He waited for a distressing amount of time before saying “No.”

“Then why are you hauling me into court?” I demanded, ashamed of the whine that was creeping into my voice. “I thought vampires had this whole lawless-unholy-rebel thing going.”

“Some feel that way,” he said. “Others, like me, believe that if you’re going to assimilate into the modern world, you have to have some accountability for what you do.”

Well, that made me feel horrible.

He stared at the parking lot ahead, unable even to glance in my direction. “Just be respectful. Don’t talk back. Don’t volunteer any extra information. Don’t demonstrate your unique brand of humor.”

“Basically, don’t be me,” I grumbled. “If I wasn’t paralyzed by fear, I’d be offended by that.”

10

The World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead was created to protect the rights and interests of vampires of all ages. If you are summoned by a council official, it is in your best interest to respond promptly and answer all questions honestly. Hiding from the council will only work against you.

—From The Guide for the Newly Undead

I expected the local council to be a cross between the Lions Club and a Scorsese-esque panel of mafiosi. How mafiosi would end up in Kentucky, well, I hadn’t really thought that through.

Any self-respecting mafioso wouldn’t be caught dead at Cracker Barrel at nine on a weeknight. Yes, the council, the grand overseers of justice and decorum among the vampires of Region 813, held their secret meetings under an old metal sign advertising Lux soap. Generally, you don’t find vampires in well-lit places surrounded by unpleasant human food smells and an aggressively homey atmosphere. Gabriel explained that meeting in such a neutral, crowded environment was the only way to ensure that nothing would be overheard. Humans tend to be pretty focused when it comes to comfort food. The panel ordered Mama’s Pancake Breakfasts and pushed the food around their plates. They were no different from any other customers, except for leaving healthy tips.

Gabriel found the council members at their usual table. The panel consisted of:

Peter Crown, pale, gaunt, dyspeptic. It was clearly communicated that he did not like me. Or Gabriel, or the other panel members, or the people eating pecan waffles at the next table. I think someone turned him into a vampire as a punitive measure. They wanted him to be pissy for all eternity.

A Colonel Sanders lookalike improbably named Waco Marchand. He didn’t speak to Gabriel but greeted me with a polite kiss just over my wrist. My hand smelled like peppermint and hair tonic for the rest of the night.

A blond lady with a slight British accent, who went by Sophie. Just Sophie. That was as close to Cher as we got in the Hollow. She was turned in her mid-forties. Her face was unlined and unpainted, leaving a plastic sheen to her skin that was beguiling and disquieting at the same time. She was confident enough not to wear any accessories with her rather fabulous black pantsuit.

Ophelia Lambert, a willowy brunette, was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a locket that was probably three hundred years old. Ophelia could have been three hundred years old, but she appeared to be about sixteen. Her dewy, youthful looks conflicted with the imposing presence, a sort of “Yes, I look as if I read Tiger Beat, but I can remove your spleen without blinking” attitude. She was almost as scary as some of the girls from my high school.

Council members were assigned to their precincts regardless of origin, so Ophelia and Sophie’s “Continental” presence wasn’t all that strange. I did, however, believe I recognized Mr. Marchand from a Confederate memorial statue downtown.

Ophelia, who was apparently the head of the panel, motioned for us to sit at the crayon-scarred round table. A brown-aproned waitress named Betty arrived promptly to take our orders—Mama’s Pancake Breakfasts all around—and we wouldn’t see her for another forty-five minutes.

Despite the gravity of the situation, I couldn’t concentrate on the members of the council. Sitting in a crowded human environment was an assault on the senses. Conversation from other tables hovered around us in needling mosquito clouds. And the bacon, which I had loved so much in life, kind of smelled like baby vomit. I concentrated on my silverware, shredding the paper napkin ring into tiny strips and twisting them into long coils.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Ophelia finally asked, her eyes as flat and still as a shark’s as she spoke to me.

I hesitated. If there was ever a time for me to cure my chronic babbling, this was it. “I was told that you have some questions for me.”

Gabriel inclined his head slightly, as if to tell me I was off to a good start. We’d agreed that if I was being inappropriate or started to jabber, he would tap me with his foot under the table. Head nodding was a sign that I’d said or done something appropriate. It was demeaning, but I didn’t want to dwell on it. The council stared me down, clearly expecting more.

“I’m told that a vampire was killed last night,” I said.

“A vampire you attacked just hours before he was locked in his trunk and set on fire,” Sophie pointed out.

“I contend that it’s possible Walter did that to himself.”

No response from the panel beyond quirked lips from Ophelia. Gabriel kicked me under the table.

“Now, why was a nice young lady like you tussling with some no-account like that?” Mr. Marchand asked, shaking his head in fatherly distaste.

“I objected to the way he was holding Norm, the human bartender, upside down and shaking him like a piggy bank,” I said with as little irritation as possible. “Walter and I disagreed. Dick Cheney intervened. Walter drove away. I drove home. Andrea Byrne, whom I believe is well known in the vampire community, stayed on my couch, and…she can’t tell you much because she was essentially passed out drunk during the fight.

“I need to find a new way to tell stories,” I added lamely.

