by Alix Adale
She slept the rest of that night and the following day. Whenever the grating rattled and opened, she sat bolt upright. Each time, it was only Tricky, bringing food, water, blankets, and blood packs for her.
He brought other good news: no ‘Dagons’ had come to the zoo or were hanging around the parking lots. For now, everything was peachy-keen—according to Tricky. But with a name like that, well, trust didn’t come easy. George always said: Never turn your back on a lycan. It’s a predator’s instinct. It takes all their self-control not to go for the neck.
Xerxes improved, though most of the time he slept. He didn’t ask for any more of her healing blood and she didn’t offer, but what little he’d taken already bound them. His heartbeat echoed in her ears now. His sweet, warm man-taste lingered in her lips, imprinting itself into her memories. But mostly, she slept.
Day turned to night again. She sensed it in her bones, that age-old, innate sense the Blooded gain for the turning of night and day. The ratty old army blankets stirred around her. Xerxes groaned and rolled over in his sleep. His fitful snores filled the small bolt-hole.
She grabbed his fist, lifted it to her lips, kissed it. His cursed luck to run into her—she had to make it better. She just had to. She owed it to him, to Oil-Can Mike, to everyone she’d hurt in the course of her immortal career.
The hatch opened again. Expecting Tricky’s pointed, mangy coyote head, she was startled to see instead a beige, narrow-faced man with a pointed nose and scars across his bald head. Yet something in his eyes looked familiar. His grin carried that same, wry twist as Tricky’s. He wore an Oregon Zoo Staff maintenance uniform. As he slipped in, she caught his scent. Modified, but unmistakable.
“Tricky? You can take human form?”
“Yeah.” He tossed a blood pack, a couple bottles of Evian, and a bag of Bigfoot Burgers into their nook.
“I thought lycans only changed under the full moon.”
“Much you don’t know about our kind, Dagon.”
“I told you I’m not—”
His snicker sounded coyote-like despite his human form. “You fooled Jed but not me. You are Desiree Braden.”
Her heart dropped and her fingers tensed. Better rouse Xerxes—but he slumbered on. “How can you know that?”
“I go to Eibon Manor many times a week, doing the Queen’s bidding.”
“You serve the Queen?” That was bad—extraordinarily bad. She sat bolt upright.
But Tricky’s casual tone and easygoing manner lacked threat. “Sure. That’s how I know you. We compile dossiers, photos, of every known immortal in this and neighboring realms. All her agents study names and faces. Knowledge is power.”
“Wait. Does Jed know?”
Tricky grinned. “Not all of it. But Jed’s pack serves your Queen, too—in secret. No lycan wants to kneel to a drinker, but exiles can’t be choosers. In the heart of Portland, hiding behind her throne, we are safe from our own kind.”
It made sense, pieces fitting into place. “So you’re like defectors, taking refuge in the cities.”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t you miss the wilderness?”
He licked his lips. “Every day.”
“I’m sorry, but why tell me?”
“Because Jed Wolf sold you out to your Queen. That’s why he gave you guest-right so easy. I’m supposed to get you into a zoo van, promising safe passage. Instead, I take you to Eibon Manor where Mabon’s enforcers are waiting. But I won’t do that. I’ll take you somewhere safe instead.”
A close call. She shivered. “But where can we go? Ursula has Portland locked down.”
“There’s one place off the grid and away from cameras, Springwater Corridor.”
Relief and hope flooded anew, a rare and precious thing. “Thank you, Tricky.” She meant it. “But why are you helping us?”
His head shook and his face, even in human form, so much resembled a coyote, clever but wise, that it was uncanny. “Because, Dagon, we are both of us slaves in the Underworld, but freedom is precious.”
“Make it look good,” Tricky said a couple hours later. They wrapped him up with enough duct to make him look like a mummy, his idea. The zoo van was parked beside a concrete abutment in eastern Portland. The moon hung low, visible through the front windshield.
“I—can’t do it.” She lowered her fist. “I can’t hit an unarmed man.”
“I’ll do it.” Xerxes slid over.
