Authors: Megan Morgan
A tingle shot up her arm.
He patted her hand. “I need to make sure you are who you say you are. Who we’ve been told you are.”
“And how are you going to do that? I don’t exactly have an ID. They took that at the Institute along with everything else.”
“You do have a special power.” He slid his hand off her. “Siren.”
“Which I can’t use on you,” she pointed out. “Vampire.” Vampires were immune to supernatural influences. No one knew why.
Zack sat back. “That girl over there.” He nodded at the girl absorbed in her magazine. “She’s not a vampire, either. Tell her to show you her panties.”
The girl had her head ducked, her hair swooped forward.
“Are you serious?”
“Quite. She’s been checking you out.”
“Maybe. But that’s not exactly my…thing.”
Her savior-turned-friend, Cindy, had mistaken her for a lesbian once too. Why was that a thing with her? Was it her gruff exterior? Her lack of makeup? Her thick fingers?
“You want to meet Occam or not?” Zack said.
June finished jamming her pencils in the pouch. “I already hate vampires.”
Zack smiled widely, showing his fangs.
June tossed some money on the table for the bill, gathered up her sketchbook and pencils, stuffed them angrily into her bag, and slid out of the booth. After a moment’s hesitation, she strode toward the girl. Zack remained in the booth.
June stopped next to the girl’s table. She looked up at June, her brown eyes questioning.
June cleared her throat and said softly, “Show me your panties.”
June held her breath. A moment passed. Then slowly, the girl turned in her seat and unfolded her legs. June backed up but tried to shield her from view of the other patrons.
The girl gripped the edge of her jean skirt and slid it up. Her thighs were unusually thick for a woman. She hiked the skirt up until she exposed the triangle of her white silk panties.
A low laugh drifted over from June’s former booth.
“Thank you,” June said. “Go back to your magazine and forget about me.” She turned and marched back to Zack, who was still laughing.
“Can we go now?” she said. “Take me to your freakin’ leader.”
“Occam is no leader.” Zack slid out of the seat and rose to his feet. He stood a few inches taller than she, but then, everyone did. “Occam is a visionary.”
“Yes, he’s certainly got some clever disciples.” The girl had slid back into the booth and returned to her magazine. “That’s the first time I’ve used a junior high parlor trick since I made my brother’s friend show me his dick.”
“Now that’s enchantment.” He led the way out.
Despite the late hour, the streets were crowded. They were in the Nocturnal District, the main hangout for vampires in Chicago. Every vampire that passed eyed her, their leers more unnerving than the usual ones she got out on the streets, as if they wanted to eat her.
“Slow the hell down,” she eventually huffed, a few paces behind Zack.
Zack slowed. The night was warm and humid, typical mid-May weather in Chicago, unlike Sacramento where it was dry and cool at night in the summer. June had discovered humidity was not her friend.
“I got shot in the lung.” She struggled for breath as she fell in step beside him. “I smoked like a chimney every day until it happened, so it’s taken a long time to heal. I don’t have any lung capacity anymore.” She also had limited use of her right arm, the muscles connecting it to her torso having hardened with scar tissue.
“You were shot at the Institute?”
“Escaping the Institute.” June cringed as a tall Latino man looked her up and down with slow deliberateness.
“I don’t know much about you.” Zack slowed his pace more. “They don’t talk about you anymore. Every once in a while someone will say, ‘I wonder what happened to the Coffin twins?’ but the papers and the news have bigger fish to fry these days.”
“Yeah, Chicago seems to have forgotten we were ever here.” Had they forgotten about them in California, where they were from, too?
“Most people believe you’re dead,” Zack said. “Normals think you were killed by the SNC or the Paranormal Alliance, and paranormals think you were killed by the Institute. It’s convenient. A dead woman no one cares about. Best subterfuge you could ask for.”
They stopped at a street corner, vampires sliding past them. Music thumped, muffled and distant, from nearby clubs. Neon seared the darkness. The smell of smoke, booze, perfume, and car exhaust hung thick in the air, making it even harder to breathe.
“Yeah, being dead is great.”
