The fact that Michael knew the Vampire Lords would want the blood tally made me wonder what he planned on doing with the damn thing. Was he going to sell it? If so, to whom? Did he even have those kinds of contacts? Was he trying to use whatever information or power it might grant for himself? Was he just trying to keep it away from Boris? There were too many variables here. What I did know was that I was being lied to by Boris, Jacques, and Ada. I might be a slave—nothing more than a working schmuck—but I expected to be treated like a professional by all parties involved.
I left Mum’s Hearth and Yard and headed straight toward the address that Ava had given me in Brooklyn Centre. On the way I called Nadine. She picked up after two rings.
“Hey, hun! Haven’t heard from you for a while. Spending a lot of time on the road?”
“You could say that,” I answered. “Did Ada brief you on the job I’m on?”
Nadine made a disapproving hmm noise. “She told me it was need to know. Need to know, my ass. I know where all the bodies are buried, and she doesn’t think I can be privy to some little dual-vampire double-cross job? I feel slighted, darling. But I know it’s not your fault. What can I do for you?”
It was awfully strange that Ada hadn’t given Nadine a full briefing. Nadine was right—I couldn’t think of a single job whose details had ever been above her pay grade. It only reinforced my belief that Ada was being blackmailed and she didn’t want anyone to know about it. “I’m sorry, Nadine. She’s being super weird lately. Look, I need a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Something I don’t want Ada to find out about.”
“Oh, you know she finds out about everything eventually.”
“Eventually is fine. Just not for, say, a week?”
Nadine chuckled. “I think I can do that.”
“I need a safe house. One where I can keep someone who doesn’t want to be there.”
“Is that so?”
“Ada has me on a runaway thrall job, but the whole thing doesn’t add up. I want to bring in the thrall, stash him someplace safe, and give myself some time to figure out what exactly is going on.”
I could hear the clicking of Nadine’s long nails on her keyboard. A few moments passed before she said, “All right, I can do that. Jose and Karen have a couple places they stash runners when needed. I’ll send you an address within the hour.”
“Excellent. You’re the best, Nadine.”
“I know I am. Have a good one, hun. Good luck with your runner.”
I hung up just as I got off the freeway and began to navigate the narrow, suburban streets of Brooklyn Centre. It was a crumby neighborhood. Some of the houses had boarded-up windows, most had overgrown lawns and long-rotted siding. I found the house I’d tailed S. Montgomery to the other day, double-checked the address that Ava had given me, and got out of the car to take a longer, more thoughtful look. Ava had called it a “boys home.” That could mean anything, to be honest. It was the only house on the street with a recent coat of paint, a repaired front porch, and a kept yard.
I’m glad you’re not just handing him over to Boris or Jacques, Maggie said suddenly.
I considered putting on my flack vest or wearing my Glock openly but dismissed both notions. There was nothing violent about a place like this, and I didn’t want to introduce violence just by the way I was dressed. Yeah, well I’ll probably still have to do just that. But I’d like to be better informed before I do.
Understood. Maggie was silent for a moment, then continued. The place is warded. Pretty complex sorcery, though sloppy in places—I bet they need to be remade every few weeks.
Any idea why a boys home would be warded?
Honestly? Probably to keep away predatory Other. There are plenty of things that go bump in the night and love to prey on children who have been tossed out on their own.
That’s super gross.
No disagreement here. I could be wrong, though. Maybe he knows.
As the words left Maggie’s mouth, I saw the front door of the house open, and a man stepped out on to the porch. He was small and unassuming, easily a foot shorter than me. He wore black slacks and a black button-down topped by a black and white clergy collar. His sleeves were rolled up and he was drying his hands on a towel as he smiled toward me.
“Hello, good sir!” he called out in a Scottish accent. “Can I help you with something?”
I put on my Valkyrie Collections ball cap and walked up to the foot of the porch, stopping just shy of the bottom step. “Good morning, Father. I’m looking for a boy named Michael Pavlovich. I was told I could find him here.”
“Ah? Who told you that?”
“An acquaintance.”
“I see.” The priest’s friendly face had changed when I mentioned Michael. His expression became more closed, his smile forced. Despite this, he tossed the tower onto his shoulder and took a step down toward me, offering a hand. “My name is Father Orrock. You can call me Bill.”
I shook his hand. “Alek Fitz. Valkyrie Collections.”
His eyes darted toward my hat. “Yes, I’m familiar with the company. Can I offer you a cup of tea, Mr. Fitz?”
Is he going to poison me? I asked Maggie.
Hell if I know. He’s not happy about your presence, but I doubt he’s dumb enough to poison a reaper.
It’s pretty hard to poison someone with troll blood, so I shrugged. “Sure,” I responded. “I would love a cup of tea.”
The smile grew more sincere. “Good. Come on in, my friend.”
I followed the priest into the kitchen. The house was old and well-worn, but clearly cared for. The beat-up wood floors were decorated with secondhand rugs, the walls hung with secondhand portraits. I recognized a few as eighteenth-century philosophers from an old art book of Ada’s. A wide staircase led up to the second floor, and I caught sight of a scrawny young man of maybe twenty sitting at the top of the steps, staring at me from beneath the banister. He had sunken, haunted eyes and did not blink when my gaze lingered on him.
