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knew—completely human.
    “Madeline Brooks, isn’t it?” Alysia asked, offering an open smile and a handshake to the anchorwoman of one of the national news stations. CNN, ABC, something or other; Alysia couldn’t recall which one. “I’m Alysia Marks. What can I do for you?”
    Alysia was almost certain she knew exactly what had brought Madeline to SingleEarth, because she had recently put quite a bit of effort into avoiding this woman’s cameracrew—not entirely successfully, though at least she had only been a nameless background figure instead of an interviewee.
    “I’m trying to do a follow-up to Tuesday’s coffee shop holdup,” Madeline said. “One of the victims gave me your information.”
    Like many successful reporters, Madeline had a warm, glowing smile and the kind of aura that invited those around her to open up and speak freely. The feeling she inspired was a lie and a trap, but Alysia had always been good at guarding her tongue.
    “I would love to help you out,” Alysia said, “but I’m afraid that any information I have is privileged. Why don’t I give you the contact information for our public relations department? They can tell you more about our organization.”
    “Your own story wouldn’t be privileged,” Madeline said. “How did you happen to be there?”
    “I was just trying to buy a coffee,” Alysia said, with the same innocent charm that had helped her talk her way out of interrogation rooms in the past. “I gave my card to the others because my organization works with trauma survivors, and being held hostage is a traumatic situation. Mary,” she said, turning to the receptionist, “would you help Ms. Brooks here schedule an interview with PR? I’m sure she would love to hear more about our support groups.” With a smile, she turned back to Madeline and added, “It’s always great to get the word out.” She offered her hand, which Madeline shook, because that was what common courtesy demanded. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for another appointment. Madeline, thank you so much for your time.”
    Alysia might have been at this particular Haven for less than an hour, but even a lowly member of tech support knew SingleEarth’s company line for reporters. The good people at public relations would feed Madeline Brooks an appropriate story about trauma survivors and the hardships faced by homeless shelters. They would also point her toward organizations that would make a better story for human prime-time news and appreciate the spotlight.
    Lynzi followed Alysia into the office in the next room, as if she were the person there for the appointment Alysia had just invented.
    “Don’t you think you should stay to make sure she’s effectively sidetracked?” Lynzi asked.
    Alysia shook her head. “As long as I’m in her sight, she’ll want to make me the story.”
    Lynzi nodded.
    As a Triste, Lynzi could have just wiped Madeline’s mind of any interest in Alysia, but she had pointedly stepped back and let the newcomer handle it. That wasn’t trust; it was a test.
    “So, did I pass?”
    Lynzi feigned surprise for half a second before laughing and saying, “Yes, you passed.”
    “How often do people around you forget that you’re the senior member here, and probably the most powerful?” Alysia asked. It was the most polite way she could think of to ask about
what
Lynzi was. Tristes were so rare; it had been surprising to find one in this out-of-the-way spot.
    “Most people do—once,” Lynzi answered. “It’s why my teacher chose me. Do you know much about Tristes?”
    “A little,” Alysia answered. “I had a friend a while back who was offered training.”
    Tristes were like vampires, in that they were not born but made. The process of training and initiating a student was much more intensive than with vampires, however, who were often made and discarded at a whim, only to be picked off by hunters not long after.
    “Offered by whom?” Lynzi