The Phantom Oracle (Vampire Innocent Book 5)

by Matthew S. Cox

  “He thought you were brave.”

  Glim lets out a sad chuckle. “I don’t think I was any more courageous than anyone else there. Looking back on it, perhaps I was only naïve. The people around us seemed like anyone else back home. Just normal schmucks trying to live their lives the best they could in a shitty situation. Yeah, we had insurgents, people who looked like locals who’d kill us as soon as glare. A lot of the guys thought the whole country was like that. Me, I saw husbands, storekeepers, mothers, and children stuck in a situation no one should ever be forced to live in. I guess in a way I believed we’d gone over there more to fight for oil than defend the flag. I was just another poor idiot caught in the same meat grinder as the locals. So I didn’t fear them. Probably dumb of me, but I figured whatever happened to me would happen, so being on edge all the time would only make me die tired.”

  “I still think that’s brave. You could’ve been killed at any minute over there.”

  He laughs. “I technically was… but not by the enemy.”

  “Right.”

  “Blood.”

  “Already ate.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I mean to answer your question. Two things: blood and intent. In a traditional Transference, the vampire takes so much blood, the subject lapses into cardiac arrest. Before the living person finishes dying, the vampire cuts themselves and feeds their blood back to the person while desiring to pass along the gift.”

  I try not to think about doing that to anyone, least of all my sisters or brother.

  “In your case, you’d already suffered a mortal wound, so Dalton skipped straight to the feeding you his blood step. And, of course, he desired to initiate the Transference.”

  “How long do we have? I mean… the only way I will ever possibly do that to anyone is if it’s someone I don’t want to lose, and they’ve asked me to do it. Like, do I have to give them blood before they finish dying, or can I drip it into someone who’s been dead for a while?”

  Glim puts a hand on my shoulder and fixes me with a stern look. “Do not, under any circumstances, ever feed your blood to someone who has been dead for more than a minute at most. The best result of that would be a Scrap.”

  I shiver. “Almost afraid to ask what the worst case scenario is.”

  “Sefil”—he says it with a foreign accent that kinda sounds Arabic.

  “Right. That sounds bad.”

  “Heh. We are both vampires, but still ourselves. Our souls remain within our bodies. A sefil is created when an entity of darkness inhabits the remains after its soul has departed.”

  “Okay, right.” I cringe. “Swear I’ll never do that. I don’t want to summon any demons.”

  “The sefil is worse. Demons make deals sometimes. Demons have reason.” He winks.

  Ugh. Right. There goes that idea. Odds aren’t great I’m going to be right next to Sierra if something… not thinking about it. But, yeah. I’ll just have to make sure she makes it to eighteen without a scratch. ’Cause, you know, I’m so good at preventing death.

  “Is that guilt? You fear your being what you are will bring harm to them?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, yes, but that’s not what I’m mopey about this week.”

  He laughs. “Your sense of humor hasn’t quit.”

  I manage a feeble smile. “Yeah I guess not. Sierra’s obsessed with being shot at school. They did some drill and it totally freaked her out. I’m really surprised Sophia’s taking it in stride. She’s usually the one who worries.”

  “Children react in odd ways sometimes. When Stefan was six, he became irrationally terrified of this little ceramic owl my wife had in the living room.” Glim holds his hands apart to indicate a statuette about eight inches tall. “He thought if he looked right at it, it would turn him to stone. I still have no idea where he got that from.”

  I chuckle. “Kids… but I bet his school wasn’t doing active owl drills.”

  Glim whistles. “No…”

  “Okay, second question.” I try to push the gloomy thoughts away and sit up straighter. “How do vampires learn how to defend themselves with like claws and stuff? Like, is there a kung fu school for us somewhere?”

  That gets him smiling. “I’m afraid not. I already had hand-to-hand training before I turned, so fighting came naturally.”

  “What kind?”

