by Matt Kincade
“Maybe so,” said Alex. “Maybe so.” He turned away from her before she could see the tears in his eyes.
“Alex…”
He crossed the kitchen and leaned both palms against the sink while he looked out the window. His voice cracked. “I don’t think this is workin’ out.”
Leaning against the counter next to him, Carmen studied him in profile. His face was contorted as if in pain, and tears ran down his cheeks. She made a bitter face but nodded. “No. I guess it isn’t.”
Alex laughed, a half-choked laugh. “Kind of dumb ever thinkin’ it would.”
“Yeah,” said Carmen. “Maybe.” Tears stung her eyes.
“The lie was too good, you know? I just wanted to believe it.”
“It was good. At the beginning.” She took his hand with both of hers. “But you keep wanting me to be somebody I’m not anymore. I think that Carmen died in a musty motel room a week ago.”
“I know,” said Alex. “I mean…I loved you. Still do. But I wish to hell I didn’t. It just ain’t workin’. I think… I think it’s best we just call quits.”
“Yeah.” She nodded sadly. “I think you’re right.” After a pause, she smiled a little. “At least we got that out in the open. So what now?”
Alex sniffled and swallowed. He took a breath. “Well, we still got some business to clear up, I guess. The whole reason we hooked up in the first place.”
“Revenge.”
“Damn right.” Alex turned around and leaned his butt against the kitchen counter. “We still got revenge.”
The coffee was ready. Carmen poured a cup, added some milk, and sat down at the kitchen table. “So,” she said, “how’s this going to go down?”
“I’m still workin’ on that.” Alex went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. “Still ain’t figured out how we’re both gonna do this. I go in the daytime, you can’t come along. I go at night, I’d be about as useless as a bent-dick dog. Maybe it’d be best if I did this one solo.”
“Absolutely not,” said Carmen. “I deserve to be in on this. I’m the reason you’re involved in it at all.”
“That’s all well and good, but it don’t solve the problem. I don’t want to go at night. You can’t go in the day. You got a better idea?”
After a moment’s pause, Carmen answered, “Maybe I could just do it myself.”
Alex took a swig of his beer before sitting down at the table again. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why not?”
“How ’bout you’d get your fool self killed?”
Carmen gestured angrily. “How do you know that? Isn’t that what you’ve been teaching me all this time? How to be a badass vampire hunter? I mean, shit, I’ve basically got super powers. I can take care of myself. That vampire in Albuquerque wasn’t much of a problem.”
“Darlin’, he had to be just a baby vamp. Didn’t even have a real sword. The Don, he’s got security. He’s got men and guns and technology. And he’s been fightin’ off contenders for five hundred years. You can’t just go waltzin’ in there.”
She leaned in close to him. “You could help me,” she said, almost conspiratorially. “Help me figure out what I’m up against.”
“It ain’t goin’ down like that, and that’s final. ’Sides, I got my own score to settle with Don Carlos.”
“And I don’t? Are you serious?” She threw up her hands. “He took…everything. He took literally everything I have. I deserve my revenge. More than you. And you have no right to stop me.”
“Darlin’, you got one thing left. You got your life.”
She laughed bitterly. “Do I?”
“Well, whatever you want to call it. You go after him by your lonesome, he’s gonna take that too.”
Carmen stood up. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Here we go again. Carmen, don’t do anything because you’re a stupid girl and you’ll just fuck it up.”
“Hey now, it ain’t like that.”
“It’s exactly like that. It’s always like that.”
“When we met, you sure didn’t mind a little advice.”
“That was then.”
“Darlin’, Just believe me. You’re gettin’ a little too big for your britches. You ain’t ready for this.”
Carmen exploded. “Too big for my britches? Did you actually say I’m getting too big for my britches? Can you even go thirty seconds without spouting some bullshit Southern cliché? Fuck you, Alex.”
Alex folded his arms. “I ain’t gonna let you do this.”
Carmen glared coldly. “How do you plan to stop me?” She stormed off into the bedroom. Alex followed.
