by Declan Finn
The minions screamed in terror, pulling out their real weapons…
Handguns.
“Crap! That’s cheating!”
Marco dove to the left, landing on his side as they started to fire.
Rory smiled at them, his brogue thickening. “Ah, now this is more me speed, ladies.”
Rory leaped on one of the men, ripping into him with his fangs. He then tore the gun out of the dead man’s hand, bringing it to bear on the others, firing as fast as only a vampire could. It sounded like a machine-gun as he swept the field of fire. More minions piled out of the woodwork, but Rory didn’t slow. He ran out of bullets and used full vampire speed to frisk bodies, collect a new magazine, reload, and continue.
“When boyhood’s fire was in my blood, I read of ancient freemen,” Rory sang loudly, his brogue mangling the lyrics. “For Greece and Rome, who bravely stood, three hundred men and free men.” He fired off a three-round burst, then spun, firing off another.
Marco was suddenly reminded of the Matrix films, only with someone who could aim.
“And then I prayed I yet might see, our fetters rent in twain! And Ireland, long a province be, a Nation once again!”
Maybe having another gunman on the payroll was a good idea, Marco thought idly. Bullets flew everywhere, and all he could think to do was to keep his head down. Why didn’t I hold onto that Kevlar from the Nuala incident? Answer: because used body armor is worthless, you idiot.
Marco hurled the can of hairspray into the middle of the crossfire, and it exploded when a stray bullet caught it in midair. The others were blinded for a moment, and Marco used that reprieve to charge, shouldering aside one with his healthy shoulder, then elbowing him in the throat with the same-side arm. He followed the man down, continuing to crush his throat. He rolled to one side, then swept up the handgun, firing one bullet at a time as the other gunmen were busy trying to keep Rory down with cover fire.
Rory’s body wracked with bullets, but he just stood there and kept firing. His bright red hair made him an obvious target in the dark, and each gunmen fired into his chest.
And, obviously, they’re not using wooden bullets.
Rory laughed aloud as he took another gun from someone who got too close. He changed his tune from “A Nation Once Again” to “Where are the lads, that stood with me when hi-story was made. A ghra, Mo Chroi, I long to-o see, the Boys of the old brigade.”
Marco pulled the trigger again, and the hammer came down on an empty chamber. Nuts.
Rory fired his last bullet and frowned. The vampire flipped it in one hand and hurled it like a knife into the nearest gunman.
Rory staggered back, an arrow sticking out of his chest. It wasn’t in the heart, but he grabbed it as quickly as possible before something knocked it in that direction.
Another two crossbow bolts shot from the darkness, penetrating his chest. Marco’s eyes narrowed as he looked out into the darkness. Another second later, three more bolts drove into Rory’s body, in a cluster around Rory’s chest, at least one of them angled just a degree off his heart.
Rory pulled out one of the two most potentially deadly bolts before one of his attackers jumped him while armed with a wooden stake.
The Irish vampire grabbed the bolt in his hand and drove it backwards, taking out his attacker. That one fell off, while three more minions piled on Rory like he was a victim in a zombie movie.
Each and every one of them tried to slam into a crossbow bolt.
“ ’Twas long, ago, we face the foe, the old brigade and me, and by my side, they fought and died, that Ireland mi-ight be free.”
Rory spun, the force throwing off the first round of attackers—allowing another group to leap out of the woods and on top of him. Ten leaped on him at the same time, and the original group piled on top of that. They only had one goal: to drive the bolts already inside him all the way in.
Rory fell to his hands and knees, wondering why he didn’t just go back home to Ireland after he had figured out how to change his face. He could have seen his old friend, Dan Breen, his partner in crime. He could have seen how the Republic had fared without him.
Instead, he was about to die, here, in San bloody Francisco.
He grit his teeth and slowly pushed himself off the ground. He could feel the pressure in his chest. One of the bolt shafts started to press into the ground. He could feel the arrow driving deeper into his body. It had already penetrated his aorta. If he were still alive, he’d have bled to death already.
