by D. R. Perry
“Why me?”
“Because this is the only way to clear a debt to your sire." She grins. I don't. People keep making a habit of paying debts to my elders through me, and they can't possibly like it. "My mistress doesn’t like owing favors to night creatures.”
“Mistress?” I blink. Are centaurs fans of Fifty Shades of Gray? Oh, my.
“This is a limited-time offer." Doctor Maris taps a hoof. "Mnemosyne doesn’t let me open this door any old time, you know. You’ve got ten minutes before it closes again.”
I close my eyes, trying to remember who Doctor Maris is talking about. I’m a new vampire, but I’ve had an education. The name Mnemosyne and the fact that it’s linked to an honest to goodness centaur reminds me of something from school. Sophomore year literature. Bulfinch’s Mythology.
“Dude.” Scott elbows me. “Take the deal. Go in there.”
“I’m getting a little tired of offers I can’t refuse.” I open my eyes, finally remembering. “But yeah, okay. I don’t want to offend the mother of the Muses.”
I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. Taking a breath I don’t need, I step through the portal, which now resembles a door on a bank vault. I mean, you only unlive once, right?
Chapter Fourteen
The vault door closes behind me with a ringing echo. I watch the pegged wheel spin at its center, round and round like it’s a roulette table. And I freeze, panic kicking in to stick me somewhere between the fight and the flight reflex. But I’m not hungry. There’s no fire or chance of sunlight in a windowless vault. And nothing’s making me angry. But I still feel like the tips of my toes stand on the border of a vampiric rage.
The going theory is that rages are an outdated survival instinct. Even vamps as sophisticated as Raven and as old as Stephanie consider this next-door to fact. Standing here in the Vault of Memory, I’m not so sure. There's nowhere to run. Making like a statue isn’t doing jack or squat to up my chances of survival, and neither will tearing this place apart.
Because there’s not much here. The walls are lined with shelves. Between those stand endless rows of stacks, like in a library. But unlike one, There's not a book in sight. The shelves all hold urns. The pottery kind, with scenes on them. Friezes, I think they’re called, a Grecian thing. Because with a centaur granting access on behalf of Mnemosyne, of course, it's Greek and archaic. I’d investigate, but the whole knee-jerk gridlock thing cramps that style.
I’m not sure how to go forward here. Vampires can’t go to church; I’ve got no angel on my shoulder. And I don’t play poker, so there’s no ace up my sleeve. Fortunately, there’s something I forgot. Well, an entire truckload of things, actually. But one in particular springs to my rescue. Or maybe crawls is a better verb.
Something stirs on the left side of my chest. No, my undead heart is not miraculously beating all of a sudden. The movement comes from my shirt pocket, where a red and shiny head pokes out of the top. It drops a wink with one of its black eyes before scuttling down my shirt and then the left leg of my pants.
I watch the creature's legs lengthen, joints bending at impossible angles as they morph from amphibious quadruped to humanoid. The tail vanishes, and that ruddy skin pales to a dun color. The grin on the face grows human-shaped teeth at an alarming rate.
“Okay, Boss.” Sparky reaches out, grabs my left arm with his right hand. “You can unfreeze now.”
A warmth washes over me, calling back a foggy memory from the night I got fersnickered on Dad’s limoncello with Kayleigh Killarney. Muscles seized up tetanus style unclench, leaving me struggling not to flop to the floor. It feels like I just dropped something heavy or maybe said item was lifted off of me. Or like someone broke my neck a couple of minutes ago and then healed it.
“Gaah!” My eloquence in unexpected situations is usually second to none. This isn’t usual. Not even for me.
“Come on, Boss.” Sparky reaches out and taps my wristwatch. Yeah, I still wear one of those anachronisms. Bad memory, worse sense of time's passage.
“Yeah, okay.” I nod. “I get it. Limited time offers are limited.”
My feet are still feeling half-full of pins and needles, so I shuffle over to the nearest shelf and have a gander at the friezes on the urns. A wavy-haired brunette with pale skin brandishes a pistol at a figure with sharp, bloodstained teeth. They fight over a swaddled infant. I squint at the markings under the picture. It’s all Greek to me for a moment until it resolves into Latin I can make sense of.
