He felt a spear of will come from Carol and decided to follow its course, passing through the wall of the mansion out into the parking lot. Moonlight prickled on his skin like the bubbles in champagne, and tempted him to turn wolf and run across the Marin County hills. He resisted it, and traced the scent of power to a little silver roadster. His pseudo-senses were already acute, smell particularly . . . and fluid began to pool beneath the Italian import.
Oh, Carol, he thought.
He traced the silvery cords of might-have-been that marked her Wreaking. Yes, a push at the probabilities of corrosion here in the gasket . . .
How crude! Not that he begrudged her success in killing her brother if it was done with sufficient savage artistry, but this was so clumsy. And so easily countered.
I thought the girl had more style. Perhaps she needs a lesson.
“Jason.’’
He hastily finished his glass of champagne—he’d lost count how many, and his attempt to neutralize the molecules in his blood had only succeeded in giving him a headache—and turned to find Mildred Manz confronting him; leading, as she always was, two attractive young men.
You followed me out into the parking lot? he thought. I’m flattered. Harassed and threatened, but flattered.
“Now that your father’s gone you’ll need a mentor,’’ she said, oozing sincerity. “I would be happy to take you on, dear. Here’s my card. No rush, think it over, then call me.’’ She patted his hand and turned to go.
“What’s that under his car?’’ one of her followers said.
What? Jason thought blurrily. That sounded like Father’s voice.
“What’s that under your car, Jason?’’ the young man said again.
Jason looked, then squatted down, hitching the knees of his dress slacks. “I don’t know,’’ he said. “But it doesn’t look good.’’
It was dark—only a three-quarter moon and the low glow of the lamps from behind the garden wall—but they were all of the Blood; night was their natural element. The young man turned to follow Mildred; Jason was mildly surprised he’d let himself be separated from her for even the space of three steps. As clearly as speech he picked up the words formed in the other man’s vocal centers:
Looks like brake fluid, you back-bred bastard.
Bastard yourself! Jason thought, and saw the other man’s back stiffen; he’d made no attempt to damp his response. It’s not as if any of us are completely pure.
But it did look like brake fluid; Jason reached out and touched thumb and forefinger to it and brought it to his nose. Even in the flesh he could scent more keenly than a human, and the oily-bitter smell was unmistakable.
“Damn,’’ he said, reaching for his phone. “Oh, well, I’ll be safer in a taxi anyway.’’
Carol noticed her brother staring under his car and hissed with annoyance. Jeff followed her gaze and laughed.
“You didn’t,’’ he said. “I’m impressed at the raw power, but I’m also shocked. I expect more finesse from you, my darling.’’
She pouted. “Well, I didn’t think he’d notice. He’s pretty distracted.’’
It had seemed like a good idea. The Graff country mansion was on a clifftop, a Spanish Gothic pile built over a century ago, with a very winding and, unless driven slowly, dangerous road leading to it. She’d imagined the sympathy she’d get for losing two such close relatives in such short order, and the way she’d take advantage of it. But that was the way of things among the Brethren; they were lucky, it was the root of their power. Luck didn’t have to be an accident, if you had the Blood.
“I guess I’ll just have to think of something more subtle,’’ she said sullenly.
And more definite.
“Do,’’ Jeff said, amused.
Carol ground sharp white teeth; suddenly the universe seemed to mock her, even the crow going gruck . . . gruck . . . in the tall eucalyptus overhead. With a flick of her mind she reached out and pushed.
The bird probably wouldn’t have had a stroke just then. But then again, it might have. It did, and toppled to fall dead at her feet with a fading flash of pain in its ravaged brain. She absently drew in the power of the passing; it was blandly unsatisfying, as animal pain and death always were.
Tastes like chicken, she thought.
“Oh, petty,’’ Jeff said, shaking his head. “Call me when you’re in a better mood.’’
Carol turned her shoulder on him and walked over to her brother, her heels crunching in the crushed shell surface.
“What’s the matter?’’ she demanded.
