Civil Blood_The Vampire Rights Trial that Changed a Nation

by Chris Hepler

  "This is good stuff."

  "Yeah… still wish it was some other vipe, you know?"

  I give the police a glance. They're no longer threatening or even an inconvenience. They're like dim-witted little cousins, parroting their parents' rules no matter how asinine. Vipes can fill a golf course with victims before the police cuff a single one, let alone try them or convict. That's almost as bad as denying justice outright.

  "You know?"

  "No," I say, snapping out of reverie. "Ebe, you can't think like that."

  "Don't worry. I can still do the thing. I'm just saying I might go home to my crying pillow afterward."

  "I don't doubt you, Ebe. If I didn't think you were a pro, you would have been off the team years ago. But you can't say stuff like that to everyone."

  Ebe shrugs. "Roland's gone. F-prot's gone. From here, it looks like it's just you and me. Unless…" he looks thoughtful.

  I assess. There isn't much point in hiding. "I was going to announce the good news to the whole team. You know about the stock price, right?"

  "I got a call from Olsen, yeah. I told her not to break a mirror high-fiving herself."

  "Right, well, it means a lot of powerful people are wealthy again. That means in addition to any options we own, we might get contract work. Only without a contract."

  Ebe gets it. "Oh," he says. "Quiet stuff."

  "I can't say who, and I can't say what, especially here."

  "Yeah, yeah, of course—"

  "Just know that we might have to impress someone real soon."

  "If I see the bitch," al-Ibrahim says, “I won't pause for meaningful conversation." I nod. Ebe is usually as good as his word. Still, I prod him.

  "Where are your thoughts, Ebe?"

  "Just looking at that guy and thinking about that car. I'm wondering if she's out there laughing at us."

  Maybe it's the nature of the job, but I don't see her laughing.

  49 - INFINITY

  November 28th

  I return home after midnight, eyes puffy from some overworked tear ducts. I fucked it up. Like an idiot, I went out without backup because like an idiot, I'd been arguing with cranky vipes because like an idiot, I let them vote on who went out on hunting night and when. I feel like that video game series with the big, sticky ball except I'm picking up testaments to my own criminal incompetence.

  The door behind me slams as I close it just a little too forcefully. I doubt it will wake anyone. We're all night critters now, even once-a-morning-person Ulan. I stuff my coat into the foyer closet and try to get past the living room without greeting anyone.

  It doesn't work.

  "Hey there," Ferrero says, looking up from the wallscreen. Its glow lights the living room: bright with a shot of cracking sea ice, then dim when showing barren coral reefs.

  "Hey. Where is everyone?"

  "Ulan's in the basement, Cass is out getting a part for the truck, Ly's upstairs, and Deborah's trying to sleep. How was hunting?"

  I could mention the vigilante, the clusterfuck, how messed up I am. But that takes time and hassle. Of all the vipes to alienate, I'm least afraid of Ferrero. "I didn't get anything," I admit.

  "Well, even the best batters only hit .400." He turns back to his programming.

  "Thanks for understanding," I say.

  "Any time."

  I leave him there, wondering about his taste in television. Science news doesn't captivate me. I find people more interesting. Ferrero is starved for ways to keep his brain sharp. He once told me that he missed his kids—not that he has biological ones. The ones in his classroom forced him to stay one step ahead of them. Watching him in front of that hopeless wallscreen will choke me up if I stay too long; that's how shaken I am.

  I find my room dark and empty and only bring the lights partway up. I've just kicked off my boots when my instincts tell me to suddenly look behind me.

  Ly leans over me, and I nearly clock him. "Fini," he says, upbeat. "Been waiting for you."

  "Bad news," I say, not meeting his eyes. "I got interrupted."

  "I'll help you tomorrow night, then," he says. "But now, I just want a little."

  I look at him square on, and even in the dim light, I can see he's jonesing. Under the beard, his cheeks are sunken, his eyes glassy. He's propped against the doorframe like a drunk, though I don't smell any alcohol.

  "A little becomes a lot," I say.

  "Oh, wait, no." He straightens up. "I know what you're thinking. I know better than Cass. When you explain, I listen."

  I don't take my eyes off him. I try to figure out if I can get rid of him faster by agreeing or by trying to slam the door.

