“Far be it from one of your descendants to be stubborn,” I noted, making sure I was out of her reach. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Rosie, let me get that,” I finally said, coming over to her. I could reach the box on the shelf easily. Rosie grumbled, but took my hand and got off the chair. I felt, rather than heard, Marcella’s sigh of relief. Reaching up, I got hold of the box and got it down for her.
“She makes sure I know how to kill her if she attacks me, then goes berserk if I stand on a chair in an enclosed space,” Rosie took the box from me as Marcella folded her arms.
“Those are entirely different things and you know it,” Marcella stated. “That chair is not stable to stand on like that.”
Just for good measure I got the other two boxes down off the shelf, too. Most of the time I felt self-conscious about my height, but there were times it was an advantage. And lifting boxes down gave me something to do while they argued.
“What brings you here?” Rosie asked, sitting on the chair as she looked through the box. She was pointedly changing the subject.
I already knew better than to try lying. Marcella could pick out a lie faster than she could pick out someone to feed off of—which was pretty damn fast.
“I came by to talk to you both about Aleksander.” Okay, so I snuck a small lie in there. I hoped she didn’t pick up that one.
“He’s the German one, right?” Rosie asked.
“Well, I met him in Germany, I don’t know if that’s where he’s from or not,” I admitted.
“He’s the one I had to break up their fight,” Marcella said. She pulled another chair over near the boxes and started looking through one. “The one who tried to blind him.” She nodded at me.
Rosie nodded her head, knowing who we were talking about.
“You didn’t have to break up our fight,” I pointed out to Marcella. “He’d have been dead in another few seconds if you hadn’t.”
“Or you would have,” she shot back. “I wasn’t going to risk it. He’d already cracked your head half open.”
I was still pretty sure I had been the one about to win the fight, but didn’t point that out to her.
“What about him?” Rosie asked.
Since Marcella already knew the basics of what he was doing, I gave Rosie a brief summary. By the time I finished, she seemed to forget about the boxes and photo album and was staring at me in disbelief.
“That’s not good in so many ways,” she said, her voice quiet. She looked at her grandmother. “The one you chased off the other night was one?”
Marcella nodded her head.
“Doesn’t he understand he can’t just do that?” Rosie asked, her voice tense. “The danger in it—that’s just—“
“Insanity,” I said.
“Stupidity,” Marcella said at the same moment.
“Both,” Rosie agree. She looked up at me. “What do you need to stop him?”
“Funny you should ask,” I replied.
I gave them what I’d come up with so far for my plan to flush out Aleksander and what help I was probably going to need as I got closer to him. Rosie was more than willing to help. Marcella was willing to help me, but not thrilled with Rosie being a part of it, just like I knew she wouldn’t be. In the end, however, I think she was convinced Rosie was determined, so she was going to do whatever she could as well.
That made it three against an unknown number, but at least fifty. I briefly wondered what odds we could get on that and whether it would be a sound investment to lay those bets.
I decided to keep my money where it was.
Not that I was discounting our skills over theirs, but odds were, we were at least going to get hurt.
Chapter Nine
Rasmussen
My grandfather once told me there was a fine line between good and evil and oftentimes it simply came down to a single choice. One man, one woman, one child, one choice. Do I keep the money I’ve just found in this billfold, or do I turn it into the constable? Do I tell my neighbor what the pastor’s wife said this morning at church about the Widow Kearsley, or do I keep her confidences to myself? Do I steal a cookie from the tray the baker’s left here in the open unwatched, or do I go on my way and keep my hands in my pockets?
Choices.
Some choices are made in a split second, without giving them any thought. These are the ones that show a person’s true character. These are the ones that are made entirely from conscience, instinct and personal values. The young man who was passing by who jumps into a river to save a child who’s just fallen in. The shopkeeper who notices the starving woman in the alley and gives her a loaf of bread and some cheese just as he’s closing for the day. The child who stands up to the schoolyard bully to protect someone weaker.
Likewise, what determines “good” and “evil” are both open to interpretation. Normally, I would believe anything you have to think about for more than two seconds has the potential to be turned into something evil.
Which makes for an interesting argument about when we need to feed. It always, no matter how much you plan and try to arrange, always becomes a point where you simply cannot think about it and you react instantly and entirely out of instinct. You hear their heartbeat. You smell their blood and flesh. You taste their fear. And you feed off that first as your claws slash and tear at them. You throw them into walls. Tear their limbs from their bodies. Gouge out their eyes and shred their bodies into something unrecognizable. All for that moment of tearing into their flesh with your teeth and feeling the pounding in your head finally easing back into your own heartbeat.
It’s done with no thought of choice. You cannot choose not to feed. There’s no avoiding it.
So one could therefore argue that we were not evil.
I keep hoping one day to convince myself of that. But for now, the animal is evil.
