Generation V

by M. L. Brennan

  I’d only met her two nights ago. She’d barely been in my life forty-eight hours. She’d been so annoying that on many occasions I’d wished I’d had more money so that I could pay her to leave me alone. But seeing her ride away in that cab had hurt more than when I’d walked in on Beth having sex with Larry.

  I pressed my hands over my eyes and told myself that I had to get a grip. She was a fox and a trickster who delighted in screwing with other people—all the moments I’d thought that we were starting to form a weird little friendship had been just as fake as the times when she’d come onto me just to play with my head. The money she’d taken was the only reason she’d been staying with me. Her own poor attention span was the only reason that she’d been helping me hunt down the Grann sisters at all. But when entertainment and money hadn’t been enough to offset risk, I’d been dropped. Her own grandmother had warned me, but I hadn’t listened. I’d believed that no one who’d seen Jessica Grann’s body lying on the ground could walk away.

  More than that, I’d trusted Suzume. And she’d walked.

  She’d been the one who’d found Phillip, the one who’d finally killed him. I’d been relying on her to find Luca for me. I didn’t have a fox’s nose; I couldn’t hunt him down by a smell.

  I’d been scared before of what it meant to challenge Luca when Suzume was with me. Now I was beyond scared at what that meant. Now what I really wanted to do was hide under my bed. Or drive down to the mansion and hide under Chivalry’s bed.

  I forced myself to get up off the futon, then walk back into my bedroom. There was a piece of paper sitting on my laptop, and I picked it up. It was filled with looping, girlish handwriting dotted with little hearts, and I knew immediately that it had to be Suzume’s. I might’ve considered not reading it, just crumpling it up manfully and throwing it away, but I was already reading it before I realized that I should’ve done something else.

  It took me a second to realize what it was. It was a list of all the passwords that Suzume had changed. Facebook, bank account, e-mail log-ins, everything. They were all there. It hurt again, because this meant that she was even done with tormenting me, but I gritted my teeth, pushed that down, and dropped the password sheet back onto my desk. I briefly thought better of that and tucked it into the bottom of my underwear drawer, but that, I promised myself, would be the last time I’d think about Suzume. Unless she’d done something like short-sheet my bed on her way out, which seemed like a distinct possibility.

  But that was for a later discovery, and I almost forcibly restrained myself from checking the sheets. I opened my closet and started digging though it. I’m not the stereotypical single-guy pig in terms of cleanliness, but I also don’t do too much to keep my bedroom in order. I keep dirty clothes and random stuff off the floor, but I mostly manage that by tossing items like that onto my closet floor, where they’re less visible to unexpected female company, but still available in a nice little heap whenever laundry day has passed me by again and I need a shirt that only needs to pass a very lax sniff test.

  Now I dug through that pile, and the piles behind it that consisted of old school textbooks, a few DVDs that I preferred not to display out in the living room (not because of salacious content, but more because I felt slightly embarrassed to own copies of Clue and The Princess Bride), a box of stuff from my last apartment that I had still never gotten around to unpacking, and finally reached my goal.

  It was a plain metal footlocker, about the size of a normal shoe box, with a combination lock. It had sat in the back of the closet since the day I’d moved in, and hadn’t been opened for years before that. I used a sock from my dirty laundry pile to wipe away the dust that had accumulated on it.

  The combination was simple, and I spun it from memory. Brian had believed that if he hadn’t told me the combination, one day the mystery would be too much for me and I’d take loppers to it. That thought probably spoke more of Brian’s childhood antics than mine, but I can still remember sitting at our kitchen table while Brian spun the dial and told me the combination. Twenty-four, seven, twelve. His day of birth, Jill’s day of birth, then my day of birth.

