Hard Spell

by Justin Gustainis

  "Short version: we're in the pump house, Lake Scranton Dam. Sligo... guy Kulick was after, was gonna do some big ritual, become a super-vampire."

  "A what? A super... what?"

  "Later. This is... short version, okay? When ick got here, he left your body... went into Sligo's. That's the guy... tortured Kulick, remember that?"

  "Remember it? I lived it, through Kulick's memories."

  "Right, sorry. Okay, so Kulick left you, then... possessed... Sligo. Took control. Then – payback time."

  "You mean, he...? Oh, dear Goddess, no!"

  "Yeah. He made Sligo... use a silver knife on himself. It's bad, Rachel – real bad. Then Kulick split... left Sligo still alive. That's him you hear. I think he's trying to scream."

  "Stan, we've got to help the poor man–"

  "Might not say... 'poor man,' if you knew… But we'll help him, in a minute. First, think you can help me... sit up?"

  "Sure. Come on." Rachel got one arm around my shoulders and lifted. I assisted as much as I could, and then I was sitting up again. The vertigo came back, but then receded. Progress, I guess.

  "Now, check on Karl," I said. "Please."

  "Karl? Your partner?"

  "Over there." I pointed. "Behind the pillar. I think maybe he's…" I couldn't finish the sentence.

  Rachel said, "Can you stay upright by yourself?"

  "Think so," I said. "If not, doesn't matter. Not far… to fall. Now go."

  She hustled over to where Karl lay so still. I saw her press two fingers against his neck, frown, then try another spot.

  No pulse. He's gone. Jeez, Karl, goddamn fucking–

  "Stan? He's alive."

  With an effort, I pulled myself out of my wallow. "What? You sure?"

  "I'm getting a pulse, but it's weak, and fast. He's hurt bad, Stan. I think his... back is broken, and he's been bleeding from the nose and mouth. Internal injuries. He needs a hospital, and quick!"

  "See if you can find my phone," I said. "It's around here... someplace. Gotta be. Must've been jarred loose, when I hit the wall."

  Rachel started casting about the floor, looking. At least, it wasn't hard to see in there, with all of Sligo's fucking lights.

  "I don't see it, Stan. Are you sure you had it with you?"

  "Yeah, I had it... oh, shit." I just remembered that I'd slipped the phone into my right hip pocket. It was so thin, and I already hurt all over anyway, I didn't even notice I'd been sitting on the damn thing. I reached back and pulled it out with clumsy fingers.

  The phone had taken the full impact of my body against the wall. It was nothing more than cracked and broken junk. "Fuck!" I threw it aside, then looked at Rachel.

  "Can't you do some... I dunno... healing magic, get him stabilized, until we get... paramedics here?"

  She shook her head sadly. "I've got none of my gear with me, Stan, and no spells prepared in advance. For the moment, I'm all out of magic. I'm sorry."

  "Shit." I tried to think, but my head hurt so much, and the vertigo kept coming and going, coming and going.

  "Rachel."

  "Yes?"

  "My weapon's... here someplace. Two weapons, actually – pistol and shotgun. See if you can find the pistol, okay?"

  "All right."

  Rachel got slowly to her feet, tottered for a few steps, then began to walk around this part of the room, eyes on the floor. "Okay, found it."

  "Bring it over here, will you?"

  In a moment she was kneeling next to me. She handed me the Beretta, and I checked the loads. Silver. Good. That was what I'd thought, but I wasn't trusting my memory for anything, at the moment. I replaced the clip, then worked the action to bring a round into the chamber.

  "Stan," Rachel said, "whatever you're thinking about doing, think some more. Please. We can do better for Karl than that."

  "It's not for Karl."

  I motioned toward the front of the room. "See the girl suspended from the ceiling? She's bleeding. Passed out, maybe."

  Rachel turned and stared. "Oh my Goddess, Stan. Who is she? We've got to–"

  "We will. Or, you will. She's a vampire, but... not one of... bad guys. Supposed to be... sacrifice number five."

  "The poor girl, she looks like she's hurt pretty bad."

  "Motherfucker cut her and stabbed her. Name's Christine. She's my... daughter."

  Rachel nodded. "This must be so awful for you, Stan."

  "Don't... seem surprised."

  She shrugged. "I heard the rumor about Stan Markowski's vampire daughter more than a year ago. The way you were always going on about how you hated vamps, I figured it just might be true. But not my business."

  "She is now," I said. "Knife, over there, on the floor. Cut her down, careful. Like you said, she's hurt bad."

  "I will be – but why the gun? Surely you're not going to...?"

  "Christine? No way," I said. I hefted the Beretta. "You know how to use one...?"

  "Yes, I went to the range a few times, with an old boyfriend. Why?"

  "When you've seen... Sligo, you'll know why. He's a vamp, but... bullets're silver. Get as close as you can stand to get, put two in his head. Make sure."

