by Ilana Waters
She winked at him. What gall! “Me neither,” she said.
“All right, you rotters,” one of the other vampires called from across the room. There was something final in the roughness of his voice. “If you don’t hand over that statue on the count of three, I’m tearing the gas right out of this thing.” There was a loud scraping noise as he pulled the pipe from the wall, but it did not break. “Me and mine’ll make for the door. I’ll fire up ol’ Shiny here . . .” Again came the clinking noise of the lighter. “And toss her into the gas. Then you’re finished for sure. Or you can toss us the monkey, and maybe we’ll go easy on you.”
“Yeah, maybe,” one of the other vampires said with a nasty chuckle, seconded by his friends.
“I don’t like the tone of that ‘maybe,’ ” Abigail said to Titus.
“Neither do I,” he muttered. Damn the lot. They still have the upper hand. The fire from a gas explosion could blow even an ancient like himself to kingdom come, to say nothing of Abigail. But he didn’t care if she perished. Of course I don’t, he assured himself. Why would I?
“And really. ‘On the count of three’?” Abigail called. “Who are you, my mommy?”
“One,” said the vampire with the lighter.
“I don’t think we want to find out if his parental skills are up to par,” Titus said to Abigail. But she wasn’t listening to him. Instead, her eyes were scanning the barware around them. Then, they fell on the dead vampire a few feet away, the handle of a .45 visible just above his waistband.
“Quick!” she said to Titus, who was closer to the dead man. “Give me that gun.”
“What? Why? A gun can’t kill a vampire, you fool.”
“Just give it to me!”
“Two,” the other vampire said. There was the moan of metal as he pulled again on the pipe, which had to be close to breaking by now.
“I need a controlled explosion!” She held out her palm and grabbed at the air impatiently. The gun rose from the dead vampire’s waistband, then snagged.
“A what? Why? Oh, hell.” Titus jerked the gun from the vampire’s belt and thrust it into Abigail’s hand. What does it matter? he thought. In a few seconds, we’re both going to die. He could see no way out of this. His heart began to beat faster, but he would not allow himself the conceit of fear. He had faced death many times. This would be the last.
“Fine, if that’s the way you want to play it,” they heard the vampire with the lighter say. There was a double-whooshing sound as his companions flew to the door. “Thr—”
He never finished. Abigail threw the gun high in the air, where it stayed, a transparent bubble forming around it. She craned her neck back and held her hands before her, her brow furrowed in concentration. There was a loud bang, and the bubble filled with fire. Titus covered his head, certain it was about to burst on top of him.
But Abigail held the bubble together. She took a deep breath and bit her lip. Anything metal around the bar started flying into the bubble, as if it were a magnet. A sharp knife whizzed past Titus’s ear, nearly slicing it off. He peeked over the bar. The other three vampires were staring at the bubble in confusion.
“What the . . .” one of them mouthed.
Shakers, tumblers, spoons . . . anything with a silver glint welded itself to the bubble. To Titus’s amazement, it all started to melt. The gun, the utensils . . . soon, they were a solid metal ball hovering in the air. Then, the mass changed shape. The ball flattened until it was a thin circle, spinning in a blur and a high-pitched whine. Sparks flew off it, just missing the puddles of alcohol all around them. Abigail stood up a little, and the circle whizzed across the room, lodging itself in the door frame next to one of the vampires.
“Connor! Connor!” the vampire in the leather vest screamed, eyes bulging and glued to the floor. Titus stood up halfway, in case it was a trap, or a distraction. But his jaw nearly dropped when he saw what the vampire was looking at.
Connor’s body was slumped against the door frame. His head was several feet away.
“Yes!” cried Abigail, pumping her fist in the air.
A blade, Titus realized. She had made a circular saw, which decapitated Connor. Incredible.
“Bloody hell!” the vampire next to the pipe gasped. He turned to Titus in disbelief. “What are you two?” Titus was about to protest that he had nothing to do with their headless friend. But the opportunity was soon lost.
