Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (79 page)

I have to ask, “Will I turn into a vampire?”

“For that he'd have to drain you to the point of death, and then you'd have to drink his blood in return.”

“I'm pretty sure I didn't do that.”

“It's all in the primer.” He kneels next to the sofa. “I thought you read it.”

“Yeah, but there could have been advances in vampire technology in the last fifty years.”

“Some things never change. Now hold still.”

It hurts when he cleans it, almost as much as the original injury. I can't hold back a whine.

“I'm really sorry,” he says.

“It's not you. I have a low pain threshold. I need sedation just to go to the hairdresser.”

“No, I mean, I'm sorry he hurt you.”

“You said that already.”

“They can be very persuasive.”

I start to protest that it was my idea to come back to my apartment, but then I remember it was Shane who first proposed it, in the liquor store. “His breath is warm,” I tell David, recalling the way the refrigerator door fogged up when Shane spoke to me through it. “I thought vampires didn't have body heat.”

“He's young, still has the side effects of humanity. Life and undeath, it's not either-or, it's more of a continuum.”

“When did he, you know—”

“Die? April 1995. Regina made him.”

I snort. Special connection, all right.

David plops the washcloth in the bowl, pats my wound dry with a soft clean towel, then gently applies an antibiotic ointment. My angry humiliation quenches any possible attraction to him. Ever.

“You need stitches,” he says, and embarrassment becomes the least of my problems.

“No no no. I hate sharp things. Why do you think I kicked Shane's head away?”

“You won't feel it.” He unwraps a syringe and pokes it into a little vial. “Lidocaine.”

I try to scoot away, but I'm at the end of the couch, and my leg hurts worse than ever. “Is this standard issue for an EMT?”

“It's not the first time I've had to clean up after my employees.”

Fear of the syringe has finally woken me up. “Time out. You owe me answers.”

“Which I'll be happy to give while the lidocaine takes effect.”

I cover my eyes with my arm. “Get it over with.”

The needle slips under my skin. I bite the edge of the throw pillow until it's over.

I uncover my face. David puts the syringe in a red plastic biohazard bottle, then opens a suture kit. The sight of all that stainless steel sharpness makes my stomach pitch like I'm on a capsizing boat.

“Talk to me so I don't throw up.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Not vampires. “Did you learn medic stuff in the army?”

“Technically the term is ‘combat lifesaver,' not ‘medic.'” He takes off the gloves and smooths the front of his blue polo shirt. “And technically I wasn't in the army.” He sits on the edge of the sofa cushion. “I was in a paramilitary group called the International Agency for the Control and Management of Undead Corporeal Entities. The Control, for short.”

Right, because “IACMUCE” doesn't have much of a ring.

“You said, ‘International.' So they're not affiliated with the U.S. government?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Much older. Around for millennia, although it wasn't always called the Control. Its original name is in an unpronounceable dead language.” He puts on a new set of gloves and starts arranging the
torture implements on a clean towel. I'm going to trust a vampire hunter to stitch my leg? I check to see if the phone is within reach. Nope.

“Anyway,” he continues, “those at the top levels of national governments are aware of them and even coordinate operations with them when it suits their needs.”

“Does the Control kill vampires?”

“Originally, yes.” David picks up a scalpel and looks at my wound. He changes his mind and puts it back in the kit, allowing my heart to start beating again. “But about a hundred years ago, their focus changed to management. Sign of the times, I guess, with the worldwide rise of bureaucracy. Besides, like wolves or bears, the vast majority of vampires don't kill.”

I'm not surprised, given that Shane let me go. “Then they're not evil?”

“Like humans, some vampires are bad, some are good, most are in-between. Granted, having so much power and beauty does turn some of them into monsters.” David's jaw tightens for a moment, then he seems to will himself to smile. “On the other hand, to protect themselves, they have to be model citizens.”

“Why?”

“Police stations have windows.”

I draw in a sharp breath. “Sunlight, of course. So where do they get their blood? Butcher shops?”

“No, it has to be human blood. They either get it from blood banks or from donors who like to be bitten.”

“What kind of freak would want to be bitten?”

He looks away quickly, a spot of red flushing each cheek.

Oh. Ew.

He picks up the sickle-shaped needle. “You should be numb by now.”

He has me lie down, then arranges the blanket to provide a semblance of modesty and keep me from seeing what he's doing. When the needle enters, it feels like it's poking someone else's skin. No pain.

I let out a deep sigh of relief. “Will I have a scar?”

“Not a bad one, if I can help it.” His face is the portrait of concentration; you'd never know he's operating a few inches from my crotch.

“So back to the Control,” I say to ease the tension.

“By the time I joined, disposal was the exception. We only eliminated a few vampires, the ones who went crazy and posed a threat to civilians.”

“You mean when they started to lose touch with their Life Time, like the brochure said.”

“Right. The primer and the field manual are for Control agents.”

“Which you're not anymore?”

He pauses before answering. “I left to start the radio station with our owner.”

“And the owner, is he—”

“She. Elizabeth.” A muscle twitches near his left eye. “A vampire.”

“Why would she sell the station? Won't her fellow vamps lose their jobs?”

“And their home, and probably their sanity.”

My neck jerks. “Sanity?”

He stops stitching and looks me in the eye. “They'd lose what is, for their kind, a unique opportunity to function in this world in spite of—or rather, because of—their temporal peculiarity.”

“The whole ‘stuck in time' thing? Yeah, I guess Grace-land only needs so many nighttime tour guides.” I pretend I don't care about the answer to this question: “Will they die if the station's sold?”

“Not right away.” He turns back to the operation. “Theoretically they could live forever, getting physically stronger. But psychologically, they start to decay.”

“Can you tell by looking at them?”

