Up From the Grave

Twenty-seven

When Mencheres had said his “people” were working on the drives we’d brought back from Madigan’s compound, I’d assumed he meant vampires. When we followed him to the room he’d converted into a tech lover’s paradise, however, the black-haired boy beaming at his computer was human. And he looked about seventeen years old.

“I am the shee-it,” the adolescent said in a singsong voice. Then he swung around, smirking at the nearly five-thousand-year-old Egyptian vampire.

“Who’s your daddy, M?”

Far from being offended, Mencheres went over and flawlessly executed a street-style handshake complete with finger slaps, fist bumps, and a high-low finale.

“You are the shit,” he solemnly agreed.

I couldn’t stay silent anymore.

“You used a teenager to salvage information sensitive enough to cause a worldwide war?”

Mencheres gave me a tolerant look. “Most vampires are slower to embrace technology than the average senior citizen. Tai is loyal, and he has been writing code since before you learned how to text.”

The boy grinned at me.

“Don’t worry, sugar, I know how to keep quiet. Besides, M is one of my mains.”

Bones raised a brow at the “sugar” comment, but I waved it off.

“Okay, Tai, show us what you’ve got.”

Like a switch had been flipped, the teenager became all business.

“I had to piece this together because the drives were so torched, the files were fragmented. Then I weeded through what M said you didn’t need, like genome findings and experiment logs. Lots of those—”

“Intact?” I interrupted. They might not help us find Madigan’s backer, but they could be useful for insight on Katie.

A grunt.

“Are now. Anyway, to the good stuff. They must’ve had cameras rigged all over the room she fought in, because this file”—his fingers flew across the keyboard—“has the best images of your tiny Godzilla in action.”

The computer screen filled with a distorted image, as though the video had been run through a shredder, then taped back together. Still, Katie was easy to spot. She was the child with the shoulder-length reddish brown hair facing a grown man who pointed a gun at her.

“. . . dn’t . . . mk . . . me . . .” came through in unintelligible staggers.

“Sound quality blows, but if you read his lips, he’s saying he doesn’t want to shoot her,” Tai said.

More sound gurgled from the video, then a blur of action. If I hadn’t been a vampire, I would have needed slow motion to see Katie lunge forward, ducking the bullet the man fired, before sweeping his legs out from under him and slamming her elbow onto his throat.

“That was her being told to neutralize him,” Tai supplied darkly.

I knew she’d killed people, but knowing and seeing were two different things. She hadn’t hesitated for a second, and nothing changed in the little girl’s expression when she leapt up and stood at attention, impervious to the body convulsing in its death throes by her feet. That a child would display such detachment while snuffing out a life chilled me to my soul. She seemed to have no concept of what she’d done.

Then again, how could she? All she received in response was a few curt words of praise from Madigan for her swiftness. He was in the video, too, watching Katie from behind a glass wall. It was all I could do not to punch the screen when the distortion cleared enough to see his smugly pleased expression.

Was it possible for Katie to unlearn every violent, conscienceless behavior Madigan had taught her? Even if it was, might she be too hardwired toward using her abilities to stifle them by always pretending to be human, as she’d need to do if we were to keep her safely hidden? After all, unless she was locked in a cell her whole life, Katie would be out in public at some point. One display of superhuman strength or speed in front of the wrong person, and the gig would be up.

On-screen, Madigan dismissed Katie. A hidden door swooshed open, and the little girl disappeared through it. She didn’t spare so much as a backward glance at the body behind her, either. I was so overwhelmed by the odds against reconditioning Katie into a somewhat normal little girl that it took a second for Tai’s, “This old guy might be who you’re looking for” comment to sink in.

Someone else appeared behind the glass wall where Madigan had been watching Katie. At first, all I could make out was a fiftyish man—guess that was old to a teenager—with salt-and-pepper hair who was the same height as Madigan though built stockier. Bones let out a hiss when the blurry imagery cleared and his face became distinct. I gasped, recognizing him, too. Tai smirked.

“Thought so. Saw him on TV before.”

So had most of America. Richard Trove was a former White House chief of staff and a current political advisor. You couldn’t flip channels during the last presidential election without running across him, but there was only one reason I could think of for why he’d be at a secret underground facility watching a genetically-engineered, tri-species child execute some poor guy on command.

He was Madigan’s shadow backer.

We doubted there was anyone above Trove, though to be sure, Denise shapeshifted into a replica of him and walked into Madigan’s cell. As with Don, Madigan recognized him at once and seemed delighted to speak with him. After several hours of mostly nonsense, we gleaned enough tidbits to convince us that the buck had stopped with Richard Trove. He’d been in office when Don’s operation started, and though he’d left the government since then, he was widely believed to be the power behind several current senators and at least one former president. Plus, he was wealthy enough to finance Madigan’s operations on his own if he didn’t want to run the expenses through a puppet politician.

After some digging, Tai found out that Trove would be in New York City this weekend for a political fund-raising dinner. We didn’t know where he’d be after that, which meant we had to choose between going after him or Katie. Trove won since we already had two vampires and a ghost tracking Katie. We texted Ian the information Timmie had relayed about her potential location, then contributed an astronomical amount of money in order to get reservations for the fund-raising dinner. Finally, we went shopping.