“Fockmall,” he murmured, and locked one arm, reaching for the lighter in his jacket pocket.
He had only one thought in mind: if he was going to go, he was going to take every last one of the bastards with him. If they were going to stay on top of him, and he went up in flames, they’d burn, too.
“Where are the lads, that stood with me, when hi-story wa-as made—”
He grabbed it and didn’t even take it out of his pocket to light it. “A ghra, Mo Chroi, I long to see, the Boys of the old brigade.”
The flame seared his flesh. He’d catch fire soon.
I’m coming, Dan. Here’s hoping we end up in the same place.
Rory caught the scent of blood. One of the minions right in front of him was ripped away. Marco Catalano stood in front of him, knife in hand, his entire front covered in blood.
“Come on, damn it! We’re getting the Hell out of here.”
Rory flipped the lighter shut and shot out from under the dogpile like he had been blasted from a cannon. He nearly stumbled over the half-dozen corpses on the ground, all of them freshly slaughtered.
Rory pulled bolts out of his chest and winced when Marco slapped another pistol into his chest.
“Sorry it took me a while,” Marco explained, eyes on the dog pile of minions. “I had to kill all of those guys, and find you more bullets.”
Rory checked the chamber and nodded. “No hard feelings, lad.”
The dog pile of minions scrambled over each other, like ants disembarking from a hill. Rory didn’t wait for them to line up in a nice, neat row, but blasted away while they were trying to form ranks.
That still left fifteen of them by the time he ran out of ammunition.
Marco held his knife ahead of him, eyeing his prey. “You take the eight on the left, I have the seven on the right.”
The minions circled them, and he winced. He was out of ideas, and options, and even weapons. If the knife broke, he was really screwed.
The minions drew their own knives. He shook his head, wondering why they didn’t use handguns again.
Because handguns have ballistics matches, and you can at least pull out and reuse an arrow after you shoot someone with it. Knives can’t be traced. I didn’t know vampire minions watched CSI.
Marco grabbed another pen and hoped he’d get a chance to take at least one more of them down.
Merle appeared behind one gunman, broke his neck, and then swept the legs out from under another one. He chopped into a throat and charged past him to another attacker. The third one stabbed forward as a fourth moved on his right. Kraft deflected the knife by smacking the wrist aside. He locked down on it with both hands as he launched a high kick into the other’s throat. Ripping away the knife before the other victim fell to the ground, he slashed the man’s windpipe open as he moved past him.
Marco casually hurled the knife into minion number five as Merle charged for minions six and seven.
They broke and ran.
Marco sunk lower to the ground while Merle chased after the others. He wasn’t entirely certain what Kraft had hoped to dig up from this experiment, but Merle had offered to pay his expenses. That was good enough for him because tending to a wounded arm would be the first thing on his requisition list.
Looking at his watch, Marco sighed. He blinked as he looked up at the other attackers. Merle and Rory had chased the others, until they joined another, larger group of them. The minions weren’t running away, and Marco’s watch said that dayligh
t should be here.
For once, San Francisco was not covered in fog so thick that it nearly whited out the entire world.
Out of the darkness came one of the minions—Marco knew it had to be one because he didn’t recognize this creature. It was tall and heavily armed with an assault rifle, sidearm, and combat knife. There was also an ax on his back, but Marco could only think, One thing at a time.
“Au revoir, mon amis,” the minion said in a thick Parisian accent. He lowered the muzzle of his rifle.
Marco blinked. “The French? I’m going to get taken out by the French!”
The minion smiled. Marco tucked his arms and chin together, and rolled away on his good shoulder. He landed on the bad one. A lance of pain drove through his body, and he thought, Damn, should’ve remembered that arm.
A series of gunshots popped off, but none of them hit Marco. He rolled over using his good shoulder and looked up. The Frenchman hovered above him. A final gunshot made the minon’s head explode, sending his body perpendicular to Marco.
