Page 25 of The Reveal
Maybe,I think as I take the road out of the safe zone of Jacksonville, a wide curve past fields gone to seed,you should concentrate on the fact that you’re now driving unprotected to what is almost certainly your death.
That feels like a bit of a wake-up call, and the truth is, I need it. I need to pay attention to this insane thing I’m doing. I scan the road,making sure that my weapons are within reach, and happy that I attached more steel to the bumpers only recently to discourage swarming attacks.
For a few moments, as I drive through the sunset, I can almost forget ... everything. There’s just the glow of the setting sun, making the valley look as beautiful as I remember it being all throughout my childhood. The Rogue Valley is shaped like a lazy rainbow and stretches from the north side of the Siskiyou Mountains on the California border to the north and the west, following tributaries of the Rogue River until it meets up with the river itself. The Applegate Valley nestles in close beside it to the west, with Jacksonville as the linchpin between the two—the place where gold was discovered in 1850. The Cascades sit to the east, the Coastal Range to the west, and the passes farther north along the interstate are dramatic enough to make the valley itself feel completely isolated. Especially in bad weather.
Ashland is in the hills near the California border, the southernmost town in the valley, once famous for the local university and a Shakespeare festival. Grants Pass is north and west, and inaccessible these days. Medford was always the biggest town in the valley, with the mall, the big movie theater, all the hospitals, and a whole lot of people.
But thinking aboutpeoplebrings me back to reality with a thud, because there are a lot fewer of those around these days.
I blow out a breath as I drive farther into Medford proper, past the rubble of old apartment buildings that the monsters turned into buffets. Then I brace myself as I take the turn that will lead me into central, downtown Medford.
I don’t come here much anymore, not even in daylight. Back before, Medford was a relentlessly pragmatic sort of town, filled with the big-box stores and the fast-food establishments and sprinkled through with various attempts to bring a little burst of new ideas and brighter lights to the place. These attempts never quite took.
Now there’s not much left but ruins. Humans don’t live in Medford, unless they’ve been taken by the shadows and the streets. The ones that didn’t succumb were eaten years ago. The safe zone for humans isJacksonville, though I know there are human enclaves down in Ashland, and there are always whispers of others in harder-to-reach places.
I take a longer route than I need to, despite the debris in the street and too many eyes in the dark recesses of the squat, low buildings. I can’t help myself. It’s like a physical compulsion to drive around the perimeter of Hawthorne Park, situated at the end of Main Street, right there on the river, where drug addicts used to congregate. There were always homeless initiatives, drug outreach attempts, and all the rest. Addicts are still here, though now they’re after a different drug.
I drive slower than I probably should, scanning the faces.
Always desperate to see Augie and relieved when I don’t. All those gaunt, ruined faces. All those wild, pleading eyes.
The route I take goes past the front of the martial arts school, propped up there across from the park on the other side of the bridge. I drive past it, seeing lights on inside, and then take Savi’s advice and go around the back.
It’s dangerous to drive here. The roads in downtown Medford are covered in garbage, and there’s no question that half the shit I navigate around is a deliberate trap. I make certain not to catch the eye of any of the shuffling blood addicts on the street who come out as the sun goes down to hunt their next fix. There’s no telling what they might do.
But it’s the things that don’t show themselves that worry me more.
Around the back of the building, I drive up as close to the back of Archangel MMA as the parking lot allows. I find the alley and can see, way down at the other end of it, the very small sign that still saysSpartan Arts, like a relic from a different world.
I park, then I sit there with my heart so loud in my chest that I’m surprised it doesn’t bring every vampire in Medford running.
I know I can’t stay where I am. The longer I sit here, the more likely I am to draw attention to myself.
I hate doing it—it actuallyhurts—but I peel off my weapons and conceal them in the truck’s door pockets and beneath the seats. Then I sit there,feeling completely naked, before I force myself to open the door, crawl out, and then ... not sprint all the way down the alley to that far door.
Running invites a chase.
I walk slowly into the mouth of the alley. I don’t look back, even though all my senses are tingling and I’m as certain as I can be that I’m being watched.
I keep the same slow, careful pace even though my skin is crawling. I feel a little lightheaded from trying so hard to keep my breath even. I have to force myself to keep that pace as I go from the parking lot into the darkness of the alley.
I have to let it swallow me up, and it feels like dying.
Immediately, I regret every single decision I made today that led to this.
Not just today. Clearly, letting random people move onto the family land was a huge mistake, because they must have something to do with all this unwanted attention. I didn’t have any before they turned up, did I? Unless you count Franklin Hendry.
But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
The alley is so dark that it aches, maybe because the bricks on either side of me seem to heave a lot closer than they should. There’s a faint hint of something coppery in the air, cutting through the smoke, and I choose not to ask myself what that might be.
What itmustbe in vampire territory.
I break out in a cold sweat, and I’m furious with myself. The last thing I want to do is walk into a vampire den sweating like this, heart racing, like I’m offering myself up as a one-girl experience for whatever lurks within.
But what I can’t have is vampires appearing at my grandmother’s door. That’s the truth I keep coming back to, and it’s what got me in the truck to drive out here. It spooked me enough to find Briar lurking around in the kitchen like that. What if she’s more dangerous than she seems, even if she’s not a vampire? What if she got to Gran?
I have to do this. I have to do it and hope that I make myself amenable enough to this vampire king and give him whatever he wants so I can make it back home.
