He closed his eyes. "No."
She shook him. "You're being foolish. Taking blood does not have to be an act of rape."
He opened his eyes with a start to stare up at her in disbelief.
She smiled. "That is a choice. Ours is by nature a solitary existence, but not one in a vacuum. From humans we come, and we remain bound to them by our needs for food and companionship. Lack of either brings death, of mind if not body."
Like Christopher Stroda, Garreth thought suddenly.
"Does it not make sense, then, to treat people not like cattle but as friends, and ask for what we need rather than just take it?"
"Ask?" There he had her. She was crazy. "Who would say yes?"
"Me," Lien said. While he gaped at her, she unbuttoned the collar of her blouse. "You need blood; please take it."
"Or take mine," Grandma Doyle said. "Your life comes from me already through your mother. Let me give it to you again."
He twisted his head to regard her with wonder. They meant it! But . . . how could he sink his fangs into his own grandmother's neck, or Lien's?
Irina murmured, "There are vessels where punctures are less conspicuous than in carotid artery. Brachial at elbow, for example, and popliteal behind knee."
His grandmother stretched her arm out across his shoulder. It brushed his cheek, soft and freckled, smelling of lavender and warm, salty blood. "Take the blood. Don't let that devil destroy you."
Don't let the scum win. Think survival.
With the words reverberating in him, Garreth turned his head and kissed the inside of her elbow. A pulse fluttered against his lips. Blood. He could smell it, could almost taste it. Locating the strongest beat with the tip of his tongue, he sank his fangs into the arm. Blood welled up from the punctures . . . warm and sweetly salty as he remembered the auto accident girl's as being, everything he longed to drink, a delicious fire in his throat. He swallowed, again and again. Slowly, strength seeped back into him.
"Enough!" Irina's voice said. "Release her. Let . . . go."
A grandmotherly knuckle thumped him on the head. Reluctantly, he drew out of her arm. "I haven't had enough," he protested.
"You have taken enough from her."
His grandmother smoothed hair back from his forehead. "I want to help you, but I've no desire to join you. The price of forever's too high."
Lien knelt beside him and held her arm out. "Take the rest from me."
He bent his head to her arm.
This time he drank less greedily, and found himself feeling the rhythm of her blood, watching for signs that he might be taking too much. But hunger ended and he pulled back before she showed any weakening. He eyed her for some evidence of repugnance or regret.
Instead, she smiled. "Now you carry my blood, too. How do you feel?"
"Still shaky." Pain remained in his hip and shoulder. It had lessened noticeably, however, and the bleeding had stopped.
Irina handed him his glasses. "Do you feel strong enough to tell us what honorable, legal solution you have found to our problem?" She gestured toward Fowler.
Garreth bit his lip. If he admitted he had no solution, she might impose her own. Fowler's catatonic state gave him an idea. "We have the power to make people forget us. I think-"
Irina interrupted with a shake of her head. "Our powers are limited. We can edit his memories of today, but not make him forget either us or his hatred of us. That stretches back through his entire life."
"What about making him one of you?" Grandma Doyle said. "To tell anyone about you then would be to betray himself as well."
"I think that would make no difference to him," Irina said. "Would it, Garreth?"
He shook his head. "For a long time I hated what I'd become so much that if I could have brought Lane to justice by announcing to the world what she was, I would have, and not given a damn about the personal consequences. I would have welcomed true death."
"I, too," Irina said. "I planned to confess about myself to Prince Yevgeni as soon as I had my revenge on Viktor. I did not, obviously, but only because by time I could, my instinct for self-preservation had reasserted itself. We wouldn't have time for that with Englishman. He would run into street screaming denounciations of us."
"Let him," Lien said. "There are more people like my husband than me in the world. Who will believe him?"
"Even a few is too many. We cannot afford scrutiny." Irina sighed. "Is a problem with only one solution. Grania, you and Lien take Garreth home. I will see to cleaning up here."
