Dead Rising

by Debra Dunbar

  The one next to the bathroom used to be pink, then white, then yellow judging by the layers of peeling paint. There was a stained mattress on the floor next to a garbage bag. I peeked inside the bag and wished that I hadn’t. Old aluminum cans, dirty clothes, and newspapers. Ugh. I hastily closed the bag up, pinching my nose to try and get rid of the memory of that smell.

  The only other interesting thing in the bedroom was a doorway to a balcony. I didn’t venture out onto the sagging structure, but I envisioned little girls looking out over the back yard and alley behind, perhaps sneaking down the support post to the soft ground below and running off to meet a boy—or a vampire.

  The two bedrooms that flanked the stairs both had one window and their own dirty mattresses, these with a variety of drug paraphernalia next to them. So far I’d seen nothing worthy of a keep-away spell. I doubted a junkie would have the control needed to put it in place, but there weren’t any indications that someone beyond the homeless and drug addicts used this house.

  At first glance the master bedroom was equally disappointing. If I hadn’t noticed that someone had pried the boards covering the windows aside to allow thin beams of light into the room, I might have given up. It wasn’t just the late day’s sunlight that piqued my curiosity. This room felt lighter. In spite of the soiled mattress and general filth, it smelled like…cinnamon. And sandalwood. Like Dario only without the odd cool smell of vampire. Cinnamon and sandalwood, both used throughout time to anoint the dead and prepare them for their eternal rest. It wasn’t the acrid smell of unwashed addicts.

  I moved the mattress, and there it was: A large, flat, clear plastic container. Not in plain sight, but not well hidden either. Either the owner had great confidence in his keep-away spell, or he had something else in place to protect his belongings.

  It might be a terrible breach of etiquette, but I wasn’t about to risk blowing my arms off opening this case. Pulling a piece of chalk from my pocket, I wrote a few runes on Trusty’s blade, then sent my energy into them. They glowed blue, then faded, leaving my sword appearing to be the same old battered weapon as before. Extending it full length so I was as far away as possible, I hooked the tip of the blade under the lid of the plastic box and flipped it open.

  Unfortunately I also flipped the box over. The contents slid across the floor, but nothing exploded. I frowned at the box. There was no spell. Who kept belongings important enough for a hallway keep-away spell in a box without any additional protection? It was as if the owner wanted them to be found, although not without some minor effort.

  I’d made the effort, so I righted the box and examined each item as I put it back. A pocket knife, the red plastic handle missing on one side. A faded loop potholder, the kind children made on a square loom as a craft. A teddy bear with one eye missing. A silver comb. A cat’s-eye marble. A pipe, still with the faint aroma of tobacco. Six items for six dead. I picked up a picture in a cheap wooden frame, smoothing my hand over the unbroken glass. It was yellowed, a picture taken long ago with a film camera. A man and a woman were smiling out at me. A teenage boy trying to look tough. A little girl, her braids tipped with colorful beads. Two twin boys with mischievous grins. And another girl—one on the edge of womanhood whose eyes held a secret.

  Russell would have been one of the twins. My heart ached to see the picture, to know that the items I’d just placed back into the plastic bin had once been touched with love. They were focus items, holding not just the energy of their dead owner, but serving as a means for a magician to connect and summon their spirits back to this world.

  If I’d had any doubt before stepping into this building, I didn’t now. Russell Robertson, or Findal, was my necromancer. He looked about eight in the picture. If he’d been his brother Hector’s twin, then that would have been right. Forty years was plenty of time for a driven boy to hone his magical ability. I put the picture back in the box and picked up a notebook, leafing through it. A grimoire. I shut it hastily and placed it with the other items. Searching what amounted to a magical diary without the owner’s permission was equally as rude as breaking their spells.

  I didn’t have the same reservations about the actual diary that the second notebook held. In it were page after page of Russell’s memories of his lost family, all the things he wanted to ask them, all the events of his life he wished they could share. My throat was tight as turned to the last page, dated two months ago.

  No one would ever believe me if I told them what really killed my family. Aunt Lisa knows, but is afraid to say it—either afraid people will think her crazy, or afraid that if she mentions the word they’ll come to her door one night and kill her, too.

  I saw Shay sneak out to meet him, saw the bites she tried to hide. They started like needle marks on her arm and leg, then on her neck, carefully hidden by her hair. She couldn’t stay away, and when she didn’t come home that night, Linc went to bring her back.

  He returned with a message, looking like a dog had attacked him. We were to give up, to forget about Shay.

  When you love someone, you don’t forget about them. Dad and Mom searched for her for months, then one night Dad came home crying. I overheard him tell Mom that Shay was dead, that they’d killed her right in front of his eyes, holding him back and laughing the whole time. They wouldn’t even let him have her body.

  We never spoke of Shay again, but I would see Dad leave late at night, coming back before dawn smelling of smoke and gunpowder. Then the night came when I stayed with Aunt Patty. Hector was supposed to go, too, but he’d gotten a stomach bug and stayed home. I’ll always remember that evening, coloring, eating cupcakes with sprinkles on the icing after dinner, staying up too late playing with my cousins. Then the morning came and when I ran through the door of my home ahead of Aunt Patty, I saw them all. They were dead, tossed aside like garbage on the living room floor.

