Another One Bites the Dust

by Jennifer Rardin

  “Colic,” the pediatrician had said at her first checkup, when Evie asked frantically why E.J. cried so much. “She’ll outgrow it,” he told us absently, as I struggled not to charge him and shake him until his stethoscope fell off and, if there was a God, whacked him right in the cojones. I’m sure Tim would’ve done the same, but he’d taken his chance to catch forty winks in the rocking chair in the corner of the room.

  That was the day I discovered a new way to vent my frustrations.

  After driving the exhausted family home and leaving Evie to tuck Tim into bed and then watch E.J. go another round in the living room with her swing, I grabbed a six-pack of Pepsi and retreated to the backyard.

  It had snowed the night before, covering the frozen ground with a fine white powder that sparkled with vivid, spirit-boosting colors. Tim’s maul leaned against the redwood deck where he’d left it after splitting some logs. I straightened the handle and twirled it absently. Then I got an idea.

  “You know what?” I murmured, releasing a can from the pack and setting it on the ground. “This could be a good thing.” I took a moment to measure the distance, swung the maul high over my head, and brought it down hard. The can crushed with a lovely, metallic crack and pop flew everywhere. I couldn’t help it. I had to smile.

  Eventually I introduced my little sanity saver to Evie and Tim. But I didn’t think Chinese Mom would have need for it. Not with such a cooperative boy in hand. She finally got tired and grounded her little astronaut, tucking him into a sit-and-stroll contraption whose wheels she seemed to have locked. With his own personal joyride closing without warning, and his new one temporarily on blocks, I expected him to throw a massive tantrum. But he just grinned, his four teeth twinkling like little pearls in the dying light. I caught his mom’s eye as she gave him a handful of hot dog wedges and a sippy cup full of milk.

  “He’s adorable,” I said, smiling.

  She smiled back. “Thank you.” From her accent I suspected she didn’t know a heck of a lot of English. Still, I had to ask. “Is he always this happy?”

  She nodded proudly. “He only cry when he hungry or tired.”

  “Wow, that’s great. So, you’re with the acrobat troupe?”

  “Yes, my husband and I both perform. But I am having slight injury”—she pointed to her ankle, which was wrapped and taped in the classic “badly sprained” style—“so I sitting out this week.”

  Suddenly Cole lunged forward, startling us both. “Something’s wrong with the baby,” he explained as he knelt in front of the new-age walker, his face very close to the boy’s. “He’s not getting any air.”

  Chinese Mom and I exchanged horrified looks as we both realized the baby’s lips had begun to turn blue.

  Cole tried to clear his throat. “It’s not coming out.” He pulled the boy out of his seat and laid him on his back. Then, gently but firmly, he performed the Heimlich maneuver on him, using just two fingers from each hand to force air out his lungs and back up his throat. After four fruitless tries it worked. The baby spit out a chunk of hot dog that looked big enough to choke an elephant.

  He took a deep breath. Looked at his mother in surprise. And burst into tears. That worked for her. Within seconds she was crying too, holding out her arms so Cole could transfer him for some dual boohooing and a comforting rock while we watched.

  “Should we leave?” Cole finally asked.

  “I’m not really sure about Heimlich etiquette,” I replied. “But it is getting kind of late.” I patted Chinese Mom on the arm. “We’re so glad he’s okay,” I said. “You’re okay too, right?” She nodded. “Great. Well, we have to go.”

  “Oh, no, but I must thank you properly! And my husband! He will want to thank you also!” She looked so horrified at the thought of us leaving that Cole quickly reassured her.

  “We’re not leaving for good. We’re performers too. Tell you what, why don’t you come by our tent tomorrow? We’ll give you tickets to our show and we’ll have a chance to meet your husband then.”

  “Oh, yes, that will be fine. And then you will come to our show as well. Yes?”

