by Ira Bloom
“Dude!” Norm said. “Do you know how hard it is to find these boots in size twenty-four?”
“Sorry, mate,” Zack replied, regaining his feet in a flash, grinning despite himself. “But you won’t be needing them, soon enough.”
Norm approached. He was moving very slowly now, and blood was pooling on the floor. Norm’s right shoulder was oozing blood, and his right arm was drooping. Incredibly, the die-hard Yank was waving Zack in with his left. Norm’s right arm struggled up a bit, then dropped uselessly to the side. Zack had to admire the spirit. Crouching, he moved in for the kill.
Norman tensed. Zack charged in, feinted to the left, as he’d done two dozen times at least, then came in for the death blow, switching his grip on the blade as it sailed past Norman’s neck, and reversing. Norman dodged his head back with speed the vampire didn’t know he had left, then followed with a walloping blow against Zack’s head with the full power of his right arm. The arm Zack didn’t know he could still lift. The hand crashed into the vampire’s face like a windshield hitting a mosquito, smashing the dark goggles to smithereens at the impact, snapping Zack’s head back, and sending him sailing across the room like a tape-measure home run, to crash against the wall at the other side of the immense hall.
Anybody else would have had jelly for vertebrae after a blow like that, but Zack staggered to his feet, ripping the shattered, useless goggles off his face. His blade had flown somewhere, but he was more concerned about the giant. Literally, he’d seen stars when he’d been hit that time. Supernovas, even. But Norman hadn’t taken advantage by charging him. He was across the room, near the front door. Norman walked immediately to the two large bay windows at the front of the hall. They were heavily curtained, and he drew back the drapes of one, then the other. The room had a southern exposure and it was the dead of winter, barely noon, and it was a crystal-clear day. Sunlight poured into the room. Only then did Norman turn and advance.
Zack moved to the rear of the hallway into the shadows, but the sunlight was still too bright. Vampires can’t tolerate much sunlight in their eyes, because of the unnatural dilation. He looked around the room frantically for his straight razor, but with his blurred, squinty vision, he had little hope of finding it. The skin on his face was burning. He backed toward the stairways. Zack saw the giant as a blur, but could track him well enough by the scent of blood. He edged back some more, watching the huge hulking form. Zack feinted left: Norman followed but shifted his weight to go right, where Zack actually went. Zack then feinted left and went left with lightning speed. He slipped under Norm’s arm, but instead of escaping, he reversed and leapt on the giant’s back, razor-sharp nails clawing for eyes, teeth sinking into a neck the size of a first-growth redwood. Teeth in the neck: that was the end of the game. Giant or no, Norman Stein would be in his power, once the venom took hold.
Norm felt light-headed with Zack chomping on his neck. Hormones coursed through him, the oxytocin, the endorphins and adrenaline and serotonin, causing elation. But the love chemicals flooding his system were all for Esme, and he wasn’t going to let Zack get his hands on her. He reached back with his left arm and grabbed Zack by the neck. His hand went entirely around the vampire’s throat, and the thumb touched the pinkie on the other side. Then he squeezed.
Zack’s hands continued to scrabble at Norm’s eyes, but Norm tucked his chin under. Zack’s arms didn’t have the length to go around. Norman squeezed harder. He could feel Zack’s bones through the flesh, and they were making snapping noises. The heel of Norm’s hand was against the back of Zack’s head, as if Zack were a club and his neck was the handle and his head was a knob on the end that gave Norm a better grip. Zack went limp, and Norman swung him over his head and smashed him against the floor like an ax into a log. Zack was a rag doll, but Norman still didn’t trust him, so he smashed him against the floor a few more times for good measure. “Stay down,” he yelled, with his knee on the vampire’s chest, punching him hard in the face. Bones were giving way. Lots of them. Zack’s blood was dark and very thick. It spread like molasses, slowly out in a puddle. Norman released Zack and stood. Zack scrabbled to get up again. What would it take to stop him? Norm stomped on Zack’s leg, breaking the femur. He knew the names of every bone in Zack’s body, and he’d break them all if he had to. He stomped an arm when Zack tried to rise again. Then he took out the other leg.
