Chapter 4

"What?" Anne jumped off the bed, nearly tangling her legs in the bedspread in the process. "What are you talking about?"

"You have to become a slayer."

"But why? Slayers are evil! You were just telling me that!"

"Not all slayers are evil," Amaranth insisted. "Rashel isn't evil. Well, not any more."

Amaranth had explained about the famous Night World couples earlier. She'd described Rashel, who'd been a vampire hunter until she'd found that John Quinn, a made vampire, was her soulmate. They'd joined Circle Daybreak and had become a team of hunters that targeted evil vampires. Circle Daybreak's fighting arm, Amaranth had called them.

"You want me to join Rashel and Quinn and be part of Circle Daybreak's fighting arm?" Anne asked incredulously.

"No. You just need to learn to be a slayer to defend yourself. People are trying to kill you, after all. You have to defend yourself."

Anne hesitated and then sat back down on her bed slowly. Her mind was running furiously over what Amaranth had just said.

Defending herself didn't sound bad. Well, it sounded hard—she wasn't a slayer, after all—but it didn't sound bad. If she could defend herself, she could defend other innocent people, too. That wouldn't be a bad thing.

"Well," she said hesitantly. "I guess I could try. I mean, I don't know how good I'd be. But I could try."

"That's all you have to do," Amaranth said earnestly. "There are some people in Daybreak who can train you. And who can help to guard you while you learn."

"Um." Anne still wasn't sure about any of this. "But what if they try to kill me with a bomb again? I mean, even if I do get good at using a sword, or a stake, or whatever, that won't be any good against a bomb."

Amaranth frowned. "You're right. But I don't think they'll use a bomb again."

"Why not? I mean, I'm glad, but . . . why not?"

"Because it was too conspicuous. Even the FBI is investigating now. The Night World doesn't want to be discovered."

"And two bombs in a row would be too much," Anne said slowly. "People would guess that something was up."

"Yeah. Actually, they already guess that something's up. But if there were two bombs in a row, they'd know for sure. So they'd probably try to make your death look like an accident. Like you didn't look both ways while crossing the street, or something."

"So I shouldn't stand too close to the curb for a while," Anne said. She was still having trouble believing that she was having this conversation. Talking about people who were trying to kill her seemed surreal.

"Not when there's anyone around who might push you," Amaranth agreed grimly.

The two girls were silent for a minute.

"But I'll get someone over here right away who can help you," Amaranth finally said. "Don't worry."

Anne doubted she was going to be able to follow that particular piece of advice.

She doubted it even more when Amaranth introduced her to her new bodyguard and fighting teacher an hour later.

"Mary?"

"Mary's one of the shifters in Daybreak," Amaranth explained. "She's the best we have. She'll be able to teach you a lot."

Anne looked dubiously at the other girl.

Mary Lyon was a big girl. Not a fat girl. Just a big one. She didn't quite tower over Anne, but she was definitely taller, and thicker, and heavier. Her hair was tawny colored and short, and her brown eyes had a sleepy look.

Anne had seen her in school many times. Mary was on the track team and could run fast, even though when she wasn't on the track she seemed to move slowly and lazily. She wasn't in any of Anne's classes, though, and Anne had had the impression that Mary had been put in the "ordinary" classes that the teachers were careful not to call remedial.

Mary smiled now at Anne, and something about that sleepy expression wasn't reassuring at all. Anne had to fight an urge to take a step backward.

"Hi," Mary said.

"Hi."

"Mary can shift into a lion," Amaranth explained. "She's the only shifter we have right now who's in Daybreak and who's at our school. So she's absolutely the best person to take care of you."

"Um." Anne really wasn't sure how well this was going to work, no matter how confident Amaranth seemed.

"I told Mary that I thought you should learn how to use a sword first," Amaranth decided. "It's a good all-round weapon against Nightworlders. Mary, did you bring the practice swords?"

"Sure."

"Okay. I'm going to make a couple of calls and see if anyone's noticed a new Nightworlder in town. I'll be back in a couple of hours, sooner if I learn anything." She gave Anne what was probably supposed to be an encouraging smile as she left.

You can do this, Anne told herself. She added practically, You'd better. Or you'll be dead.

