Bloodstone d-3

by Nancy Holzner

  “It’s Kane. Last night he got hit with a blast of magical energy, and it knocked him into his wolf form.”

  “And he didn’t change back with the dawn.”

  “Correct.” I liked the way she got right to the heart of the problem. “I was hoping you might have an idea of how to help him.”

  “Well, the safest thing is to wait for the full moon. But I guess you called me because you don’t want to wait. The wolfsbane could work. If I cast a strong protection spell before applying it—”

  “I thought you said wolfsbane isn’t available.”

  “It’s a very pretty flower that grows in my garden. I have some preserved. Let me do some research. If I find a recipe for a wolfsbane ointment that I believe is safe, I’ll call you back.”

  “Great. I’ll talk to Kane about the risks and see if he’s willing to try it.”

  The long pause made me think the call had been dropped. “Roxana?”

  “Didn’t you say he’s in wolf form? How can you discuss anything with him?”

  “He’s still got his human consciousness. He can’t talk, but he understands everything you say and responds as best he can.”

  “Interesting.”

  “How long will your research take?”

  “It’s hard to say. It could be an hour or two. It could be a day or two. It depends on how lucky I get.”

  I sighed. “I hope your luck is running better than mine.”

  I TOLD KANE ABOUT MY CONVERSATION WITH ROXANA, how she thought a wolfsbane ointment might reverse his transformation. He clearly liked the idea. He jumped down from the sofa, ran in circles, and then pointed his muzzle at the ceiling and howled. “Shh,” I said. “We promised Clyde, remember?” He stopped howling and looked at me, eyes bright. I sat wearily on the sofa. “Wolfsbane is poison, Kane. Roxana said she’d only make up the ointment if she thought it was safe, but . . .”

  He jumped up beside me and flicked his tongue against my cheek. I put an arm around him, pressing my face into his fur, breathing in the moonlight-and-pine scent, a link to the Kane I knew. It was his decision, but that didn’t stop me from worrying.

  Mab, awake after her nap, came into the living room. I asked her what she thought of Roxana’s idea.

  “Wolfsbane . . .” she said thoughtfully. “It could work. But it’s dangerous. May I have her telephone number? I’d like to confer with her.”

  “I’ll call her for you. But first, I need to take your picture.”

  Mab put a hand to her iron-gray hair. It was short, like mine, and mussed from sleeping. “Whatever for?”

  “You need an ID,” I said, “to get in and out of Deadtown. I know someone who makes fake IDs while you wait.” Given the number of times my paranormal ID card had been shredded by the energy blast of a shift, I was one of his best customers. It had been years since I’d carried an honest-to-God official ID.

  Mab went into the bathroom to brush her hair while I got out my camera. I positioned her against a blank stretch of wall and adjusted the lighting.

  “Say cheese!” I said, centering her in the viewfinder.

  “Whatever for?”

  “All right, just smile.” Mab’s expression didn’t change, and I knew that was as close to a smile as I was going to get. I took a picture, and then two more to make sure we’d have a usable one.

  Mab stepped away from the wall and reached for my camera.

  I smiled. “You want to choose your favorite?”

  “Hardly. I presume you need a new identification card, as well. Myrddin and the Old Ones stole your belongings.”

  “You’re right. But I don’t need a photo. Mine’s already on file.”

  Mab did smile at that.

  I called Roxana again and gave Mab the phone. I put on my jacket, removed the storage card from my camera, and stuck it in my pocket. Kane sat up, ears swiveled forward, as I headed toward the front door.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” I said. “I’m going to 24-Hour Copy.” I opened the door, then turned back to the room, my hand on the knob. “Kane, this wolfsbane thing. I want you back so much. But we’re not going to try it unless it’s one hundred percent safe. I’m not going to lose you.”

  The expression in his intelligent gray eyes stayed with me long after I’d closed the door.

  A ROUND-THE-CLOCK COPY CENTER BEFORE THE PLAGUE, 24-Hour Copy hadn’t changed much since. It was still always open, and it still had copy machines, high-quality printers, and rent-by-the-hour computers. But zombies and other Deadtown residents didn’t need many photocopies. So the big change, the change that had allowed the business to thrive, was its trade in fake paperwork and IDs.