  Rachel shook her head slowly. "Stan, that can't be the only way to help him."

  "Only help he deserves, the worthless fuck… Look, even if we could keep him alive, or undead, whatever – he'd hate us for it. Christ, I'm almost tempted." I shook my head, which was a mistake. "You'll know, once you've seen what's left of him."

  She was silent, but her face was distressed.

  "Rachel?"

  "What?"

  "You got no idea, how fucking awful… Hate to ask you, but I'm too fucked-up. Guy's been savaged. Everything you could do to somebody, without... killing him, everything – Kulick did it. Major fucking nightmare material, okay? You'll puke, probably. Normal. Then, use the gun. Two rounds... finish him, then help Christine. Will you do that, Rachel?" I swallowed, or tried to. "For me? For… them?"

  I held out the Beretta, with a hand that shook bad. After a brief hesitation that didn't seem to last longer than two hours, she took it.

  "All right, Stan. You know what's been going on, and I don't. I'll rely on your judgment, fucked-up though it may be."

  "Good. My judgment... my responsibility. Mine – not yours. Go on, get it done. Christine needs you."

  I must have passed out again, because I suddenly realized I was on my back, squinting against the lights bouncing off the white stucco ceiling, with no memory of how I'd got there. I tried to turn my head toward the altar, but the pain and throbbing started, worse than before. Maybe I'd whacked my skull again when I fell over. Moving just hurt too fucking much, so I lay there, staring at the white – and listening.

  I couldn't have been out for long, because the next thing I heard was Rachel's voice. "Oh, dear fucking God... oh, fuck, noooo..." Then came the soundsf vomiting. I can't say I blamed her.

  After a while, the vomiting noises stopped, to be replaced by the sound of a woman crying. Didn't blame her for that, either. But it didn't last long.

  I heard footsteps, moving fast, as if someone were in a hurry. Then they stopped abruptly.

  Even though I'd been expecting it, the sound of the shots startled me. I guess that adrenaline rush overloaded my stressed circuits, because I found myself fading away again.

  Three. She fired three times. Wanted to be absolutely sure, I guess.

  "Stan? Can you hear me? Stan?"

  Rachel's voice brought me up from the depths, like a diver heading for the light and air. I opened my eyes to find her face a few feet above mine.

  "Stan?"

  "Yeah, okay."

  "It's done, Stan. I mean... Sligo. I…"

  "I know. I heard."

  "And I got Christine down and cut her loose. The rope had silver worked into it, and she had burns where she was tied up."

  "Fucker. Maybe you shouldn't have..."

  "She's still bleeding, Stan, from where he cut her. I t
hought vampires healed quickly, from non-mortal wounds."

  "Not when it's silver... or wood. Sometimes they heal, sometimes don't. Can still die, later. All depends..."

  "On what? Depends on what?"

  I let air out in a long, loud sigh. "Check Karl again, will you, Rachel? Please?"

  She stared down at me for a little, then said, "Sure. Be right back."

  And she was, too. "Stan?"

  Her face was sad, on top of everything else she'd gone through.

  "Dead?" I asked her.

  "No, but his pulse is even weaker. I... don't think he's got long, Stan. I'm so sorry."

  I nodded, which made my head hurt more, but I didn't care. I had to push through the pain and dizziness and nausea. I had something important to do.

  I asked Rachel, "Can you move Christine? Bring her over here?"

  She bit her lip. "She's dead weight, Stan, or very nearly. I can't carry her, and no magic to help. And the bleeding... if I even try to lift her..."

  "I understand." I commanded my brain to work, to think. "Okay, here's what you do. Get one... those big altar cloths. Put it on floor, next to her. Roll her on to it, careful. Then grab the cloth. Drag it. Drag her. Okay?"

  "I understand what you mean. The travois principle. I can probably do it, but, Stan, is it worth it, just to bring her over here? I could hurt her more."

  "Don't bring... over here. Next to Karl."

  Like I said, I wasn't tracking too well. But Rachel's face was close to mine, and I thought I saw it register surprise, then doubt, then what I'm pretty sure what was determination. Then she was gone, without a word.

  I faded away again, but came back when Rachel's voice, very close, said, "Stan? It's done. I've dragged her over to where Karl is. I don't think I hurt her."

  "Good. Thank you." I opened my eyes and looked at her. "Rachel, how many steps you figure it is, from here to there?"

  She looked up, then back. "Five, maybe six."

  "Okay. Help me up."

  Rachel got me to a sitting position again, then I said, "No, all the way. Wanna stand up."

  "Stan, I'm not sure–"

  "Gotta tak to Christine. Quickest way over is walking. Too weak to crawl, anyway."

  "Stan, don't be stupid. If you can't crawl, what makes you think you can walk six steps, even with help?"

  "Because I have to."

