Clay White: A Bureau Story (The Bureau)

by Kim Fielding

  Only one small space remained before the dining room. It had probably served as the restaurant’s office, but now it nearly broke my heart. Marek had set up a pallet on the floor, nothing more than a pile of sheets and blankets. Three shirts hung from a hook on the wall, and two pairs of jeans sat neatly folded beneath them. Within reach of the makeshift bed was a little stack of paperbacks, their covers battered. He might have picked them up from one of the giveaway bins outside a bookstore, or perhaps they’d been abandoned on buses or in coffee shops.

  Marek had existed far longer than I had, yet this was all he had to show for it—a lonely little squatter’s nest made of discards. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but I guess I’d hoped that Marek would have established more substance to sustain him.

  I buried my face in my hands and considered whether to sleep here. I was just about to remove my boots when somebody—or something—made a small noise behind me. I tried to spin around to confront my assailant, but even as I turned, something sharp sank into my back just below my shoulder blade. A fierce coldness rushed through my veins. Too paralyzed to even cry out, I began to fall. I was unconscious before I hit the floor.

  Chapter Six

  My first awareness was of chains that bound me upright to something hard and solid. I immediately tried to strain against them, but they were strong. The second thing I noticed was the agonizing pain in my head, as if someone were scraping the inside of my skull with a rusty file. And third, I felt the cold.

  I was naked, my hands shackled tightly around the back of a concrete pillar and my ankles tethered in place at the sides. A ball gag stuffed my mouth, making my jaw and teeth ache. A stream of drool ran from my lower lip down my chin.

  I wasn’t used to feeling fear, and it didn’t overwhelm me now. Rage churned fiercely within me, however, along with a sickening pit of hopelessness. With a muffled roar, I struggled until my body ached and my skin was torn, but I couldn’t loosen my bonds.

  Breathing hard through my nose and urging myself to be calm, I surveyed my surroundings. I was in a large basement—slight smell of damp, but otherwise clean, without even stray cobwebs. Concrete floor painted gray, several pillars like the one I was chained to, a low unfinished ceiling criss-crossed with beams. Light fixtures were mounted on the ceiling, but right now the only illumination was from several small windows high in the wall. The glass was frosted, letting in only a dull glow. Although three of my prison walls were cast concrete, the fourth was made of cinderblock and inset with a metal door. Aside from the windows, which not even a child could have fit through, the door was the only escape—and it was out of my reach.

  There were no shelves in this room, no furnace or washer and dryer, no cardboard boxes marked Xmas. None of the usual basement accoutrements. Just a naked and gagged former agent chained to a pillar.

  With my head still throbbing, I decided the best course of action was to rest, to conserve my strength, to allow whatever drug I’d been given to work its way through my system. My captor obviously didn’t want me dead, at least not right away. I wasn’t sure whether to be comforted by that thought, since a great many fates were far worse than a quick death. But what the hell was I being saved for? A vampire’s meal?

  I might have dozed. It was impossible to track the passage of time, and I kept on shivering. When I became fully aware again, my head was clear and most of the pain had receded. Of course it had been replaced by a variety of maddening aches, most a result of the chains—but my full bladder made sure to get in on the game too.

  I eventually gave in to the inevitable and pissed, then spent some time watching the little river of urine make its way to the drain in the center of the room. Handy, that.

  Fuck, my mouth and jaws hurt. It was funny how agonizing a small ball gag could become over time. Nobody was ever going to croak from having his mouth propped open, yet the pain could eventually become bad enough to make a man wish for death. The Bureau had taught me a great many methods to hurt a being without truly harming him. I knew a thousand small ways to inflict exquisite torture. Although that didn’t help me right now, not one fucking bit.

  I tried to distract myself by picturing what I’d do to Marek if I got my hands on him, but even in my imagination I couldn’t harm him. Idiot, I chided myself. I wondered whether I’d feel any better if I could curse myself out loud. I was no genius, but I’d always been smarter than this. I knew better than to think with my dick.

  Still.... Those long strong fingers. That sweet cool mouth. His soft hair.

