So much for this monster being as strong as a large human male. More like a frigging bull, or an elephant. Maybe a bull elephant.
I probably would have spent the next minute on the floor, groaning in pain—if it weren’t for the large figure bounding from above. It would have crushed me under its weight, but I regained my wits and rolled under one of the large study desks.
A black claw ripped the table back. I rolled under another table. The claw ripped away this table and I rolled beneath the next. Then another.
This perverse game of musical chairs—well, tables—wouldn’t last forever. I knew I needed to get a weapon if I wanted a chance at fighting this thing, which meant I needed to put more distance between us than a few layers of lacquered wood.
I faked rolling beneath another desk, then darted between two shelves instead, using them as cover. Lucky move—the monster was wider than the space between the shelves, and as it charged, its weight pushed them apart, causing them to knock over like dominos in two directions.
Good … just what I wanted to happen. This creature was a predator—which meant that it hunted using sight, smell, and noise. The clambering shelves and tumbling books would cover any sound I made, and all the book dust puffing into the air would mask my scent. Which only left it sight—and what I lacked in strength, I made up in smallness.
When the shelves tumbled down, they didn’t fall flat, but rather tipped onto one another like drunks, creating little tunnels beneath where one shelf rested on another. Those gaps were as wide as the shelf’s width—which was thankfully about twice the width of a dinner plate. Perfect for me (including my butt and chest, this time).
I crawled through the opening and listened. When I was sure the monster was on the other side of the shelves, scratching about and searching for me, I ducked into the next makeshift tunnel, then the next. Ultimate Hide-and-Go-Seek.
The monster stalked the aisles, occasionally leaping on the toppled shelves and bringing them splintering deeper into one another. But it couldn’t find me. And from the sounds it was making, I could tell it was getting frustrated.
I smiled, vindicated. This is for the Old Librarian, you bastard. Run, while you still can.
A little cocky on my part, I know. That was the vampire in me. Either way, the monster didn’t take its chance to run. It kept methodically leaping from one shelf to another, snarling.
OK—have it your way.
Slowly, carefully, I made my way to the last row and peered around. Across the aisle, I could see the Old Librarian still strung up. I don’t know if it was seeing him there or if it was my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, but either way, the brave, stupid part of me took over. I darted out of the makeshift passageway and, leaping from display case to display case—
I jumped for my father’s dirk and shield.
After all these years, it took scant moments to fit the ancient artifacts in my grip, like well-oiled hinges. Weapon in hand, I turned to face the monster. For the first time I got a good look at it.
GoneGodDamn—if I had seen it earlier, I might have acted smarter. And way less brave.
The thing looked like an honest-to-the-GoneGods bulldog—if, that was, the bulldog were the size of a Highland coo, had fire-yellow eyes and snorted friggin’ steam out of its nose.
Oh well … no use in crying over spilled milk, I thought as I held out the dirk.
It slammed two of its massive claws on the ground, gouging into the marble as it prepared to charge. I did the same, minus the marble-gouging. Given my stature, it was more like doing the two-step. Still, it was the best retort I had. If I could snort steam, I would’ve.
It sniffed. I growled.
It roared. I screamed back defiantly.
And with the pre-fight ceremony out of the way, we charged at each other.
It was big and fast, but I had something it didn’t.
A silk blouse.
At the last second I dove into a baseball player’s slide and under it, thrusting my long dagger upwards. A fountain of lava-hot blood poured out of its belly. If it wasn’t for my shield, I probably would have been burned to death. Luckily I was able to divert the stream as I rolled out from under it. Turning, I immediately abandoned my shield as it literally burst into flames, its wooden frame consumed by this thing’s blood.
The thing about Others—they don’t bleed red. Ogres bleed green, dwarves a dirt brown; angels bleed actual light and pixies dust. But fire? Only one being I knew bled fire—a jinni. God made jinn from smokeless fire. I guess that explained the flickering yellow eyes this thing had.
It reared up onto its hind legs, still spilling blood from its midsection, seeking to crush me under its weight. I rolled to the right, expecting it to try and step to the right and crush me, but instead, it swiveled to the left.
I had all of one second to consider why it would do that when its tail swiped across the floor (did I say this thing looked like a bulldog? Its tail was more like that of a dragon’s, spikes and all) and hit me hard in the chest, causing me to drop my dirk. I was pushed to the side and before I could tumble out of the way, it pinned me to the side of the wall. Its big flat-nosed face was an inch away from mine and it was bearing its fangs, long, pointy bastards dripping oily fire. I could tell it was relishing the moment before it would bite my head off—literally.
It had me, and without a weapon or any gods to hear my prayers, I didn’t have a hope in Hell of getting out of this alive.
Except we weren’t in Hell—and hope was a fickle bitch that liked to wait until the last second to swoop in. This time, she took the form of my fellow classmate, the weird African guy, who leapt on the monster’s back and—what the hell?—bit down on the thing’s neck.
Kid—I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the best— I started to think (out loud—good to know I could still rely on my quirks in life-and-death situations) when the kid reared his head back and spat out a clump of the monster’s neck, fiery blood and all.
