Death Blows

by D. D. Barant

  “Okay,” he says. “You have every right to be angry. I’ll make arrangements for Galahad to come and stay at the safe house. Guess I should have done that in the first place.”

  “Guess so.” Gretchen has remained completely quiet during this, but now she pops between us like a referee at the end of a round and says, “There’s nothing here that appeals to me. Let’s move on, shall we?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  I’m a fumer. I tend to fume. Not so much when I have an outlet—then I’m more of an exploder—but when I don’t, I fume. Right now, striding down a mall corridor while Gretchen tries to get my attention focused on baby booties, I’m giving out enough metaphysical vapor to power a paddle wheeler. Dr. Pete is studiously pretending nothing is wrong while slowly edging away from me, Gretch is trying to be chatty, and me—I’m just steaming away on my own private river and not paying much attention to what’s on the banks.

  I guess that makes what happens next my fault.

  We’ve just rounded a corner, and the corridor has narrowed considerably. No actual stores down this way, just tiled walls with a fire exit on one end and what seems to be the entrance to a loading dock. We’re all halfway down it before any of us even notices where we’re going.

  When we stop and turn around, they’re waiting.

  It’s the same group of wrappers that threatened me before. Guess their eyes have had time to heal—though this time, they’re not taking chances.

  “Nice sunglasses,” I say. “What, no white canes?”

  Anorexic Elvis—the one who nailed me with the Blood Cross—seems to be the one in charge. “You messed up my hand, bitch,” he says. “I don’t know what kind of damn hardware you using, but you ain’t gettin’ a chance to use it again.”

  There are five of them. Dr. Pete’s already in mid-transformation, but I have no idea how useful he’ll actually be in a fight. And Gretchen?

  Honestly, if Gretch weren’t as big as a house, I think we could have taken them together. As it is, I’m not going to put her child in danger. “Gretch, run,” I say. “Get help—”

  That’s as far as I get. Did I mention before how fast pires are?

  The first one slams into Dr. Pete while he’s still sprouting fur. The second one nails me before my gun can clear its holster. The rest—

  The rest are coughing their lungs out. There’s a little gray canister on the floor between them and us, and it’s spinning around and spitting a yellowish mist that’s filling up the corridor quickly. I may not have the nose of a thrope, but I know tear gas when I smell it. Tear gas cut with lots and lots of garlic. I should have known Gretch wouldn’t go out in public without being prepared…

  I don’t have time to thank her, or even glance in her direction. I’m flat on my back with a pire on top of me, and I guess he’s more of a traditionalist than he looks because his fangs are going straight for my throat. He’s got a hand clamped on both of my wrists, and the only positive element in the situation is that I’ve managed to actually get the Ruger free. Well, not free, exactly—it’s pointed to the side, and there’s no way I’m breaking my opponent’s grip.

  He stops with the tips of his teeth just barely denting my skin. I feel something cold and wet slide against my neck. “You about to learn about a brand-new world,” he rasps, then licks me again.

  “And you’re about to learn a brand-new word,” I say. I squeeze the trigger twice; the Ruger roars and spits fire. Gunsmoke and chipped ceramic tile fill the air as I shoot the wall right next to us—and suddenly there’s a dissolving sack of wet, rotting flesh pinning me down instead of a vampire, as one of the bullets finds a vital organ.

  “Ricochet,” I snarl, and shove what’s left of him off me.

  Gretch’s gone—she must have sprinted for the fire doors at the far end after tossing the tear gas. She’s probably already on the phone for reinforcements, so all I have to do is hold these guys off until—

  I can’t see Dr. Pete.

  That’s because he’s buried under a pile of bodies, bodies that are moving so fast their arms and legs are just a blur. At least four of them have escaped the gas and piled on him, and the beating they’re delivering is like—I don’t know how to describe it. I see flashes of silver, too, and realize they’re using more than just their fists. Clubs, blades, I can’t tell—and then I’m firing at anyone I have a clear shot at.

