Chapter 8 #2
But I don’t want to use up even a fraction of that power until I have to, so I keep things chill on my walk over.
I force myself to essentially stroll from my apartment to the steps of the Benevolent Society, which gives me time to get my head right.
It would have been nice to have Collin teach me a few martial arts moves before I did this, but I’m so keyed up, there’s no way I’d remember them.
And when we fought the druid, he was able to show me everything I needed to do in real time.
I’ve got this. I do.
It’s almost four on a Sunday morning. The Benevolent Society looms over the dark, vacant city street.
A sandy-haired and husky middle-aged security guard greets me at the top of the Gothic building’s stone landing.
I think he was the one Rafa pointed his shotgun at.
He opens the door for me as I approach, all Downton Abbey manners, despite his rumpled, low-rent uniform.
“This way, sir,” he says.
Sure is nice to feel welcome…
The gaping marble lobby of the Benevolent Society is empty and lit only with a few LED tea candles, just enough for a human to make their way through.
Of course, I’m not human, and I’m even more of an incubus than I usually am, so everything is as clear as day to me.
I can even smell the tang of paranormal blood under freshly swabbed Clorox.
They’ve cleaned everything to a shine since we blasted our way through here just hours ago.
The nothing-to-see-here polish is probably a flex, meant to intimidate me.
The guard lumbers ahead in the gloom, not bothering with the flashlight at his hip, but Collin has him lit up with AR like a Christmas tree.
Green circles and arrows on his body show me exactly what spots I’d need to strike to take him down the fastest. They automatically reposition and recalculate based on where he’s standing in relation to me.
I steal a sidelong glance at my spirit wingman.
He’s back in his shepherd-boy attire—which I guess is really ancient Celtic boy attire—and his youthful face projects almost military calm, but I know him well enough now to see it’s for my benefit.
There’s slight tension around his eyes that he can’t hide.
It makes sense, since I’m literally walking him to his torturer.
He might believe in me, but he’s still being hella brave.
We’re led to the elevator, which opens immediately when the guard presses the call button. I flash back to the horror show Rafa left behind the last time I saw its interior, but it’s been scrubbed of blood like everywhere else. They’ve been thorough.
I follow as the guard steps in, twists a key from an elastic on his belt into the base of the button panel, presses B3, and removes the key. Then he steps out of the elevator.
“This is as far as I go, sir,” he says.
I take in his neck using my enhanced senses. I don’t detect any sign of bruising, but I still can’t resist asking the question. “You know who you work for, right?”
My voice is hard. These monsters kidnap children.
“Yes, sir,” he replies, stiff as an English butler but with the voice of a blue-collar guy from the Central Valley. A flicker of shame crosses over his expression, and his head lowers. “I have family. And… my boss is very difficult to refuse.”
With that, the door closes. It suddenly dawns on me that there are probably more victims here than I originally thought, and that these vampires must have been doing a lot of very bad things in my town for a very long time.
I never imagined I’d ever ask this, but where the hell have the Monster Hunters been? I get being afraid, but were they just sitting on their hands while all this was going on? If nothing else, they should have gone full Van Helsing the moment Rafa let them know kids were in danger!
But they refused—and Hunters aren’t exactly known for being scaredy-cats. So, why? Do they know that Rafa’s father has been turned? Would that have stopped them? Are they holding out hope for his redemption, too?
I’m about to pose those questions to Collin when the elevator doors open and I’m greeted by a hulking woman with a shoulder-length bob, wearing a conservative gray pantsuit.
My senses are enhanced enough to tell that her heartbeat is much too slow for a human, and my Avatar-supplied heads-up display shows me there are only a fraction of the vulnerable points on her as the human guard. She’s clearly a vamp.
And a bloodsucker of few words as well, as she merely turns and gestures for me to follow.
The fluorescent overheads are still off, but the hallway is lined with more lit LED tea candles, placed at even intervals along the gray rubber baseboards.
They cast small pools of dim and flickery light.
It certainly is dramatic. The vampires wouldn’t need them, so hopefully this means that they still think I’m pure human.
Of course, Rafa’s father did see me suspended in the middle of a fire monster, so I can’t exactly expect their guard to be down.
Once again, I’m full of questions it would be great to talk to Collin about.
And again, it’s not the time or place. I might not have Sarah Stryker’s experience, but I know that in a negotiation, projecting confidence is everything, and that means acting like you already have all the answers. My questions will have to wait.
I expect Chatty Cathy to take me to the dungeon, but instead she leads me to the rough stairs that spill down into the ritual room. She stands at the open doorway and points below.
“Let me guess,” I say. “This is as far as you go?”
She remains pointing, still and silent as the grave. But her eyes glower with barely constrained hate—not at me, but at whatever lies beneath.
“There’s a fair crowd down there,” Collin says, grim. “Multiple humans. Multiple vampires. More undead than I thought were left.”
“Too many?” I ask as quietly as I can under my breath.
Collin’s ocular tension seems to have cranked up a full notch, but he shakes his head. “No. Not for you. Not right now. And I smell Rafa and the kids. Be ready to act quickly, but I’m still game if you are.”
An ice-watery feeling trickles its way into my bowels. But we chose to come to this dance—no point in being a wallflower.
I give cold-eyed Cathy a forced smile and start down the stairs. She stays behind.
The closer I get, the better Collin can use my senses for intel, so a heads-up count of humans and vampires quickly increments in the upper right of my vision. It lands at fourteen for each, which is bad enough, but it still doesn’t prepare me for what we find.
The bright LED lanterns on the walls are lit, casting long shadows in multiple directions.
On the black plywood stage in the back of the room, Rafa is kneeling, hands tied behind his back, his head hanging down.
Standing next to him is his father in a new finely tailored navy suit.
The undead man’s skin is smooth and healed—no sign that I torched him hours ago.
Smug captor and helpless captive on display—that much I expected. But all the kids are here too, positioned at equal points along the outside edges of the circular cavern. And behind them are thirteen new players, big and muscled and dressed in the same tactical Kevlar that Rafa wears.
They’re clearly Monster Hunters. Or they were.
It looks like I’ve just found out why the West Coast Peralta Clan wouldn’t help Rafa. Every last Hunter appears to have been turned—and each one has a Beretta semi-automatic pistol pressed against the temple of one of the kids.