Ravenous tdf-1

by Sharon Ashwood

  "Hey. Hey!" She shook him by the shoulders, but he stayed limp, his mouth half-open.

  The young man's breath came in short, shallow rasps. He was fighting for oxygen. She touched his throat and felt a faint pulse. The temperature of his flesh was far too low. He was alive now, but wouldn't survive for long without medical help.

  The moisture the goo left behind dried almost instantly, leaving the man's russet hair caked and stiff. It looked like he'd been gelled by a herd of manic hairdressers.

  "Don't worry; we'll get you out of here," Holly murmured in his ear. Grabbing his wrists, she dragged him toward the door, farther away from the slime, and then set off toward the figure slumped under the window. It looked like this one had tried to get out, but the window had jammed. The slime grew thicker over the body as Holly approached, ripples of sparkling black flowing toward it like an incoming tide. Apparently the house had figured out what Holly was doing and was rushing to stop her.

  Something slammed into her back, hard, and fell with a clatter. The blow knocked Holly to her knees, her eyes filling with tears of pain. She twisted her head around to see the red tool box lying empty on the floor behind her. Damn it!

  "Holly, are you all right?"

  Glancing up at Alessandro, she understood why the house had thrown the box. It had run out of tools. Alessandro had caught them all, stuffing them in the capacious pockets of his coat.

  "Yeah." At least it wasn't a power drill. She was going to be bruised in the morning.

  Holly took a deep breath, forgetting everything but the body under the window. Now it was a shapeless mass, the outline of the limbs lost in ooze. She called her power one more time, digging deep she passed her hand over the blackness between her and the window, letting the energy flow. The goo retreated, allowing her to take two strides forward. She did it again, the heat of the releasing energy making the ends of her fingers burn.

  With a rolling, rippling motion the thick mass peeled back from the slumped figure. His flesh was pallid as death but still untouched, still recognizable. It was Ben.

  "Sweet Hecate!" Holly lunged forward, clasping his face in her hands. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel the beat in her lips. Please be okay. I'll do anything; just be okay. He was shivering and sticky, his brown hair matted against his skull. "Ben!"

  His eyes drifted open. They were not the bright green of hers, but the green-brown of brushland in early spring. He couldn't quite seem to focus his gaze. Exhaustion made him look older than a man in his thirties. His jeans and denim jacket were soaked with foul moisture.

  "Holly?" he asked, his voice just a rasp. Then he moved, clasping his arms to hold in what body heat he still had left.

  She put her lips by his temple, smelling the soap-clean essence of him beneath the sullying muck of the house. She spoke softly, willing the words from her heart to his. "I'm here, Ben. I've come to take you home. I'd never leave you behind."

  "Oh, God, thank you," Ben whispered.

  "Holly!" Alessandro bellowed, leaping into the air toward her.

  A moment of distraction had been all it took. The black river had crept around behind her, a gelatinous ripple drawing the ooze higher. As Holly turned to look, fingers of slime rose out of the mass, reaching for her leg. Freezing cold clamped her ankle. She cried out in shock, jerking away from the numbing clasp, but it held tight.

  Alessandro landed behind her, lifting Ben with one hand and swinging him to a safe, dry corner of the floor. He grabbed Holly's arm, but she was caught in the slime. The house had what it wanted and was not about to let her go.

  The chill invaded Holly in tendrils, in seeking fingers that delved into her flesh. It ran along her nerves, shooting up her leg and burrowing deep into her viscera.

  The house had planned its strategy well. The struggle to save others from the black ooze had depleted her energy. She was a flickering bulb, a battery with only the dregs of life.

  Terror blanked Holly's mind, a whiteout of fear. She had to… had to… Omigod. She was going to crack and shatter from sheer panic.

  Okay. Okay. Think! The first wave of the cold was already inside her.

  Shields! She invoked the image of brick walls. Hard, solid, strong. It was too little, too late. The house's energy wiggled through her defenses like the myriad arms of a squid, crumbling her shields to dust.

