Nine Lives (Lifeline Book 1)

by Kit Colter

  “You are?” Erin asked, wondering what could possibly be more important than the fact that humans died, came back to life, and started feeding on other humans. And, well, that they were then immortal.

  “Yes. Yes,” he said impressively. “The true wonder of it.”

  “And that is?” Erin asked slowly.

  “What the parasite does,” the man said.

  “You just told me what it does,” Erin said.

  “Oh, no, no. I mean what it does. What it does to their bodies.”

  “Brings them back to life,” Erin said simply.

  “That’s not all,” he said.

  Erin bit back a sigh of exasperation. She felt as though a single added fact of impossibility, another bizarre thing that was completely illogical, might throw her into madness. She leaned away from the man, as though she might be able to escape the impact of his words by doing so.

  “You remember how I told you the parasite causes the brain to produce hormones, don’t you?”

  “It was ten seconds ago,” Erin said.

  “Well,” he went on, “it doesn’t tell the brain to create normal levels. Instead, it sends the endocrine system into overdrive, producing vast amounts of the hormones which are usually only active in the human body at certain times. Epinephrine, testosterone, etcetera. Put simply, the parasite does what, say, a combination of steroid drugs and methamphetamines would do. But it doesn’t kill the host. And it doesn’t wear off. It’s constant. Even better, since the cells are powered by mitochondria, and this is essentially a super strain of mitochondria, what you end up with is a super human—on the cellular level. Yet, on a superficial level, indistinguishable from a normal human being except for a case of acute, localized macrodontia.”

  “Macro what?”

  “Macrodontia. Excessively large teeth. At some point during the mutation, their original canine teeth are essentially pushed out by a new, larger, and presumably sharper set of canines.”

  Erin stared at him, trying to wrap her mind around the concept.

  “I digress,” the man continued. “Regarding the incredible strength, speed, agility, accelerated rate of healing, physical resilience—I have my own theory about this. Just to make the concept a little clearer. Adrenaline is a very instinctual thing, isn’t it? Anyone who’s had a good scare a time or two will agree with me.”

  Erin nodded.

  “I think, perhaps, that the increased adrenaline level is what makes them so alert. All these myths and tales about their heightened senses ... I think it’s directly connected to adrenaline and the return to instincts. Of course, just a theory. I’ve got nothing to prove it with, but when you look around, the mythology is rather consistent.” He thought for a moment. “Excellent. Splendid.”

  “How do you kill them?” Erin asked.

  He stared at her, appearing shocked and slightly offended, then frowned. “Well, this does bring up a rather interesting subject of study.” The man stood up, took two paces to the side, then opened another drawer and pulled out a file. “Naturally, you’ve heard of all the myths. Holy water. Wooden stakes. Garlic. I have no way of saying, precisely, which of these are real, but ...” He flipped through a couple pages, browsing. “Hmm, yes, here it is. Like I mentioned before, they’re physically very resilient creatures.”

  “Resilient?” Erin asked, wanting a more specific word.

  “Hard to kill,” the man said. “I think it’s something about the extra hormones, as well as the accelerated rate of healing. Perhaps, also, the parasite itself—it’s generating colossal amounts of A.T.P.”

  “A-T-P?”

  “Adenosine triphosphate. It powers the cell. All mitochondria produce it, just at lower levels. Athletes—weight lifters and runners and such—will have heightened levels, but nothing even comparable to what you find in vampires.”

  “Which means?”

  “A constant adrenaline high with the energy to sustain it? Well, you hear about PCP junkies busting police-car windshields with their heads, bending metal, that sort of thing. All the damage catches up to them later, of course, when they come off the drugs. But it wouldn’t with vampires because the high doesn’t go away. In any case, I’ve done some studying on this one. It’s such a curious thing, but I think their physical resilience may also be a direct result of the epinephrine. Or at least a combined result. That’s adrenaline, by the way.”

  “Got it,” Erin said. “What does it do?”

  “I’m not precisely sure. You can never really be sure with these things until you have a lab, censors, and a raging-angry vampire strapped to a metal table in your basement.” He laughed.