  I dropped heavily to my knees next to Christine, the impact sending new jolts of pain through me, especially my head. I wanted to keep going downward – all the way to the floor and blessed unconsciousness, where I wouldn't have to think any more. But I stayed there, swaying a little, kneeling next to my vampire daughter.

  Christine was still naked. Every inch of her that I could see was either filthy, or bloody, or burned, or some combination. Blood was seeping out of the three carved symbols, and there was a slow but steady flow from the stomach wound.

  I leaned over as far as I could without falling on top of her. "Christine? Can you hear me? Christine?"

  Her eyes were crusted over with dried tears, but she blinked a few times, then opened them. "Daddy?"

  "Hi, baby. Don't try to move. You've been hurt pretty bad."

  "I know. Hurts inside. Burns. Daddy, that man, where–"

  "He's dead, baby. True dead. He won't hurt you anymore."

  She smiled at me. I hadn't seen that smile in a long, long time.

  "I know enough," I said, "about vamps – vampires to realize that you need blood, a lot of it, and soon. If you're gonna have a chance to heal. Otherwise… " I let my voice trail off.

  "We're s'pposed to heal. It's... our nature."

  "Not when it was done with silver – and that's what the sick fuck used, baby. He cut you and burned you with silver, and it won't heal by itself. Not unless you feed."

  "Guess you'd know," she said, so soft I could barely hear her. "I musta skipped that part... of the vampire manual." The smile returned, just for a second.

  I made myself not break down, or pass out, or change my mind. I made myself continue.

  "Karl, my partner, remember him?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "He's over there."

  She moved her head slowly and looked. "Is he...?"

  "No, he isn't, not yet."

  She turned back, and stared at me, confused and afraid and in pain.

  I turned to Rachel, who was kneeling close by. She looked at me, then at Christine, then Karl. Then back at me. Biting her lower lip, she nodded.

  I didn't need her permission, I knew that. But I was still glad to see that nod.

  I looked down again at my daughter.

  "Christine, honey..." My throat was clogged, and I had to stop and clear it. "Christine, there's something I want you to do..."

  Time passed, as it has a way of doing. I gave depositions to half a dozen law enforcement agencies about certain events taking place at the Scranton Water Authority's pump house on a moonlit night in June.

  I also gave a lengthy deposition to a Grand Jury that was considering whether to indict Rachel Proctor for the murder of two police officers. No indictment was handed down, since the "demonic possession" defense is widely recognized by the law in Pennsylvania, and most other states. Rachel is back at work as a consulting witch to the department. She keeps threatening to turn me into a toad, but she's just kidding around. I think.

  A couple of witchfinders who had been making a nuisance of themselves around Scranton disappeared without a trace. McGuire's received a few palls from their boss, the Witchfinder General. Every time, he tells the WG that he's got no idea what happened to them. The last call, McGuire floated the theory that Ferris and Crane had decided to chuck the witchfinder business and open up a little antique shop in New Hampshire, someplace. Or maybe Delaware.

  I spent four days in the hospital for treatment of severe concussion. I was released under strict doctor's orders to take it easy for a while. That worked out okay, since I spent the next three weeks on administrative leave while giving all those depositions.

  Lacey Brennan came to visit me while I was in the hospital. Twice.

  When the Powers That Be were as satisfied as they were likely to get that I hadn't broken any major laws, I went back to work with the Supe Squad. I've had to make some adjustments in my work schedule, though. Instead of a strict 9pm to 5am routine, McGuire lets me get my shift in between sunset and sunrise, no matter what times those may be. My partner needs to stay out of the sun, and he sleeps during the day, anyway. Despite the weird hours, we're still a pretty good team. We've cleared more than our share of cases, and busted a lot of bad supes.

  I try to get home a little before sunrise every day, work permitting – so I can say "Goodnight" to my daughter before she heads down to the basement of our house for her day's rest.

  Lots of changes, not all of them easy to make – but life is change, and adapting to it is one way of proving to yourself that you're still alive. And being alive feels pretty good.

  My name's Markowski. I carry a badge.

  Acknowledgments

  Betsy Brown, that most unlikely descendant of Cotton and Increase Mather, helped me avoid a fundamental error concerning these august gentlemen.

  John Carroll, who has been my friend since dinosaurs walked the Earth, was very helpful concerning the details of life in the Wyoming Valley, where I no longer live but Stan Markowski does.

  Karen Case sustained my soul.

  Jean Cavelos, Director of the Odyssey Writing Work shop and sole proprietor of Jean Cavelos Editoral Services, Inc, has the best mind for story development of anyone I've ever met. She was of immense help to me in plotting this novel.

  My agent, the lovely and talented Miriam Kriss of the Irene Goodman Agency, did her usual fine job of contract negotiations.

  Terry Bear's job was providing snack suggestions, a responsibility he fulfilled admirably, as always.

  About the Author

  Justin Gustainis was born in Northeast Pennsylvania in 1951. He
attended college at the University of Scranton, a Jesuit university that figures prominently in several of his writings.