The Good, The Bad, And The Undead th-2

by Ким Харрисон

  "Uh, a witch named Dan." I tuned away, hiding my head in the fridge as I put the cottage cheese away. "He's Sara Jane's boyfriend, and before you get all huffy, Glenn is coming with me to look at his apartment. I figure we can wait until tomorrow to check out Piscary's; he works there as a driver. But no way is Glenn coming with me to the university." There was a heartbeat of silence, and I cringed, waiting for her shout of protest. It never came.

  I looked past the door of the fridge, going slack in surprise. Ivy had put herself at the sink and was hunched over it, a hand to either side. It was her "count to ten" spot. It had never failed her yet. She pulled her eyes up and put them on me. My mouth went dry. It had failed.

  "You are not taking this run," she said, the smooth monotone of her voice pulling the chill of black ice through me.

  Panic flashed before settling into a churning burn in the pit of my stomach. All that existed was her pupil-black eyes. She inhaled, taking my warmth. Her presence seemed to swirl behind me until I fought to keep from turning around. My shoulders tensed and my breath came fast. She had pulled a full-blown, soul-stealing aura. Something was different, though. This wasn't anger or hunger I was seeing. This was fear. Ivy was afraid?

  "I'm taking the run," I said, hearing a thin thread of fear in my voice. "Trent can't touch me, and I already told Edden I would."

  "No you aren't."

  Silk duster furling, she jerked into motion. I started, finding her right before me almost as soon as I noticed she had moved. Face whiter than usual, she pushed the fridge door shut. I jumped to get out of the way. I met her eyes, knowing if I showed the fright that was making my stomach knot, she would feed on it, making her fervor stronger. I'd learned a lot in the last three months, some of it the hard way, some of it I wished I hadn't needed to know.

  "The last time you took on Trent, you almost died," she said, sweat trickling down her neck to disappear behind the deep V of her shirt. She was sweating?

  "The key word there is 'almost,' " I said boldly.

  "No. The key word is 'died.' "

  I could feel the heat coming from her and stepped back. Glenn was in the archway, watching me with wide eyes as I argued with a vamp. There was a knack to it. "Ivy," I said calmly, though I was shaking inside. "I'm taking this run. If you want to come with Glenn and me when we talk to Piscary—"

  My breath cut off. Ivy's fingers were around my throat. Gasping, my air exploded from me as she slammed me up against the kitchen wall. "Ivy!" I managed before she picked me up with one hand and pinned me there.

  Air coming in short, insufficient pants, I hung off the floor.

  Ivy put her face next to mine. Her eyes were black, but they were wide with fear. "You aren't going to talk to Piscary," she said, panic a silver ribbon through the gray silk of her voice. "You aren't taking this run."

  I braced my feet against the wall and pushed. A breath of air made it past her fingers, and my back smacked back into the wall. I kicked out at her, and she shifted to the side. Her hold on me never altered. "What the hell are you doing?" I rasped. "Let me go!"

  "Ms. Tamwood!" Glenn shouted. "Drop the woman and step to the center of the room!"

  Digging my fingers into her one-handed grip, I looked past Ivy. Glenn was behind her, his feet braced, ready to shoot. "No!" my voice grated. "Get out. Get out of here!"

  Ivy wouldn't listen to me if he was here. She was afraid. What the hell was she afraid of? Trent couldn't touch me.

  There was a sharp whistle of surprise as Jenks darted in. "Howdy, campers," he said sarcastically. "I see Rachel told you about her run, huh, Ivy?"

  "Get out!" I demanded, my head pounding as Ivy's grip tightened.

  "Holy crap!" the pixy exclaimed from the ceiling, his wings flashing into a frightened red. "She's not kidding."

  "I know…" Lungs hurting, I pried at the fingers around my neck, managing a ragged breath. Ivy's pale face was drawn. The black of her eyes was total and absolute. And laced with fear. Seeing the emotion on her was terrifying.

  "Ivy, let her go!" Jenks demanded as he hovered at eye level. "It's not that bad, really. We'll just go with her."

  "Get out!" I said, taking a clean breath as Ivy's eyes went confused and her grip faltered. Panic took me as her fingers shook. Sweat trickled down her forehead, pinched in confusion. The whites of her eyes showed strong against the black.

