by J. F. Lewis
Ligaments in my neck started to pop. Skin sizzled with each drop of rain.
Then I heard it, the roar of one angry Mustang. I love my car, even more now that he’s a twisted evil undead machine. My skin turned gray, then black, and I started to grow. Finally, I was about to get my uber vamp on! Holy stuff doesn’t sting my Emperor form as badly as it does my normal vampire self. Even sunlight takes longer to kick in.
Behind me, in the church, I heard Winter say something about winning a bet and several vampires sighed while others applauded. Eight feet tall in my Emperor form, I flexed my leathery wings and clicked my claws.
“That damn vampire bets on everything,” I growled.
“It’s true,” Deacon spat, which could have been an acceptable response to my statement, but the way his eyes widened as he said it made me think we were talking about two different subjects altogether.
“What is?” Was he talking about me being an Emperor? My uber vamp form? What? I threw him off me like a rag doll, but he didn’t land like one. Spry and nimble, Deacon crouched on all fours, growling the opening of the Lord’s Prayer in Latin.
“Form up, Apostles!” he shouted.
I hazarded a glance at the door of the church and the vampires crowding in under the awning to watch the show. Phillip held up a charred bit of metal, as if that would explain something to me about why he’d stopped tossing lightning bolts. More cautious vamps watched through the eyes of their human thralls. It’s a trick that I don’t know, but then again I prefer things up close and personal. Not one of them looked like they had any intention of helping me out.
Werewolves are good pack hunters. Vampires do well in ones and twos, but large-scale organization isn’t our thing.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full, boss,” Talbot’s voice caught my ear. He wouldn’t help me either. Talbot only fights in self-defense or when he’s hunting or when he damn well feels like it. There was no way he was risking that tux. Mousers are like that.
Twelve werewolves charged as one, wet fur glistening as they came. Time slowed for everything except me and Fang, raindrops slowing in the air, then freezing, motionless, like a wire-fu bullet-time moment from a huge effects movie, plus fur and fangs.
Two and a half tons of zealotry and claw looks dangerous no matter how fast it is or isn’t moving, but the pause in battle gave me time to think. I wasn’t facing just one Alpha wolf. This was a pack of Alphas. The other eleven didn’t look like Alphas at first, because next to Deacon any other werewolf looked like a runt. Time returned to normal before it occurred to me that I ought to be hitting things, so I stupidly met the pack head-on.
Fang charged into the mass from the side, scattering them between us. One Apostle found himself being drawn slowly and inexorably beneath Fang’s undercarriage, screaming as he went. Getting eaten by Fang is not a pleasant way to go, and the werewolf fought it, claws scoring the asphalt as he struggled. Everywhere I touched the wolves, their holiness stung. The blessed rain was taking its toll too, and I actually began to wonder whether I was going to make it without a little help. Covered in a mass of werewolves, I stumbled back against Fang, and then I felt them. The rats.
Once before, I’d summoned a cloud of bats to block out the sun. I had no idea how I’d done it then, but I’d seen the same sort of thing depicted in stained glass back at the Highland Towers. This time, it was rats, a plague of them. They crawled out of the sewer like they’d been massing underground waiting for my call. Surging out of storm grates, more rats than I would have thought could possibly have been infesting the area swarmed to my rescue, gnashing, biting, and paying no attention to the holy water.
Deacon grabbed the werewolf Fang was eating and hauled him out from under the Mustang with a horrendous rip like a cow tearing in half. That I know what that sounds like frightens me a little. Either way, the lycanthrope came free, though he was legless below the knees.
“Enough!” A voice like a nun’s ruler on your knuckles cut through everything. I didn’t see the speaker right off, but I knew his identity. Father Ike doesn’t yell very often, but when he does, it demands attention. I’d ask him if he had a little touch of vampirism, but I know that’s not where he gets the juice. He gets it from belief. The Apostles jerked up short, and a Semitic man wearing a priest’s alb and preaching scarf over his single-breasted cassock stared at us all in a combination of disapproval and bemusement.
“Sorry, Ike,” Deacon and I said together, surprising each other as well as our accomplices with our familiarity.
