by Linda Welch
“Oops,” says Castle.
I brush hands over hips, glad I lost the gunk when I disappeared because Castle would laugh his ass off seeing me all grungy. Not that I look much better with dirt caked to my skin. “Want to bet they deduct repair costs from our fee?”
“They better not,” he grumbles. He circles the pile of dirt, broken paving and ghoul. “I count four.”
“One escaped. It’ll head for the nursery.”
Naked, we prowl the room.
“Found it,” Castle announces from the far side of the mound.
I join him where he bends over looking at a hole on the far side; low to the ground, we’ll have to crawl through.
His naked butt stares me in the face. I can’t resist landing a solid smack with the flat of my hand. “Suit up, bro, or are you gonna underwhelm them with your masculinity?”
He shoots upright, or as upright as he can get in the confining space. “Ow, that stung!”
Heading for my gear, I speak over my shoulder. “I hope so or I’ll think I’m losing my touch.”
I go back to the tunnel for my stuff, pull on panties, T-shirt, coat and climb into the leather pants, and sit on the floor to pull on my boots. Castle is dressed and waiting by the time my weapons are secured.
I eye the entrance to the next tunnel, which may take us to a ghoul nursery and ghouls determined to protect their young. Castle shoves me in the back. I step aside and make an elaborate bow. “Uh uh. After you.”
He growls as he gets down on hands and knees and pokes his sword through the hole; he jabs the air before his head and shoulder follow. “All clear. It’s a short one.”
I follow him through to a tunnel too low even for me. We duck walk along. I would feel ridiculous were I not so tense.
We scoot through the next hole fast, popping out the other side with swords pointing ahead. A dozen or so milky-white, teardrop-shaped bags hang from roots in the dirt ceiling. They pulse and writhe with fetal movement as baby ghouls shift in their amniotic sacs. Three females and one male ghoul are between us and their young, the females replicas of the males except for their four little teats.
Oh goodie, two each.
Nope, I get one. Three head for Castle and a female comes at me.
My ghoul rocks back on her heels, forward on the balls of her feet, which means she’s primed to pounce. I pounce first, my sword cutting an arc. The stupid creature raises her arm to fend off the blade and it carves through her wrist and thunks into her neck. Her eyes bulge. She falls down shrieking, an eerie wail. With the blade lodged between neck and shoulder, she pulls me down with her. Cussing, I wrench it back and forth, trying to work it free.
Castle’s feet shuffle behind me, the sound of metal impacting flesh.
As I stomp one foot on the ghoul’s chest for leverage and try to dislodge my sword, the smallest male jumps on my back, making me stagger forward. Breath oofs from my lungs, fangs graze my neck. I flex my wrist and a blade drops from my sleeve into my hand, and I swing it back to stab the ghoul in his side. He yelps but doesn’t drop off. Blood sheets my fingers. I drop every ounce of flesh, shift to the side, pull myself together and roll, snapping the long obsidian dagger from the ground as I smoothly come back to my feet.
My disappearing/reappearing act doesn’t divert the ghoul. He stoops and jerks the sword from the female’s neck. Sticky brown blood oozes from her wounds.
I spare a glance for Castle. One ghoul lies on the ground and he dances with the other. The blighter is fast and not as stupid as the others, she stays out of range of Castle’s long blade.
Nearly too late, I sway aside as my own sword cuts down at me, lunge at the ghoul and jab the knife through tough hide into his belly. He snarls, backhands me and I soar backward, land on a stumble, stagger, face already stinging. He rushes at me swinging before I regain my balance. I shed flesh again and reform close to the ghoul as the tip of the sword thunks the dirt floor.
Before he can heft the sword, I grab his shoulders and head-butt him in the face, which makes him stagger and my head ring. His grip slackens, I wrench the sword from his hand and slide back.
And impale him as he dives in.
The ghoul is all over me as I support his weight. I shove him off with a heave. He slides off the blade, limbs limp, eyes dimming. I turn to Castle.
He leans on his sword, watching me. “That’s the problem with ghouls, they don’t last.”
I plop on my backside, head hanging over raised knees. “Five more minutes and I’d call it a good time.”
