by K. Z. Snow
Adin looked at Jackson and smiled. “They think we’re hot.”
“Get out. They’re too young to think we’re hot.” The girls were probably in their early teens.
“No city kid over ten is young these days,” Adin pointed out. “Maybe you need to watch more TV.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. Now what’s with the one in the middle? Why’s she so upset?”
Adin lifted a bottle of beer from the ground beside his lawn chair. Leinenkugel’s Honey Weiss. As he tipped it to his lips and drank, Jackson wished he were the bottle’s mouth. He and Adin hadn’t even kissed since he got back.
Adin wiped his upper lip with his lower, another unintentionally tantalizing move. “She claims she saw a skeleton climbing up a flagpole. I think it was outside their school. One of the others told her the Day of the Dead was over. The second said maybe it was a guy named Trevor.” Adin grinned. “Poor kid is probably a pale, skinny geek.”
“That stressed-out girl must have some psychic ability,” Jackson said. “I feel sorry for her.” He combed his memory, trying to recall if he’d read about a skeletal creature in Slavic mythology. Or a tall man who could control the weather.
“I believe,” Adin said, “Ko?ciej can appear as a skeleton.”
“Who?”
“The creature mentioned in that note you got.” Adin took another drink. “What did you just see?”
Staring at the ground in front of him, Jackson mutely shook his head. Supernatural activity was ramping up in the city. He swigged some of his beer, which he’d all but forgotten about. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “Just more of the same.”
Adin regarded him. “You’re starting to seem bothered by it.”
“I am.”
Finally, Jackson was genuinely worried. The beings slipping through that interstitial gap were becoming more manifest, as if they were drawing power from this world. At the moment their presence was like a poltergeist invasion: few humans could see them; a few more could hear them and perhaps detect other evidence of their mischief. Soon, though, they could very well start messing with people in nasty physical and psychological ways. Some of the damage could be irreversible.
“I just wonder,” he said, more or less to himself, “how long it’s going to be before Baba Yaga actually does snatch a child.”
Adin extended the fingers of his right hand. “I wonder how long it will be before I thirst for blood again.”
A chill snaked through Jackson’s body. He glanced at his companion.
There was no doubt about it. Adin’s fingernails had ominously lengthened.
* * * *
Fog Cliff Cemetery, Ivan thought, was even creepier than the portraits of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky painted on Roland Dancy’s scrotum. And they were pretty damned creepy—especially when Rollie squeezed the top of his sac and made those faces pop in all their chicken-skinned, wire-haired glory.
The sun would soon be setting. Already, shadows cast by lines of gravestones had begun to stretch out on the grass like reclining ghosts. It didn’t help the atmosphere any to have Bothu loping along at his side like some oily mortician. It didn’t help, either, that Bothu carried an old, black doctor’s satchel, and whatever was stashed within kept making its presence known through muffled thumps and knocks.
Shielding his eyes with one hand, Ivan glanced up the narrow asphalt drive. There, toward the north, loomed the jagged rock formation that apparently gave the cemetery its name. No fog swaddled the cliff today, but thickening shade and almost palpable stillness provided more than enough atmosphere. The dead place was dead-quiet. Aside from whatever wildlife populated the surrounding woods, no other living creatures were around. This was a rural boneyard, and “visiting hours” appeared to be over.
“Where’s the grave?” Ivan asked, winded. The drive went uphill.
They’d parked their vehicles in a neighboring yard, which Bothu had assured him was safe. Maybe the property was abandoned. Maybe Bothu knew the owners. Ivan hadn’t bothered to inquire.
“We’re not going to a grave,” the necromancer said.
“Then how the hell—?”
“It’s a mausoleum, and it’s behind the cliff.”
Ivan stopped. He put up his hands. “Whoa, hold on there, bucko. You’re not shutting me up in some suffocating, vermin-infested—”
Bothu, too, paused. His dark gaze landed on Ivan like a wasting disease. “Then go home and figure things out on your own. I’m not the one who needs to be here, Ivan. I’m not the one intent on luring Jackson Spey into the Prism.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one who likes being here.” Ivan tried to give him a playful swat on the arm, but he couldn’t bring himself to make contact with the ghoulish figure. His hand fell limply to his side. “Wouldn’t you rather do this on your own? Kind of like, you know…masturbating.”
