She cleared her throat, ready to start work. “So why’d you really call me over here? Does it have anything to do with the discussion of Jessica Reese we didn’t have back by the Cat’s Paw?”
“Right. Jessica.” He nodded to himself, staring at the table now.
“I mean, I know you don’t reveal sources”—especially when it came to Frank, the man whom an anonymous client had hired Matt to find—“but I got the feeling you were kinda willing to share.”
“I am. Kinda.” He turned very serious. “I’m going out on a limb here, but…I think Jessica might not have been murdered by a vampire.”
She leaned back at his honesty because she wasn’t used to it. “And what does Jessica have to do with Frank? Why would you even look into her death if it didn’t have anything to do with my dad’s case?”
“I thought, based on the similarities to Klara Monaghan’s murder, there might be a connection.”
“And how do you know Jessica wasn’t killed by a vamp?”
Matt drilled a gaze at her. “Take the information for what it’s worth. Sometimes that’s the only choice we have.”
If she knew for sure whether or not he was a bad guy, the decision would be easier. Of course, she had no idea. She was just willing to take a chance that he was on their side.
“There are some details I find striking about both Klara’s and Jessica’s murders though,” he said, “besides the whole vampire angle.”
This was a start. “Shoot.”
“First, it’s like the murderer wants notoriety, whether it’s the public kind or even a special, secret kind that gets them off in private. I was reading up on other cases, like the Black Dahlia murder. That killer dumped the body in an obvious place, like he was making an announcement. And he left it in a grotesque, sensational state, just like
our
genius.”
“Our killer wants to be famous?”
“That’s why everyone comes to L.A., isn’t it?” He tossed another popcorn kernel, this time at the table. “Our killer isn’t exactly writing taunting letters to the police, but the signature is flashy enough.”
“Like they’re begging to be noticed, even if it’s in a demented, passive-aggressive way.”
“Exactly.”
“And this has nothing to do with Frank.”
“I…Damn it, I don’t know.” He dumped the rest of his popcorn on a napkin that rested on the table.
Why wouldn’t he tell her about the reason all this mattered in an investigation of her dad? What was
his
agenda? Was it as crazy as her own?
The remote felt alien in Dawn’s hand. She tried to think up ways to get more information out of him, first of all because she’d promised Breisi. Second of all, because she knew she needed to do everything possible to make up for Kiko’s psychic blindness with Milton Crockett and the Tomlinsons—
Crack
.
Just like that, her vision wavered, like something had disturbed the solidity of her world. Right on its tail, her peripheral vision caught a flash of silver?…red?…outside the window—
She whipped her gaze there, catching the orange sway of a bird-of-paradise. Not silver at all. Not even red.
Had the movement come from the Friend who’d been sent to watch her?
Uneasy, Dawn put her popcorn and water down on a napkin. Her stomach felt light, queasy. Her body felt heavy and exposed—watched.
It was a Friend, she told herself. That was all.
“What’s wrong?” Matt asked. “You look the way you sounded on the phone earlier.”
“And how did I sound?” She tried to smile as she faced him, her back now to the window.
She knew she wasn’t wearing her emotions freely. Because of training and life experience, he’d never know anything she didn’t want him to.
“Scared,” he said. “You’re scared of something.”
“Bullshit.”
She started to laugh it off—a nerve-laced compulsion—but he quieted her with a touch to her cheek. Immediately, she stopped with the bravado, jolted by the caress of his fingertips.
Real, she thought, thinking how much different this was than being with The Voice. She could feel,
see
how Matt’s skin was rough, tangible, how it brushed against her own to cause friction.
The need for stimulated comfort took her over, jarring her heart to an erratic pump, sharpening the air in her lungs.
She wanted him to make her forget, like all the other men had. Forget the homeless woman, forget Frank and Eva, just for a little while….
His fingers traveled her face, sweet deliberation. When he got to her right lobe, where her long blood-moon earring used to hang with ruby-and-silver negligence, he stroked, as if mimicking the phantom fall and shimmer of it.
“I wish you’d tell me everything,” he said.
“Same here.” Was this one of their cat-and-mouse standoffs? Is that why he’d invited her over? She couldn’t exactly be angry, because she was here for ulterior purposes, too.
“I’m not just talking about our work.” He slipped his hands down her jacketed arms, coming too close to her shoulder-holstered gun while taking her hands in his.