  "Come on," he tries. "We don't need to tell anyone."

  I bite my lip. It would be nice not to lose so much at once. Ever since the Cass incident, I've gotten leery about having so many mouths on me. If I get lightheaded, I can lie down after, and it's probably best to keep Ly on my side. I'm tired of political decisions like that, but oh, well.

  "It'll feel good," Ly says. "You look like you need a treat."

  "All right," I say, "one nick. Stick to capillaries."

  "That's my girl." He gets out a fresh towel from the hall closet. He pulls a few bandages out of the box by the side of the bed and a single-edged razor blade from its paper sleeve. Then, he hesitates.

  "You have a bad night?"

  "Long story."

  "I miss Morgan, too," he says. "I like a noble gesture as much as the next guy, but there's a thing called common sense."

  I give him a skeptical eye. "And you have that?"

  "Hey, I just point out flaws when I see them. I ain't saying I'm any better." He gives a smile. "If you measure me and him up, he's got the nobility and the vision, and I've got an extensive knowledge of bass guitar."

  I snort almost imperceptibly. Aaron had been lead guitar.

  "Sucks, right?" he says. "Had to leave it behind, had to ditch my friends and my lady. Man, I wish I had just my shitty Gibson one time. I would rock your world with it." I smile. "There we go," he says. "And I didn't even have to bring out my Chuck Berry imitation."

  I recall the name from Aaron's music history jabberings. "How do you imitate Chuck Berry?" I ask.

  "Give me sixty seconds," he says and heads out the door. I sit on the bed and in moments hear him coming back up the stairs. He enters, stupid grin and all.

  "You done warming up?" I ask.

  "Ready to go," Ly announces, fiddling with the door handle for a second and then holding out two fists like I'm supposed to guess which one holds a quarter. "On three, Chuck Berry. One…" he says, taking up an air-guitar-playing stance.

  "Two." He opens one hand. In it is a blueberry.

  "Three." He chucks it at me.

  I facepalm after the berry bounces off my shirt. "How much real food have you been eating?" I say, trying to maintain dignity.

  "I like to feel normal," Ly says. "Cheaper than cigarettes."

  "Oh, great," I say, looking down at my shirt. "A stain."

  "It's water," he says. "I washed it because after the joke, I usually eat it." I pick the berry out of my lap and hand it to him.

  "Well, you got me wet, where many have tried and few succeeded." It's funny to watch his brain stop for a second.

  "Man, why do you talk like that?"

  "Like what?"

  "You're just… sometimes you talk about sex the way guys do. Like you're not afraid of it or what people think."

  My mind flashes to my long and storied history, and I toss it all out. Tonight is not the night I want a heart-to-heart. "It's what I do instead of therapy. Half of it, anyway. Were you going to bite me or something?"

  "Yeah," he says, brightening. "You said capillaries. Let's do the shoulder."

  "Fine." I remove my shirt. He does likewise, and I look askance.

  "Stains," he says. He fluffs out the towel and spreads it on the floor. We kneel on it together. It's hard not to look at his musculature, to smell his sweat. He attem
pts to brush my hair aside, and I hold it back.

  "One tick," I say. "I'll braid it." While I do so, I give him a nervous smile. He's looking at a lot of pale white flesh, and it doesn't take a vipe's senses to guess that he's thinking about dropping the razor entirely and just using his teeth. But he holds himself back. Then, I'm done.

  "I'm starting here," he says and presses his left hand to my shoulder. They're big hands, warm as they touch me, and grasp firmly. I swallow and move his razor blade to a spot just above my collarbone.

  He presses, and the blade sinks in. Adrenaline shoots through me, and he clamps down as I flinch. It's a tiny and clean cut, nothing like Morgan's inexpert knife slice so long ago. In a second, everything around it turns warm and wet as Ly's mouth envelops it.

  As his tongue makes contact, the pain dulls. I hadn't even known I was carrying tension in my shoulders, but they relax under his touch. His hands wrap around my arms, and I close my eyes. We've done this before, and I know his routine. After a little lapping, he'll withdraw, give me a smile and apply the towel.

