Bite Me: Big Easy Nights

by Marion G. Harmon

  I laughed. It was too easy to forget that my opposites didn’t always know what I knew. Traditional vamps had the compulsion against uninvited entry; public spaces were fine, but they needed an invitation from a resident of a home. If Acacia or her sire owned the house, and had never invited another vamp onto the premises, then so far as they were concerned the place was vampire-proof.

  I smiled ferally; until my nemeses learned about supervamps, I had a secret advantage. They weren’t protecting themselves because they thought I couldn’t be here.

  Left free to move on to stage two, I went over the place again.

  Bright side, if Emerson had surveillance on her it didn’t include police bugs. A sweep showed no listening devices for me to work around. On the other hand, the place was beginning to bother me.

  The house had been furnished by a professional decorator. Old-style wood and velvet chairs and couches matched the trim and wainscoting on the walls. Chandeliers would light the high-ceilinged parlor, living room, and dining room when company came. The living room itself was large enough to comfortably hold twenty or so guests, and had been arranged to provide different conversation-nooks. The high-quality and overstocked bar showed a history of entertaining.

  And there were no “vampire” touches anywhere; even Acacia’s “crypt” was just a very fancy bedroom.

  I looked in her walk-in closet just to make sure I had the right house. It was hers—they’d killed a lot of cows to fill her wardrobe. But there were also upscale dresses and gowns, Cape Cod casual outfits, stuff Hope would be comfortable in but hardly fit Acacia. I was back to what is going on?

  I put the mystery aside; I could always ask her later.

  Her closet made the perfect waiting spot. The walk-in held her vanity mirror, and the door opened away from it; lurking behind the door was a cliché for a reason. The closet ceiling even had a panel giving access to the attic and I unlocked it, opened it a crack to allow me a quick escape if I decided to no-go the snatch at the last second.

  Again according to Darren, Acacia haunted the club only three or four nights a week and only until around three in the morning. Then she might wander but was always home a couple hours before dawn. Darren and Leroy had obviously been watching her to see if she led to their V-Juice source—did they and Emerson’s boys trip over each other? This could all get very Keystone Cops real quick. Smiling at the thought, I went back to the front of the house to watch the street.

  She didn’t bring meals home with her, but whatever was going on here was interesting to Emerson; after long minutes watching, I spotted his surveillance team. An off-white sedan a little ways down the street on the cemetery side had been there when I drove by earlier. Now it bobbled as whoever was inside shifted. Excellent.

  My burner phone buzzed and I read Dupree’s text: They left the club. They? Well, I probably had hours yet. Finding a luggage set, I packed. Toiletries, underwear, several sets of clothes; if the police searched they would find evidence of a voluntary departure. I slid the suitcases under the bed, leaving one empty, and looked for personal items—pictures, letters, anything she wouldn’t want to leave if she wasn’t coming back. There weren’t any.

  I was taking the third turn around the bedroom to make sure I hadn’t missed anything when the inside alarm system gave the quiet chime that said it had been turned off. Sooner than I’d expected, but game on.

  Sliding my kit behind her gowns, I kept only the two stakes Darren had provided me. I hadn’t been lying when I’d told Bobby how unreliable stakes were in a straight-up fight. I wasn’t expecting a fight, but I’d asked Darren for some serious stakes hoping he wouldn’t just send me a sharpened two-by-four or chair leg.

  Someone had put a lot more thought into these than I had. Made out of African Blackwood, they were so dense they’d sink in water even without the steel cores drilled into them. Each was a foot long, nearly as thin as a chopstick and sharpened to a needle point. Their hilts were wrapped with porous surgical tape to insure a no-slip grip even if my hand got covered in blood. He’d included instructions: the eye-hooks at the base of each stake would let me hide them by tying a heavy thread through the eyes and hanging them down my sleeves—a quick jerk to break the threads and I’d be ready to go.

  Voices on the stairs. Voices. She wasn’t yakking on her cell phone. I could see a good slice of the bedroom from where I stood ready to slide behind the closet door, or behind her coats if I needed time.

