Better Off Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  Apparently, the right move in this case is suicide.

  A major pire whammy slams into my brain the instant after the fangs go in, locking every muscle I have. I’m a statue, frozen with my hands half raised and my head tilted to one side where I instinctively tried to twist away. This time I can’t talk, can’t even blink.

  No, I think. No, don’t do this.

  But what I think doesn’t matter, not anymore. This is Cassius’s decision. Cassius’s life.

  Cassius’s sacrifice.

  It’s different from before. He’s not holding back. He’s done his initial reconnoitering, established his beachheads. It’s time for the final assault.

  Blood throbs from my throat into his mouth. Something like electricity radiates from where his lips touch my neck, crackling through my entire body. It hurts, in that achy, sick kind of way you feel when you have a high temperature. Sweat breaks out on every inch of my skin, and vertigo lurches through my belly and head. I feel like the whole room is an elevator that just headed for the basement.

  The war is on. It’s the fight of my life, and I’m not even involved—I’m just the battlefield. I’m horrified and angry and more scared than I’ve ever been in my life … but even that’s not up to me. Everything’s slipping away, getting far and distant in that feverish, delirious kind of way when you can’t tell if you’re dreaming or awake. In another few seconds I’m going to start hallucinating or pass out, and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.

  I refuse to accept that.

  My body may not be returning my calls, but I still have my mind. I think. I think, therefore I something something something … what? Focus, Jacinda, focus. Focus on something. Folk us. Sum thing. Math is a sum thing for folk like us. Hah.

  He tilts me back, lowers me gently to the floor without ever losing contact with my neck. Now all I can see is the off-white of the ceiling, just like a movie screen before the lights go down. Ah, there they go now …

  Today’s feature is Battle for the Bloodstream! coming to you in glorious ValchekVision 3-and-a-half-D. It’s a cartoon. Little animated vampires flying batwinged biplanes are strafing squads of big-eyed werewolf troops driving furry tanks that look like giant stuffed toys. It’s very entertaining and funny, but the landscape is jarring—it’s all computer-generated and hyperrealistic, which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t also biological: The ground is wet, red flesh, the trees are made of bone, the rolling hills the troops are swarming over are huge living organs, livers and lungs and hearts, all of them pulsing and glistening under the pale glow of a sun that’s half crimson and half yellow. Who am I supposed to be rooting for again?

  Oh, right. Me.

  I’ve got to do something—and I realize what. It’ll take every bit of willpower I have and I still might not pull it off, but I have to try.

  I concentrate. Draw on whatever reserves might be hiding somewhere inside me. Put everything I have into it, straining so hard I might just give myself an aneurysm at the same time.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, my eyes close.

  The movie goes away. I know it’ll come back any second, though, so I take my faltering will and reach out with my inner senses the way I did the first time Cassius treated me.

  The vast scarlet web of his consciousness flares into existence in front of me, just as enormous and intricate as I remember. Yellow sparks flash and flicker throughout it, like a swarm of fireflies that have blundered into a spider’s trap. Abstract representations of the thrope virus he’s fighting reports from the front. This isn’t the battle itself, though; it’s the pire High Command. My boss’s big brain.

  Exactly where I want to be.

  I dive straight at it. I need to convince him this isn’t the way to go, and the direct route is the only way left. I have to make him listen.

  Easier said than done. He’s juggling an unbelievable number of variables at once, coordinating a fight involving millions of soldiers on a microcosmic battleground that would probably be the size of a planet if the troops were human-size. As soon as I make contact I can feel him, but it’s like trying to talk to lightning; ironically, he’s operating on too big and too fast a scale to even be aware of me.

  So I do what I did before. I push, going deeper into his psyche, and this time I slide right past his defenses. He’s too busy fighting on a physical level to spare any attention to the psychic.

  Once again, I feel the pain at the core of him. This time, I get more than a brief taste, and I can appreciate just how big his suffering is.

