Quick Bites: A Short Story Collection

by Jennifer Rardin

  www.orbitbooks.net

  www.orbitshortfiction.com

  Begin Reading

  Scouting Jasmine

  The Golem Hunt

  An Evening for Vayl and Jaz

  Paul and Brady Get Hoodoo with the Voodoo

  Zombie Jamboree

  A Preview of Tempest Rising

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Scouting Jasmine

  Jasmine Parks leaned against a maple tree at the edge of a grassy path, one booted ankle crossed over the other. Her left hand clutched a knife nearly as long as a machete. In her right she held the Walther PPK that had made her the envy of every other assassin in her department. She called it Grief, and Vayl noted that she had already transformed it into crossbow mode as it rested against her thigh. He supposed it would serve her well once again in her mission to smoke Almont, the Vulture of Indianapolis.

  Vayl had never met the vampire himself. But he had heard enough. In fact, the only reason he had refused the opportunity to eliminate a nestleader, with the audacity to turn a state’s governor and either blackmail or bully its top authorities into transforming its capital into his own personal fiefdom, was because it interested him to see how Jasmine would handle the assignment. After all, she had become something of a mythic figure within the CIA’s most obscure section.

  A fragile beauty with a halo of fiery hair who spoke tersely when she deigned to talk at all, Jasmine had never failed to hit her target. According to the file Vayl had purloined, she seemed to have an uncanny ability to know where her prey crouched before they managed to pinpoint her position. And despite increasingly daring exploits, she had so far escaped unharmed. He found her methods fascinating and wished to observe her work firsthand.

  At least that was what he had told Pete. And himself.

  But now, watching from the cover of a monument so large it dwarfed the cedar tree beside it, Vayl found it difficult to perpetuate the lie. Though the night was sultry for May, Jasmine had chosen black leather for her jacket, pants, and boots. Perhaps not such a bad decision considering the woods at her back were filled with thornbushes and the crypt before her was stacked with vampires, but as far as Vayl was concerned, the outfit could not have been more perfect, either. He thanked the fates that a man born to fret over the endless layers of a woman’s skirts could have lived long enough to slide his eyes over an outfit so supple that it seemed to celebrate the curves of her hips, to invite his hands to explore her soft belly and high breasts.

  He felt his breath come faster and let his forehead rest against the stone marker before him. He reminded himself that a general lay beneath his feet. That he and Jasmine stood within one of the largest cemeteries in the country, and if either of them lost their heads, Pete would be forced to dig new graves alarmingly similar to these old ones. Besides—he looked up at the woman who had lost everything that mattered to her less than five months before—she was not interested in new attachments. He could see it even now, when she raked her eyes across the space between them. They held only death.

  Even though she should not be able to see him, Vayl called up the power that would distract her vision and make him seem to be part of the marble that hid him. He twirled the tiger-carved cane in his hand, promising himself he would only use it if she found herself backed into an impossible corner. Then he allowed himself a moment’s relief that Almont and his fledglings were late risers. Given that, he still would never have reached this location in time if he had not spent the day sheltering beneath a hollow log insulated by generous piles of dead leaves.

  He ran a hand through his hair for the twentieth time and sniffed at his wine-red shirt. No debris fell from his tight black curls, but he smelled like old rot. That decided him. Even if he approved of Jasmine’s tactics tonight and her actions convinced him she deserved special training, he would avoid a face-to-face meeting. Let Pete introduce him from a distance so that when they did meet, her first thoughts would not run to the grave.

  He watched her study the front wall of a vault that had been built into one of the slopes of Crown Hill Cemetery. It was well hidden in a corner section whose old stones had been swallowed by trees. Though the path had been mowed for wanderers who might want to leave a flower at the memorial, people rarely followed it down the hill and around the corner to where large squares had been carved out of the cement. Some of them held the names of the dead. Helen Farley, Wife of Dundee Farley, Born 1821–Died 1853. And beside her, Dundee himself, who had lived another thirty-two years. Isaiah Farley had lived to be over a hundred. But Sharon, his wife, had also died in her thirties. Several of the stones remained blank, as if the family had forgotten they had reserved a place in which to bury their dead.