I took an offered seat at the kitchen table while Father Orrock filled an electric kettle and plugged it in. He said, “Earl Grey or Scottish Breakfast?”
“I’ve never had Scottish Breakfast.”
He took a jar out of the cupboard and shook it at me. “You’re in for a treat, then. It’s similar to English Breakfast, but it has more guts behind it.”
You getting anything now that we’re past the wards? I asked Maggie.
She hesitated. It’s … tough. Each floor appears to be warded independently. Like I said, the wards aren’t great, but they’re still there. It’s like trying to watch an old tube TV through a bad reception. There’re at least a dozen people in the house. Mostly … younger. Early twenties. Late teens. Like that kid on the stairs.
“What is this place?” I asked Father Orrock.
He turned to me with a look of surprise on his face. “You don’t know?”
I shook my head. “Should I?”
He pursed his lips but didn’t answer. He seemed to consider his response for some time before he came and sat across the table from me. “So the deal hasn’t been broken?”
I spread my hands, truly flummoxed. “What deal?”
Again, he didn’t answer immediately. The kettle soon began to whistle. He poured us each a cup and then filled two little mesh balls with loose leaf tea and dunked them. He set one in front of me, then produced cream and sugar. Once he was sitting again, he gazed at me for an uncomfortably long amount of time, then called over my shoulder.
“Luke, my lad!”
A voice—probably belonging to the young man at the top of the stairs—responded. “Yes, Father Orrock?”
“Could you tell Michael to gather his things, please?”
“He’s here?” I asked, getting halfway up from my seat.
“He is,” Father Orrock made a calming gesture. “He’ll be down in a moment. To answer your earlier question … this is a halfway home for runaway thralls.”
I blinked back at him. “Oh. I guess that makes sense. Is that why Mrs. Montgomery brought you blood the other day?”
“You’ve been watching us that long?” Father Orrock stirred his steeping tea absently. “Hmm. I have friends who supply me with blood so that I can keep the thralls from going mad. Can I ask bluntly: did your colleagues, Jose or Karen, tell you about this place?”
“They didn’t. I had a tip off about stolen blood from a clinic and followed that lady here.”
He gave a sigh of relief. “Good. Jose, Karen, and I have a deal, of sorts. I have the same deal with reapers all around the area: they search for their runaways elsewhere. Never here.”
I knew I was completely out of my depth. I’d never done a runner before—I’d never even given them any thought. “How the hell did you get Jose and Karen to agree to something like that?”
Father Orrock laughed softly. “Well, for one, I convinced them that the runaways never stay here for more than sixty days. This isn’t a place for them to live—just a stopping point for the weary on their long trip to freedom. I made it clear to Jose and Karen, as I do to all reapers that find this place, that I am not a man of violence. But I am friends with the local police and OtherOps agents. I can make life inconvenient if you loiter around my house.” He cocked his head at me. “You don’t know this world, do you?”
I shook my head. “I’ve worked for vampires, but only on bloodbags. Never runners. This is a … special job. That’s why Jose and Karen aren’t on it.”
“I can see you’re uncomfortable with it.”
I bit my tongue. He was fishing for remorse. I’d met enough priests to know they were good at that sort of thing. I didn’t take the bait.
He went on, “Like I said, this is a halfway house. It is a place they can stay briefly until they move on to find someone who can help them break the hold their master has over them. As you probably know, thralls are not your typical contract with the Other. They stand in between—in transition—from humanity to Other. Do you know, Mr. Fitz, the statistics on thralls?”
I glanced over my shoulder. No sign of Michael. No sound from upstairs. I can’t tell if he’s doing the talkative priest thing on purpose or not, I told Maggie.
Shush, I’m trying to listen through the wards. She paused. Huh. I just realized the wards are two-way. So people from outside can’t scry in, but people inside can’t scry out either. Why the hell would he do that?
Beats me. “I don’t know any statistics,” I told the priest.
Father Orrock spread his hands earnestly. “A full seventy-three percent of thralls are disaffected youth. They are the unwanted, the discarded, the unloved. They are foolish, but they are not fools, if that makes any sense. Most thralls are not looking toward a life of immortality. They are simply trying to find community and acceptance. They are preyed upon by vampires—vampires like Boris Novak, who wish only to increase their own power through contractual progeny.”
“I don’t follow,” I said honestly.
“What I’m trying to say, Mr. Fitz, is that a great number of thralls are not willing acolytes lusting to join the ranks of the undead. They are victims. Because of the contracts they are coerced to sign, their victimhood is reinforced by the state, forcing them into slavery even after they’ve realized they’ve made a grave error. Those contracts allow vampires to send people like you to gather their property and return it to them.” He practically spat the word property.
I drummed my fingers on the table, watching him warily. You hearing this?
I don’t disagree with any of it, if that’s what you’re asking. Maggie responded.
Seriously?
I’ve been trying to tell you that since you got the job. Like I told you, I dated Vlad Dracula. Not only that, but my ring once floated around a vampire coven for a few weeks. I was lucky to get out of there undiscovered. The whole thrall experience is a messy, horrible business.
