by Rob Cornell
“I drew on your power because I didn’t have any, and I didn’t want to die.”
“What’s to keep you from doing it again?”
“If I can teach you how to use your own power, I won’t have to.”
We fell silent again. I still had a question itching my brain, but I held off asking until we pulled in front of the Black Rose with enough time to ask it before dawn hit.
“I gave you a lift here, so I take it you didn’t have a car. So, how did you follow me?”
The idling engine grumbled while I waited for an answer.
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I was in your back seat the whole time,” he said. “Who’s the shadow walking master now, right?”
I laughed. “Fast learner. Might get you to full sorcerer status quicker than I thought.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” He raised his fist. “Knuckle bump.”
I rolled my eyes. But what the hell? I bumped his fist.
Chapter Nineteen
I needed to heal my arm. Which meant I needed my power back. I needed fuel, and I needed rest. I also needed a place to hole up where no one could find me. I had plenty of daylight ahead of me, so a vampire ambush wasn’t likely. At the same time, it could take a while for me to reach full strength. I might sleep through all that daylight.
East Detroit was about as sad and run-down as a city could get. This was the side of the city that tainted Detroit’s reputation for those who never spent quality time on its streets. Poor neighborhoods. Poor people. And the depraved souls who preyed on the worn souls of those run down by the blight.
I found a motel that allowed me to pay cash and register under a fake name. Not many of those around anymore. The attendant didn’t even ask about my arm in the sling I had bought from a twenty-four hour drugstore.
The room my fifty dollars got me already had residents—little ones with antennae and thin skittery legs. When I flicked on the light, at least a dozen roaches scattered for the shadows, half of them scurrying under the bed. The walls were a yolky yellow, though I think the paint used to be white. The bedspread had unidentifiable stains caked into the fabric. Touching it as little as possible, I whipped off the bedspread and tossed it in the corner.
The smell of cigarette smoke dominated the space, but I caught hints of other smells I didn’t want to guess at.
First things first. I found a ratty phonebook in the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed. A phone sat on the nightstand beside the lamp with the torn shade, but someone had cut the curled cord connecting the receiver to the phone itself. I had hoped to avoid using my cell. Maybe they could track it. Or maybe that was giving them too much credit, courtesy of my paranoia.
Didn’t matter. I had two phone calls I had to make.
The first one was to the nearest pizza place I found in the phonebook. I ordered a large pepperoni and ham with a side of breadsticks.
The second call went to Fiona.
“Where the hell are you?”
I didn’t even get a hello.
“Someplace out of the way,” I said. A fresh jag of pain cut through my broken arm. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
I gave her the barebones version, leaving out Odi, and making the confrontation outside The Switch sound less perilous than it had been. I was honest about how the spell had screwed me up, and I told her about Goulet, including his supposed current residence.
“You believe that?” she asked. “It sounds ludicrous.”
Indeed it did. The Manoogian Mansion belonged to the city and traditionally served as home to Detroit’s mayors. The mansion’s rep got a bad hit after one particular mayor (now in prison for corruption, go figure) allegedly threw a wild party there, including strippers and all manner of debauchery. No one had yet proved this mayoral bash had really taken place. But the rumor was legendary enough to stick, true or not.
The current mayor had decided to avoid moving into the mansion. Not because of the fabled party, but because in a city with so many poor and destitute residents and a massive bankruptcy in its recent history, having a mayor live in such a palatial home looked kind of skeevy. He, of course, held a huge press conference to announce this amazing sacrifice, already campaigning for the next election three weeks into his first term.
The irony of it all? A trust had been established a long time ago, the funds strictly limited to maintaining the mansion. In other words, whether the mayor lived in the mansion or not made zero difference to the city’s bottom line. The mayor’s choice was nothing more than a symbolic gesture. But hardly anybody knew that, and it sure made good press.
If the mayor didn’t live in the mansion, I supposed it was possible someone else did. If it was Goulet, it meant the old vamp had some connection to the mayor. And probably a fair amount of influence to warrant a bed at the Manoogian.