She hadn’t doffed her jacket because weapons were still in her pockets, plus, she didn’t want to showcase the gun, even though he already knew it was there. In back of her, the window seemed to loom with whatever was watching her—Friend or foe. A chill flew down her spine and, not for the first time, she was glad she’d kept her arsenal handy.
But the reminder didn’t chase away any of the heat churning through her. Steam bathed her, prickling her skin, making it painfully aware of what might happen between her and Matt, now that he’d gotten over some of the bashfulness.
“Right now,” she said, “I’m all about work. There’s not much left of me.”
As if to prove her wrong, he leaned forward, molding his lips to hers in lingering question. Wet, warm. She couldn’t think anymore, not with the excitement of him mingling with the shivers of being watched from outside the window.
Impulsively, she parted her lips, demanding more while pressing forward. She wanted to wipe away the violence she’d faced earlier with violence of another type: something she’d dealt with so many times before, something she could control. Skin to skin, she came out the winner every time, whether it was over a partner or Eva or even herself.
As she entered his mouth with her tongue, engaging his with ravenous insistence, he fisted her hair, moaning. She levered him backward, intending to straddle him, to grind into him and make him her goddamned slave.
“Wait,” he mumbled.
“No.” She sucked at his lower lip, sliding a hand down his chest as she kept pushing him back.
With just as much force, he grabbed her wrist, the one that had never been injured. He grabbed it hard.
Good
. Her body remembered how, one night, he’d lost a fraction of control, at the hospital, when she’d been devastated by Kiko’s back injury and had been yearning for someone to take her away from it. Matt had responded to her rough kisses, her prodding seduction.
In the thrall of memory, she groaned, the sound vibrating in her chest, in a place that echoed with emptiness.
Jonah,
she thought.
Be like Jonah again. Use me as much as I use you. You were almost there that one night….
“Hey,” he said again, voice garbled, familiar in its lust.
So familiar…
The shock of longing stimulated her, and she nipped at his neck. Her heart pounded like a broken, out-of-control machine stamping steel into jagged shapes. Condensation from its urgent thudding trickled down and down, lubricating her.
He seemed to sense that she was about to attack, as she’d done that time at the hospital. Maybe that’s why he slowed things down now, loosening his hold on her wrist. He slipped his hand behind her head, cradling it, deepening their kisses.
At first, Dawn didn’t know exactly what to do. Usually, she’d be down a guy’s pants by now, guiding him out, shucking off her clothes to get him inside of her as soon as possible. After that, she’d be cleansed of him.
But Matt wasn’t letting her do that. He was slow driving, taking his time with each suck, each nip, running his other hand over her neck.
Dawn tried to calm her breathing, but it was impossible. Her heartbeat skittered, her body becoming one long throb after another, one long melt.
Making out, she thought. Is this what it was?
When she tried to take things a step further, stroking her hand up his thigh, he blocked her, weaving his fingers through hers and ending the kiss with an easy sip of her lips.
His breath bathed her ear. “I’ve got something for you.”
Lust nudged at her. “I’ll bet you do.”
“Dawn.” He laughed, the vibrations of it tapping over her skin. “Humor me. You like games. You like pushing things, don’t you?”
She did a half wince, half purr, and he laughed again.
“Come here.” He pulled her up to a stand. “I’ve got something that’ll…You’ll see.”
God help her, but her gaze traveled right to his zipper, where she hoped to find an erection waiting. But his untucked shirt covered the details, damn it.
He held up a finger, grinning, then went to his bedroom.
Without her.
“Am I supposed to follow you?” she asked, mentally crossing her fingers while fidgeting in pained frustration.
“No, stay out there.” He was clearly amused.
Great. She waited, body belting out SOS codes in the most uncomfortable places.
What was he do—?
One of those shivers attacked her again, and she reached for her revolver, spinning toward the window, hoping—and not hoping—to discover something there.
Shoot, shoot!
her dark half said, loving the power.
But…there was nothing. Nothing but the wind and the bird-of-paradise.
“Okay,” Matt said.
Adrenaline screeching to a halt, she shoved her weapon back into the holster before he could see it, then turned around to find him walking out of the bedroom.
You almost lost it again,
she thought.
Get it together, Dawn
.
He was clueless to her drama. And it was pretty cute how he was just standing there with a grin, holding some folded material.
“Um,” she said optimistically, “lingerie?”
“Not quite.” He was blushing.
Blushing
.
Endeared by his shyness, stumped by it, she shook her head. “Come on, what is it?”