She jammed her clothes back into her duffel bag, then took the Spanish sword and set it on top of the bag.
“C’mon, Carmen. Let’s not be like this.”
“Get out of my way,”
“I ain’t gonna let you do this,” he repeated.
“You don’t have a choice.” She picked up her things and shoved past him in the doorway, heading for the front door. She snatched her car keys off the table.
“No, goddamn it,” said Alex, yanking her by the shoulder.
“Let me go!” yelled Carmen. She pushed him with both hands, meaning to send him flying across the room. But Alex shifted his weight, twisted imperceptibly, and then Carmen was pushing thin air. She stumbled forward, and just the slightest nudge from Alex sent her crashing into the wall.
“C’mon, darlin’. Let’s talk about this.”
Carmen stood again, pulled her hair out of her face, and picked up the duffel bag again. “We’ve talked enough. I’m going.”
“I ain’t lettin’ you leave like this.” He stood with his feet apart, his hands balled into fists.
Carmen came at him again. This time she grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands. Again he seemed to melt away from her grip. She found herself grasping air. Alex seized her hand. He turned and dropped his full weight onto her wrist. Pain lanced up her arm. Before she knew it, she was airborne again before slamming into the wall.
She got up swinging. Alex ducked and weaved, nimbly slipping each blow. He didn’t block so much as he nudged, gently altering the course of each swing so it missed him by mere inches. “C’mon now,” he said. “If you can’t even take me, how’re you supposed to take on Don Carlos? I mean hell, you can’t even land a—”
Carmen connected with a jab. Alex’s head snapped back on his neck like a rear-end collision. His legs kicked out from under him. Galaxies exploded in his head. He fell in slow motion, a fine spray of blood trailing from his nose and mouth. He hit the floor hard and stayed there.
“I’m sorry,” said Carmen. She stood over him and unclenched her fists. “I’m doing this for you. For us.” She left through the front door.
Alex fought his way up from the bottom of the ocean. Seawater rushed in his ears, a white-noise hiss that crescendoed as he climbed up out of blackness. He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling. He touched his face and winced, drawing back a bloody hand. He raised his head and felt sick. The room spun around him.
From outside, he heard the sound of a car starting. Cursing, he leapt to his feet. The room twisted underneath him. He hunched over and vomited on the floor. By the time he stumbled to the door, Carmen’s yellow muscle car was peeling out of the driveway. Flying gravel pelted the house. The taillights disappeared into the night.
Still unsteady on his feet, Alex half ran, half stumbled to the den. He flicked the hidden switch, rolled back the bookcase, and opened the vault door to his underground hideaway. He nearly killed himself racing down the metal stairs, rebounded off the wall, and dashed down the empty concrete corridor.
Alex dropped into the driver’s seat of the blue-and-white ’55 Chevy. He turned the key, and five hundred horses roared to life. The car lurched forward onto the cargo lift. He climbed out and hit a switch. The lift ground into motion and rose, excruciatingly slow. “C’mon, damn it. C’mon,” he muttered, tapping his fingers im
patiently on the control panel. At last the lift reached the surface and squealed to a halt. The garage doors folded away. Alex redlined the engine and dropped the clutch. The engine howled as the car rocketed out of the garage and down the driveway.
Alex threw the car into four-wheel drifts through the turns of the dirt driveway, his jaw clenched, blood still running down his face. He hit the pavement going sideways. The tires screamed in protest until they found purchase, then the car shot forward.
He banged through the gears and drove the tach into the redline. Sixty, eighty, a hundred and counting. The g-forces pressed him back in his seat. The tires chirped as he barreled through the turns, barely keeping control.
Finally Carmen’s taillights appeared, two red eyes far in the distance. The road straightened out, and Alex floored the gas pedal. The twin carbs drank in air and gas, a hungry animal running down its prey.
