by Lorelei Bell
Their eyes met as the sliver crossed the barmaid's hand. Closing her fingers over the silver piece, she said, “You're the one that's workin' for Franz, isn't you? Up in 'is castle, I mean?”
Franz? “Yes, I'm working for Count Saint Germain,” Zofia replied emphatically. “Why?”
Lifting one bared shoulder she said, “No reason. Jus' wonderin', is all,” she said. “I'll bring back your change.” Twirling about, Abigale sashayed between tables and pulled up beside the one with all the men. She bent to one burly man with tattoos up and down his beefy arms, and then whispered something in his ear. The man's blue eyes slid off her to take in Zofia, then quickly they darted away. He nodded to whatever was said. Abigail straightened, plucked a few empties off their table and deposited them onto her tray, then wiggled her way back to the bar. The man with the tattoos bent to someone next to him—a small, wiry looking man with a red bit of scarf tied over stringy, yellow hair. He itched at his scruffy beard as he listened to what the man was saying. Smiling, he nodded; some of his teeth were missing and those he had were dingy yellow. He scraped back his chair and shot out of the tavern like his seat was on fire.
Squinting in thought, Zofia wondered what she had just witnessed. Why was Abigale so interested in who she was? And why, just seconds after learning it, she leaned over to tell someone else? She wasn't stupid; the man had looked right at her. And that someone had sent another person off as if to tell someone where she was.
Tapping her fingers on the table, she watched Abigale take her sweet old time drawing more draught into fresh steins, and making jokes with the barkeeper and the other men seated at the bar. Just how long would Zofia have to wait for her change? More to the point: How long would it take the skinny guy to go get the someone he went to go and get and bring him back here?
Zofia was from a small village where people were usually honest, and she was always ready to believe the best of people, not the worst. But since living on First World, and going through everything she had gone through, she had really changed her attitude about people, and what they were capable of. Especially if they worked on the dark side, or even on the fringes.
Zofia decided that she really didn't need the change that much. Maybe 22 konks were worth her getting safely the hell out of there. She really didn't want to see who the ugly guy had gone to fetch.
Zofia rose. She felt only slightly woozy, but she could make it to the door just fine on two feet. And if not, there was always Transvecting if she had to make a quick get away.
She was half-way across the tavern when the door burst open. Three bodies filled the threshold—two men and one woman. The woman's straight, jet black hair framed her pale face. Ommetress Chillingworth wore a tight-fitting black leather bustier, and matching leather skirt, with slits up the sides, black leather boots with four inch heels, and black fishnet stockings. Zofia wondered where the whip and chains were. The whole outfit might cost a rothgar on Euphoria, that is if she could find it here. The bared fangs only added to the outfit, really. The man in front of her was Myron. His long coat fell open revealing a froth of ruffles, black pants stuffed into knee-high black boots. If he weren't a vampire, Zofia could have almost drooled, he looked that good. But vampire he was. Her mouth went dry with panic, mentally checking all her safeguards. Every piece of silver on her, including the medallion that Saint Germain had given her, was still in place. She wondered if it was going to be enough for this threesome.
“Zofia,” Myron breathed, his voice sliced right through Zofia. “What a pleasure. I thought I'd missed you at The Golden Dragon.”
“That was your note, then?” she managed to utter past the dry throat, not exactly oblivious to the fact that everyone who had been in the bar just a few moments ago had just suddenly slithered out the front and back doors (the barkeeper, and all his help, left through the curtained-off exit).
Myron sauntered further in, past the first few tables. “Of course.”
“You didn't sign it,” she said sarcastically.
“My oversight.”
Licking dry lips, Zofia watched as Ommetress and the other vampire slithered further inside. It was almost a complement to see that Myron felt he needed a third vampire to succumb her. Both of their gazes fell off her and onto the only other person in the tavern besides Zofia.
An intake of air caught in Zofia's throat. Doreen Clutterbutt remained comatose as Zofia had not yet released her from the sleeping hex.
