by Vance, Ramy
But alas, all good things must end to make room for other things—not always pleasant. Or good. Or even understandable.
Wet, cold and tired, my chest still burning in pain, we made our way back to the warehouse. Ringo was awake now but hadn’t managed to break free. I got into the back of the truck and made sure that he’d never get loose. Not without help. Or suddenly developing super powers.
My mother was by Simione’s side, but neither of them were speaking. I had expected my mother to gloat. That was her style. But she didn’t say anything, just stared down at the hunched man, shaking her head.
I joined her and once we closed the vat, I saw that Simione wasn’t speaking because Simione was dead. Drowned in about three inches of sap. The man must have realized that he’d lost … that he’d probably never walk again, too, considering what I’d done with his exoskeleton … and that he’d never get his revenge. He chose death over suffering.
Staring down at him, I found a strange admiration for the crazed man. The willpower alone to force himself to stay underwater. The sheer determination.
I didn’t know if I could ever do that—I still don’t know—no matter how bad it got.
Bending over, I closed his lifeless eyes. This was a good way to go, I thought, for after a few hundred years of not drowning, I guess going that way was poetic in its own, twisted way.
“I don’t know, darling,” my mother said. “I don’t think any way is a good way to go.”
One Last Confession
My mother didn’t want to call the police, preferring to hide the bodies in the forest. I pointed out that Ringo was still alive and she gave me a So what? shrug.
I believe my Psychology prof would say she was regressing.
Good thing, though—I wasn’t. I calmly explained that we would use one of the Cherubs’ cell phones to get the cops here and then leave—but only after we cleaned up the crime scene of any evidence we were ever here.
I also explained to Ringo that mentioning either of our names to the cops would result in him being hunted down and … well, he could use his imagination; sometimes the best threats are the ones the threatenee comes up with in their own head.
His emphatic nodding showed that he understood perfectly. And that he had a vivid imagination.
Then, grabbing one of their backpacks, I filled it with the four Cherub masks and dirk. I also made sure to put the amulet in my pocket. My mother saw me do it and said nothing.
I had considered taking one of the strength-enhancing exoskeletons for myself, but that meant disrobing either Ringo or Simione. I wouldn’t touch Simione, for obvious reasons … and Ringo was already bound. Besides, the fact that they were both in body armor would help add to the confusion of the crime scene—and right now that was the best thing we had going for us. Hell, I doubted they acquired the tech legally from the government. Cops tended to close cases after making arrests.
We called the cops and trekked up the hill toward the closest town, which was only the GoneGods knew how far.
↔
The closest town, it turned out, was only a three-hour hike, but by the time we got there we were beat and near collapsing. We found a diner where I used the payphone—thank the GoneGods they still had one—to call Egya, who dutifully borrowed Justin’s car to come get us. It would take him two hours to get to us—I guess we didn’t get very far after all.
My mother and I tried to talk while we waited. Mostly she complained that we should have used the Cherub’s cell phone, and I pointed out that we hadn’t known where we were, and leaving my friend’s phone number on a phone belonging to the bad guys who would probably be under investigation was a terrible idea with far-reaching consequences. She gave me a weak “pish posh” before falling into silence and, upright in her chair, sleep.
Later I’d learn that George was less of a coward than I thought. He had circled back to free Ringo, and when the police eventually showed up, all they found was an abandoned truck.
I guess the two good foot soldiers buried their general. I hoped, at least.
If they were to come after my mother and I? We’d deal with them then.
But I didn’t know any of that while sitting in the diner that day. All I did know was my mother was asleep and I was drowning in coffee, waiting for Egya to show up and rescue me.
↔
Almost exactly two hours later, Egya showed up in my boyfriend’s Mustang, his smile wider than ever. We got in and he drove us to the gas station to find my mother’s smashed-up, rented Prius.
“Leave me here, darling,” my mother said. “I’ll call AAA or something. Thank the GoneGods I got the extra insurance.”
And without another word, she got out of the car.
She got out of the car.
Out of the car—without saying another word.
Oh, hell no!
I got out and, exhausted or not, stomped up to my mother. “We nearly died, your quest was foiled and all you can say is ‘Thank the GoneGods I got the extra insurance’?”
“What else did you want me to say, darling?” she asked, lifting a curious eyebrow.
“I don’t know—thank you, or goodbye, or … I don’t know!”
I believe my Psychology prof would say I was looking for closure.
Maybe I was starting to get the hang of this “human” thing. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to pass that damn class.
Standing there, I waited patiently for my mother to say the wrong thing and for me to rush off in a huff back into the car with a dramatic “Drive, Egya. Just drive.”
But my mother didn’t say the wrong thing. She actually said the right thing—for once.
Taking my hand in hers, she kissed my cheeks before giving me a hearty hug. “Do you know what Simione was saying to me as he built that glass coffin? Just four words, over and over again. ‘She’s not coming back.’ That was it. I guess he knew exactly what to say to hurt me the most. ‘She’s not coming back.’ But you did, darling. You did. Thank you.”
