Chapter 11
LUKE
Thursday morning, I was up before sunset, straining to see the world through the haze of disappointment.
I’d let Marvin get away three times now.
Jordan was right when he’d said this skip was slippery.
If it wasn’t for the “no outing yourself as a vampire to the human race” rule, I’d have caught him by now and wrung his neck for all the trouble he caused.
Tuesday, I’d picked thorns out of my ass for forty minutes after he vaulted a fence into a bramble thicket.
Wednesday, I’d kicked in his cousin’s screen door and found nothing but a still-warm coffee and an open back window, and the very idea that this doughy, vape-addled skip was somehow running circles around me set my teeth on edge.
Jordan had pinged me first thing this morning.
Marvin was spotted at an off-track betting parlor two counties over.
I’d pointed the SUV south and floored it.
Izora rode shotgun. She wore a teal faux-fur coat that shed everywhere, including my side of the SUV, and a hat so ostentatious it could have served as the centerpiece at a mafia funeral.
She’d been silent for the first twenty minutes of the drive, save for the rhythmic tap of her manicured nails against the window glass, but it was silence that collected tension like lint.
Of course, that demonic dog of hers sat in her lap.
“So,” she said, finally, drawl languid as syrup, “what’s your plan, field marshal? Crash through the front door and hope the element of surprise compensates for your lack of recent success?”
“Remind me again,” I said, “why you’re here?” She definitely hadn’t been any help on the last three attempts.
She smiled, but it was fake. “To witness your triumph, darling. And maybe to catch you if you faint from exertion. You looked faint last time.”
I was not faint. After Izora and Ransom, I was one of the strongest vampires alive. Or unalive. Whatever. It was too bad that I lacked coordination and had yet to learn to control my speed. Not to mention my charm power. Maybe I could turn that up if Marvin would stay put long enough to charm him.
I ignored her as we hit a patch of potholes, and the SUV rattled like a tin can full of bad ideas. I checked my mirrors, the clock, and ran through everything I knew about this bastard in my head. There was no margin for error.
The phone mounted on the dashboard vibrated with an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number at first, but the area code was from the Appalachian area, and there was only one reason that would be calling me this early. The twins. I stabbed the accept button.
“Whitfield and Whitfield,” I said, out of habit.
A beat, then a burst of static, then a girl’s voice, Avery, probably. “Is this where I order the bouncy house? We’re dying of boredom.”
“Nice to hear from you, too. Where’s your sister?”
“Right here, obviously,” Came the immediate, over-loud reply, Allison, always determined to control the narrative. “Tell the ancient one we survived group therapy, but if they make us paint another vision board, I’m going to set the barn on fire.”
Izora rolled her eyes, which somehow telegraphed through the phone. “Your sisters are little charmers,” she purred, loud enough for the twins to hear.
“Hi, Miss I,” said Avery, earnest. “Are you still wearing the skeleton brooch? It’s so gross, I love it.”
There was a clatter and the faint sound of a struggle, probably the two of them fighting for control of the phone.
I imagined them, identical save for a slightly different shade of hair and the fact that one chewed her nails and the other chewed gum.
Both could talk a blue streak. Both were, in their ways, very good at getting under my skin.
Allison said, “Have you ever tried group therapy with vampires? Everyone’s trauma is, like, literally the worst thing that’s ever happened in human history.”
Izora, unamused, intoned, “Try living with them for a few centuries, dear. They only get more self-important.”
I let the byplay run, driving in silence while the twins filled the van with their voices.
Izora liked the twins. My sisters had stolen my blood and turned themselves, which was a huge no-no in our world.
A few years ago, that would have gotten them executed for breaking the number one rule of being a vampire.
Don’t turn humans without council approval.
There used to be a whole twelve-step process for that. Not really, but it seemed that way.
After Jax and Hailey had uncovered some bad eggs on the council, Dom and Amara now lead it and were working with Jax to update some rules. Instead of a death sentence, Allie and Avery had to go to a farm for vampires to work off their sentence and hopefully learn some humility.
“So what’s the plan for tonight?” I asked as soon as the twins’ conversation hit a lull.
Avery answered first. “Obstacle course before breakfast. Then more horses.”