  “Military close quarters focus. Little jiu-jitsu, little krav maga, bit of street brawling.” He smiles. “Most of the time, a fight isn’t like you see in martial art movies. None of that fancy, controlled back and forth stuff. Nine times out of ten, a fight’s going to wind up rolling around on the ground inside of twelve seconds.”

  “Yeah, that’s kind of how I remember it both times. I kinda feel like a cat on drugs whenever I get into a fight. Think you could maybe show me some stuff?”

  He raises both eyebrows. “Are you planning something?”

  “Nah. I only want to be left alone, but for some damn reason, the universe likes messing with me.” I raise a middle finger at the sky. “Enough already, huh? How ’bout giving me a break.” Sudden regret hits me out of the blue. “Wait. Hang on. Keep dumping on me if you want, just leave my family alone.”

  “Sarah…” Glim puts an arm around me. “You’re not some kind of bad luck sponge. What happens to you has nothing to do with what happens to anyone else.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’m just being superstitious.” I smile. “I’m ninety-nine-point-a-billion-nines percent sure it’s not going to matter, but on that tiny chance it does? What am I losing?”

  “Just being guilty and miserable for nothing.”

  “Oh, so I’m Catholic now?”

  He snickers. “Don’t let Ana hear you say that. Okay, c’mon.” He stands. “I can show you a couple basic things if you want.”

  “Cool.” I grin.

  “Unless you have somewhere to be.”

  “Nah. Just calculus homework.”

  He cringes and glides into the air. “I think I’d pull another tour in Iraq before taking that class.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.” I zip into the air behind him, hoping he doesn’t kick my ass too hard. And yeah, Universe… if you’re listening, please leave the littles alone.

  9

  Professor Heath

  If my little brother’s karate class equates to ‘yoga with screaming,’ then what Glim and I did last night probably counts as ‘highly aggressive mime school.’

  I spent half the time picking myself up off the ground, but it was worth it. After an hour and a half, I’ve got a better handle on dealing with a single attacker coming at me from the front. And yeah, Glim threw me around like a doll while demonstrating defending against me pretending to attack him. When my turn came to defend, I started off ‘combat hugging’ him, but eventually worked out an arm lock takedown. No idea if it will really work against someone trying to kill me, but unless they’re a vampire, too, I’m not all that worried.

  The remainder of Wednesday night died as a sacrifice on the altar of calculus.

  I wake up face-down in the book on my bed.

  Ugh. Must’ve finished the last problem within seconds of sunrise. I don’t even remember passing out. One second I’m doing homework, the next, my cheek is stuck to paper. It’s almost three in the afternoon, so it’s either kinda bright out or my ‘fight’ with Glim burned off more energy than usual.

  After a brief period of feeling too tired to move, I finally drag myself out of bed and stumble to the door. The basement isn’t too bad, but the top of the stairs to the kitchen throws off heat like a jet engine. Not that it’s particularly warm out. This is all sunlight. Right. That’s a big nope for going upstairs at the moment.

  Tonight’s class doesn’t start until eight, so I have plenty of time. The sun’s been going down around 7:30 p.m. the past few days, so I think I’m going to skip the car and fly. A little annoyed at the isolation, I plod back to my room and do a quick summary check of where I am with schoolwork. Wow. I�
��m all caught up. Amazing how much free time I have without a social life. Both of my friends and my boyfriend are all working and going to school. When I wake up, they’re finishing up their last class and heading for their jobs. By the time I get back from my classes, they’re all wrapped up in homework.

  Wait, that’s not totally true… Ashley has off one day during the week because she works on Saturday morning. I think that’s tonight. Cool. Maybe we can do something. I shoot her a text to double check, then hop on the computer to burn some time with video games. Since I’m going in for programming, I may as well immerse myself.

  I overhear Dad on the phone with the girls. They’ve decided to hang out at Nicole’s place today and called to make sure it was okay—of course after they go there. Sam and his friends must be here since it sounds like a pack of elk on roller skates are having a dance off right above me. They wind up taking advantage of Sierra’s absence and hitting the PlayStation in the living room on the big TV.

