by Laura Legend
Cass was in trouble, too.
“You’re mine!” the woman screamed, pinning Cass to the ground.
The woman leaned in close and Cass wasn’t sure if the woman intended to tear out her throat or—the corset looked like it had reached its breaking point—smother her to death.
Shit! Cass thought to herself. Those things have been weaponized!
Either way, Cass struggled futilely beneath the woman’s leather-clad weight, her copper-scented breath hot on Cass’s neck.
This is it.
This is the end.
Is my life going to flash before my eyes now, or what?
But just as the women went in for the kill, her eyes locked on the pendant around Cass’s neck and she froze. A look of horror contorted her face.
Then, from nowhere, a clap of thunder shook the ground. Cass looked into the clear night sky in bewilderment. What? Where did that come from? But before she could take advantage of the opening, the thunder was followed by a crackling bolt of lightning that slammed into the queen bee, lifted her off Cass and pinned her to the brick wall, reducing her to ash.
All at once, every pair of eyes, vampire or human, turned to see where that bolt of energy had come from.
A petite, dark-haired women in stilettos stood in the street about ten feet away, ozone-scented smoke still rising from her hands.
“Get off her, you bitch,” she snarled.
“Aunt Miranda?” Cass asked, still flattened on the sidewalk, incredulous.
“I’ve always wanted to say that,” Miranda smiled and winked at Cass.
14
“Huh,” Cass said out loud—her eyebrow raised, her ears still ringing—as her mind ground to a halt.
In many ways, it was easier to digest the existence of vampires than the fact that her favorite aunt had just shot green lightning out the end of her well-manicured fingertips. What next? Was her stodgy, “let’s be rational about this” dad going to reveal himself as a werewolf?
Pull yourself together, Jones. You’re not out of the woods yet.
Through the restaurant’s shattered window, Cass could see Richard still struggling with the vampire that had attached herself to his back. They rolled through broken glass, knocking over chairs and tables as he tried to break her grip and peel her off. His suit was in tatters and he’d lost an Italian loafer somewhere along the way.
Miranda, on the other hand, looked like she was in complete control. And smiling.
Before Cass could catch her breath, Miranda clapped her hands together again with enough force to shake the ground—this must have been the “thunder” Cass had originally heard—and shaped a lime-tinged ball of light in her hands that, with obvious satisfaction, she sent crackling in three different directions, reducing three more vampires to piles of ash.
Despite the bravado, Cass could see that Miranda was not going to be able to keep this up. After that last effort, she could already see the blood draining from Miranda’s face, and her hands were visibly shaking. Whatever she was doing and however she was doing it, the effort was draining her.
Cass rolled back to her feet and snatched up her sword from where Richard had dropped it. She wavered for a second, her vision cloudy. She almost leaned against the car for support but steeled herself to put on the kind of intimidating front that Miranda was still working to project.
Richard had struggled to his knees, the vampire still hanging like a millstone around his neck. With his feet under him, he reached behind his back with both hands, grabbed the woman by the waist, and then, summoning what strength he had left, let out a deep bellow and tossed her over his head and into a glass display case. The crash was horrific. The vampire was impaled on the case’s jagged edge, blood foaming from her mouth.
The handful of remaining assailants took a hard look at Miranda, glanced at Cass with her sword, and took off running.
Cass couldn’t believe it: they’d survived.
Richard was breathing heavily, face crimson, head bowed. He held out his hand to Cass.
Does he want to hold hands again? Now? In front of her aunt? And a half-dead vampire?
She hesitated.
“Cass,” he said softly, shaking his head a little, pointing with his index finger, “sword.”
Ahhh, yes. Right. Sword, she thought to herself.
She handed him the sword. He limped over to the display case, blood dripping from his knee, and cut off the vampire’s head.
Ash.
“Thank you,” he said politely, returning her sword, smoothing his blond hair, and straightening his tie.
Miranda looked ready to collapse in the middle of street.
Cass looked at Miranda and then at Richard. She felt a deep affection for both of them. Shared death and suffering and all that. Then she bent over, hands on her knees, and vomited into the gutter.
Richard gently touched her back, wiped tears from her eyes, and held her by the shoulders until the convulsions passed.
Miranda was still trying to pull herself together. When she was finally steady enough, she looked up to see Richard tenderly steadying Cass.
With this a deep, black anger flared across Miranda’s face, as if she’d suddenly remembered why she was here in the first place.
She pointed at Richard, a wisp of smoke curling upward from the end of her fingertip.
“You,” she spat at Richard. “Get your hands off her. Now. Or I’ll fry your bloodsucking ass.”
15
Miranda meant it. And Cass believed her. She would fry his blood-sucking ass.
Richard steadied Cass on her feet and then gently let go of her shoulders. Cass spit into the street and wiped the corners of her mouth with her sleeve. Despite the taste in her mouth, she felt better. She felt empty, hollow somehow, cleaned out. But she also felt embarrassed. You didn’t see Miranda or Richard doubled over in the street, puking their guts out. Apparently emptying your stomach wasn’t standard operating procedure at the end of a vampire fight.
