at the end closest to center stage, a brunette with sharp cheekbones, reddish eyes, and a hint of her fangs protruding on the corners of her thin lips. I shudder. She surveys the entire audience and lets her tongue flick out.
That woman is as sharp as a razor blade.
“Yikes,” I say. Plus, we seem to be the only activist group here. Even if I go into full bitch mode, how will I ever convince these people to stop giving money to Dream Developers?
But I remember what Emmy told us to do. I throw my shoulders back, take a breath, and march onto the predators' turf.
CHAPTER THREE
I lead Silvia to the back row because it's far from the stage. The rest of our troops follow. Maisy sits on one side of me with her rolled-up art project, and Steven takes the end of our row. Silvia and I are closest to the middle aisle, and we're the farthest from the others who have taken the lower rows. There are maybe four or five dozen people here.
“Well, at least we don't speak until this afternoon,” I force. “And maybe we'll get to sit on a--”
Then I see the podium just feet from where the Agency sits onstage, complete with a microphone and a stage light shining up on it.
I choke and drop my binder. “Shit. Is this designed to be an interrogation room?”
“You can do it, Ember,” Silvia says. “It'll be just like--”
“At the statehouse, we got to sit and there were a bunch of us from my neighborhood that Emmy got together.” I look right at her. “It was more like a meeting.” Silvia watched the recording of us bitching out the committee that was in charge of the bill Dream Developers wanted.
I pick up my binder, and the vampire woman stands and marches to the podium. She’s silent, like a snake. “Welcome, everyone, to the annual Federal Housing Development Agency policy hearing. I am glad you have taken advantage of the time accommodations we have made for you. I am Zara Silverton, director of the FHDA. I was appointed by President William Shafts during his second term and have been here for six years now.”
So she's in the Heart Party, like our last President. I doubt that'll help us, though. Zara's giving off too much of a self-important vibe. And what if this agency has to go through the current President to get anything done? President Haywood is Spade Party.
Maybe I should have watched the news instead of shutting it and my parents' constant bitching about Haywood out all the time. Then I'd know who these people are and might be better prepared. Ugh, why did Emmy think I’d knock them dead?
“Today, we will hear the perspectives of industry professionals, and some others, on the effectiveness of our housing development loans. It is our mission at FHDA to provide adequate housing for our growing population and for our good, tax paying citizens.”
Silvia shifts beside me, and I notice a puncture bruise on her arm now that she's in short sleeves. She's been paying blood taxes despite living in a homeless shelter. Is she not good enough?
“Each speaker will have five minutes.”
Zara returns to her seat. The industry people have the morning spots, so we spend the morning listening to speeches in corporate jargon and getting increasingly antsy. Even the Agency looks bored, and one vampire guy keeps playing with his phone. All but Zara appear half-asleep.
All the speakers are in dreamland, or they fear Zara. Most of them talk so fast I can barely follow them as they praise the government loans and throw numbers around. Three of the speakers are vampires, and one pulls at his collar under Zara’s stare. At least stage fright spans across species.
But I feel no better. It’s clear that Zara holds the cards.
Does anyone else? I let my gaze dart around to the other attendees. No one sits near each other. Everyone’s here on their own.
But a young guy’s seated in the top row with us, on the other side of the room.
My jaw nearly drops. Though he must be barely out of high school, this long-haired specimen wears a suit and has one leg crossed over the other. A polished shoe shines in the dim light, and though the guy’s dark hair is almost down to his shoulders, it hangs in the most graceful manner I’ve seen. His nose is at the most perfect angle, and his jaw is strong and confident. Though he’s sitting, I can tell that he must have had that dark blue suit tailored to give his shoulders just enough broadness to look commanding.
Or his body is just that great.
I squint.
He’s a vampire. Of course. No human is that flawless, and though I can’t see the color of his eyes from here, that perfection can mean nothing else. He must be a fresh graduate from the vampires’ secret academies.
We lock gazes.
And my heart about stops.
His expression is unreadable, and his eyes appear deep even from almost a hundred feet away. He's got the same proud cheekbones as the other vampires, the same perfect skin, and the same dark, angelic appearance. But there's something in his face that tickles a deep longing, and before I can identify it, someone leans in front of him and blocks the view.