Scary fucking thought.
“I don’t know if I believe it,” I said. “If it’s a lie, it’s an awfully random one.”
“Maybe it’s time to call in the Ministry.”
“Hell no. If Goulet really does have inroads to the city’s administration, the Ministry will make this political on all sides. They’ll want to be delicate to avoid disrupting the balance of power.”
“Cynical much?”
My stomach felt like it was feeding on itself. My hunger made it hard to focus on the conversation. I stared at the motel room’s door, trying to will a knock from the pizza delivery guy.
“Sebastian?”
“Ministry’s out of the question,” I said. “Especially with how they mishandled my situation last summer.”
“What are you going to do? Go after this ancient vampire yourself?”
“If I have to. To get Mom back.”
“At least let me help. Tell me where you are. I want to see you.”
I would have loved falling asleep while spooning her. But not in a nasty motel. And the mechanics of spooning would not accommodate a broken arm. The mere thought made my arm hurt more. “I’m holed up in a roach motel on the east side. You don’t want to come here. Besides, I need to go comatose for a while, get my energy back up to par. I would make terrible company.”
“You want me to sit here and worry?”
The knock at my door prodded my hunger. I almost doubled over while my stomach gurgled.
“Trust me,” I said. “No need to worry. I’ve got this.”
“Yeah, right.” Her sigh whooshed through the phone. “Call me when you wake up.”
I promised I would, hung up, and hurried to the door, not giving a damn about the agony in my arm as the sling jostled. The second I opened the door, my mouth watered at the smell. I gave the delivery guy a five dollar tip. I ate the entire pizza and all of the breadsticks in less time than I’d care to admit. But it filled the hole.
Then I eased onto the bed—above the covers, still in my clothes. I left the light on to discourage the roaches from coming out to play. The whole setup was worse than uncomfortable.
I feel asleep instantly.
About twelve hours later, I woke to a thunderous boom and the crackle of splintered wood.
I shot out of bed, heart racing, webs of sleep still clinging to me and messing with my vision. But I easily saw the door torn from its hinges and laying flat on the floor. And the vamp who stepped into the room holding a .50 revolver.
A vamp with long, black, greasy hair.
Chapter Twenty
Motel and hotel rooms were not private residences, so vampires didn’t require an invite to enter them. But Mr. Greasy here seemed to be a special kind of vampire, since he hadn’t needed an invite into Fiona’s apartment either.
I held only a thread of doubt that this was the same guy. He might have kept his glamour up when he had jumped Fiona, instead of showing his vamp face like he did now. But seriously, how many guys with shoulder-length black hair that looked like it had been shampooed with motor oil spent their time barging into places while brandishing a gun?
&nbs
p; My arm still hung in the sling. Most of the pain had gone. While I’d slept, my magic must have instinctively worked to heal me. It hadn’t fixed me as quickly as if I had consciously focused the energy toward the job. But it had worked enough to allow movement, and I didn’t need the sling anymore. I wrenched the sling off and used my power to gather the air into a shield.
The soles of Mr. Greasy’s boots crunched over the shards of door frame on the floor as he entered the room. He smiled, which always looked creepy with fangs no matter how many times I’d seen a vamp do it. A smiling vamp was never a good thing, anyway. Their sense of humor was firmly seated in the black comedy spectrum—and typically, you were the punch line.
He didn’t have the suit and red tie uniform like all the others. Instead, he wore green cargo pants tucked into his boots and a matching green tank top under an open khaki button down shirt. A military flare without the camo.
“You think your shield can hold up against six rounds from this sucker?” he asked, turning the gun over from one side to the other to let me admire its shiny finish.
“I just woke up from a nap. What do you think will happen when you’re out of bullets and I still have enough juice to clam bake your ass?”
He hesitated, eyes narrowed.
