Page 87 of Crimson Born

“Work, work, work. I feel like everyone but us is on vacation,” Heather said.

She started the car and began backing it down the driveway. “Not that LA isn’t awesome, but the Furlongs have been gone at least three weeks now. I’ve been feeding their dog, and his food is almost gone. And their mail would be overflowing their mailbox if I wasn’t picking it up for them. I thought they were only going away for a week.”

Abruptly, Heather stomped the break, causing both Kelly and me to jolt in our seats. The seatbelt tightened uncomfortably across my chest and lap.

“What is it?”

“There’s a police car behind us.” She sounded nervous.

I twisted to look through the rear window. An LAPD squad car was parked horizontally across the driveway, blocking it.

“What’s this about, I wonder?” Kelly said. “Maybe Mr. Hopper isn’t on vacation. Maybe something happened to the poor old vamp.”

Spotting two human officers emerge from the car in full tactical gear, I said, “I don’t think this is about Mr. Hopper.”

“Oh my God, are we in trouble?” Heather whispered.

I glanced at her worried expression in the rearview mirror and tried to sound reassuring. “Of course not. We haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sure there’s some kind of mistake or something. Just roll down your window and stay calm. It’s going to be okay.”

When Heather lowered her window, one of the officers spoke in a loud, authoritative voice.

“Get out of the car. All three of you. Keep your hands raised and visible.”

As I slid out of the back seat and turned to face them, I prayed my fangs didn’t emerge at the threatening tone of his orders. It was a natural reflex, but the police would probably take it as a sign of hostility.

We’d been coached extensively at the VHC on tactics for de-escalating tension in potentially volatile situations.

“Hello officers. Can we help you?” I pasted on a smile and used the friendliest voice I could muster.

They did not smile back.

“Abigail Byler, Kelly Cook, and Heather Tippens?” the second officer said.

So thiswasn’ta case of mistaken identity. In spite of instructing my friends to stay calm, my pulse was speeding, and I was suddenly struggling to breathe normally. Had something happened at the VHC headquarters?

“Yes. What’s this about?” I asked.

Both officers moved toward us in cautious, battle-ready stances. One of them pulled out three pairs of platinum-plated handcuffs. The other held an anti-vamp gun.

Pointed atus.

“I’m gonna need you to come with us,” he said. “You’re all under arrest.”

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