“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Tristan said to him, but his face was tense and rather pale. “Be careful,” he said, and he gave Roland a pat on the shoulder as he took off.
Jo was mesmerized. The women were carrying what looked like a homemade, rustic litter with long poles attached, and on the litter was…a body? A woman’s body, on a bed of greenery? She started to run straight for them, unconcerned about anything except the woman lying there, in the clutches of those…witches.
45
Pierre and Roxanne had woken from their latest feed, having also made love three more times. They were feeling languid and intoxicated with newfound happiness. Pierre put his hands over her ears to protect them from the ear-splitting bird calls, then bent his head to kiss her.
“You raven-haired goddess,” he said.
Roxanne said nothing, but grinned at him.
They fell into another kiss–not one with any urgency behind it, they were too sated for that, but a kiss of love, of connection, of all the things neither of them had had in their lives for a very long time, and were astonished to have now, there in the dark forest on the edge of the Château.
When the shrieking intensified, they both moved to peek out between branches to see what was making that horrible noise.
“What the fuck?” said Roxanne. They watched as the witches continued their slow walk, calling and hooting.
Pierre shifted to a more comfortable crouch and turned in the other direction for a moment.
“Shit,” said Pierre. “Maloney! Look this way, towards the stable! He’s walking along–see?–there, just on the edge of the forest. Dominic’s probably right behind him. I’m worried he’ll smell us. If the breeze goes the right way, he’ll find us in a second.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, long and slow.
Roxanne broke from the kiss, lifted her nose, and inhaled. “I can smell him,” she said.
“Stay here,” he said to Roxanne. “I am going to take care of those assholes,” he said, as he moved some branches out of the way. He turned back and looked at her, his eyes glowing, “I love you,” said Pierre.
Roxanne smiled back at him. “Fucking watch what you’re doing,” she said, affectionately.
He crawled out of the cozy bower and bounded towards Maloney with lightning speed. When he got close, he suddenly dove headfirst at Maloney’s ankles, biting into one of them all the way to the bone, causing Maloney to scream in agony.
The scream made the inside of Pierre’s head feel like it was exploding, but still he used his hands to claw at Maloney’s legs and held on with his teeth as Maloney tried unsuccessfully to kick him free.
Dominic watched from the sidelines, as he usually did, preferring not to get his hands dirty if it could at all be avoided. He did not sense Roxanne. And he was distracted by the witches, who kept walking, slowly, carrying the litter with the body on it. The air had the strangest smell, he thought.
Jo turned her attention away from the witches when she heard Maloney scream. Over behind the stables, on the edge of the forest, she saw Pierre–he was fighting with an enormous man she had never seen before. She certainly wasn’t glad to see him, but at least Pierre had his hands full and had not noticed her. Her focus was on Callie, if that’s whose body that was, and she walked more quickly towards her and the witches.
Henri watched and waited in the shadows. He had been following at a distance, trying to figure out how he could get Jo to listen to him, to believe him when he explained that all his kind were not killers, and that even the death of Callie Armstrong had been a terrible accident.
Having no idea that Pierre had ever attacked Jo, Henri wanted to give Pierre some help, but Pierre seemed to have that mammoth beast in hand. The witches–who knew what they were capable of, or what they wanted? They had bothered Jo once before, and Henri was ready to spring forward and protect her if need be.
Roland had run up to the corner of the stable and was staring at the witches, trying to catch his breath. Tristan was back on the path, walking closer, deliberately not rushing. Whatever was unfolding here, and it appeared to be quite an unfolding, required cool heads and rational action.
Pierre wanted Dominic and Maloney out of Roxanne’s life, and he fought like a vampire possessed.
He flipped Maloney onto his back and sprang into the air to jump on his chest.
Dominic deeply regretted leaving whipster behind. Things were looking bad for Maloney and he was going to be forced to step in. He surged out from the trees, surprising Pierre and grabbing him around the neck.