“I’ve lost my brake fluid. At least I think that’s what it is. With what this car cost, you’d think it would last from checkup to checkup!’’
“Buy a Beamer, if you want quality, for heaven’s sake, Jason. I don’t know why you didn’t ride in the limo with me anyway; then this wouldn’t have been a problem. I can’t wait. I’ve got to get back to the townhouse to greet our guests.’’
“I know. But I didn’t think you wanted me with you,’’ he said sheepishly.
“Oh, Jason.’’ She looked at him in sorrow, letting her eyes go large. “Of course I wanted you with me. How could you think otherwise?’’
Maybe it was the way you were glaring at him.
Carol blinked and forced herself not to look around. Was someone eavesdropping? No, she could block far better than anyone likely to be within range . . .
“I’m sorry,’’ Jason mumbled. “I guess I’m being too sensitive.’’
Carol sighed and patted his shoulder reluctantly. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Well, I’ll see you when I see you.’’ She turned and walked back to the limo and Jeff.
Jason watched her go and sighed. With her face turned away—and her mind carefully shielded—Carol let herself smile. She could feel his desire; it was like holding a palm over a candle-flame.
I think my darling daughter has a plan, Jacob thought, walking through a wall into what had been his favorite room.
And it still is, he thought.
The townhouse looked out over Nob Hill. San Francisco made a fairyland below, a glitter many-colored to eyes that could see as much of the spectrum as he pleased. The Bay stretched darker, yet alive with the sea’s more subtle energies, until the lights of the cities on the eastern shore rose in firefly brightness against a windy sky where the wings of his kin rode. The great two-footed step of the Bay Bridge stretched there, and north you could see the lovely double curve men had thrown across the Golden Gate.
Jason was sitting in a lounger, moodily watching a movie on the thin screen television that covered most of one of the solid walls. Jacob cocked an immaterial eye at it—the boy had an adolescent crush on Catherine Deneuve’s image, which at least showed good taste—and waited for his daughter to appear.
She did, the long ruddy hair falling around slim shoulders, and the aureoles of her nipples showing through the sheer fabric of her gown. Jacob watched with detached appreciation at the performance; it would take a while for those desires to return. The effect on a seventeen-year-old male would be somewhere between suffocation and a sharp blow on the temple with a ball-peen hammer, of course. She turned off the set with an effort of will and her father smiled.
He’d been getting a bit bored. He’d been pleased at the flood of flowers and condolence messages that were pouring in; they were testimony to the power he’d wielded, in the worlds of men and Brethren alike. But he’d been waiting on his daughter and her nefarious plans.
. . . and I’ve never liked to be kept waiting. I find that doesn’t change.
“Jason,’’ she said, sitting on his footstool and touching his ankle, “I’ve been thinking about Daddy.’’
Her brother licked his lips. “Oh?’’ he said, looking down at her hand and swallowing visibly. “Uh . . . I’ve been thinking about him a lot too.’’
“If any of us would be able to survive death, I’m convinced that he would.’’
Jacob Graff shouted laughter f
rom behind her shoulder.
“But he might be having trouble getting through.’’
Carol looked into her brother’s eyes with liquid sincerity.
If the old buzzard had made it, he’d have made contact before now, she thought, unaware that her parent teased the patterned energy out of her brain.
This is far too amusing, he thought. I can see why haunting was such a popular sport!
She held up the book. “But we can help him.’’
“You’ve found a ritual?’’ Jason said eagerly.
Oh, do my work for me, she thought.
“I think so. But,’’ she hesitated, “it requires . . . that we become . . . intimate.’’
Jason took a deep breath. “Anything for Father,’’ he said.
Control! Graff thought. If you laugh too loudly they may hear you, and that would spoil things entirely!
“I can count on you then?’’
Jason nodded.
“Tomorrow night. I just need to get a few ingredients.’’
“The stars will be favorable so soon?’’ Jason asked. “Uhh . . . I know that planetary alignment is important.’’
“No,’’ she said, blue eyes serious, “but with this ritual, the sooner it’s done, the better. Remember, Father is only a net of energy, he could dissipate at any time.’’