Ballpoint pen poised above the form, he hesitated for a minute before writing "Samuel Gregory" in the box marked "Name."

The other boxes were easier for him to fill out. False address, false phone number. The credit card number he gave was for a prepaid card that had been taken out in another false name. There were members of Circle Midnight working for the credit card companies, of course. There were members of Circle Midnight everywhere that Circle Midnight thought they might come in handy.

The hotel clerk gave him such a blindingly bright smile when he returned the completed form that he wondered how thoroughly the hotel management had cowed its employees. No such cheer could possibly be natural. He respected whatever techniques they'd used to make their staff compliant.

"Here you are, sir! Room 310."

He took the plastic keycard, imprinted with a picture of the hotel so stunning that he could barely recognize it as the building in which he was currently standing. More skillful lies.

The clerk was telling him, with an air of breathless eagerness for his comfort, where the elevators were, how he could get to his room, and how the hotel staff as a whole believed that his slightest wish ought to be fulfilled instantly. He wondered if he should take them up on their offer, to the extent of allowing one of them to provide a pint or so of fresh blood. It had been a rather long flight.

He rather thought that the clerk, horrified though she might be, wouldn't quite dare to tell him "no" to his face.

Still, she'd probably call her manager to deal with him, and he had no desire to give anyone any reason to question his nature. He'd been sent to deal with Hunter Farmer's daughter, and part of his job was to be utterly discreet.

And, in the spirit of discretion, he wouldn't eat where he slept. Breakfast in bed might be extremely comfortable, but it wasn't prudent. And since he was attempting to lay a good cover. . . .

"Thank you," he told the clerk. "Could you tell me where there might be a good restaurant?"

She could, and she promptly provided him with an entire color brochure about the restaurants in the area. He accepted it, surveyed it thoughtfully, and then thanked her with a smile. He noticed that her return smile was utterly professional, neither more nor less warm than her smile of greeting had been.

Such plastic people America bred. Or made. Well, he wouldn't stay long. He lifted his suitcase and headed toward the elevators. He'd see his room first and then go out for a bite.

The noise in Anne's ears was unfamiliar, and she jerked awake twice as fast as she'd probably have done otherwise.

"Umhn." Mary leaned over and slapped at the alarm clock. The accusatory beeping fell silent.

"You want the bathroom first?" Mary ran a hand through her tawny hair and yawned.

"That's okay. You can go first."

"Mm." Mary climbed slowly out of bed, grabbed a bathrobe, and stumbled out her bedroom door.

They'd determined last night that Anne was not going to become an expert with the sword any time soon. After a few hours of "training," Anne had successfully acquired only a number of bruises and aching muscles. Mary had shaken her head and said that Anne wasn't going to be capable of defending herself against a vampire any time soon. If ever.

Anne entirely agreed. She felt as if a truck had run over her, backed up, and run over her again. Her entire body hurt. She didn't want to count how many bruises she had. And she hadn't managed to get past Mary's guard even once, and it had been embarrassingly clear how thoroughly the shifter girl had been holding back.

Amaranth had been incredibly disappointed.

"But you're a slayer's daughter!" she'd protested, when she'd returned from making her phone calls.

"I guess I didn't inherit any of his talents. Or maybe he wasn't the famous Hunter Farmer after all," Anne added, a little spitefully.

"You probably just need more practice."

Mary shook her head. "No."

"You don't think so?"

"No," Mary repeated. "Maybe she could become good with a sword after six months of practice."

Anne groaned inwardly.

"But," Mary continued, with the same relentlessness she'd used during sword practice, "she's not going to be ready to defend herself this week. Not against a Nightworlder."

"Maybe there's a spell I could use to help make her a better fighter," Amaranth mused.

"No." Mary sounded very sure. "Not a good idea. Because the assassin might have been given a way to break the spell," she explained, when Amaranth raised her eyebrows. "You don't want to rely on anything during a fight that someone else gave you. You need to depend only on yourself."

"But we've got to do something to protect her!"

"Did you find out anything from your phone calls?" Anne asked hopefully. Maybe Circle Midnight had given up and decided that she wasn't important enough to kill. Maybe the bomb had been enough.

