I seized my perfect opportunity, moments before disaster. With the troll off-balance, and enraged, I leaned in between massive swings—and shouted at it as hard as I could.
I projected my eardrum-splitting, wall-shaking bellow directly into its blunt, craggy, quietly snarling face, only a yard or so away from my own, reinforcing my broken voice with supernatural force. The sound echoed powerfully off of the concrete that enclosed us, bouncing from wall to wall, reverberating inside the cistern, resounding from the ceiling far above us.
Flowers the troll dropped his sword into the well.
He hadn’t been seeing me at all. He’d been hearing me, smelling me, like the legendary Grendel.
Flowers clasped one rocky hand to each side of his head as he reeled, covering what I figured were his sensitive troll ear-holes. Just like I’d hoped. While he was disoriented with agony, I dashed forward, closing the distance in a flash and throwing myself to the concrete in a perfect straight-leg slide. I went right between its massive legs, getting quite the eyeful as I looked up.
I slammed both fists, full force, into its metal loincloth as I shot past. As physics decreed, it promptly shot upward, crashing into its troll-y nethers with terrific force.
If I’d ever wondered what a female troll sounded like, my curiosity was now sated. I slid between his legs and past him as he howled—in a much different tone than before—unable to clutch both his ears and his…rocks...at the same time.
Legs twisted, off balance, and in who knew how much pain, I almost felt bad as I braced myself between the wall and one trunk-like leg and heaved, my dead muscles straining like steel cables as I toppled Flowers into the cistern. After all, as far as I could tell, he hadn’t asked to get involved in this shit.
A plaintive, high pitched howl followed him on his plunge downward, and I crawled to the edge to peer down—it was best to make certain he didn’t just cling creepily to the stone below and come right back at me. I waited, clinging to the ledge; I didn’t see him impact bottom, but I knew it when happened. I heard a faint, distant sound from below, only a moment before an absolute torrent of voltaic power blasted past me, static arching along all the surfaces and even racing up the falling streams of water. It roiled past and through me, dancing along my hair and digging into my spine, running forcefully along my nerves, almost making me spasm.
I figured he was gone, but I gave it another minute anyway, staying motionless and peering as far as I could into the distant, shadowed depths. Once satisfied, I made my way back up toward the Sanguinarian bar, messing with my broken arm bone and setting it more or less back into its proper place. I arrived just in time to find Charles, standing with arms crossed amongst the scattered Sanguinarian bodies and tapping his foot, the very portrait of irritation and impatience.
This was the only chance I was ever going to have to do this right.
I staggered over to him, wavering on my feet as if I might collapse at any moment. “Troll… In the sewer… Thought you ought to know…”
CHAPTER FOUR
I'll just watch you stuff your face
Despite my victory over the troll, I didn’t come out of things feeling very successful. At least one Sanguinarian, Flowers’ summoner, had escaped, and probably more had followed his lead after the troll crashed the party. Now Charles and I were no closer to finding more clues than we had been when the night begun. Our series of failed raids were starting to taste rather sour, and that was before factoring in my worries about the well-dressed Sanguinarian and his plans for my captured blood sample.
“You were supposed to give me a hundred count…” Charles grumbled for the fifth time as we climbed back into his Silverado. “And this time don’t—” I slammed the door, my fingers denting the metal handle a little more. He glared at me pointedly. “Slam the door so hard.”
“Sorry,” I rasped hoarsely. I didn’t sound sincere, but there was little I could do to fix that; my voice simply didn’t support much nuance or connotation any more. “I count quickly when I’m anxious.”
In reality, I’d jumped headlong into the fight because I knew that while a single bite from a Sanguinarian would leave the mortal wizard either dying or permanently enslaved, I had no such concerns for myself. It was also a good release for the hard-to-control Strigoi anger that built up inside. But this time, my arrogance had cost us.