  For the first time, I wondered about the absence my death would create. Who would notice it? My family was a distant memory, and the Bureau no longer cared. My landlady? Well, she’d notice when I didn’t pay next month’s rent, but her only sorrow would be having to discard my few possessions and find a new tenant. I had no idea how Tenrael and Grimes would feel. We barely knew each other. When I didn’t show up at the appointed time, they’d probably conclude I flaked out, and they’d return to their cozy little bungalow by the sea.

  Yeah, self-pity was definitely going to help.

  Metal clicked loudly—the turning of a lock—and I focused sharply on the door.

  As a figure stepped through, the overhead lights came to life, forcing me to squint against the brightness. No, not one figure. Two.

  The first was achingly familiar, although I’d met him only once. Tall and slender, paper-pale, reddish hair, and eyes so light they were nearly colorless. Marek wore jeans, a white shirt, and a black jacket, and I noticed he stood well away from the windows. His face held no expression at all.

  In contrast, the stranger beside him was grinning widely. I suddenly realized that while I’d never met him, I knew exactly who he was. His name was McArthur Buckley, and I’d seen that smile shining from newspapers, magazines, and television screens. Somebody famous often stood beside him, a rock star or actor or socialite. He was a whiz-kid tech zillionaire who’d recently given up app development in favor of political ambitions. Handsome, smart, charismatic. Everyone said he had a serious shot at the Senate during the next election, and after that, who knew?

  Now, dressed in jeans and a Stanford T-shirt, he beamed as he looked me up and down. Although I was naked, his appraisal didn’t feel sexual. “Older than my usual,” he said, directing his remarks at Marek, “and not as pretty. But he’s strong. He’ll do nicely. Thanks for the gift.”

  “I didn’t mean him for you,” Marek replied, sounding petulant.

  “Eh, you can feed off anyone; it won’t make any difference to you. If you’re hungry I can have a couple whores brought in. But this guy…. Can you feel his energy?” He held his palms toward me as if he was warming them at a fire.

  “He’s with the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. If he goes missing, they’ll—”

  “They canned him. I looked him up.” Buckley pulled a small card from his pocket and pretended to peer at it. My driver’s license, I assumed. “Had to poke around quite a lot and ended up hacking into the Bureau’s database. Seems our pal here fucked up and got some kiddies slaughtered, so he’s out a job. He’s single, broke, no social media presence, nada. Nobody cares that he’s gone.”

  Despite how Buckley’s reasoning mirrored my prior thoughts, it didn’t make me like him any better.

  “Anyway,” Buckley continued, “I’ve got pals in Washington. The Bureau leaves me alone.”

  I desperately wanted to pound that smug face to a pulp.

  Apparently deciding the villain exposition time was over—yet leaving me sadly lacking in understanding—Buckley tucked my license away. Then he took out a round object, a little like a pocket mirror or makeup compact, and placed it on the floor about four feet from me. It was shiny silver, with figures scratched into the metal. I couldn’t tell if they were drawings or an alphabet I didn’t recognize. In any case, I didn’t like the mystery thing at all. It sat there unmoving and silent yet emanated a field of power that made my hairs stand on end.

  Buckley ba
cked up several feet and, ignoring me and Marek, began to poke at his phone. Hell of a time to tweet.

  Behind him, Marek stood with arms crossed, his hands in tight fists and his mouth open enough to show his fangs. Sometimes he shot me a quick look as if he were trying to communicate something. But I’m no psychic. I just narrowed my eyes and glared. My hands were numb from the chains, but they tried to ball up too, and I bit that fucking gag nearly hard enough to break teeth.

  Then Buckley put his phone in his pocket and looked expectantly at me.

  I felt… something tight. At first it was only mildly uncomfortable, as if I’d been wrapped in an elastic casing. But then, still invisible, it constricted until I could barely draw oxygen, the breaths coming through my nose in thin, desperate draws. I began to feel lightheaded, the edges of my vision going gray. Just before I passed out, the constriction disappeared as suddenly as a popped bubble.

