Bring On the Night (15 page)

“I am.” I put my hands on my hips so that my jacket parted to reveal my
MAID-OF-HO
camisole. “How you doin’?”

He raised his eyes to meet mine, and I suddenly wished I was wearing sunglasses, or better yet, a welder’s mask. I felt a cold tickle behind my forehead, as if something were scratching around my brain like a cat in a litter box. It was more than the usual vampire magnet eyes.

But I didn’t look away. If Petrea didn’t like my attitude (aura, whatever), maybe he’d kick me out of IC. Then I could serve out my term in the Control behind a cozy desk in a climate-controlled office, concocting fake passports for
aging vampires.

Petrea’s eyes narrowed to little rat beads. “
Smecher
.”

My mouth dropped open. “What did you call me?”

He glanced at Tina and Lori. “Miss Griffin, let us speak in private.”

“An excellent idea.” Colonel Lanham’s eyes crinkled at the edges, the closest he would allow any expression of irony. No doubt he was glad to get Petrea and me out of his nonexistent hair.

Pivoting with precision, the vampire colonel beckoned me to follow him.

“What does
smecher
mean?” I asked Tina.

“It’s Romanian for ‘con artist.’” She tilted her head. “Still think he’s a charlatan?”

“Now more than ever.”

I followed Petrea along the damp blacktop lane. He stopped next to a modest-size mausoleum (if there is such a thing). I kept several feet of open air between us as he spoke.

“I understand your trait is unique within the ranks of the Control.”

I almost corrected him. My father and birth mother—who each had a diluted version of my anti-holy blood—had spent time as undercover Control agents. For all I knew, my mother was back in their ranks, though she claimed to be working as a phlebotomist in her native South Carolina.

But then I remembered the meaning of the word “undercover.” So I just nodded.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I don’t regard your neutralization as a real ability. To me, you’re nothing more than a metaphysical bucket of bleach, a walking bit of nothing. You have nothing to contribute to the corps.”

“Is this reverse psychology?” I asked him. “Trying to
make me all gung ho to prove you wrong? We can skip that. If you don’t want my service, then have Lanham reassign me.”

“You think we have a choice? This isn’t a corporation where you can just skip from one department to another if you don’t like your boss or if your boss hates you.”

“Why do you hate me? You don’t even know me.”

“I see inside you.” He stepped closer, and I fought not to retreat from the brain-skewering power of his gaze. “I see the lies that make up the fiber of your mind.” He shook his head slowly. “I see nothing I can work with, because there’s nothing there.” He shrugged. “Nothing but Gypsy scum.”

“You didn’t read me, you read my file. Found out I used to be a con artist and that my family are Irish Travellers—who hate the name ‘Gypsy,’ by the way.” I halved the distance between us, showing him I wasn’t afraid. “I know all about your kind—mediums, psychics, communicators. You gather a little intel on someone, then pretend to speak to their dead loved one or tell their fortune. To them it feels real, because they want to believe.”

His eyes grew suddenly haunted, and the manufactured spookiness pissed me off.

I lifted my chin. “But you can’t predict the future any more than David Copperfield can make the White House disappear. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s all bullshit.”

Petrea remained silent, his unfocused gaze pointing at me.

“So what do we do?” I asked him finally. When he still didn’t answer, I prompted him. “About my assignment?”

His gaze fell, and his voice softened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Miss Griffin, you are wrong. I can see people’s
futures.” He looked into my eyes. “And you don’t have one.”

Going Under

“It can’t be true.” Huddled on our sofa, I smooshed myself against Shane’s solid frame, but couldn’t stop shivering. “Petrea’s making it all up.”

“Of course he is,” Shane said, his arms steady around my body. “He probably found out about the chicken pox and was fucking with your mind. Maybe mental torture is part of the Control hazing process. You know how these charlatans operate, playing on people’s fears.”

His words and touch soothed me, until I remembered Jeremy’s words—that Shane was in denial. But hope was my only path to sanity.

“You’re probably right. He didn’t know about the theory that the zombie poisoned Aaron, because we had just come up with it right before he got there.”