Charles nodded and sighed, his irritation melting back into his typical stone-faced stoicism. I studied him for a moment in the slanting yellow rays of passing street lights. Even with the passage of months, I felt I was no closer to really understanding the man, which was probably exactly how he wanted it. He wasn’t as openly hostile to me as he once had been, and we’d worked together a great deal in the past months, but had we become friends? I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t say I knew for certain. I could say, however, that I’d come to Charles’ last birthday party, which had consisted of just me, him, and the discounted Pokemon cake I’d brought him.
I could also say that we’d come to an understanding. After fighting together and saving each others’ lives while defeating a powerful mutual enemy, I supposed we’d each seen a hint of what the other was made of. I found I respected the man, even if his best magic trick was making himself actively unlikeable. In return, he seemed to acknowledge that maybe I wasn’t just another monster.
Maybe.
Or perhaps his semblance of trust was based on that vial of my blood I’d donated to him months ago. The one that insured he could always find me if he needed to. The same one I hoped ensured that he could kill me if I ever lost my humanity completely and started treating Birmingham like my personal all-night buffet.
I guess a deal like that engendered some level of trust, and when bloody trouble had hit Birmingham once more, I’d been the first person he’d called in to help.
“So, you said your troll…exploded?” Charles’ deep voice startled me out of my thoughts.
“Well,” I shrugged, gesturing vaguely with my hands, “kinda? In a Next Door energy release sort of way. You know, with the boom and the rumble rumble rumble and the shhhhchkkkk and all?”
“I’m familiar,” he said dryly, glancing over. I thought it’d been a pretty good impression, myself. “When you dumped the Fae into the cistern, you probably broke the lingering magic binding it here.”
I was pretty certain I didn’t understand that completely. “Huh. So...it’s not dead? I didn’t think running water affected blood magic the same way it does your magic.”
“Blood magic, no,” he emphasized, slowly, as if I had a learning disability. “But blood and water don’t mix in other ways. Besides, you didn’t dispel his summoning; you dispelled the troll’s ability to stay on this plane.” He eyed me briefly. “You could have just used your claws on him, you know.” Charles gave me a flat look. “Iron and all?”
Well, shit on me. “I, uh, didn’t know they were the same as real iron?” I defended myself lamely. Actually, it hadn’t crossed my mind at all. If there’s been more room in the Silverado’s cab, I’d have kicked myself.
He just stared at me like I was even stupider than he’d realized, then shrugged it off and went back to watching the road. “What is ‘real?’ Anything borrowed from Next Door is as real as the rest of the world; after all, our universes are built on the same cosmic bones.” He rolled his eyes vaguely. “Next time, don’t forget. Think it through from every angle. Fail to use all of your tools, and there may not be a next next time.”
“Yes, Charles-Dad.” Despite the sarcastic response, I didn’t disregard him. Charles was, as far as I could tell, likely many years my senior, and I figured he’d finished a lot more scraps than I’d ever started. I knew enough to recognize solid advice when I heard it.
“How’s your arm?” The wizard rolled to a stop in the darkened parking lot of a building, tall letters across the front spelling out “Pancake Hut” in neon and gold.
“It’s…fine. Broken, but fine.” I frowned and nudged the bones arou
nd inside my forearm. After death, having a broken bone didn’t seem to actually do anything other than feel weird. I hadn’t seemed to have lost any strength or mobility, even as most of my forearm rapidly colored itself the livid purple of a ripe bruise. Another perk of being a walking corpse, I guess. The gash the Sanguinarian’s blood magic had sawed in my arm had already clotted over with dark blood as well. “See? Fine.” I held my damaged arm up in front of his face, wiggling the bone back and forth and making the skin bulge abnormally.
“Wonderful. Now sit still.” He closed his eyes, and I could feel his heartbeat go still and steady as he raised his hands and concentrated.
“What? Why?” I took my arm back and pulled on it, straightening it out and putting the bone back where it belonged.
“Because I’m hungry, there are waffles in there, and you look like you just murdered someone.”
Oh. “I did,” I quipped without thinking. Whoops.
