by J. F. Lewis
“Oh. Well, that’s fine then.” I carried the futon down to the sitting room and set it up against an empty wall. Oranges followed me down, then stood as if at attention, her thin metal leash hanging loose from the studded collar around her neck.
“How old are you, Oranges?” I took the red leather handle of the leash in my hand. Her eyes tracked the motion, but she made no move to resist.
“Twenty-one last week, Mistress.”
“Do you want to live forever, Oranges?”
“If it pleases you.” No fear. No hesitation. And no back talk. I could see what Apples saw in her. Oranges was shorter than me by a few inches, five foot ten at the most, with a lithe build that reminded me of Mama Irene, before Daddy tried to kill her. In the light of the fluorescent bulbs, she was strikingly beautiful. She had a fresh clean look beneath the makeup. Her black hair was now streaked with blue; the chemical smell still clung to it.
“Why were you afraid of me last night and not now?”
“I didn’t know how to react last night, Mistress. Now, I do.”
“Do you want to be my thrall?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Even if I decide not to keep Apples?”
“She’s a fat sow, Mistress.” Oranges wrinkled her nose. “Do as you wish with her.”
“Why don’t you always say ‘Mistress’?”
“I assumed if I said ‘Mistress’ after every sentence, it would annoy the hell out of you. Do you want me to say it every time?”
Oranges is fun without Apples!
“How about just when I give a command?”
“As you wish, Mistress.”
“This is so cool!” I opened my mouth to give another command, make her do jumping jacks or bark like a dog, but the desire to be done with Lisette closed my mouth. “Okay. I’m going to go check something and then I want to feed. I haven’t decided whether I want Apples’ or Oranges’ juice for breakfast, so drag Apples out of the way and then wait for me at the concession stand.”
“Yes, Mistress, but where are you going?”
“I’m going to kill my grandma.”
That got Oranges’ heart to thumping. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. Dad’s better at sussing out emotions than I am, but I know fear. This was close . . . maybe it could have been fear, just not of me.
“Don’t worry, Oranges, she’s not my really real Grandma.” I bounded up the stairs. “I’ll be back.”
On my way out the front doors, I heard Oranges curse and the sound of a cell phone being dialed. Had I hurt Apples more than I’d meant to? Oh well. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t already decided to kill her when I came back in. Oranges was fun and in shape. Apples had cursed at me, which I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t have done, not if she wanted to be my thrall.
Magbidion sat on a lawn chair, watching some horrid morning show featuring a bubbly blondish woman who should have been killed twenty years ago when she’d still been pretty and some old stocky guy with what might have been a hairpiece. They were interviewing the Blind Alley Rabbits, though, so I guess that made them kind of cool. He’d set a stool right next to Fang so he could keep an eye on Dad’s car and the television.
“Hi, Greta. Good morning.”
“Where’s Talbot?”
“I’m supposed to say he went to go see Dezba.”
“O-kay. Well, whatever then.”
I tiptoed up to the trunk and rapped lightly on the metal. Fang opened up and there was Grandma, right where I’d left her, bundled up with her disembodied heart next to her face and the killer necklace (and the tire iron I’d run through the center of it) lying in her open chest cavity. I concentrated on the necklace first.
How do I destroy you?
The answer came through garbled, as if announced by a man with a mouth full of marbles, singing underwater, while being strangled.
“Damn.”
“Damn?” Magbidion asked.
“I have to de-tire-iron it before I can get a good reading.” I pulled Squidly out of the trunk. “I was afraid that might happen.”
“What? Reading? What reading?” Mags jerked up out of his chair. “Wait! You’ve captured her. Why not wait until Eric gets back and let him kill her? Then you can figure out—”
I threw him the tire iron.
“Just jam that through it if I need you to.”
“Kill you! End you! Make you mine!” Squidly’s voice rang out in my head, but having fought it once before, the second time was easy-peasy.
