Grave Matters

by Lauren M. Roy

  At the bottom of the stairs, the basement door yawned open. Katya might have been able to see inside, but Elly was going in blind. Whoever had the flashlight had switched it off. Quiet as they’d tried to be, there wasn’t any getting around the old wood creaking beneath their weight. Katya probably didn’t care. Elly was happy to let her go first.

  She slipped the silver spike from its sheath and waited, listening for anything that could clue her in to who, or what, was inside. And where they might be standing.

  Silence settled in. Elly counted heartbeats to mark the passage of time. She got to about thirty when her senses adjusted enough to make out shadows against other shadows, and to pick up the sound of thready, frightened breathing. She reached out carefully to touch Katya and warn her—as though the vampire hadn’t already picked up on it with her far, far keener senses.

  Katya spoke close to Elly’s ear, only the faintest tickle of breath passing those icy lips: “You are the only living thing in here, myshka.”

  Then she was gone, around the door and into the cellar, snarling as she rushed whoever hid within.

  A woman—not Katya—screamed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “Please! Please, no, he’ll kill me, please.”

  Elly darted in, keeping her back to the wall. A foot inside, a metal lump protruded. Light switch, she thought. She almost let it be, then thought better of that. The woman’s screams had killed whatever stealth they had anyway. The only one at a disadvantage in the dark was Elly herself. Fuck that.

  Dust covered the bare, ancient bulb, making its low wattage seem even lower. But it was better than nothing. In the dim light she saw Katya, holding a woman against a set of rusted steel shelves. It was the girl from last night, the delegate. Deirdre. All her cool was gone, that bravado so utterly shattered she looked like a frightened teenager in the hands of a monster from nightmares. Katya’s talons had pierced Deirdre’s neck, the skin slowly tearing as she craned her neck to see Elly.

  There were two others in the cellar, lying in a heap. One of them groaned. The other, the one sprawled across him, was dead. Well, dead-for-real dead, not vampire dead. Elly knew this because his head was no longer attached. She glanced around and saw a lump in the far corner that might be it.

  “Where’s Theo?” Katya shook Deirdre and got another shriek for her trouble.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know Idon’tknow Idonno . . .” She trailed off, her lips forming the words but no sound coming out.

  Katya gave her another shake. “Where?”

  “He’ll be back,” she said, eyes rolling in fear. “He killed Ciaran, and Thomas was fighting him and he heard you coming and he’ll come back, he will.”

  It was like she’d summoned him. His footsteps were heavy on the stairs; he wasn’t even bothering to sneak. Elly had the perfect spot, really. She could have done one of those exaggerated stretches you saw on TV when the kid wanted to put his arm around his date, staked Theo at the bottom of that arc, but Katya shook her head.

  He stamped into the room, not even glancing at Elly as he passed. She adjusted her position, easily in range to stab him in the back if Katya gave the signal, and still able to keep an eye on Thomas over there in the corner, in case he had any designs on getting up and starting trouble.

  “Give her to me, Katya,” he said. “You can have her fangs. I just want to put this piece of cedar in her heart.” He held up a crudely made stake. “Turns out someone upstairs had one of those cedar chests. Convenient.”

  Something’s wrong. It wasn’t just the one-eighty he’d pulled, from their sympathetic ear in the Stregoi the night before to their executioner. That on its own made no sense. But watching him move, he wasn’t carrying himself the way he had last night, either.

  “You have to stand down, Theo,” Katya said. She sounded almost sad. “What you’ve done . . . I could forgive, but Ivanov won’t.”

  “Come on, now,” he said, sidling to his left a bit to get a better line on Deirdre. “You don’t want to give part of the town to these guys. Who cares if we thin the herd a little?”

  It’s the way he’s talking. Not only the formality of his speech. His accent was gone. Heart and cedar and part rather than haht and cedah and paht. “Katya,” she said. “He—”

  But Katya wasn’t there anymore. Deirdre fell gasping to the ground, clutching at her bleeding neck. Theo let out a squawk of surprise as Katya plucked the makeshift stake from his hand, drew back her arm, and plunged it into his chest.

