Through several sessions with Hershel, I’d learned a little about the Good Neighbors. Especially their surprisingly common half-breeds. Unlike changelings, who had a part of themselves replaced at the moment of birth by some entity Next Door, faeries were Fae raised by human parents or born in human lands right here at Home. While some never even found out they were special, living all their lives ignorant of the world Next Door, those that discovered their true nature went through a metamorphosis, eventually just becoming part of the Folk.
“One might think you didn’t want your neck healed,” he protested in his lighthearted, rumbling bass voice. He ran one hand through his red-brown hair, the perpetually messy counterpart to his prodigious beard. I still dangled from his other hand, feet off the ground despite him squatting on a tiny stool in a secluded area of the Botanical Gardens.
“Pffft,” I replied. “We had a deal.” The Fae apparently took deals, debts, and truth very seriously—though the way they interpreted each often left something to be desired. Hershel, despite “only” being a faerie, was no exception. Back when we’d gone to community college together, we’d gotten along quite well; despite falling out of touch after I dropped out, he’d obviously still considered me a friend.
Which was why, when the vampire version of Ashley Currigan wandered into the Botanical Gardens—only to have its resident faerie protector try to kill me—he’d felt like he had betrayed our friendship, and asked to make it up to me.
See, Hershel wasn’t just any faerie. He was a Warden of the Green, sort of like a lieutenant of the Fair Folk’s version of the military. His charge was protecting the Gardens, that small island of peaceful greenery—and Dawn Fae territory—in the middle of Birmingham’s smoke, smog, concrete, and steel. As I understood, it was an important job, and with CCOS and the Sanguinarians having a stranglehold on the area, not an easy job, either. I respected him for it.
The flesh in my neck squirmed, slowly growing back together. I dangled, holding still. It wasn’t painful, but it was far from enjoyable. My undead flesh was just as resistant to Hershel’s attempts to fix it as it was to pretty much everything else, which was why this process had taken so long in the first place. Otherwise his “Fae-ing on hands,” as I liked to call it, would have seen me cured months ago.
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied. My skin tightened, crawling and knotting together. Then, suddenly, the sensation subsided, and the big faerie set me carefully on my feet. “And that’s it. We’re even.”
I blinked. “Just like that?” I rasped. “We’re done?” I frowned. “Why’s my voice still fucked, then?”
He grunted, wiping some of my viscous, bloody neck-fluid down his green Minecraft shirt and grass-stained khaki shorts. “Well, if you want to pay to send me back to college to learn enough anatomy and advanced medicine to fix something as complicated as your vocal cords, then we’ve got a deal.” He flashed white teeth at me in a winning smile, offering his hand as if to shake on it.
I ignored the hand. “I’m wearing duct tape and someone else’s coat. Do I look like I have that kind of cash?” Yeah, I’d really hoped to get a proper voice out of all of this. But, when it came down to it, I was just happy that my neck no longer felt and looked like someone had tested lawn mowers on it.
He eyed me. “But I heard you own a church.”
I rolled my eyes, wondering how he knew about that, and what that meant for my attempts to stay low profile. Hershel hadn’t pried too deeply into what I was, but I didn’t know if that was because he thought he already knew or what. I shrugged and stuffed my hands into my pockets, causing him to lower his. “Thanks, Hersh. I’d say I owe you one, but I don’t.”
He grinned. “Now you’re getting it.” The whole system of bargains and negotiation seemed like a game to him.
“I do appreciate it, though.”
He nodded. “No worries, Ash.” Groaning, he stood, stretching his back. “I guess we’re done?”
I thought about it, not moving to leave just yet. “One more thing.” He raised a curious eyebrow. I gambled. “Do you know anything about trolls?” Trolls were Fae, too. So he might stonewall me. On the other hand…
Hershel’s storm-gray eyes narrowed. “I’ve run into a few in my time. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” I was betting that trolls were Dusk court; the realm of decay, entropy, ice, stone, and darkness. It made sense, just like it would make them the natural enemy of a Warden of the Green. “I just, you know, might have seen one recently.”