  But he isn't doing that now. He strokes my wound with the tip of his tongue, slides it around in spirals and rubs it against my muscle. As he touches it, the qi flowers, sending electric tingles from my shoulder outwards. I stop wondering when he kisses my neck.

  "Ly," I say, "that's enough."

  He pulls his head back. "Feeling lightheaded?" He's smiling.

  "No, but—" I close my eyes as his tongue returns, a second injection of morphine. For a few seconds, all I can do is blink, reminding myself that this has to stop. His hands move from my arms to caress my back, and I'm relieved to notice that he isn't gripping me quite so strongly.

  Then, his fingers unhook my bra.

  "Hey," I snap. "What's that?"

  "Therapy," he says into my neck.

  My hands get between us, holding him back. "No. Not okay—mmh." His response is to stick his tongue into me again, letting delicious waves tighten up my diaphragm and keep me gasping for air. His hands slither under the bra, uprooting it as they travel forward. I let it fall away and seize his wrists. I have to push him off now, before I lose all ability to concentrate.

  "Ly, stop."

  "No, you stay nice," he says, squirming higher and spreading my arms forcefully. "I've waited too long for this." He's strong, and for all my height and virus and training, I still end up on my back as his weight shoves me down onto the towel. He bites down on my trapezius, holding me in place while my writhing hands make him struggle. His pelvis rubs against mine as he wedges himself between my legs. I can feel him against my thigh, hard and questing. Nothing between us but denim.

  That's when all pretense fades away. This isn't about blood, and it isn't about me. He's using the bite to remove resistance, just like a knife or pistol would. He wants to erase my struggling because I don't matter to him. I stop hearing his voice. I hear my mother's, my boyfriend's, my sensei's. Ly is not a friend. He is a trigger, and the gunshot goes off in my brain.

  Never.

  I shove my head against his to force him off the wound and retaliate—I clamp my legs on his torso in a jiujutsu guard and bite down on his shoulder. He shouts something—what, I don't care, but it breaks his mood with pain. He slaps me across the face, and my fist pops out. I have vipe strength but poor positioning, so all I give him is a bloody nose. For a second, we stare at each other, knowing it's a fight now. I can think clearly again. What I think is that I will punish everything he does.

  His hands go for my pants. Big mistake. My arms are free. I seize his hair and drag him back down so he doesn't have enough space to punch. He's going to want to because the nails of my other hand are tearing at his face: he twists, and I don't get the eyes, so he's just red with fury.

  Ly grabs at my throat but just gets the base. Another mistake. He's squeezing it like in the movies and expects me to get weak. His face is in mine, bristly and dangerous in the eyes, unkempt enough to look like that damn no-razor-shall-touch-his-head style that my father—

  Never.

  I weave an arm between his, leverage him off my throat and hike my legs up high as we struggle. Ly tries to stand, but I'm still grabbing his right arm. He recognizes too late that I'm trying something.

  I hold onto his wrist and cinch my legs around his upper arm. He's strong, so strong that he lifts me up until only my shoulders are on the floor, but that won't matter soon. I hyperextend his arm and straighten my body out, using my hips as a fulcrum.

  His arm goes past a hundred and eighty degrees, and there is no scream. It refuses to break. He drops me on my head against the carpeted floor, but I've fought through pain before. My feet are close to his head, so I lash him with a kick that leaves him staggering. I drag him down to the floor, and we tangle limbs up again.

  I hold on as he squirms and makes guttural noises, and then someone hammers on the door. Ferrero's shouting, and some part of me clicks the picture into place. The bastard locked it.

  "Get in here!" I yell.

  With a crack and a bang, the door flies open. I let go, scrambling for the towel to cover myself as Ferrero bursts into the room. I snatch up my bra as I get to my feet, and the teacher gets between us. He turns on Ly.

  "What the hell are you—she trusts you!"

  I keep my eyes in their direction as I fasten my bra again. Ferrero shoves Ly. It's a mistake, but my thoughts are too slow to warn him. Ly puts his head down and runs square into Ferrero, driving like a football player. I stumble to the bed and out of the pair's way. Ly has size and rage; Ferrero has neither. He goes under as the bigger man bowls him over, bloody face notwithstanding.

  That's when I stop caring if he hurt me: when he hurts my friend.

