Day Killer

by Clara Coulson

  Panic jolts me off balance, and I scramble to point my gun at Caine’s snarling face, now mere feet away, his body tearing through the air like a cannon ball, crimson eyes alight with fury. But my untrained left hand fumbles on the trigger, and my right hand’s fingers fail to bend enough to steady my aim. By the time I’ve got the sight lined up, the trigger halfway down, Caine is too close, and the knife he yanked from inside his jacket is glinting in the light. When I fire, the shot goes wide, blowing out a chunk of Caine’s shoulder instead of his brain. Before I can even contemplate a second shot, he’s on me.

  It’s less than three seconds from the moment I notice Caine’s first twitches to the moment he shoves the knife into my chest. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like I live a lifetime in that gap. A frightened, stressful lifetime that ends with a gasp of shock as I feel the blade ram straight through my right lung and take out two ribs like they’re made of flimsy plastic, the bone shards ricocheting through my chest. I stumble into Foley, who finishes spinning around just in time to catch me, much the same way I caught him last night.

  Caine reels backward, pulling the knife free with a sickening squelch, and swears as he prods the gaping wound in his shoulder, blood pouring down his already torn and dirtied clothes. My gaze falls to the similar gush of blood soaking my own shirt, and the sharp twang of copper bubbling up my throat as my lung floods and my trachea tries to eject the excess before I drown. I seize up, struggling to get enough air, and cough, wet and loud, muscles losing all tension as my body desperately focuses on keeping my brain supplied with oxygen.

  It’s failing. Fast.

  Foley lets out a string of Romanian curses, then gently lowers me to the ground before ripping the gun from my grasp. He storms toward Caine.

  Caine’s bones are busy snapping themselves back into place, and the gunshot wound is closing slowly because his healing factor is concentrating on the more severe internal damage he took when the tree smashed him into the ground. Even though he’s taken way more punishment than Foley, however, the angry Knight doesn’t back down as the house heir approaches.

  He sneers, “Come on, little lord, let’s finish this the old-fashioned way.”

  Foley pauses and tilts his head to the side, as if considering the proposal. “A hand-to-hand duel?”

  “That would make for a fair fight, yeah?”

  Foley’s shoulders tighten, and though I can’t see his face when he speaks, I can feel the rage that must be emanating from his crimson eyes, the danger glinting off his exposed, elongated fangs. “You think you deserve a fair fight, after what you did to the Parliament?”

  Caine barrels forward, but Foley is faster. He raises my gun and shoots Caine point blank in the face. The man’s head snaps back, his legs flying out from underneath him. Foley reaches out with lightning speed, free hand plunging into the side of Caine’s throat, fingers wrapping around every vital piece of plumbing necessary to keep a body alive. Caine, dazed from the head wound, stares at Foley with a glazed expression, his bullet-shredded brain not quite comprehending what’s about to happen. That’s a pity, I think. He deserves to know.

  But beggars can’t be choosers. So I watch with a grim mix of horror and satisfaction as Foley shears in half Caine’s arteries, trachea, esophagus, and spinal cord, all in one, swift tug of his powerful hand. Blood explodes from Caine’s neck, and life drains from his face as his body flops to the ground in a heap, his head only attached by the barest threads of skin. A practical decapitation. A true killing blow for a vampire.

  Foley isn’t satisfied with that, however. He winds back his foot and drives it into Caine’s head. The head rips free from the neck and flies off into the woods, bouncing to a stop somewhere far out of sight. Foley stares at Cain’s headless body for some time after that, even though he must hear the distant rustling as the remaining three Knights approach the area to give support to their comrades, even though the vampires I burned are starting to heal and attempting to rise for another round. Even though I am actively dying, suffocating a little more with every failed breath.

  Finally, Foley lets out a deep sigh, tucks my gun into his waistband, and turns around. Without a word, he lifts me into his arms and takes off at a much slower speed than before. He murmurs, “Don’t worry. The others won’t follow us now. The Knight teams act on the orders of a captain, so with Caine dead, they’ll report back to the next higher-up before they make another attempt on us.” He examines the deadly wound in my chest with a thin-lipped frown. “Just hold on for a couple more minutes, and we’ll stop so I can give you some blood.”

