Druid Mystic: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 10)
Page 11
Clara soon noticed the vamps who were tailing her, so she cut left and ran toward the St. Philip street underpass at I-10. If I were to guess, she was headed roughly north-northwest, toward City Park. Based on her route, I had to assume she either intended to lose her pursuers in the densely-packed, historic neighborhood of Bayou St. John or she was trying to set them up for an ambush.
There was no way the little baby vamp could take these three on, not at her age. The trio moved like mature vamps who’d had a few decades to grow into their powers, leaping quickly from rooftop to rooftop like spider monkeys on crack. Clara had to know she couldn’t outrun them, because as fast as she was, her speed and strength were no match for theirs. And I’d yet to see any “friendly” vamps coming to her aid.
Oh, hell. That means she’s setting them up for me.
Just as I realized what she was doing, Clara cut through an empty lot filled with weeds and tall, barren trees. I lost her for moment, forcing me to follow her pursuers instead, who kept to the high route as they cut across the block. I struggled to keep pace, vaulting a few fences and dodging around a very unfriendly-looking Rottweiler who might take issue with the fact that I was in his yard.
As I leapt the last fence, I just caught sight of Clara as she sprinted toward a large vacant lot that bordered an exit ramp off I-10. Once there she stopped and turned around to face the other vamps, a gleaming switchblade in one hand and a chrome motorcycle chain in the other. The three vamps spread out as they approached, both to flank her and to cut off any means of escape.
From the looks of it they wanted to take their time with her, probably intending to frighten and wear her down before they began their interrogation. While they remained focused on Clara, I ran up behind the nearest vamp, taking their measure as I approached them unawares.
A tall, baby-faced white man with a whip-thin build, dark brown hair, and the most epic mullet I’d ever seen was the first to speak. He dressed in what I liked to call “vampire cliché,” with a black leather trench coat, lizard skin boots, dark grey dress slacks, and a black silk shirt worn unbuttoned to reveal half his chest and a snake’s nest of gold chains. An expensive-looking gold watch and enough earrings to supply a pirate ship’s crew completed his ensemble.
“Where you flying to, little bird?” he said with a faint Acadian accent, southern with just a hint of Cajun lilt.
“Yeah, sugar,” a tall blonde in heels wearing a white leather miniskirt and matching jacket said. “We got lots of time on our hands, so why don’t you stick around for a while and play?”
The third vampire, a short, muscular Hispanic man with a bald head and a goatee, just stood there quietly, licking his lips and ringing his hands together in an incredibly pervy manner. You could tell from the way Clara was standing she wanted to back away and make an exit—but there was nowhere to turn. They’d boxed her in just as soon as she’d decided to make her stand.
All three vamps slowly advanced on their prey. Clara positioned herself in such a way that she could keep an eye on each of the vampires with a small turn of her head. It kind of impressed me that she was aware of how important body positioning was in a three-on-one fight. But the number one rule of fighting was to never get into a fight you couldn’t win—and Clara had failed to follow that rule, spectacularly.
“Now would be a good time,” Clara said as she began swinging the chain in circles.
“A good time for what?” Mullethead said. “You gonna give up and tell us where St. Germain is?”
“Naw,” the little vampire replied. “I’m just gonna watch you dipshits get your asses handed to you.”
The blonde vamp and the Latino began to look around, scanning the area for any recent arrivals. Mullethead just laughed and wagged a finger at Clara.
“Ain’t nobody coming to save you—” he said, before I lit him up with a fireball.
There’s a reason why vampires hate fire. A lot of the older ones aren’t quite as—er, moist—as your average human. So, their body mass is mostly made up of skin and hair, very dense muscle and bone, and some fat depending on what kind of shape they were in when they were turned. And while vamps don’t go up in ashes when you stake them, the older ones char pretty easily.
I’d cast one hell of a fireball, and it caught mullethead full in the back, enveloping him in flames from his knees to the top of his mullet. The dude screamed like a banshee, then he took off like a scalded cat for the nearest body of water—the pond back at Louis Armstrong Park. That left two vamps to deal with.