At fifteen thousand dollars a plate, we couldn’t show up in jeans and tee shirts.

Two days later, we checked into the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue. At 7:00 P.M. sharp the next night, we stood in line to enter the Grand Ballroom. Security was tight since more than a few prominent political figures were expected. Not a problem; Bones had several aliases who had been law-abiding citizens for decades. All it took was Tai hacking into a few databases to update the photos, then having a trusted forger print the documents, and voila.

“Mr. and Mrs. Charles Tinsdale,” Bones stated to the Secret Service agent screening the dinner attendees. Then he handed over his invitation and wallet, new driver’s license faced outward. After those were verified, he went through the metal detector, the green light signifying that he had no weapons on him.

I was surprised that I didn’t have to remove the gorgeous diamond necklace and earrings Kira had loaned me, or my wedding ring, before I went through that machine. Another Secret Service agent did have me empty out my small clutch bag, though, revealing lipstick, pressed powder, and my cell phone. I smiled as I accepted the bag back from him before linking my arm through Bones’s.

Sure, we were here to kill someone, but we weren’t going to be obvious about it.

Then we proceeded onto the main floor of the Grand Ballroom. The extravagant, three-level white-and-gold room was bathed in a soft blue glow that slowly changed to purple, orange, then pink as we made our way past the ornately decorated tables. Tall stands with candles and roses interspaced them, their shape reminding me of Dr. Seuss’s fabled Truffula trees. The flowers and chandeliers reflected the different hues of the continually changing lights, adding a beautiful luminescence to the already elegant ambiance.

We passed a couple senators and congressman I recognized from C-Span, but aside from a polite nod and smile, I didn’t pay any attention to them. I also tried to tune out their thoughts since the betterment of their constituents wasn’t foremost in their minds. What slipped past my barriers were different variations of the same who are you and what can you do for me? theme, with some jealousy, hatred, and lust thrown in.

Instead, until Trove arrived, I chose to focus on my husband. Bones’s suit was charcoal gray, and his tightly cropped, curly hair was back to its natural deep brown shade. I was glad he’d gotten rid of that shock of white; it brought back too many bad memories. Instead of being clean-shaven, he’d allowed a thin layer of stubble to shadow his chin and jawline, giving a rugged edge to his perfectly chiseled features. No one might know who he was, but his biggest drawback was being unforgettable once you saw him.

As a token disguise, I’d also dyed my hair, choosing black in honor of my dark intentions. It was swept up in a complicated knot that had taken the stylist at this hotel an hour to achieve. Blue contacts covered my gunmetal gray eyes, and my dress was whisper pink, the liner and overlying lace only a few shades rosier than my pale skin. The demure color didn’t match my mood, but I was trying to blend in, not stand out by wearing I’ll-kill-you-dead red.

Waiters passed around wine, champagne, and fancy hors d’oeuvres. Dinner wasn’t for another hour, and Trove hadn’t shown up yet, so Bones and I sipped champagne while we chatted with whoever approached us, giving our cover story of being a wealthy couple newly transplanted from London. No one asked why Bones was the only one with an English accent. In fact, I was barely spoken to aside from having my looks complimented. My feminism was outraged while my practicality was thankful. It was hard to see vacuous arm candy as a threat.

Our plan had been to mingle our way over to Richard Trove once he arrived, maneuver him into one of the private alcoves, green-eye him into telling us if he had any other secret facilities, then have Bones telekinetically squeeze his heart until he fell over. No muss, no fuss, and an autopsy would show a plain old cardiac arrest. Happens every day, nothing to see here, folks.

Problem was, there turned out to be more to Trove than the video had revealed.

As the ballroom filled with hundreds of guests, perfumes, colognes, and aftershaves overlapped with the scent of food, body odor, alcohol, and smoke from those who indulged. The result was a chemical cornucopia that became so thick, I didn’t notice the other smell right away.

Bones did. His whole body tensed right before his aura slammed shut with enough force to drop-kick me out of his emotions.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

His reply was low, resonant, and filled with icy hatred.

“Demon.”

When I followed Bones’s stare, my pessimism wasn’t surprised to find it ending at Richard Trove. That familiar, disgusting wave of sulfur penetrated through the other scents as the polished older man with the Jack Kennedy looks began strolling in our direction. The people around Trove didn’t seem to be aware of the smell emanating from him, and he must have hidden the pinpricks of red in his gaze under contacts.

Part of me was savagely amused that a demon had managed to fool Madigan into believing he was human this whole time, but the rest was wondering what the hell we were going to do. Demons couldn’t be mesmerized, and I had yet to meet one that would agree to come quietly.

Trove noticed my body first. His eyes lingered over it as though my dress had suddenly become see-through. When he finally dragged his gaze up to my face and saw that what he was doing hadn’t gone unobserved, he smiled in a charmingly roguish, “you caught me” sort of way.

Then his smile faded as he stared at me. His eyes narrowed, and he mouthed one word I didn’t need to hear to know that he’d recognized me.

Crawfield.

So much for doing this the no-fuss, no-muss way.