Page 16 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

Cally had not had a good night. Three men had attacked her, each tougher than they had any right to be.

She had learned that vampires were real and that two of them had designs on her.

She had been left standing amid a heap of corpses and had endured a ride in the back of a police cruiser, surrounded by unsmiling officers, her hands cuffed behind her.

And she was facing jail time. There was no avoiding that.

The cops in the parking lot had been grim while they read her Miranda rights, but their mood soured further as they began questioning her. Most of their inquiries had been difficult to answer without mentioning the word ‘vampire,’ and her stilted, evasive replies only deepened their suspicion.

There might have been some sympathy—after all, she was the victim here—but the grotesque state of her attackers, their necks twisted at impossible angles, combined with her inability to explain herself, had erased any hope of that.

Cally had lived for twenty-six years in Boston without ever setting foot in police headquarters, except for the obligatory school trip she could hardly recall.

As they pulled in, she barely glanced out the window, catching a vague impression of a long, four-story glass-and-concrete building.

They drove into a sally port at the rear, overlooking Ramsay Park, where trees loomed in the darkness.

The sort of place Antoine would like .

Cally frowned, unsettled by the peculiar thought. Why did she care what that overgrown mosquito liked?

A flicker of something twisted low in her stomach—an odd tug, like nerves, or hunger, or maybe just the aftermath of adrenaline.

She brushed it off. The whole night had been a disaster. Her body could get in line behind her brain and shut up for once.

It was past midnight, and the place was dead—not unlike how Cally felt inside—numb and lifeless, as though this couldn’t possibly be happening to her .

They opened her door and pulled her out, unnecessarily forcing her head down ‘for safety reasons.’ It was dehumanizing, but Cally was detached from it all.

The cop holding her arm marched her toward the booking area, indifferent to how roughly he manhandled her. Only when they passed through several locked doors did they remove the handcuffs.

Inside, it was stark and sterile. She was patted down, fingerprints and photos taken, and her personal details laboriously entered into a computer.

There was no warmth in any of it, just a procedure to follow.

The cops around her wore blank, bored expressions, their eyes devoid of judgment, interest, or compassion.

Her backpack was dumped on the counter, its contents spilled out for inspection. A fresh humiliation, as her sweaty dobok—jacket, pants, and belt—were handled like evidence in a murder case.

It was almost a relief to be shown to a holding cell, minus her hairclip and bootlaces, and to her surprise, she was the sole occupant.

Apparently, being a murderer had its perks.

White tiles covered the walls. A single window, its opaque glass divided into tiny square panes, offered a glimpse of nothing. A toilet sat in the corner. The bed, a thin mattress on a bench set into the wall, held a folded stack of flimsy blue disposable blankets.

Get used to it, Cally .

She curled up on her side, pulled the blankets over her, and stared at the wall.

Too numb and exhausted even to cry.

*

Cally was woken by the noise of her fellow detainees in the surrounding cells and blearily looked up at the window. Dawn had arrived. She didn’t have a watch, and they’d taken her phone, so she could only guess at the time.

Morning, obviously.

Another hour passed before her cell door opened, and a tray was handed to her by an indifferent female officer.

Cheap bread, a boiled egg, a small bowl of cereal with a portion of milk, and coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

She set the tray down, took the coffee and left the rest, leaning against the wall while she reflected.

Cally hadn’t enacted her right to a phone call the previous night, but in the cold light of day, the situation hadn’t changed.

Who would she call? Her dad? He’d freak out, and the last thing she wanted was to drag him into this nightmare.

Eve? Nothing she could do other than worry, and Cally didn’t want to burden her further.

There was no need to call work; between projects, they wouldn’t notice her absence.

The booking officer had told her she didn’t qualify for a public defender, and she didn’t have a lawyer yet.

She knew she should get one, but sooner or later her dad would find out and insist on paying for it.

She couldn’t let him do that. Her dad wasn’t wealthy, but he had enough to get by.

He’d worked hard for everything he had, and the idea of him draining his savings because of the mess she was in made her stomach twist. The costs would be staggering.

Questioning, pre-trial, court, appeals. Tens of thousands?

More? He’d argue, insist he could handle it, but Cally couldn’t put it on him. Not after all he’d sacrificed.