Charles’ eyes popped open long enough to give me an unyielding glare. For a moment, I thought he was going to flip me off or make one of his typical anti-monster comments, but he just went back to concentrating instead.
I cleared my throat awkwardly. “Just don’t also disintegrate part of my clothes this time, okay?” I knew what he was doing, and it was actually a lot more impressive than it seemed. Typical wizardly magic scooped up bits of Next Door and brought them to our world, shaped them, wielded them. Charles was enacting the far more difficult task of sending bits of Home over there instead. He had assured me that even little displays of that kind of magic were mentally complex affairs, and if you slipped up, part of someone’s clothes might accidentally go away too.
He didn’t dignify me with a response. I wouldn’t have either.
Layers of caked, drying blood and chunky bits of gore I’d completely forgotten about started to lift off of me and dissipate into thin air. I waved goodbye to them and watched Charles’ magic work its...magic. The mess sizzled a little as it vanished; he even got some of the dirt and dust that had been on me since I woke up.
“There. I couldn’t fix the smell, though.” He wiped a few beads of sweat off his forehead and pulled us up closer to the building.
I shrugged. “Nothing ever does.”
Popping his door open, he slid out of the great black metal beast. “Well, at least you don’t look like your outfit is made out of roadkill now.”
“Awwww, you’re learning to make jokes! I’m so proud.” I hopped out of the other side and carefully slammed his door. “I mean they’re not good jokes, but it’s a start.” Grinning, I followed him inside and we split up, him going for the booth furthest in the back and me for the restrooms.
- - -
Hands clenched hard on the porcelain rim of the sink, I fixated intently on the bathroom mirror.
Apparently, it was a time for reflection.
This particular Pancake Hut bathroom always brought back memories—a depressing statement in and of itself. I’d been here in front of this selfsame mirror almost a year ago now, with Tamara Moroaică at my side, trying to help me figure out how and why my world was ending. A lot had changed since then. Now, trapped deep inside the chipped, polished glass, another me stared back, an Ashley—or was it Ashes, now?—that I’d been slowly coming to accept over time, flaws, damage, hungers, and all.
My light green eyes still had blazing twin sparks of life trapped deep within them, but now looked icy in the center but dead and glossy around the edges. I couldn’t see it myself, but I knew their reflection was even more unnatural to others, one of the telltale curses of any type of vampire. The area around my eyes was a little sunken but concealed by perpetual dark circles that either looked like I was new to goth makeup or had a sleeping disorder. Maybe both.
I was now paler than ever, having gone from my normal avoids-the-sun-like-the-plague pale skin to full blown I’m-obviously-a-corpse-girl pale skin. Dark traces of my dead blood were visible through my skin, my flesh too transparent to hide those blood vessels closest to the surface. If I held still enough—and I could—I could pass for a dirty, tacky marble statue.
My hair was stringy, uneven, shoulder-length and dirty; it was a pain in the ass to wash it properly, considering my issues with running water. It wasn’t easily visible underneath the long, thin charcoal wool coat, black plain tank-top, and dark ragged cargo jeans that I was still slowly losing weight, but I didn’t quite qualify for “emaciated” yet.
Not that it mattered. Objectively, I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t ugly. I was terrifying.
But maybe I was biased, after I’d sent the love of my life running straight into the arms of the mental health system.
My wounds from the dramatic showdown with the demonic Rawhead and the pair of Strigoi it served were still fading away, but it had been a very slow process. I seemed to heal significantly slower than a still-living human in most respects; I supposed it was fortunate that I was so hard to injure, since any wounds that stuck were going to linger for a while. I glanced at my arm with the freshly broken bone and wheezed out another sigh.
And unfortunately, there were some…degradation-related problems as well. Much to my chagrin, the flesh had started to deteriorate around my knees and elbows, layers of skin wearing away and even a little muscle starting to show damage. I figured that it had something to do with the area around the joints being worn out by motion and activity, faster than my slow-healing body could compensate, but I didn’t know for certain. Just as I didn’t know if it was going to keep getting worse or even spread.
