by P. N. Elord
Nice house, white with two stories, green shutters, and a good lawn. Looked as if she’d planted primroses early this year and lavender a few years back. That was good. One lavender bush was worth ten or twelve crucifixes when it came to the—
Rookwood stopped, frowning.
The cedar green front door was open a crack. He couldn’t have seen it from the street, but six feet from the door it was a wrong note in the newborn symphony of day.
“Shit,” he muttered, and strode up the walk. He hit it with the palm of his free hand, and the door jerked, stopped halfway on its arc by something soft.
Amelia King lay on the floor in the hall. The door had hit her on the head, and her long, glossy brown hair was tangled. She was paper white, in a tattered gray T-shirt and shorts that she probably slept in, and if he hadn’t been able to hear the faint whisper of her struggling pulse, he might have thought she was dead.
The entire house reeked of ash and undead. Jesus Christ. What the hell’s this?
But he knew. The bait had been taken, sooner than he’d thought.
He pushed the door closed and locked it, then knelt at her side. The coffee went on a tiny, spindly decorative hall table. The vase that had probably been sitting there last night was on the floor. He could see how she would have blundered into it, knocking a spray of dried flowers to the floor and smashing something china blue to flinders.
She was taking in little shallow breaths, her lips blue and the rest of her chalky.
“Fuck.” The duffel unzipped with a screaming sound, and the insulated chill-pack crumpled aside as he grabbed the plastic bottle. Three or four quick shakes to get everything mixed together, and he checked her teeth. There wasn’t time for a transfusion, but if she wasn’t far enough along yet—
Reflex snapped her sharp white teeth together, and he almost lost a fingertip. Rookwood snatched his hand back and grabbed her jaw. He jammed the nozzle between her blue lips and gave the bottle a gentle half-squeeze.
“Come on, kiddo,” he whispered. “Come on. It’s instinct, don’t fight it. Come on.”
She went rigid for a moment. Some shred of human decency was fighting for its life, and he found himself wishing it would win and hoping it would lose at the same time. Even when it was clinging to survival, there were some things the human animal wouldn’t do.
Like drinking the red stuff. He’d given up wondering if it made someone better or worse to get rid of the idea that there were some things you wouldn’t do even to survive.
Her lips fastened on the bottle and she guzzled greedily. The sharp points of her extended canines punctured the plastic and she tilted her head a little. The burning smell got stronger as the cold red fluid slid down her throat.
“That’s a girl. . . . Good girl.” But his eyes scanned the hall. He slid the sunglasses off carefully, blinked a few times, and found it was bearable. Visual acuity was a boon at night, but not so good inside a house with the lights on.
She made a choking noise. Her eyes flew open, and he grabbed her, shoved the spout of the bottle in as far as it would go, and squeezed. She swallowed most of the rest in a huge painful gush, then feebly tried to push him away.
“Quit it. This’ll stop the Thirst.” He gave the bottle another squeeze, and it burbled in her throat. Her arms stiffened, then she gulped and pushed at him again. Her pulse came back, the doors of her heart slamming solidly shut and then thudding open.
It was damn near miraculous.
“When was he here?” He restrained the urge to shake her. “When, goddammit?”
The bottle fell away from her mouth, hit the polished hardwood floor. Her lips were still cyanotic, but she blinked and an unhealthy flush crept up her cheeks. “What?”
“When did he come back?”
Sense returned to her dark, swimming gaze. “I was asleep. On the couch.” The gray T-shirt gaped open, torn over her chest.
Rookwood felt the urge to look down. Those breasts were worth a peek or two, even if she did have suburbia all over her. But wherever his gaze wandered, all he saw were the bruises and the fang marks. There was more than one set, and he wondered how many she had on other parts of her body. The ones on her right breast looked fresh, the edges not worn away and whitened. There was a pin-thin scraping along the border of one perky little nipple, as though a fang had slipped.
Rookwood realized he was staring at her chest. It gave him a funny unsteady feeling, as though he’d been caught peeking in her window.
