A Vision of Vampires 1-3 (A Vision of Vampires Collection)

by Laura Legend

  However, just as she rounded the corner, she heard the violently familiar voice call one last time. “Cassandra,” the voice whispered, melancholic.

  In response, Atlantis froze, the hair on his back standing on end. He looked like he might run back to the voice.

  Cass had had enough.

  “We’re done,” she decided, scooping up Atlantis. Cass took Zach’s extended hand and jumped over the side of crypt, onto the stairwell. Together, they took the stairs two at a time, running to catch up with Maya, and Cass didn’t look back again.

  24

  Maya hadn’t gotten far. But it didn’t look like she’d been waiting for them either. They sprinted down the narrow Underside hallway. The passage looked identical to the one that Cass and Zach had initially used: blank walls, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, ninety degree angles framing the turns.

  Maya seemed to know where they were going. Cass tried to her empty mind and just run. She emptied her head into her feet and focused on the feel of her rubber soles on the concrete floor as they rolled through each stride. Her pace faltered only once. After their second left turn, she thought she saw, out of the corner of her eye, another locked and unmarked door, flush with the wall. But when she looked back with her good eye, all she saw was an empty wall.

  The hallways stretched on until, as before, they were suddenly out in the open, standing under the domed, twilight sky of an Underside hub. Cass bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Zach, hands on his hips, stayed close by her side. Atlantis, without looking back, bolted into the crowd and disappeared. Maya, her waist-length hair still impeccably braided, looked like she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine aiming to sell trendy tactical gear to semi-professional body-builders.

  They all waited a beat, eyes fixed on the tunnel’s mouth, to see if anything had followed them.

  Nothing.

  When Cass and Zach turned to go, Maya had already slipped off into the crowd. They couldn’t see her head above the mass of people, but they could detect the collateral ripple that signaled her passage. The crowd parted for her like a school of guppies for a shark.

  Cass and Zach fought to catch up. The crowd did not part for them.

  Cass had a hard time focusing on the work of maneuvering through the throng. She was still shaken by her novel experience of forked time. The implications seemed staggering. But, more immediately, she felt a kind of unbearable lightness deep inside her chest, expanding and contracting in time with her still pounding heart. She felt transparent, as if, beneath her clothes, she were composed of translucent layers of fine hairs, pale skin, red muscle, blue veins, pink organs, and white bone. She could feel her own skull, pale and cold and empty, bobbing like a balloon tethered to her spine by a string. She felt raw and naked and exposed. She felt incredibly powerful and enormously fragile.

  She let go of Zach’s hand and stopped for a moment in the middle of the crowd, folding her arms across her chest and squeezing her legs together in an irrational gesture of modesty and vulnerability, afraid that anyone looking would see right through her.

  Zach draped his coat over her shoulders and pulled her close, tucking her under his arm. She flinched instinctively but then hung on to him for dear life. He kissed her on the forehead and guided her through the busy streets. Step by step, the sensation drained away and she felt more herself.

  Soon, they were back at the York office tower and she was barely trembling.

  Maya was already inside the lobby at the security desk, her back to them. She gestured impatiently. The guard pulled something dark off the countertop, stuffed it under the counter, and then handed back her bag. She examined the contents and zipped it up tight.

  Zach and Cass pushed through the revolving doors and into the lobby. Even from across the room, Cass could see the guards stiffen at the sight of her, sweat beading on their foreheads. The guards, though, were clearly more afraid of Maya. At a nod from her, they moved to surround Zach and Cass, nightsticks and Tasers drawn.

  “What is this,” Zach shouted at Maya. He sounded angry and, despite himself, a bit hurt. “What’s going on?”

  “I am sorry,” Maya said calmly, “but our business is done. Know, though, that I am grateful for your help in securing the relic.”

  Cass’s cheeks burned bright red.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Cass said, watching the guards hesitate in response, “until I’ve talked to Richard.”