The motel room didn’t have a clock, and I didn’t wear a watch, so I didn’t know what time it was, but I could see the dark sky through the doorway behind Mr. Greasy. I had obviously slept through the entire day. Energy wise, I felt pretty good. I was loath to waste any of it on this jerk. I couldn’t afford another rest before going up against Goulet. I didn’t know what he wanted with Mom, and the longer it took me to get her back, the longer he had to do whatever he had planned.
Assuming it wasn’t too late already.
“Take your time,” I said. “The ruckus you caused with the door will have someone calling the cops soon enough.”
Mr. Greasy laughed. “In this area? Naw, I ain’t worried about cops.” He took a couple steps forward. “Why don’t you just drop the shield and come with me. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”
“Come with you? I thought your orders were to kill me.”
He shrugged. “Change in plans.”
“Why?”
“It’s a surprise.”
A vampire surprise. Sounded fabulous.
With a bit more power behind the move, I shoved at my shield, forcing it forward like a gust of wind made from solid stone. The blast struck true, throwing Mr. Greasy back out the door. I heard his body hit the pavement, and his startled grunt.
How’s that for a surprise?
The bathroom had a window facing the back of the motel. I ran for it, slamming the bathroom door shut on my way. Wouldn’t stop him, but maybe slow him down. A few seconds could make all the difference.
I stood up on the toilet and tried to wrench the lever that would release the window. A thousand and one nights of grime cemented the lever in place. I thought about blowing the window open with a spell.
Then the bathroom door blew off its hinges, and Mr. Greasy came in with his hand cannon leading the way.
I held out my hand to call fire.
The son of a bitch pulled the trigger.
A dizzying pain shot straight into my groin as the slug tore through my thigh. I cried out, lost my balance, and fell off the toilet to the gritty tile floor. White light flickered across my vision, the agony of the gunshot wound zapping my senses. Tears ran down my face as I writhed like a hooked worm.
“Don’t worry about the leg,” Mr. Greasy said. His booted feet stepped into my blurry view. “After you turn, it will heal real fast.”
Turn? Not this again. I squeezed my eyes shut. I reached past the pain, tapped my power, then lost hold of it when Mr. Greasy kicked me in the gut. The blow knocked the wind out of me, but all the pain stayed with my leg.
“None of that casting,” he said. “Be good like your mommy and come quietly.”
There was my confirmation that he was the right greasy guy. Not that I really needed it. Not that I even gave a shit at that moment. I just wanted the pain to go away.
Mr. Greasy grabbed me by my hair and dragged me out of the bathroom. Every inch I slid across the floor cranked up the agony in my leg another notch. Any minute now, I could pass out. The flashing light across vision gave way to an encroaching dark fog around the edges. Passing out would make it easy to take me. Then Goulet would have no problems finishing what those other vamps had started, stripping my title as the Unturned.
I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. The bite felt like a tickle compared to my throbbing leg. My foot had gone numb. My stomach bubbled with nausea.
When he had me in the center of the room, Mr. Greasy let go of my hair and let my head thump to the floor. He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed. His gaze lingered on my bloody leg, and he ran his tongue over one fang. “Intel was good,” he said into his phone. He listened for a second more, then hung up and tucked the phone back into his pocket.
The whole time, he continued to ogle my leg.
“You want a taste, huh?” At least, that’s what I meant to say. Talking through clenched teeth and a pain-tightened throat screwed with my voice. My words sounded more like, “Ohh ahnt ag haste, ung?”
He managed to translate. I could see it in his hungry red eyes.
“Shut up or I’ll shoot you in the other leg.”
A chill built inside of me, starting in my limbs and closing in on my heart. The pain cooled with it. Shock setting in. A bad sign, but useful in the short run. The reprieve gave me another chance to draw on my power.
Mr. Greasy stepped on my injured leg, digging his heel right into the wound.
Not even shock could dull the fresh pain that ravaged through me. I wrenched my head back and howled.