“Listening to the words in your head before you say them might help,” Sophie suggested kindly. She stretched out her hand. I felt compelled to take it. As soon as I was within range, she clutched my wrist and dragged me close, wrenching me against the table.

“Hey—” I grunted. Something was wrong. My hand itched. Sophie’s fingers were burning into my skin. I gasped, frantically trying to jerk away from her grip. Gabriel’s fingers slid under the table and clutched my other hand. His head shook. I was supposed to accept this treatment quietly.

“Don’t interfere, Gabriel,” Ophelia warned. Gabriel’s hand slipped away, leaving me adrift.

“Look into my eyes,” Sophie commanded, her voice stripped of the charm she was slathering on just a few seconds before. Hoping that I could still glower effectively through the pain, I met her gaze. Her irises flared to black, and then I was plummeting, dropping through bottomless space. My head seemed so heavy, too heavy to lift. Images of people and tables whizzed past without form or focus.

“What are you doing?” I mumbled, my tongue thick and heavy. My voice sounded far away. I wanted to open my eyes, but the lids wouldn’t budge. My stomach pitched. Oh, please, please, don’t let me throw up in the middle of a Cracker Barrel.

“Sophie is what you might call a walking lie detector,” Ophelia said, her tone cheerful. “Her gift allows her to search through your thoughts, sift the truth from what you want us to believe. It will be a difficult, painful procedure if you resist. Now, I want you tell us again. What happened to Walter?”

The sting from Sophie’s grip was wildfire, scorching from my arm to my chest. Hot iron claws were digging into my throat, scraping out words. I don’t remember what I said. I just know I said it quietly. Overall, I’d have to rank the experience just under “unanesthetized root canal.” That settled it. Gabriel was officially my worst date ever.

On the upside, I was able to relocate my tongue as Sophie’s grasp loosened.

“Let go of me,” I wheezed. My mouth tasted odd, like rusty nails. I smacked my dry lips and stared angry holes through Gabriel.

“Oh, don’t make a fuss,” Sophie said lightly. “I’m going to let you go now. You did well.”

I wish I could have pulled enough words together to respond with appropriate scorn, but I think I was better off silent and nauseated. Gabriel tried to rub a hand across my shoulders, but I growled at him. If the humans at the next table noticed, they didn’t look up from their waffles.

Sophie said, “She’s telling the truth, or at least what she believes is the truth. She’s so young. Sometimes it’s hard for them to tell the difference.”

Crown smiled at me, more nasty mockery than friendly gesture. That pissed me off. And I had just gained enough control over my limbs to jerk my hand away from Sophie.

“This is not how people behave in a Cracker Barrel!” I hissed. I snarled at my sire, who had turned the gentle pressure on my foot into an all-out toe stomping.

“We did tell you that the process can be unpleasant,” Sophie said with a small smile of apology. “It could have been much more painful.”

“We have already spoken to Andrea Byrne,” Ophelia said in a tone perfect for pronouncing judgment. “She is one of the few humans whose word could sway our opinion. We are willing to believe your account for now, but you should be aware that we will continue to investigate Walter’s death. If the attack was justified or we find that you are innocent, you will have our deepest apologies. However, if we learn that you have lied to this council, you will be severely punished. Andrea will be punished along with you.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I croaked, “if you were going to use Ms. Polygraph over there, why did you ask me to tell my side of things before?”

Ophelia offered the barest of shrugs. “To see if you would tell us the truth without assistance—if your version of events is, in fact, the truth. Also, we enjoy scaling the punishment to fit the depth of your deception.”

“If I may be so bold as to question the council further, what could ‘punishment’ mean?” I asked.

If I didn’t know that my toe bones would regenerate, I would have been very upset about the crushing pressure Gabriel was applying to my foot.

Ophelia smirked. “You could have a choice of being locked in a coffin full of bees or having a red-hot silver poker shoved up your—”

“Ophelia.” With an apologetic glance my way, Mr. Marchand interrupted her. “That’s enough.”

“She’s only joking,” Sophia assured me. “The silver poker is actually at room temperature. Ancient vampires called it the Trial.”

I asked, “Why?”

“Because it sounds incredibly scary.” Sophie nodded.

I was dismissed before my pancakes were served, which was better in the long run. I probably would have found uneaten pancakes singularly depressing. Gabriel escorted me to the car before I could say anything else incriminating. And by escorting, I mean he dragged me across the parking lot like a caveman and ushered me none too gently into the front seat.

“What the hell was that?” I yelled. Having fully recovered the use of my arms and legs, I seized the opportunity to swing at him as he slid behind the wheel. “Did you know they were going to do that to me? And a coffin full of bees? What the hell?”

“Calm down, just calm down,” he said, catching my wrists. I thought he meant to stop the hitting, but he was examining my reddened skin, poring over the marks left by Sophie’s truth-seeking expedition into my brain. I remained quiet long enough to watch them evaporate away. I had a feeling it would sting for a while longer.

“What is wrong with you people?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me they were going to go digging around in my brain? You know, I was raised to believe the contents of someone’s brain are that person’s own business! And have you noticed how often I yell at you?”