Dying Bites

by DD Barant

  “The first time the vic was a pire,” Gretchen says. “Perhaps this one is, as well—the local population leans heavily toward hemovores.”

  “We’ll see when we get there,” Cassius says.

  We touch down in the field directly beside the cabin. Both Cassius and Gretchen have put on their daywear gear, long black gloves of shiny plastic and tight black masks that tuck into their collars. Smoked-glass goggles finish the outfit. Gretchen is wearing pale green slacks and a yellow blouse, while Cassius is dressed in his usual black suit with a dark red tie. Together, they look a bit like yuppie terrorists. I’m dressed in typical Bureau style, a black suit pretty much a match to Cassius’, while Charlie’s wearing a charcoal-gray two-piece, with matching snap-brim, alligator-skin shoes, and a pair of dark shades—he makes all of us look shabby.

  We climb out of the cabin and into a sun-drenched field of yellow wheat stubble, with the cabin no more than a hundred feet away. Four thrope agents are stationed around it, holding crossbows at port arms and generally looking menacing.

  The agent in charge, a thrope with reddish brown fur in chain-mail body armor, lopes over and gives Cassius the rundown in sign language. Cassius nods and motions us to follow him.

  The cabin itself is no more than a shack, peeling tarpaper roof and unpainted wooden walls gone gray with age. The windows I can see have little glass left, but all that shows behind them is black.

  Cassius pulls the rickety door open. Behind it is a wall of black plastic, no more than three feet from the door, sealing off the rest of the room. It has a hatch of sorts set into it, a zippered flap probably taken from a tent and duct-taped into place. The flap’s been reinforced with more black plastic.

  Cassius doesn’t hesitate. He unzips the flap. Bright, golden light spills through the opening, followed immediately by the stench of burned meat.

  The room has been sealed, every square inch, with black plastic and duct tape. A car battery sits in one corner, wires trailing from it to the satellite broadcaster nearby and to a metal cot in the center. The cot is bolted to the floor, and the victim is bound spread-eagled to the cot; the second set of wires lead into the vic’s mouth.

  Gretchen hands out paper booties for everyone to put on over their shoes, and the three of us enter. Charlie stays outside.

  The body is of a young female pire. She’s naked. Cause of death appears to be—well, the middle of her body is gone. It looks as though someone took a blowtorch and burned a swath from her groin to the center of her face. And lying right in the very center of that swath is a long, flexible tube, no more than a half inch in diameter, giving off the soft golden glow that’s illuminating the room.

  I put my hand over the tube without touching it. It’s not giving off any heat. “What the hell is this thing?”

  “Fiber-optic light pipe,” Gretchen says. “Tuned to the precise EM frequency of sunshine.”

  Cassius nods. “Inserted down her throat. Burned her alive from the inside out.”

  I frown. “Wait a minute—are you saying she was killed by a magic flashlight? Because if it’s that easy to make, I don’t understand why every FBI agent doesn’t carry one in their pocket.”

  “It’s not useful as a weapon,” Cassius says. “Any light pollution at all eliminates the effect, so it can only be used in complete darkness.”

  “Killing a vampire with sunlight,” Gretchen says. “Where’s the lycanthropic element?”

  “Not sunlight,” I point out. “Secondhand sunlight. Which is also an accurate description of—”

  “Moonlight,” Cassius finishes. He’s examining the broadcaster. “Telltales have been covered with tape.” He turns it off.

  “The body’s in pretty good shape,” I say. “There’s a lot more left than at the Hokkaido site.”

  “Yes,” Gretchen says. She’s pulled out a camera and is taking pictures. “Normally, exposure to this kind of light should produce complete incineration of the corpse. The fact that it didn’t tells me she’s Bloodborn.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gretchen hesitates and glances at Cassius, who gives a barely perceptible nod. It’s so quick I’m half-convinced I imagined it. “The Bloodborn are hemovores who are conceived biologically as opposed to being sired. They are identical to other pires, except they are that way from birth.”