  She was in trouble.

  Weightlessness took over as her heart seemed to slow, her blood growing too sluggish to reach her head. She felt her knees buckle, but they felt like someone else's knees. Holly floated away, leaving her body to fall face-first into the killing blackness.

  She couldn't breathe. Or move. She was a block of ice, facedown on the floor. Someone pulled at the back of her jacket, trying to haul her up. Dimly she thought she heard Alessandro cursing in Italian. It was hard to tell; she couldn't quite make out the words. He grabbed her arms and tried to pull her free. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, flesh to flesh. The touch was a spark on tinder. Her senses sprang open, flooding with his predator's hunger. Fierce. Primitive. The urge to survive.

  Holly managed to open her eyes, but could not make a sound. Strong though it was, the spark flickered, wavered. The house was eating her up faster than she could fend it off.

  "Damn you, Holly! Fight back!" Alessandro's voice was sharp-edged, nearly frantic.

  Like I'm not fighting already?

  "Holly! Can you hear me? Fight!"

  Vampires. Always needing the big commotion. Such drama queens.

  Holly's fear blackened and curled, rage eating her terror in a hot burn. She had to use whatever strength she had in a concentrated burst. Not much could survive a full-on blast of enraged witch rammed right down its throat.

  She lunged for her strongest power but smashed against the block of her old injury. It was scar tissue, opaque and impenetrable. There was no way to get past. Not without ripping it—and herself—to pieces.

  Fine. The big-M magic was playing hard to get. She could summon it, but it would hurt like hell. Not fun, but her other option was death by goo, and that would just be embarrassing.

  How about a little rock V roll, Demolition Sale? I rock and you roll your way to the salvage yard?

  You have no power left, the house whispered. You're drained.

  Cold fingered her vulnerable insides. Was that the house, or just plain fear?

  Watch me. In the maelstrom of her mind she began the invocation to call up her big-M magic. The spell coalesced, built, bulged, a pressure cooker charged with psychic steam. Holly felt the power moving inside, a snake sliding against her bones.

  Alessandro released her, the hard muscles of his arms slipping away. No doubt his vampire senses told him she had finally made her move.

  The power came fast, fire rushing down a tunnel. It felt as if her guts were slowly turning themselves inside out, pain bright as new copper. Heat burrowed up her spine, flaming where the icy cold had frozen, turning her skin white-hot. Arcs of light spiraled along her arms like twin serpents. She was glowing, the delicate bone structure of her hand merely a shadow inside the pink shell of her flesh.

  Holly let the energy rip the house's magic apart, burning her nerves in a searing flash of heat. Sudden light flared. A bang. The smell of summer storms.

  The black ooze hissed and bubbled where it touched her. It jerked away, scuttling back even as it melted to nothing. Holly pressed her forehead against the hard floorboards, flattening her body to connect with the physical house as much as she could. She had to give the power somewhere to go. Energy rushed through her like a current, far, far too much for the house's magic to handle. She stole a glance, lifting her head just long enough to see that the black river had sizzled down to a fast-vanishing puddle.

  The glow was in the walls now, a faint hum washing through the air. Holly could feel the place shudder as the impact of the power blast reached the foundations. It resonated with her body, the sensation oddly intimate. Holly searched with her senses. The v
oices in the house were dead silent. Still. Gone. Zapped.

  Nevertheless, Holly let the energy flow longer, making sure. She'd seen horror flicks. This house wasn't getting any sequels.

  A head rush made her glad to be lying down. Tears of relief leaked from her eyes, drying as they touched her hot cheeks. Raising one hand, she stared at the light under her skin, mesmerized. Great Goddess, I'm still glowing!

  But it wasn't over yet. Drawing on her broken power came at a cost. Holly's flesh tightened, her heart stuttering like a drum tumbling down a hill. She pulled her knees under her, struggling to draw breath, but her lungs were like stone. No air.

  Thoughts collapsed, puppets hacked away from their strings. No air, no air!

