Interrogate the leader, using her chemical arsenal to get him to spill his guts.
That’s how it should have gone. Claudia was good at this. And if she happened to exercise a little more self-control in her personal life to prevent the unjust employment of her powers, if she seemed to her Family and friends to be uptight, rigid, prudish, a little conservative, well, this was the part of the job where she loosened up.
But fatigue and worry caused her to misjudge.
What happened, alas, was this: As she bit into Stretch, her lips brushed his neck. The electric shock of his skin, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up, the blood rushing over her tongue, made her gasp. She bit harder still, her tongue flicking, and the man collapsed, moaning. He tried to turn around to embrace her, but the friction of his body against hers had such an effect on Claudia that she released a flood of airborne chemicals, which knocked him to the ground, limp, spent.
That had the effect of rebounding on her, intensified by the power of the vase. Even a hundred feet away, it called to her, possessed her, drove her. She’d been exposed to it for so long, it no longer needed close proximity to work.
Oh, shit.
She tried to stop, but it was too late. She managed to block Red’s punch, shoving him away. She kicked straight out in front, aiming for Knuckles’s sternum, but her speed was off and while most of the kick connected, Knuckles stumbled forward, still holding onto her leg. She managed to stay standing, but he was now at her feet, one arm locked around her leg, his other hand sliding over her thigh, as he kissed her knee, utterly besotted.
The closer the others crowded, the worse it got. Their anger and aggression were channeled into sexual excitement. The more they got turned on, the more Claudia’s empathy picked up on it. And then threw it back at them, amplified by the pernicious effect of the vase.
Red approached again, his pistol in his outstretched hand. He wept openly, adoringly, his other hand down the front of his pants.
Outraged at this breach of her control, Claudia slammed the pistol into his face. He went down with blood on his teeth, a smile on his lips, a stain on his jeans.
Scab said, “Oh, man. That bitch can fight.”
One-Eye nodded, and reached over to caress Scab’s face. They locked in a tight embrace, each struggling to take the clothes off the other while not breaking their kiss.
By this time, Claudia was blinded by her own desire/emotions/conflicts/lust. The more she tried to resist, the more tangled up things got. She knew she was supposed to stop the men, but now that they weren’t actually attacking her, and were, in fact, pretty much willing to do whatever she wanted, she couldn’t find it in herself to send them into unconsciousness.
Worse, all those desires, all those bodies, all that energy, all packed in together, were starting to feel very good to her.
She found herself giving in, and tried to resist. The heady combination of control and resistance only colored and heightened the experience for her.
What do you do when your strength is the very thing that is undoing you? Laying you bare, shedding your will—
For Christ’s sake, Claudia! Focus!
Trying desperately not to watch One-Eye and Scab, Claudia felt herself pulled under by the waves of desire threatening to overwhelm her. She saw the leader was confused, but somehow, like Mr. Dow, unaffected. He screamed at his men, but getting no response, turned, heading for the door.
He’d get away, and Claudia couldn’t let him escape with his knowledge of the object. With the tangle of men at her feet, she could barely move. She didn’t really want to move . . .
What do you do when you can’t go with strength? Go with weakness.
She focused on the power of the vase, and increased her attack tenfold. She absorbed the emotions of the men, and used that against them, too. Claudia gave in to her baser instincts, and let fly with every bit of glamour, chemical and pheromone, hint or suggestion in her vampire’s arsenal. She might have invented a few new ones.
In the midst of it all, Claudia felt an extraordinary power coursing through her. She was a thousand places at once, an avenging angel in the depths of Hell, corrupting demons to the cause of good.
She pointed at the leader. In a powerful, echoing voice, not her own, she said: “That man could use a hug!”
Immediately, Red, Bruiser, and Knuckles tackled their leader, knocking him to the ground. Scab and One-Eye were crying, and Stretch had a blank look of joy. They cuddled their leader so effectively that he couldn’t move. They snuggled him into submission.
