by Dima Zales
“—force, Luke,” Felix and I finish in unison.
Vlad gives us a dark look in the rearview mirror, so I speak for both of us. “Come on. That British accent and that segue—”
“Sasha.” Vlad’s eyebrows merge together tightly enough for Felix’s unibrow to claim trademark infringement.
“Did you say ‘Sasha?’” Darian sounds so concerned I’d give him a Golden Globe for pretending not to know I’m in the car.
“Yes.” Vlad looks confused.
Darian hangs up with a loud click.
Vlad looks even more confused as he swerves onto a large street.
“Nero forbade Darian from speaking to me on the pain of death,” I explain after a moment of silence. “I bet Darian knew I was in the car but pretended he didn’t.”
“Plausible deniability,” Felix says. “Clever.”
“But wouldn’t he have seen this episode play out exactly as it just did?” Rose asks via the earbuds. “This is Fluffster asking, by the way,” she adds.
“Exactly,” I say. “I bet this is exactly what he wanted to happen. I’m sure we heard enough to help us. Or more likely, enough to help him, as this will undoubtedly benefit some long-term agenda of his.”
What I don’t add is that said long-term agenda could be to shack up with me.
I’m distracted from my “Darian plus Sasha” musings when my road-awareness Spidey sense suddenly tingles.
We’re flying toward a large intersection, and the bout of anxiety—or whatever this is—seems focused on the quickly approaching street light.
Only the light is green, not red.
In that very instant, the green turns to yellow.
“This seer stuff can give even a vampire a headache,” Vlad mutters and presses the gas to speed up so he can pass the yellow light before it turns red.
“This is a good way to get a ticket,” I distantly hear Rose complain in our ears. “This is Fluffster speaking,” she adds. “He says the ticket would be Vlad’s responsibility to pay.”
A ticket is not why my intuition is revolting.
It must be the upcoming red light itself.
“Stop!” I shout in panic.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I’ve got to give vampire instincts their due. Vlad slams the brakes before I get the word out.
I’ve also got to hand it to Elon Musk and the rest of the folks at Tesla. The car stops before we cross the striped pedestrian lines at the same time as the light above us turns red.
A huge garbage truck barrels across the intersection at race-car speed.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “This must’ve been the reason for Darian’s call.”
“Yes,” Rose says, sounding shaken. “If you’d gone ahead, that truck would’ve hit you.”
“I was aware of it,” Vlad says defensively. “We would’ve made it.”
“Maybe,” Rose says. “And you would’ve been fine if the collision had occurred.”
What she doesn’t need to add is that Felix and I would’ve been turned into medium-rare humanoid burgers.
“You’d survive that?” Felix looks at the quickly disappearing truck and the thin car frame around us. “I didn’t think even a vampire could live through something like that.”
I want to tell him that Rose gave Vlad some kind of a magic boost but decide against it; Vlad may want that info kept secret.
The light changes back to green.
Vlad expresses his feelings about the whole red-light incident by slamming on the gas so suddenly that the g-forces press me into the seat.
We get to the highway in silence.
I decide to lessen the tension in my favorite way, so I say, “Do you guys want to see something cool?
“A trick?” Rose asks excitedly. “Can you do something that I can see through the camera?”
“Vlad,” I say, fighting the urge to chastise Rose for calling it “a trick” instead of “an effect.” “Do you want to participate in this?”
Vlad half grunts, half hums in reply, which I take as an agreement.
Reaching into my pocket, I bring out a deck of cards. Leaving Felix’s FELLATIO gizmo in the card box, I take out the cards and hand them to Felix to examine and shuffle as I pocket the box.
When I get the cards back, I say, “This effect will test the connection between Vlad and Rose, to see how well suited they are.”
Rose squeals in glee, and even Vlad looks more interested in the rearview mirror.
“If this works, it means you two were always meant to be together,” I say. “But if it doesn’t, it just means that I need more practice.”
Everyone chuckles.
“Let me make sure there are no jokers in the deck,” I say and spread the cards to have a quick look through them.
“Now,” I say when I square the cards. “I want Rose to name a card value, without a suit.”
“Seven,” Rose says.
“Great,” I say, and almost imperceptibly wink at Vlad in the rearview mirror. “Vlad, name a suit.”
“Clubs,” Vlad says, and it could be my imagination, but I think he winks back at me.
“Great.” I spread my hands as far apart as the car allows. “Watch this.”
Angling my hands so that they can be seen by Rose through the camera, I spring the cards from hand to hand—a classic card magic flourish.
Most magicians do a “waterfall” in this type of situation—where cards go from top to bottom, with the help of gravity. Springing the cards—especially my version of it—is trickier, particularly at the distance at which I’m holding my hands, but I’m very good at springing cards. Given how much of my youth I’ve sunk into practicing this—and we’re talking gruesome practice that involves gathering cards from all over the floor when you mess up—I better be good.
I’m happy with the result. There’s a triumphant whoosh, and every single card looks like it developed superpowers as it makes its way from my right hand to the left with a gravity-defying jump.