Ugh, violence. She didn’t want to see Xerxes hitting someone. “Be gentle!”
“With all due respect,” Tricky said. “I’d rather get clocked by a weightlifter than a vampire squire.”
Xerxes grinned and drew back his fist. “This will hurt me more than it hurts you, friend.”
“Don’t draw it out,” the man said.
Dez winced and looked away. Smack. When she looked again, Tricky was grimacing and wincing in pain. Xerxes was climbing out the back of the van.
“Thanks, Tricky.” She reached over and hugged him, duct tape all. Then she checked to make sure his cell phone was in reach. He had promised to wait twenty minutes before calling for help. “Thanks for everything. I never—never expected to get help from a lycan. Considering what I am.”
“No worries, kid. We got to start somewhere to make a lasting peace between our kinds.”
He was so hopeful. It infused her too. But the War of Fang and Claw had lasted for centuries, broken only by unsteady truces. “It’s a start.”
She stepped out into the night, joining Xerxes on the steep hill overlooking a narrow, wooded valley, artificial in its origins. Springwater Corridor. It snaked through residential neighborhoods and commercial districts, a ribbon of wilderness running through the heart of the city. Its trails beckoned like a dark and shadowy sanctuary.
She had no phone, no bank card, no family, no clan—only this brave man and an uncertain future. They hefted their packs and scrambled down the slope.
Chapter 8: Springwater Corridor
Xerxes
The Amazing Woman proved guilty of some false advertising. She wasn’t a superhero. A vampire? Yes, why not? A goddess—in his eyes, true.
The night arched overhead, trees pressing in on all sides. The Springwater Corridor was a shadow world in the heart of Portland, a strip of wilderness in the urban sprawl, a touch of lawlessness far from roaming police cruisers and all-seeing camera eyes.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, walking along the footpath. Tree limbs blotted out the moon and most of the night. But here and there, a few bright stars shone through the branches and the ever-present light pollution.
The goddess didn’t look divine at the moment, walking down the trail with her head bent, hands tucked away in the pockets of her denim jacket, that faraway look troubling her again. Where did she go in those moments? Who could say?
He wanted to travel there with her. No one had ever leaped into his life with such force, thrown him for such a loop. What an intense life she lived! Crazy to think about it as ‘fun’ but he couldn’t help it. There was the element of adrenaline, of danger, to all this. It was like hearing the alarm and jumping into the big red fire truck, tearing down the street, sirens wailing.
This supernatural stuff was nutty on the face of it, but no point wasting time doubting undeniable facts. She’d fallen off a building, smashed locks with her bare hands, and healed him with her blood. On top of that, were-creatures were also real: one had punched him in the head. This is how the world was, in secret. Best accept it and carry on.
He wanted to reach for her hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. What was he to her? A nothing, a burden to tote around from hiding place to hiding place, until this thing with her clan settled down. Or until the police arrested the real murderer, this Cherise person.
Poor Mike. Of all the ways to die, to be killed by a vampire had to be among the worst. That Desiree had drunk his blood as he lay dying—it turned the stomach. Yet after she explained how the overwh
elming compulsion, the hunger inside her, drove her to such atrocities, he could understand. Almost. Tigers and wolves hunted and killed. So did vampires, right? But one was animal, the other a rational creature. Too complicated. Better to ask a priest or a scientist or someone smart, someone who could pass the written test.
A thousand thoughts churned through his head, never lining up into coherent sentences. Tongue-tied as usual, he lapsed into silence. That’s how it always went. He cursed his awkwardness. The stupid, gangly adolescent, the outcast ignored by girls, bullied by other boys, still lurked deep inside, no matter how much iron he pressed, how many weights he lifted.
The footpath flattened out, winding around a fire-hollowed tree trunk, its interior black and smooth with long-forgotten fires. Campfires dotted the woods, growing more numerous the deeper they went. Voices rang out from the encampments: laughter, random shouts, muffled conversations. Here and there, transistor radios blared out music, talk shows, and a baseball game. Ragged lean-tos broke up the natural symmetry of the forest. Clotheslines and blue plastic tarps marked the domains of the squatters.