  I want to reject his offer—drinking vampire blood in a situation this precarious is asking for trouble—but the only thing that comes out of my mouth is a thick glob of my own blood, which runs down my chin and absorbs my attempt at righteous stupidity. So I change tactics and try to say something that doesn’t encourage my slow, painful death. Swallowing down another mouthful of blood, and pretending I’m not lightheaded enough to speak with all the eloquence of someone high on pot, I rattle off an address in a faint whisper.

  “Take a roundabout path to make sure we aren’t followed to his house,” I add. “We can…” Another cough racks my chest, bloody bubbles popping on my lips. “We can trust him.”

  “Who is he?” Foley asks.

  “A sorta-kinda friend of mine, in a way, sort of…” I say in a stroke of genius.

  Then I’m out like a light.

  Chapter Seven

  The heavily spackled ceiling above the couch captures my attention for two minutes straight after I wake, as I try to sort through my cloudy thoughts, maneuver around the strange feeling of being jacked up on drugs I know I did not take, and ignore the two men having a shouting match about which movie to watch on Netflix. Eventually, I remember something about a fight in the woods—with vampires?—and getting stabbed in the chest by an asshole. That sounds like a situation that would end with me on some weird, lumpy sofa in a half-renovated living room. So, satisfied, I grip the top of the couch cushion and hoist myself into a sitting position with a soft groan.

  Foley Banks and Matt Lassiter stop arguing and turn to face me. The former is sprawled out on a loveseat, a cup of coffee in one hand, some chocolate-covered pastry in the other. The latter is laid back in a comfy-looking recliner with a 30% OFF sticker still stuck to the side. The TV against the wall is sitting on an otherwise undecorated entertainment center, while sealed cardboard boxes, pieces of partially assembled furniture, and lamps wrapped in plastic dot the rest of the room. Huh. There is a renovation in progress.

  “Nice of you to join us, Kinsey,” Lassiter drawls, rapping the remote on the arm of his chair. He looks a lot better than he did last time I saw him, with a plastic tube shoved down his throat, pumping oxygen into his lungs. He’s still paler than usual though, even three months after his “miraculous” recovery from a head injury that should’ve killed him. Lucian’s blood took him a long way toward healthy, but I gave it to him too late to restore him to a hundred percent; he’s got to cross the remaining distance on his own.

  Foley takes a bite out of his pastry and says with his mouth full, “How do you feel? Okay?”

  I poke the spot on my chest I vaguely recall a knife puncturing. Ah, Foley fed me his blood to save my life. That’s why I feel like I’m on a stimulant. “I’m all right, considering.” I tug on the odd shirt I’m wearing, emblazoned with the logo of some baseball team, and send Lassiter a questioning look.

  He shrugs. “Your stuff was covered in blood. Grabbed some spares from my closet.” He points the remote at me. “You don’t get to be picky, considering the degree of danger you’ve put me in by coming here.”

  Guilt blossoms in my chest, but I ignore it, as the rest of my memories of today’s “activities” reorganize themselves in my mind, ending with Caine’s demise. “Sorry about all this”—I glance at Foley warily, remembering the cold and brutal way he dispatched Caine, a move that showcased a whole different side
of the bookish vampire than I had been previously been acquainted with—“but we needed somewhere to go that the Knights couldn’t possibly guess.”

  “Your friend here explained everything,” Lassiter replies, acknowledging Foley with a curt nod. “I thought I’d heard it all when ‘curse epidemic’ was the name of the game, and now we have vampires plotting to assassinate the mayor. You supernatural creatures just can’t give it a rest, can you?”

  Foley raises his arms in a “What can you do?” gesture.

  I’m surprised at Lassiter’s nonchalant attitude in the face of a noble vampire, who could easily kill him with the flick of a wrist. But then, Foley has a disarming appearance, with the big hazel eyes and the nerdy glasses and the curly, unkempt hair. I’m assuming he didn’t show up at Lassiter’s front door with his crimson irises and fangs on full display—he probably gave the weathered detective that teary-eyed pout that any cop would label “victimized”—and without those features, he seems relatively harmless. I know better than that now though. He’s as dangerous as the rest.

