Three Days To Dead (18 page)

“A little bit, but even if there’s no record of her being a patient, the doctor will remember her.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have time to make an appointment. I’ve only got two days. I like the idea, but let’s table it for a while. I need to concentrate.”

“On Wyatt?”

Was I wearing a sign? “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Evy. He’s important to you.” Jealousy dripped from his words. His brain still had a difficult time distinguishing me (Evy) from the body that I inhabited. The befuddlement tempted me to just ditch him at the next block, but that was a death sentence. As soon as Tully and Wormer were found, Alex Forrester would be a wanted man.

Just like me.

But he was correct—Wyatt was important to me, and not just because of the investigation or our past. My resurrection bound me to him in a way I still didn’t understand. Since the moment he entered that burger joint, I had missed him. Physically missed his presence, like an amputee misses a leg or an arm. He was gone, and I was incomplete.

“He’s more than that,” I said.

“I figured.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked straight ahead, eyes on the traffic in front of him. “I’ve heard women talk about guys like that, with that tone.”

“We have a tone?”

“Forget it.”

“Oh no.” I turned sideways in the seat, giving my full attention, and he squirmed. “What tone?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, that’s all.”

“You should see me when I really want information from someone.” I cracked my knuckles for effect; he winced.

“I just …” His fingers flexed around the steering wheel. “I mean, I’ve never even met the guy and I’m a little jealous. Just ignore me for a while, okay?” Humor speckled his words, so I let it go. “Where are we going again?”

“Lincoln Street Bridge. I need to check on a friend.”

He nodded and moved into the right-turn lane. “Lincoln Street it is.”

A coat of fresh, black tar covered the underside of Smedge’s bridge. Every available cement surface was coated with the oily substance that prevented bridge trolls from rising. Smedge had been forced to relocate. The city had a plethora of bridges—footbridges, overpasses, train bridges—and an almost equal number of trolls. Finding another home would be difficult. Until he surfaced and sent word, I had no way of contacting my last Dreg ally.

Alex remained in the car with the engine running while I inspected the area. He hadn’t argued, and I appreciated his growing trust. The footprints in the dust were inconclusive. Average shoe sizes, bipedal, and at least four different people. They left nothing behind. Even the body of the hound I’d killed the day before was gone, every drop of blood washed away. Someone was being careful. Too careful.

I climbed back into the passenger seat and stared at the dashboard, willing an idea to come to me. Something more productive than sitting around and
waiting for dusk and the promised phone call from Rufus.

Staking out the phone booth was a good idea. That prevented someone else from getting there first and laying a trap—assuming he even called. I wanted to trust Rufus; his Triad was merely reacting to the information at hand. Their leader had been kidnapped. They needed to get him back at any cost. I understood that sort of blind devotion.

“Your friend’s not here?” Alex asked.

“No, he’s not.”

“So what now?”

It was time to do the one thing I’d been avoiding—go to the place I didn’t want to venture without Wyatt by my side. It could jog my memory, and I wanted Wyatt there when it did. He would understand without my giving him the details. Alex—bless his innocent little heart—needed everything painted in broad strokes. But as much as I hated going, I couldn’t just sit on my ass for four hours until the sun set.

“We go farther south,” I said. “Over the Anjean River, and follow the train tracks to the East Side.”

“What’s over there?” Alex asked, shifting the gear back into Drive.

“An abandoned train station. That’s where I died.”

*    *    *

“So how does one become a Dreg Hunter, exactly?” Alex asked.

Neither of us had spoken in the ten minutes it took to reach the East Side, and his question came without
preamble. I could only imagine what was going on in his head. “We recruit, same as anyone else.”

“Not quite like anyone else. You can’t exactly set up a booth on Career Day.”

I snickered. “We tend to do our recruiting at juvenile detention centers and orphanages.”

“Seriously?” His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“As a vampire bite. Though the recruiters don’t wear suits or ask for references. They want kids who are looking for direction, kids they can train to kill.”

“You say that like it’s normal.”

