Touch of Madness

Book 2 of the Kate Reilly/Thrall Three-Book Series

Chapter 1

            Something was lurking behind the clean white paint and tasteful carpet of the hospital hallway where I walked. It raised the hairs on my neck and tingled right at the edge of my psychic senses. My mind screamed vampires, even though I couldn’t see them. But that was to be expected. After all, despite my better judgment, the Thrall were the reason I was here.

            “Hey, Reilly! Kate!”

            I started at the sudden noise hard enough to nearly stumble, and realized just how tightly strung I was today. Denver Detective John Brooks was walking toward me, looking natty, but uncomfortable. While I hadn’t expected to see him here, when I thought about it I realized I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he’s Not Prey, just like me.

            He smiled, but underneath was the same tension I was feeling. I knew he couldn’t sense the Thrall parasites that had nearly killed us both a few months before, he was too head blind for that. But that didn’t mean he was any happier to be here than I was.

             “I was hoping I’d know at least one other Not Prey here today. How you doing?”

            “Better than last time you saw me.” I raised my arm over my head and wiggled my fingers. “See, I’ve got use of the shoulder again. Definitely an improvement. How about you?”

            “Well, I’m still employed and haven’t been demoted—which is saying something after the fall-out of Queen Monica’s death.” He raised up the corner of one snow-white cuff, with a real gold cufflink attached, reminding me he looked good today, better than me. Despite being a large man, made of muscle, not fat, he’s one of those almost impossibly well-groomed people. Today his suit was a dark charcoal that wasn’t quite black. His shirt nearly gleamed under the fluorescents, and his perfectly knotted tie was red with charcoal stripes that matched the suit. He’s shorter than I am, but is almost as broad as he is tall. It made me wonder if somewhere in the background there was a Mrs. Brooks who took care of getting his suits specially tailored and his shirts starched. I’d never asked. There hadn’t really been the opportunity when we’d first met, and it hadn’t come up since.

            I could see three pale, shiny lines against his ebony skin that disappeared up under the cloth. “Your fingernails left a nice set of scars down one arm, though. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed the ribbing about that down at the station.” He snorted and it made me laugh. First time today, which is why I like the man.

            “Well, it’s not my fault you only had one set of handcuffs to hold me down while that thing tried to turn me into the freaking new vampire queen.” I paused for a moment and fought off a shudder. Maybe a subject change, even though it wouldn’t be much of one. “So, how did they drag you into this?”

            Brooks’ eyes darkened. He gave me a look of utter disgust. “Office politics. The Chief of Police called me personally. He went on and on about how we need to do everything we possibly can to reassure the public under the circumstances.”

            “Under what circumstances?”

            “We had a hundred fifty corpses, Kate, including political big wigs. The whole mess was on the national news, complete with photos. All the people who’d tried to pretend vamps don’t exist came face to face with the ugly truth. Now they expect us to do something about it.” He gave a derisive snort. “How about you?”

            “Familial blackmail.” I answered dryly.

            He laughed, loudly enough to draw the attention of several of the nurses who stood down the hall leaning against the raised counter, their brightly colored cotton scrubs still immaculate. One or two of them waved, still cheerful and energetic. It was early, the beginning of a new shift. I could tell. Everybody was too clean, too happy. That shiny good humor usually wears off about the first time they wheel a gunshot wound or accident victim through the doors.

            “My brother Joe—you remember him, don’t you?” When Brooks nodded, I continued. “Well, he works here at St. Elizabeth’s, and he’s been getting a lot of pressure from higher up in the food chain. They pushed him to convince me to participate in this stupid research study. Naturally, I told him where to go and how to get there, so he finally had to resort to emotional blackmail to get me walking down this hallway.” I paused. “The last thing I ever wanted to do again in this lifetime was deal with those damned parasites.”

            Brooks nodded and his whole body took on a serious-as-death stance. “It almost was the last thing you did. But we don’t have any choice—not really. As two of only a dozen or so humans acknowledged as Not Prey we get a certain level of hard-earned respect, but there’s a price.”

            Shaking my head, I turned and we started toward the elevator, side by side. We garnered more than a few nervous glances as we did. I’m six foot one, a redhead, and was clad in thick black leather with plenty of snaps and zippers. I was keeping a brisk pace with an obviously annoyed black man who is built like a brick wall, and has that undefined quality that screams  cop. “Yeah, yeah. I know. That’s what finally convinced me. You’d think being bitten but avoiding infestation would be enough, wouldn’t you? My natural psychic abilities have given me a near-permanent connection to the hive. Only three things seem to help shut them out.”