Castle grins, wipes a bloody smear off his face with the back of his sleeve and joins me on the floor. “I don’t know another woman who likes to take her clothes off as often as you.”
I snuff a chuckle. “You don’t know another woman who likes to take her clothes off, period.”
I’m exhausted, sapped from carrying full flesh for so long. The energy expended on fighting the ghouls leaves me pretty much depleted and in need of a moment to recharge.
“There must be an easier way to make a living,” Castle groans.
“Point me at it.”
Crawling to my clothes, I dress and arm before lumbering to my feet, to face the nursery and what it contains.
Ghouls can’t be trained or rehabilitated. If not disposed of, these little embryonic beasts will grow to be big beasts with a taste for flesh, dead or alive. We don’t kill children, no matter what shape they take, but these baby monsters won’t survive to punch through their sacs. We’ll find the nearest public phone, call the City and let them take care of it.
Monsters don’t get a second chance Downside and some don’t get a first.
Chapter Three
The phone wakes me. Face down on the bed, I pull a pillow over my head and hold it there with both hands. The gods-awful jangling changes to a muffled brrrrp. It rings ten more times before the answering machine picks up. Someone really wants to talk to me. I lift one corner of the pillow.
“Rain?” Clide says. “He wants you, darling. That means now.”
I sit up and throw the pillow at the phone as the line goes dead, and miss. I don’t want the hassle of buying a new machine so am glad I didn’t knock it off the counter.
Clide is Alain Sauvageau’s lieutenant and I’m supposed to get my butt over there pronto.
I first met Alain when Castle introduced me and we discussed an assignment. He had a sense of age about him which made me feel young and naïve. After a dozen or so jobs, he asked for me alone. At first, I put it down to Castle’s flagrant contempt for a man who closely associates with vampires. Nobody likes to be openly sneered at. Castle detests vampires because their ability to force physicality on a wraith gives them an advantage over us. I have no problem with them. So far, only the Peralta vampires have touched me when I go to their compound to see Alain, and they are performing their duty.
Knowing by then Alain’s reputation as a bad man to cross, I didn’t object to the solo meetings because I became concerned he would snap and hurt Castle. I saw how close he came a couple of times. Alain smoothly made our meetings a social occasion before we got to the business transaction; we talked, dined a few times and I eventually relaxed in his company. Then something changed. He started to hit on me.
Alain makes me feel alive as nobody and nothing else does. He means something to me, and I don’t want to feel this way, not for a man famous throughout Gettaholt for his numerous affairs and jilted lovers. He is a love ‘em and leave ‘em guy. I can never be anything more than another woman he hooks up with for a while, then drops. And I wouldn’t be one of the beauties he parades around Gettaholt. Oh no. Being seen with a wraith won’t enhance his reputation; ours would be a clandestine affair.
Reconciling his reputation with the man I know on a personal level in the privacy of his home is difficult when I’m with him. But I know better; he’s merciless and often cruel to those who stand in his way. I imagine he is as pitiless to castoff lovers. Becoming involved with him will end with me hurting, so I
won’t give him the kind of relationship he wants. I try to distance myself.
As well as sending assignments our way, we keep our ears and eyes open for what may interest Alain. Being inconspicuous when we want to does have advantages. We hear what people would not speak of openly if they knew we listened. Some of it is of use to him, some he dismisses, but he pays for the information nonetheless. It must be why he wants me now, one of those times he’s decided to pay us - or rather, me - personally instead of sending the money with Clide. I don’t want to go, this meeting is his excuse to be alone with me again, but I never say no to money. I suppose I should get it over with.
Crawling from a mess of blankets, I head for the bathroom, eyes half-closed, mouth tasting like yesterday’s leftovers. Sure, I can lose flesh and nighttime sweat along with it, but I enjoy standing under a pounding deluge of water, soaping up and rinsing off.
I do fade out to rid my hair of moisture. Rubbing it dry takes too long when my stomach gnaws at my backbone. I need breakfast.