The leader struggled under the onslaught of affection. “What the fuck—? What’s wrong with you? She’s a witch! Don’t listen to her—”
Some little part of Claudia knew that she had to make this stop somehow. The more energy she absorbed, the more powerful she became, and the harder it was to wrest back her self-control. Either she would consume the whole world, as she drew others into her web, or eventually, she would die of sexual exhaustion and starvation.
She felt a buzzing against her hip. It broke her concentration on maintaining her spell, just the merest bit.
That’s good, she thought. My phone. It’s a good distraction. I need a distraction. I need that. I need it . . . I need it to move down, and a little to the right. . . .
The phone stopped vibrating and her disappointment was so great, it snapped her concentration. She fanged down, and suddenly, the flow of wonderful vibes was cut off. It didn’t matter. Some of the men were unconscious, a few were weeping, and the rest just collapsed in a limp, damp, sated hamster pile on the floor.
Claudia staggered over to the wall, and shuddered. Her concentration was better now, and she found the leader, who was still squirming beneath his men. Somehow, like the innkeeper, he was unaffected by the presence of the object. He would be, however, affected by the chemicals she produced.
Better not to take any chances, she decided. Don’t want to get that whole thing started again.
Before she could talk herself into getting close enough to glamour or bite him, she kicked him in the head. That shut him up and sent the three other men on him into orgasmic fits.
She went outside, and sagging against the wall, took out her phone. There was a message.
It was from Fergus. His lovely, growling brogue almost set Claudia off again.
“My flight was late, but I’m at Logan now. Call me, if it’s not too late for me to see you.” She pressed speed dial, and got him. “I’m at the waterfront. I need you.” She gave the address and hung up.
She was still confident there was enough residual power in her voice to have Fergus come running.
* * *
By the time Fergus arrived, out of breath, Claudia had disarmed the men, and handcuffed them, using zip ties from her belt pouch. In a daisy chain along the wall, most of them were too stunned to say a word. All of them were still trying to figure out what had happened.
Claudia was on the phone. After a few more words, she hung up. Before Fergus could ask, Claudia began in a rush: “That was Justine. She’s okay. They managed to get her into the back of their van by creating a roadblock, but after she came to, she Changed. They were on their way here when she came to, and busted out the back of the van. She made it off the highway to the Middlesex Fells, where she can heal undetected. We’ll meet her back in Salem.”
“Good,” he said, puzzled. “But what do you need me for? You’ve got it under control, far as I can see.”
Claudia took a deep breath. “I have to interrogate them, find out who else knows about this thing they were after. Then I have to wipe their memories. If you see me . . . getting too deep, too involved, you need to stop me. Any way you can. If I can’t wipe all of them, we’ll have to kill them, and I’d rather we were able to hand them over to the police.”
“Claudia, what—?”
“And then, once we can call the cops—I’ll have them tell them that they were beat up by a rival antiquities gang—we’ll s
plit up. Meet me at the Charles Hotel in Harvard Square exactly one hour later.”
“Um . . . okay?”
She sighed. “I’ll explain it all later. I swear, Fergus.”
He looked at her, and nodded. “Man, you sure do know how to tease a guy.”
“You have no idea.”
* * *
Two hours later, Fergus O’Malley nodded to the doorman as he entered the Charles Hotel. He carried a battered overnight bag over one shoulder and a heavy shopping bag from Cardullo’s. Not wanting to risk being even a little late, he’d bribed the cabby with an insane amount to get him to Harvard Square; then, being a gentleman, or at least knowing what was good for him, stopped at Cardullo’s to buy a bottle of champagne. Then, thinking of his own proclivities, threw in a loaf of bread, smoked salmon, and crème fraiche. But since it was a celebration of sorts, he threw caution to the wind and asked for a tin of Sevruga, not bothering to inquire about the market price. But perhaps Claudia was more of a sweets girl—? He tried to remember whether she ordered dessert when they saw each other, and realizing time was wasting, grabbed a box of chocolates from Fauchon and some outrageously expensive apples.
