“Oh my God.” I kneel before the hottest pair of red pumps. “These would look so amazing on me.” I check the brand. “Ferragamos! I always wanted a pair of—fuck, they’re the wrong size.” I hurl the shoe on the floor. It bounces under a row of skirts and hits something metallic.
Shane shoves apart the skirts to reveal a foot-high combination safe. “Excellent.”
Before he pulls it out, he eyes me clutching the other red pump. I toss it aside, chagrined at my estrogen outburst.
“You didn’t see that.”
Shane drags the safe out of the closet and carries it to the bed. While Travis and I watch, he kneels beside the safe and pulls a pencil and a sheet of graph paper from his back pocket.
“What’s that for? “I ask him.
“I’ll show you when I’m done.” He looks at his unwelcome audience. “It’s tedious and takes forever. Go do something else, quietly.”
We obey. In the living room, David is inspecting the bookshelf under the long, high window, which is covered in heavy room-darkening curtains. He pulls out a few volumes that look like Control manuals. “In case the police come,” he tells us as he stuffs them in a duffel bag.
I approach a large wall-mounted cabinet on the far side of the dining room. I fish Elizabeth’s keys from my purse and unlock it. “Whoa.”
The cabinet contains an arsenal of anti-vampire weaponry: crosses, sharpened stakes, a long sword, a crossbow.
And at the bottom, a gun shaped like a prop from a 1940s alien invasion flick.
Travis approaches, giving the stakes a wary eye. “I never saw a piece like that before.” He picks up the gun. “What kind of—”
“Don’t touch that!” David shouts.
Travis drops the gun. I leap back, expecting it to go off. Instead of a heavy thud, it makes a hollow
whap
! against the floor. I bend down and pick it up.
David stalks over to me. “It doesn’t fire bullets.”
“It’s plastic.” I heft it in my hand. “Like a water pistol.”
“It
is
a water pistol.”
I look at the two bottles of holy water in the cabinet.
A box of latex gloves sits next to them, presumably for Elizabeth’s safe handling.
I scrape the gun’s rough surface with my nail to reveal bright pink. “Aren’t there laws against painting water pistols black?”
“They need to be camouflaged for night ops,” David says. “And a Control agent would never carry a pink-and-yellow weapon. It’s a macho thing.”
“Can someone kill a vampire with this?” I point the gun at Travis. “Like the vampire who tried to rip out my throat the other night?”
The detective puts his hands up, paling. “I said I was sorry.”
“Actually, I don’t think you did.”
David steps between us. “It won’t kill him, but it would burn him badly.”
“It’s empty.” I flip the gun to David, sending Travis a wicked grin. “Besides, sacred weapons don’t work in my hands.”
“Holy water’s different from crosses.” David checks the pistol, then picks up one of the empty duffel bags he left on the table. “It’s intrinsically powerful because it’s been blessed. Most crosses, on the other hand, are just profane pieces of jewelry made in a factory. They have no power unless they’re wielded in faith.” He crams the gun, the holy water, and a small funnel into the outside pocket of the duffel bag. “Also, a vampire never completely heals from a holy water burn. It leaves permanent scars.”
“Then I won’t use it to give Shane a sponge bath.” I lift the sword from the cabinet and unsheathe its long curved blade. “Ooh, nice machete.”
“It’s a katana.” David takes it from me, reverentially,
both hands on the hilt. He steps into the open area between the dining room table and the living room sofa. “Considered by many to be the perfect fighting weapon.” He assumes a defensive stance, eyes narrowed, ready to strike an unseen foe. “It provides range, control—” He swings it in a whistling arc. “—and power.”
“What’s it for? “I ask him.
He blinks himself back into our world and lowers the sword. “Beheading vampires.”
We look at Travis, who’s turned even paler. He waves his thumb at the hallway. “I better go help Shane with . . . stuff.”
When he leaves, David resheathes the sword and places it carefully in the duffel bag. It’s too long, so the hilt hangs out of the opening.
“Do you miss it?” I hand him as many stakes as I can hold. “The slayage?”
“No,” he says, too quickly. “I like what I do now. I want to keep doing it.”
Last come the crossbow and quiver of arrows. “Why would she keep these weapons here, when they could be used against her?”