Bothu’s narrow eyes narrowed further. “Actually, I would prefer being alone. But to achieve the results you’re after, you have to be present.” He nodded toward Ivan’s neck. “While I’m thinking of it, you need to ditch the jewelry.”
“What jewelry?” Ivan touched the spot Bothu seemed to be looking at. “You mean my amulets and talismans?”
“You’ll have to take them off and leave them outside the mansion.”
“The mansion?” Ivan bugged his eyes in disbelief. Then, resigned, he sighed. He’d given up trying to understand this goof a long time ago. “Listen, I wear these pieces for a reason. Let me explain it in simple terms. The talismans attract the shit I want. The amulets repel the shit I don’t want. Considering where we are”—dramatically, he waved his arms to indicate the setting—“I’d say a little protection is warranted.”
“And I’d say, get rid of them.” Bothu resumed walking. “Things will be a lot uglier for you if you keep them on.”
“Why?”
“Never mind.”
“Well that’s just fucking great,” Ivan muttered.
Trudging on, they soon circled the western side of the cliff. Behind it, nearly butting up against the rock’s northern face, was a gnomish stone structure patterned with lichens and engulfed in shade. The mausoleum looked like a rotten tooth. Ivan shivered as his gut clenched.
“How are we supposed to get in?” he whispered, hoping they couldn’t. He eyed the sturdy double doors deeply recessed beneath a Gothic arch. They appeared to be bronze, and decorated all over with demons writhing and cavorting within a cage of thorny branches. Flanking this dreary portal, gargoyles glowered from atop a pair of Corinthian columns.
It was hardly an inviting entrance. A plaque set beneath the roof’s low gable identified the lord of the mansion—one James Newman, who drew his last breath in 1928.
Much to Ivan’s surprise, Bothu simply walked up to one door and pulled it open. The hinges didn’t even squeal in complaint. Stiff-lover must keep them lubricated, Ivan thought. A puff of stale air wafted past his face.
With extreme reluctance, he pulled off his assortment of charms and laid them on a patch of ground rather than the cracked concrete apron that led to the doors. Getting them dirty, he figured, was far better than letting them come into any contact with Newman’s charnel house. Riding a sweaty wave of anxiety, he followed Bothu inside.
The grim, dim space smelled both dank and musty. An open crypt sat in the center, its lid so severely askew it seemed an inch from crashing to the flagstone floor. A hard chill dug into Ivan’s bones. He lingered near the door.
“I’d say it’s twilight. Wouldn’t you?” Bothu murmured, glancing at his companion.
“Sure.” Ivan didn’t give a fuck. He just wanted to get this ordeal over with.
“Come here.”
Ivan cast a longing look at the door, still ajar. “Do I have to?”
“Yes, you idiot. I didn’t bring you with me because I enjoy your company.”
Ivan took a few tentative steps forward. The necromancer reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a key.
A hex key. Leaning over the vault, he apparently fit the key into a lock—the lock that secured the lid of the casket nested within. A sharp click made Ivan flinch.
At that very moment, the mausoleum’s door swung shut. Ivan jumped and let out a yelp. The space was instantly packed with woolly blackness.
Now, he did hear a creak. Bothu must be lifting the casket’s lid. Ivan remained frozen in place, aware of the damp cold from the flagstones leeching through the soles of his shoes. He tried mentally cobbling together some protective incantation, but his mind seemed to have shut down. He heard Bothu rummaging through the satchel.
“Come,” Bothu said, his voice dusky, “greet your benefactor.”
Mewling, Ivan faltered forward in shuffling baby-steps. A match flared then touched the wick of a thick candle. It smelled, jarringly, like Christmas, but with a bitter note. Another burst of small flame, and the cloying scent of jasmine crept into the air. Ivan still hadn’t peered into the relative gloom of the crypt. He watched Bothu remove other things from his black bag—a knife, a glittering chunk of stone, a vial of murky liquid—and array them along the wide edge of the vault.
