The Wicked City (18 page)

“Nothing is what it seems,” Rose whispered, though her voice carried in the silence, as loud as a scream. “Both sides have secrets.”

June tried to respond, fighting the urge to cry like a scared little kid. She didn’t want Rose to come any closer to the bed. When the apparition took a few slow, stiff steps into the room, June was on the verge of passing out from fear. Or pissing herself. The mounting dread in her chest swelled like a black bubble about to burst.

“You will find the truth,” Rose said.

Though Rose’s voice lacked inflection, June could easily decipher what the statement meant. Rose didn’t speak to bestow hope—she was making a demand. June
would
find out the truth, or else Rose would curse her with her presence forever.

“The truth,” Rose whispered. “Find it.”

June’s paralysis broke. Rose disappeared in a flicker, as if someone had turned off a movie projector. June jerked against the mattress, letting out a gasp, the only release of a pent-up scream.

Something thumped out in the main part of the room.

Micha jerked up his head. June’s shoulder was hot where he’d been resting. He looked up at her in sudden wide-awake fear, his eyes glittering.

“Someone’s in the room,” June whispered. This intruder was flesh-and-blood and much more dangerous than a ghost, though. Probably.

Micha quickly rolled away. June sat up, heart pounding. The air in the room was still chilly. The darkness left her on edge, as if something might be lurking in the shadows near the bed. She scrambled off the bed and to her feet, looking around for a weapon. She’d rip the TV off the wall and use it as a bludgeon if she had to.

Like an idiot, Micha called out, “Who’s there?” He hadn’t even grabbed something to defend himself with.

A familiar voice replied, making June jump.

“It’s just me, don’t panic. Where the hell are the lights?”

An immediate rush of relief spread through June's chest, followed by a quick, burning anger. “For God’s sake,” she snarled and marched across the room. “Cindy, what the hell are you doing, coming in here and scaring the shit out of us like that?”

“Sam sent me over.” A light popped on in the outer room.

June hesitated to pass by the spot where Rose had stood, but she made herself do so. She stepped through the doorway and squinted at Cindy in the light. Cindy stood between the sofas, wearing a fuzzy brown coat and matching boots.

“He sent me to watch over you,” Cindy said. “Muse is—busy.”

June ruffled her hair, scowling. “Great. Did you bring your gun?”

Cindy patted her bag at her hip. “Yes.”

June lowered her arm. Micha walked out of the bedroom behind her.

“Good.” June wanted to ask if ghosts could be shot.

“You need to turn on the TV.” Cindy took her bag off her shoulder, tossed it on one of the sofas, and grabbed up the TV remote. “You gotta see what’s going on.”

“What channel?” Micha turned and went back in the bedroom.

“All of them,” Cindy said.

As the screen between the sofas blazed to life, a female reporter stood in front of the Institute courtyard. People were huddled behind her, bundled up in coats and scarves and hats, livid faces caught by the camera lights. On the bottom of the screen were the words, “Nancy Cleary, live from the Chicago Institute for Supernatural Research.”

“What the hell?” Micha asked from the bedroom.

He had turned on the TV too, and the woman’s voice was in stereo.

Nancy was about to interview Sam, who stood beside her, looking the angriest of all. At the bottom of the screen, they flashed, “Sam Haain, leader of the Paranormal Alliance,” as Nancy thrust the microphone in his direction. She didn’t look happy to be given the task.

“We refuse to stand aside and be silent.” Sam glowered at the camera. “We’ve put up with enough of the Institute’s lies. Now they try to orchestrate a cover-up? If I don’t get some answers, I’ll have every single member of my group down here on their doorstep, twenty-four hours a day, and Eric Greerson will not rest until he comes out and answers my questions.”

Nancy pulled the microphone back. “Mr. Haain, this still begs the question: where is the information coming from that has your group so upset? We’re trying to substantiate these claims about the Coffin twins, and there doesn’t seem to be any—”

Sam grabbed the microphone and jerked it back to him. He had a huge hand compared to Nancy. She now looked more frightened than angry.

“I have sources your ineffectual reporters couldn’t begin to tap.” Bile dripped from Sam’s words. “We’re tired of normals thinking they have a better grasp of our kind than we do. That you know so much more about us than we know about ourselves. That the only place reliable information comes from is this unholy edifice of lies and sanctimony.” He pointed damningly at the Institute.