“Well, someone had to save you,” I said, hugging her back.
She pulled away and shook her head. “Oh no, darling. That’s not why I’m thanking you.”
“Then what for?”
She kissed my cheeks again and stared at me for a long moment as she contemplated saying something. I could see the debate in her eyes before she finally shook her head. “I never told you what the amulet spoke. I asked it where the Soul Jar was … and it told me that my heart desired the answer to a very different question. Do you want to know?”
“Mother … Mom … do we have to? I’m too tired to get into a fight with you.”
“I am, too. But I don’t think the question my heart asked will anger you. It might upset you, but anger is not the reaction I suspect you’ll have.”
“OK—what did your heart ask?”
“Let us just say that whatever the question was, the amulet’s words came true. Well … have started to come true.” She pulled me in for another hug.
With that done, she guided me to the mustang and opened the door. “Take care of my little girl,” she said to Egya with a wink.
The Ghanaian didn’t say anything, just giving her a solemn nod before placing his right fist over his heart—a gesture common for his tribe that meant he would do all he could.
“Good,” she said as she squeezed my hand. “Katrina. I never told you what I am thankful to you for.”
“Mom … I don’t know if I have it in me for any more emotions. I’m kind of tapped out—”
“Pish posh, darling. You will indulge your mother one last word.”
She stood up, adjusted her now dry, but very wrinkled outfit before nodding to herself and looking at me.
“I am thankful to you because you have given me hope, Katrina. And not only hope … for the first time in a long time, I’m not so afraid.”
↔
With that, we drove off, back to university and all the problems being human entailed. And, of course, chief
amongst them was Justin. With a heavy sigh, I walked to his dorm room like one might walk to the gallows.
The conversation between us was horrible. I cried. He cried. I wanted to run away and from the number of times he got up and walked to the door, so did he. But he always stopped himself, turning around and asking that next question. And the next.
I answered them all as truthfully as I could. No more lies. No more secrets.
And when it was over, we were both exhausted.
We slept together that night. No sex (not that that had happened yet), no kissing. We didn’t even cuddle. We just slept next to each other and when the morning light woke us up, I turned to the boy who (whom, my mother would say) I cared for deeply—the boy I might love—with expecting eyes.
Eyes that turned away from me.
“I’m sorry, Kat,” he said. “I just don’t know.”
“About what?” I asked.
Stupid question, but if it was over, I had to hear him say it.
“I just don’t know if I … if we can work. You are so …” His voice trailed off.
No amount of willpower or control stopped my emotions from showing themselves. As my tears betrayed me, I reached out my hand for his.
He did not reach back.
I nodded. I stood up and headed for the door. It was time for me to go. I had told him everything. I had spoken the Truth, my Truth, knowing full well what the consequences might be. He had heard me and chosen not to be with me.
So be it.
“Experienced,” he said.
I had expected the words evil, wrong, tainted … but experienced?
I turned around. “Excuse me?”
His gaze was far away, like he was struggling with something. I waited, patiently willing him to speak again.
When he did, he said, “You are older than my great, great, great, great grandmother. And you have done so much. I just don’t know how to be with someone like you.”
“And the vampire stuff. You know—blood sucking and all?”
“That, too. I don’t know how I feel about that. It’s all so confusing.” He stood up and took my hand in his. “What I do know is I like you for who you are … not who you were. And you aren’t that person anymore. Are you?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t. I really wasn’t.
“But …” He pulled his hand away. “I just don’t know.”
“So, what now?”
“I …” He paused, looking down into my eyes. “I think we go back to what you told me that night we first kissed.”
“How I’ve never been so close to a boy before and not wanted to rip out his throat?”
Justin didn’t laugh.
“Too soon?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, then shook his head. “That other thing you said. About taking it slow. Dating. Being an item.”
“Oh, yeah—that. OK. I can do that. Let’s start over.” I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Katrina Darling. Ex-vampire, freshman and totally confused.”
He took my hand. “Hi. I’m Justin Truly. Always-human, junior and totally confused as well.”
And right there lay our common thread.
We were both struggling to be human.
↔
Over the next couple of days, things returned to normal. I took my Psychology test and by some miracle that was Egya’s incredible notes, I passed. Barely.
Still, I guess I’m not as bad at being human as I thought.
Deirdre and I went to the Rust Yard to visit the mutated pups. They were just fine, running around the lot happy as mutated rats could be.
And as for my mothe—mom. She figured out Skype and regularly Skype sniped me … So I heard from her a lot. And I didn’t mind. Much.
As the weekdays turned to weekend, we all decided to have dinner at Mama’s. We heard the glass window had been repaired and we felt we owed her our patronage, given the kind of riff-raff we attracted. We met outside, Justin opting to walk instead of drive this time, and stood awkwardly out front. This was the first time the three of us had been together since the kidnapping.
