by Clare Willis
Richard stood in the stairwell, his back against the wall, the railing pressing into his tailbone. He took one deep breath and, as he exhaled, pushed his dangling left eye back into its socket. The pain was intense but brief. In another thirty seconds he could see out of it again. He looked down the stairwell, where he could hear Sunni leaping like a gazelle. He smiled, despite the anger that still bubbled in his gut like witch’s brew. The dhampir had such determination, such strength. If only she wasn’t so damnably obstinate.
He straightened his clothes as best he could, given the ripped seams and popped buttons, as he considered his options. Certainly he could go after her. She was dripping blood like a piñata drips candy; she’d be easy to track. But if he was honest, he didn’t really want to catch her. He hadn’t wanted to kill her back in her apartment. He’d let the heat of the moment overtake him. He probably would have killed her had she not stalled him by removing his eyeball, but if she’d died he would have been very sorry.
Jane’s death was the greatest regret of his long life. He had tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault. She had died by her own hand, how could he be responsible for that? But he loved her enough to know that by ruining her life, by taking Jacob away from her and forcing her to live without ever knowing what had become of him, he had killed Jane as surely as if he’d wrapped the noose around her tender neck and kicked the chair out from under her feet himself. He would not do it again, he would not kill Sunni, no matter how much she provoked him.
He still had Isabel; he still had every advantage that he’d had before he came to Sunni’s apartment. Sunni’s wounds were grave enough that she might die without his intervention: even a dhampir couldn’t survive more than an eighty percent blood loss. But if she lived he was sure she’d come back to him again, try another time to avenge her foster father and retrieve her best friend, she was that stubborn. And every time she returned she was more powerful, more worthy of being his partner. He still believed he had a chance to win her love. He smiled to himself and started down the stairs. This game was far from over.
Sunni’s eyes felt like they were glued shut. Something hard was pressing into her back, as if she’d fallen onto a large, sharp-edged rock. Her left leg was numb and the right was full of pins and needles. She didn’t know where she was but she smelled garbage and cold night air. Of the voices that had woken her up, two were familiar, but she couldn’t place them.
“You’re cute,” said a voice she didn’t recognize, but from the brogue and the slur she could tell it was a drunk Irish man. “Who’s the old man? Your grandfather?”
“Excuse me, let me past. We are looking for someone.” This was the old man the Irish one was referring to.
“Gimme your wallet, old man,” the Irish voice said.
Somebody laughed, maybe the old man. Sunni tried to lift her hands but they felt as heavy as lead.
“Listen,” the elderly voice said urgently. “We are looking for a woman. She might be hurt, maybe dying. She’s somewhere around here.”
“What’s she look like?” asked a female voice, raspy and cigarette-burned.
“Shut the fuck up, Dolores,” the Irish man said. “We don’t care what she looks like.”
“Woman, look me in the eyes,” the elderly man said, his tone commanding. “You will tell us everything you know. ”
Sunni recognized the voice, and the tone. It was Sherman Wong, and he was glamouring the woman with the raspy voice.
The glamoured woman spoke in a monotone. “There’s a woman behind that garbage bin. She’s dead, though.”
“Gimme your fucking wallet, man, before I shoot you!” It was the male, now high-pitched and hysterical.
Sunni heard the hollow thumping sound of punches, then a cracking noise, like dry twigs being stepped on. The Irish man began to cry, but the cries receded down the alley and finally she didn’t hear him anymore. Footsteps approached. Callused fingers gently pressed on the side of her throat.
“Sunni, don’t worry, we’re here now. You’re going to be okay. “ Fingers fluttered over her eyelids, helping her to open them. Sherman and Delia slowly came into focus, leaning over her.
“Her pulse is very weak,” Sherman said to Delia. “I will have to give her my blood. ”
“Dad, you’re kidding! That’s gross.” Delia said.
Sherman ignored her. He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit down, and then he put his wrist to Sunni’s mouth. The warm, salty blood spurted in rhythmic bursts down Sunni’s throat. At first she gagged and turned away, but he grabbed her head.
“You must drink, Sunni. Otherwise you will die.”
After a moment she started swallowing and in another moment she grabbed the wrist and sucked hungrily.
“That is the grossest thing I’ve ever seen,” Delia said.
“Then stop looking,” Sherman snapped.
Sherman gently pulled his arm away. Sunni watched him hold a finger to the wound on his wrist until it began to close.
A woman in a ragged T-shirt and short skirt approached them from behind. “Is she all right? I thought she was dead. ”
Delia spun on the woman. “She’s alive, no thanks to you. Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
The woman raised her eyebrows and gave Delia a cynical smile. “Why ain’t you calling her an ambulance now?”
“Good point.” Delia turned back to her father. “What do we do now, Dad?”
“Hold Sunni,” Sherman said. Sunni felt Delia’s soft arms slide in to replace Sherman’s ropy ones. Sherman walked over to the woman and stared into her eyes. Immediately a glazed expression took over her face.
“Close your eyes, Dolores,” Sherman said.
Her lids fluttered and then closed.
“Keep them closed for five minutes. When you open them, all you will remember is a strange dream. None of this is real, do you hear me?”
