Who in the world am I? Ah,
that’s the great puzzle.
—Lewis Carroll
25
Before he would say another word, my
father insisted I sit. He didn’t have to work too hard at
convincing me. I took the nearest seat, curled my fingers around
the cushion’s edge, and braced myself for another
shock.
What could possibly keep a man away
from the wife and child he supposedly loved?
My mother was gazing at him with love
in her eyes and a girlish flush to her cheeks. I had to admit, she
looked younger and more alive than I’d ever seen her. It was as if
she’d taken a dip in the Fountain of Youth. Seeing her like this—so
happy, so radiant—stirred up my emotions even more.
But I wasn’t feeling all gushy and
mushy and happy.
I was feeling furious. Bitter and
distrusting.
Just look at her! Look
at that twinkle in her eye. How could he have stolen all those
years of happiness from that woman? All those minutes, hours, days,
weeks, and months of this kind of joy? She’d suffered and struggled
for so long.
It was wrong. So, so
wrong.
“... after I’d published that article,
everything changed,” he said.
I realized I’d been completely lost in
thought and hadn’t heard what he’d been saying. I decided it was
better if I cut to the chase. Why sit through a long, drawn-out
explanation about published articles and supposed danger? The
bottom line was he’d abandoned us, left us to fend for ourselves,
and let us believe all of this time that he was dead. Nobody did
that to people they loved.
“You couldn’t have loved us,” I said,
my voice a low growl, sounding foreign to my own ears. “You stayed
away for over twenty years. Nothing could keep me away from the
people I love for that long. Especially if they were in
danger.”
He pulled up a chair, positioning it
across from me, and sat. “I understand how you feel—”
I leapt to my feet and yelled, “How
could you?” My nose was burning, damn it. I didn’t want to cry. I
wouldn’t let myself bawl. I sniffled. “Have you ever been
abandoned?”
“Yes, I have, Sloan.”
My gaze snapped to his eyes and I saw
the emotions churning in their depth, but that didn’t stop me from
lashing out at him. The emotions were too powerful to hold back,
like a storm surge pouring over a break wall. “If you were
abandoned, how could you do that to someone else? To someone who
needed you? Loved you? With all her heart!” I stabbed my index
finger at my mother, who was standing at his side, like the
obedient, loving wife she would have loved to be for him. “Look at
her. Look at her face, her eyes. Do you have any idea how much
she’s suffered?”
My father looked at my mother. “Yes, I
do. You can’t imagine how many times I wanted to come back to her.
It nearly killed me.”
“Don’t even try to gain my sympathy,” I
spat through gritted teeth.
“I’m not.” Looking at me now, he said,
“I don’t want your sympathy.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and
circled around the chair, putting it between him and me. I set my
hands on the chair’s back, using it to steady myself. “Then what do
you want?”
“I want ... I need ... your
trust.”
I laughed. It was a hollow, bitter
sound, which echoed through the room.
“Sloan,” my mother said.
My gaze snapped to Mom, and for a
moment, the rage eased a little. But then it welled even higher.
“This is bullshit, Mom. I can see you love him. But he’s going to
hurt you again.” To him, that man, I said, “It would’ve been better
if you’d never come back.”
“You’re right. I would’ve stayed away
if I could have, after all this time.” He visibly sighed. “But
they’ve found you. Nobody else can protect you like I
can.”
I didn’t want to know—I really didn’t.
But I asked anyway: “Who’s they?”
“The Sluagh.” He
reached for Mom’s hand and pulled her closer to him.
“‘Sluagh’?” I
echoed. Sounded like the bad guys in a low-budget sci-fi movie.
“Seriously?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he dared
to say.
“Stop saying that. You couldn’t know
what I’m thinking, because you don’t know me.”
“I’m sorry, Sloan. You’re right. I
don’t know you well enough.”
“You don’t know me at
all.”
“But I do. I know your favorite book. I
know you like custard-filled donuts, and hate jelly-filled ones. I
know you’ve always dreamed of being an FBI agent. And now that you
have the job you’ve been wishing for, you’re afraid you aren’t
capable of handling it. And I know about the creature who has been
visiting you at night.”
He did?
How?