“Esme!” he bellowed into the hall.
Esme stepped out from behind the door to the east wing. “Is it over?”
Norm stood above Zack, surveying the damage. His shirt was in tatters, and blood was dripping all over the floor from several places. But he didn’t look anywhere near as bad as Zack. “I don’t know how fast these vampires heal, but I don’t think he can move anymore. I broke all his major bones, not to mention his neck.”
Esme raced to him. “Norman, are you all right? I’ve never seen so much blood!” She was on her knees, digging through the duffel bag. Time was flying, but she had to be sure Norm wasn’t going to bleed out. “I packed bandages, but I don’t think I have enough. Off with your shirt.”
“Esme, we don’t have time, we should keep searching,” Norm objected. But he took off his shirt. It was all in tatters and saturated with blood anyway.
“I know where my sisters are, and we’re going to get them. But not if you bleed to death.”
Esme ran to the kitchen for towels and water, despite Norm’s protestations that he was all right. Norm insisted on staying in the big hall to watch Zack, afraid that he’d miraculously recover and need to be pounded into pulp all over again. Esme returned quickly with water in a cooking pot and an armful of clean kitchen towels. She handed a damp towel to Norman for his face and neck and focused on his torso and arms. Now that she could see Norm without his shirt, she noticed that he was built like a comic book hero. He looked thick in the clothes he bought off the rack, which were designed for very tall, morbidly obese men, but his waist was compact, his shoulders and arms immense. It was the wrong time to look, but Esme couldn’t help noticing that his abdominal muscles were incredible. Norm definitely had something going for him with his shirt off.
“Let’s go,” Norman said, as she finished taping him up. “The older one could come back any time.” He retrieved his enormous overcoat and put it on over his bare skin, wincing. Esme helped him, suggesting he leave it unzipped, to air his wounds. And show off those abs.
“Esme,” came a soft, creaking voice from the middle of the hall.
Esme had been avoiding Zack, not wanting to see him all broken. Sure, he was a bloodsucking monster who’d stolen her sisters and tried to kill her best friend, but nobody was perfect. She didn’t exactly have the moral high ground, consorting with demons and all. “We have to run,” she said, stepping toward the kitchen.
“Esme,” Zack repeated, the effort draining the last reserve of his strength. “On the bench. Medicine. Veronica … sick.” And then his head fell back and he was still.
Esme ran to the bench and scooped up the little white bag from Rite Aid. She hastened toward the kitchen, shucking the bag on the way. Amoxicillin. An antibiotic. Couldn’t hurt.
The door to the cellar was locked. “Recludo,” Esme commanded, and the tumblers clicked. The door opened to a large passage with a staircase down.
“How’d you do that?” Norm asked.
Esme flipped on the lights. “Coincidence?” she suggested. If Norman didn’t believe in magic, he was on his own to explain it. The stairwell went down to a small landing, then doubled back and went down again before ending in a short brick passage. Opposite was a heavy wooden door, bolted shut with a padlock. Esme again opened the padlock with her spell, and the door opened into another room. She fumbled for the light switch.
It was a wine cellar and it was very roomy, at least twelve by twenty feet. There were no doors in the room. They were at the end of the road, and no sisters to be found anywhere. “This can’t be it. I was so sure … ” She dug into the duffel bag for th
e flashlight. Vampires would have a secret passageway, in case someone got a search warrant. She closed her eyes and held out her hands. They were drawn to the large wine rack on the far wall. Her sisters were below that floor. “We have to move this wine rack.”
Norman gave the wine rack a shake. It was solidly attached to the wall behind it. “I might have to bring the whole thing down, but if there’s a passage, we’ll find it.”
Esme shimmied under the rack on her back. She shone the flashlight up in the narrow crevice between the frame of the rack and the wall. “I think I see something.” Then she heard a crack, like an aluminum baseball bat connecting solidly with a ball, and a thud like a ton of beef hitting the floor. Esme shone the flashlight back into the room. Norman was on the floor, on his face. His eyes were open, but his features slack.
“Norm! Are you okay?” Esme yelled. She scooched out on her elbows and butt until she got closer to the giant and shone the flashlight in his eyes. His irises had completely rolled up under the lids.