“I thought…It’s…”
“Good God.” Dawn strode forward, all her aggression surfacing. “It doesn’t look like a French maid’s outfit.”
He made as if to keep the material away from her, but then he held up a hand. “Let me explain first—”
There was no stopping her. She grabbed at the material. It belled out, filmy and flowery, into a dress.
It took a moment for her mind to wrap around what she was seeing.
“I found it in the window of a vintage store,” he said, blushing even more furiously now. “Can you believe it?”
She was trying not to.
Dawn reached out, fingering the sheer material, not accepting what she touched.
It was a copy of the dress Eva Claremont had worn in her most famous movie,
Daydreamer
.
She remembered how his gaze had gone all goofy that day at lunch when she’d said Eva’s name. Remembered how most men got that way with just a mention.
“You’re not expecting me to put this on,” she said, voice quavering, in what she told herself was only anger.
“Oh.” He awkwardly looked at it. “I just—”
“Tell me this isn’t the only way you’ll find me attractive.”
“Dawn, wait, wait. I didn’t mean—”
“Is this a joke?”
He just shook his head, the dress hanging from one hand like the most loaded weapon she’d ever encountered. If it wasn’t for the gleam of something in his gaze—disappointment?—she would’ve felt sorry for him.
Would’ve.
Ire surged, unreasonable, all consuming. She’d fought so hard against being her mom’s daughter; it was the only way she could justify never living up to Eva’s beauty. But now, even if she wasn’t here, Eva was winning again. She’d taken over Jac and now, more hurtfully, Matt.
“Maybe that explains everything,” she said, backing away. “You’re one of those guys who gets off on my relation to Eva, right? Were you closing your eyes when you were kissing me? Did it shut out my less-attractive face?”
“No, I—”
Pressure built in her temples. “Was putting me in a dress like hers going to make it easier to get it up, Matt?”
“Dawn—”
“Why did you bring this thing out just when we were getting somewhere?”
He heaved out a pent-up breath, gaze to the ground, shaking his head. He obviously had no other explanation.
Disillusionment had never hit her so hard. Not even when she’d found out that Frank was a monster hunter. Matt’s betrayal was personal.
“That’s your answer,” she said, backing the rest of the way toward his door. “Nothing. Because I’ve already explained it all, haven’t I? When you said you’d become interested in me before even meeting me, it was because of Eva. You, out of all people.”
She wanted to throw up. This wasn’t happening. Just after she’d built up some hope….
“I want you for
you
, Dawn. This”—face wracked with regret, he held up the dress—“was wrong. You’re so adventurous, so into games, I thought you’d laugh or…”
He stopped there, but it didn’t matter. She was already out the door, the night surrounding her with its unknown enemies.
Yet, when the scent of jasmine floated over her, almost like a calming embrace, Dawn knew that at least one Friend was around.
A
LMOST
done,” Sorin said to the Guard bound to a steel table in its cell.
They were in the bowels of the Underground, where the granite-hollowed dormitories of the Guards festered in deep, clinging cold. The lower-level vampires had already been fed with Groupie blood, which had either been voluntarily given or even left over from the meals of the Elite citizens.
In the cell opposite Sorin, a Guard pressed against the iron bars, his pale, hideous face framed. “More…more food, Master, more, more…”
The others took up this one’s chanting. “Food, food, food—”
Over the patter of gnarled voices, one Guard yelled out in supplication. “Groupie blood!”
Sorin did not even deign to glance up as he continued preparing the Guard on the table for duty. A new centurion, made for defense and perhaps, these days, offense.
“Enough,” he said to the other shouting creatures.
Not a one continued. It was the way of the Underground: Guards existed to obey. They were meant to be relatively weak-minded and weak-blooded, without power, save for what Sorin had bestowed upon them.
Efficiently, he kept on with the task at hand, tightening one last leather strap around the thick torso of his newest acquisition. Then, before continuing, Sorin paused to assess his creation thus far.
Bald, clawed, outfitted with iron teeth and black clothing to blend with the night. The new Guard still closed his eyes to this fresh world he would awaken to, as soon as Sorin performed one last trick of transformation.
As with all the Guards, this one had disappeared through the crevices of life Above. He had been noticed nearly a month ago during spy work and brought to Sorin’s attention. This large-bodied specimen, a drunk with no family and no real friends, had been deemed strong and fit for Guard duty. Therefore, he had been quietly captured near the time of Robby Pennybaker’s security breach, just before the resulting Underground seclusion. Sorin had only recently been able to turn his attention to transforming this subject, bringing it into the ranks of Underground Guard duty. A duty that might, someday, include having to obey even the most suicidal of orders if it indeed came to war.
