BloodWalk

by BloodWalk (lit)

  Cold and dread sunk into his spine, bones, and gut. Dread? Or maybe just uncertainty. What she said carried a ring of truth. "Power? Something I've learned as a cop, and maybe as a vampire, too, is that power always carries responsibility, and the greater the power, the greater the responsibility for not abusing it."

  Lane snorted. "A human notion. For us there is no responsibility because there is no one with more power who can punish us."

  The dread grew. The latter was certainly true. Garreth felt leaden, as though daylight pressed down on him. Very soon, he feared, he would see what the dread was, and he did not want to. That she was right. That he must forget Lien and Harry, Maggie and Nat, everyone he cared about, and look on them as no more than walking bottles of blood?

  "And we certainly have no responsibility to humans," Lane continued coldly. "They are only food. We prey on them. We must. It's our nature."

  The words cut like a knife, but to his surprise, the knife did not stab him. Rather, it sliced through his uncertainty, suddenly releasing him. He straightened like a drowning man finding a bottom under his feet and his head out of the water. "Bullshit! It's the vampire nature to need blood and prefer darkness and sleep on the earth, and that is all! The rest we choose: our source of blood, killing or not in obtaining it, the way we use our power. I may be new to this life, but I can recognize the difference between what I must do and what I may do. So don't do any numbers on me about predestination and compulsive behavior!" His voice was rising. With an effort, Garreth dragged it down again, to keep the whole town from hearing. "You abuse people because you hate them. You kill because you enjoy it. I understand why you do it, but that doesn't mean you have to do it, and it sure as hell doesn't justify it! You're a killer and you have to answer for it."

  Her eyes flared. "You've decided that, have you? Tell me, how do you justify that? What gives you the right to judge me? That badge?"

  The dread burst in him, like ice, like hunger cramps. He wanted to turn away and throw up. "No, not the badge." There was no responsibility, she said, because there was no one with greater power to punish her . . . the same principle punks like Wink lived by: get away with everything you can until you're caught. And of course they never thought they would be caught. There was another principle, though, one that worked in human law and could apply equally to vampires. An awareness of it must have been working at him since the evening's first mention of the difficulty of taking her back to San Francisco. He drew a deep breath and said steadily, "I'm your peer."

  She froze. "A jury of one?"

  Acting to recreate order must be done with proper authority. He leaned back against the rail, fingers biting into it. "I'm all there is."

  Lane stared at him. He avoided her gaze. After a moment, she gave up trying to trap his eyes and shrugged. "Very well. How does the jury find me? Guilty?"

  He felt as though he were suffocating. "Yes."

  "Then what sentence do you pass?"

  The question stunned him. Something else he had not thought through. What could he do? Have her make some kind of anonymous cash gift to compensate the dead men's families? But that did nothing to restrain her from killing again. "I . . . have to think about it."

  "Poor baby." She strolled back and reached out as though to stroke his cheek.

  But before she touched him, her hands dropped to grab his upper arms. A knee drove hard up into his groin.

  Pain exploded through Garreth. The world disappeared beyond a raging blue haze and he dropped to the floor, writhing and gasping in anguish.

  Dimly, he felt her hands going through his jacket pockets, and heard the jingle of keys. "Dumb mick," she hissed. "The world could have been yours. Now I'm imposing a sentence on you. Actually I'm doing you a favor by granting your wish. You will die, finally and irrevocably."

  The heels of her boots rapped down the steps and away toward the bridge.

  Garreth struggled to stand, to pursue her, but could not even make it to his knees, only continue to huddle groaning and cursing. Through the pain paralyzing him came the distant snarl of the ZX's engine. With it rang a grim echo in his head. Setting one's self to alter things according to one's own judgment can end in mistake and failure . . . mistake and failure . . . failure.

