It was after seven a.m. when I returned to the station, the trench coat draped over my head and partially blocking my vision. I pulled a duffel bag from the trunk and thought this a prime example for keeping an extra set of clothes in the car. Inside the locker room, I changed into a pair of generic trousers and a matching blazer, scrubbed any trace of makeup from my face, slathered on Fane’s ghastly sunscreen, and hoped my fangs wouldn’t decide to make an appearance if Sullivan pissed me off. He usually did. I glanced at my reflection in the floor-length mirror and plucked a few pieces of lint from the blazer. Because the mirror reflected only my clothing, I blotted my face free of any possible residual sunscreen with a moist paper towel.
Once parked outside the Jackson County Courthouse, I sat in my car with a hoodie snugged around my head. The granite memorial occupied the building’s focal point and glistened in the early light. Thanks to Bianca, I carried with me a simulated memory of all the carnage that took place on that very spot, nearly thirty years ago. I had intended to avoid the marker, more specifically the names engraved alphabetically with detached precision, but instead I left the car and kneeled before it, my fingers trembling as they tracked my parents’ names. The epitaph offered no explanation, the city electing not to memorialize the explosion itself. Law enforcement blissfully unaware of the Harvesters’ presence that day, any information pertaining to the murderous vampires’ siege following the explosion would always remain a painful secret.
Shoulders slumped, I inched my way toward the entrance, taking cover whenever I could within the shade provided by competing rows of redbud, crabapple, and Bradford pear trees. Once inside, I took a long breath and narrowed my eyes, determined I would not allow the DA to bully me into submission. I heard Sullivan’s rant as I neared his office, every angry word reverberating off the staggered marble columns in the lobby.
I saw him through the windowed door, face purpled by his customary rage, sausage fingers gripping a monogrammed pen mercilessly. He noticed me and cupped his fingers. When I didn’t respond fast enough, he whistled as if I were something that wore a collar and tags. I ran my tongue over my teeth and took a deep breath before stepping inside.
“Chief Patterson said you wanted to see me.”
He checked his watch, beady eyes looking past a smug smirk. “You’re late, Detective.”
“Don’t you have my statement?”
“Is that what you call this?” he said and tossed a document across his desk.
I studied it briefly. “It looks accurate,” I said past a squint. “I don’t know what else you could possibly need from me.”
“I need a death penalty conviction. The defendant’s lawyer is busy scheming an insanity plea as we speak.”
I looked away, so he couldn’t see me roll my eyes. Of course, the shooter was nuts. “With all due respect, sir, what kind of rational person shoots fifty-six people?”
He leaped to his feet and pounded his desk. “Goddamn it, Detective! I intend to see this defendant strapped to a table and executed. The good people of this city won’t settle for anything less.”
I knew the desire of the city’s good people was the last thing on Sullivan’s mind. Their votes to secure his seat in the US House of Representatives, though, was an entirely different matter.
He lowered his voice and attempted to woo me with his charm, something about as alien to him as adequate oral hygiene. “Tense situations have a way of eroding vital information, Detective. I think if you give it some time, you may recall more important details.”
Pressing my spine to the chair, I latched my arms across my chest. “Just what exactly do you expect me to testify to?”
Veins surfaced across his forehead and reminded me of a long-legged spider spinning a web. “I don’t think I like your tone or your implication.”
“Mr. District Attorney, if you’re suggesting that I fabricate certain details to suit your narrative, we have a problem.”
“You seem to be the one here with the problem, Detective. Who would know better than a seasoned detective that anything less than a death sentence opens the door to early parole or an appeal? I want this goddamn animal off the streets for good,” he said, jabbing the desktop repeatedly.
I lurched forward and slapped a palm on the desk. “What do you want me to say? He enjoyed a candy bar or played a videogame between reloads? Maybe called his mother or a friend to say he’d be late getting home? I don’t see how the addition of such mundane details might serve to circumvent an insanity plea.”
“Let’s stop the dance, Detective. I’m concerned about this story he’s telling. I want that story discredited. The jury needs to hear your perception of his state of mind, a lucid conversation with you that disqualifies the ridiculous account the defense plans to sell the jury.”
“There was no conversation.”
“Goddamn it,” he said, fisting the pen, which began leaking ink. “You expect me to believe you simply approached him and he surrendered his weapon?”
“The details are in my report.”
Sullivan snatched the document from his desk and began to read. “I approached the suspect and disarmed him.”
