“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Somewhere safe.” The driver was a Latina woman with large sunglasses and small features. She rolled down the windows and turned up the air conditioning, trying to cycle as much fresh air through the vehicle as possible.

“One of your Vanguard safe houses?” I asked Deb.

“Something like that.” She had ended up on the lap of a good-looking vampire who appeared to be in his twenties. Like several of the others, he’d ditched his prison jumpsuit in the parking lot. Knowing Deb, I doubted her choice of seatmate was an accident. “The day you announced our existence to the world, you painted a bull’s-eye on everyone who isn’t human. The way things are going, we may have to build a full-fledged underground railroad.”

“It’s not going to come to that,” I said.

“Nobody ever believes it will,” said the driver. “That’s why it does.”

After an hour or so, we arrived at a Jewish synagogue called Am HaTorah, a modest-looking brick structure with large wooden doors. A circular window with a Star of David was set into the front wall overhead. A narrow strip of grass ran between the sidewalk and the road. Well-trimmed bushes bordered the stairs. The sign out front announced that Am HaTorah was closed for roof repairs, though I saw no sign of workers.

Our driver led us up the steps and unlocked the front doors. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

Once everyone was inside the lobby area, she locked the doors behind us and disappeared into the temple proper. She returned a short time later and grabbed a handful of black yarmulkes from a bin against the wall, beneath a row of fringed prayer shawls. She handed the yarmulkes to the men and boys.

“Come with me,” she said. To me and Lena, she added, “Not you. Not yet.”

“You’re not exactly welcome here,” Deb explained. “Lena would be, if they didn’t know she was bound to a Porter.”

I took a seat on a low wooden bench. Lena joined me a moment later. “What did Franklin tell you?” she murmured.

“Alexander Keeler was taking a guided tour of the prison a few days back.”

Lena whistled softly. “Have you told Nicola?”

“I haven’t been able to reach her yet.” I tried Nicola’s number again. This time, a male voice answered.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“My name is Brandon. I’m Ms. Pallas’ secretary.”

“Nicola doesn’t have a secretary.”

“She didn’t, no. But with everything she’s been dealing with lately, she finally agreed to take one on. What’s this about, please?”

I hung up.

“What is it?” asked Lena.

“Nicola only gives her cell number out to a handful of people. The other council members, a couple of the New Millennium directors, Derek Vaughn. What are the chances that she’d route calls from her secret boyfriend through a secretary?”