Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [108]
11
Twenty-four hours later we were at the Lincoln Memorial, me and Adrian. Not the most inconspicuous place to gather, no, and we sure as hell weren’t alone. Tourists peppered the big white stairs and tried to make shadow puppets in the spotlights that lit the old guy, seated up there in all his stony glory. Security guards ambled fatly about. Children who really should’ve been in bed by now shrieked and shoved at one another, leading to at least one little girl’s head-crack on the stairs and subsequently to two fighting parents, debating who should’ve been watching her.
We made a point to dress blandly and refrain from skulking, pretending to take in the sights and occasionally check the walking map of the lawn, as if we really gave a shit. Nobody looked at us twice, not that I noticed.
Not until I heard the soft clearing of a throat. It could’ve been any throat, cleared for any reason at all, but it wasn’t. It was a signal from Cal, projected from the bottom of the steps—where he stood beside Ian. I’d known it as surely as if he’d sent a text message. You can write that off to my middling psychic abilities or to my expectation that he’d arrive any minute, or you can assume I’m lying, and that’s fine, too.
I gave them a friendly wave—acting so aggressively normal that it must’ve looked weird, but I couldn’t stop myself. I gestured them up to join us, and within a few seconds they stood before us while the thin nighttime crowds milled around us.
Ian was as tastefully dressed as always, in expensive and well-fitting clothes plus a slim black cane and the ever-present glasses. Cal could’ve been wearing the exact same thing he’d worn the last time I’d seen him. I couldn’t tell and didn’t care.
“Ian,” I said, beginning the introductions. “This is Adrian. Adrian, this is Ian and … um … Cal.”
“A pleasure,” said Ian through lips that were a little too tight to have meant the sentiment, but he did not seem frightened or even angry. Just uncomfortable.
“Cal is Ian’s assistant,” I explained with a hand-wave indicating that yes, I knew I was being vague, but no, I didn’t intend to be any more precise.
Adrian said, “Nice to meet you both.” He was every bit as stiff as Ian and even more nervous.
Everyone stared back and forth awkwardly, except Ian, of course—but I’m pretty sure he would’ve been right there staring awkwardly along with us, if he’d only been able. So I said, “Well!” with too much forced cheer, and then I went on to suggest, “There’s a bar a couple of blocks away—not far, and it’s still a nice part of town, with a fireplace and everything. Let’s adjourn there, shall we?”
Anything to get the conversation moving along, even if that meant moving us along, too.
We walked in relative silence except for my vain attempts to get people chatting, which mostly fell on deaf ears. The winter air was cold anyway, and it froze my throat when I tried to breathe or cough sociably, so I gave up and instead of being the conversation instigator, I settled for shepherd. Together, in an unfriendly clot, we found our way to the Revolutionary—a joint that was hopping with posh-looking tourists and overworked civil servants, with a smattering of lobbyists on cell phones.
I ushered everyone over to a table near the fireplace because I liked the warmth and glow of it, and the blend of orange shadows with flickering yellow light made Ian and I look more alive and less suspicious than usual. Not that we usually looked dead and suspicious, but you know what I mean. Firelight is like Photoshop for the flesh.
Wait. I already said that about vampirism.
So I’m redundant. Sue me.
We all sat down, though Cal looked as if he’d love nothing better than to resume a spot somewhere out of sight rather than hang out with this group of loonies. If by force of habit he usually lurked in the background, tough noogies. He could stay quiet if he wanted, but for the moment, he was stuck with us.
Wine arrived for me and Ian, and