  At the front counter, a bored-looking zombie attendant was reading a magazine and eating three chocolate bars at a time. She’d unwrap them, stack them, and they’d disappear into her mouth. She polished off six in the time it took me to walk from the door to the counter.

  “Help you?” she asked around the chocolate that filled her mouth.

  “Is Carlos here?”

  She jerked her head to indicate he was in the back, where I’d expected him to be. As I thanked her and walked past the counter, she was already unwrapping more chocolate.

  A locked door guarded the back room. I rapped three times, paused, rapped two more. The door swung open to reveal a zombie seated at a cluttered desk in the small room. Behind him, two large printers whirred. The desk held three widescreen computer monitors, stacks of paper, crumpled lunch bags, and a coffee mug. The zombie who sat there turned toward the door, his hands still on the keyboard.

  “Hi, Carlos.”

  Carlos had been a computer programmer before the plague. It was only after he’d been reanimated that he found his true calling. The man was an artist. Not only could he make perfect reproductions of ID cards and other documents, he had the skills to make sure that the city’s database matched whatever his products said. He wasn’t cheap, but he was the best.

  Now, he smiled as I came in. Carlos was the only zombie I knew who had a genuinely pleasant smile—as opposed to one that made you want to run away screaming.

  “Hey, Vicky. Don’t tell me you’ve got more business for me already.”

  “I’m afraid so. I need two IDs.”

  “Two? You keep this up, and I’ll be buying myself a yacht to cruise around Boston Harbor.”

  I laughed, but the joke wasn’t all that funny. Zombies didn’t get to cruise around the harbor, and I did hand over a good portion of my income to Carlos.

  “So what do you need?” he asked.

  “The usual for me. I also need an ID card for my aunt. She’s a demi-human like me, but she’s visiting from the UK and she doesn’t have any papers.” I handed him the memory card that held Mab’s photos.

  Carlos didn’t ask how she’d arrived with no papers. Nosy wasn’t his style. “You want her to be a visitor or a resident?”

  “Which would be easier?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘easy.’ Visitor’s papers would be cheaper. But she’ll run into fewer hassles going in and out of Deadtown if she’s identified as a resident. Of course, that’s where things get more complicated, getting her into the system. It’ll take some hacking to establish her identity.”

  “She’s only in town for a few days, but we can’t afford getting tied up in red tape while she’s here. I guess we’d better make her a resident.”

  Carlos grinned. “It’s your money.”

  “Not for long.” His grin broadened at my words. He really did have a nice smile—too bad it was at my expense.

  “This will take longer than a while-you-wait job. The city’s got their system locked down pretty tight now.”

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “Not for me.” Another grin. This was a zombie who loved his job. “How about you come back around ten tonight? I should have everything ready by then.”

  I paid half up front in cash, as usual. Maybe if I stopped by the bank I could get a loan for the re
st before ten.

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE APARTMENT, I WAS SURPRISED TO see Roxana there. She sat in a living-room chair, completely at ease, talking with Mab. Kane lay in what was becoming his customary place on the sofa, head on paws, ears pricked toward their conversation.

  Roxana stood as I came into the room, smiling and offering her hand. She looked her usual gorgeous self: glossy dark hair, perfect makeup, a blue dress that showed off her curves. I felt like a scarecrow next to her.

  I took her hand, and we gave each other a quick peck on the cheek. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” I said.

  “Your aunt was a tremendous help. We agreed on the best recipe for the ointment, and I made it up and came right over. No point in wasting time.”

  “But . . .” Suddenly I didn’t want to go through with the ritual. “Shouldn’t you do more research? Don’t we need to wait for a propitious time—the right moon phase or something?”

  Mab came over and patted my shoulder with three quick pats: onetwothree. It was her way of reassuring me. “Child, I understand your reluctance. But the ointment is safe to use; I’ll vouch for that. The only question is whether it’s strong enough to counter Myrddin’s magic.”