The taillights ahead grew larger. Carmen had the pedal floored, but it was no contest—her all-stock V8 against Alex’s fire-breathing hot rod. Alex rocketed past her like she was standing still. He swerved in front of her and jammed on the brakes. The big Chevy fishtailed dangerously, tires smoking. Alex’s brake lights flared. Carmen slammed on her own brakes to avoid rear-ending Alex’s car. She swerved to the other lane and tried to pass him, but he matched her move for move, slowing the whole time, forcing her to follow suit.
She faked right, swerved back again, and downshifted. The Pontiac’s engine howled, her tach needle buried in the red. She pulled ahead and managed to nose ahead of the Chevy’s rear bumper. Carmen swerved at the bigger car, forcing Alex to evade, giving her time to pull ahead again.
Alex downshifted. The car peeled out at eighty miles an hour and surged past Carmen.
As his rear bumper came even with her front, she swerved and nudged her front bumper into his car’s flank.
The Chevy pitched sideways, its tires screaming, fighting for purchase. The Chevy seemed to freeze in time then pitched back the other way. The front wheels caught, and the car went airborne. The car sailed through the air, spinning sideways before crashing to the pavement. The front fender hit first and crumpled. The car pitched up into the air again and came down on its roof. The Chevy ground to a halt.
Carmen stopped a hundred feet ahead and got out of her car.
One of the Chevy’s headlights still worked. It flickered on and off spastically. Carmen walked back to the wrecked car.
Alex hung upside down, suspended from his seat belt. His arms flopped over his head and rested on the roof of the car. Blood poured down his face. Chips of broken glass shone like diamonds in his hair, stuck to his bloody face, and lay scattered around the passenger compartment.
Broken glass crunched under Carmen’s feet as she crouched next to the driver’s-side window. “Alex?”
Alex made a subhuman noise.
Carmen reached in and undid the seat belt. She caught him and dragged him out through the shattered window. He lay out on the pavement, which was still hot from the day, and tried to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She stared down at him with a look more of curiosity than pity, like a cat discovering some strange insect. “Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t you just let it go?”
“Please don’t go,” Alex murmured. “You ain’t ready.”
She stood up, brushed off her knees, and looked down at him. “Don’t try to follow me.”
She turned and walked back to her car. Her taillights disappeared down the road.
Alex lay there in the dark, feeling the warm pavement under his back, the sharp pains in his body, the blood trickling down his face. He rolled onto his back and watched the stars shine far above him. For one second his focus shifted, and he saw the stars as they truly were. Not points of light in a dark canvas but immense searing orbs of burning gas, millions upon millions of them, scattered at mind-boggling distances throughout a cold, infinite, unfathomable blackness. The sudden shift in perception induced a profound, gut-twisting wave of vertigo in him. He rolled onto his side. There he stared along another infinite black plane, the blacktop highway stretching away and eventually melting into the night. Stars glittered there as well. Tiny cubes of safety glass littered the roadway, picking up the starlight, forming their own private galaxy. Deciding he liked this miniature universe better, Alex smiled and passed out.
He didn’t know how much later it was when he woke up. It was still dark. The desert night was cold and empty. His head was suddenly clear. He rocked to his hands and knees, stood agonizingly up, and looked all around. Only night and darkness and stars. He pondered who he could call as he reached for his pocket and felt…nothing. A vision came to him of his cell phone sitting at home on the kitchen table.
“Well ain’t I about…” He paused, searching for a suitable Southern adage. “Ain’t this about as…” At last he finished, “Well, fuck.”
He started walking.
Chapter Twenty
The yellow Pontiac had developed a grinding rattle. Carmen knew she’d pushed it too hard. But the car got her where she needed to go. She pulled off to the side of the road and shut off the engine.
The pistol went in its holster at her side, and she carried the sheathed rapier in her hand. The cloying scents of the desert called to her as she stepped off the road and climbed into the low, rocky hills.
She slipped by like a shadow, her steps light and soundless. A coyote, gnawing at a flea on its haunches, didn’t notice as she passed five feet away.
After a long run, she reached the top of a low ridge. The Don’s compound stretched out across the valley beneath her. Although the work buildings and slave quarters were dark and silent, lights shone from the windows of the main house. Even from her perch high on the ridge, she caught the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, daphne and lavender, clematis, and damask rose. The sound of a single violin reached her, along with the slap of water falling on rock.