Marco looked over the source of the blasts, surprised. Merle couldn’t fire a gun to save his life…or anyone else’s, for that matter.
There stood an attractive, honey-blonde woman he had met a few weeks before, who had lectured him on the uses of being subtle.
“I didn’t bring out the assault rifles, Detective Kelly,” Marco muttered. “Honest, I didn’t.”
Kristen Kelly, SFPD, crouched down next to him and smiled like he was an amusing little boy. “But you had to blow up half the dorm and set the park on fire, didn’t you?”
Marco blinked. He hadn’t used that much firepower. “Huh?” I couldn’t have hit a gas main, we shut those off for the evening in case this happened. So the only real explosive around my room had to have been brought in, but there were only minions, weren’t there? Wait…Amanda always compares the power to the dark side of the force, and what did we learn from killing the Emperor in the last film?
His eyes flickered to the minion. The dead Frenchman had a deep red glow by his open wound. A glow as dark a red as the bloody brain matter Kelly had spread over the ground.
It took Marco a second to realize that the minions were bombs.
Chapter 7
Explosive End Result
“Entropy…” was all that Marco said. Kristen followed his eyes to the body and understood. The minions had been soldiers, but the vampire had endowed them with energy, making them faster, stronger, and more deadly.
And the first law of physics states that matter and energy cannot be created or destroyed. And if the vampire that imparted the active supernatural energies remaining in the soldiers didn’t draw the energies back in. The power has nowhere to go…thus boom…
Kristen grabbed Marco and hauled him to his feet. “Merle, bomb! Get away from the bodies! They’re rigged.”
Well, it’s true, and it is a lot simpler than trying to run through a lecture on the principles of physics.
One moment, Marco lay on one side of the park, and the next, he was on the sidewalk outside. Had he blacked out? No, Merle was right there next to them.
Gotta find out how he does that, Marco thought.
He looked into the trees, the minions, with weapons raised, charged straight at them—
And then an explosion shook the ground, gouging out a whole section of the grove.
“What was that?” Merle asked Kristen.
She frowned, checking her magazine. “Have you ever heard of charging a human being with energy?”
He rotated his hand back and forth in an “iffy” sign. “Sure, I’ve heard of minions. But from what I’ve heard, it usually goes back to the source vampire. It doesn’t usually blow up. That’s according to the Vatican Ninjas I’ve talked to. Vampires aren’t exactly a bottomless well of energy to waste it like that. Even then, the only magic I’ve ever heard of vampires using is ‘soul fire,’” Merle said, making actual air quotes. “It’s supposed to be impressive, but you’d think they’d have a better name for it.”
Kristen raised a brow and looked around the woods. “Okay, so something supercharged the minions, and deliberately let them explode because it had enough energy to just do that. Right.”
Marco sat up and shook his head. He looked up at the two of them. “I think we caught someone’s attention.” He stood, clapping Merle on the back. “I told you that something would want my head after taking out Nuala.”
The government agent spared him a smile. “True enough. I thought you were tired of being the bait?”
Marco shrugged. “I’m used to it.” He tried flexing his wounded arm and winced. “Though, dang it, I’m starting to get tired of being a pincushion. I’m glad I’m getting back to New York.” He paused and thought a moment. “I am going back, right? That hasn’t changed, has it?”
Merle nodded. “We have their attention, and this guy’s going to be pissed.”
Thank God. I can go home.
Kelly shook her head. “You think?” She sighed, looking into the burning woods. “The paperwork on this is going to be a bitch and a half.”
“I doubt it,” Marco said, suddenly tired. My adrenaline must be crashing. “Not without bodies. You may have an arson report or a whole bunch of missing persons in the next week, but that’s it.”
As they all made their way out of Golden Gate Park, Dalf Kraft lurked in the shadows of the trees. He chuckled to himself.
