Halfway Bitten

by Terry Maggert

Gran spoke first. “The vampire Philip? Part of what he claims is true. He is the last remaining member of the Tidewater Clan, but it isn’t due to simple predation on the part of the unknown aggressors.”

  “That figures,” I said with a disgusted snort. “What’s his angle?” There was always an angle. With vampires, there were usually two or three. They thought in the long term when it came to dirty tricks.

  Mathieu spoke in a weak voice. “I joined the show a year ago, not unwillingly. I was charmed by the ringmaster, although I cannot say for certain if it was not magical in nature. A year ago, magic was a child’s folly, something to be ridiculed or foisted upon the marks who come into our tent to have their eyes filled by beautiful lies.”

  “Were you enchanted, Mathieu?” I asked. It seemed likely, if not certain. He didn’t appear to be stupid—if anything, his eyes glittered with intelligence.

  He nodded sourly. “Almost certainly so. I left a life behind without any thought of the consequences. That is not who I am.” He sighed, adding, “who I was.”

  “How soon did the attacks begin?” Gran asked. We’d passed into new ground, which was good since Mathieu would likely tire quickly.

  “I . . . I cannot say. I began to have dreams almost immediately, but it was nearly two weeks before I was, that is to say . . .” he paused, and I realized that shame colored his words. To admit such a betrayal of his own self was difficult. “I was bitten. And then, I was bitten again, with regularity, as if I were a cow to be used at the whim of its master.” His words were poisonous with self-loathing and fear. I felt my hands twitch, wanting to touch him in some small reassurance, but his shoulders were so drawn I knew he would recoil. Gran shot me a look of warning, and I subsided into my chair.

  “When did it happen? And where?” Gran asked. These details would tell us much about the identity of his predator.

  “At night. Always at night, and in my bed. I would try to remain awake, but in that quiet hour, it would find me, and feed. I could never make myself stay alert through the night, but I always knew when it leaned on my bunk to turn my head. I was paralyzed and—I am uncertain, do you understand? Am I awake? Dreaming? But then I feel the teeth slip home, and the weakness passes through me until my lids close and I am once again under the dark waters. I wake sore, and tired, and reeking of shame. It is like a death for me, each and every time.” Mathieu’ voice broke and he covered his face. He’d been broken by two small fangs, just as surely as if a mountain had fallen on him. Did I mention I hate vampires?

  Well, whole vampires. I love half-vamps, but only if they’re named Wulfric.

  Mathieu took a moment to compose himself as Gran poured him aromatic tea while carefully ignoring his state of disarray. “Mathieu, before I ask you anything else, have I told you that you’re quite brave?” she asked.

  A smile touched his lips as he nodded in appreciation of Gran’s gestures, both the tea and sympathy. “I’m cornered. There is a difference, but your kindness is most welcome. I’d better continue or there could be complications.”

  “You’ll be missed?” I asked.

  “Indeed. We move freely, but there are complications that keep us close to home, so to speak.” His face twisted in a grimace of loathing.

  Gran reached out, taking one of his hands. She considered it for a moment, before pinning him with a blue gaze. “Who is your food source?”

  He twitched as if struck. Silence stretched between us, filled with the weight of his shame. “I do not know who it is. I only felt the—I have only been compelled to feed for the past three months. Some of the others feed less frequently, some not at all yet. I have tried with the power of my whole will to stop such vile behavior, but I cannot. Do you know the sick part? I feel grateful to him, to them—I feel as if I am bound to them, even while I try to fight this unholy hunger.”

  “Do you become ill, Mathieu?” At his nod, Gran added, “You may rest assured, we are not judging you. What is happening is not of your doing. You are absolved of blame, do you understand?” Her eyes bored into his with commanding intensity.

  “I tried to stop. They both laughed at me, mocking my efforts even as I began to shake and crawl. I couldn’t speak, my tongue swelled, and I became feverish to the point that the skin on my fingertips began to split.” He laughed a short, charmless noise that ended in a sigh of defeat. “I lasted a week. And then, the hunger was back ever more powerful, always there like a whisper that followed me wherever I went. I have not tried again since. It seems logical that as my . . . condition grows more severe, my reactions will, too.”

