by Ilana Waters
Yes, in any other context, she’d be a toothsome little distraction. One he could slake a variety of hungers with. But right now, several yards across from them, it was the exposed gas line that had his attention.
“Look, Sliver—” one of the other vampires started, a Cockney accent thickening his voice.
“Silver,” she snapped. “It’s Abigail Silver, you malevolent reprobate.”
“Fine. Silver. Whatever you told Jenks your name was before Mr. Blue Eyes over there snapped his neck in half.”
Mr. Blue Eyes? This insolent youth was next in line for neck-snapping.
“I don’t believe I told Mr. Jenks so much as caught him looking at my passport when he tried to snatch my purse.”
“Whatever. Just hand over the monkey, Silver, and no one gets hurt,” the vampire said smoothly. Titus could see his hairy-knuckled fingers flicking the cover of a cigarette lighter dangerously close to the gas line.
“Gee, why don’t I believe you?” With one hand, Abigail adjusted a small, tasseled bag slung crosswise against her hip. The other hand tightly clutched the green jade statue of a monkey. Her accent’s American, Titus realized. New York, perhaps?
“Because you’s a silly mortal who got her nose in where it don’t belong.” The vampire with the greasy leather vest over his bare chest cracked his knuckles. “Who sits around a pub taking notes on a pad, anyway?”
“None of your damn business, that’s who,” Abigail shot back, then gave Titus a look that said, Can you believe these guys? He blinked several times. The woman wasn’t as afraid of them as she should be. That was odd. She also seemed to think she and he shared some sort of camaraderie. That was not only odd, but to her, it could be fatal.
Just because I happened to be next to you, dear, when you caught that silly monkey doesn’t make me your friend. One of the low-watt bulbs left dangling from the ceiling buzzed on and off. When the melee had broken out, and the other vampires began tearing each other apart over the statue, Titus merely glanced up from his corner booth. He’d half hoped a good bar brawl would break up another night’s tedious hunt. It was too easy to go to pubs on the edge of town these days, then follow a straggler out the door and help him into oblivion.
But when a few vampires got shoved his way and began striking him, he was forced to deal with the situation. Titus lifted the other blood drinkers over his head and hurled them across the room. The mortal bartender and patrons wisely ran for their lives. The woman stayed.
Why didn’t she run away, like the others? he wondered. She didn’t seem shocked when the remaining patrons revealed themselves as vampires either. And why isn’t she afraid of me, the most lethal of all the predators here, only inches from her? She is either very brave, or very stupid. And what had she been doing here, all alone, calmly documenting these unbelievable events?
Blast. She had a block on her thoughts. Or she was just one of those mortals whose minds he couldn’t read. Not unless she let him, of course. Damn the luck. He tried to read the other vampires’ minds, but they all had blocks on theirs. Naturally. Experienced immortals weren’t foolish enough to let others peruse their thoughts.
Who cares why they want that ridiculous monkey, anyway? He hadn’t noticed the fist-sized statue flying through the air until the woman snatched it and ducked behind an overturned table next to him. Then, he realized the only vampires still alive had taken advantage of the hole behind them that got torn in the wall. It had left the gas line exposed. All they’d have to do was tear a piece of the pipe off—easily accomplished with a vampire’s strength—and ignite a flame. A single flicker from that imbecile’s lighter would do it. Then they’d all go up. Taking cover in this corner of the room made good tactical sense, the strange woman’s presence notwithstanding.
But now, they were in a standoff. The woman refused to relinquish the statue for fear the other vampires would kill her; a well-founded fear, by Titus’s account. They were afraid that if they moved to do so, she’d destroy the statue, which she’d already threatened to dash on the floor. Hell, I could easily crush it in my hand, if I had a mind, Titus thought. But one of the vampire’s hands—sheathed in a fingerless glove—was wrapped menacingly around the gas line pipe. All he’d have to do was lean forward and pull.
