Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  All right. Nobody’s here, my stuff isn’t here, and my portable gate in the junkyard was mangled in the car collapse. What now?

  Find Mary.

  I scratched symbols on the floor with what I laughingly call my fingernails. Moments later, I had a line and distance. I rummaged through the office and the desk, didn’t find what I wanted, and went outside to rip a side mirror off an old ’53 Ford Victoria. With it, I checked in on Mary.

  They hadn’t yet killed her, so that was a good thing. Her nighttime regeneration already fixed whatever injuries she suffered during the day. They’d gone to the trouble of stripping her naked—apparently a standard operating procedure when dealing with armed individuals. She was aggravated at being stuck in a box, though she wasn’t trying to rip her way out.

  If she’d had a mirror of her own, we could have carried on a conversation. As it was, she was too distracted to notice my scrying sensor, so she couldn’t even signal me.

  I did notice the mirror’s lock on her was moving, though. I pulled back a bit to see her coffin was floating in a steel tank. I guessed the liquid in the tank was either gasoline or holy water. It’s hard to tell without color vision. A little fiddling with the image showed me any spiritual manifestations, which ruled out holy water, but there was some sort of spell or charm on the coffin, itself. I guessed was she was probably in a tank of fuel. The tank was tied down on a flatbed truck, rolling along the highway. The car in front had three armed men, the truck cab had the driver and a guard, and the car behind had another three.

  I grabbed a toolbox. No guns, no sword, not enough magic to be worth much, but I had a tool box from the dealership’s repair shop. I decided it would have to do. So, feeling rather tempery, I set fire to the building and left.

  Outside, the crane revved up to a high scream and lowered her boom and the claw on it. The claw barely brushed the front fender of the Impala out front. There was a blazing flash like lightning, a psychic vision of a great leap, an explosive sound like a thunderclap, the smell of hot metal…

  The Impala started, engine revving high before settling into a throaty growling, and the driver’s door opened.

  I shook my head.

  “No, you drive. I may want to lean out the window and throw things.”

  The driver’s door closed and the passenger door opened. I climbed in with my tools and we roared out of the lot.

  A battered strip of asphalt used to be the Gulch’s main street until the town dried up and blew away. We hit the highway after about six miles. We skidded through the turn as I gave directions, following Mary in my mirror. Then I had a brainwave. We had a little time before we could catch up, so I took my spell from the side mirror I’d ripped off and put it into the central rear-view mirror of the Impala.

  “Can you see? See what’s in the mirror, I mean.”

  The radio clicked on, playing Johnny Nash’s I Can See Clearly Now. Good enough. I sorted out my toolbox, humming along, and spent the remaining time working a deflection spell around my head and shoulders.

  I’m not sure about the top speed of a ’67 Impala, but the speedometer jammed the needle all the way around, past the hundred-forty mark. If I’d had the power to spare, I’d have worked an air-deflection spell just to cut down on the scream of the wind.

  She does love to run.

  When our targets came into sight, I wondered where they were taking Mary. I mean, you don’t lock someone up so thoroughly unless you plan to keep them. They’re encouraged to die in an escape attempt, sure, but you obviously have plans for them if they survive transportation.

  Somewhere far behind us were flashing lights. I didn’t feel too bad about forgetting to jam the radar. We were speeding down a four-lane highway jetting flames like rocket engines from the exhaust pipes. I suppose this might have attracted attention, fuzzbuster spell or no. They were far enough back I felt we could ignore them for a while, though.

  Bronze roared up behind the rear car, moved to the left as though to pass, and veered back to give their rear end a solid sideways shove to the right. They screamed as the rear tires lost traction and skidded sideways. She kept right with them, muscling them farther out of line and I did my best to help. I lashed out with my tentacle-tendril trick, grabbing one of the tires at the front of their skid, trying to anchor it to the pavement and prompting it to flip. I succeeded, but I suspect that had more to do with irregularities in the asphalt, but I’m sure I helped. The car rolled and tumbled, shedding bits of steel and glass, but I didn’t see much else. Bronze ducked around the instant the car changed from vehicle to wreck and came up behind the truck.

