The Wicked City. Megan Morgan
hell made them “mysterious.”
“They ran those pictures in the Tribune earlier this week,” Micha said. “You have no idea how tenacious reporters in this city can be, especially Ethan Roberts.”
June looked up at Sam, her stomach jumping. “He’s alive, isn’t he? You saw him.”
“I didn’t. But the telepath who talked to John McKormic did.”
She dropped the paper in her lap. She feared she might do something stupid, like start crying. “Did he look all right? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know the state of health he’s in, but he’s definitely alive. My spy couldn’t talk to Mr. McKormic too long without arousing suspicion.”
Micha gripped June’s shoulder.
“Wait… What’s the bad news?” Her stomach dropped.
“The bad news is, I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get him out of there.” Sam scowled darkly, as if this were more a personal affront to him than an agonizing revelation for her. “They’re keeping him in the Special Projects department, which is under heavy security. And I don’t have any people in the Institute who have clearance for that floor. They’re extremely paranoid about who has access.”
“I’ll go in there myself if I have to,” June said. “I have to get him out.”
“Sure you will. Going in there is not going to save him. The only thing that’ll happen is you’ll be caught as well.”
She wanted to punch something, hard. Hard enough to break all the bones in her hand, make the pain distract her from the horrible sickness in her stomach, the certainty she had made the wrong decision running away. Micha still had his hand on her shoulder, and he squeezed again, tighter.
“Just hold on to your panties,” Sam said. “I’ll come up with something. I’m the smartest man in this city.”
* * * *
Evening fell, the world outside the windows murky and dotted with glittering lights. Micha had dozed off on one of the sofas. Sam had been making phone calls—she assumed—beyond a set of closed French doors on the other side of the room. He had sent Muse off on another mysterious “patrol.” June couldn’t stay still, pacing and smoking, getting dangerously close to running out of cigarettes. Finally, the doors opened and Sam strode out. She glimpsed a bedroom beyond.
“There’s going to be a press conference in half an hour,” Sam said. “They’re going to talk about Rose Bellevue.”
Some political talk show was on right now. “That ought to be interesting.” Maybe they would talk about her and Jason as well.
“Eric Greerson wants to say something, since today was her funeral. So kind of him.”
“Who’s Eric Greerson?”
Sam made a face, as if something vile had been shoved under his nose. “Eric Greerson is the head of the Institute. The second one in the decade it’s been open. The former head, Michael Paulson, was known for being indecisive and didn’t like confrontation with dissidents, so they replaced him. Eric is just another fool in what’s sure to be a long line of them. He doesn’t know what’s going on at the Institute right under his nose.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’ve met him. He’s a self-righteous asshole. He believes in what the normals running the Institute want the place to stand for. The Institute’s governing board keeps the PR machine rolling so they can continue blinding the public. Eric’s their pawn. There’s a legend he threw a huge party for the Institute’s supporters the day Alan Jenkins died. Probably untrue. Or I like to believe it is, since I didn’t get an invite.”
She recalled what Cindy had told her that morning in her apartment. “Alan Jenkins. That’s the guy who ran the SNC?”
“Yes, before his son Aaron took over and we hammered out our treaty. Not that the treaty makes us best friends. But I force myself to tolerate him.” He walked over to the sofas. “I want to see this press conference.”
“We need to get my brother out of the Institute,” she reminded him.
“Give me time.”
“I don’t have time. My brother doesn’t have time.”
“And I don’t have a magic wand.” Sam stood between the sofas, in front of the TV. “We’re going to order some food and sit down and watch this press conference. You want a beer? You sound like you could use a beer.”
“Fuck beer. Give me some wine.”
“Wine?” Sam raised both eyebrows, then narrowed his eyes. “Red or white?” He clearly believed he was dealing with an amateur.
“I’m sure a fancy hole like this has a Paul Hobbs Cabernet Sauvignon. That’s red.”
While Sam called room service, June gently shook Micha awake. She didn’t want him to starve.
Micha opened his eyes and it seemed for a moment he didn’t recognize her. Then he shifted and winced.
“Hey.” His voice was gravelly. “How long have I been asleep?” He sat up on one elbow, looking around.
“Not long.” She sat down on the edge of the sofa and touched his knee. “You all right?”
He rubbed the side of his head. “A little disoriented.” He slipped his hand down his neck, squinting at the TV. “I feel weird, like I might be coming down with something.”
“Disoriented could be my fault, but my power doesn’t make people sick. I think you probably just need to eat.”
The food arrived, as well as the wine.
“Do you know how much that stuff costs?” Sam asked.
“Yes, I do.” June swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. Full bodied. Well-balanced. “Don’t assume shit about me.”
June wasn’t interested in the press conference, but clearly couldn’t escape. Micha sat next to her on the sofa, nibbling on a piece of bread. Sam sat on the opposite sofa. On the screen, Eric Greerson appeared as a thin, narrow-shouldered man with silver hair and a solemn face. He stood at a podium, surrounded by several official-looking people.
“As you all know,” he said, “today we laid to rest one of the finest researchers the Institute for Supernatural Research has ever known, our head vampire researcher, Rose Bellevue. Her death was the result of a brutal murder, the perpetrators of which are still to be found. The police are working in close contact with us. We are also attempting to find her husband, the well-known paranormal activist Micha Bellevue, who, in conjunction with her death, has gone missing.”
June was cringing for Micha, but Micha just stared blankly at the screen.
“We have very little information, unfortunately,” Eric said. “Security footage shows intruders bypassing the Institute’s security systems and attaining access to the vampire research floor. We believe they were specifically targeting her, but because their faces are covered we cannot identify them.”
June gaped. “That’s not what happened!”
“Do you really think they’d let Eric give the police the real footage?” Sam said. “Someone doctored it, of course.”
“We’re sending a special group of our own choosing to Old Town to gather information. The police are aware of this, but are not leading, nor condoning, this separate investigation.”
“Of course.” Sam scoffed. “They think militant vampires did it.”
“What’s in Old Town?” June asked.
“The Nocturnal District,” Micha spoke up. “A place where vampires hang out. Everything’s open from dusk ’til dawn. The less PC refer