            “Yeah?” he asked as he pushed the button to call the elevator. “What works?”

            The bottom of my braid had gotten caught in one of the sleeve zippers again, so I yanked it free. “The first, heavy metal or hard rock music played loud.”

            “Better you than me. I can’t stand rock. I’m a jazz and blues sort of guy.”

            I laughed, because I could actually imagine Brooks hanging out in a smoky Harlem speak-easy in the 20's. “The second is shielding—something I’m just beginning to learn. The third, and most effective by far is staying in the presence of a lycanthrope.”

            His eyebrows raised lightly and he fought not to smile. “I’ll bet I know your preferred choice of werewolf, too. How is Mr. Bishop lately?”

            I did smile, because he was right. The werewolf I met when Queen Monica targeted me as her replacement, and who had risked his neck to save me from losing my mind to the hive, was pretty much my steady date now. So far, we’re pretty happy.“Tom’s doing well. He kept his job too, and is hoping to get into fire jumping school. The jury’s still out on that.”

            Brooks checked the heavy gold watch on his wrist and frowned. “That elevator had better get moving. We’re going to be late.” 

            The bell rang and the doors opened with a soft whoosh. We rode up in silence. A moment later the doors reopened and we stepped into the brightly lit hall with a faint antiseptic smell. I felt . . . something, a much stronger something than downstairs. I stopped, laying my hand on Brooks’s arm.

            “Do you feel that?”

            “Feel what?” His eyes narrowed. He looked from one end of the hall to the other, his expression cautious.

            I shook my head. There was something stirring. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I felt my skin begin to crawl under the heavy leather of my biker jacket.

            “I’m not sure.” I admitted. “You don’t feel anything?”  I knew I shouldn’t expect him to, but the sensation was so strong.
            “Nah.” He snorted instead of laughing. “But I never do.”

            “Lucky bastard.” I meant it. My latent psychic abilities were what had drawn the Thrall to me in the first place. They’d tried twice now to make me the local queen. If I’d been as head blind as Brooks they might have left me the hell alone.

            “Oh, I don’t know. It might be handy having an early warning system.”

            It was my turn to snort. “That advantage is so outweighed by the problems it isn’t even funny.”

            “Let’s get this over with.” He loosened my grip on his suit coat and started down the corridor, turning left and following the little black and white sign glued on the wall at eye level. I followed a few steps behind. I tried to convince myself there was no reason to be nervous. Even I didn’t believe me. Brooks sure as hell didn’t. I could tell from the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes darted suspiciously around the hall, missing nothing.

            Dr. Miles MacDougal was waiting in the corridor outside the conference room. He’s a small, slender man standing 5’6” or so with a huge, bushy moustache that unkind souls would say is meant to compensate for the thinning dark hair that barely covers his head. He kept checking his watch, then looking down the hall impatiently.

            When he saw the two of us approaching his homely face broke into a satisfied smile.

            “Kate! John! You came!” He sounded both delighted and relieved. I could tell he’d had his doubts whether Joe could deliver me as promised . . . money or no. Actually, I’d lied a little to Brooks. The truth was the money had swayed me—especially since the money from selling my motorcycle was nearly gone.

            He turned, pulling open the door and holding it open for us.

            “Samantha, they’ve arrived.”

            A stunningly beautiful woman stepped forward. She had dark hair and wide blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face. The body beneath her white lab coat was slender, but perfectly proportioned. She turned, giving Dr. MacDougal a dimpled smile that would’ve melted a heart of stone. His reaction was typical. There was a good three-second pause before Miles collected himself enough to make introductions.

            “Kate, John, this is Dr. Samantha Greeley. Dr. Greeley is in charge of the study—”
            “I thought—” I started to interrupt, but he talked over me, as if he’d actually expected the interruption.

            “She’s managed to gather together Not Prey from all over the world to participate.” He gestured to the oblong conference table. Eight of the seats were taken by a remarkable variety of people, all of whom were eyeing Brooks and me with interest as they munched on their bagels or sipped the drinks they’d selected from a refreshment table tucked discreetly into the corner of the room. Next to it was a young black man half-hidden behind a tripod and video equipment.

            “Ms. Reilly, Mr. Brooks, it’s a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you both.” She gestured for us to take a seat as she began making introductions around the table. “Mr. Yakimoto is visiting us from Japan.” I gave a brief nod to a tall, elderly Japanese man with thick rimless spectacles and a crisply pressed navy pinstriped suit and received a similar nod in return.