“Normal’s relative. When Bastian recruited me, I was barely eighteen, and my biggest goal at the time was avoiding an adult prison sentence for B&E.”

“Whose house did you break into?”

“The guy who ran the McManus Juvenile Detention Center. The one I was in for most of my teenage years.”

“Why’d you break into his house?”

“So I could beat the shit out of him. Payback for beating the shit out of me a couple of times.”

The steering wheel creaked; his knuckles were white. He stared at the road ahead, shoulders tense. “And orphans?”

“No one’s there to miss us when we die.”

“Someone obviously cared when you died.”

“I meant at Boot Camp.”

“What’s that?”

I blew hard through my teeth, glad we were nearly to the train station so the conversation could end. “They don’t just put a knife in our hands and tell us
to kill, Alex. We have to survive Boot Camp first. The ones who live become the Hunters.”

“And this is legal?”

“Probably not, but it’s necessary. Why do you think you’ve never heard of us before today?”

“What about Wyatt?”

“He’s definitely heard of us before today.”

“He’s your Handler, right?” Alex asked, exasperation leaking into his words. “Do they do Boot Camp?”

My lips parted. It was a question that, in four years, I’d never actually pondered. Handlers knew what they were doing; it wasn’t my job to ask how they learned it. “I’m sure they’ve got their own training requirements. Think of Hunters as the prizefighters and Handlers as their coaches.”

“Some of the best coaches are former players.”

I shrugged. “If any of the Handlers are former Hunters, no one talks about it. We do our job, we save lives, end of story.”

“Okay.”

Trees green with spring leaves surrounded the station. It felt desolate and lonely, the perfect place for a kidnapping. Ten-foot-tall chain-link fencing lined the perimeter, but the lock had long since vanished. Alex drove through the empty parking lot, cracked and overgrown with grass and dandelions. Space lines had faded away, leaving behind a sea of grayed asphalt and little else.

The station itself was two stories tall—an old-fashioned gabled style with peeling red walls and white trim. Boards covered windows long devoid of glass. Childish graffiti marked dozens of teenage dares
and initiations. The platform on the rear, facing the tracks, was warped and defaced and probably rotting in a dozen places. It smelled of fuel and decay.

Alex parked close to the building. He turned off the engine and reached for the door handle. I put a hand on his arm.

“Give me five minutes,” I said. “If I don’t come out, I want you to drive away like a bat out of Hell. Do you understand?”

He seemed poised to argue the point. Instead, he nodded.

I took a tire iron—the closest thing I had to a weapon—out of the trunk. Avoiding the platform and its potential fall hazards, I entered through the front. The door sported a brand-new padlock. It hung loosely on the hinge. I brushed a finger across its surface—no dust. Someone was there. My heart thudded; I willed it to slow. I wanted to warn Alex away, but curiosity drew me inside.

The knob turned without squeak or protest. The hinges were oiled. The thick odors of dust surprised me. My nose twitched. I pinched it to force back a sneeze.

The lobby was empty, illuminated by gaps in the boarded windows. The dusty floor sported a trail of footprints and smudges, all leading past the rows of glass ticket booths to a rear door marked
PERSONNEL
. I tiptoed toward it, following the trail, silent as the dead. Wood creaked, but not under my feet. Somewhere lower.

At the door, I stopped to listen. No voices, no footsteps. My hand ached, and I flexed my grip on the tire iron. It helped, but my heart still pounded like
machine-gun fire. I wanted Wyatt—his gun, his courage, and his powers. I was weak in Chalice’s body, and I despised myself for it, but I had to press onward. If I quit or failed, Wyatt could die. No matter what Tovin demanded of him later, I couldn’t be responsible for his death. No one else I cared about was going to die before me.

The doorknob gave the tiniest squeak, which the hinges echoed. On the right were ticket windows long empty and relieved of their glass inserts. To the left was a staircase that descended into a distant light source. The old, grayed wood looked loud and dangerous, but I had no other way down. Progressing one foot at a time, I went down three steps before one creaked.

