“Yeah, dynamite in my closed fist. No thank you, DiRocco.” Carter leaned back in his chair, creating more physical distance between him and the article, and if I was honest, between him and me.
I raised my hand to indicate the empty cubes through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind us, ignoring his wince at my too-fast movements. “Why? Because you have so many other, more compelling stories to choose from this week?” I snapped.
“Don’t,” Carter said, his voice brooking no argument. “You don’t get to be flippant about the destruction of New York City. Your friends killed my reporters. They killed my photographers, my contacts, and my printers. They killed my livelihood, and you”—he said, his finger trembling as he pointed at me—“they killed you, too, I think.”
My heart bottomed out even as my anger skyrocketed. “They are not my friends. Did you even read my article?” I snapped. “The monsters who destroyed New York City are the Damned, not the vampires. One vampire is responsible for transforming the night bloods into the Damned. One. And we need to take her down.”
Carter nodded. “Yeah, Jillian Allister. So you’ve said.”
I blinked, stunned. Carter had accused me of many things throughout the years, most of it true, but never in all my eight years writing for him—first as an intern and then as a crime reporter—had he ever accused me of lying, sans that one animal-attack article. But that accusation could hardly count, considering he’d been entranced.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Where’s Meredith? Does she have your back on this?” Carter asked.
I suppressed a wince at the mention of Meredith. “Of course,” I said. “She wants to take down Jillian as badly as I do. I’ve got Greta’s loving consent and the full support of the ME’s office backing me. This article is going to print.”
“Not in the Sun Accord, it isn’t,” Carter said stubbornly.
“What do you need from me to prove it to you?” I asked, dumbfounded. “You want to see the scientific proof for yourself? I’ll bring you to Dr. Chunn’s lab. You want to see someone transform from a man into the Damned? I’ll introduce you to my brother. You want to see Greta in person, so she can vouch for me that I’m not the murdering psycho responsible for the collapse of Brooklyn?”
Carter shook his head sadly. “I know you’re not responsible for all this, DiRocco. You don’t need anyone to vouch for your character, not to me anyway. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know that,” I said, my voice high and desperate and somehow still growling. I couldn’t prevent the growl any more than I could prevent my throat from constricting and my eyes from burning with unshed tears. I took a second to regain control of my emotions, but everything was so new and overwhelming and uncertain, something had to give. The tears crested, and when I blinked, they poured down my cheeks. “If Meredith came to you instead of me, would you consent to printing the article?”
“It’s not about that,” Carter grumbled.
I shook my head. “If it’s public opinion you’re worried about, I think that ship has sailed. The citizens of New York City were completely clueless that vampires even existed before being attacked by seven-foot-tall, ravenous, heart-eating monsters. People want answers—they want the truth—and damn it, no matter how fantastic, this article gives them that.”
“I know,” Carter said, his voice still low and grumbling.
I made a rude noise in the back of my throat, punctuated by the clicking rattle of my growl. “If it’s not me and not public opinion that’s holding you back, than what the hell’s your problem?”
“I was one of the people who were completely clueless!” he shouted.
The underlying bass drumbeat I’d mistaken for anger suddenly detonated. Carter’s fury, like a landmine, blasted my senses: the smell of char seared my nostrils, the booming crash of thunder ruptured my eardrums, and the bitter taste of tar coated the back of my tongue. I stood and blinked stupidly at him in the face of his rage, unable to react rationally while my senses were being battered. Although his rage was real, I reminded myself that the char and thunder and nauseating taste of tar were not, but that didn’t stop me from gagging.
“Through the glass windows of this office building, I watched as a stampede of those animals flooded the streets. I witnessed them tear people limb from limb, puncturing their chests and eating their hearts, and I knew on sight that those monsters were your story.” He shook his head at me, looking betrayed. “And you hadn’t warned me.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t—”
“You knew,” Carter spat, his voice so angry and ugly, I flinched in the face of it. “Don’t you dare fucking deny that you knew.”
“What was I supposed to say?” I shouted. “You flew off the handle when I wrote about animal attacks in Brooklyn. You wouldn’t have supported an article about vampires and night bloods and the Damned.”
“I didn’t expect you to write about it. I expected you to tell me about it!” Carter slapped his desk with the flat of his hand, swiping the pages of my article onto the floor. “I told you to come to me if you were in over your head. I’d have done everything in my power to help you,” he said.
“You couldn’t have helped me. You—”
“But you didn’t come to me. Again and again, you landed in the hospital, hurt on the job, under my watch, but you always managed to survive. You always managed to find and expose the truth, so I looked the other way.” Carter shook his head, his expression anguished. “Why didn’t you come to me for help?”
“There was nothing you could have done. I—”
“Just look at you, DiRocco!”
I pursed my lips and looked away, unable to meet his gaze. I wasn’t ashamed of myself, of what I’d become to survive, but I couldn’t hold his gaze while he looked at me like I was one of the monsters.
