Moon Child

by Christina Moore

  “Thank you,” Ash said softly as she wrapped her arms around Tristan’s waist.

  He flinched, not even having notice her come up to him. “For what?”

  She just smiled knowingly at him, giving him a warm hug. “Should we go inside?”

  He nodded and motioned for her to go first.

  She couldn’t pass the threshold. It had nothing to do with ancient, and inaccurate, vampire lore and everything to do with her own psyche. There was so much happiness and sorrow in this little home and all those feelings flooded her at once. It was hard to accept the good over the bad, but she wanted to remember this place fondly, not as the grave of a life she mourned.

  “You okay?” Tristan asked softly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  The old Ash would have shrugged him off, insisted that she was fine and faced it alone. But this was the new Ash, no longer a child blundering around lost in the world. She was a woman now and would face her world with the understanding that no matter what, Tristan would be there to help her. It was okay to rely on him, even if meant looking weak. That’s what love was all about, right?

  Ash sighed, looking up at him with admiration in her eyes. Sometimes she wished that he could read her mind as easily as she could his. Then again, perhaps that was not so wise after all.

  She leaned into Tristan and gave him a small reassuring hug. “Yes. There are… so many memories.”

  “Just take your time, I’ll be right here.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze before turning away to wander about the room. Everything was as Ash remembered it. No, as Asta remembered it. Asta Moirakos, null pythia. That’s who she was in this home, not the person that died on the floor just there.

  Ash stepped lightly across the floor as if it were made of glass that would fracture at any misstep. The cold hearth, the place where meals and spells were always on heat, was nothing but a big cave cut into the brick of the home. Some of that brick had started to crumble and weeds had grown through. She stopped just past the hearth, unable to take another step. There was an alcove on the left, a pair of small rooms to either side of the stairs that let up to the sky.

  She was quiet for so long, Tristan was nearly unnerved by her stillness. Finally, he couldn’t cope with it any longer. “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but eventually said in a small voice, “Father. I remember… Patera.” Her voice caught and she had to take a moment to gather herself again. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger, almost distant. “I cannot recall his face, but I remember the day he cut into our sleeping quarters to make these steps.” She turned her back on Tristan to look at them. “I was five, maybe. Eva and I stood by, hand in hand, asking question after question as if we’d practiced it, parroting off each other… Would have driven anyone mad, but not Father. He was patient and smiling, dripping with sweat and covered in dirt, answered every single question with that unwavering smile.”

  Ash wrapped her arms over her stomach, head tilted to the side in consideration. “Eva and I, we were so confused about the reason why. Why stairs, where do they go, what happens at the top and such. His answer was different every time, but I remember one in particular. Asta, he said, these stairs will lead to the stars, just for you. And Eva, these stairs will lead to the truth that should be told to all.” She sighed, relaxing. “We were both so tickled, we stopped asking after that.

  “He never had the chance to finish as he was called off to war mere days after he started the those stairs, the last thing he touched in this place.” She turned slowly to face Tristan again and pointed to a spot on the floor a few feet away. “And that, that spot on the floor looking like every other speck of stone, that was the last thing I touched in this place.”

  Frowning, Tristan stalked slowly across the room towards her. “Where Malik—”

  “Yes, and Eva, just there.” She motioned to the left.

  Tristan stopped an arm’s length from her. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and take her into his arms, but hesitated. Why? Was it fear that she’d turn him away like so many times before when he tried to comfort her, show support for her? No. It had nothing to do with her and everything to do with that nagging—that feeling on the back of his neck, deep in his belly.

  “Tristan?” Ash asked, voice full of concern. “Is there something the trouble? You seem uncomfortable.”

  “You don’t feel that?” he asked in a whisper.

  “What? What is it you sense?” Ash trusted his base instincts and wished he would learn too as well.

  A voice from the front door said, “Me.”