  That answered one question—we now understood the purpose of the corpse that had been found in the lake. She’d been exactly what we suspected, but the story was now even more maddening since there were multiple victims. The girl had not just been groomed, she’d been given to people who were being converted into vampires without their consent. The entire scene made my stomach clench with anger and disgust, but Gran’s stony silence told me that there was a world of hurt coming for the ringmaster and his unseen partner.

  If we were strong enough. I may be young, but I know that the world is filled with things both ancient and wise. Some of these beings are evil and, sooner or later, one of them will wander into Halfway with bad things on its mind. The next day or two would reveal what was here, why they came, and whether or not Gran and I could prevail. I don’t like guessing, and having a lack of information can lead to witches vanishing, regardless of their purity or power.

  I knew what I needed, and it was simple: information. The only other source we’d not tapped was a short walk away, so I reached a conclusion, looked at Gran with meaning, and stood. “I need to go out for a few minutes, Mathieu. Can you stay here, for your own safety? At least until I return?”

  He hesitated until Gran said, “Your hunger is no threat to me. You’ll be safe here, and I can brew a draught that will take the hunger pangs away, at least temporarily.” When his face relaxed into something less angular, I knew that had been the issue. “Where are you going, Carlie?”

  I stopped at the door to answer. “The library. I have some questions for Brendan, and then I’ll be back.”

  Gran nodded, and Mathieu kept his eyes fixed on the table. It was time for research, and then it would be time to act.

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Sort of a King

  Brendan took me into his office and closed the door. “That bad?”

  He didn’t speak, but fussed with spreading some cream sheets of paper out to display them, then looked at me with worry in his eyes. “Your friend came to see me, and we had one of the more unusual talks I’ve ever imagined.”

  “Friend?” I could tell by his tone it was something weird, so I raised a brow and waited.

  “Alex. He established his bona fides by turning into a jaguar, or a panther, in this very office. That was a first. So was his explanation for the visit. He said that you’ve been contacted by someone calling themselves Philip, and that he was from the Tidewater Clan. I take it that this verges into vampire politics?” To his credit, Brendan uttered that without a hint of derision. He’d seen enough around me to know that the world was teeming with legends, and not all of them were friendly.

  “I know him, and he’s right. I had to warn a vamp away. He was hunting in our area,” I explained.

  “Did he say why he was here?” Brendan asked, making a note on a piece of scrap paper. I couldn’t see what he’d written, but there were several lines of scrawled text. They looked like he’d written them in a hurry.

  “For a thing called the bloodgift. He claims to be the last of his clan. Says that there are others here in the same situation. It’s connected to the circus somehow, and we’re just beginning to put the parts together. I could use Philip right about now. He seemed to be well-informed for a species that’s notorious for being loners,” I said, watching as Brendan’s face grew somber.

  “That might not be possible. Do you recognize these?” After unscrewing the lid on a ti
n container, he held out three leather thongs with shark’s teeth dangling from them. The smell of scorch and grease was almost overpowering. There’s only one scent in the world that combines the devastation of fire and the repulsion of undead blood. That scent would be a vampire, after it’s been sent on to a state of permanent death.

  I held out my hand instinctively. The teeth were smeared with whatever is left of a vampire, and I had to quell a bilious cough. “Grossssss . . . where did you get these? Alex?”

  “Yep. He showed up and said that there were patches of ashes all over the forest, and in many of them, those necklaces. I’d say that something is picking off every vampire in town, which raises more than a few questions about why there are so many undead creatures prowling around when we’ve got a circus full of creepy clowns in town,” Brendan concluded. He was right, there were too many coincidences happening at once for any of it to be sheer chance.

  “You know, when Philip told me about the bloodgift, I thought it was a prize. Now I’m thinking it might be something entirely different,” I said. I couldn’t argue with vampires being taken out, but the fact that it was happening here for some unknown reason was deeply troubling.