  He buckled. Katya caught him, and Elly darted forward to help lower him to the floor. As he lay back, his eyes cleared. He reached for Elly, recognition blooming. “Not right,” he said, “not . . .”

  She took his hand. “Who had you? Who was it?”

  But cedar worked fast. Elly suspected his stake had been coated with something when they built the closet; otherwise he would’ve been ash before he hit the ground. She watched its progress bloom outward from his heart, holding his hand as long as she could.

  It was only when she glanced down during that last crumbling second that she saw the mark. There and gone so fast she couldn’t be sure. Had he had tattoos? Could it have been a streak of Ciaran’s blood, or Thomas’? It was the sigil. I know it was.

  Katya wiped her hands on her jeans and stood. “Come, Eleanor. We’re done here.” She threw a glare at Deirdre. “You tell your maker justice was done. One of ours did you wrong, on his own, and we took care of it. You tell them.”

  * * *

  UPSTAIRS, KATYA PAUSED outside the door to slam her fist into the side of the house. One flat crack split the air, but Elly knew it contained the sound of many fine bones breaking. The vampire woman barely even grunted with the pain. If anything, it soothed her. As they walked away, Katya massaged the back of her hand, the thumb of the other pushing the bones back into place. Elly tried not to hear them re-forming.

  “Their maker,” said Katya. “He’s a ghost.”

  “Literally?”

  Katya snickered. “No, myshka, not one you can sprinkle some of your holy water on and banish. I mean, he’s nowhere to be found. No trace of him.”

  “You can’t, uh, trace him through them somehow? Through their blood?”

  “No.” The crack of another bone setting. “If I could, we wouldn’t be standing here right now. Whoever it is, they’ve hidden themselves very, very well. Which makes me think they’re old. Canny.” She snapped the last bone into place, held up the wrist with the bracelet of fangs. “When I find them, I’ll be making a necklace to match.”

  11

  JUSTIN HAD A seven-thirty class, and Chaz was on shift at the bookstore, which meant Val got a do-over on having the house to herself, at least until she had to go in for the tail end of Night Owls’ day. Her clothes from last night lay in a heap on the floor, where she’d tossed them before falling into a heap herself in bed as the sun rose. When she picked up her jeans, grave dirt flaked off of the knees in chunks. Going to need to steam-vac that.

  A steam-vaccing vampire. When had she gotten so domestic?

  When I chose to be.

  Val shoved that thought away and went to draw a bath. There were still leaves in her hair, and more of that dirt . . . well, all over. It streaked her arms and smudged her cheeks. It had gathered in her socks and made rings around her ankles. She didn’t know how, but it had even made it into her bra. Chaz’ reaction to her and Cavale this morning finally made sense.

  She looked like one of the ghouls herself right now.

  When the water was scalding hot, she stepped in. The dirt that wasn’t quite as caked on floated up, making it more like a dirty toddler’s bath time than a grown woman’s. It used to be worse, though. Blood and gore and ichor and sweat.

  Stop. Stop it.

  Val submerged herself completely, as though she could escape her thoughts by lying like a dead thing at the botto
m of the tub. If anything, the heavier silence underwater amplified the voice in her head insisting how much she’d liked rolling around in the dirt with dead things.

  Predator. Killer. It’s in your blood. It is your blood. You know you want to go back to it.

  I don’t. I walked away from it for a reason.

  But that didn’t mean she didn’t miss it. When she’d first been turned, her keen new senses had been a marvel to her: all the scents and sounds and sights her human faculties were too dull to experience now present in sharp detail. It was like coming out of a fog, and she didn’t think it could get any better.

  Until she went on her first Hunt. Oh, she’d run through the streets of Sacramento with her first coven, leapt from rooftop to rooftop with the sky wide-open above her and the ground so very far below. She was no stranger to the exhilaration that came with moving faster, farther, higher than human ability. But she’d never done it with the scent of prey in her nose, the bright taste of their fear on her tongue. A dead woman, bent on taking a life (no matter how vile), only then feeling truly, finally, alive.