Did their mother think they were dead too? Had she accepted the idea? When June closed her eyes at night, it wasn’t thoughts of the Institute that plagued her, or the war that was slowly building, or what they’d do if the police—or worse, Eric Greerson’s supporters—finally found them. Her mother’s face loomed in the darkness. Her friends back home in Sacramento, uninformed and uncertain, haunted her thoughts. She was a spectator at her own funeral and she couldn’t get her balance.
They crossed the street. On the other side, Zack slowed again.
“Not far now,” he said.
Fewer people walked this side of the street. Shadows crawled across the pavement and cloistered them. She raked a hand through her hair—her right one, because Aaron’s doctor told her the more she used her arm the better it would get, which so far had proved to be bullshit. Her arm fell limply to her side again when she lowered it. Her long hair was badly in need of a cut and shaping, not to mention her roots were showing like a bitch. Haircuts and shopping trips were infrequent while in hiding.
“Don’t feel bad about being forgotten.” They turned a corner onto a darker, quieter street with low-rise buildings and a few houses. “This whole city is about to collapse. It won’t matter soon.” He chuckled, an oddly tantalizing and companionable sound in the darkness.
“Sounds ominous.”
“At the end of the coming clash, the vampires will be the only ones left standing. That’s the beauty of neutrality. We’ll be sifting through the ashes when the fight is over.”
“Like scavengers. Picking the bones for treasure.”
The media heralded the “coming clash” every day on TV and in the papers. The Paranormal Alliance grew more and more radical by the day. Members of the SNC—Aaron’s secular non-paranormal group—had either joined forces with Sam’s group or splintered into rogue factions. All of them wanted the Institute closed down. Unrest swelled: violence, riots, even bomb threats and arson attempts on the Institute.
“The scavengers will inherit the earth,” Zack said. “When the rest of you get done killing each other, we’ll gather up what’s left and rebuild this city in our image.”
They stopped outside a brick building four stories tall, a small porch attached to the front. Lights were on in many of the windows. Music drifted out.
“How’s your lung feel about climbing stairs?” Zack asked. “Because we’re going to the top floor, and the elevator’s been out of service for months.”
June groaned.
June stood in the dimly lit dingy foyer of the building, a wooden staircase rising in front of her. Music thumped from the floors above. The scent of pot hung on the stuffy air. Stairs were not her friend these days, along with humidity and walking and…everything.
At least she’d get a good bout of physical therapy.
By the second floor, she had to stop. She slumped against a wall, panting, her bag drooping off her shoulder. Zack waited a few steps above her.
“Is the bullet still in you?” he asked.
June nodded. Every breath burned on the right side, her chest tight. She had turned into a weak, bedraggled old woman.
Zack seemed to think differently. “It’s kind of sexy and dangerous.” He flashed his fangs in a grin. “So’s that ink.” He slid his gaze over June’s bare, heavily-tattooed arms. “Nice work.”
“Thanks. I did most of it myself.” Her breaths evened out. “It’s a good thing I’m ambidextrous. I doubt I’ll be tattooing again with my right hand.” She lifted her arm and flexed her fingers.
I doubt I’ll be tattooing again at all. Especially if I’m dead
.
“Want me to carry you the rest of the way up?”
“In your dreams.”
She was winded again by the fourth floor, but she didn’t take another break. People crammed the fourth floor hallway, doors open, music and voices issuing from doorways. Smoke filled the air with an opaque haze. Though mostly pot, the underlying cigarette smell caused her to salivate.
The vampires here were not trendy young hipsters like at the diner. Most of them were older and much more grizzled. June hung in some rough circles in Sacramento. Leather, ink, and shaved heads were not foreign to her, but these vampires were blatantly malicious. Their dark, brooding presence and their defensive stances oozed danger and warning. No one spoke to her, but they watched her pass with keen, glittering eyes. This was the wrong party house to stumble into unaware.
Zack led her through an open door near the end of the hallway. They stepped into an apartment, noisy with voices and music. The place was a shit hole—sparsely furnished, trash and clutter everywhere, stained carpet, cracked paint. The walls were white, but the corners and ceiling were yellow with cigarette smoke, like nicotine wallpaper. June’s tiny apartment above her tattoo shop seemed homey in comparison, though her place was admittedly cluttered and not in the best condition either. People sat around on the few pieces of furniture and on the floor, drinking from bottles and cans, smoking and talking.
