Blood Ties Book Two: Possession. Jennifer Armintrout

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СКАЧАТЬ visitors, and a huge sculpture dominated the center. There were many people, but the space felt vast. The ring of voices echoing off the buildings and the stones beneath our feet was swallowed up by the open night air, creating a gentle but unintelligible murmur. Above it all, the clear night sky sparkled with stars that seemed so close I could touch them, and its cold beauty contrasted with the warm life on the ground.

      The way Max and I contrasted with the life around us. A pang of longing speared my heart. A group of teens congregated near a vendor’s cart, laughing over their ice-cream cones. Near the huge statue of a soldier on horseback, a darkly handsome man lifted a woman in his arms and spun, her blood red, broomstick skirt swirling like a rebellious flag. He set her on her feet and kissed her upturned face, and they melted against each other. It was like a romantic postcard and a cosmic jab at my feelings all at once. I envied these people in a way I hadn’t experienced since I’d turned. Oh, I missed my humanity from time to time, but the point of all that had been stolen from me had never been driven home so incredibly hard before.

      “This is…”

      “Beautiful,” Max finished for me. “This is my favorite part of the city. It’s so alive, you’d never know it wasn’t day.”

      Miserably, I closed my eyes. “I was going to say ‘unbearable.’”

      “Carrie, you okay?” He clasped my arm.

      I put my hand over his. The romance of the place was getting to me, that was all. “I’m fine. Just worn out from the trip and worried about Nathan. It’s nothing, really.”

      “Well, let’s get this over with, then.” He pointed to a redbrick building with beautiful white trim around the windows. At street level, patrons spilled out of a bustling café.

      “That,” Max said with a note of wistfulness in his voice, “is the headquarters of the Voluntary Vampire Extinction Movement.”

      I rolled my eyes. “I’m not quite sure I follow. Is it the two floors of what appear to be apartments upstairs, or the place with the dinner menu posted on the window?”

      “You’ll see.” He slung my bag across his shoulder and grabbed my hand.

      The café was hip with black walls and blue neon recessed lighting. The clientele dined off square plates with barely any food on them—fitting, since they were all thin as rails.

      The maître d’, a handsome, haughty young man all in black, looked up from his reservation book. When he saw Max, he grinned. “Ah, Senor Harrison. And this is?”

      “Dr. Carrie Ames. She’s got a reservation.” Max winked at the man, though it was barely perceptible.

      The maître d’ seemed to catch the meaning behind the expression, and he smiled pleasantly. “Follow me, please.”

      We wound our way among the tables toward a steel door with a black velvet rope in front of it. A small, black label bearing the letters V.I.P. proclaimed its purpose. Diners looked up with interest as we passed, probably trying to figure out how we, in our slept-in clothes, could possibly be VIP’s.

      The door was an elevator. The black button blended in with the wall. The maître d’ pushed it and the panel slid open, allowing us inside.

      Once the door closed, the young man turned to us. “First time visiting the Movement, Doctor?”

      “First time visiting Spain, as a matter of fact.” I tried to keep my tone light. I wasn’t sure if I should give away my non-Movement status or not.

      “You’ll love it here.” The man’s English was slightly accented, but very good. “After six hundred years, I’m still not sick of it.”

      Our conversation was cut short by a rude electronic voice. It droned on in several different languages before it reached English. “Voice recognition confirmation required.”

      The maître d’ held a finger to his lips to warn me to silence before stating, “Miguel.”

      “Voice sample confirmed,” the voice informed us after a litany of foreign tongues. “Please enter security clearance code” was the next instruction I could understand.

      “Miguel is the front line here at the Movement,” Max explained as the vampire flipped open a hidden panel and punched a sequence of numbers on the keypad. “Nobody gets in without his okay. Still, there’s plenty of backup.”

      “The waiter thing is a, how do the spy movies put it, a cover,” Miguel said with a wry grin.

      “What kind of backup?” I peered over Miguel’s arm as the keypad retracted and the panel slid back into place. “What happens if you get it wrong?”

      “A debilitating electronic impulse would momentarily paralyze us and the elevator would be sent to a secure floor. Assassins would be waiting to detain and interrogate us until our credentials cleared,” Max said with a shrug. “It’s not so bad.”

      “You would know,” Miguel said with a laugh, clapping him on the back. “Max is not allowed to take the elevator by himself anymore.”

      Max was about to snipe back at him when the doors opened on a reception area so bright I had to shield my eyes. The walls, furniture and ceiling were stark white, the overhead fluorescents blinding. Only the floor, covered in low-pile, slate-gray carpet, and a very frightening girl at the front desk, stood out.

      “Anne will take care of you from here,” Miguel said as we exited the elevator. “Buenos noches.”

      “Buenos noches,” Max repeated, though the pleasantry wasn’t directed at Miguel.

      “Hi, Max,” the girl behind the desk said with a smile. Her expression was a startling contrast to the bleakness of her appearance. Her black hair, pale skin and zombie-couture black clothing reminded me of the bored teenagers who worked at the goth shop in the mall back home.

      Max leaned casually on the tall counter. “Miss me, baby doll?”

      “Oh, yeah. You know I did,” the girl quipped with a roll of her eyes.

      “This is Dr. Carrie Ames. She should be on the amnesty list.”

      “Amnesty list?” I asked, looking over the counter with interest.

      “The ‘do not kill’ list,” the girl clarified, holding out her hand. “I’m Anne.”

      I shook it, thinking it best to be polite in case I’d been omitted from the list. After a tense second or two of looking, she found my name. “Okay, you’re cleared to meet with General Breton in an hour. Uh, and he is in a mood today.”

      “General?” I snorted. “So, are you guys more like the Salvation Army or the actual army?”

      Max cleared his throat with a warning look. “General Breton demands the respect afforded him as an officer of the British Army.”

      “Oh, so he’s, like, a real general.” I swallowed. “Great.”

      Anne patted my arm reassuringly. “Only for, like, a couple years, and only in the War of 1812.”

      “Carrie СКАЧАТЬ