Man can believe the
impossible, but can never believe the
improbable.
—Oscar Wilde
1
Rotten eggs and sulphur. Oh, the sweet
stench of home.
The gray cloud of parfum d’sewer rolled out of my apartment door as I
juggled my keys, two mocha lattes—heavy on the whipped cream—and
bagels. Standing in the hallway, I shouted, “Is it safe to come in,
or do I need my gas mask?”
That was not a rhetorical question. My
roommate, Katie Lewis, was playing with chemicals again. And I was
guessing this morning’s experiment was an epic
failure.
She’d converted our kitchen into a chem
lab last year. Made sense, since neither of us cooked food. Since
then, I’ve learned to live with safety gear at the ready, at all
times. Splash goggles. Gas mask. Fire extinguisher. Fabric
deodorizer. It goes without saying, Casa
Skye/Lewis isn’t the average home of a couple of grad students. But
every now and then, having a chemist at my beck and call, 24-7,
came in handy. Especially now that Mrs. Heckel in 2B has stopped
reporting us to the DEA. We’ve been raided twice.
“Sloan?” Katie was sporting her
everyday wear—apron, goggles, heavy rubber gloves ... and slippers
with stuffed Albert Einstein heads on the tops. It wasn’t a look
every girl could pull off, but she did—and still managed to look
cute. If she wasn’t such a sweetheart, I might have hated her for
it. “Did you happen to get cream cheese? We’re out.”
“Sure did.” Taking my cue from Katie,
who wasn’t wearing her gas mask, I hurried inside and shut the
door. “Whew, whatever you just blew up reeks. Do you have the
exhaust fan going?”
Grimacing, Katie waved a hand in front
of my face. “Yeah. The smoke should clear up in a few minutes.
Sorry.” She slid her goggles to the top of her head and swiped one
of the coffees from the cardboard tray.
“Did you figure out what went wrong
this time?”
“Not a thing. It was supposed to do
that.” Katie took a slurp and smacked her lips. “Mmm, good coffee.
They used just the right amount of chocolate this time. Not too
little, not too much.”
“Good.” After I set my coffee and the
bag of bagels on the coffee table, which served double duty as our
dining table, I headed straight back to my room. I checked the
clock on my nightstand. It was a twenty-eight-minute drive to the
FBI Academy. That left me exactly four minutes to finish getting
ready.
“Are you geeked about your big day?”
Katie hung back, standing just outside my bedroom as I rushed
around, digging out my laptop case and tossing the essentials into
it. Pens, notebook, spare change, cell phone, Netbook.
“I can’t tell you how nervous I am.” I
sighed. “I gotta pee again. This is the third time in an hour. I
swear, I have the bladder of a sixty-year-old mother of
twelve.”
“I’m so excited for you!” As I shuffled
past her, toward the bathroom, Katie caught my shoulders and gave
them a quick shake. “My best friend’s working for the freaking FBI.
You’ll tell me absolutely everything, right?”
“Sure, I’ll tell you everything that
isn’t classified.” I dashed into the bathroom and took care of my
personal issue, hoping I wouldn’t get the urge to go again in the
next three minutes.
“Call me later,” Katie yelled through
the door.
“Will do.” I dropped a throwaway
toothbrush into my purse, zipped it shut, and, heading out into the
hall, scooped up the laptop bag I’d left next to the door.
Racewalking across the living room, I slung my bag over my shoulder
and grabbed my lukewarm mocha latte and a dry bagel while on the
way to the exit. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” Before
heading out, I doused myself in Febreze.
Katie pushed her goggles in place and
headed toward the kitchen. “You have nothing to worry
about.”
I’d heard that before, exactly one
minute before the last explosion. And the one before that. What can
I say? We both like to live a little dangerously.
With not even a second to spare, I
yanked open the door and almost crashed into my mother, her hand
raised to knock. She was wearing her threadbare hot pink
bathrobe—and God only knew what underneath. Two different shoes
poked out from beneath the ratty hem, and her hair—today it was the
shade of a new penny—looked like it had been styled with an
eggbeater. A huge suitcase sat next to her feet, and an unlit joint
as thick as my thumb was protruding from the corner of her
mouth.
