“I will enjoy gutting you,” Freddy says.
“Jules said you were terrible in bed. Unimaginative. Could not wait to—”
Freddy lunges at Oliver with a roar I’m sure they heard all the way in Kansas. Oliver raises his weapon to block the blow, the swords clanking on impact. Freddy raises his sword again, but Oliver blocks. Without hesitation, Freddy continues bringing the sword down as if he’s chopping wood. Clack, clack, clack. Oliver grips his sword with two hands as he lowers to his knee to brace the impacts. Freddy howls louder with each swing. Oliver’s sword lowers to his forehead, and in that instant he punches Freddy in the stomach. The enraged vampire doubles over for a moment, which is all Oliver needs. He stands and leaps away.
Freddy recovers far too quickly. Just as Oliver moves, Freddy is on him again, sword gliding to Oliver’s left side. He parries it away, then twists to make a blow of his own. Freddy blocks it. They continue like this for a few seconds: block, blow, block, blow, blow, moving so fast I lose track of who is doing what. I feel like I’m watching a live version of an Errol Flynn movie. The real thing is far more frightening and loud.
Oliver bends to the side to avoid a strike and at the same time spins around so he’s on my right. Freddy attempts another axe move, but Oliver sidesteps it. Freddy stops attacking, glaring at the stony Oliver who holds his sword and other hand out to the side. “You are rusty, my old friend,” Freddy says.
“As are you,” Oliver says back. “You used to be able to take someone out in three thrusts. At least that is what Jules told me.”
They circle each other like rabid dogs. “I enjoy toying with you.”
“Well, stop it,” Oliver hisses. “I grow bored with you, as all do.”
“You would deny me my revenge?” Freddy asks, still circling. “You stole and then killed my lover.”
“Vampire hunters killed Jules, not I.”
“If Jules had been with me, it would not have happened!”
“I am not responsible for what happened. You drove Jules away with your neediness and weakness. Death was preferable to an eternity with you.”
Freddy’s eyes turn shark black. He lunges at Oliver, who steps to the side. Freddy jumps on his desk, and at the same time, brings the sword down and over, drawing blood on Oliver’s left bicep. The skin sizzles like bacon on impact and smells like what it is: burnt flesh. I gasp. Oliver hisses in pain, involuntarily switching the sword to his left hand, right one pressing on the wound. He steps back but not far enough. Freddy kicks Oliver in the face, knocking him on his back.
“No!” I shriek.
Freddy leaps off the desk beside Oliver. He brings the sword down, but Oliver crosses his blade across his body in protection. So Freddy stamps down hard on Oliver’s stomach. He recoils in pain, turning over onto his side. Freddy slashes across Oliver’s back with the look of a man possessed. Oliver howls in pain. Blood pours out like Niagara Falls, pooling on the floor. He drops the sword. He’s defenseless. Freddy kneels down beside him, drawing the sword to Oliver’s neck. He yanks on Oliver’s hair. “Beg for mercy,” Freddy says with a snarl.
Anton yanks on my arm, drawing my attention away from the scene. “If you are able to do something miraculous,” Anton whispers quickly, “and I believe you can, I would so it now.”
“Beg!”
“Never,” Oliver says through the pain.
Anton yanks again. “Now!” he whispers.
Screw it, Oliver is not dying on my watch.
Freddy begins drawing the sword across Oliver’s neck like a violin bow, triumph written all over his face. That is until the sword flies from his hand as if pulled by invisible strings. All eyes follow the floating weapon until it lands with a clang in the corner of the room. Everyone’s face but mine contorts into a look of confusion. Anton and I stand up.
“What the hell?” Gerry says.
The two goons take a step toward Oliver, but I hold up my hand to focus my power. They both fall back against the wall unable to move. At the same time, I look at the sword Oliver lost, picking it up with my mind. It floats into my outstretched hand. Freddy’s look of utter confusion turns to wonder then anger. The other two continue struggling, worming their bodies as if trying to get out of rope.
“Get away from him,” I order, my voice matching my fury. I whip toward Anton. “You. Sit.”
He does.