  A male voice. Darren was wrong; she’d brought dinner home. The knob on the bedroom door turned, and he laughed dazedly, enthralled—a laugh I recognized.

  Paul.

  What the hell?

  Chapter Eighteen

  “The evil which I would not, that I do. Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?”

  Romans 7: 19,24.

  * * *

  I was going to kill him. I was going to kill Emerson. Off the bloodsucker beat, my cold dead ass. I would make sure they never found the bodies.

  I slid the second stake into my boot, held the first in a backward grip along my arm, and tried to see. The bedroom mirror gave me a safe partial view from the dark closet. Paul was back in his chains and leather, fake ankh tattoo in place. His neck sported a purpling hickey, and her cheeks were flush with too much blood. Crap.

  They clinched, she popped all his buttons, he peeled her shirt off, they passed beyond the mirror and the bed protested their landing. Had he been pale? How much blood had she taken? She laughed, and he said something. Slow. Too slow, like he’d had too much to drink. Damn it to hell, he was enthralled, completely vamped. Silence. I risked a look. Paul stared at the ceiling—her face in his neck, feeding again.

  Couldn’t I have one night go as planned?

  Five ghosting sideways steps, stake swinging up, down. From behind the best shot was under the fifth rib beneath the scapula, her bowed back gave me a perfect frame—and I missed. She shrieked and arched, the stake point grinding on a front rib.

  I lost my hold, screamed my own frustration and leaped on her as she whirled, fumbled in my boot for the second stake—and hit the wall hard enough to shake my bones, head wrenched half-around by her backhand. Pumped full as she was, she hit like a brick.

  Paul saved me, not that he meant to. When she screamed his arms reflexively spasmed tight around her waist—she half-lifted him off the bed, but couldn’t go to mist with him attached. I could, and danced in and back out as she tried to track me. Her eyes went wide and then blank as the second stake bit, two ribs below her bra cup and this time I nailed it.

  Paul sank back, eyes dilated, shocked into confused immobility by the sudden screaming confusion. Blood poured from Acacia’s interrupted bite.

  “Chèr?”

  I threw Acacia aside without a thought, clamped my mouth on his spouting wound and drank. He arched with a rattling sigh as I drew deep, sealed the holes, lay across his bloody chest panting for no reason.

  That was… Looking away, I made sure Acacia hadn’t moved before giving myself enough room to check Paul.

  Blood, his and hers, covered his neck and torso. His pulse beat light but steady, and his idiot-smile made me want to smack him. Repeatedly.

  Ask a guy to give you space…

  “Jacky?”

  Not an observation, just stupid wonder. He might not vamp easy, but he was down deep now and I thought faster than I ever had in my life. Grabbing his face, I locked our eyes. “You two had a great time, Paul, alone. She rocked your freaking world, now go to sleep.” His eyes slammed shut and he dropped into dreamland so hard he probably bounced.

  I sat back, still feeling the need to pant like a winded sprinter, and looked at the mess.

  Well, hell.

  * * *

  When you’re up to your neck in it you move carefully.

  A radio search showed no transmitters on Idiot Boy. What the hell had he been doing? Had Emerson been lying, or was Paul off the reservation? If this was an operation… I was hosed. Emerson
would be coming through the door any minute. If this was Paul on his own, trying to help me, then maybe The Plan still had a chance. The cops staking out the place might not have even realized she’d brought one of their own home for dinner.

  Great. Let’s go with that. Okay, time to move.

  I retrieved my kit and unrolled the plastic sheets. Duct tape secured the second stake in its hole, and I pulled and cleaned the first. Blood loss was already returning Acacia to the temperature of death; her consciousness in suspension, she flopped like the fresh corpse she was when I taped her and rolled her up in layers of plastic.

  I found the linen closet and pulled fresh sheets, dumped Paul on more plastic, stripped and made the bed. Then I looked at Paul.