Feeling a little off balance, I decided
to sit again. “What do you know about that? Do you know what it is?
And what does it want?”
“He’s the reason why I left twenty
years ago. And why I came back.” James Irvine pointed at me. “He
wants you, Sloan.”
“I kinda got that. But for
what?”
“For his bride.”
Now, this was really sounding like a
low-budget film. That wasn’t what I was expecting. Not at all.
“This is a joke.”
Then again, why hadn’t I been expecting
such an off-the-wall explanation? All of my life, I’d been telling
people my father was delusional. Enough said.
The man who called himself my father
sighed. He stood, circled the room, then stopped next to my mother.
“The reason why I published that article so long ago, the one that
got me fired, was because I was trying to put an end to all of
humanity’s fears.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you
started researching vampires because ...” I didn’t finish the
sentence. For some reason, I felt stupid saying what I’d
thought.
“... because you were being attacked?”
he finished for me.
“Well, maybe,” I admitted, feeling
foolish.
“Not exactly. You were young then. I
could see why you’d think that. The truth is, I have known all my
life that vampires exist.” He sat again, then leaned forward. “Your
mother begged me not to tell anyone, not even you. But I thought I
should do the opposite, drag the proverbial skeletons out of the
closet. If only mankind could accept that certain beings were
real—could see them for what they are, and aren’t—then maybe things
could change.”
“Change? How?”
He didn’t answer right away. He glanced
at my mother. They exchanged a look. “We could stop hiding in the
shadows.”
“We?” I echoed.
My father nodded. “We. As in, the
Mythics. There are many of us. Some dark. Some light.”
Mythics. I assumed it was a broad term,
used by all kinds of mythical beings.
If this conversation had taken place a
few weeks ago, I would have been convinced by now that my father
was genuinely delusional. “Which are you?”
“Light. I’m the high commander of Her
Majesty’s armies.”
“What queen is that?”
“Queen of the elves. I’m not human, and
neither are you.”
“Elves, you say?” An image of little
happy men in red-and-green suits, singing Christmas carols while
building toy trucks, played through my mind.
“I’ve also held a position with the
FBI, consulting on cases involving Mythics when needed—though not
many people know about that. Though now that the PBAU has been
formed, I doubt I’ll be doing much more work for the
FBI.”
“I see.” I didn’t know what to say.
Then a question popped into my head. “Did you have anything to do
with the formation of the PBAU?”
“Maybe a little.”
That explained the chief’s questions
during my first day on the job.
Which led to my next question: “Did I
get the job because of you?”
“No. You were selected for the job
because you were the best candidate. I’m very proud of you,
Sloan.”
“I see.” My brain was churning. I
needed time to sort this all out. Elves. Mythics. My father, alive,
working for the FBI. “That explains a lot.” I stood. “Okay, I think
I’m ready to go home now.”
“No, Sloan.” My father shook his head.
“It isn’t safe for you to go anywhere until I’ve explained some
things.”
“Your father was the one who was paying
me to follow you,” Mom interjected, setting a hand on his shoulder.
“Of course, I didn’t know it at first. He used a false name, to
hide his identity. He was worried about you. About us. All of our
correspondence was done through e-mail. The payments were sent
electronically.”
Before I could summon up a response to
Mom’s news, my phone rang. I checked it. Gabe. “If you don’t mind,
I think I’ll take this call.”
“Not at all.” My mother turned to my
dad and smiled. “We’ll just head to the bedroom to ...
talk.”
At the bedroom door, my dad, the elf,
said, “Sloan, I must warn you, you can’t tell anyone about me. You
don’t know who you can trust and who you can’t yet.”
“Warning heeded.” A couple of questions
popped into my head. “You didn’t happen to break into my car, did
you? Or clobber my partner over the head at a coffee
shop?”
“No. I’ve kept my distance to protect
you.” So much for solving those mysteries. “One more thing,” my
father said, his expression serious. “If you absolutely must leave
this suite, which I strongly suggest you avoid, be sure to return
by twilight. Not a minute later.”
“Will do.” I waved him off, then
answered the call. “Gabe, what’s up?”
“Sloan, it’s about Chief Peyton. The
chief is missing. The team needs your help.”
I glanced at the closed bedroom door.
