Have Stakes, Will Travel

by Faith Hunter

  “And if we don’t close it, we don’t get paid,” I said, grumpily, finally understanding. “Which makes me sound all kinds of mercenary, but we really, really need a new fridge.”

  “Suggestion?” Jane offered. When Evan nodded, Jane said, “Ask a cop to come sit in on the undoing spell. I’ll provide him with a stake and some silver ammo. I’ll make sure he takes the killshot. He takes down the vamp. You are each other’s unimpeachable witnesses, he gets any reward from the Asheville MOC, and said vamp won’t smell Evan. By the time vamps get on scene, Evan and I will be gone and the house aired out.” Jane drained her Pepsi cup with an air-rattle of cola through straw. “And if you’re up for another suggestion, also in the paper, there’s a new cop in town, out of New York, name of Paul Braxton. He’ll be used to dealing with vamps and working with witches,” she said. “My bet is that he’ll let Molly stay in the closet to have her as an informant and,” she twirled a hand, looking for a word, “occult specialist. Sorta.”

  Evan gave Jane a small salute and she grinned at him, one of the rare, full-on grins I’d seen maybe ten times in our relationship. But her plan did have a certain allure. I looked at it from every side. It wasn’t perfect, but it might work.

  * * *

  At eleven a.m. the next morning, Evan—who was missing another day of work—and I met with Detective Paul Braxton, out of New York. He had retired to the Appalachian Mountains, gotten bored fast and went to work for the local sheriff. We had found all this out on the Internet before we met at McDonald’s where we introduced ourselves, bought the detective a cup of coffee, and sat.

  Braxton was a beefy guy, not as big as Evan, of course, no one is except a few professional NFL linebackers. He had brown hair and eyes, and wore a brown suit from the last decade. “So,” he said, “how can I help you folks?” He put both lower arms on the table and rested his weight forward, his hands cradling the cup of steaming coffee

  “I’m a witch,” I said, starting at the most important part. “But I’m not in any police database.”

  “Seven Sassy Sisters’ Herb Shop and Café,” Paul said, his voice gravely. “It’s not confirmed, but most locals think your mother was a witch. They also think your older sister, Evangeline, also called Evangelina, is a witch. The rest of you are above reproach, or were until today. Your friend over there, hidden behind the newspaper she isn’t reading, is Jane Yellowrock, a vampire hunter.” He tilted his head at Jane, who I hadn’t even noticed, and turned his attention back to us. Jane’s hands clenched tight, crinkling the paper. “So why call me in and ruin that spotless rep?”

  “Jane,” I said softly. “You’re busted. You may as well get on over here.” Jane stood and moved across the room, graceful and nonchalant as any pampered housecat. She slid into the empty seat at the table and passed the detective her card. “We did not need protection,” I said. “And curiosity killed the cat.” Jane chuckled at the not-so-veiled reference to her supernatural nature, but kept her attention on the cop.

  “‘Have Stakes Will Travel’” he read from the card. “Cute.” He tucked the card into his inner jacket pocket, including us all when he added, “Talk to me, people.”

  “I was hired to get rid of a ghost, demon, or haint—that’s a poltergeist, to you. Instead, I found what might be a bubble universe—my husband says it’s also called a pocket universe—with an unsolved murder hidden in it.” I now had Braxton’s full attention. “To get rid of the problem, as I was hired to, I have to release the universe, which will bring the murder, the murdered, and the accidently killed back to our time. And that will release a vampire who has been without blood since the 1940s.”

  “You know,” the cop said, pulling a small electronic tablet out of a pocket and starting to take notes, “I usually spend an hour getting this much information out of an informant. Succinct. I appreciate it, lady. Go on.”

  I explained it all to him, and his part in the solution if he was willing. He was. He also agreed to keep my name out of his report if at all possible. And we all agreed to meet at dusk back at the Hainbridge house for an exorcism. His last words to us were, “This will be different. I was afraid I’d be bored in this little town. Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else. And I’m Brax, to my friends.” Which sounded like a good way to start.

