Mercy's Danger: Montgomery's Vampires Trilogy (Book #2) (Montgomery's Vampires Series) (16 page)

“New Zealand?” Robert guessed.

“No, think higher.”

“Singapore?”

“Too high. I’m thinking Indonesia—Bali specifically. The island is small but large, if you get me.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Leopold,” I said.

“Indonesia is the small cluster of islands right above Australia, to the left of Papua New—”

“I know that,” I said, but not defensively. Leopold wasn’t being condescending, only helpful (for once). A lot of people may not know precisely where Indonesia is located on the globe. But I did.

Though I’d never left the United States—or been anywhere other than Florida and California for that matter—I was a geography whiz. Back in teeny-tiny Pelville, studying the globe was one of the many ways I’d coped with cramped trailer life as an adolescent. I’d pour over maps and travel guides for hours, dreaming of all the great places I’d like to visit. I imagined how the air would smell and the food would taste, ponder if the locals would receive me well. The Eiffel Tower in France, the pyramids of Egypt, Ayers Rock in Australia, the peaks of the Himalayas: I wanted to see it all and more. At least I’d managed to get one of my stops down, London. I’d try to remind myself of that if the VGO
did
happen to murder me.

“I’m confused by your ‘small but large’ comment,” I said. “What do you mean?”

“Ah. Right. What I meant by that is this: Bali, while small, is spread out into many different pockets, which will make it easier for you to hide. There are many areas of the island that have not yet fallen prey to development, so you can hopefully stay under the radar. In Bali, you won’t have to worry about things like traffic cameras or CTV. I think Bali would be ideal for you in many ways, and the VGO would never guess that you’d go there. It’s a very random location—from London to Bali, there’s no rhyme or reason to it. And if the VGO are one thing, it’s logical to a fault. They’ll begin their search for you around Europe, since that would be the most rational place for you to hide. They’d assume that you’d be that obtuse—to hide so close to London—being that you are human. The VGO are cunning but they’re arrogant, too. They’d never dream of a mortal outwitting them.”

Now I
did
feel obtuse. Hiding out in Europe was exactly what I’d been
thinking. Hey, I was new to the whole being on the lam thing. Also, I was still thinking in terms of
my
finances. Hiding locales could a lot more ambitious with the aid of Robert’s money. If we had to disappear on my budget alone, we’d be holed-up in a tent down by the river, cooking a can of beans over a burn barrel.

I could write a book, I realized, from all the outlandish things I’d learned while hanging out with the rich.
The Benefits of Being Obscenely Wealthy,
I’d call it. Benefit #7,845,739 would be: Can afford to hide out from murderous underground vampire organizations anywhere on the globe.

15

A few layovers and time changes later, Robert and I dropped down in Bali. To Robert’s embarrassment (and my own), I was one of the few dorky passengers who clapped like a lunatic upon touchdown. It was what I always saw people do in the movies, so I’d assumed it would have been rude to not do it.

Oops.

Robert and I were travelling under aliases, as newlyweds. The forged passports hadn’t come cheap, particularly because of how quickly we had needed them. With enough dough, though, anyone could disappear in a hurry. Leopold hadn’t told us how much the passports had set him back (damn right he paid for them), but I imagined that I’d feel nauseous if I knew. Back when I worked for Dignitary, I’d once overheard a vampire declare, “Any problem that can be solved with money, darling, is no problem at all.” How right that vamp was.

Our documents were the real deal. Seemed anyone could be bribed if the payoff was sweet, including those who issued official governmental papers. According to the passports, Robert and I were Mr. Julian Crispin and Mrs. Michelle Crispin. I tried not to focus too much on the fact that we’d be incarcerated if we were caught with the forgeries.

I was frightened beyond comprehension at the airport in Denpasar. The customs area was small and humid, and there were stern-faced guards all about the place with gigantic guns flung over their shoulders—the kind of guns normally reserved for shoot ‘em up action films like
Rambo
. I felt like we were walking around with gigantic neon signs above our head: IN POSSESSION OF COUNTERFEIT TRAVEL DOCUMENTS. I kept shooting alarmed looks at Robert but he didn’t seem phased.

I had the fright of my life at the passport check desk. While we were paying the fee for our temporary stay visas, one of the men behind the counter began examining my passport, squinting at my photo and making a fuss. I was suddenly envisioning being locked away in an Indonesian women’s correctional facility: dirty and barefooted, wearing a sack of uniform, waking up each morning with a spider crawling out of my ear. (Okay, so I’d seen way too many movies.) Adding to the stress was the music they had blaring through the airport. The tune was very pretty, and I would have enjoyed it in another situation, but at that precise moment each
ting-ting-ting
of the steel-sounding instruments jabbed at my nerves.

Robert smiled his finest good guy smile at the passport agent. “Is there a problem?”

