Yes, I can hear.
Sorin gestured for Vashti to press her ear to his mouth so he could whisper an instruction to her. She complied, covering him with a swath of silk. Then, pressing her fingertips to her forehead in a sign of respect, she left to fetch another Servant, another lawyer who would do well to listen to this conversation with Mr. Crockett. All the while, her silver eyes flashed disappointment at the interruption of her punishment.
A thought tugged at the edges of Sorin’s mind. Yes…he-remembered now. Vashti had been among the flock of Groupies who had first recruited Lee Tomlinson to the Underground. They had come upon him at one of the many so-called vampire bars humans loved to frequent.
Fitting that she should be the one to fetch the lawyer who would now see to Lee Tomlinson’s fate.
Alone with the Servant, Sorin turned his full gaze upon him. “Rise.”
Mr. Crockett wiped away the sweat that had gathered on his upper lip.
“You think Limpet and Associates is harmless,” Sorin said, “even if their tiny detective—the one who is said to have the sixth sense—was touching you, as if to know your thoughts.”
“I think they only suspect that I’m a basic familiar and that I know more about Robby than it appears to the public.”
“You do not think this psychic looked into you?”
“I blocked my thoughts as soon as I felt him touching me.”
That might be true, but Sorin was not a vampire who traded on maybe’s. “I hope you are correct, Mr. Crockett. Surely you recall how Robby and Nathan Pennybaker leaked information about our home to these detectives.”
The Servant nodded, gaze fixed to the ground.
It was not enough to assuage Sorin.
Having been present at the scene of Robby’s final betrayal, the Guards had informed Sorin, their keeper, of every last detail. What Dawn Madison and her friends had learned concerned him a great deal, yet the Master remained insistent that they wait for a “better” time to attack. A time when they knew with absolute certainty that Limpet and Associates was hunting the Underground and not merely investigating Robby Pennybaker. A time when they could ascertain if this “Limpet” was perhaps even a master from a rival Underground, an “other” to be avoided at all costs.
Others forced takeovers, and Sorin knew this all too well.
Though it was true that, since parting ways over a century ago, not every master had become a dangerous one—some only had the ambition to peacefully join with existing Undergrounds out of pure loneliness—Dr. Eternity had been attacked and beaten before. And, long ago, Sorin and his Master had determined that this would never happen again. Never.
As Sorin’s silence forced Milton Crockett to keep staring at the ground in his shame, Sorin thought of how the loss of the first Underground had negatively affected the Master. Fear of a second attack had plunged their leader into a recurring numbness. This depression had sapped his will, urging him to ignore the hint of another master in the area before the situation had grown more serious with Robby. Perhaps he had only been attempting to avoid repeating one of the most devastating moments of his vampire life by refusing to acknowledge the threat of another losing battle.
But now, after Robby’s security breach, the Master was no longer ambivalent, thank the day.
The Underground was preparing to defend, not provoke, because if they should launch an effective attack against the PIs only to be mistaken, this would force an end to the Underground. Utilizing their full powers Above—going beyond simple shielding to avoid detection—would announce their whispered presence to those who knew how to read such signals. It would mean surrendering their safe haven, exposing them to perhaps a real master who could, in turn, attack.
Fear was no way to live.
Sorin felt his maker shift closer to the Servant, and he knew his father was restless.
“Mr. Crockett,” Sorin said, calling the human’s attention.
The lawyer, a man who loved the Underground as much as any full-vampire citizen, lifted his chin and spread out his hands. “Please, Master, I can take care of this situation without any attention focusing on our society. That’s what I do Above. That’s what I have been doing for the Pennybaker case, as well as Lee’s.”
Sorin nodded. Since Lee Tomlinson had used vampire methods to murder Klara Monaghan for what he thought was the good of the Underground, he had marked their society for human attention. The lawyers Above knew there was no way around this, so they had improvised, taking great advantage of a subculture some humans embraced—a vampiric Goth lifestyle. They had convinced the public that Lee Tomlinson was one of those shadow numbers, diverting suspicion from the reality. Their philosophy was simple: cast a blinding, never-ending light on the lies rather than the truth, and the humans would never be able to look away from the one show to pay mind to the other.
