Bad to the Bone

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  He raises the small bowl above his head, tilts up his chin, and closes his eyes. The blood from Jacob’s heart tumbles over his face like a waterfall. It soaks his sandy hair, his skin, and his loincloth, then forms an expanding crimson pool around his kneeling form.

  Benjamin smashes the empty clay bowl against the floor, shattering it into hundreds of shards. The chant cuts off with the impact, and the sudden silence accentuates the pounding of my heart in my ears and throat. I fold in my lips to keep my teeth from chattering.

  I know what’s next.

  Benjamin stands, places one hand on the stake protruding from Jacob’s chest, and raises the other palm toward the ceiling. He speaks alone now in the strange language.

  It’s too hard to watch directly, so I focus on my phone’s screen to make sure my hand doesn’t move and lose the image.

  Benjamin’s voice rises in pitch and volume. Around the circle, the other elders fall to their knees and spread their arms, palms up. Benjamin yanks out the stake.

  Jacob’s body twitches, and blood spurts feebly from his heart for half a dozen beats. Then it stops.

  Finally, it goes backward.

  Where it dribbled down his chest, it now flows up, returning to the wound. Every inch of his frame shakes—not spasming muscles or shivering skin, but each cell clamoring to be the first to leave this world.

  The skin of his chest folds in on itself, sliding toward the stake wound, the only one that couldn’t heal. I check to make sure Ned’s not watching. The heels of his hands are crammed against his eye sockets.

  Muscles tear and bones snap, and suddenly Jacob’s eyes open. For one lucid moment he searches the circle for sympathy, then his neck bends to the left and finally snaps. His throat splits down the middle before sliding into the hole in his chest, dragging his wide - open eyes and mouth. The chains rattle, then fall to the floor with the twisted remnants of his body.

  As his hands and feet scrape the floor in their descent, the room shimmers red. Every drop of blood coating the elders’ bodies streaks toward the center of the room in a crimson wind. The liquid swirls into the last bit of hole -shaped flesh.

  With a soft pop, Jacob is gone. No sound remains but Benjamin’s hypnotic chant. The elders remain kneeling with palms upraised, skin pristine, robes as white as clouds. Their faces shine with an ecstasy I’ve only seen in one other place— after a baptism, when the preacher pulls the believer out of the water and they walk from the river, cleansed of sin.

  That’s what this is, I realize. A baptism in blood. These elders must think that their own sins fly off them and go swirling into the void along with the rest of the vampire. No water needed for this cleansing—just the magic of justice.

  The practical part of my brain reminds me to send myself the video before the file becomes too huge for my server to accept. I stop the recording and quickly e - mail the world’s most disturbing home movie.

  Just as the message goes through, Benjamin ends his chant and lowers his hands, and the elders follow suit. They remain kneeling. Silence hangs over the room, and I hold my breath until my lungs ache.

  And then, Ned pukes. Loudly.

  Thirteen heads turn our way. The man closest to the silver tray grabs the curved knife. Torchlight glints off the part of the blade not covered in dull, drying blood.

  Benjamin holds up a commanding hand to stop, then strides for the closet.

  He yanks open the door, and his expression turns from anger—when he sees Ned—to shock—when he sees me—and back to rage in the span of two seconds.

  “Clean yourself, brother,” he says in an even tone. “Upstairs.”

  Ned snivels and wipes his mouth. “Sorry.” He scurries out of the closet.

  I check my sleeve—the fact that Ned missed ralphing on me is my only lucky strike.

  Benjamin looms in the closet doorway, his nearly naked form cutting a primal silhouette in the torchlight.

  “You must be Ciara.”

  I unfold my stiff legs. “I’ll go help Ned.”

  “No.” He seizes my elbow. “You’ll stay and help us.”

  The other men are gathering around, pulling their robes up over their arms, flexing their fingers as if they’d like to close them around my neck.