  Erin stared.

  “Doctors sometimes use injections of epinephrine, or adrenaline, to treat cardiac arrest,” he said. “Something about it causes the body to keep going when normally it would not.”

  The man went quiet as Gregory, the book-keeper, walked by. Gregory squinted at both them, then disappeared behind a wall of drawers. The man waited a moment, expression idle, then stood up and peered around the corner. Came back and sat down.

  “He’s gone,” he said. “Good thing, too. Real weird, that Gregory. I don’t like him.”

  “So, how do you kill them?” Erin pressed.

  Once again, he appeared baffled and somewhat offended by her preoccupation with killing, but the lure to continue, to show just how much he knew, was too tempting. “Alright, back to the myths,” he said. “You’ve heard of garlic, holy water, wooden stakes, yes?”

  Erin nodded.

  “Right now I can’t attempt to explain garlic or holy water, except as some kind of odd superstition. I’m hoping, with this next file I’m reading through, I might be able to figure it out a little more, but right now I can’t say that it’s anything but myth.” He smiled a little. “However, wooden stakes, I do believe, can be explained.”

  “That’s for real?” Erin asked.

  “Sort of,” he said. “In folklore, they make it look like some odd weakness pertaining specifically to wooden stakes. Not metal stakes. Not rock stakes. Specifically wooden stakes. Well, let’s think about this.”

  Erin didn’t even try to pretend she was thinking it over.

  He seemed a little frustrated by her lack of cooperation on the part of active imagining, but continued. “Fine, fine, have it your way. I will now skip the historic references to mythology, and actual history, which, by the way, are quite brilliant connections, and simply tell you why.”

  Erin grinned. “Finally.”

  “Think of a stake,” he said.

  Erin nodded impatiently.

  “Now think of stake jammed into your heart,” he said.

  Erin thought it over, then nodded again.

  “Or if you’d like, imagine it jammed into your right lung, or your neck, or, say, your left lung.”

  Erin waited for an explanation.

  “It’s damage,” the man said. “Pure and simple, physical damage. You jam a stake into anything and it’s going to cause a serious and often large injury to the target. Jam a stake into a vital area, and there’s just no getting around it. In the heart, naturally, the heart will cease to function. To either side, you’ll pierce a lung and/or major arteries. It’s the same for severing the head from the body. Simply damaging the body to the point that it can’t function—no matter how strong it is.”

  Erin bit her lip as she sifted through the concept. Adding up all the pieces. And, oddly enough, it seemed to hold together.

  “Well, why isn’t the myth about a sword through the heart?” Erin asked.

  He smiled, obviously glad she had asked. “Who do vampires attack?” he asked.

  “People,” Erin said.

  “Okay, put it this way. Traditionally, who uses swords?” he asked.

  “Knights,” she replied with a shrug. “Samurais. Pirates.”

  “That’s right, warriors. Vampires are looking for someone to feed on, not to get their arm chopped off. Like a lion, they leave the strong an
d able alone.” He studied her face to make sure she followed. “Now, who, then, do they attack?”

  “The people who don’t have swords,” Erin said.

  “Come now, I know you can do better than that,” he said encouragingly.

  “People who taste good,” Erin said flatly.

  He frowned. “Women.”

  “Girls?” Erin asked.

  “Yes, women. Sometimes, children I suppose, but mostly women. Do you know why that is?” he said.

  “No.”

  “In folklore, the vampires were almost always male,” he said. “Now, if you’re a male vampire, who do you want to feed upon?”

  Erin nodded. Girls. That made sense.

  “And most women don’t use swords,” he concluded. “Defenseless people, obviously, are not going to be using swords. I’m sure, in true life, vampires died in all sorts of fashions, but all sorts of ways doesn’t go down well in folklore. So, the creators of folklore had to invent a new weapon. A peasant’s weapon. Thus, the wooden stake.”

  He stopped talking and waited while a tall woman dressed in a broom skirt passed by. “There are supporting ideas for this, but somehow I doubt you’re interested,” he said with a frown.