“None of this is real,” she repeated.
As Sherman and Delia carried Sunni out of the alley the woman stayed upright, but with her head slumped, asleep on her feet.
Sherman and Delia brought Sunni back to her apartment. She rejected the idea of going to bed, opting instead to sit in the living room on the only part of the couch that wasn’t covered with broken glass. Sherman examined her neck.
“The wounds are almost gone,” he announced. “You have good healing powers.”
“How good?” Sunni croaked. Her throat felt scratched and raw, as if she’d been through the flu.
Sherman’s face wrinkled into a big smile. “Not that good. I don’t recommend that you try this again.”
“But Richard’s not dead yet. And he’s not finished screwing with me and Isabel.”
Delia leaned forward so that Sunni could see her without turning her head. “That’s why we’re here, Sunni. We’re going to help you.”
“But you said Sherman doesn’t want the Council to know he’s alive.”
Sherman shrugged. “Maybe they won’t find out, but what’s the use of living forever if you can’t help your friends sometimes?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Sunni said, trying to ignore a wave of pain and nausea that was washing over her.
“You rest for a day,” Sherman said. “Get your strength back. Then come to the restaurant. Come to the back door, in the alley. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Sunni walked through the living room, gingerly skirting piles of crushed glass speckled with blood and red wine, while isolated glimpses of her battle with Richard flipped through her mind like a PowerPoint presentation with half the images missing. She retrieved her cell phone from her purse and checked the time. It had been eight hours since the fight. That was a lifetime as far as Isabel was concerned, perhaps literally. She dialed her friend’s number and chewed a ragged fingernail while it rang.
She was immeasurably relieved to hear Isabel’s groggy voice.
“Sunni? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you. ”
Sunni checked her re
cent phone calls. There were none from Isabel’s phone, although there were half a dozen from Carl at the art gallery, and two from Alastair Black, Dennis’s lawyer.
“Hmm. I guess I missed your calls. Listen, are you feeling better?”
Isabel sighed. “Not really. Went to the doctor again, got another prescription, but nothing’s really helping.”
Sunni grabbed a cold soda from the refrigerator and drank half of it in one gulp. The thirst must be a side effect of blood loss, she figured.
“Can I come and see you?” Sunni asked.
There was a long pause. “I don’t think so. I’m just not up to it.”
“I won’t tire you out at all. I’ll just sit there quietly. I’ll bring you magazines, all your favorites.”
After another long pause, a different voice came on. “Sunni, so happy to hear you’re all right. We were worried about you.” Richard’s smooth voice was full of mocking insinuation.
“I bet.” Sunni gulped her soda. “Worried that you didn’t finish the job.”
“My dear, Isabel isn’t feeling well right now. Why don’t you come and see us in a couple of days? She should be completely transformed by then.” He abruptly ended the call.
Sunni slammed her phone on the counter. What did he mean by transformed? Was he going to make her into a vampire now? And if so, was that better than killing her?
Sunni went to the bathroom and took a shower. The hot water pouring over her body reminded her of Jacob. The memories of making love with him in this very room flooded her with grief. He had said he loved her and she hadn’t replied. He had confessed to a sin of omission, that he had attempted to save Sunni and her mother and Rose ended up dead. In response to his confession she had driven him out of her life. Now he was gone, imprisoned in some vampire jail, for the unpardonable crime of trying to help her again. If only she’d just left town with him when he asked her, she was sure that he would be free now, and they would be together. The thought made her sob so hard that the scabs on her neck burst and blood trickled out of the bite holes, which made her cry even more. When the shower water finally turned cold and she had no more tears left, she got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and headed for Chinatown.
Chapter 23
The Golden Dragon had a side door located in a tiny alley filled with Dumpsters serving the myriad nearby restaurants. Laundry flapped overhead on ropes strung between the adjacent buildings. The alley reminded her of her recent near-death experience in a similar location. She banged on the door hard, wanting to leave the place as quickly as possible, but no one answered. Sunni was about to go around to the front door despite Sherman’s instructions, when a busboy finally let her in.
She realized then why no one had heard her knocking: the restaurant was open for business again, and the din in the kitchen was comparable to standing on an airport runway. Dozens of cooks, waiters, and busboys shouted at each other in Chinese while they chopped, fried, flambéed, and tossed dishes around like Frisbees. It took Sunni a while to locate Sherman, standing at a counter with a cell phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder while he chopped a huge pile of green leafy vegetables. Sunni was almost burned several times before she completed the obstacle course of running waiters and chefs tossing food in woks over gas flames a foot high.
When she reached Sherman he glanced at her, and then continued shouting in Chinese. Finally he snapped the phone shut and turned to her.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he yelled.
“What choice do I have?”
Sherman shrugged. “Good point. Okay, Vampire Killing 101.”
Sunni followed Sherman down some rickety stairs into a cold, brick-lined basement. A safe in the back of the room said “Wells Fargo, 1897.” The wooden shelves and counters, lined with produce boxes and metal cans of oil and soy sauce, looked equally old. A large sink with chipped white enamel filled one of the walls. Near the stairs a wooden crate quivered ominously. Sherman lifted the large crate easily and carried it to the sink, where gleaming cleavers and other knives were attached to a magnetic strip on the crumbling brick wall. Sunni could hear pathetic quacks coming from inside the box. Sherman handed her a thick rubberized apron and put one on as well. They were both so tiny that the aprons hung almost to their ankles.