The idea that you can somehow “replace” this need with substitutes is laughable. I’ve already pointed out that animals don’t help for more than a day or two. Just drinking blood isn’t enough. I don’t know why, but you need the flesh. In the end, that’s the only thing that sates the animal and allows the person to return. And it can’t be flesh that’s already dead. Eating raw meat or someone who’s recently died has no effect. It has to be someone that’s just been killed. I’ve heard it mentioned that feeding from them while they’re still alive cures the cycle even faster, but that’s a boundary I won’t cross, even in a full fury.
Choices.
To infect someone, you must be in a feeding cycle. Not just an early “I think I feel it starting” part of the cycle either. But a full blown, nothing is going to stop me, feeding cycle. Which makes the fact that Aleksander had been infecting people all that more troublesome. Somehow, he was able to stop himself from killing them after biting them. Somehow, he was able to do this multiple times per feeding cycle.
I had been in a feeding cycle when I’d met April. Would I have been able to simply bite her then keep enough control to stop there? I honestly don’t know. The smell and taste of her blood would have been that overwhelming and would have seized me straight through to my core. The man who bit me probably wouldn’t have stopped if Phillip hadn’t startled him. Though Marcella’s grandfather had obviously had enough of his wits about him to control himself after biting her.
My left hand still bore the scars of teeth marks. They circled around the outside edge of my palm, just below the pinky finger, coming in almost two inches toward the center of my hand. Most of the teeth had been relatively straight, but one of the top front ones had turned a bit, just enough off from the others that the scar from that tooth looked decidedly out of place against the others. The bite had been deep, severing muscles, tendons and nerves that had taken years to heal. Even now it occasionally itched and my ring finger would want to argue with me if I spent too much time painting or writing with that hand. I still remembered how badly it had bled. So much blood.
And the black specks I’d thought were nothing more than
dirt or grime. They weren’t solid, they smeared when we’d tried wiping the wound clean. Mixing with the man’s saliva and my own blood. I learned several months later that they tasted bitter.
I clearly remember the first time I tasted them. Sharp. Bitter. Sickening. They’d made me vomit repeatedly for hours on end.
I had never asked Marcella about the first time she tasted them. Aleksander had never complained about them making him ill.
“You have to accept it to fine tune it.”
Marcella’s repeated comment to me practically barked at me, almost startling me from my thoughts with its’ sharpness.
She was right, I suppose, I’d fought what I was from the beginning. I’d never come to terms with it and certainly never accepted it. I didn’t know if I ever could.
How do you accept being a monster? How do you accept being the very core of evil?
I set aside my coat and the needle and thread I’d been using to fix the small tear from the two I’d killed by the school. I studied my left hand. The scar that circled the back and around to the palm, making a distorted half circle on each side. My skin yellow with a few faint white patches. The scars from his teeth were stark white, standing out in obvious contrast. I knew each tooth mark was a hard ridge of scar tissue.
My fingernails had become thick over the years, with uneven ridges and yellowing near the center. I could feel my claws there, retracted in their sheaths. I remembered very clearly how my fingers had itched at first, then hurt, aching all the way to the bone, then sharp pains as the skin at the front of my fingers slowly separated into horizontal slits from the inside out, coming from under my fingernails. A layer of skin grew inward over each side of the slits. With my claws fully retracted, you couldn’t tell what my fingers hid, unless you were looking very closely.
My thoughts were distracted by a knock on my door. Firm, authoritative, but with a bit of a pause between knocks. I sniffed the air, sorting the scents from my studio against those outside. It took me a moment to recognize who was there.
Odd, there was only one of them.
I stood up and walked to the door, pausing for a moment before opening it. Not that my studio was overly small, but I didn’t want him thinking I’d been sitting right by the door.
“Detective Rasmussen,” I greeted him as I opened the door, keeping the right side of my face turned away from the opening and tilting my head slightly to look at him with my clear eye. My voice didn’t seem to be too much of a growl today. Perhaps all the talking I’d been doing lately was changing it. I glanced at the hall, obviously noting there was no sign of his partner. I caught a faint whiff of something else…not quite fear, not apprehension…but something was different. “What can I do for you?” His heartbeat, while still steady and strong seemed a bit louder than the last time I’d met him. Like I heard from people who had a burst of adrenaline.
I noticed he also wasn’t wearing his suit trousers or a tie this time, but fairly new jeans and a more casual shirt.
“Mr. Dorian,” he returned my greeting. I also noted he didn’t have his badge displayed. Odd. He wasn’t here on official business. I wasn’t even sure he was on duty. “I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time?”
I nodded and stepped back, opening the door wider and motioning for him to come in. I felt a certain wariness, not sure what was going on now. Though I got no sense of any threat from him. Whatever he was here for, he wasn’t on the offensive.
“Was this concerning April Merced?” I asked, walking back to the table. “Please, have a seat.” I had to remind myself to be polite, as much as I really didn’t want to be dealing with the authorities right now. I had too much on my mind and knew there was going to be too much happening in the coming weeks. I figured perhaps the more I appeared to cooperate now, the sooner he’d leave me alone and move on to something else.
