IN THE BLOOD

1

YOU’RE GETTING BLOOD ON MOTHER’S CARPET

Hammett Kennedy lit a cigar and waved the match out before continuing in an even, calm voice. How did you stumble upon this place?

The rumors, sir, the vampire whispered, his eyes darting between Kennedy’s face and the floor.

If it is truly as wonderful as you say, then why did you come back?

The vampire on his knees stayed quiet until Kennedy cleared his throat. I have a family on this side. My wife and child were turned just ten years ago. I came back for them.

Kennedy had a family once. The vampire’s story would have tugged on Kennedy’s heart, had it been beating. He slowly exhaled a puff of smoke.

I sent someone through not too long ago, Kennedy said, but he didn’t come back, much to my…frustration. You see, I, too, heard these rumors. In fact, a few have talked about a world identical to this one. Accessible by only one little island on the sea. He said it simply, as if reciting a fairytale to a child.

It is, sir. It’s the same place—but—no one like us. The vampire’s voice started to rise in excitement. It was the same day, same second as it was when I crossed over. But like stepping through a painting with color added to it where this one is gray. His eyes lit up as he remembered it.

And really no vampires? Kennedy masked his own growing enthusiasm with a long pull from his cigar.

Everyone was human. Just walking the streets, driving cars, children playing. I tasted one. It was like sweet bread and wine, healthy and rich. And there were trees. Beautiful forests. No one carving stakes or making bullets with them. That’s how I knew it was the same day. People aren’t afraid to talk to each other. It was the child who told me the date. Incredible.

Kennedy’s mouth watered at the thought of tasting a human who enjoyed a diet of more than rodent and moonshine, or whatever it was people survived on in his world. But the fresh food wasn’t what captured his attention the most. What captured his attention was the no vampires part. There would be no one competing for the title of Master there. No one to control him and his nest. He could thrive as a leader. As a god. Build an army.

Your man probably didn’t come back because there are humans right there when you go through to the other side, the vampire said. I got lucky and fought them well. He beamed with pride. Then I swam the ocean and got to town without trouble.

It is very noble of you to come back for your family. There is just one problem. How do I ensure you won’t tell anyone else about this place? I need to control the competition, you see.

The vampire swallowed and cracked his knuckles before continuing. I heard that you were killing folks that were spreading rumors, sir. But that isn’t me, nor my kin. We will go. Today. And never return.

"But then you would be competition," Kennedy said as he leaned toward the man at his feet, cigar smoke billowing out of his mouth as he spoke, the leather of the armchair creaking under him.

Before the other vampire could protest, Kennedy had him by the throat and swiftly tore it out from under the vampire’s head. His body collapsed. Kennedy dropped the chunk of Adam’s apple and esophagus before licking his bloody hand. He wrinkled his nose at the rancid flavor.

Ron? he called to his guard outside the door.

When the vampire entered, he didn’t even flinch at the corpse on the carpet.

Confirm with the nest that we will be staying here permanently. It seems this is the place we’ve been looking for.

Ron nodded swiftly and left what was probably at one time a beautiful study, but abandonment had left the room dusty and dingy, furniture and books heavy with age and misuse. Kennedy would make it his home anyway. At least until he went to the island out in the sea.

Oh, and Ron?

The guard turned back.

Try to get the blood out of this rug. It reminds me of my mother’s.

2

JUST ANOTHER NORMAL DAY

Someone was following her. She wasn’t paranoid. Fallon had seen the same man—black hoodie, close-cropped hair, a tattoo sneaking up the left side of his neck, deep blue eyes—several times before. It should have been a warning that she constantly thought of him as if she were giving the police a description. He had watched her a few days before through the storefront of her mother’s shop.

Her very own stalker.

And there he was again, on the street corner beneath Fallon’s apartment as if she owed him something. The sensation he gave her was odd. In spite of the uneasiness, he was familiar. It was the way he looked at her. He knew her. Fallon guessed most people would be freaked out, but there was something…reassuring about the man. Or maybe it was because she was used to having admirers, seeing as how she’d been the darling of the New York City Ballet. She doubted, however, the man had ever been to the ballet as a thing to do on a Friday night.

He is down there right now! I’m telling you, Mom, I’ve seen him outside the store, on the train. He isn’t hiding himself very well. She snorted.