  Two go down and don’t move. The other two turn on me, and I have time to take one out with a heart shot before the other swats my gun out of my hand with an impact that leaves my whole hand numb. It’s Anorexic Elvis, and this time he intends to finish the job.

  He doesn’t make it. Dr. Pete, now in half-were form, has reached out and snagged him by one ankle. Elvis tries to kick his way free, but Dr. Pete refuses to let go. It’s hard to believe he’s still conscious; his muzzle is covered in blood, half his fangs have been smashed out and one of his eyes is gone.

  Elvis realizes a more direct approach is called for. He twists in Dr. Pete’s grip, drops to one knee on his victim’s chest, and starts to slam his fist into his face, again and again. I realize that the glint I saw is a pair of solid silver knuckles, a heavy chunk of metal that he’s hammering away at the Doc’s face with.

  “Tair says hello, fool,” he growls. Dr. Pete’s grip finally loosens and falls away. Elvis turns back to me—but the Doc’s bought me enough time to recover the Ruger.

  I don’t say anything clever. I just shoot him until I hear the click of an empty chamber.

  I slump against the wall, shaky and dizzy from adrenaline. The cloud of tear gas moves lazily away from me, propelled by some invisible air vent breeze. It’s over, I tell myself. It’s over.

  And then I hear the loud, echoing scream from the stairwell, and know I’m wrong.

  SIXTEEN

  I sprint for the fire door. I find Gretchen just inside it, sprawled on the concrete steps, unconscious. Her water’s broken, and it’s a lot redder than it should be. That could simply be because she’s a vampire, but I don’t know.

  Phone. Must find phone. I dig it out with shaky fingers, drop it, curse loudly, and nearly drop it again after picking it up. I force myself to calm down, take a few long, slow breaths, and dial 911. After I give them the relevant information, I call Cassius. Then I call Charlie, but he’s not picking up—probably in the middle of being tested.

  Then I reload my gun, and wait.

  Cassius’s people get there first—somehow, I’m not surprised. A field medic checks both Dr. Pete and Gretchen coolly, tells me that the Doc is in serious condition but will make it. He hesitates when I ask about Gretch, then says, “We have to get her to the hospital ASAP.”

  The paramedics show up a minute later, but Gretchen’s already gone—the field medic snapped together a collapsible stretcher, and then he and another agent loaded her on it and literally ran up the stairs. Let’s hear it for supernatural strength and stamina.

  I just hope Gretch has her share.

  The cops arrive after that. I show them my NSA badge, and when they start to get snippy I wave over a couple of large thrope agents to explain exactly how much trouble they’re going to be in if they don’t shut their traps, put away their notebooks, and go find a doughnut shop to have been in for the last half hour. I’d do it myself—it’s the kind of thing I normally live for—but I feel like I have exactly one, fraying nerve left. Me blowing a gasket is not going to help anyone.

  I wind up carting away the shopping bags full of Gretch’s purchases. It seems really important I be able to tell Gretch I took care of it so she won’t worry.

  I stuff them in the trunk of the car and get on the phone to Cassius. He’s already at the hospital, and gives me directions. Gretch has just arrived but he doesn’t know how she’s doing—all he knows is she’s going into labor.

  No matter how fast I drive, everything seems slow. The little voice in the back of my head—the one that says the most inappropriate th
ings at the worst times—has moved up to the front and gotten itself a bullhorn.

  Wow, what a day. Your partner’s on his way to the trash compactor, the guy you have a crush on was beaten half to death, and your best friend will probably die in childbirth right about… now.

  Shut up shut up shut up. I am not going to lose three of the only people on this godforsaken planet I give a damn about—

  Two out of three? Still pretty good—if by good you mean really, really terrible—

  Not happening. Not one, not two, not any of them. Dr. Pete will be fine. Gretch will be fine. Charlie will be fine.

