“I’m not falling for this.” Tristan averted her eyes from the soft dark skin of Blessing’s inner forearms. Feeding from her was always a last resort, a meaningless act serving only to quench her own thirsts. Had she known what it meant to Blessing, had she known so many things…
Blessing leapt at her before her next heartbeat. She tore at Tristan’s hair, her face, and they toppled backward onto the floor, Tristan’s arms trapped beneath Blessing’s weight. The girl shrieked and slashed Tristan’s skin with her fingernails and the tip of the stake. Tristan tried to wriggle an arm—just the one with the knife, that was all she needed—out from under Blessing’s leg without losing her grip. Her fingers grew numb from the pressure. She gave one last pull, and her arm swung back, the knife still clenched in her hand. She clamped her teeth together and with every ounce of strength drove the weapon deep into Blessing’s thigh, so deeply the tip poked out the other side.
Blessing howled and flung herself away from Tristan, her eyes blazing with pure bloodlust. Before she regained her footing, compromised as it was, Tristan kicked her in the ribs until she lost her breath. It was easy to hurt her. Too easy.
“I didn’t want to do this to you, but you left me no choice.”
“Just…finish it.”
“No. But you need to stay put for a while.” Tristan crouched down. She turned her hand sideways, knife-edged, and scooped it upward toward Blessing’s carotid artery. With one chop, Blessing’s eyes rolled back. She was out cold.
Anasztaizia glowered at her from the other side of the room. “Perhaps you’re the one I should have chosen.”
“And you think I would’ve accepted? Blessing was an easy target. Weak.”
“So are you. Emotion is chaos. You have let it rule your life.”
“You haven’t let it rule yours? Isn’t emotion why you became this…thing? Because you were angry, and you earned that. But you hide in these places and you kill, and that’s it. Nothing will ever change. That’s not living. It’s been this way for so long, everything you remember about being alive has gotten mixed up in your head.”
“Your mind games will not work. I have lived too long and watched too many of you. I know firsthand the wretched things people do to one another to get what they want.” Anasztaizia flicked her indifferent gaze down at the knife lying between them. “Now tell me what you intend to do with these pathetic little sticks of yours.”
“Come on. You’ve done this how many times?”
“Well, if you think it’s that simple, then by all means.” Anasztaizia spread her arms, leaving her torso fully exposed. A thin smile bisected her face. “Kill me.”
Sirens went off in Tristan’s head. If it were that simple, Anasztaizia wouldn’t invite the attempt. Still, Tristan was all too eager to indulge her. She picked up the second knife, keeping her eyes fixed on Anasztaizia. Energy snaked through the muscles of her arms as she drew them back then sprung them forward and plunged the blades into Anasztaizia’s chest.
The F-Ss proved as useful as prop knives with retractable blades. The force of impact drove nails of pain deep into her wrists, her arms reverberating like tuning forks. Anasztaizia’s dress yielded two small holes over her heart, but that was it. No wound, no blood. Worst of all, no dying. Tristan stared down at the knives, dumbfounded. It was like trying to pierce plate armor with a butter knife.
When she lifted her head, Anasztaizia’s smile widened. With one sweep of her arm, she caught Tristan in the chest and hurled her across the room, into the stone wall. The knives flew out of Tristan’s hands on impact. The skin on her elbows peeled away as she slid down to the floor. Her lungs pushed out all of their air in one giant huff, replacing it with the dust her body unleashed from the wall. She slumped onto her side, the pain a jackhammer drilling into the back of her head as she wheezed in a desperate bid for air. She hacked out a cloud of white powder instead.
Anasztaizia padded closer and closer, deliberate in her slowness. She grabbed a fistful of Tristan’s curls and yanked her to her feet. Every nerve in Tristan’s scalp awakened, lighting her brain with a communal flare of white-hot agony. A clump of hair parted ways with her flesh, and a trickle of blood warmed the side of her face. Tristan gritted her teeth to keep from screaming.
“Do you see? I am not meant to die.”
