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"It's unlikely," my grandfather agreed.
"But there's no evidence that points specifically to a Rogue vamp, either," I pointed out.
"Actually, that's not entirely true," Grandpa said. "CPD knew the jersey linked to Grey House, so they sent a couple of uniforms over. When they got there, they found a note tacked to the front door. Scott hadn't seen it yet - they don't have guards outside, probably think the House is new enough not to have created enemies. It's barely three years old."
Catcher frowned and crossed his arms. "What did the note say?"
"It was an attempt at a rhyme: 'Blue, yellow, Grey/Who wants to pay?/The Devil is Due/The system is, too.' "
I winced. "That's truly, truly awful."
"By saying 'system' - that's a knock at the Houses?" Jeff asked. "The attacks are staged to look like House crimes, but the notes definitely read 'Rogue.' "
"Or," I suggested, "if the theory is that Rogues are responsible, the murders are for the cops, and the threats are for the House vampires."
My grandfather nodded thoughtfully. "It does play that way."
Catcher pulled over the pad, glanced at the notes my grandfather had written, and frowned. "I don't like this. It's too tidy. I never liked the medal plant, and I like this jersey thing even less. But for a Rogue to leave a note - isn't that a little suspect? They'd have to know the notes connect the Rogues, not the Houses, to the murder. Why go to all the trouble to set up the Houses in the attacks, then stab yourself in the foot with a note that pins the thing on you?"
"Depends on the Rogues," my grandfather suggested. "If the murders are supposed to be a slap at the system, the notes say, 'Hey, look what I pulled off right under your nose, affiliation or not.' Maybe they didn't think the vamps would share the notes with cops."
Catcher brushed a hand over his closely shaven head. "Whatever the f**k is going on out there, Sullivan needs to get on this. The Houses need to call the city's Rogues together, figure out who might be behind this, offer sanctions or rewards for information. They love that bargaining shit - I don't understand why they're not doing it now."
"Because talking to the Rogues would be an admission that the Rogues have power," Jeff offered. "The House vamps would have to acknowledge vamps who've bucked the system, and ask for their help. No way is Ethan or Celina going to do that. Grey maybe, but not the other two. Their memories are too long."
Grandpa picked up the notepad again and rose, then walked to the door. "You're right - they need to talk, if for no other reason than the timing of this thing. There was a week between Porter's death and Merit's attack, nine days between Merit and this girl's death. It's not a huge sample, but. . . ."
"We don't have much time," I quietly concluded. "Which means we could see another in the next ten days?"
My grandfather blew out a slow breath, then linked his hands above his head. "Maybe so, kid. I don't envy the CPD on this one." He looked over at me, gave me a sad smile. "I'm sorry to run you off, but we need to start making phone calls. Cadogan and Navarre need to be notified, and I need to talk to my source."
"Thanks for dinner," Jeff said.
"Sure." I peeked in the bucket, looked over a handful of pieces, decided I still had no appetite for fowl. "Enjoy the rest," I said. "I'll leave it here."
"Oh, before you go," Jeff said, burrowing beneath this desk, "I got you something." He dug around underneath there for a minute making clanging and banging noises, before crawling out with an Army green canvas bag in his hands. He held it out to me, and I took it, and peeked inside.
"Are you trying to tell me something, Jeff?" I asked, peering into the sack of sharpened wooden stakes.
"Just that I'd prefer you alive."
I hitched the bag over my shoulder, gave him a jaunty wink. "Then thanks."
He smiled endearingly. Jeff was a kid, but a good kid.
Catcher rose. "I'll walk you out."
I gave Grandpa a hug, and passed a final wave and smile to Jeff, then let Catcher guide me back to the front door. He uncoded it and held it open so I could walk through. "Stay close to the guards this week. Could be this maniac's going to try to finish you off, take a swipe at hit number three."
I shivered and hitched the bag of stakes a little tighter at my shoulder. "Thanks for the comfort."
"I'm not here to comfort you, babe. I'm here to keep you alive."
"And screw my roommate."
He smiled grandly, a dimple peeking from the left side of his upturned lips. "And that, assuming I can get her to see it my way."
I left him with a smile, glad that, whatever the supernatural drama, I'd found friends to help me through it. A new family, for all the genetic differences.
I got into the car and drove home with the windows down, trying to hold on to that smile, that comfort, trying to let the spring breeze and a soft tune carry away my uncertainty.
Have you ever had a moment where you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were in the right place? That you were on the right journey? Maybe the sense that you'd crossed a boundary, jumped a hurdle, and somehow, after facing some unconquerable mountain, found yourself suddenly on the other side of it? When the night was warm, and the wind was cool, and a song carried through the quiet streets around you. When you felt the entire world around you, and you were part of it - of the hum of it - and everything was good.
Contentment, I suppose, is the simple explanation for it. But it seems more than that, thicker than that, some unity of purpose, some sense of being truly, honestly, for that moment, at home.
Those moments never seem to last long enough. The song ends, the breeze stills, the worries and fears creep in again and you're left trying to move forward, but glancing back at the mountain behind you, wondering how you managed to cross it, afraid you really didn't - that the bulk and shadow over your shoulder might evaporate and re-form before you, and you'd be faced with the burden of crossing it again.
The song ends, and you stare at the quiet, dark house in front of you, and you grasp the doorknob, and walk back into your life.
CHAPTER TEN
KEEPING WATCH IN THE NIGHT
"Time to get up, sleepyhead!"
I heard the voice, but grumbled into my pillow and pulled the comforter over my head. "Go away." "Aw, come on, Mer. Today's your big day! It's Vampire Rush!"
I tunneled into the blankets. "I don't want to be a vampire today."