  My relief was brief, however, because within seconds every cell in my body felt as if it had been turned inside out. I think I screamed into the gag, but I didn’t hear it. Didn’t sense anything at all except agony so pure that I lost all notion of self and time. It could have lasted a moment or a century. I couldn’t identify the type of anguish—burning? tearing? crushing? sharp? It was simply the quintessence of pain, and it was all I had.

  Eventually, and slowly, the agony receded. I came to myself and realized I was sobbing. My eyes were too bleary to see, and my body ached where I must have pulled against the bonds. Worse than that, though, was the overwhelming weakness within me. I couldn’t have remained standing if the chains hadn’t held me up. Even lifting my head was too much, so I let it droop.

  Then cool hands were framing my face, lifting it, and Marek was holding a scrap of soft fabric to my nose. “Blow before you suffocate yourself,” he said softly.

  I was too feeble to do anything but obey. I had a bright flash of memory—me young and very small, with a terrible fever just broken. I was curled up in soft quilts, and my mother held a damp washcloth to my head and smoothed sweaty hair back from my face until I fell asleep. She’d died not long after that. A night out drinking with her friends, a curve in the road taken too fast. I would have given anything to be back in that childhood bed.

  But I was in McArthur Buckley’s basement, and a vampire was licking my face.

  “Don’t bite him!” Buckley called sharply.

  “I’m not. Tears are almost as good as blood.” When his tongue reached the edge of my ear, he whispered as softly as a light breeze in the treetops: “Sundown.”

  Marek released me and backed away, carefully avoiding the metal object on the floor. I didn’t blame him. No promise in the entire world would have induced me to touch that thing.

  Buckley was grinning again, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He had an air of satisfaction, like a man who’d just accomplished something especially clever. He took a few steps forward, scooped up the round thing, and stuffed it into his back pocket. But as he moved, my vision cleared enough for me to see him more distinctly—and what I observed made me start shivering again.

  He was glowing. Not visibly, but that was the only way I could describe it. Energy radiated from him so strongly that I believe his touch might have killed. He was the most stunningly alive creature I had ever seen and a stark contrast to the undead man behind him. But there was no beauty to his vitality, not when I realized that the energy was stolen. From me, from the dead boys. It was far worse than if he’d simply drained my blood.

  I didn’t know what he did with what he’d taken from us. Perhaps it made him live longer and increased his health. Perhaps it gave him the charm that captivated journalists, millionaires, celebrities, and politicians.

  Without another glance in my direction, Buckley left with Marek hard at his heels. The lights went out as they left, and the lock clicked into place.

  I sagged in my chains and waited for the next round.

  Chapter Seven

  The light through the windows dimmed and disappeared, leaving me in darkness. Although my jaw continued to hurt and my bruises ached, the worst devil I faced now was thirst. It didn’t help to remember the desiccated corpses of Buckley’s previous victims.

  Since my situation wouldn’t sustain life for long, I assumed Buckley would return soon to finish draining me. The thought of going through that pain again almost made me retch, but I fought it back and struggled not to choke. Then I wondered why I bothered. Not only would choking be a gentler death than what awaited me, but in my last moments I’d have the grim satisfaction of knowing I’d cheated Buckley out of some of his plunder. Of course that meant he’d probably kidnap his next victim sooner. Some innocent kid who had done nothing wrong and had plenty to live for.

  Dammit, I was no innocent, I’d done of plenty of wrong, and my life amounted to nothing much. But I wanted to keep it anyway. I wanted to live.

  The door clicked open, but this time the lights stayed off. The space beyond the door was dim, but I recognized Marek’s tall, slim outline and then his rapid, light tread. He carried something, but I couldn’t see what.

  When he reached me, he set down his burden without a sound and pulled something from a pocket. “We don’t have long,” he said as he moved behind me. A slight rasp of metal, and the chains at my wrists were gone. They clanked as he set them aside. My muscles and joints had locked up during my captivity, and I groaned as I tried to move my arms forward. As Marek worked on the other chains that still held me upright, I managed to lift my hands and fumble the damned gag out of my mouth. Closing my jaw, at last, was a sweet relief. I didn’t yet try to speak—and my tongue might have been too dry to manage it anyway.

