Sullied

Chapter 7

Seven

Ru

Week one passes without a hitch, but week two starts with one. My stomach flips and threatens to evict its breakfast when Voijin, voice thick as molasses, invites me into his office.

I’ve never had a one-on-one meeting with the creepy vampire, and I don’t particularly want to start now. I close my laptop, take a deep breath, and say a silent prayer to be a better liar. That’s probably not a proper thing to pray for, but it’s not like it’ll help anyway.

I follow the tall, imposing creature down the main hallway, past the specimen living quarters, and into his private office.

The room looks nothing like the rest of the facility. While the labs are all brightly lit cubes of white walls and stainless steel accoutrements, Voijin’s office would be better suited to an old European manor house or a sprawling medieval castle.

The interior is dark wood boasting its natural grain, all knotty and gnarled like it’s never seen a modern mill.

The carpet is thick, burgundy-and-gold wool, probably Turkish, and likely costs more than my annual salary.

Bookshelves line the walls with leather-clad tomes filling every shelf.

And is that a scroll? Yes, more than one, actually—a small collection of scrolls, as if that’s a normal thing to have in one’s possession.

Though the room itself is out of place, Voijin looks right at home in it.

His ebony hair is tied back in a deliberate style as though he has no patience for any strand that might fall out of order.

His suit is a caramel brown fabric of expensive quality and a cut that suggests it was tailored specifically for him, not purchased off the rack.

Nothing about him is loud, and yet he dominates the room more completely than the dark wood or heavy rug ever could.

There’s something regal in the way he holds himself, straight-backed but at-ease. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t offer the small, unconscious movements that mark someone as human. Skin so ghostly pale it doesn’t exactly look human either.

His calculated stare gives me the heebie-jeebies.

With an elegant hand he gestures to an empty high-backed chair. “Have a seat, Dr. Martin.”

I glimpse the carving on the back of the chair before sitting. Ornate filigree, swoops and swirls surrounding a bold family crest. The bust of a wolf, head thrown back, howling to the full moon on one half, and the open mouthed fanged hiss of a snake on the other.

Creepy AF if you ask me, which he doesn’t, thank goodness.

In fact, he doesn’t say anything as he sits behind a large desk then steeples his hands in front of him. His fingers rest too neatly, like this move has been practiced for some time. His gaze lands squarely on mine.

Which leaves me to fill the awkward silence. “You wanted to see me?”

“Indeed.”

“Uh, how might I be of service?” How might I be of service? What the fuck? Since when do I talk like a British lord in a period movie? It’s this weird room. It’s got to be. That and the desire to please him so he doesn’t turn me into a late-afternoon snack.

I will myself to sit still and wait for his answer.

He’s in no hurry. His words are a slow, deep rumble. “How long have you worked at II Tech, Dr. Martin?”

Good, we’re starting off easy. “About a year.”

“I see. A welcome addition to the team, I’m sure. And in that year, what opinions have you formed on our… program?”

Loaded question, that.

Lies, don’t fail me now. “It’s an ambitious undertaking. The protocols here are always held to rigorous standards, which, as an engineer, I appreciate.” There. Something close to the truth without revealing any of my distaste.

But Voijin watches me without responding, waiting for me to continue.

“Um, the incentive package and benefits are very generous, as is the pay. Above industry standard. Much appreciated.”

He tips his head. “Yes, II Tech pays handsomely for both your expertise and your discretion. One is often useless without the other.”

As I ponder that, it’s my turn to watch and wait. I have no idea what to say next. Voijin doesn’t show any signs of discomfort. He wouldn’t. He’s got the upper hand in every sense of the expression. Meanwhile, I’m fighting not to squirm in my seat.

How old is he? A century? Two?

More?

I don’t have the level of clearance required to access any information on him besides vampire and boss. I don’t even know if he’s my boss. It’s possible he’s a hired consultant. I don’t know who runs II Tech, only that I report to Oliver Kalinov, who is as mortal as me.

At least, I think he’s as mortal as me.

Damn. For a guy who’s worked here for a whole year, I don’t know much outside of my own job. I never had to before this. Didn’t want to either. The more I know, the less there is to like about II Tech.

“Speaking of discretion,” says Voijin. “Specimen 19 was known to keep to himself. He had a quiet nature. Was known to be docile and easy to work with. Not the type we’d expect to plan and execute an escape attempt.”

Not an attempt. An escape. He did it. He got out. But my lips are sealed.