  “What? How can that work if pires don’t get any older?”

  “We don’t, true—unless we choose to have children. In that case, it’s a direct exchange; the child ages a year for every six months each parent donates. When the child has reached the desired maturity, the spell that allowed the birth is dissolved, and aging stops for both parents and child.”

  Cassius nods. “The decomp level of a pire’s body depends on the time debt it’s acquired—the length of time between now and when it made the transition from human to hemovore. An older pire will turn to dust—a younger one might skeletonize or become a rotting corpse. There’s no decay here at all, just the burns. She was still aging when she was killed.”

  “Which means parents to notify,” I say. “Maybe they can”—I’m about to say shed some light on this and catch myself just in time—“tell us something useful.”

  Gretchen lifts and turns the head gently to one side. “I can tell you something already.” The throat is almost completely burned away, but the spine has protected the skin on the back of the neck from incineration; there’s a symbol at the base of skull in scarlet, a circle with a line through it at an angle and a single red dot on either side of the line. Like a No Smoking sign with two periods instead of a cigarette.

  “Is that a tattoo?” I ask. “I didn’t think pires could do that.”

  “It’s painted on,” Cassius says. “Same concept, different method. It means she isn’t just Bloodborn, she’s a Pureblood.”

  “Which means?”

  “Political extremists,” Gretchen says. “A movement that sprang up after World War Two, in the wake of the pire population expansion. Pires that have never known what it was like to be human, and have no desire to.”

  “Not just pires anymore,” Cassius adds. “Thropes, too. Ones from bloodlines uncontaminated by any canine influence other than pure wolf—they think they have more in common with the Bloodborn than their own kind.”

  On my world, we got Baby Boomers—here, they got Baby Biters. And Wolf Supremacists, it sounds like. I understood the meaning of the faux tattoo now: never been bitten. “Just how extreme are they?”

  Gretchen gently sets the head back down. “They believe that nonpure thropes should be sterilized, and all humans captured and treated like cattle.”

  “Nazis, in other words.”

  “Worse,” says Cassius. “The Nazis simply wanted to turn as many humans as they could. Purebloods want to create a culture devoid of human presence or influence.”

  “That’s absurd,” I say. “What are they going to do, tear down every city in the world and live in caves?”

  “That’s closer than you might think,” Gretchen says. “But not relevant at the moment—we have a site to process. Shall we?”

  When we’re done, we head for the nearest town, Missoula. We ride in separate vehicles, Cassius and Gretchen with the evidence in one, Charlie and me with the local agents in the other. The message is clear.

  I’m beginning to wonder why I’m even here. I have no idea where Stoker is going to strike next, or at who. The latest victim bothers me more than I care to admit—the second young, attractive woman killed using a method with sexual overtones. They were both pires, too—is it because he sees vampirism as more inherently seductive than lycanthropism? Or is it something more blatant, just hostility toward women?

  That’s not what’s really bothering me, of course. This isn’t a faceless killer anymore; this is someone I’ve met. Someone I’ve talked to. Someone who’s either a murdering psychopath or a champion of a dying race—possibly both. I know what he looks like, and I’ve kept that knowledge to myself. Thinking a
bout him produces feelings of shame, revulsion, pity, and a kind of admiration—not for what he’s done but what he’s survived. There are other feelings there, too, but I push those away stubbornly and pretend they don’t exist. I’ve got enough problems—and a decision to make, soon.

  Missoula is a cow town, a little prairie city surrounded by ranchland. It more or less rolls up its sidewalks when the sun rises—the population’s mainly pire with the odd thrope cowboy or lem farmhand. It also seems to be stuck somewhere around 1947.

  That’s not a typical small-town put-down—I don’t mean the place is backward, I mean it’s a literal, physical reproduction of an earlier time. The theater downtown is sharing a double bill of Casablanca and Arsenic and Old Lace; most of the cars date from the forties; and people dress the part, too, right down to hairstyles and hats. I haven’t seen a thrope in a zoot suit yet, but I’m pretty sure I will.