It clawed and pulled at me with eight golden tentacle-like chains, and according to Magbidion, two more tendrils I couldn’t see. I walked around to the front of Fang, to be sure it couldn’t unstake its mistress with one of them, and focused on how to destroy it. Images of fire filled my mind, the necklace tumbled into a volcano. I could drive it to a smelting plant or something . . . but then I saw an image of Lisette standing at the lip of the volcano calling it back, the still bubbling metal sliding up the rock and re-forming. Okay, so just like a memento mori can call back its Emperor, the Emperor, given time, could call back his or her memento mori. Good to know.
Squidly was winning the physical battle, its gaping beak headed right for my chest again.
“Magbidion!”
He ran for me, tire iron over his head, and I felt the pressure decrease as Magbidion began to stick it and move as if he were avoiding the unseen tentacles, which had released me.
“Greta, it’s stronger than I am. I can’t.”
“Fang—” I was going to tell Fang to do something, help Mags or something, but when I said the name, a new image washed over my thoughts like a cool rain. A memento mori could destroy another memento mori. Sweet!
I dropped to the ground, wincing as my head hit the concrete.
“Fang, roll over me and eat the necklace!”
Fang backed away.
“Do it or it’ll get inside my head again! Please! If you have to eat me too, I’ll be okay. That’s not what it takes to end me. I—” Before I could even finish my sentence, Fang rolled over me.
Being eaten by Fang hurts like the dickens! I mean, serious serious owie territory. I felt pain in places I’d never been hurt before, places that I didn’t even know had nerves. My head hit the undercarriage hard, splitting my nose and ramming Squidly into my chest, where its beak jabbed deep, piercing the sternum and my heart.
Squidly filled my head again, but this time, I took him to another memory. In my second happiest memory, Dad was on top of me. I was naked and his fangs pierced my neck. The mild disappointment that he wouldn’t bite me in his favorite feeding spot was washed away as he thrust his wrist into my mouth and I died but didn’t go away. The pain, which would have made me scream as my bowels voided themselves, didn’t happen, because that’s what high colonics are for. I hadn’t eaten anything in three days, either, so the hunger that took hold of me when I transformed wasn’t new, just a change in need.
Salt water blew open the door of Dad’s bedroom at the old Demon Heart and then vanished, literally fading away before the wetness could hit me. Dad’s eyes were filled with the flow of bloody tears, so much so he didn’t seem to even notice the door or the water. I’ve never asked him, but I’m certain they were tears of joy.
And then I was awake again, in the trunk, a raw naked skeleton lying atop Grandma. I latched on to Magbidion’s offered arm and fed, but not too much. I regenerated, clothing my bones in flesh, using Magbidion’s blood, and smiled when he looked away, embarrassed by my nakedness. Once I had a nose again, it was filled with the smell of burning rubber.
Thin traces of new gold chased the rims of Fang’s tires, and the power radiating from him was so strong even I could feel it . . . and technically I’m blind to it.
“What made you think of that?” Magbidion asked as he handed me his terry-cloth bathrobe. It was too short in the sleeves, but it felt hot—fresh out of the drier hot—so I put it on.
“What?”
“Feeding one memento mori to ano
ther.” Magbidion cupped one hand to his eye like a tiny telescope. “Fang’s aura is twice as strong. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Now for Grandma.” Fang’s trunk was still open. I reared back a fist. “If she’s part zombie . . .” I punched down through the side of her skull, shards of bone lodging in my knuckles. I spread the hole wider with my claws and scooped the putrid insides out, dumping them one glop at a time onto the concrete surface of the parking deck, then stomped each smelly pile flat, like Lucy and Ethel in that episode where they’re in the big vat of grapes making wine.
An immediate change came over the body. The stink faded and the brains on the ground bleached into a healthier color, for all that they were flat and smeared. Dark black zombie goo turned normal organ color. Even the fluid and brain spatter that had covered the lower edges of Magbidion’s robe, as well as my feet and legs, turned a more normal color.
“And now that she’s just another Vlad,” I whooped in Magbidion’s ear, “I can totally end her sorry ass!”
