by Vance, Ramy
So, she didn’t know. I breathed a sigh of relief. Ouch—my ribs.
“And that’s not all, darling … you did so without a care in the world.”
This last comment pissed me off. I cared. In fact, it was because I cared that he died. I was trying to rebuild our family. I was trying to make us whole. That’s why I turned him. How was I to know that he’d choose watching the sun rise one final time over living forever? With me. With us. I watched him turn to dust and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. That was my biggest regret, the one I couldn’t tell Mother … and her cruel words were forcing me to relive the most painful moment of my life.
“You selfish little brat,” she said. “You—”
It was all too much and I started to wiggle and writhe. I couldn’t hear another word. Not one more word. My arms and legs were still caught against the duct tape, but unlike the first time I tried to pry myself free, this time … the tape broke.
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I managed to rip myself off of the beam in one fluid motion, and as I tore free, I saw my mother do the same. I looked over to see her fingers bleeding and a piece of splintered wood clutched in them. She had used her time, not only chatting with me, but whittling us free from the tape.
Not wanting to waste what my mother had done, I immediately tackled George. I had expected to meet resistance, but he wasn’t ready for me to charge and had toppled over.
And now that I knew the source of his strength, I didn’t waste time trying to match his, but rather ran my hands on the elbow joints of his armor and pulled.
It took everything I had, but I managed to bend the joint just enough to render his arm useless—and in a lot of pain.
I saw my mother do the same to the other Cherub.
Leaping forward, I grabbed my father’s mask and dirk and tossed my mother one of their telescopic nightsticks.
We headed for the door.
My mother leapt through the window.
Running up the hill and away from the sugar farm, I expected my mother to do the same thing. What I didn’t expect was for her to run around the front—probably to find me—only to be hit by a truck that had been coasting down the hill with its lights off.
I guess our two hours were up.
The Lesser of Two Rights
I watched with horror from the top of the hill as Simione and the other two bound my mother—this time in chains—and took her and the truck near the dock, where a hand-powered crane used for lowering things into the lake stood. His minions started to unload the truck. Evidently, if Simione was going to come after me, it wasn’t going to be now. I guessed he figured he had a lifetime to hunt me down.
Instead, he pulled out several clear, plexiglass sheets, metal fastenings and a bunch of tools. It didn’t take long for me to realize that he was building a glass box large enough for two humans to stand conformably inside. As I watched him unload an old diver’s mask—the kind you found in the 1950s, complete with an apparatus used for pumping air down to the mask—I understood his plan.
Drop my mother down in the lake.
And supply her with just enough air that she wouldn’t drown.
And when I saw the diving suit and fins, I realized that he meant to visit her from time to time to … what? … feed her? Take care of her? Keep her alive? Regardless of all this effort, she wouldn’t survive long down there. Still, he was doing enough that her death would be slow and painful. And awful.
I considered my next move. I could run up the main road, find my way back to the nearest town and call for help. Of course, help would come in the form of an ex-were and changeling. Possibly an avatar, too.
But by the time they showed up, my mother would have been down there for hours, if not a full day.
Then I had one of the most horrible thoughts of my life … and I’ve thought of some truly evil shit.
Leave my mother.
Let her die.
If anyone deserved it, she did. Simione alone was proof of that. Vampire or not … what she did to him was beyond our vampiric nature. It was downright evil.
I could just walk away and prepare for Simione’s inevitable attack. Ready for him—and with the help of my friends, he didn’t stand a chance.
As they wrapped chains around her and prepared the glass coffin, I thought, I could wash my hands of my mother once and for all.
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But I couldn’t do that. Despite whatever evil she did before, she deserved a second chance to be human. As misguided a human as she may be, and even if she didn’t want to be human … she still deserved a chance.
Besides, her question hadn’t been answered, which meant that her greatest desire wasn’t to become a vampire again. It was something else. Something very selfish, I was sure, but at least she didn’t truly want to go back to the killing and blood sucking and all that terrible stuff.
So how would I save my mother against three wannabe Divine Cherubs? Two were hurt, their strength armor incapacitated, but there was still three against one. I needed a plan. I needed a—
I needed some sugar.
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OK—I didn’t really need sugar. I was more after the equipment used to make maple syrup.
You see, when I was a young vampire, about forty years undead, I traveled to the far east to study under a master. And by “master,” I don’t mean vampire—generally, vampires weren’t the supportive bunch.
I mean Grand Master of the Martial Arts.
What kind? I don’t know its name, and I ate the Grand Master before he could expand his dojo and teach other humans (another regret on that long list I was talking about). He taught me many things, but the one lesson that has always been truly effective was how to use the terrain against your enemy.
And that was exactly what I was going to do now.
