“Great, thanks, did you find anything.”
“Yes, and it doesn’t all add up, which is why I’m calling you instead of leaving the report on your desk.”
My heart speeds up. “Go on.”
“The HealthLife Clinic has Shawn Walsh on their employee records, and it looks like he started working six months ago. They were compliant with giving info and everything there went smoothly. But when I checked on the status of his nursing license, I found an issue. The only registered nurse in the state with the name of Shawn Walsh is a forty-three-year-old African- American.”
Shit. He’s using a fake name. I go over what to do with Jane for a few minutes before hanging up. Everything is coming together now. The sulfur-smelling nurse who has a fake name and just happens to work at a health clinic that pays homeless people for their blood.
Right down the street from a club that offers a vampire-sex service, so to speak.
They’re connected somehow and I’m going to start chipping away until I get to the bottom of it. This new sire made a big mistake setting up shop here.
I open Facebook to do a social media search on the guy. He didn’t look any older than twenty-five, making him an ideal candidate to have at least one social media profile. I find nothing. There are a handful of profiles belonging to guys named Shawn Walsh, and not one of them looks like the guy I saw today.
Before I can try Instagram, something thumps on the porch, and the wood creaks from someone walking across it. I trade my phone for the wooden stake and edge toward the window. The sun sets in forty-seven minutes. It’s too early for the guys to be up, but whatever is out there is heavy and doesn’t know about the creaky planks underfoot near the living room window.
The guys—even if they did wake up early—wouldn’t walk over there. They have no reason to look in the window, and they know about the weak and rotting wood close to the house. Sheer ivory curtains hang on the windows in the living room, preventing anyone from looking in and getting a clear view of me, but allowing them to make out shapes and shadows.
They know I’m here and they know I’m alone.
Tightening my grip on the stake, I shut off the light and see a shadow cross the porch. My heart jumps and I race to the front door, moving as quietly as possible. I’m light on my feet and make it to the door with almost no noise. The feeling of being watched intensifies, and I know without a doubt there will be someone—something—on the porch.
With a surge of adrenaline, I ready the stake in my hand, shoot back the deadbolt, and throw open the door.
There is no one on the porch. I jump out, madly looking around, and silently shut the door behind me. A band of thick fog rolls through the yard, momentarily encasing me in white. The air is humid, chilly yet thick to breathe in. I take in everything around me.
The unnatural stillness in the air.
The lack of birds chirping.
And the lingering smell of sulfur in the air.
The sound of a car moving down the road echoes through the fog. Yeah, people do drive up and down the road to get to their houses, but I’m not taking any chances. With a quick glance at Thomas and Gilbert, I slip from the porch, keeping the stake slightly raised at my side.
It’s not sunset yet. Vampires can’t be lurking. But my spider-sense is tingling and a weird part of me wants them to be here. I want to look the sire in the eyes when I shove the stake through his nonbeating heart. I want to tell him the names of everyone he’s killed and let him know this is their revenge.
They don’t have a voice anymore, but I do. And I will shout it loud until every last vampire I can get my hands on is dead and gone.
Silently, I move down the cobblestone path. Trees block the road from direct sight, hiding the house from anyone driving by. It was done to hide the gargoyles, I’m sure, keeping this house as private as possible with the new developments going up around it. The car is getting closer and closer, going slowly in the fog.
I can still feel eyes on me, and I desperately want to know where it’s coming from. I pause at the end of the cobblestone path, breathing in the fresh scent of earth around me. No matter where I turn, it feels like someone is behind me. Suddenly, the air becomes electric and static crackles at my fingertips.
I hold up my hand, heat spreading through my palm. It’s hot. Hot enough to burn me. The heat registers but doesn’t hurt. It’s the strangest sensation and I cannot explain it. I look at my hand, willing it to ignite again.
The car drives past and I step into the driveway, looking around the trees. Squinting, I can make out taillights down the road, and it looks like a truck, not a car. I let out a breath and go back to the house, coming to a dead stop when I get to the porch.
The door is open.
I know for fucking sure I had closed it.
24
Ifreeze, staring at the front door. It’s cracked open not even an inch. There’s no way someone got in. I was only yards from the house. The porch creaks. I would have heard it, wouldn’t I?
Fuck. I might not have.
Closing my hand into a fist, I channel energy down to it, and the heat comes back, but it’s not enough to start the fire. Heart in my throat, I put one foot on the first stone step to the porch, eyes on the house. Thomas and Gilbert are on either side of me, but they’re frozen, cast in stone, and won’t wake up until the sun sinks below the horizon.
