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Menolly and Delilah stared at me, openmouthed, but I stopped any protests with a raised hand. "I know, I know—the Hags of Fate are dangerous, but we have no choice. Grandmother Coyote may be able to tell us whether Jocko's death is connected with Shadow Wing."
Menolly stood. "If I'm going to hunt, I'd better get ready."
"Not so fast." I stopped her. "Wait till after midnight when there won't be so many people out and about. Besides, you made a promise, and I'm holding you to it."
She squinted, staring at me for a moment, then turned to Delilah. "Hey, Kitten, do you know where Camille's planning on taking me?"
Delilah got very busy, very fast, studying her fingernails. "I need a manicure. My nails are growing too fast again." She began to whistle.
Menolly cleared her throat. "I asked you a question."
"And I didn't answer!" Delilah said, hopping off her chair. "Don't blame me, Menolly—it's all Camille's idea!"
"Traitor!" I yelled after her, laughing as she raced up the stairs. I glanced at Menolly, who was giving me a long stare. "Get your coat and let's go."
"I don't need a coat. I don't get cold," she said dryly.
"But you can get wet, and it's pouring out right now." I slipped into my opera coat and picked up my keys. Menolly silently followed me out to the car. As I started the ignition, she popped a CD in the slot and we went sailing down the road to the wailing tunes of Godsmack.
Our destination was the basement of an old school turned community center. Goose bumps rippled along my arms as we descended the stairs, and Menolly once again hissed in my ear, "What is this? Where are you taking me?" she asked for what had to be the hundredth time since we left the house.
"Will you just shut up until we get there?" I knew she was going to be pissed. "You'll see soon enough. Please, just go along with this? For me?"
She let out a low sigh. "All right, all right. You owe me a big one."
"And I know you won't let me forget it." I flashed her a grin, and she rolled her eyes. As we came to the end of the stairs, a set of double doors faced us. On the door was a poster, and in the dim light it read V.A. Meeting, 10:00 p.m.
"This better not be what I think it is—" she started to say as I pushed open the doors. We entered the room, and with a quick look around, Menolly let out a groan. "Holy shit. Camille, what the hell were you thinking?"
"Would you quit whining and give it a chance?" I said. "Now find a place for us to sit down. And make sure we're sitting together. I don't feel safe here without you next to me."
"Serves you right," she muttered but then grabbed my arm and looked around. "There are two seats in the third row. You'd better sit next to the aisle. You're prime meat at this meeting, you know that?"
I knew she was right, but I also knew she'd never have come on her own if I'd just told her about it.
The room was about thirty by thirty feet, with four rows of chairs facing a lectern covered with a bloodred cloth.
A folding table to one side held what looked like bottles of warm blood. There was a plate of cookies and some coffee for family members. The basement had no windows, and an emergency exit offered passage to the sidewalk, probably a good idea, considering the nature of the meeting.
The other guests milled around the room. A few hovered near the ceiling, looking almost in trance. Everyone I could see was as bone-pale as Menolly. Some were dirty and matted and smelled like they could use a good bath. Others were fastidiously clean.
One woman with shocking silver hair and a figure to die for wore a black Yves St. Laurent Rive Gauche dress and Chanel ballet pumps with ribbons that wrapped up her legs. She looked stunning, even more so due to the brilliant crimson on her lips and nails that contrasted with her wan complexion. I blinked. That was Sassy Branson, the reclusive socialite mentioned in last month's Seattle Magazine. I read several local magazines to keep up to speed with the city and recognized her picture from an article about some big charity fund-raiser held a few months ago. So Sassy was a vampire? Who would have guessed?
A couple of the other vamps in the room were staring at me with obvious interest, their nostrils flaring, but when Menolly put her arm around me, they kept their distance. One of them, a geeky-looking man with a ponytail and a layer of thin fuzz covering his chin, was dressed in a Microsoft T-shirt and a pair of holey jeans. He slowly winked as he caught my gaze and raised his bottle as if in salute.
I swallowed and pressed closer to Menolly. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea—"
She snorted. "You think? But now that we're here, why don't we stick around for a little while and see what's going down?" Her eyes flashed, and I had the feeling she was enjoying watching me squirm.
I cleared my throat. "Am I the only one alive here?" Somehow I'd expected more family support to show up.
"Don't let it bother you," a voice said from behind us. "Members are prohibited from drinking from the other guests while on the premises. You'll be safe enough, at least in body. We don't control the fantasies of our participants."
I whirled. The man who had spoken was of average height with bleached blond hair. He wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, a pair of tidy jeans, and plastic-rimmed square glasses.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "I didn't know vamps ever needed to wear glasses."
"Force of habit," he said. "The glass is purely for show. I can't seem to get used to going without them. I'm still a relative newborn. In fact, I'm the one who started this group." His gaze slid over Menolly, slowly drinking her in. "If you don't mind me saying so, you're stunning."