  “As for timing,” Roxana added, “that doesn’t matter. It’s like taking a dose of medicine when you’re sick—the sooner the better.”

  Kane sat up and barked his agreement.

  I sat beside him and leaned my forehead against his. I put my arms around him, felt his warmth. “Are you sure you want to try this?”

  He didn’t even have to nod. His eyes showed how much he did.

  We pushed back furniture to clear a space in the middle of the living room. Roxana summoned Kane to lie down in the middle of the open space. She gently pressed on his shoulder, so he lay on his side. When he was situated, she placed four small tea candles, each about a yard away from him, at the points of the compass: north, east, south, west. She stepped inside the circle they formed. Facing north, she bowed and closed her eyes in meditation. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She bent and lit the candle. After a moment she moved on to the east candle and repeated the process. Within a few minutes, she’d lit all four candles.

  She stood beside Kane and pointed at the north candle. Going clockwise, three times she traced the perimeter of the circle with her pointing finger. When she’d finished, she closed her eyes and lifted her face skyward. Then she drew a jar from her pocket and held it upward, like an offering, to each of the four quarters, always turning clockwise. When she was finished, she knelt beside Kane.

  Roxana removed a pair of gloves from her pocket and put them on. Gloves—to protect her own skin from the wolfsbane. I was half out of my chair, ready to stop the ritual, before I made myself sit back down. Kane wanted to do this, and Mab approved. Still, if Roxana needed gloves to apply the ointment, I wasn’t so sure I wanted her putting that stuff on Kane’s unprotected paws. But I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to mess up the protection spell by breaking Roxana’s concentration.

  Please, please let this work.

  Mab noticed my worry and nodded reassuringly.

  Inside the circle, Roxana chanted as she rubbed the ointment into Kane’s paws. Her voice sounded far away and muffled, like a mermaid singing beneath the waves. I watched Kane for any sign of pain or discomfort, but his eyelids drifted shut as she did her work. By the time she finished, he lay on his side, tongue lolling. I could see him breathing, and I kept my eyes glued to the up-and-down movement, as if watching alone could keep it going.

  Roxana stood. She went to the east side of the circle and made cutting motions with her hand, first on her right side, and then on her left. She stepped outside of the circle. As soon as she’d crossed the barrier, she turned around and closed the door she’d made.

  Roxana regarded Mab, then me. “Now we wait.”

  AND SO WE WAITED, WATCHING KANE, TALKING LITTLE, dozing in our chairs. Roxana had set up the circle to last as long as the tea lights burned—about two hours. While the candles burned, her circle formed a bubble of protection around Kane. When they went out, the circle would unmake itself.

  I scrutinized Kane for any sign of change: a shortening of his fur, a change in the shape of his limbs or head. But no matter how much I hoped for change—any tiny alteration to show the ointment was working—I couldn’t see it.

  Eventually, the candles began to sputter. They extinguished in the opposite order from Roxana’s lighting of them: west, south, east, and finally north. When the final candle stopped burning, sending up a thin stream of smoke, a shudder ran through Kane. He twitched, and we all leaned forward. His eyes opened. He stood, stretched, and yawned. Then he stepped outside the circle—every bit as much a wolf as when Roxana had cast it around him.

  18

  “I’M SO SORRY,” ROXANA SAID, PULLING ON HER COAT. “I really thought the ointment would work.”

  “You made it as strong as we dared,” said Mab. “More wolfsbane would have been too risky.”

  Kane was fine, no worse for wear than if he’d taken a twohour nap. I’d checked his paws: no burns or ulcerations. His heart beat normally, and he was alert, although he seemed despondent that Roxana’s spell had failed. We all were. More than that, though, I was relieved he was okay—in any form.

  “Well,” Roxana said, “at least this might be helpful.” From her coat pocket she pulled something that looked like a small crocheted snowflake. It dangled from the end of a string loop.

  “What is it?” I asked, taking it. A buzz passed from the object into my hand.

  “It’s a diminution charm,” Roxana said. “It makes something big and powerful look smaller, less threatening. I thought it might be helpful if Kane wants to go out.” She looked around. “You have a great apartment, but who wants to spend three weeks cooped up in one place?”