  “You’re working off mythology for that theory, then?” Erin asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I have to. There’s hardly a shred of historical evidence that hasn’t been tampered with in some way or another. It’s nearly impossible to get a clean story, i.e. minus the mythic and religious nonsense.”

  Erin pondered this for quite a while, just sitting there, leaning against the cool metal drawers. The man, too, was thinking, though not so silently. He mumbled to himself, busily flicking through the pages of information, muttering a quiet “ah-ha” or “yes, yes” every so often.

  The sheer weight of information on its own was overwhelming, not to mention the actual content. It was a lot to handle, but then again, that was what she came for. Information. But she really didn’t know how to deal with all of this.

  “What’s your name again, miss?” the man asked, suddenly looking up from his papers.

  “I didn’t tell you my name,” Erin said.

  “Oh. Well, all the same.”

  Erin didn’t know what he meant.

  “My name is Lyle Perkins—the mad scientist,” he said with a nervous laugh and a twitchy hand gesture, then extended the same hand to shake.

  “I’m, uh, Ann,” Erin said, shaking his hand.

  “Just Ann?” he asked.

  “For now,” she replied.

  “Oh, yes, good, good,” Lyle said. “Very good to be cautious. You’re a young lady, after all.”

  Erin scanned his face, thinking that she was in way more trouble than she’d known. And that this guy was really, really odd. Thinking that she was making very stupid mistakes, every minute. Being here. Talking to this guy. Going back to her apartment for clothes. She was in way over her head.

  “All that information is in those papers?” Erin asked, pointing to the scattered files.

  Lyle nodded, then swiftly scraped the papers up and handed them to her. “You’ll read them? I’d love it if you would. We could swap theories. You could show me what I missed. Maybe we’ll figure something out.”

  Erin checked her watch. Her phone had been buzzing in her jacket pocket, and that meant it was time to do damage control. Either her parents had made it to the hospital and found her gone, or Isaiah was on the warpath. It was almost inevitable. Now that he knew she was really in trouble, he would be hell-bent on saving her somehow. On helping.

  “I have to go somewhere, but if I walk out, will they let me back in?” Erin asked.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Lyle said. “That’s why I call it a Cinderella pass. You’re in ‘til midnight, and then, poof, back to the real world.” He chuckled.

  Erin moved to her feet. “Alright.”

  “Oh, wait,” Lyle said. “Um, just in case.” He dug around in one of his pockets and pulled out a wad of crumpled papers. “Let’s see here. Need that. Don’t want that, but neither do you. Um. Okay, here we go.” He flattened a piece of paper against one of the drawers, then pulled out a pen and wrote a number on it. Drew a line under that, and wrote several more numbers. Offered it to her. “That’s my number. Just in case you don’t come back, ever need info, that kind of thing. Or if you find something out. Wow, wouldn’t that be wonderful. I’d love it if you found something out.”

  Erin stared at him.

  “Anyway, yes, um, that’s that. Oh, yes, and those other numbers are the drawer numbers, so that you can find the files on your own next time,” Lyle added, then smiled in a very kind way. “Course you won’t need them if you come back tonight, but there’s always room for precautions.”

  Erin nodded slowly.

  “And, well, I don’t know if you would be up for it.” His expression became a little hesitant, even apologetic. “But I’d love to run some tests. I really would.”

  “Tests?” Erin asked.

  “Yes. Psychic tests. On you,” he said hopefully.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied.

  “Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me. Or, uh, where to call me, I guess,” he shrugged, then pushed up his glasses.

  “Yeah,” Erin said slowly, “I should be back in a few minutes. So, I guess I’ll see you then.”

  He nodded.

  Erin turned.

  “Oh, yes, one more thing, Ann,” Lyle said.

  Erin stopped reluctantly, almost scared to hear what he had to ask.

  “What happened to your face?” he asked.

  Erin frowned.