  * * *

  At dusk, Brax drove up to Monique Ravencroft’s house in his unmarked police car, parked, and joined us in the foyer. I had already cleansed the house by burning some dried sage, the acerbic smoke strong on the air. The chalk circle, the lit candles, cut crystal bowl, bell, and Bible were in place again, and, with the cop staring at the house and my equipment, I explained what I was going to do.

  When I was done, he looked at Evan and said, “I get why you’re here—to protect your wife.” He looked at Jane and said, “What’s your part in this?”

  She shook her head. “The vamp I saw was sane, and I don’t have a contract. You, however, can kill a sane vamp if one attacks. Think of me as your helpful witness.” She held out a silver-tipped stake. “Just in case.”

  I knew that she had a half-dozen identical stakes in her boot. If Brax missed, Jane would not let the vampire go free. She would take care of—well—everything and everyone around her. It was what she did.

  “And this,” Jane handed him a silvered blade, “is for cutting off his head. You know, if needed.”

  “Helpful, huh?” Brax shook his head, turning the blade so the candlelight caught and reflected off the silver. “You do know that this is longer than the legal limits on concealed carry for bladed weapons, right?”

  “I wasn’t carrying it. It was in my saddle bag on my bike,” she said with her humorless half-smile.

  “Uh huh. You Southerners are even more polite and obliging than I was led to believe.”

  “That’s us. Just itching to help out the New York Yankee cop.” Jane handed him a sheath for the blade, one that strapped at waist and thigh.

  Brax chuckled. “I’ve never used my vamp-fighting techniques, but I’ve kept certified and in practice.” He strapped on the blade and accepted the stake. “I’ve never had to kill a vampire. The Master of the City of New York keeps a firm hand on his underlings. So this is a first for me.”

  “We hope you won’t have to kill one tonight,” I said. “We hope he’ll be saner than he looked last.”

  “But we won’t bet our lives on it,” Evan said. “If he attacks and you need backup, you can deputize Jane.”

  “I’m not the sheriff,” Brax said, “but consider Jane deputized if it’ll keep my butt alive.” He looked at Evan. “Okay, Mr. Trueblood, Mrs. Trueblood. Ready when you are.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take us long to prepare. I was wearing the same white dress, slightly grimy from the last time I’d worn it here, which I gathered close and sat behind the bowl, cross-legged, the bowl of water between my knees. Just as last night, I opened the Ziploc bag and held Jane’s shirt over the bowl, shaking it with a snapping motion this time. There wasn’t much dust from the parlor left, but what there was sprinkled onto the still surface of the water. I took my three deep breaths to settle myself and nodded to Evan, who lifted the silver bell. As I spoke the words he rang the bell with the silver mallet. “Bell, book, and candle. Bell, book, and candle. Bell, book, and candle.” The tones were rich and true, echoing through the house. “Dust to dust, through time to now. Dust to dust, through time to now. Dust to dust, through time to now. Time of warding. Time of blood. Time of attack. Time of betrayal. Time of undead. Time of change. Time of vampire. Time of transference. Time of death.”

  As before, the bell chimes shivered through the empty house, leaving the air expectant. As the last tone faded, the water between my knees brightened, and so did the floor of the parlor. Twin, green, luminous feathers of light rose, twining and twisting like smoke, up to the ceiling overhead, pooling against the high corners, spreading toward the center of the room.

  The old-fashioned electric ceilin
g light appeared, adding light to the falling dark, revealing the furnishings of the past: the blood-rose walls, the velvet upholstered couch and wheeled tea tray, the wing chairs and card table. The man’s squeaky song came from the old-fashioned phonograph, hollow and cheery. The small, auburn haired woman once again sat in the wing chair, the basket of yarn at her feet. I heard Brax take a slow, shocked breath.

  The woman looked up, turned. Her eyes widened, mouth opened. The small form fell upon her, the pop of vampiric speed making Brax flinch. The child attacked, grabbing up the woman. She screamed. His fangs latched on and her scream stopped, to be replaced by a single strong sucking sound.

  The woman lifted her knitting needles. She stabbed the child.

  He screamed, the horrible note of true death.

