Kitty and the Silver Bullet

by Carrie Vaughn

  The hall was carpeted with a dark-colored berber. The lighting was muted, atmospheric even.

  Two figures lay shoved up against the wall, appearing dead. The two side doors stood open; the rooms inside were dark.

  “More vampires?” Hardin said. I nodded. An unconscious vampire might as well have been a body—pale, waxen, not breathing.

  And once again, how the hell did you knock a vampire unconscious? I’d have to talk to Rick about that later.

  We hurried down the hallway. Hardin kept the weapon trained on the bodies the whole time.

  I said, “Remember, don’t look—”

  “At their eyes, I know.”

  The door at the end of the hall was already open, into a room that looked like it came from another world. We inched forward and peered in.

  The place was marvelous, with low ceilings and brocade fabric draping the walls. Bronze lamps gave out soft light, and the carpet was thick and lush under our feet. The colors were luscious to the eyes, the furnishing opulent, and at one end stood an actual dais, a raised platform decked with Persian rugs and antique furniture. The central piece was a throne, upholstered in red plush with gilt carving on all surfaces.

  Rick sat on the throne, gripping the scrolled edges of the armrests, and leaning forward. Arturo stood before him, a look of fury twisting his face. Rick had done exactly what he said he’d do: come here to wait for Arturo.

  Rick said he only needed a few minutes alone with him. He should be leaping, attacking. Why was he hesitating? The longer he gave Arturo, the more chances Arturo had to speak, to act, the better chance he had of winning.

  “It takes more than sitting in that chair to take my place,” Arturo said.

  Rick looked to the doorway, where we were standing. Hardin had her crossbow ready, but moved it back and forth between them, like she didn’t know whom to shoot first.

  “Stand down, Detective,” he said. “I’m going to do this right, and that means not staking him.”

  Hardin shook her head. “You—” she spoke to Arturo, “are under arrest for assault.”

  Arturo spared a quick glance over his shoulder. “Katherine, have you changed your mind? My offer still stands.”

  I couldn’t answer, not even to shake my head. Hardin and I needed to get out of here. This was more of a window into vampire politics in action than most people outside their world ever got. I was strangely fascinated. At the same time, I wanted to be anywhere but here. This was going to get very, very messy.

  Rick spoke, his voice even. “The fact that I’m here, that you haven’t been able to stop me, shows that you’re weak. It’s time for you to step aside.”

  “Are you giving me a chance to concede?” Arturo said, laughing.

  “Yes.”

  Still smiling as if deeply amused, Arturo shook his head. “You are too soft for this, Ricardo. You’re too weak to sit in that chair.”

  “Actually, I plan on replacing this chair with something a little more practical.”

  “Why is everyone ignoring me?” Hardin said.

  “Because they think we’re bugs,” I reminded her. Rather than being frustrated, though, I wanted a bucket of popcorn.

  Arturo said to Rick, “You don’t have the years to do that. You don’t have the time stretching behind you, supporting you. You need age to take my place.”

  “Oh, that’s the game, is it? You have no idea how old I am.” He was calm. Relentlessly calm.

  Arturo’s expression fell, and he said, angrily, “How old, then?”

  I had pegged them both at about two or three hundred years old, by inference and rumor. Rick had controlled those rumors, evidently. With age came strength and power. He’d kept his hidden.

  Rick—Ricardo, I suddenly saw the difference—studied his rival, as if he could peel back the skin, yank out the secrets he wanted simply by looking. When Arturo took a step back, his hand touching his cheek, rubbing it almost like it hurt, I missed what had happened, if anything had actually happened. Then I smelled it: blood in the air. Arturo looked at his hand, which was covered by a sheen of red. A film also covered his cheek, his jaw—all his exposed skin. He was sweating blood.

  Teeth bared, fangs showing, Arturo stared at Rick in a panic. Was Rick doing this? Making Arturo sweat blood? Drawing the substance out of his body?

  When Arturo glared back at Rick, attempting to stun him, or hypnotize him, or knock him unconscious like those vampires in the hallway, or draw blood through his pores—he couldn’t. It didn’t work. He didn’t have the years, the power.