  Benjamin drags me through the swarm of white - robed men to the empty cage. He jerks open the door and shoves me inside. I pretend to stumble, pitching forward and tossing the last listening device under the cot. The scuff of my shoes and my cry of alarm cover the tink - tink of the bug against the stone floor. At least, I hope they do.

  One of Benjamin’s henchmen grabs my purse, lifts it above his head, and with much drama turns it upside down to dump its contents. My cell phone makes a sickening bounce, and I’m relieved I gave Luann my MP3 player so it didn’t meet the same fate. I’m even more relieved that nothing incriminating remains in my purse.

  Benjamin picks up my cell phone and opens it. He jams down a few buttons with his thumb, then frowns. “Broken.” He looks up at the purse dumper. “You idiot.” In one swift motion, he rises and smacks the man in the head, cracking my phone against his skull.

  The man cries out, stumbles back against the bars of the cage, and touches his own temple. Blood coats his fingertips. “I’m sorry, Elder Zadlo. Forgive me.”

  Benjamin ignores him. “Leave me alone with her.”

  I take a step back and glance frantically at each man. Surely one of them will stop him.

  The twelve men file out, their eyes lending me no sympathy, only hostility.

  Benjamin stands in the doorway of the cage, arms spread across the opening, bare skin glowing. His robe still lies in a heap behind him near the center of the circle. A name is tattooed in a looping script on the bulge of his left biceps, but only the first letter is legible from here: S.

  We’re alone except for the surviving vampire.

  “You’re lucky you’re injured,” Benjamin says to me softly. “I never hurt anyone who can’t fight back.”

  I lick my dry lips, searching for courage and finding only false bravado. “Like that vampire? You starved him until he was weak as a kitten.”

  “The struggle was a bit disappointing.” He glances into the other cage at Wallace, who hasn’t moved since before the bloodbath. “That one might not even last until the next ritual, much less provide a sporting battle.” He smiles. “Which to him, makes you manna from heaven.”

  My blood runs cold from my neck, like someone just injected ice water into my jugular vein. I back into the far corner away from Wallace. “I’m not really big on being bitten. I know I’m in that group and all, but—”

  “We won’t let him bite you. At his level of thirst, he could chew right through your neck. The last thing we want is a vampire killing a human. We stick to our principles.” He angles his chin toward the ceiling, the torchlight glinting off his golden hair. “Luann’s a trained phlebotomist. She’ll get your donation.”

  “And then what? What are you going to do with me?”

  He tightens his grip on the bars, making his pectoral muscles flex and bulge. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Where’s my father? Is he still alive?” I know the answer to the second question. Cockroaches always survive.

  Benjamin kneels on my cell floor to gather the stuff that fell out of my purse. He examines each object before placing it back inside. “What’s this?” He rotates the amber pill bottle. “Pain meds?”

  I bite back my cry of dismay. “Just in case. I don’t really need them.” I order my fingers not to twitch with the desire to lunge for the pills.

  “Then you won’t mind if I keep them.” He tosses them into my purse, which he then tucks under his arm. “Suicide prevention is one of our missions.”

  I hate when people call my bluffs. No resort now but begging.

  “Actually, I do need those pills. It was pretty major arm surgery.”

  He walks out of the cage and slams the door shut behind him. I hear a lock click automaticall
y.

  “Luann will bring you food and drink in the morning before you donate.” He douses the torch in a basin of water near the bottom of the stairs and begins to climb. Now the only light shines in a dull yellow shaft from the kitchen.

  “Wait!”

  “Good night, Ciara.” He shuts the door with a clang that resonates deep in my gut.

  In all twenty - four and a half years of my life, I’ve never known complete darkness. I wave my hand an inch in front of my nose and see nothing. I open my eyelids wide, as if doing so will reveal some secret section of my eyeball that detects infrared.

  The darkness seems to multiply the cold. I shiver violently, jostling my sore arm and making my teeth grit with the effort not to whimper. Never show weakness in front of a vampire, I remind myself, even a catatonic one. Never act like prey.

