Wicked Game

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  The four of us who eat are bedecked in napkin bibs, to ward off the guts of steamed crabs. Shane seems to enjoy taking a wooden mallet to the bright red shells. From the seat on my right he slips me another piece of moist white crabmeat. I push it around my plate without eating it.

  “I thought it was all over when you opened that check,” David says to me over his beer.

  Lori claps her hand to her chest. “My heart stopped. I could almost hear your thoughts, Ciara: Take the money and run!”

  David wipes his hands. “Now that we’re all here, care to tell us how much it was for?”

  I shake my head. “Never telling.”

  “Two million?”

  I brandish my teeny fork at him. “I won’t play this game.”

  They all put their beers on the table and stare at me, waiting.

  “Five million,” I tell them.

  Franklin whistles. “And you just walked away. You have Elizabeth’s identity, you could’ve kept the money.” He looks around the table. “After giving us a cut to buy our silence, of course.”

  I nod. My thumb draws trails in my bottle’s condensation, but my churning stomach won’t let me drink any more. I can still see the check in my hands, begging me to give it a good home.

  David stands and clears his throat. No more toasts, I hope.

  “Ciara, in honor of the job you’ve done this summer, I’d like to give you this, if you’ll accept it.” He hands me a narrow black box, the hard vinyl type found in gift stores.

  My nausea surges as I lift the lid. “David, this really isn’t—”

  A nameplate sits inside the box. CIARA GRIFFIN, it reads, then in smaller letters, MARKETING MANAGER.

  “I don’t get it.” I look at David. “What’s this for?”

  “For your desk.”

  “Shouldn’t it say, ‘Marketing Intern’?”

  “Not if you take the full-time job I’m about to offer you.”

  I gape at him. “What about school?” My voice goes raspy. “I still have a year left.”

  “You can take classes part-time, even during the day if you need. I’m sure Elizabeth would be happy to start a tuition reimbursement program, wouldn’t she?”

  A real job. A steady boyfriend. Stability. The rest of my life closes in like a velvet vise. I can’t breathe.

  “So what do you say?” David asks.

  “I—” The letters on my nameplate blur and clear and blur again. Who the fuck is Ciara Griffin, anyway?

  Everyone around the table watches me with anticipation. Lori’s grin beams in the porch light. I can’t look at Shane.

  “I have to think about it.” I spy my cell phone on the table. “Hey, we should invite my dad over.”

  “Why?” Shane says.

  “That’s a great idea.” David gestures to the pile of crabs. “Plenty of food. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier.”

  “I’ll go inside where it’s quieter.” I grab the phone and stand up.

  “I’ll come with you,” Shane says. “We need more beer, anyway.”

  “The extra case is downstairs in the storeroom,” David says. “End of the hall.”

  Shane follows me in to the dining room/living room area, then to the stairs. I wait until we hit the landing of the split foyer to turn on him.

  “It’s bad enough I’ve got that Control goon following me around. Now you. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I trust you. I just don’t trust your dad.”

  “Neither do I.”

  He gives me a skeptical look. “‘You’ve been acting strange tonight. Not eating, hardly drinking. What’s going on?”

  I look away. “Leftover nerves, that’s all.”

  Shane studies my face, his own turning stony. He knows I’m lying, something I’ve never done to him before. But I can’t tell him what I’ve done, especially when I haven’t decided to follow through on it yet. Calling my dad will help me decide. I think.

  “I’ve gotta get the beer.” He trots down the short stairway from the foyer into the basement. I follow him, opening my cell phone and searching my contacts list for Dad’s number. Adding him to speed dial will be a big step in our renewed relationship.

  Shane turns down the dark hallway. I have to switch on the light to see. A flash of white startles me, until I realize it’s just Antoine the cat. He trots ahead of me.

  At the end of the hall Shane opens a door to a room with concrete walls and floor. The cat slips in around his ankles. I find Dad’s number and hit “Send.”