Sleight of hand, that was the key.
The Master floated closer. Tomlinson… whispered his Awareness. His cloud darkened, seething at the name, echoing the hiss of the waterfall. Traitor.
It was a fitting description for Lee the Servant. He, too, had forfeited information to Limpet and Associates, just as Robby and Milton Crockett had.
Security at any cost, Sorin thought to his father.
The Master’s cloud swirled, as if regretful of what must be done. Your instincts are right, even though it took me longer to admit it. We weren’t vigilant enough the first time. But we will be now.
Vashti returned with the other Servant and left with a petulant glance at Sorin, who ignored her in favor of the new arrival.
This human, wearing a burgundy silk robe, was short in stature and fairly well padded around the middle, with bushy eyebrows, slick brown hair, and what humans on the television called a “five o’clock shadow.” His presence increased Mr. Crockett’s anxiety; he no doubt recognized the lawyer from a competing firm Above.
Enrico Harris bowed, fingertips to forehead. Sorin motioned for him to sit quietly.
“I’m begging you, Master,” Mr. Crockett said, “I can take care of this. Secrecy for the Underground is everything.”
“Yes, it is. Tell me, did you anticipate that the genetic material of Lee Tomlinson would lead to his arrest?”
The Master’s mist rolled, as if he were positioning himself to hear clearly. The television program CSI: Las Vegas was one of his favorites, and Sorin was certain his love of it was piqued, along with the more important issues. He had utilized newscasts, shows, and movies in order to learn how to function in this modern world, and he had required it of Sorin, as well. He longed to be a part of the Hollywood he fed from, educating himself to be their equal. Sadly, the Master’s adoration of these humans was a double-edged blade, infusing him with the knowledge that the narcissistic Elite could never return Dr. Eternity’s overwhelming affections with the same passion.
“There was nothing I could do about the DNA.” Mr. Crockett glanced at Mr. Harris as if searching for affirmation. “But I can keep that evidence out of the trial.”
The second lawyer nodded at Sorin, assuring him that he would be able to accomplish this as well as Mr. Crockett could.
“Besides,” the first lawyer continued, clearly making a case to prove his value, “you know Lee’s mind was wiped, erasing all his vampire memories but leaving all the others, before you gave him over to me. It was just as effective as Marla Pennybaker’s treatment, and it’s not possible for him to slip up and reveal anything about the Underground. All the public will see during his trial is a wannabe actor who worked at a Goth bar. They’ll know without a doubt that he was one of those humans who only wishes vampires existed. The world is used to people like him, and no credence is paid to their beliefs. They’ll think Lee’s need to feast on a woman’s throat was the act of a psychotic. He doesn’t even know what he was doing.”
All this trouble because of breaking the rules, the Master mused to Sorin, hovering ever nearer to the unaware Mr. Crockett. Always ask for permission to feed off
our partners, we’ve said. Willingness to join us means they won’t resist and they’ll be open to never revealing us. Lee didn’t understand that.
This was true of the blood vampires imbibed to survive, but the Master, ah, the true Master was a Soul Taker. Souls were his manna, his sustenance, the only way he could feel real emotion. Sorin had never understood the Master’s compulsion, never once in over three hundred years since his father had created him.
Not until recently, when there were times he…
Sorin discarded the very thought, setting his mind back on track.
Perhaps feeding on a human’s life force was not so odd—for the Master. It had aided him in emerging from a lengthened depression, after all. Souls had helped to awaken the old vampire. Did they also have the power to—
Yes, the Master said. It’s sublime, my son. They have the power to make you into whatever you wish to be. I keep telling you to try it.
