by Garon Whited
I ran a fistful of invisible tendrils through the kid—carefully, so as to only touch and sense, not consume. What’s not working? Well, he’s not breathing. Is the airway clear? The lungs? No, there’s far too much mucus. A cold can turn into pneumonia so easily. Are antibiotics for pneumonia a thing, yet, over here? I’m pretty sure they are. Still, for the moment, clear the airways, gently scoop out goo and dispose of it. Push on the diaphragm, get the air moving. Trickle some vitality into the youngster to help offset the choking. Chant for a moment, wave hands, and cast a minor healing spell to tell the flesh to pay attention to those pesky invaders.
Heartbeat? Check. Breathing? Check. Soul still in there? Check. Color improving… and now the distressed wailing sound starts, like knives stabbing into my ears. Crying infants are not my thing. Yep, my work here is done.
“There you go,” I told him, laying him gently in his crib. “Night shift emergency services. No need to be afraid of the dark. Good night!”
I lightly slapped his mother a bit, recalling her to consciousness. As she came groggily around, I dove right back out the window before she could ask awkward questions. She might cry on me. She might scream again. The kid might continue to cry where I couldn’t help but hear it. None of which were good things.
Speaking of not-good things, I misjudged my leap and headed for the ground headfirst. While unlikely to be lethal, it was going to be unpleasant for my hands, arms, and possibly skull. My cloak, pretending to be a jacket, grabbed my torso and spread out like wings. I weigh far too much to expect to glide, but it did catch enough air to turn me into a feet-down position and slow me somewhat. I landed well, flexing my knees—not quite enough to go into a forward roll. Much better than I expected. My cloak turned into a long coat when I landed.
On the other hand, I was still in an illuminated area and didn’t care to be seen. I hustled into a more shadowed street and vanished into the night, circling around to stroll inconspicuously back to the warehouse.
Some nights are just plain annoying.
Case in point, when I got back to the place, I barely sat down by my paint can when I heard a noise in the residential section. I should have locked the door behind me when I left, but I was in a hurry. A fast whip of tendrils through the rooms told me there was one person, a human female, about four feet tall, tired and hungry. It was armed in the sense it had a small sheath knife, but nothing else.
Not a hunter, then. Bait, maybe, or a scout, but not a hunter.
Having learned my lesson with Mom and Infant, I used one of the power crystals I’d brought and fed it to a disguise spell. It took me a minute or two, but she didn’t come out while I was working. From the sound of it, she was rummaging through the kitchen.
With my skin and eyes sorted out—and my cloak pretending to be a jacket again—I stepped quietly to the open door and leaned against the doorjamb. She was in the kitchen area, going through the food. She was a chocolate-colored little thing with long, dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, and wore a drab, off-white dress that put me in mind of Mrs. Gillespie for some reason. It was calf-length, cinched at the waist, and had long sleeves.
“You know,” I said, conversationally. She jumped about a foot and whirled to stare at me. “You’re going to need a can opener for the soup and stew. It’s in the drawer next to the stove. And you’ll need something to carry it all. A paper grocery bag isn’t going to do it. You need two of them, at least, one inside the other. It’s called double-bagging, and stores do it so the cans don’t tear holes and spill everything. Since I don’t have a bunch of paper bags, how about we use a blanket?”
She stared at me for several seconds, not sure how to respond. She was no more than ten years old or thereabouts.
“Seriously, the can opener is in the drawer by the stove.”
I heard someone open the door to the warehouse area, behind me. I pretended not to notice the stealthy footsteps. Dammit, I need to slow down a little. Closing and locking things used to be second nature to me.
She moved to the stove, opened the drawer, and drew out the can opener.
“Good. Would you like a sandwich? That’s quick and easy. I can make one while you’re loading stuff. Soup will take longer.”
The guy trying to sneak up on me laid a sap across the back of my head. It was a good whack, too. It would probably have laid out anyone mortal. I felt it, and it hurt for a second. I did my best not to show it when I turned around and locked eyes with him.
He was a middle-aged black man, his close-cut afro going grey all over. His suit was threadbare and he needed a bath. He also tried to hit me again.
I didn’t hurt him in front of the kid. My instant assumption was they were working together, possibly even father and daughter. So I took the blackjack away from him without damaging him. I forced him into a particularly unpleasant finger lock and encouraged him to follow me into the room. He pulled a switchblade, awkwardly, since I had his right hand. I swatted his hand, hard, and he dropped it. I kicked it into the warehouse area, trying to miss the paint pots and my diagram.
I also bent the finger lock a bit farther and confiscated the revolver in his waistband. It was a dangerous weapon, all right. It was a .38, somewhat beat up, badly scratched and scuffed, and the front sight was filed down to nothing. Personally, I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable firing it. I don’t like risking my hand around explosives.
With him pushed toward a chair and the door shut, I was fairly confident they weren’t about to simply bolt. The girl didn’t seem at all fazed by the minor violence. My guess was she saw him get pushed around by cops, maybe even saw him occasionally do a little violence of his own. I addressed the kid.
“Do you think he would like something to eat, too?”
She nodded, gaze flicking back and forth between us. He sat on the chair, rubbing his hand, looking belligerent and confused.