“How… It’s not possible…”
“I told you, my mission is ordained by a higher power. She has given me all I need for my task.” Anasztaizia pitched Tristan aside like an empty sack and knelt beside Mira, who showed no sign of waking anytime soon. “Her time has come. I will allow you a goodbye, at least. It is more than was given to me.”
“What if you could see them again, eh? What if they’ve been waiting for you all these years?”
Anasztaizia’s lip curled into a snarl. “You still persist. Why? Am I to believe you actually care? You, of all people?”
“You are what you are. But it doesn’t have to be that way.” Tristan rubbed the back of her head. “Tell me how to do it, and I will. I’ll make it quick. Just leave Mira alone.”
Anasztaizia stroked Mira’s leg, running her palm upward over her thigh, over her shorts, and a bright fury ignited in Tristan. Mira was hers to touch. She didn’t like the envious aftertaste the thought left behind. Anasztaizia’s caress was not sexual as much as inquisitive. She merely explored the sort of body she might have grown into given the chance. Nevertheless, heat crept up Tristan’s neck and into her cheeks. Despite her curiosity, Anasztaizia knew exactly what she was doing, exactly the buttons to push.
Then the thought, as clear as words spoken directly into her ear: She killed Beebee Zsofika. Remember that.
She had to pretend she didn’t know. She had to control the rage before it dominated her, channel it into the single task required of her. Mira would end up dead if she didn’t. They both would.
Anasztaizia’s hand drifted over Mira’s belly, over her breasts, and up to her throat, where her fingertips played ever so delicately along her windpipe.
“What if this “higher power” of yours doesn’t exist?” Tristan said. “What if you’ve been here all this time, waiting for something that’s never going to come? Nothing you do will bring those people back. Nothing is going to give you peace except letting go.”
“Do you ever tire of telling yourself these things? Your moralizing is tedious. And it will not change what is meant to be.” Hunched over Mira like a scavenger, Anasztaizia lowered her head and opened her mouth.
Now, you have to do it now—
Tristan dove for the knives on the floor and swept them into her hands. Anasztaizia, pivoting, swung her arm like a sword just as Tristan found her footing. She slammed one deceptively skinny forearm into Tristan’s ankles, knocking her off balance and onto the floor again. Tristan’s teeth jammed together with a sharp clack as she landed on her chin. She tasted blood. She tongued her bottom teeth and discovered several were loose.
Anasztaizia stood up and stretched out her arms like Jesus on one of Momma’s many crucifixes. Her body vibrated then emitted the sickly light of the moon hidden behind a cloud. Inch by inch, an invisible tether lifted her from the floor. The grotesque crucifix dangled in the air before Anasztaizia darted about the room with the frenzy of a bird’s wings beating against glass. She gathered speed until she transformed into a white blur streaking through the air, and buffeted Tristan with unseen hands. Tristan swung the knives wildly, her own speed not enough to keep up with the smudge rocketing past her.
At last, one of the knives found substance and penetrated deep into Anasztaizia’s arm. The furry white flesh made a spongy, sucking sound as it absorbed the metal.
Anasztaizia hissed and snatched back her wounded limb. The puncture oozed viscous brown blood. Her face, however, betrayed no panic. “Is this your plan, then? To poke holes in me until I bleed to death? You know how that turned out the first time someone tried it.” She rose to her feet and took flight again. Before Tristan rolled out of the way,
Anasztaizia sped toward her with a kick so fierce that, for a moment, Tristan thought she might never be able to breathe again. Then Anasztaizia stomped on her left hand, hard enough that the bones delivered a nauseating crackle as they split apart. This time Tristan could not restrain the scream that ripped its way out of her.
“Even if you did kill me, you and Mira will never be together. Surely you comprehend by now.”
“They can…treat the cancer,” Tristan said through sharp intakes of air. A cracked rib jabbed her side. Already her vision was blurring, and a conquering army of pain marched through her body. As quickly as she healed under normal circumstances, the compounding of injury upon injury would break her soon enough. But at least she wouldn’t have to watch whatever became of Mira. “She can—”
“I don’t mean that, you fool. You’re destined to be alone. By your very nature, you risk the safety of those around you. And you hate them, Tristan, deep down inside, because you envy them. Do not pretend to be like them.”
