LITMIR.BIZ

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back before dawn,” he added, because that was how dumb they were. You had to tell them specifically what to do. They couldn’t think or reason for themselves.

      It was a lot of trouble to make more, though. And getting candidates from the CIA’s stockpile of potentials would be impossible now.

      He climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep, started the engine and glanced back in the rearview mirror at his unconscious former employer. “You’re going to tell me about this spy you’ve planted in Reaper’s gang, my friend. You’re going to show me how to communicate with her, tell me exactly how it works and what you’ve learned.”

      To his surprise, Dwyer sat up slowly, rubbing his head with his bound hands. “I’m not tellin’ you anythin’.”

      “Oh, hell, of course you are, given time.” He lifted a dart gun, loaded with a human-sized dose of his favorite tranquilizer, just in case the spook tried anything. “I’ve become very adept at torture, Derrick.”

      “So I’ve heard.”

      “And I know you were Rivera’s immediate supervisor. I know you were the one who recruited him in the first place, and I know you’ve fought your organization every step of the way on his behalf ever since.”

      Dwyer averted his eyes. “You don’t know shit.”

      “Yeah, I do. I’ve seen the files. You argued against the brainwashing…excuse me—programming—from the start. You tried to cover up the fact that he’d become a vampire when you first found out. You tried to talk them out of trying to retake him, and you were vehemently against the plan to use me to do it. You were against all of it. On his side, all along.”

      The older man was shaking his head slowly from side to side, but his denials wouldn’t convince Gregor of anything, and he had to know it. Gregor knew. This bastard had been secretly advocating on Reaper’s behalf from the beginning.

      “You’ve been biased all along. What I don’t know is why.”

      “You’re insane.”

      “Perhaps. But you’re Reaper’s friend. Whether he knows it or not, you’re his only friend in the agency. Aren’t you, Derrick?”

      “I’m no one’s friend. I’m in charge of gettin’ him back, and then I retire. Period.”

      “Yeah. Right. You came out tonight to kill me.”

      “I came to talk.”

      “Bull. So tell me, Dwyer, what’s the point of having a plant in Reaper’s little gang if you don’t intend to bring him in? What other reason could you possibly have for wanting to keep tabs on him?”

      “None.”

      “You know I don’t believe you.”

      “I know.”

      “And you know I’ll find out.”

      “Not from me, you won’t.”

      Sighing, Gregor pulled the Jeep up to the towering arched wrought-iron gates of what had once been known as the Marquand Estate. His, now.

      As Gregor waited for the aging gates to open, thanks to the electronics he’d repaired, Dwyer stared at them through the rain spattered windshield, then beyond the tall leafless trees that lined the drive to the castle-like mansion beyond them and the cliffs beyond the mansion.

      “For the love of God, this is—”

      “Yes. The former home of Eric Marquand. He abandoned it once the DPI learned of its existence, knowing he’d never know peace here again. It fell into government hands. The CIA lost interest in surveilling it but wouldn’t allow it to be sold for a long time. And then they did. I bought it for back taxes a few months ago. Thought it would be…I don’t know, nostalgic to have one of the truly ancient ones’ former homes. A place where vampires battled DPI agents. A place where Rhiannon and Roland de Courtemanche and Eric himself once walked. His laboratories are still in the basement, you know.”

      “No.”

      “No one would expect a new generation of the Undead to take up residence in a place the CIA knows all about. But since they’ve stopped paying it any attention, what place could be better?”

      Dwyer said nothing. Gregor drove through the gates when they finally opened widely enough, then waited to see to it that they closed again before driving on over the bumpy, poorly tended driveway to the mansion itself. He loved the grandeur of the place. Three stories, all made of rough-hewn stone blocks, each one too large for three ordinary men to lift. The place was magnificent. More so with the modifications he’d been working on.

      He stopped right in front, opened the hatch in the rear of the Jeep and gripped Derrick Dwyer by his bound wrists, tugging him out. Dwyer didn’t fight much. The lump on the side of his head, and the blood on his face and neck, told Gregor why. The man was hurting, possibly dizzy as well, and no doubt weak. He was also, Gregor thought, cagey, sharp, intelligent and probably biding his time and making an escape plan.

      He dragged his captive up the stairs to the front door and flung it open.

      He strode inside, tugging Dwyer behind him by the dangling end of the rope that bound his hands. The older man had no choice but to follow, feet dragging, stumbling often. Perhaps it was for real, or maybe it was an act designed to lull Gregor into complacency, into taking his weakness for granted and making a fatal mistake.

      As they entered the hall, the young boy got up from his spot on the floor in front of the fireplace, his toy soldiers—the only playthings he was permitted—scattering out of formation as he rose.

      He stood still, staring, wide brown eyes unblinking, thickly fringed and nearly void of any innocence they might once have possessed.

      “Well?” Gregor demanded.

      The boy swallowed visibly, his throat swelling as he did. “Hello, Father. Welcome back. Was your evening a good one?”

      “That’s better. And yes, actually, my evening was quite a pleasant one. Get your ass to my office and fetch my keys. Can’t you see I’ve brought a prisoner that needs locking up?”

      “Yes, sir!”

      The boy spun on his heel and raced out of the room as fast as he could manage to move. Gregor chuckled softly under his breath, careful not to let Matthias hear it. Better to keep the child afraid of him. He would obey far more easily that way.

      “You have a child?” Derrick’s voice was a bare whisper, and yet loud enough to convey the horror he clearly felt at the notion.

      “Obviously.” Gregor tugged the rope and moved through the great room, onward down a hallway to a cellar door.

      “But…where is his mother?”

      “Dead. To me. To the rest of the world, too, if she ever dares come near Matthias again.” Then he smiled slowly, refocusing himself on the task at hand. “But that’s not your concern, is it? Your attention should be solely on deciding how much torture you intend to suffer before you tell me what I need to know.”

      “I don’t know anythin’ that can help you.”

      “Mmm, but you do. You know how to communicate with this Crisa. You know how to use her to keep tabs on Reaper. You know how to bring her in, I imagine. I want to know all that. And I want to know more. I want to know how you managed it. Does she work for you?”

      “She doesn’t even know who I am. She’s an innocent, Gregor.”

      “I really don’t care.” They’d moved down a flight of stairs into what had once been a basement laboratory. Much of the equipment was still in place. Scales and burners and bottles and jars, microscopes and other gadgets Gregor couldn’t begin to identify. He opened a door off one side of the lab. The room might have been an office once. An aging desk stood along one wall, and empty file cabinets lined another.

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