Brushing a hand over his creation’s brow, Sorin thought what a waste that would be. It took great energy to bring every Guard to life, just as much as it had all those years ago when he had been a young man, cast out of his family home because of talents no one could explain. Talents such as controlling small animals, bending them to his will, shaping them into creatures who, at some point, became what Sorin wished them to be.
But Benedikte, the Master, had appreciated his abilities. He had loved him for what others deemed wicked and unnatural. And, ultimately, Sorin had put his so-called witchery to good use. For defense of his true home.
His hearing picked up the corridor footfalls of a Groupie—always light on their toes, they were. Soon, the exquisite creature appeared, holding a silver bowl sloshing with the blood she intended to donate for a Guard’s meal. A sacrifice was required of a Groupie nightly.
Sorin paid her the honor of turning away from his new Guard. “Galatea.” He had given her fellow Groupies who manned the control panel instructions to allow her in without a fuss.
She saluted him, bowing until her dark, wild hair rolled over one shoulder, blocking her face. Today she wore it in tight curls, beads shimmering through strategic locks. A sheer purple robe revealed a petite figure accessorized with merely a network of fine silver chains. One of them, Sorin could not help noticing, slipped through the cleft of her sex, no doubt rubbing her with each movement.
His blood thrashed at the notion of slowly sliding it back and forth until she moaned. Her throat would hum as he bit into an engorged vein.
She stood upright again, hair falling away from high cheekbones and slanted, silver-tinged eyes. A pang of parental loss—one of the only deep emotions he had ever felt as a vampire—stole over him. Long ago, he had taken two vampire daughters. Before they had left this Underground to return to the Old World and eventually go missing without another word, they, too, had produced preternatural children. Consequently, the Groupies of today were his own daughters’ progeny.
Unfortunately, generation to generation, the blood weakened through exchange, leaving each succeeding child less powerful. Their talents paled in comparison to Sorin’s, leaving them exposed to elements such as religious symbols. Even their Awareness was a mere shadow—a feeling as opposed to words spoken mind to mind. It was nonexistent from a distance.
This helplessness was the reason Groupies were the pets of the Underground: lovely, useful decorations who existed on blood and pleasure alone.
“You’re working too hard, Master,” Galatea said with a sparkle in her eyes. “Don’t you have any time for play?”
“Play.” He laughed. “It has been nothing but that for your kind since the lockdown.”
“Maybe we haven’t done any spy work lately, but I hear that might change with the threat of that Jessica Reese murder.”
“You hear too much. They say, ‘loose lips sink ships,’ yes?”
That would also apply to what only he and the Master had heard tonight via spy work: Limpet and Associates’ recent efforts at cornering Milton Crockett, plus Lee Tomlinson’s family and lover, had proved futile, thank the day. It seemed that Limpet’s little psychic had not obtained valid readings from any of them. However, Sorin still knew trouble was ahead. As a realist, he fully expected it, taking the precaution of directing spies to keep watch over the growing list of Limpet interview subjects.
“I will play after I am done here,” he said to Galatea while restraining a surge of ravenous need for her. Too much labor to complete. And perhaps the Master would be calling him to conference about further strategy.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting.” Galatea grinned at him, so rash and young, a product of over three decades ago, when she had chosen to be turned.
Behind her, the Guard who had started the most recent round of chanting for food began sniffing at the blood she carried. Its nostrils flared, its eyes blaring red.
“Groupie blood,” it growled.
Galatea assessed the creature, unafraid. Her kind had aided in giving birth to the Guards, lending their bite to the process. Thus, the Guards had powers equal to the Groupies, though the latter had the gift of free will whereas Sorin was the keeper of the lower vampires in every way.
Sorin cocked an eyebrow. “Galatea, please, splash the creature’s mouth with your blood.”
Surprised, she nevertheless did so, flicking drops from her fingers onto the Guard’s lips.
The low-ranked vampire feverishly licked every fleck of moisture, grunting. “More, more, more…”
Sorin concentrated on its eyes. They flared with flame, excitement, the pupils expanding and blocking all color, the black center consuming the red. In that fathomless space, Sorin believed he could detect a foreign blankness…. A hole filled with something he could almost comprehend yet…could not.