  Ly's back is to me, and they're on the floor. I cover him, my weight shoving him down onto Ferrero where he can't do much damage. I wind my feet around the psychotic vipe's left arm. He turtles up, trying to protect his limb from all threes, but that's no obstacle. I grab his far arm with my own, diving over him to peel him off Ferrero and roll us both face up. It's called the crucifix, and other than a painful collision with furniture, it works fine.

  Ly's immobilized but writhing, all blood and beard and rage. Before I think about it, I grab his head and pull it toward me. I can choke him. Talk to him. Warn him to stop.

  Never.

  The neck cranks. The neck breaks.

  I feel him go limp. Then, Ferrero is on top of both of us, punching Ly over and over out of sheer anger. I lie there, watching the punishment, calling out Ferrero's name, but the schoolteacher is having none of it, pounding meat uselessly.

  "Ferrero. Ferrero. Ferrero."

  At last he stops. "His neck," I say. "I… I got him."

  "Good," snaps the man. "And you all get out of here!" he yells at the gathering crowd in the doorway. "This is between us!" It doesn't make much sense if thought about, but thinking is the last thing any of us are doing. Jessica and Deborah back up a step, but no more.

  I pry myself out from under the blood and the hair and lay a hand on Ferrero. "It's okay," I tell him, telling myself just as much. "It's okay. It's okay."

  Jessica enters the room, taking control. "Which one of you is hurt the worst?"

  "I don't know," I say. "He was feeding on me, and it all went to shit." I finally tighten my loosened pants and get a shirt, too. Something feels wet as it slips on, though I can't say if it's my blood or his.

  "Hold still." Jessica puts a hand on my forehead, faith-healer style, and adjusts her stimweb. "Near-concussion, needs a blood meal," she announces, moving on to Ferrero. "Minor cuts, probable bruises."

  "You know what he tried to do," Ferrero says. "He's a dog, a goddamn rabid dog."

  Ulan looks over the prone body. "Fractured capsule in the arm. Fractured third cervical vertebrae. Spinal cord injury. Pulse weakening. No breathing."

  I see Deborah's hand go over her mouth. "Did she… do it?" Deborah says, a whisper.

  "He's beyond my qi functions," Ulan
says matter-of-factly. "As for artificial respiration, we'd have to do it until they got him on a ventilator."

  "So… she did?"

  "I don't know what I did," I say, trying to get my bearings. Deborah keeps staring at the gouges in his face.

  She fumbles. "Couldn't you have—I don't know—" I know what she's thinking. I am, too. I didn't know my strength. Or didn't care.

  "I tried," I say. "I hit him, I arm-barred him, everything. I'm sorry."

  "For what it's worth, I believe you," Ulan says.

  Deborah doesn't give up. "You said he's… can't we help somehow? Give him blood?"

  "There's something we could do to ease the pain," Ulan says neutrally, "but it carries with it certain baggage."

  "What?" asks Deborah.

  "His qi is still infusing his tissues for the moment," Ulan says. It takes Deborah a second before she gets it.

  "Shut up," says Deborah. "Just shut up right now. He's still one of us."

  "Infinity didn't feed," Jessica growls. "None of us has." I've never heard her voice so cold. "She's not capable of donating right now. If you'd like a minute to mourn, go ahead, but he's got eight minutes to brain-death, and then he's no more use than a dining room table."

  "You—!" Deborah yells. "You can't say things like that. You're the one who's never killed anyone!" She looks around, panicked, realizing her audience. Me, covered in blood. Ferrero, the angry victim. Ulan.

  "Infinity, tell her—" she tries. "Cass is going to be back."

  "I'm not waiting for him," Ferrero barks. "That fucker nearly killed me. He doesn't get an opinion. He'd take it all anyway. And this guy! This one, he nearly killed me just now!"

  "This isn’t about hate." Jessica insists. "He's in pain, and we can erase it. He's dead already, and us? We need to survive."

  "Infinity," Deborah pleads. "You're the leader. Aren't you?"

  I stare at her, denials all over my mind. Accident. Temporary insanity. Capital punishment. None of them will fly. I want to rant the truth. I just look slutty and get you blood. Ferrero's smarter. Jessica's got the experience, and if I hadn't enraged him—No. I'm not going to think like that. I say the first thing that comes to mind.