Whatever, Cass thought. I’m making up my own damn standard procedure for vampire fights.
Richard put up his hands in surrender, as if Miranda were a cop and she’d just caught him red-handed.
“Step away,” Miranda said. “Step. Away.”
Richard took a couple steps back.
“That’s a good boy.”
“Cass, who is this woman?” Richard asked coolly.
“Uhh … this is my … aunt?” Cass said, wiping her hands.
She wasn’t entirely sure what was happening now. How had Miranda known to come? How did she know Richard? And why was the lightning that shot out of her fingers green? A pale blue seemed more Miranda’s style.
Cass took a stab at dialing down the tension. She tried making some introductions.
“Miranda, this is my friend, Richard.” She paused. “Richard, this is my Aunt Miranda.”
It feels a little early for Richard to meet the family, she thought to herself, cringing.
Neither Richard nor Miranda batted an eye at Cass’s introductions.
Miranda, for her part, rather than taking the conciliatory hint from Cass, went on the offensive. If anything, the extra time to recover and assess the situation had stoked her anger.
With a wisp of green smoke still curling from her fingertip, she closed the gap between herself and Richard and jabbed him repeatedly in the chest, rattling off a series of questions and accusations.
“How did you find her?” Miranda hissed. “What do you want with her? I know who you are. I know what you are.”
Richard rocked back on his heels, hands still raised.
“You can’t hide from me,” she said. Miranda made a gesture like she was enlarging an image on a touch screen and, before Richard knew what was happening, Miranda issued a command: “In the name of all that is holy, show your true form!”
A window of light opened and framed Richard’s playboy face, superimposing a disturbing and ghostly image: it was still clearly Richard, but wit
h fangs, a heavy brow, and pronounced cheekbones.
What the hell? It was the last straw. Cass simply couldn’t process what she saw.
Richard, although unperturbed by Miranda’s antagonism, snapped when he saw the look of revulsion and confusion cloud Cass’s face. “I’ve worked too hard, come too far, to have things ruined by you, witch!” he snarled, batting Miranda’s hands away and breaking the window that they’d framed.
Miranda responded in kind, unleashing some type of force-push that sent Richard stumbling. Richard gathered himself, ready to spring. But before any real damage could be done, Cass jumped between them.
“Stop!” Cass said. “Both of you, stop! I can’t deal with this right now. I need you both to calm down. I need you to talk to me.”
Neither Miranda nor Richard looked inclined to follow these instructions, so Cass pulled out a look borrowed from her mom that she’d been saving for her own kids someday. The look said: stop right now or you’re grounded for a week and won’t have dessert for a month. She leveled the look at both of them in turn and, miraculously, both Miranda and Richard wilted.
“Cass, you can’t trust him,” Miranda started. “You saw for yourself: he’s a vampire. He’s not really any different from the dozen or so that already tried to kill you tonight. Don’t be fooled.”
Richard looked like he didn’t know where to start. “Cassandra—” he broke off.
“Well,” Cass said, taking his measure and remembering Zach’s earlier warning. “Let’s have it. Are you? A vampire? Or … whatever?”
Richard looked up and down the street, as if he expected someone to come to his rescue. He licked his lips nervously.
“Cass,” he began again, “I’m not what she says. I’m not what you think. Or, at least, not … in the way that she said. I’m not one of the Lost.” He took a deep breath. “We can talk about this. But not right now. Not out here. We’ve got to get off the street. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Cass nodded. They’d been caught up in the moment, but Richard was right. Now that he’d said it, she felt dangerously exposed on the street.
“He’s right, Miranda. We can’t just stand here and hash this out on the sidewalk.”
Miranda reluctantly agreed, but Cass could tell from the look on her face that she was formulating a plan.
“Okay. Toss me your keys, asshole,” Miranda said. “I’m driving.”
Richard frowned but threw her the keys.
“And you,” Miranda continued, pointing at Cass, “you should have known better. Even without my help, you should have known what he was.”
Cass didn’t understand.
“This piece of work is one thing. But, even more important than him, it’s time someone finally told you the truth about you.”
16
It was late. The sun had set but the weather in Spain was beautiful. A warm breeze blew. A sliver of moon shone. The leaves in the trees rustled.
The thin man was waiting, still and silent, in a public park. Three of his “colleagues” accompanied him. He didn’t need their help with tonight’s job but he did need to manage their needs, so he’d brought them along. They were dangerous tools. The three of them fidgeted impatiently, cracking knuckles and shuffling their feet, while he himself stood still, the eye of their gathering storm.
“Shhhh, gentlemen, shhhh,” he quieted them.
The four of them were waiting a good ten yards from the path, deep in the shadows, beyond the light cast by the park lights.