  Tristan spun, hand going to his jacket to open it and stopped, dumfounded for a moment as he tried to figure out who he was looking at. The face of this newcomer was remarkably feminine, but the sideburns and thick beard said otherwise. Even under the hijab, he could make out the very shapely physic of a woman. The breasts, they were bigger than Ash’s.

  He forgot all about his gun for the moment. “Who the fu—” His question ended in a gasp when strong hands jerked him back, nearly taking him off balance. “Ash!” he hissed, “what the hell?”

  “Vasco?” she whispered in disbelief. And hope. By the Goddess, she hoped this was Vasco and not the other one.

  “Khat'e,” the newcomer answered in the negative.

  Ash stiffened and Tristan reached inside his jacket for his gun. “Oh Goddess, please, no…,” she said in a shaky voice.

  The newcomer’s mouth opened in a big smile, showing a set of rather grown-into fangs. This… person, whomever, he—she was, was a vampire and an old one at that. This vampire was the one Tristan had been feeling, there was no doubt. So why, when it was less than a dozen feet away, couldn’t he feel it?

  “Ash?” Tristan questioned nervously. He had no idea if this vampire was friend or foe or what he/she’d been saying. And despite his profession, new as it might have been, Tristan wasn’t going to shoot the vampire for just being a vampire. He needed solid proof of wrongdoing again humans.

  “Vasco, he is a dear, dear old friend.”

  Ash had friends? Like, real friends?

  “And this isn’t Vasco?”

  “No.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “She,” Ash corrected in a low hiss. Across the way, the vampire lifted her chin, eyes full of amusement as she watched in arrogant silence. “Genoveva. And she is far from friend.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m confused here…” Tristan was sure he was looking at a dude. Sure, the face was soft like a woman’s, but after spending six months in Japan, he realized that faces weren’t always an indication of sexual identity. He couldn’t even count anymore how many times he miss-guessed dude or chick from face alone—they all had such pretty, soft faces. But this person, this was the first vampire he’d ever seen with even a shred of facial hair. Full sideburns that lead into a healthy thick beard. Caterpillar eyebrows to match, all in virgin white. Master vampire to boot. Great.

  The vampire across the way harrumphed and lifted the hem of his robes to flash what was hidden within.

  “Holy Christ,” Tristan whispered unable to avert his eyes. There wasn’t enough darkness to obscure Tristan’s view of the disfigured form of what he could only assume was meant to be a tiny penis and an even smaller sac, or flaps, he couldn’t tell. There was definitely something wrong with the general anatomy of it though. What, he couldn’t say right then, and no way was he getting closer to figure it out.

  “I must share this wretched body with Asta’s dear, dear old friend, Vasco…,” she said in a mocking tone. “There’s more, below. Would you like to see? It’s a gashly bone…” She stopped long enough to chuckle at her own joke. “Of contention between dear, dear Vasco and I, what’s below.”

  Tristan jerked out of Ash’s hold, position shifting into a ready stance. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m a one-vampire at’a time kinda guy.”

  “How human of you.” The statement was simple enough. Only, the word “human
” slithered down Tristan’s spine like an electric eel, overwhelming him with fear and anguish to the point where he was nearly paralyzed. Just nearly. The show of power did it for him and the gun came up, trained steadily on Genoveva’s head.

  She gave the gun in his hand a dirty look, as if to say, “pa-lease”. “There is no reason to be violent. While I rather enjoy the sight of blood, I’m not in the mood. I just came for the witch.”

  Witch? Did she mean Ash? “Why?” he snapped and then gave a little groan as he felt Ash tap into her deeper power. She was going to draw on her seikonō. That wasn’t like her at all. Just what the fuck is going on?

  Genoveva tisked. “Still holding a grudge, Asta?”

  “You tried to destroy me, everything that I was and believed in!” Ash yelled, sounding scared but fiercely determined. “You spent years and years torturing me. You are utterly mad and tried to take me with you!”

  Tristan was finally starting to understand just who this Genoveva might have been to Ash.

