by Ramy Vance
Glass cleared, I sucked in my breath and shimmied through. I made it in—barely—with only my butt and my chest getting squished as I did. Evidently, those parts of me were a bit wider than a dinner plate.
Inside I wasted no more time. I let my nose guide me to the back of the library’s main floor, near to where the artifacts were kept—but even without that sickly smell as my guide, a part of me knew this was where I’d find the old man.
As I got closer, the smell of blood became stronger and stronger. Turning the corner, I braced myself for what I thought I’d see.
But what I saw was much, much worse.
THE OLD LIBRARIAN was strung up on the heavy, oak bookshelves closest to the display cases. His hands were literally nailed to the thick shelves. His feet, positioned one in front of the other, were held together by a thick metal spike, which had been driven through them.
He hung in a crucified position on that shelf. I might have thought his killer was imitating the classic Christ crucifixion … if it weren’t for the stuff on the floor.
Like some Egyptian mummification process interrupted, four canopic jars had been arranged in front of him, each holding a different organ. His small intestines sat on a silver tray, his large intestines on a gold one. And as for his blood—that had meticulously been drained from his body, into large clay pots. Very little of it had been spilled on the floor. His murderer had been precise.
My eyes were drawn back up to his body. His chest cavity had been torn open and I only saw an empty hole where his heart should have been.
I groaned … but this was not the worst part by far.
From the expression on his face, I knew that he had been awake while he was being ripped apart.
“Oh, Old Librarian,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you scream for help? Why didn’t I hear you?”
The answer came when I looked down and saw that his tongue lay on a cloth right in front of us both. The cloth was wet, not only with blood but also mucus and saliva, which meant that the monster responsible took the time to stuff his mouth with that cloth to muffle his screams. The monster most likely cut out the Old Librarian’s tongue after he died.
This didn’t make sense. Too much was going on here. The crucifixion, the ceremonial draining of blood, the way the organs were distributed in the four jars … the tongue on a cloth. It was like he was killed by a bunch of monsters from a dozen different horror movies.
I tried desperately to keep my composure. I’d played my part in quite a lot of killing. Some for fun—most of it to survive. But I had never been a part of something such as this. Say what you will about vampires—we never did this to our victims.
I turned away, having taken in as much of the scene as I dared. With my back to him, I now faced the cases housing an array of Other artifacts. Several of the display cases, I now noticed, were broken and empty. I didn’t need to turn around to know they had been used in the sick killing behind me. I couldn’t recall exactly which ones had been in those now-empty cases, but I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw one that wasn’t missing—my father’s old Scottish dirk.
His display case stood untouched.
As I stared at my father’s weapons, I considered my next move. What happened here was recent, maybe even minutes from completion, which meant the killer or killers couldn’t have gotten far. I could hunt them down—after all, I was pretty good at that. But I was also human now. What would a human do? A human would call the police. It would take ages for them to get down here, and the trail would probably be cold by then. But they had modern forensics and—
Crunch.
Coming from the front of the library, the unmistakable sound of a foot crunching down on glass.
The monster was still in here … and had accidently stepped on some of the glass I’d smashed when breaking into the library—which meant it (I can only assume something capable of committing such a horrible crime was an it) was trying to escape.
Looking at the old Scottish dirk, I knew what I had to do.
I may no longer be a vampire.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t still a killer.
DIRKS AND LIPSTICK
T he monster stopped moving, evidently waiting to see if I had heard the glass beneath its boots … or claws, or … whatever passed as its feet. This monster was playing it cautious, which meant that it wanted to escape without incident.
That wasn’t going to happen.
Even though the old rush of the hunt came surging through me, I fought the urge and stood perfectly still, pretending not to have heard my prey. Then I listened.
Faint breath came from the front of the library.
I slowly counted in my head, waiting, listening. In a minute, I’d make my move and either it would attack me or run. Either way, whatever I did would have to put me in the best position to take it down. I thought about the Old Librarian. He had been frail, weak—certainly not trained like I was. He wouldn’t have put up much of a fight. That meant I couldn’t gauge my opponent’s strength on what I knew.
What I did know was that it was at least strong enough to string the Old Librarian up, which put it in the class of a big and strong human at the very least. I also knew that it contained the resolve and constitution to brutally tear apart a living creature—to crucify an innocent old man and harvest his friggin’ organs—without sympathy or mercy. This most likely meant that when I did engage with it, the monster wouldn’t hesitate to put me down.
But I also knew the Old Librarian was a good man who had treated me kindly. This knowledge alone was enough to lead me to one final conclusion.
This monster was going to die …
… and I was going to be the one to make that happen.
The minute was up. The monster hadn’t made another move, so it was my turn. I darted forward to my father’s display case and smashed the glass with my elbow. I reached in and very nearly managed to get my hand on the dirk before powerful hands pulled me back and threw me across the room. Of course, ever the college freshman looking to impress (or at least fit in as human), I just had to go out in my Versace dove-white silk blouse. On smooth marble floor such as this, my blouse was like a sled. I slid across the floor until I hit the front door—with my head.