Holding the candle above what lay within, the necromancer paused as his gaze angled downward. Fondly, he smiled.
Ivan thought he might faint.
As Bothu lowered the candle toward Newman’s remains, he simultaneously curled an arm around Ivan’s rib cage and drew him forward. Candlelight wavered up from the rectangular gulf.
“Isn’t he lovely?” Bothu said. “He was nearly one of the Incorruptibles until fairly recently.”
Sheer morbid curiosity made Ivan rise up on the balls of his feet and sneak a glance at the inside of the casket. He wished he hadn’t. Closing his eyes, he swayed backward and swallowed hard.
Newman should have been pure skeleton by now. But he wasn’t. On his hands, neck and head, skin like poorly tanned leather peeled away from teeth and bone. Scalp and hair, gradually disconnecting from his skull, rested like a clump of thatch on a soiled, rotting pillow. His dark clothing was nothing more than dusty scraps. As sunken and shriveled as they were, his eyes appeared to be open.
Even worse, something protruded from his chest. It looked like a partially corroded blade. What the fuck? Ivan kept thinking. What the fuck? Had Newman been a vampire? Ivan tried to calm himself. Maybe not a vampire. Bothu brought a knife with him this time, too, and vampires didn’t need to be killed twice. Besides, Newman looked deader than dead already. So maybe it was just part of the ritual. But why had the damned blade been stuck in the corpse’s heart?
In slow motion, Bothu lifted the vial of liquid.
“Wh-what’s in there?” Ivan whispered, because asking questions helped deflect his attention from every other grisly detail of this situation. Not to mention his billowing panic. He didn’t think he could hold out much longer.
“Milk. Honey.” Bothu pulled out the cork stopper. “Blood.” Reaching down, he caressed the lipless mouth and drizzled his concoction inside it.
On the verge of retching, Ivan turned away.
“Come, sweet Azrael,” Bothu crooned, “and speak through your servant James. Tell me how the man named Jackson Spey can be brought into the powerful crystal once hidden and protected here.”
A soft rustling made Ivan hazard a glance at the necromancer. He’d reached inside the casket again. Very gently, he lifted something. One of Newman’s hands. He cradled it.
Azrael, Azrael… Ivan tried to recall the entity identified by that name. Was it demonic? Bothu’s blandishments went on. Ivan knew they were for his sake. It was the only thing that kept him from bolting. Azrael…
Shit. That was the Angel of Death.
A dry rattle came from the casket. Words formed. “C-call. Call him. Open the door.”
“Thank you,” Bothu breathed out. His tone was rapturous.
Suddenly, Ivan couldn’t breathe. He frantically stumbled away from the crypt, trying to distance himself from the eerie exchange. His shoulder connected with a slimy wall. Half-expecting Newman to rise, he scrabbled toward the doors, their outlines barely visible in candle’s feeble glow.
“We will stay here ‘til the next twilight,” Bothu said—to whom, Ivan didn’t know or care. “Still as the dead yet receptive as the living, we will stay.”
The fuck we will. Ivan’s quaking hand found a thick metal ring.
“Call. Then…open the door.”
Damned straight. Ivan grabbed the ring and pulled. Nothing happened. Panic began to overtake him. It opens out, not in! Grateful he hadn’t totally succumbed to hysteria, he threw his considerable weight against the barrier. The bronze plane resisted for a couple of seconds before it swung open.
Ivan pitched himself into the evening, rolled once, and scrambled onto his hands and knees. Without a single glance at the mausoleum, and with greater and speed and agility than he’d possessed since childhood, he scurried toward the blessedly mundane haven of his SUV. Amulets and talismans be damned.
Chapter Eleven
Something was wrong. Jackson knew it as soon as he opened his eyes. He’d always been able to awaken quickly. Now, hyperalert, he sat up and reached toward the other side of the bed.
Adin was gone.
Not sure why it alarmed him, Jackson listened for a moment. Silence filled the flat. No sounds in the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room. Sliding his legs off the bed, he grabbed his jeans from the floor and slipped them on.