  The box opened, releasing a whiff of stale air. I reached in slowly, and withdrew Brian’s 1911 Colt .45 automatic. He’d bought it about two months before he and Jill were murdered, for reasons that I never knew. He’d kept it locked in a back closet, out of sight. His .38 had been his police-issued sidearm, and the gun he’d taught me to shoot on, but this one had been different. I’d never shot the .45, and he’d never taken it with us when we went to the range, even for him to fire. He’d promised to teach me how to use it eventually, but he’d told me that even with his help, it was too big for a nine-year-old to fire.

  After the murder, most of Jill and Brian’s belongings were sold or given to distant family members. Chivalry and Madeline didn’t interfere, or try to save anything for me, saying later that they’d had their hands too full with me to think about my foster parents. The few things I still have of them, the old photo albums, a few of their records, and this, had all been saved for me by Brian’s partner, Matt. He’d given them to me when I was eighteen and in college.

  The .45 was heavy in my hands, much more solid than the .38. There was ammunition in the box, and I loaded it into the clip carefully, and then the gun, checking to make sure nothing was sticking. When a gun hasn’t been fired in a long time, it’s usually a good idea to take it down to the range for a safe test to make sure that when it’s necessary, it fires without a problem, but I didn’t have that time today. I hadn’t even opened the box in all the time I’d had it, but Brian had obviously stored it carefully, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if Matt had oiled it regularly when it had been in his care.

  There was a holster in the box as well, and I looped it onto my belt, wiggling it around until it was positioned at my back. I had no intention of sticking another gun in the back of my jeans, but with my shirt untucked, the gun would be hidden from any glances. I had a license to own this gun, but not a permit for concealed carry, and getting arrested wasn’t on my list of things to accomplish today.

  I sat at my desk and considered. I was now armed, and officially a danger to myself and others, but I still didn’t know where to go to track Luca down. I started up my computer and spent an hour scanning over news sites. While I was working I heard the apartment door open. For one heart-stopping second I thought that Suzume had reconsidered, and I was out of my chair and at my doorway so fast that if I’d been in a cartoon, there would’ve been one of those little smoke outlines left at my desk. But it was just Larry. I stood for a moment, the disappointment almost choking me, and stared at him. He’d brought in the mail, and was sorting it in his usual considerate fashion—namely, his mail was separated out, and most of mine was flicked in the direction of the trash can. I’d spent a lot of time since he moved in rooting through the trash for my telephone bills.

  I trudged back to the desk and dropped back into the chair. For a long second I stared blankly at the computer screen. That moment of hope had been incredibly cruel, and it was hard to get over the lump of discouragement that seemed lodged in my chest. Finally I gripped the edge of my desk until it cut into my hands and reminded myself that Suzume was as gone as she’d been a minute ago, but now I really had to accept it. I really didn’t want to, but at last I was able to turn my attention back to the news sites I’d been reading. All of the Providence papers were full of the murders, and the topic had even managed to migrate over to some of the Boston outlets, which was pretty unusual, since the Boston area looked at Rhode Island as its mentally slow country cousin. The calls were still out for information about Maria’s identity, but most of the attention was firmly fixated on the Grann case. Amy’s grandparents were holding press conferences, begging the killer to let Amy come home, and there were hotline numbers being advertised, but nothing that would help me find her.

  I cursed Suzume again. How I was supposed to track down a vampire when I couldn’t sm
ell him—

  Wait. I paused and reconsidered. I might not have a fox’s nose to track down vampires, but I had always been able to feel my family members. I’d used that to track Chivalry down just yesterday, practically without thinking about it, just following the tug in my head until it took me to him. And I’d been around Luca, so I knew what he felt like—not the clear certainty of my family, but that low-level, almost annoying buzzing that seemed stripped of that bright bugling of identity, obnoxious enough that I could almost understand why most vampires only associated with direct family members.

  Maybe if I’d been trying to track Luca down in a group of strange vampires, that might’ve been a problem, but right now he was the only vampire in the state who felt like that. If I could get close enough to him, I could find him.

  Of course, that meant getting myself close enough.