  My original plan involved throwing things with a vampire pitching arm. I figured a three-eighths wrench at several hundred feet per second would make a decent weapon. But Bronze’s idea worked, too.

  I climbed out on the hood. Now that we were doing more normal highway speeds, it was easy for her to come up on the rear bumper of the truck. I hopped onto the flatbed, behind Mary’s tank. Bronze dropped back a bit, not wanting to start fires. She knew what I was going to do without my having to tell her.

  The tank was a big cylinder, lying down in some sort of semi-triangular bracing. I didn’t see an easy way in, so I reached under the tank and drove my fingers up through the steel. It hurt, but I have nails like chisels and I regenerate. With my hand inside the tank, gasoline started burbling out, so I seized the edge of the hole and pulled, tearing it open as wide as my hand and three times as long. Another quick strike and there were finger-sized holes in the top of the tank to let air in. Fortunately, my fingernails are non-sparking. Gasoline gushed out, whipped by the wind to pour backward off the end of the truck in a flood.

  The truck accelerated as I did this. They saw the wreck of their rearguard and knew someone was in a car behind them. They didn’t know I was already on the truck—I don’t show up in rear-view mirrors. Their lead car swung left and braked, dropping back to deal with the threat. I stayed out of sight while their attention was fixed on Bronze. She could handle it.

  I went forward, crawling over the top of the tank. The guy riding shotgun was alternating looking at the side mirror or through the rear window of the truck cab, trying to see what was happening behind. His focus was on the road behind, not on the tank or the monster on top of it. When he finally caught sight of me through the rear window, his eyes widened and he brought up a sawed-off shotgun. I dropped down between the tank and the cab of the truck, not wanting a shot to hit the tank and potentially ignite the gasoline. He fired both barrels through the rear window and the wire mesh over it, hitting me squarely in the chest. The driver screamed, slapping one hand over the ear next to the shotgun.

  My cloak, acting as a jumpsuit, temporarily acted as a hole. I didn’t feel a thing.

  Where do things go when it does that? A pocket universe? Somewhere else? Or simply into some random piece of darkness? Is stuff accumulating in there? There’s one bolt of light, an apple, several bullets of various sizes, and a bunch of other things. Do they drift in an infinite void or emerge somewhere? How can I tell? Come to that, does it matter?

  Add it to the list of questions I may never answer.

  I reached through the metal grating and the now-broken glass with both hands and a slew of tendrils. I saw the flickering, fire-like glow of some sort of charm on him, but I wasn’t in a good position to analyze it, nor was I in a mood to care a whole lot. I grabbed him by the head and spirit and tried to pull him out through the back window. Mostly, I succeeded. The charm kept me from touching him with tendrils, so his spirit escaped. The flesh, on the other hand was easier. It hurt to touch him, on the order of touching a hot stove, but I was in a bad mood. I sank fingers into him, dragged him through the shredded rear window and the torn metal grating.

  On the plus side, the blood from the ripped and shredded body sprayed all over me—heartbeats are so helpful, sometimes. This time, my cloak didn’t stop it. The texture altered to a sort of mesh to let the blood soak through
and into my skin. I had a bad day and it hit the spot. Once he died, the charm broke and his flesh no longer felt hot. His spirit got away, but I was more interested in the blood, anyway. I was pleased to notice my hands weren’t damaged. They didn’t need to heal from the painful, fiery heat. Apparently, the charm was a painful deterrent, not a weapon. Would it work differently on different types of vampire?

  Through all this, the driver—wearing an identical charm—failed to panic, which I appreciated. I ripped the hole open a bit more and slid down to sit next to him.

  “Hi.”

  He shifted gears and stomped the accelerator. I sighed.