“I told you not to try anything,” the vamp said. “I can tell when you start up. Your face scrunches up like you need to shit.”
I’d never heard that before. I hoped it was a symptom of my suffering and not a regular thing. How embarrassing would that be?
“What’s so funny?”
I hadn’t realized I was smiling. Even with a hole in my leg, I still had my sense of humor.
Step on my leg all you want, asswipe. I’m a funny guy. Funny me. Hehe. Hoho. Don’t go crazy. Hehe. Ho— Get a hold of yourself, Light!
“I really am a funny guy,” I said, recalling that scene from Goodfellas.
“Good. Entertain yourself while we wait. Won’t be long before the crew shows up to take you home.”
I lost my smile. “I don’t have a home,” I growled. “You motherfuckers burned it down.”
“You have a new home now.” Again, his gaze moved to my leg. Again, his tongue flicked over a fang. “Trust me,” he said, voice strained. “It’ll be better soon.”
“You know, rumor has it my blood will taste especially yummy. A mix of vampire and human, magically charged to keep the one from dominating the other.”
His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. His uneven breaths made his nostrils quiver.
“It’s an open wound for the gods’ sake. No one will ever know.”
He held his gun down at his side. I watched the light shimmer off the revolver’s surface as it trembled in his grip. His hunger radiated from him, almost tangible in the air.
I whispered, “Just a taste. Before it’s too late.”
He narrowed his eyes. I saw the fight in him. He desperately wanted to take up my offer. He couldn’t keep his eyes off my leg. Hopefully, he was enraptured enough that he wouldn’t notice my constipated expression.
I dipped into my power as I slowly moved my hand toward Mr. Greasy’s foot.
Shock had closed in on me again, making me shiver but numbing the bulk of my pain. It allowed me to focus and wield my magic more quickly. I held my power at the ready, but didn’t unleash it. I had to catch him by surprise. Conjuring a fireball could alert him fast enough to shoot me in the other leg before I could throw my fire.
Mr. Greasy tensed. Either he was about to drop to his knees and start sucking, or shake himself free of the temptation and return his attention to me.
I slid my hand the rest of the way to his foot then grasped his ankle.
He looked down at the sudden contact, furrowing his brow.
I didn’t give him more than a second to puzzle together what was happening. I let my spell loose, lighting my hand like a torch, forcing wave after wave of fire up Mr. Greasy’s leg until the flames took on their own lives and crackled up his clothing.
He screamed and staggered sideways. My grasp on his ankle stole his balance. He toppled to the floor like a flaming sack of rocks. His gun tumbled out of his hand. He lost all sense of me, too busy slapping at the flames burning up his cargo pants and khaki shirt. Then his greasy hair caught fire.
Shock and pain couldn’t keep me from grinning. Mr. Greasy was now Mr. Crispy. He would have made a good date for Ms. Crispy back at The Switch.
These flames alone wouldn’t kill him. While my fireballs carried enough heat to immolate a vamp, all I’d done here was light his clothes on fire. Granted, I had used the magical brand of accelerant, which burned hotter than any standard chemical. Plenty hot enough to hurt him.
He had already started to roll back and forth, though. And the flames had begun to die out.
Calling on a little more power, I heated my hand until it glowed like iron fresh from the forge. Then, without giving myself a chance to hesitate, I clapped my hand over the gunshot wound. I cried out. The pork-like smell of my cooking flesh mingled with the rancid scent of Mr. Greasy’s burning hair.
After my hot hand cauterized the wound, I pushed some more power into my leg to nullify the pain. I couldn’t waste energy healing. Besides, I wanted to get out of there before Mr. Crispy’s buddies arrived.
I couldn’t leave him behind, though. Once he killed all the flames and shook off the pain from his burns, he would come after me again. Maybe even before I had a chance to leave the motel’s parking lot.
I crawled across the floor and picked up a large, pointed shard of wood that had come from the broken door frame. Then I shuffled on my hands and knees to the vamp’s dropped revolver.