  “I followed Coronado into this country, Arturo. I have age,” Rick said.

  Five hundred years old. He was over five hundred fucking years old. Arturo gaped at him. Arturo, who was only two or three hundred years old. Only.

  Rick carried his five centuries well. He didn’t let on that the weight of those years pressed on him. The old ones tended to get smug, becoming bored and arrogant as they grew powerful and isolated. Not him. He acted like he still had discoveries to make. Like the world was still fresh to him. He’d misled us all.

  “You don’t,” Arturo said in a breathless tone that betrayed his belief—and his fear. He wiped his cheeks, rubbed his hands, smearing red over his skin, but he couldn’t wipe it off.

  When Rick stood and stepped toward the younger vampire, Arturo stumbled back, losing all his grace, almost falling. Rick pressed forward, grabbing hold of Arturo’s collar, hoisting him upright, trapping him. He locked gazes with the other vampire, and Arturo froze. Like he was only mortal, a vulnerable human trapped in a vampire’s stare.

  Rick had intimidated him into submission. Holy cow.

  “Ricardo. Step away from him, please.”

  A curve of color that had seemed just another part of a tapestry moved forward. Mercedes Cook, emerging from the shadows. Wearing a tailored jacket, long skirt, and heeled boots, she walked with confidence, head high, eyes half-lidded, like she was onstage, on show. And she left no doubt as to who was really in control here.

  Of course she hadn’t left Denver, not with the situation still unresolved.

  “Mercedes,” Rick said, grimacing. He didn’t turn away from his quarry. “What’s her price? How much are you paying for her to keep you in power?”

  “Price? I’m not paying anything! She has no power here!” But he glanced at her, uncertain.

  “Mercedes?” Rick said again, this time questioning the woman.

  Her poise was deeply practiced, unflappable. The end of the world would not shake her. Humanity would destroy itself with nuclear bombs or rampant plagues, and vampires like her would stand among the ashes, imperious.

  “Arturo and I haven’t made a deal. Yet. Arturo? It’s not too late.”

  Still dangling in Rick’s grip, Arturo stared, his eyes widening. “It was you. All along, it was you.”

  And I saw it then myself: the nightclub attacks, the bodies left in the warehouse for the police to find, all of it giving the impression that Arturo was losing control. Indirectly, she’d inspired Rick to rebel. She’d made Arturo seem—and maybe even feel—weak. All so she could stroll in here and offer to rescue him.

  “Kitty, what’s going on?” Hardin whispered.

  I shook my head. I’d have to explain it later.

  Rick stared, like the same realization had just dawned on him as well. He said, “Why? Why back him?”

  “The known quantity is always to be preferred,” she said. “Always maintain status quo, when the status quo in question is sufficiently under control.”

  “Under control!” Arturo said. He kept looking around for followers who were all unconscious or dead. “Whose control? No one controls me!”

  “The Long Game put you here, Arturo, and the Long Game will keep you here because you are weak.”

  Arturo’s expression turned cold. Frozen and disbelieving.

  For my part, I wished I could hit pause and rewind to play that bit over. The Long Game?

  “What inter
est do they have in Denver?” Arturo said, his voice fallen to almost a whisper. “Denver is nothing to them.”

  “Even a pawn may threaten the king.”

  She glanced at me, then, and I almost squeaked. I had nothing to do with any of this, I was an innocent bystander, an accidental witness who wanted nothing more than to flee.

  Her attention on me lasted less than a second, less than the blink of an eye. How had she put so much meaning in that short a space of time? Then she was regarding Arturo again.

  “You’ve reveled in your power here for quite some time by local standards. As long as Denver’s been a city, you’ve been here. You’ve grown comfortable, complacent. You’ve lost sight. You’ve forgotten that this isn’t about you.” She approached them step by step, like a lion. No, a jackal waiting to clean up the pieces.

  “You—” he spoke to Rick, “you’re fighting them. You’ve always been fighting them, haven’t you? You’ll keep this city out of their hands.”

  “I will.”