  The afternoon is mostly uneventful except for an endless stream of foreign language cursing coming at me. Vampire reflexes plus first person shooter game equals I win. Or at least, I have the biggest kill count. Around half past five, I decide not to hop into another match and check light levels in the stairwell again. Still annoyingly bright but not ‘Sarah burns to ashes’ bad. I dart back to my room to throw on socks and sweat pants plus a long-sleeved sweater. Covering skin helps a little—at least it hurts less.

  Mom’s home already, and apparently in a good mood, so I head to the kitchen to help her with dinner.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  She twists toward me, smiles, and gives me a brief one-armed hug. “Hey yourself.”

  “You seem happy.”

  “That contract went through. All the worry about layoffs is gone.” She removes chicken breasts from a pack and drops them in a large, glass bowl. “And, Fowler called me into his office today to tell me that he thinks I’m vital to the team and is glad to have me. Might even get a promotion out of it.”

  “Oh, wow. Nice on that contract.” I start slicing the veggies. “Lemon-garlic chicken?”

  “Yep. Want me to throw in a piece for you?”

  “I feel kinda bad wasting food.”

  She shrugs, and adds another piece to the bowl. “It’s not wasted if you enjoy it. Food still tastes the same, doesn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “So, umm…”

  “I did not suggest that he give you a promotion.”

  Mom looks over at me. “So you did talk to him?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny rumors of a possible meeting.”

  She hugs me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder. “I’d thank you, but I didn’t ask you to do anything.”

  Her tone suggests she’s being as evasive as I am, though I can’t tell if we’re messing around or if she really needs the plausible deniability to keep her conscience clean. “Of course you didn’t. That would be unethical.”

  “In a theoretical situation where such a meeting took place, what do you think might have been discussed?”

  I laugh. “Most likely that he would be foolish to lay off the best person working for him even if said best person refuses to kiss his ass.”

  “Best person…”

  “Some shameless praise may have been involved.”

  She sighs and squeezes me. “We can’t make a habit of this.”

  “Extenuating circumstances?” I grin.

  “Right…”

  Sierra and Sophia walk in. Soph heads upstairs while Sierra glides into the kitchen, heading for the fridge.

  “Ooh, what’s for dinner?”

  “Chicken.” Mom wags a garlic press at her. “It won’t be long. Don’t ruin your appetite.”

  While I tend to the cooking food, Mom runs upstairs to change. Sam’s friends leave, headed home for dinner. He goes up to his room while Sophia and Sierra take over the living room. Sophia stands on one leg, pulling her other one as high up behind her back as she can get. I can just picture her losing her grip on her foot and kicking Sierra right in the face.

  Watching her reminds me of the other night when she felt certain something had been watching her. Doubt the frog was responsible for that. I briefly wonder if Coralie might’ve been following me around… but she said she’s trapped at the school. Hmm. Then again, Sophia waking up scared in the middle of the night isn’t exactly a rare occurrence.

  Dinner is nice. For a little while with the entire family around the table eating, talking—and in Sam’s case, tossing bits of celery at Sophia—it’s almost possible to forget anything supernaturally weird ever happened to me. I think I’ve finally even accepted that. Realizing I feel normal doesn’t make me sad at all.

  It makes me happy for the time I still have with them.

  The littles zoom off as soon as they’re done eating—another bit of normal that makes me smile. Since it’s past seven, Dad shoos me off to school and takes on dish detail. Since I’m flying, I still have time… but hey, I’m not going to complain.

  Having like twenty minutes sucks.