She easily jumped the fence and made her way down the ridge, picking her way across the broken scree that threatened to fall away beneath her feet. She headed toward the back wall of the walled garden surrounding the house. Closer now, she crept more slowly. The sound of the violin grew louder—mournful, wrenching melodies that twisted something inside her. She placed her hands on the cool, rough white stucco of the garden wall, then crouched and leapt twelve feet to the top.
She jumped down, landed silently, and found herself in a nighttime paradise. All around her were night-blooming flowers. Jasmine and daphne, four o’clock, moonflower and lilies. Up close, the scent was overpowering. The rush of falling water was louder now. She saw that it came from a circular fountain pool, where a tiny waterfall cascaded down a haphazard pile of stones. A frog croaked. Koi fish glinted in the water. An ancient wooden arbor, laden with fragrant clematis vines, shaded a walkway of herringbone red brick. The pathway disappeared around a curve, practically inviting her to stroll down it.
For a moment, the beauty of the place overcame her. She stood stock still, breathing in the multitude of fragrances, listening to the soothing night sounds: the falling water, the frogs and the crickets.
Shaking her head, she put the garden behind her and crept up the pathway toward the house.
The house was just as beautiful up close—pure old-world grandeur. White stucco walls, red-tiled roof, arched colonnades, heavy wooden doors with forged iron hardware.
Iron grilles covered the windows, but Carmen leapt to an unprotected second floor balcony. The light was out in the room attached to it. She jimmied the simple window latch with a pocket knife and slipped inside.
Carmen found herself in what seemed to be a guest bedroom. An ornate four-poster bed sat in the center of the room, surrounded by dark wooden furniture. Baroque artwork lined the walls, in ornate gilded frames. Carmen crept across the darkened room to the door and listened.
The violin began again, a hypnotic throb echoing down the hallway outside.
Holding the pistol in her han
d, low at her side, Carmen eased the door open. The hallway was tiled in black-and-white marble. Along the walls, wrought-iron sconces held unlit candles. The occasional accent of patterned Spanish tile surrounded alcoves holding small statues, plants, or candles.
She slipped down the hallway. The music came from behind a closed door a little farther on. Light spilled across the tiled floor from the crack beneath the door. Carmen crept closer. She gripped the pistol tightly in her hand and tucked the sword into her belt, then rested her other hand on the doorknob. It turned with no resistance, and the door swung open. Light and music poured into the hallway.
Don Carlos stopped playing the violin. The music ceased abruptly. He leaned against a solid oak table, upon which lay a sheathed sword. He didn’t look at all surprised to see her. She glanced around and saw Jacob, as well as the vampire who’d been driving The Don’s limousine. They both had guns trained on her.
She started to back away. Another gun cocked behind her back. She looked left and right and saw a half dozen guards with submachine guns.
The Don grinned. “Ah, there you are. Carmen, is it not? Come in.” He gently set the violin down on a table before picking up his sword and drawing the blade from its scabbard. The blade shone in the light. The steel basket-hilt wrapped around the vampire’s hand like a fistful of snakes.
Carmen took a hesitant step into the room. “You’ve come for me, no?” the Don asked. He took up a fencer’s stance. “Well, then, come for me. You’re a vampire now. You have the right of challenge. As long as you abide by the ancient laws, my men won’t stop you.” He gestured toward her pistol with his sword point.
She looked around the room. “Hall” would be more accurate, she thought. It seemed to be some kind of training area. A rack of foils, sabers, and épées lined one of the walls. Fencing lanes and footwork patterns were painted on the hardwood floor.
Without hesitation, Carmen threw the pistol down and drew her sword. She took two running steps and lunged wildly, with an animalistic cry. The Don easily deflected the blow. Carmen recovered and turned, sinking into a deep stance, studying her opponent. She launched a series of probing attacks, but each time the Don parried her sword away and returned an attack of his own, which she just barely avoided.