Tristan slowly climbed to her feet, her left hand cradled protectively against her chest. Each gasp sent a jolt through her side. “You don’t get to decide for me, or her. And there’s something you didn’t consider. The others had nothing to lose.” Tristan stole a glance at Mira. “I have her. And no matter what happens, even if it’s over for us, you’ll have to kill me first before I let you touch her again.”
“That is exactly what I intend to do.” Anasztaizia’s voice rebounded from wall to wall, everywhere at once. “Because you cannot do the same to me.”
Invisible fingernails raked across Tristan’s face, peeling away the flesh in four identical, bloody furrows. Her face aflame, Tristan pressed her lips together as her eyes instantly filled with tears. Not yet. There was plenty of time to cry when this was all over. But God did it hurt, and she was losing strength. She gently nudged her rib with one finger, hoping to ease it back into place. Its ragged edge protruded against her skin like the teeth of the monster living inside her. The pain threatened to destroy her.
Anasztaizia came to rest against the far wall and serenely sucked at her fingers. She regarded Tristan with dispassionate charcoal eyes, and Tristan’s stomach tightened at the sight of her own tissue vacuumed into the black hole of her mouth.
“I was right,” Anasztaizia said. “You do taste like them.” She licked each finger clean as if she’d just eaten a dozen chicken wings. “And I don’t even particularly care for blood.”
Tristan pointed the knives at her. There was a sweet spot somewhere. They all had them. Even her. “Everyone has to die sometime. It’s the balance of nature. Don’t you get it? You’re not supposed to be here anymore.”
“And neither are you. You are as much an abomination as I am, perhaps more. What is in me is also in you. Why fight it any longer? Aren’t you tired of fighting?”
“I am,” Blessing said and staggered to her feet.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Blessing dragged herself to the stake. As soon as she closed her fist around it, the weapon glowed with a fierce light. It possessed the heat and brilliance of a newborn star, yet it did not burn her. All the years of resentment toward her mother, toward Papa Joe and the villagers, bled out of her, cleansed and carried away in the purity of the ash wood’s illumination. She held the instrument of justice for all those who had fallen before her, who had sacrificed in vain. She was the one, at last, and she atoned for her sins.
“O loving and kind God,” she prayed, though she knew not to which one anymore. “Have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my transgressions. Oh, wash me; cleanse me from this guilt. Let me be pure again. For I admit my shameful deed—it haunts me day and night. It is against you and you alone I sinned and did this terrible thing. You saw it all, and your sentence against me is just. Create in me a new, clean heart, O God, filled with clean thoughts and right desires. Do not toss me aside, banished forever from your presence. Do not take Your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me again the joy of your salvation, and make me willing to obey you.”
Blessing struggled to her feet. The wound started to bleed again, despite her body’s endeavor to heal, and her jeans stuck to the skin. Bits of denim clung to the edge of the wound and protruded from the rupture itself. Anasztaizia could easily take advantage of her, and perhaps Tristan would allow it. Blessing rubbed the throbbing spot just under her jaw. Tristan’s mastery of physical combat was impressive, but sometimes it blinded her to the simplicity of going in for the kill as quickly as possible.
In this case, neither one of them had successfully determined what that entailed. Despite her own injury, pity stirred in Blessing’s heart when she cast a look at Tristan, battered and bleeding. Perhaps it was too late, and no end was to be had but their own. But she must try. It was her calling.
“Love isn’t a weakness. It’s strength. If we do not love, then we have no purpose.”
Anasztaizia sneered at the stake’s brightness. “I have seen this trick before. Others have thought it possible to outwit me, Blessing. You are just one more dead Hunter.”
“You loved, and that is why you fight. But this is the only way to give you your life back. You are the one who is corrupted.”
“I will not die. Not again. Not ever again.” Anasztaizia was a little girl again, even without the illusion of a human body. The memory of living still so alive in her, and she clung to it with all of a child’s resolve. “I won’t. I was chosen as the light-maiden! I was resurrected!”