  The second pop sounded and the taller, adult vampire appeared. He pulled the woman and child apart. Blood pumped scarlet from her throat, all over her white gown and out into the room. The child dangled, the wooden knitting needles in his body.

  The woman’s blood pumped over the man’s chest and the Kerr Symballophone. The child’s blood splattered it again. The man roared the single word, “No!” vamping out and falling to the floor beneath the two, cradling the woman, pulling the stakes from the child. He tore his own wrist and dribbled his blood into the child’s mouth, scooping the woman’s blood in as well. Letting the woman die, the woman he might have saved. Everything was just like the last time I had seen it.

  The vampire screamed, his fangs nearly two inches long, lifting to the light. His bellow was powerful. And as he sat there, the two bodies embraced on his lap, he looked right at me. He saw Jane behind me. Saw the cop, and Evan.

  Evan rang the bell again, one strong tone for each word of freedom and free, as I released my intent and purpose, saying, “Freedom be and freedom bought, freedom from the dead past sought. Free the house and end this spell. Free the dead to heaven and hell.”

  As I spoke, the vampire raced at us. With each tone, he aged and shrank, his tissues draining and flesh caving in. His bloody eyes going feral, rabid, insane. He roared again, this time for blood.

  The green light exploded out, the candles snuffed all at once. Dark fell on us. I was yanked back, Jane’s hands shockingly like steel, bruising me. I was shoved into Evan’s chest so hard my breath whuffed out of me. I heard the battle around me as Evan shuffled me out of the house into the night.

  But I saw, in the moonlight through the open door, Jane Yellowrock, as she raced toward the vampire, her body moving far faster than human, her eyes glowing golden, her face frozen in a rictus of action, lips pulled back, showing her teeth. And the cop, staking the vampire, but clearly too low, a belly stab. Instantly Jane staked the vampire, one hard thrust in the heart. Brax mirrored her move stabbing up with the knife, roaring with a battle scream. And then I was outside. In the cool night air, the breeze raising gooseflesh on my arms. And silence descended on the dark.

  The sounds of battle had gone on for only seconds, but it seemed much longer. The scream of vampire, the grunts of the people, the sound of blows hitting the night. Into the silence, I heard Jane say, “Not bad. You got your first vamp kill. But you have to take the vampires’ heads. Both of them.” And Brax cussed, long and hard, while Jane laughed.

  Evan wrapped me in his arms, murmuring to me, “It’s okay. It’s done. It’s okay now, sweetheart.” And I could smell the stink of bowels on the air from the witch who had died so long ago, and only moments in the past.

  Jane had told me about her inner beast, and I hadn’t understood, not at all. I was pretty sure I had seen it tonight, however, in the golden glow of her eyes, in the way her lips pulled back like an attacking cat’s. In the pure violence of her body flowing forward, supple and svelte and . . . and violence personified.

  I had thought of her as human, as softer than she really was. While Jane Yellowrock had a soft side—the side I saw when she was with Angie Baby, or when she went into “protect mode” around the abused, or when she prayed—she was not human. And she was anything but soft.

  I buried my head in Evan’s chest and closed my eyes, blocking out that image of Jane—warrior Jane—attacking. Moments later, she came out of the house and down the stairs, her eyes on me, evaluating, questioning, conjecturing. As if she could smell my new awareness of her on the air. For all I knew, she could.

  Behind her, Brax called out to Evan to come help him. He didn’t say why, but my husband patted my arms and left me. The night air was cool on my flesh where he had held me, and I shivered.

  Jane lilted up her lips at my shiver, the smile cynical and defensive. “I’m not a big bad ugly,” she said, her voice stiff. “I won’t hurt you. And I’d never hurt your daughter.”

  I realized I had hurt her though I had no idea how. “What?” I asked, perplexed. And then it occurred to me that tonight she had allowed me to see a part of her kept hidden until now. I had to wonder if anyone had ever seen her in killing mode. Well, anyone who was still alive. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered again, thinking about warrior-Jane near Angie. She was right. Jane would never hurt my daughter. And Angelina would never be safer than when she was with Jane Yellowrock. “You’re an idiot,” I said, putting all the asperity I could into my voice. “I’m not scared of you. I’m cold.”