  “So, about Philip. Is this him?” Brendan slid one of the pictures forward, and I saw it wasn’t a photograph at all, but a print of an old wood carving. It depicted a Native American in robes, holding an ornamental spear, and wearing a headdress of turkey feathers. He was handsome, even a bit regal, and there were various gifts around his feet as if he’d been feted by people as part of his birthright. One look at the face was all I needed.

  “It is.” Underneath the carving were letters. King Philip. “Well, stars above, he was a real king?” The carving caught the essence of his quiet dignity. It was remarkable.

  Brendan smiled without reserve. “You know, when you told me about the”—he searched for a word, waving—“layers of our world, and the things in it, my mind raced with possibilities. I wondered if you knew famous people, or if the notables through history were all magical beings. It seemed likely that somewhere between truth and legend, there might be a few people who really were special. This is the first example I’ve seen of a historical person lasting past their expiration date.”

  “Where’s he from?” I looked at a second image, this one a line drawing of Philip sitting on a log, holding forth on some matter to a circle of important looking people of other tribes. Their clothing was wildly varied, and all seemed designed to make them look like savages. I wondered how much was accurate, and how much of it was projection on the part of the artist.

  “The Tidewater, as he mentioned. Coastal Virginia, to be exact, but the when is much more interesting. His name isn’t Philip, by the way.”

  “I wondered. Sounds a bit too European for the man I met,” I said, revealing my suspicions from the moment I’d met the vampire with a necklace that indicated a person who was far less continental than his speech indicated. It didn’t belong; not quite an affectation, but certainly out of place. Now, sitting before me on the desk, the necklace just looked sad. “What’s his real name? And when was he given it?”

  Brendan turned the last picture around as he spoke. Philip looked out from the portrait with eyes that burned from anger and shame. I knew, somehow, that this was a rendering of him after some sort of defeat, or capitulation. “I give you Metacomet, leader of the Powhatan, and sachem of the only army to stymie the British during their first years here in the Americas.”

  I rocked back in my chair, stunned. “He’s four hundred years old?”

  Brendan nodded, gravely. “At least. More like four hundred and fifty, but after two centuries, who’s counting?” That was an old vampire. They didn’t last that long because they were competitive jerks, and if he’d made it four centuries, he must have some serious power. Then the dominoes fell and I sat up again, more alarmed than before.

  “Are you telling me he might be dead?” I asked.

  “You mean, deader? Yeah. And not just this time. He was supposed to have been killed in 1676, but that’s obviously not true. I mean, this is the guy, right?” He looked at me with partial hope that I’d misidentified the vampire, but no. I was certain. With a sigh, he turned a picture to look at it again. “Didn’t you tell me that vampires get stronger with time?”

  Click. The last domino fell. “Stars above, this isn’t a bit good. If that necklace came from Meta—what is it? Like a comet?”

  “Metacomet, yeah. And if it came from him, then that means that something older and more powerful than he was is still walking around, roasting vampires and generally making this the worst circus in history,” Brendan concluded.

  I held up a finger. “A point. These are vampires we’re dealing with, and, while you’re keyed in to some of their slimier traits, you don’t know the whole story. What if there’s some benefit to us thinking Metacomet is dead?”

  “Fair enough, but if these vampires are the ultimate schemers, then why would humans be the primary target of a lie like that? Could it be that he was trying to slip the noose from something older? Say, the thing that killed off his clan and summoned him to a small town in the mountains for no particular purpose?” Brendan reasoned. He really was quite devious for a librarian, but then, I didn’t know any other people associated with his job. Maybe they were all pleasant, helpful, and cunning. After all, librarians did force people to learn the Dewey Decimal System in the not-too-distant past. If that isn’t underhanded, then I don’t know what sneaky looks like.

  “I don’t know,” I began, waving at the stinky necklaces. “Those seem pretty convincing.” I didn’t mention that my witchmark went nuts when I reached to see the items that lay inert on the desk. There was no active magic, but the residual tingle of something dead was all over each one of the three items Alex had brought in from the forest. Whoever had worn them was almost certainly nothing more complex than a smear of ashes somewhere.

  We were interrupted by an awkward teenager with hair slicked to one side and an imperious air. He waved an envelope at Brendan, favored me with a dismissive glance, and left the item on Brendan’s desk with a muttered “another delivery,” before stalking out and closing the door behind him.