  Jenks darted to Glenn. "You heard her," the pixy said. "Get out."

  My heart raced as Glenn hissed, "Are you crazy? We leave, and that bitch will kill her!"

  Ivy's breath came in a whimper. It was as soft as the first snowflake, but I heard it. The smell of cinnamon filled my senses.

  "We gotta get out of here," Jenks said. "Either Rachel will get Ivy to let go, or Ivy will kill her. You might be able to separate them by shooting Ivy, but Ivy will track her down and kill her the first chance she gets if she overthrows Rachel's dominance."

  "Rachel is dominant?"

  I could hear the disbelief in Glenn's voice, and I frantically prayed they'd get out before Ivy finished throttling me.

  The buzz of Jenks's wings was as loud as my blood humming in my ears. "How else do you think Rachel got Ivy to back off of you? You think a witch could do that if she wasn't in charge? Get out like she said."

  I didn't know if dominant was the right word. But if they didn't leave, the point would be moot. The honest to God's truth was, in some twisted fashion Ivy needed me more than I needed her. But the "dating guide" Ivy had given me last spring so I would stop pressing her vamp-instinct buttons hadn't had a chapter on "What to Do If You Find Yourself the Dominant." I was in uncharted territory.

  "Get—out," I choked as the edges of my sight shifted to black.

  I heard the safety click back on. Glenn reluctantly holstered his weapon. As Jenks flitted from him to the rear door and back again, the FIB officer retreated, looking angry and frustrated. I stared at the ceiling and watched the stars edging my sight as the screen door squeaked shut.

  "Ivy," I rasped, meeting her eyes. I stiffened at their black terror. I could see myself in their depths, my hair wild and my face swollen. My neck suddenly throbbed under her fingers where they pressed against my old demon bite. God help me, but it was starting to feel good, the remembrance of the euphoria that had surged through me last spring as the demon sent to kill me had ripped my neck open and filled it with vamp saliva.

  "Ivy, open your fingers a little so I can breathe," I managed, spittle dripping down my chin. The heat from her hand made the smell of cinnamon stronger.

  "You told me to let him go," she snarled, baring her teeth as her grip tightened until my eyes bulged. "I wanted him, and you made me let him go!"

  My lungs tried to work, moving in short splurges as I struggled for air. Her hold slackened. I took a grateful gulp of air. Then another. Her face was grim, waiting. Dying with a vampire was easy. Living with one took more finesse.

  My jaw ached where it rested upon her fingers. "If you want him," I whispered, "go get him. But don't break your fast in anger." I took another breath, praying it wouldn't be my last. "Unless it's for passion, it won't be worth it, Ivy."

  She gasped as if I had hit her. Face thunderstruck, her grip loosened without warning. I fell into a heap against the wall.

  Hunching into myself, I gagged on the air. I felt my throat, my stomach knotting as the demon bite on my neck continued to tingle in bliss. My legs were askew, and I slowly straightened them. Sitting with my knees to my chest, I shook my charm bracelet back to my wrist, wiped the spit from me, and looked up.

  I was surprised to find Ivy still there. Usually when she broke down like this, she went running to Piscary. But then, she had never broken down quite like this before. She had been afraid. She had pinned me to the wall because she had been afraid. Afraid of what? Of me telling her she couldn't tear out Glenn's throat? Friend or not, I'd leave if I saw her take someone in my kitchen. The blood would give me nightmares forever.

  "Are you okay?"
I rasped, hunching into myself when it triggered a spate of coughing.

  She didn't move, sitting at the table with her back to me. She had her head in her hands.

  I had figured out shortly after we had moved in together that Ivy didn't like who she was. Hated the violence even as she instigated it. Struggled to abstain from blood even as she craved it. But she was a vampire. She didn't have a choice. The virus had fixed itself deep into her DNA and was there to stay. You are what you are. That she had lost control and let her instincts have sway meant failure to her.

  "Ivy?" I got to my feet, listing slightly as I stumbled to her. I could still feel the impressions of her fingers around my neck. It had been bad, but nothing like the time she had pinned me to a chair in a cloud of lust and hunger. I pushed my black bow back where it belonged. "You all right?" I reached out, then drew back before touching her.