A lightning bolt hit me when I reached for the stake. I tried to disconnect from the pain, but it followed me, equal parts physical and mental agony. Bolt after bolt struck, jerking my body so violently I couldn’t control it. I never even felt the crossbow bolt tear through my chest and slam home into my heart.
A blur with metallic gold claws and white and orange fur whipped past my falling body and struck Magbidion, hurling him against the side of his RV with the sound a sack of melons might make if you dropped them off the roof.
By the time I hit the ground, Captain Stacey stood over Magbidion, glow fading as he reverted to his humanoid form. He already held a tire iron in his hand, the same one I’d used to impale Squidly, but from the sapphire gleam in his eyes, I expected he had a different plan for where to shove it.
Fortunately, Fang had other plans, too.
Captain Stacey lunged for the Mustang’s hood and Fang shot into reverse, passing over me, lifting me up against its undercarriage, breaking my nose for a second time in under an hour, and proceeding backward through the winding center spiral, up, up, and up again toward the top of the parking deck.
“Stop that Mustang, Stacey!” Lord Phillip shouted. I could hear but couldn’t see him.
As Fang’s speed increased, the magical extra space that seemed to exist underneath him narrowed and soon left my back dragging the concrete, scouring away first the skin then muscle beneath it. Hair ripped free of my scalp, taking small hunks of skin with it. I knew Fang wanted to avoid eating me again or he’d have already done the deed. But I wished he’d get it over with. I might come out hungry again, but better one giant ow that goes away than this continuous scraping. I’m a rip the Band-Aid off in one go kind of girl.
When we hit the roof, the night air rushed over me, surprisingly cool, the humidity tolerable for Void City at this time of year. I fell away from Fang’s undercarriage, and the crossbow bolt didn’t come with me. It hung there from the bottom of the car, metal tip still lodged in my chest, but not quite deep enough.
“Good boy, Fang!”
I rolled out from under the car, holding the bolt in my hand to avoid accidentally re-staking myself, and tore it free of my sternum. Fang’s painful trip had made a mess of Magbidion’s robe, but as I climbed into the passenger’s seat I found a new set of the exact same clothes I’d been wearing before, my jeans and Dad’s T-shirt. They weren’t warm, like Dad’s clothes are when he remakes them, but they still had Dad and New Mom’s smell on them, which was even better.
I whipped the shirt over my head as I regenerated and struggled into the jeans as Fang revved the engine and rammed the wall of the parking deck. He hit it once, twice, and on the third time, broke through. We glided free just as I heard the elevator doors ding open and saw Oranges step out, leveling a crossbow at me.
Captain Stacey was the one who worried me.
Every bit as fast as most vampires, he came running up the parking deck ramp and, without slowing, leapt after Fang, golden claws and sapphire eyes sparkling in the night. He landed on the trunk and I stood up in the seat, claws out, ready for a fight.
“Talbot’s combat mode is cooler,” I said, opening a series of bloody gashes in his chest. A blow I’d meant to get me a handhold on his vitals was reduced to mere flesh wounds by his speed. Damn Mousers.
“How fortunate His Highness isn’t here right now.”
He leapt at me and I took his charge, the two of us clawing at one another. Flames leapt up from my wounds and I hissed. His claws were holy, just like Talbot’s. Why not?
Fang lurched down and then up, maximizing his gliding range. Stacey and I brawled wildly, a flaming furry whirlwind of vampire and Mouser. In short, Oranges’ shot was miraculous. Staking a vampire with an arrow or a crossbow bolt is no mean feat to begin with. Old Mom was exceptionally good at it, from years of having to stake Daddy to calm him down, but the shot Oranges made—a shot like that would have given Robin Hood a hard-on. If the other bolt had still been in place, I’m relatively certain she would have split it in two.
My thought as Captain Stacey grabbed me, tore open Fang’s trunk, and leapt back toward the parking deck with me and Grandma (one over each shoulder) was this: Oh no! There’s a hole in Dad’s T-shirt!