The monster reeled back, howling in agony. Steam and lava poured out of its wound and I just managed to roll out of its waning grip.
“Holy crap, kid,” I said, running for my dirk.
The kid—who had been knocked off the beast’s back—tumbled in my direction, dabbing at his blistering lips. “Holy Hell! That was hot!”
“Jinni, kid. Jinn. They bleed fire.”
“Apparently. And, for the record, my name is not kid. It is Egya-Boi Awooner of the Fante.”
“And I’m Connor MacLeod of Clan MacLeod,” I said.
Egya gave me a curious look and I managed to say, “What? Not a Highlander fan?”
Before he could answer, the monster, who had managed to pick itself up from the steaming blood-slick floor, resumed its attack. It raked its claws at us, forcing us to split apart. The creature, unsure which target to pursue, chased after me—and not because it was a “Ladies first” kind of monster. No, there was something else going on.
Not that I could ponder that particular mystery now.
Now I had to avoid its massive claws. I ran to the far end of the library, seeking to draw it to the display, hoping against hope that I’d be able to find something, anything to use against it. Maybe a spear or some kind of anti-jinni weapon.
Wishful thinking, but stranger things have happened … like giant bulldog-faced, dragon-tailed, lava-spewing monsters chasing you through a college library on a Friday night.
I ran, and as fast as I was, this thing was faster. Where the hell was Egya? I couldn’t hear him, and a shiver ran down my spine. If Egya ducked out of the fight, I was done for. Maybe that bite of lava had been more than he’d bargained for.
I kept running for the displays, but it involved a lot of obstacle-course dodging of the mess I’d made with the toppling shelves. Before I could get close, the creature flipped a shelf full of several heavy books over, toppling it at my feet and tripping me over.
I fell on my stomach and quic
kly turned so that I was lying flat on my back. The creature came close, getting ready to bear down on me. Pointing the tip of my sword straight up, I was preparing for the old stab-and-roll maneuver when I heard a howl. Egya jumped from the viewing balcony on the second floor, straight onto the creature’s back.
Egya’d learned his lesson: he didn’t bite the thing. This time he stabbed it with something I couldn’t quite see from my vantage point. No matter. Stab as if my life depended on it, Egya!
Taking my cue from its howl, I thrust my dirk into the nape of its still-bleeding neck and then twisted my body as hard as I could to the right, gripping my sword with all the human strength I had in me—and maybe any vampiric strength still left deep down.
My sword stuck in its molten skin. Despite the heat, I continued with as much pressure as I could. I felt my sword travel through its skin another inch, then two more, and with one last effort, I managed to slash through the thing’s throat—ripping a hole in it the size of the library’s book-return slot.
The monster tried to scream, but without a throat, all that came out was a low, guttural hiss as it collapsed to the ground in its own molten blood.
“Damn. Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Egya said, climbing off the creature’s back.
I ignored him, walking around it slowly. According to Islam, God created two types of humanity: one from mud—humans; and the other from smokeless fire—the jinn. The jinn were like us, complete with different races, ethnicities and geopolitical alliances. And although this creature had all the telltale signs of being jinn, it was more animal than sentient being. Something didn’t feel right.
As I examined him, my foot hit something hard by its front left paw. Looking down, I saw my father’s cherub mask on the ground, its innocent face staring up at me out of the fiery blood. The irony wasn’t lost on me—here I was fighting an evil demon to avenge the death of my friend … How many demons had my father vanquished in my name? Too many to count, I suspected.
Gingerly picking up the mask, I slipped it in my slightly torn back pocket. I’d need new jeans now, too. Add that to the list.
Egya had been watching me the whole time. Seeing his gaze, I was just about to say “Let’s get out of here before the police show up,” when I heard a voice yell out, “Hold it right there!”
Two flashlights shined in our eyes. Behind the glaring light, I saw two figures approach with guns drawn.
Oh, great—campus security’s here. Great timing, morons.
The voice behind the lights barked, “What did you say?”
Talking out loud again. I really, really had to stop that.
Chapter 9
Human Security Securing
First the campus security came, then the cops, then the local news and finally the coroner. Not that we saw any of that. Deirdre told me later. Word had gotten to the dorms what had happened and many of the students, including her, went down to see what happened.
Egya and I were interviewed at the scene—in handcuffs—and after our statement was taken down and taken down again by every cop determined to crack the truth out of us, we were whisked away to the local police precinct in a police car, sirens ringing through the night air and drawing unwanted attention to us. Already a ton of students were out; I wanted to curl up in a fetal position at the floor of the cruiser from embarrassment and shame—and loss. Twenty-four hours had yet to pass and already I was the freak who jumps at light, gets into fights with hockey players and gets arrested for murder. The murder of the one person I’d managed to make friends with.
At least no one can say I don’t make a first impression.
The nearest precinct was about a mile away. Once we made it inside, I noted that there was a disproportionate number of Others in handcuffs. Made sense—Others were the easily distinguishable minority and seeing them in chains just proved to me that the world didn’t change that much just because the gods left.