Holding the sword at the ready—not easy as it weighs at least ten pounds—I step toward the motionless Freddy. “Try anything and I squish your two henchmen like bugs on a windshield.”
“You always do know the most interesting people, Ollie,” Freddy says in amusement.
“Oliver, get up,” I command.
With a groan worthy of a porn star, he stands, grimacing in pain. He’s so pale, almost the color of a real corpse.
“We’re leaving,” I say, edging back toward the door. Freddy doesn’t move.
“This is not over, Ollie,” Freddy says.
“Don’t you move,” I say as we reach the door. Both JR and Gerry scowl and seethe next to me.
“I’m going to kill you, bitch,” Gerry growls.
“Not if I kill you first, pal. And I will. That’s a promise.”
Gerry makes another attempt with the lunging, but I tighten the invisible plank so he can’t even blink. Oliver staggers through the open door, and I back out too. Oliver’s halfway down the stairs when I close the door with my mind. I have to release the men, focusing my entire mind on that door. The men pull and push and smash, but it doesn’t budge. Even as I’m running down those stairs as fast as my feet allow, I don’t let go.
A bleeding Oliver pushes his way through the copulating crowd toward the front door. Some libertines actually look concerned, especially when they see the sword still in my hand. A few even stop having sex. The bartender moves toward me as I pass, but I flying-squirrel him across the room. Vamps gasp but don’t move. Smart of them.
We make it out the main door without another incident. Outside is a problem. The bouncer grabs Oliver by the shirt when he steps foot one out, slamming him against the wall. Oliver cries out in pain when his back hits brick. Before I even realize I’m doing it, I jab the sword through the guard’s stomach with a roar. It slides in like butter. The howling bouncer releases Oliver, who falls to the sidewalk. The burning smell of the bouncer’s flesh almost makes me gag. I release the sword, and the bouncer steps away, staring down at his stomach as if an alien had just popped out. I toss Oliver’s good arm over my shoulder, hoisting him up. We both groan from the effort. A thin, warm layer of blood coats my hand. Just get him to the car, Bea.
He leans on me, and we walk as quickly as possible to the car, which isn’t that fast. I’ve been working out, but not enough to lug a two-hundred-pound injured vampire around. By the time I get him to the car, my thighs, arms, and back are all burning. The BMW’s not locked, thank God. I open the back door, tossing Oliver onto the seat. If possible he’s grown even paler. Thin blue veins cascade around his sickly alabaster skin. He flops onto his stomach, hands balled into fists to combat the pain. Dear Lord. The two foot gash puckers and bleeds. It’s so deep I swear I can see his spine. His shirt is thick with blood. I look away, slamming the door shut. He needs blood. And fast. What the hell am I going to do?
I climb into the driver’s side and reach for the ignition but realize I don’t have the keys. “Crap!” I shout, hitting the steering wheel with both hands.
“What?” Oliver asks as if he’s in a dream state. He’s seconds from passing out.
“No keys! What—”
JR and Gerry round the corner, charging at the car like the bulls in Pamplona. I lock the doors, not that it will do anything. But me whipping my head back and picking them up does. They soar into the street behind us. I just bought us all of a second.
“Red and yellow wires,” Oliver winces. “Hotwire.”
The panel under the wheel falls into my lap, expelling a load of wires. Reaching under my bustier
I pull out a dagger to cut the wires as my hands tremble. I start rubbing them together like in the movies, but the engine just sputters. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see Gerry and JR running toward us again. I keep rubbing. I look again, and they’ve disappeared.
Glass smashes beside me, a thousand tiny shards raining like diamonds. I scream and duck down, instinctively protecting my face. A hand grabs my hair, yanking me up. I gouge the dagger into the offending hand. It works. JR pulls his bleeding hand away. The blade went all the way through, so the silver tip pokes out of his palm, dripping blood. I rub the wires again. Oh, please. Please … The car springs to life. Oh, thank you, God! I put it in reverse and punch it. The tires skid, but we move. Oliver groans in pain as his back slams into the seat behind. I step on the brake, and we come to a sudden stop. He groans again. I put the car into drive, and we’re out of the lot.