  “Of course,” Cole agreed, before I could throw an elbow to remind him we’d come to kill a vampire, not make friends with his employees. We all smiled and bobbed our heads at each other. Then Cole and I said our goodbyes to Flying Baby, who’d already dried his tears and moved on to more interesting diversions, like trying to snag his mom’s earrings while she thanked us about three dozen more times.

  As we moved on I said, “Wow. I think you get gold stars in heaven for stuff like that.”

  Cole shrugged. “I dated a nurse for a while. And an EMT.” When I glanced at him he gave me a wink. “I went through this whole women-in-uniform phase.”

  “Which is my cue to change the subject. That kid is amazing. Don’t tell my sister some babies hardly ever cry. As freaked as she is about motherhood right now she’ll probably leap to some bizarre conclusion about the colic being her fault, and next thing you know she’ll be in a convent somewhere, reciting her sins into some poor priest’s ear between her hourly lashings.”

  “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

  “We’re not.”

  It didn’t take long to cruise the rest of the site. Past the Chinese acrobats’ building, a cheap orange fence manned by two security guards cordoned off the northwest border. The guards, big-bellied men with self-important attitudes, stood with their backs to the building and the scattering of booths here at the end of the path, watching a group of nine picketers who’d commandeered the last twenty-five yards of a narrow access road for their demonstration.

  Four women and five men circled a group of kids who sat in lawn chairs, pretending to be homeschooled when, in fact, they were carefully studying the festival setup. I picked out two teenage boys in particular who could probably be counted on to sneak off and hop a ride or two later in the week. But for now they continued the charade as their parents lugged gigantic billboards around their perimeter. These signs had apparently ground the grown-ups down so far all they could manage was a weary staggered chant: “Others are not our brothers.” The sign slogans delivered their messages with a lot more punch. SUPERNATURAL IS UNNATURAL. TO BE HUMAN IS DIVINE! GOD HATES OTHERS. UP WITH HUMANS! And, oddly, VOTE FOR PURE WATER!

  “Who are these people?” murmured Cole.

  “Well, I’m ninety percent sure this is about half the congregation of the Church Sanctified in Christ the Crucified.”

  Cole laughed.

  “That is not a name I could make up that fast.”

  “How do you even know about them?”

  “One of their members sent a letter to the president threatening to kill him if he agreed to give others the right to vote, so Pete sent out a memo.”

  “The president doesn’t even have that power.”

  “I don’t think that question came up during the sermon.” I looked for the group’s van. According to Pete, its slogans were so offensive that even others trying to blend might be tempted to roll it over a cliff. Yup, there it was, parked just up the road. I couldn’t see much from this angle, just a cracked front window, two American flags flying off the corners of the front bumper and a white banner someone had tied across the grill that screamed, GOD IS ON OUR SIDE!

  Cole said, “Do you think they ever stop and walk the other direction?”

  “I imagine that’s a sin.”

  Cole threw me a look I couldn’t interpret. “What?” I asked.

  “Don’t these idiots make you mad?”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Vayl’s an other. Plus, considering what happened in Miami, technically you may be one. Dude, they’re putting your peeps down.”

  “You worry too much about what other people think of you. Plus, they have a right to their opinions. For that matter, so do I. The problem isn’t that we disagree.”

  “No?”

  “The problem is that they can’t disagree without getting so mad they want t
o kill somebody. Like the president, for instance. And if it really does go that far, somebody calls me and then I have to go kill one of them. And the first rule you learn in this business is . . .” I waited for him to finish my sentence.

  “Never kill when you’re mad,” he complied, “because that’s when it might be murder.” I didn’t tell him how often I’d broken that rule. He’d figure that out on his own soon enough.

  Eventually I felt about as bored as the guards looked. I was just getting ready to suggest Cole and I hike back to our (hopefully missing) mopeds when one of the guards turned to speak to his companion.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  “See what?”

  Some instinct made me pull Cole into the shelter of a white party tent, the sides of which had been rolled down to keep the wind from blowing away several boxes full of cone-shaped cups that would eventually contain a ton of ice and a teaspoon of syrup. I peeked through the crack between the material and the pole it had been tied to. A second later I saw it again. “The guard on the right. Watch his face when he moves.”