  Dr. Pete, okay—though, sucky job protecting him, I gotta say. Dating you would be like going out with a national disaster—

  One soul-numbing criticism at a time, okay? You didn’t protect Gretch. You didn’t protect Charlie. You didn’t—Shut up shut up SHUT UP! I realize I’m screaming it, pounding on the steering wheel, tears running down my face. I pull over before I have an accident, put on my four-way flashers and just shake for a minute. I can handle being afraid. I can handle staring evil in the face from a few inches away. I can even handle the possibility of losing someone I care about. What I can’t handle is being hit with all three within twenty minutes, and knowing the last one might be my fault. Two minutes later I’m back on the road. My breathing is steady. My hands do not shake. The voice in my head is still there, but the bullhorn has been switched off and I’m not listening anyway. Mostly. “She’s in surgery,” Cassius tells me. We’re in the waiting area of the maternity ward. This hospital is very different from either of the places I was in before; it’s larger, newer, sleeker. It feels more like a place a Beverly Hills pire would go to have a little designer plastic surgery… if (a) an immortal being actually aged, and (b) the idea of performing surgery on a vampire wasn’t a ludicrous idea.

  Except, of course, that’s exactly what Gretchen is going through.

  “God damn it,” I spit. “I don’t know what any of the rules are anymore! I hate this world and I hate you for dragging me here!” Cassius ignores my outburst. “Her advanced pregnancy is causing complications. The child is drawing life force from her faster than she can give it, and that’s putting a severe strain on her body. It’s basically a race at this point.”

  “A race?”

  “Yes. To see if she can give birth before the baby kills her.” I stare at him. “Gee, don’t feel you like you have to sugarcoat it or anything.”

  “Some people need a cold dose of reality to help them focus.”

  “You could have just slapped me.”

  “I considered it. But you hate clichés, and I hate being shot.”

  “Good point. Plus, this is a hospital. Guns are kind of noisy.”

  “Are they? I thought it was just a personal statement on your part, like women who wear too much makeup.” Funny, isn’t it, how quickly you latch on to the familiar when you feel like you’re losing control? I hadn’t realized just how comfortable my back-and-forth with Cassius had become until we both slip into it while our friend is near death. Maybe it’s just laughing at the shadows, gallows humor, but it feels like something else. Something more.

  “She’ll be all right,” he says. “She’s strong. You know that.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, of course she is.”

  “Would you like to see Dr. Adams? I understand they brought him in a few minutes ago.” I hesitate, and he says, “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

  “Sure.” He gives me directions to another floor, and I take the elevator down. I realize on the way what’s been bothering me—on a subliminal level—since I got here: It doesn’t smell like disinfectant. I guess sterile procedures just aren’t as important when you have a supernatural immune system. I find Dr. Pete in a private room. I half expected him to be hooked up to an IV, oxygen tubes sticking out of his nose, wired to various beeping machines and monitors—but that’s overkill for a thrope. His arms and legs are immobilized by splints, though, and he’s still in half-were form. Guess he’ll heal faster that way.

  He looks over when I come in. There’s a gauze patch over one of his eyes. “Hey,” I say. “How are you doing?” He nods, which isn’t terribly informative. I look down and see that all of his fingers are in splints, too. “Looks like you won’t be talking for a while. That’s okay. I just wanted to let you know that Gretch is—well, she’s in labor. Cassius says she’ll be all right.”

  His fingers twitch. His muzzle opens and closes, and I can see that most of his teeth have been shattered. He whines, which rises to a howl. “Calm down,” I say. “I’ll keep you updated, I promise—” A nurse rushes in, a silver-needled hypo in one hand. She ignores me completely and jabs it, smoothly and efficiently, into his neck. His howl immediately drops a few octaves, sputters, then dies down to a groggy snarl. The nurse, a tall and imposing redheaded pire with arched eyebrows like something out of Star Trek, finally acknowledges my presence. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m—I was just—”

  “This patient is in seclusion for a reason. His bones have to set properly, and that can’t happen if he’s trying to hold up his end of a conversation.”

  “But I—”

  “He is in a great deal of pain. We couldn’t give him any painkillers until we’d x-rayed and splinted the bones, because that might cause him to lose consciousness and possibly revert. The shot I just gave him will help, but he’s not going to be very coherent for a while. So anything you have to say to him can wait.”