Roxanne had been watching the fight through a space in the branches, and when she saw Dominic get his arm around Pierre’s neck, she burst through the roof of the bower and sprinted to where the three of them were tumbling together on the ground.
“Hey asshole!” she screamed, and Dominic whirled around, at first startled, but then grinning to see that it was Roxanne. He shot his arms out to grab her, letting go of Pierre.
Pierre came back at Dominic, yelling, “Don’t touch her!” He reared his head back, showing his fangs, snarling.
Roland, who had been straining to see in the murky darkness, saw the fangs. Quickly he crouched down on one knee, loaded a stake, and aimed the launcher.
But Maloney, smiling, came up behind Pierre and the two were wrestling, tumbling over one another, and Roland could not get a clear shot. Maybe they are both vampires, he thought hopefully, and it won’t matter which one gets the stake. Dominic and Roxanne were rolling around on the ground as well, Roxanne fighting as dirty as she could: pulling his hair, kneeing him in the balls, and putting her mouth over his ear and screaming at the top of her lungs, the noise on his sensitive vampire ears making him go limp, at least momentarily.
The witches kept walking forward as though the fight taking place nearby held no interest for them whatsoever. Their bird calls were forming into a sort of song, a harsh melody with a repeating chorus, building in intensity and volume. The swans from the lake had swooped down and were following behind them.
When Maloney and Pierre, growling, broke apart for a moment, Roland seized his opportunity. He let fly the first-ever stake from the new launcher, piercing Pierre straight through the heart and turning him, instantly, into a pile of ashes. The heavy smell of decomposing roses filled the air.
Roxanne leapt up, shaking off Dominic, and ran to the spot, staring, disbelieving.
Maloney ran to the ashes and looked down, and then lifted his head and roared, angry to have been cheated out of the rest of the fight.
Overexcited from killing his first vampire, Roland let fly another stake. His aim was perfect. The stake hit Maloney right in the chest, and he looked down at it curiously, as though he had just felt a tickle. He staggered a few steps, then staggered towards Dominic who ran up to him, and held him despite the risk of more flying stakes, murmuring to him, and tried to drag him into the privacy of the forest, forgetting all about Roxanne for the moment.
46
David had come down the gravel path, also drawn by the piercing cacophony of the witches, but when he saw Roland with his launcher, he went around the other side of the stables and faded quickly into the forest. He was interested in the witches, but not that interested.
Henri was running full-out for Jo. When he saw Roland fire the launcher, he bounded towards her, making inhuman, undisguised vampire leaps, intending to take her to safety whether she wanted him to or not. It was Henri himself who was most in danger from the stakes, but he was not thinking about that. He had to get her away from all of it–the witches, the dead body, the unpredictable Dominic, and the flying stakes–and he had to get her away now.
“Stop!” said Tristan to Roland. “Hold your fire!” He caught up to the younger man and put his hand on the launcher, aiming it to the ground.
Roland was panting with excitement. “I want to get them,” he growled, trying to raise the launcher up again. “All of them!”
“We don’t know who
’s who!” Tristan shouted.
The shout seemed to break Roland out of the sort of trance he had been in, and his arms relaxed.
“I got one,” he said. “Did you see the pile of ash? Did you hear that weird click, when it happened?”
“Yes,” said Tristan, his expression admitting, for a moment, that it had been an astonishing turn of events. “But we must be cautious. We don’t have any idea who that other man is that you shot. You’ve got to settle down!”
“Yes, sir,” said Roland, getting more control over himself. He looked guiltily in the direction of Maloney, but he wasn’t able to see into the forest well enough to make him out.
“Damn this cloud cover,” said Roland, just as it lifted, and everyone was briefly lit up by moonlight.
“What is on that litter?” asked Tristan, and he began to walk slowly towards the witches.
