by Ira Bloom
Kasha took another step forward, standing erect on his hind legs, his features becoming more anthropomorphic. “Isn’t that cute, Esme, the corpse thinks those are fangs,” he taunted. His teeth grew in his mouth and curved up and down like sabers, fully twelve inches long. By now he was the size of a mountain lion. “These are fangs!”
Drake retreated out the door as Kasha grew to the size of a tiger. The paws were immense, the claws were scythes. The horns were aflame with an eerie blue flicker. Drake suddenly slammed the door to the cellar shut, jammed the lock into the latch, and ran away as fast as he could.
“Wait for it,” Kasha said, ears cocked, listening for something. Then he tore out of the cellar in a blur, leaving the heavy steel-reinforced wooden door in splinters.
Esme sank to her knees. She crawled over to Norman to check on him. She could feel his immense chest heaving, but there was so much blood! And she had to get to Veronica! There was a horrible screeching sound in the stairway, and muffled words which became clearer as the sound got louder: “Let me go, demon! Help! You’re crushing my skull, beast!” A moment later, Kasha dragged the vampire back into the wine cellar, skull clamped between massive jaws, teeth like fence pickets puncturing the head as Drake’s body scraped and bumped along behind, scrabbling and clawing at the demon to no avail. Kasha deposited the vampire onto the floor in a heap, pinning him with one foot. The demon was in all his glory now: nine feet tall and a half a ton at least, with hellish flames flickering all over and licking the ceiling.
“Kasha, help me with Norman!” Esme said. “I think he could die.”
“He’s fine. And Veronica will be okay, for now. First, we have business to attend to.”
“Kasha, I can’t thank you enough—”
“Save it,” he cut in.
“Wait,” she said. “Let me ask him something.” She knelt by the struggling, hissing vampire on the floor. “Mr. Kallas, can you understand me?” she asked.
“Yes!” the vampire hissed, clawing at the concrete. “Let me go, I’ll spare you,” he pleaded. “I have money! A fortune! It’s yours!”
“I’ll put in a good word for you with my cat, if you cooperate. How do I get to my sisters?”
“If I tell you, will he let me go?” Drake bargained. There was a popping sound of cracking ribs, as Kasha pressed down on his rear paw, driving the vampire against the concrete floor.
“Why not?” Kasha replied amiably.
Drake explained how to work the locking mechanism on the rack to the rear of the cellar. He told her how to slide the rack, how to make the trap door spring, and about the ladder to the dungeons, where she’d find her sisters. “And that’s all there is to it,” the vampire said, with his remaining shred of dignity. “Now, if you don’t mind, Kasha, good sir? Per our agreement?”
Kasha lifted his paw from the vampire’s chest. “Toodles,” said the demon.
Drake stood, as best he could. He brushed himself off, hobbling into the corridor, oozing thick, dark ichor like syrup from a dozen major wounds. At the stairs he began his painstaking ascent.
“Esme, we have very little time. I can’t kill him, technically. There are too many rules. But I’d prefer if he doesn’t kill you and your sisters. You’re the last generation on my contract.”
“Thanks for the sentiment.”
“I’m a demon. I don’t do the huggy-feely stuff. Okay, maybe I like the way you scratch me behind the ears. Here’s the problem: If I let him go, he’ll be back, and then you’re dead. And your family and your friends. He won’t let you live, with what you know. So you have to do a deal with me. If I don’t get your soul, I can’t help you. Therefore, your sisters die, and everyone else, including you. Bottom line, there’s no way you can walk out of this cellar alive. But you have a chance to save your loved ones, at least.” The demonic flames flickered over the demon’s horns, burning with the horrors of damnation and endless agony. “It’s nothing personal, Esme. I wish it didn’t have to go down like this. But I need your soul. It’s time to decide. Your sisters, or your soul. Now.”
Staring into the blazing eyes of a nine-foot demon cat, Esme trembled with true terror for the first time. Eternal torment in the clutches of such creatures was infinitely worse than the simple threat of death she’d just faced at the hands of a vampire. “I-I-I don’t think he’s coming back,” Esme stammered, stalling. “He’s lucky enough to get away.”