So much for this monster being as strong as a large human male. More like a frigging bull, or an elephant. Maybe a bull elephant.
I probably would have spent the next minute on the floor, groaning in pain—if it weren’t for the large figure bounding from above. It would have crushed me under its weight, but I regained my wits and rolled under one of the large study desks.
A black claw ripped the table back. I rolled under another table. The claw ripped away this table and I rolled beneath the next. Then another.
This perverse game of musical chairs—well, tables—wouldn’t last forever. I knew I needed to get a weapon if I wanted a chance at fighting this thing, which meant I needed to put more distance between us than a few layers of lacquered wood.
I faked rolling beneath another desk, then darted between two shelves instead, using them as cover. Lucky move—the monster was wider than the space between the shelves, and as it charged, its weight pushed them apart, causing them to knock over like dominos in two directions.
Good … just what I wanted to happen. This creature was a predator—which meant that it hunted using sight, smell, and noise. The clambering shelves and tumbling books would cover any sound I made, and all the book dust puffing into the air would mask my scent. Which only left it sight—and, as I’ve said before, what I lacked in strength, I totally made up in smallness.
When the shelves tumbled down, they didn’t fall flat, but rather tipped onto one another like drunks, creating little tunnels beneath where one shelf rested on another. Those gaps were as wide as the shelf’s width—which was thankfully about twice the width of a dinner plate. Perfect for me (including my butt and chest, this time).
I crawled through the opening and listened. When I was sure the
monster was on the other side of the shelves, scratching about and searching for me, I ducked into the next makeshift tunnel, then the next. Ultimate Hide-and-Go-Seek.
The monster stalked the aisles, occasionally leaping on the toppled shelves and bringing them splintering deeper into one another. But it couldn’t find me. And from the sounds it was making, I could tell it was getting frustrated.
I smiled, vindicated. This is for the Old Librarian, you bastard. Run, while you still can.
A little cocky on my part, I know. That was the vampire in me. Either way, the monster didn’t take its chance to run. It kept methodically leaping from one shelf to another, snarling.
OK—have it your way.
Slowly, carefully, I made my way to the last row and peered around. Across the aisle, I could see the Old Librarian still strung up. I don’t know if it was seeing him there or if it was my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, but either way, the brave, stupid part of me took over. I darted out of the makeshift passageway and, leaping from display case to display case—
I jumped for my father’s dirk and shield.
After all these years, it took scant moments to fit the ancient artifacts in my grip, like well-oiled hinges. Weapon in hand, I turned to face the monster. For the first time I got a good look at it.
GoneGodDamn—if I had seen it earlier, I might have acted smarter. And way less brave.
THE THING LOOKED like an honest-to-the-GoneGods bulldog—if, that was, the bulldog were the size of a Highland coo, had fire-yellow eyes and snorted friggin’ steam out of its nose.
Oh well … no use in crying over spilled milk, I thought as I held out the dirk.
It slammed two of its massive claws on the ground, gouging into the marble as it prepared to charge. I did the same, minus the marble-gouging. Given my stature, it was more like doing the two-step. Still, it was the best retort I had. If I could snort steam, I would’ve.
It sniffed. I growled.
It roared. I screamed back defiantly.
And with the pre-fight ceremony out of the way, we charged at each other.
IT WAS BIG AND FAST, but I had something it didn’t.
A silk blouse.
At the last second I dove into a baseball player’s slide and under it, thrusting my long dagger upwards. A fountain of lava-hot blood poured out of its belly. If it wasn’t for my shield, I probably would have been burned to death. Luckily I was able to divert the stream as I rolled out from under it. Turning, I immediately abandoned my shield as it literally burst into flames, its wooden frame consumed by this thing’s blood.
The thing about Others—they don’t bleed red. Ogres bleed green, dwarves a dirt brown; angels bleed actual light and pixies dust. But fire? Only one being I knew bled fire—a jinni. God made jinn from smokeless fire. I guess that explained the flickering yellow eyes this thing had.
It reared up onto its hind legs, still spilling blood from its midsection, seeking to crush me under its weight. I rolled to the right, expecting it to try and step to the right and crush me, but instead, it swiveled to the left.
I had all of one second to consider why it would do that when its tail swiped across the floor (did I say this thing looked like a bulldog? Its tail was more like that of a dragon’s, spikes and all) and hit me hard in the chest, causing me to drop my dirk. I was pushed to the side and before I could tumble out of the way, it pinned me to the side of the wall. Its big flat-nosed face was an inch away from mine and it was bearing its fangs, long, pointy bastards dripping oily fire. I could tell it was relishing the moment before it would bite my head off—literally.
It had me, and without a weapon or any gods to hear my prayers, I didn’t have a hope in Hell of getting out of this alive.
Except we weren’t in Hell—and hope was a fickle bitch that liked to wait until the last second to swoop in. This time, she took the form of my fellow classmate, the weird African guy, who leapt on the monster’s back and—what the hell?—bit down on the thing’s neck.
“Kid—I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the best—” I started to think (out loud—good to know I could still rely on my quirks in life-and-death situations) when the kid reared his head back and spat out a clump of the monster’s neck, fiery blood and all.