“Who gives a fuck?” the other vampire screamed. “They killed Connor!” His shoulders heaved, his lips curled back in a snarl. “I . . . you . . .” He looked to the bar, growled something unintelligible, and flew at it, bellowing. Titus stood up, squared his shoulders, and bared his fangs. The other vampire’s hands were almost at his throat when, suddenly, his head was gone as well. His body fell to the floor; Titus barely had time to duck before the saw nearly clipped his own skull.
“Careful!” he shouted at Abigail. There was a loud thunk as the blade caught on a post, then tried to wrestle itself free.
“Sorry!” she cried. “I’m having a hard time—” The blade jerked out of the post and whizzed across the room to the opposite wall. “I’ve never done this before.” Abigail stood up and splayed her hands in front of her. She bit her lip as the blade flung itself back and forth at the concrete walls, giving off sparks.
She can’t control magic to save her life. And here I thought our problems ended with the street whelps.
The last of the other vampires—the one with the lighter—was looking back and forth from Abigail to the door. Trying to decide between the monkey and his life, no doubt, thought Titus. The other vampire lifted the remains of the jukebox—at least three hundred pounds—and held it in front of him for cover. The saw struck it and bounced off, sending more sparks scattering. Some of them caught fire in a puddle of spilled beer, and burned in a circle on the floor. The blade winged back and forth wildly. Abigail was still struggling to get a hold on it. The other vampire advanced. There was no time to overthink things. Titus knew he had to act now.
He leaped over the bar and onto the vampire. They crashed to the floor, the saw coming within a hair’s breadth of their heads. The other vampire roared in pain as the jukebox landed on top of him, and Titus on top of the jukebox. But with the huge, square frame of metal between them, the other vampire was trapped on the floor. It gave Titus just enough time to reach down and wrench his head off.
He barely had time to enjoy the shock in the vampire’s sightless eyes before throwing his head to the side. Barely heard the cigarette lighter fall from his slack, hairy grasp to the floor. The deadly saw was still zinging this way and that, like an evil flying saucer. Normally, a vampire would be able to move out of its way in plenty of time. But the weapon was fast—and unpredictable. Suddenly, it stopped, changed direction midair, and headed back toward Abigail.
“Whoa!” She managed to duck just in time. The saw hit the wall behind the bar where the shelves had been, then began flinging itself around the room again.
“Stop that thing!” Titus yelled, dropping under the counter amid the stools.
“I can’t!” Abigail’s voice filled with panic. Her trembling hands were splayed before her. Her head turned right, then left, as she tried to follow the blade. The creases in her face grew deeper; her skin turned pink with effort. Beads of perspiration ran down the sides of her head. Titus realized the saw’s trajectory.
The gas line. The discus was headed straight for the weakened pipe. When the gas reached the small fire burning on the floor, they were both finished. Without knowing why, Titus leaped over the bar and clasped Abigail in his arms. With speed only an ancient could manage, he burst through the front door. One second later, the saw sliced through the gas line. A second after that, the gas and fire met, and the pub exploded behind them.
Chapter 2
Mayfair, London, thirteen hours earlier . . .
They gathered in a quiet room with wood-paneled walls. Thickly padded car
pet muffled their footsteps as they arrived. Finally, they took their places. The intricately carved mahogany table seated ten people: eight men and two women. They ranged in age from thirty to seventy, except for one young man—thin and gangly—who was in his late teens. Before each seat was a glass of water; two clear-glass pitchers sat at opposite ends of the table. Behind one row of seats stood a credenza with two silver tea services, one used for coffee. Small bookcases dotted other parts of the room. Leather folders, manila files, and modified fountain pens rested under pairs of patiently folded hands.
In the center, on the right-hand side of the table, sat a woman in a tank top, with multiple bracelets on either arm. She sipped something from a teacup in front of her, and made a face. Then, she crossed her legs and leaned one elbow on the back of her chair, smoothing out her billowy, ankle-length skirt. Almost everyone else wore button-down shirts and gray, black, or navy slacks. The teenage boy wore a three-piece suit, tugging uncomfortably at his tight tie.
