Lust for Life (31 page)

“Did my body and soul also resist the idea of the afterlife? Because I didn’t feel
at home in any of those three places.”

“I did.” Shane examines the soft wheat roll he’s buttering. “I’d been to that darkness
before.”

“When you died?” Lanham asks.

“Literally, yeah. And figuratively, a few times since then. I think that’s how I was
able to find our way out.”

“So perhaps only a failed suicide like yourself could have accomplished the second
part of the resurrection.”

Shane keeps buttering, smoothing the condiment evenly over the surface. Finally he
says, “Maybe.”

“That would be cool.” To his questioning look, I respond, “It means that whatever’s
out there, that thing that’s bigger than any religion, doesn’t hate suicides. Only
someone who knows the darkness the way Shane does can find a path out of it.”

“If I may venture a guess,” Lanham says, “I think it’s about more than your first
death, McAllister. It could concern your second life.”

Shane creases his brow. “You mean my life as a vampire?”

“Exactly. By every measure, you were a good man when you were undead. You saved lives
on more than one occasion.”

“And you made people happy with your radio show,” I add.

Lanham continues. “In short, Agent McAllister, you redeemed yourself.”

“Not that you needed redeeming,” I interject.

Shane looks at me, then Lanham, then takes a bite of bread. “Wow,” he says as he chews.

We wait for him to add further commentary, but he simply eats his bread, focusing
on each bite. Watching him revel in the simple pleasures of a human body, I
wonder how much of our journey to death and back was done by me and how much by him.

We’ll probably never know, or fully understand why it happened. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that we didn’t make that journey alone.

•  •  •

“Well! I have good news and bad news.”

Shane and I turn from the window, where we’re watching absolutely nothing outside,
and it is lovely, because it’s daylight. Unfortunately, it’s also overcast, which
meant this morning’s sunrise was more of a “cloud-glow.”

Dr. Sanders motions for us to sit in the chairs on the other side of his desk. In
his white coat he looks just like any other doctor, except for the amber-colored Research
Division patch above his pen-lined pocket.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me together instead of separately.” He switches
eyeglasses as he sits and opens our file folders. “As you know, we’re understaffed
here at headquarters, so my schedule is a madhouse. But obviously I cleared my calendar
for your spectacularly unique case.”

I nod, trying to keep my breathing even and slow, despite the fact that these results
could hold devastating news: a horrible disease, a lack of some vital element humans
need to stay alive. And if I’m perfectly normal and mundane, I’ll be kicked out of
the Immanence Corps. Dr. Sanders literally holds our fates in his hands.

His trembling hands. If I were a vampire, I could tell by smell whether he was emotionally
nervous or simply
overcaffeinated. But I’m human now, so I have to use mere con-artist intuition.

“The good news is, you’re both in excellent health, for the most part. Cholesterol
in particular is fabulous. We’ll want to check that again in six months, once you’ve
been eating regularly.”

Shane leans forward. “What about diabetes?”

“To be completely certain, we’d want to do a glucose curve, but I see nothing in your
chem profile to indicate either hyperglycemia or hypoglycemia, so I think you’re good
to go.”

“I can eat pancakes?” Shane asks, sounding boyish and adorable.

“Go for it.” Dr. Sanders flips the page. “Your blood pressure, Agent McAllister, is
at pre-hypertension levels, so you should watch your sodium, maybe adopt some stress
management strategies. Definitely don’t smoke.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Don’t start.”

“What about drinking?”

“Fine in moderation, although”—he plants his finger on one section of Shane’s file—“with
your previous human history of depression and addiction, you might want to be careful
with any sort of drugs. Just a moment.”

Dr. Sanders fumbles for a bottle of pills on the right side of his desk. He knocks
over the bottle. Shane reaches forward to catch it, but by the time he’s even moved
an inch, the bottle has hit the floor.

“I’ve got it.” Dr. Sanders bends over and picks up the pills.

Shane sits back in his chair and drums his fingers on the arms, as if his slow human
reflexes don’t bother him
at all. As a vampire, he could’ve grabbed the bottle before it was halfway to the
floor.

“Sorry about that.” Dr. Sanders shakes out two pills into his quivering palm, then
downs them with an energy drink. I wonder when this guy last slept more than three
hours in a night.

