Chapter 23

GREG WAS OFF THE couch and across the small gulf that separated us from Emily in half a second. I just watched, trying to give the long-lost siblings a moment, but Emily was having none of it. She put her hands up as Greg moved to hug her.

“No. I don’t want a hug. I want friggin’ revenge. I want to find the bastard that killed me and I want to rip his lungs out.”

“With a spoon?” Greg asked.

Emily slipped into a picture-perfect Alan Rickman accent and said “It’s dull, you twit. It’ll hurt more.” She gave Greg a smile, and he sat on the arm of her sofa. “It’s good, Greg. You don’t have to play big brother. I’m okay. I mean, I’m dead, and I’m pissed about it, but I’m not freaking out about this assclown killing me any more than I’m freaking out about anything else. Focusing on revenge is easier that focusing on everything else right now.”

“Okay,” Greg said, moving back to sit by me. I could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was disappointed, and I felt for him. He’d wanted his kid sister back for a long time, and now that she was here, she wasn’t the adoring little kid that he remembered. That had to be tough, but we also had a serial killer vampire running around my city, and that took precedence over my roommate’s feelings.

“What else do you remember about the guys, Emily?” I asked after what I felt was an appropriate moment for adjustment. A normal person would almost certainly disagree, but I hadn’t been normal when I was alive, and that was a long time ago, so I wasn’t sweating it.

She closed her eyes, but didn’t lie back down. “One was tall. Not as tall as you, but still tall. Maybe six foot. He was a little younger than me, maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. A little stubble, good hair, dress shirt, slacks . . . I didn’t notice his shoes, but now . . . he wore boots. That’s kinda weird, boots and slacks. The other guy was young, I’m not even sure how he got into the club. Musta had a good fake ID. Way too young for me. God, he must have been like nineteen or something, and baby faced. Blond, with just a little bit of peach fuzz. He’s totally Shel’s type. She likes the young kiddies, pretty boys. He had on a polo and jeans. Boots on that one, too. And not like dressy boots, but work boots. They both looked like they were on a construction site and changed clothes before going out but forgot shoes.”

“Can you see anything about the guy Quinn is talking to?” I didn’t say “remember,” because I didn’t want her to immediately say “no” and shut down. I wanted her to examine her memories, to dig up any details that might give us an idea where to look for these guys. They were obviously hunting in a pack, and that meant I needed to know everything I could before I went chasing after them.

“Like I said, total Ricky Martin lookalike. Dark, wavy hair, square jaw, sexy Latin eyes . . . he was sex on cracker. Silk shirt, tight jeans, he was dressed . . . hold up, he wore boots, too.” Her eyes popped open. “He was with the guys who drugged me!”

“Yeah,” I said. “He was there to cut the herd. If they only wanted one of you, he probably would have been the point man. But since they wanted you both, he needed to get Quinn off by himself so they could take you and Shelly.”

“Holy shit, you make it sound like these guys are something off a Criminal Minds episode,” Emily said.

“I’ve seen a lot less plausible stuff on that show,” I agreed.

Emily suddenly popped up off the couch. “I have to call Quinn. I need to make sure he got home all right. Oh my God, what if they took him, too. Shit! Shelly. I need to call Shelly. Greg, give me your phone.” She held out her hand to my partner, who had his phone out and was reaching for her before I snatched the plastic rectangle from him.

“No,” I said, standing between them.

“What the hell do you mean, no?” Emily glared at me.

“I mean you aren’t calling Quinn, and you aren’t calling Shelly. You aren’t going to ever talk to them again. I’m sorry, Emily, but you’re dead. Like, should be in a coffin, dead. You have a few hours, but before the sun comes up you have to figure out what the story is going to be. You can either be dead, and deal with everything that entails, or you can call your parents and tell them about this great new job you just got in Singapore, or someplace equally hard to get to. But either way, your old life is gone, and the quicker you accept that, the easier it will be on everyone, especially the people you leave behind.”

Her eyes blazed as she came around the table to stand just inches from me. “And what the hell would you know about what it’s like for the people left behind? What do you know about listening to your mother cry herself to sleep every night for a year because her son is dead? What do you know about visiting an empty grave every year on your brother’s birthday and sitting in the grass, feeling the cold of the headstone on your back and the wet grass soaking through your jeans while you sit there, just telling him about everything that happened in your life, just so you could feel some kind of connection with someone who you barely remember, but has affected every single day of your life? What do you know about that, you son of a bitch?”

