“Blaine,” Carlos acknowledged me. I’d never heard him on the phone before and his voice did odd things to the line, causing strange echoes and screeches I wasn’t certain were coming from my head alone.
“I can do it. I found the back door.”
“Resourceful. Are you certain of the other?”
“Not really. But I . . . have warped the fabric. Reluctant as I am, I think it can be done.”
He was silent a moment. It came off brooding, even over a phone connection. “Even so, assurances of our alignment will be needed. Of our . . . helplessness,” he spat. “And a diversion from what we do. His eyes must look elsewhere.”
“On that account I’m afraid I have no ideas,” I said. I could barely keep my mind on track enough to think of how to remove the knife tip from Carlos’s heart and catch up to my father long enough to ask him what had become of his old receptionist, Christelle, and then get him free of Wygan. And I had to free Simondson, too. I’d made a promise, after all.
“I do. My protégé troubles me. . . .”
“Cameron?” I was aghast. Cameron was nothing if not loyal to Carlos. He’d spit in Edward’s eye before he’d go against his mentor, so far as I could tell.
“He may require some talking to. And more than that. See to it. Tonight he goes to visit his sister.”
“Sarah? In Bellevue?”
“I believe she has moved to this side of the water. A condo in Belltown. Call him. He will see you.” As if he wouldn’t see Carlos. Something odd was afoot and I wasn’t going to ask: The whole conversation felt like something from a spy movie in which we knew we were being bugged.
“I will,” I agreed, and cut the connection.
I plucked at the collection of wires and sensors Quinton had decorated me with. “I have to go soon.”
“I had that impression. Why?”
“Honestly, I’m a little confused by it, but I suppose Carlos feared someone eavesdropping on him. I can’t imagine any other reason for that obtuse conversation. I’m to meet with Cameron at his sister’s condo in Belltown. I assume he’ll somehow know what’s going on. But I have to call him first: I don’t know which building she moved to.”
Quinton made a sage face. “Ah, the politics of vampires.”
“I think it’s more the maneuvering of a double cross. And as long as I’m not the victim, I’m fine with that.”
“I wish you weren’t going anywhere. I’m worried about you and, much as I hate to say it, this place gives me the willies.”
I laughed. “You’re not the only one. But it’s safe. The biggest threats to us are never going to come here, nor will they be sending any little minions to do their dirty work.”
“Still . . . it’s a vampire’s lair—damned nice one with some really terrific toys, but all the same. . . .”
I nodded. “Yeah, I understand. But you can’t come along. It wouldn’t be safe for either of us.”
“What if you have another problem . . . with the voices?”
“I think I can manage for as long as this will take.”
I held his further comments at bay while I called Cameron. He answered the phone as if he’d been waiting for it.
“Hi, Harper.”
“Hi, Cameron. Look, I need to talk to you right away.”
“We’re on our way to Sarah’s.”
“We?”
“Me and Gwen.”
“Skinny Gwen?” Lady Gwendolyn of Anorexia she’d called herself the first time we’d met. The only vampire I’d ever seen fading away from lack of giving a damn. Though the last time I’d seen her, she’d seemed much scarier, back in Edward’s fold and becoming sharper and more predatory in his care. “You’re taking Gwen to Sarah’s?”
“They get on all right. Sarah understands Gwen, and with Edward missing, Gwen needs friends.” He sounded a little defensive.
I found myself puzzling over that one. Vampires needing friends?
“Well. If you’re coming,” he continued, “you can meet us at Sarah’s.” He rattled off an address—a rather swank building on Second Avenue that had originally been a fancy public bath, and then a synagogue before the developers tore down the old building, preserving only the historic terra-cotta facade.
Surprised, I agreed. “All right. Fifteen minutes.”
“See you then.”
Quinton disliked my leaving, but he watched me call for a cab and leave via the elevator to TPM’s lobby. It was safer that walking back to my truck, which we’d moved off-site on the assumption that Goodall still had some moles on the building staff.
As I was crossing the lobby, the security man on the night desk called out to me. “Ms. Blaine. You expecting any visitors?”
“No, why?”
“Been someone lurking around outside since you got here. Not making any moves but persistent. Figured he’s watching you.”
“Really? What’s he look like?”
The guard waved me to his monitor and flipped through several screens until he got to a camera that pointed to the far northern corner across the street from TPM’s lobby. The guard froze the frame and zoomed in, pointing to a pale blob that resolved into a familiar face.
“This guy.”
Will. I shook my head in exasperation and didn’t even mind the chorus of annoyed little voices in my head. “Ex-boyfriend.”
“You want we should run him off? Call the cops?”
I sighed, closing my eyes against the vision of Will arrested again by Seattle’s finest. “No. . . . I’ll handle it. Hold my cab.”
I walked out of the lobby and straight toward him, straight for the uncontrolled flashes of wild color and chaos that surrounded him, only taking time to scan for traps and other watchers. What the hell was Will thinking? Whatever it was, I had to warn him off for both our sakes. I stopped less than a foot in front of him, glaring up into his unbalanced smile.
“Stop it, Will. Go away. I can’t help you.”
“It’s all right. I know I upset you last time. I can be patient.”
“Apparently you can’t. And that’s not the problem anyhow. You think I can do something for you, but I can’t. Not won’t. Can’t. You have to stop thinking that way. How did you even find me here?”
“I knew you’d go to Leavenworth. I just drove there and looked for you.”
It hurt me to be so cruel to him, but nothing seemed to get past his insane belief that I could save him. I glanced at him with his damaged limbs and avid eyes. I shook my head, appalled at the implication of what he’d pushed himself to do after the ghastly things that had been done to him by vampires in London—and those were my fault: his beautiful hands smashed into permanent claws, his feet slashed and crippled, and his mind shattered into disjointed fantasy and fury. Why would he want anything to do with me? To even think of me anymore? And how could he hold the steering wheel or work the pedals of a car without suffering? “You drove yourself . . . ?”
He raised his eyebrows in an encouraging smile, nodding. “Michael wouldn’t. It’s all right. It was hard to catch up to you, but I did and I followed you home. I don’t mind the pain: It’s real; it’s like a friend. It only hurts me to help me. But it’s not enough. I need you.”
He started to reach for my shoulders, but I drew back with a warning look and he stopped, his broken hands still in the space between us, supplicating. “There’s so much darkness here. You’re my light. I need you to banish the darkness. I need you to keep them away.”
My heart was wrung like a rag. “Oh, Will. I can’t. I can’t even keep them away from me.” I brushed his cheek with my fingertips and felt a frisson of jagged cold and terror leap from him and rime my skin in goose bumps. “I’m not the solution to the problem: I’m the source. You need to stay away from me or something worse will happen to you. Go home. Go back to Michael and let him help you.”
“No. He won’t help me. He only wants me to take pills and go back to the hospital, but they don’t help. They only make it worse; they only let the darkness come closer. They want me to sleep, but that’s when it’s worst. They want to banish the pain, but they don’t understand: I can’t feel anything but this.” He wrung his hands together and I could hear the half-healed bone and tissues pop and tear. The energy around his hands flashed dark red and the freakish void in his aura momentarily illuminated with white sparks. He let out a shaking gasp mixed of suffering and perverse satisfaction.