“Who’s Judah Black?” I scratch my head.
“Not you, boss.”
“Well, like, duh.” I tap my temple with one forefinger. "Even if it is a dude's name, and that's clearly a lady."
“Wrong section.” Sparky jerks his thumb over one shoulder. “This way.”
“How would you know?” I follow him anyway.
“Ancient Salamander Secret.” Sparky barks out a laugh.
“You’re no ancient.”
“Right, boss. But we’re born knowing about some stuff.”
“Whatever you say, kid.” I shake my head. Someday, I’ll ask Sparky exactly where baby magical salamanders come from. I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with a mommy salamander and a daddy salamander loving each other very much. But now is not the time.
“Check this one.” Sparky points at one of the stacks.
“Hmm.” The urn I look at this time shows a guy busting his way out of a coffin, only to emerge on a street in New York City. In front of a tiger. The Greek letters do their mighty morphing thing, and I shake my head at the name that comes up. “Can’t tell if this title is the dude’s name or his predicament.”
“Huh?”
“Graves. Vincent Graves. And see where he came from?”
“You tell me, Boss.”
“A grave.” Normally I’d laugh, but something about what I’m looking at gives me a sense of foreboding, like this dude’s going to go horrible places and see terrible things.
“Oh.” Sparky squints at the urn. “Thought it was a photo booth at first.”
“Whatever works for you, kid.”
“Anyway, it’s kind of cool you’re in here somewhere, too.”
“Yeah. Cool. Right.” I don’t say that I think there’s no common thread between me and the two badasses I’ve seen so far. Which is a good thing because I realize I might be wrong. I recently fought against creatures who devour innocence, and maybe the guy in the coffin is undead like me.
“Next stack. Over here.”
I follow again and find one with a girl tossing her pills in the garbage. She’s got a raven on her shoulder, and on the bird’s back is a fairy with mangled wings. I read the name and instantly know it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t know any Megan O'Reillys, and there's no such thing as fairies.
We move along. Finally, some of the figures start to look familiar. There’s one that’s clearly of King DeCampo, though he’s got a different name. Makes sense, since he’s standing in a work camp over the prone body of a man with a whip, breaking copper chains off slaves. On the horizon squat three pyramids, uneroded.
A second urn on this shelf shows a whip-thin figure, dressed all in black. Their hair is shorn almost to the skin over their skull, making their bared fangs all the more frightening. They hold an iron cudgel, brandishing it at figures in red habits as a handful of men in tallis and skull caps flee through the open door behind them. The caption tells me this is Raven. They appear to be fighting a squad of Inquisitors during the Spanish Inquisition.
After that, it’s Maya. I don’t even need to read the script below the frieze to know it’s her, either. She’s next to an old oak tree beside a bridge, with an empty noose hanging from one gnarled branch. And Maya’s with Sasquatch, dumping a figure in white robes and a hood over the railing on the bridge’s side. There are a few more urns featuring her there, too. They all look at least a few decades older than this one, and Sasquatch isn't in them.
I shake my head, wonde
ring how I’ll ever even be near the same league as any of my friends. They’re all older than me, stronger, more resolute in the face of evil. Even those heroes I didn’t recognize on the other shelves seem larger than anything my life or unlife could measure up to.
Just who do I think I am, anyway? What right do I have to be here?
“Boss, try this shelf.” Sparky jerks his thumb at one to my right.
And that’s when I see them. The first thing I notice is just how many there are. Urns with my image and name on them, I mean. As it turns out, my mind isn’t a sieve. It’s like a bucket without a bottom.
“These are all mine, kid. All of them.”
“Looks like it.” Sparky’s eyes resemble melted obsidian. Except I don’t know whether obsidian can melt or not. I’m a PI, not a geologist. “Sorry, boss.”
Clearly, he is though I can’t imagine why. None of this could be his fault. I turn back to gaze down the long row of memory urns with my goofy mug on them. One in particular catches my eye. For maybe the first time, I don’t take a breath out of habit.