“Ahhh,” Myron said, sighting the sleeping woman at the table, now. “An added bonus. A little snack for later.” He chuckled dryly, looking back at his companions.
Ommetress made a sibilant sound of genuine glee at the very thought of the promise of snacking on the hapless woman snoozing with bits of her dinner splashed over her face and neck.
The third vamp remained quiet, and only now Zofia noticed that he wore leather black pants, and a black slicker over some sort of gauzy white shirt open three buttons revealing a pale, hairless chest. Another eye-jerk his way, Zofia found herself nearly compelled toward both male vampires simply on their looks alone. His dark hair fell straight, almost wispy, looking like Ommetress' brother. He had high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and green eyes. She could feel him trying to put thoughts into her head. Oh, no you don't! She snapped her eyes shut, realizing that he'd almost succeeded in giving her subliminal messages that would make her weak.
Opening her eyes on a drawn breath, she readjusted her gaze on Doreen. “You leave Mrs. Clutterbutt alone!” Zofia shook with her fury. “Mrs. Clutterbutt! Awaken!” Zofia incanted, throwing her un-hexing charm directly at her. But Myron's gloved hand was there, and took the Power burst that Zofia had sent toward Doreen. She watched as his gray glove glowed green, just for a few brief seconds, and became gray again. Doreen was still fast asleep.
“I think not,” Myron said, looking at his hand and then closing his fingers over his palm triumphantly. Taking a few deliberate paces toward Zofia, he made an attempt at glamoring her.
Zofia held up her hand and cast her gaze off his face, knowing that his eyes were where his power dwelled. “Don't come any closer!” she warned, backing up, just to give herself hex-throwing room.
Myron chuckled. “Or you'll throw me? Like you did that other night?”
“I'll knock you into the next Province,” she said, working up a good head of steam, but really knew she couldn't do much against him, not with him expecting it. She could put up an Umbrella spell, that was about all.
“I like a woman with spunk. I think that's why I like you so much, Zofia. It's really too bad I have to give you to someone else. But, it's business.”
“Give me over to Phineas, you mean?”
Myron's eyes showed surprise. “You know about that, do you?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I know all about his plans for me.” Well, at least some of them.
He smiled, showing his teeth. His fangs had not extended, but Ommetress and the other guy's fangs had sprouted out over full lips.
“How much are they paying you?” Zofia asked.
He made a pout, leaning his head into a shrug. “Enough. Don't take it personally, Zofia. I need to pay off some debts.”
“You like to gamble?” Zofia now remembered her dream with him in it where he seemed to be in a gambling hall.
“Interesting. You have second sight?”
She pressed her lips together. The less he knew the better. He would assume that she had learned what she knew through her second sight, but she'd learned the majority of it by spying on them. But he didn't need to know this.
“It doesn't matter,” he said. Raising his hand, he said, “Ommetress. Kagan.” At his subtle bidding, the other two surged forward, but looked more as though they had floated across the floor those few feet.
Hand going to the medallion that Saint Germain had given her, she remembered what he had told her about it being the very best silver produced anywhere. That had to mean something coming from a perfectionist like Saint
Germain. She yanked it off it's chain and hurled the disk directly at Myron's head—using a bit of magic to turn it into a deadly projectile. Myron's reflexes were vampire quick. He ducked. The whirring disk of silver missed him and hit the one he called Kagan square in the forehead and stuck there bloodlessly. He looked for a moment as though he had a third eye as both his real eyes crossed to look up at the thing. Smoke issued from the place where it stuck in his flesh. Grunting, he went down like a sack of rocks.
Ommetress turned swiftly to watch him go down, her straight hair looking like black fringe with her sudden move. Lips drawn back, she growled and turned back to eye Zofia. A chill of dread went through her. She could hold off one vampire, but not two. In eliminating one, she had just pissed the others off.
“Oh, dragon crap,” Zofia muttered to herself.