“We were able to find the gun used in the attack,” he said. He seemed to hesitate, then took the seat across from me. “It was still in the alley where you said the attack took place. We were able to trace fingerprints on it to someone who we think was involved.” He seemed to hesitate and I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was thinking something over.
I tilted my head to look at him more fully with my clear eye, waiting for him to continue. While I waited I took my jacket and finished the last couple of stitches then tied off the thread. I’d learned a long time ago how to mend my own clothing.
“Detective?” I asked when he had remained silent for some time.
“Actually, I’m not here as a detective,” he said, finally focusing on me again.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit confused,” I admitted, getting that faint feeling deep in my gut there was something not right. “Was there something I could help you with?” I still picked up no sense of danger from him. He certainly wasn’t here to accuse me of anything or to try to put me on the defensive. But something was definitely off center about this visit.
He seemed to sigh and his shoulders sagged slightly, like a man with an intense weight on him. I waited patiently. I’d seen enough people and gone through it enough on my own, to realize when someone was trying to come to terms with something. Oftentimes it was something they had no idea how to deal with.
“My partner and I were following a lead on one of the men who might have been involved in Miss Merced’s murder,” he said, his tone halting, unsure.
I nodded, waiting for him to continue. I had a feeling that wasn’t really why he was here, but it was somewhere he felt comfortable beginning the conversation.
“We ended up at this old house, it’s been cleared out for a drug house a few times, so we were pretty familiar with it.” He paused again and I could see a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. “The guy we were looking for wasn’t there.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, not sure where he was going with this.
“A couple of other guys were.” He took a slow breath. I heard a faint shake to it. Whatever was there, it had disturbed him, possibly even frightened him. I had a suspicion I knew what he was going to say next now. I’d already gotten a glimpse into what types of people Aleksander was looking for. This did not bode well for the remainder of the conversation. Rasmussen turned his eyes to meet mine. “A couple of guys there who attacked us. They took my partner out in one hit and almost got me.” He seemed to study me. “The one who attacked me kind of looked like you. His skin looked the same and most of his hair was gone. His fingernails didn’t quite look right.” He was watching me closely now, studying me the way only seasoned policemen do. Watching for body language shifts or changes in expression that might alert him that he’d touched a nerve with me.
Luckily I had a bit more practice than most people at controlling such things. Just a bit.
“That’s very unfortunate,” I said, raising my left eyebrow. I’d have raised both of them, but I didn’t have much of one left by my right eye. “I’m not sure what that has to do with me, though.” That explained why he wasn’t here in any official capacity. No doubt there was the standard internal investigation going on involving their responses to the attack. He was probably on suspended duty or desk duty.
My mind was racing, though, at what he’d told me. Two more together, one obviously at least a couple of years since being infected if he’d gone through that many of the changes. Aleksander must be pairing them off, putting newly infected ones with those who’d had longer to figure out what they were doing. A sort of twisted buddy system. Bastard.
“I was curious what your skin condition might be called.”
His voice brought me back to the conversation almost immediately. Hopefully he didn’t realize my mind had wandered away from it.
Luckily, I was prepared for that question, too.
I scratched absently at my left hand. “It’s actually a condition you get sometimes associated with hypothyroidism. Mine is fairly mild, I don’t have all the complications some people have, so it doesn’t require
constant looking after.” A few of the symptoms matched how I looked, the yellowing of the skin, hair loss, a couple of others. It would really take someone with a medical degree and some familiarity of the condition to know it was something else.
One thing you learn is how to explain yourself to society when they get brave enough to ask. Just like some of us get very adept at creating new identities for ourselves and we all get very adept at moving and starting over from time to time.
“You said one of them attacked your partner, is he all right?” I asked. I doubted someone newly infected would be in a feeding cycle yet. The other one might have been, however.
Rasmussen stared at me for a long moment. One of those practiced looks that no doubt made criminals uncomfortable. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Or maybe he was just trying to make sense of things his mind told him he couldn’t have possibly seen.
“He was killed,” he finally said, his tone low. “Got off a couple of shots that didn’t even seem to phase the guy, then next thing I knew he was laying on the ground bleeding from a gash in his throat.” I felt that part of him slam itself behind a door in his mind. That one was going to be one of those sore spots we seemed to like to keep.
“And you escaped unharmed?” I asked carefully. A gash in the throat wasn’t a good sign. It meant claws. Claws meant it had been a bit since he’d been infected.
“Not hardly,” he said, a bitter tone now. I found myself holding my breath at what he was going to say next. “The other bastard bit me clean through my coat and shirt before I was able to put enough bullets through his head and his buddy’s heart to kill them both.” He continued to stare at me. “I got a closer look at them after they were dead while I was waiting for my backup to get there. There was something not right with either one of them and for some reason, I was reminded of you.”
I forced myself to exhale. Not good, not good, not good. As a matter of fact, I think this qualified as very, very bad.
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