“That’s a shotgun,” Clara said.
“Yeah.”
Clara frowned. “But you taught me never to use a shotgun against a vampire. Never. It was one of the first things you taught me. They’re too inaccurate. You need precision if you’re going to hit the heart.”
Caxton examined the firearm. It was an old beat-up ten gauge, its barrel thicker than her thumb. She cracked it open and found a brown and brass cartridge already loaded. There were three more shells taped to the stock. Once upon a time she had taken on a brood of vampires with no more than thirteen bullets handy. Now she had four.
“Depends on what you’re loading. These shells are …”
Clara stared at her. Caxton shook her head and stared back.
“What?” Caxton demanded.
“You kind of trailed off there,” Clara said, looking concerned. “You were telling me about your shotgun shells, and then you never finished your sentence.”
“I didn’t?” Caxton asked. “I guess … I. Um, I guess that …”
So tired, suddenly. Why was she so tired? She should be amped up. Ready for the fight to come. Instead she would have really, really appreciated the chance to take a nap first. Maybe Malvern would be willing to give her a time-out. The thought made her laugh.
“Something funny now?” Clara demanded.
“No, no … nothing. Just.”
“Just what?” Clara asked.
Laura. Just rest. There’s no danger right now. Ye may rest, as you wish, Malvern said, her thoughts boring right through the stone walls.
“Jesus!” Clara screamed. “She—”
Caxton didn’t hear what she said next. Everything went soft, and warm, and rosy. There was no sound at all. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she slept.
56.
The next morning Laura was finally getting some sleep when sunlight flooded into the room and burned her cheek. She tried to roll away from it, but the heat and light followed her. She clenched her eyes tight and grabbed hard at her pillow.
Something soft and feathery brushed across her mouth. Laura nearly screamed as she bolted upright, her eyelids flashing open.
“Time to get up, beautiful,” Clara said. She had a white rose in her small hand and she’d been running its delicate petals across Laura’s lips.
Laura took a deep breath and forced a smile. After a tense moment Clara’s face turned up with a wry grin. Clara had already showered and her wet hair hung in spiky bangs across her forehead. She was wearing her uniform shirt and not much else, except for a pair of tortoiseshell glasses with one lens blacked out.
“Too much, so early?” Clara asked. Her visible eye was bright with mischief. She held out the rose and Laura took it. Then Clara picked up a glass of orange juice from the bedside table and held that out, too.
Laura forced herself to calm down, to push away the darkness of the night. There had been bad dreams, as always. She was, over time, learning ways to forget them when she woke up. Clara had learned ways to help.
“Your eye,” Laura said, as she drained half the juice.
“The doctor says it’s just mild conjunctivitis. It’ll clear up in a couple of days. In the meantime I didn’t want you to see me look all scary. Anyway, I always thought glasses were kind of sexy.” She sat down on the bed next to Laura and leaned her head back against Laura’s chest. “What do you think? Am I turning you on?”
Laura withheld comment. “Is that today’s?” she asked, pointing at a copy of the Harrisburg Patriot-News on the bedside table.
“Mm-hmm,” Clara purred. “Are you seriously going to tell me you’re thinking about current events right now?”
“I just wanted to check something.” Laura picked up the paper and looked at the masthead. OCTOBER 1, 2004, she read. Then her eye caught on the headline. NEW VAMPIRE ATTACKS IN OHIO, POLICE BAFFLED.
Before she could read any more, Clara grabbed the paper away from her and threw it across the room. “Jesus, they won’t shut up about those vampires!” she laughed. “Seriously, I am so glad you didn’t take that case. I would worry about you so much if you were still hanging out with that old fart Arkeley.”
“Sure,” Laura said. “It would have been really stupid of me to try to fight vampires. I’m just a highway patrol trooper.”
“Besides, Arkeley wanted all of your time. I would never have gotten to date you properly.” Clara turned around so her breasts were pressed up against Laura’s stomach. She reached up and took away the glass of orange juice, placing it down carefully on the table. Then she licked her lips and started moving in for a kiss.