A monstrously strong hand grabbed her ankle in a bone-crushing grip and tugged Esme out from under the wine rack. She found herself on her back in the middle of the wine cellar, shining the flashlight up into Drake Kallas’s face.
“Good of you to drop by, Esme,” Drake said. “I wish you’d called first, there’s not a bite in the house to eat.” He leaned over her, sniffing her like a connoisseur. “I stand corrected.”
Drake yanked Esme to her feet. She shrunk away from him, backing as far into the corner as the wine cellar permitted. In the vampire’s hand was a crowbar. Esme glanced back and forth, from the crowbar to the back of Norman’s head. There was blood a lot of it. “Did … did you kill him?” she asked, her voice quivering.
“I certainly hope so,” Drake replied. “He’s probably ruined my minion.” Drake used the hook end of the crowbar to flip Norm over on his back, as if he were no more than a piece of meat. “He’s still breathing. Absolutely astonishing. What a specimen; that should have shattered his skull like a melon.” Drake drew the crowbar back to strike the death blow.
“Wait!” Esme shouted desperately.
Drake stopped his arm at the apex, tilting his head. “I can’t imagine why I should.”
Esme tried to gain calm through her terror, but couldn’t hold it. “Be-because … ” she stuttered, stumbling over the word, “because … I’ll do whatever you tell me?”
Drake laughed at that. “That’s quite amusing, Esme. You’ll do whatever I tell you anyway.” He returned his attention to Norman, raising the crowbar decisively. Esme yanked her mother’s ceremonial wooden knife out of her belt and waved it in front of her.
“What do you intend to do with that?” Drake asked, his voice soothing and melodic. The crowbar dropped to the concrete floor with a metallic ring, and he took a step closer.
Esme felt her defiance slipping away, as Drake’s hypnotic voice echoed through her mind. It was so easy just to go along. There was something she was trying to remember with one part of her brain, but the rest was a blank. Entirely free, clear of those pesky thoughts, so clear … Clarity! Esme blinked. She made a gesture, shut her eyes, and shouted: “Lűminăblis!” It came from the pit of her chest, from the heart, and there was a brilliant flash of light, like a hundred flashbulbs all going off at once. The vampire staggered back, momentarily blinded, his hand shielding his eyes.
“Forterë!” Esme then yelled, her spell for strength and fortitude, and she plunged her wooden knife with conviction into the vampire’s undead chest.
Drake stumbled back, clutching at the wooden blade. A viscous black ichor oozed from the wound. Esme scrambled for the crowbar on the floor and put herself between Norman and the villain, the giant iron candy cane in both hands before her. She had to pound the vampire with it and keep pounding until his head was mush. She leapt at Drake and swung the crowbar at his skull with everything she had.
Drake caught her arm in mid-stroke. He was three times as fast as her, and ten times as strong. He dug his nails into her wrist until blood dripped out from deep wounds, giving her arm a violent shake until the weapon dropped from her fingers. Then he cuffed Esme across the face so hard her neck snapped back and she went careening across the cellar and into the rack behind her, crumpling to the floor.
The images before Esme’s eyes were spinning. Drake withdrew the wooden knife from his chest and examined it with little more concern than a florist might give a thorn he’d just plucked from a finger. He tossed it away nonchalantly, grabbed her by the neck with one hand, and lifted her off the ground. With his thumb, he angled her neck back. His other hand was hooked in deadly talons. His fangs protruded.
“Tricky little witch. That was very ill considered, Esme,” he snarled. “I consider myself a reasonable man, but you have tested my patience to the limit. So I will rip out your throat now, if you don’t mind, and drink your blood. All of it.”
“Ahem,” said a voice from the doorway.
The “ahem” was not the clearing of a throat. It was the articulation of a word from a throat that usually cleared itself by hacking up a gopher. Drake turned. There was a large cat with vivid markings entering the wine cellar, tail erect. Drake set Esme down on her feet, though he didn’t release the grip on her neck. Soon it wouldn’t matter whether he ripped out her throat or not. She’d be brain-dead from lack of oxygen. “Did that cat just say something?” he asked her.
