into the white stonework above the entry doors, but was now known as the St. Dymphna Psychiatric Hospital. A more modern sign just beyond the gates said so.
But the place didn’t look modern. It looked a century old. Maybe two. And as comforting as the angels and the saint were, Jane felt a shiver of apprehension when she studied the chain-link fence that enclosed the manicured lawns.
Melinda, at her side, squeezed her hand. “It’ll be like a vacation, right, Mommy?”
“That’s right, honey. That’s right.”
Jane had no reason to mistrust her government. The official who had shown up at her door had been female and kind. She’d known about Melinda’s condition—the rare Belladonna Antigen in her blood. Jane had known, too. She’d known that the condition made her baby bleed like a hemophiliac. She’d known that it made donors extremely hard to find. And she’d known that it meant her daughter, now seven, probably wouldn’t live to see forty.
What she hadn’t known—had never even suspected—was that it made her a favorite target of creatures that were not supposed to exist. Vampires, the federal agent had told Jane, were real. All the hype in the news of late had been true. And while most of the monsters had been killed by the vigilante movement sweeping the nation, there were still some at large. Any human being who possessed the Belladonna Antigen was at very great risk of being victimized by them.
Especially now that humans and vampires were virtually at war.
And so the government had set up a haven for these rare humans, a place where they could go and be protected, cared for and absolutely safe, until this vampire problem was under control.
Jane would do anything to protect her little girl. It was the just the two of them. Had always been. Melinda was special. She was more special than even the government or her own doctors knew. Jane had always protected her.
And that was what she was doing now. Protecting Melinda.
Holding her little girl’s tiny hand, she stepped through the arching, churchlike, wooden double doors of St. Dymphna’s, and wished she could shake the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.
2
Coastal Maine
Brigit sat in the library of the beautifully restored Maine mansion that had been the home of a pair of vampires who were now among the missing: Morgan and Dante. She thought, however, that the simple fact their home was still standing was a very good sign. If it hadn’t been burned, then their neighbors probably hadn’t yet branded them vampires and decided to murder them in their sleep. No roaming band of vigilantes had yet targeted them.
Morgan’s mortal sister, Max, and her husband, Lou, had lived there, as well. Having an identical twin who was mortal was probably an extremely good cover, Brigit thought. But they had headed for safer ground, not wanting to be accidentally executed, as a great many innocent mortals had been.
Their brethren must consider it collateral damage when they killed their own. If a body remained after the fire, then the victim must have been innocent. If no body was found, the victims had clearly been vampires and burned to ash. That thinking made as much sense as witch dunking. If you drowned, you were innocent. Oops.
The de Silva mansion was empty but intact. The power was still on. The house had heat and indoor plumbing, phone and internet. It was all good. Brigit wished she could stay.
But she had an assignment, and it wasn’t going to be a pleasant one.
As the elders filed in, all of them having changed into dry clothes, and pink with the flush of a recent meal, Brigit waited, wondering what they would have to say to her.
Rhiannon entered first, wearing one of her signature gowns, floor-length, thigh-high slit, plunging neckline. This one was teal-green, a color Brigit hadn’t seen on her before. It went well with her raven hair. She was far more than an elder vampiress. She was Rianikki, a priestess of Isis, daughter of a pharaoh. She knew about magic and could do things no other vampire could.
Behind her came her beloved Roland de Courtemanche in his old-school tux and black satin cloak. Probably unwise of him to keep wearing something that might as well have been a flashing Vampire Here sign, but that was his call. He’d been a medieval warrior knight, was wise beyond questioning and had a fierce side that he kept very well contained.
Eric Marquand, Roland’s best friend, came next. A nobleman, a physician and a scientist, Eric had nearly been beheaded during the French Revolution. Roland had visited him in his cell on the night before he was slated to meet the guillotine, saving his life and making him over.
Sarafina, the beautiful, fiery Gypsy, came last, skirts and scarves trailing, bangles and earrings jingling as she moved. She was the missing Dante’s aunt, but more like a sister to him. And worry marred her brow.
The four sat at a table, embodying more than four thousand years of living, of wisdom, of knowledge. And yet there were some troubling absences among the elders of their kind. Damien, the first vampire, once known as Gilgamesh. The Prince, who had become known as Dracula down through the ages. They’d struck out separately with their respective mates to try to locate survivors and bring them to safety. But it wasn’t safe out there. Not even for them.
Although these ancient mighty beings who surrounded her now had practically raised her, Brigit saw them through fresh eyes on this night. She felt awe at their presence, their power, and found herself bowing her head slightly before taking her own chair at the long table.
It was Rhiannon who began, with a story that Brigit already knew by heart.
“Utanapishtim, Ziasudra, onetime Priest King of the land of Sumer, was beloved of the gods, and so when they sent the great flood to wipe out mankind, he alone was spared. In return for his loyalty, the gods bestowed upon him the gift of immortality. There was only one caveat—he must never attempt to share the gift with any other human.”
Rhiannon fell silent, her gaze sliding, adoringly but solemnly, to Roland, who nodded once and picked up the tale. “The great king Gilgamesh—the man we know today as Damien—was in deep mourning for his best friend, Enkidu, who was more than a brother to him. Enkidu was like the king’s shadow self—like a twin who is opposite and yet the same,” he said, with a meaningful look straight into her eyes.
Brigit understood.
“King Gilgamesh blamed himself for Enkidu’s death. He wanted only to find a way to restore life to his friend. And so he wandered into the desert in search of the only immortal—the flood survivor. And he found him. The king commanded that Utana share the gift of immortality with him, so that he could share it, in turn, with Enkidu.”
Roland stopped there, turning to Sarafina, who took up the thread. “Utana could not refuse his king, and so he gave him the gift. But despite becoming immortal himself, King Gilgamesh could not recover his friend from the Abode of the Dead. And because Utana had disobeyed the gods, he was cursed. His eternal life was taken from him—but his immortality was not. And later, when he was murdered by an evil one, Utana died but did not die. We know now that his spirit remained, trapped with his ashes, lo these five thousand years.”
Eric took over from Sarafina at her gentle nod. “There came to light a prophecy, a stone tablet from Utana’s time,
