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But immortal, they weren't.
After nabbing water from Margot's dusk leavings - I decided against the blood until I learned precisely what Charla was crying about - we headed downstairs to Ethan's office.
Charla stood in the middle of the room. Instead of her usual suit, she wore jeans, snow boots, a sweater, and a parka. Like so many of us over the last few days, she looked like she'd been crying.
"Your grandfather?" she asked, rushing toward us. "He's all right?"
"He's in the hospital, safely out of surgery, and beginning the recovery process," Ethan said. "Are you all right?"
She shook her head and handed him a manila envelope. "The security tapes. I just watched earlier, and came over here as soon as I could. I waited outside." She looked at us. "This is our fault."
Ethan stilled, then gestured toward the couch. "Why don't you sit down," he said, "and we can talk this through. Could we get you some tea?"
She shook her head but walked over to the couch. Clearly troubled, she sat nervously on the edge of the seat, as if waiting for a bad verdict.
Ethan opened the envelope and pulled out a disk in its jewel case. While Ethan moved to the inset television on the opposite wall and futzed with the electronics, I took a seat by Charla.
"I could get you some water?"
She shook her head, tears gathering at her lashes again. "I'm fine. Let's just - get through this."
Ethan queued up the video, then moved aside so we could see the screen.
The video was in color and showed a clean, white facility that looked a lot like a kitchen. The tape moved haltingly, more like stuttering time-lapse photography than a video, but it was bright and clear, which made for a nice change. We didn't usually get high-fidelity evidence.
"What's this?" Ethan asked.
"The lab," Charla said. "The room where Alan does his research and we test samples. This is the two days before the riot. When I was at the spa."
A figure walked into the room. It was Alan Bryant, Charla's brother. He walked to a counter and reached beneath it, feeling around for something. After a moment, he pulled out a brown envelope that had apparently been stashed there. Another man approached him.
Ethan cursed in Swedish, his native language, an affectation he usually saved for big developments . . . like the fact that Alan Bryant and John McKetrick were chatting in the middle of the Bryant Industries lab.
I guessed that explained why Alan had taken so long to get the tapes to us.
According to the time stamp, they talked for four minutes, at which time Alan handed the envelope to McKetrick. They argued for a moment, until McKetrick handed a smaller one to Alan.
Their business done, both men walked out of the room.
The tape went to black.
"Keep watching," Charla said.
After a moment, another scene appeared. The lab was in the picture again, but the color had shifted, like the sun was at a different angle.
"When?" Ethan asked.
"Right before the riot."
McKetrick walked into the lab and began opening cabinets. He flipped through folders and papers, tossed aside beakers and flats of test tubes, clearly looking for something.
But what?
Ethan answered my unspoken question. "He's looking for the thing he and Alan were arguing about," he mused, eyes glued to the screen.
And he found it. With a grin we could read even on a security video, McKetrick pulled a blue folder from an open drawer he'd rifled through. He tucked the folder beneath his arm, pulled out a silver lighter, lit a cigarette, took a puff, and tossed the cigarette into the pile of papers.
The fire started immediately.
"Oh my God," I said. "McKetrick was covering his ass. He arranged the riot to cover up his attempt to burn down the lab."
"That's what it looks like," Charla said.
Ethan looked back at Charla. "What was in the envelope? What did your brother give him?"
"I don't know," she said. "But I think I know what McKetrick gave him." She cleared her throat nervously. "You may have learned in your research that our parents' divorce was messy. They were ready to retire, so Alan and I got the business to share. Alan wasn't thrilled about that. He wanted to buy me out, and I said no. His offer was ridiculously low, but that wasn't the real issue. I'd worked at my parents' business since I was sixteen; I wasn't going to just give it up.
"He started pressing me again a few months ago. I said no again, but he kept pushing and his offer was still too low. He wants to make the business international," she said. "Send the production overseas, rebrand, become the only global distributor of blood for vampires . . ." She trailed off and sat quietly for a moment. Ethan and I exchanged a glance but waited her out.
"After I watched the tape, I checked our accounts. There was an unscheduled deposit in our operating account two days ago."
"How much?" Ethan asked.
"Five hundred thousand dollars."
I glanced at Ethan. McKetrick paid Alan Bryant half a million dollars. For what?
That is the question, he silently agreed. "Charla, you have no idea what he might have given McKetrick?"
She shook her head. "Alan is a talented researcher, but I have no idea what McKetrick would want from us. We're trying to help vampires - to keep them fed and healthy. Those certainly aren't McKetrick's goals."
"Is it possible he wanted to adulterate the blood somehow?" Ethan asked.
"To be frank, if Alan wanted to adulterate the blood, he could do it. He has the access." Her eyes widened. "Oh, but information about the Houses, that he has." She glanced between us. "All three Houses buy blood from us. We have their account numbers, delivery dates - do you think McKetrick wanted that?"
That was a frightening possibility, but it didn't read for McKetrick, I thought. "McKetrick wouldn't pay money for information he could easily get," I said. "He's part of the city admin. If he wanted information about the Houses, he could get a warrant, comb tax records. He's got sources he wouldn't have to pay for," I said.
"I would tend to agree," Ethan said.
I glanced at Ethan. "Alan knows blood. McKetrick wants to wipe us out. Maybe McKetrick thinks Alan's got the information he needs to accomplish that with blood."
"Oh my God," Charla said, putting a hand over her mouth. "You think he's going to use us - our business - to hurt you?"
Ethan frowned. "We don't know enough right now. But it's clear McKetrick wanted information that Alan had. Information he was willing to pay for."