“In an hour, he’ll forget he ever saw me,” Kasha reminded her. “Remember your mother? And she’s known me for decades. He’ll be driving away in his fancy car, and soon enough he’ll start wondering why he’s bleeding all over his leather seats. All he’ll remember is, he was about to rip your throat out. Then he’ll come back and kill every living thing in the world that you love. There’s a reason why humans think vampires are a myth: because they have rules about never allowing anyone who knows about them to survive. I have to run and fetch him now; he’s almost at the front door.”
“I thought you let him go.”
“I did. I let him almost get away, and then I run and catch him at the last minute. It’s a game. You should try it, it’s fun.” Kasha tore out of the room, leaving trails of eerie flame.
Esme crouched by Norman. She tore a strip from the bottom of her blouse and made a bandage, which she soaked in the last of the witch hazel before dabbing it gently to the bleeding lump on the back of his head, her mind churning frantically for ideas. She could hear something bumping down the stairs, snarling and cursing in a half dozen languages she was glad she didn’t understand.
Kasha entered on all fours with Drake’s thigh in his jaws, long fangs piercing the limb all the way through and sticking out the other side. The demon pawed the vampire off his fangs onto the concrete floor as if removing an hors d’oeuvre from a toothpick, then pinioned him with a rear leg grinding the chest.
“You had another concern, mistress?” Kasha asked Esme.
“Uh … ” she improvised. With Drake a limp, oozing heap on the floor, it was clear that Kasha was the real danger. “I guess. Mr. Kallas, you’re going to leave for good, right? I mean, we’ll never see you again, will we? If we let you go? Do you agree to that?” She stared at Drake critically. Could she trust him? At least long enough to get her sisters out? But one glance at Kasha dashed her hopes. He was in charge. He’d played this game a thousand times. There was no hope to be had, from a merciless demon.
“Of course I intend to leave for good, Esme. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to clear that up. Middleton is a nice town, don’t get me wrong, but I think I’d prefer to live somewhere without so many demon cats. No offense.”
“None taken. I guess you can go. Unless Kasha wants to eat you?” she asked hopefully, checking with the demon.
Kasha removed the hind paw from the vampire’s chest. Drake just lay there, studying the two of them. Kasha gave him a little nudge toward the remains of the door with his paw, to get the vampire moving. Drake could barely stand, as one leg was fairly chewed up. He half hopped, half dragged himself up the stairs for the second time.
“This is the best part,” the cat said. “He suspects I’m playing cat and mouse with him. He’ll probably putter around upstairs for a bit, to see if I come, then make a run for it. In the meantime, I’ll be needing your decision.”
“Why can’t you just eat him?” Esme demanded.
“Because that would violate the sacrosanct treaty that keeps heaven and hell from uh … trust me, let’s not go there. I shouldn’t even be in this form on this plane, that’s one of the worst no-nos. Any minute, the hounds of hell could come ripping up here and drag me down for an eternity in the lowest levels of the inferno. Guy just pissed me off, is all. Nobody calls me Mr. Whiskers.”
“But you agreed he’s a corpse,” Esme argued. “Aren’t you a corpse-eating cat?”
“I can’t eat corpses anymore, either, since humans were granted self-determination and judicial due process even after death. I told you all this stuff
already.”
“But he doesn’t have a soul!” Esme reasoned. “Shikker said so. That could be a loophole.”
Kasha pondered. “No, I don’t think it matters. They’re sticklers for those little details.”
“Obviously, the rules were designed to protect the soul, not the corpse,” Esme argued desperately “A vampire is just a receptacle for stolen souls, remember what Shikker said?”
“How come you remember that?” Kasha accused. “You were supposed to forget it all.”
“I have clarity now,” Esme reminded him, tapping her head. “I remember everything. Listen, if Drake doesn’t have a soul, we can make the argument that he doesn’t own his own remains. You said it would be a big score if you could figure out how to harvest a vampire. Don’t tell me you’re willing to settle for my pathetic little soul when there’s a big prize like an ancient vampire right under your claws. Explain how the vampire soul thing works.” Esme started to pace, working herself into argument mode.