  Suzume had left behind her map of Providence, and now I spread it out on the floor of my bedroom. There were some papers folded up with it, and I flipped through them quickly—the commissioner had e-mailed her the police report, and she’d printed them out early this morning. We hadn’t looked at them yet, but I folded them back up, just in case I needed them later, and refocused on the map. She’d marked the spot where Maria’s body was found, and now I took a marker and drew an X on the spot where we’d found Jessica. They were fairly far apart, but maybe Luca was staying somewhere in the middle of those two points. It seemed as good a place as any to start looking.

  That, of course, led me to the intimidating thought of what exactly I was going to do to Luca if I actually found him. The orange witch paste had cleared up the worst of what Phillip had done to me last night, but there were still plenty of aches to remind me that if it hadn’t been for Suzume, I would’ve had my ass pounded into the pavement. Well, more so. And that was just Phillip. I was on my own, and massively overmatched in any direct confrontation with Luca.

  Of course, Samuel Colt had made all men equal.

  I pulled the .45 out of its holster and considered it. My best odds of getting Amy were probably to try and bluff, hoping that my powers of deception were stronger in this situation than during a poker game. But if that didn’t work, everything was going to rest on the gun.

  Last night had been the first time in my life that I’d shot at anything other than a paper target or the occasional bottle on a fence, but I’d done it, and I’d even hit what I’d aimed at. But a bullet in the shoulder hadn’t put Phillip on the ground like it should have, which was making me wonder what kind of result I’d get going against Luca.

  I pulled out the ammunition clip and checked it, my stomach sinking at what I saw. This was my foster father’s gun, and the clip was the last ammunition he’d ever put into it. Standard round-nose bullets, perfect for poking a small hole in a burglar as a deterrent. Probably less perfect for a stopping shot against a vampire. And given Luca’s age, if I didn’t get him down with one shot, I probably wouldn’t get the opportunity for a second. Shit.

  I needed better ammunition, and for that I needed money. I mentally scratched my head. Even emptying my bank account and adding it to the last few dollars in my wallet would leave me far short of what good ammunition was going to cost. Grimly, I realized that I might’ve finally reached a line that I’d never come to before—the pawnshop. In all the time that I’d lived on my own, I’d been broke a few times, but I hadn’t reached the point of needing to selling treasured belongings to get by. The really sad part was how few things I owned that would actually bring in cash—only my computer, my TV, and my DVD player, and none of those were new or had even been exactly top-of-the-line when I’d bought them.

  A thump and a loud curse from the living room brought my mind momentarily back to the apartment. From the sound of it, Larry had just tripped over one of the drums that were scattered around the futon. I smiled a little, appreciating the justice that whatever bruise he was sporting had, however indirectly, come from Beth’s actions. Then my smile faded as I reflected on how much money Larry owed me. Much, much more than I needed to buy the ammo.

  I’d tried many times to get that money out of him, but Suzume’s advice from earlier whispered in my ear. I’d asked him reasonably, I’d appealed to fairness, to decency, to his duties as a roommate. But I’d never tried threatening him.

  Well, really, I’d never threatened anyone in my life.

  I’d never bullied, never pushed, never even been in a fight (okay, I’d been in fights, but only the kind where I was beaten up). As a parent, Jill had been a big proponent of books like William’s Doll and cartoons voiced by Alan Alda that emphasized talking through conflict. Under normal circumstances, that probably wouldn’t have had a lifelong effect, but from the moment Jill and Brian were killed I’d been horribly reminded of how vulnerable people were to vampires, and I’d spent all of middle and high school avoiding direct confrontations or contact sports.

  But I’d also avoided ever asking Prudence for anything, but today I’d done that. I’d certainly avoided doing anything that reminded me that I wasn’t human, but just last night I’d gone hunting for a vampire through alleyways. And I’d certainly never risked my life before, but I was sure planning on doing that.

  Put in that context, I could certainly grit my teeth and go threaten the shit out of Larry.