31
GRETA:
A PRAYER AT BEDTIME
Lord Phillip didn’t say a word to me the first night. He had a debt to repay. After Phillip carried Grandma and me back to the Highland Towers with the VCPD running Fang interference, he had servants in bellhop uniforms come in to strip us, measure us, and bathe us both in blood. Then a second set came in and doctored our stakes. They cut Grandma’s down so it was flush with her skin and then affixed a platinum stopper to her back and chest that completely covered the wood.
I couldn’t easily see what they did to mine, but it appeared to be a similar thing with a golden stopper. Then, the first set of servants came back in carrying sets of clothes that might have looked more at home in a Victorian brothel than in modern-day Void City, and dressed us.
Phillip’s study was the same as it had been the last time I was there, except that the curtains had been drawn back, revealing his larger-than-king-size bed, which, with the curtains drawn, dominated the room. It was a four-poster bed of some rich mahogany or maybe a darker-colored wood. Lavishly embroidered pillows lay on top of an equally elaborate comforter. Cords running from both the comforter and the mattress had been disguised to match the carpet, and I could barely make out where they snaked underneath the bed toward a wall socket even when the bellhops had me down on the Oriental rug working on my stake.
Once we’d been dressed, a third group of hired help (this time not in bellhop uniforms) came in, did our hair and makeup, and gave us each a manicure and pedicure. When they’d finished, the bellhops returned, arranging us by the fire in lush green velvet upholstered lounge chairs. Phillip’s fantastical knickknacks lined the walls, and I could just make out Roger’s soul prison in its ornate golden holder on the mantel next to the box of all the things Lord Phillip had used to ascend.
Grandma had been posed so she looked over my shoulder at the display case in which Percy was stored. Nobody knew why Percy was in there, but he was staked and displayed in doll collector fashion, with a plaque underneath him that read, “My dear Percy, who serves as a remembrance to all that I do not bluff, I do not make empty threats, and there are indeed worse fates than death.” I used to make up stories about him and the things he must have done to merit that end.
We waited, the hands of the mantel clock counting down the hours, and waited.
And waited.
So, I got my own little dose of what it must have felt like for Dad to be trapped in the remains of the explodicated Demon Heart all those months when he was a ghost, but compressed into hours. Before dawn, Oranges came in with another group of bellhops. They moved our chairs in turn, taking us to the alcove where Uncle Phil stored his magic mirror.
The golden dr
agon worked into the frame seemed to leer at me. New Mom had mentioned the mirror once. She said it had a demon inside that let her see her reflection, but made her feel bad for all the horrible things she’d ever done. I don’t know what she was talking about though, because I didn’t feel anything bad. It was nice to know my burns had healed when they gave me the blood bath, though.
“Good girl,” the demon within the mirror whispered in my mind. “What a precious thing you are. What a treasure.”
“Do you know what Uncle Phil is going to do to me?” I thought at the mirror.
“A vampire like you, with your understanding, your composure?” It burbled at me. “No more than you allow.”
Four bellhops traded me out for Lisette and when they brought her back, streaks of blood were running freely down her cheeks. I guess she’d been happy to see her reflection, too. It was a little weird she could still cry while staked, though. For that to work, she pretty much had to be connected to her body very closely and still be feeling things. What’s the point in that?
The fire, I thought, maybe she likes feeling the fire.
And that’s what I was thinking when the sun rose on my first day as a P.O.P. (Prisoner of Phil).
On the second night, the ritual repeated. They bathed us in blood, changed us into fresh skanky brothel-wear, and gave us each our turns in front of the mirror.
“Still here?” the demon asked.
This time, when he spoke, he brought me back to my first favorite memory, except that the mirror was there in the beach house, hanging over the burned-out television.
“I guess he’s mad at me for something.”
“Well, sure, Phillipus is like that, but I’d expect your father to have come for you by now.”
“But he’s in Paris.” My memory self scowled at the mirror. “It’s his honeymoon.”
“True, but I thought he was only going to be gone for a few days.”
“How did you know that?”
“You know it”—the eyes of the dragon frame seemed to glimmer—“so I know it . . . while we’re together.”