Nothing new there.
I grinned, plucked the joint out of her
mouth, and dropped it into my purse. “Hi, Mom. What a pleasant
surprise.”
“Honey, I need your help. The power’s
out in my building again and the landlord says it’s my fault. He’s
exaggerating, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed.
“It’s not my fault the building’s
wiring is outdated. I was just trying—”
“It’s okay, Mom. You can stay with us
until it comes back on.” I gave her a peck on the cheek and handed
her my coffee as I hurried past. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go. It’s my
first day with the FBI. There’s bagels inside. Your favorite. I’ll
call you later.” After ditching the contraband in the scraggly
shrubs next to the building’s main entry, I sprinted out to my car,
my laptop case bruising my hip and my empty stomach rumbling. I hit
my mom’s landlord’s phone number on my cell, programmed on speed
dial, prepared to give the usual “it’ll never happen again”
speech.
I’d already handled my mother’s little
problem and was in the middle of an emergency handbag repair—making
creative use of a couple of paper clips and a broken pencil—when my
new boss, Special Agent Murphy, finally emerged from his office.
“There’s been a mistake,” he informed me. “We won’t be able to use
you this summer... .”
Of course, there’s a
problem. There always is. The question is, what can I
do—
“We’ve selected another intern...
.”
Another
intern?
“I’m sorry.” Murphy scowled and glanced
down at his cell phone. “Excuse me for just a moment.”
I should have known it was too good to
be true. But after two decades of dreaming and studying and hoping,
I—Sloan Skye, the only offspring of a schizophrenic
philosopher-self-proclaimed inventor and delusional biology
professor—wanted to believe I’d landed the internship of my dreams.
I didn’t expect it to blow up in my face my first day on the
job.
As I struggled to recover from the bomb
that Agent Murphy had just lobbed my way, Gabe Wagner—who should
have been doing grunt work for some senator in DC, not anywhere
near the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia—came strolling
by.
That was it; I knew exactly what had
happened. His internship had fallen through, so somebody had pulled
a fast one on me.
Again.
As a few choice expressions played
through my mind—all of them involving specific anatomical parts and
physically impossible actions—I gave Gabe, my frenemy since
freshman year, a blindingly bright smile. “Hey, Gabe, does this
mean the dream job with the Waste Management Department is still
open?”
“No, I’m pretty sure that one’s been
filled. Sorry.” Looking as evil as ever, Gabe sauntered within
reach, but I resisted the urge to snap his neck like a toothpick.
“Why? Were you interested in applying?” Lucky for him, I possessed
an iron will, an allergy to prison air, and—I’d never admit this to
Gabe—I secretly enjoyed our little verbal tussles. They made life
interesting. “If you’re really hard up, I could ask my dad to pull
a few strings, get you an interview at the meatpacking plant in
Baltimore.”
Argh! Animal guts gives
me hives.
“Gee, thanks. I’d love to spend my
summer elbow deep in pig intestines, but I’d hate to impose. I’m
sure Senator Wagner has more important things to do, like slip his
pet pork barrel projects into the latest bill the Senate’s
debating. You never know, that nineteen-million-dollar study on cow
flatulence might solve the energy crisis someday.”
Murphy returned, giving each of us a
bland look. “Good morning, Mr. Wagner. I’ll be with you in just a
moment, if you’ll wait over there.” He motioned toward a grouping
of chairs a few feet away, next to a table with a coffeepot, cups,
and a mug full of primary-colored swizzle sticks. Once Gabe was out
of my reach, Murphy turned to me. “Miss Skye, I tried to call you
this morning, after I discovered the administrative error, but it
was too late. We’re looking into something else for you. I’ll give
you a call as soon as I know something.”
Translation: Don’t call
us. We’ll call you.