A picnic bench showed up around the next bend and Desiree made a beeline for it. She shivered in the cold, hands clenched in her jacket pockets.
He joined her on the table, not too close, not in her space. He wanted to wrap an arm around her, but it wasn’t right. After a while, one of the hundreds of questions racing around in his mind came out. “Want to tell me about your family? These Bradens.”
“Ah.” A shadow of amusement crossed her face. “Tell me about your fire station first.”
That was a strange request. How could the mundane life of a few firemen compare to her wild life? A veil had been lifted; the secret and powerful rhythms of an ancient and eternal world beyond the rational, daylight civilization lay revealed.
He could never go back to being a fireman or a fitness instructor. No more than could the Biblical Jonah go back to being a farmer before the whale swallowed him. Xerxes would have to become an Old Testament prophet, a madman nobody believed as he rambled on about vampires, werewolves, and secret tribes of immortals that ruled the world. “My life is boring compared to yours. Why do you want to know?”
Her finger poked his ribs. “Because. I like you and want to know more about you. Is that so awful?”
“No, it is okay.” In fact, it was good. Pleasant. He suppressed a laugh of delight. “The station, well. I was a probie—a probationary firefighter—for the last year. To become a full-fledged firefighter, a few things have to happen.”
“Such as?”
“Pass the physical, the psychological. And oh yeah, the guys have to vote you in. It’s not like other jobs, because you live in the station for days at a time with the other guys. Or gals. So you have to get along with people.”
“Sounds like you, to a tee.”
“Yeah.”
“Then I crashed into your life and ruined everything. Right?” Her voice wavered.
She mustn’t think that. “No, Dez. I failed the written test. The day we met—that was my last day on the job. I don’t work there anymore.” There. He’d admitted it. “I’m not a real fireman. I’m a fake, a big nothing.”
The wind rustled the leaves in the awkward silence that followed. In the distance, a woman called a dog’s name. The rumble of motor traffic echoed down the concrete culverts from distant streets.
He should have stayed hidden under the zoo with Tricky until this all blew over. He was a useless burden for her. She should have moved on without him.
A hand reached out and took his, squeezing. “You’re not a nothing, Xerxes. You’re a big, huge awesome something. Trust me.”
He squeezed back, her fingers soft and cold against his warm, rough palms. Say something, stupid. What? Anything—anything! Don’t leave her hanging. “I’m not good with words.”
Oh, brilliant.
But to his infinite amazement, she chuckled. “That makes two of us.”
It was as if someone had poured glue down his throat and he swallowed, trying to clear the obstruction. He wanted to answer, to say something. But his mouth wouldn’t move, so he squeezed her fingers instead. The icy touch of her fingers had lessened, warmed by contact with his hand.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you about the Bradens. Me you’ve met, the failure, the reject, the vampire who can’t kill.”
“You’re not a failure. You saved my life, my freedom. Several times.” That time, it had been easy to speak.
“Thanks. I already told you about my horrible sister. The less said about her, the better.”
He grunted. Learning that Mike’s killer was a woman shocked him. He’d never met this Cherise and hoped he never would, but the urge to pound Mike’s killer into pulp tapered off. Total guy thing, sure—and this other vampire still belonged in prison.
Dez went on. “There’s three elders. Colin, let’s see. He’s Irish. He does detective work, and he’s trustworthy, almost like a big brother. Helped keep me sane all these years. Next there’s George.”
“A vampire named George? You are joking.”
“I’m not! He’s tough. Grizzled. A veteran of something or other, moody and mysterious. Your typical strong, silent type. Never took much interest in me apart from teaching me how to defend myself. Has a mean streak a mile wide. But underneath, he’s decent, probably not out there hurting people for fun.”
“That’s something.” He waited for her to broach the final member of her twisted little family, the one oaf he’d met in person. But she stayed silent, so he nudged her. “What about Cape Man? The one who chased us through Pioneer Square?”
Her response surprised him. “I don’t wanna talk about him right now.”