I gripped the edge of the counter, feeling as though my legs would give any second. I was glad Robert was doing the speaking for me. Anything I would have said would have come out jumbled, and then I would have validated whatever suspicions they had.

I nearly wet my pants with relief when the man beamed, “Your wife is very beautiful! I love her movies!”

Wait—what?

So . . . Apparently they were under the impression that I was some actress who’d achieved most of her fame starring in European television dramas. I’d never heard of this woman, Mallory Speck, but the agent swore that I looked just like her. He’d assumed that I (Mallory) wasn’t traveling under my (her) stage name. He thought my ‘real’ name must be Michelle Martin-Crispin. (Sorry, agent, wrong on both counts.) After much explanation and convincing that I wasn’t who he believed I was (ironic, seeing how important it was that he bought my alias), the man let me go with a sly wink.
Don’t you worry,
the wink said.
Your secret is safe with me, you famous actress, you.

Finally, our bags were cleared and Mr. Crispin and I were free to enjoy our honeymoon. The humidity hit me like a wave as we stepped out of the airport—it was funny to think that I’d been shivering in my boots in London only a short time ago. Robert hailed a taxi and we zipped along to our beautiful island hotel, my heart hammering in my chest the entire way.

Robert and I didn’t talk much about our predicament during the following week. Back in London, we’d decided that we would have an easier time remaining positive if we didn’t dwell. Besides, it wasn’t as if I needed a daily reminder that one of the world’s most powerful underground organizations wanted me dead. As if it could slip my mind. Whether we were learning to surf, shopping the local markets, or pretending to relax on the beach, worries about the VGO gnawed at my subconscious. They were like fat-bellied ticks, steadfast in their tyranny over my brain as they sucked away all feelings of comfort.

One day, Robert and I broke down and did something very naughty and American. There we were, on an island with boundless oceanic vittles at our fingertips: lobster, prawns, fish—even sea urchin if we wanted. And don’t get me started on the amazing Indonesian rice and noodle dishes (
nazi goren
, noodles with fried egg on top, was my favorite)! There was also a bounty of tropical fruit to choose from, some of which I’d never heard of and had to ask how to consume:
Do I eat the skin? How do I, uh, break it open? What are these spikes?
All of it delicious.

But where were we?

(Don’t judge.)

Pizza Hut.

Here’s where I should mention that Robert and I had been eating the local cuisine exclusively since we’d arrived. Some days we’d have fish for breakfast and fruit for dinner, and noodles as a midnight snack. It was all very, very delightful. But sometimes you want a small reminder of home, you know? We chose pizza more out of homesickness than hunger. We desired a bite of cheesy Westerness, a small slice of gluttony. We needed it, since we were still no closer to finding out how long we’d have to stay in hiding. The upside was that I didn’t feel guilty about all the fat I was inhaling. When each day might be your last, calories didn’t matter much. So why not bring on the cheese, sauce, and dough?

“It feels heavy, doesn’t it, after eating healthy food all week?” I said to Robert as I pulled cheese from the corner of my mouth.

At least our view was transcontinental: smooth light sand, palm trees, and a soft blue ocean that was vastly different from the craggy shoreline that hugged our home in San Francisco. It was the fanciest Pizza Hut I’d ever been in, location wise. Like most eateries in the touristy areas of Bali, it was right on the water.

Robert patted his perfectly chiseled stomach. How he’d managed to maintain his vampire physique was beyond me, with his penchant for grease and cheese and carbs and milkshakes and donuts. “It certainly does. Like a brick.”

“What do you want to do after we’re done here?”

Robert shrugged. “Massage? I heard that place up the way uses rose petals in their oils. Or we could go and see that temple with the monkeys . . . walk on the beach after.”

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” I smirked.

He looked at me innocently. “What is?”

“Doing nothing.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t worry, it’s killing me as well. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d get sick of being massaged! Or hanging out at the beach. Or wearing a bikini almost twenty-four-seven. Or us making love eighty million times a day like rabbits.” I chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, this is
the life
for sure, and I’m not trying to sound bratty and spoiled. I’m sure a million—billion—people would kill to be here. It’s just . . . I kind of feel like my brain is going mushy from all this lounging about.”

“Shew! I thought I was going mad!” Robert confessed. “I cannot tell you how long it has been since I’ve had nothing to do.”

Robert had left his go-to guy (the spy) at work in charge during his absence for very obvious reasons: If the VGO located Robert, then they’d locate me, too. Robert couldn’t even call to check in on his company, which I knew bugged him to no end. After our third day on the island, Robert revealed to me that this was the longest he’d been away from work. Since 1830.

“See! Now you understand how I feel—why I was so desperate to find a job back in San Francisco.” I fluttered my hands spastically. “I feel nervy, living this existence of leisure, like I should be reading something or driving someplace! I think it’d be better if we had contact with the outside world, but of course we can’t do that.”

“Agreed.” Robert sat back. “I simply cannot fathom how there are individuals out there who are content doing
absolutely nothing.
How do they do it? Just . . . nothing.”