  “Friend of yours?” I asked. I didn’t recognize the kid.

  As Brendan lifted the envelope, he rolled his eyes and said, exasperated, “That’s Christopher. Not Chris, but Christopher. New volunteer at the library in Malone, and he’s got the personality of a fire ant.”

  I smiled, thinking that the kid must be remarkably prickly to bother the even-tempered Brendan. “I made a few inquiries for your Gran—and you—about that term bloodgift. There’s something familiar about it, or at least I thought so.” He opened the tape seal on the envelope and pulled two sheets of paper out. One was the cover letter from the librarian in Malone; the other was apparently what Brendan had been looking for.

  His face screwed up in confusion, then he slid the paper to me gently, as if it might combust. “We’ve been thinking that the bloodgift was something the vampires wanted, correct?”

  “I thought so,” I began, looking at the page before me. Unlike the images of Metacomet, this was a scene of chaos. It might have been a woodcutting, or perhaps an early print, but whatever it was, the subject was horrifying. In the scene, people dressed like pilgrims were fighting with natives in a small village of log homes. “Does this look like a party?” It was a slaughter. Enthusiastic violence spread across the entire page, and the natives were on the receiving end of each individual act being meted out. In archaic script, three words described the scene with chilling efficiency: Bestowing the Bloodgift.

  My heart galloped. “Spirits above, this is—it’s not the gift of immortality. It’s genocide.”

  Brendan’s green eyes brightened with understanding. From his expression, I could see him make connections beyond my own simple assessment, and he took a moment to spread his hands out on the desk before speaking. “It’s a roundup, all right, and it’s
still going on. Which makes me wonder exactly who is in charge of the circus, and who’s trying to erase all of the vampires.”

  “Maybe not all. If it was a crusader of some sort, there would be signs. This feels like a power grab, you know?” I said, raising my shoulders with indecision.

  Brendan scanned the sheets again before a conclusive frown spoiled his pleasant face. “One thing is sure. This fight?” He cut his eyes to the desk, indicating the papers, “It isn’t over, and it’s happening in Halfway right now.”

  I thought of a grievance from the Everafter spilling into our town, and shuddered. This was the very thing I said we wouldn’t allow, and now it was up to us to stop it. I stood, scooping the greasy necklaces up and dropping them in a pocket. “It starts with the ringmaster, and if I’m right, it ends with him too. I’m off. Thanks.”

  “Carlie.”

  Brendan’s tone stopped me before I could leave.

  “What should I do?” He wasn’t scared, just concerned. Brendan had reserves of cool.

  “Hunker down tonight. You won’t want to be out under the moon if Gran and I have our way.” And with that, I left, my mind swirling with possibilities and fears.

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Amnesia and Cleavage

  It was time to hotfoot back down the street and ask Mathieu a few more questions, because I had a suspicion he was being used even more horribly than we’d imagined, if that was even possible. I added being surprised by scummy vamp behavior to my list of things I didn’t anticipate seeing in my lifetime, right next to an attractive drawstring pant and fat-free maple syrup.

  I was having one of those out-of-body moments where I compared cooking at the diner with battling undead minions of some unseen evil force. It might surprise you to know that I prefer the cooking, and not just because it involves quality control sampling of waffles and pastries and—well, everything. I think that deep down I’m a little bit frightened of my magic. Not in the way that I fear losing control of a spell, but more like an intense wondering about what happens after the last spell has been cast and Halfway is safe once more. I know I can be beaten in a fight, but Gran? With Wulfric? No chance. The three of us are more or less unstoppable, except for one small detail: what if I find that unleashing destructive magic is to my liking? Other than Gran stripping me of my power, there would be other more long-ranging consequences. What about my soul? Would it be stained? Is it the kind of corruption that can be cleansed? I hated that something in my town could force me to ask such questions, but Gran trained me to take a long view on problems relating to the purity of my power. I swore to myself that whatever was going to happen, I would braid justice with mercy no matter how badly the unknown circus leaders needed to be removed.