Charlaine Harris - An Apple for the Creature

“A party. Engagement party, actually.” She looked off in the distance, remembering. “He knew the groom. I went to college with the bride. I almost didn’t go.”

There was a pause. She looked back over at him, to find him staring at her with undisguised longing. His cheeks reddened and he got up.

“I’d better go to bed.” He pulled a face. “Two weeks is a long time to sleep with some guy you don’t know.”

“You have my sympathies,” she said lightly.

“Which I’ll keep in a jar on my desk,” he said. He walked to the door and put his hand around the knob. Then he paused. “Ms. Hannover today. Do you think she was a vampire?”

“Daylight. They can’t walk around in it,” she reminded him.

“The Cullens can walk around in it,” he said. “It makes them sparkle. And Dracula went out in daylight in the original novel, too.”

She blinked. “You know a lot about vampires.”

“We all have our fetishes. Isn’t yours Orlando Bloom?”

She reached over to the bed and made as if to throw a pillow at him. He laughed and opened the door. “Actually, I was just speed-reading the material on vampires they left on our pillows. Me and my snuggle buddy.” He looked at her bed. “Didn’t you get yours yet?”

“No,” she said. “Maybe they forgot me because I’m in here by myself.”

“Agent Anderson?” a voice said in the hall. He came into the doorway. Young, agent-y or clerk-y looking. “I have a file for you.”

He held out an interoffice memo jacket, and Claire took it. Signed for it.

“Thanks,” she said, as the guy hovered.

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave Jackson a look, turned, and disappeared around a corner.

“That’ll be your vampire dossier,” Jackson said. “Don’t forget to hang up your garlic and crosses,” he added as he headed out, too. “Perhaps ze count vill walk tonight.”

That creeped her out, but she didn’t show it. Then she shut the door and stared at it, and wondered what Peter was up to tonight. For someone so diligent about her career, she’d been very sloppy about Peter. They’d just kind of ended up together. She was pretty sure the reason they’d gotten married was to make her conservative Catholic father happy. Which was a pretty weak reason.

We were in love, she insisted. We are in love.

Then she got ready for bed, climbed in, and started reading about Nosferatu, Sookie Stackhouse, and Vlad the Impaler. And despite how wound-up she was, she fell asleep.

She dreamed about waking up because someone was in her room, but she couldn’t make herself open her eyes. So she drifted in a sea of apprehension for most of the night, and woke in the morning to nothing new but the reflection through the window sheers of steady rain. But as she lowered her gaze and studied the ground, she couldn’t shake the sensation that the rain had just washed fresh footprints away.

Footprints pointed straight at her window.

“Blood type AB. I guess that makes sense. ABs can get blood transfusions from all four blood types. Lower than average levels of serotonin,” Claire read to Jackson, as they studied their blood sample readouts. It was their fourth day of training, and they were sitting in a lab off the autopsy room. The agents had been paired off, and everyone was discussing results. It was still raining, and gloomy.

The three vics were in cold storage in that room, but today the VSI students were analyzing vampire blood that they themselves had drawn. The vampire in the coffin had not appeared to feel anything when the needle went in, and no one had any reasonable theories about why his blood hadn’t coagulated inside him long ago. Also, about whose blood it actually was that they were studying. If the vampire drank the blood of his victims, what happened to it?

“Lower levels of serotonin have also been found in the brains of murderers on death row, accounting for increased aggression,” Jackson said, reciting from their class lecture.

“There are caps on short tandem repeats of DNA strands,” Claire continued.

“Which suggests increased life span,” Jackson said. “Caps allow for little to no unraveling of the strands.”

“Time for swabs,” DeWitt announced, holding the box out to them. They’d had one swab a day since arriving. Claire was becoming increasingly apprehensive. Was there concern that something was happening to them?

“I don’t like this,” she murmured to Jackson as she unwrapped the swab. “Do you think they’re withholding information from us? Even experimenting on us? I mean, we didn’t even volunteer for this. This could be construed as a form of coercion.”

“It could,” Jackson said. “You want to see Nash?”

“Yes,” she said. “Absolutely.”

Then the lab door opened and Nash himself poked his head in. He looked straight at DeWitt and then the class and said, “It’s time.”

“Let’s roll,” said DeWitt. “I’ll brief you all while you’re suiting up.”

In near-unison, the ten other agents in the room rose from their chairs and made for the exit. DeWitt went with them. Claire looked around in confusion, then began to get up, too.

“Claire,” Jackson said in an odd tone of voice, “you and I are staying behind.”

“What? What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Jackson, Anderson, in five,” Nash said, closing the door.

“Do you trust me, Claire?” Jackson asked, locking gazes with her. “Please, trust me.”

“Tell me what’s going on,” she insisted. “Why are we staying behind?”

“You’ll find out everything in a few minutes,” he said.

“You bastard. I don’t trust you. You’ve been holding out on me.” She glared at him. “You’re my partner .”

He looked upset. “I know, Claire. I know and I’m sorry, but it’s going to be okay now.”

“Okay now ?” she asked, her voice rising. “What hasn’t been okay?”

Jackson stood up. He said, “Let’s go see Nash.”

They went down a hallway and faced Nash’s door. Jackson rapped on it sharply. Nash opened it, and Claire did a quick sweep of the interior. American flag, portrait of the POTUS, commendations.

“Take a seat, please,” Nash said to Claire and Jackson as he sat down behind his desk. Nash picked up the folder. “Agent Anderson, I need you to stay calm.”

She sat down. A million scenarios ran through her mind: She had done something to cause a civilian’s death. She had a fatal illness. She was becoming a vampire. The vampire had risen and was terrorizing Salem.

And: By his demeanor, Jackson knew a hell of a lot more about what was going on than she did.

“The perp,” she said. “The vampire. He’s struck again?”

Nash nodded, his expression somber. “Yes. He has.”

Then why are we in this room? she thought. Why aren’t we with the rest of the team? “Let’s roll” obviously meant lights and sirens. As in, get your tail to the crime scene. “Suit up” meant vests and helmets. A violent confrontation.

Jackson gave her a look and she kept her mouth shut.

Nash flipped open the folder. The topmost picture was the first vic they’d seen onscreen, the one in the pink turtleneck sweater. Second vic. Third vic. Purple glow at the puncture sites. And then a form she recognized as DNA test results.

Like any decent bureaucrat, she was a champ at reading upside down. In one box, MATCH was typed and in the “subject’s name” box, ANDERSON, CLAIRE.

“ Match? What’s this?” she demanded, reaching for the document. Nash kept his hand splayed over it, preventing her from taking it. Her blood pressure spiked. Bad news. Frame-up, she thought. Setup. But how or what, she had no idea.