Requiem for the Dead (9 page)

"You wanna lay odds on whether or not she's calling security to have us escorted off the premises?" Milo asked.

"I've been surprised too many times today to lay odds on anything."

We waited, engine idling, until the guard stepped back outside. "You're cleared to go in. An escort will meet you in the lobby."

"Thank you," Milo said.

The gate rolled back. He drove down a short road that opened into a small, twenty-car lot marked Visitor's Parking. A secondary road continued past the lot, probably to private underground parking. I was crazy curious where they kept their helicopters, too. Three other cars were in the lot—for show as likely as anything, since it was Monday morning when most people were going to work.

Unless they already lived in their building of employment. My own commute was a short walk down a mall corridor.

I sent a quick text to Wyatt, telling him where we were and what we were about to do. You couldn't be too careful before walking into a completely unknown situation, and I had too much to live for now to take stupid risks.

The main entrance to Alucard surprised me with its simplicity. For some reason, I expected higher security, or something akin to a prison visitation setup with iron doors and keycards. The revolving door could be found at any business center, and the lobby had a high, domed ceiling with modern chrome fixtures and two large, black leather couches. Behind the couches was a single elevator door, which dinged at almost the exact moment we walked inside.

The elevator opened. A tall, willowy man with short, white hair and piercing lavender eyes strode toward us. He walked with such grace he practically floated, and he wore a red robe reminiscent of one I'd seen Isleen's father wear once, only this one was far less ornate. He stopped just out of arm's reach, then bent slightly at the waist, as if bowing.

"Welcome," he said. "My name is Eulan, of the house of Noro."

"Evangeline Stone," I replied. "My associate, Milo Gant. We represent the interests of the Watchtower Initiative."

"I know. I have heard of you, Ms. Stone."

My reputation had a habit of preceding me pretty much everywhere. "Forgive my bluntness, but I've never heard of you."

He smiled, which only sharpened the angles of his face—and showed off his fangs. "That does not surprise me. Although I imagine you do not know very many of my kin on a first name basis. Aside from those who briefly partook in your Watchtower, of course."

"Speaking of whom, may I inquire about Isleen's condition?"

"Your inquiry is not unexpected, and it is why I volunteered to meet with you."

"So you can politely tell me to mind my own business?"

Eulan's mouth twitched. "Not quite. Isleen spoke of you more than once to me. She respects you, Ms. Stone, and she values your friendship. Few humans have ever made the same impression."

"She was the first vampire I ever trusted." It might have sounded like a small thing, but given my previous personal point-of-view on anything not human, it was huge. Once someone fully gained my trust, I'd fight hard for them. "I also valued her friendship. But she never spoke to me of you."

"She would have no reason. Vampires are not as…chatty as humans, when it comes to our personal relationships. Isleen and I are promised in our equivalent of marriage."

Are promised—present tense. It gave me hope. "So she's alive?"

"She is…not yet dead."

"What does that mean?"

Eulan directed us to the two black sofas. I sat with him, while Milo stood nearby and listened. "It means that we are still seeking a cure for our brethren who were infected by Thackery's virus. It is fast-moving and devastating, and the only way to halt the virus's progress is to subject it to extreme cold."

I stared. "You froze them?"

"They are being carefully monitored by our physicians as their bodies maintain temperatures well below that required for cognitive function."

"In English?"

"They froze them," Milo said.

Eulan raised a single white eyebrow in Milo's general direction. "The process is more complicated than that, but yes. Many of those infected have led long lives. We will not give up on them."

I appreciated the sense of loyalty the vampires had for each other, and it gave me a fresh perspective on the Fathers' decision to pull support out of the Watchtower. They had their own people—sick and well—to worry about.

"What about the Watchtower volunteers who were not infected?" Milo asked.

"Until we understand the virus better," Eulan said, "they remain quarantined. We cannot guarantee that they will not inadvertently infect others. Such results would be disastrous to our people."

"So they stay locked up indefinitely?"

"Correct."