  I mean seriously… it’s too long to stand around waiting and too short to start doing anything interesting. Once I’ve got my backpack loaded, I change into another boring T-shirt and jeans ensemble, and add a hooded sweatshirt. My closet does have a couple nice things, but I’ve never been a clothes horse. Sierra’s just like me in that regard. Our number one priority for clothing is ‘keeps us from being naked.’ Designer labels or trendy brands never really appealed to me. A $200 department store top covers me and is as warm as a $40 one from Marshall’s or something. I’m sure the parents appreciate that. Sophia likes nice things, but to her, nice equates to frilly or pink. She doesn’t really care about expensive.

  The last fifteen-ish minutes before sundown I spend in the living room, sitting on the stairs with my sneakers on the ‘shoe allowed’ linoleum square and text-storming with Ashley, Michelle, and Hunter. Ash tells me all about this cat they had at the place she works today—stupid owners abandoned her for getting preggo. Michelle’s on fire about one of the lawyers at the place she’s interning at giving her attitude for making a comment about a case. Pretty sure it’s not a racial thing or a female thing. Sounds more like the guy thinks interns should basically run around silent in the background until someone gives them a sock—or a law degree.

  Hunter’s day is busy and boring, so he mostly asks about me.

  Eventually, the sun goes away enough for me to come online.

  I send a ‹gotta go to school now› text to all three of them, do a quick run around the house hugging everyone ‘see ya later,’ and race out the door.

  Barely a minute into the air, this deafening engine roar draws my attention to a car tear-assing down the street my cul-de-sac branches off from. It’s an old school type sports car with a blower sticking out of the hood. Ooh. I bet that’s the idiot that tidal-waved the littles. He’s also driving like a complete reckless asshole, probably doing sixty down a street with a thirty-five limit. Guess he wants everyone to know he’s got a shitty muffler.

  I turn and follow him from the air until he pulls into a driveway not quite a quarter mile from the corner where my siblings wait for the school bus. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of an orange pail in a backyard, already filled with muddy rainwater. Perfect.

  Revenge time.

  By the time I dive down to grab the bucket and get back up high enough not to be seen, he’s opening the door to get out. Bombs away!

  The muddy water splashes down on his head, splattering him, the white car, and the interior of the car, with brown while simultaneously hitting him hard enough that it knocks him off his feet. The car looks it he suffered the wrath of an incontinent pterodactyl, and he’s soaked.

  I put the bucket back in the yard I found it and proceed toward Seattle—but get distracted again when I spot a police car lurking in a side street a couple blocks west watching Avondale Road. After landing in the
shadows, I walk up and say hello. During a brief innocuous conversation, I implant the notion that he wants to set up his speed trap on 197th ave tomorrow night and for the next couple days instead of here.

  That done, I walk far enough that he can’t see me, and take off again.

  There’s a lot less traffic flying to school than driving. Now this is seriously cool. My sneakers touch pavement about six minutes after I leave home. Whoever decided that school should happen during the darker parts of the year instead of summer seriously deserves a Twinkie or something. If only I could keep all my classes starting at eight. Though, once the clocks go back for the fall, it’ll be dark even for my earliest ones, so I’ll have a couple months of easy commuting.

  Tonight’s class is in the main building, downstairs one floor from ground level. Wow. Basement? Huh, okay. Whatever. Who am I to judge? After all, my bedroom is technically in the basement.

  The room, other than not having windows, doesn’t look much different from the other classrooms I’ve been in so far. Desks, shelves, whiteboards, that sort of thing. Again, no one would be able to tell what subject happened in here just from looking at the place. Unlike every other class so far, the professor is here before me, sorta-sitting on the front edge of his desk and talking to a pair of women in their thirties, both of whom clutch books to their chests like high schoolers.

  He’s in his later forties, pale, with salt and pepper hair combed back neat like a mafia don. Not sure what message he’s trying to send by wearing a suit jacket over a dark blue T-shirt and dress pants. He is kinda old. Maybe he hasn’t realized they canceled Miami Vice a long damn time ago. And yes, I know of it. Guess what one of my Mom’s favorite shows was. Guess what’s on VHS in a box in the attic now?