  That’s the only way to properly describe it, too, by its size. It’s not intense, not in the immediate way agony is; it’s vast instead, like an ocean of melancholy. The incredible weight and weariness of a being who’s lived too long, seen and done too much. You know that feeling you get when you’re so tired you’re not tired anymore? Like that, multiplied by a hundred. It’s like he hasn’t slept in years.

  This is how he feels all the time.

  No wonder he wants to die, no wonder he’s willing to trade his life for mine. He’s felt this way for so long, he can’t remember what it’s like to feel any different. I’m just giving him a convenient excuse to kill himself.

  Except I won’t let him.

  You might think that’s selfish of me—and maybe it is—but I am a trained psychologist. No matter how depressed someone is, no matter how deep or unrelenting their pain may seem to be, there’s always more to the picture. Situations change. Things get better. The human mind, no matter how stressed, still retains a capacity for joy. If Cassius truly felt this bad every minute of every day, he would have offed himself long ago. This may be the bulk of his day-to-day existence, but there have to be moments of light in his darkness. There have to be things that keep him going, that give him hope or peace or pleasure. I just have to find them.

  So I go deeper. Push into the center of the crimson thicket, the interconnecting threads getting denser and denser until they tie themselves in knots, a tangled sphere of thought at the center of his being. What I need is in there.

  I flow inside like a ghost—and see that I’m not the only one.

  They hang suspended in an endless white void. Women. Some are pretty, some are not, but all are beautiful. There are multiple versions of most of them, differing by age, from girls barely out of their teens to ancient crones. They’re arranged in a great circle, facing outward, like soldiers protecting a perimeter.

  And at the very center of that circle is me.

  I’m wearing that ridiculous panda shirt I was using as sleepwear the night I was dragged into Thropirelem. At least he isn’t remembering the vomit stains all over it, which is how that particular encounter ended—but he is remembering; that’s what all this is, what all these women are. Memories of women he’s known—human women. Women whom he’s known, whom he’s watched get older, whom he’s watched die. Over and over, throughout the centuries. There are quite a few, but considering Cassius’s life span there should be a lot more. Strange, but I don’t have time to figure it out.

  I will myself forward between two of them, flow right up to my own image, and stop. As much as I hate magic, it has a certain intuitive logic to it that I’m starting to get. If I want to talk to Cassius, my best bet is right here; merging with his own memories of me will plug me into his conscious thoughts, open a channel of communication. I have no evidence for this theory, no proof at all—but I know it’ll work.

  I reach out and touch my own face.

  Memories flood through me, but I’m ready for that. What I’m not ready for is the oddness of seeing myself through somebody else’s eyes, of getting not only visual memories but emotional ones.

  I watch myself over the months Cassius and I have known each other. All the details he’s noticed and I’ve forgotten: the way I stand, the little crinkles at the corners of my eyes when I smile, the glee that hides just below the surface when I get him really good with a zinger. He admires my body but doesn’t obsess about it. He
spends a lot of time looking at my eyes and he has every single time I’ve ever laughed memorized.

  He’s in love with me.

  The enormity of that fact overwhelms me. He’s not infatuated, it’s nothing as simple as a crush. He’s watched me, thought about me, dreamed about me—it’s all there in the flow of his memories. He’s following an old pattern, one he’s all too familiar with, one he tries to resist and always fails. A pattern of fascination with women like me: fierce, smart, strong … and human. Survivors. The last members of a dying race that just won’t give up.

  It goes beyond physical attraction. It’s my spirit that he can’t stop thinking about, the way I refuse to back off for anyone or anything. He respects that, admires it, and those feelings have deepened and grown into something more. His job means he can’t always be honest with me, and he hates himself for that—but if lying to me means keeping me alive, he’s willing to swallow the guilt. There’s more than a little martyr in Cassius; after a very long life, there’s a part of him that’s determined to die doing something good. Something noble.

  Something like saving the woman he loves.