I thought of Quince, a relatively young vampire I'd worked with for several weeks. He was a natural actor and eager to make a difference through the Watchtower. He hadn't been infected. The virus had been linked to a sunscreen that allowed vampires to walk around in sunlight, and Quince had never used it. But he was still locked up, a prisoner among his own people, for something that wasn't his fault.

"I am sorry I do not have better news for you," Eulan said.

"It's more news than I've had in a month," I said. "For all of our differences, I consider Isleen, Quince, and Eleri to be my friends. I care about what happens to them."

"Then allow us to do our work as we see fit. Humans have an uncanny need to control the uncontrollable, and in this we will not be moved."

"We won't interfere. That isn't why I came today. But please, if you need anything, you can ask."

"Appreciated, Ms. Stone. However, as I understand, you have your hands full with other obligations."

"You mean our old, sewer-dwelling enemies who are coming out of hiding?"

"The very same. We despise the goblins as much as you do. I am sorry that we cannot offer our assistance this time."

"So am I, but you have to see to your people."

Good Lord, who was I, and when did I get so understanding? A few months ago I would have called him selfish for being unable to see past his own problems and focus on the bigger picture. Now? I can totally see where he's coming from.

"If our situation changes, or if we acquire information that is useful to your cause, you will be contacted."

"I appreciate that."

Eulan nodded. "I assume that I do not need to ask for your discretion in regard to this facility."

"You don't," I said for myself and Milo. "And I'll make sure the person who gave us this location knows better than to open his mouth."

"Thank you. Shall I walk you out?"

"No, we're fine."

"Then be well, Ms. Stone. Mr. Gant. It is said that even the darkest chapters of our past may hold the key to the brightness of our futures."

"Said by whom?" Milo asked.

Eulan only smiled and walked away. The cryptic message didn't make me feel any better about anything. One of the darkest parts of my personal past was coming back to haunt me in the form of "Kelsa" scratched into dead people's legs. Vampires weren't known to be psychic, so I didn't read too much into it.

My cell rang on our way back to the car. I fished it out of my pocket. "Stone."

"It's Baylor. I need you to meet me under the Lincoln Street Bridge. Someone left you a note."

#

The Lincoln Street Bridge extended over the southernmost leg of the Anjean River, right before it fed into the larger Black River that bisected the western side of the city. The pedestrian and vehicular bridge ran parallel to a train bridge, and it was the only way to cross from Mercy's Lot and Downtown into the East Side. Since we were Uptown, on the other side of the city, we had a trek to get to the location.

I didn't have to ask Baylor on which side of the river I needed to go. I knew exactly where to meet him. On the northwest bank, the first exit off the bridge wrapped around to a narrow one-way street that ran along the bank of the river. The road was barely wide enough for a single car to pass, and two other cars were already parked on the thin shoulder near our location. Milo pulled up behind the last car.

"Yes," he said, as though we'd been in the middle of a conversation.

Hand on the door pull, I stared at him blankly for several seconds until I realized he was answering my second question from earlier. He wished he'd kissed Marcus back. I grinned. "Okay."

He gave me a shy smile—so unlike him—then climbed out of the car.

I followed him along the shoulder with the constant thunder of cars passing overhead a head-splitting soundtrack to the afternoon. The ripe odors of the river mixed with motor oil and tar to create a toxic stink that made my eyes water. Wyatt, Marcus, and Adrian Baylor stood on the other side of the chain link fence that protected the underside of the bridge from trespassers like us, and the dozens of graffiti artists who'd already visited. Milo and I slipped through the same hole in the fence.

Once upon a time, I'd come here to talk to a bridge troll named Smedge. He wasn't a friend, exactly, but we were friendly. He gave me information when he had it, on almost anything I asked pertaining to the supernatural races of the city. I hadn't spoken to him in months. The last time I'd come here, someone had poured tar all over the cement to prevent Smedge from rising.

Trolls are made from the very earth themselves, and they can move through any natural dirt or stone material. Things like tar and metal, though, stopped them cold. Trolls were also part of the Fey, who were now our enemies, and even though Smedge couldn't rise through the layer of tar still clinging to the ground, being here again made me nervous.

