Nightshades (4 page)

“Yes, sir.” Alex held up the folder. “And this?”

“Right. I’d advise you to just hold it up to the plexiglass if you can, but he’ll want you to send it through the airlock. That’s fine—let him have a win—but know that anything you give him, he’s not giving back. We’ll have to retrieve it on his next scheduled cell cleaning.” He clapped Alex on the shoulder and handed him a plastic folding chair. “Good luck, son.”

Alex didn’t like that
son,
but he managed to resist shrugging the other man’s hand off as he took the lightweight chair. He was suddenly nervous. Chase gave him a nod of encouragement. “If the guy says anything about fava beans or Chianti, get out of there,” he advised solemnly. Alex made a face and turned to walk down the hallway to face the vampire.

The cells on either side of Alex were sparse: a small bed, a metal toilet, and an airlock for sending materials back and forth. Before he’d passed the first pair he felt unnerved by the quiet. He had visited a number of prisons, and every single one of them had been cacophonous. This place was clean, new looking, brightly lit, and completely silent. It was creepy as hell.

He reached Ambrose’s cell with images from
The Silence of the Lambs
still at the forefront of his mind, thanks to Chase. When he turned to face the shade he was surprised to find the occupied cell just as bare as the three he’d already passed. No artwork, no photos, no stacks of mail. No sharp edges anywhere. Everything had been taken away. As a punishment? Or had Ambrose not wanted anything in there with him?

Alex’s eyes automatically scanned for any movement, which was how he missed Ambrose on the first pass. He had to look through the room a second time before he saw the man standing absolutely still in the back corner, leaning against the beige walls as if he were painted with camouflage. Which he might as well have been: Ambrose was dressed in an off-white jumpsuit, his small square features perfectly still and blank. The shade was average height; he had brown hair and a face that was sort of blandly pleasant rather than handsome or homely. Other than the stillness, Ambrose just looked like any normal guy you’d see at a bar or a business meeting. Alex had seen photos, of course, but he realized in that moment that he’d been expecting the shade to give off an otherworldly vibe in person: some sort of alien quality that immediately identified him as nonhuman. It was a stupid idea, really. The shades would never have made it this long without being able to blend in perfectly. There might have been a hint of predator about him, but no more than you’d see with Wall Street assholes aggressively hitting on women at a bar.

Tymer must have flicked the switch for the mirror, because suddenly the fluorescent lighting in Ambrose’s cell shifted, and the shade gave a sudden blink, looking around as if he’d been caught in a daydream, until his raptor eyes landed on Alex. There was a sudden blur of motion, and then the shade was just
there,
standing directly in front of Alex on the other side of the plexiglass. Alex couldn’t help but give a little start, nearly dropping the chair, and he saw the shade smirk with triumph.

“So sorry about that, Agent,” he said. “I didn’t meant to startle you.”

“Sure you did.” Alex said easily. “But that’s fine. I’d probably be looking for entertainment, too, if I had to be in that cell all day.”

The shade frowned, looking Alex up and down. “I thought they were done with sending new people to test me.”

“I’m Alex,” he said. “You mind if I sit down?” He held up the plastic folding chair, and Ambrose shrugged. “Thanks.” Alex unfolded the seat and settled himself into it, giving Ambrose a moment to look him over. The shade remained standing on the other side of the plexiglass with an unreadable expression. Alex made sure his own face was relaxed, though it felt surreal to sit across from the vampire, like something out of a bad horror movie.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Ambrose, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your culture,” he began. “Are the shades organized? Do they have a central leader? Can you communicate with each other?”

Ambrose just stared at him silently, his arms hanging a little loose from his body. “You’ve been asked all that before, huh?” Alex said with a smile. “That must get annoying.”

The shade just cocked an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the file in Alex’s hand. “Oh, this?” Alex said. “These are some photos. Shade murders, or so we think. I was hoping you might help me figure out who did it.” Without waiting for a reply, he stood up and began laying out photos and documents on the floor, right up against the plexiglass. Ambrose glanced down at them with reluctance, as though he wanted to resist but couldn’t help himself. The color photos caught his eye, and he soon began moving along the wall on his side, studying the images.

“That one,” he said abruptly, his finger jabbing at a color photo of the pile of dead BPI agents in the cornfield. “Send me that one.”

There was a small airlock fixed into the plexiglass at waist height, along the right side of the cell. It was about the size and width of a ream of paper. Alex went over and opened the door on his side of the plexiglass, placing the photo inside. Ambrose’s hand darted for his own door, but it wouldn’t open until Alex closed his. He waited until the shade met his eyes. “Why that shot?” he asked quietly. “You just looking to add to the spank bank?”

Ambrose licked his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I recognize the work.”