The crate turned out to be full of stunned, white-feathered ducks. Sherman pulled out the top one. Its legs were tied together with twine but it flapped its wings in a vain attempt to escape. Its shiny black eyes rolled around wildly. Its beak opened, but no sound emerged, because Sherman was holding it by the neck. The chef selected a long, slender knife. He held the duck down on a cutting board with grooves that angled down into the sink. Sunni swallowed hard, willing herself to watch without flinching. If this was a test she intended to pass it.
He stretched the duck’s neck over the sink and sliced its throat. The duck’s wings flapped even more desperately after the cut than before it. Sunni watched in disgusted fascination as the duck’s blood squirted at high velocity into the sink. The wings eased into stillness as the volume of blood lessened.
“There are three ways to kill vampire,” Sherman said abruptly.
He gave the duck a final shake and chopped its head and feet off before tossing it onto a large wooden table with a dark and sticky-looking surface.
He pulled another duck from the crate. “You kill this one,” he said with a smile.
Sunni stepped forward and grabbed the duck with sweaty hands. It was more active than the first one, and more vocal. She had to hold its body down with her elbow while stretching its neck with her hand, freeing the other hand to take hold of the knife.
“Burning is one way,” Sherman said.
Sunni sliced the duck’s neck, feeling the sharp knife slide all the way to bone.
“Slicing off the head is another. ”
Sunni felt the soda she’d drunk threaten to make a return appearance. She turned her face away from the pulsing blood and flapping wings and breathed slowly and deeply.
“What’s the third way?” she asked.
“Salt water. ”
She turned around to look at him, not sure that she’d heard correctly. The duck, which she’d thought was dead, made a last attempt to fly away. She pressed it back down against the cutting board.
“You mean drown them?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “No, more like in the Wizard of Oz. You know that movie?”
She nodded.
“Put a vampire in salt water and he’ll dissolve like the Wicked Witch of the West. Poof.” He snapped his fingers.
Sunni tossed the duck onto the table next to the other one. Her right hand was dripping with blood. The smell was rich and fecund and horribly intimate, like the odors in a bedroom after two people have been making love for hours. It made her dizzy and sick.
“You’re kidding, right, Sherman? The Wizard of Oz?“
“I like jokes as much as the next guy, but I’d never kid about this. This is life and death. Most likely your death. So I’m telling you things vampires never share with outsiders. This is why you won’t find it in books, in vampire lore.”
“Because it’s so simple,” Sunni said, contemplating.
He laughed, clutching his belly as if she’d told a magnificent joke. “Oh, it’s not simple at all! You can’t throw a bucket of water, like in the movie. A little bit of salt water does nothing. You must immerse the vampire in salt water. It’s not simple at all. No vampire will go near a big body of salt water. ”
Sunni thought of Jacob refusing to enter the bay, telling her that he couldn’t swim. It hadn’t occurred to her that there was more to that story.
Sherman dispatched the rest of the ducks in a few economical movements. Then he swept them all into the crate, presumably to take upstairs to be cooked. He rinsed his hands and dried them, and then turned back to Sunni.
“You know it’s against our code for vampires to kill other vampires. Punishable by life imprisonment.” The old man c
huckled. “That’s a very long time.”
“I don’t want to get you into trouble, Sherman.”
“Richard Lazarus has wreaked so much havoc, maybe the Council will thank us if we kill him.” He replaced his cleaver onto the magnetic strip. “Or maybe not, no matter. I could use a break from the restaurant.”
“What do they do to humans who kill vampires?”
Sherman tossed his long beard over his shoulder and raised his white eyebrows at Sunni. “There’s nothing in the code about that. It would be like writing into your laws what should happen if a cow kills a person. But remember, Sunni, you are not a human.”
His fingers ran lightly down the row of knives, landing on one that was different from all the others, so much so that Sunni wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. It was slightly longer than a carving knife, and its handle was covered with a worn brown material that looked like braided leather. A piece of dark gold metal was set at right angles between the handle and the blade. Instead of being flat, the blade had a raised ridge down the center. It looked like a sword from the Middle Ages, made for a very small knight.
“Here, hold this,” Sherman said. She tested the knife on her finger and immediately regretted it. It was sharper than any blade she’d ever held and it sliced deeply into her flesh, leaving a gash half an inch deep. Sherman handed her the towel he’d used to dry his hands.
“Lucky you’ve got good healing powers,” he said. “This is no time for stitches.”
“So what do I use this for?”
“Slicing off heads.” Sherman went to the safe and opened it with three spins of the lock. Sunni caught a glimpse of bundles of cash inside, but the only thing Sherman removed was a small velvet bag, no bigger than a coin purse. He handed her the bag as if he wanted to get rid of it as quickly as possible.
“Go ahead, look inside,” Sherman said.
She peeked in, and then looked up at her tutor. “What do you do with this?” she asked.