  “Thanks, Roxana. It’s a great idea. I’m so glad you thought of it.”

  She glanced at Mab and smiled. “Your aunt suggested we have a contingency plan.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Mab.

  I slipped the loop over Kane’s neck. The air around him shimmered. His appearance blurred and then altered. He looked like a German shepherd: still ferocious, but less so than a two-hundred-pound werewolf. A perfect disguise. I removed the charm and placed it on the coffee table. In a moment, Kane was back in all his wolfish glory. Roxana wouldn’t take any payment for the charm. After she left, I went into my room, lay down on top of the comforter, and napped for a few hours. My sleep schedule is always erratic, living between the norm and paranormal worlds as I do, so I’m used to snatching a few z’s when I have the chance.

  When I woke up, it was dark out, and I was hungry. I ran my fingers through my hair, stuck my feet into slippers, and went into the living room. Mab sat in a chair, reading. Kane was stretched out on the sofa, watching PNN. The story told of a planned protest march through the streets of Deadtown, tonight. Zombies were gathering to protest the code-red restrictions. I felt for the zombies—they must be suffering cabin fever big-time by now—but nobody would give a damn about their march. Not if it was in Deadtown. In the eyes of Police Commissioner Hampson and other norms, they could do whatever the hell they wanted—as long as they stayed inside the boundaries of Designated Area 1.

  “Who’s hungry?” I asked.

  Kane woofed, and Mab admitted she was feeling “a bit peckish,” so we all trooped into the kitchen. I opened the freezer and peered inside. “Let’s see. We’ve got lasagna, Salisbury steaks”—Kane howled at this point—“pizza, sesame chicken, fettuccine . . .”

  “Heavens, child, is that how you get your food?” Mab looked every bit as horrified as if my freezer shelves held human heads instead of frozen dinners.

  “If I had Rose to do my cooking, I’d eat as well as you. But I don’t cook.” My kitchen skills were limited to knowing which buttons to press on the microwave.

  Mab made a sour face, but she chose fettuccine Alfredo with c
hicken.

  For the next fifteen minutes, I gave the microwave a good workout. Everyone ate their food as soon as it was ready. Mab even admitted that her meal tasted better than she’d expected. I noticed she scraped up all of her Alfredo sauce.

  After dinner, it was time to pick up the IDs from Carlos. “I’ll get those, then check on Juliet. I want to see how she’s doing, but I also want to ask her some more questions about the Old Ones.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Mab said.

  “You won’t—” What would be the best way to phrase this? “It won’t bother you that she’s a vampire?”

  “I solemnly swear I’ll be on my best behavior,” Mab said. “If your Juliet really managed to escape the Old Ones’ thrall, she’s someone I want to meet.”

  THE STREET WAS PACKED WITH ZOMBIES, ALL HEADED IN THE same direction we were. The protest march would start at the Old South Meeting House, proceed down Washington Street and along Winter Street, and finish at the Tremont Street checkpoints. Our goal, 24-Hour Copy, wasn’t far from the meetinghouse. The march was due to start at eleven—still more than an hour from now—but the zombies were already on their way. Some carried signs with slogans like ZOMBIES AREN’T MONSTERS and PERMIT THIS, HAMPSON! Others walked along doing what zombies do best—stuffing their faces with junk food. Laughter rang through the night. The scene felt festive, like the march was a parade, not a protest.

  One person bucked the crowd, plowing through with her head down, like a rowboat with an underpowered outboard putt-putting against a strong current. I recognized the blond hair first, pulled into a high ponytail that swung as she walked. She wore a curve-hugging white T-shirt with a green plaid miniskirt, torn fishnet stockings, and black combat boots. The gigantic tote bag she lugged—pink accented with zebra stripes—looked like it could hold half my worldly possessions, including my car. As she got closer, I read the bold pink letters on her T-shirt: LOVE IS THE ANSWER. She barreled right past us; on the back of her shirt, black letters asked, WHAT THE HELL WAS THE QUESTION?