Voijin continues, “Specimen 3 says he liked you. Is that so?”

Oh shit. What’s my face doing?

Stay blank, stay blank, stay blank.

Specimen 3 is Hayworth and he’d say anything if it got him something he wanted. And yet, he said Sullivan liked me? Could that be true?

I mean, sure, he probably likes me at least a little bit now that he’s living in my house, lounging on my couch, and binge watching True Blood on my TV, but while he was contained? I was just another douchebag testing on him.

“If he liked me, I wasn’t aware, though I agree with that assessment. He was always easy to work with. Unlike Hayworth, who’s—”

“A disaster, yes, and that’s putting it lightly. In any case, and you know I must ask, did Sullivan speak to you at all about his plans?”

I notice his switch from specimen numbers to proper names. To make me more comfortable? Because if I’m comfortable, I’ll talk? I don’t know.

“Of course not.”

“Mmm, not even a hint? Think back. He must have had help, either willing or unwilling. In retrospect, did you find yourself providing conversation he may have used in his planning?”

So it’s what I was afraid of. This line of questioning feels like an interrogation. I’m a suspect. And I have shit to hide.

I make a show of pondering my answer, but I already know what I’m going to say. “No. We made small talk. Mostly it was me asking questions, not him.”

“And what did you ask about?”

“How he was feeling, what he was reading, did he like the new Full House episode on Friday night, that sort of thing. Surface stuff.”

Voijin leans in. “The other lab techs hardly speak with him at all. Why do you?”

Because the poor kid was dying of boredom. Because he was sad. Because I might work for the devil but I’m not, in fact, an evil guy. “Um, I talk to all of them. You don’t?”

He considers me. The weight of his dark gaze is like an anvil on my chest straight out of one of Sullivan’s old roadrunner cartoons. He smiles, not wide, not kind, but like he’s found whatever he’s seeking.

“Generally, no, I don’t speak to them.” He rises, so I do as well. “If you should think of something he said, any little detail that may not have seemed relevant at the time, but could be now, you’ll tell me, yes?”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Dr. Martin.” His hand lands heavy and cold on my shoulder.

I suppress a flinch. “Anytime.”

Actually, please never ask for me again.

At home, Sullivan rounds the hall corner and greets me wide-eyed and with a tangled mop of bedhead. Adorable.

I chuckle. “Did I wake you?”

He nods and scrubs his face. “Fell asleep reading.”

“Ah.” I grin and gesture to his hair. “It’s a cute look on you.”

His hands fly to his head, his mouth falls open, he spins on a socked foot, and rushes away. I feel a bit bad for mentioning it, but he knows I was joking, right?

Maybe he doesn’t. Just in case, I follow after him.

“Hey, don’t brush it on my account. I was only teasing.” His bed is a nest of messy blankets and a curled-up, snoozing brown rat. Not one but three books lay among the mountain of pillows. Another stack is piled high on the bedside table. “Been doing a lot of reading?”

He pokes his head out from the attached bathroom. “That’s okay, right?”

“Of course it is. I’m glad you like my parents’ books. I really was only teasing. You don’t need to fix your hair for me.”

“Yes. I do.” He ducks back into the bathroom.

I linger in the hall at the threshold. This is his space now, and I don’t want to intrude.

Well, I don’t want to intrude any more than I already have by peering in to check it out.

The primary bedroom looks lived-in again.

Smells fresh, like clean sheets and the old Dove soap I’m sure he found in the bathroom.

No longer some weird shrine to my dead parents, but a comfortable, cozy space for a man who surely deserves as much.

Warmth fills my chest.

I’m glad he’s here. That he came to me for help. That he’s not out in the world all by himself, cold, unprepared, and afraid. No matter the danger, I’m glad he’s not alone.

Helping Sullivan would have made my parents proud, not the work I do for II Tech. That would only make them sad.

And possibly angry.

Probably angry. But not at me. At them, and the fact they ensnared me in a time of weakness.

When Sullivan emerges from the bathroom, he looks more properly awake. Face damp, hair brushed and gleaming, a soft, happy expression lighting his features. “Sorry, I should have set an alarm.”

“What? No. Sleep whenever you want, Sullivan. There are no rules here.”

“But I meant to be awake when you got home.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Okay.” He looks a little lost but recovers quickly enough. “How was work?”

I consider telling him about the meeting with Voijin. How the vampire creeps me out. The way he’s digging. But it would only upset him, so I say, “Fine. Glad it’s over.”