“Eric,” he said, pointing at the rats. His gaze told me he wanted them gone. I transformed back to normal, wearing my standard “Welcome to the Void” T-shirt and jeans, the warmth of the newly formed clothes sinking into my skin despite the rain. With the uber vamp gone, the rats scurried like, well, like rats, back into the nooks, crannies, and drains from which they had emerged.
Pleased with my contrition, Ike and his glare moved on to Deacon. The sable fur vanished as Alpha werewolf was replaced by a tall blond man in his early thirties, heavily muscled, but proportioned evenly like a martial artist. I noticed the tattoos and other artwork weren’t present in his human form and both eyes were brown. He had a chin you could crash a bus into, and the bus might come away with the worst of it.
Fang backed timidly into the shadow of the church, the ghost of John Paul Courtney (my great-great-grandfather—yet another recipient of the Courtney family curse that had caused my vampirism) appearing in the passenger’s seat once the darkness covered the car. In life, he’d failed to do whatever it is the curse actually wants us Courtneys to do, but it turned him into a ghost and tied him to his magic revolver in kind of a Jiminy Cricket role to other cursed Courtneys instead of vamping him, which I guess is like being second runner-up or something when compared to the grand prize of being found worthy and actually being allowed to die.
What can I say? I’ve led an interesting death. So had John Paul Courtney. In his day, he’d been almost single-handedly responsible for scaring religion into the lycanthrope community. All the good little werewolves, the ones that said their prayers to God, Buddha, or the deity of their choice at night—he left them alone. All the bad little werewolves got a bullet from El Alma Perdida (the aforementioned magic gun) right between the eyes and had their furry little souls trapped inside. I don’t think JPC realized that when he died, his spirit would be tied to the gun, too. Seeing him jogged my memory. El Alma Perdida was in Fang’s glove box. I had a gun specifically for killing werewolves, a magic gun with fucking magic bullets, in my magic car and I’d forgotten all about the damn thing until the fight was over.
“Typical.” It’s no use being exasperated with my memory. As far as I know it’s exasperated with me too and doesn’t work correctly out of spite. I walked under the awning, glad to see I wasn’t the only one who felt like a teenager caught fighting on the playground.
Heavy rain became drizzle as the wet werewolf in human form stood drenched and downcast before Father Ike. The Apostles shuffled clear, eyes averted, tails tucked between their legs. Sharp soft whimpers escaped their throats as Ike spoke.
“You know better than this.” Father Ike placed a hand on Deacon’s arm. “I expect better. You’ve come so far.”
“But they’re getting married, Father. The dead can’t marry. It’s evil . . . wrong.”
“Oh, I expect they can in some circumstances.” Ike patted Deacon twice, then moved his hand. “In China the dead may marry the living or each other. It isn’t exactly the norm here, but then again neither is vampirism or lycanthropy. Would I refuse to marry two lycanthropes because they are sometimes wolves and, as animals, have no right to marriage or to heaven?”
“It’s not the same, Father,” Deacon growled.
“Not exactly, no.” The sun peeked out from behind the clouds on Father Ike’s smile. “But I expect it may be more similar than you are willing to admit. In death, I believe that there is no marriage, but the two souls I join
together here today are neither exactly dead nor alive. I’m willing to let Him worry about the particulars of it all. Aren’t you, Simon?”
“No,” Deacon/Simon bristled. “No, I am not, but I will respect this place and I will respect you, Father. I’ll come by later to repair the window.”
“Don’t worry about the window.” Ike nodded toward the church. “It’s been taken care of.” It was, too. None of us saw it happen, but the hole was gone and there was no broken glass to be found. Every vampire parted the way as Ike walked toward us, each monster steering well clear of the priest for fear that even a careless touch might cause him or her to burst into flames. He stopped short before passing Lord Phillip.
“I won’t have unnatural rain over my church again, Phillipus.”
“Mea culpa, Isaac.” Phil sounded whipped. It was a pleasant sound.