Squatting in front of the cubes, I look over clean clothing options. Two T-shirts. Two pairs of jeans. A pile of dirty clothes draw my reluctant gaze. A trip to the cleaners is in order, or I can talk Castle into letting me use his washer and dryer.
Castle has been Downside for forty years, time enough to become established and accumulate lots of junk. I don’t envy him the house with all those big rooms or the stuff in them, but I wouldn’t say no to a washer and dryer were my apartment equipped for them.
The doorbell rings.
Unbelievable. I rarely receive phone calls, and not counting clients’ couriers, Castle has been my lone visitor in the five years I’ve lived in this apartment. And it is not Castle’s rapid-fire bam-bam-bam.
I slouch to the door and look through the peephole. A tall ugly elf with one notched ear and short red-gold hair waits outside the door, chin raised, looking at the peephole over his crooked nose.
I press the intercom. “Hello?”
“Rain?”
“That’s me.”
His head tips to one side. “May I come in?”
I snort. “No. I’m not seeing anyone right this minute.” Sure, I’ll let him in so he can eyeball my naked body. I wouldn’t let an elf in anyway. “How can I help you?”
His brows peak at my amused tone. “I have your fee from Bermstead.” He waves a small brown envelope.
Why did the custodian hire an elf courier? In fact, an elf working as a messenger is plain weird. He must be seriously down on his luck, and the custodian is in his dotage.
“Push it under the door.” The crack at the bottom is big enough to let in mice, an envelope won’t be a problem.
He bends, disappearing from sight and a corner of the envelope scrapes beneath the door. I use my toes to pull it inside.
His face reappears in the peephole. “You can give your report to me.”
“Castle handles that.” I frown. We barely finished the job, why the gods-awful rush?
He gives me a jerky nod and makes for the staircase.
Come to think of it, why is Bermstead paying us before we hand in our report?
I shrug - that’s Castle’s department, not my worry.
I wrestle into a washed-out pink T-shirt, clean panties, black denim jeans and the last pair of clean socks. Pushing my feet into black boots, I zip them up, stand and stamp to settle them properly.
Tearing open the envelope, I ruffle the bills. I’ll take Castle’s share to him later, along with my dirty clothes.
The top floor of Alain Sauvageau’s house looks over the carved stone walls of the Peralta family compound. The double doors are solid wood, with a smaller door in one and a hatch through which visitors are thoroughly perused by one of his henchmen. Or henchvamp?
Apart from his bodyguards who have rooms in Alain’s house, the vampires live in four large buildings behind the walls. Similar to the mansion, these structures are of gray stone slabs into which weird and wonderful designs have been chiseled. Doors and windows surrounded by heavy lintels are inset. Eaves and downspouts are particularly ornate.
I once mocked the heavy ornate architecture and Alain said he likes it. Alain is all about drama.
A tall male vampire with a heavy brow lets me into the compound. That vampires are pallid and beautiful is a fallacy. Their skin tones vary depending on their ethnicity before they were turned, and a family considers a prospect’s character rather than their physical appearance when swelling their ranks. With his long arms, shaggy hair and massive rounded shoulders, George could pass for a gorilla in a suit.
He nods and points at a leather bucket by the door. I divest myself of blades and toss them in.
A kind of chill surrounds a vampire, which isn’t unpleasant on a warm day, particularly when one wears leather which tends to trap the heat. George’s touch on my shoulder is not as welcome; I become solid and heavy in a flash as flesh bulks me.
Only the touch of a wraith or a vampire can force full flesh, I think because vampires began as dead humans, as I may have.
The impulse to fade out fights with the vampire’s compulsion. I have no control over a single molecule. My body pulses unpleasantly as his hands touch, release, touch, release. The contractions caused by flesh rapidly solidifying and as rapidly dispersing make me nauseous and I ache, as though my body is a single spasming muscle. A tiny relieved sigh escapes me when his hands drop.
Vampires breathe once a minute on average and it’s just my luck to get the full glory of George’s breath in my face. “Ew, George! You’ve been eating garlic.” My eyes water.
Vampire mythology is amusing. Why should garlic repel and hurt vampires? Because it stinks? Ha! Slivers of raw beef marinated in garlic is a vampire favorite, they suck out the bloody juices and discard the meat.
