by J. F. Lewis
“What . . . ?” I turned my head, and blood was pouring into my throat, but not just blood—there was a fruitiness to it, an alcohol taste. Blood wine.
A hockey game. I remembered tasting blood wine for the first time at a hockey game with Rachel and Roger . . . Roger who had betrayed me.
I roared, blood wine spattering my lips as the person trying to pour it in could no longer reach. More blood. More wine. It was nearby, I could smell it.
“More.”
“The cellar,” said a woman near me. She was short and plump. I batted her away, stepping on another human in my way, biting another and draining them as I passed, pulling the hapless stranger along as I went, dropping him at a wooden door behind which I smelled blood. Beneath the house I found tunnels full of bottled blood in bottom-up bottles, racked like wine. A young vampire was there turning the bottles, and I drained him too.
Aboveground, Rachel screamed in pain, shrill and high, chased with the guttural wrench of betrayal.
More blood wine, some ready and tasting of alcohol, other bottles unfinished and familiar in their coppery flavor.
I think I downed a dozen bottles before I blacked out completely and the world went away. When it came back, I lay in, or rather next to, a bed. Irene was cold and still beneath the covers and Rachel dozed in an armchair against the wall, a crossbow cradled in her lap. A bushy-eyebrowed servant with a stake stood over me—he’d almost staked me before I noticed him.
Humans are easy kills. So easy, in fact, that you can tear a human heart out with your bare hands and, only as you’re holding the gore-covered pump box, realize you probably should have asked its previous owner a few questions first. Rachel, stirred by the man’s death throes, opened her eyes, taking one look at me and another at the second human coming at me, and fired her crossbow at the human. Nice save, I thought.
I recognized a few of the faces as more crossbow bolts hurtled through the door and toward my chest.
“Hard to find good help these days?” I asked.
“Sorry,” Rachel said. “I must have fallen asleep. Irene’s thralls are . . .”
I shook my head. “Nah. I’m not buying that one.”
“It’s a spell, Eric . . .”
“Maybe if you’d opened with that . . .”
“Back off,” Rachel shouted, and the attack ceased, leaving me with a few arrows sticking out of me, but none in very important places.
Then I sensed Tabitha and I half-remembered her.
“Eric,” she said in my head. “You better listen to me this time. Rachel is using magic on you. I know you might not believe me, but she is.”
“I believe you,” I answered.
“You do?”
“Something is damn sure rotten in the state of Denmark.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
Gunpowder, mint, and cinnamon assailed my nostrils.
“Quit,” I told Rachel.
“I’m in a cellar,” I said to Tabitha.
“Great! Just please stay there and don’t trust my sister.”
“Your sister?” I said mentally and aloud.
“Rachel,” Tabitha answered. “We’ve been trying to find you all night, but I couldn’t sense you until now. Not even John Paul could find you.”
“Does this room have some kind of cloaking device?” I asked Rachel.
“Yes,” she nodded. “We should have taken you here first, but Paris was too much fun. Is my sister here?”
“Yep.”
“Fuck.” Rachel stood, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, not even bothering with the crossbow. Since the last time I’d seen her, she’d changed into silk pajama bottoms and a keyhole top. “I wish I knew how your power spiked. It’s like your memento mori suddenly became more powerful or something.” Stretching her arms up, I saw her belly piercing and scoffed. It was a diamond stud. “I should have had you for a few more days easy. Do you remember yet?”
“No.” I walked over to her.
“You will.” She cocked her head to the side, offering me her neck. “Last drink?”
“Sure.”
She didn’t give me the bells and whistles. It was just blood, but blood was what I needed and I’m not much of a complainer.
Tabitha, bleary-eyed and dressed in what struck me as very high-class hooker gear, walked in the door. A German woman stood next to her, wielding a Walther PPK like she’d used it before.
“Don’t let her touch you,” Tabitha said to the woman, shaking herself more firmly awake. She felt real, alive—even from across the room I could hear her heartbeat.