“Check the bread box. I’m not sure when I got groceries last.”
The bread was thoroughly stale, so I opened a couple of cans—we always keep food on hand, just in case we need something during the day—and started two pots going. Vegetable soup and a beef stew.
They both had a clear line to the door. They didn’t run for it. Maybe it was the smell of food. I even left the room for a moment to fetch a spare blanket from the bedroom. The girl went to stand by the man, but that was it.
I can boil soup, at least. I did so, poured it into bowls, told them to eat at the table, and handed out napkins.
“Sorry, but the milk’s gone bad. Water?”
“Yes, please,” the girl replied. The man just nodded. I wasn’t surprised at the lack of conversation. I mean, what do you say at a time like this?
By the time they finished the soup, the stew was ready. The process of eating repeated, somewhat more slowly as the stale bread went into the broth.
When they finished, I checked my pockets for loose cash. It was only a few hundred in the local currency. I handed the food sack and the cash to the kid as I knelt to look her in the eye.
“Now, two things to remember. People can be very mean, cruel, and unforgiving. They can also be nicer than you ever expected.” I turned to the man. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. You think I’m a sucker for being so nice to you. That’s fine. But you are responsible for a child. You will at least act like a decent human being even if you aren’t one—especially if you aren’t one—because that’s the example you need to set.”
I smiled at him, deliberately, and flicked my eye disguise off for a moment while I showed my fangs, all carefully out of the girl’s line of sight. He recoiled, eyes widening until the whites showed all the way around. I handed him his gun.
“If you can’t be a good example, you will be a horrible warning, and sooner than you think. Now, take the gun, forget about the knife, and leave. No, don’t say anything. Just look frightened and scurry.”
He did. The kid went with him, looking back over her shoulder at me from the door. I smile
d in the friendliest fashion I knew how and waved. She smiled at me and waved back before trotting after her adult.
I got busy the instant they were out of the room. Power crystal, the seat she sat in, the spoon she used… chalk marks on the table to help cast the spell, focus on the kid, get a lock… now use the empty power crystal from my disguise workings. Embed the impression, the signature, into the matrix. It’s not a power crystal anymore. It’s a key, an identifier, a psychic impression of a little girl.
Now I can track her without resorting to spoons and recently-occupied chairs. The imprint left behind doesn’t last long. I wanted something permanent.
A little more work with a mirror and I had a scrying sensor on her. The two of them were already heading up Anaheim Street, probably toward a large, vacant lot—not a park, but it could be mistaken for one. I watched for a bit. The lot was overgrown and had trees. My two humans worked their way into the woods and settled in their campsite.
Wonderful. A homeless man and his kid just tried to rob me. At least the kid was fed and likely to stay that way for a while. I resolved to check in later and see if he spent the money I gave her on cigarettes and booze. If so, he might get a horrible warning before being turned into one. On the other hand, what would I do with the kid? I’m not running an orphanage. Unless you count the refugee camps in Apocalyptica…
Grr. I decided to check on her later.
I went out to the storage area of the building, closed and locked all the doors, and got back to work painting my angel trap in the local magical symbols. I was building it—hopefully, over-building it—because I wanted to err on the side of caution. As I did so, I wondered. If this could contain the local energy-beings, could something like it contain the Karvalen version?
If I catch and hold a Karvalen quasi-semi-hemi-deity, how would the world change without the gods constantly interfering? I decided I would never know. They were too integrated into the society of Karvalen to be casually tossed aside.
I pretty much had my diagram done down the length of the room. I went back over it in detail, dotting all the I’s, crossing all the T’s, and making sure I didn’t leave out the magical equivalent of an Oxford comma. Of course, something interrupted me again.
It’s enough to make me think Someone doesn’t want me doing this.
The odor grew steadily stronger while I went over my work, fiddling with it, correcting it, getting everything as perfect as I could make it. When the odor finally penetrated my concentration, I stood up, sniffed around, found nothing. Yet, I could still smell blood.
All right. I have a keen sense of smell. Of all the things I can smell, blood is the most obvious, and for obvious reasons. Just because I smell blood doesn’t mean there’s a dismembered body in the room.
I checked outside. No, no dismembered body up against my building, either, which was a relief. And yet, the smell… human blood on the breeze.
I sighed, stepped outside, locked the door, and went upwind, tracking the scent.
Two blocks away, I found a little old lady in a cardboard box, tucked away in the corner formed by a dumpster and a chain-link fence. Judging from the way her wrists were slashed, she didn’t know how to commit suicide, but she gave it a good try. Given her ebbing life energies, it was probably good enough.
Once I ripped open the box, I could see her pitiful store of belongings. The ratty sleeping bag for a mattress, some sacks of trash—I considered it trash, but she valued it—even a few gnawed bones. The woman, herself, was probably eighty or more years old and about eighty pounds—thin, bony, withered… I’m tempted to say desiccated. The fact every drop of blood around her was oozing rapidly into my clothes and soaking into me lent weight to the desiccated idea.
I ignored the trash and litter. I sat down next to where she sprawled and lifted her head a little, placing the matted, grey-tangled thatch on my lap. Her eyes fluttered open, surprisingly. I didn’t think she had it in her.