“Not at first. If you compared, say, Shane or Regina to other vampires their age, you wouldn't see much difference.” He carefully shifts my knee to spread my thighs farther apart. “But once they're twenty-five or thirty in vampire years, like Jim or Noah, they become … vacant.”

“So how does the station keep that from happening to—” I almost say “our vampires” “—to your vampires?”

“The music links them with their past, and the news and weather reports they have to read link them with the present.” He tilts his head. “At least on the surface.”

“So where are all these other decaying vampires?”

“All over.” He pulls a tiny pair of scissors from the suture kit. “But as far as I know, our six are the only ones in Sherwood.”

I catch his use of “our.” “Do they usually hang out in groups like the DJs do?”

“Some are loners, but most try to find a community of like minds.” David makes a quick snip with the scissors. “There's a big group out in the hills about an hour from here, but they're pretty fanatical about keeping to themselves.” He smooths an adhesive bandage over the wound. “All done.” He hands me a tube of goop and a foil pack of antibiotics. “Start these, and keep the wound dry for at least a day.”

I read the directions on the packages. “I'm an idiot. I didn't even think about infection last night.”

“Shock makes people temporarily stupid. But don't worry—vampires are technically dead, so their saliva has no germs.” He looks at my grimy couch. “Though it might have gotten infected overnight. Any questions or problems, my office door is—well, it's usually closed, but just yell.”

I scoff. “I'm not coming back to the station.”

“Yes, you are.” He latches the red bag. “It's either that or go back to conning old ladies out of their nest eggs.”

The freeze starts at my spine and goes upward and outward. How could he know … ?

The Control. A group like that would have access to more than an everyday background check and credit report.

I stare at him and wish words would come out of my mouth.

“But I think you're over that, Ciara. I think you're ready to put your talents to more legitimate use.”

My voice is low. “I never stole from old ladies. Not once.”

“All predators pick on the weak.” David collects the gloves, bowl, and bloody washcloths as casually as if we were discussing the Orioles game. “Why should you be any different?”

I tug the blankets over me again, up to my shoulders. “Who else knows?”

“Just the owner and me.” He carries the supplies to the kitchen sink. “So far.”

I hold back a shiver. “So you're blackmailing me into working for you.”

He looks up then, startled. “No. It's your choice. But you need a real job, and we need someone who can sell.”

“Who can trick.”

“Whatever.” He turns on the water and scrubs his hands. “The point is, our interests coincide.”

The “old ladies” comment ricochets around my brain, stinging me with each bounce.

“You think you know all about me.” My voice stays as cold as my skin feels. “You have no idea.”

“Maybe. But I never will, if you chicken out.” He turns off the water, then towels his hands dry. “We'll call today sick leave, with pay, even though it's Saturday. It's the least I can do.”

“The least you can do is leave.”

“Before I do, can I fix you something to eat?” He opens the refrigerator. “Oh.” His voice echoes in the emptiness. “Maybe I should get us some bagels.”

My stomach growls without my permission, and I stuff the blanket against it. After the things he said, after what he's trying to manipulate me into—damn it, I'm hungry.

“Egg and cheese on sesame seed.”

He rubs his hands together. “Good. Be right back.”

“Cheddar cheese. And sausage. Sun-dried tomato if they don't have sesame seed. If they do, I'll take one of each. And a large coffee, three sugars. The Kenyan blend, if they have it.”

I hear David murmur, “Students,” under his breath as he leaves.

The moment he's out the front door, I limp to the hall closet. I yank my suitcase from beneath a fallen coat and unzip the flap.

“Shit on a stick.”

Time was, I had a bag packed with all the essentials so I could skedaddle in five minutes flat. I was Ready. The
Department of Homeland Security would have held me up as the paragon of preparedness.

The suitcase still contains my important papers, of which a person like me has very few. But over the last year I've raided it for underwear, shirts, and crackers when I've run low on laundry and groceries.

Comfort begets contentment. Contentment begets complacency. Complacency begets carelessness. My folks taught me that family tree even before King David through Jesus. But the crowds only heard me recite the latter.

I haul the nearly empty suitcase into my room. A handful of clothes from each drawer should cover it. A trip to the bathroom with a wrinkled shopping bag gives me a month's worth of toiletries. I dash back to the bedroom, fast as the pain will allow. As my feet slip into my kindest pair of jeans, I'm suddenly glad there are no pets to leave behind.

My CDs lie scattered on the shabby rug, where Shane left them last night.

I remember the look on his face as he organized them, like something else had a hold of him. It wasn't his choice to put Peter Gabriel before Godsmack. He was in the grip of something that was carrying him farther and farther from this world.

I turn away from the stereo. Why should I care?

Car keys lie on my desk next to the computer monitor. As I grab them, something snags my memory. A small thing that shackles my feet.

If I leave now, I'll never get it back.

Without sitting down, I slam the space bar to wake the computer out of standby. The monitor blurts to life to
show my e-mail reader, where the M folder stands in bold with a “1” after it. I click.

Ciara honey,

I told you they'd let me have Internet access again if I was a good girl. If there's one thing I excel at, it's being a good girl. I trust the same can still be said of you
.

Did I tell you about the picture I have of you?Ikeep it wedged into my cellmate's box spring so I can see it last thing before lights-out
.

In the picture you're seven or eight—when your hair was so blonde, it made a halo when you stood in the sunlight. You're wearing your pink Easter dress, showing off your new Bible. You remember the white one with your name in gold letters, the one with all the tho'us and thees in it? Back then, proper people still ‘used the King James
.

My body grows heavy, but I don't sit down.

The picture's not square, because I had to tear out the legs of people walking by in the background. People ready for miracles
.

I miss the miracles, Ciara. We don't get many of them in here
.