The Kid said, “Got him. He’s moving west. Right here.” The Kid showed us a map, and Reach was at the bottom of one of the Great Lakes, the one that looks like Florida, or a body part—and not a mitten. “GPS puts him coming into Chicago, could be a train.”
A moment later, Alex said, “There are train tracks at his location . . .” His voice trailed away, his fingers flying over the tablet.
Moments passed, and I studied the tablet screens with the robot on them. Nothing was happening. A lot of hurry up and wait as the night shadows lengthened.
“Yeah. He’s on a train,” the Kid said, “or his cell is. Train route originated in Boston, but made multiple stops on the way. No Amtrak ticket in the name of Reach, first or last. Chicago is the biggest passenger train hub in the country, and if he stays on an Amtrak route, he can go in one of nine general directions. If he gets a car, he can go anywhere.” Moments later Alex said, “GPS stopped. Cell has been turned off.”
“Assume he dumped the phone,” Eli said.
“He can’t type two-handed,” I said, my voice numb. “And they left him in pieces.” It sounded selfish to speak of myself in the midst of someone else’s pain, but I added, “And someone’s had my info for a week. Bomb. Tail cars. Someone’s after me.”
Eli set a hand on my shoulder, took the cell phone away, and guided me back to my stool. Deon put a mug of hot tea in front of me. I took it up, holding the cup in icy fingers. Reach had been with me for years. Never in person, but always there with info when I needed it. Yeah, he’d turned on me a time or two, but Reach had never been reticent about admitting that he sold his services to the highest bidder. This time the price had come from him.
“Drink up, Tartlet,” Deon said gently. “I put a little tequila in yo’ cup.” He placed a blanket around my shoulders, and when I didn’t drink, he cupped his hands around mine and lifted the mug to my mouth. I drank—it was that or drown in tea.
It burned all the way down and I coughed, pushing him away. “Holy moly. A little tequila?” I spluttered and the burning continued all the way down to my toes.
“Drink or I be making sure you regret it.”
I sipped and withstood the pain as the alcohol scorched through my gut.
“I’m changing all the passwords into the security system here, at home, and at vamp HQ, and looking for any sign they’ve been compromised,” Alex said. “But you’d better call Molly and Evan and tell them about the threat. And anyone else you know.” He looked up under his too-long, spiraled-kinky hair. “Maybe that Christian school you grew up in. The security firm you interned in. And”—his mouth twisted in distaste at what he was about to say—“Rick needs to know too.”
The dread spread through me like a virus, eating away at my viscera. “We need to know who we’re fighting and why and what resources he has. Find out who that person is, the Lucy person, or what the words mean if it isn’t a name.” To Eli, I said, “I’ll be calling Adelaide to initiate the next security protocol upgrade.” Eli reacted with a slight tightening of his eyelids as he remembered the one I was talking about. “Work with her to tighten HQ security. I want it so tight no one can take a breath without being on camera somewhere. Privacy issues are currently of no importance whatsoever,” I said. Eli nodded.
I dialed Evan Trueblood, Molly’s husband, and got him on the first try. I explained about Reach and the danger. Evan was silent through the whole thing, then said, “I’ve got a place. Don’t call us; we’ll call you.” The call ended. I dialed Aggie One Feather, the Cherokee elder who was guiding me into healing and recovery of my lost past. When I told her about the situation, her reply was short and stiff, as if my problems were nothing to worry over. I hoped she was right. Rather than call the children’s home where I was raised, I dialed the number on the card of the ATF OIC—the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms officer in charge—outside.
“Special Agent Stanley.” He sounded calm, that remote and reserved calm of people who had high-stress jobs but kept all the reactions internalized. They either found a way to breathe through the stress—meditation or yoga or prayer or drug of choice—or they died early of heart attack, stroke, or eating their weapons.
“Stanley, we may have info about who put the bomb on the porch, or who hired it done. A friend of mine just called and told me he had been tor-”—I stopped, took a slow breath, and went on—“tortured for information about Leo Pellissier and about me. We don’t have a name yet.” I gave him the descriptions of the three who had hurt Reach. “My friend is a researcher so he had everything on Leo. And everything on me back to the first time I appeared in the world. Leo can take care of himself, but my people can’t. If I give you a list of names, places, and addresses, can you send local law enforcement to each and check for problems?”
“Does your friend need protective custody?”
“Too late for that,” I said, my chest hurting. I pressed a fist to my sternum, rubbing hard. “He’s gone underground.” I hope.
“Text the names and contact info to me.”
“Yes. I will. And thank you.”
“Part of my job, Miz Yellowrock.” He disconnected.
I told Alex to text the OIC all pertinent contact info on my address book. We discussed who was to be included and then I dialed Del. She sounded cool and collected when she answered, but I was getting ready to ruin that. “Jane here. Get Derek and Wrassler. Tell them Protocol Aardvark. They’ll know what to do. Eli will be joining you.”
“Aardvark?”
“Yeah. It used to be Groundhog, but it got activated on Groundhog Day one year and— Never mind. Just tell them. I put the updated security protocol handbook in the primo’s office in the file cabinet under S for security. Hard copy only. Initiate Aardvark immediately. Under Aardvark, everyone on security goes armed at all times.”
Del made a soft harrumphing sound. “If this is a practical joke, I will not be amused.”
“I know. It’s not. There’s a bomb at my house.” Which sounded so weird just saying it. “It’s probably on the local news.”
“A bomb?” There was a moment of silence before Del said, “I’ll make sure that all necessary protocols are instituted.”
“Thanks. Meanwhile, are any vamps and followers known to wear bird tattoos?”
I could hear her tapping on a tablet or keyboard. “Blood-servants and followers of a vampire called Peregrinus,” she said after only a moment. “Why?”
“A human wearing bird wristband tattoos and a female vamp tortured Reach to get my info. A male vamp watched.”
“Dear God.” The words came out as a gasp. “The Devil and Batildis are here.” And then she added on the fragments of a breath, “Peregrinus.” The last word was whispered, as if to speak the name aloud was to summon the vamp.
“Does this mean the EuroVamps are here early?”
“No. The Three have never followed the lead of the European Council. They are outlaws. And they are utterly and totally vile.” The call ended. Del had sounded horrified. Or maybe terrified, if that was worse.
That was me, spreading good cheer everywhere I go. The Devil, Batildis, and Peregrinus, I thought. I’d heard the name Batildis recently. Leo had mentioned the name when talking to Grégoire. “Your brother and your sister Batildis have begun to rally their supporters to this end. And yes, that might eventually mean the interest of Le Bâtard, though he is not scheduled to travel to these shores . . .” I could guess that Le Bâtard was Grégoire’s sire, his brother was Peregrinus, his sister was Batildis, and the Devil was their human blood-servant. How evil and twisted did you have to be to have the nickname of the Devil among vamps and blood-servants?