  Arturo’s smile changed, thinned, turned sly. It became the familiar smug expression he usually wore. “Then I concede. Denver is yours. I’ll leave here forever.”

  Rick said, “Mercedes, you’re here as a witness. Is that enough? Do you accept that I am now Master of Denver?”

  Mercedes’s voice chimed with hidden laughter. “Where will you go, Arturo?”

  “Back to Philadelphia. I have friends there.”

  “Friends like me?” she said. “Friends who are also playing the game? Will they want you back?” Arturo’s expression turned stricken.

  She was two strides away from Rick. She’d never said her age. I’d guessed that it was young, less than a hundred years. But she was an actress, and she had disguised herself. She carried herself with a confidence that exceeded even Rick’s. Having seen what Rick could do to Arturo, I could almost imagine what she could do to Rick.

  I was way out of my league here. I knew that, I accepted that. But I also knew that I absolutely did not want this woman poking her sticky undead fingers into my city.

  I sprang forward, spray bottle in one hand, cross in the other, both stuck out in front of me, braced in my grip like they were Ben’s gun. “Stop.”

  Mercedes arched a perfect, questioning brow at me. She almost seemed amused.

  “It’s holy water,” I said.

  “Oh my.” She smiled, but she didn’t move.

  What the hell good was a spray bottle of holy water going to do? She could bat it out of my hand in a second.

  Hardin stepped up beside me. “Stop! All of you, put your hands up!”

  Mercedes smiled at Rick. “You have minions. That’s so sweet.”

  Rick said, “Mercedes, yes or no: Do you accept that I am now Master of Denver?”

  “What does it matter if she accepts it or not?” I said, losing patience. “She’s not even from here!”

  “Do not ignore me! I said hands up!” Hardin sounded flustered.

  Something happened. Rick moved, then a shadow fell over Hardin, and her crossbow disappeared. He broke the weapon over his knee and tossed the pieces aside like they were nothing.

  “Hey!” she said.

  “Both of you stay out of this,” Rick said roughly. “You have no idea what’s happening here.”

  “Explain this to me, Kitty,” Hardin said.

  “Rick wants to be the new Master of Denver. Mercedes wants to stop him.”

  “I’m here to arrest that guy.” She nodded at Arturo. “That’s all I want.”

  Rick never took his eyes off the other vampires. “If anyone but me removes Arturo, my authority here will be suspect. Your answer, Mercedes.”

  “Why are you even asking her?” I said. “Just kick her butt!”

  Rick said, cutting, “I can’t do anything to her if I want the city.”

  “Diplomatic immunity,” Mercedes said.

  “But she isn’t exactly being neutral here—”

  “Kitty, be quiet, please,” Rick said, ice cold. “Mercedes?”

  “No,” Mercedes said. “I will carry word that Denver is torn between two Masters and ripe for the taking.” When she reached for him, Rick stepped back. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said he looked afraid.

  Enough. I shot her. Sprayed her. Whatever.

  My hand was shaking, and she twisted out of the way. Somehow, she’d seen it coming, anticipated me in the protracted way vampires saw time. The arc of water only caught her arm.

  She didn’t make a sound, not so much as a hiss of pain or anger. Splotches of water marred the sleeve of her jacket. The water probably hadn’t even soaked through.

  Something hit me. The water bottle went flying in one direction, smacking against the wall behind me, and I couldn’t breathe. A weight slammed into me, and I crashed to my knees. Mercedes grabbed my throat and squeezed, holding me still. I clutched her wrist, scratched at her arm, trying to free myself. I gasped for air. She could kill me with one hand.

  She said, “And you have both let the wolves here become unruly. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Right,” Hardin said. “That’s it. I’ve heard enough. You’re all under arrest!” She’d retrieved the spray bottle and held it trained firmly on Mercedes. Not that that had done me any good.

  With her other hand, Mercedes batted the spray bottle out of Hardin’s grip. The cop stumbled back.

  “Mercedes, let her go,” Rick said.