Then I notice the others with him. The young guy has two of the suited, human men in sunglasses sitting on either side. They’re the same ones from the lobby, and the closest follows the guy’s gaze and shakes his head at me.
Though I can see nothing beyond his black lenses, I shudder.
They’re his daytime guards, and this one’s look is clear.
I'm to stop staring, now, or there will be problems.
* * * * *
Lunch arrives. Everyone who’s human wanders to a cafeteria in another part of the building, where they've catered sandwiches and put out snacks. The drop-dead guy is nowhere, and neither are those guards in sunglasses. Even though Zara said nothing about it, it's obvious the vampires will, um, have lunch elsewhere. I imagine bottles of donated blood laid out in fancy formations. Or worse, some volunteer blood bags who let vampires feed directly from them for money. Apparently, they consider blood from the source the best.
Silvia and I don’t exchange many words. Our turns are up soon. We choke down food and file back into the auditorium.
Zara welcomes everyone back as the young vampire and his entourage file in last. This time, we all sit closer to the stage, and he sits well above us in the rows.
“Silvia Compton,” Zara announces from the stage.
Silvia gulps and rises from her chair, speech in hand. Zara looks down her nose at her. I pat Silvia on the back as she steps over me to go to the podium.
That'll be me in about thirty minutes.
My lunch turns in my stomach. I’m going to screw this up.
My new friend visibly swallows once she's onstage, lit up and just feet from the Agency. Silvia's voice breaks as she tells the story of how she and her family made ends meet just outside of Kansas City, and how the city used to rent the land to them for cheap. Dream Developers came in and told everyone they had a month to vacate because they bought the land from the city. Silvia pauses, then takes a breath before she says that she, her parents, and her younger sister had to stay in a homeless shelter after that.
Zara leans forward, staring at Silvia. Silvia pauses as her gaze flicks to the director and back to the audience. I squeeze the arms of my chair. My heart races for her sake. It had to be a hard thing to admit. Silvia has guts.
And then Silvia drops the bomb. “Thanks to Homes For Life, we found out that Dream Developers got loans from Proud Housing, an FHDA company.”
Zara lets her jaw open a bit.
The three Agency men snap their attention to Silvia.
Silvia finishes strong. “We are here to demand that FHDA stick with their mission to help the vulnerable. We demand that they stop their funds from going to predatory companies like Dream Developers.”
Scattered applause rings out.
Zara's mouth has fallen all the way open, and she's speechless.
Silvia steps down, and then it's Maisy's turn. Emmy beams at Silvia as she sits and lets ou
t a relieved sigh.
“Great job,” I hiss. What can I possibly add to that? I don’t belong here. I’m not that brave.
Maisy takes a minute to unroll her art piece and tape it to the front of the podium. I blink at the colors and the paints, and realize that it's an old woman sitting in a cardboard box, which barely shields her from driving rain. I have to admit, it's a moving piece.
“I won't repeat what Silvia said,” she begins. “Do not believe whatever Dream Developers says about their mission to create more housing for needy families. Do condos sound like homes for those who are struggling on a fixed income? I make my blood donations every three months. I’ve paid taxes all my life. And this is how we get treated.” She glares at the panel. I wish she'd take her art and shove it in their faces. They can't see it from that angle, but she's probably too nervous to realize.
Once she’s finished, she takes down her art, rolls it back up, and sits beside me again.
“Steve Palchuk,” Zara announces quickly, like she wants to get this over with.
Steve rises with his cane and his speech, but he abandons his script when he gets up to the podium. Gripping the podium for balance, he speaks, talking about how his retirement community got sold out to Dream Developers in Texas and all the retirees had to leave.
“...and I was lucky to find a new apartment because I had investment income,” Steve says. “My friend Earl was not. He packed everything he owned and left it on the side of the road.” Steve coughs. “And then the stress got to him. He...he died from it.”
I bite my lip and stiffen.
I haven't heard this bit yet.
“Five minutes,” Zara says, though I’m sure it hasn’t been that long.
Steve’s shaking. He's flushed as he rejoins us, and I feel my own cheeks reddening. The middle vampire is back to checking his phone like he wants to escape from it. The shock factor is wearing off. Zara's coolly running her finger down the list of speakers, calmly working her lips, and I quake.