  Dammit. When I pictured tonight, I didn’t see any bathhouse scenes.

  Cursing some more, I stripped to my underwear. The corset was ruined anyway, sticky with blood, and Acacia could spare something. Stripping Paul down to his boxers, I carried him into the bathroom and propped him under the shower. Washing his hair and scrubbing with a loofa got the blood off his… muscles. Toned country-boy muscles, warm, alive and stop that.

  Back into the bedroom. Pull back the sheets, bounce around on the bed, twist, generally muss things up. Strip Paul, eyes up, drop him on the bed and roll him onto his stomach, pillows on the floor, strategically lay the top sheet while not checking his tight butt. I dropped his wet boxers by the shower.

  Paul snorted in his sleep, rolled to spread out over the bed. He looked…satisfied. It might work. He might believe the scene I’d set for him, at least long enough for me to get the job done.

  And he’s never going to forgive me.

  Still no Emerson.

  Finding Acacia’s cellphone, I sent the agreed-on text and got an answer back: I’m coming. Raiding her closet should have been fun, but I was in a hurry. A pair of black denim shorts and a stretchy athletic shirt later, I shook out the blonde wig—a little worse for wear from being crunched in my kit—and added some of her favorite lipstick. Blood-red, of course.

  The front doorbell rang. The bags! As much as I had to trust Dupree, if he came up here and saw his sister all mummified he might not go through with it. I pulled the packed bags out from their hiding place and down the stairs as the bell rang again.

  Let him wait—I wanted him seen for this.

  Opening the door, I caught Dupree mid-knock. Typical guy; the doorbell works, you hear it work, but maybe a knock will work better? Throwing my arms around him, I pulled him inside before he could stiffen.

  “What?”

  “Your family isn’t huggy?” I snarked.

  “Oh, yeah. Is she here?”

  I handed him the biggest bag. He staggered a bit. “What’s this full of? Books?”

  “Does she read? Makeup, lots of makeup. And shoes, clothes, underwear… And we’re on a schedule, remember? She’s running?”

  “Right. But she’s fine?”

  I ground my teeth. “Yes, Dupree, she’s fine. Now we need to make sure I have time to make her better?” Maybe he was the kind of guy who was only all together when it was hitting the fan. I pushed him at the door.

  Out on the front porch, I looked around. Really looked, let anyone watching see me look. C’mon boys, see Jane run. Dupree had parked his truck just outside the front gate and he tossed his bag in back, helped me do the same before we piled in. He started up, pulled away from the curb, and I watched the mirror.

  The sedan followed. Yes! I handed him Acacia’s cell.

  “Remember—”

  “Keep it on, but don’t answer any calls, right.”

  I nodded. “I’ll call you when it’s time to come back.”

  “Ma’am?” He looked straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.

  “Hmm?” I adjusted his mirror, kept my eyes on our tail. The sedan followed us through two turns as we headed west, then left us as we picked up a second tail, this one a blue compact. They were working it like professionals.

  “Why are you really doing this?”

  “Because she’ll lead me to my target, Dupree, don’t get any ideas. I’m not a good Samaritan; whatever mess she’s in, she got herself there with her own dumbassedness.”

  He snuck a look, grunted—whatever that meant—and I’d had enough. I took off the wig, cracked the window.

  “Remember—”

  “Don’t stop, take the fastest road, when I get home pull the truck into the garage and close the door… I’ve got it all. Anything else?”

  A three hour drive, two in sunlight now. He still didn’t look happy, and I groaned inside, thought about what Hope would do. People stuff.

  “Steph will be fine, Robert.” I patted him on his solid upper arm. “I promise. One day, two, and you’ll be picking her up for real, okay? Get the rest of your posse out of town, fort up. If the headless hoodsmen have an in with the police, they might be coming after you now.”

  He nodded with another sharp grunt, but smiled a little at the possibility that his part of the plan might have some danger. I managed not to laugh. Boys.

  “Right,” he said. “So get going.”

