From Black Rooms (22 page)

Kamei before the Violet Kil er got her. For a girl befogged by adolescence, the Violets shone like a lighthouse, a beacon leading her toward an existence of purpose and meaning. These people associated with the most famous and glamorous individuals of al time, solved crimes and captured kil ers, revealed the most coveted secrets of history and the afterlife--and got lifetime employment with ful benefits from the

NAACC, to boot. Amanda had found her dream job, her true vocation.

The fact that she had not been born with the necessary qualifications was further proof that reality sucked. She was not alone in believing that Nature had cheated her of her true identity. Web pages and chat rooms devoted to "proto-Violets" mushroomed in the metastasizing Internet, cloistered among sites for the aficionados of such arcana as cross-stitching, bass fishing, cannibalism, medieval religious iconography, celebrity nude photos, and Chihuahua breeding.

Violetworld.com, SoulSong.net, Afterlifer.org--they al provided a venue for quasi-Violets to commune and commiserate about being denied their birthright in the genetic lottery. There, they could feed one another's fantasies, blogging accounts of their imagined

inhabitations and role-playing the Corps camaraderie they would never know.

Amanda had spent time on al of these sites, usual y instead of doing homework. On this night, when she tired of rol ing on her bedspread in the throes of violent possession, she went over to her desktop computer to log on to Deadtalker.com. Her parents, husband-andwife real-estate agents, were too busy to concern themselves overmuch with her private life, but they did care enough to give her DSL.

As soon as the Deadtalker home page loaded, she

entered her user name and password in the blank fields below the enormous violet eyes on-screen. "Welcome,
Amalfia," the page replied. "Please wait while we
summon the site map."

The map consisted of several bald heads, both male and female, complete with node points, each with a link such as "Soul Mate Personals" or "Inhabitation Info" beneath it. Amanda clicked on the "Deadtalk Chat" link, and the eyes of the Violet above it flashed. As the site redirected Amanda to the chat meeting page, she glanced at the clock in the monitor's lower right corner. It was early yet--only 11:22. Deathdreamer had

promised to rendezvous with her at midnight, but she hoped that he was as impatient to get together as she was.

Deathdreamer was by far the coolest proto-Violet she'd met online--definitely not a poser. He knew stuff about the inner workings of the Corps--details of murder investigations, life at the Iris Semple Conduit Academy--that Amanda hadn't seen in any of her

books or movies. He told her--in strictest confidence, of course--that he had actual connections inside the NAACC and that he could get her a job with them. She figured she'd only be fit for filing papers at Corps headquarters in D.C., but that would be better than working retail. And maybe it would give her a chance to meet some Violets in person...as wel as

Deathdreamer himself.

Scanning the list of screen names in the chat room's dialogue box, Amanda was glad the other Deadtalkers couldn't see her disappointment. No Deathdreamer. Only MantraMan and Ghostess, two major posers,

monopolizing the conversation as usual. MantraMan acted as if he'd summoned Louis XV, "the Sun King," emoting in misspel ed Netspeak about how horrible it was to be guil otined during the French Revolution, while Ghostess lapped it up and flirted shamelessly in return.

Wrong Roman numeral, dude, Amanda thought with a
tsk-tsk of contempt. If you're gonna talk the talk, at
least get the right Louis. She could have ignited a
flame-war over it, but the pretension so demoralized her that she let the others ignore her, only entering the discussion when someone asked her a direct question. After ten minutes of watching the inane chatter scrol past her, she was about to give up and check out another site when a new party popped up in the room.

Deathdreamer: amalfia? u here?

She grinned, her fingers doing a merry jig on the keyboard.

Amalfia: not 4 long! want 2 go private?

Deathdreamer: u bet! lead the way...

She typed "c ya!" to the posers, then clicked the onscreen button that would open a one-on-one dialogue box, continuing her remarks only when she and

Deathdreamer were electronical y isolated from the Deadtalker clique.

Amalfia: thanx 4 saving me! mman makes me wish

*he* was dead. then i could use my protective

mantra & make him go away!!! lol

Deathdreamer: yeah...that's y i'd rather deal

w/dead people!:)

Amalfia: me 2! :) btw...about that corps job u talked
about. how old do i have 2 be 2 get it?