Sneaking down to the warehouse, I quietly turned on every maple sap tap on all the maple trees in the area. There were a lot of them, but because I couldn’t turn on the pumps, the maple wouldn’t flow very fast (and maple sap is more water than sugar, so it’s not very sweet or sticky). But those taps had been closed for a while now, which meant there was some sap ready to get out; given how many taps there were, the vats within the refinery would fill up pretty quickly as well.
Then I waited. Anything I was going to do would be done at dawn … the worst time for a vampire to fight, but also the time that Simione and his motley band of morons would least expect an attack from me. They’d figure my vampiric nature would dictate an attack at night or no attack at all. Their guard would be down and they’d be exhausted.
Well, the other two would be exhausted—Simione seemed to be reenergized by preparing my mother’s watery coffin. From my vantage point I could see the care that he was taking in making sure the sealing was right, the pumps would work and that everything would go according to plan.
This did strike me as odd, because he wanted to kill my mother. If things didn’t go as planned, she’d drown and … well … mission accomplished. But from the way he checked the equipment again and again, I realized that he wanted to torture my mother more than he wanted to kill her. In a strange way, I think he’d be more upset if she died quickly than if she got away. At least escape meant that he’d have a chance to hunt her down and start all over. Besides, being hunted is a type of torture. He’d relish in the knowledge that she was constantly looking over her shoulder for him.
The other thing that struck me as odd was that in all his preparation, he never actually touched her. Never raised a hand. Hell, he never even raised his voice—a true sign of restraint for him. From where I was watching, I knew he was talking to her, but for the life of me, I couldn’t hear a word.
Whatever he was saying, my mother was crying. As much as she deserved this, Simione was going to pay extra for making her cry a third time.
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As the first sunlight began to peek out, I got into position. There were a couple of things I needed to do before I could announce my presence
, and with the cover of morning birds chirping, I made my moves.
The first thing I did was collect a bucketful of sap from one of the shut-off vats. They hadn’t filled as much as I’d hoped, but there was enough sap in the massive copper pots to drown a person—if he laid perfectly still, face down.
The next part would be the hard part. Uncapping the truck’s fuel lid, I poured in half the bucket. I got inside, popped the truck’s parking brake and put the damn anti-environment truck-a-saurus into Neutral and let it coast down the hill with me inside.
So it begins.
It rolled down and toward the warehouse. I heard a gratifying “What the fuck?” followed by a “Go get my truck!” in a very distinct Inverness-circa-1730s accent. Then one of the idiots came running after it.
At the speed the truck was going, the crunch I heard meant that the truck crashed into one of the copper vats at such a low velocity it didn’t even crack the thing open.
Perfect.
Next, the running idiot jumped into the driver’s seat.
The other thing my Master told me was to use the hierarchy against them. A general would always send a grunt to do grunt work and, as expected, the Ringo-looking Cherub was sent to retrieve the truck. He’d be the most inexperienced and, therefore, the least likely to actually check the truck’s backseat.
As soon as he tried the engine—which churned and groaned as the sugar made its way into the engine block—I wrapped one of those blue hoses used to bring in the sap to tie back his arm and wrapped a second one around his neck.
It was tricky getting the two hoses over him at once, but I’d done this particular move many times before and it amazed me how muscle memory kicked in all these years later. It was like riding a bike—a murderous, psychotic bike.
He gagged as he tried to struggle free, and from the rearview mirror I could see the terror in his eyes as his life left him. He was terrified of dying. Aren’t we all? But if he had a bit more experience, he would have realized he wasn’t dying at all. If you’re going to choke someone to death, you want something thin that will cut into the skin. But that’s only if you wanted to kill them. I didn’t. I just wanted to knock him out.
If I could avoid it, I would never kill again. The operative words in that statement being If I could avoid it. I’d never taken an oath, made a solemn swear and pledged to lead a kill-free life. I had spent too long as a vampire to see the role that death plays in life to make such a bold claim. I believe my Psychology Prof would say I was “exhibiting good self-awareness.” I would, however, try my best. By using a flat, plastic hose, I would cut off the airway enough that eventually he’d pass out.
It took a minute, but eventually he was out. Tying the rope tightly against the seat, I honked the horn, rolled out of the truck, shimmied up to a new hiding spot … and waited.
If hierarchal protocol dictated anything, George would be the next to come through … and I had a plan for him, too.
But protocol wasn’t adhered to, because both of them came running inside.
Perfect. Just as I had expected.
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Simione was no idiot, and I knew he was no idiot. He didn’t send in Ringo to get the truck because he was the bottom of the ladder; he sent him ahead because he was the first in the cannon-fodder line. In other words, Simione sent him in to spring whatever trap I had set. If the truck had rolled down by accident, then no harm. But if it was a trap, then best have the smallest and most insignificant of the crew spring that trap. And once the trap was sprung, they’d come in with force and deal with the problem once and for all.
It’s what I’d do.
Simione and George ran in just as I had expected. What I hadn’t expected was that as he ran in, he cried out, “Katrina, my lass, please do not waste my time. Your mother—she is about to take the … uh … plunge and I desperately do not want to miss it.”