Caxton belted her across the face as hard as she could. It was like punching a statue, but Clara recoiled from the blow. Caxton got a foot up between them and kicked Clara right out of the bed.
“Did you seriously expect me to fall for this, Malvern?”
Clara—the thing that looked like Clara, anyway—rose from the floor as smoothly and gracefully as a snake rising from a basket. She glared at Caxton with one red eye, the other still hidden by those ridiculous glasses.
“I wanted to show ye some moment of peace, before the end, ’tis all,” she said.
“I’m asleep right now. I’m dreaming this.” Caxton remembered that in 2004 she had always left her sidearm hanging in the kitchen closet. Would it be there if she ran for it now? Would it have any effect in a dream? “Just like when Reyes made me dream I was in the steel mill. He was trying to make me suicidal so I would accept the curse. Is that what this is about? You still think I’ll become one of your brood if you ask the right way?”
Malvern/Clara shrugged prettily. “No. I’ve let that hope die.”
“Then what are we doing here, damn it?”
The vampire in Clara’s shape went to the window and drew back the curtains. Yellow sunlight burst into the room, bathing her pale skin. She stretched in it like a cat basking in warmth. It might have been the first time in three hundred years Malvern had actually seen the sun, even in a dream.
“This,” she said, “is a card ye never played. In this little fancy, ye told Jameson ye would not aid him. When he tried to recruit ye, ye told him to bugger himself. Look how it turned out. Not so bad, really?”
“Vampires all over Ohio, apparently. At least he drove you out of the state.”
“And out of your life. Oh, thy girl Deanna is still dead, in this place, and I fear that’s my blame to carry. But ye have the better of the bargain, methinks.” Sighing with pleasure, the vampire ran her hands up and down her borrowed body. “So sweet, this one. So sweet and slender and full of little graces. Ye could have been happy, Laura. Instead you chose to make me thy life’s work.”
Caxton glanced at the door of the kitchen. “How do I wake up from this?” she demanded. “How do I get out of here?”
“When I release ye, and not before,” Malvern said without turning.
[ 2008 ]
Through Simon Arkeley’s eyes, Justinia looked into Laura’s face once more. How she had missed the girl!
“She’s officially dead,” Laura was saying. “She’s also effectively immortal. She wants to stay that way. The smart thing to do, the smartest thing, would be to just lie low. Stay in her coffin, not make any fuss or bother. Not kill anybody. She can wait in that coffin as long as she wants. She could wait until I’m old and gray and unable to fight anymore, and come for me then. Or she could just wait until I die of old age. Until everybody’s forgotten what a vampire was, much less how to fight one. Then she could come back and start killing people all over again.”
Justinia could feel Simon’s soul curdling at the prospect. How fragile she had made him. An imperfect instrument. But for this service, he was priceless.
“She’s smart enough to think of that. To put aside whatever satisfaction she might get from killing me in exchange for her own safety. Now, if I had my freedom and unlimited resources, I could spend the rest of my life trying to figure out where she’s hiding. I could scour every dark corner a
nd musty old shed in Pennsylvania. I could spend years doing it. But that’s no longer an option for me. If I show my face outside of this ridge, I’ll get scooped up by the Feds right away. So instead I’ve built this very elaborate vampire trap—and I’ve laid my own plans for the future.”
“Oh,” Simon said. “I think I know where you’re going with this, and—”
Caxton wouldn’t let him derail her. “I know how to kill vampires better than anyone now living. I’m going to spend the rest of my life teaching the people in the Hollow how it’s done. I’m going to teach Patience Polder every one of my tricks. After I’m dead, she’ll teach others. Maybe her own children. And they’ll teach theirs. The point is, no matter how long Malvern goes to ground for, when she wakes up there’ll be somebody waiting with a gun pointed right at her heart.”
Justinia opened her eye. There was a smile on her face.
“Oh, well played, child,” she said.
The half-deads gathered around her coffin looked down at her with surprised expressions. Perhaps they thought she was speaking to them.
Justinia did not care.
