Whatever it is, she thought, it is terrible. Something that strips the will, clouds the mind, drives reason away.
A terrible thing. In the wrong hands . . . disastrous.
Justine was right not to go to the Family with it. They’d both seen the effect it had on supersensitive Fangborn. The Family was at a politically sensitive juncture right now: this thing would be the end of us all, Fangborn and human.
She remembered what she felt like, tearing through the wrappings to get to the vase. What it felt like to handle it.
She’d never smoked, but now she would have killed for a cigarette.
* * *
Claudia took the report to bed after a long, cold shower, and crawled in, shivering but clearheaded, to read.
She flipped past the description of the object on the forms in the front, noting that it had been assessed as “Dutch workmanship imitating Asian decoration for the export market.” Which wasn’t much of a clue as to its pedigree or manufacture; that would describe a thousand objects from any maker, any place . . .
She dozed off with the lights on.
* * *
The dreams were horrifying and wonderful.
As if to punish her for resisting or trying to destroy it, the vase exercised an awful vengeance. Though Claudia didn’t believe in booty calls, if he’d been anywhere within a hundred miles, she would have called Fergus. Hells, if she’d known there were any willing males nearby, it would have been all over for them.
Fangborn have to be very careful mating with humans and Claudia was not sure her self-control was all it should be. Would ever be again.
She woke up in a sweat, trying to forget her dreams. After an hour, it was no good. She gave in. She opened the drawer and found Señor Peter Rabbit. She clicked it on. No dice: no batteries.
Claudia Steuben was a responsible environmentalist, but she’d forgotten to plug in the battery recharger. And after looting the remote control, the doorbell (God help anyone who came to the door tonight), and the flashlights, she failed to find the right-sized batteries. Finally she thought of the hurricane kit in the basement.
If this isn’t an emergency, she thought, ripping out a fresh, nonrechargeable battery pack, I don’t know what is.
* * *
Claudia woke from an uneasy sleep, about two hours later than she ordinarily would have. It had been a rough night.
Thank God it was summer. She had an early staff meeting at the office. Since it was August, she had no patients. With any luck, this ordeal would be over by the next time she had regular office hours. She didn’t want to think what might happen to her own therapist’s reserve and discretion after prolonged exposure to the vase.
She would drive to the meeting, get out ASAP, then find Justine. The two of them would get rid of the vase. Curiosity about its origins was banished by fear of this being unleashed on the world.
At first, she felt much better being outside, away from the terrible drive of the object in the freezer. The short commute from Salem to Lynnfield along Route 128 would be packed with annoyances that were anything but provocative.
The first one met her at the foot of her driveway. Landscapers were among Claudia’s pet peeves—why did they have to start mowing, chopping, and mulching first thing in the morning? The racket, their unkempt appearances, the way their trucks took up an unreasonable amount of space on the narrow, twisting and busy roads of Salem, were constant sources of irritation.
She pulled over to tell them exactly which noise ordinances they were violating. She’d been meaning to for some time, in any case. That one, over there. He was obviously the foreman or the team boss or whatever. Had to be. Look at the size of the brute, the sleeves were ripped off a dark green work shirt to accommodate his biceps. Not an ounce of fat on him, and he was sweating already, rivers running down the inside of his collar, getting lost in the dark chest hair . . .
She froze.
What the Hell am I doing?
Claudia caught herself, turned, and all but ran back to the BMW, which was still idling. She tore out of the driveway, leaving the confused ground crew staring after her.
The guy in the green shirt yelled, “Hey lady! Did you want a card, or something?”
No cards, Claudia thought, shaking. Definitely no “something.” You wouldn’t survive it, my friend. Not in the state I’m in.
Being in the car helped—clearly, the residual effects of contact with the vase were enhanced by human proximity. She recalled Justine’s warning and began conjugating Latin verbs. Ero, eram, erat . . .
Which worked until she got to the construction crew slowing the highway traffic on Route 128. They inspired desperate fantasies of faceless men, singly or in pairs. Then there was the distinguished man being driven in the Town Car—she could imagine the fine wool of his excellent suit tearing beneath her nails as she rode him into Boston, the coarse feel of his grey hair under her tongue as she licked the side of his head. The young driver of the empty school bus, straddling her on the back seat, the smells of ancient vinyl and petroleum and sticky spilled soda around them . . .
Claudia abandoned conjugating verbs and tried to recall the succession of Hittite kings: Labarna, Hattusili, Mursili, Hantili, Zidanta, Ammuna, Huzziya, Telepinu . . .
As long as she kept her eyes straight ahead and her brain distracted, she managed. Things took a turn for the worse when she had to pause next to the cop directing traffic around the roadwork—the uniform, the sunglasses, the gun, the handcuffs. . . . All she had to do was roll down her window, give him a blast of her vampiric glamour, and the poor man would have leapt into the backseat where she would lash him down with the safety belt and then . . .
The cop, far from being under a sexual compulsion, rapped on the window and screamed at her to get a move on, startling her out of the reverie. The spell broken, she hit the gas and sped into the now-moving traffic.