4
RACHEL:
ALWAYS THE BRIDESMAID
Ebon Winter sang “Agnus Dei” at my sister’s wedding and I saw animated corpses with goose bumps and blood-streaked cheeks. If you check my iPod, you’ll find a selection of Amy Grant (a very guilty pleasure if you’re a witch). Her version of that song had been my favorite. After hearing Winter’s, I had to delete it. He’s like that. Once he covers a song, you can’t listen to any other version without comparing it unfavorably to his.
If there really is a god out there, I mean besides something created by the minds of man, a glorified receptacle of group belief, I think she should have either struck Winter down for daring to sing a song like that or lifted him up and rewarded him for the act. I took the lack of chariot, flaming or otherwise, as yet another sign that she isn’t there. Maybe hell made me cynical.
My sister walked down the aisle to a haunting rendition of “Here Comes the Bride” played on the church organ by Winter, and I tried not to sneer at how beautiful she looked. Tabitha’s always been the pretty one, like Vivian Leigh’s version of Scarlett in Gone with the Wind. Undeath agreed with her. It always takes off a few pounds and skinnies a person up a little. She’d been left with a wasp-like waist further accentuated by her ample breasts. Her long black hair hung down past her shoulders, and her dress was a marvel of white satin and lace. It was all I could do to stifle the urge to step on the six-foot train of her dress.
Eric’s other female thralls stood in as bridesmaids. Beatrice’s fiery red hair was done up in ringlets, cascading down her back, her startling blue-gray eyes reminding me of the storm clouds outside. She’d once belonged to Lady Gabriella, but she was happier with Eric. We all were. Behind Beatrice stood the ex-blood whores, three thralls Eric had rescued from a prostitution ring run by Petey and his gang, a group of child vampires out of what used to be Sweet Heart Row.
Gladys winked at Esteban, Lady Gabriella’s lover, in a teasing way, curling strands of her recently dyed purple hair around her finger. Erin, the mousiest of the bridesmaids, elbowed Gladys when she noticed, only to find herself subtly rebuked with a withering glare from Cheryl, whose short brown hair and severe temperament remained unchanged for the happy occasion.
Tabitha was oblivious to it all and probably would have been whether I’d been controlling her or not. How fitting that she should be attended by whores and a hellion.
As if he could read my mind, Father Ike delivered a look of stern rebuke, which I returned with a lascivious smile and a mouthed “Eat me.” The nerve of him, to look down his nose at me in a church full of vampires.
An arrangement of “Mama, I’m Coming Home” for pipe organ announced the groom. In jeans and tennis shoes, he walked down the aisle wearing his “Welcome to the Void” T-shirt like it was a tux, looking so hot it made me want to tackle him before he reached the altar.
Ike’s frown vanished when he saw Eric. Was it because my sister had agreed to walk down the aisle first and let Eric follow? Or was it the strange hold Eric had over some people, Tabitha and me included? I couldn’t hate him if I wanted to. Get angry? Sure. Get even? Absolutely. But stay mad? Never.
When Eric arrived at the altar, he winked at Tabitha and they kissed. Father Ike cleared his throat to the sound of amused chuckling from the audience.
“Sorry, Father,” Eric murmured after the kiss.
Father Ike preached. He preached about love and faithfulness and he quoted freely from the Bible about the things love is, isn’t, and must always be. I hadn’t been to church since I was seven, but I found myself listening to him, feeling guilty about myself, and hating him for it. When he came to the part where they ask if anyone knows why the bride and groom should not be married, I couldn’t say anything even though I wanted to. It was like his presence sealed my mouth. Eric didn’t belong with Tabitha, he belonged with me. I gritted my teeth and surveyed the crowd. Talbot’s eyes met mine and he shook his head ever so slightly. Then Eric raised his hand.
“Look,” Eric coughed. “I have something.”
If Tabitha had been completely human she would have shit herself. The vampire crowd ate it up just like they had the kiss: more polite laughter and condescension. Vampires don’t get married. They hook up, abide together, but they usually don’t have a ceremony. It’s considered childish, naïve.