“Thanks, Agent Murphy.” I fought to
look cheery, but I knew I wouldn’t fool anyone, especially Gabe. I
was, without a doubt, the world’s worst actress. In my defense, I
don’t think even Reese Witherspoon could have pulled this one
off.
Feeling a little defeated, I slumped
into a nearby chair. It rocked back, almost dumping me on the
floor. Not to sound like a pathetic whiner or anything, but this
was unbelievably unfair. It’s not that I expect life to be one big
wonderful world full of happiness and justice for all, but I’d been
preparing for this job my entire life. And when I say “entire
life,” I’m not exaggerating. As I lay in my crib, my mom fed my
brain a steady diet of everything from analytic philosophy to
quantum physics, a thick joint tucked between her lips and a cloud
of pot smoke circling her head like a halo. As a result, not only
had I memorized the work of just about every major player in the
world of psychology by the time I’d graduated from elementary
school—Freud, Jung, Adler, just to name a few—but I could square
eighteen digit numbers faster than most people could add two. And I
could recite the Divine Comedy ... in
Italian. “I’ll just mosey on home and wait for your call. Thanks
again.”
“Good luck with the job hunt.” Gabe
waved from the coffee stand. “Call me if you want me to hook you
up.” He had the nerve to actually waggle his eyebrows.
I threw up a little in my
mouth.
What a day. Thanks to Gabe, I was not
only out of a dream internship but out of a steady paycheck as
well. I received an annuity payment every fall, which kept us
afloat for the year and helped pay my tuition. I had my dad to
thank for that. But I’d promised to pay my mom’s landlord a
thousand dollars to cover the damage she’d caused. My bank account
was on the brink of imploding. How would I pay next month’s rent?
Electric bill? And, more important, how would I take care of Mom?
SSI barely kept a roof over her head, even when she wasn’t causing
minor catastrophic damage. If I didn’t subsidize her pathetic
income, she’d end up living under a bridge, smoking marijuana and
talking to invisible zombies ... again.
Damn it!
All of my dreams for the summer—kicking
ass and taking down bad guys, anyone?—were slipping from my grasp.
But I have never been the kind to stand in stunned silence and let
everything fall apart. I had to do something.
But what?
I looked down at my hands, and just
like that, I had an idea.
Lucky for me, Gabe was called away to
handle some super-important, top-secret intern stuff before I had
to throw myself at Murphy’s feet and beg for a job. Quickly, before
I lost my nerve, I muttered, “In case the other thing doesn’t work
out, I’m pretty handy with a broom.” Sweeping the Behavioral
Analysis Unit’s offices was better than the
alternative.
“Oh?” Murphy glanced at the paper clips
in my hands, then at my cheap Prada knockoff purse, its broken
strap dangling off a nearby desk like a dead eel.
“And a vacuum,” I added, hoping I was
making my point clear. For a guy who puzzled together clues on a
daily basis, Murphy seemed to be having a hard time getting my
drift.
“Yeah.” He nodded, glanced at his phone
again, and lifted a finger. “Just a minute.”
“Sure.” I beamed a silent thank-you,
hoping I’d soon be the recipient of some good news. Anything, and I
mean a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g, would be better than
last year’s summer job, cleaning behind a pack of greasy, belching,
middle-aged mechanics who thought the word “wash” had a letter
r in it and a high-school diploma
constituted an advanced degree. I have never been an intellectual
snob—it’s a lot more fun laughing at people who think they know
everything—but come on. There was only so much a girl could
take.
I’d been lucky to get that job last
year, even with two bachelor’s degrees and a master’s in the works.
And this year, things were even worse. The guy who was sweeping my
uncle’s garage this summer had a master’s degree in mechanical
engineering.
I finished up my handbag repair, and
was about to tackle the broken chair, which posed a genuine threat
to national security, when Murphy returned with a woman who looked
like an older version of myself. The agent’s dull brown hair, the
same shade as mine, had been scraped back from her face and tied
into a tight knot at her nape. Her nondescript polyester suit had
fashion disaster written all over it, just like mine. And
little-to-no makeup enhanced her unextraordinary features—also,
sadly, just like mine.
