Dead Girl's Ashes (Dying Ashes Book 1)

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  I frowned. “So it was all a political ploy.” It sounded like fantasy. A fantasy that I’d somehow woken up in. But it wasn’t. This was my new reality.

  “Yeah.” She gave me a soft, sad half-smile. “A whole race gone, for the sake of somebody’s power games. And then I ran into you on the way home from clubbing.”

  “So you’re saying…” I got it; I clearly fit the description she’d given in her story. But it still seemed far-fetched that I happened to wake up as something that everyone thought was double-dead and gone.

  “Well, you’re sure as hell not Moroi.” Tamara stared me down with an intense look. “And not Sanguinarian. Pretty sure you’re not Jiangshi, either. They’re supposedly very selective about who they turn, and Moroi lore says it involves the already dead, along with some sort of ritual magic and specific, appropriate talismans.”

  “Huh.” I thought for a moment. “Jiangshi.” I paused to try and wrap my worn and ragged voice around the foreign word. “Jiangshi?” Tamara nodded at me with an encouraging smile as I mangled the name. “Aren’t they those Chinese hopping vampires?”

  Tamara blinked in surprise. “Yeah, actually.” She seemed to pause and reassess me. “Most people in the Western world don’t know that legend. By Jiangshi design.” She quirked a smile. “You sure this is the first time you’ve been a vampire?”

  I grinned despite it all and coughed out an abrupt laugh. “Pretty sure I’d remember otherwise.” I sighed roughly as the smile and its accompanying feeling quickly faded. “You said you don’t think I’m Jiangshi? As in you’re not certain?”

  She stirred her milkshake, peering at me over the thick straw. “The Jiangshi used to hold power in the East similar to how the Sanguinarians do everywhere else, though they were never anywhere near as numerous. Or as...vicious. But over the last couple of centuries the Jiangshi Clan has become more and more aloof, and the Sanguinarians now soak up more and more of their power base every year.”

  I tilted my head. “And?”

  “Well…” Tamara shifted, seeming uncertain. “I’ve never actually met one,” she admitted.

  We both paused our weird discussion as food came, the old waitress setting out plate after plate. Somewhere in the middle of it, I popped my neck, the sound of cracking bone making Tamara, the waitress, and the fat bearded guy in the corner all jump and cringe. It sounded like I’d broken my neck. I tried not to grin as the waitress made her exit as soon as it was professionally viable. Somehow, I must have been giving her that “weirdo” vibe, because she kept eyeing me after that. Good to know I still had the touch. On the other hand, maybe she’d recently seen a milk carton with my face on it.

  I stared at the steaming plate, considering my lack of appetite. “So, then why do you think I’m Strigoi instead of Jiangshi?” I liked to think I was getting better at butchering both words the more I used them. Off in the back corner, the battered jukebox limped through the opening bits of Thriller, and I considered the possibility that the decrepit old thing was actively making fun of me.

  “Well, you don’t fit with the Jiangshi stories I’ve heard.” She leaned forward, suddenly excited again, food momentarily neglected. “But you do fit the Strigoi ones! All the ones I know.”

  I eyed her. “You seem pretty certain. And insistent. And excited.”

  The Moroi paused. “It’s just...I’d be really happy to know that you’re...That they’re not all extinct. That’s all.”

  I waited, crossing my arms.

  “I used to love the old tales growing up, alright?” Tamara huffed, blushing again, this time deeper. “A lot of them painted this… Really romantic picture, okay? And I was little. Gimme a break.” She sighed, those gleaming sapphire eyes sad and...Lonely? “I liked thinking that they might be real. That there might have been a time when...When things were better than they are now.”

  I wanted to offer some comforting words or something to make my new friend feel better, but try as I might, nothing adequate came to mind.

  Tamara poked at her food. I stared at the pale slivers of potato that poked out from under the burial mound of chili. “How would I find out?” I asked.

  She looked up. “So you believe me?”

  I grunted. “One step at a time. Let’s just say I’m open to the idea and trying to come to grips with what’s going on.”