"There has to be an alternative," Garreth protested. He thought desperately. There had to be! Clearly people were much harder to convince about vampires than he had been afraid they would be all wrong. He should be able to use that.
"I am sorry, Garreth."
Lien and Grandma Doyle each slipped an arm under his.
He shook them off. "No. Wait! What if-" What if what? An idea had raced past him just a moment ago. He struggled to find it again in the swirling chaos in his head. There! He snatched at it. Yes. Yes! It might work. "What if the people he denounces can bear scrutiny?"
Irina went still. He felt the hidden eyes staring at him. Finally she said, "Explain, please."
He explained.
Irina pursed her lips thoughtfully. "What if he attacks?"
"You and I will be close enough to intervene."
"This will prevent him from killing again?"
"That's the beauty of it. Once he's discredited, he's safe to run through the criminal justice system like any other murderer."
Grandma Doyle grinned. "You're the devil himself, boy. I'll do me best to make it work."
"Me, too," Lien said.
He knew he could count on them. "What super ladies the two of you are." He squeezed their hands. "Let's get cracking."
13
First they had to set Fowler up. While Irina prepared their prisoner to turn from a statue back into a man, Lien closed the windows and drapes. That left the room lighted by only a three-way table lamp beside the fireplace chair where Grandma Doyle sat, a lamp she turned off as soon Lien sat down in the wicker chair they had positioned on the other side of the fireplace. She left her hand on the lamp switch.
The dark felt wonderful. Garreth savored it as he limped to the kitchen.
"Ready, Grania?" Irina asked from beside Fowler.
"Ready."
Curse of the Vampire, Act One. Garreth moved faster.
"Five . . . four . . ." Irina raced after him. "Three." They pulled back out of sight on each side of the kitchen archway. "Two. One!"
In the living room, Fowler opened his eyes right on cue.
"Well now, I think he's rejoining us at last," Grandma Doyle said. "Good evening to you, Mr. Fowler."
Garreth peeked around the edge of the door. Fowler lay blinking in disorientation. After several moments, puzzlement became a frown. His head cocked in a listening attitude, obviously waiting for sounds which might tell him about his surroundings.
"You're uncomfortable, I hope," Grandma Doyle went on.
Fowler craned his head in the direction of her voice. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Your judge." She switched the lamp on its lowest setting. The shade had been adjusted to cast light across her lap, leaving her face shadowed. "It could be I'm your doom as well."
Lien said in an impatient voice, "Why do you bother talking to him?"
Fowler's head whipped around toward her. She sat beyond the direct light of the lamp. He could not be seeing more than a general form. "Who are you?"
She pretended to ignore him. "He's conscious again. He can feel pain." She picked up the stake lying in her lap. Fowler saw that well enough. Garreth watched his eyes widen and heard his breath catch. "Let's kill him and be done."
Grandma Doyle shook her head. "You newcomers to the life are still so full of human impatience. Besides, killing is merciful. After the way he's slaughtered our brothers and sisters, do you really want to be merciful?"
Lien appeared to consider. "No!" She fingered the stake. "I want him to suffer! Let me give him a taste of how this feels."
Fowler spat a curse.
"I'll handle this me own way, thank you. Mr. Fowler."
He craned his neck to look at Grandma Doyle again. Garreth wondered what he could be thinking, lying there with these two halfseen figures talking across him. At least there was no doubt what he felt. Hatred twisted his face. "Who the bloody hell are you?"
"Those of the blood call me the Grand Dame . . . because I came to this life late in years and I've lived a long time. If there's a quarrel to be settled or a problem to solve, it's me they come to for the settling or solving. You, Mr. Fowler, are a problem in need of settling."
"Go to hell."
She laughed with a note so authentically bitter and savage it sent a shiver down Garreth's spine. "We're already there, Mr. Fowler. Prepare yourself to join us."
Fowler stiffened. "What-"
"Hold him for me, girl . . . up on his knees with his head pulled back. You don't have to be gentle."
"You-" Fowler began.
"No!" Lien spat. "I won't have him one of us!"