“None of our business, eh?” A bald, beady-eyed vampire with a number of tattoos sneered at her. “I’d say it’s exactly our business. Literally. Know a couple of blokes who’d pay a tidy sum to get their hands on that piece. And we aim to oblige ’em—sooner rather than later.” He pounded one fist into the other, his skull ring grinning.
“Yeah,” the vampire next to him said. “You’s standing between us and a nice profit, girly.” He kept flicking the lighter’s cover open and shut, open and shut. It was driving Titus mad. He took a deep breath to calm himself, to keep from flying across the room and strangling the little stain.
He wrinkled his nose. That deep breath had been a mistake. He caught several disagreeable odors. Mud tracked in from outside. The stale scent of fish-and-chips. Cigarettes. And just beneath that, the general stench of vomit and piss that squatted in places like these. For once, Titus wished his vampire senses weren’t quite so strong.
“You should know, we’re none too keen on things that stand between us and our dough,” growled the vampire in the leather vest. “A lot of people are after that little green fellow in your hand.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed. “Why? Is it magical?” She twisted a tiger’s-eye ring around her finger.
Titus glanced at the statue, and his nose twitched. But he neither smelled nor sensed any magic coming from the statue. He took a chance and inhaled again. This time, he caught a whiff of wisteria, or maybe hyacinth. A mortal perfume, most likely the woman’s. It was a strange combination to find in a grimy, graffiti-ridden pub. Still, it blended nicely with the scents of alcohol spilled on the floor, and vampire blood on the concrete walls. Perhaps vampire senses aren’t always such a bad thing.
“Magical?” the vampire with the lighter repeated. “Maybe. But why don’t you forget about that statue for a bit? Why don’t you come over here, sweetheart? Then you’ll see how magical I can truly be.” He and his companions laughed, and Titus saw the woman’s brow furrow again.
Yes, strange, isn’t it, dear, hearing a vampire laugh for the first time. It carried the same timbre it always did, like unearthly music. Many times, it was the last music a mortal would ever hear.
His eyes scanned the room for a way to dispose of the buffoon. But from his present position, he could see no easy disposal methods. Just features he knew mimicked his: the shining eyes, the smooth, pale skin pulled tautly over light blue veins. Fangs that were never as long or obvious as human dramatizations depicted. Just long enough to warrant a second glance from the astute observer. The vampires’ true ages were impossible to discern; they remained frozen in time at whatever age they were turned. For this group, that appears to be the age of inanity.
He could tell they were trying to woo her. Not with their feeble insinuations, of course, but with vampire glamour. Titus could feel it snaking across the room in waves.
“Yeah, we got some magic right here for ya, love.” The leather-vested vampire grabbed his none-too-impressive crotch.
The woman rolled her eyes. “Stop, or I won’t be able to control myself,” she said drily. To Titus, she mouthed, Who are these schmucks?
Crotch-Grabber realized his glamour wasn’t working. His smile faded, and he glanced darkly at his companions. The one with the lighter stopped opening and shutting the cover.
Enough. This had been a pleasant reprieve from Titus’s usual ennui. But these goons had ruined his black suit and custom Italian shoes, now covered in blood and assorted filth. Perhaps not ruined them personally, but they were indirectly responsible. And he was tired of crouching next to the woman behind the overturned table. Not that his muscles were fatigued—that rarely happened to vampires. No, he was irritated at havin
g to cower behind this large, circular piece of wood. It wasn’t like him. The word “cower” and the name “Titus Aurelius” did not marry well.
“Gentlemen,” Titus said, “I’m sure you’ve enjoyed this little diversion as much as I have.” His voice deepened to a level that made most mortals soil themselves. “However, I have other things to do with my evening.” He looked past the overturned tables, past the stools with tufts of foam erupting from red plastic covers. Past the vampire he’d killed not long ago, feet sticking out from under the swinging door that led behind the bar. Finally, his gaze settled on the dusty glass bottles lining the shelves behind it. He narrowed his eyes at one, and it whizzed across the room, breaking itself over the tattooed vampire’s head.
