With a cry, she used a cloudy fingernail to cut open her chest. Then she flew to him, opening his lips with her fingers, then pressing him to her self-inflicted wound.
Drink, she commanded Frank, knowing she really didn’t have to persuade him now. He’d gotten a taste of her blood, which had been made more powerful from the Master’s overkill feeding. Besides, Frank was already so addicted to her that he wouldn’t be able to refuse, rebelliousness or not.
He drank as if he’d never stop, as if he were making up for all the years they’d been apart. He drank in fury, as if punishing her for choosing to become an Elite instead of staying Above and raising Dawn with him.
She withstood every greedy suck, every piercing draw, because she deserved pain. She deserved the reckoning, because with each thirsty sip, more of her was revealed to him and to herself: she hadn’t just gone Underground for the sake of providing for her family. She’d come here to be always beautiful. To be always worshipped. It was the ugly truth.
As he drank more and more, Eva’s mind electrified with all the admiring faces of her fans, all the desperate arms reaching out to her at press events, all the cries of “Eva, we love you!” that had fueled her. The faces, the voices thudded, becoming one consuming scream that shredded her apart—
Weakened, she tore Frank away from her, the fragments of her mind like confetti falling to litter the ground. She managed to swirl back into her solid Eva body, panting as she slid from the bed and tried to regain her footing.
Blood decorated Frank’s mouth. A stream of it slid down his chin, a drop hanging before its quivering fall to his dark shirt. He watched her as if he didn’t know her anymore. As if she’d betrayed him with the truth in her blood.
She’d been careless, allowing him to take too much, maybe because he deserved more of her than she’d been giving.
In an effort to seem unaffected, she loosened her hair, but it only fell over her shoulders in disarray.
Can’t see the Master like this, she thought, running her fingers through the strands. Not if I want to keep his favor and keep him at bay. But she knew her days were numbered, because when he found out what she’d done . . .
“I’m going to freshen up, then leave for my meeting.”
Her husband just watched her as she flicked on his television set and headed for the vanity room to run a brush through her blond hair. Her skin was a shade paler than it’d been since she’d overfed from the Master, and her hands shook as she thought about how much blood she’d given Frank, what that blood would do to his young, inferior vampire system. . . .
What had she done in her rage, her sadness at Frank’s hatred?
Or maybe she knew exactly what she’d done, what had needed to be done because her husband didn’t seem to love her anymore.
When she finally came out, she found his silver bindings broken and lying empty on the mattress, right next to the indentation that his heavy body had created.
Calmly, oh so calmly, Eva smoothed out the bedspread, sat down, and counted each resigned beat of blood in her veins until enough time passed for her to call Benedikte.
On the other side of the Underground, a Guard screamed in his manacles as Benedikte and Sorin stood safely away, observing.
Slash!—A claw swiped in their direction.
Creeenk!—A barbed tail scraped the cold stone wall with its machete tip, creating sparks and coming just short of Benedikte.
Snap!—The Guard’s jaws sought a taste of him, too.
That was because Benedikte was wearing his Matt Lonigan body at the moment, enjoying how the Guard was stretching the limits of his bindings in order to get at what it perceived to be human. In fact, to heighten the illusion, the Master had sprayed himself with more essence of human scent, just as he’d done before going Above to do his spy work with Dawn earlier.
“While I’m impressed by this passion,” the Master said, “wouldn’t it be less cruel to feed it now?”
“It is almost time.”
Sorin had a gleam in his eyes. He was loving this. And why not? The Guards were his own Frankenstein-like creations, wrought by the magic touch Sorin had possessed in human life. Benedikte had been attracted to his son’s sorcerer abilities, and they’d come in very handy in this afterlife. Who’d known back then what Sorin would render all these years later?
This particular specimen was Sorin’s newest Guard, a card-carrying waste of life who’d been captured Above because no one would miss it. That made for a perfect Guard—that and the fact that the lowly vampire had the physique of an NFL player. Benedikte, himself, had spied this candidate during an early jaunt Above as “Matt.”
As the Guard’s tail made another bladed attempt at getting to the Master, Benedikte patted Sorin on his back.
“These really are grand beasts. I’m proud of you.”
A smile spread over his son’s face. It was as if Benedikte had handed him the world. “Thank you, Master.”
“Now show me your magic before I meet with Eva.”
At her name, Sorin sobered. Benedikte allowed it to pass.
His second-in-command moved to a corner of the cell, where he’d placed a bowl of cooled blood left over from a feeding. What these creatures ate was nauseating, but that was how it was.
Sorin held the bowl away from his body. “While experimenting, I found an interesting quality in the Guards’ feeding habits—something that I believe has evolved recently, though I am not certain of the reason.”
He approached the Guard. It stopped fussing, its red eyes blazing at the scent of a meal. With its bald head, ultrapale skin, iron teeth, and black-garbed body, the Guard brought to mind a steroid version of the title character from the silent film Nosferatu. It had been one of Benedikte’s first film favorites, and he’d gone back to the movie palace several times, fascinated.
“Groupie,” the misshapen creature said, panting. “Groupie blood . . .”