His assessing gaze says he’s onto me, but he doesn’t push.

I gesture to the books. “Whatcha reading?”

“Oh!” He excitedly gathers them from the bed to show off.

“This one is a book about real vampires.” He holds up Cases of the Undead: Records of Vampirism in Early Medieval Europe.

“And this one is about real werewolves.” He holds up Lycanthropy and the Mind.

“And this one”–he grins widely and holds up a hardback copy of Twilight.

—“is a book about fake vampires and fake werewolves!”

I huff out a laugh. “I can’t believe my mom had a copy of Twilight.”

“It was your dad’s.”

“What?”

He opens the book and points to a little note written in a swoopy scrawl.

To Danny,

Thanks for reading.

With best wishes,

Stephenie Meyer

I blink. Shake my head. Blink again. Then laugh some more. “Wow, I didn’t know he was a fan. Like, at all.” Though now that I think about it, I do remember seeing those movies as a family, which, in retrospect, is a bit weird. I wish I knew the story of how he acquired a personalized signed copy.

“It’s so good,” says Sullivan. “Really juicy. There’s this new boy in school, and he’s all broody and quiet, but Bella— You know all this already, don’t you?”

“Can’t say I read it, but I did watch the movie.”

“There’s a movie!” The way he brightens like he’s won the lottery keeps my laughter flowing.

“Sure is, and one for each of the sequels. You’re in luck, my friend. Hours of entertainment coming your way.”

He clutches the books to his chest, and I think fondly of my dad. How much he loved his books. How wonderful it is to see Sullivan treasuring them now. How they would have gotten along so well.

“Come on. Let’s make something to eat.”

We fix dinner. I show him how to cook chicken breasts. He sets the table. It’s nice. It’s domestic.

After, we settle in front of the TV, which has become our routine.

I’ve never watched so much television in my life, but it’s what Sullivan is used to.

And he’s utterly taken by all the new shows after the regular diet of early 90s fluff II Tech fed him.

We don’t skip straight to Twilight—though he’s obviously tempted—because he’s not yet done with True Blood.

Just wait until I introduce him to Anne Rice.

He’s going to love Interview with the Vampire. I’m not a betting man, but my money says he’ll be into Louis like whoa.

Out of nowhere, Sullivan sits bolt straight and shoots me a frightened gaze. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Footsteps. Outside. Someone’s here.”

Anxiety spikes. A burst of adrenaline tightens my chest and makes my breath shallow. This would be the worst time for my asthma to act up. Somehow my heart beats a mile a minute and time slows to a crawl all at once.

Sullivan grabs the remote, but I wave him off and whisper, “Don’t. They might hear you change it.”

He nods and sets the remote back down.

I rise from my chair, careful to be silent. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that we thoroughly blacked out all the windows for Sullivan’s sake, so there’s no way for a stalker to peek inside.

Which also means we can’t peek outside.

“Where?” I whisper.

Sullivan points to the back wall of the house, where the dining room window would look out over a half acre of yard and the dark tree line past it.

“I’m going to check it out. You stay here.”

Sullivan clutches Twenty-Four to his chest like a lifeline and frantically shakes his head. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’ll only be gone a moment.”

He scurries in close. “Then I’ll come with you.”

“No, stay. You’re safer here.” What am I thinking? He’s the genetically modified killing machine, not me, but something tells me Sullivan would be unhappy squishing a bug, much less fighting off an attacker. “I’ll hurry.”

He nods, but his eyes have gone watery.

I grab my phone, my inhaler, and the biggest, scariest knife from my knife block and head out through the garage. It’s packed so tight with my parents’ stuff there’s no room for a car anymore, but there’s a side door I can slip through. If someone’s out there, I'll see them before they see me.

Hopefully.

Creeping through my garage, dodging boxes and bins, I hold my breath because even the sound of my own breathing is too loud. My heart beats in my throat as I inch toward the side door and open it carefully.

A burst of frigid air stings my face.

I step out, slink my way to the back corner, and draw in a shaky breath.

One, two, three, go. I peer around quickly at space by the back windows before tucking my head behind the side wall.

Nothing.

I look again.

Nothing.

One foot in front of the other, I make my way to the window where Sullivan said he heard footsteps. I see no evidence of another person. No footprints. No black-clad, would-be intruder sneaking away into the shadows of the night.

A bit of my anxiety fades. Maybe it was nothing.

Behind me, a twig snaps.

The little hairs on my nape bristle.

Anxiety spikes.

I whirl around.