It seemed like such a brilliant theory at the time. But really, what were the chances that Turner had gotten his illness straight from the zombie? The police had cordoned off the area as soon as they arrived, so they would’ve seen him—unless he’d found the body before Aaron and run off without calling the cops. He
was
sort of skittish.

“Speaking of which,” Shane said, “tell me more about
this zombie. You sure it wasn’t a hoax?”

I knew he was trying to distract me, but he was probably also insanely curious. The CAs would be a worldview-shattering development for a vampire.

“He was real, as far as I could tell. Reeked like rotten flesh, and the way he ran…” I shivered again and pulled the sofa’s fuzzy green blanket tighter around me. “It reminded me of you guys, except for the stumbling.”

“I guess if blood magic can create vampires, it could create one of those… things.”

“It wasn’t a thing. It was a person, or at least he used to be.” My breath eased, as I focused on something other than my possibly imminent demise. “I’m glad we were there. If it had gotten loose, it might’ve killed people. Plus, this way the Control can study it, maybe even figure out who summoned it.”

“I’m not glad you were there,” he said, “but if you had to be, I’m glad Regina was with you.”

“Yeah, otherwise Tina would’ve staked the zombie and gotten—um, what was the word Lanham used?—‘disrupted.’ And it would’ve poisoned the rest of us, and then I would be dying. If I’m not already.”

“You’re not dying.” Shane tightened his embrace.

Dexter shoved his face against my knee as he walked by, not stopping for a pat on his way to pick up a chew bone he’d left behind the chair.

“See?” Shane said. “Dexter doesn’t think you’re on your way out. Animals can sense these things better than stupid old psychics can.”

“Just because I’m not dying yet doesn’t mean the virus isn’t inside me.”

“Shh.” Shane drew his fingers down my cheek and along
my jawline. “If it is, remember, you had half the vaccine. So even if you get sick, it won’t be that bad. Worst that’ll happen is you miss Lori and David’s wedding.”

“Lori said they’d postpone rather than do it without me.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Her grandparents are coming from Finland.”

“And they’ll deal. Finns are a practical people, or so I’ve heard.”

I sighed and closed my eyes. “Shane, I’m scared. Can’t you be scared with me, or do you have to be Denial Dude?”

“Hey.” He took my face between his hands. “I’m worried, yes. But not scared. I have faith.”

“In what? Statistics?”

“Yes, but also in God. It’s in his hands.”

I stifled a groan. “Why would God care if I live or die? I’m just one person. I’m not even a very good person, and even if I were, bad things happen to good people all the time, so what does that prove?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly! So how can you find comfort in that?”

“It’s hard to explain. You either get it or you don’t.”

“I want to get it.” I grasped the front of his shirt. “Help me get it.”

“I’ll try.” He pulled me to sit across his lap, then wrapped his arms around me. “You know how when you think about us as a couple—I mean really think about us—the future seems totally impossible? Hell, even our present defies the odds.”

“So?”

“So why not give up? Why stay together?”

I opened my mouth to give the easy answer:
Because we love each other.
Well, duh.

“Because losing you now would definitely hurt a lot,” I told him. “Any future hurt is purely speculative. In finance we call that discounting. Only the present value matters.”

“But by not breaking up now, we could be making our eventual disintegration that much worse.”

“I don’t care.” I held up a finger. “See? I’m discounting.”

“Maybe that’s why I have faith in your life. The thought of you—not making it… I can’t even wrap my mind around the concept.” His arms tensed. “So I just believe.”

“Must be nice.” My whisper curled into a hiss. “To have such an easy mental exit.”

“I didn’t say it was easy.”

“A lot easier than facing reality.”

His left eye twitched, a sign I’d pissed him off. “What do you want me to do, Ciara?” he said softly. “Freak out and cry and beg you not to leave me? Would it make you feel better to watch me self-destruct? Or would you rather have someone to lean on?”

I considered for a long moment. “Are those my only options—drama queen or stoic soldier?”

He nodded solemnly. “Unless you want me to get a sex change.”

I sank down in his lap, nestling my head under his chin and fighting back tears. “I don’t want you to get an anything change.”

“I take it back. You’re definitely sick, because you’re getting all corny and cute on me. Better call the priest for last rites.”