  Maya shook her head sadly. “I am afraid that is not possible, Cassandra. Richard is definitely not here today.”

  Maya bowed at the waist, more polite than deferential, and turned to go, but stopped and added: “Thanks, too, for the Gospel of St. Paul. In the long run, it will be even more valuable than the chains.”

  Maya patted her vest pocket where she’d secured the manuscript. For just a moment she looked surprised, then angry. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Do you mean this book?” Zach asked, holding up the slim volume.

  Maya’s eyes narrowed even further. She hefted the bag with the relic, the veins in her forearm popping, her long braid swinging.

  “We only need the relic, Maya,” Cass said, her voice cracking. “We just need to save Miranda. Let us have the relic and the books is yours.”

  Maya weighed her options. She looked Zach up and down, but locked eyes with Cass. Her expression softened uncharacteristically, edging toward pity.

  “As you wish,” Maya said. She put the bag down and, with a graceful kick, sent it sliding across the polished floor.

  Cass picked up the bag. Zach handed the manuscript to the nearest guard.

  “My advice is to move quickly,” Maya said. “You are running out of time.”

  She looked ready to go but, after a pause, Maya directed one last comment at Cass. “You are so young, Cassandra. You understand so little. I do sincerely hope that, in the end, you do not find what you are looking for. It will destroy you.”

  With that, Maya disappeared through a side door and Zach and Cass were shuffled back onto the street.

  They were hardly out the door, though, before Cass grabbed Zach’s hand and started pulling him down the street.

  “She’s right,” Cass said, “we are running out of time.”

  25

  The crowded streets were beginning to thin. It didn’t take them long to get back to BO-BS cantina. Zach hesitated at the door, remembering how he’d been pawed and cornered during their first visit.

  “Come on, tough guy,” Cass said. “I’ll still protect you.”

  Business had also slowed inside. The tone was subdued, the male dancers off duty, the lights dimmed, and the customers that remained were all gathered in little knots around tables and booths, nursing drinks. However time worked in the Underside, the whole hub seemed to be quieting down.

  Once Zach got a look at the now somber room, he stopped trying to hide behind Cass, straightened up, and took the lead. They didn’t have any trouble navigating their way toward the back.

  They expected to have to get past the bouncer again, but no one was posted at the door. Zach knocked. No response. Cass turned the knob and gave the door a gentle shove, letting it swing open to give them a view of the room. The lights were off and the space was dim.

  Cass drew her sword and flicked on the light with the tip of the blade.

  The office was empty. The pneumatic tubes that branched wildly along the ceiling, disappearing into the walls, were silent. The whole room had the feel of an empty stage, abandoned as soon as the performance was complete.

  “Damn it,” Cass whispered.

  They took a closer look around the room, trying to keep their growing panic in check. Zach checked the closets and looked behind the door. Cass took a closer look at the desk.

  The images and scrollwork carved into the surface of the desk caught her attention. Already, in just over twenty-four hours, a thin layer of dust had collected on the surface. She wiped it clean with her sleeve. The images
varied and included a whole menagerie of mythological creatures—unicorns, dragons, phoenixes—but these diverse elements were all tied together by iconography that was explicitly Christian. She traced the larger patterns in the work and noticed that they skillfully led the eye toward a specific focal point: the scrollwork that embedded the reference to “LUKE 15:24.”

  Cass tapped her finger on the verse. Zach was looking over her shoulder now.

  “What is it?” Zach asked.

  “Luke 15:24,” Cass said, closing her eyes, searching her memory. “It’s from Luke’s version of the parable of the prodigal son: ‘For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’”

  “Huh. What about this?” Zach asked again, pointing to an older carving on the margins of the desk. “What’s the secret message here?”

  In crude letters, it said: FOR A GOOD TIME CALL . . .

  Cass shook her head sternly, caught off guard, trying not to laugh.

