He raised one claw, caught it in Sanguine’s hoodie collar, and pulled down as if unzipping the thin, worn fabric. It tore easily, exposing his almost translucently pale, freckled skin and jutting collarbone, then sternum, then sunken stomach. All the way down to the sharp angle of his hip and waistband of his torn and filthy jeans that might have at some point been blue. Sanguine let out a long shudder as the claw descended, scraping over his bruised skin but not quite breaking it.
The unfortunate young man still said nothing, and didn’t even attempt to break away, but squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and began to shake. Finished slicing open the rest of the sweatshirt, the vampire lifted his arm until Sanguine’s feet dangled a terrifying few inches off the ground. Wicked Gold raised his other hand, fingers together and outstretched into the shape of a knife, and silver claw-tips shining sharp and deadly.
“This isn’t how I expected it to end, or even wanted it,” he mused, seeming almost regretful, but not enough to release his hold. “But I do always get what I need. Goodbye, Sanguine. It’s been—”
“Wait,” someone said, and it wasn’t the ragged young man in Wicked Gold’s grip, who seemed barely present by this point, limp and paralyzed with terror. The other man stepped forward, the one who’d been leaning against the stones and watching the proceedings without comment until now. He was younger than the vampire by centuries and only slightly older than Sanguine’s early twenties, but much healthier and cleaner. He almost matched the vampire’s lavish ensemble with pale skin, slicked dark hair, immaculate gray suit, and well-shined shoes—just with much less gold.
“What?” Wicked Gold snapped, plainly annoyed at the interruption, but didn’t so much as glance over. His eyes stayed on Sanguine, who trembled violently in his grasp, feet still not touching the ground. His face was starting to regain a bit of color under the dirt, but the redness wasn’t a healthy change; he obviously couldn’t breathe, and tears spilled from his tightly closed eyes.
“That won’t work,” said the observer, striding toward the vampire and his terrified hostage in the middle of the circle.
“What, does it need to be a virgin sacrifice?” Wicked Gold grinned at Sanguine’s flushed and sweating face, and did not loosen his grip in the slightest. “Not much luck there.”
“No virginity necessary,” said the other young man smoothly. “But the sacrifice does need to be willing.”
“A willing sacrifice, for this kind of ritual?” Wicked Gold snorted and tossed his head, rolling his eyes as if the very concept was ridiculous. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you... aren’t you...?” He trailed off, snapping his fingers demandingly.
“Owen.”
“Yes, of course, tip of my tongue,” the vampire said with a vague wave that suggested he’d forgotten the name as soon as he’d heard it. “So we’re looking for some sad soul with nothing left to live for, is that it?”
“There are many reasons to volunteer for a sacrifice,” Owen said, keeping his voice and face an impressive neutral. “Despair is only one of them.”
“Mm,” Wicked Gold said, eyes on Sanguine, who still clung stubbornly to consciousness, and now his wrist. “And I suppose you wouldn’t have any of them?”
Instead of waiting for an answer, Wicked Gold opened his hand and let Sanguine fall, legs giving out under him immediately as he crumpled to the ground. The filthy and emaciated young man gasped in desperate lungfuls of air and coughed, lying half-curled into a fetal position.
“I asked you a question,” Wicked Gold said after a few seconds went by, while Sanguine wheezed and sobbed for breath. Aside from his moments of singular and terrifying focus, he’d never had much patience or a very long attention span. “You wouldn’t give up your life willingly, would you, even now? You honestly wouldn’t prefer sweet oblivion?”
He still couldn’t speak, but as violent coughs continued to wrack his frail body, Sanguine gave his head a clear, jerking shake. No.
Wicked Gold scoffed, then reached out with one foot and gave Sanguine a lazy but not overly gentle poke in his sharp-angled ribs. “Amazing. Truly incredible. And what do you have to live for?”
Sanguine tried to form words several times and failed, then finally got one out in a faint, pained whisper. “Summer.”