  “Seriously?” I asked, over the rising roar of the engine. “It’s a flatbed truck, not a racing car. It doesn’t spring from sixty to a hundred miles an hour just by stomping the gas. You’re not going to outrun me, and I’m not—” I added, kicking the gearshift, taking the truck out of gear and forcing it to coast, “going to let you wreck it.” I grabbed the steering wheel and held it straight.

  He reached for the gearshift and I broke his forearm. His charm was just as hot to the touch as the previous one, but knowing it wouldn’t harm me, it was only an incentive to minimize contact. Karate-chopping someone counts as minimal contact.

  “Now, now. I said, ‘Hi’,” I repeated. “Politeness demands you respond.”

  “Hello?” he groaned, through gritted teeth. He clutched at his arm.

  “Good man. Stop the truck and I’ll let you live. The other option involves killing you and doing it myself.”

  He applied the brakes and we slowed. I steered us to the shoulder. I saw the road in flames some distance back—probably spilled gasoline. A moment later, Bronze roared gleefully by, flames spewing behind, pursued by highway patrol, state patrol, local police, and possibly Smokey the Bear. Even over the sirens and engine noises, I heard Freddie Mercury belting out Don’t Stop Me Now. Bronze was having a wonderful time playing with the cops and being a decoy. They took no interest in us at all.

  That probably explained why my mood improved so suddenly.

  Once the truck came to a halt, I turned off the engine and handed the keys to the driver.

  “Now, here’s the thing,” I said, reasonably. “I don’t like killing good people. I much prefer to kill murderers, child molesters, rapists, that sort of thing. On the other hand, you guys are being complete jerks. You’re giving me good reason to be unkind.”

  “You said you’d let me live,” he reminded me, teeth clenched tight. Maybe I shouldn’t have broken his forearm. It’s two bones, not one, and they both hurt. Well, I’d had a bad day. At least I was trying to be reasonable. Don’t I get credit for trying?

  “So I did. Okay. I’m going to get my girlfriend. Any objection?”

  “Yes. She’s a monster.”

  “I know, but I’m fond of her anyway. Any other objection?”

  He didn’t say anything, only shook his head.

  “Good man. Oh, you guys took our stuff. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Behind us, echoing in the steel tank, I heard Mary shout.

  “Do you think you could save the interrogation until I’m not soaking in flammables?”

  “It all drained onto the highway a couple of miles back,” I shouted, through the broken rear window. “Have a little patience.”

  Her reply was unladylike.

  “So,” I continued, more quietly, “about our things. Surely you know who has them.”

  “I don’t,” he insisted. I laid a hand on the denim over his knee, feather-light and gentle, with just the tips of my extended talons. I felt the sting from the charm, but the contact was very light. He stared at my hand, either appalled that I ignored the charm or appalled at the monster’s talons about to rip through his leg.

  “There are two hundred and six bones in an adult human,” I told him. “How many do you think I can remove while you’re still capable of watching?”

  “We don’t know what goes on outside our own little group,” he said, hurriedly. “All the weird shit gets sent somewhere. That’s all I know.”

  I pondered for a moment. His spiritual lights were hard to read through the light of the charm, but I didn’t think he was lying. Come to think of it, having your vampire-hunting organization split up in a cell structure might be a good idea. If a vampire grabs someone and does mind magic on him, he can’t betray everybody, so only his closest co-workers have to relocate. Everyone else keeps on hunting as usual. Lorenzo might know everyone, but getting to Lorenzo would be tricky. Which, come to think of it, was a good reason to make him as difficult to reach as possible, even from a hunter’s perspective.

  “Fair enough. I don’t think you can drive a manual transmission in your condition. Do you want me to call someone when I get to a phone? Or would you rather I gave you a lift?”

  He stared at me, incredulous.

  “I’m serious. I was concerned about keeping us all intact, but now we appear to be reasonably safe. I’ll take you into town, if you like.”

  “I can manage,” he told me. I had to admire his toughness and determination if not his wisdom or sanity.