I giggled sleepily. “He can leave the holy water at home,
since it won’t work on me. Besides, you might accidentally chug it, and I wouldn’t be around to heal you with a quick sip.”

Shane started to stroke my hair again. “If you weren’t around, no pain of mine would matter. Nothing would matter.”

My stomach plummeted, hard and heavy. I was afraid to ask if he meant that the way it sounded: when my life ended, whether tomorrow or decades from now, he would follow me into the great unknown. It would mean losing not only his unlife but, according to his own beliefs, his very soul.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I must have fallen asleep in Shane’s arms, because the phone woke us hours later. I checked the living room wall clock, which said ten after ten—a.m., I assumed, though the blackout curtains kept me from confirming.

I crawled out from under Shane’s left arm and leg and stumbled for the phone, my feet half asleep. Dexter moved out of the way just in time to avoid being tripped over.

“Thank God you’re home,” Lori said when I answered. “How are you feeling?”

“How are
you
feeling?” I attempted a smile, though she wasn’t there to see it. “Hungover?”

“Turner’s dead.”

Shane sat up suddenly. His sensitive ears must have heard that.

“Oh.” My knees turned cold and weak. I sat on the breakfast barstool so I didn’t end up on the floor. “That poor guy.” I pressed the heel of my hand against my temple. “If I hadn’t been so needle phobic, I would’ve gotten the shot like he did.
I could be dead, too.”

“I’m sorry I tried to make you get it. But you feel okay?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed quickly. “Other than a major case of cotton mouth. I’m never letting Regina make me a drink again.”

Shane went to the fridge and pulled out a cold bottle of water. He set it on the counter beside me, then disappeared into the bathroom, where I heard the creak of the medicine cabinet.

Lori’s words rushed out. “But you don’t feel feverish?”

“No. Maybe the incubation period is over and I’m not going to get sick.” I mouthed a thanks to Shane as he placed two aspirin next to the water bottle.

“Ciara, that’s not all.” Lori’s voice shook, and after a deep breath, it shook even more. “David called from the station. The
Baltimore Sun
sent out a breaking news e-mail fifteen minutes ago.”

The skin across my shoulder blades prickled. “About what?”

“Two more Sherwood students went to the hospital last night with this chicken pox supervirus.”

I gripped the edge of the counter as Shane slid his arm around my waist to steady me. “What’s their condition?”

“Critical. They’re in comas.”

My mind scrambled for another explanation, even as the cold fear threatened to halt all brain cell activity. Dexter sniffed my ankles and uttered a soft whine.

“Are they sure it’s chicken pox?” I asked her. “Meningitis happens a lot with kids living in dorms.”

“The symptoms are all the same as chicken pox, except they appear at the same time and they’re way more severe than usual. And everyone who’s gotten sick had never had
the disease or the shots.” She didn’t need to add,
They were all like you, Ciara.

“What are they doing about it?”

“Sherwood canceled classes indefinitely, and they’re thinking of shutting down school for the semester and sending the residents home. But the CDC might force a quarantine and not let anybody leave. So the college is telling everyone without immunity to stay inside, avoid anyone you’re not absolutely sure has immunity.”

“I’m already doing that. What else can I do? Don’t they have medicine or something?”

“That’s the worst part. On those two new cases, the antiviral drugs did the same thing the vaccine did to Turner—they just sped up the disease.” Lori let out a sob that split my heart. “There’s no treatment and no cure.”

“Okay,” I said, my mouth on autopilot as my mind began to numb. “Remember, I had one shot. It’s probably all I needed.”

“There’s a blood test you can take to see if you’re immune.”

“But if I fail it, they’ll put me in quarantine. If there’s nothing the doctors can do for me, I might as well stay here and—” And what? Die in the comfort of my own home?

I looked up into Shane’s eyes.

“Do you want me to come over?” Lori asked.

“Not now,” I whispered. “Maybe tonight.”

“Ciara, promise you’ll call me if you feel sick before then. Shane can’t take you to the hospital during the day.”

“The hospital can’t help me.” My voice rang hollow inside my head.

“They could make it—I don’t know”—she sniffled—“easier.”