  The storeroom holds the furnace and a series of well-organized shelves that contain mostly home improvement supplies—paints, tools, gardening equipment. They might as well be museum exhibits for all their familiarity to me. Shane finds two cases of beer under a workbench.

  My foot hits something soft that clanks. A familiar duffel bag.

  Dad finally picks up on the fifth ring. “Ciara?”

  “Hi Dad.”

  He makes a muffled noise, like he’s switching the phone to the other ear. “What do you want? I mean, how’s my girl?” Sounds of traffic rush in the background.

  My thumb runs over my back jeans pocket, tucking in the piece of paper. “Where are you?”

  “Oh.” His voice pitches a bit higher. “On the road.”

  “Get your Control bot to bring you over here. We’re having a party.”

  Shane slides the cases of beer across the concrete floor.

  “A party, that’s nice,” my dad says. “At the station?”

  “No, at David’s house.”

  “David’s house?” he blurts. Tires squeal in the background.

  “Yeah. You like steamed crabs, right? We’ve got—”

  “Ciara, get out of there!”

  “Why?”

  “Gideon’s coming.”

  My stomach turns cold. “Gideon’s coming after me now? Here?”

  Shane jumps up and shuts off the light. He motions for me to get down, then creeps to the ground floor storeroom window, the one facing the front yard.

  My father’s voice is breathless. “Not you. He wants David.”

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “Because of Antoine.”

  A cold horror creeps up the back of my legs. I force myself to speak slowly. “How does Gideon know David killed Antoine?”

  “David told me.” My father’s voice tightens. “I told Gideon. I’m sorry, Angel.”

  A tear slips out of my left eye. “Daddy, no … ”

  “Please get out now. Run.”

  Shane strides from the window and grabs the phone from my hand. “Ronan, they’re here. Gideon and three others, all armed. Call the Control.”

  He slaps the phone shut. “They’re in the driveway,” he whispers to me. “One of them’s heading for the front door, the rest around back toward the deck.”

  “The Control agent is out front. He’ll—”

  A loud clack rings out from that direction, sounding like a staple gun. The cat streaks behind the furnace to hide. Shane motions for me to stay on the floor while he returns to the window. A shadow sails by, and Shane leaps to the side out of sight.

  He peers out the window at the retreating figure. “I think one of the vampires just shot your guard. Now they’re all around back.”

  I turn to the windowed door leading to the backyard. Three figures dash by, then another. I hear shouting, then the pounding of feet up the stairs of David’s deck.

  Lori screams. I suck in a breath and try not to echo her.

  Shane puts a finger to his lips and goes to the back door. I hear the door to the deck slide open, and soon the feet are on the floor above us.

  “They’re herding everyone inside.” He grabs the duffel bag and unzips it. “You should go out the back door now before they search the house.”

  “No way, those are my friends up there.”

  “Need something long-range,” he mutters, then pulls out the stakes and sets them aside, careful not to let them rattle aga
inst the concrete floor. “Here we go.” He lifts out the crossbow.

  I open the outside pocket and pull out the Holy Water Super Soaker. “Is fifty feet long-range enough?”

  He nods and sets aside the crossbow. “And no human collateral damage.”

  I grab the funnel and turn away from Shane to load the gun’s reservoir. I remove the cap on one of the glass bottles and begin to pour.

  Another clack sounds from above, followed by another scream. I fumble the holy water bottle, spilling drops on my bare knees. Shane reaches out to grab it, then draws his hand back just in time. I scoop it up from the floor before it empties.

  Two sets of footsteps pound down the stairs. A crash and a cry of agony come from the hallway outside the storeroom. I pour the rest of the spilled bottle into the reservoir, then quickly dump in the other one. It’s only enough for two, maybe three shots, none of them deadly. But with the crossbow I’d be as likely to hurt David as Gideon.

  Shane stands and unsheathes the katana sword. The blade reflects the golden glow of the porch light filtering through the back window. He looks down at me. I nod. Our battle plan is clear.

  I pull back the pump handle twice to fill the pistol’s reservoir. The hallway is quiet now. Silently, Shane turns the knob of the storeroom door. I hold my breath as it swings open, waiting for the hinges to creak and give us away. When I peek around the corner, I realize it doesn’t matter.

