“Miles!” Cole yelled. “For Chrissake, Jaz is gonna be so pissed if you screw this up!”
The stick to Dave’s left stopped moving. He held on to it a moment longer to be sure, and then he moved that hand to the remaining stick. Which began to wobble so hard it looked like Dave was causing the movement. Until you checked out his holding-on-fordear-life expression.
Cole asked, loudly and somewhat desperately, “Yo, Cassandra? What happens when that spirit-rod of Dave’s starts whipping him around in circles like an Olympic gymnast?”
“It should be all right,” Cassandra replied in a falsely cheerful voice. “I think he’s wearing his maximum-support tights tonight.”
Bergman laughed fully, from the belly. The knife retreated as he climbed to his feet.
Dave wasn’t amused, especially when the rod finally won, jerking him off his feet and throwing him against the fence like a pissed-off stallion. Astral jumped ship just before he hit, landing gracefully beside him as if she’d practiced the trick a thousand times. She stared at him as he lay still, trying to decide whether or not he’d ever be able to put his experience in the W column. Then he did an allover body check, probing his head, ribs, and leg bones delicately to make sure nothing was broken.
“Honey?” Cassandra asked as she came to lean over him. “Are you all right?”
He moaned. Sat up and dusted off his jacket.
“Is he back?” asked Cole. She turned to him and nodded. Which was all the signal he needed. He spun around, cocking his Beretta as he moved to face Bergman and the Rider fully. He yelled, “Anyone who’s seen Star Wars more than twenty times, including the digitally remastered edition, and who owns an original Stormtrooper costume raise your hand!” His fingers shot toward the sky, followed closely by Bergman’s as Cole said over his shoulder, “We just went to Jedi-Con together. My God, you should’ve seen all the Leias! Best thing about the Stormtrooper costume? Tinted eyeholes. You can let your eyes go upsy-downsy and the girls never get a clue.”
As Cassandra’s jaw dropped and Bergman laughed louder than ever before, Cole leaped toward the Rider, yelling, “Time to dump the neandervamp, Miles! Think happy thoughts!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Saturday, June 16, 11:15 p.m.
Two of Queen Marie’s Dogs joined us in her garden soon after she’d given Raoul what I now mentally referred to as the Shit Sniffer. The soldiers had, between them, managed to find one Tshirt, one button-down shirt, a pair of riding breeches, a pair of precursors to sweatpants with leather bands instead of drawstrings, two flat red caps, and two pairs of pointy-toed shoes that made them look like they’d just come from the bowling lanes.
I looked them up and down, turned to Vayl, who sat next to me on a backless bench, and whispered, “These are our guards? I wouldn’t be scared of them if they came running at me with bazookas.”
His left eyebrow twitched, along with the entire right side of his mouth. “You and I both know the queen is only sending them so they can report back to her. She may even be able to see through their eyes.”
“Wow. Talk about the perfect spies.”
He tilted his head. “Should we go that far? As you pointed out, they did seem to misunderstand the concept of going in undercover.”
However, when we mentioned the Dogs’ bizarre costumes to the queen she waved off our concerns with a limp hand. Taking a sip of lemonade from a crystal glass as she enjoyed the scents of her flowers (Damn, they get the details pretty good here in the Thin!) she said, “As long as they are out of my uniform, they will not be questioned.” The way she said the word “questioned” made me think of spiked clubs and flesh-packed molars.
Sitting on my other side, Aaron audibly gulped. Vayl touched him with his eyes. “This ordeal is not going to get any easier,” he said evenly. His raised eyebrows asked, Can you cope?
I compared his quiet buck-up-and-be-a-man approach to my dad’s. Albert would’ve taken one look at Aaron’s shaking hands, his twitching shoulders, and said, “Oh for shit’s sake, ya pansy! Screw your balls on tight and let’s tuck this brick-shitter under the pillowcase!” I never quite understood what that last part meant. And, having been born without the formerly mentioned appendages, I never thought that demand applied very well to me. But somehow it worked every time. My dad might be a gnarly son of a bitch. But he’s a stellar motivator.
