The Wicked City

by Megan Morgan

  “They ran those pictures in the Tribune earlier this week,” Micha said. “You have no idea how tenacious reporters in this city can be, especially Ethan Roberts.”

  June looked up at Sam, her stomach jumping. “He’s alive, isn’t he? You saw him.”

  “I didn’t. But the telepath who talked to John McKormic did.”

  She dropped the paper in her lap. She feared she might do something stupid, like start crying. “Did he look all right? Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know the state of health he’s in, but he’s definitely alive. My spy couldn’t talk to Mr. McKormic too long without arousing suspicion.”

  Micha gripped June’s shoulder.

  “Wait… What’s the bad news?” Her stomach dropped.

  “The bad news is, I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get him out of there.” Sam scowled darkly, as if this were more a personal affront to him than an agonizing revelation for her. “They’re keeping him in the Special Projects department, which is under heavy security. And I don’t have any people in the Institute who have clearance for that floor. They’re extremely paranoid about who has access.”

  “I’ll go in there myself if I have to,” June said. “I have to get him out.”

  “Sure you will. Going in there is not going to save him. The only thing that’ll happen is you’ll be caught as well.”

  She wanted to punch something, hard. Hard enough to break all the bones in her hand, make the pain distract her from the horrible sickness in her stomach, the certainty she had made the wrong decision running away. Micha still had his hand on her shoulder, and he squeezed again, tighter.

  “Just hold on to your panties,” Sam said. “I’ll come up with something. I’m the smartest man in this city.”

  * * * *

  Evening fell, the world outside the windows murky and dotted with glittering lights. Micha had dozed off on one of the sofas. Sam had been making phone calls—she assumed—beyond a set of closed French doors on the other side of the room. He had sent Muse off on another mysterious “patrol.” June couldn’t stay still, pacing and smoking, getting dangerously close to running out of cigarettes. Finally, the doors opened and Sam strode out. She glimpsed a bedroom beyond.

  “There’s going to be a press conference in half an hour,” Sam said. “They’re going to talk about Rose Bellevue.”

  Some political talk show was on right now. “That ought to be interesting.” Maybe they would talk about her and Jason as well.

  “Eric Greerson wants to say something, since today was her funeral. So kind of him.”

  “Who’s Eric Greerson?”

  Sam made a face, as if something vile had been shoved under his nose. “Eric Greerson is the head of the Institute. The second one in the decade it’s been open. The former head, Michael Paulson, was known for being indecisive and didn’t like confrontation with dissidents, so they replaced him. Eric is just another fool in what’s sure to be a long line of them. He doesn’t know what’s going on at the Institute right under his nose.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’ve met him. He’s a self-righteous asshole. He believes in what the normals running the Institute want the place to stand for. The Institute’s governing board keeps the PR machine rolling so they can continue blinding the public. Eric’s their pawn. There’s a legend he threw a huge party for the Institute’s supporters the day Alan Jenkins died. Probably untrue. Or I like to believe it is, since I didn’t get an invite.”

  She recalled what Cindy had told her that morning in her apartment. “Alan Jenkins. That’s the guy who ran the SNC?”

  “Yes, before his son Aaron took over and we hammered out our treaty. Not that the treaty makes us best friends. But I force myself to tolerate him.” He walked over to the sofas. “I want to see this press conference.”

  “We need to get my brother out of the Institute,” she reminded him.

  “Give me time.”

  “I don’t have time. My brother doesn’t have time.”

  “And I don’t have a magic wand.” Sam stood between the sofas, in front of the TV. “We’re going to order some food and sit down and watch this press conference. You want a beer? You sound like you could use a beer.”

  “Fuck beer. Give me some wine.”

  “Wine?” Sam raised both eyebrows, then narrowed his eyes. “Red or white?” He clearly believed he was dealing with an amateur.

  “I’m sure a fancy hole like this has a Paul Hobbs Cabernet Sauvignon. That’s red.”

  While Sam called room service, June gently shook Micha awake. She didn’t want him to starve.

  Micha opened his eyes and it seemed for a moment he didn’t recognize her. Then he shifted and winced.

  “Hey.” His voice was gravelly. “How long have I been asleep?” He sat up on one elbow, looking around.

  “Not long.” She sat down on the edge of the sofa and touched his knee. “You all right?”

  He rubbed the side of his head. “A little disoriented.” He slipped his hand down his neck, squinting at the TV. “I feel weird, like I might be coming down with something.”

  “Disoriented could be my fault, but my power doesn’t make people sick. I think you probably just need to eat.”

  The food arrived, as well as the wine.

  “Do you know how much that stuff costs?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, I do.” June swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. Full bodied. Well-balanced. “Don’t assume shit about me.”

  June wasn’t interested in the press conference, but clearly couldn’t escape. Micha sat next to her on the sofa, nibbling on a piece of bread. Sam sat on the opposite sofa. On the screen, Eric Greerson appeared as a thin, narrow-shouldered man with silver hair and a solemn face. He stood at a podium, surrounded by several official-looking people.