  Jane blinked, opened her mouth, and closed it, thinking. “You’re not scared of me?”

  I shook my head no.

  Jane walked away a few paces and came back with her jacket which she wrapped around my shoulders. “Thanks,” she said, which I figured was my line, but I understood what she meant.

  “You are welcome,” I said. And she smiled at me, a real smile, soft and full and lovely.

  * * *

  The police investigation lasted for three weeks, with a complementary media hue and cry over the “unexplained appearance of people from seventy years in the past, all looking unchanged, yet all freshly killed,” and the “witch paraphernalia found at the scene.” The media attention went on until something more interesting happened and the news vans disappeared.

  And, of course, even when the crime scene tape came down, I still didn’t get paid. The lawyer didn’t answer or return my calls. The morning my old fridge finally wore out, shutting off with a small cough of what sounded like apology, Jane called Brax. I didn’t want her to, but Jane had a mind of her own and pretty much did what she wanted.

  A wire transfer for the full amount appeared in my banking account that afternoon, only minutes after the newly transplanted local cop paid a visit to the lawyer, off the record, and suggested that he pay his bill. Evan and Jane delivered my spanking new fridge that evening, just in time to save my frozen food.

  I fixed steaks that night, and the four of us—Jane, Evan, Angelina, and I—sat on the back porch, under the moonlight eating and drinking and talking like old friends. It was a perfect night. Or almost. Until Angelina turned to me and said, “Mama. You gonna have a baby!”

  In the shocked silence, Jane leaned in too and sniffed me, delicately, like a kitten exploring the world. “Huh. Angie Baby’s right. And ten bucks says it’s a boy.”

  SIGNATURES OF THE DEAD

  (Originally published in the anthology Strange Brew)

  It was nap time, and it wasn’t often that I could get both children to sleep a full hour, the same full hour, that is. I stepped back and ran my hands over the healing and protection spells that enveloped my babies, Angelina and Evan Jr. The complex incantations were getting a bit frayed around the edges, and I drew on Mother Earth and the forest on the mountainside out back to restore them. Not much power, not enough to endanger the ecosystem that was still being restored there. Just a bit. Just enough.

  Few witches or sorcerers survive into puberty, and so I spend a lot of time making sure my babies are okay. I come from a long line of witches. Not the kind in pointy black hats with a cauldron in the front yard, and not the kind like the Bewitched television show that once tried to capitalize on our
reclusive species. Witches aren’t human, though we can breed true with humans, making little witches about fifty percent of the time. Unfortunately, witch babies have a poor survival rate, especially the males, most dying before they reach the age of twenty from various cancers. The ones who live through puberty, however, tend to live into their early hundreds.

  The day each of my babies were conceived, I prayed and worked the same incantations Mama had used on her children, power-weavings, to make sure my babies were protected. Mama had better-than-average survival rate on her witches. For me, so far, so good. I said a little prayer over them and left the room.

  Back in the kitchen, Paul Braxton—Brax to his friends, Detective or Sir to the bad guys he chased—Jane Yellowrock, and Evan were still sitting at the table, the photographs scattered all around. Crime scene photos of the McCarley house. And the McCarleys. It wasn’t pretty. The photos didn’t belong in my warm, safe home. They didn’t belong anywhere.

  Evan and I were having trouble with them, with the blood and the butchery. Of course, nothing fazed Jane. And, after years of dealing with crime in New York City, little fazed Brax.

  I met Evan’s gray eyes, seeing the steely anger there. My husband was easygoing, slow to anger and full of peace, but the photos of the five McCarleys had triggered something in him, a slow-burning, pitiless rage. He was feeling impotent, useless, and he wanted to smash things. The boxing bag in the garage would get a pummeling tonight, after the kids went to bed for the last time. I offered him a wan smile and went to the Aga stove; I poured fresh coffee for the men and tea for Jane and me. She had brought a new variety, a first flush Darjeeling, and it was wonderful with my homemade bread and peach-butter.