  The vampires killed them. I thought my life changed forever that morning, but it had actually changed months before, on the day Shay first caught the notice of a monster.

  When you love someone, you don’t forget about them.

  I went to put the notebook back, then hesitated. Carefully I tore out a sheet of paper, took a pen from my cute little designer purse, and began to write.

  Chapter 16

  THE SUN WAS below the rooftops, tinting the clouds scarlet and tangerine in a dusky-gray sky as I made my way back to my car.

  “Did ya get your dragon, hon?” The man on his porch called out.

  “He wasn’t home. I left him a message.”

  I heard him chuckle as I walked past. “Girl, you can come slay dragons in this neighborhood anytime.”

  I looked around at the boarded up buildings, the shadows rapidly engulfing streets and alleyways. Night was falling and the dragons—human and vampire—would soon be out. Maybe I would be back. This neighborhood looked like it could use a woman with a good sword arm.

  But that would be later. Right now I had a vampire mistress to see and I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to tell her.

  Vampires occasionally killed their prey. It happened pretty much every time they fed a thousand years ago but when we’d come to the table and agreed on what amounted to a cease fire between us, they’d vowed restraint. Understandably, blood slaves who willingly entered into what amounted to a deal with the devil would eventually die. Beyond that, there might be the occasional, mishap and the vampires were supposed to take care of those offenders who killed.

  Since last week, I’d begun to have a whole new view on vampire society that was completely different from what the Templar texts taught. Balajs were independent. There was no central authority that I could see—no one to enforce the terms of our truce. Solitary vampires wandered the edges of territories, killing at will.

  Those gang members were killed. That had been a mafia-style hit for God knows what reason.

  What happened to the Robertsons had been murder. They killed Shay right in front of her father, held him, made him watch, and
mocked him. Then when he didn’t give up, when he proved to be a pest, they killed him and his family. They probably forced him to watch as they killed his wife and other children, too.

  Last night they killed four people. Yes, those people weren’t exactly pillars of society, but it was still murder. Vampires killed the Robertsons, killed the gang members, and no doubt killed many more people who stood in their way.

  It made me sick. These vampires slaughtered without conscience. If they’d killed the Robertsons with so little care, then they’d kill Russell to cover any trace of their doings.

  How many others had they murdered? They were the same brutal thugs we’d taken down for centuries. There was no truce. It was a lie, a worthless agreement that allowed us Templars to turn a blind eye to injustice. I could go to the Elders, show them what was happening, and demand they take action.

  They’d do nothing. No, they’d actually investigate and discuss, which would allow them to do nothing while claiming to be taking the whole thing seriously. Only God can judge, they’d say, citing the shameful atrocities we’d committed during the crusades as evidence of what happened when we tried to usurp God’s role. Hypocrites and cowards, too comfortable with their scotch and twelve-ounce filets to get their hands dirty protecting the pilgrims on the path. As long as the vampires covered it up, kept their activities cloaked under the guise of human crime, the most we Templars would do is post a few Facebook memes.

  I was going to do more. I wasn’t going to stand for this bullying, these vicious murders in my town. They’d brutally killed Shay in front of her father, murdered Russell’s entire family. I had no idea what the necromancer had in mind, but I had his back. It was time to expose the vampires for what they were and bring them to justice.

  I’d already told Dario too much. If he connected the specters I’d told him about to the cemetery near where he’d dropped me off that night, it would be no time at all before he linked this all to the Robertsons. How long before he found out about Russell? How long before they tidied up all the loose ends by killing the one remaining member of the family?

  I lugged Trusty and my bag of armor up the stairs to my apartment. My front door was unlocked and Dario sat on my sofa, watching two politicians verbally duke it out about firearm licensing and the second amendment. I hesitated when I saw him, images of the Robertsons flashing through my mind.

  “Hey. I hope you don’t mind my letting myself in. I was worried if I hung around in the hall too long, someone might come after me with a crucifix or something.”

  I fingered my keychain and put my sword and my backpack on the table. “No problem. Want a beer?”

  Seemed a better thing to say than accusing him of slaughtering two adults and three children four decades ago.

  “Sure. What’s your stance on assault rifles? I mean, seems someone can do just as much damage with a pistol and they’re easier to hide. It’s not like someone could walk around with an AK in their hip pocket. Although what do I know?”

  Yes, what did he know? Vampires had other methods of killing. Still, his easy conversation made me ache. I’d be losing this. I’d be losing one of the first friendships I’d managed to make in Baltimore. It was hard to reconcile that the vampire I thought was my friend was part of a Balaj that killed the Robertsons in cold blood. They murdered a fourteen-year-old girl right in front of her father.

  Maybe he hadn’t known. Maybe he was innocent, clueless about the ugly side of his Balaj. Then I remembered the look in his eyes that night in his bedroom, the brutal tone he’d taken at Sesarios, his tale of when his Balaj had been without territory. I remembered all that and realized that I had been a fool wishing a vampire, a ruthless predator, into someone I might fall in love with.

  Time to stop being a fool.