Aaron said, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, we believe you,” I told him as my inner girls laughed somewhat hysterically. “Two things, though.”
“Okay.”
I held up my fingers so he could follow my points, because my high school speech teacher had passionately believed in visual aids, and I never forgot that. “Number one,” I said, pointing to the first finger. “Walk on the edge of the group so that if you puke you can direct the spew away from the rest of us. Number two”—I pointed to my flip-off finger and enjoyed the fact that he realized I might be sending him a double message—“If you pass out?” I waited until he nodded his understanding. “We’re leaving you. Here. In the Thin.”
Queen Marie’s ladies squealed and clapped their hands. And the Dogs’ laughter sounded so much like barking I was beginning to have a hard time thinking of them as ever having been human. Together they did a good job of freaking Aaron out just exactly to the extent that I wanted. Satisfied that the lawyer-to-be wouldn’t be slowing us down, I looked at Raoul, who stood in his original spot, holding the Sniffer like he wished it would disappear already. “Are we set?”
He shrugged. “Believe it or not, I’m always ready for battle.”
I smacked myself on the chest proudly. “That’s why you like me, isn’t it?” When he started to smile, sheepishly, like I’d caught him stealing cookies from the save-these-for-grandma’s-visit plate, I snapped my fingers. “I knew it! We actually have something in common!”
The rap of Vayl’s cane on the bricks distracted us. “I assume we can trust your Eldhayr to control your berserker tendencies until we have at least freed Aaron’s father from his current situation?”
“Which is… what?” asked Aaron. “How do we even know where to go, much less how to find him?”
He hadn’t been allowed to overhear the negotiations because we kinda thought he’d spaz and run, which is not a good idea for a human in full body and soul surrounded by spirits whose wild hunger is tamed only by their loyalty to a tightly stretched queen. So all Vayl said was, “It is not easy to imprison something as ethereal as a spirit. Queen Marie has given us an artifact that will detect the one place in the Thin where that is possible. Her Dogs will accompany us there. After we arrive, we will free your father and return to the world.”
Aaron looked at Vayl doubtfully. “How?”
Vayl smiled. As his fangs gleamed, for the first time I saw respect for the power of a vampire dawn in his son’s wide eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Saturday, June 16, 11:15 p.m.
Cassandra witnessed the entire Rider battle. So Astral combined her impressions along with the men’s memories of the fight into a remarkably complete video that we reviewed closely later on through her Enkyklios.
Cole charged toward the giant parasite, yelling like a Celtic warrior, his hair flying out behind him, his gun gripped so firmly in his hand it seemed like an extension of his arm. Bergman’s glasses had flown off sometime during his ordeal, so he couldn’t quite get the details. But, in general, he knew it might be time to panic.
“Cole!” he yelled. “What are you doing?”
“Dave made it back, so I’m free to save you!”
He peered at Cole’s hand. “With a remote control?”
“Bergman! For once, could you stop thinking and just duck?”
Miles bent over, the Rider nearly toppling him onto his head as his balance shifted. For a second they resembled a couple of kids playing Superman. And then the Rider looked up. Cole said later that only his inertia kept him moving forward in the face of those eyes. De
ep pink pupils surrounded by lighter pink irises bored into Cole’s face like a couple of ice picks. He had a few seconds to realize the grinning mask was full of flat, broad teeth, none of which could’ve pierced Bergman’s delicate veins. And then he understood. The Rider’s needle-tipped ribs were also its teeth, every one of which had pierced Bergman’s sides so cleanly that barely a drop of blood had stained his old brown sweater.
Now those teeth throbbed as they attempted to draw out his very essence. Bergman’s chest heaved as he fought against the attack. Spit bubbled on his lips. His eyes rolled, following Cole into the mix.
Our sniper, normally lethal at five hundred feet, closed in on the Rider, yelling, “Long live the Bemonts!” like some crazed Scottish Highlander as he emptied his clip into the Rider’s face. It jumped and howled with each shot, making Bergman dance like a Broadway star. But after the last shot had been fired, not even a single rib had detached.
Which was when Cassandra said to Dave, “This may not end well.” Jack’s low growl echoed her sentiment. She’d grabbed his lead when Cole dropped it, and was now rubbing his head, though which of them was more comforted by the touch she couldn’t have said.