  Cole stared hard, squinching his eyes until he kind of resembled Chinese Baby. “I don’t see anything.”

  Weird. I’d been counting on confirmation from him. A childhood accident had changed him, made him a Sensitive like me. It allowed him to pick up on the presence of vamps and other things that go bump in the night. But then, since I had donated blood to a vampire—my boss, in fact—I sort of had an advanced degree.

  “What did you see, Jaz?”

  “Every time he moved, his face sort of blurred, like it was catching up to the rest of him.”

  Cole blew out a breath. “Bizarre.”

  “Yeah. And I get the feeling he’s not the type we should just stroll up and introduce ourselves to.”

  “What do you think? You want to stick around, see what he’s up to?”

  I took another peek. “He’s not going anywhere. Let’s get the rest of the posse. Maybe they’ll know something.”

  I realized Fate, which had often punched me so hard I couldn’t see for the swelling, may have dealt me a pair of aces in Cassandra and Bergman. Though I always had reservations about using consultants, those suddenly disappeared. I had a feeling this new wrinkle was going to need all our resources if we ever meant to lay it flat again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’ll say this, RVs have developed panache since the bang-your-chin-on-the-sink-while-using-the-toilet days of my youth. The one Vayl had reserved for our use was tricked out. A plasma TV took up headspace behind the cab. Cassandra’s couch had a small reading table. Beside Bergman’s there was enough room for a light brown leather banquette to wrap around a glass dining table. Behind it a black granite counter that could be used as a standing breakfast bar rounded back toward the wall, which held a mirrored wine case, a black refrigerator, and maple cabinets. On the opposite wall, more cabinets framed the stove, microwave, and black porcelain sink. The designer had even left room for another, smaller TV.

  Down the carpeted hallway, the bathroom looked like it had been lifted straight out of the Ritz. And the bedroom had its own TV plus a big old queen-sized bed and plenty of drawer space. Oh, we still had that RV thing going on, where the couches and banquette all made into beds and you could store stuff in every conceivable nook and cranny. But, baby, we were stylin’.

  I’d just entered the RV when I heard Vayl come to life. The gulp he took reminded me of a kid who tries to hold his breath past too many rows of tombstones. I nodded to Cassandra, who’d looked up from her book when I came in. “Cole’s securing the trailer,” I whispered, since Bergman was snoozing, his face buried in a red tasseled pillow, his right arm and leg dragging the gold carpeted floor.

  Cassandra nodded and went back to her reading.

  I went to Vayl’s room and knocked on the door.

  “Jasmine?” His voice sounded gruff and slightly pained.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come in.”

  The light-impermeable tent he slept (died?) in every morning engulfed the top of the bed. He came around from behind it, closing the top button of his tailored black slacks, his navy blue shirt hanging open, revealing a broad, muscular chest covered with black curls and an empty gold chain that had once carried the ring I now wore on my right hand.

  I forced my eyes to the ring, swallowing a spurt of highly inappropriate wowsa. The rubies that marched around their gold settings glittered in the soft lights Vayl had turned on when he woke. I concentrated on the craftsmanship Vayl’s grandfather had put into the ring, the love and artistry and power that had been required to turn gold and gems into a relic that protected, and connected, us both.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked. He stood so close I could feel his cool breath against my heated face.

  “Your grandpa must’ve been an amazing man to have made such a beautiful ring for you.”

  I peered into Vayl’s eyes. At the moment they were the soft brown that characterized his most relaxed, real self. They squeezed at the corners, as they often did when I forced him into his distant, painful past.

  “He was . . . devoted to his family, but also very set in his way of thinking.” His lips drew back at some memory.

  “Vayl?”

  He began forcing the buttons of his shirt through their holes so abruptly I was surprised they didn’t pop off. “Do you know how the Roma regard vampires?” he demanded.