Something just beyond his reach. Something he might have even known in another lifetime?
Before Sorin could grasp the meaning of what he was witnessing, the Guard’s eyes contracted to red again, returning to the color of eternity.
“More, more, more,” the Guard said, shaking its cell bars.
They had never shown this sort of fervor for blood until fairly recently; the Guards normally ate to survive. Had they become addicted? Or what if the Guards had developed a taste for Groupie sustenance in particular? Perhaps he needed to synthesize generic blood devoid of anything Groupie. The last scenario the Underground needed to endure was one in which the Guards craved the citizens.
“More, more…”
The others joined in, rattling their bars until the ground trembled. “More, more, more…”
“Stop.” Sorin’s tone was harsh. A chill traced the edges of his body, and he resented the disturbance.
One of the Guards down the hall did not heed the command. “Home,” he wailed, his voice as thin as a single wolf’s cry in the distance.
Sorin would have to adjust these Guards, inspect them and repair their shortcomings. It was an ongoing process. Live and learn, as the Master might say.
“Can they break out?” Galatea asked, inching away from the cell’s bars, clutching the bowl of blood to her chest.
Sorin inspected her, thinking he was close to feeling the same discomfort. Close, yes, but the vampiric years had worn off most emotion like rough wind smoothing the edges off rock.
“No,” he said. “They would not survive the attempt.”
She sighed, knowing he was right. “Yes, Master, you’d terminate the Guards before they would even get to the main area.”
True. Even though he wasn’t the real Master, Sorin alone controlled the Guards—they were subject to every whim of his sorcerer’s talents. Additionally, he maintained their strength at a Groupie’s level to ensure their inferiority—another precaution. Their strength was sufficient to kill a human, if need be, but not enough to overcome Sorin or the Master himself.
Galatea set down the bowl of cold blood. “Master, may I…?”
“Yes, you may leave.”
She wasted no time in doing so, leaving a trail of slight fear behind. It wet Sorin’s mouth, whet his hunger.
But then his gaze turned toward the Guard across the hall. The creature slunk back into the darkness of its home, its red eyes becoming the only pinpoints of light.
Home,
the one Guard had said.
A terrible thought occurred to Sorin. The black of the Guard’s eyes, the mysterious and gaping space, the dull familiarity of it…
Humanity? he thought.
He mused over that. Yet…no. It could not be.
For the Guards, humanity had died with the first bite. It was unthinkable to leave them with memories, imaginations, reasons to return Above. They were the only members of the Underground taken against their will because no one would ever know or care that these particular individuals were gone. Sorin had infused them with the same thing he had used on his cat and other small animals during human life: thoughts of what he wished them to be.
He turned back to his new Guard. Due to the restlessness of the others, there would be no free wandering time for the group tonight. Usually, they were granted movement through the Underground tunnels, beneath the city, yet away from the vampire living area.
No more, Sorin thought. Not until the Guards were retuned.
He tested the straps on his new creation, again admiring his handiwork: years of study had allowed him to dally in physical manipulation as well as mental.
“You’ll be a Dr. Frankenstein,” the Master had once told Sorin over fifty years ago, shortly after he had triumphed over his fears and given in to Sorin’s great wish to begin a second Underground.
Sorin had smiled at that. “My powers are much stronger than they ever were in human form, so our Guards will be our saving grace, protecting our lesser vampires during the first minutes of an attack while alerting the more powerful to prepare. We will never be caught unawares again, Master.”
Now, keeping his promise, he held out a hand, then flattened his palm over the new Guard’s face. He closed his eyes and performed the final step in creation: a mind wipe.
It was unlike the one the Master had subjected Milton Crockett to. Where the humans generally lost all details related to personal vampiric activity, Guards traveled the opposite road: they would forfeit everything human, absorbing Sorin’s commands. In essence, they were “programmed” as the new age would say. Programmed to serve and to be vampire soldiers, willing to die for the higher ranks, brainwashed never to attack unless provoked.
He traveled inward, investing the new Guard, initiating him. His whispered demands threaded together, tangling into patterns for the creature’s brain to follow.
Ultimately, Sorin removed his touch and stepped back. “Awaken.”
When the Guard opened his red eyes, the older vampire saw only complete surrender, mindless obedience.
The perfect defender.
The type of warrior Sorin wished he and the Master had possessed when their original Underground had been decimated over eighty years ago.