Wicked Gold gazed down at him for another moment as he shivered in the cold night air, then slowly crouched down. As if sensing his proximity, his captive’s eyes—now red and watery—opened and fixed on his face. As the vampire reached out to cup his chin, Sanguine immediately stopped his gasping and coughing, holding his breath and going perfectly still, like a rabbit freezing inches away from a fox. Wicked Gold looked smug at the obvious terror his presence instilled, but there was a cold fury beneath his relaxed and affable exterior, and his lowered voice held a deadly promise. “I’m afraid you have the wrong priorities.”
“If we’re done here,” Owen interjected from behind him with a slight sigh, the only indication of any frustration or weariness in his placid facade so far. “I do have other things to attend to this evening.”
Wicked Gold stood up straight again and ignored Sanguine, who still lay on his side on the ground, curling around himself. He was now trying to pull the torn shreds of his hoodie closed against the bone-soaking cold, sobbing again, but this time not to catch his breath.
“I suppose sacrificing you is out of the question,” he said to Owen with an appropriately wicked grin.
If the vampire expected the human to react with fear, he was surely disappointed. Owen simply removed his rectangular, silver-rimmed glasses and pulled a spotless cloth from his pocket, cleaning them of some microscopic or nonexistent speck of dust. “Entirely. By the way, it’s the wrong night for such a ritual. The most auspicious one would be in two days.”
Wicked Gold fixed him with a dangerously shrewd gaze, evaluating for any weakness as well as strength. “You’re more daring than the average human, that’s for sure. If not as clever.”
“I work for the Lady,” Owen said simply, like that explained and justified everything. Then he finished cleaning his glasses and replaced them on his face, never breaking his steady stare. “I make it my business to know what’s in her best interests.”
“Both of our interests,” Wicked Gold corrected with a congenial smile. “Since we’re such great friends. Surely what benefits one of us benefits both.”
Owen didn’t reply, or so much as blink. When it was clear he wouldn’t get any kind of response, Wicked Gold shrugged and turned his attention back to the twice-deceased Cruce.
“So, wrong sacrifice, wrong date, that was a waste of a perfectly good evening,” he said, sounding regretful of the time lost at least, if not the deed itself. “You couldn’t have told me it wouldn’t work a minute earlier?”
“He needed to die. I saw no reason to stand in the way,” Owen deadpanned, only giving Cruce’s body the briefest of glances. “So you were right about one thing after all.”
“Oh,” Wicked Gold chuckled, sounding surprised and tickled by the novelty. Still lying on the ground, Sanguine let out a harsh noise that might have been a laugh as well. “How delightfully pragmatic. I may like you after all.”
Owen simply stared at him with a perfectly blank expression, clearly not deigning to dignify that with a response either. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve wasted too much time here as it is.”
With that, he turned and walked away, neatly stepping over Cruce’s remains and keeping his still-gleaming shoes clean.
Wicked Gold watched Owen disappear outside the fire’s light, benign smile quickly turning into a calculating stare sharp enough to bore holes in his retreating back.
“There’s something he’s not saying,” he muttered. “Don’t you think?”
“I... don’t know,” said Sanguine, finally finding his weak and rasping voice. He shakily climbed to his feet, every movement pained and hesitant. His hoodie was little more than rags, and tear tracks left clean streaks down his filthy face. He di
dn’t move away, but he kept his wary eyes on the vampire, clearly scared of being choked again, or sacrificed after all.
“There is,” Wicked Gold concluded, and if he’d expressed any fondness for Owen earlier, any hint of that appreciation was gone now. “He’s holding out on us. Probably has to do with Our Lady, still walking around thinking she’s the queen. If I was really lucky, the conniving little bore would get struck by lightning in a minute.”