"Sort of. There's a rumor that the Night World council may have sent a vampire assassin. A really good one, too." Amaranth looked a little worried.

Anne felt her stomach sink. "What does 'a really good one' mean?"

"He's probably done this before. Killing Nightworlders who broke the rules. Who fell in love with humans, or who told humans about the Night World."

"Falling in love is bad enough to kill someone for?" Anne couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Falling in love with a human." Amaranth emphasized the last three words.

"So?"

"So if you're in love with a human, you'll probably tell him or her about the Night World. That's what they think, anyway. And you might get married and have children, and then the children will be half-breeds."

"Half-breeds?" Anne hadn't heard that word since she'd been a fan of the Little House books back in elementary school.

"They think humans are vermin," Amaranth explained, blushing a little. "I mean, it's really prejudiced and all. But that's how they think."

Anne considered for a minute. She could understand, sort of, how people with special powers could look down on people who didn't have them. She didn't much like the thought of being looked down on, but she could sort of understand how the idea had gotten started.

She reminded herself that it wasn't the main point, though. She had to stay focused, had to be practical. The point was that the Night World might have sent an assassin after her, a vampire, someone who knew how to kill because he'd killed before. A specialized, trained killer.

Part of her wanted to get up and practice with the sword again. The other part said that it wasn't any use.

"So what do I do?" she asked. "If I can't be good enough with a sword to stop a vampire assassin, what should I do?" She looked at Mary. "I can't stop a vampire assassin, can I?"

"He'd probably kill you in ten seconds," Mary said bluntly. "Or less."

Anne would have liked to hear a different answer. She repressed a shiver. "Okay, I can't learn how to fight well enough in a few days. What do I do instead?"

Amaranth looked thoughtful. "Well. . . ."

After half an hour of talking, they'd concocted a plan. Anne didn't entirely like it, but it was much better than the other two alternatives she saw—the first being that she sat and waited helplessly for the Night World assassin to arrive, and the second being that she continued with the obviously hopeless sword training.

The plan was that Anne would always be with either Mary, or Amaranth, or some other member of Circle Daybreak who could serve as her bodyguard. They'd have slumber parties, study groups, and whatever else they could think of to explain to their parents why they were always together. Amaranth also thought that she had a spell or two that might prevent their parents from asking too many questions.

"Though I have to be careful with spells and my parents," she explained, "because of course they're witches too, and they can tell what I'm doing a lot of the time. But," and she'd smiled wickedly, "not always."

The first night, they'd agreed, Anne would stay with Mary at Mary's house. They'd ride the bus together to school. School was going to be hard, because Anne didn't have many classes with either Mary or Amaranth, but Amaranth thought she might be able to use a spell to let the school allow her to stay with Anne.

"I'll make them believe that your ankle is sprained, or something," she said confidently, "and that you need me to help carry your books. You can limp around and complain."

"Sounds easy," Anne said, a little ruefully. With all her aches, it wouldn't be hard to fake a sprained ankle.

After class, they'd agreed that Amaranth would go home with Anne. They'd stay at Anne's house that night. They'd go on the same way, never leaving Anne alone, until the assassin was identified and Circle Daybreak could do something about him.

"Circle Daybreak will do something?" Anne had asked. "What?"

"Don't worry about it," Amaranth had said confidently. "They'll be glad of the chance to stop one of Circle Midnight's assassins."

Anne had a sudden wild feeling that she'd stepped into the middle of a Mafia war. One family was battling another, and she was some poor innocent bystander stuck in the middle of it all.

She decided not to ask any questions about what "stopping an assassin" might mean. Of course killing another person wasn't right, but if it was in self-defense, or the defense of someone else who was innocent. . . .

So she'd gone with Mary, and she'd spent the night in a sleeping bag next to Mary's bed. Her sore muscles hurt more than ever, but she told herself that it was a good thing to have sore muscles. Better than being dead, which might be the only other alternative.

Their plan would work. It had to.

"Why did you choose a restaurant to meet me?" he asked Ivy Greer.

It was twilight, and the sky was a darkening blue that seemed to touch everything with its own color. L'heure bleu, the French called it.

"It's good cover. No one I know would expect me to come here. Unless I happened to be hunting, of course."

