Black Fall

by D.J. Bodden

CHAPTER 7

  By Friday morning, Jonas had developed a mild but constant headache from maintaining his barrier. He wasn’t having any strange dreams, but he wasn’t sleeping well either. Sam, the O.C.D. part of him, accompanied him every time he checked his barrier, sometimes making suggestions. It was becoming normal and that worried him a little, but not enough to risk having his barrier drop in his sleep.

  No one had attacked him, at least not physically, since the break-in, but he’d felt light pressure against his barrier at home, outside, and during school, as if someone was testing it. His outer defenses were now a seven-foot tall and two-foot wide brick wall, topped with long metal spikes that slanted outward. After every inspection, Sam would goad him into building more. When he tried, the results were piles of loose brick, metal bars, and trash. It was too much for his mind to handle at one time, though he was getting better at it. And, as far as he knew, it was enough to hold “Madoc” at bay.

  Amelia hadn’t been pleased about him bailing on her for the weekend, especially when he wouldn’t tell her why. She told him to call when he was ready to talk. At least he didn’t have to come up with an excuse for not walking her to and from school.

  His mother was back in one of her reclusive phases, only leaving her room and saying goodbye as she headed off to work. He’d hoped the new openness about her past would jolt her out of the gloom she’d been mired in since his father vanished, and she was more active, she just wasn’t including Jonas in the activity. Once, he woke up in the middle of the night and thought she was in his room, but when he turned on the light, there was nobody there.

  After school, Bert and Phillip would be there to walk him to the Agency. They’d been more vigilant and less friendly since his talk with Fangston, and he suspected he’d gotten them in trouble.

  “I’m sorry about—”

  “Not your fault, kid,” Phillip said.

  “Not ours, either,” said Bert, his voice a growl. “Nothing we could’ve done about a mental attack, anyway.”

  “We could have killed the thing doing it,” said Phillip, “or carried Jonas away.”

  Bert grunted.

  “Anyway,” Phillip continued, “just a smack on the nose. No food out of my bowl, or yours either, Bert.”

  Bert shrugged, “Just rubs me the wrong way is all.” He gave Phillip a sidelong look, and they both grinned.

  Dog jokes? Really? Jonas thought.

  Before they left him at the front of the building, Phillip lowered his voice and said, “You be careful, now, Jonas. There’s a stink to the Agency these days.”

  “Rotten eggs,” Bert said, nodding.

  Jonas frowned. “Rotten eggs? As in… sulfur?”

  The two werewolves looked at each other. “Told you he was a smart one, Bert.”

  Bert made a face.

  “Just keep your guard up,” Phillip said, “You wouldn’t want me and Bert answering to your mother for not keeping you safe.”

  “Wouldn’t want us answering to her, period,” Bert said. Phillip made the low throat-growl Jonas now equated to a smack on the back of the head. As the two walked away, he saw Bert give Phillip a wounded look.

  Jonas watched them go, almost laughing as pedestrians parted in front of the two giants like water flowing around a stone. He was still smiling as he walked into the building.

  “Hi Jared,” Jonas said to the security chief, and reached into his pocket, then froze. He’d left Fangston’s card at home and, for a moment, thought he’d have to show it to get in. A lump formed in his throat.

  Jared stared at him, stern faced, then winked. “Don’t worry about it, Jonas, I remember you. Just head downstairs.”

  How did he know? Jonas thought. By all appearances, Jared was human. He hadn’t felt anything breach his barrier. Maybe Jared had seen the look so many times he didn’t need to read thoughts.

  Jonas stepped into the elevator, looked at the console, and pictured the underground lobby. The doors slid shut and, a minute later, he was at the reception desk.

  “Hi, Doris!” he said, waving.

  “Ehoh, Ohash Ah.”

  …Jonas Black, her voice echoed in his head.

  Jonas stopped and looked at Doris. “Was that you?”

  She looked at him, and he heard something between electronic static and a whisper. Doris made a frustrated noise that sounded like a dog snarling, along with the usual wheeze of air through the hole in her throat. “Ohp Awsh.” 

  Drop walls. She wanted him to drop his barrier.

