They both gaped at me. Finally Sinclair cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than—”
“And we’re not doing it. Not any of it.”
“Wait—you knew?” Tina asked me, surprised.
“I guessed. C’mon, we’ve been hanging out for how long? I know how you both think. You’re traditionalists. You still send letters snail mail, for heaven’s sake. So you were going to come up with a traditional vampire solution to an old problem: Stomp the messengers. Kill the message. Sow enough fear and confusion to keep working under everyone’s sightline. Then wait for things to get back to normal. And why not? Time’s on our side.” I paused then added, very gently, “That won’t work this time. We’re not doing that this time.”
Tina was shaking her head. “Majesty . . . forgive me . . . but then why wait for us to decide on a course of action?”
“Because I was hoping you’d come up with something better,” I replied bluntly. “You’re both smarter than I am; it wasn’t an unreasonable thought. Maybe you’d have a plan B that wasn’t quite so Gestapo-esque that we could have gone with. But you don’t. Right?”
A sharp inhale from Sinclair, which was a pretty good indication of his shock, since he didn’t have to breathe. He’d lost friends, good friends, in World War II. He had so much contempt for Hitler you’d think the guy was still around causing trouble. “Do not—”
“I said Gestapo-esque,” I continued, “because that’s what these strong-arm tactics are. It’s Nazi bullshit. Raping the brains of reporters because we don’t like what they’re writing?”
“If we don’t, there will be no way to calculate the danger, or the damage to us.”
“Except we’re always in danger. It’s always something. When our default is hurting people for doing their job, we deserve to be exposed.”
“My own, your compassion is laudable.” Sinclair was trying not to look and sound distressed, and failing. “But this isn’t just about the danger we personally face. We have to think about what’s best for the vampire nation, not just ourselves.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s not just about me, there’s a bigger picture to consider—apparently that’s the theme this week. But c’mon. Kidnapping, scaring people? Setting a horde of vampires on the media, for God’s sake? Why not just host a book burning and get it over with?” I could feel my voice rising with my temper, and forced calm. “We’re better than that. The vampire nation is (as of now) better than that.”
“So . . . what, then? What?”
“Well, like I was saying, I was waiting to see if you’d come up with something besides Operation Media Rape. Since you didn’t—which is nothing to be ashamed of—we’re going with my plan.”
“Which is . . . ?”
I took a deep breath and told them.
It didn’t go well.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
FROM THE PRIVATE BLOG OF WILL MASON
The G-Spot
February 27
The most incredible thing. Hard to even think about, much less write down. This won’t go on the website. This is something else, something for me.
Not to get too doleful, but the Freak might have found someone. Or would Marc be something? I don’t know. He’s not human; he can’t be. But he’s real.
He’s wonderful.
Okay. The beginning: heading over to Summit, checking out the vampire thing. That gorgeous girl in all the YouTube videos from the last couple of weeks. She’s on camera naming names, giving out addresses, saying the craziest shit while sounding sane and looking earnest as hell, and backed up by people who don’t seem crazy, either.
I mean—these guys are getting affidavits. They’re basically swearing on a Bible that what they saw was real, that vampires are real . . . it was worth checking out. Unlike most of the media, I knew there were plenty of things out in the world we didn’t understand. Unlike most of the media, I wasn’t at the supposed Vampire HQ because the YouTube girl was slim and blond and had wonderful boobs. I actually listened to what she had to say. And it was fascinating . . . if she was telling the truth.
I kind of forgot about her when I saw him. This was the next day, after the so-called vampire queen shooed us away like we were a flock of unruly chickens. Which wasn’t far off, come to think of it. She hadn’t seemed like the terrifying soulless dark queen of the undead described on YouTube. For one thing, she had highlights. For another, she seemed genuinely exasperated to find a bunch of reporters camped in her yard. And finally, she seemed as interested in her shoes as she was in getting rid of us.