  The Moroi took a breath. “Strigoi had claws of iron and blood of ice, felt no fear and felt no pain.” She recited. “Shadow-cloaked and pale of skin, strong and tough beyond the ken, of even the greatest mortal men.” She shrugged and took a big bite out of her steaming hot skirt steak. “And of course, they drank blood. Bram Stoker based his whole idea off of the legends. Supposedly, their senses were super sharp, too. It’s said they could hear heartbeats and smell blood from miles away.” She frowned. “That was probably an exaggeration, though.”

  “I wouldn’t be too certain,” I mumbled, but Tamara obviously heard me anyway, watching me with naked curiosity.

  Do I have fangs now? I was really curious but just barely managed to keep my hands out of my mouth. Instead, I moved my head back and forth, feeling the tightness of the muscles and tendons, feeling out the massive laceration that lay there. It wasn’t numb; it just wasn’t painful, either. More like it wasn’t important. “I can’t deny the lack of pain, and certainly not the strength bit.”

  She nodded.

  “Also, the paleness. I mean, I’m usually pretty pale, but…” I turned my hand back and forth, looking it over in the bright Pancake Hut light. I flexed my protesting fingers, watching the movement of distinctly blue-purple blood vessels under the scratched skin. “At this rate, I’m going to blind somebody. But I don’t know past that.”

  “What about the rest?” She mumbled it around a faceful of steak, and it took me a second to figure out what she’d said.

  “Yeah, some of that’s there. But my senses aren’t sharp at all. Maybe the opposite.” I frowned. “I’m all stiff, and everything has this… Distance to it. Like it’s all further away somehow.” I looked back up and met her eyes. “I’m certainly not fearless,” I snorted, “but everything’s blunted, my senses, my emotions, everything except anger. That seems to work just fine.” I thought about standing over the young-looking vampire in my apartment, arm raised high for a killing blow. I thought about shouting at Tamara in her car. Was that me, now? “Maybe it works a little too well.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, chewing. “That fits too, actually.”

  “So...” I methodically cut my fluffy waffle apart, careful not to apply too much pressure and destroy the plate underneath or something. Everyone here probably thought I was strange enough already. “Is there any way we can find out for certain?”

  Tamara looked thoughtful, silent for a good minute or two. “Yeah, there’s someone who should know for sure.” Did she seem nervous? “But he’s a wizard.” I blinked. “And not a particularly friendly one, at that.” Tamara frowned, leaning back, seeming suddenly uncertain of the idea. “So I understand if you’re reluctant…”

  I stared at her. “A real wizard? Fuck yeah! I’ve got to meet him.” I glanced at my waffle. “I always wanted to see a wizard,” I mumbled at it.

  She laughed. “Maybe he can help prove to you that you’re not in Kansas anymore, too.”

  I nodded. “Maybe.” Maybe it should have been harder for her to convince me. Tamara could probably have told me any story she damn well pleased at this point; I had nothing better to go on than what she said, and she knew it. But I didn’t think that was the case. And as for vampires, Strigoi, wizards, and the supernatural… Well, what I considered reality had waved bye-bye a long way back.

  “So it’s settled then.” She pushed her mostly-empty plates to the edge of the table and went back to her milkshake. “We’ll go meet Charles, then—”

  “Charles?” I interrupted, a little let down. “That’s not a very convincing wizard name.”

  The Moroi rolled her eyes. “We’ll go meet Charles
and get this sorted out. Then we can figure out who’s trying to kill you and why.”

  I nodded, appreciative, eager, and hesitant, all at once. But… Lori. I didn’t want to run off without finding her, but… how could I find her? I didn’t even know where to start. Where are you? Are you okay? What should I do?

  Tamara’s big, liquid blue eyes turned soft and sympathetic again. “I’ll help you find your girlfriend, too. I promise.” She reached across the table and squeezed my rough hand in her soft one.

  I almost felt like I would cry.

  She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, then let go. My food sat there, still warm to the touch. I stared down at it. Was there even any point? Pulling myself together, I ate it anyway. All of it. Possibly out of sheer defiance.

  A different experience, but still good.

