Know Thine Enemy

by Stanton, Rosalie

  Though the interlude hadn't been about love or anything more than exploration, it had taken a while before things felt normal again.

  Izzie understood now how sex changed things. She did her best not to think of that night. Revisiting it made her feel exposed and soft, while she preferred to be hidden and hard. Furthermore, Wright was a friend. He was more like her big, protective brother than anything else. Having felt him inside her seemed horrendously wrong in retrospect, but she couldn't claim regret. At least she had snagged that basic experience.

  "Ah," Ryker murmured.

  "What?"

  "I had it wrong."

  "You had what wrong?"

  "I figured him as just a friend. Don't often miss calls like that, but it has been known to happen." He grinned. "You do the dirty with Mr. Broody, don't you?"

  "I just said no!"

  "With your mouth, yeah. Your eyes tell a different story." He cocked his head. "It's amazing what you can tell from someone's eyes."

  Heat spread over her skin. She really needed to get out of here. "What can you tell?"

  "Already said it. You fight, but you don't have a reason, 'cept now I know you're in it with Butch." Ryker paused. "Just seems off, though. Maybe you're not in it by much. You two don't seem like lovers."

  "We're not."

  "Mmhmm. But you have been."

  "It's usually at this point when I'd throw my knife through your chest."

  "Lucky for me we're in a bar full of my friends."

  "Yeah," Izzie replied indignantly. "Lucky for you."

  Fortunately, Connor decided to waddle back to their table at that moment, tea in hand, before Izzie did something rash and stupid, like make good on an otherwise empty threat just to feel something other than useless. This wasn't her. This was a caricature of her. Vamps didn't just waltz up, introduce themselves, then give her a psychological analysis. Ryker needed his ass handed to him, and she needed to be the one who did the handing.

  First, she needed to move or blink, or do something that indicated she still occupied her own skin.

  "Evertin' all right here?" Connor asked, setting the drink down.

  Ryker's eyes didn't leave hers. "Just fine. I was just explaining to the lady your policy about keeping the peace. I think we have an understanding now."

  "She hasn't ate nufkink."

  Izzie looked again to the proffered food on the table. For whatever reason, her stomach had ceased rumbling the second Ryker sat across from her. Perhaps because eating seemed intimate or at least came with some basic human vulnerability. She didn't know, but she couldn't eat now. When hunger inevitably returned later, she'd have that promised cheeseburger from Wright. Better to eat with friends than unknowns.

  "Look at her." Ryker waved at her. "She doesn't eat much at all."

  Connor mumbled grumpily and stormed off, at last providing the vampire with a distraction. Perhaps Ryker wasn't as accustomed to the pub owner's mood swings as he'd indicated. His puzzled gaze followed Connor back to the bar.

  At any rate, the diversion gave Izzie the opportunity she needed—the break from Ryker's hypnotic stare. She bounded to her feet and raced for the door.

  She didn't believe he'd follow her. He'd said he wouldn't, and she had no reason to doubt it. Yet, as she reached the cool night air outside The Wall, she didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved when she realized he'd kept his word.

  Tonight was a strange night, complicated by strange feelings she didn't know how to interpret and thoughts she didn't think she could handle.

  This must be how Berlie felt on a daily basis.

  Izzie forced a laugh, her face falling into her hand. One little vampire had shaken her up by treating her like a person rather than a snack. He could be very dangerous to her if he wanted to be, and perhaps that was why he had her mesmerized.

  Last night he'd stepped out of the shadows. Tonight he'd shaken her on territory she thought familiar.

  "Damn," she muttered.

  When the whistle of a projectile tickled her ears, it was too late to react. It was too late to do anything but raise her hands just before something pierced the skin at her throat, and the world around her went dark.

  Chapter Four

  She was back in the closet.

  Izzie had forgotten how true terror felt. After staggering away from Harrison's bleeding body, she'd vowed never to experience anything akin to fear again. When she hungered and had no food, she hadn't worried over the future. She learned to separate herself from forces she couldn't control. Even toward the end of her stint as Harrison's daughter, compartmentalizing her emotions had helped keep her alive.

