Three Days to Dead

outwardly unaffected by the sight or odor of the room. It surprised me, with wood surrounding her in all directions. Polished or not, it had to be discomfiting. Never mind her keen sense of smell.

No, her nostrils flared every few seconds, timed with the rise and fall of her chest. She sensed it; she was just good at hiding it.

I stood toe-to-toe with her, unintimidated by the eight inches she had on me. “Truman’s blind devotion to the idea of fate is why his own people are trying to kill him.”

She arched a slender eyebrow. “I thought his people were trying to kill him because he possesses information they do not wish to see made public.”

“That’s insane. They think he’s a traitor. No human would benefit from a vampire/goblin takeover. All of us would suffer.”

“Except for the humans rewarded for seeing such a takeover to fruition.”

The room suddenly seemed twenty degrees too cold, the walls too close. What she suggested was impossible. Goblins couldn’t be trusted. No one with any sense made a deal with one and expected them to uphold their end. Not without a vampire to ensure it.

“This is insane,” I snapped. “They took Wyatt because he kidnapped one of them and tortured him for information. They think he’s turned rogue, that’s all. You’re making me see conspiracies where there aren’t any. You don’t have any proof.”

“You are correct in this, Evangeline. I have only my suspicions and experience.”

“Well, I’ve got my suspicions and experience, too, lady.”

“Then I apologize for voicing my assumption, but my previous observation still stands. We were meant to meet, you and I. We are battling a common enemy, and we are running out of time.”

“You think we should help each other out?”

“I do.”

“Because you’re happy with the status quo and don’t want to see your people become a dominant species?”

“I do not wish to see the goblins become a dominant species. Vampires may not be dominant over humans, but we are still a superior race. Nothing changes that.”

I snorted. “So how can you help me?”

“Have you ever heard of Mo’n Rath?”

“Punk band?”

“It is an ancient vampire ritual,” she said, unflustered by my sarcasm. “We live long lives and, at times, we forget. The Mo’n Rath helps us recover forgotten memories. I have never attempted it with a human, but as I said before, you are not completely human. It may work.”

Alex had suggested hypnosis. Isleen was suggesting a vampiric memory ritual. As much as I preferred waiting for what was behind Door Number Three, I had to do something. The memories weren’t coming back on their own, so I had to go in and dig. Or let someone else do the digging.

And what was with her insistence that I was not completely human? Was it another side effect of the damned resurrection spell? If so, Wyatt was going to get an earful.

“Say we do this,” I said. “What do you want out of the deal?”

“Simply to stop the alliance. And, of course, I get to slay the vampire traitors involved.”

I looked at Alex. His expression was slightly glazed. It was familiar—the one he got when things started getting excessively weird. Sooner or later, he’d get used to it, but for now his innocence was refreshing. It reminded me what the Triads fought for—confidentiality. We kept the Dregs a controlled secret, and the rest of the world went about its merry way. Failure meant a lot more people walking around the city wearing expressions identical to his.

“You don’t have to keep helping me, Alex,” I said.

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

“You could get out of the city, far away from all of this.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go. Chalice was my family.”

I brushed his cheek with the back of my hand, my heart swelling with gratitude.

“Touching,” Isleen said, “but we should be going.”

Leave it to a vampire to ruin a tender moment. I turned back to face Isleen. “Do you know someone who can perform this ritual? Someone trustworthy?”

“I do,” she said. “Myself.”

Chapter 15

51:50

We left Alex’s car by the train tracks. I had no intention of returning to the abandoned station, and by now the make and plate had been given out to every cop in the city with a working radio. Isleen led us to her stashed vehicle—late-model sports car with tinted windows. It looked like something a rich lawyer would drive.

She surprised me by walking across the weedy parking lot without any protection—no hat or gloves or even an umbrella. Vampires are highly allergic to direct sunlight. They burn like paper under a blowtorch—sizzling skin, smoke and odor, and mighty pain.

Yet Isleen walked with confidence radiating from her pale, lithe body. I kept pace, waiting for her to explode in a fiery ball under the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Nothing, not even a flinch of discomfort. Next to me, Alex shot curious glances my way, but didn’t ask. I was wondering the same thing.

Alex barely fit in the tiny sports car’s backseat; it was designed more for looks than function. I scooted forward as far as my knees allowed. Isleen reached forward and turned the key in the ignition. Up close, I noticed the shimmer on her skin. Not sunscreen—there wasn’t an SPF high enough to protect her particular skin type. Something else.

“Where?” I asked.

“South,” she said. “There is a Sanctuary. Few know of it. It will be safe enough to let our guard down.”

Says you. There were protected places in the city—buildings or just rooms considered sacred by Dregs. Magical hotspots, places where the magic of their world below (or above, or next to) bled into ours, sort of like hot springs. They were the invisible sources of the Fey’s power and well guarded by them—and apparently, also by vampires. Places where the Gifted were born. Similar to churches or cathedrals; but very few of Dreg-kind respected human faith.

The major difference was that the Dregs didn’t hang signs on their Sanctuaries, advertising their presence. For all I knew, hotel room 29 at the Holiday Inn Express could be one.

I rarely ventured into this part of the city. South of the East Side, but still on the opposite riverbank from Uptown, it was a blend of low-rent motels, abandoned storage facilities, car dealerships, and factories. The city seemed grayer there, less bright. Full of secrets in a way that even Mercy’s Lot could not challenge. The side streets were quiet for mid day and we zipped past block after block, moving farther south. We didn’t speak. The radio stayed off.

Isleen turned left at a blinking light, taking us down a road with a self-storage center on one side of the street and a used-car lot advertising “Very Clean” cars on the other.

A shadow bolted out of the used-car lot, swifter than man or beast had any right to move, on a collision course with our car. Isleen yanked the wheel. I saw black fur and razor teeth an instant before the hound slammed into my door. Metal groaned. Glass crackled. Tires squealed as the car skidded sideways.

I banged into Isleen’s shoulder. She kept control of the car, depressed the gas pedal, and we shot forward. The engine roared. So did the hound tracking us. I righted myself in what space I had. Half the door was smashed in, uncomfortably close.

“Evy?” Alex asked.

“I’m okay.”

I twisted around in the bucket seat. The hound was trailing us, seeming unfazed by its headlong tumble into solid steel. It kept pace with its four muscled legs, each springing leap taking it as far as we could drive in the same