“Hiya, slut,” Rachel said affably. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll let this count as the bachelor’s party he didn’t get to have?”
“If she talks again and it sounds unreasonable, shoot her,” Tabitha said to the blond with her.
“How are you doing that?” I asked.
“Doing what?”
“You read as a vampire, but your heart is beating, you’re radiating warmth. How?”
“It’s my special ability, Eric. I can seem human. It’s one of the reasons you married me.”
“I thought I married her.” I indicated Irene.
“No.” Tabitha held up her wedding ring. It couldn’t have looked less like Marilyn’s, but it seemed familiar. A monetary figure appeared in my head, a remembered receipt. “She’s in league with Rachel.”
I uncovered Irene’s naked sleeping body and pulled the ring off her finger. If I was wrong, she could have it back, but no one gets to wear Marilyn’s ring under false pretenses. Warm in my hand, the ring made me think of Marilyn, and I slipped it into my pocket.
“Star Dust” started playing on my iPod when I dropped the ring in. Hoagy Carmichael sang it and I remembered pain, gold melting and burning my skin. I took off the wedding ring I was wearing and inside there was an inscription: Eric & Marilyn 1965.
The memory hurt.
Someone said my name again, far off, but louder. Before the cry had been plaintive, but now it was tinged with fear, the voice of a child watching a scary movie and calling for a parent who’s stepped away for more popcorn. “Daddy?”
“Greta?” I whispered.
“No!” Tabitha grabbed both sides of my face. “It’s me, Tabitha. Your wife!”
My memories rushed back, a Slinky resuming its natural shape after going down stairs. Greta’s fear became terror and my essence reached out for hers, but she was too far away. I could feel her, but she didn’t feel me. I could hear her, but it was one-way.
“Greta.” I started for the door. “I’m coming!”
“Eric, what the hell?” Tabitha grabbed my T-shirt, and I took her hand as gently as I could.
“I’m back,” I said. “I know it’s you, but I have to go. Greta is in danger.”
As I said “danger,” a wolf the size of Texas padded down the stairs from the house to the cellar. The cellar had a door on both ends providing access from both the house and the courtyard of the villa, and, had I not been able to see the first few rays of sun peeking in under the courtyard door, I might have walked out on him. That gave me an idea . . .
“I had intended for you to have more time, and I know circumstances went beyond your control,” he said smoothly in my head, “but I am being held to the letter of my words by the Council, and I am a creature of my word.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. Wish I could chat, but my daughter needs me.”
“You don’t understand, vampire.” His paw touched my chest, and unlike before, the shock only tickled, it didn’t knock me down.
“You’re stronger?!”
“So what?” I pushed the paw away. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to walk out into the sunlight and you’re going to let me.”
“Of your own volition?”
“What part of ‘my daughter needs me’ do you not understand? If my body is destroyed, then I re-form at my memento mori, right?”
“Eventually, but it could tak
e months.”
“I don’t have months. So, here’s what we’re going to do. Rachel.” I locked eyes with her and sent a command: I order you to help your sister face la Bête and make it safely home. If convenient, you are to get yourself killed in the process. If not, come straight home afterwards and wait for me to talk to you about this little bachelor’s party. Oh, and no using your powers or magic on anyone but la Bête.
“Bastard,” Rachel spat.
“Tabitha,” I said. “You’re going to have to fight la Bête on your own.” With that, I shoved past a surprised la Bête to find John Paul Courtney staring at me.
“You making the right call, son?”
“Greta’s my little girl. And Tabitha can handle herself . . . she’ll be fine.” Without breaking stride, I walked into the sun and I didn’t flinch away. Flames caught more slowly than usual, but then sank deep, burning away my skin and clothes, then slowing to a smolder when they hit the muscle underneath. A spark and a hiss and my muscles caught too. Long after I would have normally run, I fought my instincts and stayed put, turning to burn evenly. Fire caressed my bones. My ashes began to scatter on the wind, but I held them in place too, a mass of human-shaped ash, until all that was left was that which was shielded by the grass. I strained upward into the light, rising like a small gasp of dust that popped and hissed in the sunlight to make sure every last bit of me burned until there was nothing left.