David takes the crossbow. “She wanted to make the world safe from vampires, not the other way around.”
“So why would a self-hating vampire start a radio station?”
David stops, still holding the crossbow. “Because I wanted it,” he says without looking at me. “She felt bad for almost ending my life.” He runs his finger over the trigger. “It was complicated.”
“Yeah!” comes a voice from the bedroom.
David stuffs the weapon in the bag. We hurry to the
bedroom as Shane opens the door. He shakes the graph paper, which is full of lines and circles.
“Jackpot,” he says and makes a grand gesture to the bed, where the safe sits wide open.
Travis is sifting through a pile of papers. He smiles and hands them to me. “Birth certificate, Social Security card, PIN numbers, passwords. Everything you need to become Elizabeth Vasser.” He looks at David. “Didn’t find a will, but maybe Ciara can get a copy from Elizabeth’s attorney. Just in case, I’ll check the other room.” He heads into the hall.
“Nice work.” I notice Shane’s holding a small black jewelry box. “What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s just—” He hands it to David. “Sorry.”
David opens the box. His face goes slack. “She kept it.” He sinks onto the bed. “I can’t believe she kept it.”
“You two were engaged?” I ask him.
“For about a week.” His thumb curves around the corner of the box. “Before she turned.”
“You must have meant something to her if she kept it.” I sit beside him. “I think she’d want you to have it.”
He takes the ring out of the box and holds it up to the light, which sparks like fire off the diamond and rubies. “What would I do with it?”
“I could get you a good deal at Dean’s.”
He looks at me as if I’ve drowned the cat. “You want me to pawn her engagement ring?”
“Be practical. You could be out of a job.” I hold up the documents. “Elizabeth’s going to help the station from beyond the grave. Let her help you, too.”
David examines the ring in his palm. “I haven’t been able to afford a vacation in years. Even just to Florida to
see my mom would be nice.” He shakes his head hard. “What am I saying? If Elizabeth wanted me to have the ring, she would’ve given it to me.” David puts it back in the box, which he tosses in the safe. He slams the door shut and turns the lock, then stalks out.
Shane carefully sets the safe back in the closet and arranges the row of skirts to hide it.
I follow him in and point to the graph paper in his hand. “What’s all that mean?”
He unfolds the paper. “It’s complicated, but each number of the combination corresponds to a wheel in the mechanism. This one has three. After finding the contact points—”
“By listening?”
“Right, like in the movies.” He explains the process, showing me the click points on the graph paper. I don’t catch most of it, but I notice the three numbers: 12, 43, and 61. He’s crossed out the first two permutations, leaving four others.
“Fascinating. You’ll have to teach me more some time, and I’ll show you how to do a pigeon drop.” I sift through the closet. “They’ll never believe I’m Elizabeth in my Kmart cast-offs.” I pull out an ice-blue suit and hold it up in front of me. “Flattering?”
“Very.” He nods approvingly at the short hemline of the skirt. “You’re going to steal it, aren’t you?”
“I’m borrowing it for the meeting. First I have to try it on.”
“I’m not talking about the suit.” He holds up the graph paper. “I could just tell you the combination, or I could open it for you if you want the ring that bad.”
Foiled
. I give him an indignant glare. “Why would I steal the ring? I’m not a thief.”
He brushes his hand against my arm. “I get it, okay? Running a con makes you feel more alive than anything. You feel powerful, smart, superior.”
“That’s not—”
“If you want to go back to grifting, I won’t stand in your way.” He steps back. “But don’t ever lie to me, Ciara. Don’t play me.”
He leaves the closet and shuts the door behind him.
I mull his words as I whip off my clothes. I can run a con and still be a good person, right? I’m pulling this scam
because
I’m a good person. How dare Shane get all judgmental when it’s his ass I’m trying to save. He needs a home, he needs his music, he needs a purpose in life.
And David needs a vacation, I tell myself as I open the safe.
After I’m dressed—minus the shoes, tragically—I find the men in Elizabeth’s office examining a wall map of the United States.
Shane looks at me. “And you thought
I
was weird.”
Each state has a silver coin taped to it. “So she collected state quarters. Lots of people do that.” I feel sad that she only made it to Idaho before getting staked.