Predictably, there was a roar of pain. The vampire stood up, as Titus knew he would, to do something foolish in rage. Titus started to stand up as well. Once I get rid of this half-wit, it’ll be one down, two to go. Then he could decide what to do with the woman. Maybe he’d even pocket the monkey as a souvenir.
The vampire did rush at Titus the way he expected. Gnashing his teeth, he wrenched a stool out of the floor and hurled it across the room. Titus ducked back behind the table just in time to see the stool smash a mirror above him and the woman. She shrieked as they were showered with broken glass. Titus covered her head with his arm so that the majority of the glass landed on his sleeve. The stool fell to the left of the woman in several broken pieces.
“Get back here, you daft twit!” The vampire with the cigarette lighter yanked his companion behind the jukebox. “Can’t you see he’s trying to goad you?”
Why did I shield her? Titus asked himself. The action had seemed instinctual, like a reflex. Yet his instinct was usually to kill mortals, not protect them. But he had no time to puzzle it out. The lot across from him needed sorting.
Next to him was another table, its leg welded to the floor. With one hand, Titus gave it a yank. The leg buckled easily between his fingers. Without leaving too much of his body exposed, he stood up just enough to lift the table over his head and heave it at the jukebox. The latter exploded in a dizzying array of sparks and broken glass.
So much for their cover, he thought with satisfaction. But the music machine was sturdier than he anticipated. The glass and plastic parts were gone, but the metal still provided a framework to shield the three vampires. They yelled heartily, calling him all sorts of names, and detailing the unkind things they’d do to him and the woman when they caught them.
Titus swore to himself and ducked back down. Everything else in this stink hole is cheap. They had to splurge on a quality jukebox? He would never understand mortals, even if he lived another two thousand years.
“Nice going,” the woman hissed. “You just made them madder.” She turned to him. “What did you say your name was again? Otitus Media? Gluteus Maximus?”
“Titus Aurelius,” he replied through gritted teeth. His eyes darted furiously to the right and left. But there was only one way out of the pub, as the other vampires were blocking the back exit.
“We could make a run for it.” As if reading his mind, the woman jutted her chin at the front door. “I can turn myself invisible a little. That might help.”
Turn herself invisible? Could she be a fellow witch? Titus wondered. She certainly wasn’t a vampiric hybrid, like him. Nor was she a natural witch; he would have sensed it immediately. And she couldn’t have read his thoughts; he would’ve felt the breach in his mind’s defenses. It seemed they just thought alike. Disturbing.
“I could turn us both completely invisible,” he said, “but it still wouldn’t help. As soon as they realized what we’d done, they’d blow us into next Tuesday.”
“Wouldn’t lighting up the gas main blow them up too?”
“I think that’s a chance they’re willing to take.”
Abigail nodded. “They do seem very intent on getting their monkey.”
“Oy, you stupid cow!” the tattooed vampire snarled. “Enough of this shite. Give us that monkey, or I’ll shove what’s left of this place up your arse!” He flung a long, flaming piece of metal from the jukebox across the room. It missed the top of Titus’s head by an inch before lodging in the wall behind him.
Abigail covered her mouth. Titus ran one hand over his blond crew cut. He and Abigail looked above him at the metal twanging in the wall, flames sputtering out.
Titus had reached the end of his patience.
He stood to his full height—over six feet. Abigail gasped again and gave his pants leg a sharp tug.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
He shook her off roughly. “Ending this foolishness, of course,” he said to her. Then, to the metal-flinging vampire: “Why don’t you come over here and make demands?” He used the tone that had worked so well for him as a Roman general. The one that had once commanded thousands of men to slaughter thousands of others.
It had the desired result. The other vampires glanced at each other nervously. They were frightened of him. Good, thought Titus. You should be. He took several slow steps forward, his shoes crunching on the broken glass underfoot.
But the effect did not last long. “Right, then.” The tattooed vampire gave a sharp nod and stood up. “Sod it all. I’m taking care of this once and for good.” There were echoes of “Bloody right,” and “Sort him out, Connor!” from his companions. Quick as lightning, Connor flew at Abigail.