“She’s laid the perfect trap, hasn’t she? And she knows I’ll not resist it. What skill she has for this game. I think I love her, in my own horrible way.” She couldn’t resist the urge to chuckle. For far too long her existence had been one of suffering and despair, punctuated only by the rush of the blood down her throat. What new passion for living Laura had provided! Vincombe had told her to find a purpose, a reason to be immortal.
Laura had given it to her.
“We must make preparations now,” she said. The half-deads looked at each other, wondering what she would demand next. She had treated them cruelly, as was their lot, and they expected no reward. “There’s so much to do. I’ll spring her trap, oh, yes. I shall indeed. But if she’s to be so crafty, she can’t object, can she, if I choose to cheat?” Through Simon’s eyes she had seen all of Laura’s defenses. The cordon of ghosts, and the ring of bird skulls she’d set as alarms. The people of the Hollow, and the power they possessed, their magic.
It was a good scheme. It would have defeated any other vampire. But Justinia knew the one thing Laura could not plan for. The one thing that could ruin all her hopes.
“Go out, tonight. Go and find me Clara Hsu. Watch her, but do not disturb her. Not yet.”
57.
“We could not talk, ye and I, another way,” Malvern said, running Clara’s knuckles along the line of Caxton’s jaw. “When I sprang ye from your prison in that car, ye attacked me straightaway. I’ve no doubt ye’ll do the same when this dream has ended.”
“You can count on it,” Caxton told the vampire.
“So it behooves me little to release ye now, does it? When there is so much left to say. Do ye know how much ye’ve entertained me these last few years? I’ve met enough vampire hunters in my time. I’ve slaughtered a brace of ’em, my own self, and caused others to be brought low. None has ever caused me so much grief—or provided such sport—as thou hast.”
Caxton slipped toward the bedroom door while Clara/ Malvern stared out the window at the sun. The kitchen closet was only a few yards away. If she could dash in there, get her gun, and start blasting before Malvern even saw her, then—
The vampire turned around and smiled at her. “I’ve come to respect ye. Do ye know how rare it is for me to say that to a mortal? I like your brains. I like your spirit, Laura. So many choices ye’ve made, so many sacrifices, and ye never flinched. Ye never turned away, when even a brave man would falter. But of course, that’s some of it, eh? Ye’re no man. Ye’re a woman, same as me. Oh, ye may dress like a man, and talk as salty as they do. But underneath ye’ve a girl’s heart. Women, in my experience, think with their hearts. Do ye not agree?”
“That’s kind of sexist,” Caxton said, leaning casually against the door frame.
“Not at all. Women think with their hearts, but men think with their pricks.” Malvern shrugged Clara’s shoulders with an elegant grace that Clara had never possessed. “I’ve yet to meet any creature that really used its brain for what God intended. Are ye going somewhere?”
Caxton had taken a step backward, through the door. She smiled and shrugged. Malvern chuckled, a low and unnerving sound.
“Make your move,” the vampire said.
Caxton dashed backward, always keeping her eye on Malvern/Clara. The vampire didn’t seem to move at all as Caxton rushed into the kitchen and threw open the closet door. She half-expected to find its contents changed, by dream logic, into a cavern of snakes or maybe a burst of fire. Instead her coat hung there, her highway trooper’s coat. Her Smokey Bear hat hung on its usual peg. And her sidearm, tucked neatly in its holster, hung exactly where she’d always left it.
She grabbed up the Beretta, thumbed off its safety, and started to turn toward the bedroom door.
Before she could even lift the weapon Clara was on her, all flashing teeth and burning eye, her fingers digging through Caxton’s flesh, her fangs sinking through veins and arteries to suck blood from Caxton’s body, and Caxton screamed, knowing she was dead, knowing she was—
—she was standing before an empty grave. The cemetery was a vast expanse of rolling yellow hills, the dead grass sparkling with frost even so late in the morning. Most of the snow had melted or been removed from the plots. The dead lay in neat array all around Caxton, hidden under endless lanes lined with obelisks and family crypts. Smaller, more modest gravestones stuck up in neat rows.