  The price, though. The price was too damned high.

  Hunting got people hurt. People she cared about. And when she’d moved out here, hanging out with the Stregoi had taught her it wasn’t just the Jackals that posed the problem; it was monsters of all types. Including her own. But trying to pass for human wasn’t making her happy, wasn’t fulfilling her. Maybe she hadn’t realized it until now, or maybe she’d always known and had been that convincing in her own lies, but there it was. She thought about that fight and a thrill went through her. Same as happened when she thought back a month. The Jackals could’ve killed Chaz; they’d forced her hand and made Val kill Justin (though he got better). Terrible as that was, she’d felt good while it was going down. For the first time in a decade, her blood sang in her ears; her skin tingled with the warm rush of battle. That dead lump in her chest thudded to a semblance of life, all because she was doing what she was born to. Reborn to, she supposed. Or undeathed.

  And there it was again—Delilah, the person she’d have enjoyed picking apart those semantics with, was ten years dead. Killed at the hands of the Jackals the night Val abandoned the Hunt. Too great a price.

  She lay there until the water got cold. She was so still, her eyes open and unfocused. Not once had she come up for air. Her hair floated around her like a mermaid in the tiniest pond. If anyone had walked in, they’d think she’d drowned.

  But she couldn’t drown those thoughts.

  She got out and toweled off, noticing the layer of grime left behind after the water drained. The badass killer at home, thinking about bathtub ring. Yeah, I’m a predator all right.

  Step two of Operation Don’t Think About It was an hour of prime-time sitcoms while her hair dried. The volume was loud enough that she could feel the bass rumble of the lead actor’s voice in her toes. For the next hour, she watched bad television and flipped through yesterday’s stack of magazines. The idea was they’d put an end to those ridiculous thoughts, but no. She spent the time staring at both but not really seeing either. Her mind was too busy replaying the fight. Then she realized she was swaying in time to the memory, dodging where she’d dodged, bending forward when she’d thrown a punch. Val propelled herself up off the couch. “No. Uh-uh, we’re not doing that.”

  Am I hungry? Maybe that’s all this is?

  Into the kitchen, then, to raid the fridge. She didn’t feel like such a mighty hunter now, stalking a great motionless metal box in her own home. She had her pick: lamb, pig, or deer. She hadn’t even brought the animals down herself. She hadn’t even bought their blood herself; Chaz picked it up for her at the butcher’s every other month.

  Old blood, cold blood, unjustly gotten blood.

  She swiped the closest one, the lamb, from the shelf and tore the top off the container. The plastic lid went skittering across the kitchen floor as Val guzzled the quart of blood down in one continuous swallow. It washed over her tongue, cold and coppery, not even the tiniest bit satisfying.

  It had been over thirty years since she’d eaten human food, but she still remembered her grandmother’s cooking. The woman had boiled the shit out of everything, leaching away its flavor and leaving behind a tasteless mush. It fed you, sure, filled you up without fulfilling you. That was what this was, this poor excuse for a meal.

  Still, blood warmed her, energized her. It pooled in her belly, churned there, and spread out through her veins. Her mouth watered for more, for the real thing.

  When she closed her eyes, she saw the graveyard again. Now, with (weak, bland, pitiful) blood singing through her, her pulse quickened and her cheeks flushed. So long since she’d hunted with someone, not like the drills she ran with Justin—though she had to admit, part of why she took him out like she did was to feel her own body move near its full potential. She’d nearly forgotten how it felt, moving like that. In sync with herself.

  She’d missed it, the Hunt. These last few years she’d told herself it was the camaraderie she’d been craving the most, and that the company of Chaz and the Night Owls crew was a fine substitute.

  It was, to a point.

  But vampires were predators. She had no desire to stalk victims in dark alleys, or chase—who, the Delta Mus?—through the forest behind the college. Still, prowling through the night, letting her fangs drop, feeling her claws tear into the ghouls’ rotting flesh . . . She wouldn’t mind doing it again.