  "No," she said as my hand dropped. Her voice was muffled. "Rachel, I'm sorry. I—I can't…" She hesitated, taking a ragged breath. "Don't take this run. If it's the money—"

  "It's not the money," I said before she could finish. She turned to me, and my anger that she might try to buy me off died. A shiny ribbon of moisture showed where she had tried to wipe it away. I'd never seen her cry before, and I eased myself down in the chair beside her. "I have to help Sara Jane."

  She looked away. "Then I'm going out to Piscary's with you," she said, her voice holding a thin memory of its usual strength.

  I clutched my arms about myself, one hand rubbing the faint scar on my neck until I realized I was unconsciously doing it to feel it tingle. "I was hoping you would," I said as I forced my hand down.

  She gave me a frightened, worried smile and turned away.

  Six

  Pixy children swarmed around Glenn as he sat at the kitchen table as far from Ivy as he could without looking obvious about it. Jenks's kids seemed to have taken an unusual liking to the FIB detective, and Ivy, sitting before her computer, was trying to ignore the noise and darting shapes. She gave me the impression of a cat sleeping before a bird feeder, seemingly ignoring everything but very aware if a bird should make a mistake and get too close. Everyone was overlooking that we had nearly had an incident, and my feelings for being saddled with Glenn had waned from dislike to a mild annoyance at his new, and unexpected, tact.

  Using a diabetic syringe, I injected a sleepy-time potion into the last of the thin-walled, blue paint balls. It was after seven. I didn't like leaving the kitchen a mess, but I had to make these little gems up special, and there was no way I would go out to meet Sara Jane at a strange apartment unarmed. No need to make it that easy for Trent, I thought as I took off my protective gloves and tossed them aside.

  From the nested bowls under the counter I pulled out my gun. I had originally kept it in a vat hanging over the island counter, until Ivy pointed out I'd have to put myself in plain sight to reach it. Keeping it at crawling height was better. Glenn perked up at the sound of iron hitting the counter, waving the chattering, green-clad adolescent pixy girls off his hand.

  "You shouldn't keep a weapon out like that," he said scornfully. "Do you have any idea how many children are killed a year because of stupid stunts like that?"

  "Relax, Mr. FIB Officer," I said as I wiped the reservoir out. "No one has died from a paint ball yet."

  "Paint ball?" he questioned. Then he turned condescending. "Playing dress-up, are we?"

  My brow furrowed. I liked my mini splat gun. It felt nice in my hand, heavy and reassuring despite its palm size. Even with its cherry red color, people generally didn't recognize it for what it was and assumed I was packing. Best of all, I didn't need a license for it.

  Peeved, I shook a pinky-nail-sized red ball out from the box resting on the shelf above my charms. I dropped it in the chamber. "Ivy," I said, and she looked up from her monitor, no expression on her perfect, oval face. "Tag."

  She went back to her screen, her head shifting slightly. The pixy children squealed and scattered, flowing out of the window and into the dark garden to leave shimmering trails of pixy dust and the memory of their voices. Slowly the sound of crickets came in to replace them.

  Ivy wasn't the type of roommate who liked to play Parcheesi, and the one time I sat with her on the couch and watched Rush Hour, I had unwittingly triggered her vamp instincts and nearly got bitten during the last fight scene as my body temp rose and the smell of our scents mingling hit her hard. So now, with the exception of our carefully orchestrated sparing sessions, we generally did things with lots of space between us. Her dodging my splat balls gave her a good workout and improved my aim.

  It was even better at midnight in the graveyard.

  Glenn ran a hand over his close-cut beard, waiting. It was clear something was going to happen, he just didn't know what. Ignoring him, I set the splat gun on the counter and started to clean up the mess I'd made in the sink. My pulse increased and tension made my fingers ache. Ivy continued to shop on the net, the clicks of her mouse sounding loud. She reached for a pencil as something got her attention.

  Snatching the gun, I spun and pulled the trigger. The puff of sound sent a thrill through me. Ivy leaned to the right. Her free hand came up to intercept the ball of water. It hit her hand with a sharp splat, breaking to soak her palm. She never looked up from her monitor as she shook the water from her hand and read the caption under the casket pillows. Christmas was three months away, and I knew she was stumped as to what to get her mother.