  “Yes, that’s right,” the epicene vampire said to him, making him realize he’d lost the hold on his mind, allowing the vampires in. “We’re related, in a sort. My Master is Asta’s Great, Great Grand Master. So you see, we’re bound by blood.”

  “Good for you, but she’s free to be with whomever she wants and that’s not you, pal.”

  “Never again!” Ash screamed and then the entire building shook as she sent out a burst of seikonō energy, calling upon the earth beneath their feet.

  Tristan lost balance and was tossed backwards as the earth rippled up under him. Ash was already across the room and on Genoveva by the time Tristan realized he was on the ground. He grunted, lifting the gun to fire but the earth shuddered again. He didn’t even see it coming, the chunk of rock that made up the ancient ceiling. The damn thing was the size of a grapefruit and took him right in the temple and then it was lights out.

  Ash screamed a few words of frustration in Greek, lunging for Genoveva again after having been thrown off. The vampire smiled, showing an impressive set of fangs. She didn’t even have to lift a hand to stop Ash and they both knew it. This time when the earth trembled, it was at Genoveva’s behest and it was phenomenal.

  Stone chunks the size of kittens rained down all around them. Ash cried out for Tristan, frightened for him, but she knew it was futile. That last bit of stone he took to the head had knocked him out. She could still feel his life, hear his heartbeat and breath, but he was out cold. It was up to her now to make sure they both left the place alive. But as she looked into the face of her friend and foe, as the earth shook beneath them, as the power of her elder overwhelmed her, weighed down on her soul, crushed her physical being to bring her to her knees, she knew that it was a feat she would fail at again.

  Ash shut her eyes and let the pain of defeat take her as she whispered, “All I ask is that you leave him alone, that no harm comes to that man.”

  “You would give up everything to save this human?”

  Ash opened her eyes again and gave Tristan a longing glancing, hoping that it wasn’t the last time she saw him. And even if she did parish at the hand of the mad vampire, he would at least live on to do his work—something she’d been reluctant to admit was very much necessary.

  “Yes.”

  The other vampire narrowed her eyes at Ash. She was trying desperately to probe the younger Master’s mind and failed despite their strong blood tie and Ash’s weakened state. The trouble with Ash, Genoveva had come to realize, that when someone was trained as vigorously to abstain such as she was, they learned to use their gifts to the their best advantage in such a low state of being. That said, Genoveva was sure the day they went head-to-head on equal terms might actually mean the younger—weaker Master Earth vampire would defeat her with an awe of skill.

  Genoveva stood over Ash where she knelt and smiled darkly, thinking this day was not that day. Or ever. “And why do you think I will agree to this?”

  “Because you only want me.” Ash was shaking now, but she refused to let the fear shut her down.

  “You love that human.”

  “I do. But he has nothing to do with this. Even if you use him to try and hurt me, it would matter for naught. You know how I am.” Ash held her breath, hoping that she was blocking her mind as strongly as she thought she was. She couldn’t afford Genoveva in her head. She couldn’t afford Genoveva to discover what Tristan really was.

  The elder’s mouth curled into a disgusting grin. “Done,” she barked out in angry Arabic.

  The world fell silent, the gasp before the scream and Ash shut her eyes, giving herself over to the only person who’d ever scared her more than Malik.

  2: The Patient

  HE knew exactly how Wile E. Coyote felt whenever he took an anvil to the head. Tristan groaned, rolling over to his side. Then stopped. His left wrist throbbed and felt heavy. He managed to crack open an eye and bristled at the plaster cast. He bolted upright, looking around. The room was drowned with natural light. It was the middle of the day according to the clock—the clock he recognized in the room he and Ash shared in Karavostasi.

  How did he get back to the hotel? Did Ash drag him back after he took that brick to the head?

  “Of course she did,” he muttered to himself and turned his head to the side. His gun was lying on the pillow next to him and was only slightly harder to check the clip one-handed.

  The door to his room was shut but it did little to block out all the noise from the other side. Music and voices—no, just one very dominant female voice singing out of key. It definitely wasn’t Ash. When he sat up he realized he’d been stripped down to his boxers and that they were damp. So was his hair.