The people behind him shouted in agreement.

Nancy forcefully pulled the microphone back. “Mr. Haain, we’re simply trying to confirm the claims that have been made. For the sake of your own validation, some proof—”

“You want proof?” Sam yelled, loud enough the microphone still picked him up. “Ask the vampires. Ask those who have been scarred by the Institute’s research! The Institute is run by normals, for normals, for the express purpose of—”

“Mr. Haain!” Nancy backed away. “Most people believe the twins went home after Rose Bellevue’s death.”

“Why hasn’t the Institute released a statement?” Sam got in her face. “Why haven’t the twins talked to the press? This is a cover-up. I want someone to come out here right now and prove me wrong!” He seemed on the verge of pounding the wide-eyed woman into the pavement. A couple of large men became involved. Nancy swiveled toward the camera, eyes glittering with irritation as the men forced Sam away. The scene switched to a studio, where a somber-looking, white-haired man sat behind a desk. He perked up at the camera.

“Well, things certainly seem volatile there, Nancy,” he said, with no particular emotion. “Folks, if you’re just tuning in: unrest tonight at the Chicago Institute for Supernatural Research. Nothing new in that vein, but tonight we have Sam Haain, leader of the Paranormal Alliance, along with members of his group outside the facility, reacting to a rumor that the Coffin twins—who came to Chicago for the purpose of research earlier in the week—have been
murdered
,” he nearly chuckled, “and that the Institute is covering it up.” He looked to his right. The camera panned over to take in a younger dark-haired man with eyebrows arched in mild, affected surprise.

“Well, Dennis,” the younger man said, “as you know, this isn’t the first time Mr. Haain has organized a protest or reacted passionately to an unsubstantiated rumor. It’s believed the Coffin twins went home in the wake of Rose Bellevue’s murder, though this hasn’t been confirmed.” He turned fully toward the camera. “We hope to get a statement from the Institute, and we’ll keep you informed of any further developments at the scene.”

“Holy shit.” June started pacing. “He wasn’t just blowing smoke. He can put on one hell of a show.” Hope finally burned inside of her, but something else, cold and bitter, warned her not to get too excited yet. A million things could still go wrong.

Micha walked out of the bedroom. By the look on his face, he thought the same thing. “This is too much,” he said. “Just because Sam’s throwing a fit doesn’t mean anything will happen. He’s like a comic book character as far as the media is concerned. It’s hard to take him seriously.”

“Well, they did film Batman here,” Cindy said, as if this were some sort of defense. June frowned at her.

“I’m not going to stop holding my breath until he actually gets the Institute to respond,” Micha said. “And you shouldn’t either, June.”

“I haven’t been able to breathe for days,” she said. “No problem there.”

Cindy stayed, and they left the TVs on tuned to the news station. Sam kept the protestors lively all evening, even getting them to accost a heavily-guarded Eric Greerson on the way to his car. June finally couldn’t handle the sound of the reporter’s voices. She fell asleep as a means of blocking further anxiety.

She awoke to morning light and Cindy sitting on the edge of the bed with a coffee cup in hand and a newspaper thrust in June’s face.

June lifted her head and squinted at her with one eye.

“Read,” Cindy said. “Ethan ran the story.”

June tried to find the clock. Micha was asleep on the other side of the bed. “What time is it?”

“A little before seven.”

“You have the paper already?”

“The concierge delivers it at six thirty.”

June sat up. She rubbed her face, pushed a hand through her hair, and took the coffee and newspaper from Cindy. Cindy made a sound of protest when June grabbed the cup. The paper was folded over to the front page of the Paranormal section.

“There’s more coffee out in the room,” Cindy said pointedly.

June took a sip. Even though the coffee had sugar in it and tasted like sweetened crap as a result, she needed caffeine, stat.

“Yeah, so go get yourself some.” June gazed at the paper.

Cindy huffed, but didn’t move.

The headline at the top of the page screamed COVER-UPS AND CONSPIRACY AT THE INSTITUTE. Below the headline was a picture of Sam outside the Institute, surrounded by a small group of belligerent-looking people. None of them looked as belligerent as he did, though. He stared crazy-eyed at the camera, as if trying to set the morning’s readership on fire with his mind.

