Count

29. Malachi's a Serial Killer...of Serial Killers (And the Ethics Are Confusing)

Malachi wasn't in bed when I woke, but there was a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen, and I poured myself a cup. Where had he gone? The bathroom was empty, leaving only one unopened door. I knocked, and when there was no reply, I let myself in.

"Malachi?" I asked. No answer. I flipped on the light, revealing a regular office space, but there was something off about it. I tugged on a few books, hoping to reveal a hidden doorway, but had no luck finding anything out of the ordinary until one of the books made a thunking noise. I opened it. Inside a hollowed-out crevasse sat a vial of clear liquid. I closed the book and returned it to the shelf with shaking hands.

Moving fast now, glancing over my shoulder lest Malachi return, I opened desk drawers and leafed through documents. They were transaction histories and black and white pictures of well-dressed individuals. Then, I found a list of names; notes were scrawled in the margins, and some names were crossed off.

One name caught my eye: Sergio di Genovesi. It was double-underlined in harsh, angry strokes.

I snapped a few pictures with my phone then returned the documents to their places. Who were these people that Malachi was tracking, and what did the crossed-out or underlined names mean? I feared the worst.

What had Sergio said after I met Malachi at the ball? 'Who is he?' I had asked.

'Someone dangerous.'

Then, because I was crouched by the desk drawers, I noticed the knife taped under the desk. It was made entirely of wood, sharpened to a point. A stake.

"You couldn't resist snooping around, could you?" came Malachi's voice.

The world was a series of still images as I processed the intrusion: the stake taped near my head, the open drawer, Malachi leaning casually against the doorframe, blocking my escape.

He was holding a steaming bag of something that smelled doughy and delicious. His face was sour, like someone had juiced a lemon near his nose.

I rose, trying to remain calm. My only chance of escape was to talk my way out. "What are you?" I asked.

"A vampire hunter."

"Do they know?"

He barked a laugh. "The vampires? Of course not. Do you think they'd let me dance at balls with them if they suspected? No, to them, I'm a dealer of false IDs, Social Security numbers, bank accounts—everything an immortal needs to live in the modern world. It gets me near them."

I remembered what he told me yesterday: 'They can go on murdering and cheating and raping us unless we do something about it.' Something like killing them. I probably should have avoided provoking him at all costs, but I couldn't help protesting. "Murder is wrong, Malachi!"

"Even when the victims are murderers themselves who have killed many times before and will continue to do so unchecked? Even to protect humanity from a danger it doesn't know exists?"

I faltered. I saw how he could justify his actions to himself, and I was tempted for a moment to agree. "No. Premeditated murder is wrong when anyone does it."

He moved toward me slowly, and I flinched, but he held up his hands. "I just wanted to give you this," he said. He tossed the bag on the desk. "It's a chocolate croissant. Don't worry, you're free to leave whenever you like. I'm not threatening you, I'm not keeping you here, and I'm not going to hurt you. I don't kill people. The things I kill are already dead."

I didn't touch the bag. "You can't keep doing this."

"Are you going to stop me? You can't prosecute me with human laws, or you'll reveal vampires' existence, and good luck getting any vampire authority to listen to a human girl. But you won't stop me," he took another step forward, "because deep down, you know I'm right."