David hands me a Polaroid photo. It’s a nighttime flash shot of a U-Haul truck. On the side of the truck is a picture of racehorses under the word “Kentucky.” Scribbled underneath in neat Magic Marker are the date and location of the sighting.
I look up to see rows of U-Haul state design photos pinned to the wall next to the map.
“Okay, that’s weird.”
The doorbell rings. We all gape at each other for a long second, flatlining from panic. The cat leaps out of David’s arms and scampers down the hall.
“The weapons.” I dash for the dining room in my bare feet. The jingle of keys comes from the other side of the door. I grab the duffel bag from the table just as the knob turns.
The door swings open to reveal a tall, well-built bald guy in a black uniform. He looks unsurprised to find me here. “Evening, ma’am.” He turns and nods to someone behind him in the hallway.
Through the door steps the white-haired man from Gideon’s complex. He gives me a wide smile.
“There you are, Pumpkin.”
My vision clouds, and I feel my face crumple. My throat, tight as a fist, can squeak only one word.
“Daddy?”
He holds his hands toward me, palm up. “Look at you, all grown up. In a suit, no less.”
All I can do is clutch the straps of David’s heavy duffel bag. Instinct tells me to keep the table between myself and this—impersonator.
As if reading my mind, he says, “It’s really me. The prodigal father.”
I back up, still holding the bag. When it slides off the table, its weight tears it out of my hands and sends it crashing to the floor, wood and metal clattering.
I rub the pulled muscle in my forearm. “Dad, what are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story. Can I get a hug first?”
David and Shane come up next to me, one on each side.
“Major Lanham?” David says to the first man, the one who’s not
my freaking father
.
“It’s Lieutenant Colonel now,” the man replies, pointing
to something silver on his shoulder. “Good to see you, Fetter.”
I turn to David. “You knew about this?”
“No.” He holds up his hands. “Okay, I knew we had to hire you as a favor to someone in the Control. I didn’t know who or why.”
“Ciara.”
At the sound of my father’s voice, I turn to him.
“Is that all you have to say after eight years?” He opens his arms. “I missed you, Angel.”
My throat clogs up. I don’t want to move toward him, but I can’t help it. His red-gold hair has faded to a shocking white, but the glint in his wide blue eyes is the same one he always had, reading me a bedtime story or gazing at my mom across a crowded revival tent.
He meets me halfway and takes me in his arms. His cozy plumpness is gone, and I can feel his collarbone and shoulder blades through his soft cotton shirt.
I start to sob. None of the questions or accusations matter right now. They feel like they might never matter again.
He passes soothing strokes over my back. “It’s all right,” he says, “we’re here now. No one’s going to send me away this time.”
I cling to him even after his arms slacken to signal the hug’s impending conclusion. Finally he draws me away and wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t cry, honey. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“But—but, why?”
Colonel Lanham gestures to the living room. “Perhaps we should all sit down.”
On numb legs I walk to the center of the couch. After
I sit, my father joins me on my right. To my relief, Shane sits on my other side. He extends his hand across me.
“Shane McAllister.” His tone is cordial but chilly.
“Ronan O’Riley.” Dad shakes his hand and beams at him. “You’re a vampire, aren’t you? I haven’t seen many as young as you. You pass very well.”
Shane gives him a nod of acknowledgment. When he sets his hand on the cushion beside me, I place mine over it. Just so things are clear from the start.
The touch of his skin returns my equilibrium. I shift away from my father, ostensibly so that I can see him better. “Start from the beginning.”
He opens his mouth, but Colonel Lanham speaks instead.
“Your father has been working undercover with the Control at Gideon’s compound for two years.” He sits on the edge of the recliner, ramrod straight, as if balancing plates on his head. “We offered him parole from federal prison in exchange for information and his help in this project.”
“It was either that or the Witness Protection Program.” Dad nudges me with his elbow and winks. “This seemed like more fun, no?”
“What information?” I ask him.
His smile fades, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “I never told you much about my family. That was for your protection. You’ve heard of the Travellers?”
“Aren’t they like gypsies or something?”
He shakes his head emphatically. “They hate that word, ‘gypsy.’ They’re Irish itinerants, folk who travel from place to place in the South and Midwest, selling their wares.”