  The closet was something else. The closet was the edge of the world, and there was nowhere to fall.

  "She's waking up."

  Izzie jerked. Her eyelids felt like deadweights. "Who's there?"

  A warm female voice permeated the air. "It's all right, sweetheart. You're safe."

  All right. So it wasn't the closet. The relief that rushed through her would have been embarrassing in another life. The closet was years behind her. It could not catch her now.

  "Open your eyes, dearie," a woman said. A different woman, from the sound of things.

  Izzie frowned and slowly forced herself to obey, everything around her blurry and disjointed. Her head felt split. Her temples pounded and her skin was soaked in sweat. Flashes of the evening shot across her mind, but what she saw made little to no sense. "What the hell did you guys hit me with?" she asked groggily.

  "Sorry about that," said someone else. A third voice. male this time. Deep and confident. The sort of voice that assured the listener they were in good hands. Izzie well knew that sort of voice. Harrison had carried it to the pulpit the few times she'd heard him preach.

  It took a moment for shapes to solidify. As the corners of the room smoothened into recognizable patterns, Izzie found herself at the end of a long conference table. Other details followed. She sat in a chair with her hands bound behind her and her legs tied at the ankle. A rush of adrenaline shot through her body, and her gaze darted from one end of the room to the next for signs of familiarity.

  She found nothing. The room was like any other. Bland, undecorated walls, no windows. Nothing but the three people at the other end of the table.

  People with exceptionally pale skin.

  "Oh shit," Izzie murmured. "This is not good."

  Her eyes fell to the table. Her blade sat tantalizing inches away.

  "Not fucking good," she said again. She glanced up, straining her wrists to little avail. "What the hell is this?"

  "My apologies," said the male.

  Izzie paused in her struggles long enough to soak in his appearance. Dark hair, dark eyes, a strong square head, and a body built like a New England Patriots quarterback. He could likely snap her in half if he felt so inclined.

  Yet, unlike every other vampire she had ever encountered, this guy had donned a clean white T-shirt. White wasn't a color one typically saw on the undead.

  The women at his sides looked nothing alike, but they wore the same cold expression. Izzie shivered and resumed pressing against her restraints, harder this time.

  Not. Good.

  The male vamp offered what passed for an authentic smile, and motioned broadly. "We had to take precautions," he said. "You've made quite a name for yourself among our kind, you understand."

  Izzie took another cursory glance around the room. Nothing had changed. The ceilings were high—fifteen feet or so above her head. "Yeah, sure," she replied. "I understand."

  "We're very impressed," said one of the women. The one on the left—a blonde. "You're one of the most practiced hunters we've come across."

  "Yes, dearie," the other woman agreed. Her large eyes flashed with hungry eagerness. "Very adept."

  Izzie wet her lips. "So what is this? Did I win the Publisher's Clearing House?"

  "We needed to get you alone," the male said, folding his hands on the table. "Again, I apolog
ize for the circumstances, but you have proven to be a little unpredictable."

  The blonde woman grinned. "Those guys last night. And then earlier tonight with Ryker."

  "Yes," the other woman, a brunette, agreed. "Unpredictable."

  Izzie's spirits collapsed, and the barrier separating her from the remainder of the night came crashing down. She remembered him, then. Ryker. The sexy drink of danger who had apparently stalked her for days and then cornered her at The Wall. She remembered racing for the door, remembered needing to get the fuck out of there before her defenses lowered to a point of no return.

  She remembered that and nothing else. Nothing but black.

  "I don't know who you are, but this is the mother of all bad ideas." Izzie pressed against her bindings, fighting a wince. "Someone will—"

  "Come looking?" the male vamp ventured.

  She snickered. "Come finding is more like it. He'll bring Hell with him, too."

  "I have no doubt."