  Sweat poured down her face. The glow faded. Now she was shaking. Her lungs grabbed a huge gasp, the instinct to live somehow cramming down the power, locking it away again.

  And just when she thought the pain might be over, the aftermath hit—anguish so deep, it slashed each vertebra as it passed. Holly screamed a soundless word—she knew not what—and curled into a ball.

  I won. I hurt.

  Holly sobbed from sheer agony.

  This was the reason she never took on more than snippy ghosts.

  Chapter 4

  Holly had lost track of time since the de-oozing of the hell house. Perhaps an hour had passed. Perhaps two. She couldn't tell.

  She slumped on the curb in front of the house and watched as emergency vehicles jammed the street, adding a light show and a wailing chorus of sirens to the commotion. Police stood in a huddle on the lawn, taking possession of what was now considered a crime scene. A few car lengths to the right of where Holly sat, paramedics loaded the last of the unconscious victims into an ambulance.

  She was alone. Ben was with the paramedics. The police were interviewing Raglan, who had called 911. She wasn't sure where Alessandro had gone. She needed to talk to all three men—for one thing, she wanted the rest of her fee from Raglan—but everywhere Holly went she was underfoot. It was better just to sit on the curb like an unwanted couch and wait for a break in the action.

  Painkillers sang happy songs in her blood, blurring the edges of adrenaline aftermath. The ambulance guys had looked her over, but what could they do for a metaphysical injury? Medical science hadn't caught up to the needs of supernatural patients. The paramedics' solution had been two little green gelcaps—the same kind she used for migraines—and a bottle of water. At least the bistro down the street had brought hot coffee. When this was all over, she'd come back and put a blessing on the night staff.

  Holly tried to run her hand through her hair, but it was stiff with dried slime and sweat. She smelled like ooze. If she were a sock, she'd throw herself out.

  "Ms. Carver?"

  She started at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. "What? Sorry. Yes?"

  "Detective Macmillan." The man thrust a clipboard toward her. "I need you to sign this."

  "Paperwork?" she said in a tone that made her sound as if she were dying. The police had already asked her ten thousand questions. Something about being discovered in a house full of dead bodies made them curious.

  "Yes, ma'am." He gave a quick, rueful smile. Detective Macmillan was handsome, with dark, wavy hair and a slight scruff of beard probably due more to long hours than a bad-boy fashion statement. "The law moves in triplicate ways."

  She gingerly took the clipboard. Staring at the form was useless. Between the pills and fatigue, the words were doing the can-can across the page.

  Then the fire brigade arrived, big motors huffing. They maneuvered slowly, the long trucks navigating the narrow, overparked street with the skill of long practice. Bystanders thronging the road were forced to scamper out of the way.

  "Where did all these people come from?" Holly wondered aloud.

  "Murder brings its own audience. Supernatural murder is a chart topper." Macmillan shrugged. "If you sign the form, you get another cup of coffee. We practice only the finest in behavior modification theory."

  He gave a microgrin that came and went in seconds, somehow all the more charming for its brevity. She couldn't help noticing the man knew how to dress, though his suit had the rumpled look of a long, hard day.

  Holly sighed at the clipboard. "What am I signing here?"

  "A burn order on the house. I understand you were the certified investigator on the scene. After this many deaths, we can't let it stand."

  Holly nodded. The Corporeal Entity Law stated that only beings adhering to a recognized definition of physical life were entitled to a trial. Sentient houses, along with ghosts, wraiths, and some demon forms, were deemed nonadherent and could be exterminated without a court order. All it took was her signature and the big, bad house would go up in smoke.

  After that evening's fun and games, Holly was happy to sign. She scribbled something approximating her name and handed the clipboard back to Macmillan, awarding him a smile of her own.

  With a flicker of relief, Holly realized that her job at the Flanders house was officially over. Burn, baby, burn.

  Alessandro stalked through the house alone. The paramedics had come and gone, leaving only the dead and the Undead. It was a welcome respite from the growing chaos outside.