  I nudge Charlie, who’s sitting in the backseat next to me. “Hey, Rocky—this the place they chiseled you out of or something?”

  “Nah. Lots of towns like this. No matter how old pires get, they got a soft spot for the time they were turned—kind of a permanent nostalgia thing. Plenty of pires got created during World War Two, so when the boys came marching home, a bunch of ’em decided to keep things just the way they were. They weren’t getting any older—the ones that didn’t have kids, anyway—so why should the place they grew up in?”

  It makes sense. Small towns have always resisted change, and a town full of unaging pires would be practically set in cement.

  Which would drive the children—no pun intended—batty.

  Cassius has booked us rooms at a local bed-and-breakfast. He believes that Stoker will attempt to either contact me or leave me a message, as he has before. My role in this investigation is now mainly as bait.

  I’m starting to wonder if that wasn’t always the case. If so—why me?

  The town comes alive after the sun sets. Restaurants and shops open, people on the streets, kids playing in yards. Pretty normal, if you ignore the whole time-travel aspect. Charlie and I wander into a local bar for a drink—well, a drink for me, anyway. Cassius and Gretchen will meet us later; my orders are to stay in public and visible. I wonder how many agents are surveilling me at the moment, and how. Can’t spot them, anyway.

  “You must be loving this,” I say to Charlie, glancing around the place. It’s big, lots of oak paneling, antlered deer heads on the wall and flat-screen televisions showing sports over the bar. I’m drinking a single malt and wondering how it would mix with Urthbone.

  “Yeah, I’m a big outdoorsman,” Charlie says. “Nothing like spending the weekend in a duck blind, dressed like a tree.”

  “Not the hunting gack, the forties stuff. Come on, you fit right in.”

  “Do I? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “What’s with you and the Dick Tracy style, anyway?”

  He shrugs. “There’s just something about the decade, I guess. I like the clothes, the music, the films—the noir ones, anyway.”

  “Tough-guy stuff, huh? Yeah, I can see that. I’m a little surprised you don’t go in for the hunting, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You know—your origins. The non-mineral-based ones, I mean.”

  He doesn’t seem surprised I know, just nods and studies a moose head with an immense spread of antlers mounted over the entrance to the men’s room. “Yeah, I tried it once. Went bow-hunting for grizzlies in the Rockies. Didn’t get much out of it.”

  “No luck?”

  “No satisfaction. I killed three of them, all pretty big from what I understand. But the experience was . . . disappointing.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s about to yank one of my legs right off, but I play along anyway. “How so?”

  He’s silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. Finally, he says, “They just weren’t big enough.”

  My leg stays where it is. I blink, and keep my mouth shut.

  “So yeah, I like the forties. It’s as good a decade as any.”

  “I like the music. I used to go swing-dancing to keep in shape.”

  “Yeah? I’ve been known to cut a rug or two myself.”

  I goggle at him. “You? Lindy-hopping?”

  He stares back impassively. “Sure.”

  “Hollywood or Savoy?”

  “Both.”

  “If you’re bluffing, you are so busted. In this town I can find a jukebox in about thirty seconds.”

  “In this town you can find a big band on a Friday night. Which it is.”

  “Is your dance card full?” Cassius says as he and Gretchen stroll up to our table. “Or is there room for one more?” I hadn’t even noticed them come in; pires have this way of dropping off your radar, as if all the subliminal clues that tell you you’re not alone are masked.

  “If I’d known this was going to turn into a dance party, I’d have brought different shoes,” I say. “Et tu, Cassius?”

  “I promise not to step on your feet.”

  Like you’re not stepping on them already. I think it but don’t say it. “Didn’t figure you for a dancer, either.”

  “I do have a life outside the office, you know.”