The clerk observed the telltale groceries, the little bag from the pharmacy sticking out of his pocket, the burning desperation in Fergus’s eyes and the impatient tapping of his foot, and decided that wishing the gentleman “good hunting” would be too cheeky.
“Have a good evening, sir.” And he meant it. There was something about the guy . . . he usually went for blonds but had to resist the strongest urge to lean over the counter and run his fingers through the customer’s dark hair. And a man with an Irish accent was almost too good to resist.
Fergus resisted looking at his watch again, while he waited for the elevator. He had no idea why he was so nervous: either Claudia would have sex with him tonight, or she wouldn’t. He had been willing to follow her lead so far, and didn’t think she was the kind to punish him for being a few minutes late, but he was not taking any chances.
The elevator door opened. A wretched thought hit him, and suddenly, Fergus’s world came crashing down. Claudia wasn’t inviting him to consummate their relationship, he realized. She’d asked him over to help wrap up the loose ends of the gig, deal with the aftermath, cover their tracks. He was acting like an adolescent idiot, and she—she of all people—would be able to tell.
Oh, God.
Then he braced himself. It would be hideously awkward, but maybe he should bring up the subject . . . they were both adults, they could . . .
He entered the elevator, and practiced what he’d say. I don’t want to rush you, and I’ll wait as long as you want. You’re worth waiting for. But I think we’re both ready to try this—
He practiced all the way down the hall; it sounded more and more lame, and he resigned himself to his lame-ness. The door to the hotel room opened. Claudia stood there in a white robe, her hair wet from the shower, the light of madness in her eyes, her fangs glinting.
He stammered, but started his speech. “I don’t want to rush you—”
She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him toward her.
“You want to have sex?” Her voice was uncharacteristically husky.
He nodded quickly. “Uh, yes, please.”
“Good. I want sex. Let’s have sex.”
She pulled him all the way into the room, her lips fastening on his. His overnight case and the bag of groceries hit the floor. The apples rolled across the floor as, in between kisses, Claudia promised to repay him for the shirt she’d just ripped off him. The door slammed shut.
* * *
Three days later, they joined Justine back at her B&B. Justine entered the room to find Claudia and Fergus sitting on the bed, their fingers entwined. The box containing the vase, recently liberated from the safe at the Charles, was at their feet.
“Well.” Justine gave Claudia a pointed look.
“Here’s the plan,” Claudia said, ignoring her. “Tell me if you have a better one, because this is pretty weak. We’ve tried everything from a junkyard car crusher, to acids, to explosives, and nothing’s worked on the vase. All I can think to do now is take my brother Gerry’s boat out as far as we can, load this thing down with weights, and lose it off the coast. With any luck, it won’t be rediscovered until we have some way to combat it.”
“But we need it! We need to take it to the Family,” Fergus said.
The argument went round and round: if they couldn’t destroy it, they couldn’t trust anyone with it. Even involving Gerry was a risky move.
“It just can’t be that hard to destroy,” Fergus said, picking up the box.
He had it opened before either of the women knew what he was doing.
Claudia and Justine lunged toward him at the same time. “No!”
A voice came from behind the door. “Doesn’t that look nice?”
Claudia, Justine, and Fergus turned. The innkeeper, Mr. Dow, was behind them. They exchanged uneasy glances; this was going to get messy. At least most of the guests were gone for the day—
“Just the thing for a little nosegay, right there in that corner.”
Claudia was as astonished to hear him say so much, so positively, as she was to learn he knew the word “nosegay.” She could only nod.
“I really like that,” the innkeeper continued. “I’d be happy to buy it from you. Is it Chinese? Or an English copy?”
The vase seemed to have no effect on him, save one. For the first time since Claudia’d met him, a shy grin cracked his face.