“Where’d dat fireball come from, Lupe?” the blonde eurotrash-looking vamp asked as her eyes darted around the weed-choked lot.
The Hispanic vamp just shrugged as he swiveled his head this way and that in an effort to locate me. I took that opportunity to move closer to him, careful to avoid disturbing the dirt and grass so as not to give away my position. Unfortunately, this meant I had to move very slowly and place my feet carefully as I crossed the empty lot.
“Hah! Told you fuckers you were going to get your asses kicked,” Clara stated triumphantly, pumping a chain-wrapped fist in the air.
The blonde blurred over to where I’d been standing. She squatted and touched the ground with her fingertips, then brought them up to her nose for a sniff. “Can’t see him, but I can smell him. It’s a mage, for sure.”
By this time, I was close enough to make a move on Lupe. I took my shot, hitting him with both barrels of a hellaciously powerful lighting spell. The blast nailed him dead center in his chest, knocking him back about ten feet and blasting him out of his boots. Lightning spells were a quick cast, so I was already on the move when the blonde whirred to the spot where the spell had originated.
Her arms grasped nothing but thin air, but she was close enough to touch. Although she couldn’t see me, I dare not move for fear of giving my position away. She probed the air around her like a blind person, forcing me to duck to avoid her touch.
“That’s what you get for fucking with the coven master’s messenger, you skeezy-ass bitch,” Clara taunted from twenty feet away.
The blonde’s eyes lit up as she turned her attention to the baby vamp. Before I could react, she’d closed the distance between them, disarming and grabbing Clara with vampire speed all in one smooth motion. The older vampire clutched Clara from behind with one arm across her chest, her long, sharp nails at the younger vampire’s neck. The little punk rock vamp struggled, but to no avail. Her captor’s arms may as well have been iron bars.
“Got’cher little birdie here, wizard. An’ if you don’t show yourself by the time I count to five, I’m gonna rip her throat out. One—”
“Don’t listen to her—she’s bluffing,” Clara said.
“Shut up,” the blonde said as she cuffed Clara on the side of her head. “Two—”
I was standing in tall weeds, so if I moved, the female vamp would see it immediately. If I revealed myself, it’d be my reactions against the vamp’s speed. While I was pretty sure I could spool up and release a spell before she hit five, I didn’t have anything that could kill her and miss Clara.
“Three—”
Granted, I could draw Dyrnwyn and cut the bitch in two. But as soon as the sword lit up I’d give away my position, and she’d be on me like stink on squashed dog shit.
“Four! Time’s almost up, wizard.”
With no other options, it was time to go old school. The vamp couldn’t hear me or see me, and like a dummy she’d given me a little too much time. In one smooth motion, I drew my Glock and fired. The silver-tipped nine-millimeter round punched a hole in her left eye, then it exited the back of her skull, taking a good portion of her brain matter with it.
“Five,” I said as the vamp collapsed like someone had just cut her strings. I dropped my concealment spells and shimmered into view. “Clara, the next time an older vamp is holding you hostage, don’t taunt them until after they’re down and out.”
Clara’s eyes went wide. “Druid, look out!”
The vamp’s strength was enormous, and as he took me to the ground my gun went flying. Lupe landed on top of me with all his weight and, as dense as his vampire body was, it felt like getting hit by a couple sacks of concrete. All the air left my lungs as my diaphragm spasmed, leaving me gasping for breath as the vamp slashed at my head and face with his sharp, supernaturally hardened fingernails.
It was all I could do to cover up with my arms to protect my head and hope that the jacket Maureen had purchased would do its job. Even though Lupe was trying to cut me with his fingernails, his hands landed like hammers, and soon my arms were battered and numb.
I still couldn’t breathe, and thus couldn’t utter a trigger word for any of my quick-cast cantrips or spells. Nor could I reach for the silver-plated Bowie knife at my back, because for one I was lying on it, and if I did I’d leave an opening for the vamp to tear my face off. As I lay there getting the shit beaten out of me, all I could think of was how stupid my epitaph was going to be.