That should convince him, she thought. Now, a little bit of a tease . . .
She kissed her brother on the lips, a lingering soft touch. “I’ve got to go, I’ve a lot to do to prepare.’’
“What about me?’’
“Well, to be honest you’ll be my altar.’’
He wrinkled his nose. “Doesn’t that mean I need to be a virgin?’’
“In this case,’’ she grinned, “an about-to-be-deflowered virgin.’’ Carol turned away and then turned back. “You are a virgin, aren’t you?’’
He nodded.
“Well, that’s a relief.’’
You poor little sod, she thought. What a thing for a man of the Brethren to say! Maybe I should just boff you out of pity. Nah! Unlike Daddy, bestiality isn’t my thing.
Jacob chuckled as he sensed the thoughts flow and writhe, part words, part the darting flicker of desire and intuition. His son’s blazed hotter than lava.
It doesn’t get any better than this! the boy thought, and his father drank the glee that poured off him. It does, tomorrow night!
Jason punched his fist in the air repeatedly and slid down on the couch, giggling delightedly.
The elder Graff shook what he thought of as his head. Was I ever that easy to lead about by my reproductive urge? he thought. Be honest with yourself, Jacob. Of course you were! And in a little time . . .
In the Silverado hills, a woman with a delicately sensitive mind whimpered and tossed in a sleep full of evil dreams. The pull of her pain was like the intoxicating scent of a raw wound. Jacob Carrol Graff turned and ran at the window, leaping headfirst. The glass passed through him with a shock like the embrace of a glacial river, and then great wings beat the night as he rose and turned northward, on pinions that stretched reptile skin over traceries of bone.
Nightmare rode the wind.
After careful consideration, Carol had decided to wear a concealing robe for her “ritual.’’ She didn’t see any reason to catch cold and she didn’t want to see her brother in an aroused state. He was going to be naked. It would make her feel more in control. And control was what it was all about.
Jeff shouldn’t have laughed at me!
It wasn’t her fault. Who would have expected him to notice the brake fluid?
Half the time he doesn’t notice his own perpetual teenager’s hard-on, or what or whom he’s eating.
He just had more of the luck than he was entitled to, that was all. Or Daddy might have managed to concentrate enough to ensure the genes matched in an optimum pattern, even then. He’d never really lost control.
Jason entered their father’s workroom, barefoot and wearing a bathrobe. He ignored the murals—oddly, he usually did even when he wasn’t preoccupied. Carol had always loved them, the more so as most of them were done from the life.
"“Excellent,’’ Carol said. “I’m almost ready. Why don’t you just strip off.’’
She ignored him while she stirred the crushed sleeping pills in the brandy. She’d been told that thirty-five should do the trick, and the liquor should disguise the taste.
Not that he’ll suspect anything, and if he did I’ll just say it was herbs. By the time he’s sure, he won’t have enough mental control to do anything.
She placed the goblet on the stone altar, then turned her attention to marking out a circle on the stone floor, murmuring as she went.
Got to make it look good, she thought. Jason had a lot to learn, but he knew some things.
When she had finished she went to the altar and Called.
“Tezcatlipoca, Jaguar in the Night, Smoking Mirror, Obsidian Heart of the Secret World—’’
Ooh, little girl, Graff thought, that’s not a name I’d use lightly. That One is far less likely to be indulgent with you than I, if He were to notice. Even now He has the strength of eaten lives beyond counting.
Carol picked up the goblet and took a sip, grimacing at the taste.
“I used Daddy’s best brandy, but I’m afraid it’s still awfully bitter. And,’’ she bit her lip prettily, “I’m afraid you have to drink the rest.’’ She handed him the goblet. “Then just lie down and try to relax.’’
Jason took the goblet. Then brandy slopped over the edge. Graff concentrated; sound was only vibrations in the air, after all. The mind could move it, just as it commanded lungs and vocal cords to the same end. He was strong enough, even so soon. Molecules just outside his son’s eardrum might move thus . . . and so . . . and thus . . . and so . . . stroke the threads of might-be . . .
