The Longest Night #3

by Heather Knox

  “And then you will be in my tutelage for a number of years—not alone, of course, as I have Ushered others whom you will join. I will provide for you and teach you the ways of our kind and, in exchange, you can help me with things. If you want,” she offers with a slight shrug.

  “What things?” Lydia’s eyes narrow.

  “I have a number of business dealings that require different types of finesse—as I get to know you, I’ll get to know your strengths and interests. If you are a whiz with numbers, maybe you’ll help me with accounts. If you’re a brawler, maybe you’ll act as my bodyguard from time to time. If you want to leave, you can. I’m not offering you a job, Lydia—I’m offering you a family. This isn’t about what you can do for me in the future; it’s about what you can do for yourself right now.”

  “Why me? Did you make this same offer to the other girls?”

  “No. And I won’t. I noticed you studying me—you’re different, sharp. You’re worthy of the Blood.”

  “Sounds a little Third Reich to me . . . ”

  She smiles. “See? That wit. You’re bright and quick. Tell me, how many steps from here to the door?”

  “Fourteen.” The answer fills the space between them nearly as Temperance finishes the question. So easy to coax forth.

  “What color was the shirt of the man you stumbled on in the hall?”

  “Dark blue and gray with silver—Dallas Cowboys. A hole at the collar on the left side about the size of a quarter.”

  “You’re an eidetiker.” And a survivor, Temperance thinks. And really, what choice do you have? What choice do I have? My collection needs an eidetiker.

  It’s not that Temperance is wrong about Lydia’s photographic memory, but despite the gifted programs her social worker pushed her families to enroll her in, none were willing to foot the bill or do the extra driving or attend the additional parents’ programming. After all, she was already another mouth to feed, why waste the meager board payments on her education? Her eidetic memory was something she learned to keep private, a weapon no one could see. It wasn’t that she dumbed herself down the way she noticed other girls her age sometimes would; no, she merely saw benefit in not showing her cards until she’d already won the hand.

  “What will it be? Shall I call you Lydia or Lolita?” the woman nudges. She could use the gifts of her Blood to coax from the girl the answer she wants, could ply the girl using the Gifts of her Blood, but what’s the fun in that? Half of the thrill is the chase. She’s grown so bored of her other playthings that she bought out this rat-infested pit of a hotel just to have something new to do.

  “What of the others?” Lydia asks.

  She shakes her head. “Believe it or not, there are rules even I have to follow. None of the Everlasting offer this choice lightly. Think of it in terms of population control: what happens when too many predators are introduced to an area?”

  “Food becomes scarce.” The same goes for the streets and every week, it seems to Temperance, the fight grows more vicious for less and less reward. She’d known girls in this position before, between families and vying for resources—she wasn’t one for paranoia, but there seemed something swelling underneath the city, a momentum pushing more and more urchin like Lydia to be swallowed up by it, to be lost forever. At least this way she could teach the girl to push back.

  Lydia bites her lip. Her voice fills with resolve.

  “Call me Lydia.”

  “I WANT TO GET A MESSAGE OUT,” HUNTER SAYS, clunking an empty glass on the nightstand next to where he’s been examining the tablet in his hands for the past hour and a half. “It’s all currently wired to an intranet, but it’s capable of doing more if we hacked it . . . ”

  “Do you know how?” Logan asks from where he lies on his back on the floor, a pillow propping up his head and his foot resting on a chair.

  “Not even a clue.”

  “Great,” Logan rolls his eyes.

  “Guess I’ll stick to floor-plan duty,” Hunter sighs, the tablet crashing onto the nightstand next to the bed he’s claimed as he drops it next to the glass. The other two wince. He turns his attention to Kiley. “Have you talked to the girl vampire yet?”

  “Lydia? The one who we’ve been eavesdropping on for the past several minutes? The one whose name has been said no fewer than thirty times tonight?” she challenges, pacing and chewing on her thumbnail as she scowls.

  “Yeah, her.”