  “I’m sorry, Doris, I can’t do that. It’s not safe.” He thought about how upset Sam would be, then shook his head. Was he really worried about how his imaginary friend would feel? Definitely not healthy.

  She shook her head, and the motion made her wig spin around. She snatched the hairpiece from her head and threw it under the desk. Her smooth, bald head was as gray as the rest of her skin. She stared at Jonas, and her eyes glowed neon green. It made the hair on his arms stand on end. 

  Window! Just me! she said in his head. Even though he could barely hear her, he got the impression she was screaming, broadcasting as loud as she could. Against Sam’s — against his own protests, he pictured an opening the size of his fist in his outer barrier.

  Can you hear me? she shouted, telepathically.

  Jonas winced at the volume of the thought. “Yes, you don’t have to shout now, Doris. I can hear you.”

  She sat back in her chair, rooting around on the floor for the wig. Thank goodness. Do you know how irritating it is to speak with a lisp? Even when they replace my tongue, it’s still mortifying. The voice in his head was precise, feminine but not soft, someone accustomed to power.

  “Why are you the receptionist?”

  I enjoy talking to people, she answered. And if there’s a breach, they can just put me back together again. Her “voice” was cheerful, but there was anger hidden behind it.

  “A breach? You mean someone attacking the Agency?”

  Yes. Happens every so often. That’s how I lost my tongue in the first place.

  Jonas looked around. The cream and tan lobby didn’t seem like an ideal place to fight.

  Three-feet of warded iron behind the walls, and blast doors on every exit. They have a warehouse full of the paneling and furniture, they just replace it, like me, she said, winking at him.

  Jonas realized he was broadcasting his thoughts again.

  Just to me, Doris said.

  “Can anyone else use the window I made in my barrier?”

  Yes. You’d better close it. You have to get to the training rooms anyway, or you’ll be late. At least I can talk to you, now, instead of all the oohing and moaning.

  Jonas smoothed his barrier shut. “Thanks, Doris. I’ll see you later.”

  ♟

  He barely made it to the training room on time. It was the one with gym mats covering the walls and floor. There were nine people — vampires — already there. He assumed they were vampires, anyway. They all had a slightly unreal smoothness to them, as if they’d recently been airbrushed. Several were working in pairs, going through a slow series of punches, grabs, parries, and counters together. One was flailing around as if he was fighting an unseen attacker — fighting and losing, Jonas thought. Another pair, a male and female, were just staring at each other. Every so often, one or the other would flinch, as if stung. All of them looked to be in their mid-twenties, and were wearing normal street clothes. Crap, should’ve asked, Jonas thought. He’d gone out and bought a jogging suit and sneakers. No use worrying about it now, he thought, spotting Eve in the back corner with a vampire who looked to be in her late twenties. His mother looked like she was about thirty, too, he recalled, and his guard immediately went up.

  “Jonas, come over here. You’re late,” the older vampire said.

  Jonas resisted the urge to look at his watch. He gained nothing by being right, and Eve had warned him about the instructors.

  “Good, you’re not stupid. My name i
s Viviane Lefèvre,” she said, speaking with a light French accent. “I am your trainer. For all future sessions, you will wear your normal clothes. The object is to train the way you would fight on the street. You will come early to observe the others before class. But first, you will fight François,” she said, pointing behind him.

  Jonas turned and saw “François” standing five feet away. He was of medium height, with wide shoulders, well-muscled arms, and big hands. He had short blond hair and a handsome face, except for a scar that started under his left eye and snaked down across his cheekbone. Jonas turned back to Viviane. “I’ve never—”

  “Everyone fights François,” Viviane said, looking bored. He looked at Eve, but she looked away.

  “Hey, kid!” François said, tapping him on the shoulder.

  Jonas turned around, and the man slapped him. It was a limp-wristed slap, and though it stung, it surprised him more than it hurt. “What are you—?”

  François slapped him again and spat on the floor.

