by R. E. Carr
“That is not the first word I’d use, but I feel more coherent. There is something about surviving having your heart cut out of your chest that puts things in a new perspective. I need to get over myself and get back on mission.” He looked over to Edwin. “Things are only gonna get crazier from here on out.”
The door opened again, and Mina slipped into view with a pained smile on her face. Her eyes welled up as she caught sight of Gail. “I’m sorry, but there is no sign of Steven, and I am honestly not certain which faction has the police scouring Boston for him. I was certain that Steven would go after Arthur when you said he planned on doing something stupid, but there has been no sight of him at the Intercontinental.”
“The police call was local, so if it wasn’t Arthur, then the sheriff is in town,” Edwin added. “Or at least one of her high-ranking agents is around. That contradicts my reports that she’s committing everything to flushing the furballs out of Music City . . . no offense, Dad.”
“Steve isn’t known for being subtle, guys,” Gail said. “If he didn’t go straight for Arthur . . . then where the hell did he go?”
35
“Please still be here,” Georgia whispered as she lifted one of the little bunny statues in front of a picturesque brownstone near Cleveland Circle. She slid the secret compartment to the side and let out a sigh of relief as she saw the brass shining in the street light. Javier peeked in from the alleyway.
“Now, let’s hope that Arturo did not put an upgraded security door out back as well, no?” Georgia followed him as quickly as she could in the slightly too-large sneakers she had snagged from the gym. He took her arm and helped her lean against the wall as the world started to spin. “Are you alright, mi amiga?” He mimicked a vomiting motion. “Vas a vomitar?”
Georgia shook her head. “No, not anymore. I’m guessing that after being chopped up and put back together a few times, I wasn’t quite ready for iced coffee.”
“You want more of the salty vegetable water?”
She shook her head again. “It’s called bouillon, Javier, and I don’t think that did me any favors either.” Her face turned slightly green. The vampire ducked aside just in case. He felt her forehead and furrowed his brow.
“Maybe you need a few more hours of rest, mi amiga—”
“Javier, I have a vampire tumor growing through me, and I’m held together by stitches and spite—I don’t think my long-term prognosis is particularly good. We need to check on him sooner rather than later, OK?”
Javier smiled and nodded. She tried the back door and breathed a sigh of relief that neither the deadbolt nor the chain had been engaged. Her relief faded as she realized that the chain had in fact been cut. Javier motioned for her to stay back as he flickered and crept along the shadows of her kitchen cabinets. Georgia limped to the refrigerator, gagging the moment she opened the door. Prehistoric Chinese food and congealed milk greeted her, along with her carefully labeled bottles of blood spiked with herbal remedies. A nearly-empty blood bag and a six-pack of malt liquor were the only new additions. Crusty cups overflowed the sink.
Georgia worked her way slowly into the dining room, plopping unceremoniously into the chair at the head of the table. She sniffled as her foot kicked a catnip mouse. “Oh Schrodinger, I hope . . .” She didn’t dare finish the sentence. Her shoulder ached, and her head soon slumped to the table. Georgia snapped back to consciousness the moment she heard footsteps padding from the stairwell. “Mr. Lambley?” she asked weakly.
Javier shook his head as he slipped into view. “No bueno,” was all he could say. He let out a deep sigh, plopped into the chair across from her, and mimicked her facepalm gesture. His hair flopped over the placemat as he groaned.
“That good, huh?” Georgia asked. “Is he . . .?”
“Sí, Señor Lambley is upstairs, but he is . . . he is not well.”
“He is here? I need to—”
“Señora, I pray that you stay. He could not see me, could not hear me, and I am better at this muerto thing than you. To see him suffering and to not be able to provide the slightest comfort, it was angustioso . . . err, heartbreaking.” Javier raised his hands and made tiny sparks dance from his fingertips. “The electricity . . . it bounces off him, and when I make the lights flicker, his eyes . . . they remain dead.”
“Why do you care so much? I’m sorry, but did you know him? He never spoke of you.”