Morning light flooded the open space with shades of gold. Anasztaizia turned toward the window, her eyes narrowing and her mouth yawning open as it had in the park. Swallow the sun and destroy it inside of her, so that everyone might share the eternal night in which she dwelled. Blessing read that desire in her gaunt and blistered face.
“I exorcise thee, O impious Satan,” Blessing said. “In vain dost thou boast of this deed. I command thee to restore it as a proof before the whole world that when God receiveth a sinner, thou hast no longer any rule over his soul.”
“You are pathetic.” Anasztaizia’s pitiless laughter engulfed each syllable Blessing spoke. “You are weak!”
“I abjure thee, by him who expelled thee from thy stronghold, bereft thee of the arms which thou didst trust in, and distributed thy spoils. Return therefore this deed whereby this creature of God foolishly bound herself to thy service; return it, I say, in His name by whom thou art overcome.”
“Or what, Blessing? Do you think I fear your god, whichever one you’ve chosen today? Your own faith is tenuous at best. Otherwise you would not constantly turn to magic when you don’t get your way.”
“By penitence already hath this creature of God restored herself to her true Lord, spurning thy yoke, hoping in the Divine mercy for defense against thine assaults.” Blessing made the sign of the cross in the air with her stake.
“My “yoke” is stronger than you realize. You cannot exorcise me, Blessing, for I am not a demon. What dwells within me is my own soul, returned to my body because my father was careless. He paid for that mistake. And you will pay for yours.” Anasztaizia drifted toward the window and stood in a yellow rectangle carved out by the light upon the floor. Visible tremors shivered through her, but she did not take flight. “There have been others like me. Princesses. Saints. Their fathers remembered to decapitate them first.”
“He’s been gone for a long time. You had your revenge on him. The people you’ve killed did not do this to you. So I must end this.”
“Yes, I suppose you think you do. One of us does, anyway. You have chosen to enslave yourself to them once and for all. You reject the truth of this world. But how do you propose to kill me? Tristan failed only minutes ago.”
The stake’s light pulsed, a beacon pointing Blessing in an unspecified direction. She could not pierce Anasztaizia’s breastbone and destroy the source of her unholy existence; some awful magic or bizarre demon evolution protected her heart.
Anasztaizia’s laugh at
her hesitation sounded to Blessing like a village cheering and chanting as the woman cut away part of her body. Mocking the evil spirit they believed dwelled within her.
“When you are dead and I ascend, I will be a creature of light. I will be something more beautiful than the human mind can grasp, and I will reclaim the sun as my symbol.” Anasztaizia faced the window and opened her arms. Her white hair, parted down the middle and draped over her shoulders, turned golden in the sunlight.
She does not fear me, Blessing thought. But as Blessing studied her, she settled upon the tiny spot at the back of Anasztaizia’s neck. Demons did not have heartbeats, did not circulate blood. The heart merely resided in the most convenient location, for a decent weapon easily fractured the sternum. A silly artifact of folklore, that the heart controlled the body. Anasztaizia’s own body had even adapted to conform to tradition, believing in her arrogance no one was capable of discovering the secret. Perhaps she did not have a heart at all.
If Blessing were even to attempt such a blow, she must prevent Anasztaizia from moving and certainly from taking flight again. Binding spells, all directed at other human beings, flashed through Blessing’s mind. Not strong enough. How many people, even practitioners of witchcraft, believed in the undead anymore?
Yet they did, once. Once, everyone did. The spell was ancient. Latin, a language she did not even comprehend. But she remembered the words.
“Ego ligare mortuis ad hoc sepulchrum,” she chanted. “Ego ligare mortuis ad hoc sepulchrum. Ego infirmare mortuis. Spero cum spes, ut numquam evader. Omnes creaturae intra cesset. Se confirma mortuis. Ego ligare mortuis ad hoc sepulchrum. Ego ligare mortuis ad hoc sepulchrum.” Again, and again, securing Anasztaizia to the earth by the holy number of three.
Tristan mouthed something at her, but she was not good at lip-reading. Blessing limped toward Anasztaizia from behind and raised her weapon. Her leg wobbled, and tidal waves of pain surged through it. Her knee buckled.
Those of My Kind Page 23