"Didn't you say you wanted him to suffer? What worse suffering than to be trapped among those he hates, unable to escape because he's one of us."
"I'll escape," Fowler snarled. "I'll see all of you destroyed."
Grandma Doyle laughed. "You think so now, but it's different once you've made the change. Even though you hate us, you'll protect us . . . because suddenly you're as terrified of the stake as we are. You'll even protect Mada."
"No!" He writhed wildly, fighting the bonds on his wrists and ankles. "I won't be cheated out of destroying that bloody bitch! No matter what I am, I'll find her and kill her, and then I'll see that the whole world knows you exist! They'll have to believe me with a live specimen in front of them!"
"Live specimen?" Lien said with a snicker.
He cursed at her.
Grandma Doyle sighed gustily. "Enough of this yelling. Mr. Fowler, be still."
Fowler froze in response to the command suggestion Irina had given him.
Grandma Doyle and Lien slid out of their chairs to kneel beside the writer. While Fowler's eyes bulged in horror and hatred, Grandma Doyle bent low and closed her teeth on his throat.
Irina's second command took effect. Fowler turned into a statue again.
Garreth limped out of the kitchen. "Great work, girls. Now let's get him out of here."
14
The cars were the big problem. They had three to take home, including the ZX still at the Cannery, but only two people fit to drive. Garreth finally put on his grandmother's coat and cautiously drove her and Fowler in Fowler's car, parking a block away from Harry's house where they waited for Lien to come back from dropping Irina off at the Cannery.
"Are you sure you can manage him?" he asked while helping Lien and his grandmother manhandle the limp Fowler into Lien's car.
His grandmother tossed her head. "Since when did the Irish ever have trouble handling the English?"
"Irina is right behind me," Lien said. "You just watch for the front door lights to go on at the house."
Garreth climbed back into Fowler's car to wait nervously. The ZX passing him a minute later helped only a little. For all his confidence when explaining the plan, he could think of a dozen ways for it to go wrong, all of them disastrous. If it did in the next few minutes, only Irina stood between this wacko and the two women.
To distract himself, he imagined what was happening at the house. They would be tucking Fowler into bed on the earth-filled air mattress, rigging heavy drapes over the kitchen windows, and filling tankards with horse blood.
An hour later yellow flickered in the Takananda door lights, barely visible because of daylight.
It's show time.
Taking a deep breath, Garreth started the car and gunned it down the street. In front of Harry's house he swerved into the curb with brakes squealing. The front wheel ran up over the side of the driveway so that he ended with both right wheels on the grass. Slamming the car door added another loud sound to attract neighborhood attention, then he charged up the front walk, trying not to limp.
"Open up!" he yelled, hammering on the front door. "I know you're bloody well in there. Open up before I break down the bloody door!"
Lien jerked the door open. "Mr. Fowler," she said loudly in a tone of outrage. "What is the meaning of this?"
He pushed at her. She pretended to resist, and fail. As the door slammed behind them, a grin replaced her frown. "We had an audience. I saw drapes move in at least three windows. You'd better hide before Fowler comes down and sees you. Use our room or your grandmother's room."
Garreth shook his head. "I'll be in the living room. It's closer to the kitchen." Though not as close as he preferred to be. "Where's Irina?"
"Out on the patio."
Also farther away than he liked. Too much could happen in the seconds it would take for either of them to arrive. Yet they could not risk being seen at this stage.
Lien rubbed her palms against her slacks. "Do you really think he believes Grania and I are vampires?"
"You know witch hunters; they see their bogeyman everywhere." He smiled wryly. "Fowler's got to be so bent by this obscession with Lane that if the encouragement we've given him hasn't blinded him to rationality already, making him think you're trying to bring him into your bloodsucking brood will keep him too distracted to examine the facts closely."
Grandma Doyle whispered down the steps, "I'm going to wake him now."
Lien nodded. "I'll call the police."
Garreth hurriedly hauled himself upstairs and into the darkened living room.