“Where are you?”
“At the Bishop house.”
I checked the time. Twilight was hours
away. “I’ll be there in a half hour.”
When I turned the corner onto Summer
Sky Path, something struck me like a brick.
Twilight.
That was a major problem if I was going
to help in the apprehension of Rosemarie Bishop, the adze. To be safe, we needed to wait until she shifted
into her insect form, at twilight.
Driving my father’s rental, I called
Gabe, to talk about maybe waiting one night. Gabe told me that
wasn’t an option. Bishop was holding the chief hostage somewhere,
and she had bitten her. If we didn’t locate the chief within the
next few hours, and get her to a hospital for treatment, she would
most likely die.
It came down to a choice. Between my
personal safety and the chief’s life. That was no easy decision to
make.
If only I could think of a way to
apprehend the adze before sunset safely. If
only ...
“Here’s what we’ve got,” Gabe said,
rushing toward me as I scrambled out of the rental car a short time
later. “The chief’s been missing for a couple of hours now. Bishop
says she has her hidden and has bitten her, infecting her with a
strain of West Nile that replicates every ten minutes. If the chief
doesn’t get treatment by sunset, she’ll die.”
“Damn,” I muttered. “What does Bishop
want in return for the chief?”
“Her daughter, Veronica.” He hurried me
toward the high-tech mobile station, which was set up by the
Clarksville and Baltimore Police Departments. “She’s still at
camp.”
“Knowing what I do about the
adze, I can’t figure out why Bishop let
Veronica go in the first place. Has anyone gone to get
her?”
“JT’s taking care of that. He’s in a
bureau helicopter, en route.”
“Okay.”
Gabe leaned against one of the many
police cars parked in front of the Bishop house. “Of course, we
aren’t going to turn the kid over.”
“Of course.”
“JT seems to think you’ll figure out a
way to capture the creature without making the
exchange.”
My heart stopped for a moment. Luckily,
it started up again. “He has a lot of faith in me.” More than I
had, that was for sure.
“We all do.”
I dug in my pocket and pulled out my
phone, dialing the hotel I’d just left. My parents’ room phone rang
and rang, and rang, while I chanted, “Pick it up, pick it up, pick
it up.” No luck there. I ended the call and stuffed my phone in my
pocket again.
What now?
“Do we have communication with Bishop?”
I asked as we watched officers in riot gear stream out of a black
Hummer.
“We have a phone number.” Gabe opened
the mobile command center’s door for me, and I stomped up the
steps. He introduced me to the officer in charge, then directed me
toward a phone that was wired to recording equipment.
“I can try to talk to Bishop, I guess,”
I offered, pretty much convinced it wasn’t going to do a damn
thing. In my mind’s eye, I could see pages and pages of my father’s
research. I’d read everything he’d written on the adze. I knew how it
metamorphosed. I knew what it ate. I
knew where it lived. I didn’t know how to capture it in human form. It wouldn’t
be as simple as one might think. Despite the fact that this
adze had possessed the body of a middle-aged
woman, the creature would possess sharper senses, faster reflexes,
and greater strength than its host.
Did it have a
vulnerability?
The lieutenant dialed the number and
handed me the phone. Bishop answered on the second
ring.
“Do you have what I want?” she
asked.
“We’re working on it.” I mouthed a
thank-you to Gabe as he slid a pad of paper and pen across the
table for me.
“Who is this?” she
snapped.
“My name is Sloan Skye. I’m with the
FBI.”
“I know you. This is your
fault.”
“My fault? Why’s that?” I asked,
doodling on the paper.
“Because you wouldn’t leave me alone.
You just had to keep digging and digging. Why can’t you
see?”
“See what?”
“That needing that child’s blood
doesn’t make me evil.”
“I understand,” I said, not 100 percent
agreeing with her, but sort of understanding where she was coming
from. Maybe, I thought, as she rattled on—justifying her actions,
and explaining how painful her condition was—all of those years of
dealing with Mom and her delusions would help me handle this
situation? Was it possible I could talk Bishop out of a standoff?
“That kind of pain would make anyone desperate.”
“Exactly.” Bishop sighed. “I tried the
palm oil. It barely took the edge off. The longer Veronica was
gone, the more it burned. Until the palm oil did nothing anymore.