Javier laughed bitterly. “Of course, he didn’t. Yes, I have known him his entire life, have been like an uncle to him and to Edwin, but I was always in the shadows—a convenience to be trotted out when there was mischief to be had, or more often, mischief to be covered up. As a spy and a thief, I was, um, slightly lower class than the great earl upstairs cared to consort with.”
“Great earl . . . Mr. Lambley?”
“You only saw him in his decline, señora. Sadly, I had heard stories of his battle against the slow death, but I must confess I was not prepared for what I just witnessed. When he was out dancing at the balls, I was certain that the rumors of his condition were gravely exaggerated. Now the only thing that I am certain of is that Mina must have suffered gravemente.”
“I guess I never thought of you being older than him or knowing him when he was a vampire kid.” She slid her fingers across the table. Javier took them gingerly. His normal smile faded into an uncharacteristic frown. Georgia furrowed her brows. “Javier, why can’t he see you? Did—”
Javier tugged the collar of his shirt. Georgia gasped as she saw a pulsing mound of flesh along his collar bone as well. “Overactive miasma gland. Once it goes haywire there is no known way to stop it. I was injured badly enough in the other gland that I became, how you say, permanente trapped like this. Only someone like you—immune to my gift—can see me at all. Do not look so sad, the world thinks that I am muerto—and for a spy, there are far worse fates than everyone thinking that you are dead.”
“Did you know this would happen? Did you—?”
“All jokes aside, there is a very real reason you don’t see many invisible vampires, mi amiga. The harder you push to disappear, the more you risk this very outcome. I knew I was close, and with Imhotep and his schemes threatening those I loved most in this entire world, I chose to—”
“Die gloriously?”
Javier laughed. “More like be found dead in a club . . . pathetic. It is surprisingly easy to fake your own death when your outer shell is already muerto, no?”
“You faked your own death . . . wow.”
“It takes more cojones than you think to go all the way. The same pervasive fog that makes people absolutely sure you are not there affects me as well. What is the real difference between perception and reality at any given point? The world believes that I am muerto, so anything I do to fight that is an exercise in futility. Even the internet fights me.”
“The internet? You have got to be kidding me.”
“Try to send an email to someone you love, then. Here, use my phone if you are able.”
She snatched the hunk of black plastic the moment it emerged from his pocket. Her fingers trembled, and she fumbled to send a text. She looked at Javier pleadingly. “Do you know Steve’s number? I put it in my phone, so I wouldn’t have to remember it. How about Mr. Lambley’s?” After he shook his head she pulled up the browser and tried to sign into her email, but the password came up wrong three times and locked her out.
“Even if you eventually get through—the message will not deliver. Who needs sorcery when spam filters exist? I can confess to getting through once, but the person on the other end probably thought they were hallucinating. It . . . shattered mi corazón. At least if I really were dead, I would not see those I adore crying tears for me, no?”
“And you did this on purpose? What aren’t you telling me, Javier?” Georgia asked flatly.
“It is the same fate that befell my father. After a few centuries, the madness took him. I found his writing carved into the wall of a cave. He threw himself off a
cliff in the desert so that he baked in the sun. Once his miasma gland had rotted away, I found his skeleton near Carthage. It was quite the scene. One day the Lungs who think they are ever so clever will face this same fate. That tumor you have will actually save your precious Bam-Bam for centuries as he has to regrow his abnormal one.”
“Well, that’s making lemonade out of lemons, isn’t it?”
Javier let go of her hand and slid around the table. Georgia initially bristled as he wrapped an arm around her and held her close, softening when he did nothing more untoward than help her to the sofa and tuck her in with one of her familiar afghans. “You do not look well,” he said softly. “Now, you rest here for just a little longer. I will get some comida for you, and for me, and even for Señor Lambley.”
“I can’t even think about food,” she said, going green again.
“Agua at least,” he insisted. “Just a little longer, no? He is as weak as you are, and I must try once more to help him.”
“He’s your son, isn’t he?” Georgia blurted out.
“How . . .?” Javier raised a brow.