She didn’t want to burden him with worry. She couldn’t do that to him.

Her eyes prickled with the tears that had refused to come the night before.

How the hell was she to persuade anyone she hadn’t killed those men?

Get a grip, Cally. Think it through .

She was certain of one thing: she couldn’t use the word ‘vampire’ in her defense. They’d never believe her. Hell, she could barely believe it herself.

Just the facts, then. Stick to what happened .

A man bit the neck of another man, and drank his blood.

Oh yeah, she could imagine how that conversation would go.

All right, stick to most of the facts.

What were the facts? What had happened? Who were those men?

Minh had called them ‘thralls.’

She tried to remember his face, the sharpness of his features, but all she could see were those red eyes.

The way they’d burned into her, sizing her up, like she was the next meal.

Did they really glow? Had she imagined them?

Or was that something her brain had tacked on after the fact, like the fangs?

How could she persuade anyone when she couldn’t persuade herself ?

And if Minh existed—of no known address or last name—if he was a vampire, would he really let the police rock up and ask him what he was doing in a parking lot in Allston between the hours of nine and ten the night before?

Still, she didn’t have a better defense, and the bastard was guilty.

Cally closed her eyes, recalling everything she could about him, painting a picture in her mind—his straight, shoulder-length black hair, expensive suit, sharp features. His red eyes .

The blood trickling down his neck, into his crisp white collar.

The way he looked at her, like she was nothing more than food.

How she had been unable to move, even though she’d tried.

Fuck, maybe jail was the safest place to be.

*

Her cell was so uncomfortable and bleak that it was almost a relief when they finally came for her.

She still had no idea what time it was, the passage of hours marked only by the serving of another meal, as unappealing and tasteless as the last.

Now, sitting in the interview room, things weren’t much better. No window—not counting the one-way glass. Was anyone watching?

Two unsmiling cops sat across from her, the table between them small and drab. The chairs had been uncomfortable from the start, and after hours of interrogation, they dug into her no matter how she shifted.

The stale smell of sweat and coffee probably still lingered, but she no longer registered it.

“Explain the kick you used on the first man,” the cop asked, for what was probably the tenth time.

They’d told her their names at the start, but she hadn’t cared and long since forgotten.

The larger of the two was dark-skinned, his shirt wrinkled except where it stretched taut across his big stomach.

The other was balding with a beard, as if his hair had slipped.

Still, she liked him best—he had kind eyes.

He was her ‘good cop’ to the other’s ‘bad,’ but the difference in their attitudes was small: they were both assholes.

“It was a flying side-kick,” Cally replied, wearily. She still felt detached—maybe even more so than the night before—and it was an effort to focus and answer their questions. But she needed to stay sharp, consistent, and avoid mentioning the V-word.

“And this was the kick that broke the man’s neck.”

“No.” The word came out too sharp, but she couldn’t help it. “I’ve told you.” A dozen times. “The impact is a straight-on blow, and I struck his chest. His neck was broken with a twist, as no doubt your coroner can confirm. So it could not have been from my kick.”

“So you broke his neck afterwards?”

“No,” she said with vehemence through clenched teeth. They’d asked her that a dozen times too, but perversely, it had become her favorite question: it was the one she could answer without any guilt .

Good Cop checked his notes. “Your second kick on that victim was to the head.”

“Yes,” she replied woodenly. The word ‘victim’ still grated on her. They’d called her attackers that from the start, and the irony wasn’t lost on her.

“So your kick twisted the man’s head around, snapping his neck.”

“Look, I’m not an expert like your people will be. Don’t you have forensic scientists? CSI-types? Ask them if such a kick could break a man’s neck with a twisting effect.”

The two cops shared a look, and Bad Cop leaned forward.

“So you claim your rescuer turned up and snapped the necks of all three attackers—”

“He wasn’t my rescuer.”

“—and you say you don’t know him?”

“I said I don’t know him because I don’t know him.”

“Minh, right?”

“Yes, Minh.”

“Asian? Five-ten? Hundred and fifty pounds?”

“Yes, as best as I can remember.”

“But you don’t know him?”

“No.” Still don’t know him. Didn’t know him when I first told you, didn’t know him an hour ago, don’t know him now.

Good Cop scratched at his beard, trying to make his question seem nonchalant. “Why do you think he interfered, then?”

