23 Hours: A Vengeful Vampire Tale(41)

Clara wondered if she, herself, would live long enough to find out what the contingency plan was.

While she was considering that particular dark thought, a half-dead came into the office and rushed over to Malvern. He whispered in her ear and she smiled.

The warden looked up from her BlackBerry and raised one eyebrow.

“There’s been an escape,” Malvern said, her eye twinkling. She reached for another blood bag.

“Care to share with me?” the warden asked. “It is still, technically, my prison. It sounds like the kind of thing I ought to be aware of.”

“It is a small thing, I assure ye. I sent a company of my slaves to your Special Housing Unit, there to recover the famous killer, Laura Caxton. They failed at this, and she has escaped.”

“What?” the warden asked, jumping up.

Clara’s heart lifted in her chest. Only to fall back again when she heard what Malvern said next.

“It was no more than I expected of her. She has at her advantage resources and craft others cannot match. No lock nor prison gate could hold her long. No half-dead is fair sport for her. I knew she would escape. I planned for her to escape, all this time. ’Tis why we needed her,” she said, and jabbed one bony finger in Clara’s direction. “Be not afraid.”

The warden looked largely unconvinced. “I’ve heard of Caxton. I’ve read about what she’s capable of. You’re sure this is under control?”

Malvern reached for another bag of blood. Her shoulders looked remarkably less bony than they had before. They were almost round. “Lady Fortuna makes sport of any who would claim such,” Malvern said.

“Sometimes,” the warden said, “I wish you would just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

Malvern smiled. And drank down more blood.

A little later the candidates for option three were brought in, one at a time. Clara was gagged so she couldn’t warn them what they were getting themselves into. There were four of them, and they were allowed to sit down on the sofa and given a drink of water. They were tough-looking women, all of them. Two were black, one was a Latina, and one was white, but they all had the same cold eyes that kept moving around the room, taking everything in. They didn’t smile, or thank the half-deads who brought their drinks. They didn’t talk among themselves.

“Forbin,” the warden said, and one of the black women looked up. The warden consulted her BlackBerry and said, “You’re in for murder, is that right?”

“You know it is,” Forbin said. She glanced over at Malvern and licked her lips. “I killed my husband because he was beating me.”

The warden frowned. “It says here that your defense attorney couldn’t present any evidence to back up that claim. The prosecution said you had an argument with him over some money. You wanted to buy some drugs and he wouldn’t give you the money, so you stabbed him. Seventy-one times.” The warden shrugged. “I don’t honestly care. You’re in for twenty-five to life and so far you’ve been a less-than-model prisoner. You’ve stabbed two other inmates since you were inside.”

“Always in self-defense,” Forbin protested.

“Let’s see. You have some family back in the world. An uncle. We’re looking for people without a lot of ties or relationships.”

“He used to rape me, when I was a kid. Then I got too old for him.” Clara’s eyes went wide. Forbin couldn’t be much more than twenty-five. “I ain’t expecting much from him now. There’s nothing out there for me. I’ll be old like you if I ever get out. I can’t get a job with a felony on my jacket, and as soon as I hit the streets I’m gonna start thinking about getting high again. You got something better to offer, I’ll take it.”

Malvern leaned forward across the desk. “You can’t imagine the dark secrets I offer, child. Will ye swear fealty to me tonight?”

“You want my bond? You want respect, yeah? I can give you that.”

“Then come closer. Do not speak. What passes between us is called the Silent Rite, and words would only sully it.” Malvern rose from her seat and bid Forbin to kneel before her. She took Forbin’s face in her thin hands and stared deeply into her eyes. For a moment there was no sound at all in the warden’s office. It felt like the air had congealed and gone bad.

Malvern was passing on her curse. This was option three. If the prisoners chose it, they didn’t have to donate blood. Instead they could take their own lives—and tomorrow night, they could rise again, as vampires. As part of Malvern’s new brood.