Jo had reached the witches, but they did not stop walking, so she followed alongside, looking at the pale body on the litter. She felt a wave of sorrow wash over her, sorrow for this poor girl whose life had ended in such a horrible way, and who was now nothing more than a plaything for these strange creatures from the forest.
“This is Callie?” Jo said to the witches.
They increased their keening calls.
Henri ran up to her, panting, and said “Jo!” Come with me!" and he held out his hand.
“Not bloody likely!” said Jo. “And by that I mean, when hell freezes over!”
“Jo! Come with me!” pleaded Henri. He took her by the elbow and pulled, but she wrenched away, glaring at him.
With Tristan’s calming influence gone, Roland brought the launcher back up. He felt such a powerful urge to make more piles of ash that he could not stop himself. Looking through the sight, he aimed at what he thought was Dominic, in the trees.
“THWANG!” was the sound the stake made as it was launched.
There was a slight break in the clamor of the witches, and Jo heard the stake, and she looked, and saw it embed in a tree not far from where they were standing. It made a loud thock as it hit the tree.
Stakes. Vampires. Jo knew whose life was in danger, and it wasn’t hers.
She sprinted straight towards Roland, Henri shouting at her to stop.
Roland was sliding another stake into place. He was feverish in his desire to stake another vampire, to see that unbelievably satisfying pile of ashes form at the instant his shot connected. His hands shook as he drew the launcher up and squinted into the sight.
What he saw was a jumble. The witches, straight ahead, carrying their litter; Tristan, nearly reaching them, walking straight towards Henri–Henri, Marquis de la Motte, brother to a known vampire, almost certainly a vampire himself. Roland pictured that pile of ashes once more, and without allowing the blur coming at him to distract him from his shot, he released the trigger, and THWANG another stake flew.
Then bedlam. Jo spun to one side and fell to the ground; Roxanne was on her knees, filling her hands with Pierre’s ashes and rubbing them on her face; Henri was leaping to where Jo lay. Tristan running towards Roland, his face grim.
And all during, the witches continued their cries, their calls, their raucous hoots.
Henri knelt next to Jo, and saw the pool of blood at her side.
“My love,” he said, tearing off his shirt and trying to stanch the wound.
“Get…away…” she murmured, her eyes closing. “Get somewhere…safe…”
Henri moved his body so that it was between Roland and Jo, although he realized that if he got hit, he would be no help to her then. He stroked the hair back from her face, and murmured to her that she was going to be OK. “I’ll be right back,” he said, feeling a surge of power and fury course through his body, an animal response to seeing the woman he loved shot down, bleeding, unconscious. “I’ll be right back. I promise,” he said.
Henri stood up and turned to Roland, who was digging in his pocket for another stake, and scanning the line of trees on the edge of the pasture. Henri did not hesitate. He bounded towards Roland, again unashamedly using his vampire strength and speed. In his last leap, he landed on Roland and slammed him to the ground, and put a knee in his chest.
“You shot Jo,” he said, his voice strangled with emotion. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he snarled.
Roxanne was crying, her forehead on the ground, fists pounding what was left of Pierre.
The witches kept walking, kept calling.
Tristan ran up to Roland and Henri. “Marquis!” he shouted. “Get off!”
“This man does not deserve to be armed!” Henri shouted back.
Tristan reached beside Roland and snatched up the launcher. “Enough,” he said. “We’re done with this now.” He looked out to where Jo lay, and then to the body on the litter.
“Call an ambulance,” he said to Roland, his voice brooking no argument.
Henri stood up, but he growled a low growl at Roland that told him all he needed to know.
Like before, Roland seemed briefly to come back to himself. He peered into the darkness ahead of him and saw Henri, already back with Jo, leaning over her as she lay on the ground, not moving. Roland pulled out his phone and called emergency services.
“What about the one in the forest?” he asked Tristan. “There were two of them, maybe more!”
“Not our concern right now,” Tristan answered, glaring at Roland. Tristan walked quickly to Jo and Henri, wanting to assess how badly she was hurt.