  He had demanded that the ambulance attendants treat Holly first. When he had lifted her from the floor of the bedroom she had fainted. In a moment of panic, Alessandro's heart had begun to beat for the first time in a century.

  It was the equivalent of a vampire heart attack Only the strongest emotions could revive and Undead heart. In this case fear for the woman he held in his arms.

  Something was wrong with Holly. After heavy exertion—whether it was running a marathon or wielding magic—exhaustion was normal. The yelps of pain were not. There was a flaw in Holly's powers, an important weakness.

  She had never told Alessandro about the condition. Like many others, she was friendly toward him, but that did not make him her friend. Not really.

  You would be a fool to expect anything else.

  Still, something clenched under his breastbone, a dull, forlorn ache. Alessandro was not prone to brooding over his lost humanity—after six centuries he either staked himself or got over it—but Undeath had its limitations.

  It branded him a killer. That led to social disappointments.

  Fortunately they said Holly would be fine. Fortunately the house—one of the worst he had seen—was a distraction from his uncomfortable thoughts.

  Instinct drove him through the rooms that he had not yet explored, making him open every closet and cupboard to make sure the house was dead. He would not be satisfied until he walked its boundaries inside and out. Such was the nature of his kind.

  But Holly had done her work well. Now the main floor of the house felt empty, like the carapace of a beetle long dead. Even the dust seemed dryer, limply coating the walls with streamers of filmy gray. He searched the crawl space and the main floor until all that remained was one last corner of the upstairs.

  There was not much to see. He walked down the hall, opening doors. The rooms were empty, mirrors of the ones he had already visited. He thought he was finished.

  Until he noticed that one of the paneled bedroom doors hovered behind a haze. Another look-away spell. It was a simple piece of magic meant to keep things hidden from the curious, like the police, or a real estate agent, or even Raglan and his workmen. Alessandro had found traces of similar enchantments here and there, including the room where they had fought the ooze. The charm on this door was the only one still active.

  Such spells didn't work on vampires, at least not ones as old as Alessandro. Or, if they did, not for long.

  The presence of the spell meant that there was more going on than just a house gone rogue. He turned the handle, shattering the magic.

  More indeed.

  A body sprawled on the bare wooden floor. Alessandro stood frozen, his hand on the doorknob. The figure had collapsed on her stomach, her head turned toward him, e
yes open, but unequivocally dead.

  Slowly he stepped inside the room. Death did not shock him, but he was surprised. Usually the smell of a corpse was obvious to a vampire. Either the spell had hidden the stench, or it had blended in among all the other death in the house.

  He switched on the overhead light. He didn't need it, but felt marginally comforted.

  Sprawled just inches from his feet, the still, silent body told its story. She had been a student, judging by the Fairview U hoodie. Blond. Slim. Bare feet in bright white canvas shoes that were laced in a soft pink. She had probably been pretty, but a morbid hue stole her beauty. Alessandro guessed she had been about nineteen.

  The police need to know about this. But the visuals held him; he was too affronted to move.

  Her feet were lashed with yellow nylon rope, a wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth. Shallow slashes scored her flesh, signs of obvious cruelty. The last—so unnecessary—stiffened Alessandro's shoulders. There was a difference between a hunter and a brute.

  Bending closer, he gave an experimental sniff. Cold. Dead a day, at least. No drugs that he could detect, just the sour residue of terror. Alessandro tasted the air again, letting his senses do their work. No more than a lick of blood remained in her veins, but there was only a spatter on the floor and her clothes. She had been sucked dry, her throat chewed open.

  A news report, half heard, half forgotten, tugged at Alessandro's memory. Murders on campus. He had assumed it was a human affair. There had been no mention of neck wounds, but perhaps the police had held that information back.

  No human did this. Behind the smell of death and fear was the stink of something other. A magic user.

  But was it a vampire? No one he knew would do this, and Alessandro was the vampire queen's representative in Fairview. A newcomer to town would have paid his respects as soon as he or she arrived. No such overture had been made.