Felix and Vlad look impressed—which is great, given that the actual impressive part is coming up next.
“Notice that I have a single card left in my right hand,” I say and show them the truth of my statement.
In my right hand, I’m holding one card.
“No way,” Rose mutters in the headpiece.
Slowly, I turn over the card in question to reveal that it’s the card Vlad and Rose jointly named—the seven of clubs.
Rose shouts something unintelligible.
Though he doesn’t say anything, Vlad looks very pleased in the rearview mirror. He must like the proof that he and Rose have a strong connection, even if he knows how I did what I just did—assuming I’m right in thinking that he does.
Felix keeps staring at the card. His usual “I know how you did that” smug expression is missing, which makes me want to cackle from glee.
“That was great,” Rose says. “Both Fluffster and I think so.”
“I agree,” Vlad says as he swerves off the highway. In a much more serious tone, he adds, “We’re almost there.”
I pocket the cards without even bothering to stick them back in the box. Quickly taking out my Glock from my waistband, I check to make sure it’s loaded.
Following my example, Felix plays with the controls of his Gomorrah weapon.
A big futuristic screen shows up above his gun—a screen that looks to be a hologram from some sci-fi flick.
I rub my eyes.
The transparent screen keeps hovering in the air.
“Wow,” I say. “You weren’t kidding. Gomorrah technology is way ahead of ours.”
“Yeah.” Felix studies his gun so lovingly Maya would be jealous.
“It’s here.” Vlad points at a giant rundown warehouse building on the right.
Two big dudes wearing suits are standing by the entrance to the place. They look like clones of the guys who tried to kidnap me when Ariel and I were heading home from the gym the
other day.
Actually, they could be the same guys.
Vlad turns a corner and parks the car.
“I’ll take the lead,” he says, unlocking the door and springing into action.
With supernatural speed, he disappears around the corner before Felix and I even exit the vehicle.
I get out and sprint after Vlad, with Felix huffing and puffing on my tail.
I turn the corner just in time to see Vlad’s eyes turn into reflective pools of mercury as he stares down the two guards.
“You’re getting sleepy,” I hear Vlad mutter in the earpiece, the words dripping from his tongue like honey from a spoon. “Very sleepy.”
Really? Hypnosis is one branch of mentalism that I haven’t explored, but everyone knows that line.
Vlad’s glamour voodoo works without a hitch. By the time I catch up, the two dudes are taking a nappy-nap on the pavement.
“This might go easier than I thought,” Felix whispers and looks at his gun with disappointment.
“Don’t jinx it,” I whisper back, but I’m also feeling hopeful.
Maybe all I need to do to thwart the horrid vision is to let Vlad go into the fateful room and deal with the admiral.
Vlad lightly taps the seemingly locked door with his open palm.
The door flies in as it would if a SWAT team breached it with a battering ram.
He steps inside.
“I thought his kind had to be invited in,” I whisper to Felix, and he shrugs.
“I guess this is not anybody’s home.”
We follow Vlad in.
There are six more suited goons inside. They all look shocked to see us—until Vlad catches their gaze, that is.
“Sleep,” he says in that same hypnotic tone. “Now.”
The six dudes instantly go catatonic.
This is definitely going well.
We step over the sleeping guards and walk up to a door that says, “NO ENTRY.”
“So illogical,” Felix mutters. “The whole point of the door is to allow entry.”
“Yeah,” I agree, straight-faced. “This lazy door is almost a window.”
With another tap of his palm, Vlad proves to the door that it can indeed allow entry—at least if a vampire is in the picture.
As the door flies off its hinges, a small red light above turns on to show us the door’s displeasure.
Apart from that faint red glow, this room is dark.
Felix clicks something on his gun, and the hologram screen shows the room in ultra-high-def night vision mode.
There are ten green-tinted goons spread all around us. They are armed with assault rifles and have night vision goggles on.
They must’ve donned that gear and killed the lights in order to catch us by surprise.
“Will the dark or the goggles interfere with Vlad’s powers?” I whisper to no one in particular.
“You’ll see,” Rose whispers back.
“Guns down,” Vlad demands in that same glamour voice.
The men put down their guns.
“Pass out,” Vlad orders, and they instantly oblige, falling down with ten juicy smacks.
Vlad walks to a large set of doors that slide upward and kicks them in.
The doors fly open, and Vlad goes inside.
Felix and I exchange an impressed look as we follow him.
The new room is also dark, but thanks to Felix’s gun, I can see inside of it very clearly.
Seeing and understanding what I’m seeing are two different things, however.
The dozen gunmen here are not like the ones we’ve met so far. For starters, not a single one looks Russian. Instead, these guys are a melting pot of criminal types you’d expect to see on most-wanted posters from all over the globe. They’re also not wearing formal suits—and what they do have on is the weirdest part.
They’re wearing johnnies. As in, those hospital gowns that leave your butt exposed. And they do not have anything underneath those johnnies, not even the customary hospital booties.
Last but not least, they’re all wearing sunglasses. Not even cool sunglasses but cheap-looking shades… in a pitch-dark room.