  Marek, however, talked fast and low while he worked. “I’m sorry. You won’t believe me but I am. I didn’t mean for this to happen to you. I thought… I thought I might find a way to defeat him if I let him lure me close and I pretended to befriend him. He thinks a vampire minion is a lovely idea. But I led him to you. I’m so sorry.” He kept on like that, but I couldn’t make sense of his words. I was too confused, too sore, too drained. I’d lost track of whether I trusted him.

  After he unlocked the last of the chains, I crumpled, but he caught me and held me up. “Clothes,” he said. “Not yours. Sorry.” Hurriedly, despite considerable fumbling, he helped me into a pair of sweatpants. Once on, the legs reached only to midshin. We couldn’t get the T-shirt on at all and just gave up.

  With what were likely expletives in his native language, Marek supported me as we shuffled out of the room and into the adjacent one. That space had a more traditional basement appearance—fewer chained captives and more household detritus—although it was still clean and neat. Just crossing that expanse of floor exhausted me, and I looked up at the stairway in defeat. “I can’t. Just kill me and be done with it. Feed from me, break my neck, I don’t care, as long as you don’t let that fucker near me again.”

  “I’ll carry you.”

  But as he attempted to reposition me, likely to heave me over his shoulder, a crash resounded above.

  Marek swore again. “He’s home already.”

  “Why don’t you kill him?”

  “I can’t even touch him.”

  Another bang, this time accompanied by shouting. Marek looked puzzled, but the ruckus above wasn’t my immediate focus. “Shoot him. There was a gun in my boot. The bullets—”

  “Are harmless to him. He showed me. He held your gun a few inches from his skull and pulled the trigger. The bullet just bounced off. And that was before he… fed from you.”

  Shit. Even in top condition I’d have been no match for someone who could resist a vampire and withstand bullets. And right now I was far from my top condition. I could barely stand on my own.

  Marek grunted. “When we get upstairs, I’m going to take us to the front door. It’s not far. If Buckley sees us, I’ll distract him while you get out as fast as you can. I’m not sure how long I can keep him occupied.”

  “He�
��ll kill you.”

  “I’ve been dead a long time. Let me have a small chance to be a hero.” He kissed me then, very sweet and gentle, careful not to let descended fangs nick me. Then, as the tumult above continued, he lifted me and hauled me up the stairs.

  We emerged into a vast kitchen, dark except for a small light over the stove. Marek set me down and, with some support from the counters, I was able to walk unaided. I wondered how many rich and famous people had eaten food from this this place, perhaps even while a young man was bound and dying beneath them.

  Unfortunately our route appeared to be taking us closer to the noises. “A back door?” I whispered to Marek.

  “Leads into a walled garden. You’d never get out. If you go out the front, you’ll be right on the street. Turn either way and there are neighbors. Get one of them to call the police.”

  I continued to follow him, but I doubted the success of his plan. Even if I did make it to another house and convinced someone to call 911, it would be too late to save Marek. I wasn’t even confident the police would stop Buckley from preying on others in the future. With his connections and preternatural charm, he would undoubtedly find a way to convince them he was innocent. And why should they listen to the claims of a disgraced former agent?

  We passed through a narrow passageway lined with cupboards—a butler’s pantry—and into a dining room with a table long enough to seat at least twenty. Thick rugs cushioned our footfalls and large paintings hung on the walls, but it was too dark to discern any details. When Marek pushed on the double doors at the end of the dining room, the noises of a fight grew louder. And I thought I recognized the voices.

  “Fuck,” I said, stepping into a short hallway.

  “What?”

  I never got a chance to answer. We rounded the corner and there were the front doors, one of them slightly ajar. But Buckley stood in the center of the grand foyer with his phone in one upraised hand, his teeth bared in a furious snarl. Grimes faced him, his expression a mask of fury. A handgun lay at his feet, but he held a knife in one hand. A short distance away, Tenrael sprawled prone and motionless, his arms reaching toward the other two and his wings sickeningly mangled.