“If I ate the corpse, it would free up all the lost souls that are stuck in the vampire,” Kasha considered. “Most of them would go over to the holy host as murder victims, so I think they’d give us a waiver on humanitarian grounds. The rest I’d harvest for myself and the hierarchy of my superiors. It could be a huge score. But I’m not allowed to eat corpses. It’s not legally defensible. Also, I’m not allowed to do my own contracts anymore. Long story. Are you following so far?”
“Yeah, you aren’t even trustworthy in hell. Okay, we treat the corpse like bona vacantia, abandoned goods,” she improvised. “I’ll claim it’s mine, and I’ll sell it to you, in exchange for another few generations of service to my family. I get my sisters, you get another century topside, everyone’s happy.”
“Have you done this before? Because you’re a natural.”
“My dad’s a lawyer,” Esme reminded him. “I’ve read up a bit.”
Kasha rose to his full height, cocking an ear. “It’s worth a shot. Did you pack the hatbox? You need to summon Shikker again. I don’t know if we can pull this off, he’s nobody’s fool.”
“Leave him to me,” Esme said. “I’ve got this.”
“I gotta go, the vampire is about to get into his car.” And with that, the demon was gone at a speed that Esme was pretty sure defied laws of space-time.
Esme retrieved the hatbox from her duffel bag, forcing herself to master her terror. Kasha was still playing her, but she was onto his game. He must have alerted Drake somehow, to manipulate her into giving up her soul. She straightened the edges of the box, dumped the excess glitter on the floor, and inspected the runes on the inside. Then she sorted lavender and sage from the bundles of dried herbs and tied them together with hemp. Kasha padded quietly into the wine cellar, holding the vampire by the torso, fangs piercing the abdomen. Drake was not resisting anymore. He looked utterly demoralized.
“Let’s do this,” Kasha said.
Esme placed the hatbox in the center of the wine cellar. She lit her smudge, then proceeded with the ritual. She lit the candles of the pentacle and summoned the demon: “Shikker, it’s me, Esme, again. I’m here with your client, Kasha. We need you to do a contract for us.”
There was a puff of smoke within the pentacle and the little red imp appeared. “Hey, it’s the little shiksa,” he said. “Did you get the single malt this time?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Esme apologized. “I didn’t have time.”
“You need an offering, Esme,” Kasha said. “It’s like a retainer. You summoned him.”
“That’s okay,” Shikker said. “I can take a finger. Just stick it in the pentacle here. And not one of those pinkies, either. Like an index finger, or a thumb. I like thumbs.”
Esme examined her hands. A finger? She looked around the cellar in desperation. “Uh … do you like wine?” A rich vampire had to have something the demon would find acceptable. “Lafitte,” she read off a label. “Domaine Romanee Conti. Here’s an 1863 port, Taylor Fladgate. Latour, 1900, do you think it’s still good?” She looked into the hatbox to see if the red demon was interested.
“I think we can do some business, kid,” he appraised, rubbing his hands together.
Against her better judgment, Esme agreed to release Shikker from the hatbox, on condition that he return to his pentacle immediately upon request. He was absolutely not permitted to eat anyone’s face, nor leave the wine cellar. Shikker grew, stepping out of the hatbox. He quickly achieved his full height of five foot seven. Next to Kasha, he looked like a toy, albeit a foul, horrifying toy. His skin was like elephant hide, his horns twisted every which way, lethal from any direction. A demonic blue flame flickered over him. His sharklike mouth had an industrial look to it, like it was full of rusty iron saw blades at all angles designed to grind anything within range to a bloody pulp. His feet were gruesome, like eagle’s talons; the hands human, but malevolent. A chill ran up Esme’s spine. Shikker wore malice about him like a cloak of pure evil.
“Kasha, you’re looking good, have you lost weight?” the red demon asked.
“It’s the gophers,” Kasha replied. “Organic free range.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Shikker had a jerky, nervous way of moving about that Esme could only regard as menacing. “Nice vampire. Don’t you just love that part, where the guy that thinks he’s the biggest badass around finally meets something like Kasha here? And would you look at the size of the landsleit in these parts,” he mentioned, regarding Norman. The demon went immediately to the wine rack with the dustiest-looking bottles. “This’ll do nicely. ’45 Mouton Rothschild. I always wanted to try it.”