  “Yes,” Gretchen adds with a knowing smile. “A rather long one, too.”

  “Anything new on the case?” I ask.

  “We’ve identified the victim,” Gretchen says. “Natasha Champlain. The office is trying to reach next of kin—her parents are traveling.”

  “Glad I don’t have to make that call,” I say. “Worst part of the job.”

  “Yes,” Gretchen says. Cassius and Charlie both nod. Some things about being a cop hold true no matter what universe you’re in.

  “Ready for the wild nightlife of Missoula?” Cassius asks.

  “After Alaska? Absolutely.”

  “Then let’s go,” Cassius says, getting to his feet. “I’m sure we can find someplace a little livelier than this.”

  Someplace with more eyeballs, he means. Someplace Stoker can spot me. Of course, now I can spot him, too—unless he’s disguised or hidden by magic. And Cassius has to be smart enough to have that angle covered.

  I grit my teeth and make it look like a smile. Out on the town we go.

  Charlie, it turns out, is one helluva dancer. Quick, nimble, coordinated. I’m a little rusty myself, but he’s one of those dancers who always make their partner look good, no matter how inexperienced she might be. I do my best to keep up. There are a number of places to go to, more than I would have guessed. I keep an eye out, but if Stoker’s around he’s staying out of sight.

  One of the joints does in fact have a live band with a full horn section. Charlie and I have been doing all the dancing so far, but Cassius finally asks me to join him on a slow number, “What a Wonderful World.” The guy singing even does a passable version of Louis Armstrong, and I make a mental note to add the song to my collection.

  It’s the first time I’ve touched a pire since I shook Gretchen’s hand. His hands are cool, not cold, one holding mine and the other on the small of my back.

  “How am I doing?” he asks. He’s no Charlie, but he’s pretty light on his feet.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  That’s a little more honest than I was expecting. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think you are. You’ve been through one trauma after another ever since you got here.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I should see a shrink. Oh, wait—you don’t have those here.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t talk to someone. Me, for instance.”

  “I think I’ve done enough damage to our professional relationship, thanks.”

  “I’m not interested in a professional relationship.”

  My eyebrows go up, but I keep dancing. “What?”

  “You were right—what you said about our rules and how they don’t really apply to you. So let’s forget about you
calling me boss. It isn’t accurate, and we should both acknowledge it.”

  “Uh—this feels suspiciously like being fired.”

  “Not at all. Think of it as a promotion.”

  “So if you’re not my boss, you’re . . . what?”

  His eyes meet mine. Blue as a Caribbean sea. “An ally. A friend, I hope.”

  “And if I say no?”

  He smiles. “You are, without a doubt, the most difficult woman I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He’s a little closer than he was a second ago. He’s still looking into my eyes. I really should look away, and don’t.

  The song comes to an end. Our feet stop moving, but we stay where we are. Any second now he’s going to lean toward me. . . .

  The crowd applauds for the band. It jolts both of us out of the moment, and we use the excuse of turning toward the stage and clapping to pretend nothing just happened. Which it didn’t, but still . . .

  Hoo-boy.

  I excuse myself and go looking for the ladies’ room. For a minute I’m worried I won’t be able to locate one—after all, what would pires need a bathroom for?—but then I find it hidden in a hallway that parallels one wing of the stage. It’s neat and clean, but there are no mirrors.

  Gretchen comes in a moment later behind me. “Well, well,” she says. “I see you’ve decided to ignore Aunt Gretchen’s advice.”

  I sigh and wash my hands. “Not my idea, Gretch. Cassius thinks I suck as an employee, and not in a socially acceptable manner.”

  She leans against the wall and crosses her arms. “So he thinks you’ll be easier to manage as a girlfriend? My, he is overconfident.”

  “Thanks for your support.”

  “It was meant as a compliment, dear girl. How are you holding up, otherwise?” Her tone is gentle.

  I shake my head. “I keep seeing the look on that zerker’s face after I shot him. It was just so—”