Alex shut his side of the airlock door and let the shade have the picture. He ripped it out, examining it from three inches away. Alex saw a faint reddish cast come over Ambrose’s eyes. He was . . . stimulated.

Time for an experiment. “Giselle,” Alex said softly.

Ambrose looked up, startled. Realizing he’d already given himself away, the shade nodded. “She identified herself to you?”

“Not me,” Alex replied. “The surviving agent.”

Ambrose’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “She left a survivor? Interesting. He must have impressed her.”

To Alex’s surprise, Ambrose jammed the photo back in the airlock and slammed his door closed, sending it back. “I can’t help you,” he said with finality.

“Just tell me a little more about Giselle.”

“No.”

“I can make your stay here easier,” Alex offered. “Reading material, maybe a television. I might even be able to talk them into increasing your feeding schedule.”

Ambrose eyes flickered at the last suggestion, but he shook his head hard. “I have been in this box for ten months,” he said, anger in his voice. “Do you think you’re the first one to come in here and offer that? Or even the sixth? Nothing you can offer would be worth that.”

He put the slightest emphasis on the word
that,
and Alex went still. Why would information about Giselle be more valuable than any other? On a hunch, he asked, “Who does she work for?”

Ambrose immediately turned his back and stalked over to the bed, lying down facing the wall. He almost seemed . . .
scared.

“Okay, fine,” Alex said. “Don’t tell me about Giselle, or her boss. Give me someone else. A name. Another shade I can push instead.”

No response. Ambrose didn’t even lift his head. Alex glanced to left, to where Tymer and Chase were watching. Chase gave a little shrug:
Now what?
Tymer looked as if this was exactly what he’d expected. He made a little motion for Alex to come back to the door.

But Alex turned back to the plexiglass, thinking. They needed this. They needed
something,
anyway. He couldn’t touch Ambrose, certainly couldn’t torture him. There was nothing to threaten him with, either, and any offered bribe would be just a promise, at this point. What was the promise of future reward against something that Ambrose seemed to be actively afraid of, even in here? Alex glanced at the plexiglass barrier, the airlock. He had an idea, God help him.

He turned back to the door and gave Chase a significant look, one that his friend had dubbed “Alex’s ‘Keep Me out of Jail, Buddy’ face.” Chase caught it and took an uncertain step forward. “Alex, don’t—”

Before he could think about what he was about to do, Alex opened the buckle on his belt and pulled the little prong forward. “McKenna!” came Tymer’s brusque voice, but Alex ignored him, not wanting to lose his nerve.

He jammed the pad of his thumb over the belt prong, hard enough for the metal to hit bone, gritting his teeth against the pain. With his other hand he opened the airlock door and stuck his hand inside, feeling the blood spurt out.

Tymer started shouting, but out of the corner of his eye Alex could see that Chase had stepped in front of the older agent, talking to him in low tones, one hand on his shoulder. Trusting his partner, Alex turned his gaze back to Ambrose, who had rolled over as soon as he heard the tinkle of the belt. Seeing what Alex was doing, Ambrose streaked across the cell and was suddenly in front of the airlock on his knees, his nose pressed against the crack. He gave a soft moan, his fingernails prying at the edges.

Alex blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected
that
big of a reaction, but hadn’t Tymer said they fed Ambrose rarely? Was the shade starving? Or was it the difference between warm, live blood, and donated blood from a refrigerator? Either way, Alex needed to press his advantage.

“Who does Giselle work for?” he asked insistently, but Ambrose shook his head, wailing, “I can’t, I can’t . . .”

Alex let that go on for a second, hearing the voices near the entrance getting heated. Tymer was gonna stomp over there any second. “Then give me a name,” Alex ordered. “Another shade who might know.”

Ambrose lifted his head, and Alex saw that the shade’s face was mottled with need, his eyes bright red. The skin around his eyes seemed to have shrunken inward, veins popping. “Please . . .” he moaned. There was a decent-sized puddle of blood in the airlock, so Alex pulled off his cheap tie and drew his hand out, wrapping the tie around the wound—but not before a couple extra drops of blood hit the floor. Ambrose’s eyes were glued to them.

“A name,” Alex insisted.

A calculating glint flashed through those red eyes, and despite the “stimulation response,” Alex recognized it from dozens of other interviews with suspects: The shade had thought of someone he could throw under the bus. “Rosalind Frederick,” he blurted.

“City?”

“Cincinnati!”

Alex closed the little airlock door, and Ambrose opened his so hard that it ripped off in his hand. The shade thrust his whole face up against it, licking frantically at the blood, sticking his fingers in to swipe up every last drop.