  3

  A decade later he managed to drag himself up the railing of the bandstand, and a couple of years after that the pain finally subsided enough for Garreth to walk. Anger helped, even directed at himself. Dumb Mick, all right. The maiden is powerful. When the hell are you going to get that through your thick skull and quit underestimating her, man?

  Reaching the bridge, he paused to breathe deeply and push self-recrimination aside. It did not solve the problem at hand, which was what to do now. With any other fugitive he could call for back-up and count on help from every other officer in the area. But not this one. It would only needlessly endanger their lives. He really was the only one to deal with her.

  But maybe he could let them help find her.

  He broke into a run, angling through the park so he came out on Seventh Street and raced down it toward City Hall. The wind had swung around to the north, he noticed, and it felt damp. A sign of snow coming?

  A patrol car rolling up the street toward him braked to a stop. Maggie rolled down her window. "Garreth, I passed some girl driving your car a couple of minutes ago. When I realized it was your car, I swung around the block to catch her again, but by that time she was gone."

  "That was La-Mada Bieber, Anna Bieber's daughter." He scrambled into the passenger side. "Will you call Sue and have her ask Nat to be on the lookout for the car and woman? I need to talk to her."

  Magpie raised an eyebrow. "She looked a whole lot younger than Mada Bieber."

  "The night is kind to aging faces." He gave her a quick smile.

  Maggie continued to eye him. "How does she happen to have your car?"

  Garreth grimaced. He would probably have to give some kind of explanation sooner or later. "She snatched the keys while we were sitting on the steps of the bandstand."

  The curious stare became a suspicious frown. "What were you doing on Pioneer Island with a woman old enough to be your grandmother?"

  He groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed to deal with now was jealousy. "Finding out she is my grandmother . . . and not very happy about the past crashing in on her." He reached for the microphone. "206 Baumen. Ask 303 to watch for a red 1983 Datsun ZX, local-"

  "Baumen 206," Sue Pfeifer interrupted. "Be advised that vehicle is 10-19."

  He blinked at the radio. The car was at the station?

  Before he could ask about it, though, Sue went on, "206, will you please check the high school? 10-96 reported around the gymnasium."

  Magpie grimaced. "Even on Thanksgiving someone has to be out making trouble."

  They both checked all around the high school, but neither saw any sign of the reported prowler. All the doors and windows were secure. After ten minutes, Magpie called off the search and they drove on to the station, where Sue handed over Garreth's keys.

  "This woman stuck her head in through the door and tossed the keys at me. She said to tell you she's sorry for stranding you and that she'll see you later."

  Cold slid down Garreth's spine. He heard Lane's voice beneath Sue's cheerful tone and the words rang with threat.

  Maggie said, "Sounds like she's cooling down."

  He smiled grimly. "Yes." Cooling to sub-freezing. The lady of ice and steel was out there planning how to kill him. He tried to imagine possible methods. Throw garlic at him and break his neck while he struggled to breathe? Wait and attack while he slept?

  No matter. She was not going to have the chance. Lane had victimized him for the last time. He intended to find her first, and while he hunted, would think of some way to deal with her.

  Blood smells from the two women swirled around him. His stomach cramped, reminding him sharply that he still had not eaten today. That had better be taken care of before he started the hunt
.

  Calling goodnights over his shoulder, he headed for the door and his car.

  His watch read midnight as he turned in the drive. Leaving the car running, he went to peer in through the windows on his side before opening the garage door. It was empty. The tool drawers caught his eye. Might there be something in them that would make an effective weapon? His gun was no good unless the bullets had suddenly transmuted to wood.

  Wood. His gaze slid to the stack of firewood against the back of the house, and to the smaller pieces left from tree trimming during the summer and saved for kindling. Garreth's gut twisted. No! He turned away. Not that. It would be setting himself up as judge. It would also be murder. There had to be another answer, even if it meant becoming her companion after all, in order to be her keeper.

  He bent down for the garage door handle.