  “You can’t really do a sniper hit with a handgun, it’s more of a personal kill. Although not as personal as me walking around Baltimore with a forty inch long sword. Can’t put that in your hip pocket either.” I kept my tone casual and handed him a beer. He looked at the cap and yanked it off with his fingers. It wasn’t a twist off.

  “Yeah. Why are you carrying that thing around? I understand a woman’s need to defend herself, but aren’t you better off with a can of mace? You’re going to get arrested.”

  I did have a can of mace as well as a gold crucifix, a spelled servingware knife, and an amulet I’d whipped up last night. “Where I went tonight, no one was going to call the police.” At his raised eyebrow I added, “I heard about a place that had a really good corned beef on rye, but it was in a bad neighborhood.”

  He shrugged and turned back to the television. “Guess I can’t point fingers. I’ve gone out of my way often enough for a decent O Negative.”

  Yesterday I would have laughed at the comment, but today it made me shiver. I needed to get this all over with, get this vampire out of my living room and have nothing more to do with him. I had always been taught not to judge. That was so easy when I was living at a giant estate in Middleburg, playing tennis, or studying artifacts at the Temple. How could I not judge when I’d just read the pain a whole family had gone through at the hands of another.

  This was ridiculous. I couldn’t sit here and make small talk with him knowing what I knew. I sat my beer on the table, pulled the newspaper out of my backpack and shoved it at the vampire.

  “Last night four men were murdered, their throats cut.” I threw it out there and just let the words sink in, waiting to see how the vampire would respond. He read the article, the look of cool indifference returning to his face. I’d almost forgotten how unapproachable he could seem now that we were kind-of friends.

  But were we really friends? That wariness behind the bland expression made me wonder. “I see that. Is there something about this incident you wished to discuss with me?”

  He was dancing around the topic, waiting to see how much I knew, or didn’t know, before he spoke. A wise move—one that made my spark of distrust flourish.

  “The amount of blood on the scene isn’t sufficient. Either these four healthy men were severely anemic, or vampires enthralled them, fed on them, and then sliced their throats to mask the bite wounds.”

  Something unreadable flickered in the back of his eyes. “The Balaj was attacked Saturday night. We needed to retaliate, to exterminate those who would do us harm as well as send a message to others who might wish to do the same.”

  I remembered our conversation in the car on the way to Middleburg. “But how is this sending a message? You cut their throats to hide the bites. The police think this is a gang killing.”

  He nodded. “But those in this gang who work with the Balaj will know differently. We made sure of that.”

  Great. That distrust was now a full-blown paranoia. There was this tiny part of me that didn’t want to believe the worst, that wanted to rationalize the killings last night.

  “So a local gang stormed a vampire enclave knowing you were all vampires? Were they armed with holy water? Had a priest in tow?” Because it didn’t make any sense at all that humans with a reasonable IQ would attack vampires with guns—at least with non-magically enhanced guns.

  Dario turned off the television and took two steps back around the sofa to face me. “We were attacked by ghostly beings who were insubstantial enough to resist damage by us, but corporeal enough to do harm. Three vampires died and the others in the house at the time were severely injured. We’ve had to abandon use of that location as a precaution.”

  The paranoia receded a notch. It had been a serious attack. Perhaps the retaliation was justified. But ghosts? That sounded too much like the specters in the graveyard to be a coincidence. Was Russell working with a local gang? Somehow I couldn’t see the possibility of a connection there. Necromancers weren’t common among magic users, but they weren’t a rarity either. The gang attack could have been a coincidence, but I had my doubts.

  “How do you know the gang instigated Saturday night’s attack?”

  Dario wav
ed a hand. “This is an internal matter. It’s not something you need to know about.”

  I snarled, my hand tightening into a fist. “It is something I need to know about. I’m not joking around here, Dario. You need to be straight with me about what’s going on.”

  His eyes met mine, and for a second I’d though he’d retreat further behind that cold mask, or turn on the seductive compelling stuff. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “They’ve employed magic users in the past against us, plus negotiations over a contract dispute took a bad turn last week.” Dario reached out a hand as if to touch me, then quickly dropped it back to his side. “This isn’t any of your business, Aria. It’s an internal matter. Let it be.”

  So it was unrelated. Two necromancers, one trying to find answers about the murder of his family, and another working as muscle for a gang. A turf war wasn’t anything the Order would stick their nose into. Feuds often had bloody resolutions, and this is what happened when humans chose to make deals with the devil—or in this case, vampires. I remembered the memorabilia in Russell’s plastic bin, the picture of a happy Robertson family. The Order wouldn’t bother with that either, but I would.

  “And you’re sure it was the gang who attacked you? Not someone else? Absolutely, without a doubt, sure?”

  Dario’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”

  There was a sharp edge in the question making it a command. I shrugged. “I have reason to believe that your Balaj has employed these execution methods before. How do I know you’ve got the right people? Or that their attacks on you aren’t justified?”

  His expression grew even more remote. “This isn’t your business, Aria. They were members of a gang. Drugs, human trafficking, protection rackets. Plus they invaded one of our homes and killed. Why are you so concerned over their deaths?”