Eric took Tabitha’s hand in his. “Sweetheart. I know why I want to marry you. I like sleeping with you.” He glanced apologetically at the man in priest robes. “Sorry, Father.” Tabitha squeezed Eric’s hand, but he kept speaking.
“I didn’t want you to leave; I still don’t. I do care about you and I guess that’s a kind of love, but even so. You’ll still be marrying me.” He emphasized the “me” as if the thought of anyone wanting to be his wife was unthinkable. “I’m not going to be faithful. I’ll try, but we both know I’ll fail. The only woman I ever managed to be faithful to was Marilyn, and she’s dead.
“Be it on a hunt or with one of my thralls when I’m feeding, whatever . . . and when I do, I’m not going to feel bad about it. I might apologize to make you feel better, but . . . all I’m trying to say is that you know me. You know what you’re getting. Don’t go into this thinking I’ll change. I may be wrong, but one day you’ll want to leave me or something will happen to you and once it’s all over, before too much time has passed, I won’t even remember your name. Is that what you really want?”
No one will ever know what my sister might have said if I hadn’t had her under my control. I almost amped up her nervousness, her embarrassment at his words. I think I could have made her dump him at the altar if I’d pushed hard enough, but Eric is my master and while I wanted him to feel bad, to get even with him for what happened before the wedding, I didn’t want to have to deal with him pining over Tabitha, like he had over Marilyn, and trying to get her back.
So instead I concentrated on the change in plans I’d have Tabitha introduce—taking me with them on the honeymoon. I focused on being in Paris with Eric and all the time Tabitha would be asleep, the times where it would be just Eric and me . . . then I reinforced her love for him. It was already at an irrational, soul-encompassing level and I fanned the flames, quelled the doubts, and squashed her anger. To Tabitha, his outburst was romantic, a sign of affection, the act of a man who is experiencing love, true love, for the first time and, like a frightened child, is confused and lost.
“I do,” she said without hesitation and with the sort of conviction that made me—her controller—glow inside.
“Really?” asked Talbot, echoing aloud the look on Father Ike’s face.
“You still got the ring, best individual?” Eric snapped.
“Yes.”
“Then shut up,” Eric said through clenched teeth.
“Do you, Tabitha Elizabeth Sims,” Father Ike broke in, “take this individual to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sorrow and in strife? Do you promise to love, cherish, and obey him until you depart this world?”
“I do,” she answered breathily.
“And do you, Eric—” Ike began.
“I’ll do what I can,” Er
ic interrupted, eliciting another round of chuckling.
“Then by the power vested in me by Almighty God, superseding the lack of recognition by the reigning government, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He put his hands on their shoulders, causing both of them to flinch as wisps of smoke escaped from underneath their garments. The touch was fleeting, but half the audience seemed ready to bolt. “Eric, you may kiss the bride . . . again.”
Their kiss was inappropriate for a wedding, but I don’t think those gathered expected anything less. After a few minutes, Eric had to forcibly push his bride away. What can I say? If he thought he wanted Tabitha, then Tabitha he was going to get. It was my duty to help him. That’s what thralls are for. If she wanted Eric, then she was welcome to him as well, but only on my terms. I’d been willing to share. I still was, but Tabitha wasn’t. She had refused to share Eric with me when I had lain dying in the hospital. He could have saved me from hell had she asked, replacing the struggle to return with the easy embrace of vampirism. And she refused to share him with me now that I’d made my own way back.
You know what happens to greedy sisters who won’t share their candy, don’t you? They get a stomachache. Or in Tabitha’s case, maybe the term heartburn was more appropriate.
Since this was a vampire wedding, there were no photographers. A couple of hired artists roamed around, making sketches for the guests. A much more expensive one had been hired to paint an official portrait of the supposedly happy couple. At least there was cake, even though only the thralls could eat it.
During the reception, my master and his bride slunk off as night fell to hunt together for the first time as a joined unit. Tomorrow they would leave for Paris and the honeymoon, leaving the rest of us behind to watch after things and to look out for Greta in Eric’s absence. Lord Phillip had been kind enough to arrange for their transportation and accommodations as a wedding present.