Christ. Bruised all over; and hubby wasn’t too happy last night, either. He tore his eyes away, carefully watched her nose instead, her eyes, the sharp, pearly teeth. Her canines had retracted. A good sign. Her irises were still brown, too—no threading of reflective crimson. And her smell was only tainted, not dipped in the ash and buried. He let out a shaky half-breath.
The widow was proving to be full of surprises.
“There was . . . he was . . . he was angry. Furious. He came in and . . .” The shakes hit her, and Rookwood let up a little on her shoulders. His thumbs wanted to move, little soothing motions, but he pushed the urge down. “God. God.”
God doesn’t help, babe. If He did, we’d be in a better position down here. “I owe you a partial refund.” The words scorched his throat. “I didn’t think he’d’ve prepared a place here. Most of the young ones don’t think that far ahead.” Still, they’re organized here. Other towns, they can’t even cooperate enough to wipe their asses.
Here, they were in a nice, neat little hierarchy. It was an evolution he was hoping wouldn’t spread.
Her hand flew up. For a split second he thought she was going to slap him, but instead her fingers clapped over her mouth and she began to scrub at her lips, weakly, as if something there burned her.
A lump in the middle of Rookwood’s chest was doing funny things. Like aching. It wasn’t the Thirst, it was something else entirely. Amelia King looked up at him, and she peeled her fingers away from her mouth long enough to surprise him again.
“He’s in the basement,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t be here. If he finds out I’ve hired you, he’ll . . .”
She was probably about to say “kill me” but must have realized how that would sound. Ridiculous on the one hand, terrifying on the other. Or maybe she was about to say “kill you” and stopped.
Stopped dead. A grim smile touched Rookwood’s lips. His face felt wooden.
“It’s day, and he’s a newbie. He can’t do a damn thing. We can, because we’re only halfway to where he is.” Reciting the rules to a woman was a new experience, and one he discovered he hated. But duty called. “The basement. Is there bare dirt down there, or concrete?” Bare dirt would be problematic, but this was the burbs. He was betting on concrete.
Her eyelids fluttered. She swallowed audibly, and her lips were slowly losing the blue tinge. “C-concrete. But—”
I didn’t have time for a transfusion, dammit. She’s only halfway instead of all the way because I did the best thing possible. He wished his conscience would believe it and leave him alone. “I didn’t think he’d come back here. I thought he’d be caught out in the dawn.” He was repeating himself, didn’t care. “Go upstairs. Take a shower. By the time you’re done, I’ll have everything fixed down here. Okay?”
Amazingly, she laughed. It was a thin, hysterical sound. “Go upstairs? Are you out of your mind?” She grabbed at the front of his faded green jacket with surprising strength, and Rookwood instinctively shifted his weight back. “Listen to me. Listen. He wasn’t alone.”
He lost his balance and thumped down hard, his teeth clicking together as his ass hit the floor. His pulse leapt like a fish going after a juicy water bug. “How many?”
“J-just one. The two of them. You have to leave—it’s his boss.” Then, the crowning absurdity: “He’s a partner.”
All the better. He couldn’t believe his luck. “Which one? Briggs or Chisholm?”
She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. He sup
posed it wasn’t too far from the truth. “You . . .”
“Fann doesn’t leave the offices, I know that much. Which one is in the basement with him, Briggs or Chisholm?”
“How did you—” Then she shut her mouth over the question, knowledge leaping behind those dark eyes. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It was looking as if Amelia King were too smart by half. “Who the hell are you, really?” Flatly, calmly, and her mouth turned into a tight line.
How do I even begin explaining? “Just call me a knight in busted armor, lady. I’m here to do some cleaning up.”
She didn’t want to take a shower, but the ruin of her T-shirt convinced her to get changed. He should have started while she was upstairs and had it halfway done by the time she came back down.