  I fumble my way to the cot and lie on my side on the floor. Since I can’t reach under with one hand without leaning on the other, I take off my boot and sweep my foot under the cot, pivoting on my hip like Curly from the Three Stooges, minus the whoop - whoop - whoop. The floor is so cold it hurts, but I move slowly so I don’t kick the listening device out of the cage.

  Finally I feel something small and solid through my sock. Hoping it’s the bug and not a dead mouse, I curl my toes around the object and bend my knee to pull it toward me. Grimacing from the pain, I snatch it from under the cot.

  I sit up and examine the device with the fingers of my left hand. The plastic shell feels unbroken, and the fuzzy microphone intact, but who knows whether the internal electronics survived my toss? I deploy the delicate antenna and pull the device to my mouth.

  “If anyone can hear me,” I utter in my softest whisper, “I need help. SOS.” I describe my situation, relating the layout of the Fortress’s bottom two levels. “Hurry. Bring Percocet.”

  I slide the bug back under the cot, hoping Wallace is too out of it to know what I just did—and that he’s too far gone to know who I am.

  I sink onto the thin mattress and press my back against the wall. Due to my injury, I can’t even curl my arms around myself to keep warm. Wish I’d worn my long, heavy coat instead of this short blazer. I should start dressing for unexpected detentions.

  A rustle comes from the other cage, stopping my heart. Wallace inhales deep through his nose, lets it out, then does it again. The second breath catches. He grunts.

  Oh God.

  “You . . .’’ he croaks.

  I remain perfectly still, as if that will make me smell like nothing. As if I’m not oozing cold sweat that smells just like me.

  “You. Killed.” The vampire heaves a long, hoarse gasp. “My. Maker.”

  I want to protest that it was in self - defense, but my voice would just confirm my identity. So I bite my lips in turn— top, bottom, top, bottom—to keep from speaking. If I don’t provoke him, he’ll soon run out of strength.

  Until tomorrow, when I feed him. Then he’ll be able to speak and stare and reach through the bars and—

  My skin crawls as I realize the other change my blood will provoke. Those holy-water scars all over his face? Gone, so fast no one will be able to deny the connection. The Fortress will know my secret, and unlike the Control, they won’t even pretend to ask permission for my blood.

  Or they might just kill me, to rid the world of a vampire healer.

  Unless, between now and then, I can neutralize my own power, turn my blood into nothing more than food.

  For the first time in almost ten years, I begin to pray.

  24

  I Will Survive

  They say there are no atheists in foxholes, that when desperate to save one’s own butt from death or dismemberment, each of us will call on a higher power to intervene.

  I tried, I really tried. But then, apparently, I fell asleep.

  My throbbing arm just woke me up, with my face pressed against the mildewy mattress. I have no idea what time it is, but Wallace is silent and so is the house above me.

  I sit up slowly, wincing at the spasms shooting down to my fingers and up into my neck. How can one chewed elbow hurt such far - reaching bodily geography?

  I draw in deep, slow breaths to control the pain and notice how much clearer my brain feels off the Percocet. Time to analyze the situation.

  I can’t get out on my own. Even if I could open the cage, the only path to the outdoors lies through the house, where the cameras see all. I check the corners—no gleaming red camera lights, which makes sense. No permanent evidence of their brutality for a disgruntled ex - member to use against them.

  Except the video I took last night. I wish I’d sent it directly to Shane or Colonel Lanham instead of to myself.

  What if my message never got through to the Control? Maybe I didn’t deploy the bug’s antenna, or maybe the device was broken. But Shane knew where I was going last night, and what time I should have checked in. He’s probably called Lanham already.

  I remember a conversation I had with the colonel earlier this year, about why they couldn’t storm Gideon’s compound to rescue me. An extraction is a delicate, intricately planned operation that poses risks to their agents, not to mention innocent bystanders. With the Fortress in the middle of the city, any firearms would draw the attention of the civilian authorities.

  So I could be waiting a long time.

  A single set of footsteps crosses the ceiling, in the direction of the kitchen. I remember last night’s chocolate strudel, and my stomach gurgles in a strange combination of hunger and nausea.