Eyes followed her as Zack led her into the apartment, down a hallway, and into another room. This one held a couch, a couple of chairs, and a widescreen TV that several people were playing a video game on. Some sort of military-type shooter. Two people sat on the couch, lazy-eyed, bottles in hand, passing a joint back and forth.
“Occam,” Zack said. “Your appointment is here.”
The man he addressed sat slumped in one of the chairs, in front of a set of windows that were open, making the room less hazy than the outer one. He had his legs draped over the arm of the chair and a video game controller in his hands, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Someone immediately paused the game.
If this was Occam Reed, June was a little flabbergasted and a lot disappointed.
He was middle-aged, paunchy, and wide-shouldered, with a square jaw and short, messy, spiky blond hair. Behind him on the windowsill, an array of liquor bottles sat, most of them empty. He lifted his arm and looked at a clunky black watch on his wrist.
“Is it three already?” He had a deep, low-pitched voice, smooth and vaguely creepy, like the kind serial killers used to lure people into bushes.
“Yes.” Zack stood in the middle of the room. “June Coffin.” He jerked his head at her. “June, Occam Reed.”
A guy and girl sat on the floor, video game controllers in their hands as well. A tiny, curvy black girl sprawled in the chair next to Occam.
“I guess it is.” Occam slung his legs over the side of the chair.
He tossed his controller on the floor. The girl there grabbed it up. A vast presence emanated from Occam, making it clear he was the head honcho in this room, maybe the whole building. His piercing stare reminded her of Sam’s—as if he wanted to drill into her aorta with his eyeballs. He plucked the cigarette from the corner of his mouth.
“So you’re the messenger?” he said. “The poor child Sam and Aaron sent into the woods?” He jerked his chin at Zack.
Zack turned and left the room.
“I wouldn’t call myself Little Red Riding Hood.” She tried to maintain a cool façade. “Though you do look like a bunch of big bad wolves.”
Titters and snorts went up. Occam took a pull off his cigarette, bouncing one of his legs. He narrowed his eyes and blew the smoke out.
“Clear out, guys.” He glanced at the TV. “Leave it paused, I’m winning.”
Everyone got up and filed out, except the black girl, who remained in her chair, gazing at June.
Occam gestured to the couch. “Sit, June Coffin.”
Her chest hurt and she needed to rest, despite her reluctance to relax. She walked to the couch and sat down on the end closest to Occam. The thing nearly sagged to the floor and reeked of cigarette smoke. Occam smoked down the last of his cigarette, knee still bouncing, the corner of his mouth pulling and jerking. His tic reminded her of Sam’s bodyguard, Muse, whom June had grown so accustomed to she barely noticed her little tremors now. However, Occam’s tics were more familiar to June. They were chemically induced, not neurological.
He slid his tongue over his cracked lips. He took one more puff and then swiveled and ground out the cigarette on the arm of his chair. A wide black burnt spot showed it was his favorite ashtray. He flicked the butt into the space between the couch and his chair.
“So.” He rubbed his hands together. He thankfully quit bouncing his fucking knee. “They sent you into the belly of the beast to ask for our help fighting the mean old Institute.” He had little stubs of fangs, brighter than the rest of his dull, yellowed teeth. “This is dangerous territory, Little Red. You think you’ll get out alive?”
June reached down and slid the bottom of her T-shirt up, revealing the butt of the gun tucked into the holster on her hip. “Yep.”
Occam chuckled and flopped back in his chair, legs splayed in front of him. June dropped her shirt back down over the gun.
“Belle,” Occam addressed the black girl. “Make me a drink. You want one?” he asked June.
“More than you know. But I think I better keep my wits about me. I’d rather you didn’t get me vulnerable and make me into a blood milkshake.”
Occam laughed, loud and jarring.
Belle stood up. Her features reminded June of Zack. Were they related? Her hair was dark blond and she wore all white, like a vampire angel. She turned to a set of shelves on the wall cluttered with bottles and glasses and grabbed a rocks glass.
“You know how to use that thing?” Occam gestured to June’s hip.
“Yes.” She’d been practicing. Not easy with only one good arm.
“I heard about your plight.” Occam lifted his leg and rested his ankle on the opposite knee. He started bouncing his foot. “What they did to you and your brother at the Institute. Your daring escape. Your terrible wound.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Sam and Aaron filled me in when they were lobbying to get you here.”