As they waited, a pain that felt like a knitting needle jamming into his eye flared in the thin man’s head. He made his face into a mask and kept his posture rigid. Showing any weakness in front of his colleagues was a bad idea. He needed to keep an iron grip through this last leg of the journey. He could ride it out it. He’d had a lot of practice. Despite himself, a bead of sweat ran down the side of his pale face. Behind him, he could hear one of his colleagues sniffing the night air. Could they smell his pain? He straightened the cuffs of his suit coat, adjusted the lay of his watch, and dabbed his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief.
The wind picked up and the trees rustled even more loudly.
If he had still been human, the sound of the trees would have emptied his mind and calmed his heart. But those days were past. His heart no longer beat and his mind did not rest. Instead of his heart, his head throbbed, day and night. The need that drove him pulsed with an unsettling heat.
He touched one finger to his temple and willed the noise to recede—but nothing happened. Whoever’s will the incessant throbbing obeyed, it wasn’t his. The pain ebbed and flowed through cycles he could never quite predict. And it was getting worse. What used to ache tenderly in quiet moments now imposed itself, regardless of what he was doing, with a sharp bite. It felt, quite literally, like a migraine of the damned.
At the moment, though, the pain was ebbing. It was draining from his head and down into his rotting hand. This was a good sign, at least in the short term. It meant that the tide of pain was going out. Though it made his hand ache, it would be easier for him to work.
The thin man could sense their guest approaching. He would turn the corner soon.
A young priest, out for a late run—trying to exorcise his own demons, no doubt—came into view. The priest was lithe, his shoulders narrow, a runner’s body. He flew down the path, gliding effortlessly. The thin man admired his youth and strength.
As the priest closed on their position, the thin man called out in an anxious voice: “Father! Please, help me!”
The priest stopped and peered out into the darkness beyond the path, always ready to help.
“Father!” he called again.
The priest stepped off the path and edged into the dark.
“Hello,” he called, “what do you need? How can I help?”
Once the priest had crossed more than half the distance between them, the thin man casually waved his black hand and the bulbs lighting the path burst in a spray of sparks. Then he signaled to his colleagues to circle around and make sure the priest didn’t break away.
“Father,” he repeated, quietly this time as he approached the priest, “Father, forgive me. But I need your help.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” the priest demanded.
This priest thought he was strong. And he thought—mistakenly—that God would protect him.
“Father, your work in the archives is of great interest to me. I understand that you have recently come into possession of some information about the location of a fragment of the One True Cross.”
The young priest was nervous now, but still defiant. He shuddered when the speaker materialized, almost ghostly pale, from the deep shadows.
The thin man adjusted his leather gloves.
The priest shook his head, his voice cracking as he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t help you.”
His hand went to the small cross around his neck. He snapped its gold chain and held the cross out in front of him, waving it back and forth.
A chorus of angry hisses emerged from the darkness.
The man just laughed his cold laugh.
“Yes, Father, that is what I’m talking about. That is what I’m looking for.” He pointed at the cross in his hand. “But I’m not looking for a trinket. I’m looking for the real thing.”
As the thin man stepped even closer, the warm breeze failed, the trees fell silent, and a chill crept into the air.
He extended his hand: “Give me the cross, Father.”
The priest shook his head again, but his hand trembled.
“There’s no need to make this so hard, Father. No need. But you priests always do. It’s always the same. If there is one thing that qualifies a man for the priesthood—and I say this having been exposed to an extraordinarily large sample size—it’s the uncanny ability to make everything much harder than it needs to be. Everything becomes a contest of wills with you priests. Even the most ordinary things get b
lown up into some kind of cosmic test of your faith. This is not that, Father. No God is watching you. There is only me. And what you hold in your hand cannot save you. It’s just a piece of metal. It’s just a cheap trinket. All the belief in the world cannot transform it into anything more.”
As he gave this little speech, his voice rose and fell with a soothing lilt. But once he’d finished, the command that followed came out almost as a guttural growl: “Now. Hand. It. To. Me.”
The priest could barely move. He limply dropped the cross into the man’s open palm. In his hand, it melted and then evaporated until no trace of it remained.
The thin man’s colleagues almost howled with delight.
“Now that, Father, was a test of good faith. It was a test of your faith—in me, the only god you’re going to need to worry about tonight. Tell me, then, what I really want to know.”
Before the priest could manage a response, the thin man reached out with his now empty hand and seized the priest by his jaw. He lifted him into the air.
“Tell me, Father … tell me.…”
Then he reached out with his other hand and pressed his thumb and index finger against the priest’s eyes, gradually increasing the pressure.
The priest’s body went limp. Then he began speaking, as if in tongues, until an unbroken stream of information about the location of the relic—a verified piece of the true cross itself—poured right out of him.
The thin man nodded appreciatively, noting all of the details he’d need. When the priest lapsed back into strangled silence, he let him drop to the ground.
“Thank you, Father,” he whispered.
And then, to his colleagues: “You may have him.”
The man turned away from the priest and back toward the darkness of the forest. He felt another wave of black pain gathering strength at the base of his skull.
He ignored the wet sound of tearing flesh and focused on what mattered: soon, he would have gathered enough fragments that a critical mass could be formed. The power of the cross was almost in hand.