“Yes. And let’s go ahead and put that one on the zero tolerance vocab list, as well.” He gave another disgusted look. “Anyway, werewolves have always been really into that hippiedippy earth magic crap like Nathan’s got in his bookstore. Except they know what they’re doing, because they’re more or less ruled by nature. For centuries, they’ve dabbled in magic to alter time and skip over the days of the full moon’s influence. Then some of them turned to science, came up with an injection that will suppress the change. The resultant rift split the species into two clans, werewolves and lupins.
“The lupins believe they’re superior, because they advocate the vaccine that allows them to live as humans. The werewolves think the lupins are traitors for turning away from magic. So a war started, and since lupins have no problem feeding on innocent humans, the Movement sided with the werewolves. They join up and get the chance to kill lupins and vampires. Personally, I wouldn’t care if they lost their collective cool and ripped each other to shreds.”
“I’ll remember that, when it’s time to call in a cleaning crew to mop the fur and guts off the walls.”
I jumped at the cultured, but very commanding, British voice. So did Max. The man who’d spoken surprised me. I had definitely formed a picture in my head based around Breton’s military title. I’d expected a man in his fifties with an iron jaw, deep lines by his eyes and a haircut so precise as to be geometrical. Breton was nothing like that, except for the iron jaw. He’d probably been turned in his late thirties. His long, wheat-colored hair was pulled back in a severe horsetail, accentuating his sharp features and long, straight nose. His lips quirked in an expression that was either annoyance or amusement. It was hard to tell which.
“General Breton, I presume.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt as I extended my hand and prayed my palms weren’t sweaty.
The man didn’t take it. “We are not so formal here. You may call me General, Dr. Ames.”
“And you can call me…” I hesitated, rolling his words around in my brain. “Doctor?”
He gave me a cool, appraising look. “Come inside.”
We followed him through the door, Max showing Breton’s back the middle finger the whole time.
The inner office was a bit of a shock, considering the appearance of the waiting area. The walls were dark paneled wood, the carpet a deep, rich print. A huge desk with a carved emblem of a foxhunter dominated the room. Two stiff wing chairs stood before it, where Breton motioned for us to sit. It looked as if we’d entered a bad theme restaurant of British paraphernalia. A coat of arms and crossed swords rested above the mantel over a huge fireplace, and the Union Jack hung from a flag post in the corner. Behind the desk, two large windows—obvious fakes, considering we were below ground—showed a sunny country scene. Somebody’s missing the sunshine.
Not that I could blame him. I found myself occasionally longing for a lazy day of sunbathing on the beach.
“That’s very…pastoral.” I tried to sound friendly, but it came off wooden.
Breton’s eyes narrowed. They were gray, but nothing like Nathan’s. Nathan’s eyes were changeable, storm clouds with the occasional silver lining. Breton’s eyes were stone-colored, and just as formidable. “York. Lovely hunting there.” He settled into his chair, which looked infinitely more comfortable than ours, and placed a manila envelope on the desk. “These may be of interest to you.”
Max reached for the envelope. When he lifted it, glossy, black-and-white photographs slid out.
I covered my mouth, but couldn’t look away. The horrible pictures showed a woman, her head nearly severed, the column of her throat ripped away to the spine.
“I believe your friend Mr. Galbraith is responsible for this?” Breton asked, as though he needed confirmation.
A wave of sickness crept up my own throat as I nodded slowly. On the news, a witness had mentioned the victim’s throat had been torn. In reality, the whole front of her neck had been excised. The ragged edges of the wound were the impressions of teeth.
“Nathan’s been possessed by something,” Max explained, never looking at the photos. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Yes, that’s what Anne tells me. She said he attacked you, Dr. Ames. Tell me what happened.” The general leaned back in his chair as though it would fool me into believing his mind hadn’t been made up already.
I kept it short. “I went downstairs to our bookstore—”
“You live with Mr. Galbraith?” Breton tapped his lips with his forefinger. “Are you married?”
“No, he’s my…” I stopped myself before I could say “sire.” Nathan was on probation as it was, and killing this jogger definitely didn’t help matters. If they knew he’d saved my life by giving me his blood, instead of just doing away with me as Movement law dictated, he’d definitely be toast.
I tried to think of a way to explain our convoluted relationship and came up with nothing. “He’s my…lover?”
A weird expression crossed the general’s face, the physical equivalent of the phrase “too much information.” “I see. Please, continue.”
“I went down to the bookstore. It was messed up, and Nathan attacked me.” It hurt just remembering it, phantom pain from the attack, phantom pain where the blood tie should have been.
Breton pushed one of the photos toward me. “He also attacked this young woman. How did you escape when she did not?”
I bit my lip. I assumed the reason Nathan had left me alone was the smell of his blood in me. I couldn’t reveal that to Breton. “I talked to him. I asked him not to hurt me.”
“I see.” The general nodded and reached into the envelope. He pulled a slip of yellow paper from it, and Max took a loud breath.
“What is that?” I looked from the general to Max. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a kill order.” Max’s face was grim.
Before I could protest, Breton spoke. “If Mr. Galbraith could be reasoned with at the time he attacked Dr. Ames, he was not possessed.”
“What about the symbols?” I stammered. “He had symbols carved into his skin.”
“No matter.” Breton waved a hand. “Mr. Galbraith was on probation. He’s killed again, and he must be dealt with.”
“Dealt with?” I stood, knocking the chair back. Max grabbed my arm but I shrugged him off. “I was there. I saw him. Nathan would never do anything like this! Something forced him to act that way.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for that?” Breton’s eyes narrowed. “The word of a vampire who has never joined the Movement, standing up for a vampire who turned his back on all we stand for?”
My hands shook with anger. “Fine. I’ll join the Movement right now. Where do I sign up? Because once I get my membership card, I’m going to lodge a complaint against you for being…such an asshole!”
“Harrison,” Breton barked, though his enraged gaze never left mine. “Kindly keep your visitor under control before drastic measures are taken!”
“Calm down!” Max had never used such a tone with me. That he did it now showed how afraid he was of Breton. “General, there has to be some way to fix this so Nathan doesn’t have to die.”
“The decision is final.” The general scraped the photos into a neat pile.
I turned helplessly to Max. He couldn’t look me in the eye. I knew then nothing could be done.
I glared at the slip of yellow paper. For a moment, I imagined grabbing the kill order and shredding it into a hundred pieces, but that wouldn’t solve anything. So long as the Movement wished