  A flat thrum and hiss sounded from the direction of the shrubbery separating Helen's property from that next door. Garreth reacted with all his cop's training and instincts . . . spinning and dropping. Not quite fast enough, however. Pain exploded in his right shoulder. He fell backward against the garage door.

  With shock, he saw the feathered shaft of an arrow pinning uniform jacket to his shoulder. But even then his training carried through. He rolled for the cover of the car.

  There he pressed against the front fender and wheel and pulled at the arrow, gritting his teeth against the pain as the shaft grated on the underside of his collar bone. At the same time he listened, straining for any sounds that would give him Lane's position. The assailant must be Lane. But the rumble of the car's engine drowned out all other sound.

  The arrow came free in a spurt of blood . . . and fear. The arrow confirmed his assailant's identity. Among those plaques on the Bieber dining room wall were several for excellence in archery. The arrow also told him how vulnerable he was to her. Its metal point had been broken off and the shaft sharpened in hurried, rough knife cuts. An arrow, Garreth realized with sudden chill, throwing it aside, was essentially a wooden stake.

  He pressed the jacket against his shoulder, using the thick pile lining to soak up the blood, and scooted toward the car door. The car would protect him. He could also use it to escape.

  Then a sharp hiss sounded above the engine and the rear of the car sank. Garreth swore. She had put an arrow in a rear tire. No matter; he could still drive. Tires were replaceable. He reached for the door handle.

  Heels rapped on the concrete of the driveway, approaching the car. Garreth froze. The moment the door opened, she would know what he intended to do. Could he open it and throw himself in faster than she could circle the car? He licked his lips. He would have to try.

  He reached for the door handle again.

  "Don't move, lover," came a whisper. "Stay very still."

  To his horror, her voice dragged at him like daylight. He wanted to obey. Grimly, he fought the power of it, fought to reach for the door handle.

  The heels tapped closer, circling the rear end of the car. "You're weak. You're hurt, poor baby. You want to curl up and wait for the pain to go away."

  No. Move, you stupid flatfoot. Move! But his body, shocky from pain, blood loss, and hunger, would not listen to his mind. With all his will pushing his hand toward the door handle, the hand still fell back.

  Lane appeared around the car. She held the bow with another arrow nocked, the bowstring half drawn.

  Could two play the power game? Panting in gasps of pain and with the steam of his breath fogging his vision, he stared hard at her. "You don't want to shoot me." He crouched, presenting as small a target as possible, protecting his chest. He poured his will at her. "Put down the bow and arrow. Lay it down."

  She continued drawing back the bowstring. "Good try, but it won't work, lover. I've had more practice. Now, sit up," she crooned. "Give me a good target so it'll be over quick."

  No. No! his mind screamed. His body slowly, inexorably straightened.

  She smiled. "That's a good boy."

  Desperately he fought to look away, fought to think of his pain, to become angry, but nothing worked. She held him, pinned him with her eyes like a butterfly specimen.

  A second floor window opened. "Is that you, Garreth?" Helen's voice called.

  Lane's gaze shifted fractionally.

  Free! He flung himself sideways.

  The bowstring thrummed again, but this time she was late. The arrow clattered across the paving where he had been.

  "Garreth?" Helen leaned out.

  Like a shadow, Lane leaped for the shrubbery.

  "Garreth, what's going on!"

  He scrambled to his feet. "Stay inside where you're safe."

  Lane was headed east. Garreth blocked out the pain in his shoulder and raced after the fading sound of her footsteps. Vampires healed fast, he reminded himself. The bleeding had stopped; the pain should disappear soon, too, then. In any case, he had no time to bother with it. He must catch Lane.

  He saw only glimpses of her between trees, shrubbery, and buildings. His vampire hearing let him follow the sound of her flight, though. Minutes later he saw Maggie, too, headed west on Oak with light bar flashing. Helen must have called in about him.