Anne Marie didn’t respond. She scrubbed the hell out of a pot in the sink instead. Fallon learned very early that Anne Marie only scrubbed dishes when she was extremely stressed out.

Mom? Are you okay? Fallon asked.

Some people would probably judge her for still living with her mother, but Fallon and Anne Marie had a very nice apartment on the Upper West Side, and in New York City that really didn’t come cheap. They were great roommates. The fact that she didn’t need Fallon to actually contribute financially was beside the point. Fallon never asked how her mother’s businesses had the kind of profit that allowed them to live so comfortably.

Anne Marie didn’t answer as the steam from the dish-filled sink tightened the curls around her face.

Fallon left the window the stalker blatantly watched, seemingly not at all concerned that she would call the police on him. Anne Marie? Fallon asked.

I hate when you call me that, Fallon. No matter how old you get, you are not supposed to call me that. Her voice was high-pitched and as tight as the curls around her neck.

Anne Marie was only seventeen when she had Fallon, so they were more like friends than mother and daughter. But even though Fallon knew her better than anyone, there was sometimes an anxiety that came over Anne Marie that Fallon could not understand.

Sorry…I’m not trying to freak you out.

Anne Marie stopped mid-scrub. My daughter says someone is following her and that isn’t supposed to make me nervous? Her London accent was as clear as a bell.

Something was really, really wrong. Anne Marie only turned into a shrilly Mary Poppins when shit was about to hit the fan.

Can you just come and look at the guy? Fallon softened her voice. "Maybe you know him? Or maybe we should we call the cops? That’s all I meant. He’s outside right now." Fallon gestured to the window with her wine glass. She poured it an hour ago, but didn’t drink it.

Fallon had never been able to drink because of her dance career. All she’d ever heard was how booze made you fat and took you off the top of your game. Fallon liked the idea that she could finally eat a cupcake or drink a glass of wine without feeling guilty, but she’d been thinking about her career for twenty of her twenty-five years. Those habits weren’t going to break overnight.

The room grew quiet as Anne Marie turned off the water. But she stayed standing there with her head hung over the sink.

A wrap on the door broke the silence, and both of them jumped.

Mother f—! Fallon cursed as wine splashed her hand and jeans. She whispered dramatically, What if that’s him? How the hell did he get past the doorman?

Don’t answer it! Anne Marie was using a tone Fallon had not heard before.

Fallon froze in her tracks on the way back to the window to see if the stalker was still there. The fear in Anne Marie’s eyes went well beyond what a ballet super-fan should have inspired. Fallon had never seen her like this. They stood still for a moment and a second knock came. Whoever it was had surely heard Anne Marie’s order.

Mrs. Fairfax? Ms. Fairfax? It’s just me, Miles. You have a package.

The both of them exhaled, Fallon with a little relaxed laugh. The doorman bringing up a package was all too normal. Fallon opened the door after confirming through the peephole that it was Miles, the night doorman, toting a large sealed envelope in his hands.

You ladies all right, Ms. Fairfax? Miles was a large man, wrought with wrinkles, and yet he had the face of a child.

Yes, of course, Miles. Thanks for bringing it up. The return address was printed on a fine label that read Harris, Harrison, Hudson and Finklebaum Law Offices. But no post mark. It hadn’t come through the mail. Fallon’s palms were sweaty again. Miles, did someone drop this off?

Thank you, Law and Order. My detective skills are perfectly honed.

Yes, ma’am. Dropped it off a minute ago.

A tall guy, dark hoodie, tattoos? Fallon’s stomach knotted up. Her stalker brought her mail from a law office? She knew New York had every manner of messenger and delivery service, but since when do they track your every move before serving you papers? Was the ballet suing her? If anything she should sue them.

No, ma’am. It was a young woman in a red suit. Pretty little blonde thing chatting away on her cell phone. A look of longing flickered in his eyes, but he cleared his throat and focused his attention back on Fallon.

She thanked him and shut the door, then headed for the kitchen counter. Anne Marie was not at her sink.

Mom? It’s from some law firm, Fallon hollered much louder than she needed to in their small two-bedroom apartment. Addressed to me. She tore into the envelope.

Anne Marie didn’t answer.