  “You ready?” Seeing me finish, Tamara dropped a few twenties on the table like it wasn’t shit.

  I nodded.

  I was off to see the wizard.

  7

  Only partially in charge

  “Sorry about your hood,” I apologized.

  “Girl. I was the one who hit you, remember?” Tamara flashed a grin towards where I sat in the passenger seat. I’d noticed as I was climbing into the car that her collision with me had left it’s mark. Just not on me.

  “You have a good point.” I leaned back, sinking into the stupidly comfortable plush leather seats. We were speeding across the city on our way to meet Charles Monroe, the Genuinely Real Wizard that Tamara knew. I tried to think about what to say or do, but questions raced through my head at a million miles a second, making it impossible to focus. “So. Vampires are real.”

  “Yeah.” She shot me a quizzical glance.

  “And magic’s real.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Awesome. I always wanted to live in a world with magic.”

  She smiled. “It’s a complicated subject, and honestly, I don’t really know that much about it. Most of the truth about magic is controlled by the Grand Magisterium. Human magic, at least.”

  I tried to stretch out my muscles. Sitting in the booth and the car for so long had made them tighten back up, but they were still better than that first night I woke up. Reanimated. Whatever. “Are you saying there’s human and inhuman magic?”

  Tamara pursed her ruby lips thoughtfully. “Kinda. The Jiangshi Clan feed on magic instead of blood, animate the honored dead into new vampires, and use what you’d probably call necromancy. The Sanguinarians use the same blood magics they supposedly used before they became vampires, just now it’s way more potent and easier to come by. Most supernaturals have their own magic, even if it’s just something innate, like your enhanced strength, or how we alter and feed on emotion. And all of that’s different from mortal magic, which is more about channeling raw power and bending it to the magician’s will.”

  “So you said you didn’t think I was Jiangshi. And I suppose you can tell I’m not Moroi—”

  “Oh, I can tell, sweetheart.” Tamara chuckled dryly. “We always know our own. Usually on sight.”

  I nodded. “What rules out Sanguinarian?”

  She snorted. “Stick around for a couple months, and you’ll see why that’s a stupid question.” Tamara looked over, one hand on the wheel, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the type. Trust me.”

  “If it’s so obvious, what are they like, then?”

  The Moroi sighed. “They’re all about blood, and they feed on it like we feed on emotions. Any blood will do, but they prefer human and supernatural. Blood powers everything about them; it keeps them alive, makes them strong, and they wield it like weapons and use it to enact magic. They can also sway humans pretty easily by manipulating their blood, so they’re also major business and political powerhouses.”

  “You don’t like them much, do you?” I wondered if she’d thought I was one of those instead of Strigoi, would Tamara still have helped me? Not that it mattered; things were like they were, and I’d have to live—or unlive—with the hand I’d been dealt.

  She frowned, considering me. “They’re manipulative, nasty, and rotten to the core. Turning… changes them somehow. It alters what they’re like as a person. They don’t have to kill to feed, so they control instead. And nothing’s ever enough for them.” She shuddered. “Their bite is venomous, and even worse, it’s addictive. Every living creature, mortal or supernatural, has to beware of it or become enslaved. It’s also a pretty good analogy to what they’re like.”

  “They sound like a bag of dicks.”

  She snorted with sudden laughter, her mood brightening. “That’s one way to put it. I hate judging based on stereotypes, but as a group...They’ve done a lot of damage.” She shook her head, then smirked at me. “But I didn’t need any of that to know you weren’t one of them.”

  “Oh?”

  “You ate salt on your hashbrowns.”

  I blinked, gesturing for her to explain. “And that makes sense because…”

  Tamar was chuckling. “I knew that'd get a reaction out of you. It makes sense though. Salt is used as an energy blocker in magic. Salt also absorbs into blood. They say there’s more to it that just that, something purely metaphysical, but either way, it can really hurt them. They have an aversion to it.”

