No one spoke for a good minute before Christian, with a little sigh, said, “He must be destroyed. For the future of everyone, the Thrall cannot be allowed to exist.”
To: Tempest, Roxy
Holy shitsnacks! There’s some big bad vamp chomper going around? I’ll tell the boys. Maybe we should stay in Australia. Maybe we should close down the club in Monaco. Holy, holy hellballs, Tempest! Doom doom doom is right. What are we going to do?
To: Ellis, Tempest
Good lord! I had no idea there was a big bad behind the vamps. I assumed it was something to do with demon lords. But I’m still a bit confused about these Thralls. What does this group of baddies want with them if they are some sort of vampire ticking time bomb?
To: Roxy, Ellis
I’m not sure. I asked Merrick, and he muttered something in Italian, which he knows is unfair, because despite living here for four years, I suck at the language. Honestly, I don’t know why the Revelation would want a group of slave-making, violent, proto-vampires who may well explode on them at any time, but that’s just me. They must have a reason, and I suspect that we’re going to find out sooner rather than later.
To: Ellis, Tempest
Glorioski. Well, I hope your husband and the other Four Horsemen find this Thrall, and make him disappear.
To: Roxy, Ellis
I do, too. Otherwise ... the alternative is just too horrible to contemplate.
June 13, 1889
Dear Mr. Moore,
Thank you for returning my book, although how did you know it was mine? Oh, wait, was it the calling card inside that I was using as a bookmark? I assume it was, even though the card is now gone, which means I’ve lost my place and will have to figure out just where I left off in it. You didn’t ... er ... glance through the book, did you? Because I’m not normally the type of person who reads erotica, but I have a history degree, and I know for a fact that this particular book is rare. Or it will be. And hence, will be really valuable in, oh, let’s say a completely random time of about a hundred and thirty years.
As for the fondlage on my behind—that, sirrah, is another matter. You absolutely copped a grope when you were pulling your coat out from under me, not to mention the rudeness of a man who expects a woman to sit on a damp bench when his coat is lying right there waiting to keep said woman’s bottom warm and dry. In fact, the word “cad” comes to mind.
Although it was nice of you to send me back my smutty book that I hope someday will do much for my retirement fund.
Yours in icy reserve,
Jenna James
THREE
“If you look over to the west side, you’ll see the town of Tybo Flats proper. To the north of that is the mine, which is closed due to massive cave-ins a few decades ago. South is the dried riverbed where some paleontologists are hard at work excavating what is rumored to be a new type of dinosaur. And of course, to the north, where we are headed now, are the famed alkali flats where so many sightings have been made.”
“Miss Jenna, just what sorts of aliens are we gonna be seein’?” The nasal drawl that accompanied a raised hand at the back of the bus made me think of the worst Southern stereotypes. “Are we gonna see them grays that the preacher on TV said lurk in the night just waitin’ to grab you when you ain’t lookin’? Or are we gonna see some of the ET kinds with the big lumpy haids and long spider fingers?”
I sighed to myself before pressing on the button of the PA system microphone, yelping when Mac hit a rut without slowing down, causing me to careen into the grab bar that ran from the bus roof to the floor. After a quick glare at Mac, I turned back to address the speaker. “I’m so sorry about the roads. Tybo Flats doesn’t have a huge municipal budget, as you can imagine. As for your question Mrs. ... er ... Walsh, was it? I’m afraid the Outta This World Tours doesn’t promise you actual aliens, as was covered in the Imaginarium introductory session.”
“That dog and pony show?” The woman, who was seated dead center in the last seat in the bus, gave a snort audible to me all the way at the front, despite the white noise of the clip-on fans hanging from the seat backs that we used in lieu of air-conditioning. “I wasn’t fooled by that! That was just those animal tronics that Disney uses. They weren’t no real aliens. And what about them Midnight Walkers? I want to see those.”
“That’s right, you have them here, don’t you?” one of two women sitting up front said rather breathlessly. “Beth, didn’t you say they have those blue people here? The ones who sparkle at night like the vampires?”
“That’s what they said on Mysteries Abound, and you know Jack Rayburn is never wrong,” Beth’s buddy Lolly answered, the two women nodding together in unison.
Mac uttered a rude word at the name of the eighties paranormal-show host, now deceased. I ignored her, and said with a quick glance out the window, “Actually, the Midnight Walkers don’t sparkle at night, and they certainly aren’t vampires.”
“But they’re blue, aren’t they? I did some research on them—I’m premed, and I want to specialize in genetic disorders—and the articles I read all stated that the Midnight Walkers had a distinct blue cast to their skin due to some deficiency in their genetic structure from inbreeding, but Mysteries Abound said that it was known through the area that they were ... other.” Lolly, who wore a bright African-print turban, spoke the last word in almost a whisper.
The other four tourists on the bus murmured excitedly.
I could feel Mac looking at me. I gestured behind my back for her to keep her eyes on the road. “How very fascinating your research must be! Yes, it is said that the Midnight Walkers all had a blue-tinted skin, but nothing was ever proven.”
“But what about them blue-skins being the result of impregnation by aliens,” called Mrs. Walsh from the back, sniffing irritably. “That’s what I heard they were. All that anal probing goin’ on, you know.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, forestalling what I was sure was going to be more comments from Mrs. Walsh about the area’s second biggest claim to fame, “there are no blue people to be found. That is, there are no members of the Walker family who show signs of the rare chromosomal issues that made them so famous a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“It’s a wonder your nose isn’t growing,” I heard muttered from the driver’s seat.
I ignored her. “However, that doesn’t mean that we are going to have a boring trip to the flats! Far from it. As you know, our driver today is MacKenzie Fitzwilliam. Mac has lots of experience working with such prestigious organizations as the Jet Propulsion Laboratory—”
“Fired after six days due to a trumped-up story about misuse of a proton collider,” Mac murmured.
“Industrial Light & Magic—that’s the Lucasfilm people—”
“Not so much worked for as claimed an office and joined a robotics project for eight months until I was caught and banned for life from the ILM campuses,” Mac told the steering wheel.
I took a deep breath, glancing at the vlogger girls in the front seats, but they were too busy filming themselves to hear Mac’s comments. “And of course, she spent copious amounts of time with her father, Sam, a famed pyrotechnical specialist who worked on many Hollywood movies.”