  “The hell?”

  Moving slow as to not upset the bees of wrath inside his head, he shuffled out of bed. That’s when he noticed his feet. Both were wrapped in soft white gauze with some sort of weird design stamped into a bit of wax on top, like letter seals. Yeah, his feet fucking hurt too.

  On the way to the door, he scowled at his dress shoes, resting in a puddle of water. “I’m going to burn you fuckers when I get back.”

  They just sat there like loafs.

  Tristan used the gun to push open the door and peeked out. There were two people, one was a girl dancing like she was on Speed at a rave. She was short and petite, almost smaller than Yukihime. Her thick auburn hair was wet and swung out from her head in her manic dance as if she were trying to air dry it—helicopter style.

  The man watching her was dressed like something out of a high fantasy film, all golds and red, fancy embroidery, heavy brass hardware and sturdy leather. The only part of his outfit out of place was the sunglasses and hoodie—that was made of leather at least. His brand of skinny bordered on the anorexic side, but he seemed healthy enough and with a hand on a very nice looking sword hilt, Tristan hoped he was as frail as he looked.

  Neither noticed Tristan as he slowly stepped out of the bedroom and into the main space. The tall one had his back to the door and the other was too busy dancercising the wet away. Finally, the girl made a rotation that put her face to face with Tristan, and his gun. Instead of balking, she put on a great big smile and waved emphatically before spinning again in her frenzied dance circle. The man turned and gave Tristan a hard stare. The hand tensing on the elaborate sword at his side didn’t go past Tristan’s notice.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he called out over the bad ‘80’s music crackling from the room’s small radio. “Where’s Ash?”

  The man went over and turned off the music, eliciting a huff and a pout. The woman stopped mid dance, panting and skin slightly damp. She swiped hands over her face, pushing back her tangle of messy hair. “Hello!” she said enthusiastically as if they were old friends.

  When she moved forward to shake his hand, or a hug—he couldn’t tell which—Tristan lifted the gun to her head. This close he knew immediately what she was even if he didn’t know who. Granted, she wasn’t a threat, but he liked hi
s space. Especially since she was obviously the one who patched him up with her magic, or whatever.

  She stopped, still smiling. “Oh dear, don’t tell me you don’t know who I am?”

  “Don’t really give a shit...” Pythia.

  Tristan flicked a glance at the man, unmoving where he stood by the table. That hand still on the grip, glint of silver showing between the scabbard and hilt now.

  She frowned though it didn’t fill her eyes. “That’s odd, I thought—” She waved her hands around in the air in front of her face as if swatting away bugs. “I’m Chrysanthe and this is my cohort, Silas.”

  Tristan eyed the woman a moment and then said, “I know what you are, but not that one.” He nodded towards the man.

  She flinched, looking a little surprised. “Oh, Silas? Just an elf.”

  The elf in question grunted at his companion and Tristan spun to face the man.

  No shit, a real elf. And he was nothing like the faerie. Ridiculously tall, sickly skinny, some shade of pink hair hidden under a cowl, a scattering of red freckles across his nose over dark, dusky brown skin. Nothing like the fae at all.

  “Where’s Ash?” Did he have to ask it again?

  “Ash? Oh dear, Asta then? Asta Moriakos?”

  Moriakos? Was that her last name? “Yeah… You’re not with that fucking freak of a vampire are you?” Just who was Genoveva?

  Tristan had a lot of work ahead of him if he was going to find Ash alive by nightfall.

  “Heavens no,” she replied and then turned. “Silas, love, would you?”

  The elf gave Tristan a warning glance before turning away to go to the kitchenette-bar.

  “Asta’s fine.” As fine as she could guarantee anyway. She could only count on Genoveva’s insanity rather than her word. “I don’t believe Genoveva—Vasco or whatever it is she/he calls themselves this century, will harm her. Not quickly anyway. I like to call them Genovasco, less confusion.”