  The satisfied smile on the vamp's lips translated into a sick sensation in Izzie's gut. Either he knew about Wright or didn't care that other hunters were in the area. Either answer wasn't promising. If this vamp and his floozies weren't worried about the scary-ass motherfucker she traveled with, she was in deep shit. Everyone was afraid of Wright. Even his daughter at times. Hell, even Izzie.

  "Allow me to introduce myself." The male vamp rolled his shoulders back with an air of self-importance. "I am Prentiss. These are my associates, Juliette"—the dark-haired woman on the right curtsied—"and Moira"—the blonde bowed her head.

  Prentiss pressed forward and laced his fingers together. "And you are Elizabeth Jane Bennett."

  Shit.

  They knew her name. Everything around her jumped from bad to catastrophic. Hunters weren't supposed to have names. They were shadows in the night, the celestial boogeyman to any unearthly beast that dared prey on human flesh. Names brought them out of the dark—names made them soft and killable.

  Names meant she and Wright had been in St. Louis a day too long.

  Prentiss smirked as though sensing her discomfort. "Elizabeth Bennett. Isn't there a book about you?"

  "My mother loved Jane Austen." Izzie's throat tightened. It was one of the only things she knew about her mother.

  "It's a lovely name."

  "I prefer Izzie."

  "Then Izzie it is." Prentiss sighed and leaned back. "First, I do apologize for the rough accommodations. As I said, we did have to take precautions in taking you in. We needed to get your attention."

  She glanced down. "Consider it got."

  "Rest assured, we mean no harm."

  "You can see how that's a little hard to believe."

  "We're the St. Louis chapter of C.R.O.S.S."

  "Cross?"

  "Community Representatives of Subhuman Species," Moira, the blonde, supplied. "We're an organization dedicated to making the existence of vampires and all otherworldly creatures a matter of public knowledge through awareness and education."

  It took a second for the words to make sense, but even then Izzie's mind refused to cooperate. "I'm sorry," she said slowly. "But what?"

  "I understand your confusion," Prentiss said. "Vampires aren't exactly known for their social skills."

  "No, they're much more known for their 'bite first, ask questions later' skills."

  "That's not true," Juliette said coldly.

  "It's the stigma." Prentiss nodded. "And it's unfortunate that the actions of the few spell out such a damning reputation for the many who lead normal, albeit underground, lives."

  Izzie blinked, her head aching. She felt woozy, and her surroundings seemed fuzzy against the backdrop—as though viewed through a screen door. The vampires at the end of the table could just as easily be figments of an overactive imagination, since whoever had knocked her out had sure as hell done a good job. While she typically didn't dream much, she could be dreaming now. Anything was possible.

  The Wall. Ryker. Connor, and his plate of heart-attack. Those were all real. She knew it. She felt it.

  These vampires, though . . . their faces could be nothing but the brainchild of a bad trip.

  "I sense your skepticism," Prentiss said. "It's no small wonder why."

  "It's reassuring to know I have observant hallucinations."

  He chuckled and raised a hand. "I'm not a hallucination."

  "That's just what a hallucination would say."

  "C.R.O.S.S. has been working in league with the United States government in an effort to best decide how to educate the public on the world they do not know."

  "Reality TV is all the rage these days, or so I've heard."

  Prentiss grinned. "I like you, Izzie."

  "I'm beside myself with joy."

  "You're not like your friend, Mr. Wright."

  Her insides flushed cold, and though she did her damndest to wipe her face clean. Ryker had known about Wright, too, though she didn't think he'd said his name. Her inner alarm screamed, and the hairs on her arms stood at attention. "What do you know about him?"

  Prentiss's brows perked. "More than you, I'd imagine."

  "Fuck you."

  "Mmm." He reached for a file she hadn't noticed. "Mr. Zachary Wright. Thirty-eight. Father of Kimberly Nicole Wright. Widower of Amber Lynne Wright. Former construction worker for J.P. Gage in San Diego, California. His wife was murdered—"

  Izzie winced, looking away. "Stop."