The big vampire grins and deliberately huffs in my face. I make another noise of disgust. He waves me into the compound.
I tap my teeth with an index finger. “You got something there.”
Gargoyles perch on the eaves; they make marvelous watchdogs. One shrieks an obscenity and I give it the universal finger as I reach the covered porch. I shouldn’t irritate the little monsters. An annoyed gargoyle will spit, or worse. Gargoyle piss stinks so bad you forget to breathe.
George is picking at his teeth with a fingernail.
Capucine opens the door before I can lift and release the heavy knocker. “Oh, here you are,” she says in a voice like a yawn, as if she isn’t waiting for me. Vampires can communicate silently when they want to and I’m sure George alerted her when I approached the compound.
She looks like a fashion plate, but Capucine is Muscle, one of Alain’s bodyguards. I trail after her tall swaying figure along a paneled corridor. Her high heels click on the marble floor, curling ash-blond hair swishes over her back with each exaggerated hip roll. Capucine doesn’t care for me and the feeling is mutual. Her disdain for wraiths is palpable, as overt as her distaste for humans. Unless she’s sucking on them.
The place reminds me of a monastery, narrow passageways with high ceilings, cool and slightly musty. We pass a door recessed in a high arched lintel; a piano tinkles from within. Another door stands open, allowing me to look into a library of dark paneled walls and deep plush carpets, floor-to-ceiling shelves holding leather-jacketed books. Did any come from Upside? One of these days I shall ask Alain to let me spend an hour or two in his library.
Capucine leads me left along another corridor into a vast empty hall, the high ceiling lost in shadow. Man-high candelabra circle the place but the candles are unlit.
She pushes open a door at the far end of the hall. I have to squeeze past her and the doorframe to cross the threshold. She closes the door forcefully, leaving me alone with Alain in his study.
With two-feet-thick walls, Alain’s home is always cold, so the fire crackling and spitting in the small marble fireplace provides welcoming warmth. Light and shadows dance over the dark wood-paneled walls. A gold glow radiates fr
om tall candelabra in each corner of the room. Alain could turn on the electric lights, but … drama.
He lolls on a brown leather sofa, one leg draped over the arm, the other bare foot on an ancient faded carpet which covers most of the floor. A book lies open in his lap. He wears a silk robe in gold-trimmed burgundy loosely belted at the waist, and how he lounges reveals a long lean leg with bulging calf and a wide V of smooth naked chest. He’s a handsome man: olive-skin, dimpled chin, full bottom lip and moss agate eyes. His short sable-brown hair is brushed back and unruly on top, and a little stubble mottles his chin and wide jaw.
Great-grandmothers speak of girlhood crushes on young Alain Sauvageau. Now they are caricatures of their youth with brittle bones and crepe-paper skin, yet Alain looks no older than his mid-thirties. He can’t be human. If I ever figure out what he is, I will be the first. Rumors abound. Some say he’s a djinn so ancient he managed to gather flesh into a human form. Advocates quote Arabic mythology which says some djinns feed on human blood to support this theory, and this is why he surrounds himself with vampires with whom he has an affinity, and if he is that type of djinn he can share their snacks. Some believe he’s an Immortal and long-lived vampires are a natural choice of companion, people he won’t lose after too brief a time.
I think a man surrounded by vampire bodyguards has powerful enemies.
His voice is beautiful, husky yet melodic. I can’t pin down his accent, as if it is an amalgamation of many, and his words curve around each other in an odd way. “Rain, my little half-life.”
If one thing stokes my ire, it’s being called little. I slouch on the doorframe with one leg cocked over the other. “I’m here, what do you want?”
“Is this how you greet a man who drowns in your eyes?” His leg slithers off the sofa’s arm and he comes to his feet in an impossibly smooth, liquid movement. The book lands on its spine on the carpet. He saunters to me, the robe sliding over his legs, flashing those smooth thighs and solid calves.
I try to push from the wall but he is already on me, leaning over with one forearm braced on the paneling, the other hand on the wall beside my waist, effectively trapping me. His fingers whisper down my cheek. “So soft.”