  At the bottom of the stairs, at the other end of the hall, Gideon has David pinned to the floor, his mouth to his neck.

  Gun raised, I step into the hallway and aim. Gideon’s eyes flash up at me, his dark hair disheveled, the lower half of his face soaked in David’s blood.

  I fire.

  Gideon’s howl mixes with the hiss of steam. He swipes at his face, which blackens and smokes like a marshmallow in a campfire. Blinded, he jumps to his feet and rushes me, slamming his shoulder into the wall. Shouts echo from upstairs. I pump wildly to reload.

  Shane jumps between us, but my finger is already squeezing the trigger. This time the scream is his. He draws back his sizzling arm to raise the sword, then strikes.

  Gideon raises his own arm in time to block the blade, which slices clean through at the elbow. The severed limb hits the floor as Gideon spins to grab Shane by the neck with his remaining hand.

  He pins him to the wall and starts to squeeze. With his strength, he could rip Shane’s head off in one motion.

  I fire one last shot.

  When the water hits his face, Gideon hisses and falls to his knees, still throttling Shane. The stump of his left arm is closing up already.

  Shane slams his elbow onto Gideon’s arm, loosening his grip enough to slip out. Gideon roars and flails one-handed for his opponent, but Shane is already lifting the sword.

  From the stairway behind him steps Gideon’s bodyguard Lawrence. In one hand he holds a pistol; in the other, a sharpened stake. He raises both.

  The sword screams through the air. Gideon’s head drops to the carpet, bounces against the wall, rolls once, and comes to a stop. His eyes shine white at me from his charred face.

  “No . . .” Lawrence clutches his own chest and falls to his knees as Gideon’s body thuds the floor, slumping on its side between his severed arm and head. Blood spouts from his neck in two arcs against the white walls, splashing onto my feet and ankles before I can leap out of the way.

  Shane whirls on Lawrence, ready to strike. Seeing his opponent defenseless, he lowers the weapon and stares down at the vampire’s writhing form. From upstairs come three distinct thumps.

  I toss away the water pistol and run up to him. “I burned you. Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live.” He kicks Lawrence’s weapons out of reach. “David looks bad.”

  Blood streams from the wound in David’s neck, soaking the carpet beneath him. Before I can react, Franklin and Spencer are rounding the stairs, the latter holding David’s red EMT bag.

  Spencer kneels beside David and opens the bag. He rips open several packets of gauze and presses them against the wound.

  “Put his feet up,” he tells me, then examines the wound briefly before pressing the gauze against David’s neck again. “Looks like Gideon maybe grazed the internal jugular. Lucky. Another inch would’ve taken his carotid. If we stop the bleeding and get him to the hospital, he should be all right.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance.” Franklin pulls out his cell phone.

  “No,” David wheezes. “No ambulance.”

  Franklin looks around at the blood-spattered scene, one that would surely launch the biggest police investigation in this county’s history. “Is it safe for me to drive him?”

  Spencer nods. “I’ll go with you. We can move him as soon as I control the bleeding.”

  Franklin leaps up and heads for the stairs. “I’ll pull the truck up to the front door.” He takes one last glance back at the carnage. “This is why I never come to vampire parties.”

  As he goes up the stairs, Jim passes him coming down, holding a long metallic-looking cord.

  “Monroe and Regina are tying up the other two bodyguards. They dropped like sides of meat.” He looks at the pieces of Gideon, then at Shane. “I knew you had it in you.” His foot nudges Lawrence, who’s still trembling and looks nearly unconscious.

  “What’s happening to him?” Shane asks.

  “Same thing that’ll happen to you when Regina bites the dust.” Jim drags Lawrence’s arms behind his back and starts to bind his wrists with the cord.

  “They must have all been Gideon’s progeny,” Spencer says.

  “They were,” I tell them. “But why hasn’t he been sucked into the void yet?”