“You knew the truth about those murders and the existence of those creatures, and you didn’t tell me. You let me sit up here in my glass-and-chrome office and watch as the city streets washed red.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, picking up the tossed sheets of my article. “I was scared. I didn’t think anyone would believe me without corroboration, so I was building the case and gathering evidence and writing my story, this story”—I said, shaking the pages at him—“to prove to you that creatures beyond our imagining exist right here in Brooklyn. But then everything spun out of control so quickly, and I—” My hands fell at my sides, beyond words. “I’m so sorry.”
Carter pursed his lips, the vertical lines bracketing his mouth cutting as deep as his disapproval as he eyed the papers in my hand. “That’s the story? The one you nearly killed yourself to write?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s the biggest story of my entire life.”
“That’s what you never understood, DiRocco,” Carter said sadly. “No matter how big the story, it was never worth your life.”
I stared at him, shocked. “Of everyone I know, I thought you of all people would understand. Of course it’s worth my life. It’s worth both our lives, because it’s one step closer to saving all their lives,” I gestured at the cityscape behind me, which was vaguely anticlimactic because the city looked just as deserted as the bullpen, but I knew otherwise. “People are out there, hiding from the Damned, waiting for someone to rise up and do something about it.”
“Waiting to die,” Carter grumbled.
“No,” I said, slapping the paper back on his desk. “You are going to find your contacts at the printer and convince them to risk coming out of hiding to print this article and distribute it. I want everyone to know exactly what’s going on in this city. They’re going to know how they can help and where they can get help. I’m rising up, damn it, and so are you, and everyone who survived is going to do something about it, because in the big picture, taking down Jillian is worth all our lives.”
Carter let my word
s ring in the silence, eyeing the article between us.
I waited him out, feeling the shifting current of his emotions.
Finally, he picked up the article, caressing its corner between his fingers. “You should have told me the truth.” He held up a hand. “I know you didn’t think I’d believe you. I understand that you were scared and wanted the evidence in place to back your claim. I get it, DiRocco.” He met my eyes squarely. “But you should have found a way to tell me before the shit hit the fan.”
I nodded. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
“All right then,” he said, standing brusquely. “I’m not making any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Carter’s “I’ll see what I can do” was as good as a done deal from anyone else. I smiled, exuberant for a fraction of a second before I felt more than saw him recoil. I have fangs now, I thought, making a conscious effort to close my mouth and still look overjoyed. It was a difficult expression.
“Thank you,” I said, holding out my hand. I made sure my movements were slow and smooth, so he wouldn’t startle. At five foot two and under 130 pounds, I’d never been physically intimidating in my entire life, not even before my battle with arthritis and subsequent broken leg had confined me to a scooter. My no-nonsense personality, on-point instincts, and fierce loyalty had earned the respect of my colleagues at the bureau, but I’d had to work to keep that respect every day.
Now, I could cut down grown men with a smile. The power that came with physical intimidation was humbling and suddenly unwanted.
Carter hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second, before taking my hand. I might not have even noticed his reluctance without my heightened senses. His resolve tasted like beef and potato stew—something hearty and warm, something that had taken a very long time and experience to get just right.
His hand engulfed mine. “How are you even out at this hour, in sunlight?” he asked, unable to prevent himself and his reporter’s instinct from asking questions, just like me.
I shook his hand carefully, mindful of my superstrength. “As it turns out, I wasn’t just any old night blood who had the potential to transform into a vampire. I transformed into a Day Reaper. I’m extra-special,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Carter released my hand. He shook his palm, a little bruised despite my restraint, but his grin was genuine and his eyes were warm with pride when he met my gaze.
“You didn’t need to transform into a Day Reaper to know that.”
Chapter 18
Dominic had sent me out this morning with a list of errands to complete during his day rest. Had the errands on said list been grocery shopping, picking up the dry cleaning, and grabbing some Chinese take-out, I would have felt downright domestic. Instead, he’d given me what looked like a hit list: convince Carter to print the article, discover where Sevris’s loyalties lay, determine the extent of Jillian’s power, and estimate the number of Damned vampires in Jillian’s army—as if I could just walk into the coven and take a head count.
I could scratch Carter off the list, but before I moved onto the next item, I had my own errand to run, one that was long overdue. Dominic had thought of nearly everything when he’d designed his underground bunker—essentials like emergency supplies and human food as well as bagged blood, and comfort items like couches, mattresses, and running water—but he hadn’t had the time or inclination to grab the overnight bag I’d packed in anticipation of bunkering down for the Leveling. I suppose he’d been a little distracted since then—saving my life and transforming me and all—but after seven days being transformed and another two attempting to convince everyone, including myself, that Day Reaper Cassidy was essentially the same woman as night blood Cassidy, it might help my cause if I changed into a fresh shirt, flat-ironed my bangs, and wore some eyeliner.
I landed on the roof of my apartment building a little after seven o’clock. The sun had fully risen and tingled on my skin, not burning like it would if I were a vampire, but not pleasant like it felt on the skin of a human, either. In addition to the strange new sensation of sunshine, I could feel the effect of my efforts to vampire-proof my apartment: the stale blood around the doors and windows was off-putting, and the silver hardware and silver nitrate spray I’d doused throughout the apartment chafed my skin. I’d deliberately reinforced this apartment with blood and silver to protect myself from vampires when I was a night blood, but now that I was a Day Reaper, it felt like I was breaking and entering into my own apartment. Entering through the rooftop access instead of the front door probably didn’t help, but until I looked more like myself, I’d prefer to avoid contact with any of my former neighbors.