  She didn’t. My vision started to go splotchy, and a growl forced its way out of my throat. Inside, Wolf was thrashing. We could claw her, we could run—

  Somehow I knew that I could turn Wolf, and Mercedes would keep her grip on my throat and still be able to strangle me.

  “Mercedes!” Rick lunged at her.

  “No!” Arturo grabbed his arm and stopped him. He took Rick’s wrists, then placed Rick’s hands back on his own collar. “Do it. You planned it this way all along, so get it over with.” Then he became calm. Almost pulled himself into Rick’s embrace. For a moment, he was still the Master.

  “Arturo—”

  “I am not their pawn. I’ve not lived for three hundred years to be their pawn. You’ll stand against them.”

  “I didn’t want this.”

  “Oh, yes you did. Ricardo, do not waste my blood.”

  Mercedes let me go. I collapsed, clutching my neck and coughing. I could feel bruises where she’d squeezed. Hardin touched my shoulder.

  For the first time that evening, desperation touched the singer’s voice. “Arturo. Three hundred years on this earth and you won’t even fight for your life? I don’t believe you.”

  Arturo let out a bitter chuckle. “Three hundred years on this earth and I was never once my own man. I see it so clearly now. And I thought I had nothing left to learn.”

  A look passed between him and Rick. Then, Rick struck.

  I flinched at the speed of it. This wasn’t happening. I kept telling myself this wasn’t happening.

  Rick struck at Arturo’s neck, biting into his throat. Arturo’s head whipped back. His teeth bared in pain, and his hands dug into Rick’s arms, the tendons of his fingers taut against his skin. One of his legs kicked out, but Rick braced him to hold him in place, to keep him upright. Rick’s mouth stayed pressed to his throat, lips working as they sucked, for what seemed a long time.

  Mercedes looked away.

  I noticed it in Arturo’s shirt first—the fabric of the sleeves collapsed. The effect spread to his pants. The clothing wilted, withered, then the fabric itself blackened and crumbled, turning to ash. The body within decayed—three hundred years in a few minutes—shriveling, desiccating, turning black, turning to ash. It spread to his neck, his head, his golden hair turning white, then to powder. And still Rick pressed his face to it. He dropped to his knees, supporting Arturo—what remained of Arturo—as he disintegrated.

  Finally, when nothing was left, Rick straightened, sifting gray ash through his fingers and wiping it from his face.
The dust smudged the front of his clothing and streaked his sleeves, which also showed stains of blood.

  Arturo wasn’t an evil person. An ambiguous person, maybe, who’d done some pretty bad things. But I hadn’t wanted to watch him die. It was him or Rick, I kept telling myself. Him or Rick.

  Rick turned to Mercedes. “I have his blood. Blood is all, and all that was his is mine. His land, his people, his power. Mercedes, you go, you tell them that this city is mine, and that it is well defended.”

  “I should arrest you. For murder. Both of you,” Hardin whispered. Her eyes had gone wide, shocky almost.

  “He died three hundred years ago,” I whispered. Was it still murder? Semantics, at this point.

  “You have no jurisdiction here, Detective,” Rick said.

  Mercedes had to collect herself. Her expression froze in an indifferent mask, and she smoothed out her skirt and jacket.

  Before she moved away, she said, “Kitty, you kept asking about my age. You should know, because I want you to, that I am older than them both.” She indicated Rick, and the dust on the floor that had been Arturo. Then, she walked away, through the door, vanishing into shadow.

  Hardin was staring at that dust. To Rick she said, her voice hushed, “Tell me you play by a different set of rules than he did. That I won’t find warehouses filled with ripped-up bodies. Tell me I won’t regret helping you.”

  “You won’t,” Rick said.

  It couldn’t be that simple. The Long Game, she’d said. I wondered who Rick would have to defend his place against, and what he would have to do against them.

  “This is so Twilight Zone. I need to go check on my guys,” Hardin said, running a hand through her hair. “I’m going outside for a cigarette.” She reached into her pocket and went out the door.

  Rick slouched, like he was tired. “It’s over.”

  “But she’s still out there,” I said. My voice cracked, still injured. “Mercedes. What if she comes back? You could have stopped her.”