Oh, no, you don’t, thought Titus. Just as quickly, he flew at Connor, caught him by the arms, and threw him at the wall. Connor made a sizable dent in the concrete and slid down. But he was up again in a moment, snarling, punching Titus in the face and stomach. Titus returned each blow just as hard and fast, even when Connor tore at his muscular arms, shredding his clothing and skin.
Though the latter repaired itself almost instantly, the pain still enraged Titus. Who does this little brat think he is? Connor lunged for his throat, but Titus wasn’t having any of it. A swift chop to the Adam’s apple sent Connor stumbling back. Titus worked hard to keep the fighting between the other vampires and Abigail. It was likely the only thing keeping them from going after her.
“C’mon, Con, don’t let him thump you like that!” the one with the lighter yelled.
“Yeah, finish him already! We need that statue.” The one in the leather vest chucked a broken stool leg at Titus’s head, but missed.
Connor gave an animal grunt and flicked a switchblade open. It caught Titus in the flank, where Connor wrenched it sideways. Titus’s eyes bulged; he bared his fangs, but made no sound. Then he grabbed the hand holding the switchblade and forced it back till he heard a snap.
Connor screamed. Titus tore the switchblade from his side and threw it on the ground. The wound closed, scarless, but it cost Titus blood, which was irritating. Connor gave an animal cry as he clutched his broken hand. It healed by the time he flew at Titus again, eyes lit with fury. He grabbed Titus’s collar, and Titus grabbed his. They spun around in midair until Titus managed to throw Connor off. Connor landed behind the jukebox, but the force of the spin sent Titus back above the bar. He smashed into the bottles lining the shelves, and they cascaded onto him, covering his body in spirits, broken glass, and blood.
Damn. That one is stronger than he looks. Titus sucked air in through his teeth and shook some of the glass off himself. Rivers of liquor were running down the back of his head and neck.
“I’ll have your guts for garters, you old bastard!” Connor screamed from behind the jukebox.
“They’d only improve your wardrobe,” Titus shot back. More cursing and shouting from the other side of the room. Curse these little whelps, Titus thought. Children of the night . . . they can all go straight to hell.
“Truer words were never spoken.” Titus heard a voice beside him. He turned to see Abigail on her hands and knees, gingerly crawling over the body of another vampire and back behind the bar. “About his clothes, I mean. That is one fashion-challen
ged bastard.”
“What the devil are you doing?” Titus whispered, though he knew he needn’t bother. The other vampires could hear them clearly. And though he and Abigail now had the bar for cover, which was better than the table, it was also closer to their enemies.
“Coming to get you, of course.” She shifted her purse across her hip; Titus saw the statue sticking out of the top. “I can’t just leave you on your own after you tried to save me.”
“I didn’t—I mean, I did, but it wasn’t . . .” Oh, hell, Titus thought. It’s useless. Why explain it to her? I can’t even explain it to myself.
“Ouch! Stupid glass.” Abigail wiped shards from her palm. “Oh, wait—there’s metal in there, too. Damn.” She withdrew a sliver from the pad of her thumb and glanced around. “They certainly have a lot of nice cocktail paraphernalia here. Shakers, tumblers . . .” She crouched on her knees next to him, surveying his torn and bloodied clothing. “You okay?”
“Worry less about me and more about them.” Titus jutted his chin toward the other vampires. Though if you survive them, you may still have to worry about me. His jaw went slack when he saw Abigail floating several feet in the air, peering at the jukebox.
Titus reached up and yanked her back down by her purse strap. She landed on the other side of him.
“Hey!” she cried. “Not so rough.”
“Stay down,” he hissed. “If flying didn’t work for me, it certainly isn’t going to work for you.” Unless you have other powers I know nothing of.
“Oy, she can fly, too?” Titus heard the other vampire begin flicking his lighter again.
“What is she, anyway?” Connor called.
“Yeah, mate, what kinda bird you got over there?”
“Still not sure yet.” Titus eyed her warily.