He frowned. “You shouldn’t have. Trolls are courtless, like ronin. Mercenaries.” Oh. He seemed to realize he was volunteering information for free, but didn’t stop quite yet. “They sit between Dawn and Dusk, some of the midday and midnight children of the Fair Folk. With the Old Days gone, they have little reason to set foot on your Home unless they were called to do so.” I had his attention, and his curiosity.
“So, would I see one, say, in the company of a non-Fae? Could they get a troll on their side?” I glanced around at the courtyard of night-blooming flowers still unfurling their beauty all around us, playing nonchalant. If I made it obvious how interested I was in the information, he’d probably try to charge me for it.
He scrubbed vigorously at his beard, thoughtful. “S’possible. Yeah. Especially if they wanted to show off their influence or magic. It’s not exactly easy, but trolls are fearsome foes and clever too. So ultimately worth it.” He considered the starry sky for a moment, then me. “What was it doing here? The troll, I mean.”
Beating me up, I thought. I knew Hershel was throwing me a fair deal, info for info. But I didn’t have the answers he wanted. Hell, I didn’t have the answers I wanted. “How would you deal with one?” I countered. “Do they have any weaknesses? I think I dispelled the last one in a well.”
Hershel sighed, smiling at me. “Damn and you were doing so well. Sorry Ashley, but I can’t just sell the secrets of my people for free. However…”
I shook my head, sighing. I didn’t have anything Hersh wanted. “Oh well. Was worth a try.” I glanced at the night sky; the dim glow in the west now completely consumed by ambient light pollution. “I need to be heading out anyway. Lot to do tonight.”
He gave me an easy smile. “No problem. Come by sometime, okay?” He frowned, looking protectively around at his Gardens. “Just don’t make a frequent habit of it.”
I nodded, unsurprised by his reservations. “Sure thing. Laters, Hersh.” I turned to go, pulling out my phone to text Charles.
“Oh, Ashley.”
I twisted, looking back at the big faerie over my shoulder.
“Take care.” His stormy eyes flashed, as if little bits of personal lightning were trapped within. “Your future… I see a storm coming, and you standing without shelter.”
I considered, and nodded my thanks. “Sounds like another Tuesday.”
- - -
I wasn’t out of the Gardens before my phone buzzed.
I checked it quickly, irrationally worried that it might be an emergency message from Charles or Tamara, but it was an incoming call instead. I didn’t recognize the number.
Frowning, I hesitated, but the call didn’t go away. So I hit the button and answered it. “Hello? City morgue.”
A dry chuckle greeted me. “Enjoying the Gardens at night, Ashley?”
I froze, still as ice. I recognized neither the laugh nor the voice; though something about the rich, foreign accent nudged at the back of my mind.
“This is Ashley the Strigoi, right?”
Like ice, I shattered inside, fear uncoiling as my stomach sank like a stone. But instead of giving in to that fear, I growled, replacing it with anger. I recognized where I’d heard that voice before.
“Having fun with my blood sample, asshole? I hope you realize I’m gonna want it back.” I bared fangs as I glanced around, scanning the empty monochrome shadows. The cultured Spanish accent belonged to none other than the older-looking Sanguinarian blood mage from the bar. A
nd he had to be somewhere nearby; he knew where I was and what I was doing. “You don’t want to be around when I come looking.”
“The name is Salvatore, actually,” he replied casually. “And I just wanted to call and say hello, and to let you know I’ll be dropping by with some friends sometime soon.”
I grunted into the phone, trying not to grip it too hard and crush it. “Someone sounds confident.”
“Shouldn’t I be? I’m close to bringing back an entire dead race. It’s quite the accomplishment. I think a lot of people will be very interested in that.”
“Fair enough,” I grinned, my mind racing. “Of course, I figure that if you could actually prove something like that with what you’ve got, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d just drop a shit ton of Bloodbags on me out of nowhere. So I figure you’re calling to intimidate me or manipulate me or something else I don’t give a shit about because it's not going to work.”