Sanguine did not answer or look up, as if unable to move until his next instruction. But he’d definitely heard the dark intent under the flippant words; his shiver might have been blamed on his lack of defense against the cold night, but the way he shied away just a bit could not.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Wicked Gold said with a good-natured-sounding chuckle. “I’ve never gained anything by being hasty. Besides, you remember what happened the last time I asked you to clean up a mess. Disaster. No, I want your focus on the other fly in my soup: the Witch. She’s up to something, and I want to know what. I’m sure she feels the same about me. Always nice to be thought of. If all else fails, just ask her, and she might actually tell you. She always did love to hear herself talk.” He gave Sanguine the same deceptively wholesome and self-deprecating smile he’d given Cruce. “Can’t possibly relate.”
“Yes, Lord,” Sanguine said, but he looked sick at the thought. He hesitated again, then spoke in a rush, getting it over with before he lost his nerve. “But are you sure that’s necessary? She could just be—oh.”
By the time he looked back over, Wicked Gold was gone, disappeared without sound or ceremony as he was prone to doing, particularly when he considered a matter closed.
Then the light was gone too. The bonfire hissed completely out once the vampire was gone, like it had been doused with bucketfuls of water. The circle plunged into darkness, leaving Sanguine alone with Cruce’s body, which still hemorrhaged black fluid. Aside from a startled jump he didn’t move, instead just standing there shivering, as if frozen with indecision as well as freezing cold.
When he finally moved, it was to give Cruce’s body one last, swift kick, then another, and another, until his strength gave out and he panted with exertion. Unlike Wicked Gold’s blows, it didn’t shift the huge man’s remains at all, but a grim, satisfied smile still spread across Sanguine’s thin face.
“Outlived you after all, fucker,” he whispered to the body. “I’m still here.”
Then the first raindrop smacked squarely on his forehead, making him jump again, and seem to remember where he was. As he scrambled to leave the macabre scene, he flipped up his hood, taking refuge beneath the single undamaged piece of his sweatshirt. A misty and slow-soaking Oregon rain began to fall, white noise filling the unnatural silence. Vampire corpses tended to be quick to decay, and if the rain held, the murder site would be washed clean of most evidence.
The stone circle, however, would still be here, filled with strange and ominous power, and waiting for its requirement to be fulfilled.
Far away, at the moment Cruce expired, two befanged girls woke up with simultaneous starts and yelps. With the night almost over and the sun close to rising, they’d just barely settled down into a peaceful daytime sleep, physically-teenage human forms curled up around each other.
But now they both sat bolt upright and clutched at one another, wide-eyed and startled thoroughly awake. As they exchanged a frantic stare, words began spilling out of both their mouths, all jumbled together. Still, they understood each other perfectly, in fact better than ever in the past century and a half.
“Did you—”
“Yeah, what was—”
“It felt like—”
“Him!”
They both went silent and still for a couple stunned seconds. Then Nails, spiked blonde hair even spikier from sleep, started to laugh. More like giggle, the kind of sound that was perfectly natural coming from a teenage girl, but not this one in particular. Her shoulders shook as she tried to keep quiet, raising a hand to her mouth, fingers tipped with appropriately pointed fingernails, but she couldn’t, laughter overwhelming her. As Maestra pulled Nails closer and buried her face in her neck, she was laughing too, eyes squeezed shut and tearing. They held each other and shook, until neither of them could tell if they were laughing or crying anymore.
Finally, they fell silent, still clinging together and holding perfectly still, as if trying to elude detection by some stalking hunter. The quiet in the Sunset Towers apartment they shared with their friend and rescuer Letizia was near-complete. Only faint birdsong broke it, preceding a burning sunrise that wouldn’t come close to reaching them in their dark, safe room with its blacked-out windows and nearby friends. Nothing bad or dangerous could. They were safe, a condition with which they were both sadly unfamiliar.
And now, perhaps, they were even safer.
“Raphael?” Nails asked after a while in a shaking voice, using the name nobody else used, that no one but the two of them had said in one hundred fifty years. Wicked Gold and Cruce didn’t tend to look on their thralls as individuals with names, which was just as well. It meant Raphael had never heard her precious, second, self-chosen name in either of their foul voices, only the one she loved to hear most. It was clean and free, just like her. “Do you really think he’s…?”