Reassuring everyone that I was still me when I didn’t even feel like myself anymore was difficult enough with friends and family. Convincing acquaintances that the creature I’d become was friendly would be impossible, especially when the blood pumping through their veins really did smell like a meal.
I tapped the hammock as I passed it on my way to the rooftop-access hatch. Metal squeaked against metal as the fabric swung in its frame, and had I not been distracted by the feel of the hammock’s abrasive squeak like an IV under my skin, I might have heard the hum of anticipation vibrating from inside what should have been my empty apartment. I might have hesitated before entering, or at the very least, prepared myself for the unexpected. But I was overwhelmed by the many unfamiliar sounds and smells surrounding me, and if I was honest, distracted by the swamping melancholy of my new existence, so when I opened the rooftop-access hatch and approached the staircase that led to my apartment, the spray of silver bullets that greeted me took me by complete and utter surprise.
Sudden, searing pain pummeled my face and upper chest. I dodged blindly away from the blast, but my foot found nothing but air. I fell, dinged my forehead against the wall, wrenched my back reaching for the banister, and cracked my kneecap as I tumbled head over ass down the stairs to the landing in my apartment hallway.
I sprawled on the floor, dazed. After a moment, my vision cleared and someone swam into focus, blocking the view of my apartment’s outdated popcorn ceiling. Ian Walker and his velvet-brown eyes gazed down at me, a cruel grin twisting his lips.
“It’s daylight, DiRocco. Not as invincible when it’s just you and me now, are you?”
He was wrapping something around my wrists as he spoke, and regardless of the confidence in his words, I could smell the strong odor of his uncertainty billowing from his pores like bonfire smoke. The bindings must be laced with silver—Walker wouldn’t use anything less to secure a vampire—but since I was a Day Reaper, I wasn’t allergic to silver like other vampires. I had silver talons growing out of my nail beds, for heaven’s sake. He secured my ankles with the same material, nevertheless, and to my astonishment and horror, the bindings held strong no matter how hard I struggled.
With me trussed to his liking, Walker disappeared from my line of sight.
I remembered how Dominic had risen as if from the dead after having been ambushed by Walker’s bullet blast. He’d ejected the bullets from his skin, a horror movie brought to life. Granted, Dominic was nearly five hundred years older than me, more experienced, and a Master vampire, but I was a Day Reaper. That had to count for something, damn it, so I tried to feel each bullet as an individual injury through the immobilizing wash of pain. I envisioned each one ejecting itself, one by one, from my skin. I imagined hearing them hit and roll on my hardwood floor, but no matter my memories of how Dominic had healed his injuries, the bullets remained lodged in my skin and muscle. I felt weak from the wounds and trapped by the bounds around my wrists and ankles, and no matter my will, my body didn’t heal.
Walker returned with a sharpened wooden stake in his hand. He straddled my waist and kneeling in the expanding puddle of my blood, pressed the wooden stake against my chest, directly over my heart.
“I don’t care if you’re a vampire, a Day
Reaper, or fucking the Master vampire of all vampires himself; the sun is shining, and finally, it’s just you and me and this stake. No one’s coming to save you—not Dominic, not your brother, and certainly not me this time, darlin’—so listen up.”
I tried to open my mouth, more to spit in his face than to say anything intelligent—I was so angry that words, for once, were beyond me—but something was wrong with my mouth. Maybe my jaw was broken or maybe the nerves and tendons that worked my jaw were destroyed—too many bullets to the face. The only thing I could do, which perhaps was more menacing than spitting anyway, was let loose a low, feral growl.
The stake against my chest trembled. “You are going to turn Ronnie back into a night blood.”
And just like that, with one sentence, my anger wilted.
“I would if I could,” I said. My words were barely decipherable between my locked jaw, but despite their garbled enunciation, Walker seemed to understand me just fine.
The stake against my chest pressed painfully into my skin. “You can and you will. You figured out how to turn your brother back from being Damned. You nearly died doing the impossible, but you did it. And you’ll do it again. You’ll figure out how to turn Ronnie back into a night blood.”
“Nathan is still Damned,” I wheezed. “He has his mind again, but he’s not completely back to normal. He still eats human hearts.” Even with a stake at my chest, I told Walker the same thing I’d told Ronnie: the truth. “Sometimes, people can’t completely recover from the creature they become. Sometimes, there’s no going back. Only forward.”
Walker’s expression, already grim, hardened with resolve. He cocked his arm back and impaled the right side of my chest with the stake, deliberately missing my heart. The wound was searing.
I gasped, choking on pain and revived rage. My body suddenly felt on fire—like it was being metaphysically incinerated from head to toe—and I thought, What the hell kind of stake sets Day Reapers on fire, before I heard Dominic’s roar. The stake wasn’t the source of the licking flames charring my insides; it was Dominic.
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