“It sounds like paradise, but I don’t know. Also, since being here, I’ve realized how much time I dedicated to fluff back home.”

“Fluff?”

“Activities that take up short increments of time: sending texts and emails, gossiping with Liz, flipping through Facebook, surfing the net, running fun little errands—buying lattes and browsing magazines,” I said. “Total fluff. But if you add up all that fluff, it takes up a good portion of the day. Now I have hours to fill, without all that fluff. Makes me think of all the time I’ve wasted, time I could have spent learning to speak Italian or play the piano . . .” I placed a hand on top of Robert’s. “What’s wrong? Am I yammering on and on again?”

He pointed a shaky finger at the fuzzy TV screen, bolted high on the wall above the cash register. “Look.”

The news was broadcast in Indonesian, obviously, though most islanders in the touristy areas had a fair grasp of English. I waved frantically at the teenager behind the counter. “Could you please put on the English subtitles?” I asked. Without peeling his eyes away from the screen, he groped for the TV remote tucked in his apron and did as I requested.

Some employees from the kitchen had saddled up next to the teenager to watch the news bulletin. The customers, mostly European and Australian (also craving a bit of Western junk food, perhaps), had fallen silent. Every single pair of eyes in the place was focused on the TV. A pair of German tourists clad in nearly identical wireframe glasses looked at each other and whispered, “
Scheisse!
” I couldn’t speak a lick of German, but I could deduce what
that
meant: Shit! They were right in their exclamation. Shit indeed.

The translated words scrolled across the screen at a pace a few seconds delayed from the action. Not that I had to read anything to understand what was going on. I knew. The VGO.

THIS JUST IN: INCIDENTS OF SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION HAVE BEEN REPORTED ACROSS THE GLOBE DURING THE LAST 24 HOURS. JAPAN, UNITED STATES, FRANCE, UNITED KINGDOM, AND ITALY HAVE BEEN MOST AFFECTED. MEN AND WOMEN OF ALL AGES HAVE BEEN IGNITING WITH NO APPARENT CAUSE . . . REPEAT: CITIZENS WORLDWIDE HAVE BEEN SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUTSING DURING THE LAST 24 HOURS . . . THERE HAVE BEEN AT LEAST TWO DOZEN REPORTED CASES.

At the corner of the screen was a secondary image, a small window behind the petite brunette anchorwoman. She stared into the camera.

WE HAVE RECEIVED EXCLUSIVE FOOTAGE OF AN INCIDENT, SHOT ON A CELL PHONE BY AN EYEWITNESSES. THE VIDEO WAS FILMED ON LOCATION IN . . .

The newscaster held a finger up to her ear, listened, and then nodded.

IT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED. THE FOOTAGE WAS TAKEN EARLIER THIS AFTERNOON IN PARIS. PLEASE BE ADVISED: THE IMAGES YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE ARE GRAPHIC IN NATURE AND MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR ALL AUDIENCES.

The window behind the newscaster increased in size until it became the main focus on the screen. The footage was bumpy but clear. A floppy-haired twenty-something waved at whoever was holding the camera phone and then extended his arms out at his sides so the scenery could be observed. “We finally made it to the Louvre,” he grinned. He was an American—Midwestern judging by the accent. “Looks like we came on a busy day.” The camera panned out to show a sea of tourists, packed into the courtyard like sardines. “Say hello, Aubrey,” he said. The image flipped and then a pretty blond girl waved and blew a kiss into the camera. She turned the phone back around, focusing on the glass pyramid in the background and then on her companion. “According to the guidebook, there’s a lot of famous artwork here.” The boy smiled mischievously. “But I think Aubrey just wants to look at statues of naked men . . . What the—”

The screams came first. The camera jolted and then fixed on a man in the crowd: arms flapping out at his sides, flames engulfing his body head-to-toe, those nearest to him shrieking and running away. Finally, a bystander got it to together and tried to put him out. A woman ripped off her trench coat, threw it over the man, and started patting. A few others joined, but it was too late. They began screaming when the trench fell flat to the ground in a small heap. The man they’d been patting had turned to dust.

I’d seen something similar happen before. A vampire named James ignited under UV lamps while he was strangling me. He’d turned to dust exactly like this guy had, and it was as equally horrifying then.

GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS HAVE YET TO MAKE A STATEMENT, BUT SOME THEORIES OF THE INCIDENT INCLUDE: INFLUENZA, BIOTERRORISM, HOLES IN THE OZONE . . .

I gasped for air, the world going topsy-turvy all around me. My lungs tightened, my ears buzzed, my joints stiffened—

Could I be having a stroke?

“Mercy, what’s wrong?”

“Can’t . . . breathe . . .”

I pushed back from the table, hyperventilating.

Sometimes words didn’t cut it. I’d been working so hard to keep my stress pent up and put on a brave face, but the dam had finally burst.