  Jonas saw red. He punched François square in the face, rocking him back on his heels. The man shook it off and struck at Jonas again, but he blocked it, tackled Francois to the ground, and climbed on top of him, pounding mercilessly at his face. François tried to deflect Jonas’ punches and worm out from under him, but Jonas was too strong. He could feel himself getting tired, but he was lost in the moment. Besting a man the size of François felt good… Maybe my vampire strength is starting to kick in, he thought. He’d been keeping his barriers up for two whole days, maybe it triggered—

  Jonas sat up. He could hear — or at least sense — Sam shouting at him. My barrier, he thought. He wasn’t sure when — maybe after he’d started talking to Viviane — but he’d let it slip. He clamped it back down, and François flickered, then disappeared. Jonas knelt on the floor, breathing hard, his knuckles sore from hitting the gym mats. “He wasn’t real,” he said, getting to his feet and looking at Viviane.

  Jonas felt a coil of force push through his barrier, and François reappeared. The illusion aimed another slap at him, but Jonas ignored it. François’ hand passed straight through him. “He still isn’t real.”

  “You’re Alice Black’s son, that’s for certain,” Viviane said, smoking a cigarette. She flicked the ashes toward the ground; they disappeared before they landed.

  Jonas clamped down his barrier again, and Viviane flickered, though he couldn’t completely block off the outside force. “And she’s not real either, which means there’s only you,” he said, looking at Eve.

  Eve winced. Jonas wondered how long it took other students to figure it out. The Viviane illusion walked over — the cigarette disappeared somewhere, which Jonas thought was sloppy — and moved to slap him. Jonas grinned and turned his face into the blow, keeping his eyes on Eve.

  It felt like getting hit in the jaw with a crowbar. The blow knocked him to the ground and bounced his head off the mat, making him see stars.

  “She’s real,” Eve said. “Sorry.”

  Viviane stepped toward Jonas, and he instinctively curled into a ball. She reached down, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and lifted him to his feet. “What have you learned?”

  Jonas’ throat felt tight. He understood Eve’s previous outburst, now. The instructors were terrifying. Viviane looked like a petite French model, with dirty blonde hair, big brown eyes, and pouty lips, but she’d lifted him easily. She held him by the scruff of the neck, like a puppy, with only the tips of his toes touching the floor. He knew he’d be hit again if he said something stupid, or hasty, or if he didn’t answer at all. “I learned that I don’t know anything about being a vampire,” he blurted out.

  Viviane set him down, gently, and straightened his jacket. “Now, questions.”

  “Who is François, really?” he asked, rubbing his jaw.

  “My first and last boyfriend. He used to call me names and slap me around after he’d had a few drinks. I left him for a German during the war.”

  “You left him for a Nazi?”

  “A German,” she said, irritated. “We met during World War I. At least, I thought he was a German. Turned out, he was a vampire from Norway, and we didn’t ‘date’ so much as he had me for dinner. So François was my only real boyfriend, and now, everyone fights François.” She smiled playfully, and took a pull from the cigarette that had appeared in her hand again.

  “Why do you smoke that cigarette?” Jonas asked.

  “It calms me.”

  “But it isn’t… I think it isn’t real.”

  “Good, that’s an important distinction,” she said, waving the cigarette in front of his face. The end glowed red, and the smoke irritated his nose. He flinched away. “You’re right, it isn’t real, but it still calms me. You’d have to be an idiot to smoke a real cigarette.” She counted, pointing to the fingers on her left hand, and said, “They make you smell bad, start fires, and will kill you.” Then she took another puff and gave him a wink.

  Jonas bit his lower lip. He knew he should have more questions, but he was too tired. His head hurt, and his arms still felt rubbery from his “fight” with Viviane’s ex.

  “What else should I know?” he asked.

  “Those are the basics. You’re a vampire, not a werewolf, a golem, or one of the other physical types.” She said the word physical with laudable disdain. It was beautiful, in a way, the product of almost a century of condescension. “Your fight is first in the mind, then with your fists. Imaginary things you believe in can hurt you, but real things you don’t believe in can hurt you more. In that, we aren’t much different from humans.” She looked at Eve, and said, “Take him through the blocking drill, until he can’t anymore.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Eve said.

  “And Jonas?”

  “Yes ma’am?” Jonas said, mimicking Eve.

  “Give your mother my regards.” She turned and walked over to another group, trailing a thin line of smoke behind her.