“Other than those minor issues, Agent McAllister, your health is quite boring. Congratulations.”
He closes Shane’s file and opens mine. “Agent Griffin, soon to be the other Agent
McAllister, is that correct?”

“No, I’m keeping my name when we get married.” Or possibly becoming McGriffin. Why
not?

“Everything checks out with your results. No major issues.” He folds his hands atop
the file and takes off his glasses. “If I were a civilian doctor, I would tell you
to be thrilled.”

He doesn’t look thrilled. I straighten my posture, bracing myself.

“I’ve lost it, haven’t I? My blood is just . . . blood?”

He frowns again. “Believe me, no one is sorrier than we are here in the Research Division.
Your resurrection, or whatever it’s being deemed, gave us great hope for the future
of vampire medicine. But alas, as you say, your blood is now just blood.”

“Can we run more tests? In a week or a month, after I’ve had time to forget what it
was like to be in that place? Maybe once I get more cynicism back, my blood will be
anti-magic again.”

“We will certainly test you again in a few months. Both of you. What you’ve done is—”

“Unprecedented,” I finish, having heard that word twice from Lanham. I should get
it on a T-shirt.

“Extremely unprecedented. Vampires don’t un-vamp. There’s no record of it, at least.
I hope you understand if we want to study you closely, for a long time.”

I tense, ready to run. “How closely?”

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to lock you up. That would ruin the experiments. Oh,
and it would be wrong.” He laughs at his own non-joke with a sleep-deprived giddiness.

We make appointments for follow-up tests next week, then Shane and I leave the office
as fast as we can. On the way down the endless corridors of the Research headquarters
building, I try to console myself.

“I didn’t really want to be in the Immanence Corps anyway. Bunch of weirdos.”

“It sounded interesting to me.”

“I don’t want interesting. I want a desk job in the Anonymity Department, making fake
passports and driver’s licenses for aging vampires. I’m good at inventing stories.
It’s where I belong, using all my old con-artist talents.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Boring, but also a complete lack of getting killed. Since when are you looking for
adventure? What happened to the slacker dude I fell in love with?”

“Hey.” Shane takes my hand and stops me. “Things change. I’ll change. You’ll change.
But what’ll never change is this.” He leans over and gives me a warm, soft kiss, laying
a soothing balm over my rattling nerves. “Okay?”

I nod and say nothing, knowing my voice would belie my doubt. As we continue down
the hall, I remark, “Dr. Sanders said ‘extremely unprecedented.’ ”

“Huh?”

“It’s incorrect usage. Either something is unprecedented or it isn’t. Nothing is adverb
plus ‘unprecedented.’ Same with the words ‘perfect’ or ‘unique.’ There aren’t degrees
of perfection or uniqueness.”

“Not even spectacularly.” Shane smiles down at me. “Did you miss that? He said we
were ‘spectacularly unique.’ ”

I gasp. “I did miss that.”

He squeezes my hand. “That’s a good sign.”

We walk out the door into the sunlight, two extremely, spectacularly, perfectly unique
human beings.

32

Nowhere to Run

Shane and I have no time to enjoy being alive, what with planning our own funeral.

With only a day’s notice, we’ve had to move the memorial service for Jim and us from
Crosetti’s Monuments to the small clearing next to the radio station. It lacks the
fake-graveyard ambience of the headstone maker’s lot, but it also lacks police tape
and dead bodies.

Jeremy has added an extra security camera to the side of the station where the memorial
service will take place, as well as a pair of bright floodlights. Our stockpile of
weapons and Control personnel has increased. Now that Kashmir is responsible for the
deaths of two agents (four including me and Shane), they’re out for his blood. If
he’s smart, he’ll cut his losses and go far away before the Control hunts him down.
Adrian hasn’t heard from him since we died, so maybe he is gone for good.

Under protest, Monroe prerecorded his “Midnight Blues” show and was taken to a Control
safe house for the duration of the night. Noah volunteered to play the prerecorded
segments in the studio tonight, interspersing
timely commercials to give it a live-show flavor. Hopefully this will fool Kashmir
into thinking Monroe is here.