            Greeley continued down the table introducing a teenaged girl wearing an oversized letter jacket of green wool and white leather as Antonia Webster, who was here with her mother, Julia. Next were Digby Wallace, a redheaded Aussie with a broad freckled face, and a 350 pound, bleached-blonde biker chick named Rikki Jacobs.

            She sat silently, staring into space, her eyes vaguely unfocused. I recognized the gang logo on the sleeveless vest she wore over her black Harley-Davidson tee-shirt. There were elaborate “sleeve” tattoos on each of her arms, beautiful work if you appreciated such things. She turned slowly at the sound of my name. The look she gave me was . . . unsettling. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. Samantha Greeley had moved on to introduce Mrs. Emily Patterson, a prim little schoolmarm of a woman in a pretty floral print dress with a white lace collar. I wondered what might have caused to earn the Not Prey title. She didn’t seem capable of much more than attending a quilting bee.

            Last, but not least, was Henri Tané, a small, withered black man with liquid brown eyes and a stiff new suit. Something in the shape of his face made me think of Jamaica or one of the other tropical islands.

            Haiti. A voice leapt in my head, thick accent and all. It is a true pleasure to meet you, Kate Reilly. I have heard much about you, though perhaps from unusual sources. He smiled, showing slightly crooked white teeth.

            Following good meeting etiquette, Brooks pulled his seat forward and turned toward the screen. I, on the other hand, was much too unsettled to do anything of the sort. I’m paranoid by both profession and nature. It’s served me well over the years. I took my chair and pulled it away from the table until I sat with my back to the corner with a clear view of the door. While his eyes were focused steadily on Dr. Greeley, Henri continued speaking to me mind-to-mind while I poured a glass of water from the sweating pitcher on the large black tray in the center of the table.

            You felt it as well? I do not know what it is she plays at – but it is a dangerous game. We shall be cautious, you and I.

            I couldn’t help but glance at him. I’m just not accustomed to talking without looking at the person. I’m always cautious.

            Which is why you are here – and why they fear you.

            I somehow doubted the Thrall feared me – or much of anything else. Although things had certainly changed in the past few months. The Thrall had always been a fact of life, existing mostly in the shadows, in the larger cities. The nests and herds had generally been kept small and secret enough that most people had considered them to be yet another “urban legend.” The previous queen of Denver had changed all that. She’d increased the size of both the nest and the herd, and had chosen prominent, highly placed people. The plan had worked to a point. Under her “rule” herd members lived longer, healthier lives. The nest, too, had prospered. But she’d made two major mistakes. Ignoring her own mortality, she left off breeding her replacement queen until almost too late. As her host body weakened, so had her hold on her nest so that a few of the strongest and most desperate had gone against the orders of the queens to attack me directly.

            Her second mistake was to choose me as the replacement host. It had been touch and go, but with the help of my friends and family I’d managed to kill the eggs and hatchlings – causing the death of the Denver nest and most of its herds. I gave an involuntary shiver and pulled my jacket tight around me to fight a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze blowing down from the air conditioning duct.

            Did you notice, all of us here are from the western nations? Do you know why? Henri’s voice in my mind was pleasant, almost amused.

            I hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it. I shook my head no ever so slightly, while fighting to keep my eyes on Dr. Greeley at the front of the room.

            When you destroyed the nest the pictures were shown all over the world. In those countries less sensitive to human rights issues anyone even suspected of being host or herd was hunted down, executed.

            I snorted lightly and took a sip of water to cover it. Bet quite a few political dissidents were accidentally eliminated in the process.

            No doubt. But the queens, they are afraid now. They were few, now fewer. They fear extinction.

            Aw damn. Wouldn’t that just break my heart?

            I saw Henri’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. Brooks might not be psychic enough to have heard the conversation, but he’s observant as hell. He noticed the old man’s mirth and gave me a warning look just as Dr. Greeley turned to glare at me.

            I didn’t wilt. Then again, I never do. I went to Catholic schools for twelve years. Far as I’ve been able to determine nobody, and I do mean nobody can give you a worse glare than a pissed off nun.

            “Now that everyone is here,” she said the word to have double meaning, “I’ll begin the presentation.”

            I gave her my brightest smile. It wasn’t sincere, but it was sweet enough to rot the teeth out of her head. It didn’t take a psychic gift to know I had thrown her off her game. “Mason, get the lights . . . and hurry it up.”

            I turned to see the young black man step from behind the tripod long enough to turn off three of the four rows of overhead lights. She hadn’t introduced him, and the condescension in her voice when issuing the order had been enough to raise my hackles. Mason didn’t appear offended: his entire being seemed focused on his work. Brooks’ eyes, however, had narrowed significantly, and I could see the tension spread in his massive shoulders.