  “No,” I whisper. Or try to, at least; but my body is so very far away I can barely feel it, and I don’t know if I even can talk in this place. But I have to—I have to make Cassius see this isn’t the only way.

  Cassius. I think loudly, instead of trying to talk. David. I won’t let you do this. I won’t!

  He hears me. There’s this sensation like a whale slowly turning around behind the glass of an underwater habitat to regard me. Jace.

  You got it, Caligula. What the hell do you think you’re doing?

  Saving you. His mental voice sounds nothing like his normal one; it’s much deeper, richer, more nuanced. I suddenly feel like the blond surfer boy I see behind Cassius’s desk every day is no more than an elaborate sock puppet. And now you know why.

  I don’t know how to respond, what to say. There’s a level of honesty here that most people never get in a relationship even if they’re married for fifty years, and Cassius and I have had a grand total of one date. I know, with absolutely no doubt at all, how he feels about me—it’s how I feel about him I’m unclear on.

  But apparently that doesn’t matter, either—because he can feel my uncertainty without me saying a word.

  And he doesn’t care.

  This isn’t a negotiation. He sounds a little sad. Too bad, considering how good I am at those … I’m not trying to guilt you into loving me back, Jace. You weren’t even supposed to know. I just want you to live. That’s all. No games, no deals, no trades. Just live.

  He means it. Cassius’s last big manipulation, his final sneaky double cross, is to save my life without letting me know why; he almost pulled it off, too.

  Too bad I’m so good at screwing up other people’s plans.

  No. Forget it. I know now, so all bets are off, you hear me? Die now and this becomes nothing but a massive screwup. I know, you know I know, and there is no way you’re going to shuffle off to whatever vampire afterlife exists and leave me holding a gigantic bag of guilt!

  Jace. It’s too late.

  What?

  I know how much you love ruining other people’s plans … but I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to accept the inevitable. He produces a hollow mental chuckle. Not that you will, of course. But it’s over.

  Over? But—

  There was no other way. No other option. I’ve defeated the thrope virus, Jace; my viral forces are so decimated, your own defenses will finish them. Your body is yours again. His voice is getting fainter, like he’s talking to me while walking away. I can feel my senses coming back, the memoryscape fading to black.

  Good-bye, Jace. I love you.

  The connection is weakening, but it’s still there. I have time to say something, but I don’t know what to say.

  I’m still trying to find the words when I feel him die.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I come back to myself. I’m lying on the floor of Cassius’s office. He’s lying beside me, and my head is cradled on his arm.

  I push myself up groggily on one elbow. I feel a little drugged, but otherwise fine. Cassius is …

  Cassius is still dead.

  His eyes are open. They’re back to their normal brilliant blue, not red. His fangs have receded. He’s not breathing, of course.

  But he hasn’t turned into a pile of dust and bones, either.

  I don’t hesitate. I roll on top of him and start CPR. The old Bee Gees song “Stayin’ Alive” starts playing in my head, just like it’s supposed to, and I time the thrusts to his chest to the beat.

  It’s the time-debt sharing with Gretch’s daughter, it has to be. As long as she’s growing and aging normally, so are Gretch and Cassius—each one at half the same rate.

  Half a life is better than none. Half alive means he has at least half a life to be saved, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let him go without a fight.

  Hah, hah, hah, hah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive …

  “Come on, damn you,” I mutter. “You think I’m going to let you go all noble and self-sacrificing on me now? Come on, you bastard. Fight, goddamn it!”

  Any second now he’s going to turn into a pile of dust. My hands are going to go right through his breastbone as it crumbles into ancient, yellowing fragments.

  Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. The Brothers Gibb continue their falsetto wails inside my brain and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to hear that song again without having some kind of breakdown.

  “You. Will. Not. Do. This. To. Me,” I gasp.