I was ready to disregard the priest entirely, but the fact that Maggie agreed with him so quickly brought me up in a complete about face. I ran a hand through my hair, not caring if Father Orrock could see the conflict in my expression. Well, there’s not much I can do about it but get Michael to the safe house.
“Okay,” I said. “I get it. But I still have a job to do. Is Michael coming down or isn’t he?”
Father Orrock gazed back at me thoughtfully, his head still cocked, wearing a half smile.
“Shit,” I said as realization set in, throwing myself back from the table and to my feet. Maggie, those wards are two-way so that Orrock can distract people while his thrall friends make a run for it! I spun toward the door, only to find my way blocked by a number of young men and a single young woman. They all had the same look: a bit emaciated, with sunken, haunted eyes. Luke was among them, but Michael was not. I didn’t stop to think, simply shoving my way through the group. None attempted to stop me, but they didn’t get out of my way either. I shoved and stumbled, making my way out onto the porch where Maggie immediately barked directions in my ear.
Left on the street, then two blocks over. He’s running north!
I took off in pursuit, cutting through backyards and leaping dilapidated fences. I quickly reached an avenue, crossed it, and kept running north.
He’s faster than you, Maggie told me. He’s heading toward the highway. He’s got a book bag of clothes and a big tome. The blood tally is my guess.
I didn’t respond, directing all my energy into a sprint. Trolls are known for being strong, not for their long-distance skills. I gambled and took the next left, running toward the underpass so I didn’t have to chase Michael through highway traffic. By the time I reached the north side of I-71, I was panting hard from the effort. I could feel Maggie listening carefully in the back of my head. I already had that sinking feeling when she gave a frustrated sigh.
Lost him. He must have gone over the highway and then turned east.
“Goddamn it,” I said aloud. I waited on the street corner for several minutes, hoping that Maggie’s senses could pick up my quarry. Finally, with the shake of my head, I walked back to Father Orrock’s halfway house.
I could tell something was wrong the moment I turned onto the street. I could see my truck, but … as I drew closer, I could also see that all four of my tires had been slashed. I ran a hand across my face, feeling angry and tired and not just a little bit humiliated. I walked up to my truck and stood staring at it, hands on my hips, for several moments. On the porch were all of the runaway thralls, staring at me in that eerie silence while Father Orrock sipped his cup of tea. He raised the cup toward me when I looked toward him.
“Was this you?” I asked.
“It’s a rough neighborhood,” Father Orrock told me seriously.
“Right. I bet this is the other way you keep Jose and Karen from coming back here, hmm?”
Orrock shrugged. “As I said, it’s a rough neighborhood.”
Don’t you dare laugh, I told Maggie. I walked over to my truck and popped the hood, giving it a once-over to make sure the engine hadn’t been fiddled with as well. When I shut it, Father Orrock had come down to stand nearby, appraising my tires as if he didn’t know exactly who had slashed them.
“Would you like some help?” he asked.
I glared at him, taking out my cell phone to call the office. “No,” I told him. “No, I would not.” Once I’d asked Nadine to send someone with four new tires, I put on my flack vest and strapped my Glock to my side. I was pissed, and I wasn’t going to be caught off guard again.
“That’s wholly unnecessary,” Father Orrock told me.
“It’s a rough neighborhood,” I told him. Then I walked up onto the porch, through the small gang of runaway thralls, and into the house. I could hear Father Orrock following me.
“Excuse me, where are you going?”
I ignored him.
Where are you going? Maggie asked.
I walked upstairs and began to check every bedroom. Father Orrock ran a tight ship, and each of them, even the occupied ones, was clean and organized. I kept checking until I found a room that looked like it had been left in a hurry. It wasn’t much—the covers were tossed aside, a spare T-shirt was lying on the ground, and a couple of comic books had been discarded on the floor. I turned toward Father Orrock. “Was this Michael’s room?” I asked.
Father Orrock had set his tea down somewhere and was now watching me warily from the hallway. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You need to leave, now!” All pretense of friendliness was gone.
“Tell me where Michael slept, or I’m posting the address of this place—and what exactly it is—online. You might scare off reapers with this nonsense, but you won’t scare off a whole vampire brood.” Even as I spoke it, I knew it was a bluff. Father Orrock’s operation was clearly successful in part through secrecy. I wasn’t about to fuck that up out of spite. But I was also super pissed in the moment, and I hoped that covered for my bluff.
“How dare you,” Father Orrock snapped.
“You made this personal when you and your kids here slashed my tires. Now tell me where Michael slept.”
Father Orrock hesitated for a few more moments and then nodded. “It was that room.”
You’re not going to do what I think you are, are you? Maggie asked.
Again, I ignored her. I walked inside and stripped the pillowcase off the pillow, then turned it inside out. Carrying it in one hand, I pushed past Father Orrock and headed back out to my truck where I tossed the pillowcase inside, then turned to lean against the driver’s side door, crossing my arms and staring angrily back at the porch. No one followed me back out, but I could see Father Orrock’s face in the living room window. Staring back at him, I settled down to wait for my new tires.