Once again turning aside from the horrifying idea, Sorin stood from his relaxed position against the smooth waterfall rocks and sheathed himself in his long, black robes. “Are you telling me, Mr. Crockett, that Lee Tomlinson’s case is well in hand?”
“Yes, Master. Even before I took care of calling in the anonymous tip that gave the authorities his location, I’ve had everything well in hand.”
Excellent, Sorin thought. In the Servant’s haste to seem indispensable, he had given assurance that Mr. Harris would be able to take over all “fixer” duties. The Underground had layers upon layers of Servants who handled surreptitious matters Above, and every familiar was rewarded with the joys down Below. It was a prize for vowing to never speak of the paradise’s existence.
One less familiar would not harm the Underground.
The Master positioned himself over Mr. Crockett’s head.
“You understand,” Sorin continued, “that Lee Tomlinson is not our only worry, of course. This new murder Above echoes the troubling situation Lee Tomlinson brought upon us with Klara Monaghan. Hence, we are being forced to emerge from our retreat and risk using spies again to stop this killer from inadvertently revealing us. After what occurred with Robby Pennybaker and Limpet and Associates, your revealed identity is a risk we should not otherwise be undergoing.”
Lee Tomlinson’s actions, as well as the Elite Robby Pennybaker’s, had caused an Underground lockdown. There had also been heightened concern when a Guard had discovered tiny mechanical devices on its clothing before it had returned Underground with Marla Pennybaker in tow. In response, many lesser Servants had not been granted access except for investigative purposes as well as blood-food for the rest of them. Additionally, Groupies were not allowed Above until Sorin and the Master were confident in the community’s ability to withstand a takeover.
They were not at that point yet, but they were close. Sorin had been refining the manufactured Guards, polishing away their shortcomings, and they all had been training in war arts. In essence, casual vampire activity Above had been discouraged, so they could, as the Master would say, “lie low.”
But with this new preternatural-type murder, they had no choice but to act. The appearance of the corpse, Jessica Reese, would only stir up groups such as Limpet and Associates, especially since no Underground vampire knew who this murderer was. Could it be a creature who was not related to the Underground? Or perhaps it was another Servant who wished to show the Master that they were worthy of being a full vampire, as Lee Tomlinson had reasoned. Sorin had already checked into the minds of the Guards, the Servants, the Groupies, and even many of the Elites to determine if the murderer had been one of their own. Thus far, it had not.
Milton Crockett was sweating in earnest now. “I understand Robby’s and Lee’s actions might have caused harm. But you know I would never let that happen, Master. You know that I would sacrifice anything to be here.”
“Even your family?”
Or your mistress? asked the silent Master.
Sorin dismissed the other lawyer, Mr. Harris, whose skin had gone very pale. Perhaps he realized his possible future, as well, if he was not careful.
“You would exchange blood with one of the Groupies to become a permanent part of us?” Sorin asked, knowing that, in spite of his marital infidelities, Mr. Crockett fancied himself a “family man” and this was the reason he had never become more than a human Servant. “You would give your soul?”
In the Master’s cloud, Sorin detected the hint of fangs, of a terrible virtue not even he could look upon directly.
Mr. Crockett hesitated, still too attached to his humanity, and that was all the answer Sorin and the Master required.
Like the gaping jaw of a god, the cloud descended around the Servant’s head. His eyes bulged as he suffered a glimpse of pure terror. Knowing that paradise was about to be washed from his memory, Mr. Crockett’s lips opened in a scream that never came to be.
One fraction of a second later, it was over.
The lawyer crumbled to the ground. Efficaciously, Sorin enlisted Groupies to prepare the mind-wiped man for return Above. There, Mr. Harris would be his keeper, making certain Milton Crockett adjusted to life as it used to be.
Although the mind wipe had taken his memories of the Underground, it had at least left him his soul. And Sorin knew Mr. Crockett had come out the loser.