            Dr. Greeley hit a button on her laptop and a PowerPoint slide appeared on the screen on the far wall. It depicted the life cycle of a Thrall in sterile, clinical detail. She began speaking to us using a voice polished from frequent public speaking. “The heterotroph hippocratia are a highly developed species with a unique culture and highly evolved hive society. Until very recently, the exceptionally short life-span of the host/heterotroph symbiant—” she prompted the next slide to appear, as she continued unabated, “created a fundamental conflict between the two primary intelligent species of our planet.”

            I saw her glance discreetly around the room to see if she’d lost us yet. While none of the audience appeared particularly riveted, nobody’s attention seemed to be wandering . . . except for Rikki. But she was no more unfocused than she’d been when I’d walked in, so I was betting it wasn’t the lecture.

            “Recently, however, a particularly intelligent heterotroph queen discovered a means of significantly extending the lifespan of a symbiant. Working with this queen we were able to obtain a number of eggs which were cryogenically preserved until funding could be obtained for the full project.”

            There was no hiding the admiration in her voice. I sat dumbstruck. The queen she was referring to was the late Queen Monica, and a nastier piece of work you’ve never seen.

            “Until the heterotrophs merge into the human and enter the symbiant stage, they are only able to communicate telepathically. Since telepathy is a very rare gift among the human population, early communication has never previously been attempted.” She hit the button and a slide showing a new hatchling appeared. I gave an involuntary shudder. Only a few months ago I’d had one of those slimy little maggots trying to climb into my mouth to take over my mind and my body. The mental wound was too new, too raw, for me not to react.

            Dr. Greeley was droning on. “Until recently, becoming a host meant a severely shortened life span, along with the loss of free will. The goal of this study is to cut off the original bond to the Heteretroph collective and create a conduit of communication between the heterotroph eggs and psychically gifted humans so that both species can work together to find a way live a full cooperative life span with joint awareness and control of the shared body.” She turned, looking at each of us in turn, her smile bright and shiny as a newly minted coin, while a weight, heavy as lead, began to form in my stomach.

            “We hope that by working together we can come up with solutions to so many of the issues that try our peoples, where telepathy could play a significant and helpful role. The possibilities are nearly endless, but some examples would be the ability to communicate with coma patients, the possibility of reviving Eden zombies, and so very much more.”

            I understood now why Joe had been so insistent – and how Miles had “hooked” him on the idea. My baby brother Bryan is a former Eden zombie. The only good thing that had come from my confrontation with Monica was that he’d had what the doctors were referring to as a “partial recovery.” Now instead of being a total zombie, he had the mind of a four year-old child. Since not one single Eden zombie had ever recovered even that much of their ability, physicians from around the world were flying in to study my brother to see if there was any way to duplicate the effect.

            Drug abuse, in general, was up in all the developed countries. But Eden was the worst. Not only was it the most addicting – but one single misstep in the preparation would result in anyone who used the “bad” drugs becoming empty shells with no mind or will of their own. Hope for a cure was no doubt the lure Greeley had used to obtain her funding.

            While my mind had been wandering Greeley kept talking. I missed some of it, and would have missed more if I hadn’t heard Henri gasp inside my mind.

            “You what?” Brooks’ voice was a controlled roar and I fought my way back to reality to figure out what was happening.

            Greeley gave him a steely glare. “We have incubated one hundred of the eggs provided by Queen Monica—”

            I stared at her, horrified. “Where?” I kept my voice controlled, despite the panic that was tightening my chest. I asked, though I was very much afraid I knew the answer. Suddenly the buzz that had been in the back of my mind from the time I’d entered the hospital had a logical explanation.

            “The eggs are being maintained in a safe, sterile—”

            “WHERE?”

            She placed hands on her hips, which caused the wireless remote in her hand to flip to the next slide—and a picture of what must be an incubation chamber appeared twice real-life size. “Really Ms. Reilly! There’s no need to shout!”

            It took every ounce of my self-control not to rise from my seat, grab her by the lapels and shake the information out of her. Instead, I gripped the edge of the conference table, my nails digging little half-moon shapes into the blonde wood.

            “Oh my God.” I heard a whisper from the far side of the table. The teenager in the letter jacket was staring at the screen. She’d paled until her skin was the color of bleached paper. “Mom, we need to go NOW.” She turned to face her mother, white showing all around the irises of her eyes. “She has them here!”

            Mrs. Webster didn’t need to be told twice. She rose to her feet abruptly enough to send her chair clattering backward onto the floor. “Dr. Greeley, you’ll receive our check returning your money within the week.”