  “We’re all stuck in this room together—have you seen me talk to her? I did convince Victor to give her access to us, though.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever she wants it.”

  “No, I mean when did you talk to him?”

  “While you were staring at that tablet trying to go all Neo on it.” She stoops to talk to Logan in an exaggerated whisper. “Is he really the one we want mentally mapping the facility? I chatted with Victor for no fewer than ten minutes.”

  “About pie. I remember,” Logan teases with a smile. “What was that about?”

  She shrugs. “You don’t watch many political dramas, do you? People love to talk about themselves. Besides, I got us the promise of pie, didn’t I?” She matches Logan’s smile, finding it hard not to.

  Hunter mutters something under his breath and joins Kiley in pacing, back and forth and back, when a scream from the hallway stops him. He glances to Logan and Kiley, and then to the door.

  “Was that—?”

  “Definitely a girl,” Logan finishes Hunter’s sentence, sitting upright and sliding his injured leg off the chair.

  “Lydia?” Kiley jumps up from her crouched position to listen again at the door, but she hears no voices.

  She and Logan had been successful enough at listening through the door moments earlier to glean that Lydia’s pack had returned from some task Victor asked of them, likely to do with the missing guest, but then Lydia spoke too low and muffled for them to hear much more so Logan gave up to stare at Hunter staring at the tablet, grumbling about needing to elevate his leg.

  “Lydia! Lydia what’s wrong?!” Kiley yells at the door, pounding to get the girl’s attention.

  The door slides open just as Kiley’s fist would make contact, knocking her off balance. Her fist glances off Lydia’s shoulder.

  “You’re going to wake the entire facility,” she admonishes, stepping inside. The doors slide shut behind her.

  “You’re vampires. It’s nighttime,” Hunter quips.

  “Alright, you got me there,” Lydia says, irritated. “But our staff is human. And tired. Now what is going on?”

  “We heard you scream,” Logan explains.

  “And?” Lydia barks.

  Logan and Hunter step back two paces before turning and heading to their shared kitchenette. Kiley catches the slight nod Logan gives her before focusing again on Lydia.

  “Something wrong? You seem . . . tense.”

  “Yeah. Look, now’s not a good time to braid each other’s hair and play Ya-Ya Sisterhood . . . ”

  Kiley’s voice drops to a whisper. “The guys didn’t hear your conversation with Victor, but I did. Most of it.”

  “So?” Lydia shrugs. From the kitchen the girls hear cabinets banging shut and the guys laughing about something.

  “Come on. Your eyes are puffy and red,” she changes her approach when she sees Lydia’s hands ball into fists at her sides, avoiding mentioning Johnny altogether. “All I’m saying is that you helped make my transition here a little smoother. Let me return the favor. Let me listen. Who else do you have to talk to?”

  “I don’t need to talk. I need to kill her!”

  Something hits the kitchen floor with a wet thud, the sound followed by the guys laughing again.

  “I know! I know,” Kiley consoles. “But for now you’re on security detail. Cabin fever is real. I’ve almost plucked out Hunter’s eyes a dozen times tonight and—” she raises her voice for his benefit. “I swear if he slams another anything I’m going to.” She lowers it again. �
��Look, I doubt it’s going away just because you’re grieving. Do you really want to lash out at your sadistic British friend right now? Or Victor?”

  Lydia eyes her suspiciously, so Kiley rushes to continue. “What else am I doing? The guys get field trips and I get to sit here watching reruns of The Real Housewives of No One Really Cares—maybe you can tell me more about being a vampire. For my research. You did promise me interviews.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow night,” Lydia manages through a clenched jaw after a long pause. “We’ll talk and I’ll let you know who’ll spill their guts for your family newsletter or whatever.”

  Hunter emerges from the kitchenette crunching on something. Logan follows.

  “You—” Lydia points at Logan. “You and the new girl are starting yard duty with Liam and Mina once she’s up. Victor said you mentioned getting outside, wanted to see if you were up to it yet.”

  Logan nods, leaning against the doorframe leading into the kitchen.

  “Who’re Liam and Mina?”

