pass.
“Nice guy,” she said. “Strong, silent type.”
“Yeah.” James didn’t hide the disapproval in his tone. It was wrong to manipulate human minds that way just because you could. “Really, sis, would it have killed you to just get the damned tickets?”
“Who are you, the ticket police?”
James ignored the question and moved with his sister into the darkened studio, where Will Waters was delivering his opening monologue—his customary commentary on the week’s news—on a soundstage in front of a live audience. Something prickled along the back of James’s neck. He stopped and gripped his sister’s forearm until she stopped, too.
Standing along the rear wall, behind the spectator seats, was a man in a long dark coat. In the dark, James’s vision was excellent. He’d inherited that ability, among others, from the vampire side of the family. It was one of the traits he didn’t mind making use of.
And he wondered again, as he often had, whether it was hypocritical of him to embrace the traits he approved of, while rejecting the ones he didn’t. Seeing in the darkness, however, did no harm. And it was almost as handy as the ability to walk around in the sunlight without becoming a living torch, a trait he’d inherited from the human branch of the family tree.
Who do you think he is? his sister asked without speaking aloud.
James had to focus to reply. It had been a long time since he’d tried mental communication on this level. Picking up thoughts, sensations, vibes was one thing. Conversation—language—that was far more complex. It came back to him easily, however. Like riding a bike, he supposed.
Don’t know, but there’s another on the right, and two more up in the balcony—one on each side. Look like government types.
Hmm. Men in Black. Brigit pretended to study her nails as she furtively looked in the directions he’d indicated. Do you think they know about the prophecy’s connection to the undead?
How could anyone know about that but us?
A lot of people know about vampires, J.W. DPI, the government. They might be after the professor.
Could they be bodyguards or something, maybe for another guest? James watched the men, feeling more alarmed by the moment and knowing better than to ignore his instincts.
I don’t even know who else is on tonight. Oh …
Brigit’s mental communiqué came to a halt as Will Waters’s words came clear. “Next up, our surprise guest. A man who worked for what he claims was a top-secret subdivision of the CIA for more than twenty years. Now he’s written a tell-all book, which he says will prove the existence of things he calls … paranormal. His book was due to hit the shelves next month, but we’ve just this minute had word that it has been abruptly pulled, its production stopped by the Department of Homeland Security. A DHS spokesman says the book divulges classified information that could put undercover agents and operations in jeopardy. As to the author’s claims of government knowledge of supernatural matters, the spokesman laughs and asserts that the author is clearly suffering from some form of dementia, but that despite his delusions, he’s still in possession of sensitive information that must be contained.
“Here to answer those claims and talk about what his book would have revealed, retired CIA Field Agent, Lester Folsom.”
James and Brigit stared at each other, stunned. “They’re talking about the DPI,” Brigit whispered. “And Folsom … haven’t I heard that name?”
“You didn’t know about this?” he asked.
“No, and from what Waters just said, I don’t think anyone did.” The old man who had to be Lester Folsom was already walking unsteadily across the stage, moving slowly. He stretched out a hand toward the host’s outstretched arm, and then suddenly gunshots rang out. The two men jerked with the impacts and blood spatter sprayed behind them.
James was riveted as the old man fell to the floor, and the famous newsman with him. His gaze shot upward instinctively, to the balcony, where the shots had originated, but he could no longer see the man in black up there. The crowd was on its feet, and people were rushing for the exits.
He started to move forward, toward the dead men, but his sister grabbed his shoulder. “Not them. Her. We have to get to her.”
“She can wait,” he said, turning and gripping her hand tight, as people hit and jostled them on the way out. “They’re dying.”
“They’re dead! And if you try to help them, those bastards will just kill them again and you with them,” Brigit shouted over the increasing din. “You think it’s coincidence Folsom and Professor Lanfair were on the same talk show, on the same night? The suits will get her if we don’t. Come on, she’d be backstage somewhere.”
“But, Brigit—”
“We need her, J.W. We need her to save our entire race, and maybe hers, too, if you need some added enticement. Come on.”
They ducked out the door, and he found it much easier to move with the flow of panicked audience members than against them. Sirens were wailing already as they emerged into the night and hurried up the sidewalk. James looked and looked for the woman whose photo had appeared in the magazine his sister had shown him. The translator. Professor Lanfair. But the crowds and now the cops—who were rushing up and pulling people aside, trying to contain their witnesses—were making it harder.
“That’s her, J.W. Just came out of the alley, and she’s flying! In heels, too!”
James looked in the direction his sister was pointing, but there were dozens of panicked individuals on the sidewalk. And then he heard a voice shout, “Hold it right there, lady.”
He saw one of the men in black leveling a gun at the back of a slender woman in a tweed skirt. He could only see the back of her head, but he felt her.
Turning wide eyes on his sister, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me she’s one of the Chosen?”
“I didn’t know. What the—”
Just then the professor jerked forward, even as James held up a hand, an unthinking reaction. He shouted “No!” but it was too late. The man in black’s gun went off, and the bullet tore through the professor’s body. James saw, as if in slow motion, the blood explode from the exit wound like a mist in front of her, even as her back arched and she slammed facedown onto the sidewalk.
And then there was no stopping him. He launched into motion, passing by the killer, falling to his knees beside her. Her brown hair was coming loose from its tightly wound bun, and it was glittering, too, with the rainy mist now falling on the city street. He rolled her onto her back, very gently, and his gut-level, genetically encoded need to aid anyone of her kind compelled him to help her. To save her.
She was one of the Chosen. One of the rare mortals who possessed the Belladonna Antigen and, with it, the potential to become a vampire. Vampires sensed her kind, smelled them, and could not fight the instinct to protect them. He’d inherited that, too. But in the professor’s case, it felt like something more.
He had rolled the professor onto her back, so the misty rain fell on her cheeks now. Vaguely, he