That’s when I took Eden. I took very good care of her, though. I
was going to give her back as soon as Veronica came
home.”
“Yes, of course you were. You couldn’t
help yourself,” I said, trying to present a sympathetic ear. “You
needed a child’s blood.”
“I couldn’t. I tried.” There was
silence. I wondered if she’d hung up.
“Are you still there?” I
asked.
“Yes. It’s hurting. Very
bad.”
I scribbled some notes, then slid the
paper toward Gabe. “Veronica is on the way. She’ll be here. But not
before sunset.”
More silence.
Bishop said, “The other agent said
she’d be here before that.”
“They sent a helicopter to pick her
up.” I glanced at a clock. “It’s almost seven. Sunset is at eight
forty-nine tonight. There’s no chance they’ll make
it.”
“They lied. Or you’re lying.” Anger. I
heard anger. But also desperation.
“No, I’m telling the truth. Now you
need to tell me where you’ve hidden Peyton.”
“If I tell you, I won’t get Veronica.
You’ll wait until I change and throw me in a concrete cell. Do you
know what hell that would be for me? To be denied blood for so
long? It hurts, Sloan Skye. Every cell in this body
burns.”
I skimmed my notes. “Isn’t there
another way? What about blood from cadavers?” I said, thinking
aloud.
“Dead blood is useless.”
“And adults?” I asked.
“Toxic.”
“Animals?” I suggested.
“Hell no.”
I scribbled some more notes. “You’re
not making this easy.”
“Believe me, I wish I could. Do you
think I chose to be this way? Do you think I like being this
dependent upon anything? Anyone? Let alone an innocent child? Would
you want to depend upon something for sustenance that everyone,
including yourself, felt compelled to protect and
cherish?”
That would be rough. “No, I
wouldn’t.”
“Bring me the child,” she
demanded.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The call ended. I turned to
Gabe.
“Now what?” he asked. “Did you get
anything else from her?”
“No, outside of the fact that she does
feel a little guilty about having to feed from a
child.”
“Hmm.” Gabe chewed his lower lip. “It
has to be a kid’s blood?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I wonder.”
“Not sure.” I dug out my phone again
and called Katie, asking her if she knew anyone who might be able
to shed some light on the difference between the blood of adults
and children. She gave me the phone number of a friend who was in
medical school. I called her.
“There wouldn’t be any significant
difference,” the medical student told me a couple of minutes later.
“Blood is blood is blood, taking into account the differences
between blood types, of course. There are varying levels of sugars,
protein, and iron in each person’s blood, but all human beings
share the same components—whether they’re adults or
children.”
So much for that. I thanked her and
ended the call. “Strike one,” I told Gabe.
“Maybe it isn’t biological?” Gabe
offered as he drummed his hands on the table between
us.
“If it isn’t biological, what would it
be? Environmental?” Now, that made sense. “Bishop did say adult
blood was ‘toxic.’ ”
“Toxic, huh?” Gabe gnawed on his lower
lip. “Here’s a thought. Adults have been exposed to more pollutants
than children—in food, in the air, through their skin. Some of
those pollutants might appear in trace amounts in their
blood.”
“Okay. I could see that. So where could
we find pollutant-free blood?”
Gabe shrugged. “From a donor who lives
out in the middle of nowhere, eats only organic food, and doesn’t
touch anything that’s been dyed, treated, or dusted with
chemicals?”
“That pretty much rules out anyone in
the U.S.”
We sat and thought for a few
minutes.
“What about cord blood?” I wondered.
“Would that contain toxins?”
“Maybe some. There are substances that
cross over the placenta, to the fetus. But the cord blood shouldn’t
contain as many contaminants as an adult’s blood.”
“It’s worth a shot. Do you know anyone
who’s banked some?”
Gabe thought for a minute. He slapped
his flattened hands on the table. “My sister just had a kid. Maybe
she had some collected? She told me she was looking into
it.”
“If she did, do you think she’d be
willing to give a little of it up, in the name of
science?”
“I don’t know.” Gabe checked the clock.
