Bad to the Bone

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “Dexter, no!” I shout with as much volume as my bruised throat will muster.

  The dog stops, his feet on Benjamin’s chest. Slowly his jaws open, and he turns to look at me.

  “Good boy.” I hold out my palm in a stop gesture. “You stay.” I crawl toward the stake, trying to get it before Benjamin wakes up.

  Someone grabs my shoulder, making me scream.

  “Sorry.” Shane kneels beside me. “You okay?” He reaches to touch my face, then pulls his hand back. “Holy shit, what did he do to you?”

  “I’m okay,” I choke out, so happy to see him I can barely speak. I try to embrace him, but he seems to be holding me away from his body. “What about everyone else?” I ask.

  “We got my mom and sister down. They’re scared and sore but not hurt. David and Monroe are guarding them with the shotguns.” He points to the field. “And the cavalry’s coming.”

  Control agents in dull black riot gear are swarming the assembly. From the looks of it, they’ve been here for a few minutes, which must have been why the Fortress thugs didn’t attack me when Travis died.

  “We’ve gotta save Regina.” Shane helps me up but shields me from the crowd. “Stay in front of me in case—” Another arrow snaps the air above us. “In case of that.”

  We scuttle over to Regina, hunched like soldiers under sniper fire.

  “Get me off this thing,” she yells at us from the fallen cross.

  Shane unties the metal cords binding her wrists and legs, but she still doesn’t move. The skin of her legs and arms and shoulders is stuck to the cross.

  “It’s a goddamn vampire trap,” she says. “And it’s hot.”

  Wisps of smoke are already rising from her skin. A shotgun blasts, and I duck instinctively, feeling like a battlefield medic.

  I tear off my glove and roll up my sleeve, dreading the pain of her fangs. “You’ll have to drink from me.”

  “Wait.” Shane points to my face. “Plenty in there.”

  I realize my mouth’s full of blood, thanks to Benjamin’s punches.

  Regina gazes at my lips, eyes heavy with desperation. “Hurry. I won’t hurt you.”

  I hesitate only a moment, then lean over her face. Before I can bring my lips to hers, her tongue snakes out and licks my chin, following the trail of blood up to its source.

  Our mouths meet, pressed deep in one life - giving moment. She moans beneath me, and a great tremor passes through her.

  I draw back to let her swallow. Her eyes slam open, wide with what I hope isn’t pain.

  Then her hands are at my neck, pulling me into another kiss. She laps at my tongue, her own mouth cool and alien and strangely delicious, like freeze-dried ice cream.

  “That’s enough,” Shane says. He slides a hand between us and gently extracts me from her grip.

  “Huh.” She lets go and stares at me, then looks at Shane. “Tasty.”

  I sit back, my head swimming from the punches and the smoke and yes, the kiss.

  Regina rolls off the cross. “Well, now I know how Joan of Arc felt.”

  For some reason, Shane gives a gruff laugh. He points to the arrow in Regina’s stomach. “Do you want me to—”

  “I got it.” She yanks it out as casually as one would tear off a Band - Aid, then tosses it aside. “We better help Jim.”

  I turn to see the DJ curled up on the ground about ten feet away. His burned right arm has sealed into a ragged stump above the elbow.

  Regina crawls over to him. She shakes his shoulder, and he starts, as if she just woke him up. His whole body is quaking.

  She looks at what’s left of his upper arm, then back at me. “Can you try?”

  I check my mouth for blood. It’s still flowing out of one side, where Benjamin gave me the second, harder punch.

  Still shielding me from the crowd, Shane helps me scramble over to Jim.

  With a trembling hand, the injured vampire cups my chin and brings my mouth to his. It’s even colder than Regina’s, with a shining silver core of magic that sends a shiver down my neck, all the way to my fingers and toes.

  Jim draws away, his mouth red with my blood. He swallows. We watch his arm for signs of regeneration. It stays the same, which doesn’t surprise me. Nothing cures fire.

  “Sorry,” I tell him.