  Clearing my throat, I bring my thoughts back on task. “We need to call Lucian.”

  Foley pauses with the pastry near his mouth. “There’s no guarantee he’ll answer. He may have changed his number already.”

  “We have to try.” I rub my hands across the fabric of my borrowed sweatpants. “Lucian didn’t anticipate that Lizzie would be able to track you down so quickly. It’s possible that Caine’s death will alter the Knights’ plan for the gala, and also possible that the public nature of that fight in Erica’s neighborhood will bring DSI sniffing around. We left bodies in the woods, and that area is heavily trafficked. I’m worried Lucian’s counterattack plot may be compromised.”

  Lassiter inhales deeply. “You’re talking about DSI like you’re not one of them, Kinsey.”

  “For all intents and purposes, I’m not a DSI agent today.” That hurts to admit—I like DSI, like my teammates—but I stare him down to drive the point home. “And you can’t be a detective today either.”

  “Lucky for you, I’m off today.” He scratches at his stubble. “Still, I’m real pissed at this whole ‘can’t tell my colleagues there’s danger brewing’ thing. I feel like I’m leaving them in the dark, throwing them to the monsters.”

  “I know.” I run my hand through my hair, frustration spiking. “But Lucian repeatedly emphasized that the Knights have been moving spies into places where they can collect intel from important organizations. That includes the Aurora PD and DSI. If we tip our hand about Lucian’s upcoming counterattack, it could mean the end of any organized vampire resistance against the Knights for weeks, even months, not to mention the permanent loss of the Tepes family’s resources to Foley’s sister.”

  Lassiter sets the remote on the armrest and slaps his palms on his knees. “I understand the weight of this whole situation, Kinsey. Really I do. I just don’t like how this is playing out.”

  “Me either.” I scan the half-finished living room. Lassiter must have decided to redo the room to give himself something to do during his extended leave from work. “Where’s my phone? Did it get destroyed?”

  Lassiter points to a small pile of items on a cardboard box in the corner. “Dinged up but still working, I think. I took everything out of your pockets when we swapped your clothes during your nap.”

  I rise slowly, fighting a wave of dizziness, and cross the room. “How long was I out?”

  “About an hour,” Lassiter says. “Apparently you almost drowned in your own blood?”

  “Mhmm.” I peer over my shoulder at Foley, who’s sipping his coffee. “Are you okay? You took some bad hits.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t lose enough blood to affect my healing factor this time. You were in way worse shape than me.”

  A faint, humorless laugh wafts up my throat. “That’s why it’s so ironic that Lucian asked me to protect you.” I bend over and snatch my phone from the pile that includes my wallet and keys. There’s a large crack in the screen, but it’s still functional. “I’m basically a fragile glass vase sitting in the way of a cinderblock.”

  “That’s not true at all,” Foley says.

  “What do you mean?” I scroll through my contact list until I find Lucian’s name. “I almost died back there.”

  “But you still managed to protect me.” Foley’s tone carries an overt air of awe, one that gives me pause. “And it was the second time today,” he continues, “you’ve fought multiple vampires at once and lived to tell the tale. I mean, sure, Caine nearly killed you, but if you hadn’t stepped in between him and me when you did, that knife would’ve gone into the back of my neck, into my brain stem. Even if I hadn’t died outright, that blow would’ve completely disabled me. I would’ve been at Caine’s mercy. Because of your actions, I was able to beat him.”

  Lassiter hums in agreement. “Banks is right, Kinsey. You’re selling yourself short. I fought one wizard one time and effectively died. You fight all sorts of powerful creatures all the time, and while you certainly take a beating, you keep on swinging. You’re a good fighter. Give yourself some credit. And I’m sure this Lucian guy wouldn’t have sent Banks to you if he didn’t think you were up to the task—so clearly even a super-special spy believes in your skills.”

  Warmth blooms in my cheeks. “Can’t you two let me stew in my self-deprecation for a minute?”