  I watched the dark city streets pass me by for a minute, considering. Trying to let my mind catch up. “So why don’t people know about any of this? That any of this stuff is real? Is there some big conspiracy or something? Do the Sanguinarians control the world’s governments?” I looked back over at her, brilliant eyes gleaming even in the dark. “I leapt out of a building, for fuck’s sake. What if some yahoo caught that on their phone and put it on YouTube?”

  She eyed me for a moment instead of the road. “Would you have believed it if you saw it on YouTube?” she asked dryly.

  I frowned. I thought about it. “I might have wanted to,” I admitted. “But no. I would have figured it was some stupid conspiracy or elaborate hoax or maybe someone trying to build hype for some movie or game I’d never heard of. And eventually, I’d have forgotten about it.”

  “Exactly. People don’t believe in conspiracies.” She tilted her head slightly, thoughtfully. “Well, some do. But no one believes them either.”

  I fell quiet for a while, letting her drive in silence, at least until I noticed we were on Robert Arlington Boulevard. “Okay, wait just a second,” I rasped. “You’re not telling me that this so-called ‘wizard’ is at that so-called ‘metaphysical store,’ are you?”

  Tamara flashed me another charming smile, the engine of her Supra rumbling as she passed someone innocently doing the speed limit. “Bookbinders? No, he doesn't live there.” She seemed amused. “He does live right next to it, though.”

  Bookbinders was the three-story metaphysical store on top of the hill, right on the edge of Red Mountain. It had been there for decades or so I’d heard, but I’d never been in there, because I’d never believed in it.

  Maybe that was about to change.

  It only took a couple more minutes to get to our destination, at least with Tamara’s driving. It was a wonder we hadn’t been pulled over yet.

  “And here we are,” Tamara announced, slowing the car quickly.

  I craned my neck to see, to the distinct cracking sound of popping bone. “You sure?”

  Tamara winced faintly. “Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “It just…doesn't look like a wizard’s house, that’s all.” It didn’t have chicken feet or gingerbread walls. It wasn’t even a tower, and I didn’t see any owls, bats, or black cats circling it in the sky. Just a typical little pre-50’s one-story clinging tenaciously to the side of the mountain; an old, red brick veneer bungalow on a heavy foundation that looked sturdy, but like it’d also seen better days. Its cross-gable roof sagged a little, as if it were sad and didn’t quite know why.

  A couple of largely untamed rosebushes lurked beneath the battered brickwork pillars that flanked the steps up to
the door, and blooming morning glories were scattered haphazardly across the flower beds below the windows. The front door itself was a sturdy, reinforced affair that didn’t seem to match the rest of the house, though it did match the thick, wrought iron bars crawling over every visible window.

  Bookbinders, sitting approximately one weed-strewn yard to the right, was altogether different. I’d seen it before in passing, of course, friends or coworkers pointing it out as we drove by; but now it felt, well, different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the dark brown, wood-paneled three story with its ivy-covered, extended front porch, and dark-shuttered windows looked a whole lot more ominous than it ever had before. Especially the heavy, metal, circular sign out front covered in etched symbols. The imposing structure looked a lot more like a wizard’s house than the unassuming, depressed home sitting in front of us.

  A robust, black, 70’s Chevy pickup with large, off-road tires and an extended bed peered at us dully from its place in the driveway as we pulled in, potentially suspicious of our motives. I gave it the eye right back and only stopped when Tamara got out and stared at me expectantly.

  “You okay?” She brushed some of the vibrant purple back behind an ear as she gave me a concerned look. “Not freaking out, are you? Maybe nervous?”

  I shook my head. “Nah.” I popped the passenger door and levered myself out, joints protesting noticeably.

  “Wondering if it was a good idea to leave everything up to someone you just met?”

  I snorted. “Maybe now.”

  “Well, just remember,” she said, slipping around the car and cocking a hip, “if I was going to try anything funny…I’d make sure you enjoyed it.”

  I choked a little as she started toward the house. As much a dead person could, anyway.

  “Do we walk up and knock?” I queried as we approached the steps. “Since he’s a wizard, does he already know we’re coming?”

  “Not…Exactly,” Tamara admitted. “But it’s better that way. He doesn't like visitors much.”