  "—when she was nine months pregnant with their son. He identified the killer as a vampire." Prentiss glanced up, his expression quizzical. "How did he manage to do that? Most reasonable people don't leap to such a conclusion without a background in these issues."

  Izzie's lips tightened. "Why don't you tell me?"

  "It's no fun that way." He shook his head and looked to the file once more. "This is a matter of public record, pieced together by survivor tales. Those Mr. Wright attempted to kill but failed, particularly in the early years of his vengeance quest. As he matured, he minimized his mistakes and left fewer witnesses. All the reports are the same, though. All mention Mr. Wright in detail. A man of considerable height, build, long hair, and hard eyes. His M.O. hasn't changed, either. Not until he picked up a plucky new sidekick a few years ago."

  Prentiss raised his gaze again. "So, Elizabeth Jane Bennett, where do you fit in?"

  Izzie held her tongue.

  "Her information was harder to find," Moira said. "But not impossible."

  "Not impossible." Prentiss nodded. "You grew up in Billerica, Maine, isn't that right?"

  Izzie's jaw felt welded shut, cold, hard rage sweeping through her body, washing away any symptom of fear. Billerica. They knew about Billerica. If they knew about Billerica, they knew everything. Finding the rest wouldn't have taken much effort at all.

  However, even though the knowledge shook her, it didn't bother her at the moment as much as it should. Knowledge couldn't hurt. Whatever they said, whatever memories they dredged up, would pale in contrast to actually living in Harrison's House of Horror. Still, for the very crime of knowing her, knowing her ghosts, knowing what chased her in the dark, she would burn this place down.

  "Twenty-six years ago, a woman named Kathleen Watson announced to the Archdiocese that she was pregnant with the child of a priest." Prentiss scoured the text before him. "Father Harrison Bennett was named as the father."

  Izzie shuddered but held her tongue. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of verbalizing her discomfort.

  "What occurred was not as common as one might think. Excommunication is typically reserved for sins of the gravest nature, and, while Father Bennett was never fully excommunicated, scandal forced him from the public light and turned him into a recluse."

  Her stomach churned and, despite her best efforts, a slight whimper pressed against her lips.

  Prentiss ignored her. "Kathleen died giving birth to you, and the good priest just couldn't leave his child at the mercy of the State. He took you in and raised y
ou, rarely going into town, save for one or two Sundays during which he substituted for other preachers. Most of his groceries were delivered, and aside from a few trips to the emergency room, he fell from sight." The vampire paused. "Then, one day, he was found dead in his daughter's room, covered in blood, a deep wound in his chest, and no sign of the girl."

  Her temples pounded. Her skin felt saturated in a thick paint of cold sweat. Hard, sharp breaths rocketed through her chest and the room began to spin.

  No, no, no, no.

  "That was you," Moira said softly. "Wasn't it?"

  "What do you want?" Izzie demanded. "It has to be something. Just tell me what it is so I can go home."

  "We want your help."

  She blinked dumbly. "You . . . what?"

  "Your help," Prentiss said. "We would like to enlist your assistance in getting C.R.O.S.S. off the ground."

  "And you decided to woo me by taking me down memory lane?"

  He shrugged. "I wanted you to let you know that you and I have no secrets."

  "Except that you've kidnapped me, tied me up, and forced me to remember things I've spent years trying to forget. Oh, right, and I don't know jack about you except you fail at people skills."

  "I am one of the founders of C.R.O.S.S. I have spent the last several months tracking the known hunters in the continental US via a scattering of reports from C.R.O.S.S. members and affiliates across the country." Prentiss's brows flickered. "You and your friend were among the top."

  "Lucky us. I take it Zack's behind door number one?"

  "Oh, no." He laughed. "Mr. Wright didn't make the cut."

  She should have been relieved, but the knowledge that Wright wasn't in the vicinity sent another tremor of fear down her spine. "Oh."

  "Look, I know our methods are questionable," Prentiss said.

  "Well, thank God for small miracles."