“Let’s dine,” Egya said with his usual uncompromising smile.
“You guys go ahead,” I said, scanning the street. “I need a minute.”
They went inside, Justin pausing to ask if everything was OK.
“I just need a minute to soak it all in. It’s been a hell of a week.”
He nodded as if understanding and walked in.
Alone, I scanned the street. In the last week, I’d unburdened myself of a lot of … what was the clinical term? … baggage. I told Justin, crafted an uneasy peace with my mother and passed my test. Things were looking up.
Trouble with me and being optimistic … I always waited for the other shoe to drop (whatever that means). In other words, I was always looking for a reason to be miserable, no matter how happy I was.
Well, that will have to change, I thought in a glass-half-full sort of way. People change. I can change. I can be happy without worrying what tomorrow will be.
And with that I turned on my heel, put on the biggest smile I could muster and walked inside.
I was happy.
Still … I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.
Probably just the empty half of the glass protesting.
Probably.
The Rasp
LATE EVENING—
It has been so long since he’s hunted. So long since he’s stalked his prey. And now that he has her in his sights, he wonders if she is the right target to begin with. After all, there are so many others who would be easier marks to take down.
So many to hunt.
He shakes this thought out of his head. Best to take down difficult prey first, he thinks. She is the most dangerous—and beyond that, I am a hunter whose skills are rotting. To test myself against simple, easy prey is to be defeated before I even begin. No, I must regain my instincts, refine my skills.
I must become the hunter I once was.
Assured that she—Katrina Darling—is, indeed, the right prey, he stands on top of this old, abandoned cinema, watching as she and her friends enter the diner across the street. They are laughing, preparing to enjoy a carefree meal … and completely unaware that they are being stalked.
As Katrina follows her friends inside, the hunter remarks to himself how young she is.
He quickly dismisses the thought. He’s a fool to entertain such sentiments. Miss Darling is not young. She is a three-hundred-year-old vampire, made human again. And not because she sought to regain her humanity or expelled the vampire virus through some kind of ritual or magic. No, she was made human again against her will.
She was made human when the gods left, taking their magic with them. She is human again—completely against her will.
Human or not, he reminds himself, she is still dangerous. She has years of experience as a huntress. Years of knowledge on how to kill. Decades of practice using both supernatural and natural skills alike to take down her prey.
She is dangerous. Very dangerous, he remarks to himself with a smile.
“Good,” he said in a raspy, unsettling voice. “So am I.”
Part I
A Beginning of Sorts
After a millennium of stalking his prey, there is one disease he is quite immune to: eagerness.
So he lurks in the shadows, watching her from a distance. She is with her friends, running in the snow, chasing after ghouls out of some false sense of responsibility.
This desire to do what she perceives as right, as good, will be her undoing. Her pursuit of good will exhaust her, drain her, eventually deplete her of who she is until there is nothing left.
That is when he will strike.
Still, that might take years, and he is no longer immortal. There is a bit of eagerness in him, and he decides to dip his hand into the chaos of Katrina Darling’s life to hasten her exhaustion.
And when he sees the anomaly flying in the sky, he knows exactly what he must
do …
Demons of the Desert and Superheroes of the North
LATE LAST NIGHT—
“What the—?” I growled as a giant scimitar swung over my head. Luckily for me, I’m short and I bent down just enough that the curved blade flew over me.
My head stayed attached to my neck. Sadly, a half-inch of my hair didn’t.
“Hey,” I shouted as strands of auburn hair cascaded around my face, “I just got a haircut!”
The creature stared down at me with glowing red eyes. Then he kicked me in the chin—hard. I went down, my knee crunching deep into the unpacked snow. I came to my senses pretty quick, raising my dirk in a defensive position as I anticipated another swing of his scimitar.
But no swing came. Instead the damn ghoul took off, running up the mountain and deeper into the forest.
“Come on, girl,” a voice yelled in a Ghanaian accent. I could tell he was smiling despite the life and death situation because, of course, Egya always smiled. As in, never stopped. It was annoying.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I shouted back—not smiling. “Be careful, these ghouls are seasoned.”
It was a misconception that ghouls were mindless monsters. They were more like pack hunters with thousands of years of preternaturally honed instincts and experience wrapped into freakishly strong bodies.
“So am I,” Egya said, brandishing his Ngombe—a blade that looked like a sword with a crescent moon at its top (if that crescent moon was as sharp as a scalpel and designed not only to kill your enemy, but to absolutely decimate him).
Egya would have been terrifying if he wasn’t dressed in a bulky, goose-down North Face jacket, a thick red toque with a maple leaf on it and matching mittens. OK, he was still terrifying with a sword like that in his hands.
Hell, Tickle Me Elmo would be terrifying with that sword in his hands.