“They have developed a taste for Groupies,” Sorin said. “Even more than humans, I think. It is as if the child longs for mother’s milk since the Groupie is the parent who introduces the bite to a Guard. We shall have to stay aware of that.”
The Master nodded. Sorin had seen to it that Guards had no personal reasons to return Above: no memories or imaginations. And they were the only unwilling participants in the Underground, captured and then bitten by Groupies—relatively weak vampires—in order to keep their powers in check. They could be balanced by the Groupies themselves if it ever came down to it, and they would never be strong enough to threaten any class above a Groupie.
Without fear, Sorin lifted the bowl to the creature’s mouth, allowing it to drink. It devoured, wincing, enjoying to a frightening extent. When it was done, Sorin stepped back.
“Now watch,” the second said. “Watch its eyes.”
It was a thing to behold: the pupils blowing outward like the birth of black holes in space. And in those holes, Benedikte saw something enthralling.
He took a mindless step forward, wanting to see more, but Sorin held him back, more out of excitement than anything.
“Do you see?” he asked.
The Master wasn’t sure what Sorin was referring to, but he wanted to be a part of it. Wanted to dive into those holes and embrace the . . . The what?
“No, I don’t,” Benedikte said.
“Humanity. I recognize it. They are having memories when they drink blood . . . any blood, now.”
A zing of envy hit the Master. “They remember?”
“I believe so. And it is happening even though the creature has been mind wiped. I make certain they are clean slates so they will obey my orders that much more easily. Yet . . . something is happening.” Sorin shook his head. “Naturally, I will have to perform a second mind wipe on every one of them, but first I want to know why this has come about.”
The Master smiled, wishing the manufactured creature could share its emotions. How much humanity could it feel?
And, more importantly, wh
y was a lowly Guard, of all vampires, lucky enough to experience this pleasure from blood drinking? For any Underground citizen, the sustenance provided physical nourishment, and it could also feed a more profound emptiness, as well, bringing a semblance of temporary joy. But the Guards seemed to be getting more out of their blood. Was it because they’d been taken unwillingly and they were still holding on to what they’d been robbed of?
Sorin was gauging his parent. “In spite of how amazing this is, you do not look as concerned as you should be.”
“Concern?” Benedikte shrugged. “Tell me—does this Guard still obey your every order?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then why should I worry? When Jonah Limpet and company pay a visit, we’ll have every advantage. I don’t think they realize how greatly we outnumber them. We’ve gathered a real community during this half century.”
Sorin was still watching him carefully. Benedikte bristled. It wasn’t a son’s place to tell a father what to do.
His second-in-command spoke. “There are times that I worry, Master. I feel as if you are focused more on how to bring Dawn Madison Below than on how to secure our home. Do you recall what happened with Andre—”
“Of course I remember, you fool.” How could he forget when their first Underground in London had been attacked by a brother? It’d almost buried him in depression. “But we didn’t have Guards with Andre, did we? And we didn’t have a fraction of the citizens we have now. Oh, and should I mention that they’re all trained and far more powerful than the first set of children?”
“Yes, but—”
“Trust me,” he said, shifting into Benedikte’s body, just to emphasize his status over Sorin. “Don’t question me.”
His son looked like he was going to say something—like so many times in the recent years—but he cut himself off. Thank the day for that, because Benedikte was getting sick of Sorin’s constant second-guessing.
“It’s a wonder I’ve survived this long,” the Master added sarcastically, “considering how many missteps I make.”
“I am sorry, Master. . . .”
A wail of agony from the Guard interrupted Sorin. The creature was crying, “Hooome! Hooome!”
Benedikte made an irritated face, and Sorin took the hint, reprimanding the Guard in a firm tone. The centurion stopped. As it slumped in its bindings, the Master’s head filled with a voice he’d been longing to hear all night.
Eva, coming to him via their Awareness. It reminded him that he was late to meet her.
Benedikte?
He couldn’t help the glow emanating from his chest. Eva?
I’m afraid I have some really bad news. It’s Frank. . . .
After the first alarming moments of her explanation, the Underground went on alert, searching for Eva’s husband, yet finding only clues of his escape. He’d eased Above, undetected by the distracted vampires—after all, they were looking for intruders, not escapees. Even Eva had been unaware of Frank’s betrayal until she’d finished “looking pretty” for Benedikte.
But why worry? the Master thought, still riding high on confidence as he floated to her chambers. If Frank Madison told Limpet where the Underground was located, it would only speed up the enemy’s attack. Let them come. Benedikte had never been all that excited about having Frank here anyway.
A mortified Eva begged to be allowed Above to find her husband, along with the Servants assigned to the task. Since Frank had been under her watch, she thought she should be the one to bring him back. But Benedikte’s instincts told him not to allow it, even though denying her bothered him.
Yet long after sunrise consumed the earth outside and the Underground vampires settled into their beds to rest, something glorious happened. Something that persuaded Benedikte to allow Eva Above.
That something was a frantic phone call from Dawn.
TEN
THE BELLY OF THE WHALE
DAWN had snoozed like a baby through sunrise and into late morning. Being with Jonah satiated her, making her feel even more mentally and physically limber now than when the Friends had sung her to sleep. And that was saying something.