  Vayl crept closer, his vantage point at the end of the trail partially obscured by some sort of orange-flowering ivy. He moved more quietly than a deer, his camouflage so firmly in place that not even another vampire could have seen him.

  Jasmine went into a crouch, Grief aimed just to the left of his head, her eyes searching the air around him. “Stop right where you are, you fucking bloodsucker!” she demanded.

  Vayl heard the click of the safety releasing. She can sense me! How is that possible?

  And then six of the tomb’s facades exploded behind her.

  * * *

  All of Vayl’s instincts roared for him to rush to her rescue, but the cursing gave him pause. And if he had learned anything in over eight decades with the Agency, it was that jumping into another assassin’s setup was the best way to get him or her killed. So he stood perfectly still.

  And she shot at him! She had no time left to improve the fuzzy aim her vampire sensitivity had provided for her, so the finely crafted wooden bolt went high. It would have sailed over his left shoulder, except that he had folded his arms across his chest. His right hand still held his cane, the thicker end of which protruded nearly six inches above his collarbone. As a result, the bolt slammed into it.

  Vayl glared at his wounded walking stick. The bolt dropped from it, as if embarrassed that it had dared such a mission and then muffed it. The puncture it left was deep enough that only a trip to India would suffice if he wanted the cane to be repaired correctly. All right, now I am annoyed!

  He stared down the path at the stranger who had already nearly destroyed him and left a semipermanent scar on his old friend. He stopped himself from grinding his teeth just before chips began to fly, then realized he might not have to concern himself with reckonings after all. Because Almont’s nest had risen.

  They emerged from their temporary rest weeping, screaming, and tearing off their outer layers of clothing. Among the wailing, Vayl heard the word garlic several times. He laid his eyes upon Jasmine with new interest. Pete had told him she had personal connections to a brilliant scientist who occasionally consulted with the Agency and to be on the lookout for inventive approaches because of it. This must be the garlic grenade he had heard tell of. Similar to a bug bomb, it sent a mist of the vegetable into the cracks and crevices of an edifice she had obviously not cared to penetrate on a more personal level. Because this plan was working better. Before the panic subsided, Jasmine shot two of the vampires with a calm proficiency that proved her reputation was based on more than flimsy fairy tales. The men fell with Grief’s bolts cleaving their hearts, and moments later all that remained were wisps of silk and cotton mixed with bone fragments and a thick swirl of vapor that, though Vayl had seen it countless times in his long life, still captured his full attention. This is how you end, it seemed to whisper as it wafted into the sky.

  The remaining vampires cleared their streaming eyes. Alerted to the danger, all of the
ir attention centered on the kneeling human whose blood they could smell even at a distance of fifty yards, they charged.

  Jasmine rose and whipped around in a single smooth movement that stirred something deep within Vayl. He watched her sprint straight up the path, Grief in one pumping hand, her long knife firm in the other. He clenched his hands to keep them from urging her forward as he saw the vampires close the distance between themselves and Jasmine. He wanted to run to her, beside her. Instead he held himself utterly still while his mind captured each moment separately, to be stored and pored over later: Jasmine running, hair streaming out behind her like a crimson flag, lips curled back in a snarl of determination, eyes dark with terrible purpose. Four vampires in pursuit. Two women in legal secretary attire, high heels sinking into the ground with each step, Gucci handbags slapping against their hips. Two men in matching black vests and trousers, grave dust flying from their ties as they outpaced their female counterparts. None of them, Vayl noted, the Vulture Jasmine had been sent to kill.

  He stepped forward, anticipating where he would need to intercept Almont’s people, but before he could move again, Jasmine leaped into the air, and he realized she had set a wire across the path. One quick check showed him what it triggered. Instinct put him back behind the monument once more, though he would much rather that miles stood between him and the flamethrower she had assembled and hidden at the edge of the wood.