  “The heart’s got to drain,” Spencer says. “With a staking it’s mighty quick, but a beheading can take a minute.”

  I stand slowly and move to Shane’s side. Gideon’s blood has stopped flowing. As we watch, his body starts to turn inward, folding into the stump of his neck.

  I cover my face. “Shane, you don’t want to see it.”

  “I have to,” he whispers. “I did this.”

  “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t see it.” I tug on his arm, but he resists. At our feet, Lawrence starts to moan and shake. His cries are echoed upstairs. “Shane, please.”

  “Go if you want.” His gaze is fixed on Gideon. “I’m staying.”

  Gideon’s head starts to slide across the floor, drawn into the vortex of his corpse.

  From above, Travis begins to shriek. The sound isn’t human, isn’t animal, isn’t even something in-between. It’s the sound of hell. I cover my ears and lurch up the stairs.

  In the middle of the living room floor, the detective lies in the fetal position, ripping at the front of his shirt and emitting a high, rusted screech. Monroe kneels beside him to grab his wrists, murmuring low, soothing words to the young vampire. I notice his own leg has a solid circle of blood—no longer flowing—perhaps the result of the other gunshot. Lori huddles in the corner, face buried in her arms.

  Wallace and Jacob, Gideon’s other two progeny, writhe and scream on their stomachs, hands bound behind their backs. Regina guards them, insufficiently armed with a pair of stakes. Two large pistols fitted with silencers sit on the dining room table. The radio is still playing, the peppy reggae tune oblivious to our drama.

  Regina glances nervously at Travis. “Here comes the downside of killing Gideon.”

  Travis’s eyes bulge, and his neck seems to contract around his throat, cutting off breath. He rolls on his back, spasming like a poisoned bug.

  But the worst is what appears beneath his torn shirt. The skin above his heart twists and pulls as if an unseen hand is trying to tear it off. A great purple stain spreads across his chest, widening like a pool of blood under a murder victim.

  Franklin opens the front door. His truck is parked on the lawn near the porch, engine running. I follow him back down to the basement, relieved to have a purpose.

  Slightly more aler
t now, David groans when Spencer picks him up. As directed, I hold his head firm against Spencer’s shoulder while Franklin keeps the pressure on his wound. I don’t even glance behind me at Shane and what’s left of Gideon. The popping, hissing, cracking sound is enough.

  “Ciara … ” David whispers as we carefully maneuver over the foyer landing and out the front door.

  “Don’t talk.” We pass my Control guard, sprawled on his back in the bushes, the porch light revealing a neat hole in the center of his forehead. “Oh, no.”

  “What?” David rasps.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” Franklin says.

  I climb into the truck ahead of David and steady him as Spencer lays him on the narrow backseat of Franklin’s truck.

  David lifts a hand to me. “Do you want the job or not?”

  “Now’s not a great time to ask that.” I place his hand back on his chest. “My dad ratted you out to Gideon.”

  He shuts his eyes. “Shouldn’t have told.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have trusted him. But everyone does. You’re just the latest in a long line of—” I decide not to finish the sentence.

  “Suckers,” he whispers.

  Spencer opens the door on my side and motions for me to get out so he can take my place.

  I hop out, then turn quickly to David. “Hey, this means we can go back to being the Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

  He gives me a weak thumbs-up as Spencer shuts the door.

  As I move away from the truck, a sudden shivering movement from below catches my eye. I look down in time to see the blotches of Gideon’s blood fly off my shoes toward the house. They squeeze through the screen and disappear within.

  My knees weaken, but the sound of Travis screaming forces me to keep moving. I rush back into the house just as Shane comes up the stairs to the foyer, his face paler than I’ve ever seen it.

  “He’s gone,” he whispers, then looks down to see the sword still in his left hand. I take it from him gently, avoiding the long black burns on his arms, and lead him upstairs.

  Travis utters a long wail that seems to echo between the walls of the house even as it fades. He falls silent and still. After a few moments, he draws a sudden, sharp breath, then another, until he’s panting wildly. Jacob and Wallace lie unconscious.