Fallon put the mystery package, half open, on the counter, Anne Marie’s strange behavior capturing Fallon’s attention more than a stalker or her new legal troubles.

Mom, what’s going on with you? Fallon heard her tone and it came out more annoyed teenager than concerned daughter, which, she reassured herself, was her intention. But Anne Marie had not dismissed Fallon’s over-dramatic reaction to the man outside the window. That was the nature of their relationship—Fallon would freak out about something and Anne Marie would tell her to stop overreacting and everything would be right again. But that didn’t happen.

Fallon knocked softly on Anne Marie’s bedroom door. No answer. Fallon could discern no movement beyond it. Bubbles of panic flared up like sudden indigestion. Acid stung the back of her throat. She knocked harder. Mom, I’m coming in. She opened the door swiftly.

Nothing.

The window was wide open, expensive air conditioning flowing out into the balmy night air.

Mom? Fallon yelled it loudly, even though she could see Anne Marie’s entire space, and unless she was hiding in a ball under her bed, she was just…gone. Fallon went to the window and peered out as far as the ledge would allow. The two of them often sat out there and watched the city go by. It’s not as if the fire escape wasn’t easy access, but she had a sneaking suspicion, so Fallon searched for her new friend. He was gone as well.

And then Fallon saw the piece of paper on Anne Marie’s pillow. Her hand writing was not the nice, neat cursive scrawl she usually wrote in. It was rushed and scribbled. Fallon snatched it up.

I will deal with this, do not worry, and do not ask questions.

Anne Marie never lied to Fallon, and Fallon could always trust her. The paper shook. Fallon flipped it over to see what was making it vibrate so intensely. It wasn’t the paper. It was her hand. She dropped the note and backed away as if the paper burst into flame. The acidic heart burn in Fallon’s gut turned to ice-cold stone. She went back to the open window.

Mom? she whispered to the world, a lump in her throat making it impossible to speak louder. Fallon suddenly wished the man would reappear on the corner. There had been a sense of familiarity there that Fallon could not deny. And maybe he was perfectly harmless, albeit creepy, and had seen what happened to Anne Marie.

Don’t ask questions, my ass.

3

SOMETHING YOU CAN’T HAVE

As soon as the woman locked eyes with him, he should have moved, but he was stuck to where he stood. Gideon knew it was class-a stalker behavior to stand outside her house and watch her watch him. Hell, he was creeping himself out. But he couldn’t budge. She was so beautiful it was hard to tear his gaze away. And that infuriated him. He had never been so captivated by a woman. Women distracted from the mission, made life complicated.

For a year Gideon heard of Fallon Fairfax. He even saw her dance once. His mentor and friend spoke of her, insisted he protect her if anything happened to him. But how was she supposed to believe him? How would he possibly make her understand?

The girl was saying something to someone inside the apartment, and in the moment that she looked away, he stepped back into the alley. He had to shake his head to get her out of it. But that never worked.

The August heat made him flush, but he kept his hoodie on to hide his tattoos. He didn’t want to give observers any additional distinguishing marks to report to the police, and a hoodie was easy to tear off to change one’s appearance in a pinch. He leaned casually against the brick wall of the brownstone shielding him from view, but immediately scolded himself for being so resigned to just watch her window as if he was a puppy she’d left outside. And yet he stayed put.

Gideon was about to make his escape after a long time of watching the empty window for just one more glimpse of Fallon. He turned to go, but a small movement in the apartment caught his eye, and his heart jumped a little. But then it wasn’t her at all. It was the mother. Anne Marie was her name, and he’d been told about her, too. He had to respect a woman who would fight for her daughter like she had. And there she was, rushing down the stairs of the fire escape with a speed that did not quite match her age. She stepped into the road, stone-faced, hailed the first taxi and was gone.

Bollocks, Gideon whispered as he stopped himself from darting out of the alley to stop her. That wasn’t part of the plan. She wasn’t supposed to flee. Where did she think she was going? What had she told her daughter?

Gideon turned and headed down the alley. He scaled the chain-link fence to get to the next cross street and was gone in a second. And with him went the memory of Fallon leaning out a window, twilight sun on her face.