Myron hadn't even flinched a backward look at Kagan, but instead made a sudden swoop toward Zofia, like some giant bat; his black coat whipping up, hands becoming claw-like. Her arms were suddenly snagged and pinned as he slammed her into the wall.
Fangs out, Myron was no longer handsome but horrifying.
“You shouldn't have done that,” he said past the two inch canines.
“Okay. No. Probably not, but you moved, so it was all your fault,” she came back lamely. Zofia had flinched her head away, seeing his face coming within inches of her own. She peeked back up at him and saw that his hands and feet had become partially bat-like, and connected to giant bat wings. His claw-like hands had hers pinned against the wall. She couldn't move at all.
He chuckled lightly at her. “That's okay, Zofia, my love. I actually enjoy a little violent lovemaking.” He made a snarl in her ear that sounded so utterly carnivorous she could hardly breath. He was drawing this moment out. She began seeing dots flash before her eyes before she reminded herself to pull in a breath now and then. He yanked both her hands above her head, snaring both wrists with one vampire hand, and the other flashed and blurred. The rip of material made her jerk and shriek suddenly. Peering back into his face, she saw his eyes taking her in where he'd torn her dress, his tongue sliding over his teeth suggestively. Just when she thought about kneeing him, he pressed his body up against hers, blocking that move.
A small chuckle escaped him. “You wouldn't dare,” he whispered as though knowing exactly what she'd been thinking.
“You don't know me very well then,” she rallied through trembling lips.
“You are simply too delicious to hold back my passions, I'm afraid I might have to decline the offer of payment to deliver you to Phineas.” His mouth gaped open.
Zofia screamed.
Chapter 35
Her screaming came so loud that she couldn't bare the sound of it, and so clapped her hands over her ears to shut it out. Then she realized that Myron was no longer holding her wrists. His fangs weren't embedded into her neck, either—which was where she thought they should have been.
Zofia stopped screaming and opened her eyes. Myron was no longer in front of her, pinning her against the wall, but on the floor writhing in pain; the pointed end of a stake sticking about one inch out of his chest. Then, abruptly, his body imploded upon itself and dust replaced it for a frisson of a second, and then fell flat to the floor.
Myron had become no more.
Ommetress and the other vampire were nowhere to be seen.
Her mind tried to catch up with everything in those fleeting moments in order to make sense of it all. That's when she looked up and saw Saint Germain standing in the dim lighting of the tavern, bent over, looking up from Doreen. Her own startled eyes met his intensely dark stare.
“I found your note,” he said evenly, straightening. “I thought you had gone to The Golden Dragon.”
“So did everyone else. But Mrs. Clutterbutt, here, talked me into coming here. Good food. Good wine. But the service is deplorable.” She gazed around the empty room.
Ignoring her sarcasm, Saint Germain asked, “What's wrong with her?” Hands gesturing toward Doreen.
“Ah—ah,” Zofia muttered. “Too much wine. Poor dear.” Nothing like being caught without any good lies to blurt at a moment's notice. Taking a few steps toward Doreen's table, where Saint Germain chose to stand, Zofia stepped into the grit which had once been Myron. She felt the bits of him being crushed by her shoes and the effect made her shiver. She went up on tip-toes, taking larger strides so as to avoid his remains—more as if it were something as offensive as dog poop. Smoldering clothes were all that was left of the vampire.
She stood just a foot away from Saint Germain and thought he might take her into his arms in a fiercely romantic embrace, the way heroes do when they save a woman from certain doom. But he didn't. He merely stood there, hands to his sides staring at her. She tried to gauge whether he was angry at her for stepping out for dinner without consulting him first. Of course, there were the danger angles too, what with Phineas, and Myron trying to kidnap her. Well, she didn't have to worry about Myron anymore.
“Why did you feel the need to go out?” he asked, voice neutral. “I told you that Jacques would make you something, did I not?”
“Yes. You did. And I'm sorry, but—” she stopped herself. What could she tell him? Dorian wanted to meet her, but that had to be kept from him. She didn't want Jacques cooking something for her—this was her only excuse.