            “Antonia, Mrs. Webster, there’s no need—” Dr. Greeley’s protests were nearly inaudible over the sound of chairs scraping back from the table as most of the meeting participants prepared to leave.

            “Ladies and gentlemen . . . if you’ll just—”

            It was no good, and she knew it. I could see it in the thinning of her lips, the angry set to her shoulders as she watched her hopes dwindle as the others walked out. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn about her feelings. I was much more worried about what was in the incubator. I knew how powerful the mind control of a hatchling was. I’d had one in my mind once, and to this day didn’t remember everything that happened that night. All it would take was one susceptible human walking by and opening the lid for all hell to break loose. I shuddered at the thought.

            Only Henri, Brooks, the videographer and I remained.

            “Well, aren’t you going?” Her acid-tinged words were directed at me. “This is your fault after all. They were fine until you started a wholly unnecessary panic.”

            “Hardly.” Brooks corrected. “If it’s anyone’s fault it’s yours for getting us here under false pretenses.”

            “No one was lied to.”

            Henri and Brooks snorted in unison at her feeble protest. By their own rules they couldn’t/wouldn’t lie to the Not Prey, but they were champions of misdirection and omission. I was used to it. That wasn’t the problem to my mind. But it occurred to me, and probably the others as well, how much her logic was like that of the Thrall collective. Just to be safe, I opened my senses, searching for any parasite inside the good doctor. There was none, but I couldn’t guarantee that she wasn’t herd—one of their meals and, thereby, under the control of a queen.

            Henri gave a curt nod to me, and said, “You two do as you will, I will go to find Dr. MacDougal. It was at his request that I am here, and I want an explanation and assurances that the situation is not as bad as we believe it to be.”  Eyes blazing with a dark anger, he strode out of the room.

            I wasn’t leaving until I was satisfied about the safety of the public. The critical issue was that there were one hundred parasite eggs close to hatching in a public building. It was a recipe for disaster.

            I stood slowly. It was taking every ounce of my self-control not to throttle the stupid little bitch. I forced myself to speak softly, enunciating each word with exquisite care. “Where . . . is . . . the . . . incubator?” 

            Her eyes shifted from me to Brooks. You could almost see the gears shifting behind those beautiful baby blues.
            “Fine. Give me five minutes to get things set up in the other room, then you can come see for yourself the protocols that have been instituted to protect both the eggs and the public.”
            “Five minutes.” Brooks agreed, but his voice was heavy with controlled anger. “But know this. If the three of us don’t agree that your ‘protocols’ are adequate to protect the public, you will be shut down.”

            Greeley’s voice was cold. “I’m not intimidated by your threats, Detective Brooks.”

            “That wasn’t a threat Dr. Greeley. It’s a promise.”

            She didn’t have a reply for that, so she turned to Mason. “Bring the video equipment.” She snapped, then left, her heels beating an angry tattoo on the linoleum. He hurried after her, awkwardly juggling his camera and tripod.

            I hate waiting. I’m not good at it. As the second hand crawled around the face of the wall clock I found myself twitching in my seat. My stomach was in knots, and I desperately wished that I had stayed home, or gone for an early morning run with Tom. I’d rather be anywhere than here, in this hospital right now.

            I lurched to my feet as a male shriek rent the air. Brooks beat me out the door and into the hall, his gun drawn. The sound was cut off abruptly, with a wet gurgle that I recognized from past experience. Apparently Brooks did too, because his face paled and set into stony lines. He gestured for me to follow behind him. I had a knife drawn, and didn’t remember pulling it.

            I looked down the hall, wondering where the reinforcements were. People had to have heard that scream. But there were no running footsteps, no code-blue pages on the intercom, just an eerie silence so complete that I could hear every rasping breath, hear my own pulse pounding in my ears. Keeping his back against the wall Brooks turned the knob and flung open the door.

            It was a scene from one of the lower levels of hell. Samantha Greeley knelt on the floor next to Mason, the videographer. He lay on the ground, his throat torn out. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries in his neck, spraying against the wall as a living blanket of squirming, writhing maggots swarmed up the clear plastic walls of the opened incubation tank and up Greeley’s arms. She reared back at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. The front of her clothing was so soaked with blood it clung wet and impossibly red against the milk white of her blood-splattered skin.

            She hissed, lips pulling back to expose brand new, bloodied fangs.

            “Shit!” Brooks swore.

            I couldn’t hear him, even though I saw his lips move. The collective mind of the hatchlings crashed into mine like a sledgehammer blow between my eyes. Instead of the many voices of the hive it was one voice—one being with a hundred bodies.

             I AM FREE.

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