“She’s unconscious,” Henri said accusingly to the chief of gendarmes. “Shot by your man.”
Tristan knelt by Jo and felt for the pulse in her neck.
“Heart is going strong,” he said to Henri. “Can you stop the bleeding?”
“I’ll try,” said Henri, grateful for the tone of apology in Tristan’s voice, and of concern for Jo.
Tristan stood, watching them for a moment, then headed for the witches.
Henri reached into his pocket where, ever the prepared vampire, he had a packet of bandages of all shapes. He had never made one large enough for the stake wound in Jo’s side, but anything he had was better than nothing. He pulled her jacket back and pulled up her shirt.
“Holy shit,” he said. “The stake went straight through, Jo. Unfortunately it took bits of your jacket and shirt right with it, so there’s a real danger of infection.” He talked to Jo as though she were awake and listening to him. As though her eyes were open, and she was present, conscious, alive.
He wiped the wound with one bandage, trying to get off the hunks of ripped fabric and chunks of dirt, and then put two bandages over it, side by side, which at least covered the gaping hole. Then he rocked her gently so that he could quickly press bandages on the exit wound, which was still bleeding profusely.
“Come back to me, Jo.” he said, close to her ear. “I can’t lose you like this. I need you to stay with me. You know I will never, ever bite you. You know this!” and he stayed with her, talking calmly in her ear, until he heard Tristan calling.
“Marquis! If you please–” yelled Tristan.
Henri’s ears ached from all the shouting and the bird-calling. He put his hand along Jo’s jaw, brushed a tendril of hair back for the tenth time, and told her he’d be right back. He ran a few steps, then came back, and picked her up. He carried her to where Tristan was, standing by the litter, now that the witches had finally come to a standstill, though still singing their raucous song.
Jo’s head lolled against his shoulder. She was out cold. Henri tried to tell himself that maybe it was best, that if she were conscious, the pain would be terrible.
“I wondered,” said Tristan, “if by any chance you have a way to communicate with these women?”
Henri shook his head. “Human languages, that I can do,” he said. “Not bird calls.” Henri looked at the body on the litter. “Is that Callie?” he asked.
Tristan nodded. “Her parents sent photographs,” he said. “She barely looks like the same person�
�she’s so pale. But yes. It is Callie.” Tristan flicked his eyes over to Henri to see his reaction, but Henri’s emotions were running so wild within him that he was covering it up with his interested-observer scientist’s face.
The witches increased their keening until Henri and even Tristan had put their hands over their ears. Tristan tried several languages to speak to the witches, including some Portuguese that he was quite proud of, but not for an instant did they veer from the language of birds.
Henri was looking at Callie. He reached up to touch her, in a kind of farewell gesture, to clasp his hand on hers.
Callie’s hand was warm.
Henri said to the witches, “Stop!” and they stopped, chattering amongst themselves like sparrows, but no longer shrieking. “Put her down!” and they did.
Henri, and then Tristan, squatted down and looked at Callie. She was ghostly pale, it was true, but as each of them put their hands on her–on an arm, the forehead, the neck–it was plain that she was, in fact, absolutely alive, if not fully conscious. When the hands touched her, she stirred slightly.
Henri felt an overwhelming sense of relief. His brother might be irresponsible, derelict, and generally useless, but at least he was not a murderer.
“Callie is alive,” he whispered to Jo.
Roland stood next to Tristan, still glancing at the launcher but his attention mostly on Callie.
“We need to get her to the hospital,” Tristan said, and the others agreed.
Tristan stood up to get his cell out of his pocket, and saw that the witches had melted back into the forest. He could hear a faint cawing, but otherwise, all trace of them was gone. None of the humans had seen the blur that followed the witches into the forest; it was dark, their attention was taken up with Jo and with Callie, and Roxanne had had no desire to attract their notice.
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