Esme’s eyes were bulging in the sockets from the pressure, but she nodded in affirmation. “Ghaaakckkckckck,” she said. She’d meant to say yes, but it came out like that.
The cat jumped up onto Norman’s chest and sat erect. He licked his forepaw and slicked back the fur on top of his head. “Have you given any more thought to my offer, Esme?” he asked.
Drake relaxed his grip on Esme’s throat. “Did that cat actually speak?”
Esme could barely reply. “Yes,” she managed to squeak out.
“Uncanny.” Drake released Esme. “I’ve been alive for over two thousand years and I’ve had my share of witches, but I’ve never heard of a talking cat.” The vampire knelt by Kasha and extended a finger. “Puss-puss,” he warbled, scratching Kasha under the chin. “Kitty-kitty.” The cat’s claws raked out with demonic speed. Where they tore into flesh, it burned and crackled. Drake recoiled. “Don’t be frightened, pretty kitty. Would you like to come and live with me? I’ll get you a nice saucer of milk.” The cat ignored him and continued his grooming. Drake turned to Esme: “You know this animal? It called you by name, you must know it.”
“His name is Kasha.” Her neck and shoulders were in agony.
“That’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen,” Drake stated with glee. The bloodsucking horror of a moment before was now like a little boy, eyes shining in wonderment.
“You sure took your sweet time getting here,” Esme accused. “Kill him!”
Drake roared with laughter. “Kill me, did you say? That is amusing.”
“I can’t go around killing people. Not even vampires. It’s against the rules,” Kasha said. “You know that.”
“The two of you are hilarious,” Drake said. “I believe I shall call you Mr. Whiskers. Have you ever had human flesh, Mr. Whiskers? I’m going to kill Esme now. I’ll tear off a piece for you.” He recaptured Esme’s arm in an iron grip.
“Wait,” she said, her mind stilling. She looked at Drake’s hand on her arm, at the refraction of the dim light going into shadow where the fingers indented her skin. “He’s already dead.” Corpse. Eating. Cat. “He’s a corpse. You can eat him.”
Drake backhanded Esme across the face again, sending her crashing to the other side of the cellar. “Don’t you dare call me a corpse!” he roared, all feral beast. Then he genteelly dusted off a sleeve, regaining composure. “I’m undead,” he explained, for Kasha’s benefit.
Kasha paced around the vampire, as if inspecting a rental car for scratches. “You know, Esme,” he appraised, eyes bright with mischief. “I belie
ve you’re right. He is a corpse. It’s a shame I’m not allowed to eat corpses anymore.”
“I’m not a corpse!” Drake bellowed.
“That’s exactly what every corpse I meet says. He’s in denial,” the cat explained. “I gigged in Japan for two thousand years as a corpse-eating cat. Nobody knows corpses better than me.”
The vampire grabbed Kasha by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him to eye level, his rage simmering. “That’s enough out of you, you horrid little beast,” he admonished, shaking the cat violently. He pointed an accusatory finger at Esme. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about ripping out your throat.” Kasha hung from the vampire’s hand by the scruff of the neck, muscles rigid. “A few weeks in a cage should teach you some civility.”
Kasha hissed, puffing himself up, extending his claws and baring his teeth as he started to take on his true form. He grew, slowly but unmistakably. His snout contracted, and his mouth widened, so it hinged very far back on the jaw. The golden eyes glowed redly.
“I should have mentioned,” Esme said, wiping the blood off her mouth with a sleeve, “he’s not a cat. He’s a demon. And he hates cages.”
By the time Kasha was the size of a bobcat, Drake had decided that there was something very strange going on. He threw the cat fiercely to the floor and took a few steps toward the open door. Kasha landed on all four feet solidly, poised to strike. He continued to grow, and the nubs of horns sprouted from his head, between the ears. He took a step toward the vampire.
Drake crouched defensively, looking more dangerous by the second. His eyes filled with ferocity, his hands curved into claw shapes, and his fangs grew in his mouth until they protruded wickedly. “Demon!” Drake warned. “Do not incur my wrath, I’m warning you!”