Georgia rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen you do the electricity thing. You get goo-goo eyes whenever you mention Mina; and, well, you wanted me to cool it and rest for a while—until I mentioned that I wanted to help Mr. Lambley, then you were all for it. For a spy, you are kinda transparent.”
“You are very perceptive, mi amiga. This is a dangerous trait to have around vampires, you know.”
Georgia coughed. She twirled her stitched and scarred wrist, her joints cracking painfully. “Heh, but look how far it’s gotten me,” she wheezed once the coughing died down. “It’s worked out great.”
“Rest, mi amiga. I’ll be back soon. After you’ve had a little sleep and some agua, I will take you up there to see him, just—be prepared.”
“Thank you, Captain Fabulous. We will figure out a way to help him, I swear.”
“You do care, no?”
“It’s complicated,” Georgia whispered. “I have a lot to figure out and a lot to make up for.”
“Don’t we all?”
She watched him leave, her head spinning. The moment she heard the door slam, she dragged herself off the couch and slowly made it to the stairs. “Mr. Lambley?” she called softly. The boards creaked under her as she fought to lift her leaden feet up each step. “Mr. Lambley, can you hear me?”
Her knees buckled, and her chin slammed into the railing. A moan echoed from the darkened second floor. “Damn it, Georgia,” she chided herself until she finally found the strength to make it onto the landing. She heard a thud upstairs. A bottle rolled out of the bathroom followed by a slam. Georgia watched in wonder as a cheap raspberry vodka bottle bounced down the stairs. “That can’t be him . . . can it?”
A rather loud belch answered her from above. “I’m sorry, darling, I had to drink it all,” a familiar British accent murmured confidentially. “You don’t like raspberry, do you?”
“Mr. Lambley!”
“Sometimes, I can almost hear your voice, dear Georgia.”
She found a second wind and powered through the last few stairs, stopping at the top to catch her breath. She cocked her head as she heard a squishing, slurping sound. “Oh, Mr. Lambley, you had better be wearing clothes,” she prayed.
“Perhaps this time it will be enough. I will finally have done enough to see you again,” Mr. Lambley said from the bathroom. Georgia took a deep breath and tried the door. Locked. She knocked.
“Mr. Lambley?”
“Yes, yes, I can hear you now. It must be time.”
“Mr. Lambley open the goddamn door, so I can talk to you!”
The lock clicked. Georgia opened the door slowly. Tears welled in her eyes as she saw the tile, then the blood—so much blood pouring from pasty wrists. Mr. Lambley smiled broadly, spreading his arms wide and showing off a pallid, sunken chest. His skin sagged from his bones, with ribs showing over a distended pot belly. She recognized his torn, threadbare suit.
“Have you been here since London?” she gasped, horrified.
“The time . . . has finally . . . come,” he said, eyes wild. He collapsed against the tub and stared in dismay as the vampire inside him plugged the holes he had carved with broken mirror shards. His head rolled forwards. Filthy, stringy, orange hair covered his face. He moaned and groaned, finally devolving into shuddering sobs. Georgia dropped to her knees in front of him.
“Oh, Mr. Lambley, I am so sorry I left you.”
“All my fault . . . all my fault . . . I am nothing but a monster. Even now, I can still hear your voice, calling me. You . . . you were so innocent, and I . . . I—”
“Mr. Lambley, I’m right here,” Georgia begged. “I’m right here, and I have to know—”
A pair of bright green eyes stared right through her. “Of course, you are here. You haunt me every night, dearest Georgia. How many times can I say that I am sorry?”
“You can see me!” Georgia cried, sobbing as she crawled through his blood on the slippery floor to reach his side. His gaze, however, didn’t follow her as she approached. Her heart sank as he stared at the door.
“Every night, you remind me of my failure,” the vampire moaned. Georgia slid down beside him and saw what he truly stared at—a newspaper article that had been nailed to the door. She could just make out “Local family slaughtered by deranged father” through the streaks of blood. A dead ringer for herself with nineties hair posed with two children—a towheaded boy in glasses and a tiny girl with a lopsided smile. Georgia choked as she saw a fuzzy bunny in the toddler’s hands. “Oh, Miss Sutherland, I’ll try again. I owe it to you to make it slow. I owe it to you . . . to truly suffer.”