Dave nodded and pulled yet another knife from a sheath he’d strapped across his back. Kissing her on the cheek, he said, “Don’t watch if this is going to change your mind about me.”
She snorted. “I’ve seen gladiators shove their hands inside their enemies’ rib cages. I think I can handle a little knife fight.”
He looked down at her admiringly. “You’re such a rocket in the sack I keep forgetting you could’ve been the model for a Spanish doubloon.”
“Who says I wasn’t?”
“Tease.”
“Oh? So you’ve seen the new miniskirt I bought?”
Dave huffed. “That’s it. I’m killing this sumbitch in record time.” He whirled away, calling, “Move over, Cole! I’ve got plans for the next hour and they don’t include getting my ass kicked!”
Cassandra, having already met Albert, knew that his methods of motivation might meet with occasional success. But with his son, her approach worked every time. And best of all? It gave him an excellent reason to make sure he survived. Which was why she took credit for Dave’s extra burst of speed, the one that allowed him to catch up with Cole, so that the sniper’s gun-butt bludgeoning coincided with her husband’s slice-and-dice as if they’d practiced on a Rider-shaped dummy in Vayl’s backyard.
The Rider screamed in pain as Cole’s improvised club and Dave’s blade battered the soft skin between its tusks. But so, unfortunately, did Bergman.
“No, Mom!” he shouted. “I’m not going to your goddamn protest!”
Cole spoke urgently into his ear. “Miles! Come on, buddy, you know these suck-you-till-you-sag types. The sadder, the more violent, you feel, the sweeter you taste. So flood your head with good stuff. Your first peek at a Playboy. The invention that’s going to win you the Nobel Prize. The time Jaz and I had to ride those ridiculous mopeds all around Corpus Christi. Like that.”
At first Bergman didn’t answer. Cole, struggling to yank one of the teeth out of Miles’s side, had finally decided Bergman hadn’t heard when Bergman giggled, “Monique! It’s the middle of the day!”
The fang came free with a sucking whoosh that Cole expected to be followed by a rush of blood. But the incision-like wound was already closing, the saliva stretching from the Rider’s tooth to Miles’s skin quickly drying into a bio-bandage. “That’s handy,” said Cole. “Also kinda sick. Bergman is not gonna be happy.”
Dave pulled a fang out from the other side and sliced it off at the Rider’s body, causing it to scream and convulse even as Bergman blushed and murmured, “Sweetheart, I’m not sure that’s legal in this country!”
“Who is Monique and what the hell does she see in this brain-ona-stick?” demanded Dave as he and Cole continued defanging their tech guru, covering him, the Rider, and themselves with a startlingly rancid combination of saliva, blood, and bile.
“She’s Bergman’s girlfriend,” said Cassandra, who’d come closer to lend moral support. “He met her when we were in Marrakech.”
“She’s a little older than him,” Cole said. He added, “Watch out, Cassandra. I think this Rider’s about to hurl.”
It was shaking and heaving like Bergman’s blood hadn’t agreed with it after all. Cassandra stepped aside just as it puked up the contents of its stomach over Bergman’s left shoulder. They hit the pine needles with a wet, splatting sound that made her nose wrinkle. “This job is so nasty. They should, at the very least, send you off with your own personal bottle of Germex.”
“I agree.” Bergman sighed. Dave and Cole had nearly torn the Rider from his back. But the final connection, a pair of knittingneedle-sized ribs that seemed to shoot straight into Bergman’s back and out his chest, would not yield.
“We’ve done all we can,” Dave told him grimly. “Like I told you before, it’s still up to you.”
Bergman nodded, his head winding around in a circle like he was too tired to make a precise up-and-down motion anymore. He sighed again. Dave and Cole shared a look of round-eyed worry with Cassandra. She stepped forward to urge Bergman on to greatness, but before she could say her piece, Astral had hopped over to the open spot at his feet. Jumping up so her paws rested on his shins she said, “Learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings.”