“So, thanks for that,” Chase said sarcastically as they were escorted out by a grim-looking Agent Lanver. There must have been another set of monitors in a control room somewhere, or maybe she just didn’t like it when her boss was unhappy, but she was practically frog-marching them out the door. “I thought Tymer was gonna break my neck. Do you know how many laws you just broke?”

“Not that many,” Alex said mildly. “Congress hasn’t gotten around to writing shade laws yet, remember?”

Chase snorted. “That doesn’t mean his lawyers aren’t going to go apeshit over that little stunt.”

Alex shrugged, clutching his thumb with the tie wrapped around it. It was still bleeding a little, and he tried to remember when he’d had his last tetanus shot. “You were the one who told me to figure out a way to keep us alive in Chicago. Now we have new information—”

“You make it sound so simple,” Lanver broke in angrily. “We’ve spent ten months developing a system and a schedule with the subject, and all the security precautions and all the drills, and you just come in and drop a hand grenade and waltz off.”

“I rarely waltz,” Alex intoned. She glowered at him in response, and he sighed, stopping and turning all the way around to face her. They were right by the first entrance checkpoint, and a few people sent curious looks their way: a furious woman and a man with a bloody tie. “Look,” Alex said, as sincerely as he could, “I know I just caused you guys some problems, and I’m sorry about that. But look at it this way: I exploited a weakness that you now know about, and the only person who got hurt was me.”

“That’s not—argh!” She sighed loudly and stalked away. Alex thought she was heading back down to Tymer, but she went over to the security guard at the checkpoint, spoke to him for a second, and reached behind the counter.

“Watch out, man,” Chase murmured, his voice amused. “She’s probably getting a Taser to teach you a lesson.”

Alex didn’t think that was true, but he resumed walking toward the exit, a little quicker this time. Lanver called after them, and he turned. She jogged up and thrust out what seemed like a tiny bit of paper—a Band-Aid, Alex realized. He took it gratefully. “Thanks.” Ripping it open, he saw that it was hot pink, with tiny Hello Kittys printed on it. “Um, do you have anything a little manlier?”

“We absolutely do,” Lanver said pleasantly. With a little wave, she turned and waltzed off to the basement. Chase started laughing.

Cincinnati, OH

Sunday night

By 1:00 a.m., Lindy had finished all the work that was supposed to last her the rest of the night shift, and a little of tomorrow night’s work. She swung her office chair in circles, bored. Again.

This is what I get for trying to mainstream,
she thought. Most shades preferred to live “off the grid” with their own kind, at least as much as was possible these days. Lindy, however, was more motivated to stay hidden than most of her so-called peers, and by now she considered herself an expert at mainstreaming. She had an apartment, a car, even a goddamned cat, not to mention a high-paying night shift job as a translator.

The problem was, she was simply too good at the work. According to her job description, Lindy was supposed to spend about forty percent of her working hours translating phone calls for the financial brokers, usually to the Japanese market, and the rest translating textual communications: e-mails, memos, financial documents, and plenty of other written materials, from instructions to travel arrangements to the occasional filthy e-mail. Unfortunately, few of the brokers bothered with phone calls anymore, and the written stuff was easy to speed through. Lindy had a serious unfair advantage: centuries of practice at languages, not to mention enhanced reflexes and concentration.

She’d learned a long time ago that it was necessary to slow herself down, lest she raise the eyebrows of her coworkers. Being good at your work is fine, but being exceptional can become extremely bad for someone whose life’s mission is to blend in with humans. It was hard enough trying to hold down a human identity without raising eyebrows at your job, too. It was nearly impossible for shades to do so many simple human chores: pay taxes, own property, enter a hospital, go to the DMV, maintain a bank account. Although she could technically be out during the day, the sunlight hurt her skin, and ever since Ambrose had been captured the humans were more and more suspicious of people in ball caps and sunglasses.

Lindy stood up and paced for a bit, eyeing the desk of her officemate. Teresa worked the day shift, doing the same job. They’d shared an office for nearly five years, but had only met face to face a couple of times. The arrangement was a good way for the company to get away with giving them tiny offices, but Lindy didn’t mind sharing. Sometimes when she got bored she searched Teresa’s desk, telling herself she was looking for hints about how humans behaved. And it
had
provided some useful details for blending in better—Teresa had a framed picture of her cat, so Lindy brought in a framed picture of Marlowe. Teresa kept emergency tampons in her bottom drawer, so Lindy stashed away a few as well, although she hadn’t menstruated in centuries. Teresa always had a bunch of dirty Tupperware around that she’d forgotten to take home and wash, so one weekend Lindy had gone to the store, bought supplies for spaghetti, and laboriously smeared it over a bunch of glass containers.