“You would not find it funny if you had been the one splashed with holy water,” came the dark, malevolent voice behind him.
The Kraft brother, dressed like Doctor Strange or Mandrake the Magician, didn’t even look over his shoulder at the Russian vampire who had just tried to kill Marco. He gave a little smile beneath his wisp of a mustache.
“Oh, please, Misha,” Dalf drolled. “If you had been on your game, the first thing you would have done was level the building.”
“I have other plans for him,” Misha drawled.
Dalf sighed and shook his head. “You are a disgrace to the forces of evil.”
The vampire blinked, taken aback. “You are quoting a Disney movie at me?”
Now Dalf turned to face the vampire, jabbing the silver wolf’s head of his cane at Misha, the ruby eyes of the wolf caught the flames of the park, and they matched the glint in Dalf’s eyes. “That film had an awesome villain. And Tchaikovsky. Never diss Tchaikovsky.” Dalf tossed his cane up in the air, caught it just under the head, and scoffed. “Do as you will. It’s your funeral.”
January 3rd
After living for a hundred years, Amanda Colt had finally, at long last, been stymied.
However, the one who defeated her was already dead and decayed for a few decades.
She hurled the book against the wall in disdain and cursed in Russian. “And that for you, Marcel Proust!”
She stood there and fumed at the book, but didn’t really know who else to be angry at. There were so many options, but the book was harmless. Her first thought was to be angry at Marco, for making her fall in love with him. Or perhaps herself, for allowing herself to be pulled away from Marco just before he was about to be thrown down as vampyre bait.
Father Rodgers had been even less help than she’d expected.
Amanda had told him what had happened, even down to making out with Marco.
As her confessor, he had simply smiled at her. He sat back in his chair, holding a lit cigar in one hand and scotch glass in the other. The priest stared into the scotch, as though it would tell him what to do.
“So, what is the problem with your young man?” he asked in that casually-boisterous voice of his. It always sounded to her like a jovial boom, as though the black priest from Bed-Sty had always wanted to play the role of Santa Claus, but gave it up for lack of a beard. “It’s Marco.”
Amanda smiled to herself. “Yes.”
“About time.”
The vampyre blinked. “Why is it everyone says that?”
The priest merely chewed on his cigar
and grinned.
As Amanda looked at the destroyed book, the phone rang. She stared at it for a moment, then sighed.
She answered the phone. “Da?”
“Amanda. It’s Merle. Can you pick up Marco at JFK airport?”
Amanda blinked, then shifted, uncomfortably. “Can he not get a taxi?”
“I think it might be easier on him if he didn’t have to carry his luggage with one arm. Besides, I don’t want him alone on the ground.”
She flinched, and automatically straightened, her voice as sharp as a whip crack. “What happened?”
“Well,” he paused a moment. “We definitely attracted someone’s attention.”
“When is his plane getting in?”
“It should be there about an hour after sundown. Good enough for you?”
“I will be there five minutes after sundown.”
Marco awoke on the plane and found Amanda leaning over him, looking deep into his eyes.
He smiled. “You’re here.”
“Of course I am.” She lightly touched his wounded arm. “I did not want you to die on me.”
He looked around the plane. It was completely empty. “They let you on board?”
Amanda smiled. “I still have identification from CIA,” she answered, dropping a few articles as her light accent thickened a little. “It says FBI, and no one looks at expiration dates unless they are police.”
Marco nodded slightly and said nothing. His ever-present smile was stuck on his face. He couldn’t say anything because, well, his brain was frozen on one, inescapable thought.
Amanda looked gorgeous. Her hair flowed over one shoulder and past her left arm. Her bright amber eyes drew him in like nothing else he could describe. He caught her scent–it wasn’t perfume or shampoo, but her skin. She always smelled like vanilla to him. Her proximity was such, he could feel the heat coming off her body.
If he didn’t think of something, he was going to grab her, kiss her, and be thrown off the plane for inappropriate conduct.