“I don’t remember.” He rubbed his eyes. “I woke up alone in the EMT ambulance. I knew I didn’t want to be there. When they stopped, I let myself out.”
“But weren’t you hurt?” I could see only his silhouette now, and the gleam of his hair.
“Yes, I’d inhaled a lot of smoke. But I’m strong. I bounce back quickly. Your father, with his diet of tonics and cow’s blood and artificial supplements…” He shook his head. “He was more vulnerable. There’s no substitute for the real thing.”
I didn’t want to think about Malcolm’s dietary habits. “What happened to Dennis?”
“Apparently he left while I was trying to put out the fire. He must have, because when I tried the door, it was locked from the outside.”
I had complete access to his thoughts now. Unless he was a remarkable liar, capable of lying to himself as well as me, he was telling me the truth. Yet part of me held back. He still was the one who’d killed my best friend.
“I killed her to protect you and your father.” His voice was almost a whisper. “She knew that you’re vampires, and she planned to expose you. Why can’t you believe that?”
I put up my hand. Once a story has a villain, it’s very hard to recast him as a friend, almost as hard as it would be to make him into a hero. “Tell me some other time,” I said. “I don’t think I can take any more tonight.”
He leaned forward, and the light from the window lit one side of his face: narrowed eye, long nose, one corner of his thin mouth. “But you said you wanted answers. Don’t you want to know what’s going on here?” He waved in the direction of the wall map. “Don’t you want to know what that’s all about?”
“Could we turn on a light?” The sight of his half-face made me nervous.
He switched on a table lamp, and the room sprang into being: bookshelves, fireplace, furniture. Now he had three dimensions, too. He was just a man, I realized—just a vampire, I corrected myself. He wasn’t a demon, or a monster.
“Okay.” I looked across at him. “What’s this all about?”
He stood up, went to a corner cabinet, came back with a bottle and tumblers. He poured two glasses of Picardo and handed me one. I hesitated, then I took it. We drank.
He said, “Welcome to the Society of N.”
The house near Oglethorpe Square was a regional outpost of the Nebulists, Malcolm said. “I assume that you know who we are?”
I remembered Mãe’s hand-drawn chart. “I know a few things,” I said. “My mother explained the differences among the vampire sects.”
“She probably got them wrong.”
I began to protest.
“Sara never did understand the differences.” Malcolm pushed his hair from his forehead. “Neither did Raphael. No doubt they put the Sanguinist spin on whatever they told you. They typecast us. They say they’re the ones who care about preserving resources, about sustaining the earth, but they don’t do much to make it happen.”
“They try—”
“They aren’t prepared to make it happen.” Malcolm had none of my father’s inhibitions about interruptions. “But we are.”
“I didn’t know that Nebulists cared.” From what my father and mother had said, I’d gathered the Nebulists were self-centered, ruthless, amoral. And I let Malcolm hear that thought.
He smiled, and for the first time I thought him handsome. “Our caring takes the form of action,” he said. “Ari, can you imagine a world without humans? Think for a moment. Everywhere humans go, they leave waste. They pollute the soil and the atmosphere, the ocean and the rain. They cut down trees and murder whole species of animals. I’m speaking in the simplest terms possible, but there are other, more sophisticated analyses.
“The truth is, if humans were wiped out tomorrow, the world would be a better place. Within perhaps twenty thousand years, everything made by man would be gone. The hideous houses, the factories and nuclear reactors, the skyscrapers and schools—all would crumble into dust. The air, water, and land would cleanse themselves. Species would rebound. All of that would happen on its own—and happen even sooner, if we vampires helped the recovery process.”
His speech seemed as compelling as Cameron’s, at first. “So what are you proposing?” I asked. “Exterminating the human race?”
“Of course not.” His tone was mildly amused, not shocked. I thought, But you wouldn’t rule extermination out.
He heard that thought. “You’re putting the Sanguinist spin on it again. Once, I admit, the Nebulists were proponents of such a plan. But we’ve evolved, as all intelligent beings do. Now we advocate a form of enlightened coexistence.” Malcolm swirled his glass, and the Picardo gleamed ruby red as the lamplight caught it. “You will agree that things can’t go on as they are?”
I nodded, slowly. All I’d seen and heard and read about environmental damage made clear the need for dramatic change.
“Then it’s apparent to you that even enlightened humans aren’t doing enough to reverse the damage to the ecosystem. Buying a hybrid car or low-energy lightbulbs is all very well, but hardly a means of eliminating the problem.”
“So what are you proposing?”
He clasped his hands over one knee. “We’re proposing more meaningful modifications of human behavior that will actually make a difference. Imagine humans who act sensibly, mindful of the long-range consequences of their behavior. Imagine humans who care beyond their immediate needs and desires or gratification, who live frugally and respectfully.”
I shook my head. “You can’t make that happen.”
“We’re already making it happen.” He gestured toward the map on the wall. “Each circle you see there is a seedling community. The program began five years ago. Eventually there will be more circles, and they will overlap and cover the entire continental U.S. If you went to our outposts in Europe, Asia, and Africa, you’d see similar maps.”