  Jim looks at my mouth, the pained expression somewhat ameliorated. “Maybe if we tried it again—”

  “Fat chance.” Shane puts a hand between us, as if I’d agree to kissing Jim again ever in my life.

  We survey what remains of the battle. Control agents are still wrestling a few Fortress members to the ground to handcuff them, but everyone appears to be disarmed.

  Standing apart from the multitude, Spencer and Monroe are examining each other’s injuries. It looks like they’ve each lost a couple of chunks of flesh from their limbs—none as bad as Jim, though, and theirs will heal faster anyway due to their age.

  Oddly, my father is sitting on the ground next to what was Eileen’s cross. He waves at me, flashing the brilliant smile I’ve learned to love and hate. I return the greeting, half wishing I had the strength to run to him, and half glad I don’t.

  “What happened to him?” I ask Shane.

  “Cross fell on his foot.”

  “Someday I’ll find that funny.” I point to the explosion of blood on Shane’s stomach. “That guard shot you.”

  “Yeah, but it’s healed.” He rubs his belly and winces. “Which means I’ve got a gut full of buckshot.”

  I study the front of his shirt and jacket, noticing other splashes of blood near the collar and on his sleeves. I reach out. “What happened to—”

  “Don’t touch me!” Shane backs up quickly, lifting his hands. “It’s not safe for you.”

  “Why?” As a vampire, he can’t carry diseases.

  “It’s not my blood.” He averts his gaze. “It’s . . . some human’s.”

  “Did you—”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “At least I don’t think I killed anyone. I tried to hold back.” His fists clench and his eyes blaze with a rekindled fury. “But they had my mom.” He looks over his shoulder to where his family is huddling in borrowed coats, then wraps his arms around his chest. “I can’t have her see me like this.”

  The energy drains out of me all at once, and I turn away. My man is a killing machine, or at least a maiming machine.

  “Where’s Travis?” he says.

  I raise my gaze to meet his. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Shane looks at me as if he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word.

  “Burned up,” Regina says, “saving our lives. I guess he thought he owed us.”

  “Goddammit.” Shane puts his head in his hands. “Goddammit.” He stalks over to Benjamin’s unconscious body, which is still being guarded by Dexter. “This is all his fault.”

  “Shane, no.” I stumble forward. “Get away from him.”

  He comes toward me. “He tried to kill you. Twice.”

  “I know, but he’ll be in custody soon. If you hurt him when he’s helpless, you’ll be joining him there.”

  “She’s right.”

  We turn to see Regina lifting Benjamin by the shoulders, as easily as I could lift a loaf of bread.

  “Besides”—Regina turns her back on the clearing and the Control agents—”this one’s mine.”

  She seizes Benjamin’s chin and twists his head to the side. A sickening snap cuts off my protest.

  Regina carefully lays the body on the ground and straightens Benjamin’s robe. “That’s better.”

  My stomach lurches. I sit down hard and jam my head between my knees. After everything I’ve seen, all the blood and the burning and the violence, this simple act of deliberate extinction puts me over the edge.

  “Jesus, Regina,” Shane says.

  “If the Control ever let him go, he’d be after us in a minute. We have enough enemies in this world.”

  He scoffs. “And you probably just cr
eated more.”

  “I don’t care.” She looks over at me, and her lips tremble. I touch my battered, bleeding face and realize Sara must have looked like this after meeting Benjamin’s fists.

  She stares down at his broken body. “He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

  31

  A Long December

  At the Control headquarters in the hills of northern Virginia, Colonel Lanham unlocks a large steel door and leads me into a bare gray room.

  “Angel.” Using one of his crutches, my father tries to stand up from behind the metal table.

  “Don’t get up.” I come over and give him a quick, awkward hug. “Sorry you have to spend Christmas in jail. It sounds like a country - western song.”

  “I’ve worked hard to get where I am.” His smile shines as bright as ever, white teeth gleaming from his ruddy face. Maybe it’s his pain pills.