  Between the medical center and the hospital lay only open lawn. There he saw Lane clearly, but could not gain on her. Still well ahead of him, she raced past the doctors' offices and across the street into a yard. On the other hand, he was staying with her.

  Three blocks later, approaching downtown, he remained just over half a block behind. Then she dodged north behind the Prairie State Bank. When he reached the alley entrance, she had vanished.

  Obviously she had passed through the rear door into one of the buildings along the alley. The question was, which one?

  The Prairie State Bank had no alley door but the library on the back side of the block did. Might she have gone in there? He could imagine her lying in wait among the stacks.

  He touched the door-wrench-and stood on a landing, between short flights of stairs leading down into a basement and up behind the circulation desk on the main floor. Garreth grimaced. The passage had renewed the lessening pain in his shoulder. With an effort, he ignored it and sniffed the air. It smelled of dust and paper and the musky odors of humanity which had been sinking into the walls and tables since Carnegie money put up the building. Traces of glues carried up from the basement. There was no fresh blood scent, though. Then it occurred to him that he had noticed no blood scent all the time he was with Lane. It would make sense that vampires could not scent blood in each other; they were not potential food sources. But he smelled no trace of her spicy-musky perfume, either.

  He held his breath and listened. There were only the creaks and sighs of an aging building, and for a few minutes the roar of the furnace . . . no footsteps, no hiss of breathing. No Lane.

  Wrench. Pain sliced through his shoulder again. Garreth grimaced as he peered up and down the alley. This constant aggravation of his wound was going to make the search a really fun one.

  Would she have gone into one of the stores? The main sections were all lighted and their interiors visible from the street, but back rooms and office space would not be. J.C. Penney lay closest.

  Wrench.

  But this time triumph helped him forget the pain. She was here . . . somewhere! The scent of her perfume hung fresh among the stale fading odors of daytime occupancy. The entire main floor stretched before him with no sign of her, but he could not see it all. Clothing racks sat close enough together to use for cover.

  He dropped to a crouch behind one so he could not be seen, either, and listened for any sound which should not be here. Nothing. Only the normal building creaks. The household goods section lay downstairs. Could she have gone there, or up to the offices on the second floor? His hand itched for a gun, though he knew it would be useless. Old habits die hard. He had had one on every other building search like this.

  Running, crouched, for the stairs up to the offices, he wondered why she had come in he
re. It was not as though she were a simple fugitive who wanted just to hide so she could escape.

  The scent of her perfume in the stairway faded halfway up. Garreth continued the climb just to satisfy himself that she had not come this way. He smelled no trace of her in the upper hallway.

  Downstairs, plastic hangers rattled.

  Garreth raced down the steps on tip toes, cat-silent. Just in time to see a figure carrying a bundle under one arm vanish at the rear door.

  Lane had changed clothes, to running shoes and a dark blue man's work coverall. Her hair was all pushed up under a dark stocking cap. The bundle must be her own clothes, then, wrapped up in her jacket.

  He ran for the door, too, then hesitated. Outside metal rang softly, like the lid of a trash dumpster being stealthily lowered . . . or someone crawling across the top. Garreth had a sudden mental image of Lane crouching atop the dumpster in wait for him.

  He quickly considered his options. Opening the door would set off alarms. Try going through low and rolling? Not having tried it before, he could not be sure that was even possible.

  He turned away and moved from rack to rack for the front door. Better to go around and head her off.

  A glance out the window from the cover of the last rack showed him the street was clear.

  Wrench!

  He leaned back against the door, clutching his shoulder and breathing through clenched teeth. That had been the worst one yet. It took most of a minute for the pain to subside to just a fierce throb.

  "What's this-drinking on the job?" a voice sneered. "An outrage."

  Garreth looked up to see a familiar blue van coasting to a stop opposite him and the Dreiling boy leaning across to the passenger window. He made himself stand up and let go of his shoulder. "A little late for you to be out, isn't it, Scott?"