I could hear the edge of irritation in his voice, and it only encouraged me. “Miss Currigan, I really think that you—”
“And I think you’re full of shit.” Call me impetuous, but with potentially nothing left to lose, this was actually kind of fun.
“I have many important connections among my kind, you know. This will not go well for you.”
If he had that good of connections, I would have stepped out of the Gardens into a ravening pack of blood vampires. I snorted. “Oh yeah? Then what were you doing holding court in a Sang loser bar?”
Silence reigned from the other end of the line.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” I commented flatly.
I hung up on him. And just in case he was watching, I flipped off the shadows.
Now that a Sanguinarian knew what I was— and literally had my number— it might mean the end of my second life as a vampire. It might mean I was in for a world of hurt, and more.
But if Salvatore the Asshole wanted me, he’d have to come and get me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Certified spook hunger
Charles picked me up and we headed toward Sloss Furnaces, at least until I filled him in on what he’d missed and he nearly hit a parked car.
“Say what?” He stomped on the brakes, cursing and looking more at me than the road. The thick treads of four sturdy tires ground gravel and asphalt, dragging us to a sudden stop.
I bounced harmlessly off of the dashboard and shrugged. “Creepy child nightmare. Tried to eat my face. Then a Sanguinarian telemarketer called, wanting to know if I’d buy his bullshit.” Charles glared at me. “What?”
He twisted, looking over his shoulder and backing the Silverado up. “First off, there is no way you were dreaming.”
“I hate to tell you, Chief, but—”
He kept talking, just raising his voice to smother mine. “Second, now that this Salvatore creature knows what you are, it’s nothing but bad news. He was an accomplished magician; give him long enough, and he’ll figure out a way to prove it or at least get someone interested enough to start looking into it. You’re lucky he hasn’t already.”
Was I nervous? Oh hell yeah, I was nervous.
“And that’s nothing compared to how things will be if the Sangs manage to start a war,” he groused. “Kidnapping an underaged Moroi child of the Queen’s bloodline is insane. They’d be lucky to die.” He threw the truck in drive and coasted down the road, slowing down and pulling off on the shoulder. “And not to mention how bad war would be for you and me. You’d lose a lot of protection, and I’d have a high chance of becoming collateral damage—and that’s if they don’t realize how much I’ve been fucking their shit up behind the scenes.” Grumbling, he threw the truck into park and cursed again. “Give me a minute to think.”
I gave him the silence and space he requested, and Charles leaned on the wheel, resting his stubbly chin in his palm. Finally, he nodded.
“First, your blood,” he announced. “I figure the only way other Sanguinarians wouldn’t jump on the Strigoi bandwagon is because they so firmly believe that you’re all dead—and they want to keep believing it. Easier to think that this Salvatore is crazy.” He eyed me. “But give him long enough to rave about it, and someone will listen.”
“Even if just to shut him up,” I rasped, nodding. The Moroi might not be the only ones at war soon. “So, could you do something like track the bit of blood he’s got with the vial I gave you?”
Charles considered. “Good thought. Maybe? It’d be tricky, but it’s on the list if nothing else works out.” He shifted, adjusting his seatbelt and putting a hand to the staff wedged into the cab between us. “Second, you didn’t dream.”
I didn’t bother trying to interrupt him.
“Dreaming involves part of your mind going Next Door, just like when anything separates your mind from your body.” He frowned. “That’s something you can’t do, not anymore. Of the vampires, only the Moroi can dream.”
“Because they’re still mortal.”
He nodded. “Which means your mind didn’t go over there. Something came to you.”
I shivered. That sounded a lot worse than just having a nightmare.
“It must have had some sort of strong connection to be able to invade your mind, even while you sleep,” he brooded. “To be honest, I don’t know how that works, either.” Slowly, he shifted gears, and we started cautiously off again.