  No. People get hurt. People die.

  What is wrong with me?

  She didn’t want the night to herself anymore.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME she strolled into Night Owls, it was nearly ten o’clock. The strolling was intentional, even though she felt more like skulking. Val had it in her head that if she projected normal, normal would be forced to settle in. It was pretty shit as strategies went, but three-quarters of the books in the self-help section could be boiled down to the same advice. Why not test it out?

  Justin was up at the register, keying in a reorder. His fingers flew over the number pad, just shy of inhumanly fast. “Slow down there, kid,” Val said as she passed by, “I don’t know if that old machine can keep up.” She was only half joking; the computer was ancient, one of those things that did the job it needed to do, and thus stayed at the bottom of the “upgrade when we have money” list. Justin looked suitably sheepish and brought the typing back down to people-speed.

  She met Chaz coming down the aisle, a stack of books in his skinny arms. He moved stiffly, though he was trying his best to cover it. That’ll happen when a ghoul uses you as a punching bag. His bruises looked even worse under the bookstore’s lights.

  “Hey,” said Val. “How are you feeling?”

  “Hey. Fine.” The fine felt loaded, somehow, one of the ones that meant the other person wasn’t fine in the least.

  Val took a few books from the top of the pile, partly as a ruse to get close and get a sniff. Guarded more than prickly, but the latter increased as soon as he realized what she was up to. Her nose itched as if she’d snorted pepper.

  Chaz stepped away. “Don’t do that. I said I was fine.”

  “Yeah, but you’re full of shit.”

  “I’m not having this out with you right now.” His tone was calm, but Val could hear the undercurrent of anger beneath. He set his stack down on the counter and took hers. Chaz was a scowler, always had been, but Val wasn’t used to it being directed so keenly at her. “Last night sucked, okay? That’s all there is to it. It’s been busy in here since I got in, and I’ve got three stacks of shelving as tall as I am to get put away.” He pointed toward the back, where the bins full of new books sat waiting.

  She knew him well enough to know he was leaving things out—up front, in earshot of customers, it was ix-nay on the ampire-vay—but there was more to it. His nostrils flared while he waited for her response; he
gripped the book in his hand like he didn’t know whether to throw it at her or use it as a shield.

  Like a toddler reaching for a stove she knew was hot, Val put a hand on Chaz’ arm. He slapped her hand away—it didn’t hurt, but the sound made a few heads swivel. A muscle twitched in Chaz’ jaw as he stared at her. The silence was worse than any rebuke.

  Val let go. “I’m sorry.” She glanced around to see who was looking, but everyone had their noses buried in books. Pretending not to watch the drama. Except for Justin. She and Chaz had had their exchange right up at the register, which left Justin with pretty much nowhere to go. He’d pressed himself into the far corner and turned his back to them, frantically straightening and restraightening the bookmark display. “I’ll . . . go do something else,” Val said, before the hat trick of awful—awful boss, awful master, awful maker—got any worse.

  She started toward the back, figuring there must be bills to pay, catalogs to pore over, a bucket to stick her head in, when Chaz called softly after her. “I brought back some of those books we were talking about. From the estate. If you want to give them a look.” He didn’t sound contrite, but it was the closest to an olive branch she’d be getting.

  “Thanks.” She didn’t turn around. There was a level of humiliation there, a bit of how dare he that the insistent voice from earlier was latching onto. Chaz was her Renfield, her employee. He had no right to dismiss her like this, talk down to her like—

  Enough.

  She stalked back to the rare books room. Her keys rattled in her shaking hands as she found the silver one on her chain, fumbled it into the lock. Once inside, she closed the door behind her, leaned against it with her head tilted back, and breathed. Funny, how human calming techniques still worked, even though breath was one of those things, like food, she no longer needed. She supposed it was less about getting oxygen to her brain than it was the rhythm of the exercise. Cavale had tried teaching her about meditation once. She didn’t have the patience for it.