“No,” she croaked. “No… don’t…”
“Shh,” I told her. “I’m only here to keep you company. You don’t have to go alone.”
“Oliver…” she said, softly. I have no idea who Oliver was, but I didn’t contradict her.
“Close your eyes.”
She closed her eyes, mumbling something incoherent. Her bleeding increased, of course, once I was arrived. The blood inside her hurried out through the cuts, refusing to clot, and dribbled rapidly to me.
On a non-physical level, I surrounded her glittering spirit with a cloud of inky tendrils. She was old and tired, yes, but also hungry and alone. Everything hurt, from heels to hips to head, but not nearly as much as the scorn of everyone who saw her. Her spirit was tired of bearing up under the burden of being a pariah, an outsider, rejected and refused, so it was time to return to sender.
Her body gave up its grip on her spirit, and she disappeared into the warmest darkness I could offer.
I laid the body down on its grubby pile of litter and plodded back to my work, happy to have helped, sad that I was called to do so. It doesn’t bother me to have to do that sort of thing, but it annoys me deeply that people permit the circumstances. I mean, I’m a blood-sucking monster and even I know this is unacceptable. What do regular humans use for an excuse? What do they tell themselves so they don’t feel guilty? Or do they have an easier time ignoring this sort of thing than I do?
I guess I am a monster. I don’t understand this at all. Then again, I never have understood, not even when I had a full-time heartbeat. Maybe it’s a fundamental mystery.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Immediately, I knew I wasn’t alone. The lights weren’t on, but I don’t need them when I’m looking at the world through vampire eyes. Even in complete darkness, I could see the mortal form easily enough. He was some nondescript guy, vaguely handsome, dark-haired, in good shape, dressed in a suit and tie. Nothing special about him, at least on the outside. But the shining beacon of celestial light radiating from within him… that stood out, at least to me. It was about as subtle as a sunrise and went on longer.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” I agreed. “Valan?”
“Yes.”
“You’re earlier than I expected.” I closed the door and locked it this time, turned on the lights. It gave me a few moments to get a grip on myself. An energy-state being was visibly present, a being of light to my vampire vision. To my more regular vision, he was just some guy, nothing noteworthy about him. I wasn’t sure if his quasi-celestial light counted like sunlight or faith or whatever, but it might. Being in a body wasn’t a good test. The flesh around him might act like a radiation shield.
Note to self: Use caution when forcing the local energy-Things out of a human suit. If they are similar enough, they might self-destruct like the Lord of Light’s did. Although, come to think of it, when Bronze crushed the one in the junkyard, it didn’t go off. Maybe it’s a matter of choice. Still, if I force this one out of a human suit during the night, it might be an illuminating and painful experience for me.
I’m not planning to experiment along those lines unless I have to. I remember getting a sunburn on my cheekbones—and teeth.
“I wasn’t planning on inviting you in until after dawn,” I continued.
“You intended to summon me,” he noted, glancing at the floor. “There are better ways to contact me.”
“Oh? Sorry, I’m new at this.”
“I can tell. Now that I have come, why do you wish me here?”
“I want to talk.”
“Talk?”
“You act as though you don’t know the word,” I observed. “Shall we move into the kitchen and sit?” Valan followed me and we pulled up chairs at the kitchen table. The added normality of the kitchen table helped a little. It also added to the surreal feeling of the whole situation. The vampire and the angel sat down and had a conversation. My life just got weirder, and I would have bet good money it couldn’t.
“I am not ac
customed to conversations with mortals,” Valan pointed out.
“I count as a mortal?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“From the humanity, free will, and soul perspective?”
“That is correct.”
“Okay. We’re out of milk, if you drink milk. I’m afraid all we have is water.”
“No, thank you. Why have you ‘invited’ me to… talk?”
“I’d like to ask about the rules.”
“Rules?”
“The rules for energy-state beings. What you are, why you are, and what you do. That sort of thing.”
“Very well. You have performed adequately in the three tests I set for you. I will answer three questions.”
“Tests?”
“The baby, the girl, and the old woman.”
“Those were tests?” I demanded.
“Of course.”
I made a conscious effort to let go of the crumpled edge of the metal table. Those fingerprints weren’t going to buff out.
“Valan,” I said, softly, “I don’t know the rules, here. I do know I’ve fought and beaten things more powerful than you and considerably brighter. So, unless you want me to experiment with ways to kill angel-like entities, you will refrain from manipulating me. I don’t take it well.”
He blinked. I think I surprised him. He sounded surprised.
“You dare to threaten me?”
“I dare to warn you,” I corrected. “I don’t take manipulation well, and the next time you try it, I may not be able to stop myself. I simply want you to be aware of the risk. That’s all.”
“I dislike your tone.”
“And I dislike yours. Get out.”
“Get out? You have earned three questions—”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I beg your pardon?” he demanded, shocked. I was a little surprised, myself. I used to be more cautious. But what the hell. I spent most of the night working on a massive project, got deliberately sidetracked by this meddlesome creature, and now it was toying with me by dangling a tiny reward in front of me.