“I see they got his good side,” June said.

“They’re still at the Institute,” Cindy said. The TV behind her was still on, volume turned down low. “I don’t think Sam sleeps. He’s like the Devil, always watching.”

June took another sip of coffee and skimmed the article. Farther down was a picture of Rose, and June’s skin crawled. The caption said, “Unsolved tragedy: the late Rose Bellevue, lead Vampire Studies researcher, responsible for isolating the bacteria causing vampirism.” Below that was another picture, this one of June and Jason on the day they’d arrived at the Institute. The photograph looked like a paparazzi picture, taken in the lobby while they stood near the reception desk, bags over their shoulders. Below, the caption said, “Jason and June Coffin: victims as well?”

“Yeah, we’re victims,” June muttered.

“Read the article,” Cindy said. “It’s interesting.”

June started reading, blinking to focus through the sleep-blur over her eyes. The article described the scene outside the Institute in much more breathtaking terms than June recalled seeing on television. According to Ethan, the Institute was bombarded by “a tumultuous and raucous mob” that was “exploding upon any reporter who would entertain their cries of conspiracy.” He described Sam as “militant and vivacious, an avid and steadfast denouncer of injustice and a champion of paranormal truth.”

“Is he in love with Sam by any chance?” June asked.

Ethan speculated extensively and, of course, luridly, on June and Jason’s fate, and demanded a press conference revealing them, if they were in fact still alive, “outside the secretive walls of the Institute, in a neutral venue.” June choked on the coffee when she read herself described as “a primal-visaged, intriguingly raw individual, evoking the mysterious, mythical creature her power is named for.” June tried to imagine herself as the iconic siren on the rocks, luring sailors to their deaths. She would more likely use a harpoon gun than her voice.

“I can’t stomach his writing.” June tossed the paper on the bed. “I’ve read less lurid shit in
Penthouse
. Apparently the
Tribune
doesn’t care about unbiased reporting in their Paranormal section.”

“Of course they don’t. Then no one has to take it seriously.” Cindy slid off the bed. “But Sam likes him. He’s right up Sam’s alley.”

“Sounds like he’s up Sam’s alley, all right.”

Micha woke up a short time later, and June showed him the paper while Cindy went to take a nap on one of the sofas. Cindy had apparently been awake all night as well. Micha took a while to fully wake up and behave as if he were coherent. He still felt feverish.

“I’m worried about you,” June finally admitted.

“I don’t feel well.” His voice was gravelly. “Maybe they can send up some cold medicine.”

She refrained from pointing out colds didn’t usually make a person able to read minds.

June tried to make herself presentable while Micha read the paper. She hoped Sam would take her on an outing later. Micha told her to get in the duffel bag for some clothes, and June pulled out a fresh shirt: a long sleeve black Henley. The shirt had to be formfitting on Micha because it actually fit her rather well. As she stood at the vanity trying to finger-rake her hair into order, she noticed Micha on the bed behind her, not reading the paper but gazing at her.

“Don’t get all dreamy-eyed,” she said.

“Let’s order some breakfast.”

She gave up on her hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and fetched the room service menu. The whole thing was written in flourished script and bore a notable lack of prices. “Just as I suspected,” she said. “I can’t pronounce half of what’s on here.”

“I’ll tell you what ingredients are in things. Should we order some Mimosas?”

June snorted. “No. Are we at brunch after our yoga class?”

She picked the gluten-free fruit crepes because at least she knew what those were and they didn’t sound like they would kill her. “And Cabernet Sauvignon.”

She meant it as a joke, to mock Sam, but Micha wrote the wine down on the pad he was recording their order on.

“God, no.” She stopped him. “I was kidding. You don’t drink Cabernet Sauvignon with fruit crepes. Get me a Chenin Blanc.”

Micha scratched it out. “I can’t believe you just made a cultured joke after complaining you can’t pronounce anything on the menu. You’re such a dichotomy.”

“My mother taught me about wine. She’s far more cultured than I am. Beyond that, I don’t know much. Except cigars. I know a little about them. My uncle smokes them.”

“You adore your mother, don’t you? I can tell.”

“I do. And I don’t want her to suffer. Anymore.”