Justine was right. There was no way the Family could manage something like this, no matter how good their intentions. Imagine the vampires, besotted by the vase, unable to control themselves, and then unable to control those Normal humans around them. Things would spiral out of control, into a beautiful, sexual chaos. . . .
Okay, but we’re not going to think about that now, are we? Claudia thought. Because that would be the start of it.
Thinking about starting the end of the world worked. Claudia forced herself to turn the radio to a shock-jock show she absolutely hated, and between that and jaw-grinding determination, she made it safely to the hospital.
She didn’t dare stop at Starbucks. There was no way she was adding caffeine and energetic young baristas to this mix.
The hospital helped. Her empathetic sense registered the pain and grief and fear there, which diverted her from . . . everything else. She kept her head down over her clipboard, grateful at last for her reputation as a grind.
“Hi, Claudia,” the receptionist, Marlene, called. “Staff meeting in ten.”
Not looking up, Claudia mumbled something, and locked herself in her office.
The meeting was excruciating. Fifty minutes of iron-willed self-control and superhuman—Hell, super-Fangborn—concentration was needed. Claudia stared at her notebook, scribbling the alphabet in Greek (ancient and modern, upper case and lower). When questions were addressed to her, she kept the answers as brief as possible.
Finally the meeting was over. She was almost in her office when Dr. Schmidt came over. “You okay, Claud?”
“Just a little . . . something I ate.” She noticed he washed with Tom’s of Maine almond soap; his clothes smelled of Arm & Hammer. Intoxicating.
He waved a cupcake. “Then you probably shouldn’t eat sugar and chocolate on top of it. I was going to tell you, Marlene has some left over from her birthday party.”
She began to salivate as he described the party. She heard not a word of it. She couldn’t take her eyes off the cupcake as he ate it. So chocolately there wasn’t room for another bit of cocoa to be wedged int
o it. Frosting, white—she could smell the butter, vanilla, and was that just a hint of mint?
She watched, transfixed, as he reduced the overhanging frosting with little, nibbling bites. His tongue flicked out and he smoothed the edge of the frosting like he was licking an ice cream cone. He caught a large crumb that came away; it vanished into his mouth. Then he peeled the paper cup away from the cake, one pleat at a time, with a barely audible pock as the paper straightened.
He ate it with splendid and complete attention, his teeth, strong, straight, clean. Another day, his deliberateness and precision might have been an unnoticeable tic of personality: today, to Claudia, it had an admirable and consuming appeal.
She felt weak and sagged against the door. She couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth and his . . . attention to detail.
“Anyway,” he concluded, “you look like you could use some sun. Say, can you and your boyfriend get away to the beach this weekend?”
The thought of Fergus, their as-yet-unconsummated relationship, and a beach made her look up. She’d gotten to know Fergus in Aruba. Dr. Schmidt’s cupcake was replaced by the memory of Fergus in a bathing suit, climbing out of the ocean, water running down his chest and belly, following trails into the waistband of his trunks.
With a wrench, Claudia turned her mind to the elements of the periodic table. Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron . . .
“I really think I need to get home,” she managed to gasp, after a long moment.
“Get straight to bed, then,” he agreed, then wagged a finger at her. “You take good care of yourself, Doctor.”
Thinking of the battery charger on the counter at home, Claudia turned and fled.
* * *
I’m going to kill Justine, Claudia fumed, on her way to the inn with the box. She knew perfectly well what that thing would do to a vampire.
She made the least of bad choices, the rational part of her brain tiredly reminded her.
She can bite me. But before that thought could jump the rails, she arrived at the inn.
Claudia relaxed. Mr. Dow was at the front. Something about him calmed her.
“Morning.”
“Morning. I’ve come to see Justine Nash—”
“Can’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She never came home last night.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
Mr. Dow pursed his lips as he sorted the mail. “I never pry into my guests’ comings and goings.”
He’s not even curious, Claudia thought. “Is there some way I could check her room? She was supposed to lend me a book.” She stepped closer and used a little vampiric push, just enough subliminal influence to overcome his reticence.
He put his mail down, his eyes a little glassy. “Sure. No harm in that.” He handed her the key, listing a little as he did so.
She opened the door. The room had been trashed. Someone had been looking for the object.
Her phone rang; it was Justine. She answered, and heard heavy, masculine breathing on the other end. “Who is this?”
“We have your friend. We want what she took from us.”
Claudia stalled, trying to think. “Who is this? What are you talking about?”
“Your number shows up three times on this phone last night. We know she told you. Bring the box to Boston, tonight at eleven if you want to see her again.” The voice gave an address and then hung up.
Claudia cursed briefly and thought furiously. She cast about the room for a trace of Justine’s abductors. There were three of them, at least.
“I left after I didn’t find my friend,” she dictated to Mr. Dow, giving him a story to replace his reality. “I never went into her room.” Tired and scared, she pushed just a little.
“I would never let you do that,” he agreed, his dewlaps shaking with his head.
“The men who came here? Did you see them? Describe them to me.”
“I didn’t see any men.”
“Okay. You were alone all morning.”
“It’s how I prefer it.” He nodded with satisfaction. “Alone all morning.”