  He folds his hands on the table between us. “Ciara, thank you for visiting me before they ship me back to Illinois.”

  “You said you had something important to tell me.”

  “That’s right.” He clears his throat. “I want to give you a piece of truth you’ve deserved your whole life.”

  This ought to be good.

  “When I was in Gideon’s compound, as you know, several of the vampires drank my blood on a regular basis.”

  I nod and try not to blanch at the image.

  “You probably know what’s next,” he continues. “Their old holy-water scars began to heal.” He leans forward. “It was very gradual, though, not instantaneous like your miracles.”

  I flinch at his word choice. “Did they figure out it was because of you?”

  “Gideon did, eventually. I honestly don’t know if he passed on this knowledge to the other vampires. It gave him a great deal of power.”

  I heave a frustrated sigh. “I would really love to know if there are vampires out there hoping to make me their personal skin care regimen.”

  “I understand, but I honestly can’t tell you. What I can tell you is why you’re like this.”

  “I thought it was my skepticism.”

  “Partly, yes. You have a high resistance to other people’s explanations of reality.”

  “Like religion.”

  “Yes, but it’s more than that.” He takes a deep breath. “As far as we can figure, the real determinant is the ability to create one’s own reality.”

  I squint at him. “Let me get this straight: healing holy-water burns depends on being a bullshit artist?”

  “Within our family, at least. There’s a genetic element that seems to be made of some sort of Old Country magic. Or more precisely, anti - magic, which is a magic in its own right.”

  I rewind to one of his earlier statements. “Wait, you said ‘as far as we can figure.’ Who’s ‘we’? You and the Control?”

  “No.” He hesitates. “Your mother and I.”

  My eyes pop open. “You called Mom? It’s about time. Does she know you’re out of jail? Did you tell her all that classified stuff? I felt so bad I couldn’t let her know I’d seen you, and—”

  “Ciara, stop. Listen. Your mom isn’t in jail. She’s right here.” He turns and nods to the guard.

  “You got her out?” I watch the guard knock on the door. “Why didn’t she call me?”

  The door swings open, and Luann walks through, escorted by another guard. I’m surprised to see her also in the pale blue garb of a federal prison.

  “Hello, Ciara. How are you feeling?” For the first time, her voice contains a strong southern accent.

  I give her a tentative smile. “Do you have my mom?”

  “Well, you might say that.” She tucks a pale curl behind her ear. “My full name is Luann O’Riley. I’m your dad’s wife, from the Travellers. Down in South Carolina?”

  I sit up straight and stare at my father. “This is the one you told me about? The one you left for Mom but never divorced?”

  Luann clears her throat. “Ciara, honey . . .”

  The back of my neck prickles. Why is she calling me ‘honey’?

  “Ciara, I’m your real momma. The one who gave birth to you.”

  I gape at her without blinking. In fact, I may never blink again.

  “That little thing you can do for vampires?” she says. “It runs in the clan. Some of us got it stronger than others. With you, it’s the right combination of genes and—well, you might say, frame of mind.”

  “Wait. Stop.” I put my face in my hands. “Go back to the part where you’re my mother.”

  “I’m sorry, angel,” Dad says.

  “You lied to me.” I raise my eyes, wishing they could shoot lasers into his skull. “I asked you point - blank if you had children with your wife, and you said no.”

  “I did, but . . .” He spreads his palms on the table. “That’s because it wasn’t a good time to explain.”

  “You’re goddamn right it wasn’t. A good time would have been twenty years ago.” I take two deep breaths and try to process the implications. “Wait a minute.” I turn to Luann. “You said the power was strong in our clan. Am I some kind of inbred mutant freak?”

  “No, no, no.” My father gestures to Luann. “We’re only distantly related, third cousins.”

  “Once removed,” Luann adds, with an inordinate amount of pride.

  “Still.” I shake out my hands like they’ve been touching earthworms. “Ew!”