A flash of memory, Avery at age eight, falling off a pony and immediately refusing to cry, even as blood dripped from her chin. The look she’d given me. Not wounded, but disappointed in her lack of technique. I gripped the wheel tighter, and the SUV swerved fractionally.
Allison cut in. “The horses are cool. The counselor is a narc, but she’s kind of a whole entire snack, so I’m not complaining.”
Izora barked a laugh. “Which one of you is talking? I can’t tell when you both sound like reality TV contestants.”
Avery, deadpan, said, “I’m the evil twin. You should know this by now.”
The banter veered, as it always did, toward the darkly comic. I waited for my opening, then took it. “You know I have to ask,” I said, careful to keep the tone neutral, not parental. “Are you safe, are you okay?”
A beat. Then, quiet. “Yeah,” From Avery. “We’re good. Promise.”
Allison, softer. “It’s not that bad.”
“Good,” I said. The knot behind my breastbone loosened half a notch.
“Are you okay?” asked Avery, the question careful, practiced. “You sound tense.”
I scanned the road, then the rearview, buying myself a second. “Just work stuff. I’m about to catch a very stupid man who skipped bail.”
Allison was instantly alert. “Is it the insurance fraud guy? You said last time you’d get him before the weekend.”
“He’s fast for a guy who only eats nachos and has been evading creditors since 2014.”
That got them laughing, the laughter that reminded me of holidays, how much louder everything was, how much more beautiful. Izora was watching me, face turned so I couldn’t read it, but I could feel the scrutiny. Or was it amusement? I couldn’t tell with her.
Avery’s voice was small now. “Be safe, okay? Don’t do the thing where you get all reckless.”
“Don’t get shot, old man,” said Allison, reverting to her tried and true. Mean.
My face split into a grin. “I’ll try not to.”
A pause, and then the twins said, in perfect tandem. “Too late!”
There was a shift in the background noise, footsteps, maybe the sound of someone else calling for the phone. Then, abruptly, Allison said, “Gotta go. Don’t forget to text. Love you.”
Avery echoed her twin. “Love you, Lukey.”
They hung up before I could respond. I let the silence fill the cab for a long mile, the road straight and featureless, the van a metal bubble of inertia.
We’d been told we wouldn’t be able to contact each other for a year, but it seemed the one way the vampires in charge of the farm were lax was letting the inmates check in with their families.
Izora cleared her throat. “They’re tougher than they look.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I just drove, knuckles white against the wheel. Every time I reached out, every time I made contact, I was reminded how easily things could slip out of my control.
For a while, I let myself feel it, the ugly, sticky love that complicated every part of my unlife. Then I locked it away, filed it behind the task at hand, and set my sights on the betting parlor’s neon halo blinking through the morning haze. Time to work. Time to be the thing I was worst at.
We rolled into the strip mall’s parking lot just after eight, the sun barely clearing the apartment blocks across the way.
Izora clocked the betting parlor before I did, a neon halo buzzing “OFF-TRACK BETTING” in half-lit letters, the glow paler and more desperate than in the promo photos.
The windows were already fogged, inside air thick with the reek of cigarette smoke.
I cut the engine and scanned for movement.
Marvin’s car was parked two rows down, sandwiched between a beat up Camry and a pick-up that looked to have survived a good five presidential administrations.
The only way to spot Marvin’s as his was the sticker on the rear bumper. “HONK IF YOU LOVE TATER TOTS.”
Inside, Marvin was at the five-dollar window, counting a wad of cash with the panicked focus of someone who didn’t trust the math or his hands.
Izora watched my face as I assessed the entry points, then arched an eyebrow. “You want finesse or drama?”
“Start with finesse,” I said. “If that fails, switch to interpretive dance.”
We went in through the side, avoiding the main entrance.
The parlor reeked of beer, sweat, and whatever cleaning products they’d stopped using after the smoking ban.
The walls were lined with ancient television screens, all tuned to different tracks, horses with improbable names crawling across the ticker at the bottom.
Maybe fifteen people in the room, none of them less than fifty or more than a week from dying of something preventable.
I angled toward the counter, badge visible but not drawn, and placed myself between Marvin and the parlor’s back corridor. Izora hung back by the ATM, where she could watch the crowd while cuddling Courage.