But she’d looked through Teresa’s things just the night before, and there was nothing of interest. Lindy found herself glancing at her bag, where she kept her personal laptop.

It’s stupid to keep fucking around on the Darknet,
she reminded herself.
You don’t know who could be watching.

Resolutely, she went back to her desktop, opened a browser window, and pulled up newspapers in several languages. You were never done learning a language, because they changed and evolved every day they were used. That was why Lindy loved them. She started with the Russian newspaper first, because that was the most recent of her languages and the one she most worried about keeping up with. Then she read through the Hong Kong paper, the Tokyo paper, and three separate papers from Europe before finally switching over to
The Washington Post.
The front-page headline screamed out at her.

SHADES MURDER SEVEN MORE IN CHICAGOLAND CORNFIELD

“Fuck!” Lindy said out loud. She spoke seven languages, but this was still the most diverse curse word, and therefore her favorite. She skimmed through the story, faster than any human speed reader. The dead agents. The single survivor, who had been nearly disemboweled by some kind of short blade. Giselle.

“Hector,” she muttered under her breath. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Telling herself it was now necessary, she pulled out her personal computer and quickly flipped it open, Lindy had once drunk a world-class hacker, who’d set her up with an untraceable IP address and a little scrambler that supposedly kept her from being hacked. She remembered to turn it on despite her agitation. Her company claimed that they didn’t monitor their employees’ computer usage, that they trusted their own people. This, and the flexibility of their working hours, was one of the reasons Lindy had taken the position at this particular firm, instead of any of the other ones that had tried to throw money at her. Despite their promises, though, Lindy would much rather take precautions than chances.

She made her way into the Darknet and began going through the private message boards. There was no way to know how many shades there were in the world, or what percentage of them had access to the Darknet sites, but it was still the best way she knew of to gauge their opinions and moods as a group. Most of the shades—including a few she had once known personally—had posted in the last twenty-four hours to express benign concern about the murders. Nobody was reckless enough to openly speak against Hector, but they were confused: Hector himself was the one who’d adopted the stay-under-the-radar plan, figuring that if the new BPI couldn’t find a single other vampire after the famous “Subject A,” they would eventually decide to cut bait and go back to the way things were.

That strategy was meant to confuse the human authorities, and it was a decent plan, Lindy thought, even if it meant cutting loose that little worm, Ambrose. If the government actually got around to declaring him inhuman and torturing him, Hector would have to step in, but until then, silence was the best policy.

It was, in fact, Hector’s own policy. But now he had committed a whole series of splashy murders, and there were also a handful of shades on the message boards who were
thrilled
by the news that Hector had gone rogue. They saw the overt murders as a call to arms. Lindy knew this crowd: the ones who believed that shades were the dominant species, more evolved in every way, that they should get to do anything they wanted, blah blah blah. Lindy couldn’t argue with the fact that her people were
physically
superior to humans, but they were predators. They needed a large number of prey in order to survive, and as a long-term plan, trying to “overthrow” humanity was about as silly as it got.

Meanwhile, she noted, there was no sign of Hector himself on the message boards. He was probably staying silent on purpose, to keep their people even more off balance and afraid. He was that kind of leader.

Lindy wanted to scream. He was losing the shades’ trust, and undoing thousands of years worth of carefully maintained restraint. If he didn’t get things back under control, or at least explain why the Chicago killings were somehow justified, they stood to lose everything. There was nothing to fear from a single human, or half a dozen humans, even armed with guns. But six billion of them? That was an enemy even Hector did not want to make.

Lindy stood up and paced. Nothing you can do about it, she told herself, walking in tight circles between her desk and Teresa’s. You walked away, and it was the right decision. The
only
decision. Maybe this could be a good thing, down the road: If the BPI got more funding and resources, they could keep the shade population in check, restore the balance.

Yeah, right. They were all gonna die, the agents who went after Hector. But there was nothing she could do about it. Even if she called the BPI and warned them, what good would it do? What could she say?

But she had to do
something.

Her computer chimed, the personal laptop, and Lindy frowned and circled the desk to check its screen. Had she set an alarm or something? The screensaver had come on, so she tapped the space bar to wake the computer up.

HELLO SIEGLIND.

She froze. The letters were enormous, taking up most of the now-black screen
. Oh, God. Please be a virus,
she thought. One of her old friends, maybe, trying to play a trick? The hope barely had time to bloom in her chest before it was extinguished.

TIME TO COME AND PLAY flashed across the screen, followed by I WILL SAVE ONE OF THEIR HEARTS FOR YOU.

Then the screen just erupted into a scrolling mess of COME AND PLAY.

COME AND PLAY.

COME AND PLAY.

COME AND PLAY.

COME AND PLAY.