  As soon as I decided to do it, it was easy to walk across the apartment and pound on Larry’s door.

  “Jesus, Fort,” he said as he opened the door and glared at me. “What’s your problem?”

  I’d lived with Larry for months, but I don’t think I’d ever really looked at him before. He was handsome, with blond hair and very Germanic good looks. He also affected a kind of preppy-meets-hipster personal style that, combined with self-deprecating but pointed remarks about doing graduate-level research into Kant, had proven to have a catniplike affect on women.

  But standing in front of him now, feeling almost excessively righteous in my course of action, I processed that I had a good four inches of height on him and that, while I might be no one’s idea of a fighter, the only exercise Larry did was a little light cardio to keep the ladies flocking in. I’d been in a fight last night that would’ve made cage-match professionals cringe, and today, I was feeling goddamn scrappy.

  I looked straight into Larry’s eyes and didn’t even bother with faking pleasantries. “You owe me four months of rent,” I said, my voice so cold that I actually sounded related to Prudence. “I want it by the end of the week, and I also want fifty dollars right now. Cash.”

  Larry blinked in surprise, but recovered fast. His tone was dripping with all the heavy insincerity that had practically been my third roommate for months. “Listen, Fortitude, you know that I’ll get you the money as soon as I can, but I just don’t have it right now.”

  “No, I don’t believe a word of that,” I said. “Open your wallet.”

  “Excuse me?” Now I’d clearly shocked him. Hell, I was shocking myself. I never would’ve guessed that I had an inner Dirty Harry.

  “You heard me. Get your wallet and open it up.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Larry said, and laughed. The look of shock on his face disappeared, and that old look of smug superiority slid right back on. “I don’t know where this caveman routine is coming from, but I can tell you that it is not going to be effective. Have you ever considered that your inability to hold a real conversation is something that bothered Beth? Oh yeah, she and I used to talk about that a lot. You see, we live in a time of modern discourse—”

  I punched him in the stomach. It knocked all the air out of him in a big whoomph, and he went completely down on the floor.

  I shouldn’t have been proud of myself, and there were a lot more important things going on right now, but I took a good mental snapshot of the sight of Larry rolling on the floor, clutching his belly and gasping like a landed fish.

  “Holy shit,” he squeaked out as soon as he could hold on to some oxygen. “Oh my God, holy shit.”

&nbs
p; I barely resisted the urge to make some nasty comment about the usefulness of modern discourse, but I reminded myself that this was a beating in the name of justice, not vengeance, and just said, “Money, now.”

  That smug look was long gone, and Larry was still clutching his stomach, but now he looked plenty pissed. He yelled, “That is assault and battery, you asshole, and I am going to call the cops, and then you’re going to see me in court.”

  I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Really hard. On the scale of minor annoyances, my family considered arranging a murder cover-up to be less of a hassle than getting the Historical Society to sign off on changes to the front door facade. And Larry was threatening to call the cops? Making an assault and battery charge disappear wouldn’t even merit having whatever local politician who managed it over for dinner—my mother would probably just send an Edible Arrangement over to his office. As for lawyers, good grief, my mother didn’t just have one lawyer on retainer—she had an entire firm.

  Not that any of that was even worth mentioning. I gave one last snort before getting serious again. “Call whoever you want. Cops, lawyers, the Ghostbusters. Because right now there’s no one here except me”—and I grabbed Larry by his shirt collar and gave him a hard shake—“and the guy who owes me four months of rent.” I let myself smile at him, just enough to be really creepy, once again channeling my older sister. “And you’re not making any calls until I let you.”

  Larry glared at me, but he was pale under his perfect tan, and this time he kept his mouth shut.

  “I want the rent by the end of the week,” I said. “And I want fifty dollars. Now.”

  It was slow, and very reluctant, but as I kept a hold of his shirt, Larry reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out his wallet. Opening it up, he revealed a billfold packed full of cash.