  My mind spins with the ramifications of last night’s ritual. Clearly the Fortress isn’t related to Christianity or any other mainstream religion. I wonder what FAN would think of the basement activities of the men funding their expansion. Maybe they already know, and they figure it’s better to be secretly occult and evil than openly occult and benign.

  An even bigger realization hits me: despite their professed hatred for vampires, the Fortress will never drive them to extinction. They wouldn’t even endanger their existence by proving to the public that vampires exist. They need their blood for their twisted rituals.

  So why the attack on the station? Is it the prelude to a kidnapping? Does Benjamin have special plans for our DJs? Ned mentioned something about vengeance.

  I sit up straight, my mind scrambling for the other place and time I heard that word uttered with such urgency.

  It was dark and cold, like here. But loud, and—

  A bell goes off in my head. Colin! The voice of Regina’s friend plays out in his Cockney accent. “There’s talk of revenge, for Sara.”

  Another image falls in my inner vision, like a slide show shifting to the next frame.

  Benjamin’s tattoo. A name inked in a script on his left biceps, a name starting with S.

  The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, letting in a shaft of light. Legs appear, followed by the rest of Luann, carrying a tray of what looks like food, as well as a blanket draped over her arm.

  When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, she leans over and brushes her shoulder against the wall. A recessed ceiling light flicks on.

  “Ow.” I shut my eyes against the glare. I guess last night’s torches were just for effect.

  Luann comes closer, and her hands are shaking so hard, the dishes rattle. Her glance is glued to Wallace on my left. I look over to see him sitting cross - legged in the corner, forehead resting on the wall, as still as a stone. Our brief “conversation” last night must have worn him out.

  “Good morning,” Luann whispers as she sets the tray on the floor. She unlocks a small door at the bottom of the cage and slides the tray through. “I brought you breakfast.”

  “Thanks, but I’m on a strict no - poison diet. Doctor’s orders.”

  “You need to eat before you donate, or you’ll pass out. Here’s an extra blanket.” She pushes it through the bars.

  “Thank you, but I’ll pass out either way. I hate needles.”

  “No, I’m really
good.” She closes and locks the little door. “You won’t feel it. And Benjamin will be there, so you better act brave.”

  So much for escaping by beating up Luann with one hand. Time to try a different tack.

  I lift the lid on the plate. “Did you make these pancakes?”

  “Yep. They’ve got blueberries.”

  “My favorite. Thank you.” I take the tray back to the cot. “Did you listen to WVMP last night?”

  “I heard Regina’s show.” Luann whispers the DJ’s name and throws a nervous glance back at the stairs, thus feeding my Sara - related suspicions.

  “Did you stay tuned for Shane?”

  “Oh no, I had to get some sleep so I could get up early.”

  “What time is it now?”

  She looks at her watch. “Five forty - five.”

  I set the tray aside and go right up to the bars. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  She backs up and twists a long gray - blond curl around her finger. “I don’t know.”

  “I just need to know the last song Shane plays during his show. It’ll come on in about ten minutes.”

  “Why’s it so important?”

  “It’s just a stupid little thing we have between us. It’ll distract me.” I rub the side of my neck. “I’m pretty scared, locked up in here.”

  “I understand.” She looks down at her wringing hands. “More than you know.”

  I wonder if she’s at the Fortress of her own free will, but something tells me that asking her directly will scare her away. For someone who looks over forty, she seems almost childlike.

  She turns for the stairs. “Eat your breakfast. We’ll be back soon.”

  She leaves on the light, which turns out to be rather dim, not even reaching the shadows in the far corners of the room. I sit on the cot and turn my back on Wallace while I try to eat. Objectively the pancakes are moist and fluffy and the orange juice sweet - tart perfection, but in my mouth the food turns to cardboard and the liquid to acid.

  I keep chewing, keep swallowing, keep trying to forget that the strength I gain from this food will soon belong to the vampire who wants to kill me.