  Luann takes a cautious step forward. “I don’t expect you to accept me as your mother. I wasn’t good enough for you when you were a little baby.” Another step, not so cautious. “But I want to make up for all those lost years.”

  I put out a hand to ward her off as my head starts to clear. “This is another scam, isn’t it? An experiment by the Control? They—they want to see if what I believe about my blood makes a difference in how it works.” I slide back my chair, making it squeak on the waxed linoleum floor. “This isn’t a family thing. This power comes from me and me alone.” I stare into the closed - circuit camera in the corner. “That’s what I believe, okay? That’s all I can trust.”

  “Nonsense.” My father shakes his head. “Nothing comes from oneself. Everything ultimately comes from God.”

  “Oh, spare me. Why would God care whether vampires have a few scars? Why would God care about vampires at all?”

  “Mmm. That’s a good question,” Luann says gravely, as if I’ve uttered a Zen koan.

  I stand up and move away, though this tiny room won’t let me go far.

  “Ask me anything.” Luann’s voice rings clear with sincerity, or the facsimile thereof. “I have all the answers you need.”

  “I bet you do.” I need truth, which I’ll never get from this pair of charlatans. “Happy Holidays,” I mumble as I grab my purse and head for the door.

  “Wait, Ciara,” calls the woman who claims to be my mother. But I don’t turn around, and she can’t follow me as I walk out the door. Out of all of us, I’m the only one who’s free. Sort of.

  In the next room, Colonel Lanham turns from the desk where he’s speaking with a guard.

  “I’ll walk you out.” He joins me without asking if it’s okay. Not surprising, considering how skillfully he manipulated me into signing away a year of my life.

  “How long has she been with you?” I ask him when we enter the last long corridor leading to the outside. “Either tell me the truth or just say ‘pass.’ I can’t take any more lies.”

  “She joined us eighteen months ago, after your father turned state’s evidence against his family. Her profile indicated she would excel in undercover work, so we struck a deal similar to the one we have with your father. She went into the Fortress right out of training, about six months ago.”

  “Is she going back to jail?”

  “Yes, with a greatly reduced sentence. She should be out in a year.”

  “Fabulous.” I ask the sixty - four - billion - dollar question. “Is she really my mother?”

  “It appe
ars so.”

  “Appearances aren’t everything.” I resist the urge to grab Lanham by his starched black lapels and shake him until his sinuses collapse. “You let me worry about my dad’s life, when all along he was working with you.”

  “Undercover work is not selectively secret.”

  “I wish I’d known this before I agreed to work for the Control.”

  “First of all, you and I arrived at a mutually satisfying arrangement. Second, I believe our methods and philosophy will suit your general outlook. And third.” We reach the final outer door, which Colonel Lanham unlocks by tapping in a code on a panel to the left. “You have up to three years to get used to the idea.” He pushes open the door and motions me through. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The farther I walk through the parking lot, and the farther I get from my father, the more my spine straightens and my lungs expand. When I finally reach my car, I stand there with the door open, letting the cold afternoon wind whip my hair forward over my face, scraping the skin that’s just beginning to heal.

  I look back at the Control’s gleaming headquarters building, surrounded on all sides by electric fences disguised as vines and trellises.

  Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I can’t decide what my powers mean or where they come from. But I can decide how to use them.

  For now.

  Elaine the bank manager—a woman with hair of a brassy red not found in nature—gives me a friendly nod and shuts the door, leaving me alone with my safe - deposit box.

  I sift through my birth certificates, all six of them, searching for the real one, the one that says “Ciara Marjorie O’Riley.” When I turned eighteen, I changed my last name to Griffin for reasons both silly and serious.

  I find the original birth certificate and hold it up to the fluorescent light. Having acquired five forgeries, I should know a fake when I see it.

  In the space for “Mother’s Name,” the blue mottled paper ends in a halo around the typed letters of the woman I’ve always called Mom. As if someone has whited out the original name, replaced it, then photocopied the result and given it a fresh stamp. The background behind my father’s name remains uniformly blue.

  “Son of a bitch.”