The only other woman—slim, in her mid-fifties—was seated at the head of the table in a cream-colored silk blouse and a pencil skirt. She and a few other members looked at the younger woman and exchanged glances, but said nothing. The teenage boy narrowed his eyes at her from beneath large, square glasses. He didn’t stare in a lewd or malicious way, but rather as if he were puzzling something out. One hand scratched at his brown hair, which was slicked back and parted in the middle. Finally, he shook his head and began leafing through the folder in front of him.
The elderly man at the other end of the table cleared his throat. “The weekly meeting of the Paranormal Investigation Agency, London branch, will now come to order. As Mrs. Ellis is presently on maternity leave, her protégé and acting secretary will once again read the minutes from last week’s meeting. Ms. Silver, if you wouldn’t mind?”
Abigail stood up and smiled at the group. She withdrew several crisp sheets of paper from a leather folder in front of her. Holding them at arm’s length, she began to read.
“The minutes from last week’s meeting are as follows: Eight o’clock. 8:01. 8:02—”
Groans erupted from around the table.
“Not again!”
“Same as last week.”
“And the week before.”
“Is she going to do this every—”
“Oh, come on guys!” Abigail laughed and waved her hand. “Where’s your sense of humor? Or did Barbara—I mean, Mrs. Ellis—take it with her when she left?”
“Let’s skip the reading of the minutes this time, shall we?” The elderly man gave Abigail a dark look. Abigail rolled her eyes. A cheerful-looking man in his forties ran one hand through his graying hair and chuckled.
“Is there any new business members would like to initiate?” the elderly man asked. “No? In that case, as president of the London branch, I—”
“Actually, there is something I would like to discuss.” Abigail’s tone was suddenly stern.
The president blinked several times. “And what exactly would that be?”
“There is something that has plagued me during every meeting of this organization of ours.” Abigail frowned and looked at each of the members. “An egregious affront to mankind. A wrong that cannot go unanswered. And the responsible parties are . . . vampires. I’m afraid they are among us. Here. In this very room.”
The other PIA members were shocked into silence. Their eyes darted around the table, from each other to Abigail and back.
“Impossible!”
“Preposterous!”
The older woman pursed her lips, making her mouth look even thinner and more pinched. “No supernaturals can be members of the PIA. That includes witches, faeries, vampires, and the like. Many of us can sense when they’re in our midst.” Abigail’s eyes widened a little, but she said nothing. “And if we ever found one in our midst,” the older woman continued, “it would be dealt with. Swiftly.”
“Very swiftly,” another member agreed.
Abigail swallowed. “I see.”
“And as much of the PIA operates during daylight hours, I’d imagine the presence of vampires would quickly become noticeable.” With a perfectly manicured hand, the older woman arranged the fountain pens in front of her until they were equidistant from one another. “Sunlight exhausts them. It can even burn them to a cinder if they haven’t fed enough.”
“Which you’d know if you’d read through the preliminary paperwork we gave you.” Another member glared at Abigail.
“Oh, I did.” Abigail smiled quickly. “But some of that stuff on magical creatures is hard to take. I still can’t believe there are no wands or broomsticks like in The Worst Witch. This is a real disappointment.”
“This isn’t a joke!” the man sitting next to Abigail barked.
“Well, I can think of no other explanation.” Abigail put one hand on her hip. The other hand picked up a teacup filled with dark brown liquid. “I mean, if there is a vampire here, I don’t hold them entirely responsible for this assault on my senses. I guess it’s understandable if you don’t have functioning taste buds.”
“Ms. Silver, what on earth are you talking about?” a man across the table asked.
“Coffee,” she replied. “Which I assume vampires are responsible for procuring. It’s the only plausible explanation for the selection of the inferior brand, Darknuts.” She held up the teacup. “I most humbly and respectfully request that, next week, the superior brand, Starblends, be provided. I would hate to see such a minor incident end in . . . bloodshed.” She looked pointedly at the president and winked.
