Page 49 of Vampire so Virtuous
“Very good, sir. I will have a list for you within the day. How many?”
“Oh, twenty or so, if we can find them. Choose veterans, if possible. Society often discards them to the streets, and their skills will be useful.”
“Yes, sir. And, if you’ll allow me, sir, I’m sorry that this step is necessary for you. But I know you’ll take care of them.”
“They will be thralls, my friend,” Antoine replied. “Regretfully, their main purpose in life is to die.”
Fourteen – Cally
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.