  Come on, Caligula. How about Anna? Her mother will have to take on Anna’s time-debt herself, and I’ll be the one dealing with the fallout whenever Gretch gets another gray hair. Not a pleasant prospect to look forward to, right? Plus, she might start a war with Bosnia or something.

  I can’t do this, okay? Not on my own. Yeah, half the time I didn’t know what was going on in that ancient skull of yours, but you always had my back, didn’t you? You were always on my side, even when I didn’t know it. You’ve always done your best to save lives, even if that meant making hard decisions.

  I don’t want you to go, okay? Please. Please don’t go.

  I’m crying as I keep thrusting against his chest. I don’t know how long I should keep going, I don’t know when I should give up. I guess that’s just something I’ve never learned.

  And I don’t learn it now.

  I stop, eventually.

  I don’t know how long it’s been. All I know is that the front of my blouse is wet from tears, my wrists are sore, and his body still hasn’t crumbled away to nothing. It must be the time-debt enchantment; maybe Cassius even knew his corpse would continue to age at a half-normal rate, fulfilling his obligation to Gretchen’s child. That would be like him—honoring a deal even in death.

  I put my head on his chest and cry. I blew it. I couldn’t save him.

  And then, with my ear flat against his body, I hear it.

  Ba-thump.

  A heartbeat. A single heartbeat.

  I sit bolt upright. Stare down at him.

  His eyes flicker. Close, then open again.

  “Jace?” he whispers.

  “Don’t die,” I snap. “You hear me? Do not die. Again, I mean.”

  “I—” His eyes close. He’s gone again.

  I pound on his chest some more. His eyes are still blank. No good. He’s only got a flicker of life in him, and I’ve got to fan that into a flame. I need—what?

  A jump start. Cardiac paddles. Except Thropirelem’s medical technology is way behind my native reality’s and they’ve probably never heard of using electricity to restart a heart. No good.

  I’m not thinking about this the right way. This is magic, not medicine. He’s only half alive, but he’s half undead, too. He needs—what? What’s the mystical equivalent of a shot of adrenaline?

  I bend down and kiss him.

  It’s all I can think of. S
leeping Beauty, Snow White, all those fairy-tale clichés. I just hope he doesn’t turn into a frog.

  I can taste my own blood in his mouth. His lips are warmer than I expected—and after a moment, they twitch.

  He kisses me back. Slowly at first, like he’s waking up and not really sure what’s going on. When he figures it out, he pulls back and says, “Whuh?”

  I grab his wrist, press my thumb against the radial artery. There’s a pulse there, but it’s slow and weak. I can do better.

  I stick my other hand behind his head and pull him up for another kiss. This time I put a little fire into it.

  His pulse surges. Just a little, but I can tell.

  He pulls away again. “Jace, what are you—”

  “Saving your life, stupid.” I kiss him again.

  This one goes on for a while. He doesn’t pull away, either—he’s figured out what I’m doing. Because he’s smart and all. Yeah, that’s what’s going on.

  It’s not like we’re enjoying ourselves or anything.

  His pulse is still slow—half the speed of a living human, of course—but it’s steady. Good job, Jace. Guess I can stop now.

  Uh-huh.

  The thing about kissing a pire? They don’t have to breathe. I still do, which is why when I finally pull away it’s with a gasp. I’m straddling his torso, one hand behind his head, the other holding his wrist.

  “You did it,” Cassius says. His eyes are about eight inches away from mine. “Thank you.” He’s doing his best to put some formality into his words, to give me an opportunity to back off with some dignity.

  Like hell.

  This time I kiss him like I mean it. And I do.

  There’s a whole conversation that goes on during that kiss. Questions, tentatively asked and forcefully answered. Suspicions confirmed, apologies offered and accepted. Our relationship undergoes a complete overhaul in a few intense moments, a total renovation of the structure we’ve built between us. Walls come crashing down, doors get ripped off and thrown away. It’s powerful and scary and makes me feel like screaming in glee like a kid on a roller coaster.