  “Vampires,” Lydia answers flatly.

  “Hey. You giving me the tour tonight or what?” Hunter asks between bites.

  “Do I look like a freakin’ concierge? Victor’ll take you when he has time to babysit,” Lydia snarls. “By the way, he was out in the yard when that little fight earlier broke out, but he saw the camera footage of it. He says the next time that happens he’ll come here himself to break it up.”

  With that, she spins and storms from the suite. The door slides shut and Logan counts to ten under his breath before speaking.

  “Think she bought it?”

  Kiley nods. “I’d feel worse about it if we weren’t hostages.”

  “Bought what?” Hunter challenges. “Your grand plan is to befriend one of the vampires who helped bring us here and hope she, what, has a change of heart and lets us out? Tells us about some service entrance not covered in my tour?”

  “You need to chill,” Kiley warns.

  “It’s not a great plan, but it’s still a plan,” Logan interjects. “The more angles we work this from the better our chances of getting out of here. Since we still have no idea why we’re here, getting Lydia to talk might be our only way to get more information. I mean, who else do we have? Victor isn’t going to talk and the doctor is straight-up crazy.”

  “The crazy one might have some insight,” Kiley offers. “Keep talking to him. And it sounds like maybe that Charlie girl will be awake soon.”

  Logan gives a nod of agreement. “Can’t hurt to bolster our numbers, right?”

  Kiley turns her attention again to her verbal sparring match with Hunter. “This plan costs us literally nothing to try. Zero risk, and we might piece together enough details to learn why we’re here or how we can get out.”

  “No risk, no reward,” Hunter counters, letting a second empty glass clank on his nightstand. Kiley glares.

  “You take all the risk you want,” Kiley says, flopping onto her bed. “See how long until one of them sinks their fangs into your neck.”

  QUINN LEADS ME THROUGH A COFFEE SHOP PAST MISmatched couches of three different vintage orange-and-green floral patterns, reminiscent of the ’70s, and one of olive green crushed velvet. Each host to tables from vastly different eras—mid-century modern, someone’s garage sale a few decades ago, an Amish woodworker a year ago—and various low-slung faux-leather chair seating, some corners of seating finished with aquariums and all punctuated by years-old coffee rings. Retro diner, office, and elementary school chairs in various states of disrepair—some glittery blue vinyl, some a sickening aqua or yellow metal, all with quasi-threadbare cushions—scatter around two-person tables painted with cribbage and chess boards, their pieces occupying small wooden boxes on the bookshelf that boasts a smattering of abandoned books and board games whose missing pieces have been replaced by customer-made variants. No two lamps, nor their shades, so much as complement one another and, in that, the entire place glows with a homey warmth.

  Along the eastern exposed brick wall of the original architecture, local artists—likely long since passed through this area—have displayed their work. Despite the eclectic assortment, all seem curated with a semi-industrial aesthetic: stormtroopers join a Victorian family for a black-and-white portrait, Darth Vader assuming the role of father and sitting with a lightsaber, the only flash of color, across his lap; a panel of a noir comic wherein a woman holds a shotgun, the scene built of mosaic tiles from what could be DIY band flyers or other advertisements or fragments of the artist’s other work; a black-and-white-and-shades-of-gray painting of a couple wearing gas masks in a romantic embrace, the date 05.05.03 underneath. Each other wall plays host to similarly dissimilar art, curated by the owners and staff over many years. Some names I recognize from gallery debuts Zeke insisted I accompany him to when etiquette mandated he accept invitations to social engagements; others hung desperately, perhaps awaiting discovery by a wealthy patron or as a favor from one of the staff.

  No doubt, this place exists because of, and for, regulars. Quinn motions for me to follow her through a thick fabric curtain into a labyrinth of back rooms, some storage, most with closed doors. She stops in front of one such door and puts out her hand to stop me as she dips inside and lets the door click immediately behind her. She emerges maybe two minutes later.