It’s like when I was still alive and had the wind knocked out of me. It happened only one time, although I don’t know how. When was that, exactly? I can’t remember. And then one of the urns catches my eye and knocks loose the veil shrouding that section of my memory.
I’m standing between Kayleigh and a hooded figure. Whoever’s under that dark swath of fabric has a finger outstretched. Slate-gray smoke curls from it like a forgotten cigarette in an ashtray. That wispy tendril is making contact with my temple. The picture of my body in the frieze stands rigid, unnaturally stiff, like I’m getting electrocuted or turned to stone.
That image prompts what comes to mind next. Full frontal contact with the asphalt strip behind Cranston West High School, part of the Meshanticut Bike Path. That memory never made sense to me before. But now I know why Doctor Maris admonished Kayleigh in the ICU. I took a supernatural hit to protect her while I was still mundane. And I’d bet an unlife of favors Calvin Kelley did something like it himself.
Because the next thing I remember after taking that fall is waking up to Ma telling me I’d been in the hospital. And nobody ever told me how seriously bad a condition I was in, either. Not even Maury or Kayleigh though she’d broken up with me that day.
“What is that thing?” I point. The question’s mostly rhetorical because I don’t expect a kid like Sparky to have any answers, salamander or not. He surprises me.
“Lethian.” He shakes his head. “Nasty things. That explains a lot.”
“Well, that’s going in the notebook.” I flip to a blank page and jot it down with the golf pencil. Sasquatch’s blog might have information to look up later. Then, I consider all the urns with my stolen memories in them. “Hmm.”
“Five minutes left.”
And just like that, I’m almost out of time. Why am I here again? Oh, yeah. To solve an impossible case for Zack Milano. And his memory is the one I need for that, not any of my own. I stuff the pad and pencil back into my pocket and pace quickly down along the stacks.
Sparky’s footsteps tap along rapidly behind me as he trots to keep up with my longer stride. A glance at my watch makes up my mind to burn some blood. I’ve got bags in my pockets to drink later for exactly that reason, after all. But I grab Sparky’s arm first. Don’t want him to get lost in here.
Doctor Maris told me I can only bring one thing out. She never said what. Since Sparky isn’t a thing, exactly, and he came in via my pocket, he’ll have to leave that way, too. But there’s one huge fact I don’t know. The only way to find out is to ask an awkward question.
“Uh, Sparky?”
“Yeah?”
“When you change into, um, an amphibian, can you bring stuff with you?”
“Sure can!” He pats his chest. “It goes under my skin until I shift back.”
“Cool.”
Unfortunately, I ask this too late for the kid to go back and grab that first urn of mine. But my stolen memories are so numerous I’m only just getting to the end of them. Several more sit on the shelf next to me. I stop, about to ask Sparky to just grab one at random. Before I speak, I glance across the aisle and see Esther’s urns. There are only four, but I don’t look at three of them. Because the first is like a picture of Hell.
And now I understand why she’s surly, where the artificial arm and leg come from, and why she keeps that creepy doll Frankie chats with. I blink, something cold wetting my face so suddenly, I glance up. But there’s no leak in the ceiling. I’m crying. For Esther fucking Solomon, of all people.
She’s in Army battle gear, out in a desert. And her uniform’s got more stripes than I expected. A Lethian has its arms outstretched and what looks like fifty fingers of gray smoke curl out from it, connecting to everyone in her platoon. Shattered bottles litter the ground at her feet as though Esther’s already thrown every potion she had at it. Her right arm is translucent, along with her left leg.
Beside her stands another soldier, this one with short but unruly jet-black curls peeking from under her helmet. The women hold hands, mouths open like they’re chanting some incantation. The name on her uniform's patch says Solomon, too, and her body’s disintegrating, fading away from the ground up. A child’s discarded doll lies prone on a flagstone between them, a glowing green thread stretching between it and the woman who’s got to be related to Esther.
I go with my gut.
“Sparky, take this urn right here.”
“This one with Esther on it?” The salamander blinks. “You sure, boss?”
“Absotively.”
“Okay.”