I threw my palms in the air. “That’s what happened. I took him by surprise. He didn’t see me coming because his attention was on the weapon. He had the barrel pointed at the ground, so I saw an opportunity and took advantage of it.”
“And you expect me to believe that there were no words exchanged?”
“We fought over the weapon. He continued to struggle, so I rendered him unconscious to contain the threat.”
“Why didn’t you shoot to kill, Detective? That lunatic had already murdered two dozen innocent people and wounded thirty-two others! For God’s sake, you were within your rights!”
Don’t think I wasn’t tempted. “I follow my training. He wasn’t an active threat at the time.”
“Oh, is that right?” Sullivan said, leaning across the desk. “Well, Detective, if the jury buys his story, he’s certainly an active threat now.”
“From what I heard, it’s quite a story. Something about a vampire?” I forced a laugh, but it fell flat. “I feel confident twelve everyday citizens will find his testimony difficult to swallow. Give them some credit.”
“You’d better hope so, Detective,” he said, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers. “Otherwise, the mayor just might strip you of your shield, and you’ll spend your days issuing citations for parking violations.”
I pinched my flared nostrils closed. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. District Attorney, it’s been a long night, and I’d like to try to get some sleep.”
I threw myself behind the steering wheel and headed for home, reflecting on my conversation with the DA. It was possible a jury would find the killer insane and that a judge would then remand him to a low-security psychiatric facility. What would happen if he managed to escape? Had I put potential lives at risk by not pulling the trigger? I felt sure Matilda and the other Omniscients—and the Elders, for that matter—would have disapproved of how I handled the situation. The only law they believed in was the law of averages, and it was almost a given that the mass murderer would strike again if given the chance. But I had plans for Andrew Thompson II. If he ever walked the streets of Kansas City again, I’d be there to welcome him back.
Back home and greeted by dead silence, I tossed my keys on the table, my eyes wandering to Raina’s nook. I never would have guessed that just the sight of her could take my mind off all the ugly things I witnessed while away from her. I squeezed into a tiny chair, reserved for me only, and closed my eyes, summoning time spent there in that whimsical, happy room with Raina and Tristan.
Raina appeared around the time warmth spread from my toes to my eyes and I nearly drifted off to sleep. My heart skipped at the sight of her, and I opened my arms.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Why aren’t you asleep?”
Rubbing her eyes, she folded herself in my lap and whimpered, “I had a dreadful dream.”
“Oh, no! Another one? I’m sorry to hear that,” I said and nestled her close. “But remember what I said? Sometimes, it helps to talk about it.”
“Fane says I mustn’t ever share my very scariest dreams with you. He says if I do, you shall worry and worry and worry.”
“Hmm. What if I promise not to worry?”
Her big brown eyes studied mine. “If I do tell you, must we tell Fane?”
“I think, just this one time, it can be our little secret.”
“I do so love secrets!”
“I know you do,” I said, rocking and tickling her until she squealed. “Now, what was this nightmare about?”
Her lower lip began to quiver. “I simply can’t say the words aloud,” she sobbed.
“Aw, Raina. It was only a bad dream, baby.”
She shook her head and between sobs, she said, “The Bad Ones made Tristan b-l-eeeeed.”
By the Bad Ones, I knew she’d dreamt of the Harvesters again. Although I felt sure it was just a dream, probably brought on by a flurry of crazy things Fane had involved her in earlier, I swallowed past a lump.
“Oh goodness, that doesn’t sound possible.” I gnawed my lip while I scratched my head and tried to think what best to say next. “Um, I’ve forgotten; what is it the Realm calls Tristan? Is it puppy dog?” Raina giggled and leaned back so she could watch my exaggerated expressions. “No, that can’t be right. I know—scaredy-cat.”
Raina shook her head. “Nooooo, not scaredy-cat. We call Tristan the Supreme Warrior.”
“That’s it. Now I remember. Do you know why we call him that?”
“Why?”
“Because he is the Realm’s greatest and most feared warrior. I am told that sometimes when Tristan appears, the Bad Ones take one look at him and fly away.”
“They are the scaredy-cats.”
“Yes, they are,” I said and kissed her forehead. “So no more worrying about Tristan.”
She narrowed her eyes and puffed her lower lip. “The Bad Ones better fly away, or Tristan shall get them.”
“That’s right, Raina. They had better fly away if they know what’s good for them.” I looked away so she couldn’t see my eyes. Fane was right; I was worried. After consoling Raina and swaddling her within the coffin, I failed to console myself and attempted contact with Bianca.