“This is a long shot. Say she did have some collected, and she
agrees to give up a little. Now would we get it now? It’s
late.”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone in the FBI
can pull some strings.”
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” He made
a phone call and took down some information. Minutes later, we were
flying down the freeway, on our way to the cord blood bank, with
Fischer in the backseat. It was no small feat, getting our hands on
the little plastic bag of harvested blood, but a call from some
high-ranking agent I hadn’t met, along with Fischer’s badge, made
the impossible possible. Within a half hour, we were speeding back
toward Clarksville, a cooler protecting the frozen blood. As we
rolled up in front of the house, I called Bishop on my cell and
told her I had something that might work, but I’d only give it to
her if she first told me where Chief Peyton had been hidden. As
proof, I stood outside her house, in front of a window. I pulled
the still-frozen bag from the cooler and held it up for her to see.
“Harvested cord blood from a newborn infant,” I
explained.
Bishop licked her lips. “Your FBI agent
is in the school, locked in the janitor’s closet.”
I waited on the porch while Gabe and
Fischer went to the school. With the freezer clutched to my chest,
I felt one very hungry adze staring at me
with fierce eyes. My phone rang. Gabe told me they had Chief
Peyton, and I handed the desperate adze what
I hoped would be her salvation.
She didn’t wait; she slammed the screen
door, locked it, and sank her fangs into the plastic bag. Her
eyelids fell closed, and an expression of pure bliss spread over
her face. Still, I took a step back, just in case that bliss was
short-lived.
“Thank you,” Bishop said through her
screen. “Can you get me more?”
I tried not to stare at the smudge of
blood on the side of her mouth. “I can’t. But maybe the government
can. If you turn yourself in.”
She looked down at the drained medical
bag in her hand, then at me. “If there’s any chance I wouldn’t have
to hurt a child again, I’m willing to do it.” She stepped out onto
the porch, extended her arms in front of herself, and I put on the
handcuffs and led her down the front walk. The police took it from
there.
When she reached the car, she turned to
me. “You want to know about the women.”
I nodded. “I do.”
“Veronica was more than a source of
sustenance to me. She was my ... everything. Life lifeline. When I
lost her, I tried to hold it together. I swear I did. But the
hunger was excruciating, a relentless, crippling, gnawing pain.
Have you ever been in such horrible agnoy that you need to lash out
at someone? At the one who caused it? I’d lost everything. And all
I could think about was getting Veronica back and making that bitch
pay.”
“What bitch?”
“My sister, the one who kidnapped
Veronica and wouldn’t tell me where she’d hidden her. I knew I
couldn’t kill her. She was the only one who knew where Veronica
was. But when I saw that woman ... those women ... they were her.
And when I bit ...” She closed her eyes. Her expression softened.
“There was peace. For a little while. Until I saw her
again.”
“In your mind, you were killing your
sister, then? Killing a surrogate because you couldn’t kill the
real person?” I asked. “Those women died only because they looked
like someone else.”
When Bishop opened her eyes, they were
dead. Cold. “Yes. It’s what I had to do. I had no
choice.”
The officer holding her wrists gave her
a nudge. “That’s enough. Let’s go.”
I stepped back and watched as the car
pulled away, my heart heavy for all the innocent lives that
confused, desperate, twisted ... monster ... had
destroyed.
A couple of minutes later, Gabe clapped
me on the back. “That was fucking brilliant, Skye. Who would’ve
thought of cord blood?”
“Thanks.” Squinting against the glare
of the setting sun, hovering but heavy over the western horizon, I
smiled. I’d done it. I’d talked a dangerous creature into turning
herself in. “How’s Chief Peyton?”
“She’s getting treatment. Fischer went
with her to the hospital.”
“I hope she’ll be okay.”
“If it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t
have any chance at all.”
Turning my back on the activity still
humming around us, I headed for the rental car.
“Where are you going now?” Gabe asked,
following me. “I thought we could go have a celebratory
drink.”
As I opened the car door, I glanced at
the western sky. “I’ll have to take a rain check. Thanks, anyway.”
I climbed in, strapped myself up, and roared toward the
freeway.
The final streaks of sunlight faded
just as the car was rolling down the freeway exit
ramp.
“The master’s waiting,” a voice hissed
behind me.