I looked at the map and at the pins stuck in it, and I didn’t understand.
Malcolm explained it for me. The pins represented potential “recruits,” people identified by scouts as likely candidates for behavior modification. They were brought to regional sorting centers where they underwent a series of tests. Those who succeeded became candidates, and they were given “makeovers.”
“In essence, the Nebulists offer our candidates a fresh start, a new life,” he said. “Some eventually return to their home communities, but most move on. Some go to big cities—we have a number in DC, working as lobbyists and interns and aides. Others attend universities or enter the military. But first they go through supervised training at centers like this one.”
I thought of Mysty. “Is that what happened—”
“—to your friend from Homosassa? Yes, she was recruited last year. Her appearance was altered to enable her fresh start. She’s coming along very nicely, from what I hear. I don’t take part in the actual modification process, you know. I’m just a consultant. When my visit here is over, I’ll be heading back to England.”
I didn’t much care about his travel plans. “When you say ‘modification,’ do you mean brainwashing?”
“Such an outdated term.” He looked disappointed. “Particularly when you consider the research that proves that free will is an illusion. The human brain essentially is programmed by DNA, and human action is causally determined. The brain is already washed, to use your quaint terminology.
“What we do is a form of reeducation. We wipe the slate clean. Our candidates are chosen because they’re ripe for reform—they’ve proven, to varying extents, dysfunctional in their communities. Most of them are unhappy with themselves and their lives. What makes them wayward is what identifies them as likely future leaders, oddly enough. They simply need to be rescued from their old identities and old habits.”
From what I’d seen of Mysty and the residents of the dormitory upstairs, they’d been turned into zombies. And not philosophical zombies—more like the duppies Dashay had described.
Again, he heard my thought, and he seemed pleased. “Ah yes, duppies, the Jamaican undead. Another quaint term. Although I confess it would produce a nice name for our project: the Duppification of America?” He smiled. “No, our ambassadors—that’s our name for the successful candidates—are very much alive.”
“Are they on drugs?”
“Most Americans are on drugs. Alcohol, mood enhancers, sedatives—all designed to promote illogical thinking and impulsive action. If a drug promotes logic and rational behavior, can that be a bad thing?”
“Is there such a drug?”
“Of course.” Malcolm stood up and went to the door. He unlocked it and left the room.
I considered running away. But I stayed. I wanted to hear the rest.
Malcolm came back, carrying a leather bag shaped like a doctor’s satchel. He set it on the library table, opened it, and pulled out a vial.
“This is Amrita,” he said. “We named it for a Hindu term meaning ‘water of life.’ Short of becoming a vampire, it’s the best chance humans have for long-term survival. It strengthens the immune system, promotes strong bones, enhances digestion, and improves psychological health by stabilizing moods.”
It all sounded beneficial, but I had reservations. Then a question sprang in my mind: “What happened to Autumn?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Who’s that?”
“Mysty’s friend. Another girl who disappeared.”
“I can check the files. What’s her last name?”
While Malcolm was at the file cabinet, I looked around me, trying to dispel my anxiety. Why was he telling me all of this? The room’s walls, painted cinnabar red, seemed to be closing in on me.
He pulled out a card. “Autumn Springer. Her parents must have quite a sense of humor. Yes, she was recruited, but not in Homosassa Springs. The recruiter trailed her to Georgia.” He looked up at me. “The recruiter was Sal Valentine. I’ve met him. He’s very persistent.”
“She was murdered,” I said. “Her body was found in the Okefenokee Swamp.”
He glanced back at the card. “All it says here was that she proved resistant and was dismissed as a candidate. That can happen, you know. The scouts try to identify recruits who want to change, but sometimes they make mistakes.”
“And the mistakes are killed?”
“I truly don’t know the circumstances, Ari.” Malcolm replaced the card and shut the file drawer. “Next time I see Sal, I’ll ask, if you like. He’s due to bring in three people tomorrow.”
Sal Valentine. Now my harbinger had a name. “He tried to recruit me, too,” I said.
Malcolm frowned. He riffled through another drawer in the cabinet. “Yes, you’re here. You were identified as a candidate last December. Well, sometimes mistakes are made. The scouts leave written instructions, and they mark recruits—usually with a small scratch on the forearm or leg. But the recruiters don’t always follow instructions. They’re thugs, most of them.”
I thought of Mysty’s mother scratching me, back in December; but that had been an accident. Hadn’t it? I put my hands on my forehead, trying to calm myself. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Kill you?” He walked to the sofa, sat down next to me. “My dear Ari, no. I’ve devoted so much time already to keeping you alive. You’re one of my favorite freaks.”
“I’m a freak?”
“You’re an aberration of nature.” His voice was like plum-colored velvet. “You’re one of only a few living half-breeds, as far as we know, and as such you’re of significant interest and value to biomedical research. We don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“If you’re not going to kill me, why are you telling me all of this?” I stared into his pale eyes. “What if I tell someone?”