From there he heard his grandmother go into his room. "Mr. Fowler, I know it isn't sunset, but you've rested long enough. We have things to do."
He imagined Fowler sitting up and staring around, trying to orient himself, feeling the pallet under him. "Where am I?"
"Where we can watch you, of course," Grandma Doyle replied. "We're not finished yet; that is to say, you aren't."
"You've untied my hands and feet." Fowler made it an accusation.
Grandma Doyle chuckled. "Of course. How can you walk downstairs otherwise? But Mr. Fowler, don't be thinking of trying to run away. When the day comes I comes I can't handle a young pup like you, human or otherwise, I'll turn in me cape and fangs. So up with you. Here's your coat. That's it; put it on. Now come along."
Garreth waited tensely in case Fowler resisted, but the writer apparently decided to play along for the time being. Waiting for the chance to escape. From the darkness of the living room Garreth watched Fowler follow Grandma Doyle downstairs.
As soon as the stairs blocked their view of the living room door, he limped quickly to his room. The pallet had to be hidden. Garreth cached it under the conventional mattress.
Lien's voice came up from downstairs. "What would you like to eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Really now, Mr. Fowler," Grandma Doyle said. "Do you think we plan to drug you? Nonsense. Your blood's no good to us polluted."
"I'll have a glass of water," Fowler said.
Water ran.
The bedroom looked right. He left and worked his way soundlessly down several steps to where, if he sat down and peered around the edge of the steps, he could see the kitchen door. The opening framed his grandmother sitting on a stool at the work island counter.
"A refill," Fowler said.
Grandma Doyle raised her eyebrows. "Still thirsty? Queer. I've only taken once from you. But here; see if this stops the craving." She pushed the tankard she held down the counter.
Nice move! Garreth grinned. The thirst was not one of the suggestions Irina planted but his grandmother had taken beautiful advantage of-
"No!"
The scream jerked Garreth onto his feet, raising the hair all over his body. It sounded like an animal. Skin crawling, he vaulted the railing. Pain shot through
his injured hip and the leg buckled under him, sending him sprawling.
"No!"
Grandma Doyle ducked just in time to avoid the tankard flying at her.
"Garreth!" Lien called.
Cursing, he scrambled for the kitchen on his hands and good leg.
"You did it," Fowler screamed. "You've turned me into-into-You bloody bitches! I'll kill you!"
Fowler lunged into the frame of the doorway, hands stretched for Grandma Doyle's throat. Garreth hurled himself at Fowler. Grandma Doyle jumped back, pushing a stool into Fowler's path. It hit the writer the same moment Garreth's shoulder caught him at the waist in a flying tackle. Men and furniture went down in a tangle.
Irina came tearing in through the dining room door.
Snarling, Fowler clawed at Garreth's eyes. Garreth caught the writer's wrists before the nails more than scraped his forehead. A knee jerked up toward his groin. He dodged it just in time, but then almost lost his grip in a sudden twist of Fowler's wrists. The man bucked and writhed under him, fighting with animal strength.
Or a madman's, came a thought.
"Irina, get a choke hold on him!"
"I can't reach you down there."
Damn. He abruptly released Fowler's wrists, but only to change his grip to the writer's lapels. Then, heaving sideways with all his strength, he smashed Fowler's head into the cabinet. Fowler went limp.
The doorbell rang. "Mrs. Takananda, it's the police."
Garreth scrambled cursing to his feet, leaving Fowler sitting slumped against the cabinet. Look at this place. A struggling Fowler had been in the script but not a bloody kitchen! Crimson splashed everything: counter, floor, walls, even the ceiling, not to mention everyone, too.
The bell rang again. "Mrs. Takananda?"
"We will have to use the blood," Irina said.
Garreth thought fast. "We need a source for it, then." His stomach lurched. There was only one logical source. Shit. He hated knives. "Lien . . . throw me a knife." Looking around, he noticed the tankard lying by the dining room door. "Get rid of the tankards!"
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