Instead, he had her stove going and eggs sizzling in a pan. The morning had turned out fine, sun up and patchy fog burning off. The kitchen was bright, open, airy, and indefensible thanks to all that glass—French doors were a security nightmare. He’d already barred the door down to the basement with a long, half-dried vine of wild rose and three silver dollars as well as a splash of holy water. Nothing undead was going to come through there, especially up into a sun-drenched kitchen.
His shades were back on, and he didn’t like how glad he was that they hid his eyes. “You need some protein,” he said when he heard her breathing in the doorway to the hall. “Eggs go down easy. So does toast. Other stuff, not so much.”
Mrs. King apparently didn’t want to talk about breakfast. “I want to know exactly what’s going on here.”
Isn’t it obvious? I’m fixing your problem for reasons of my own, not just because you paid me. “I brought you a latte. It’s on the counter. I figure if you don’t want it, I’ll add some chocolate and drink it myself.”
“I don’t want fucking coffee. I want some answers.”
“Okay.” He slid the eggs out of the pan and onto a blue china plate. The toaster obediently popped up the last two slices of bread he’d found in the kitchen. Her fridge was almost empty. She probably had other things on her mind than grocery shopping. “They’re a small club. They have to be, because if they spread, they would suck a city dry in a short time. Nature’s got her own way of making sure the predator doesn’t overpower the prey completely. And you told me what law firm he worked for. He must’ve been a bright one, and ruthless, too.”
The fight didn’t go out of her, but she deflated a bit. “Robert was very good at his job. I don’t see how that—”
“They look for the bright ones, the hungry ones. You start out as a daylight henchman, and if you’re ruthless and lucky enough—or if you have something they want—you get offered more.” He spread some of the health-conscious soy margarine crap on the toast, sliced it neatly into quarters, and turned around with the plate in his hand. “They invest a lot in each serious protégé. Whoever was with him was probably the one to bring him into the fold. Was it Briggs or Chisholm?”
She had to clear her throat before her voice would work. “It was Harry. Harold Briggs.”
“If it makes you feel better, they left you for dead this morning. The sunlight coming in from the window over the door would have hit your dead body in midafternoon and made sure you didn’t rise tonight.” He set the plate on the tiled breakfast bar with a precise little click and dared to look up at her. “Eat something. I’m going to go down into the basement and fix this problem for you, and then—”
“What exactly are you going to do, Mr. Rookwood?” She folded her arms, not mollified in the least but willing to listen. She wore a white button-down shirt, jeans, and a fancy pair of flip-flops. She’d buttoned the shirt up all the way, though, but the casual look she was going for wasn’t quite working. Her mouth was too tight, and the marks of strain around her eyes robbed her of easiness.
She had the sleeves all the way down and buttoned, too. He wondered again how many marks she had. Usually the new ones fed from only one place. It was only the ones who wanted to hurt who found fresh flesh to bite each time.
Or maybe she’d been passed around a little. It wasn’t uncommon. What woman would talk about it, if she had been? Provided she lived to talk about it.
Still. Careful and cautious had saved his life before. Getting all worked up over this widow was a bad idea. “I mean I am going to find out if the older one is still awake and moving around—a daywalker. If he is, I’m going to shoot him first, then ram a stake through his chest and cut off his head. Then I’m going to find where your husband’s sleeping, and ram a stake through his chest and cut off his head. Once the spinal cord’s severed, the body will turn to dust in a few hours. Then I make sure no more of them can take up residence in your basement and warn you to sell your house soon. I maybe take a look at some of your husband’s paperwork, and then I’m on my merry way.”
“And then what?” She didn’t even look at the plate between them, eggs congealing and toast turning into a slab of cold overprocessing. He didn’t blame her and tried not to look at the way sunlight picked out chestnut in her hair. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I’d suggest leaving town. If Chisholm and Fann find out you’re still alive, you’re going to have problems.” His stomach rumbled unhappily. If she wasn’t going to go for the eggs, he would.
Maybe after he finished up downstairs.
“And that’s it?” That quick, hurtful intelligence in her big, beautiful browns was like a missing manhole cover—a man could drop into those eyes and break an axle easily enough.