Deathdreamer: depends. r u ready?

Amalfia: am I!!! i'd take it in a beat.

Deathdreamer: *now*????????????????

The eagerness of his query took her aback for a sec. She laughed aloud as she keyed in her reply.

Amalfia: heck yeah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i'm packin
my bags...

Deathdreamer: i'm serious. it's y i wanted 2 meet u
2nite.

Amanda now wished she could see Deathdreamer's

face, to see who he was and whether he was kidding.
Amalfia: lol great! swing by & pick me up in 10

minutes. :)

Deathdreamer: no need. i'm rt outside yr window.
She waited for him to punctuate the joke with a winking emoticon. He didn't. Though she felt as gul ible as a kid fal ing for the pul -my-finger gag, Amanda couldn't keep herself from glancing behind her at the window across the bedroom. It remained as she had left it-closed, with black velvet draped over the curtain rod to blot out the external world. She resisted the urge to rip the cloth down and look outside. Boy, what a dupe, she thought, laughing at her own sil iness.

Amalfia: LMAO!!! ok, u got me. i actually xpected
to c u there. forgot 1 thing: u don't even know my
real name.

Deathdreamer: o but i do. it's amanda bethany

pyne, and u live at 1725 cedar In, where i am rt now.
Now Amanda real y did feel the stubble on her scalp stand straight up as if a soul were knocking, but the sensation was not so pleasant this time. Before tonight, she'd paid as much attention to the scare stories about Internet predators as she did to the preachy videos on drugs, sex, and smoking that they showed in Health class. But here she was, in the starring role of one of those stories, talking with some perv in cyberspace about whom she knew zip...yet who knew who she was and where she lived.

Wait a minute. There was no way some random

stranger could find out her name and address.

Deathdreamer had to be one of her friends jerking her chain. Of course! No wonder he knew exactly how to snag her interest. Whoever it was had gone to a lot of trouble, researching those tantalizing tidbits about the NAACC as bait and then lying in wait for her online. Amanda was relieved, yet the prank also made her feel stupid and sad.

Amalfia: ok...jig's up. is this kevin? or carla?

Deathdreamer: no. but i am yr friend.

Amalfia: who r u? & how'd u set this up?

Deathdreamer: the corps got yr name & address
from yr isp. told u i had connections! ;)

Again, the frigid prickling of her skin. She whipped around to look at the window, but the black cloth stil blocked her view. Amanda couldn't decide whether to yank the curtain down, bolt from the room, or scream for her parents. Instead, she hit CAPS LOCK and

punched out an ultimatum.

Amalfia: STAY AWAY FROM ME, U PSYCHO!!

OR I CALL THE COPS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She tensed, ready to spring from her chair, but he made no attempt to come through the window for her.

Deathdreamer: u don't need to do that, amanda. i'll
go away, and u will never hear from me or the corps
again.

Amanda's fingers hovered over the keyboard. What if this guy was legit, and she was blowing her only chance to be with the NAACC? The threat of never learning Deathdreamer's offer suddenly seemed worse than

anything he might do to her tonight. She released CAPS

LOCK.

Amalfia: how do i know u r 4 real?

Deathdreamer: cause i stopped by floral acres to
visit yr uncle pete. he told me he misses the hikes up
mt. baldy.

Amanda swal owed the breath that bal ed in her throat. Until last summer, her uncle Pete had lived in

Claremont, and every time she went to visit him they would trek through the nature trails on and around the highest nearby mountain. He fel off a ladder in August while repainting his garage and currently resided in Floral Acres, the local cemetery.

Amalfia: u could have found that out from anyone.
Deathdreamer: maybe. but i found it out cause i'm a
violet & u can be 2.

Her vision blurred so much it became hard to read. She thought it might be her contacts making her eyes water, but in fact she was tearing up. Amanda wanted to

believe it was due to grief for Uncle Pete or fear of the man who might be lurking outside her window. In

reality, another fear brought her to the verge of weeping: the dread of hopes raised only to be dashed.
Amalfia: u r sooooooooo full of it.