“No, Mr. Lambley, no, no please don’t do this, not for me—”
The vampire let out a terrible, longwinded sob, followed by an ugly cry. He crawled over the bathtub edge and pulled out another plastic bottle of cheap booze, followed by a cellulose-ridden jug of Bloody Mary mixer.
“Stop this . . . please,” she begged. She reached for him, but the electricity surged on his skin, and she was forced to recoil. “Damn it, please. I can’t talk to you if you’re dead,” she whimpered.
“It’s like you’re right here,” Mr. Lambley said, chuckling painfully. “If only it were true, I would confess my sins. Maybe then I’ll get to heaven when the night ends.” He lifted the jug to his cracked lips and began to chug the toxic tomato juice cocktail. Georgia batted it away with the last of her strength. Mr. Lambley sobbed pitifully. “You’re right—too easy,” the vampire moaned. “Too easy, indeed.”
The two of them curled up at opposite ends of the bathroom, Georgia by the toilet and Mr. Lambley by the tub until she finally heard the door open downstairs. “Jesuchristo!” she could hear as a shadow in the doorway flickered. “I should have known you would be too stubborn to take a nap.”
“Please . . . Mr. Lambley,” she begged, even as Javier scooped her up and took her to the dusty recesses of her former bedroom. Her eyes widened as she saw him yank tubing and a bag of blood out of his backpack.
“This time, you stay put,” he ordered as he hung an improvised IV off her canopy bed. “I figured since your counterpart in not dying was just lying around, I would get you a top-off. Shh . . . if we are going to help Geoffrey, you have to pace yourself, no?”
Georgia nodded a little. As she felt the needle go into her arm and the familiar plastic under her sheets, her eyelids grew heavy. She let the tears roll down her cheeks. “I thought I could do the impossible,” she whispered.
Javier wiped the tear off her cheek. “The night is still young. Buenos noches y dulces sueños, mi amiga.”
“Gracias, Capitán Fabuloso,” she whispered as she finally fell asleep to dreams of King Arthur’s court.
36
“Why? Why would you fight the inevitable? We are lost—”
“What better cause to fight for than a lost one, old friend?” Georgia choked out in Lancelot’s v
oice. She dragged her body through the mud, reaching a gloved hand towards the werewolf in front of her. Excalibur still tore through the creature’s midsection, and enough arrows peppered his back to make him look as much like a porcupine as a wolf. “Mordred, it is not too late—”
The werewolf forced out a laugh. He feebly waved a paw towards the mountains of bodies that formed a range around them. “It was too late the moment the Beast woke from his slumber. We had to fall . . . we had to fall so that Rome could live on,” Mordred whispered in Georgia’s ear. “It was not my mother’s dream . . . It was—”
An axe severed Mordred’s head from his neck, right before Georgia’s eyes. She tried to scream as she saw preternaturally bright blue eyes under the hood of the executioner. Wolf pelts of decidedly human size draped from the stranger’s shoulders. As he raised the axe again she could clearly see the face of Steve’s vampire father, ready to end the gutted Lancelot’s life. Cries of “Fear the Beast!” echoed from behind.
“No!” Georgia sobbed as she bolted awake in her old bedroom. Sweat poured like rain from her face and chest. She ripped her IV line out with surprising strength. Her body spasmed, and she cried out again. A hand came out of nowhere, making her jump. She grabbed her heart. “Please don’t cut it out again,” she begged in her own voice.
“Jesuchristo, I thought I had bad nightmares.” Javier leaned over her shoulder and felt her forehead, a look of concern on his face. “You have a bit of color though, and your fever is gone. This is a good start.”
“I feel . . . confused . . . and hungry . . . and really thirsty right now.”
Javier assisted her with a big bottle of water and a bag full of fruit. He grinned. “I snagged a little something at Haymarket on my way back. Oh, and some little donut things with lemon cream or something like that inside. Really, asking a vampiro to shop for a vegetarian is a recipe for disaster, I will not lie.”