4

NOT QUITE LIKE IT IS ON TV

Calls to Anne Marie’s shops yielded no results. Fallon turned the TV on but put it on mute after a few minutes of flipping through shopping and sports networks. Nothing was ever on. But having the pictures play silently in the room gave her some company, at least. Make the other call, was all she could think after a few hours had passed. Her pacing would wear a hole in the rug at any minute.

No, it was just, like, three hours ago…. Is that seventy-two hours thing real? If she was taken by someone, then seventy-two hours is—

"Is she not of sound mind or is she a danger to herself?" he recited as if reading the manual.

Fallon thought for a second. The woman did like to knit tea cozies. Did that count as not of sound mind? So many tea cozies.

Well, no, but—

"Then I’m afraid you have to wait. Not because we have a waiting period, but because adults usually will turn up on their own. It sounds like she just went out for a bit."

Jackass.

You don’t know my mother. She would not just run away out a fire escape and there was this guy…no, don’t put me on hold! Fallon punched end on the cell and smashed it into the counter. In three days she had lost her job, gained a stalker, lost her mother, and gotten into legal something-or-other. Anne Marie usually was there for her through everything. And her heart was racing and her stomach was in knots, and she was feeling so helpless she wanted to cry.

The memory of the day she got fired came to her.

She had gone straight to Anne Marie’s primary shop, Cupcakes Anonymous. Anne Marie, always covered in a light coating of flour, had sat with her, fed her the first cupcake she’d had in twenty years and tried to distract her with talk of things like college and how Fallon had always liked archeology.

You could be the next Indiana Jones, her mother had suggested enthusiastically.

Fallon smiled at the memory of the look her mom had given her.

But then she remembered something else. That day was the first time she’d seen the man with neck tattoos and a shaved head wearing a black hooded sweatshirt even though it was the middle of summer.

A chill up her spine broke her concentration.

Fallon grabbed up the law firm’s envelope and tore into it, heart still racing. One very formal letter on thick stationary, the law firm’s bizarre name scrawled across the top, slid out without a wrinkle.

Your presence is requested at the last will and testament reading of Jonathan Burke Lennox. Blah, blah, legal jargon, blah.

She didn’t get it. A will? Will readings weren’t even real things, they were just something movies did for dramatic affect. And who the hell was Jonathan Lennox? Fallon had never heard that name before. She thought back over her family history. Anne Marie had been orphaned and knew no extended family, and Fallon’s father, whom Anne Marie had never married and had died before she was born, was an only child of the Joneses. There were no Lennoxes in her family tree.

Then it struck her that perhaps he was a ballet donor. As a principle dancer, Fallon did her fair share of schmoozing old people with too much money. But she had never been left anything in an estate. If wealthy people wanted to donate to the ballet upon their deaths, it usually went directly to the company.

Her anxiety about her missing mother swelled again. Anne Marie would have an idea of what it could all mean. But the reading was the next day and her mother was MIA. Fallon remembered her mother’s note that contained the order to not ask questions. Like hell. Maybe the fancy law firm still called it a reading even if it was just a matter of asset distribution. And maybe, since Fallon had a hard time accepting anything as coincidence, she could ask the attorneys about her mother. Maybe Jonathan Lennox knew Anne Marie and his fancy lawyers would know something—anything. She grasped at the chunk of hair that fell over her face as she leaned over the letter, and it reminded her of the grasping at straws she’d just done for the last five minutes.

Fallon studied the address on the law firm’s letterhead. She knew the building. It was a prominent part of the New York City skyline, so it wasn’t like someone was trying to lure her to a murder house.

She broke the silence by throwing the envelope and the letter to the floor with a low growl, and stomped off to the bathroom before the tears could fall from her eyes.

5

IS BING STILL A THING?

Fallon did not sleep.

She stood at her mother’s window for hours. She called her phone every twenty minutes. She went down to the lobby. Miles had not seen her leave. Fallon, perhaps stupidly, went around the block once and stood for a time in the spot where the man had been. She looked up at her own window, wishing at any moment her mother’s face would pop out and tell her to get her silly ass inside. The growing feeling that everything of the past few days was connected was unavoidable. After hours of inventing scenarios where everything was just a big misunderstanding, perfectly explained, Fallon’s mind was made up that the will notification would be the next step in her investigation. Any concern about the inaccuracies of the letter just made her want to meet the lawyers that much more. She pushed off the brick wall of the brownstone she’s been leaning against and meandered back to her apartment.