So, for now, I just covered it all with duct tape.
At then there was the left side of my neck, still wrapped lightly in a semi-clean cloth bandage, where a hungry young vampire had once gnawed vigorously on my flesh until I died. That wound above all had been a source of depression for me; not only was it existentially horrifying for most everyone else to look at, it was a constant visual reminder of the most traumatic—and final—moment of my life. Even if I ever managed to win my mortal girlfriend back, I knew there was no way she’d ever be able to look at that gruesome emblem and not see the dead me instead of the old me. But that was okay. I was getting it taken care of, very soon.
Once all taped up, sprayed down with lots of Lysol, and stuffed into my worn clothes, I could generally pass for human, at least with people who didn’t know any better. A human hobo, yes, but a human nonetheless.
I took another look at myself, then a final one around at the restroom: a dingy landmark, an unassuming crossroads between my old life and my new one. Then I washed my face.
Yeah, it had been forever since I’d been here last, it seemed. In that time, many things had stayed the same, but many more had changed—like how far I was willing to go, and what I was willing to do, to keep on living. My body had degraded and maybe my morals along with it.
I glanced back up. Ashley’s dead body stared back.
Yep. I’m a monster.
I watched the water spill into the drain, washing away dirt, dust, and blood. My hands tingled, slightly numb. I met my own pale green eyes a final time.
But I’m still me, too. I can still make a difference. There are worse monsters out there, and I’m going to stop them. I took a deep, useless breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped back into the diner.
- - -
By the time I’d gotten back to our booth, Charles had already ordered.
He didn’t buy me anything, either; that was normal. Something about it being a “waste of resources.” It didn’t really bother me. That was just Charles being Charles. I generally had neither the money nor the care to make an effort to eat, save for the rare dinner with someone like Tamara. That didn’t stop me from messing with him, though.
“Are those mine?” A plate of cheese-and-chili-smothered potatoes landed on the table about the same time I landed in the booth, and I waved away the waitress before she could get too intent on taking my order. She shivered at my presence and seemed glad enough to get away from
me.
Charles, mouth full of waffle, just glared at me, pulling the plate further toward his side of the table. He knew I could still eat if I wanted to, and nothing was sacred, even chili-cheese hashbrowns. Especially chili-cheese hashbrowns.
“Don’t worry about it,” I reassured him. “After all, I already ate.”
He made a choking sound and continued to glare at me. I gave him a moment to digest morbid humor and food alike.
“So, are you going to be okay?” I would have let him eat in peace but sitting there watching the man chew only kept me occupied for so long, and my mind was full of worries. “Some Sanguinarians escaped this time. They aren’t going to show up when you go to Savemart for a midnight snack and break your legs, are they?”
He rolled his eyes, talking with his mouth full. “They won’t dare openly retaliate. The Magisterium would never stand for it, and they don’t want to cross us. So as long as we keep them low on proof, I’ll be fine.” He paused, still chewing, and considered. “Now if they can muster some solid proof, that’s a different matter; they could report me to the Magisterium, and I could face investigation, even trial and punishment. But most likely, they’ll just retaliate under the table, if they even realize I was involved.”
I nodded. Maybe it was good that I’d jumped the gun earlier, after all. Charles had a lot more to lose than I did.
He grunted and swallowed. “I should be asking you the same question. What if they just show up during the day and hack you up? They have to know about you by now.”
I frowned, shifting uneasily. I was worried about that, too. “Well, they certainly know about me, and they have since I helped Tamara fight off their squad of blood-banger assassins. But I’m pretty certain they don’t know what I am. Not yet.” I figured if they had realized I was Strigoi, I’d already be the starting point for a second session of genocide. “But, they can’t hunt me in the church, remember? Holy ground or whatever. They can’t set foot there.”
Blood Red Ashes (Dying Ashes Book 2) Page 4
