by S. W. Clarke
I made a face. I’d been hiding my arm in my jacket since the whole thing had happened, planning to deal with it when I could inspect it properly back at the apartment. Whatever Valdis had stabbed me with had been so very thin, it was hardly bleeding.
But my arm was full-on throbbing.
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
Erik stepped closer. “He seemed to know you.”
“Who?” I asked dumbly. Of course I knew who.
“Valdis. He called you something …”
Unbidden, Valdis’s words rose to the fore of my mind. “You are not yet ready. Come to me when you remember.” A vast well of nausea rose in me.
“Snowdrop,” I murmured. “He called me snowdrop.”
“Why?”
I glanced up at him. “I don’t rightly know.”
Erik’s lips pinched. “I have to make a report, Tara. If you know anything, I’d appreciate your help.”
I groaned. “You’d be kind to put a rum and Coke in my good hand before you question me.”
One eyebrow rose. “Are you asking me to buy you a drink?”
“Would you, or would that be against World Army protocol?”
He glanced around. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about who I work for in public.”
“Oh, you would? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot firecrackers into the middle of demonic rituals I’m in the process of breaking up.”
He cleared his throat, leaning toward me. “That was an MID, not a firecracker. And it saved your ass.”
“Oh really? As I recall, a dragon saved my ass after your trickshot knocked me off a building.”
Erik grimaced, his full lips separating to reveal the straight white teeth beneath. “You were too close.”
I stepped forward, straightening until our faces were only a few inches apart. “That’s something you’ll learn quick about me, Erik from the World Army. I get close.”
He didn’t lean away. Instead, his eyes flitted between mine like lightning bugs. Hazel, I thought again, with little streaks of green. “I get the sense there are things you’re purposefully hiding, Tara.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re trying real hard to get me mad.”
I stared up at him a second longer, then stepped back. He was right. But just because he’d guessed what I was up to didn’t mean I was going to give it up. Not yet.
And truth be told, probably not ever.
“Maybe,” I said, turning away, “but I reckon I have my reasons.”
I started toward Seleema and Frank. Before I got three steps, Erik called my name.
“Yeah?” I said without turning.
“You’ve got your reasons, huh? I’m guessing one of them is killing Valdis? You’re going to go after him, aren’t you?”
I stopped. “What do you think, Corporal?”
“I think nothing’s changed between the moment you stepped off that elevator and this one.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s a vampire again.”
↔
Back at the apartment building, we found Percy already asleep in the parking garage. I gave him a quiet, inobtrusive kiss on the head
Upstairs, the apartment was cold. And when we turned on the lights, Frank quickly spotted the reason why: the double doors to the balcony were wide open to the night.
He crossed over and pushed them shut. “Strange.”
“Yeah,” I said as I made my way to the sofa. “Strange is the word of the night, isn’t it, Frank?”
He passed into the kitchen. “I need some wine. Anyone else for a glass?”
“Me,” I called out.
“I will have the same,” Seleema added.
“Red or white?” he said as he opened the fridge.
I sat down. “I’ll take red every day of the year.”
Frank’s chuckle emanated through the doorway. “I have the best bottle of red wine you’ll ever taste.”
“Now don’t make promises you can’t keep, Franklin.” I sloughed off my jacket. The left arm was a challenge; I gritted my teeth as I eased the sleeve down. Beneath, my arm was bloody and bruised.
Seleema came to my side, both palms set beneath my forearm. “Tara, why did you not tell me of the extent of your wound?”
My heart quickened; my whole life, my family had been strange about injuries. My mother had taught me how to treat injuries, but we healed them ourselves, kept our pain largely to ourselves. It was a rare thing to visit the hospital.
I’d operated the same way in the years since they’d been gone.
“It’s more bluster than real bite.” I tried to pull my arm away, but Seleema held fast. “I’ll just rinse it off and apply some anti-bacterial …”
Seleema had closed her eyes, both hands tightening around my arm. A strange, fizzing sensation began there.
“Uh, Seleema. Whatever you’re doing, I’d prefer you stopped.”
Her eyes opened, fixed on me. Correct that: they fixed on my chest. She looked worried.
I glanced down. “You appreciating the assets?”
“Tara,” she whispered, my name catching in her throat, “do you remember what I told you about your soul?”
“You said something about it being a brown cow shake.”
“I have never spoken of any cows … I did, however, tell you that—”
I shook my head, raising my hand. I was tired. Too tired to talk about souls and other intangible things. “Please, Seleema. I know it’s kind of your thing, but I’d really prefer to save the soul talk for tomorrow. Right now I just want to drink and sleep.”
Frank came out of the kitchen, three wine glasses in hand. He extended one to me. Under the white light, the wine swirled with crystalline redness.
Perfect redness.
Crimson redness.
I have seen a lot of blood in my life, and I’d be lying if I told you that wine didn't look like human blood.
And I swear to you, I couldn't look away. It was as if the wine—the blood-red wine—was holding my gaze, refusing to let go.
That's when the memories began to return.
And that’s when the screaming started.
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About the Authors
Author Bios:
S.W. Clarke lives in Houston, Texas with her partner and two identical—unrelated—cats. She writes to inhabit the lives of the smartest, bravest women her brain can conjure.
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Ramy Vance is the creator of the GoneGod World. Currently, Ramy lives in Edinburgh with his wife, demonic baby, monstrous 5-year old and imaginary dog.
Terrified, he pretty much stays in his office and writes.
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