And just like that, I blow my chance to bring anything of my own back. But Esther needs this more than I do. At least my instincts say she does, and she does so much for the rest of us without asking for anything. When Sparky snags the pottery jar, the mood in here lifts. It’s as though Mnemosyne herself approves of my decision. Though why a Greek goddess cares about a pair of Jewish alchemists, a salamander, and a Roman Catholic vampire is beyond me.
In twenty paces, I see Zack’s section. It’s nowhere near as big as mine, and less disturbing than Esther’s. And most of his urns depict nights of getting blackout-drunk than anything else. Except for two. One glance at the first has me dropping my jaw.
My old rival’s getting punished by his father for taking home a silver State Thespian Festival award instead of gold. Punished so hard this memory got lost.
I stare at that frieze, notice a ruddy glow splaying out at Zack from his father’s mouth. My brain puts that together with the smoky Lethian tendrils and the green glow of alchemy from Esther’s wartime scene. It’s magic. The Milanos are magicians, and Zack’s having the memory of his second-place win removed by dear old dad. Possibly because he used magic to compete. Or maybe because he didn’t use enough of it to get gold.
Zack's shouting, too. But the magic coming out of his mouth is directed back on himself. It's not shielding him from what his dad's doing. I've got the impression it's literally changing Zack's own mind. So, Milano’s a magician. The spell-singing kind, just like his father. But he doesn't remember.
In the second urn full of serious business, Zack’s getting handed over to Deep Ones, which I expected. What surprises me is who’s making the trade.
Instead of Francesca Caprice, it’s Mrs. Kent leading my bound and gagged client. Carmine is with her, gray smoke wreathing his head even though he’s got no cigarette. I wonder why, but the frieze holds no clues. Zack’s got his mouth covered, of course. Magicians who do magic with their voices are dangerous without a gag. Even though Zack doesn't know his own magical strength, the others do.
So, Whitby’s had his henchwoman working with the Caprices as well as the Deep Ones. And hers is a longer game than I’d have ever imagined. Mrs. Kent gives Zack to the Deep Ones in exchange for another prisoner.
It’s Sasquatch. Maya said something about the cryptid missing memories, too. I glance over my shoulder and
immediately see Sass's section. A very similar urn rests directly across from this one of Zack's. Except it’s from a different perspective, one that shows a hungry gleam in Carmine’s eyes.
Zack isn’t the only one who needs the memories in here. Practically all my friends and allies do. But Zack's is the focus.
When I pick his urn up, it sloshes. Of course. Memory, oblivion, and water are a thing in Greek myths of the underworld. Mnemosyne’s got a river of memory there. And didn't Hades also keep a river of forgetfulness? What was that called again? Oh, right. The Lethe. Maybe these things aren’t quite as mythological as I originally thought, what with a centaur running the ICU at Kent County Hospital. Anyway, I snag a bag of blood from my pocket and guzzle it. That makes room for me to tuck Zack's urn in there.
“Okay, that’s it,” I announce to nobody in particular. “Got what I came for and need to find the—”
“Look!” Sparky points at the end of the stack we’re in. He starts shifting immediately, then scuttles up my leg and torso to return to my shirt pocket. The urn he’s carrying goes with him, showing up as a large black spot on his shiny salamander back.
The round steel-reinforced door appears. I glance at my watch, realizing we’ve got maybe thirty seconds left before we’re shut in here forever. I burn blood and hightail it toward the open portal. It’s a long way, but I make it before the door clangs shut again. Just barely.
No pressure, right?
Chapter Fifteen
I walk out into a firefight and immediately thank God because it’s not flames Scott and Doctor Maris are dodging. It’s bullets. Silver ones. Those definitely kill werewolves, but I’m not sure about centaurs or salamanders. I pause, worried about the kid. Sparky must be reading my mind because he scuttles down from my pocket and away from my feet, leaving me free to conduct Operation Vampire Shield.
Don’t worry. I got this.
And just like that, I’m intercepting projectiles faster than the human eye can track. My speed surprises me because it’s increased since the last time I did something like this. I’m quick enough to knock back the rest of my blood bags while I’m at it. Which is more than necessary. It’s dire.