Floating through nothingness as my body vanished, I reached for Fang, trying to feel his wheel beneath my hands. As I was reaching, I felt another scream from Greta punctuated by sadness—loss.
“Don’t you give up, Greta!” I screamed. “I’m coming.”
“This is like that movie Groundhog Day,” a demon’s voice said in my head, “when Bill Murray tries to save the old man. It’s never going to work.”
“Shut up, Scrythax,” I thought.
Concentration broken, my stomach dropped out like I was freefalling and a tether I’d never noticed before snapped taut between my spirit and Fang. I landed in the car, soaked with blood sweat, hands on the wheel and staring at the Highland Towers.
Then I felt it happen: Greta letting go.
Too late.
48
TABITHA:
TAKING OUT THE TRASH
When I married Eric, I thought there might be a little housework involved. He doesn’t like clothes to be left around on the floor. He likes the bathroom to be nice and tidy. In the back of my head, I probably even assumed I might need to help dispose of a body or two. Never once, however, did I expect it to include taking care of the bad guy for him all by myself while he fled to another country . . . in the middle of our honeymoon.
“Well,” said la Bête, “this is awkward.”
Sunlight turned the boards an inch from the toe of my boots a warmer brown than the dark wood under fluorescent lights. Heart pounding in my chest, I took two steps back from the giant werewolf. “Okay. Wait. Does this really have to happen?”
“I gave you a time limit. You exceeded the time limit.” His chest moved in and out with a sound like bellows. There was spiced meat on his breath. “And so, I have to carry through with the punishment I promised to deliver.” He sounded remorseful. “Had I realized how much interference you’d experience, I would have left more room for leniency.”
“My apologies then.” I looked away as I spoke, searching the area for John Paul Courtney. He was hanging back among the wine bottles in Irene’s wine cellar (or do you call the tunnel where they let the wine sit a cellary?). He gave me a nod and flashed me El Alma Perdida, the gun that might give me a chance.
“He’s a strong ’un, Tabby,” John Paul said through teeth set in a grimace. “Best not stop at one bullet.”
La Bête said something while I was listening to JPC, and I missed it.
“Excuse me?” I asked, adding a hint of attitude and confidence I didn’t feel. I don’t think it showed, though. You get used to hiding that sort of thing once you’ve danced on a pole a few times. You learn to exude confidence whether it’s real or not.
“Perhaps it is obvious to you,” la Bête said, “but I’m uncertain why you feel you owe me an apology.”
“Oh, that.” I met his gaze. “I apologized because I’m going to kill you.”
His eyes widened in surprise.
“It’s true,” I continued. “You’re going to underestimate me. Don’t worry, though. I’m not offended. Everybody does it.”
“Only another immortal can kill an immortal.” He was saddened as he said it. “Our souls must battle. One soul defeats the other and the power is sublimated and absorbed. Each time we do it, we become stronger, and I am one of the oldest, the most powerful. The best you could hope for is to pin me to the ground with my own weapon, but I tend not to draw weapons.”
“Aarika?” I asked, hoping for help from the German immortal.
She shook her head. “I’m not allowed to fight him. I’m sorry.”
“That’s not fair,” Rachel chimed in.
“It’s not about fairness,” la Bête intoned. “It’s about punishment.” His fur seemed to slide beneath his skin, the skin stretching to enfold it. Claws withdrew into skin that bulged to cover them, and the horrid cracking and breaking of bones that I’d heard before when he changed to human sounded once more. His clothing appeared last, this time a plain white gi. “But out of fairness, I can agree to fight you like this.”
Aarika winced when she saw the gi. “Then, Master Ji . . . ?”
“Is gone. Devoured. Consumed for his impudence and the price of his pride,” the ancient immortal answered.