“Just how stupid are you, boy?’’
Jason hesitated, then took a sip, grimacing at the taste.
“She’s trying to poison you, you dolt!’’
The boy blinked. Is that . . . Father? rang through his mind.
“If you drink that, you deserve to die and you’re no son of mine!’’
“Dad? The ritual’s not done!’’
Jason’s face had lost most of its puppy fat, beginning to take on the long saturnine lines that went with the Blood. For a moment it went slack with bewilderment.
“Yes, we’re doing this for Daddy. So he can come back to us.’’ Carol pushed the goblet toward her brother’s lips. “So let’s get started.’’
Jason opened his mouth to drink.
“Drop it!’’ Graff told him, with the snap of command.
Startled, the boy bobbled the cup. The slick surface of the multicolored Sabbiata glass trembled and crashed to the black basalt of the floor. Liquid splattered Carol’s robe.
“I’m sorry,’’ Jason said. “I thought I heard . . .’’
Carol took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “All right,’’ she said. “So that didn’t work. I have a plan B.’’ She pulled a gun out of her pocket. “You tried to rape me. You threatened me with a gun, but we struggled and it went off. Too bad, so sad, I’m down a brother.’’
Graff sighed. His little girl was really determined. Time to interfere. The chill iron made him wince as his fingers combed through it. But weakness here and here . . .
Carol stared at the pieces on the floor and dropped the few parts that remained in her hand.
“Daddy?’’ she whispered, and then her eyes went wide.
Graff felt the stone beneath his feet. It was no illusion; the stone was pushing on the soles of his feet. Just for a moment . . . but he could feed, now. The strength would grow.
“Father!’’ Jason said. “You lived!’’
“Lucky for you, boy. Never, never, never let yourself be led around by your pecker.’’
He turned to Carol. “And I’m just as disappointed in you, girl. First for trying to murder your broth
er, and far more for being so clumsy about it. And a gun? Have you no sense of style at all, girl? It didn’t occur to you that in any ’struggle for the gun’ he’d win because young as he is he’s stronger than you are? And if he won he could then beat you to death. Or rape you. Or beat you to death and then rape you. Or simply swallow your persona and . . . entertain . . . you in perpetuity?’’
Carol licked her lips. “Daddy,’’ she said. “I can’t help it, he’s just a half-breed, he’s nothing!’’
Jason was finally looking angry, a soundless snarl parting his lips and his face pale, long-fingered hands clenching and unclenching.
Good, Graff thought, feeling the murderous rage. I was beginning to think you were soft, boy. Aloud—the manifestation’s voice was soft as yet—he went on:
“Of course I would never let him beat you to death any more than I’d let you shoot him.’’ He held up a finger to forestall her desperate explanations. “However, being beaten almost to death could be a valuable and much needed life lesson.’’
He turned to Jason. “I’ll watch to make sure you don’t go too far. Enjoy.’’
“You lied to me,’’ Jason growled, closing in on his sister. “You tried to use me, you humiliated me and I trusted you!’’
Graff smiled contentedly as his son’s fist sank into Carol’s solar plexus. She fell to the ground, gagging, and then lunged. Jason tore his ankle loose from her teeth and kicked her in the ribs . . .
Ah, family, Jacob Carrol Graff thought to the sound of blows and cries of pain and pleas for mercy, there’s nothing like it.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Alan Dean Foster’s sometimes humorous, occasionally poignant, but always entertaining short fiction has appeared in all the major SF magazines as well as in original anthologies and several “Best of the Year’’ compendiums. His published works includes more than one hundred books. The Fosters reside in Prescott, AZ, in a house built of brick salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miners’ brothel, along with assorted dogs, cats, fish, several hundred houseplants, visiting javelina, porcupines, eagles, red-tailed hawks, skunks, coyotes, bobcats, and the ensorceled chair of the nefarious Dr. John Dee. He is presently at work on several new novels and media projects.
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