It was then Claudia noticed that the terrible strain that had been hagriding her was gone. She looked at Mr. Dow with curiosity. Nothing there, no thoughts about sweeping him behind the desk and having her way with him. The idea was more than unappealing. Still susceptible to her chemical manipulation, the vase itself seemed to have no effect on him. Or her, near him.
He was still under her thrall, and stood smiling absently, waiting to be dismissed.
No time for speculation. She needed to get to Boston.
She sent him on his way, and had a quick look in the parking lot. It was gravel, and there were no tire tracks. She got into her car, and headed south.
Claudia thought about the disruptive power of the vase. Fangborn seemed to be unusually affected by it, but Normals—if Justine’s account of the ruckus it had caused at the museum was any indication—were affected by it, even at a distance. Even when they didn’t know where it was, or that it was even there. Everyone but Dow.
So imagine it in the hand of someone with a political agenda, of any kind. If it was ever analyzed, its secret found and harnessed, it would make a weapon of unspeakable power.
Your enemies would never even think of pushing the button; they’d never have the time. They’d never pick up a weapon. They’d never see you coming.
For a split second, Claudia thought: What’s so bad about that? Wasn’t all the music and art and literature inspired by and devoted to crazy-making love? What if this is the key to world peace? What if this is the way to let the Fangborn reveal themselves to the Normals? What if we all learn to love our enemies?
Right, she shook off the thought. Get a grip. Love them right through the mattress or until you all die of terminal bedsores? Not very likely.
This thing had to be absolutely destroyed.
* * *
She spent the day observing the warehouse on the pier, but saw no way to set up a trap for Justine’s captors without being seen by the legitimate traffic on the wharf. She returned after dark, closer to the appointed hour, and hid her car, but as early as she was, they were earlier. There was only one truck in the parking lot now. The truck was unmarked and unremarkable, but after she broke in, she found it was registered to the largest pharmaceutical company in the Northeast. Of course they’d want the object: if they could crack its secret, they’d rule the world.
She saw they’d left the door to the business office of the warehouse open for her, the way to them clearly lit, but she continued around the building anyway. She fanged up, the job keeping her focused, and she slung the backpack with the vase over her shoulder. She searched until she found a weather-beaten section of wall. Her fingers, now elongated into sharp claws, found the cracks in the brick and mortar and she climbed silently. A window showed there were at least six of them.
She listened, her keen ears picking up snippets of conversation. Apparently, the man who’d brought the vase to Justine had stolen it from the gang, who’d stolen it from a private collector in Switzerland. The original owner, quite mysterious about the object’s origins, had made the mistake of showing it to the head of the pharmaceutical company’s office in Berne, who instantly ordered its theft.
The men below knew what they were after, and its value, even if they didn’t know who was after them.
There was no sign of Justine.
Claudia took a piton from the pouch on her belt and drove it between two bricks. The mortar crumbled, but it sank in and wouldn’t move. She shrugged the backpack off, and, with a silent click, slid a carabiner attached to its handle over the loop of the piton.
The thing was safe enough, for now. Let them figure out how it got halfway up a sheer wall.
She climbed down, Changed back to her skinself, and went in the way they expected her to.
In addition to the six men she saw, there was another, clearly the leader. A tall blond, he
was armed. She presumed the others were, too.
First things first. “Where’s Justine?”
The leader was in the center of the room. As she approached, two of the others moved closer to her, never getting between her and his gun. She decided to call the one on the left Bruiser and the one to his right, Stretch.
The others she named Red, Knuckles, Scab, and One-Eye. Unimaginative, but mnemonic.
The leader stepped forward. “Where’s the box?”
“Not until I get my friend back.”
“She’s only safe until I call in. If I don’t call my man in ten minutes, with the box, she’s dead.”
“You’re lying.” And he was; Claudia could tell. His heart rate was up, and she detected the faint odor of anxiety. She realized he, Bruiser, and Stretch were battered and bleeding. From claw marks. Justine had Changed, fought her way out, escaped.
Claudia wondered whether Justine was okay. She could have used her friend’s help.
“I don’t need her.” He lifted the pistol and aimed it at Claudia.
“Shoot me, and you never get the location of the . . . object.”
“I can shoot you a little.” He aimed at her knee. “Just a little. It doesn’t have to be much—”
He was so sure of himself. He was a talker.
She thought, Good.
By the time his finger tightened on the trigger, Claudia had Changed halfway. The surprise of seeing her skin and hair turn violet, her fingers elongate into claws, and her face shift into something serpentine with two rows of sharp teeth, slowed the rest of them. She struck out at Bruiser, who was closest to her, landing a good uppercut on his chin. She pivoted and kicked Stretch, and when he bent over, she sunk her fangs into him.
She’d only meant to give him a jab of poison, a quick injection of venom that would keep him down and out of the fight.
It should have gone: Dart at the leader, two quick punches. Disable him, lose the gun. Guns leave trails that can be followed by the normal police. Punches and kicks and quick-healing vampire bites don’t.
Spit poison at Red when he closed in, then twist, slamming him, blinded, into Knuckles, who would come from behind. Then two steps to kick Scab in the breadbasket, blocking One-Eye’s punch before kneeing him in the head.
The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge Page 18