He caught the implication that she hadn't told her Night World friends that she was working with the assassin sent to kill Farmer's daughter. He wondered why she hadn't. Was she simply unpopular, someone who couldn't count on her friends' support? Or was Circle Daybreak so strong here that the Night World rules were no longer honored?

He looked at her thoughtfully. She was a very pretty girl, with a slender body and brilliantly green eyes. He rather thought that she might be using cosmetic contact lenses to enhance her natural eye color. Or perhaps it was just a spell. Her clothes involved a great deal of leather, and he thought she was trying to appear like a tough, bad girl.

His own clothes were sedate in comparison. He wasn't trying to seem like a bad boy. He usually preferred clothes that said "I am safe, you don't need to be afraid of me."

He caught her studying him as he was studying her. When she raised her lambently green eyes to his, he saw a slight doubt coalescing there.

"You aren't what I expected," she said.

"How not?"

"You're just—" she gestured "—ordinary-looking."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"I always thought an assassin would be, I don't know, scary-looking."

Stupid, he thought, his amusement with her fading. She had said the word "assassin" in a public place, one frequented by vermin, and even though no one had been nearby, he didn't approve of such carelessness.

"I don't scare people," he told her. "I just kill them."

The waitress came by then with their orders—a cheeseburger, fries, and coke for her, black coffee for him—and they fell silent.

"But don't you want to have some fun as well?" Ivy asked, when the vermin had gone to take some other customer's order.

He could hear the genuine curiosity in her voice, and so he answered. "It isn't fun."

"Killing vermin isn't fun? Even when they're threatening us? Our entire people, our way of life? We have to hide all the time, pretend that we're not what we are, keep our powers secret so that they won't lynch us—and you get the chance to right that balance. And you don't enjoy it?"

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Seventeen. Really seventeen," she added, though he hadn't asked. "I'm lamia. From a good family," she added proudly.

How petty, he thought. Such divisions in the Night World as to who was better than whom. Sometimes he wondered whether Nightworlders were really as much better than vermin as they claimed. He had yet to see a human vice that hadn't been practiced by a Nightworlder as well.

"I'm made," he said, careful even now to use only words that could be overheard safely. "And I'm not seventeen."

"How old are you?"

He smiled at her. "Old enough to know that one shouldn't ask such questions of certain people in public."

She flushed. "It doesn't matter. Even if anyone heard anything, my family could take care of it. Or their friends could. We know everyone in town who's a member of the Night—"

He caught her hand quickly, squeezing it hard so that her last word was cut off in a gasp.

"The council isn't happy with any of what's going on," he told her. His voice was pleasant, conversational. No one at any of the other tables would see that anything was wrong. "The bomb at the school was a very bad idea . . . of someone's. Of course, you don't know who would have been so stupid as to create an explosion that would cause the FBI and the state police and county law enforcement and just about everyone else to come to investigate."

He let go her hand. She pulled it back, looking afraid and sullen at the same time.

"No," he went on. "You're just seventeen years old, and a young, innocent high school student."

The glare she shot him might have done some damage if she'd been a witch and had witch powers to put behind it.

He smiled at her, letting his lips part to reveal the very white teeth underneath.

"Young," he reminded her. "And innocent. From my perspective."

He stared at her until finally, reluctantly, her eyes dropped.

He had no illusion that he'd gained control of her indefinitely. People weren't like that. She'd wait until she thought she could challenge him successfully, or she'd set some trap for him. Backstabbing was normal, in Circle Midnight.

But she was seventeen, and he was centuries old, and he'd seen far more backstabbing than she had.

Dispassionately, he lifted his coffee to his lips and took a sip of the thin, foul liquid. Americans had absolutely no sense of how to make coffee. Fortunately, he didn't much care.

"Now," he said gently, setting the cup back down on the fake wood grain of the table, "I want you to tell me everything you know about the slayer's daughter that you found. And I don't want anything made up, or any guesses. Just tell me what you found out, and anything else you know about her for certain."

"And then what?" Ivy asked sullenly.

Yes, she wasn't going to be cowed for long. He hoped she wouldn't get too rebellious. If she seriously interfered with his work, he might have to kill her, too.

"Then I'll do what I was sent to do."