“I don’t know,” Maestra—this was her third name, the most casual, most everyday, still self-chosen but not as secret as ‘Raphael,’ not as sacred—replied, fiddling nervously with the end of one of her many neat, dark braids.
“Me neither,” Nails said—that wasn’t her original name either, nor the deepest and most personal. She wiped off her wet face with one forearm. Vampires might not bleed like humans, but they still cried like them. “But I don’t really remember what it’s like to not have him… here. Do you?”
Raphael didn’t answer. They stayed silent for almost another full minute, listening and reaching out with their minds into the dark, nearly unconscious mental realms where until now had lurked only monsters.
“Aletta,” she said softly after a while of unbroken, unprecedented silence, both inside and out of their heads. Raphael said the name like a prayer, and Aletta answered it, eyes flicking immediately up to her face. Some people had public and private pronouns, some had names. Like ‘Maestra,’ she wore the name ‘Nails’ like a favorite jacket, familiar and comfortable and warm. Just one that she sometimes took off when they were alone. And now, for the first time in several lifetimes, they were finally, truly alone. “I think he’s gone.”
“Like gone-gone? Dead gone?”
“Dead gone,” Raphael said in a marveling tone. “Dead for good this time. Let’s be real, if he was alive at all, he’d still be haunting us, but it’s so quiet. It’s just… so quiet.”
“Wow,” Aletta said, more an awed sigh than a word. “We’re really free.”
They lapsed into silence once more, neither quite knowing what to do with this information. Soon they’d probably explode into joyous energy, yelling and dancing and somersaulting through the air the way only Olympic gymnasts and average vampires could do—but for now, just sitting with it felt like the right thing.
“My head feels weird,” Raphael said eventually, hesitation creeping back into her voice. Always a little more reserved than her girlfriend and fang-sister, a little less impulsive, less outspoken, more pensive. “It’s like, everything’s louder and clearer, except when I try to remember things, does that make sense?”
She trailed off, but Aletta was already nodding, looking around at their safe, small room as if it were the first time she’d seen it. “Yeah. This”—she patted Raphael’s leg—”is real. I can see and feel everything really clearly, like, better than before. But everything else, like literally everything before right now, it’s like—”
“A dream,” Raphael finished slowly. “We live here now, with… Letizia. That’s our friend. She saved us. She’s a witch, and we have other friends too. We were supposed to get up to work at the Pit tomorrow.
But I don’t…”
“Shit,” Aletta whispered. “I can kind of see their faces, but it’s like nothing’s attached. Why did we forget? I know we forgot things, just not what!”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he—what do you think killed him?” Raphael asked. “Do you think it was…?”
“I don’t know,” Aletta repeated, clearly not daring to voice the possibility or the name—even if the vampire in question had gone by many—on both their minds, but sounding apprehensive as well. Whatever had killed Cruce, their sire and a very powerful vampire in his own right, would surely mean nothing good for the two of them. “Can you go back to sleep?”
“No. You?”
“No,” Aletta said, starting to wiggle out from under the covers. “Let’s tell Letizia right now. Maybe she can help with whatever’s going on in our heads too.”
“Wait,” Raphael stopped her, pulling Aletta back into their messy bed-nest. “Not yet.”
“Why not? She’ll believe us. She’s always believed us.”
“I know, just...” Raphael paused, looking down and clearly troubled. Aletta settled back in beside her, curling up like a cat against her side, content for once to lie still and wait until she found the words. “Once we tell her, she’ll want to research it and check it all out, and tell everyone else, and it’ll start a whole big thing. I just kind of want to enjoy it for a while. I want it to be just our thing for a little bit.”
Aletta nodded so Raphael could feel it. “Yeah. That sounds good. Hey,” she said, sitting half-upright and propping herself up on her elbow, looking down at the other newly freed vampire girl with a smile on her face that would have been sharp even without the fangs. “I think I know the first thing we should do.”
Arc 2 Page 2