Task completed, the vampire rested near the waterfall once again, in no mood to summon Vashti, even if she was casting seductive glances at him from a satin bed where three other Groupies painted blood pictures over each other with fine-haired brushes. Nearby, two Elites, whose money ensured the success of the Underground, languished. They wore no clothing, save for the jewels pasted on the female’s skin. They were smoking from a hookah pipe, the concoction laced with blood to add flavor.
Jesse Shane, Sorin thought, running his gaze over the blond film legend’s sleek muscles. The actor would be released in fifteen years. The other cocoa-skinned vampire, Tamsin Greene, was their newest Elite, born almost a month ago, transformed from a superstar singer/actress to a myth. Robby Pennybaker, the child actor who had caused such a disturbance, had been an Elite, as well.
Excepting Robby, the Elites found the Underground to be the answer to eternal fame. They had literally sold their souls for the Master’s edification, sacrificing them so they could receive Dr. Eternity’s treatment.
First, at the height of their careers, they staged their own sensational murders—ones that would guarantee infamy. Yet they were not truly succumbing to death. Far from it. Dr. Eternity exchanged blood with them, then continued to infuse them with his fluids each month since the Elite were not true children like Sorin, who had been gifted with merely one bite. Continual maintenance kept the emotionally unstable Elite under the Master’s control, making them inferior in Sorin’s mind.
After the initial stage of treatment, the Elite stayed Underground for years and years, knowing that Above, fans mourned their memory, wishing for them to return while worshipping their pop-culture images, keeping their legends alive. Just when public hunger reached a climax, the Elite underwent Dr. Eternity’s final magic, a surgery that shaped him into “another” celebrity, a new creation with a different stage name, a budding star who would claim an eerie resemblance to his true self. The Elite was then released back Above to use his enhanced, naturally magnetic life force in a fresh career. In the end, he would build on his old talents while enjoying the new.
Hollywood was full of Elites, “the new so-and-so,” “the next him-or-her.” In fact, one of their earliest clients had recently been released Above a second time in anticipation of another chance at fortune and glory. She had returned Underground when the public began to notice her chronic youthfulness, and that was the cue for Sorin to arrange another death. Her second passing had been of a milder form since the first had already set the proverbial stage for her legend to be established, and she was now continuing a prosperous career.
The Underground was where a star’s drug addictions became blood addictions. I
t was where they gave up their human entourages for the haremlike conditions of massages and Turkish baths, pampering, bodies frozen in perfection. The Underground even used Servant psychiatrists to fulfill the Elite’s never-ending emotional crises.
It was heaven for so many of them.
Sorin breathed the incensed air, the languid pace of lovemaking behind the veiled curtains of silken beds, the laughter of Elites and Groupies drinking blood from golden cups, feasting on kisses and bites.
His Underground. A pleasure to die for.
In the meantime, the Master was reveling under the water’s spray again, as if cleansing himself, allowing the liquid to separate the wisps of his disguise in masochistic ecstasy.
Mr. Crockett only proved that, to save ourselves, we must neutralize Limpet and Associates, Sorin tacitly said to his father. Even if we are not certain they are connected with another master.
No!
Sorin narrowed his eyes at the Master’s ferocity. For what reason? Limpet could be the beginning of the end.
You know why. The Master traveled nearer, bringing a chill with him. We cannot afford to show our hand to the world before we’re sure. And attacking before they do would make us vulnerable. We can’t give up the protection of secrecy, Sorin. We need proof—and we need to draw them to us. Otherwise, the same thing will happen as it did the first time, when, clueless, I was flushed out.
The younger vampire tried to restrain himself, but he could not. Images of the Master’s most recent behavior—which included spending hours in front of the television watching Eva Claremont movies—disturbed him.
The Master grew colder.
I worry, Father, Sorin said, thinking again about how the elder had always sought human affection, had always searched to replenish the soul he had lost so long ago. In the 1980s, he had developed a fascination for Eva Claremont, favoring her films and collecting her photos. The pattern had gone beyond his usual adoration of the Elite crowd, and it had even led to the troubles they were experiencing now.
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