There are few cars on the road, but channeling Richard Petty from NASCAR, I maneuver and speed, even going through a red light. I’m not stopping for anything. There’s no noise but my ragged breath and the passing air outside. No cars follow us that I can see.
“Oliver?” I ask through the breaths.
He doesn’t answer.
Very quickly, I turn around. Blood has smeared the brown leather interior like something out of a crime scene photo. His eyes are closed, and he’s not breathing. Is he dead? My stomach buckles so hard I gasp. Wait, he’s a vampire; they don’t breathe. The knot in my belly loosens a little. He’s just passed out. I have no idea how much blood he can lose before he dies for real. I have no idea what to do about his cuts. I just have no idea what to do.
Don’t panic. That’s what you do—you don’t panic. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself, though it works only up to a point. My arms shake from the adrenaline coursing through my every vein. Okay, first step is to stop driving like a maniac. The last thing I need is to be pulled over with a bleeding man in the backseat. I stop at the red light this time.
He needs blood, and I have no idea where to get it. I’d donate, but until we’re safe, I need all my strength. They have blood at the hotel. Our weapons are there too. I really, really want my machete right now. But Marianna is there. As is Oliver’s cell phone. Call for help. I run though my options and can’t think of anything better right now. I punch the address into the GPS with my trembling finger. The light turns, and I head for the hotel.
_____
Oliver doesn’t regain consciousness in the fifteen minutes it takes to reach the Dauphine. I didn’t think it possible, but in that time he turns a whiter shade of pale with his cheeks sinking in too. And doubts about this plan fade when I look at him. He needs blood and I’m getting it for him, even if it means facing a house full of vamps.
The remote for the Dauphine’s gate still works. Good sign. If I’m lucky, everyone’s out and they have no idea we’re wanted fugitives. Yeah. Right. I pull the BMW to the front of the house, leaving the engine on. Might need a quick getaway. The lights are on inside, but nobody runs out of the house. Please God, let everyone be out. Please.
I leave the car idling and get out. My legs wobble a little, but I can walk. Better yet, I can run. Which is what I do. I run through the unlocked front door, past the library and den, and up the stairs. Nobody stops me. I’m panting when I reach the second floor but continue as fast as my legs allow to the second stairwell. My heels thump on the stairs, but I make it to our room without incident. Crap! No keys!
No choice. My mind pushes the door. It swings open the wrong way. The hinges from the wall hang off the door, but I shimmy through the opening. After turning on the light I race over to the bed, falling to my knees and reaching under. I feel the black duffel and yank it out. All the weapons are there. I run around the room grabbing the essentials—thermos of blood, case papers, cell phone—and throw them in the bag. I’m over by the window picking up Oliver’s other leather jacket when the door smashes in. I shriek and drop the jacket. The door falls to the ground with a thud. The male German twin still has his leg raised from the kick. His sister and Marianna stand behind him, all three glaring at me. My luck just ran out.
I don’t so much as blink when the trio step in. Marianna walks between the twins, so they flank her on either side like blonde pillars. She stops a few feet from the bed, folding her arms across her chest. “Checking out?” she asks with a sly smile.
“I don’t want any trouble. I was just leaving.” I don’t move though.
She eyes me up and down. My entire body is sticky with blood. I’m like a prostitute to a recovering sex addict: temptation. She licks her lips. “Did Freddy kill him?” she asks.
“What?” I ask.
“Freddy. Did he slay Oliver?”
All the pain, all the nervousness sizzles out of me, replaced by red hot rage. “Why did you do that to him?”
She shrugs. “I thought Freddy might find it interesting. And judging from your appearance, he did.”
“Go to hell, you bitch. I will kill you, I swear to—”
“Save your idle threats, little girl. Klaus, Ingrid, enjoy your midnight snack.”
I don’t wait for them to move. Their blonde heads twist like bottle caps around to their backs. Bones and tendons crack and break. Both fall to the ground, their gurgled screams filling the room. Sadly they won’t die, but I’m sure it hurts like hell. Marianna’s already huge eyes double in size as she looks to either side. Guess she didn’t see that coming.
“You—” is all she manages.