The other PIA members looked anything but amused. Several turned pale, and one turned purple. The youngest member kept glancing around, wide-eyed. Only the cheerful-looking man stifled a laugh by pretending to cough into his hand.
“Our humblest apologies, Madame Secretary.” His scratchy voice was unable to hide his smile. “Your request has been duly noted. As I am usually the one responsible for said coffee procurement, it will not happen again. As for my forays into vampirism,” he brushed dust off his sweater vest, “rest assured they are purely of an academic nature.”
“Glad to hear it.” Abigail grinned at the man, gave a sharp nod, and sat back down.
The woman at the head of the table gave a deep sigh. She placed one hand to her temple, a piece of bleached-blonde hair falling into her green eyes. Normally, her eyes were always half-closed, as if she couldn’t be bothered to look at you. She smoothed the errant strand of hair back into place.
“Very amusing, dear. Now, if you and Arthur are done having a go at the rest of us . . .”
“Yes, Hartwood, do come off it.” A balding man wiped perspiration off his head. “We expected better of you.”
“I did nothing!” The cheerful-looking man held up his hands, jutting his chin at the blonde woman. “Cunningham will defend my honor. Right, Eleanor?”
“Is there any real new business?” the man next to him asked.
“Now that you mention it,” Cunningham smiled, “there is. It’s also why I suppose certain allowances can be made for practical jokes.” She pulled a piece of paper from inside her leather folder and placed in perfectly within the margins of the folder’s cover. Then, she lifted a pair of glasses from around a chain on her neck up to her eyes. “As vice president of the PIA’s London branch, it is my great pleasure to announce that Arthur Hartwood is hereby promoted to acting manager.” Polite claps filled the air, just under Abigail’s hearty ones. “Of course, we all knew this day was coming, what with Frisby’s retirement, but still. Arthur, would you care to say a few words?”
Arthur blushed and pulled a pair of reading glasses from his vest pocket. “I’ve just had to start wearing these. Damned nuisance.”
“Join the club, dearie.” Cunningham rattled her own glasses at him, and the rest of the group chuckled.
Arthur sifted through a few pages of notes. “Eh, you know what, Eleanor? Skip it. Let’s just
say I’m damn glad to be here with you lot.” There were a few more chuckles, and the man sitting next to Arthur clapped him on the back. Abigail put two fingers in her mouth and gave a loud whistle.
“Very well.” Cunningham gave a quick smile in Abigail’s direction. “On with the rest, then. We have another happy announcement to make.” She pulled a second sheet of paper from her folder, placing it dead center on top of the first. “Richard Grant has just been accepted into Cambridge University, where he will be starting later this year.”
The teenage boy blushed. There were choruses of “I say!” and “Good show!” around the table. Abigail gave him the thumbs-up; he gave her a confused nod.
“Naturally,” Cunningham went on, “he will continue apprenticing here despite his heavy course load. I’m only sorry your father couldn’t be here tonight, Richard. How is he?”
“On the mend, thank you.” Richard pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “Got home from hospital yesterday. Says it’s the last time he’ll ride old Duke for a while, that’s for sure.”
The man sitting a few seats down shook his head. “Still can’t believe Henry broke his leg.”
“It happens to accomplished equestrians quite often, I’m told,” another man said.
“Wasn’t trying to shoot that Malbaron 287 at the same time, was he?” Arthur asked. The rest of the group laughed. Abigail squinted at Richard.
“It’s a crossbow,” Richard explained.
“Yes, Henry Grant is a keen archer.” Cunningham frowned at a scratch on the table, then looked back up at Richard. “As are you, I understand.” Richard blushed again.
“Had to take up something after the boxing lessons failed, eh?” the president called. There were more chuckles, and one man elbowed Richard in the side.
“Didn’t quite have the muscles for it,” Richard muttered, rubbing his ribs.
“No boxing, no RAF, like Henry?” the president asked. “If you weren’t second-generation PIA, I’d think somebody’s mum had cozied up to the milkman!” Several guffaws went up. Abigail watched Richard carefully.
