“Integration my undead ass. Did they teach you about the Great American Melting Pot in grade school?” she asked. “Some of us don’t like the idea of being melted down and blended into stew for the rest of you to devour.”

Lena sat down beside me. “You brought us to D.C. to stop this, right?”

“We need proof.” If we could tie Keeler to the attacks in Lansing and elsewhere, prove that he’d orchestrated terrorism and assassinations in order to manipulate public opinion, we’d be able to shut him down and turn the country’s anger around.

“You know who’s running things?” Deb leaned in, practically drooling in her eagerness.

“I think so, yah.” I glanced at Lena.

“What we don’t know is who’s running you,” she finished.

Deb tensed and pulled away. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve read Renfield,” I said. “I know what you’ve become. You’re powerful, sure. All those lives you consume, added to your own. But you were written to serve. Whether you were running around doing Alice Granach’s bidding in Detroit or serving Gutenberg as liaison between Porters and vampires. It’s your nature.”

Deb snorted and jerked her head toward Lena. “Hers too, but weren’t you telling me how she’d become more?”

“She’s become more.” I didn’t bother to keep the anger from my voice. “You’ve become less. I saw your bookshelves in Detroit. You want to pretend you’re still the same person, but there was a month’s worth of dust on those covers. You once told me immortality meant the chance to read everything, to learn everything. When’s the last time you opened a book?”

“I’ve been a little busy preparing for war, hon.”

“You didn’t even know who you were working for when you betrayed Vanguard,” I snapped. “Then Lena and I showed up at your door and trashed your pet vampires. At that point, you started following our lead. How the hell am I supposed to trust you when you’ll happily turn on us as soon as you find the next potential Dracula to your Renfield?”

“I knew exactly who I was working for,” Deb said calmly. “I have no intention of betraying her.”

Lena connected the pieces before I did. “Granach.”

Alice Granach had helped rule the Detroit nest for more than sixty years. She was a century and a half old, born and turned long before the urban fantasy surge brought a new wave of sexy, angsty vampires into the world. “Granach ordered you to brainwash those werewolves?”

“Alice Granach died in the firebombing of Detroit, trapped a thousand feet belowground.”

“I’m sorry.” I meant it. I’d met Granach once. She was in many ways unique.