“Shit,” he whispered. Flipping on the light, Jackson sprinted around the apartment to rustle up a shirt, socks, shoes. “Shit,” he said more emphatically, his sense of urgency growing.
Adin’s laptop was still on the dining table, so he obviously wasn’t heading home. In fact, he’d talked to Celia, his girlfriend, just a few hours earlier and told her he’d be staying a while. Maybe he couldn’t sleep and was sitting outside.
He wasn’t. At first Jackson didn’t know which way to go when he stepped out the door. He didn’t even know what time it was. He looked left and right but couldn’t see Adin’s familiar form anywhere on the spottily lit sidewalks. Other people were out, though. A slow-moving, low-slung car boomed down the street. Two men and a woman sat on a stoop kitty-corner from Jackson’s building, music playing at their backs. Farther away, Jackson heard a shout, a fountain of laughter.
He steepled his fingers and lowered his forehead to their tips. Closing his eyes, he blocked out all sensory distractions. He not only visualized Adin, he summoned a detailed sense of the man. Then his arms lowered of their own accord. Automatically, his body turned. He faced the dark, narrow walkway between his building and the one next-door. Adin must have gone down the walkway and headed for the alley.
“Don’t,” Jackson whispered, falling into a jog. He felt tugged along. “Please don’t.”
He veered left into the alley. When he got to the end of the block, he followed the next alley. Something wispy and insubstantial grazed the side of his face. Almost immediately, a cat yowled. Jackson didn’t stop. He didn’t care what was flitting about the city tonight. He had to find Adin.
There was a bar on the corner of the second block. His legs braked. Breathing heavily, more from anxiety than exertion, he walked forward and peered into the gloom. There was a Dumpster behind the bar, several paces from its rear exit. Above it, a caged, yellow bulb cast a weak and jaundiced light. It illuminated little more than the scratches, dents and graffiti on the metal door and a scattering of trash on the ground.
Standing still, Jackson listened. Unmistakable sounds came from the slot of darkness between the Dumpster and the building’s brick wall. Sporadic, moist sounds. Stifled moans.
He stepped closer. Half in and half out of the pool of sick light, Jackson stopped. His breathing was spasmodic now, chest hitching as he drew in sour air and expelled it. Two figures were pressed together in the narrow space. Two men.
One cracked word came out of his throat. “Adin.”
The sounds faltered, stilled.
Jackson’s legs unsteadily carried him forward, but only by a few feet. He felt ill.
His lover, shirt open, drifted out of the shadowed hiding-place. The other person dashed off in the opposite direction, footfalls slapping on pavement and gradually receding. Adin’s face crumpled in abject despair.
“Why?” Jackson whispered.
Like injured wings, Adin’s arms lifted slightly then fell to his sides. “Because I had to.”
“Was it the singer?”
Adin hesitated. “Yes.”
“Did you feed?”
Adin shook his head. “No. I was…readying him.”
Jackson’s stomach lurched. His mind and body felt numb. He turned and blindly began walking toward his building. With every mechanical step, he thought his legs would buckle and drop him to the ground.
Within seconds, Adin was beside him, then in front of him. He gripped Jackson’s upper arms so hard, each finger dug a distinct pit.
“Stop,” Adin said. His eyes looked different. The blue had darkened nearly to black. There seemed to be glimmering rings around the irises.
Jackson tried pushing him aside.
Adin wouldn’t move. He gave Jackson a shake. “Stop!”
It was painful to look at him. Jackson’s heart hurt, it hurt so bad he wanted to double over. “You were…you were ‘readying’ him.” He knew too well what that meant. The deep kissing, the fondling. He was familiar with the arousal that preceded and accompanied a vampire feed.
“I didn’t kiss him,” Adin whispered. “I couldn’t. I swear to you.”
“But you let him kiss you. You let him touch you.”
Adin didn’t confirm or deny it. He didn’t need to. He stared fiercely into Jackson’s eyes. “I love you. Goddammit, I love you so much it’s like a force pushing at my skin from the inside out.”
Jackson felt his face twist. “You have a strange way of showing it,” he said bitterly. He wrenched free of Adin’s grasp and resumed walking, strengthened by his pain.