  “Suit yourself.” I exited through the passenger door like a normal person, swung up onto the flatbed, and snapped the various tie-downs holding the tank. I called a warning to Mary and heaved the tank off the side with a thudding clang. I heard both splintering wood and an “Ow!” from within. There followed considerable swearing and pounding.

  Yep, she’s fine.

  After hopping to the ground, I waved at the driver to send him on his way. He started the truck and pulled away with some over-revving and a brief spinning of tires. I wished I had enough loose magic to knit his forearm bones back together quickly. At least they were clean, simple breaks. How he drove a manual shift with only his left hand, I don’t know. Talent, probably. Possibly desperation.

  Mary’s gasoline tank was as much of a mystery. There was a way to open it, obviously, or she wouldn’t be in there. Exactly how it worked escaped me, so I fell back on the brute-force method. Metal screamed as I tore it open. Amid the splintered wood and fuel vapors, Mary emerged, naked as a peeled egg. I offered my hand and helped her out.

  “Some rescue,” she complained. “You took your time about it.”

  “I was in a multi-car crash,” I countered.

  “So was I.’

  “I was on top.”

  “I prefer it that way,” she told me. I gave her a suspicious look.

  “Innuendo?”

  “Always.” She led me away from the tank and the cloud of fuel vapors.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “Pissed off and hungry.”

  “I’m not surprised. Let’s go back to Apocalyptica and regroup.”

  “I want my things, first. And something to wear.”

  “You look perfect just as you are.”

  “You’re in a good mood,” she observed.

  “I am now.” We hiked up the embankment to the road. “What happened after they dug us out of the wreckage?”

  “I woke up in a box when they dropped it. After that, it was all about who I was, where I worked, who I served, what he wanted, all that. Being abroad in daylight really throws these people. They were convinced I was a human servant, not a vampire in my own right.”

  “They thought the same of me.” I reached the shoulder of the road and handed Mary up. “Why the gasoline tank?”

  “It’s hard to argue with a vampire transformation.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” she countered. “So they got out the crosses and holy water sprinklers and machine guns so they could put me in a box. I didn’t enjoy that,” she added.

  “I’m not best pleased about it, either. I take it they loaded your coffin into a steel tank and added the gasoline afterward?”

  “Pretty much. Wherever they were calling home base, i
t wasn’t set up to contain actual vampires. It was a good place to interrogate a human, but I get the impression they need better facilities for containing the undead.”

  “Where were they taking you?”

  “I’m guessing either some sort of holy ground, or someplace fortified enough they would feel confident I couldn’t get free.”

  “Good thing you didn’t get there.”

  “No kidding. I’m lucky they didn’t just behead me on the spot. They discussed it, but thought a forcible interrogation was worth the risk. They know weirdness—even for vampires—is going on. That’s us, by the way, being out during the day.”

  “They’re catching on already. Darn Lorenzo and his central communications.”

  “So, why are we just standing here? I mean, are we hitchhiking? Or did you call a cab? I’m pretty sure we can get a lift from a passing motorist if I stick out a thumb.”

  “You’re sticking everything out.”

  “The thumb helps.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I’m expecting a ride.”

  “Okay. Do I get to know?”

  “It’s an old friend.”

  “You’re being cryptic and mysterious. I don’t think it suits you.”

  “No?”

  “You’re more the brutally honest sort.”

  “Really? I thought I was getting good at being cryptic and mysterious.”

  “No, just inscrutable. There’s a difference.”

  “I’m colorblind in that range. I think I see our lift.”

  Bronze, still possessing the Impala, came down the other side of the highway. She kept a low profile. No flames spouted from the exhaust, but the headlights still glowed unnaturally bright and a deep yellow color. We crossed the highway median and waited. She pulled over on the shoulder and opened both front doors, raising the volume on Wild Thing, by the Troggs. I noted new bullet holes, including one through the windshield. The front bumper, grill, and fenders were badly crumpled.