“I think we’ve found a solution to our
problem.” Murphy motioned to the woman. “This is Special Agent
Alice Peyton. She’s chief of a new unit in the FBI, and she could
use your help.”
Yes, yes, yes, the angels were singing!
And I was ready to join them in a lively round of Handel’s
“Hallelujah Chorus.”
I had no idea what kind of work Chief
Peyton’s unit was involved in; I didn’t care. All that mattered was
I had a job, and it was within the hallowed halls of the FBI
Academy. Gabe hadn’t ruined my summer, after all. And dear old mom
wouldn’t be sharing the overpass with Crazy Connie, the bag
lady—who wasn’t crazy at all, if you ask me.
Sane has always been a relative term in
my world.
I cranked up the wattage of my smile
and offered a hand to my soon-to-be boss for the summer. “Sloan
Skye.”
“Alice Peyton. It’s good to have you
with us.”
“Glad to be here.” That was no
lie.
Murphy turned my way. “Special Agent
Peyton will take care of transferring your paperwork. I hope you
have a good summer, Miss Skye.”
“I will now. Thank you.” I shook his
hand.
Chief Peyton motioned toward the
elevators. “Let me show you where you’ll be working. We’re one
floor up.”
“That would be great. I’ll get my
things.” As I snatched up my purse and laptop case, I caught Gabe’s
openmouthed gawk. I couldn’t help noticing he held a coffee cup in
both hands.
Within Gabe’s earshot, Chief Peyton
said, “I’m hoping you can do more than fetch coffee. Do you have a
valid passport?”
Karma was my new best
friend.
I tossed Gabe a little smirk. “You mean
I’ll be traveling with the unit?”
“Of course, Skye. Wherever we go, you
go too.” Chief Peyton stopped in front of a bank of elevators.
“Speaking of which, Skye is an unusual name.”
“Yes, I suppose it is, statistically
speaking. According to GenealogyToday-dot-com, it was the sixty
thousand one hundred eighty-fifth most popular surname in the ...”
I’m doing it again. “... Sorry, I get a
little carried away with statistics sometimes... . Um, I was told
my father was Scottish.”
“I thought he might be. What does he
do?” Chief Peyton pushed the elevator’s up button.
“Well, my father’s dead. He was a
professor at the University of Richmond.”
“I’m very sorry.” When the elevator
door opened, Chief Peyton motioned me in first, then
followed.
I stepped toward the back of the car.
“It’s okay. He died when I was young.”
She hit the button for the third floor.
“I see. He was a professor of ... ?”
I wondered for a second or two why
Chief Peyton seemed to be taking such an interest in a man who’d
been dead for more than twenty years. But I quickly shrugged it off
as small talk, her way of making me feel more comfortable. “Natural
science—specifically, biology.” I left out the part about how he’d
been shamed into giving up his position at the university after
publishing an article arguing for the existence of fictional
creatures—vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and goblins, that sort of
thing. I was fairly certain that would be low on Chief Peyton’s
need-to-know list.
“That’s very interesting.” As the
elevator slowly rumbled up to the third floor, Chief Peyton began
explaining, “The PBAU is a brand-new unit within the FBI. We’ll be
handling our first case this week, and we’re very fortunate to have
you on our team.” When the car bounced to a stop, she motioned for
me to exit first, then followed me out.
Wondering what the acronym PBAU stood
for, I headed straight for the open area where the unit members’
desks sat in tidy rows. It was exactly as I’d imagined the
Behavioral Analysis Unit, aka BAU, would look. Semitransparent half
walls separated a half-dozen identical cubicles from each other.
And around the back ran a raised walk, which led to a couple of
rooms closed off from the main space. But this wasn’t the home of
the BAU; it was the PBAU. And instead of a
bustling room full of busy agents, it was eerily
silent.
“I’m very happy to be a part of the
team. I’m eager to get started,” I said.
“We’ll be meeting for our first case
review in a few minutes. I want you to join us.”