I froze. No movement below. No shouts or alerts. I was quickly running out my five-minute clock and had to keep going. Down three more. A narrow, dimly lit hallway came into view. Two bare bulbs hung from broken fixtures, set ten feet apart.

No sense of déjà vu overwhelmed me. No feeling of familiarity filled me or twisted my guts. Rufus said this was where I was kept, but I didn’t remember it—likely because I hadn’t been conscious during the trip down, and I’d certainly been dead during the trip back up. I needed to find the room I was held in.

The air shifted. I sensed it too late to duck properly. The cool body slammed into my shoulders instead of my back. I tucked and twisted and sent the body sailing over me. It hit the paneled wall with a rattling thud and a pained screech. I remained crouched, braced by my left hand, tire iron in the right, while the vampire righted itself with preternatural ease and flipped to its feet.

At first glance, vampire males are often difficult to distinguish from females—the same white-blond hair; the same pale, angular features; the same lithe, flat-chested figures—but this one was definitely female. Her violet eyes flashed. She bared brilliant white fangs. A feral growl bubbled up from her throat. She watched, but didn’t attack.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The welcome wagon,” I said. “We heard the place had new tenants, and wanted to drop off a fruit basket.”

She sneered. “You are not afraid.”

“I used to kill things like you for a living.”

“Used to?”

“I lost my license.”

“Or your nerve.”

I laughed; I’d lost more than my nerve. She stood up straight, paying no attention to the weapon in my hand. Her nose twitched. Muscles rippled beneath pale, stretched skin. She was trained, probably a soldier out doing a little recon. Vampires are notoriously tall and skinny, rarely shorter than five foot ten, but this one put her own kind to shame. She clocked in at six foot two easy, and towered over my still-crouched position. Like a fashion model, she reeked of malnourishment and starvation.

Not surprising when all you ate was blood.

“You are not human,” she said.

“Now, that’s not nice.” I swung the tire iron.

She ducked. Her fist slammed into my mid section. I used the sudden change in momentum to bring the iron down in the opposite direction. It cracked against
her ribs even as I fell to my knees, gasping for air. She retreated, snarling.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

I glared at her, still on my hands and knees. “I’m annoyed. Who are you?”

“I am impatient.”

“Nice to meet you, Impatient.”

Her purple eyes roved over my body, examining me. She inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. “What is your business here?”

“House hunting. Is this place for rent?”

She bared her fangs. “Can you not provide a serious response, child? I could kill you where you crouch.”

I drew up to my full height—not very impressive next to her—and held the tire iron back like a baseball bat. Ready to swing for home the moment she moved. “I dare you. What are you doing here? This isn’t your part of town.”

“I suspect my purpose is the same as yours—to discover the identities of those who would spread lies of an alliance between goblins and vampires, and to stop them.”

My jaw dropped. I couldn’t help it. Behind her formal tone, I heard sincerity. A small spark of hope flared to life.

“You’re against the alliance?” I asked.

She tilted her chin. “I and most of my kind see no benefit in it, in the long term, and know nothing of its purported existence. Goblins are a disagreeable sort—disgusting, destructive, and incapable of forming a productive society. Many vampires share their view of humanity, but I would prefer to live alongside
your kind than theirs. We would lose more by aligning ourselves with goblins than we could ever hope to gain.”

“Do your leaders share this opinion?”

Something flickered in her eyes—curiosity? “None of the Families speak of it openly, child, because it is not happening. I heard the rumors from an underling, but we do not act upon rumor, only upon facts. I fed the rumors to a human informant, and he was supposed to investigate the allegations, but I have since lost contact.”

Alarm bells wailed through my head. “What was your informant’s name?” I asked.

“He asks me to call him—”

“Evangeline!”

I spun toward the stairs, nearly tangling my ankles in my haste. Behind me, the vampiress snarled. Footsteps thundered down, followed moments later by the rest of Alex. He froze on the bottom step, hand on the narrow railing, attention fixed over my shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I said to him, keeping myself between the two. “He’s a friend, Impatient. He’s not a threat.”

She made a show of sniffing the air. “No, I suppose he is not. And my name is Isleen.”