  “Okay,” I say. I don’t have any desire to chew her out, or even argue. “I’ll go.” I turn around and leave.

  Back to the maternity ward waiting room, where there are no pacing fathers, nobody handing out cigars. I realize that the process must be very different for pires; two immortals giving up some of their youth in order to create a new life would make every birth a powerful, singular event. Not that the arrival of a human baby isn’t—but imagine that you know this is the only child you’ll ever have. Imagine that after spending decades or centuries without aging, you suddenly find yourself getting older. And all this is a relatively new development; pires have only been able to give birth since the end of World War II. For some of them, it’s the most transformative thing to affect them since they gave up being human.

  Which is why the waiting room is empty—all the parents are together, inside. Except for Gretchen, who’s alone.

  I ask the nurse behind the counter for news. She’s a slender Indian woman with a red dot on her forehead, and she tells me—in an Australian accent, no less—that Cassius has gone in to be present during the birth.

  “Is she doing all right? Can I go in?”

  The nurse consults her monitor. “Well, we don’t normally allow more than the parents to be present. This is a special case, so we’ve made allowances for Mr. Cassius. But it’s a bit tricky right now—I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

  Great. I slump into one of the chairs and sulk, which very rapidly yo-yos into fretting, then anger, then worrying. How can Cassius just abandon me like this? How could Dr. Pete get himself so badly hurt I can’t even yell at him? Why the hell are the walls painted that absurdly annoying shade of yellow?

  I don’t bother telling my brain to shut up. At this point, it’s about the only company I have.

  Finally, the doors push open. A doctor stands there, her gown bloody. She walks straight over to me. “Are you Jace Valchek?”

  I feel a little light-headed. “Yes.”

  She smiles. “Both baby and mother are doing fine. Would you like to come in and see them?”

  I blink. I nod. I follow her through the doors and down a hall.

  And then I meet someone new.

  I’m really not sure what to expect. Some part of my brain is conjuring up images of mad scientist laboratories, crackling Jacob’s ladders on the bedposts and hunch-backed interns named Igor. What I get is less medical than most hospital rooms, but still pretty normal. Gretch is in
a hospital bed, the back cranked to let her sit up. There’s no window, but a tall floor lamp provides soft illumination. Cassius is seated in a comfortable chair beside a table with a vase full of flowers on it. He’s leaning forward, talking to Gretch, his voice low and intent; she looks tired but not exhausted, and all her attention seems focused on him. Which is a little odd, considering the small bundle she’s holding against her chest.

  “—considering the situation in North Africa right now, I think Mahmoud could handle it. And the Libyans are in a holding pattern, so that’s not going critical anytime soon.”

  “I suppose,” she says. “But have you taken into consideration—”

  “A-hem,” I say. “Are you actually debriefing this woman?”

  The looks on their faces are identical: kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. “It’s nothing,” Cassius says hurriedly, “just a few office details that needed clearing up—”

  I come over and perch on the side of the bed. “For God’s sake, the woman just gave birth. And how about an introduction, huh?”

  Gretch looks down at her new offspring, and beams. Her smile shines so bright, I’m half convinced she’s going to burst into self-induced flames at any second. “Jace, this is—well, she doesn’t have a name, yet. I just call her Love.”

  “Hello, Love,” I say softly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The baby looks like—well, a baby. Hard to believe it’s a supernatural being, one without a pulse or the need to breathe, but there you go. I reach out to touch one of her tiny hands, and am pleasantly surprised to find she’s just as warm and soft as any other baby—but a lot more durable, I guess.

  “You’re okay? She’s okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. I understand Dr. Pete is as well, though somewhat worse for wear.”

  “Yeah, I just went to see him. Pretty banged up, but he’ll recover.”

  She looks up, and the old Gretchen—all business and not someone you want to cross—is back. “I took a chance with the tear gas. It was meant to slow them down and force them back while we retreated—apparently I misjudged their commitment.”