  As soon as Jasmine landed, she swung her knife straight down and back, severing the wire. She instantly dropped to the ground and rolled forward. For a single beat her pursuers gazed at her with a sort of amused surprise.

  And then fire snapped across the path, catching the men in its greedy maw. They ignited like kindling, their screams filling the air with a horror that was reflected in Jasmine’s bottomless eyes. Eventually she put the burning men out of their misery. Then she watched their colleagues consult one another from the crypt side of the fire. When they took a step back, as if they meant to fade into the woods, she held up both hands. With one touch of a finger, she transformed Grief back into a typical gun. Then she holstered it, tucking it inside her jacket so securely Vayl could not even tell she carried it concealed. She dropped the knife on the ground.

  From where Vayl stood he could see the gleam of triumph in Almont’s fledgling ladies’ eyes. He wanted to shake Jasmine and growl, “What do you think you are doing, fool? They clearly intend to massacre the entire human race, starting with you!” But already he had begun to believe in her. He held himself in check while she waited for them to skirt the flames. They came at her from opposite directions, rushing in at the same time.

  She slumped, as if in surrender, and for a moment all he could see were two voracious vampires trying to claw their way through the leather on Jasmine’s back, chest, and legs. Then he caught a slight movement in her right wrist. A sort of jab, followed by a quick withdrawal. And suddenly one of Almont’s women was on the ground, writhing in pain as blisters bubbled across her skin.

  Vayl barely had time to admire the swift and secret administration of holy water, for the last vampire had shoved Jasmine’s jacket back, and only repeated punches to her face, which scraped Jasmine’s knuckles raw, had kept the vampire’s fangs from sinking into the assassin’s shoulder. Vayl could not imagine why Jasmine had allowed herself to become bloodied, when the rest of her plan had worked so beautifully.

  Then he realized she was pulling the vampire toward an open grave. She continued the close combat, throwing kicks and elbows, taking two stunning blows that would have felled her had she not been holding tight to the vampire’s frilly collar, all in the name of walking backward. At the last moment she offered her throat, as a dog will show its belly. The vampire lunged. Jasmine sidestepped, and her opponent fell, arms flailing helplessly, into the grave. But she did not fall with the typical thud Vayl would have expected from a six-foot hole in the ground. It sounded much more like a splat-squoosh. He waited for the smoke to rise and then realized the vampire had not been staked, but merely impaled in such a way that she could not move without incredibly severe pain.

  Jasmine leaned over the opening. “Where’s Almont?” she asked.

  The reply came faintly, laced with agony. “I do not know.”

  “Sure you do. You’re his little bimbo, Helen. Yeah, I know you. Didn’t really die in 1853, didja, Mrs. Farley? But you will tonight if you don’t give me some answers.” Jasmine drew Grief and readied it for vampire killing.

  Vayl heard the confession from inside the grave. “Almont is prowling the city. We were supposed to meet him downtown tonight at a club called the Spit & Hiss.”

  “There now, was that so hard?” Jasmine took aim.

  Disbelief mingled with the pain in the vampire’s voice as she pleaded, “You are not going to kill me now? You gave me your word!”

  “Technically, no, I didn’t. And even if I had…” She squeezed the trigger and finished the sentence, speaking into thin air, “…Never trust the word of an assassin.”

  Vayl did not wait for Jasmine to turn Grief on him next. He sped out of the cemetery, his coat billowing at his back like a sail. He imagined it caught the wind, speeding him onward for the several more blocks he needed to run until he came to the private lot where his rental vehicle was parked. Though he had not enjoyed driving since he had been forced to trade reins for a steering wheel, he was proficient enough to direct the black Pontiac toward the city’s center. Now that Vayl knew where the next act of this drama was to be played out, he must find the best spot from which to view it. The sooner the better, too, because it would take all the extra time he could muster to convince himself not to become a participant.