The great god-killing druid, done in by a run of the mill vamp. Who’da thunk it?
12
I was just about done for when the vamp’s body locked up and he fell on top of me, all stiff like a mannequin. I peeked out from between my forearms, sighing with relief as I saw Clara’s pearl and chrome-handled switchblade sunk to the hilt in Lupe’s skull. My arms felt like tenderized veal as I pushed him off me, and I lay there for a moment to catch my breath.
The little vampire knelt down next to me. “You got a sword or something? These asshats are going to heal and come back at us if I don’t take care of them.”
With a loud groan I rolled to my side, reaching around my back to draw the large Bowie knife from its sheath. “Blade is silvered, handle isn’t,” I muttered as she snatched it from my hand.
“Shit, druid—you really don’t fuck around when it comes to killing vamps,” she said, as she admired the near-short sword length knife. The little vamp danced around for a few seconds, slashing the knife through the air like some swashbuckling character from an old film. “Nice balance, too.”
My arms were jelly, but I somehow managed to push myself up on my elbows. Grunting my approval, I watched with pleasure as the little punk rock vampire beheaded the blonde and the Latino vamp before they could recover.
“That just leaves the one you burned,” she remarked, her eyes searching the dark. “Should we go after him?”
“Uh uh,” I said as I cracked my neck. “Takes a lot for a vamp to recover from that much damage. He’ll be out of commission until he feeds and rests. Best we move on before more come.”
Slowly, agonizingly, I pushed myself to my feet and stood. My arms would be one huge mass of bruises tomorrow, and if I wasn’t careful my kidneys could shut down from all the protein the damaged muscles would release. I made a mental note to get Finnegas to help me with a healing spell later to prevent that from happening.
Clara sprinted over, moving like an Olympic athlete on speed—not nearly as fast as the older vamps, but quicker than any human could move. She handed the knife back to me hilt first and I sheathed it, wincing.
“Anything broken?” she asked.
I examined the shredded sleeves of my “bullet-proof” kevlar jacket, wondering if the Grove could fix it. “I’ll live. Now, where are we headed?”
“Demourelles Island. Saint Germain has a safe house there that the coven doesn’t know about.”
“That’s a couple of miles away, and there’s too much risk of being seen on the way. We should take a cab and lay low to stay out of sight.”
“Only if you’re paying,” she answered with a half-shrug.
We had to backtrack to the French Quarter to find a cab, but twenty minutes later we were standing in front of a sprawling and modern white brick ranch home. A white, nondescript Sprinter van had been backed into the long-ass driveway under the home’s wrought-iron carport. The stone-paved front walk led us past the van to a set of glass double doors, beyond which a short foyer hall branched off in two directions to the kitchen and living areas. Inside, the place looked like something you’d see in Martha Stewart Living—it was that nice and perfectly kept.
Clara didn’t bother to knock, and instead sauntered right in, heading for the kitchen where a plastic pitcher of blood waited for her on the island countertop. Without a word, she grabbed the pitcher and started guzzling from it while making greedy, satisfied little noises. I stared at her with my hands in my pockets until she realized she was being watched.
She pulled the pitcher away from her mouth, wiping her chin with her sleeve as she let out a long, wet belch. “What? I don’t like feeding on people and it’s been a few days since I had a good meal.”
“I was just wondering how you managed to keep your figure with an appetite like that. Intermittent fasting. Now I know.”
“Yes, our Clara here is quite the hungry little bloodkin,” Saint Germain said behind me in a slightly deeper tone than normal.
I hadn’t heard him enter the room, and between that and his voice I was more than a little creeped out. Making a concerted effort to look casual, I turned toward him with a smile plastered across my face. My smile froze in a rictus of horror and fascination as I took in the sight before me.