She sputtered. She recalled the leader of the gang, who’d also shown no effect from the object. Maybe some people were just more resistant to it than others.
Justine said, “I don’t know. I picked it up at a little shop in Boston.”
“Well, it sure is pretty. They don’t happen to have another, do they?”
“It was the last one,” Claudia said. I hope.
“Oh, well.” The innkeeper did not withdraw into his habitual taciturnity. He just whistled tunelessly, plucked a curtain back into place. “I guess I have to stop decorating some time. It’s only that I’m about to retire, and my son will take over. He’s a lot like me, and I thought if they had another, he’d like it. In any case, I’ll be happy to bring you more towels, if you need them, Mrs. Nash.”
“Oh, that would be lovely, Mr. Dow. You know,” she glanced at Claudia, who nodded. “You know, now that I’m looking at it, I don’t think it will go with my living room. The color’s not quite right. I’ve had such a good time here that I’d like to give it to you.”
Claudia stepped closer to him and pushed the flimsy story with a little blast of chemical conviction. Would that be enough to get him to take it? She even reached out to the vase for a little help, but there seemed to be a hollow place in the world, now. In Mr. Dow’s presence, it was just a vase.
“Why, that’s lovely of you!” he said. “Thank you!”
Fergus met Claudia’s eyes. “I’d only ask that if you decide to sell it or give it away, you’d give us first refusal.” Claudia nodded and kept encouraging the impulse.
“I’d never think of letting go,” Dow said, and he meant it. “It’s just too lovely.”
None of them felt anything but relief.
* * *
A few months later, Claudia received an email from Justine, who reported that the vase was safe and sound. A temporary solution, hiding it in plain sight, they’d all agreed, but if it was neutralized by Dow and his family, it was the best they could do for the moment. Justine checked up on it periodically—just business, she’d told Claudia—but each time she’d brought her husband Ben and now they were expecting their third baby.
“Thought you’d get a kick out of this,” Justine had written. There was a link to a “Hidden Treasures in Massachusetts” website. Blue Harbor Inn was voted “most romantic.”
* * *
In addition to her award-winning archaeology mysteries, DANA CAMERON’s s
hort stories have been nominated for the Edgar and Anthony awards and have won the Agatha and the Macavity. Dana introduced the Fangborn in “The Night Things Changed”; her second Fangborn story, “Swing Shift,” is set in 1940s Boston. Dana lives in Massachusetts with her husband and benevolent feline overlords. She is hard at work on a Fangborn novel. Learn more about her at www.danacameron.com.
When I asked for an afterword, she supplied the following:
* * *
I knew I had to use my Fangborn world to write “Love Knot” because I wanted to address the notion of a vampire’s hypersexuality and I wanted to do a story with Claudia, who first appeared in “The Night Things Changed.” She’s a good girl; she’s smart, she’s tough, and although I don’t know entirely why she is so concerned about self-control (that may be another story!), I thought it would be fun to put her in the situation of having her considerable power enhanced. What would you do if you knew you had to be careful with your powers, but then came across something that increased them in a very . . . rewarding . . . fashion? The other thing that inspired the story was the idea of magic, or rather, the lack of it in this world. Claudia would tell you the Fangborn aren’t magic, just as yet unexplained by science. What does a scientist do with something that seems to defy physics and logic? Sex may be one of the most basic urges in nature—explainable in biology, chemistry, and physics—but there’s still some magic in it.
BEAUTY IS A WITCH
JOHN LAMBSHEAD
“Beauty is a witch, against whose charms faith melteth into blood.”
—William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
Rosalynne sighed. Here we go again, she thought. Fortunately, she had come prepared. She pulled a straw from her bag and raised it to her lips. She blew through the straw into Smith’s face, enveloping him in a cloud of shimmering dust. Smith sneezed and looked puzzled.
The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge Page 19