Join them? I almost giggled like a
little girl, I got so excited. I never giggled, not even when I was
five and I’d built my first robot, using Legos and a few electronic
bits I’d “borrowed” from various sources around the house. Mom
didn’t need that old drill, anyway. Or the toaster. We never ate
toast. And the computer ... it had been useless, outdated, and
begging to become spare parts for Heathcliff, my new best friend.
“Sure.”
My new boss tapped the back of a chair,
tucked under a nearby cubicle desk. “This’ll be your work space.
We’ll get you a computer, supplies, and phone by the end of the
week.”
“I get a desk of my own?” I peered at
the inhabitants of the adjoining cubicles, thinking I’d introduce
myself, but both had their backs to me.
“Sure. Of course you get a desk,” Chief
Peyton answered.
“Well, thanks. Don’t worry about the
computer. I brought my own.” I lifted my computer
case.
“We’ll need to have it checked for
security before you can log into our system.”
“No problem.” I set my case on my desk
and unzipped it. “This is great. It’s like I’m a permanent part of
the team.” Trying not to think about the fact that this whole thing
sounded too good to be true, I tried the chair out for size. It was
a perfect fit.
“Perhaps you will be someday.” Chief
Peyton patted my shoulder, then announced, loud enough for everyone
to hear, “Case review in five minutes. Let’s take it up in the
conference room.”
Scuffling and chatter followed; in less
than five, I was introduced to the three other members of the
PBAU.
Of course, there was Chief Peyton. Also
on the team were Special Agent Jordan Thomas, Special Agent Chad
Fischer, the media liaison, and Special Agent Brittany Hough, the
computer specialist/techie geek. They had all transferred to the
PBAU from other units. That meant I was the only clueless newbie.
Each greeted me with a friendly smile and a handshake.
Finally, with the introductions over,
we all took our seats. Standing in front of a whiteboard, Fischer
taped up a color photograph of a dead body. Fischer launched into
his presentation. “The Baltimore PD is asking for our help solving
a suspected murder case. At this point, all indicators are pointing
to a nonmortal suspect... .”
Did he just say “nonmortal”? No
way.
“... Bite wounds on the victim’s neck
suggest we may be looking for a vampiric predator...
.”
Vampiric?
“... It’s too early to say what the
cause of death is, but local law enforcement doesn’t want to wait.
The media’s hot to cover the story, and they can’t be held off for
long.”
Had Chief Peyton known all along who my
father was and what he’d researched?
No. Okay, maybe. Crazier things have
happened.
“... It appears to be a single vampire
killing, blitz attack. We don’t know much, but one thing is
certain. This unknown subject—unsub—won’t stop until we catch
him.”
They all looked at me.
What were they expecting? Should I have
whipped out a wooden stake and led the charge, yelling, “Die, you
bloodsucking bastard”?
My phone, set on vibrate, started
buzzing.
“Skye, what are your thoughts?” Chief
Peyton asked.
“Well ...” Lucky me, not only was my
mother calling, asking me to solve another crisis, no doubt, but it
also seemed I’d just been dubbed the FBI’s Buffy the Vampire
Slayer. There was only one problem. My mother had taught me
plenty—Latin, vector integral calculus, quantum physics. For some
silly reason, though, she’d eschewed vampire psychology and
comparative biology of shape-shifters.
I didn’t know a Sasquatch from a
yeti.
When no coherent response came from my
direction, Chief Peyton turned back to Fischer. “I agree. If the
unsub is a young vampire on a feeding frenzy, there will be more.
And soon.”
Vampire. They were actually thinking
this crime was the act of a vampire?
Again, I should’ve known it was too
good to be true. This had to be some kind of joke. A freaking
brilliant, absolutely hilarious one. Gabe Wagner was behind this.
It had his name written all over it.
“Not only must we profile our killer’s
personality, but also his species,” Chief Peyton said.
Species? God, this was good. Anytime
now, one of Gabe’s’s friends was going to pop out of a corner and
shout, “You’ve been punked!” Then everyone was going to laugh,
including me. And then I’d be escorted to my real boss, and I’d
find out I don’t get a nice desk and my own computer and phone, but
rather a rusty old file cabinet, a yellow legal pad, and that
crappy broken chair, shoved into a supply closet.