Saint Germain’s face was drawn and pale, his typically robust figure wasted away so that skin sagged from his jowls and his fine clothes hung from his frame. His full shock of wavy brown hair had turned grey at his temples, and it hung over his face in thin, meager strands. The vamp’s eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark circles that gave him a haunted, tortured look. Yet those eyes were bright and keen with intelligence, despite his rather haggard physical appearance.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare,” I said, as I recovered my composure.
He waved my comment off. “It’s necessary to starve it, you see. Blood makes it stronger. I can go for long periods without food, much longer than poor Clara here, in fact. But eventually, I will succumb to my baser urges, and then when I feed it will emerge.”
Glancing over at Clara, I tilted my head toward the fridge, hoping to cue her to put the pitcher of blood up. She noticed the gesture and stopped mid-gulp, slowly lowering her meal to the counter.
“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Saint Germain said. “Cold blood does little to tempt me, I’m afraid. It’s the kill that the spirit craves.” He stared a moment too long at my neck, giving a little shiver as he looked away. “Ahem. Perhaps it’s time for me to retire to my enclosure. Come, allow me to show you how it operates, so you may lock me away until you discover a way to help me defeat my demon.”
We followed Saint Germain out another pair of glass double doors to where the van waited. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket, fiddling with them until he located the right one. He turned and shrugged as if to say, “This is New Orleans, after all.” Then he unlocked the rear doors of the van, revealing a gleaming silver casket of an incredibly detailed and unique design.
The thing was rectangular, square-sided, and covered in magical symbols and runes etched deep into the metal that comprised the lid and casket. Two sets of thick, shiny metal bars were secured with substantial yet intricate hinge joints to each side of the contraption, dividing the thing lengthwise in thirds. The bars had been fashioned so they made a ninety-degree turn over the lid, where they clasped together like clawed hands on top of the coffin, secured there with an intricate locking mechanism that was a Hanayama puzzle enthusiast’s dream.
Saint Germain slipped on a pair of white silk gloves, then he gestured for me to approach. “The entire thing is made from a unique, space-age alloy that is both light and incredibly strong. Not quite like the fabled adamantium or vibranium in those comic book m
ovies, but close. The outer and inner surfaces of the sarcophagus are coated in a silver alloy three millimeters thick. Since I require no oxygen or food to survive while in situ, it is both air and watertight.”
“You were worried someone might attempt to fill it with blood through the seams,” I observed drily.
“Just so. And while I doubt any of my more ardent devotees could manage to thwart the locking mechanism and silver, I also designed it so it would be impervious to all but the most sophisticated magical attacks.”
“Ugh,” Clara protested from the kitchen doorway. “Just looking at all that silver is making queasy. I’ll be inside if you need me.”
“I’ll be interring myself shortly, my dear, so do hurry back,” the master vampire said.
Saint Germain sounded like a concerned grandfather or doting uncle when he spoke to her. That made it difficult to reconcile the enfeebled creature I saw before me with the killer they called “The Butcher.” At the moment, I stood rather close to him. Even though I had my sunlight spell ready, I doubted I could cast it in time to stop him if he decided to have me for a snack.
Instead of dwelling on things I couldn’t help, I examined the casket in the magical spectrum. Immediately my eyes were buffeted by intricately intertwined lines of magical power, laid in overlapping patterns and weaves that would make a Celtic god jealous. At my current journeyman level of magical training, it was something I could probably do—over the course of, say, thirty or forty years.
“You did this all yourself?” I asked incredulously.
“Indeed. Out of necessity, I’ve practiced alchemy for over two millennia, studying under Zosimos, Maria the Jewess, Ge Hong, Paracelsus, Newton, and Borovitz. I daresay I’ve surpassed all but the rabbi in skill, if not in accomplishments. To be an even passingly decent alchemist, one must master techniques of machining, glassblowing, pottery making, woodworking, and all other forms of physical fabrication. One must also have a working knowledge of warding and minor magicks, to strengthen one’s laboratory equipment and workspace against undesirable experimental outcomes.”