  “As you all know,” he said, “today we laid to rest one of the finest researchers the Institute for Supernatural Research has ever known, our head vampire researcher, Rose Bellevue. Her death was the result of a brutal murder, the perpetrators of which are still to be found. The police are working in close contact with us. We are also attempting to find her husband, the well-known paranormal activist Micha Bellevue, who, in conjunction with her death, has gone missing.”

  June was cringing for Micha, but Micha just stared blankly at the screen.

  “We have very little information, unfortunately,” Eric said. “Security footage shows intruders bypassing the Institute’s security systems and attaining access to the vampire research floor. We believe they were specifically targeting her, but because their faces are covered we cannot identify them.”

  June gaped. “That’s not what happened!”

  “Do you really think they’d let Eric give the police the real footage?” Sam said. “Someone doctored it, of course.”

  “We’re sending a special group of our own choosing to Old Town to gather information. The police are aware of this, but are not leading, nor condoning, this separate investigation.”

  “Of course.” Sam scoffed. “They think militant vampires did it.”

  “What’s in Old Town?” June asked.

  “The Nocturnal District,” Micha spoke up. “A place where vampires hang out. Everything’s open from dusk ’til dawn. The less PC refer to it as ‘Blood Row.’”

  “The old vampires, and some of the young ones, aren’t happy with his wife’s discovery,” Sam said. “Not that I blame them. They don’t like having their mystique ruined. It makes a good cover for the Institute, though.”

  “I’m only vaguely aware of what she did,” June admitted. “I think I might have read about it somewhere.”

  “Like the nosy little normal she was, she isolated the bacteria responsible for vampirism,” Sam said. “Found out the bacteria creates enzymes that cause accelerated cell reproduction, which is why they can live indefinitely unless an essential organ is destroyed. It also affects their skin c
ells; that’s why they’re sensitive to sunlight.”

  “It won’t kill them,” Micha said. “It’ll just make them sick with prolonged exposure.”

  “The reason vampires have other abilities has more to do with the structure of their society,” Sam went on. “They almost always choose people who already have some level of paranormal ability. However, once they turn, they become impervious to everyone else’s abilities. Scientists are still not sure why. I’m sure some other normal will come along and pick up where she left off so we can all find out.”

  June wasn’t into the biology crap supernatural people liked to go on about these days, but the explanation intrigued her. “So why do they drink blood?”

  “If they don’t,” Micha said, “the bacteria will deplete their own blood.” Apparently he could remember the science, just not the scientist. “The fresh blood gives it an environment to live in. Since the discovery, they’ve actually found transfusions sustain them better than drinking. Some vampires have decided to be more humane and stop feeding altogether in favor of transfusions.”

  “A kinder, gentler vampire.” June sucked in a breath. “Jesus Christ.”

  “You seriously don’t know any of this?” Sam shook his head. “You’ve never picked up a copy of Paranormal Scientific Weekly?”

  “No. You ever pick up a copy of Inked?”

  “She was looking for a cure,” Micha said softly.

  The two of them looked at him. June's skin crawled.

  “What makes you think vampires want to be cured?” Sam asked him.

  “A few of them do. Some of them don’t realize what they’re getting into. You have to educate non-vampires as well. It’s an infection, so there’s a possibility you can get it from things other than bites or ingesting infected blood. There’s a small chance it can be sexually transmitted.”

  “The next great STD.” June stood. “I can’t watch any more of this. I need a smoke.”

  She hoped she would feel better after a cigarette. She didn’t. She hoped she would feel better after she ate. She didn’t. She glowered at Sam every chance she got.

  “I have to figure out a plan,” Sam told her. “You have to be patient.”

  “I can’t be patient. My brother might have been alive when your spy saw him in that dude’s head, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stay that way.”

  “If you think you could pass the time more easily in a coma, I’ll be glad to put you in one.”

  “I'd like to see you try, tough guy.”

  Sam planned to leave for the night and once again instructed them not to wander out of the room. They were allowed to call room service, but he told them not to pick up the phone if it rang.

  “I won’t contact either of you by phone, ever,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “So you’re just gonna leave us here,” June said.

  “You’ll be safe. I keep refugees here all the time. I don’t need to hang out and baby sit; I’ll be back in the morning. Besides, don’t you two want to be alone?”

  June scowled. “Good night.”

  They made sleeping arrangements after Sam left. Micha inspected the bedroom. “There’s a huge bed. We can both sleep in here.”

  June was harboring more than a touch of guilt. “No, that’s all right. You take it. I’ll sleep out here on one of the sofas.”

  “That’s silly.” Micha walked out through the French doors. “I’ve been sleeping on a sofa all week. It sucks.”

  “I know, it’s just…” She didn’t know what it was “just.”

  She searched for some pillows and blankets and located said items in a closet near the door. Micha didn’t argue further. He stood and watched while she made up a bed for herself on one of the sofas.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked, avoiding his gaze.

  “I guess so.”

  She unfurled a blanket. “Glad one of us is.” She hesitated before saying, “I thought for a second earlier you were remembering your wife. Is anything coming back to you?”

  “Hm. I…remember coffee.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I always took a thermos of coffee to seminars. The swill they serve at those things is awful. I think she made it for me. I was always raving about it. I seem to remember telling people she made it.”