  “Nope,” Lassiter says.

  “Don’t think so,” Foley adds.

  “Ugh, fine.” I hit the dial button. “Back to the task at hand.”

  Lassiter rolls his eyes. “You watch. Time’s going to make a confident man out of you yet.”

  “That’ll be a cold day in hell,” I say.

  The phone rings eight times in a row, and I’m anticipating a redirect to voicemail when someone finally picks up. “Please tell me he’s not dead already,” Lucian groans.

  “I’m not dead,” Foley calls out, having heard Lucian’s comment all the way across the room.

  I put the call on speakerphone so Lassiter can listen in too.

  Lucian sighs. “Best news I’ve heard all day. You hanging in there, kiddo?”

  “I’m fine, Luc,” Foley answers. “Worry about yourself.”

  I’m struck by the degree of familiarity between them. I was expecting Lucian to address Foley as “Lord Banks” or something similar. The informal way they actually speak to each other implies a relationship you’d expect between an older and younger relative, as opposed to an employer and an employee.

  It didn’t occur to me until now that Lucian, who’s likely been among the staff of House Tepes for most of his vampire life, has probably known Foley since the day he was born. And that, during Foley’s short lifetime, they’ve had the opportunity to strike up a close relationship. Maybe Lucian has been a sort of mentor figure for the young house heir?

  Now there’s a thought, I think. Lucian the serial killer as a role model.

  Lucian clicks his tongue in a reproving manner. “You’re the important piece here, Foley. Don’t forget that. I’m just cannon fodder with a pretty face.”

  I snort.

  “What, Kinsey? You don’t think I’m pretty?”

  “I’m not going to answer that,” I say. “And I didn’t call you for small talk. We have major issues on this end.” I relay the awful, no good, very bad morning that Foley and I survived by sheer luck.

  Lucian says, “Did they identify you as a Crow?”

  “I used my beggar rings more than once, so it’s possible.”

  “I hate working with uncertainties,” he grumbles.

  “You don’t say?”

  “Lay off it. I haven’t thrown you anything I don’t think you can handle, Kinsey. And it sounds like you’ve done a bang-up job keeping Foley alive so far, so kudos. You didn’t die horribly either. That’s always a victory for a Crow, yeah?”

  “You’re pushing it,” I warn him.

  “Right. Back on topic.” The sound of clicking
keyboard keys comes through the speaker. “While you two have been running for your lives this morning in Michigan, I’ve been running for mine over here in dear old Germany. The Knights somehow found my new ‘safe house’ and raided the place about three hours before I arrived. Killed two of the people I was planning to team up with for our counterattack in Aurora. The other three escaped, and I rendezvoused with them earlier for a check-in. We’re staying at separate locations, just in case.” He pauses, like there’s something he doesn’t want to say. “So that leaves me one man short of what I need to make my plan work.”

  Foley adjusts his position in the loveseat to face the phone. “What do you need five people for, Luc?”

  “A very complex binding spell.” He makes a motion that sounds like a wheeled chair rolling backward across a wooden floor. “I was planning on having a six-person crew. That way I’d have a spare in case we lost one. But that didn’t work out because the Knights are persistent little shits. So I’m open to ideas on how to find the last man for my five-man band in the next, oh, four hours before I need to leave for Aurora in order to make it to the gala on time. Any suggestions?”

  “What about the vampire sitting on my loveseat?” Lassiter throws out.

  Lucian hisses, “Who the hell is that?”

  “Friend of mine,” I reply. “Don’t freak. He’s on the level.”

  “Okay, sure, whatever,” Lucian huffs. “But what he just said is not going to happen.”

  “Why not?” Foley asks. “I’m a practitioner. I can help you with the spell.”

  “Kiddo,” Lucian says, voice straining, “I appreciate the offer, but that would put you in the lion’s cage. Your sister is going to be at that gala. If my plan goes south, every one of my allies is going to die, and if you’re there with me, you’re going to die too. And I can’t let that happen. Last thing I told your father before he died was that I’d protect you. Come on. Work with me here.”