Shit. I had expected his desire to watch her go under to stop him from doing anything until he was in the clear to savor the moment. But he had used the hand crane to put her in the water while I was dealing with Ringo.
Taking a second, I looked out the window. Not only did I see my mother bobbing in the glass coffin like an ice cube, but she didn’t have any head gear on.
The bastard was going to let her drown.
Simione had just raised the stakes: either I had to make my move and quickly to save my mother, or she’d drown. He was forcing my hand.
Shit! Shit-shit-shit, GoneGodDammit!
But he’d also raised the stakes on himself, too. All that effort to her torture, lost. All that pent-up desire to watch her die slowly, gone. All I had to do to ruin his plans was take my time.
That’s exactly what I did.
I waited.
“Come out, Kat, lest your mother drowns.”
I didn’t do anything.
“Come on, dearie,” he said. I could sense the urgency begin to rise in his voice.
I still didn’t move. I had expected that I, too, would be anxious, wanting to get to my mother and save her … but if I’m being honest (and Mergen would appreciate that), doing nothing was easier than I thought.
“Katrina! She’ll die and—damn it all to hell! Go, go!”
I heard George run outside, then an exasperated sigh from Simione.
“OK, you got me, you clever, cheeky little girl. I would never kill your mother. Well, I’d never kill her quickly. I should have known you’d understand that. We are, after all, cut from the same cloth, are we not?”
I don’t know what cloth he’s talking about, but mine is decidedly barnacle free, I thought—making sure that one was in my head.
“We’re both more than killers, because we both like to play with our prey—rhyme intended.” As he spoke, I could hear him walking around the warehouse looking for me.
I had picked my hiding place well; I wouldn’t be easy to find. And given how sparse this place was, I suspected that he might think I wasn’t in the warehouse at all. One could hope.
From the sound of his footsteps, I could tell that he was walking close to the large vat in the center. Once he got within a couple feet of the thing, I could see him in all his barnacled glory.
Perfect … just a little bit closer …
He leaned over—and that’s when I pounced.
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I knew I couldn’t beat him with sheer force. He was too strong. But his strength came from the armor he wore, not from natural abilities or from magic. Which meant there were chinks in his armor that couldn’t be filled.
I’d read up a bit about these exoskeletons in the news. The biggest complaint about the armor was the spine, because as much as you could enhance someone’s arms and legs, and even grip, you couldn’t make their lower back stronger. Reinforced—yes. But physically stronger—no.
Which meant that to win, I’d have to hurt his back. So, when he leaned over to investigate the light noises that the dripping of the maple sap made, I had my chance.
I’d been hiding in the rafters just above the vat. Now, leaping down feet first, I forced his upper torso into the vat, flipping him over so that his lower half stayed outside. I also made sure that my left foot fell onto his lower back—and secretly hoped it left a boot print, just like his had on my blouse.
I had worried about the vat holding, but hoped it would—after all, it was meant to hold in a couple thousand gallons of maple syrup.
I heard the snap, followed by a scream, and I knew I had won.
Against him, at least.
There was still George and my mother to worry about.
↔
I left Simione draped over the copper vat’s wall and ran outside to help my mother. George was reeling her back in using the hand crank. As soon as he saw me standing there, he probably thought that Simione was dead and Ringo was going to eventually get out of his bonds to help.
He released the hand crank and my mother’s casket plopped back into the water, bobbing up and down much faster than sh
e had when I was in the warehouse. I guess the glass cage had taken on a lot of water already. She would go down quickly.
My momentary distraction on my mother was enough time for George to do what any good foot soldier does when his general is downed—run.
He ran up the hill and away. The huntress in me wanted to chase after him and stake him to a maple tree so that sap would drizzle out of his nose. But the more-evolved me ran to the water’s edge to save my mother.
My Psychology prof would say that I was exhibiting signs of improvement.
I need to get this woman’s voice out of my head, I thought in my head.
By the time I got to shore, the cage was already submerged. I needed another tactic if I was going to save dear ol’ Mama. I bee-lined to the dock and grabbed Simione’s air tank, weight belt and regulator.
Using the belt to force the air tank to submerge, I swam down to my mother. The side of the case had a little latch and door just big enough for a Simione-sized human to swim through. That’s exactly what I did. Then, placing the regulator in my mother’s mouth, I waited until she sucked in a couple deep breaths before taking it back. While she breathed, I worked on loosening her facets.
After about thirty rounds of back-and-forth breathing, I freed her.
We swam up to shore, dragging our sorry, tired butts out of the water. We were still hugging each other, and once we were on shore, neither of us let go. Lying on the lake’s poor excuse for a beach, we soaked in the air, the sun and the simple, pleasant fact that we were alive.
Not dead, not undead … alive.
Neither of us spoke, enjoying being in each other’s arms for the first time in a very long time indeed.
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