She’d asked herself the same thing. What reason had he had for killing the ‘thralls’?

He’d said something about leaving bodies.

Why was he there? Was it merely coincidence, or had he been there because of the other vampire?

Was he there for her, or had he been drawn in because of the obvious interest the other vamp had shown her? But there were no answers.

“I’ve told you I don’t know.” True, if not totally honest.

“Yes, so you’ve said.” Bad Cop tapped his pen on the table. “The issue, Cally, is that we’re having a hard time believing you.”

“Not my problem.” She wanted this to end. Maybe she should ask for that lawyer after all. At least it would buy some time. To do what? Return to her cell while they found one? Then go through it all again at five hundred dollars an hour?

Bad Cop was quick to lean forward, his chair creaking. “Yeah, it is, Ms. Davis. If you can’t convince us, how will you convince a jury?”

Cally remained silent; there was no comeback to that. Whether they believed her or not wouldn’t change the outcome; she knew she had prison time in her future. Why was life so unfair?

“Let’s come back to the, er”—Good Cop made a show of consulting his notebook—“Outcast.”

For some reason, she hadn’t shared Antoine’s name with them. Minh’s was fine—he was the one who had killed the men—but she didn’t want them having Antoine’s. He’d done nothing but save her.

Nothing except ‘mark’ me and ‘claim’ me. Like a puppy with a streetlight.

The words made her stomach twist, a faint pulse deep inside her chest. She shifted in her chair, brushing it off. Probably just low blood sugar. Or stress. Or both.

The cop looked up from his notebook. “You believe these two men knew each other?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The way they talked.”

“What did they say?”

Chattel. Code. Vampires. Thralls.

“I’ve claimed this one, Minh.”

“You mark your food, Antoine?”

“Exchanged insults, mostly.”

“And this new man attacked the other?” Good Cop prompted, frowning and reading his notes, as if trying to understand. He wasn’t a very good actor.

“No,” she said wearily. “Minh attacked him first.” As I’ve told you four times.

“Go on.”

Cally suppressed an eye-roll. “Minh attacked him, and” —shit, I almost said ‘Antoine’— “the outcast defended himself.”

“How?”

“He moved around Minh and put him in a headlock.” Then sank his fangs into his neck and drank his blood.

“And then?”

“Then nothing. They swapped some more insults, and they both left.”

“Ma chérie, I regret I must take my leave of you.”

The memory surfaced before she could block it, bringing with it that same low pull beneath her ribs—stronger now, impossible to ignore. Was she fixating on Antoine ?

The door to the interview room opened, and another officer came in, bending to whisper to Good Cop.

“That’s not an answer,” Bad Cop pressed.

“Five-minute break,” Good Cop announced, rising from his chair and following the newcomer out.

The door closed behind them and Cally slumped, exhausted.

Bad Cop tapped his pen repeatedly against the table’s edge, the staccato rhythm grating on her nerves.

“I don’t get why you couldn’t stop when you had them beaten,” he said after a long pause.

“You could have walked away. You could have at least pleaded self-defense. You’d probably have walked free.

You’ve thrown your life away, and for what? Revenge?”

Cally said nothing, her eyes on the table. She would’ve preferred five minutes of silence, but even that wasn’t to be.

“I have a daughter not much younger than you. I’d hate to think—”

The door opened again. “Kevin? Come out here, will you?”

Oh yeah, that was his name.

He frowned, rising in irritation, and walked out the door.

It shut behind him, leaving her alone with the empty Styrofoam cups.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, using the small window of opportunity to recuperate as best she could.

From the other side of the door came muffled voices, raised in a heated conversation.

“No fucking way!” Easy enough to catch, even through the door, though whether it boded good or ill was impossible to say. She had the strong feeling it was about her.

The door opened again, but it wasn’t either of the cops. A different officer.

“Come with me, please,” she said. No less dour than the two that had left.

“All right.” Cally rose unsteadily, her legs stiff. “Where are we going?”

“Back to your holding cell.”

“Oh. Are we done for today?”

“Not my case,” the woman replied brusquely.

Cally followed along quietly, looking forward to being back in her cell. It had been a strangely abrupt end to proceedings, but obviously something more important had come up.

Maybe the exclamation she’d heard had nothing to do with her after all.