  “It is done. Morgeaux will stay here until it is safe for her to return to her life—if she wants to return to her life. Otherwise she can start over here,” she explains, indicating the coffee shop with her hands as we make our way further into the labyrinthine series of rooms.

  “Morgeaux?”

  Quinn shrugs. “She had a name tag on. Come on,” she says, opening another closed door which leads out into the night at the rear of the coffee shop. “We should talk.”

  “Ezekiel had been searching for us for years, but what he didn’t know is that we’d been following him nearly as long,” she starts, not mincing words.

  I cross my arms over my chest and listen—what else can I do?—and offer no indication that I do or don’t believe her, so she goes on.

  “The Seeker was meeting someone—as you found out last night—” I raise my eyebrow at the intrusion but she continues without noticing, “—but he didn’t need the lead offered by the Crusader to find us. He already had, though he didn’t know it at the time.”

  “The Crusader?”

  “Delilah, this is going to take a long time if you keep interrupting,” she sighs. “All will be made clear, I promise.” I purse my lips and glare. In that moment she sounded a lot like Zeke and I felt a lot like I didn’t need to be scolded by some woman who didn’t know me. “Anyway, Ezekiel didn’t need the lead, but he needed the Crusader to think the deal was legitimate so he would take what Ezekiel offered—so he let the Crusader believe he needed it.”

  “So this . . . Crusader . . . he gave Zeke a lead to find you, but what did Zeke give him in exchange?”

  “An address.”

  I raise an eyebrow and cock my head slightly to indicate that I expect more.

  “He gave the Crusader Ismae the Bloody. Or, rather, where to find her.”

  “No,” I state flatly, shaking my head.

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter? I said no. That’s—that’s not possible.”

  “Listen to your blood, Delilah. A part of you knows I tell the truth.”

  “No. Zeke was a Keeper, and a loyal one at that. He’d never betray the sect by handing over a Praedari Elder. Not that he’d even know where to find Ismae if they came knocking. She was his Usher but their relationship ended there, a long time ago.”

  “You’re half-right,” she starts carefully. “He hasn’t seen her in a long time, at least since she entered into the Slumber, and I cannot tell you how long before that. But Delilah, Ezekiel died that night and it wasn’t the Crusader who killed him.”

  Every muscle in me tenses as the predator within rouses. This, the truth I’ve been seeking, the only thing I’ve thought
about since his body became ash, poised on this stranger’s lips, about to spill into this moment and be forever gone. Once said it can never be unsaid—like so many things that passed between Zeke and me in our most intimate moments, like so many things uttered into the night since the beginning of time.

  “Delilah, I am the one who killed Ezekiel Winter.”

  “IN FACT,” SHE CONTINUES, “YOUR BELOVED IS here.”

  I glance around the alley, confirming that we are indeed alone—the Seeker, the Valkyrie, and the raven—before answering. “I assure you she is not.”

  The corners of the woman’s mouth turn up slightly at this. “It is easy to be certain when you only see what is in front of you. Yet she is here—in her way,” she explains without explaining. “You will not die alone tonight, Ezekiel.”

  The woman raises her sword above her head, a feat requiring above-average strength to accomplish, much more to make it appear as effortless as she makes it appear: as if it’s made of nothing more than feathers. A light, dim at first but growing in intensity, emanates from its core. A low hum fills my ears and it takes me a moment to realize she speaks, the words filling the night with the cadence of prayer.

  “Lo, there do I see my father. Lo, there do I see my mother, and my sisters, and my brothers. Lo, there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning!”

  The humming of the sword fills my ears, the alley, the night, all but drowning out the words the woman chants. From somewhere I hear a drum. I cringe and shield my eyes from the white-hot luminescence the sword emits for fear of being blinded or burned, but in doing so I am able to see shadow-shapes rise from the tar and start to move around us, at once familiar and foreign, comforting and ghastly. As they do, they become more clear in silhouette: men and women, some children. Some move with the grace of dance; others with the grace of battle, swinging large shadow-weapons at one another that meet with the metallic clank of impact that I’m not sure whether I hear or imagine.