“That’s fine. It’s late—for me, anyway. I’m a feeble human. Let’s find somewhere to grill Tricky’s hamburgers. Then we’ll find a place to hide, somewhere to keep you safe from the daylight. Tricky said something about drain pipes and storm sewers.” His fingers squeezed hers again. If she couldn’t face the sun, then they’d never see it again. As long as she was safe.
“Okay.”
They cooked up some juicy burgers over an open fire pit not far from their picnic table. Dez even ate one, about as raw as she could stand.
A couple homeless wandered by, asking to share the fire. He said sure, so they dragged some dead branches over to help keep the fire going. These were two guys, both scruffy and worn down by life, but if they were looking for trouble, one look at his muscles changed their minds. He didn’t even have to warn them with a look.
Funny, how neither guest realized his Dez was the more dangerous person at the fire. But she said little, staring into the flames, lost in thought.
His Dez. He shouldn’t think of her that way, but he couldn’t help it.
The vagrants pulled out a bottle of cheap wine and proceeded to get drunk. They offered to share, but he declined and so did Dez. That made the guys happy, more for them. The talk proved helpful—with tongues loosened, the guys shared tips about staying safe in the Corridor. They even knew about a culvert that opened into a storm drain but warned against sleeping in such a dirty, dark, damp hole. You’ll catch the chills and die, was how one of them put it.
Xerxes changed the subject. After a while, the talk turned to Oil-Can Mike’s murder. Turns out, these dudes knew him, if only by repute.
“Fucking tragedy, man,” said the guy in the pea-green Army surplus jacket. He had buck teeth and wild hair. “I know for a fact dude was moving into Respect Village.”
“What’s that?”
The guy explained, in a disjointed fashion. Apparently, the mayor had given a group of squatters some rights on a bit of unused city land up north, near the airport. The homeless had formed a non-profit, policing themselves and pooling services. But the talk was making Dez miserable, he could tell. So he finished up his meal, helped her up and bid the guys farewell. They hefted their packs and made for the culvert and its promised drain pipe.
They found the drainage pipe below an overpass. Above, cars rumbled by in the dark. Inside the pipe, they found a locked and barred storm drain leading deeper into the hill. It looked promising, so she bent the bars and they crawled in, exploring. A bastion for rats, raccoons and other critters, no human had visited the place in decades. Perfect, then. He concealed the broken drain with leaves and trash, then joined her in the furthest recess of the structure. A hundred tons of damp earth and tree roots pressed in upon them from above. Crumbling masonry supported the dark, narrow space—whatever it was. It might have been the root cellar or basement of a long-abandoned construction.
“We are like two Bilbos, exploring Gollum’s caverns.” He wanted her to laugh.
“It’s filthy in here. Cold.” Her nose crinkled. “And damp. You’ll catch cold, Xerk.”
“Stay under the blankets. They will warm us up.” Tricky’s packs included a couple of heavy-duty, all-weather, outdoor blankets. They laid the blankets one over each other and snuggled beneath, sharing body heat. “See? Better. Snug as a bug under a rug.”
She took his hand again, under the blanket. “Thanks. Better turn off your flashlight, save on batteries.”
“Okay.” He did. They sat in the dark. The question had been nagging him for hours, ever since Pioneer Square. “Desiree?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you want to talk about that guy now? This Armando?”
The slight tremble in her fingers passed to him. “Okay.”
“He is your lover?” There. It had come out. At last.
“No. We tried to make it work, at first. Almost by default, ya know? Because we were linked, sire and spawn, and living together in the same mansion. But it in this weird way, it was like an arranged marriage that didn’t work out. We’re too different. And I never wanted this life, never wanted any of it.”
The answer surprised him, followed by a surge of joy, of hope. “Many people would envy you that life. Immortality. Amazing Woman strength. You’re lucky.”
“I know. I know I should be grateful to him for saving me. If Armando hadn’t turned me, I’d still be in a coma after—after the car accident. Would’ve died in a few days, according to the newspaper articles. I know I’m an ingrate, an idiot, a self-pitying, whiny, preening, narcissistic crybaby. ‘Oh poor me, I’m immortal. Boo-hoo.’ It’s sickening, I know. Vampire problems, huh?”