  I cracked the window and went to mist. Drifting out into the street and spreading thin, I watched the tailing car pass right through me, waited until both were out of sight, and turned east to retrace our route. Now for the tricky part.

  * * *

  Father Graff looked way too calm for someone catching a ride in a car with a body in the back. But then, he had served in some interesting places.

  “And how are you, mein kinde?” Not a trivial question. I ignored it, checking my mirrors again as I turned the corner. Nobody had followed me from Acacia’s, and it looked like nobody had followed him.

  “Thank you again, Father. This isn’t—”

  “Saving a soul is always the duty of the Church. Mostly of course, this is done by word, example, and the outstretched hand. But against powers that rob souls of their own sacred volition?” He looked stern. Well, more stern.

  “Thank you.” I left it at that. Turning onto Decatur, I keyed open the garage. Inside, mindful of the stake, I extracted my kit and threw Acacia over my shoulder.

  “This is our patient?” was all Father Graff said as I led him through the building to the security room. I rolled my eyes.

  “No Father, this is— Whoa!”

  Casper had expressed himself. All over the walls.

  He’d stuck to his theme; Get out had been expressed redundantly in engine oil on every bare surface, carved into the plaster with something handy when the oil ran out. The Ouija board sat in one corner, the slider gone who knows where (probably used to carve the wall). The camera wasn’t on its tripod and I wasn’t about to take the time to search for the pieces.

  “This is not how you left it?”

  I shrugged. “Roommate troubles. I may have to do a little cleaning.”

  “Indeed.” He set down his own bag and began rummaging. I pushed the tripod aside and lowered Acacia to the cement floor before checking the security system. No outside alerts, at least, and no record of access; the place was still safe. By some definitions.

  Vampire powers make no physical sense, but then neither do our limitations. Why does being physically bound to something too heavy to take with us keep us from going into mist ourselves? Being handcuffed to Emerson’s interrogation room table had really meant that only a few square inches of my skin had been in contact with it, so why would it have stopped me? Without the cuffs, I could have lain down on the table and still misted away. Unless I grabbed the table—then I wouldn’t have gone anywhere. Which made the limitation more metaphysical than physical; contact didn’t inhibit us, connection with intent did.

  So the first thing was to make sure Acacia had a serious connection with something heavy. Like a motorcycle engine block.

  While Father Graff hung crosses, sprinkled the floor and walls, and recited unintelligible Latin, I duct taped and chained Acacia to the abandoned engine block. I use
d so much tape that the chains were almost redundant, but they made me feel better; she’d fed recently—overfed, from the nearly-pink color of her cheeks—which meant if she got loose she’d outmuscle me.

  But we weren’t going anywhere.

  “I am finished, mein kinde,” Father Graff reported, closing the book of liturgy and crossing himself.

  “The hatch to the sewer?”

  “Done also—there will be no escape for her there.”

  “Thank you, Father.” The little wooden crosses made an odd contrast to all the Get Outs—most of them now even more drippy, smeared by the liberally sprinkled holy water. I shook my head; Casper would have to wait his turn. I tossed Father Graff the key. “Now I need you to leave. Please bless the door once you’ve locked it.”

  He caught the key without thinking, but didn’t move.

  “Kinde—”

  “Please Father, this isn’t an exorcism. Helping her isn’t in the power of your faith.”

  “But I may be of help to you.” He said evenly. “When a child of light walks in darkness, my duty is clear.”

  I straightened up. “I will carry you out, Father, and lock the door myself.” He looked me in the eyes with no fear of influence, and accepted it with a sigh.

  “I will go no further than the door.”

  “Thank you.”

  He retrieved his bag and left us, closing the door behind him. I waited until I heard the clack of the deadbolt seating itself, and pulled away the plastic covering Acacia’s face. Her open eyes stared, sightless.

  Shutting them on impulse, I drew a deep, needless breath, and pulled out the stake.

  This was going to suck.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and others shall yet be mine - my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed.