Retribution

Williams takes the glass from her hand and takes it to Brooke. “This is Catherine,” he says to me. “Brooke’s sister.”

Catherine acknowledges the introduction with a nod. “Were you a friend of Mario’s?”

“Yes.”

“I heard what you told Brooke. Were you there when—”

For the first time since I came in, I feel antagonism stir in Williams ’ thoughts. “Yes,” I reply simply. I look over her head to Williams.

How much do they know?

He answers with an arm around Brooke’s shoulders. He speaks aloud for their benefit. “They know Mario was there at that warehouse because he received a call about a fire. He went in to make sure the building was empty. He died a hero.”

It’s a good story. “Has anyone from the department been in touch yet?” I ask.

He nods. “The acting chief has already called. He’s on his way over.”

I can’t think of any reason to stay. Catherine has taken a seat beside her sister, slipping her arms under Williams ’ so she’s holding her sister as she cries.

Williams defers to Catherine, stands back and away. He does it reluctantly as if sharing in her sorrow lessens his own.

“I should go.”

Williams walks me to the door. He hands me a piece of paper. “The address of the safe house,” he says.

It’s where I’ll go next. The girls are my last link.

Williams is carefully guarded, his thoughts impenetrable. I’m on my way down the sidewalk to my car when he sends a message.

I want Burke. Let me know what you find out.

I pause and turn around. He’s still in the doorway. There’s a shift in what I see reflected in his eyes. Grief is eclipsed by a more powerful emotion. Here, with no one but me to see, his eyes shine with purpose. He grieves for Ortiz but that grief fuels a greater need.

It’s clear now, the change in his attitude toward me. It may be temporary but he’ll work with me. He wants Burke as much as I do. And for the same reason.

He wants revenge.

CHAPTER 31

WILLIAMS SAID WHEN HE FIRST ARRIVED AT the fire that the safe house was close. It is. The address is less than a mile from the warehouse. Smoke and ash still cast an early twilight to the neighborhood and an eerie orange glow.

There are two of the white vans from the warehouse parked outside the rambling, shabby clapboard house. It’s set back from the road by a wide expanse of withered grass and surrounded by a three-foot-tall wooden split-rail fence. Wild roses spill over the length of the fence. Bushes so dense, they have grown into the fence, becoming part of it. Bloodred roses saturate the air with the reek of their perfume.

My knock at the front door is answered by the same woman who pulled me out of the fire. She smiles. “Glad to see you looking so well,” she says.

She holds out her hand and I take it. “A

“Oh, I know who you are.” She turns and heads into the interior of the house, beckoning me to follow and adding over her shoulder,

“My name’s Rose Beechum.”

Rose? With the flowers outside, it seems appropriate.

She reads my thought. Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’ve lived in this house all my life. My parents planted those bushes sixty years ago.

When we enter a back room, small talk ceases. Five of the vampires from the warehouse are seated on cushions on the floor. Curtains are drawn across small, high windows, plunging the room further into an eerie red-hued dusk. There is a peculiar stillness to the room, too, that is u

Rose is watching for my reaction. You feel it, don’t you?

I’m not sure if she means the stillness these vamps are throwing off or my reaction to it. I let my gaze sweep the room without replying.

Each young woman is now covered by a blanket. Each is feeding, eyes closed, faces burrowed into the neck of a human host. Each is still wearing that terrible collar. The spike cuts into the jugular, making it difficult to drink. Blood seeps from the wound with each swallow.

None are experiencing the exquisite joy of feeding. This is a slow, painful act of necessity and survival. It sickens me to see it.

There’s something else. The young vampires aren’t projecting any emotion or response. No thoughts reach out to me, no greetings are returned. Is this what Rose meant?

Maybe it’s trauma. Maybe when the collars are removed . . .

Rose looks doubtful. We can’t attempt to remove the collars until they are stronger. If we do, they will bleed out the same way a human would with a similar wound.

I watch the interaction between host and vampire. There is no pleasure being offered or taken. For the human as for the vampire, it is an act of sacrifice.

“Who are they?” I ask Rose. “Where did you find hosts willing to do this?”

“There are some in the human community who think vampires hold the key to human survival. The ones who believe in the apocalypse.

They align themselves to us because they think we alone will be saved. At the end of the world, they will turn to us for help as we have turned to them.”

These humans want vampires to turn them when doomsday comes? I stare at Rose, to see if she’s serious.

She is.

The idea turns my stomach. Still, what is important is what they are doing now to save the girls.

Why can’t we help? I ask. Why can’t you and I use our saliva to staunch the flow? It works on vampires as well as humans. I know. I’ve done it.

They are too weak. They need human blood first. To start the healing. She beckons me once again to follow and starts down a hall.

Come. The four strongest are back here. In the bedroom. We have been able to remove their collars. You can speak with them if you wish.

She leads me into a back bedroom. It’s set up like a dormitory, three sets of bunk beds along the walls. No windows. They have been covered over with sheets of plywood. No other furniture. It’s an odd setup until I remember that Williams called this a safe house. But a safe house for what purpose?

Rose answers without prompting. Sometimes it is necessary for our kind to go underground. You have not been vampire long enough to have experienced such a time. The last was ten years ago when the Revengers renewed their efforts to wipe us out. For now, my house and others like it are used for situations like the one you found at the warehouse. Safe haven for wounded vampires.

My gaze sweeps the room. The four female vamps in here are feeding. The collars have been removed. As I watch, the throat wounds on two are closing. The jagged holes are rough edged, as if the spikes were serrated. There are bruises where the collars bit into the flesh.

The other two are not so far along in the process. Their throats still bear gaping wounds, seeping blood and a clear liquid. There is desperation and pain in the way they grip their hosts. The humans are quiet and bear it well.

Better than me. The urge to turn away is strong.

But suddenly I realize what it has taken some minutes to register. Shaken, I turn to Rose. There are only nine.

She releases a breath. One didn’t make it. She was too far gone.

One of the vamps whose wounds are almost closed sees me at the door and gently pushes her host away so that she can stand up. She is the first woman I saw when I entered the basement. Someone has given her a sweat suit, and she tugs at the hem of the top as she approaches. She’s very young, can’t be more than a few years older than Trish. Her blond hair is tucked behind her ears and she smiles at me shyly.

My mind recoils from the horror that this girl has experienced—first being made vampire at such a young age, then finding herself a victim of torture.