"You've had a busy morning," Wyatt said as he came to join me.

"No kidding," I replied. "I owe Reilly a black eye for that stunt he pulled with Chalice's parents, but I may forgive him for the tip on the vampires."

"Anything useful?"

"Just that the Bloods are keeping to themselves until they find a cure for those Thackery infected."

"They're still alive?" Baylor asked. Another ex-Triad Handler and long-time friend of both Wyatt and Kismet, Adrian Baylor had an easygoing personality that contrasted sharply with his fierce fighting skills. He was the kind of guy you wanted to have leading you into battle—or helping you figure out random, cryptic messages.

"Kind of. From what we were told, they're in some sort of frozen stasis for the undetermined future."

"That's something."

"Yeah. So where's this message that couldn't be left on my cell phone?"

Baylor pointed at the underside of the bridge. I moved closer, studying the spray-paint splattered concrete that angled up in steep slabs, all the way to the steel bottom of the bridge. In glittering silver paint someone had written "Stony" with an arrow pointing to the right. Curious now, I walked in that direction, until I found a spot on the ground where the tar had been scraped away. Not a large spot, maybe the size of a manhole cover, but it was there. In that same glittering paint "knock three times" was written on the stone.

"Why do I feel like I just fell into the plot of a horror movie?" I said to no one in particular.

My backup had fanned out into a wide circle. Baylor produced his sidearm and held it pointed at the ground, his finger braced on the trigger guard. Milo stood next to Wyatt, whose eyes had gone silver. Opposite them, Marcus's hands hovered near the waist of his jeans, just in case he had to strip and do a fast shift. No one gave me advice.

"Let's see who's home," I said.

Knocking your fist against solid rock hurts like hell. Doing it three times was just plain cruel. I stepped back from the circle, heart kicking a little harder, both excited and scared to see what came out of the ground.

A deep rumbling rose up from below my feet almost immediately. I tensed, but didn't move. The stone inside of the circle fell in on itself, like someone had let the bottom out. It swirled down like water into a drain, the opposite of what I usually saw, which was a big fist or face growing up out of the ground. A rabbit hole of some kind had formed, deep and too dark to see down.

"You are not going in there, are you?" Milo asked.

"Not a chance in hell," I replied. I'd jumped into Smedge's mouth once before and ended up in the middle of the Fey's underground city, and I had no idea where this particular troll's gullet stopped.

Disappointment over not actually seeing Smedge again was quickly brushed away by the appearance of a tiny bald head with tufts of white hair fluffing up from the perimeter. More hair poked out of his pointed ears, framing his whole wrinkled, ancient face like a cotton cloud. Small, sparkling eyes peered at me from beneath bushy white eyebrows, and he leaned forward on a spiraled wood cane. He kept rising up until the he was completely above ground, the earth beneath him solid like it had never moved.

"Horzt," I said, recognizing the old gnome immediately.

He nodded, but did not smile. His sharp eyes took in his audience, and he didn't speak until he seemed satisfied that he was among friends. "Greetings from the Apothi, Evangeline," he said.

"Greetings." I knelt down to get eye-level with him, curiosity beating against the inside of my skull like a hammer. "I never expected to see you again."

"Nor I you, child."

This was the creature I had to thank for even being alive today—the one who'd gifted (or cursed) me with my healing powers. The powers Thackery never believed were magical. So much pain because this little gnome had been tricked by an elf. And so much joy, I realized, with a quick glance at Wyatt.

Wyatt watched us with a wary expression, and I understood. This could easily be a trap from the Fey.

"Sorry to be blunt, but why are you here?" I asked.

"A war is coming," Horzt replied. "The Fey are quiet now, but Amalie is cunning and she is planning. Always planning. You confound her, Evangeline, but not for much longer."

"Can you tell me anything?"

"I can't. The Apothi are no longer welcome among the Fey Council members. Our people are divided, thanks to Amalie's reign. Not all agree with her end game goal."