“I still don’t understand,” Jane told him.
“Miriam is a hunter,” Byron said, his voice filled with barely concealed disgust. “Surely you know about the hunters.”
“I’ve heard of them, of course,” said Jane. “But I always assumed they were a legend, or that they’d died out long ago.”
“They’re not a legend, and they haven’t died out,” Byron told her. “Their ranks have thinned, but they still seek us out.” He sighed deeply. “I haven’t encountered one since I toured with ABBA in the seventies.”
“ABBA?” said Jane. “What were you doing touring with ABBA?”
“I was their head of security,” Byron answered. “They’d gotten some threats and needed someone they could trust.”
“ABBA are vampires?” said Jane.
Byron nodded. “Why do you think they look so young? Anyway, a hunter posing as a journalist with Rolling Stone tried to get to them. In Copenhagen he got into Björn and Agnetha’s room and would have staked them if I hadn’t stopped him.”
“I had no idea,” Jane said.
“Oh, the hunters are crafty,” Byron continued. “You know, of course, that Abraham Lincoln was a hunter.”
“You mean the book is true?” said Jane. “Good heavens. Anyone else I would know?”
Byron nodded. “There are dozens throughout history,” he said. “Cleopatra. Guy Fawkes. Brigham Young. Princess Diana.”
“Not Diana!” Jane exclaimed. “Oh, and I did love her so.”
“Of course, most of them are just ordinary people,” said Byron. “Those are only some of the more high-profile ones.”
“How in the world did Walter’s mother become involved with them?” Jane wondered.
“New members are always recruited by current members,” Byron said. “Someone had to invite her.”
Jane doubted she would ever know the answer to that question. “You said that Beverly has made some kind of arrangement with Miriam,” she said. “What did you mean exactly?”
“Occasionally a vampire who is captured will make a deal,” Byron said. “Continued existence in exchange for helping the hunters find other vampires.”
“That’s a bit traitorous,” Jane remarked.
“Generally their fangs are removed,” said Byron. “Because they can’t feed normally, their powers grow weak. They subsist on the bare minimum of blood required to keep them alive, and that blood has to be given to them by their human masters.”
“It sounds like slavery,” Jane said.
Byron shook his head. “The traitors have a choice,” he said. “No one forces them to betray us.”
“How long do you think Beverly has known about us?” Jane asked.
“It’s difficult to say,” said Byron. “My guess is not terribly long. Otherwise there would have been hunters before Miriam Ellenberg.”
“I can’t believe that Walter’s mother is a vampire hunter!” Jane said. “It seems a bit too coincidental that when I finally decide to attempt a relationship with a man his mother turns out to be part of some secret society dedicated to eradicating my kind from the world. Don’t you think?”
Byron looked at her and grinned. “Not really,” he said. “After all, we’re talking about you. You don’t exactly have the best of luck when it comes to men.”
“True,” Jane agreed. “Still, this seems excessive, even for me.”
“Forget about your failed love life for a moment,” said Byron. “We have to decide what we’re going to do.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Jane asked.
“We have to fight back,” said Byron.
“Fight back?” Jane said. “How? There are only two of us. Who knows whom else Miriam has on her side.”
“There are not just two of us,” said Byron. “Besides ourselves we have Ted and Ned. That makes four. Five if you include Chloe.”
“Which I don’t,” Jane said. “She was just turned. How much use can she be? And only Ted is a vampire. Or Ned. Anyway, how exactly are we going to fight back? I’m not killing anyone. Especially Walter’s mother. That would be beyond the pale.”
“That woman would have no qualms about killing you,” Byron reminded her. “She’d chop off your head as soon as look at you.”
“Pleasant,” Jane sniped. “Thank you.”
“Well, it’s true,” said Byron. “She’s your enemy now, Walter or no Walter, and enemies must be destroyed. Besides, you had no problem killing Our Gloomy Friend.”
“Why does everyone keep bringing that up?” Jane said. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I just sort of …”
“Pushed her into a fire,” said Byron, helpfully completing the thought.
Jane huffed. “I’m not killing Miriam,” she said firmly. “And neither are you.”
Byron opened his mouth and started to speak.
“No, Ned isn’t killing her. Or Ted. And before you even think it, Chloe isn’t going anywhere near her.”
Byron looked at his watch. “Speaking of Chloe, we should be getting back to her,” he said. “We can worry about this little problem later.”
They drove to Byron’s house without speaking. Jane knew that the issue of what to do about Walter’s mother and Beverly Shrop could not be ignored forever, or even for much longer. But she didn’t want to think about it. There were no scenarios in which things ended well. Especially for me, she thought as they pulled into Byron’s driveway.
The front door was open. Exchanging looks, Jane and Byron got out of the car and dashed across the lawn. Once inside, they went quickly up the stairs and down the hall to the guest bedroom.
It was empty.
Chapter 16
Jane felt only slightly guilty about leaving Byron to deal with the Chloe situation. After all, it was he who had forced Jane to turn the girl. She never would have done it on her own.
But really, you ought to be angry with Ted … or Ned, she told herself. It’s his fault the girl needed to be turned at all.
This was true, and Jane planned on giving the young man—whichever one it was—a stern talking-to. But first she had another odious task to perform. She had agreed to meet Jessica Abernathy for lunch to discuss the new book. Foolishly she’d thought she might be able to churn out twenty or thirty pages to give to her editor as proof that she was working on something, but she had written nothing. Nor did she have any idea what she might want to write.
I suppose I could just feed on her, Jane thought as she walked down the sidewalk toward the restaurant at which she’d told Jessica to meet her. It was not a place she liked, and she’d chosen it precisely for that reason. If the meeting with Jessica went poorly—as she fully expected it to—she would not feel any sense of loss that might later occur due to associating the restaurant with the experience. It was, Jane thought, rather clever of her.
She more than half hoped that Jessica would have forgotten or by some miracle (or unfortunate tragedy requiring her immediate attention) have returned to New York. But there she was, sitting at a table in the rear of the restaurant. Jane almost overlooked her, as Jessica was sitting with another woman. The woman was quite short and uncommonly wide, with hair dyed candy-apple red, and Jane had no idea who she was. The two women were talking animatedly as Jane approached the table.
“Hello,” Jane said pleasantly. “I hope I’m not late.”
“Just a few minutes,” said Jessica, failing to stand or otherwise greet Jane.
Jane, who knew full well that she was exactly on time, bristled but said nothing. Instead she extended her hand to the strange woman. “I’m Jane Fairfax,” she said.
The woman beamed. “I know,” she replied. “I love your books.”
“Book,” Jessica said. She gave Jane a curt smile. “There’s just the one.”
The woman laughed. “I’m sure there are more on the way,” she told Jane.
Jane pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thank you.” She paused expectantly, hoping someone would tell her the woman’s name. When no one did she added, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”