Is the sci-fi gun screen making this up?
“Drop the guns,” Vlad commands them.
They do not do as they’re told.
I blink in confusion.
With eerie choreography, each of the oddballs raises his gun—aiming directly at Vlad’s head.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The adrenaline in my system focuses my mind. “Shoot!” I shout at Felix and aim my own gun at the nearest hospital-gown-clad dude—codename Johnny One.
There’s a horrified scream in my earbud.
It’s either Rose or a banshee with a pearl diver’s lung capacity.
Doing my best to ignore the noise, I pull the trigger.
All the Johnnies must’ve pressed their triggers at the same time; the resulting noise is deafening.
Johnny One hits the ground but tries to crawl. I must not have hurt him badly. Still, maybe numbering them isn’t such a good idea.
To my relief, Vlad’s head doesn’t look like a pasta drainer; he must’ve anticipated the gunfire because he’s moving like a blur on Felix’s gun’s screen.
Is Vlad’s speed too fast for the night vision camera to properly capture, or is he really giving the Flash a run for his money?
Whooshing by a Johnny nearest him, Vlad rips his head off as though executing a Fatality move in a Mortal Kombat game. Then he stomps on the head of the still-crawling Johnny One.
The crunch of bone and skin breaking is the most disgusting sound I’ve ever heard.
Yep. Definitely not going to number them. Whatever these vampire-glamour-immune Johnnies are, their heads are as detachable and crushable as a regular person’s.
Though maybe not.
The Johnny with the head ripped off keeps trying to claw at Vlad, even as blood gushes from his neck like water from a broken fire hydrant.
What is that guy that he can move after losing his head? A zombie? Is that the deal with the hospital garb?
No. The zombies I’ve encountered didn’t bleed this much—and they smelled very distinctly.
Unless it’s simple biology? There is the proverbial chicken that runs around with its head allegedly cut off. Can people do that?
The banshee sounds in my earbud intensify, and I debate getting rid of the device to make it stop.
Vlad throws the headless Johnny against a wall, and that puts an end to the weirdness as the guy slides down in a limp heap.
I’m certain Felix is about to faint.
Even I, usually not squeamish, feel woozy at the carnage.
Felix surprises me, however. Instead of fainting, he shoots one of the Johnnies who’s aiming at me.
The Gomorrah gun makes a soft beeping sound but doesn’t seem to expel any projectile—though something like a blaster beam shows up on the holographic screen and hits Felix’s target in the chest.
The Johnny instantly collapses, which is interesting. The Gomorrah gun must be more effective than a beheading.
Meanwhile, Vlad whirls by five more Johnnies and rips off five more heads, then proceeds to pound the moving headless bodies to the ground.
The air permeates with the coppery stench of blood and death.
Our attackers must not be Cognizant. Vlad said he wasn’t going to kill any, and he very much killed these peeps.
Realizing that Vlad is too much of a moving target, a Johnny in the corner of the room aims his gun at Felix.
Once more, the adrenaline in my blood seems to aid my focus.
I can see that Vlad won’t rip this one’s head in time, so I raise my gun and squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot is so loud that I wonder if we fired together.
The panicked wail in my earbud is joined by what sounds like a wounded cat.
Maybe even a bathing cat.
The guy plops on the ground, his gown soaked in blood. He tries to cra
wl toward me for a moment, but then relaxes forever.
I must’ve hit his heart.
Unblinking, I stare at the dead man, then at my hands clutching the gun.
This is the first human who’s died by my hands.
Assuming he was human, that is—though that shouldn’t really matter as any sentient being is equally worthy of life, and these dudes do seem somewhat sentient.
It’s shocking how little remorse I feel.
Is the adrenaline making me numb?
What’s worse is that I actually feel ready to defend my friends and myself further. I will kill as many as I need to accomplish that goal.
Was I secretly a sociopath all this time and never realized it? Or is it that I made the gown-clad dudes into monsters in my head? On a purely logical level, I don’t see a problem with what I did—this was a simple case of self-defense.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. If I have to, I can get therapy with Lucretia to sort all this out later. The goal is to survive long enough to need said therapy.
In shocked fascination, I watch as Vlad rips off the remaining heads from their owners’ shoulders.
Felix looks around the room through his screen, as though to confirm there is no more danger.
All the hospital-gown dudes are goners.
Rose’s screams in my earbud cease.
Looking up from the screen, Felix theatrically covers his mouth with his palm, as though he’s about to barf. Then he falls on the ground without any warning.
My heart drops.
Did that last guy’s bullet hit Felix after all?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Taking out my phone, I use it as a flashlight to check on my friend.
I don’t see any blood and find his pulse strong and breathing even.
“He finally fainted,” I whisper, relieved.
“Poor dear,” Rose says, her voice hoarse. “Vlad did make a big mess there.”
“Understatement of the century,” I say, looking around at the massacre.
Turning my attention back to Felix, I slap him on the cheek.
He doesn’t rouse.
“I should’ve brought smelling salts,” I mutter under my breath.
“Or left him at home,” Rose replies.
