knows my size. There’s something about stuff from your family. For instance, when I’m home, I sleep under a comforter Granny May made for me. Ugliest damn blanket I have ever seen. But it makes me feel better to snuggle under fabric and thread she put together to warm me. Evie’s outfit, Granny’s blanket—they’re part of the basic core of my life that assures me I matter.
For the same reasons, Bergman handpicked where his inventions traveled and who put them to bed at night. And the more I learned about the freak who’d stolen his baby, the less I blamed Miles for totally losing it when he’d found out the baby had been kidnapped. Because after spending Vayl’s shower time with my face in my laptop, reading the file some intrepid agent had gathered on this guy Chien-Lung, I had come to a single conclusion. The guy was a total whack-job.
Frankly it made me feel better about my own peculiarities. But there was a method to Lung’s madness. For instance, dragons are deeply revered by the Chinese. According to legend they have megapowers that include weather control and life creation. And they’re seen as kind, benevolent creatures. Funny. Every fairy tale
Vayl came out of the shower wearing jeans and a hunter green T-shirt. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
“The guys went back to the tent raising and Cassandra decided to supervise so Cole wouldn’t be tempted to clonk Bergman over the head with a stray pole.” Which was when I realized we were all alone.
“I was just researching Chien-Lung,” I said quickly, motioning to the laptop on the table in front of me. “I guess when he didn’t actually turn into a dragon he decided to settle for second best and go for the armor.”
Vayl raised an eyebrow. “From the sound of it, I would hardly describe the armor as second best.”
“No, that’s not really how Bergman operates, is it?”
Vayl sank onto the banquette beside me and sighed. “We are not going to talk about this sleepwalking issue, are we?”
“Nothing to discuss. I’m seeing Cassandra’s guy tomorrow. He’s going to slap me with a cure.
“Do you understand how few things actually get accomplished with a
“You’ve never watched
Twitch of the lip. For him it was practically a giggle. “Fair enough. Let us talk about work then.”
“Okay. Just how were you planning to take out an ancient vampire wearing invincible armor?”
“The simplest approach would be to find his resting place. When dawn breaks, he dies, so the armor automatically detaches. We pull it free and then smoke him like a Cuban cigar.” He said it with such zest I could imagine him sitting on the balcony of some Caribbean villa, sharing a hand-rolled cancer-carrot with Hemingway while they mused over the aroma of vaporized vampire and discussed which shoes to wear for the next running of the bulls.
I snorted. “Sometimes you are about as PC as Peter Griffin.”
“Who?”
“This cartoon guy . . . Never mind. I am curious, though. You did notice that the majority of people are against smoking these days, yes?”
“Yes. And a good thing too. We used to lose houses and barns left and right to careless smokers. Now it is usually just faulty wiring or children with fire fetishes. I imagine the rate of fire loss has dropped drastically since smoking became so unpopular.”
I crossed my arms, pursed my lips, and nodded through his entire statement. As hard as I stared I could not unearth a single twitch of the lip. Vayl seemed absolutely sincere. But really, what did a guy who could live forever under the right circumstances care about malignancy?
“You know what,” I said. “Your get-him-while-he’s-zonked idea seems solid. And yet I’m thinking if it had a chance, somebody would’ve made it work a long time ago.”
Vayl held up a finger. “Ah, but you see, this somebody you speak of never had you.” He pointed the finger at me and I still had to fight the urge to look over my shoulder.
“Vayl—”
“Tonight we will scout out the most likely locations. And then tomorrow you and Cole will revisit those locations as well as any others you can think of. If you sense any vampires—what is that word?—Ah, yes:
CHAPTERNINE
Vayl and I left the RV thinking we’d check out the Chinese acrobats’ camp. Lung housed his employees in RVs like ours. Okay, not like ours. Like regular-people versions of ours. They stood in neat rows behind the inflatable stadium. Maybe Lung had his own little pop-up tent set up in one of their bedrooms. Okay, highly unlikely. But it was a place to start.
We were distracted almost immediately by loud talk and even louder laughter coming from the site of our soon-to-be Psychics-R-Us extravaganza. Upon further investigation, we discovered our crew had made friends with three of the barbecue cook-off chefs, who’d brought over a cooler full of beer, some lawn chairs, and quite a bit of friendly advice.
“I’ll tell you what,” said one big-bellied gentleman as he leaned over a pile of poles, his tooled leather belt waging a heroic struggle to keep his butt crack at a PG rating. “I believe they used this very same tent as headquarters for the 82nd Airborne during World War II.”
“I get it: it’s old,” said Cole with his good-natured grin. “Now, I told you my three-breasted tennis star joke, which fulfills my end of the bargain. So it’s your turn, Steve.” He grabbed a section of canvas and held it to his chest. “Is she gonna live?”
“Oh yeah, we’ll get her up. But I think we’re gonna need help.” He turned to his buddies. “Hube! Is Larry still awake?” One of the seated gentlemen took a swig of beer and turned toward his companion, a red-faced guy whose goatee worked mainly to divide his puffy cheeks from his bloated neck.
“Didn’t he have to go somewhere?” Hube asked him.