Maybe some research to keep my mind occupied.

Google. Fallon had to Google the Lennox guy. It was the only thing she could think to do. She was going to Google all her problems away. And if Google didn’t work, she was going to Bing all her problems away.

The first thing that came up was vodka. Lots of it. Fallon tried to focus on that fun fact. She had rarely been drunk, but she had had three shots of vodka on her twenty-first birthday and only remembered the numb sensation in her face. Pretty good stuff. Fallon had to sometimes remind (or, rather, convince) herself that she was not a prude. She was just so dedicated to her stupid career that it had controlled her every choice, vodka choices included.

The picture on the screen was of a gentle sort of man with soft brown eyes and silvering dark hair. The caption read Jonathan Burke Lennox, CEO, CFO, Lennox Vodka Incorporated. The man behind a huge vodka corporation died and left her something? The more she read and clicked on links, the more she could find absolutely no connection between the guy, his vodka fortune and her family. The ballet had to be the connection. Right? But, Fallon would have met him if he was affiliated with the company. She rarely forgot a donor’s face.

Google proved the law firm to be legit, too. She would still pack mace in her purse, like every good New Yorker should, but she didn’t think it was a scam after all.

Fallon’s vision blurred at the screen and an ache began behind her left eye. A glance at the clock told her to get in bed and maybe by morning the nightmare would be over. She didn’t bother changing, just slipped off her shoes, an adorable pair of black ballet flats—go figure—that Anne Marie had given her on her last birthday, and snuggled under her mother’s heavy quilt. She fingered the stitches on the edge. Some had come loose throughout the years. It smelled like her mother—lavender and a little maple syrup, always like sugar.

Her last vision before drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep, however, was not of Anne Marie. It was of the hooded man with the scruffy face and firm jaw. He smiled in her memory, though Fallon was sure she’d never seen him smile in real life, and she wasn’t afraid or angry. It relaxed her, and she slept like the dead.

6

HOW TO GO ABOUT THE DAY

That the sun came up and Anne Marie was still not back meant something worse had happened than just an uncontrollable ice cream fix involving fire escapes and obscure notes.

Fallon stopped by the shop where Anne Marie spent most of her time.

When she was little and had free time, Fallon and her mother used to have all-night bake-offs in attempts to make new recipes. Fallon never actually tasted anything, which no one ever understood, but that was never the point. Maybe Anne Marie had gone to bake, to invent some new flavor or something. Fallon wiped her palms on her thighs before heading in to Cupcakes Anonymous.

Levitt said, Haven’t seen her since yesterday. Is she okay? He had worked for Anne Marie at Cupcakes Anonymous and Cupcake Addiction, the second store, for ten years. He worked three days at one and three days at the other. Without him, Anne Marie would be lost. The smell of sugar always seemed to rest on him, too. He was too skinny to be a baker, as if he’d never tasted his own product, although he always stuffed his face with samples. His creations were always perfect, according to the customers. He was magic.

Did she call you at all last night or this morning?

No. He stopped mid-whisk. A clump of baking powder stuck to the sweat on his brow and trembled in the silence. Fallon, you’re freaking me out. Is everything okay?

No, Lev, no. But I don’t want to get into all of it. She just went out last night and isn’t back…look, if she comes in, tell her I’m at some law firm. There is a will thing I have to deal with. Have her call, would ya?

Will? Who died? Levitt continued with the whisk.

I have no idea. Fallon could not stop biting her nails even though she normally thought it a disgusting habit. She kept them short and bare because of the costumes she wore at work. Used to wear at work.

Then why go?

Levitt, would you be able to resist if a mysterious stranger left you something in his will? And what if it has something to do with mom?

Why would the two be related?

Surges of anxiety kept her from being able to sit. Fallon didn’t want to go into the whole stalker thing or her mother’s ridiculous note. Too many coincidences. Someone knew what the hell was going on. If Fallon could get no answers at Harris, Harrison, Hudson and Finklebaum, then she would be stopping at the police station on her way home.

What aren’t you saying, Fallon? Where is Anne Marie? Levitt’s face contorted with concern.

I’m going to find out. I’ll stop by later, okay? Fallon was also a terrible liar, and she was sure he could tell she was freaked.