“This is what you paid me for. I’ll refund a quarter of the fee for your trouble.” It was the least he could do, and he hated that, too. “I’m going to be leaving town soon myself. Once I’ve done what I set out to do.”
“Which is what? Who are you, really?”
Explaining to her wasn’t getting him anywhere. “I’m the man you hired to get rid of your dead husband, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get to work. You might hear some noise and smell some funky stuff, but it’ll be over soon.”
Stairs. God, but he hated open-frame wood stairs. Down one step at a time, the UV handheld not shaking and the modified .45 steady in his other hand. The column of blue light from the UV cut the gloom, and the smell was enough to make him think of retching before his nose shut down. It still coated the back of his throat and touched the place where the Thirst lived. The shades were safe in a pocket, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.
Out here in suburbia the houses had yards to insulate them, and down in a basement half-underground . . . nobody would hear the shots. Don’t worry about that. Keep your mind on your work; this is the oldest one you’ve gone after so far, and they’re tricky. Very tricky. And if he gets loose somehow and gets back to Chisholm . . .
It was a pointless worry. With the sun up, both of the things were trapped here in the basement. They couldn’t leave.
It didn’t mean Rookwood would survive a tangle with a daywalker in a dark basement, without sunlight on his side. Best to be cautious. But God, how he hated open stairs like this.
He paused halfway down. The basement was open and dark as a new grave, a line of white banker’s boxes stacked down the side near the stairs, all of them labeled in a clear schoolgirl hand. Some pieces of furniture under sheeting, standing dumb and quiet under the lash of blue UV when he slid the light across them. A couch, looked like. Maybe a desk. A rocking chair. Another bulky object, looming at the far end.
The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose. Rookwood swept the light one more time, decided not to shift his weight. He was waiting.
Of course, the only place for them to hide—the logical place—was behind the stairs. The husband would be insensate from before dawn to just after dusk, but Briggs was much older. He could easily be a daywalker. He wouldn’t be able to stand the UV or a flood of sunlight, but he could very well—
The sound was very slight, a rustle of fabric against itself. Rookwood dived, twisting in midair as the
stairs shattered. He’d prepared for this, having taken down a load of the red stuff before dawn as he sat in his Cadillac. It burned in his veins as the Thirst pulled at his body. The red tide crawled up his vision, and he landed jarring hard on concrete, arm up and the UV burning a smokelash stripe across the creature’s face. The gun spoke, a deafening roar.
Anything less than a .45 didn’t have any stopping power. The hollow points would mushroom and spread a load of tiny silver grains at the same time, and if he hit anything in the core, the resultant damage could bleed one of the beasts out in seconds.
Smoke. Reek. The gush of black, brackish fluid that passed for their blood, pattering down and burning like acid where it splashed. The gun went skittering, because the thing landed on him, claws out. The UV scorched wherever it touched, but it wasn’t enough, it just maddened the red-eyed, humanoid thing that snarled, crouching, over him. It was unholy strong, too, another hot gush of its blackness splashing his clothes as he squeezed its wrists, the Thirst a red sheet over everything and the rest of him snarling back. The sound was an animal vibration in the lowest reaches of his gut, and he hated it even as it gave him the strength to force the Thing’s ancient, rotting arms away, keeping the claws from his throat.
They started to go quick when the shell was breached and the old bad stuff in them leaked out. He heaved up, but the Thing shoved him back down. His head bounced on concrete, and the Thirst slipped.
The Thing’s head exploded. The sound was massive, incredible, to match the stink. The disintegrating body slid over to the side, bubbling with foulness where silver grains burrowed into unholy flesh.
What the hell?
Rookwood lay on the floor, stunned and breathless. The burning sludge blinked out of his watering eyes, and he saw Mrs. King. Her lips were pulled back in a feral grimace, and she was clutching his .45 with stiff, outstretched arms. Tears slicked her cheeks, her eyes blazed, and there were spatters of black, smoking foulness all over her white shirt.