Hellbent (40 page)

“As you’re all aware, the ranks of this household have begun to um … swell. Last year at this time I was living by myself, and I had lived by myself for a really long time. I’ve been staying in Seattle because it didn’t have a House, and the vampire population is very low. Outside of this room, I know of maybe three or four of us who live within the city limits, and we all go out of our way to avoid one another.

“I’ve always assumed that the original House—if the city ever had one—went up in smoke during the 1889 fire, much like the original Atlanta House during the Civil War. But this is neither here nor there. The city is big enough, and there are now enough of us hanging around, that we need to work out some kind of formal arrangement for our own protection.”

“Holy shit, Raylene,” Ian exclaimed—making the first time
I’d ever heard him swear. From sheer surprise, I stopped talking long enough for him to ask, “Are you suggesting that we form a House?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I’m suggesting. We don’t have to do it all formal-like, with titles and ranks and other assorted forms of bullshit, but we do need to have the structure in place. We need it because if we don’t form it, someone else will. It won’t be much longer—there just aren’t any cities this size anymore that lack a House. It’s only a matter of time before one of the big boys decides to unload a few of its more problematic members on King County. My money’s on Chicago, since Atlanta is looking like a shitty bet these days—but it could just as easily be LA or San Francisco. Eventually, someone will notice that Seattle is unoccupied from an official standpoint. And then, my friends, we are going to be in trouble.”

Isabelle nodded gravely. “Unless we do it first.”

“That’s right. We don’t have to be the biggest or baddest House to work as a deterrent to would-be squatters. If we’re openly present, we have to be challenged by anyone who wants to come in and start up a franchise.”

Ian wasn’t on board yet, but he had his pensive face on. “And that doesn’t happen often. Not anymore. It’s too costly, for everyone.”

“Precisely. Best of all, in order to claim a House, all you need are three vampires willing to sit in a room together without killing one another.” I pointed to myself. “One.” And then to Ian. “Two.” And to Isabelle. “Three.”

Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully. “Then what about Adrian and me? What part do we have in this, or do we have one at all?”

“Good question. I bet you didn’t know this—for that matter, not many vampires know it—but there’s nothing on the books that says only vampires can be part of a vampire House.” I saw Ian
open his mouth to make an objection, but I prattled onward before he could interrupt. “Granted, it’s usually
understood
. But who gives a damn? I say anyone who’s capable of holding their own in such a House is welcome to be part of it. Some Houses might get the idea that we’re disorganized and weak, but fuck ’em if they’re that shortsighted. We’re more like pirates than high society over here. Why would we turn away anyone with power or talent, purely because they don’t match the undead criteria?”

No one argued. Everyone sat there looking at me. I had no idea what to do with so much undivided attention. It came along so rarely, after all.

“You guys
know
I’m right.”

No one said anything. So I went ahead and opened the floor to questions.

“Anyone have anything they’d like to say? Any objections? Anyone not game? All you have to do is say so. I won’t bully anyone to playing House with me. If everyone isn’t on board, then it won’t work. But I think it
can
work. I think we can finish the bottom three floors, beef up the building’s security, and have ourselves something far cooler than a Buckhead McMansion.”

Isabelle giggled. “I like this place better, yes,” she said. “I like all the brick.”

“Me too. I’m keen on brick. It’s simple but effective.”

Again I thought about a moat. Briefly, I pondered the particulars, and then sadly I discarded the idea.

“What do you say? Adrian? I’ve seen your apartment. It’s tiny. You don’t have room for yourself, much less yourself and Isabelle—but you two could have half the downstairs once we split it up and fix all the electrics. Elizabeth, these days you’re on some of the same Most Wanted lists as me. I can help you set up a new identity, something solid that’ll pass a closer inspection than mere airport security. And Ian—” I stopped there.

“Yes. Then Ian,” he referred to himself in third person. “I’m your problem, Ray—not your solution. Remember? San Francisco wants to call me home to kill me, and if Maximilian finds out you’re harboring me, your fledgling House will be over before it has a chance to stand on its own two feet.”

“You’re right. But now we get to the truly brilliant part of my brilliant plan.”

In perfect time, Adrian and Ian both said, “Oh
no.
”

“Knock it off, you two,” I commanded. Behind me, I heard the service elevator clatter shut and begin its humming ascent. “Oh good, the kids are home.”

Momentarily, Domino and Pepper appeared. Pepper drew back the gate, because Domino was carrying a puffed-up garbage bag.

The boy said, “Ray, that is without a doubt the most disgusting thing you’ve ever asked us to do.”