As sunset approaches on Monday, we hurry through last-minute preparations, including
loading a dozen holy-water pistols with fresh ammunition. The potency of the water
decreases once it leaves the vessel it was blessed in, so they have to be armed shortly
before battle. To me it’d make more sense to buy forty thousand pistols, load them
up, and have them all blessed afterward, but I’m not in charge of logistics.

Jeremy, Shane, and I sit in the center of the main office, working as a team to fill
the pistols. I hold the gun, Jeremy holds the funnel, and Shane pours the water. The
process can be done by one person, since it’s often performed in the field, but this
is more efficient.

Meanwhile, my mother sits at my desk putting the final touches on a heart-shaped collage
of photos of Shane and me. Underneath in sparkly red letters the poster reads,
TOGETHER FOREVER
. The display verges on cheesy, but I appreciate the thought and effort, especially
since, if we survive, we can use it again at our wedding.

“That’s enough,” I tell Shane to signal him to stop pouring. Jeremy pulls out the
funnel and I reach for the pistol’s reservoir cap, the paint on which is mostly worn
off, making it look like a pink pimple on the otherwise coal-black weapon. “You know
what I’ve been dying to do for months?”

Jeremy holds the funnel over a bowl so that no stray drops will fall. “What have you
been dying to do, Ms. Poor-Choice-of-Words?”

“This.” I smile as I poke my finger inside the pistol’s reservoir, wiggling it in
the water. “Wheeeee!”

Shane pulls in a gasp, then frowns, clearly unamused.

I think of how much it hurt him when I accidentally splashed him in the eye, and how
he had to give up a year of his life to the Control to get healed. I think of my cousin
Michael, whose holy-water scar on his face made him unfit for employment as anything
but a thief.

I hate this stuff with all my heart. If I could make it stop working, I would.

A sudden shock shoots up my finger. “Ow! What the hell?”

“What happened?” Shane asks.

“Something zapped me. I must’ve scuffed my foot on the rug and worked up static electricity.
Either that or Mom’s glue stick is making me hallucinate.”

The door at the bottom of the stairs bangs open, distracting me. Adrian shouts up,
“Just got a call. Kashmir’s coming!”

My mother whimpers, then covers her mouth.

“That’s good. I mean, bad.” I don’t know what to feel, other than sick to my stomach.

“It’s worse than bad,” Adrian says on his way up the stairs. “My blood brothers and
sisters from England are here. Instead of three of Jim’s progeny to deal with, we’ll
have seven.”

I’m suddenly glad I have to be inside when they arrive, for façade purposes. Shane
and Jeremy and I will be downstairs, watching the security monitors, and Noah will
be on the air, while everyone else will be outside, mourning or defending us.

“Kashmir won’t leave town until he’s killed Monroe for staking Jim in the first place.”
Adrian looks at Shane.
“Regina’s off the hit list now. There’s no point in killing her if you’re not alive
to be hurt by her death.”

“Kashmir’s insane for coming here,” Shane says. “The entire Control is gunning for
him after what he did to Rosso and Henley—not to mention me and Ciara. If he were
smart, he’d disappear for good.”

“You don’t get him. He doesn’t care about anyone’s life, including his own.” Adrian
turns to Franklin’s open office. Franklin doesn’t turn to look at him, but Adrian
goes in anyway. “I just want you to know, before things get ugly, that I—”

“No.” Without looking at Adrian, Franklin holds his glued-together FUCK OFF mug at
arm’s length.

Adrian retreats back into the main office, looking miserable. “I have to get back
downstairs and brief Captain Fox about the other progeny as much as I can.”

“Good.” Shane starts to rise from his chair to join Adrian, then seems to remember
he’s been suspended. “The more Elijah knows, the more he can have his Control people
ready.”

Adrian nods sadly. “As ready as anyone can ever be for Kashmir. I hope he at least
waits until Jim’s ceremony is over before attacking. He should let him rest in peace.”

“I think he already is resting in peace.” I picture Jim lying on the grass on the
Isle of Wight, gazing up at the bright spot on the arm of the Milky Way, knowing that
the path was there for him when he was ready.

I’m hit with a sudden memory that’s lain dormant for days. “Lemuria.”

Adrian’s eyes widen. “What did you say?”