There was a gurgling noise coming from the vampire. “Don’t touch that!” he sputtered, struggling vainly, dark ichor splattering from his broken mouth onto the concrete.
Shikker bit the top off the bottle at the neck and chewed the glass, cork, and foil pensively. “It’s good!” he pronounced, swallowing. “Sometimes these older bottles are corked.” He guzzled half the bottle, pouring the priceless claret into his up-tilted maw.
“Don’t you dare!” the vampire screeched, struggling to drag himself out from under a half-ton demon cat. “I spent centuries tracking down the greatest bottles in history for my collection!”
“Totally worth it,” Shikker complimented, smashing the bottle to the concrete floor in the corner, where the remaining wine ran down a drain. “Nu. What else ya got?”
“So, what do you think?” Kasha asked the red demon after explaining the situation. “Esme here has an extra corpse she wants to sell, and I’m interested. Can we make a deal?”
“You and your cockamamy ideas,” Shikker declared. “How do you think you have a deal here? Since when is a vampire a corpse?”
“Since I say it is. You got an expert witness somewhere who knows corpses better than me?”
“Okay, don’t get huffy.”
“I’m not a corpse,” Drake argued. “I’m undead.”
Kasha sat his enormous bulk down on top of the vampire’s head. “Corpse doesn’t get a vote.”
Shikker paced the cellar, swigging ancient port from a jagged broken bottle neck. “Okay, suppose the corpse angle holds up. And that idea that the law is to protect the soul, not the corpse. I don’t see anyone giving you any arguments about that, if you spread enough graft around. If you do a contract with a witch, you can buy the corpse for a generation of service or so. It’s a pretty valuable corpse.”
“There’s going to be a lot of goodwill for this caper, Shikker,” Kasha cajoled. “I’m a licensed soul transporter. And this vampire here is pretty old. Imagine all the lifeblood he’s ingested, all the souls he’s sucked down, over the years. To harvest the souls of an ancient soul sucker! How many do you think are in there?”
The red demon smashed the bottle into the corner of the cellar and went back to the shelf for more. The room was starting to reek of wine and port. Shikker returned, biting the head off another bottle. He guzzled, then scrutinized the label. “Nice. Get off him
for a second, Kasha, let me take another look at the momser.”
Drake struggled into a sitting position. “Not the Latour!” he pleaded. “A taste, I beg you!”
“Nah, it’s wasted on a corpse,” Shikker said, guzzling.
The vampire hissed. “Demon! Do you know who I am? I’m the Ancient, the arbitrator of records. I’m over two thousand years old!”
“Wow, two thousand. Impressive,” Shikker allowed. “How old are you, Kasha?”
“I’ll be eighty thousand in a few centuries,” the cat replied. “Big one, coming up. You?”
“I’m a hundred thirty-seven thousand years old,” Shikker said.
“Really? You look great! What’s your secret?”
“I always use toner, and moisturize with an SPF fifteen million.”
“Well the weather in hell is pretty brutal,” Kasha commiserated.
“Yeah, but it’s a dry heat.” The red demon examined the vampire more closely. “Gotta be twenty, thirty thousand souls in there. You sure you can handle that many?”
“Only one way to find out,” Kasha supposed. “You still work on commission, right?”
“I’ll kill you all,” Drake sputtered, through his broken fangs.
Kasha sat on his head again.
“This would be so sweet, if we could pull it off,” Shikker admitted. “Problem is, your witch doesn’t have clear title to the corpse. The body should go to the next of kin.”
“Next of kin died twenty centuries ago,” the cat reminded him.
Shikker confronted Esme: “What’s your claim to this corpse? And don’t ask the cat; he can’t coach you.”
Esme thought fast. “His so-called son made me and my two sisters fall in love with him. He mesmerized us and corrupted our innocent hearts for his devious purposes.”
“His ‘so-called’ son?”
“His agent. On his behalf. So, he owes me. He’s liable for damages. I have a solid claim.”