The monster reeled back, howling in agony. Steam and lava poured out of its wound and I just managed to roll out of its waning grip.
“Holy crap, kid,” I said, running for my dirk.
The kid—who had been knocked off the beast’s back—tumbled in my direction, dabbing at his blistering lips. “Holy Hell! That was hot!”
“Jinni, kid. Jinn. They bleed fire.”
“Apparently. And, for the record, my name is not kid. It is Egya-Boi Awooner of the Fante.”
“And I’m Connor MacLeod of Clan MacLeod,” I said.
Egya gave me a curious look and I managed to say, “What? Not a Highlander fan?”
Before he could answer, the monster, who had managed to pick itself up from the steaming blood-slick floor, resumed its attack. It raked its claws at us, forcing us to split apart. The creature, unsure which target to pursue, chased after me—and not because it was a “Ladies first” kind of monster. No, there was something else going on.
Not that I could ponder that particular mystery now.
Now I had to avoid its massive claws. I ran to the far end of the library, seeking to draw it to the display, hoping against hope that I’d be able to find something, anything to use against it. Maybe a spear or some kind of anti-jinni weapon.
Wishful thinking, but stranger things have happened … like giant bulldog-faced, dragon-tailed, lava-spewing monsters chasing you through a college library on a Friday night.
I ran, and as fast as I was, this thing was faster. Where the hell was Egya? I couldn’t hear him, and a shiver ran down my spine. If Egya ducked out of the fight, I was done for. Maybe that bite of lava had been more than he’d bargained for.
I kept running for the displays, but it involved a lot of obstacle-course dodging of the mess I’d made with the toppling shelves. Before I could get close, the creature flipped a shelf full of several heavy books over, toppling it at my feet and tripping me over.
I fell on my stomach and quickly turned so that I was lying flat on my back. The creature came close, getting ready to bear down on me. Pointing the tip of my sword straight up, I was preparing for the old stab-and-roll maneuver when I heard a howl. Egya jumped from the viewing balcony on the second floor, straight onto the creature’s back.
Egya had learned his lesson: he didn’t bite the thing. This time he stabbed it with something I couldn’t quite see from my vantage point. No matter. Stab as if my life depended on it, Egya!
Taking my cue from its howl, I thrust my dirk into the nape of its still-bleeding neck and then twisted my body as hard as I could to the right, gripping my sword with all the human strength I had in me—and maybe any vampiric strength still left deep down.
My sword stuck in its molten skin. Despite the heat, I continued with as much pressure as I could. I felt my sword travel through its skin another inch, then two more, and with one last effort, I managed to slash through the thing’s throat—ripping a hole in it the size of the library’s book-return slot.
The monster tried to scream, but without a throat, all that came out was a low, guttural hiss as it collapsed to the ground in its own molten blood.
“Damn. Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Egya said, climbing off the creature’s back.
I ignored him, walking around it slowly. According to Islam, God created two types of humanity: one from mud—humans; and the other from smokeless fire—the jinn. The jinn were like us, complete with different races, ethnicities and geopolitical alliances. And although this creature had all the telltale signs of being jinn, it was more animal than sentient being. Something didn’t feel right.
As I examined him, my foot hit something hard by its front left paw. Looking down,
I saw my father’s cherub mask on the ground, its innocent face staring up at me out of the fiery blood. The irony wasn’t lost on me—here I was fighting an evil demon to avenge the death of my friend … How many demons had my father vanquished in my name? Too many to count, I suspected.
Gingerly picking up the mask, I slipped it in my slightly torn jacket pocket. Arrgh, is thing was beyond repair, I lamented (in my head).
Egya had been watching me the whole time. Seeing his gaze, I was just about to say “Let’s get out of here before the police show up,” when I heard a voice yell out, “Hold it right there!”
Two flashlights shined in our eyes. Behind the glaring light, I saw two figures approach with guns drawn.
“Oh, great—campus security’s here. Great timing, morons.”
The voice behind the lights barked, “What did you say?”
Talking out loud again. I really, really had to stop that.
HUMAN SECURITY SECURING
F irst the campus security came, then the cops, then the local news and finally the coroner. Not that we saw any of that. Deirdre told me later. Word had gotten to the dorms what had happened and many of the students, including her, went down to see what happened.
Egya and I were interviewed at the scene—in handcuffs—and after our statement was taken down and taken down again by every cop determined to crack the truth out of us, we were whisked away to the local police precinct in a police car, sirens ringing through the night air and drawing unwanted attention to us. Already a ton of students were out; I wanted to curl up in a fetal position at the floor of the cruiser from embarrassment and shame—and loss. Twenty-four hours had yet to pass and already I was the freak who jumps at light, gets into fights with hockey players and gets arrested for murder. The murder of the one person I’d managed to make friends with.
At least no one can say I don’t make a first impression.
The nearest precinct was about a mile away. Once we made it inside, I noted that there was a disproportionate number of Others in handcuffs. Made sense—Others were the easily distinguishable minority and seeing them in chains just proved to me that the world didn’t change that much just because the gods left.