“Excellent point,” Fischer said. “The
being’s physical characteristics will influence his behavior as
much as psychological factors.”
Yep, any minute now ...
My phone, sitting in my lap, started
vibrating against my leg.
Gabe?
No. Mom again.
I ignored the call and played along
with Peyton’s game, nodding at the appropriate moments, raising
eyebrows, and scribbling notes on the pad of paper that I’d dug out
of my laptop case.
Very interesting. The body had bite
marks on the neck.
Oh, yes. Fang marks were most
definitely a sign of a vampire attack.
It appeared blood was missing from the
victim’s body, but if so, the body hadn’t been completely
drained.
Hmm. “Perhaps the unsub had been
interrupted midfeed-ing. Cena interruptus,”
I offered.
Everyone concurred with a
nod.
Okay, this practical joke was
stretching on too long. I leaned back and tried to peer around the
corner. I didn’t see any sign of Gabe or his posse. Where was he?
This had to be a joke. It couldn’t be real.
I checked my phone, thinking maybe I’d
missed his call. Nope. Nobody had called but my
mother.
At the end of Fischer’s presentation,
the team members stood, each one giving me a look as they filed out
of the room. Finally Chief Peyton walked to my side of the table,
pulled the chair out next to me, and sat down. “We’d like you to
come with us.”
“You would.”
“To Baltimore. We’ll be leaving in just
over an hour.”
“Oh. Um, I don’t know.” I am so rarely
struck completely mute, but this situation had done just that.
There were so many questions clogging my brain, I couldn’t
think.
“This case is local, but I should
mention, every member of my team has to keep a ‘go bag’ with them
at all times, stocked with the basics—a couple changes of clothes,
toothbrush, makeup, hairbrush—”
“Excuse me, but what exactly does PBAU
stand for?” I asked.
“Paranormal Behavioral Analysis Unit.
Like the BAU, the mission of the PBAU is to provide
behavioral-based investigative support to local FBI field offices.
Unlike the BAU, the cases we are called to assist with all involve
acts of violence that have some tie to the unknown, the paranormal,
or the occult.”
Seriously?
I couldn’t help asking, “You don’t
really believe there are Edward Cullens running around, chomping
people in the neck. Do you?”
“Not the kind of vampires you see in
movies, no. Of course not.” Finally this very sensible-looking
woman was saying something reasonable. I pulled in a lungful of air
and let it out slowly. “I have yet to see a vampire that sparkles,”
she added, looking dead serious. “Now, come on, I’ll tell you more
in the car. I thought we’d all drive together. It’ll give us a
chance to discuss the case.” She checked her wristwatch. “Time’s
tight. We need to get going. Sunset’s a few minutes after nine
tonight.” Not waiting for me, she headed for the conference room
door.
I followed her. “Is it too dangerous to
be outside after dark?”
“We’d like to get as much time as
possible at the crime scene during daylight hours. It’s hard to see
after sunset.”
Why did I feel like I’d just said
something totally stupid? “Gotcha.”
She waved Jordan Thomas over. As I’d
noticed earlier, he was the closest to my age. Fischer and Chief
Peyton were older, thirties, maybe early forties. I’d noticed
another thing about him too—he wasn’t hard on the eyes. He had nice
... glasses. “JT, I need you to give Skye a rundown of our policies
and procedures before we leave.”
“Sure, Chief.”
Chief Peyton tapped my arm and looked
me straight in the eyes. “Are you with us, Skye?”
That was the fifty-thousand-dollar
question, wasn’t it?
The way I saw it, I had two options:
either forget about an internship with the FBI, and let my mom
down; or chase imaginary monsters.
When I looked at it that way, spending
three months profiling vampires and werewolves couldn’t be any
worse than emptying Porta-Potties in the county parks. And that I’d
done, for more summers than I cared to remember.
I shrugged. “Sure. I’m
in.”