I didn’t look in her eyes. I just said, my voice soft, “I know you brought geraniums, because that was what you remembered being his favorite flower. I know that Frankie Reynolds broke your heart in ninth grade. I know that you weren’t sure whether to major in chem or bio sophomore year at UNCC. I know you thought your parents were going to get divorced when you graduated college, but they were just getting a time share and didn’t want to tell you because they thought you’d make fun of them for falling for a scam. I know a lot. But I don’t know enough about the men who killed you to bring them to justice, and to save your friends if they’re still in danger. So would you please get your woe-is-me attitude in check and act like the grown-ass woman you’re supposed to be?” By the time I finished, I wasn’t speaking softly anymore. I was standing tall, in full Master of the City mode, as cold and ruthless as my kind was supposed to be. I hated it, but sometimes the situation calls for a designated asshole. This time, it was me.

Emily looked at me like I’d slapped her, and a single tear rolled down her face. I watched it, clean, pure salt water, probably the last tear she’d ever cry that wouldn’t be red-tinged. Then she nodded at me, turned, and went back to the couch.

She closed her eyes, and after a few seconds, began to speak again. “I can feel it. I’m dizzy, so the dark-haired guy takes my arm. He’s strong, really strong. He almost carries me and starts walking me to the door. Not the front door, out on College Street. He takes me out the back, to that alley between all the bars and the big parking deck. I look back over my shoulder, and Shel is back there, all draped over the shoulders of the blond kid like she’s about to pass out. Quinn is there too, staggering all over his hookup. I’m embarrassed because we’re all such lightweights, that we can’t drink like when we were all in college anymore. But it wasn’t that, was it?”

“No,” Greg said. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Emily didn’t respond, just nodded and kept reliving her story. “We get to the alley, and there’s a limo waiting for us. The driver is huge, like a wrestler or something. A giant bald guy with tattoos all up his neck and peeking out his sleeves. He opens the doors, and we all kinda stumble into the limo, but there aren’t any seats. I look around, confused, but my guy is shoving me, and he’s strong, and I just kinda crawl into the limo, and I move to the other side and try the door, thinking this is weird and I’ll just crawl right out the other side, but the door won’t open, and then he’s right there behind me, and then Shel and her guy are in there, then Quinn is there with the Ricky Martin-looking guy, and it’s tight, and I can’t really move, and I’m feeling more and more strange. It’s hard to move my arms and legs, but I can feel everything that happens.”

“You don’t have to—” Greg starts to say, but she cuts him off with a wave of her hand. He looked hurt, but she was right. This was important, and the more she could get through, the better our chances of finding this asshole.

“The limo is moving, and I’m basically paralyzed, and I guess Shelly and Quinn are too, because the next thing I remember, the guys are posing us and taking pictures and selfies. They aren’t doing anything to us, really, just moving us around like we’re all big Barbie dolls and they’re little kids playing with their toys. They push me and Shel together like we’re making out, and all I can think is if they wanted to see me kiss my best friend, they should have just asked. Then the limo stops, and all of a sudden it’s like they got to the principal’s office or something. They pull us apart, straighten our clothes, and start acting all prim and proper.”

“The limo door opens, and Ricky Martin gets out first, then he reaches back in and drags Quinn out by his ankles. He doesn’t let him hit the ground, but he’s not real gentle with him. Shel’s blond guy gets out next and drags her out after him, then my guy gives me a kiss on the forehead and slides backward out of the car, pulling me with him. He stands me up, kinda, more like he leans me up against the limo, and I see we’re in the middle of a football field. I guess we’re at a high school or something, because we haven’t been driving long from downtown. At least I don’t think we have. But we’re in the middle of a football field, leaning on a limo, with three assholes from the bar holding us up. And there he is.”

“Who?” I ask.

“The creepy guy from the bar. He’s just standing there in the grass, like he was waiting for us. Which I guess he was, as creepy as that is. He’s got a coat on, a long black leather coat, and just like the other assholes, he’s wearing work boots. I guess they work construction or something, or there’s some new fashion thing I haven’t heard about. He walks over to us, looks us all up and down like he’s inspecting meat or something, and stops when he gets to me.”

“‘Why did you take the old one?’ he asks, and I want to punch him. I might be a few years older than Quinn and Shel, but not that much. I mean, I’m not even thirty yet! But he just moves on to Shelly and Quinn, says ‘they’ll do,’ and comes back to me. He looks in my eyes, and it feels like something is pressing down on the inside of my head. The pressure is incredible, and just when I think I’m going to pass out, he whispers ‘Forget,’ and the pressure goes away.

“I don’t remember anything really after that. I remember seeing a knife in his hand, then feeling something burn against my neck. Then I feel something on my throat, some kind of suction. I pass out, but before I do I see . . . holy shit.” The last bit trails off into a whisper, and she opens her eyes, horror written all over her face.

“What is it, Em?” Greg asked.

I knew what she was going to tell us before she speaks, but I let her tell us herself. Then she does. “The last thing I saw was the three guys from the bar drinking from Quinn and Shel’s throats. They turned my best friends, too. But if they were turned, where are they?”

Emily turned to me, her face stricken. “Jimmy, where are Shelly and Quinn?”