Once our prints were taken (our hands had to be washed and treated for burns first), Egya and I were separated. I was guided to a room with a desk and one-way mirror. Presumably so was Egya.
Then I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
I’d been in similar situations before, so I knew the drill. They wanted us to get nervous, because nervous people talked. The trouble with me and waiting was that, as an insomniac, former vampire who hunted in the night, when I wasn’t talking to myself, I was really good at sitting perfectly still for long periods of time. It’s not that I went asleep or anything. I just kind of shut off. Meditation on overdrive. When I’d go into that state as a vampire, I’d actually stop breathing. As a human, I couldn’t do that, of course, but my breaths were low and shallow and infrequent. Not sure if this skill would have real world applications, but one thing I noticed happened when I did this was I made other humans really nervous. And in situations like this, I got a bit of a sick pleasure out of that.
The door flung open and the way the detective—a woman with a gray suit and olive, button-up shirt—burst in, I knew that she’d seen me through the one-way mirror and thought I’d had a seizure or something.
The movement caused me to turn. When I animated, I could see the detective visibly relax.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.
“Meditating,” I answered honestly.
“Meditating?”
“Well, kind of. I play old movies in my head. It relaxes me.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Huh?”
“This time I was screening An American Werewolf in London—the original, not the remake in Paris. I was playing the scene where they were walking back to the pub and—”
“And why were you playing that movie in particular?”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Because … did you see that thing? I kind of feel like I was attacked by a werewolf, myself. I’m sort of wondering if I’m going to turn into a giant bulldog with hot, lava-like blood.”
“I see,” the detective said, taking off her glasses and sitting down across from me. “And you do this to, what? Relax? Why do you need to relax?”
I gave the detective a wry smile. This wasn’t the first time I had found myself in an interrogation room for killing something—or killing someone. Caught plenty of times when I was a vampire. This was, however, the first time I was in a place like this as a human—and for killing an Other.
As a vampire, I’d wait until it got really late and bite my way out. As a human, I would need another tact. Luckily, I was one of those psychological Hannibal Lector killer vampires (as opposed to the hack-and-slash kind) and was used to playing mind games. Unhinging the detective with my meditation trick was a start. Better she was nervous than me … but still, if I was going to get out of here, I needed to be very careful what I said and didn’t say.
So I considered her question before replying evenly, “How many people, innocent or guilty, get put in a room like this and don’t need to relax?” I gave subtle emphasis to the word innocent.
“You’ve got a point,” the detective said. She stuck out her hand. “Detective Sarah Wilcox. And you are?”
“Katrina Darling, but you know that already, from my statement. I suspect that you know a lot more than that, too.”
She nodded. “OK—yes—I’ve run your name through the databases. So can you imagine what came back in your file?”
I froze. It was possible that she uncovered I was an ex-vampire. I had done my best to hide my tracks. I paid a lot to get myself a long-form birth certificate, I fabricated a death certificate for a fake father who’d died prematurely from a heart attack … I even had my bogus dad set up a trust fund for me—an accumulation of my assets collected over the centuries of long life.
In my human story, Dad was a diplomat and we’d moved around a lot—that way I could have fewer ties and less (read: zero) schoolmates to remember me. Hell, I even set up a Facebook page with doctored photos of me doing human activities in the sun
as a little girl (thank the GoneGods for stock photography and photoshop).
Still, humans—the AlwaysMortals, that is—were paranoid about Others, even former Others, and had created a registry for beings like me to sign. There was even an amnesty program for vampires, werewolves, ghouls and zombies—expunging us from any legal recourse for the murders we committed when we were an Other.
But … I never did. Technically speaking, I was breaking the law by not doing so.
Detective Wilcox turned the file around. It was thin, with only a couple visible pages. Evidently, she wasn’t going to tell me what she’d found without me asking. GoneGodDammit—any upper hand I had with my meditation trick would be gone if I did. Still, I had to know.
I sighed inwardly. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said with a smirk—she knew she’d just won this battle of wills. “But you were awfully nervous, given how little there is about you.”
“Well, you know—it’s my first time talking to a real detective,” I lied.
“Sure, sure. These are unusual circumstances.” She pointed at the mirror and a few seconds later a cop walked in with a file and my bag. “But we had expected more, even for a young first-year like yourself.”
I shrugged. “I moved around a lot and my dad was a very private person. Before he died, that is.”
“Yes, your file mentioned that. Sorry for your loss.”
I nodded. She was the second person today to offer me condolences for a man who died before the Titanic sank.
“OK, Ms. Darling, there are a few other things we need to know.” Detective Wilcox turned the file back to her and spread out some photos she pulled out of an envelope.
I had expected the photographs to be of the crime scene—the Old Librarian strung up, his organs displayed like pastry in a bakery—but instead, they were pictures of the Old Librarian alive, healthy and smiling. Then there were photos of he and I speaking beside the display cases. And finally, a photo of me standing outside the library at night—something that must have been taken just before I tried to break in. Barely two hours ago.
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