  “I think that might be my old number,” Zach added, a hopeful edge to his voice.

  He slipped his arms around Cass’s waist. She leaned back into him and couldn’t stop from laughing now. This time, he didn’t try to stop himself from kissing the nape of her neck. Cass surrendered to the distraction, stretched her arms high over her head, and inclined her neck to one side, inviting him to continue. Zach nibbled on her ear, his hands sliding higher on her ribs.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Amare said from the doorway, his French inflection more obvious this time. “But a little bird told me that you had returned. I had begun to despair of your success. I fear Miranda may feel the same way.”

  Cass’s arms dropped to her side, one hand itching for her sword.

  “The relic is in the bag?” Amare asked. “Hand it over.”

  “What about the deal?” Zach countered. “You promised us information in return.”

  “Relic first, information second,” Amare said, his hand outstretched.

  Zach was reluctant to trust him, especially after what had just happened with Maya. But Cass was tired of delays. She tossed the bag to Amare. He glanced inside and zipped it back up.

  “Thank you, Miss Jones,” Amare said. “Now, to make good on my end of the bargain, I need to tell you two things.”

  He held up one finger.

  “First, Miranda was, in fact, abducted and is currently being held at a remote location. However, she is not being held by the Lost—though her abductors certainly went out of their way to give that impression.”

  Cass was out from behind the desk now. Amare had her full attention.

  “Miranda is, instead, being held by ‘the Shield,’ a secret society of magicians who practice the ancient Japanese art of kotodama to manipulate reality with words and symbols. They think of themselves as the good guys. They are self-styled defenders of the status quo, and—speaking from personal experience—I assure you that they can be quite ruthless when it comes to dealing with anyone, friend or enemy, who gets in their way.”

  He extended his free hand with a folded piece of paper between two fingers. Cass took it.

  “Miranda is being held at their base in the mountains of Japan. It was originally an ancient monastery. This map will get you there.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me who they are,” Cass said as she started for the door, her jaw set and her face grim. “I’ll tear them apart.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Amare said, stepping aside but gently grazing her arm with his hand as she passed by.

  Cass stopped in the doorway to see what else he wanted. Zach was still on the far side of the desk. Amare was positioned between them.

  “But that was only the first thing you needed to know. The second thing may be equally important.”

  Cass was confident she didn’t want to hear whatever was going to come next.

  “You should also know that your boyfriend, Zach Riviera, is one of the Shield’s top agents.”

  26

  Miranda was chained to a wall in what could fairly be described as a “dungeon.” The room was cold, the stone walls and stone floor had chilled her to the bone. Her wrists were red and raw. Her arms ached from being suspended from the wall above her head. Her emotions bounced between anger, pity, and despair. But regardless of how she felt, the focal point of her emotions was the same: Kumiko.

  Keys turned and the bolt in the heavy lock on her cell door clunked free. A moment later, the door to her cell banged open. Pushed too hard, it rebounded off the wall. An enormous figure ducked his head and, leading with his shoulder, squeezed his bulk through the door. His ridiculously large hands stilled the door. The fading evening light cast stark shadows across his face, highlighting the fact that his cheeks were pitted with deep acne scars.

  “Hello, Dogen,” Miranda said weakly. She rolled her eyes upward, taking him in without lifting her head. He looked identical to how he’d looked when she’d met him thirty years ago: looming and gentle and ponytailed. “I think it’s time to consider a haircut. Even in the mountains of Japan, the ’90s are long gone.”

  Dogen stopped short, his hand smoothing his hair, seriously considering her advice.

  Kumiko stepped out of the shadows behind him. She looked like a child next to Dogen. “There’s no reason to be cruel,” she said. “We’re all just doing whatever must be done.” Her hands were clasped in front of her, hidden in the sleeves of her kimono. Her white hair was gathered in a tight bun.

  Kumiko continued. “Clearly you were just doing what you felt must be done. Even if that meant betraying the Shield. Even if that meant betraying me.”