  June sat down on the sofa. “I guess that’s a start.” She had another knife fight with her guilt and once again, it stabbed her in the eye. “Guess we better try to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah. Guess so.”

  June was convinced she would never be able to fall asleep given the turmoil in her head, but her body, exhausted by stress and many previous nights of scant and sketchy sleep, decided otherwise.

  Chapter 5

  Unsurprisingly, a series of frightening and disjointed dreams descended as soon as June fell asleep. She dreamt of being chased through the corridors of the Institute; she found her brother in a room, but couldn’t convince him to leave with her. Then she stood on the pier and something dark and sinister crawled out of the shadows toward her, but she couldn’t run.

  She abruptly woke with no clear notion of how long she’d been asleep. A lamp shone in the corner, the only light in the room, yellow and muted. She could faintly hear Micha’s breathing in the other room, a sound she’d gotten familiar with over the past week. The air above the blanket was cold.

  Then she caught something from the corner of her eye.

  Her body reacted before her mind processed what she saw. She jerked away, flattening herself against the back of the sofa, her first assumption someone from the Institute had gotten into the room. The intruder was indeed from the Institute, though not on their current employee roster.

  Rose Bellevue stood next to the sofa. She wore the white blouse, jeans, and powder blue tennis shoes she’d been wearing the night June saw her murdered—no blood on her, or visible wounds. She did look like a corpse though, like someone had propped her dead body up on a stick. Her dark eyes were empty and lifeless. She was horrifyingly eerie, completely still, her chest not rising and falling with breath.

  June assumed in blind terror Rose had come back to haunt her for June's role in her death and for kissing her husband.

  June tried to push out a scream, but couldn’t get her throat to open or her lungs to expand. “What the hell?” she gasped out.

  Rose lifted her hand. The dark lines on her palm contrasted against the paleness of her skin.

  “I was a means to their end.” Her voice was as hollow as her eyes, emotionless and strange. “Find the truth,” she whispered. She didn’t move, her hand still lifted—her left one, sporting a gold wedding band.

  June tried to speak, to yell, but again found no air in her lungs.

  Rose lowered her hand and gazed toward the windows, motionless. How long would she stand there? A terrible notion swept over June. What if she never left?

  Then the spell broke. Rose disappeared, and June jerked out of her frozen state.

  She fell off the sofa and emitted a rather pathetic yelp when she hit the floor. She immediately scrambled up and went for a weapon. She snatched a Tiffany lamp from the table closest to the sofa and brandished it in front of her, turning in a swift circle.

  “The hell was that?” she yelled.

  Micha stumbled out of the bedroom a moment later, bleary-eyed, in a white T-shirt and dark blue boxer-briefs.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I saw your wife.”

  “What?”

  “I saw your fucking wife!”

  “She’s…dead?”

  “I know she’s dead.” June quickly set the lamp down. Trying to smack a ghost with an expensive piece of art was stupid. “I thought I was dreaming. She was standing over me. She lifted her hand and I saw her wedding ring. She spoke to me. She said ‘I was a means to their end.’”

  “A means to their end?”

  “Then she just disappeared. She w
as wearing a white shirt and jeans and blue tennis shoes. That’s what she was wearing the night she died. Gah.” She clawed at herself, trying to get the crawling feeling off her skin. “I hate ghosts.”

  “Maybe it was just a dream.”

  “She was standing right there.” She pointed at the sofa. “Right next to me. And I was awake. It wasn’t a dream. Don’t you feel how cold it is?”

  “Are you sensitive to spirits?” Micha asked. “Have you ever communicated with the dead before?”

  “No. I hate the dead.”

  “Well, you don’t necessarily have to be sensitive to see a ghost. Or it could be some late-stage abilities kicking in.” This seemed to interest him more than the prospect of his wife’s ghost.

  June stared at the spot where she’d seen her, almost expecting her to reappear, this time with a letter opener to stick in her jugular.

  “If you really saw her,” Micha said, “and even if you only dreamt her, she’s clearly trying to give you a message. What do you think ‘a means to their end’ means?”

  “At this point it could mean a lot of things. Who knows?”

  Micha helped her check the entire room, but they found no sign of anyone, ethereal or otherwise. After their search, June went to the balcony and smoked a cigarette to calm her nerves. When she stepped back in, she peeked through the French doors while taking off her jacket. The bedroom was as big as the outer room, and Micha sat on the enormous bed with the covers pooled around his waist.

  “Come here.” He beckoned.

  June stepped into the room. A huge vanity spanned one wall, the mirror reflecting the bed and cream-colored walls. Another flat screen TV hung on the wall across from the bed.

  “You all right?” Micha asked.

  “Yeah.” She padded over to the bed, arms crossed.

  “You still seem spooked.”

  “Yeah, well, we might be safe from the Institute here, but you can’t exactly keep the wandering dead out, can you? Kinda unnerving.”

  Micha gazed at her. She wasn’t fazed by people staring, as her ink drew a lot of attention. Micha was probably looking at her nipple piercings, though. They were rather prominent against her tank top at the moment.