  “No, not really.” Though I should. Why didn’t I delve more into Vayl’s roots? Because to know him is to love him, and you’re so not ready to go there.

  “To the Roma we are dead. And therefore unclean. But that impurity is spread also to our family.” When I didn’t seem suitably impressed Vayl said, “When my grandfather found out about Liliana and I, he led the mob that came to kill us.”

  “But . . . he made the ring for you. He knew your soul would be in danger—”

  “Yes, but he expected me to be attacked by demons. He did not think I would become one myself.”

  “And, what, infect your family somehow?”

  “No, not infect them. Kill them, turn them, destroy their very souls.”

  “Well, that’s just stupid.”

  Vayl’s finger brushed against the ring he’d given me. He called it Cirilai, which meant “Guardian.” The barest hint of a smile lifted his lips. “I appreciate your support. But you must remember the age. It was 1751. Long before computers, cars, penicillin, or anything approaching civil rights. Even now the Roma are a tortured people. But then, it was magnified a thousand times. All they had was one another.”

  “So what, they had to cut you out of the flock in order to save the rest?”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

  “But you’re here. How did you survive?”

  “My father arrived first. He could not bear to lose me. He said I was all he had left of my mother. He moved us to a safe place as we slept. And then, that night, for our own safety he returned and banished us.”

  “You can do that? Banish vampires?”

  He fixed me with his most piercing glare. “You can, if you have the power and the means. But it is not common knowledge. I tell you this strictly as sverhamin to avhar, which means you may not share this information with anyone else.”

  “There you go again, invoking our special bond, like I know all the rules or something. Is there a book I can read somewhere? Because I’m getting a little tired of being in the dark on the parameters of this relationship.”

  Twitch of the lip. In any other man, it would’ve been a full-face smile. Maybe even an outright laugh. But I guess when somebody murders your sons, and your closest relations all try to kill or kick you out before you turn forty, you learn fast how to nail those emotions in the coffin you refuse to sleep in when the sun rises.

  Vayl said, “You do not strike me as the type of person who enjoys being lectured. In fact, I sense that if I began to list all of the intricacies of the sverhamin/avhar
connection and the related rules, the moment I turned around you would fish out your tape recorder, set it on the nearest flat surface, and sneak off to the closest all-night monster truck rally.”

  “Okay, although my taste runs more to auto racing, I get your point. Just don’t get all pissy when I break a rule I’m not even aware of.”

  “Fair enough.” Vayl collapsed his tent with a couple of quick moves, and suddenly there was a nice big bed at our backs. Vayl’s eyes strayed to my neck and I knew we were both remembering the time I’d bared it to him.

  His eyes lightened to green and my heartbeat must have tripled at the thought that we could so easily ignite those feelings again.

  “So, banishment,” I blurted, so loudly they probably heard me three blocks away. Vayl dropped his hand. I didn’t even know he’d reached for me. He turned away.

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly does that mean for you?”

  “Liliana and I were forced to distance ourselves from all members of our family for ten generations.”

  “What happened if you didn’t?”

  Vayl whipped me a look over his shoulder that told me he’d had about enough. You can only scratch a scar so long before it becomes a wound again. “Magical banishment is not like a restraining order, Jasmine. It is quite effective. Well, it was.”

  “You mean, it’s over now?”

  Vayl nodded. “The banishment expired three years ago.” Fat lot of good that does me, said the bleak look in his eyes. The family I knew is all dead now. Dead and gone. Or, as he so desperately hoped in the case of his boys, dead and reincarnated.

  I felt like such an ass. I’d made Vayl dig up some bad old memories just so I wouldn’t have to face down my own growing desire to toss that tape recorder he’d mentioned off the nearest flat surface and throw Vayl down there instead. Thing was, when I looked in those remarkable eyes and thought of sharing that ultimate moment of ecstasy with him, the image that came to mind was not me and Vayl. It was me and Matt. My fiancé had been dead nearly sixteen months, but parts of my brain still couldn’t seem to believe it.