  Glenn had stood at the sound of the gun, his hand atop his holster. His face slack, he alternated his gaze between Ivy and me. I tossed him the splat gun, and he caught it. Anything to get his hand away from his pistol. "If that had been a sleepy-time potion," I said smugly, "she'd be out cold."

  I handed Ivy the roll of paper towels we kept on the island counter for just this reason, and she nonchalantly wiped her hand off and continued to shop.

  Head bowed, Glenn eyed the paint-ball gun. I knew he was feeling the weight of it, realizing it wasn't a toy. He walked to me and handed it back. "They ought to make you license these things," he said as it filled my grip.

  "Yeah," I agreed lightly. "They should."

  I felt him watching as I loaded it with my seven potions. Not many witches used potions, not because they were outrageously expensive and lasted only about a week uninvoked, but because you needed to get a good soaking in saltwater to break them. It was messy and took a heck of a lot of salt. Satisfied that I'd made my point, I tucked the loaded splat gun into the small of my back and put on my leather jacket to cover it. I kicked off my pink slippers and padded into the living room for my vamp-made boots by the back door. "Ready to go?" I asked as I leaned against the wall in the hallway and put them on. "You're driving."

  Glenn's tall shape appeared in the archway, dark fingers expertly tying his tie. "You're going like that?"

  Brow furrowing, I looked down at my red blouse, black skirt, nylons, and ankle-high boots. "Something wrong with what I've got on?"

  Ivy made a rude snort from her computer. Glenn glanced at her, then me. "Never mind," he said flatly. He snuggled his tie tight to make him look polished and professional. "Let's go."

  "No," I said, getting in his face. "I want to know what you think I should put on. One of those polyester sacks you make your female FIB officers wear? There's a reason Rose is so uptight, and it has nothing to do with her having no walls or her chair having a broken caster!"

  Face hard, Glenn sidestepped me and headed up the hallway. Grabbing my bag, I acknowledged Ivy's preoccupied wave good-bye and strode after him. He took up almost the entire width of the hall as he walked and put his arms into his suit's jacket at the same time. The sound of the lining rubbing against his shirt was a soft hush over the noise of his hard-soled shoes on the floorboards.

  I kept to my cold silence as Glenn drove us out of the Hollows and back across the bridge. It would have been nice had Jenks come with us, but Sara Jane said something about a cat, and he prudently deci
ded to stay home.

  The sun was long down and traffic had thickened. The lights from Cincinnati looked nice from the bridge, and I felt a flash of amusement as I realized Glenn was driving at the head of a pack of cars too wary to pass him. Even the FIB's unmarked vehicles were obvious. Slowly my mood eased. I cracked the window to dilute the smell of cinnamon, and Glenn flipped the heater on. The perfume didn't smell as nice anymore, now that it had failed me.

  Dan's apartment was a town house: tidy, clean, and gated. Not too far from the university. Good access to the freeway. It looked expensive, but if he was taking classes at the university, he could probably swing it just fine. Glenn pulled into the reserved spot with Dan's house number on it and cut the engine. The porch light was off and the drapes were pulled. A cat was sitting on the second-story balcony railing, its eyes glowing as it watched us.

  Saying nothing, Glenn reached under the seat and moved it back. Closing his eyes, he settled in as if to nap. The silence grew, and I listened to the car's engine tick as it cooled off in the dark. I reached for the radio knob, and Glenn muttered, "Don't touch that."

  Peeved, I sank back. "Don't you want to question some of his neighbors?" I asked.

  "I'll do it tomorrow when the sun is up and you're at class."

  My eyebrows rose. According to the receipt Edden had given me, class ran from four to six. It was an excellent time to be knocking on doors, when humans would be coming home, diurnal Inderlanders well up, and nightwalkers stirring. And the area felt like a mixed neighborhood.

  A couple came out of a nearby apartment, arguing as they got into a shiny car and drove away. She was late for work. It was his fault, if I was following the conversation properly.

  Bored, and a little nervous, I dug in my bag until I found a finger stick and one of my detection amulets. I loved these things—the detection amulet, not the finger stick—and after pricking my finger for three drops of blood to invoke it, I found that there was no one but Glenn and me within a thirty-foot radius. I draped it about my neck like my old I.S. badge as a little red car pulled into the lot. The cat on the railing stretched before dropping out of sight onto the balcony.