“What, dear heart? Pray tell me if I have done something to upset you?”
Zofia's mouth fell open. Her mind quickly went through the steps he would have had to take in order to find her. He would have had to leave the sanctuary of his castle, once he'd realized she had gone down into the village—going first to the wrong inn, then, upon finding her in peril at the second inn, had to slay a vampire. She didn't know if he'd had to kill the other two, (she didn't know if the other male vampire was still alive when he'd gotten there), and he had to at least gotten past Ommetress somehow to get to Myron. His asking if he'd upset her was just unreal. With the heal of her hand, she bonked the side of her head as if to get the cobwebs out.
“What? No,” she said finally. “You didn't do anything wrong. I just hand to get out of the castle. Besides I—” oh just tell him, for wizard's sakes! “Jacques doesn't like me, and I worried he might put something into my food.”
“I am sure you are misreading him,” he protested.
“No. I'm pretty sure he hates me.”
“Nonsense.”
“Well,” she said through a sigh, “he does, and I just didn't feel it would be safe to eat anything he brought me.”
“I do not understand where you could be getting this. I'm sure he does not hate you at all. I think he may be a little jealous of my attentions on you, but that is all.”
She sighed heavily again. She had to tell him that she was a sorceresses, otherwise, if Jacques told him first, he would definitely have a problem with her lack of honesty.
“He knows something about me that you don't,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I'm not an Ugwump, but a sorceress.” There. She got it out in the open. She watched as he stared at her for a few thundering heartbeats. Then his gaze fell off her for a brief moment as he said, “I knew this, dear heart.” Cocking his head, he peered back at her with those obsidian eyes. “I was merely waiting for you to confide in me.”
Dumbstruck, Zofia stared at him again. She felt her shoulders drop slightly, after the tension left her. “How long have you known?”
He reached out, grasped her hand and tugged gently to bring her forward, into his aura. “A little while. Perhaps as early as the moment we met.”
Zofia sputtered incoherently for a few beats. Unable to say anything intelligent, she pressed her lips together in order to stop sounding like a motor boat.
“I think we both need to clear the air,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes. Air clearing. That might be good.”
“Come home with me then,” he suggested, pulling her hand again as he turned away from th
e scene.
She moved with him, but when they stepped toward the table where Doreen snored, she stopped. Gazing down at the poor woman, she knew she had to wake her. Unfortunately.
“Wait,” she said. Pointing the finger of her right hand, she incanted, “Awaken!” A streak of green light flashed from her finger, hitting Doreen, making her glow eerily for a short moment. Doreen's head jerked up with a great intake of air.
Looking around herself she brayed, “Oh! What was I saying?” Her excited expression went to one of confusion as she took in the place, and the fact that Zofia was not seated across from her where she had last been, and now Saint Germain stood there with her. “What happened?” She looked around herself again. “Where is everyone?” A plump hand went to her matronly bosom. Gravy stains blotted her dress, it was in her hair, and smears where the bar maids had tried to clean her, gave her the appearance of someone who'd been in a food fight.
“Come, Mrs. Clutterbutt,” Zofia said as she positioned herself at the woman's side. Saint Germain was on her other side and they each took an arm to help her up. The woman wouldn't budge.
“Can you stand?” Saint Germain asked, as if hoping the large woman would at least help them haul her jumbo-sized butt out of the chair.
Doreen peered at him for a few beats and sputtered, “What? Oh—OH! Count Saint Germain, hello! When did you arrive?”
“Just a moment ago,” he said. “Are you alright, my dear?”
“Well, yes, of course!” Her glance fell off him and to the cleared-off table, and then around the room again. “What happened? Oh, dear—don't tell me! I didn't fall asleep again, did I?” She was all a dither over it.
Zofia and Saint Germain exchanged glances.
“Yes, you did, I'm afraid,” Zofia said.
“Oh, weell, I need to pay my bill,” she said and groped for her small change purse at her side.