  Chapter 8

  Erin drove to the De Vargas Mall, distantly amazed that it was already dark. Technically, this made sense. Late fall. Night coming earlier. But Erin felt like she’d woken up only a couple hours ago. Guess time flies when you’re having a panic attack, she thought, getting out of her car and walking across the parking lot to the entry. She made her way to a row of soda and candy machines. Dug four quarters out of her pocket, slipped them in, and selected a chocolate bar. She tore open the wrapper, stuffed some chocolate in her mouth, then pulled out her cell and tried not to grimace as she dialed.

  “Good evening.” It was Phillip. The formality meant he was angry.

  “Hey, Dad,” Erin said.

  “I’m assuming this means you’re alright.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t wait at the hospital, and that I didn’t call you sooner. I just had some things to take care of.”

  “The police said you snuck out of the hospital.”

  “What?” Erin said, trying her best to sound shocked.

  “Did you?”

  “I didn’t even know the cops were there. I, uh, broke a lamp on accident and I thought the hospital people would be mad, so I just left.”

  “Erin, that’s absurd.”

  “I know. I just panicked.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Um, on my way to Las Cruces. I figured I’d take a few days off to, uh, recover. Didn’t mom get my text?”

  “What happened to you, Erin? The nurse said—”

  “Can we talk about it at home? I’ll explain everything. It’s not half as bad as it sounds. Really. We’ll hash it out over breakfast.”

  “Your mother’s not going to be happy about this, Erin.”

  “I know,” Erin said.

  “In fact, I’m not happy about this,” Phillip said. “You promise you’re alright?”

  “Promise. You’ll see for yourself.”

  “Where are you? If you’ve been hurt, you shouldn’t be driving. I’ll come get you.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that bad. I swear.”

  “Why were the police there, Erin?”

  “Oh, you know what, my battery’s dying. I promise I’ll tell you everything at home. Bye!”

  Erin disconnected, slipped her phone into her pocket, and jammed the rest of the chocolate bar in her mouth. Er
in tried to gag it down as quickly as possible, choking momentarily, then groaned. She hated lying—and she sucked at it. She’d bought herself a few hours, maybe a day, before her parents went into full-fledged panic mode. She’d text later and claim her car broke down. Tell them she’d come out tomorrow instead. Then her parents would fight over whether or not to drive back to Phoenix to find her, and hopefully decide against it. Erin tossed the wrapper in the trash can and pulled her phone out again. She dialed Isaiah’s number and silently ordered him not to answer.

  There was a clicking sound.

  Erin frowned.

  Voicemail. Yes!

  “Hey. On the way to Cruces to stay with the folks. Call you later.” Erin disconnected, scrolled through her contact list, and hit Espy’s name. She took three deep breaths while the phone rang, then bit her lip at the sound of her cousin’s voice.

  “Que chingados! Where have you been, Flaca?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Lady, your mom is going to kill someone if you don’t get your ass to Cruces. Like today.”

  “Listen—Espy—just listen for a second.”

  “Pués ándale, habla.”

  “I need you to tell me about the Owl Man.”

  Silence. Erin waited. She bit her lip again.

  “Espy—

  “You have to call Grandma, Erin. If you’re even asking, if that has anything to do with this, you’ve got to call her. It doesn’t matter what your mom wants.”

  “So, you know something,” Erin said.

  “Not enough,” Espy said.

  “Just tell me what you know, then,” Erin said. “Please.”

  “Did you see him?” Espy asked suddenly. “The Owl Man?”

  “I don’t know what I saw,” Erin said.

  “Ay, this is serious, Erin.”

  “I know. I know that.”

  “So, why aren’t you back on the Rez—with Grandma?” Espy asked.

  “Look, just forget about the Rez for a minute and tell me what you know about the Owl Man,” Erin said.

  Espy groaned and mumbled something in Spanish. “Grandma could tell you more, could tell you better. But from what I remember, the Owl Man was a cannibal giant. He tried to stop the sun from rising. In some stories, he looks like an owl or turns into an owl. The central idea seems to be that he is evil and has existed for as long as we have, maybe longer.”