“Last chance, then.” I put my hands on my hips in the basic heroic Wonder Woman pose. “You never clearly defined what you were going to do to us. You just said you’d make us regret it. Well, I do regret it. You were nice to us, you extended your hospitality, accepted us in your territory, and we unintentionally overstayed our welcome and offended you. I feel I was ill-used by the Immortal Council, who deliberately worked against my efforts to meet your terms—when you’d instructed them to grant us every courtesy. Despite that, I’m upset that we failed to keep our end of the bargain. I’d hoped we might be able to visit again.”
“I will deal with the Council of Immortals,” la Bête snarled, “and I appreciate your candor, but an example must be made, and my word is at stake. I would have preferred to make such an example of your husband or even your sister. He would have survived, and she is more deserving. Even Irene cannot be held completely accountable, as she is a member of the Treaty of Secrets. It must, therefore, be you.”
I opened my mouth to interrupt, but Rachel was a step ahead of me. “More deserving?!” Rachel sneered. “What the fuck are you talking about?” She marched closer, gesturing with her forefinger as if it were a weapon. “I’m Eric’s thrall, not my sister’s, and a big part of my job is making eternity fun for him, giving him what he needs. What he needed was a fun honeymoon with lots of sex and blood and all the sights. If I’d known about your stupid deadline, I’d have—” Rachel thrust her finger at la Bete’s chest, but he caught it, bending it all the way back against her hand.
She screamed, grabbing at her right hand, trying to break his grip.
“You will not ensorcel me, witch!” la Bête spat in her face, leaning close.
Rachel responded with a self-satisfied sneer and a palm to his forehead. He hurled her away, and she landed with a crash and the sound of breaking glass atop a stack of wine bottles, bottoms angled up and out for turning. The pungent odor of fermented grapes, which had been strong before, grew stronger still, and la Bête’s howls were not quite as loud as Rachel’s laughter.
“I learned my trade in hell, asshole!” she shouted at la Bête. “Do you really think a little pain will keep me from using it?”
“Fine,” la Bête snarled. He seized my shoulder and pulled me close, blinking his eyes and rubbing at his head while he spoke. “If you agree to it, I will punish your sister in
stead of you. The delay in your departure appears to have been, as you say, completely her fault.”
“Kill him, sis.” Rachel choked. “I shut down Ajna, his third eye. I can’t hold him long, but—”
“Done,” I said. “But I want to be able to come back next year, to spend a week here with the family, and I want to bring my husband.”
“You cunt!” Rachel bellowed, still trying to extract herself from the bottles. “I’ll fucking kill you. I—”
“Agreed.” La Bête turned to face her, drawing a well-worn but expertly maintained hunting knife from what seemed like thin air. “Look at it this way, witch. All I’m going to do is skin you alive. As powerful as your master is, you might even survive.”
Rachel’s skin turned black, purple glow shining from her eyes as she drew on power stolen from Eric. “I won’t go down easily, motherfucker!”
I held my hand out toward John Paul Courtney, and he pressed El Alma Perdida into it.
“One shot, maybe two before he reacts,” John Paul whispered. “It might not be enough.”
“Good. It’s more sporting if you have a chance, however remote.” La Bête raised the knife and I focused on the blade, on the idea of my sister being skinned alive, on what she’d done to my honeymoon, on Eric leaving me here, abandoning me to go save Greta, and, though dawn was now long past, the anger turned my powers back on. My eyes flickered red, casting hints of crimson on El Alma Perdida, and that was my cue. Six shots rang out, so close together it sounded like a short burst of machine-gun fire.
The werewolf seemed to teleport. He’d been standing over Rachel, but when my final shot rang out and he stopped, he was in front of me on his knees. I dodged the knife as he flailed at me like a drunken man, blood covering his chest. El Alma Perdida tumbled from my hands as I tore the knife from his. Kicking la Bête backward with my booted heel, I drove the blade of his own knife through his stomach and out his back, where it bit into the stone.
He laughed—a wheezing gasping sound. Blue beams shone from his bullet wounds. El Alma Perdida singed my palm when I stooped to scoop it up.
“John Paul?” I prompted.