  Oh, he knew Jasmine could handle this assignment without his help. Clearly she planned her hits as meticulously as he did his own. But he had looked into her eyes while death raced her to the finish line tonight, and he recognized the expression in them because he had seen it in the mirror every day after the murders of his sons. Jasmine might still be running against those who would see her dead, but she no longer cared if she won.

  * * *

  Vayl stood on the hood of his car. He did not bother to melt into the background because the crowd filling the street outside the Spit & Hiss had no interest in his presence. A few of them had even climbed street signs or friend’s shoulders, attempting to get a better view of their new leader as he emerged from Indy’s most popular after-dark destination.

  Almont appeared as if he had just won a boxing match, both fists pumping the air as the crowd, which was liberally scattered with vampire supporters, broke into applause at his appearance. He wore a typical politician’s uniform—charcoal-gray pinstripes set off by gleaming black loafers, an out-of-the-wrapper white shirt, and a power-red tie. He had slicked back his thin brown hair so that it looked painted on, as did his neatly trimmed mustache.

  He walked up to a podium that had been placed on the sidewalk between two expired parking meters. His glittering brown eyes continuously scanned the faces of his listeners as he spoke, pausing between phrases to let them ponder what he had said. “My friends, we have begun a new era for Indiana, and I am proud to be your state’s new steward. I know you are wondering what that will mean for you. Change, my friends. Change for the better!”

  He paused for more clapping, nodding when he wanted it to subside. “But you must help. Start tonight by voting. Because we are having new elections next month, and in those elections you will decide whether or not this state will continue to be part of the rotting corpse that is America or whether we will excise ourselves and become a free republic!”

  As he spoke, members of his personal guard began to filter among the people in the crowd. They carried clipboards. And AK-47s.

  Almont said, “If you are already a registered voter, we have absentee ballots you can sign right now. And we believe it would be in your best interests to mark YES for the Almont ticket.

  “My new administration will—”

  A voic
e from the crowd interrupted him. Loud, strident, and definitely female, it shouted, “Will do what, Almont? Fill the capitol building with vampires?”

  Almont smoothly ignored the heckler and continued, “We will see to it that every adult in the state has a job.”

  “Yeah!” said the woman from a different spot in the crowd. “Opening a vein for the steward’s posse!”

  Almont gave up trying and spoke to a dapper little man to his left who wore a Bluetooth in one ear and a diamond stud in the other. He signaled to two of the crowd workers, broad-shouldered vamps who towered over the people obediently signing their votes away. Tucking their clipboards in their belts, the vamps brought their guns into position and began to wade through the onlookers in search of the troublemaker.

  Vayl had been watching Jasmine’s attempts to instigate a riot, and though he gave her high marks for effort, he thought her plan foolhardy. Almont had turned his personal guards with an eye toward physical intimidation. None of the five Vayl had counted stood under six feet tall, and each one looked as if he could pile the other four on a table, lift the entire piece over his head, and propel it several yards through the air. He began to wonder if he should retrieve the backup weapon from the trunk of his rental car.

  Jasmine yelled from yet a third position, “Didja tell everyone what just went on inside that club, Almont? How you branded everybody with an electronic sensor that works like a shock collar if they try to leave the state, only the charge they get will kill them? How you demanded that they give your little weasel there their cell phone numbers so you could keep better track of your new constituents? How, if somebody doesn’t kill you now, in another year this state is going to feel like the inside of a POW camp?”

  “Get her!” roared Almont.

  Vayl leaped off the car and popped the trunk. Inside, already armed, sat a wooden crossbow older than himself. He could not say why he kept the weapon with which his grandfather had once meant to kill him. Even now, some memories would not bear close scrutiny. He only knew that it had saved his life many times in the years since, and tonight it might save hers. But she could not know. If he intervened, it must be with the utmost delicacy. Because if she found out… He imagined her eyes flashing as she dressed him down. She would be harsh, probably obscene.