Planning is key in this job. I came up with a dozen scenarios of what was waiting for me in this house. The one I face is closest to scenario four. I know exactly what to do. I rip off the front of the bustier as she finally looks back to me. Her eyes dart to the daggers. I pull out two, and before my arms even reach the level, they float out of my hands. As fast as bullets, they fire right into her chest at the heart, exiting on the other side with blood in their wake. Bull’s-eye.
She doesn’t have time to react before I yank out two more, launching them to the same spot. Her body jerks violently a second time, blood splattering all over her shirt and out her mouth. Marianna collapses to the floor next to her henchmen.
I feel her eyes follow me as I walk over to the bed. The once-confident woman whimpers and presses on her wounds as blood pours between her fingers. I feel nothing—not rage, not sadness, just nothing—as I pull Bette out. Marianna whimpers louder as the long blade comes into view. I gaze down at her. How many people has she killed? Hundreds? Thousands? She tried to kill me and my partner just because he wouldn’t go to a book reading with her. I meet her eyes. They plead.
“Please. Do not,” she says.
I feel nothing. “I’ll tell Oliver you said good-bye.”
With all my strength, I bring the machete down onto her neck. With the silver coating, it slices through as if the flesh and bone isn’t there. Blood sprays like I’ve just turned on a sprinkler. Her head separates from the rest of her, blood spreading like wildfire over the floor. Her brown eyes glaze over. I yank Bette out of the floor with a groan. Then I throw up all over the nice bedspread.
Eleven
Playing Doctor
I run out of that house as fast as I can carrying a sixty-pound duffel bag full of weapons. I left everything else—our clothes and other personal items—behind. God knows who else is in that house, and I don’t want to find out. The only piece of clothing I did take is Oliver’s jacket. We need a new place to regroup, and I don’t think visible bloodstains would help us go around undetected.
Oliver is still passed out in the back when I jump into the car. Practically before I close the door, I step on the gas and get the heck out of there. I want as much distance as I can get between us and anything with fangs before I stop.
Glancing in the mirror, I watch him. He looks worse. His skin is almost transparent now with a map of blue veins crisscrossing everywhere. I make it three miles down the road before the smart part of my brain takes over. I pull ove
r. Oliver doesn’t stir.
I grab the thermos from the bag beside me and climb into the backseat. It’s a darn slaughterhouse back here, blood smeared and in pools on the interior. I lift Oliver’s head into my lap. What I wouldn’t give for one of his crude remarks right now, he’s so still and cold. With one hand I open his mouth to a pucker, and with the other pour down the blood. At first it pools in the hole for a few seconds, then slowly drains down his throat. I pour again. And again. The thinner blue veins disappear after the third time. I don’t know how much he’s absorbing because the wound on his back continues bleeding all over me. I pour a few more times until the thermos is empty.
His eyes remain closed, and he’s still a sickly shade of white, but the veins have disappeared and his cheeks are back to their full state. “Oliver?” I whisper. Nothing. Maybe this will work. “Oliver!” I shout as I slap his face as hard as I can.
His head jerks up along with the rest of his torso. He howls in pain. “Fuck!” His eyes jet around the car wildly, not sure where he is. They stop at me. “Where are we? What has happened?”
“We’re safe,” I say. “We got away after you passed out.” He groans in torment again. It’s so deep, it sinks into my bones almost causing me pain. “Your back’s really bad. It won’t stop bleeding.”
“I am starving,” he says in a low voice. “I am so hungry.”
“I gave you the last of the blood. I don’t know what else to do.”
“I need blood. Medical attention. It was a silver sword, the wound will not close on its own. And we need a safe location to wait for the others.” His eyes meet mine. Oh, crud. They’re as black as onyx. He’s vamping out. “Put me in the trunk. If I am seen …”
Don’t need to tell me twice. I race to the front, hitting the button to open the trunk. He all but tumbles out like a drunk, but at least he can move on his own. I so don’t want to, but I throw his arm around my shoulder to help him walk. His mouth is a mere foot from my neck. He’s dead weight, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Those eyes don’t leave my neck. “Where do we get this blood and medical attention?” I ask.
To Catch a Vampire Page 17