“For free room and board? I think it’s the
least
you can do. And no one’s even been assigned the permanent role of litter box cleaner, so don’t make any grand declarations just yet.”

“Not it!” Pepper declared.

“You don’t get to do that!” her brother immediately told her. “I carried a trash bag full of cigarette ashes all over Capitol Hill—”

“And I emptied out the containers!”

“Kids! You’ve both done disgusting things on my behalf tonight, and I thank you. I didn’t mean to bring up the litter box. I’m sure we’ll come to some fair arrangement later on. It’ll wait for now, though. Get in here.”

“They’ve been doing … what now?” Ian asked.

“Emptying public ashtrays,” Pepper grumbled. “Raylene, I think I need a tetanus shot.”

“You don’t even know what tetanus is.”

“Do you get it from fooling around with dirty metal things?”

“Very well. Vaccinations for everyone!” I announced with excessive glee.

“No! That’s not what I meant! I was only kidding.”

“Good,” I said, though now she’d gotten me wondering. I looked at Pita, who didn’t so much as crack an eye open to look back at me. Pets need vaccinations, don’t they? Surely children do as well. Maybe it was the kind of thing I ought to look into.

Domino stomped into the room and dropped the garbage bag on the floor. It settled with a soft poofing gray cloud, but at least he’d thought to tie off the top.

Adrian wanted to know, “Why on earth were they cleaning out ashtrays?”

Ian caught on fast. He answered before I could.

“Because they’re going to kill me.”

I
sabelle put the finishing touches on the box.

It was a nice box, roughly the size of an overnight case—the kind ladies used to carry, back before rolling carry-ons became the rage. Made of mahogany and polished to a pretty shine, it had a plaque screwed to the top. The plaque read:

Inside the box we’d stashed a plastic bag full of ashes, and in the process we’d gotten a dusting of the damn substance all over the place—thus Isabelle’s final ministrations.

The corpse himself said from the foot of my bed, “This will never work.”

“It’ll totally work,” I assured him.

“They’ll never believe you.”

“That’s not the same thing.” I was sitting at my computer desk where, yes, like an old-fashioned relic of a person I have a desktop computer. It’s a nice one, with a slick flat-screen monitor. “They don’t need to believe you’re dead. They just need to know that you’re not alive anymore. This is very simple, Ian.”

“The best plans usually are.”

“See, that’s why I like you.”

“Read it to me,” he urged. “I want to hear it.”

“Your own death notice?”

“Yes. I want to know what it says.”

“It’s a little long.”

He said, “I don’t care. I want to know what you’re telling him.”

Isabelle finished her polishing and came to stand behind me, so she could read over my shoulder.

I took a deep breath, and began to read.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked them both.

“Sounds very official,” Ian said. “And O’Donnell agreed to sign this?”

“Just this evening. I’m going to email him a copy, he’ll print it out and sign it, and scan it—then send it back.”

“Sounds very roundabout.”

“He’s too busy to fly out here, and more’s the pity. I think you’d like him.”

“Because you do?”

“Because he’s likable,” I insisted. “And anyway, I swear, Ian. You worry too much.”

“I worry just the right amount.
You’re
the one prone to worrying too much.”

I refreshed my email to see if Clifford had returned the letter yet. Nope. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling pretty good about this. We’ve announced ourselves and staked our claim, and I’m checking my last P’s and Q’s regarding your new identity. All our bases are covered, baby. Now all we have to do is find your son and invite him on board—and maybe track down Jeffery Sykes for a little hellfire and brimstone.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Oh, is
that
all?”

I reached down to pat Pita’s head and indulged an evil grin that went from ear to ear. “Trust me! This is going to be a piece of cake.”

It takes a village to make a book, and this one has a whole host of people to thank for its existence. First, to the usual suspects: my outstanding editor Anne Groell, who has not yet pushed me off a cliff (a testament to her everlasting patience, to be sure); her assistant David Pomerico, who graciously fields all my dumb questions; Bantam publicist Greg Kubie, who has become legend around my household for his common-sense approach to pretty much everything; my stupendous agent, Jennifer Jackson, who brought us all together in the first place; and to my husband Aric, who is still not too sure about this whole vampire thing, but is along for the ride.

Continued thanks must flow in the direction of the folks at Subterranean Press (Bill! Yanni!) for keeping me fed during the lean times, and keeping me company when I’m in Michigan. Thanks also to all the helpful peeps in the secret digital clubhouse, for the advice and sounding board, and for not throwing me out for being a pretty-pretty princess. Likewise, a million thanks to Colleen Mondor and Paul Goat Allen, who always seem to “get” it.