The stone directly before her was a simple affair of unfinished granite. Chiseled into its surface was a minimal inscription:
JAMESON ARKELEY
MAY 12, 1941—OCTOBER 3, 2004
It did not say “Beloved Father,” or “Rest in Peace,” because those things would have been lies, and the people who had erected that stone knew Arkeley would have wanted the truth, even now.
Caxton remembered this day. She remembered feeling foolish even coming to the ceremony. After all, at the time Arkeley hadn’t even been dead. Not technically. The stone was a cenotaph, a memorial for a man who had refused to die.
Standing just behind the stone was Vesta Polder, dressed all in black with a veil over her face. It bunched in the wintry breeze, obscuring one of her eyes. Other people stood to either side of her, looking down at their feet or away at the distant trees. None of them would look at Caxton.
The scene seemed frozen in time, though still the breeze plucked at Caxton’s clothes and ruffled the dead yellow grass.
“Let me guess,” Caxton said. “This is another point where I could have chosen a different life. Where I could have given up.”
Vesta Polder smiled at her. Or rather, Malvern smiled through Vesta Polder’s face. “Perhaps, though I imagine thy devotion was never greater to the cause than just here. Thy own mentor turned evil and loosed upon the world. Ye could not say no, not at this time.”
“I felt responsible for what he’d become. He did it to save me, after all.”
“Are ye so sure?” Malvern asked. Her eye twinkled. “Trapped in a broken body, made frail by time and circumstance. So much left undone, and no strength left to do it. He had contemplated suicide long before ye gave him compelling reason to do it. Do not forget I was with him at the end. I was privy to his doubts. And his failings.”
Caxton felt blood rushing to her face. “He was a good man. Maybe he was an asshole sometimes, but he was a good—a good man.” Her hands balled into fists. “He kept fighting. He didn’t care if people hated him for it. He didn’t care how much it cost him, he kept fighting, right up until the end, right up until—”
“Until he failed,” Malvern said.
Caxton turned her head away, unwilling to let Malvern see the anguish that contorted her features.
“He did fail, Laura. They all do. And look at what his failure cost. His failure, and thine. Take a look.”
“No,” Caxton said, refusing to turn her head back.
Malvern sh
ot out one of Vesta Polder’s arms and grabbed Caxton’s chin. She couldn’t resist that pressure. She was only human, and in this dream Vesta Polder had all of Malvern’s strength.
The vampire twisted Caxton’s head around so she could see all the people standing behind the tombstone. All the people who had been there that day—and some who had not. There was a little crowd of them.
Angus Arkeley, Jameson’s brother and the first to go. His face under his trucker cap was pale with blood loss. Astarte, Jameson’s wife, whom Caxton had not been able to save. One of her wrists was torn open and it still drooled blood. Urie Polder, his skin burned to a crisp. Vesta herself, her face now torn away, her body used as a weapon against Caxton. Glauer and Fetlock, their bodies so mangled she could barely look at them. Raleigh Arkeley, Jameson’s daughter, transformed into a vampire but with a hole where her heart should have been. At the end stood Deanna.
Deanna, whom Caxton had loved with all her heart. Her old girlfriend. Transformed, like Raleigh, into a pale and vicious parody of herself. Her body was pierced in a hundred places by broken glass.
Caxton couldn’t help but cry out when she saw Deanna.
“You killed all of them,” Caxton whimpered. “It doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger, or … or who tore them up, or burned them, or—or whatever. You’re directly responsible for all of their deaths.”
“I am,” Malvern admitted, still using Vesta Polder’s mouth, even though now the lips had been torn away. “I take no shame in that. But can ye really say, Laura, ye are not at least a bit responsible for this?”
“Damn you! If I hadn’t fought against you—”
“These people might still be alive,” Malvern pointed out.
“Others would have died. A lot of other people would have died!”
“But no one you knew. No one you loved.”
32 Fangs: Laura Caxton Vampire Series: Book 5 Page 31