As she climbed out of bed, she blushed—actually blushed—when her nightgown’s torn bodice gaped open to reveal her breasts. But what was so embarrassing? She’d been buck naked before, too many times to mention in polite conversation, so what was different about this?
Mental Wite-Out coated her thoughts while she ignored the vulnerability. She knew she ought to be opening up and facing her emotions—she’d been taught that particular lesson good and well—but she didn’t have the mental energy to do it.
Instead, she took a leisurely shower, unable to help a smile as she replayed what Jonah had done to her. Luckily she didn’t have anything more pressing to do than wander around the house again, because she’d be useless in a fight or something where she’d actually have to use any nature-given smarts.
It was only when her fingers started to look like raisins that she finally got out of the water and performed the rest of her no-fuss routine. Then she trooped back to the main bedroom, surprised to find her suitcase propped by the door.
Huh. She hadn’t been to Kiko’s apartment recently, where she’d been crashing and keeping her personal stuff since returning to town. Had Jonah used one of his many outside contacts to bring the luggage here?
Didn’t matter much, but her attention to detail was on fire these days. Especially when it came to Jonah, who required sharp watching on every level.
She opened her suitcase, taking out socks, a black sports bra, a pair of clean jeans—or clean enough, at least—and another of Frank’s tank tops, even though she knew it might be fruitless to wear it. But she wasn’t about to give up hope by leaving the only option for contacting him in her luggage.
While she was plucking out a pair of undies, too, she heard a tiny jangle as something dropped back down into the clothing. Dawn inspected what it was, then stared at the item for a minute. She’d hidden it away on the night of her first kill.
It was her earring—one that fit into the second hole in her right lobe.
Strands of cheap silver, glimmering with faux rubies, hung down from a moon pendant. A souvenir from one of her movie stunt gigs, Blood Moon. The earring had been a part of the old Dawn, a girl who was a pro at pulling punches and making it look real, not a hunter who knew what it felt like to sink a machete into a neck. Or a slayer who knew how to fire silver bullets into a red-eyed vampire’s heart and watch it suck into nothing.
Almost longingly, she touched the jewelry, missing the old her, wishing life were as simple as that girl’s again.
But old Dawn hadn’t realized what her mom really was. Old Dawn had thought the world was an entirely different place.
Wasn’t it better to know the truth?
She shoved clothes over the blood moon and grabbed a little bag teeming with the other earring studs she usually wore. Then she slammed the suitcase shut, standing and turning her back on it while tossing everything but her undies onto the floor.
Just white it out, she thought, dropping her towel and yanking her panties on. Move on.
With rote efficiency, she finished dressing, leaving off the crucifix she usually wore outside. It seemed silly to don the minor-vamp protection here. Then she filled the empty holes in her lobes with tiny, round silver studs—one on her left side, two on her right. Somehow, she felt unbalanced, as if her blood moon had always evened her out and this was the first time she was understanding that.
Soon she was ready to go outside her bedroom, and she flung open the door with purpose. But when she realized that she wasn’t terribly sure what her purpose really was, she slowed her pace.What was she supposed to do with herself now?
She puttered down a long hallway that curved toward the front of the house, passing more empty portraits and hesitating at each one. She debated about commanding a Friend to take her into each picture, where yesterday’s snooping could continue. But Dawn kept
chickening out. Well, maybe not chickening out, because it had nothing to do with bravery. She just didn’t want to get any Friends in trouble, like she’d done to Breisi with Kalin. Far be it from Dawn to be responsible for epically screwing up the social dynamics of the agency and maybe even affecting everyone’s powers. Besides, she was curious, not stupid, and she didn’t want a bunch of ghosties down her throat.
But there was another reason she didn’t do it, too. What Jonah had said about Dawn’s own privacy-invasion issues kept bugging her. She didn’t like when others went into her head, so she was being a hypocrite by going into everyone else’s. The truth was one big ouch.
So . . . okay. Weren’t there other ways she could get to the bottom of Jonah without violating Friend sensibilities? This house had a lot of areas she could explore for information about him. . . .
Ah—just a sec. Where was the one place that had always been accessible to her and had always seemed rich with possibilities? Where, oh, where could she find secret doors built into the walls? And where was a big old desk just asking to be opened?
His office.
Wasn’t the same as anyone’s head or portrait home, right?
Taking a surreptitious glance around the hallway, Dawn embarked upon this new option. And, indeed, when she rounded her way into the main upstairs hallway, she found his door cracked open. As a matter of fact, there was a light on, as if in diabolical invitation. Gee, who was she to refuse?
When she walked to the door, then pushed it open the rest of the way, there was no sound. She paused, sticking her head inside. “Hello?”
Her voice bounced off the tall bookshelves, unanswered. She took a few more steps into the room, greeted by that huge TV, the portraits. But one picture caught her eye first.
The field of fire, which was empty except for the flames.
Like a kid sneaking into the adults-only section of a video store, she crept over to the painting. Then, after looking around again, she faced it, arms barred over her chest.
Should she call a Friend, like she had with Kalin’s portrait downstairs? The temptation was awful.
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