  Miranda let her head hang, eyes down, her weight suspended from the chains that bound her wrists.

  “You’re wrong,” Miranda whispered.

  “I wish that were true,” Kumiko replied, her voice cold and reserved. She paused, and softened slightly. “I do wish it were true. But you’ve always put your own family first. Your loyalties have never really been to us.”

  Kumiko gestured to Dogen. He dragged an old stool from the corner of the room and set it closer to Miranda. Kumiko sat down, her feet barely touching the floor. Dogen then brought a bucket of water with a metal ladle in from the hall and set it where Miranda could see it. It looked like ordinary water but, trained in kotodama, Miranda knew that the glimmering water’s green tint indicated something more: “interrogation water.” Infused with a spell, the water would wear away her mental defenses, making her cooperative and her responses truthful.

  Dogen ladled a scoop of the water over her head. The water was freezing cold and Miranda winced and wilted in response, shrinking back into herself. The tiny ladle, though, was unwieldy in Dogen’s massive hands and, returning it to the bucket, he splashed some water on himself.

  Kumiko shot him a disapproving look. Dogen looked away, abashed. Miranda couldn’t say for sure, but she thought that he now looked even more cooperative and compliant than normal. He looked like he was ready to spill all his secrets.

  “You have recklessly endangered us all,” Kumiko said, returning to both her monologue and her icy demeanor. “Without authorization or consultation you revealed yourself to Cassandra and involved yourself in a maverick, globe-trotting adventure that resulted in the death of Judas and the catastrophic destabilization of the fragile balance between the Lost, the Turned, and the ordinary world—a balance that we had worked so hard, for so long, to ensure.”

  Kumiko rose to her feet and, despite her height, she towered over Miranda.

  “You were a faithful disciple for so many years. You had such promise, even after what happened with your sister. But I should have seen what was coming. In the end, like your sister, you were incapable of patience. You leap into action and gamble everything without weighing the consequences of your actions or foreseeing their ramifications.”

  Miranda felt a flicker of anger when Kumiko mentioned Rose but, soaked in interrogation water, she had no fuel to burn.

  “I know that you were looking for the
new leader of the Lost, the one they call the Heretic, and that you had reached out to them without authorization and were pursuing sources outside Shield protocol. And I know, too, that in a foolish effort to save you from your own people”—Miranda looked up at this, an honestly skeptical look in her eyes at the mention of the Shield being “her own people”—“Cassandra has, once again, enlisted help from the Turned, secured a valuable relic, and then willingly handed that relic over to the Lost themselves.”

  This last revelation hit Miranda hard. “Oh, Cass,” she said softly to herself, shaking her head. “Not for me.”

  “Your girl is a one-man wrecking crew,” Kumiko said, raising her voice. “If her emotions break loose, she may single handedly destroy the world itself before the week is out!”

  Kumiko almost shouted this last bit, her frustration wearing through. Pacing the length of the cell, she smoothed her kimono, calming herself.

  “You have failed Miranda. Your whole family has failed. And Cassandra won’t be able to help you now. She may find her way here, but when she does, she’ll just be stepping into a trap. And once we also have her in hand, we may finally be able to start cleaning up this mess you have made.”

  Dogen was getting a little antsy, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other, primed as he was by the water to be extra cooperative and compliant. He looked like he might jump in and start helpfully answering questions for Miranda.

  “I need to know the truth,” Kumiko continued, lifting Miranda’s chin to look her in the eye. “I need to know what you know. I need to know: who is the new leader of the Lost?”

  Miranda looked right back as her mixed emotional response to Kumiko finally resolved itself, moving from the spark of anger to an abiding sense of pity.

  Miranda pitied her.

  Kumiko would never be able to see the truth—she was too frozen to thaw to its warmth. And whatever bond of trust and friendship had once existed between them was gone now, irreparably broken.