“Tom Petty was right when he wrote ‘Learning to Fly,’” whispered Miles, his eyes so tightly shut his lashes had nearly disappeared. “And that was why Astral kept scrolling through all those disaster videos. To show us how to reach for the sky, even though it feels like we keep crashing.”
Everyone was nodding, even Jack, though he was probably only doing it to be polite. Cole said, “Exactly! Never give up, baby! Not even when your glider dives straight into the Pacific!”
Bergman’s eyes snapped open. He threw his knife into the air, caught it so that the blade now faced the Rider, performed a neat one-two sidestep, and stuck that sucker so hard that they both fell to the ground.
The last pair of ribs withdrew from Bergman’s chest. He cried out, rolling off the Rider as it freed him. But he was back in an instant, shoving his knife into the parasite’s heart, once, twice, a third time until he was sure it would never twitch again.
For long, quiet moments everyone just stared at the corpse. Then Bergman stood up, swayed, and sat back down. “I feel like a Chinese noodle. Seriously. If you want me to move, you’re going to have to use chopsticks. And a stretcher.”
“You’re so thin we could pick you up with chopsticks,” Cassandra told him. “Why won’t you ever eat anything? You might be able to get through ordeals like this much easier!”
He dropped his head like it was just too heavy for his neck to support at that moment, and wagged it back and forth. “Food’s annoying.”
“Not as much as dead scientists!” she snapped.
Dave found Bergman’s glasses and set them back on his nose. Miles peered at Cassandra over the tops of the lenses. “You are such a nag.” He looked up at Dave. “You know what you’re getting into with this one, right?”
Dave patted him on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe what kind of reward your life is worth to her, buddy. Believe me, I’m golden.”
Bergman looked at his hands, lying limp between his knees. “So, did you get what you wanted?”
Cole came to stand beside them, wiping the blood off the butt of his Beretta as he moved. “Yeah, dude. Tell us poor Miles didn’t sacrifice his vamp cherry in vain.”
As Miles huffed in embarrassment Dave said, “I made the connection. Hanzi’s in Spain.”
Cassandra was the first to pick up on the hesitation in his tone. “What did you see?” she asked.
“He was riding a motorcycle. Wearing a helmet, so that was good. Except that I saw him racing toward a parked semi. And there was no way, going as fast as he was driving, that he could’ve stopped in time.”
; Can a group of friends collectively shiver? Probably not mine, but they did share a moment of frozen silence. Then Cassandra said, “Did you feel like it was happening as you saw it? Or was it a future scene—you know, just potential that you pulled from the stratus?”
Dave shrugged. “Hey, I’m new at this. Plus I was kind of in the middle of a tornado.”
“You’re a Special Ops commander,” Cassandra drawled. “Give it your best bet.”
He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. “You don’t let me get away with anything, do you?”
She kissed him and purred, “Only when you deserve to.”
Cole said, “No smoochies when the rest of us only have animals to cuddle with.” Jack and Astral looked up. And if my dog looked slightly concerned, it’s only because he understands every word people say. “Don’t worry,” Cole told him. “You’re not my type. But you—” He wiggled his eyebrows at Astral, who sat down and began to lick her paws, as if she felt a bath might be in order, considering.
Dave got to his feet and helped Cassandra stand while Bergman grabbed Cole’s leg and climbed up far enough on his own that our sniper finally took pity and gave him a hand. “Why do you love messing with my inventions?” he asked.
“Jealous, I guess,” Cole replied. “Jaz is practically swimming in cool gadgets. I save your life and what do I get?” He motioned to his gore-covered khakis and hunting shirt.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” said Bergman.
“Or…” Cole began.
Bergman’s eyebrows lifted in sudden comprehension. Maybe he could be forgiven for not understanding right away. After all, he’d just fought a Rider and won. His wounds, while closing quickly under the strange healing qualities of the parasite’s weblike saliva, still hurt like a mother. And, no matter what Dave and Cole had done to help, he never would’ve survived the first leg of that journey without depending on his own strength. Which, he’d finally learned, was hefty—but not unlimited. Even so, he said, “I could invent you something marvelous. Both of you,” he added, catching Dave’s eye.
The Deadliest Bite Page 14