“So, if it say, kills or hurts me in the dream, will I die for real?” I stifled a shudder. “Like in The Matrix or Nightmare on Elm Street?”
“Are those movies?” Charles huffed. He didn’t watch movies. “And no, your mind is your own. The only way something could actually harm you there is if you let it.”
It was food for thought.
I waved at Charles’ little house as we passed, skirting some of the more dangerous neighborhoods and heading back into the parks and gentrifying neighborhoods near downtown Birmingham, hiding the wizard’s truck in our normal spot a couple blocks from Sloss Furnaces. It was better to walk than to drive right up to the place this late; since our supernatural showdown had done its damage to the property, there’d been a lot more security, especially of the automated electronic surveillance kind. And while each of us might have our ways around that, an entire vehicle was a little harder to conceal.
Sloss was an old 1880’s blast furnace, built back in the heyday of Birmingham’s now nonexistent iron industry. But where massive towers once belted towering plumes of smoke into the atmosphere and blasts of air and flame rendered tons of iron to liquid, now crowds gathered to listen to music, brave the famous annual Sloss Fright Furnace, and explore the history of 1900’s industry. At least, in the daytime they did. At night, it was once again back to just a skeleton of its former self: dead, defunct, and most definitely haunted.
Now almost intimately familiar with the towering, decaying industrial furnace, I led us through the grounds until we were surrounded on all sides by uncounted tons of rusting metal, like a petrified, mechanical forest. I might not own Sloss, but in many ways it was just as much my place as the church was. My Strigoi “parents” had intended this place to be a permanent lair, tainting it with human sacrifice and inundating it with the aura of death, bringing it close to the deathly realms Next Door. With one of them dead and the other vanished, I had more or less inherited the aging furnaces.
This was my turf now, and I kept it clean of anything seeking to use its powerful connection to Next Door for their own ends— as well as stopping anything lurking just Next Door that might come across and stir up trouble. And by “stir up trouble,” I meant “tearing innocent people limb from limb while eating them,” or “dragging them kicking and screaming back Next Door with them.” Death-aligned monstrosities from Next Door did not play. That I knew from experience. At least stepping Next Door from here didn’t typically lead to the Rawhead’s lair anymore…I might have killed it almost a year ago, but its home still held unpleasant memories for me.
Charles followed me in si
lence as we trod the places where no one ever went—and for good reason. During our final showdown, Ariande the elder Strigoi had torn open a massive rift leading Next Door, imbued with the deaths of innocents. But, according to my inquiries into its history, it wasn’t the first time the site had played host to murder. Everything from bodies entombed in the very foundation to the legends of vengeful spirits were tied to Sloss’ history, and I’d found there was a lot of truth to it. If there was something leaving trails of death across Birmingham, it might well be drawn to Sloss.
Of course, Charles and I hadn’t found anything the first two times we’d checked for the same thing, but the third try was always the charm, right?
We made our surreptitious way around the grounds, feeling out our surroundings for anything that might be amiss. The rift that had opened at Sloss was long dead—just like me, heh heh heh—but the echo of its presence could still be readily felt; power ebbed and flowed around me, the ambient energy seeping into my bones, invigorating me and making me feel as close to alive as a dead girl could get.
As we looped around the old blast furnaces, we headed toward the front of the plant, where a grassy lawn lead to the parking lot on one side and a metal-roofed pavilion on the other. We kept an eye out for any night watchmen, or rather Charles watched while I simply listened for approaching heartbeats. He halted me and gestured, shrugging, while scanning the darkness, staff in hand.
I considered. Nothing was as likely to show itself around the visitor’s center, or the public parking lot and its grassy strip of recently repaired plaques and dedications. Far more probable was the rusting industrial jungle further back, which we’d already circled around, or the darkened, abandoned concert hall, the same extended amphitheater and stage that had hosted our duel to the death with a pair of Strigoi. My eyes settled on the long amphitheater, and I pointed it out to Charles. He nodded and we started that way.
That’s when we heard the screams.
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