Deathdreamer: no, amalfia. the corps wants u. they
can make u what u were always meant 2 be. open the
window & i will prove it.

She swiveled her office chair toward the window. The black drape resembled a magician's cloak, waiting to be swept aside to unveil miracles.

This is so nuts, she thought, striving to be sensible.
Blotting her eyes, she pivoted back toward the

computer to dissuade herself.

Amalfia: i can't. my parents will miss me. & i have a
chem test 2morrow.

The excuses sounded pathetic even to her.

Deathdreamer did not relent.

Deathdreamer: aren't u tired of pretending? isn't it
time u asked--r u a poser or a violet? r u

amanda...or amalfia????????????

Amanda spread her hands over her naked scalp,

freckled with its ridiculous fake node points, unable to reply.

Deathdreamer: i can't come back after 2nite. yr
decision???

Amalfia: |

The cursor blinked for her answer. Amanda stared at the blank space next to her Violet name, for it summed up her life--fantasy without fol ow-up, a persona with no identity behind it.

Without entering her choice, she got up from the

computer, took one of the candle sconces from the vanity table, and went to the window. As she flung the black cloth to the floor, the figure standing outside glanced up from the glowing display of his PDA. She raised the sash and unhooked the screen, which he slid out and set aside.

Amanda had always pictured Deathdreamer as being a boy little older than herself, but the man who smiled at her in the candle's glow was at least in his mid-thirties and did not look like the typical pseudo-Violet. His black clothing was functional, not aesthetic--a cat burglar's outfit. He had neatly styled blond hair and black brows, suggesting a dye job. And the eyes, set deep beneath those brows, needed no lenses to give them their violet fire.

"Hel o, Amalfia," he said.

18

The Ash Field

ALBUQUERQUE, NEW Mexico, a thorny fence of

wooden posts and barbed wire hemmed in a twenty-acre sprawl of dusty earth and brittle brush. A few head of cattle listlessly ambled the land's perimeter, but they were for show, to make outsiders believe this

compound was simply another ranch. For this patch of desert nurtured a far more precious commodity than livestock--one that had to be isolated and protected from the mass of common humanity.

A large, low, adobe-style building squatted at the center of the property, its brick wal s a burnt umber in the stretching shafts of daybreak as Serena Mfume rumbled up the dirt road toward it in a rented Jeep. To Serena, who spent most of her late teens and early adulthood here, this was a sort of homecoming. Yet the sight of the stark pueblo structure--part bunkhouse, part

temple--did not inspire smiles, but rather a reverential pensiveness, as if she were paying respects at a grave site. The burial mound where her youth was interred. The severity of her mood only intensified when she arrived at the adobe complex, knowing that she had to confront the traumas of both the past and the future. The sound that greeted her as she got out of the Jeep drove the point home. The dry, brisk air of the desert morning quavered with the strangled groans and squeals of people in torment. Serena recognized the cries in an instant; she had made them herself on several

occasions.

They could only have come from the Ash Field.

Serena sighed. She'd hoped that by arriving at dawn, she might meet with Simon before he began the day's training. Alas, Master McCord never was one for letting his acolytes sleep in.

Bypassing the main entrance to the pueblo, Serena went around the western face of the building, toward the place of pain. This ranch served as the private boot camp where Simon McCord indoctrinated his inner

circle of handpicked disciples--conduits he believed had exceptional abilities worthy of his tutelage. To Simon, Violets had an obligation to consecrate their entire lives to the divine duty given them by God. Anything less was sacrilege, and Master McCord used his grueling practice regimen to weed out the weak of wil . Among his hapless acolytes, the Ash Field had earned notoriety as the worst of al these exercises. It resembled nothing more than a vacant square of dirt about twenty feet to a side, the soil distinguished from the surrounding desert by its color--darker in some spots, lighter in others. When not in use, the Field was covered by a broad canvas tarp, anchored in place by heavy metal rods and stakes to protect the sacred ground from the wind and infrequent rain. But today the cover had been drawn back to reveal the Ash Field's singular quintessence of dust: soot imported by the sackful from Auschwitz and Dachau, Hiroshima and