Vampires of the Caribbean

by Debra Dunbar

Loki sniffs. “You’re lying. I hate people who lie to me. And two-legged parasites who lie to me as well.”

  Bristling, Dare retorts, “I prefer to think of us as symbiotes.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Loki replies. “Really, why won’t Odin send me to Earth? It’s the only interesting place, you know. The only place where things really change.”

  “Do you think it could be because you’re a raving alcoholic?” Dare suggests, containing the urge to gag at the smell of alcohol leaching from Loki’s pores.

  “Nah, that’s not it.” Drawing Sleipnir to a halt, Loki says, “We need to get off here, the World Tree branch is close by.”

  They haven’t gone ten paces when Loki stops and says, “I’m forgetting something … I know I am. You’re to go to Orlando …”

  “In Florida.” Dare winces. It’s probably sunny there, and warm places usually have snakes … and spiders.

  Spinning clumsily, Loki blinks at him. “Lovely weather in early spring, which it is there by the way. Sunshine, warm even at night, you won’t need a sweater. Think of it as a vacation.”

  “I’m a Night Elf,” Dare says flatly.

  “Vampire,” Loki says.

  “A vacation for me would be Moscow in December,” Dare mutters.

  Loki stares at him a moment, and then gives a crooked grin. “I suppose so.” He snorts, and then snaps his fingers. A spark jumps into the undergrowth and Dare stamps it out.

  Seemingly oblivious, Loki continues, “You’re to go to a place called The Cove.”

  Dare’s brow furrows, remembering his geography. “Orlando is not near water. How could there be a cove?”

  Loki shrugs and begins walking again. “You’ll go there, find the vampire violating the humans, kill or apprehend him or her, and bring them to Odin for justice.”

  Dare’s stomach constricts at that. He hopes that the Night Elf is just waylaid—that he or she accidentally tripped through a World Gate, found themselves on Earth, and fell in love. It would happen easily enough. Humans are … enchanting.

  Loki taps his chin. “There might be more than one blood sucker on Earth.”

  Dare starts. “How many Night Elves are there?”

  Loki shrugs. “Maybe more than one, but never fear, Odin has great faith in you for some reason.”

  “That’s terribly reassuring,” Dare says.

  Loki cackles, and then sighs. “I wish Odin would send me to Earth. I could kill the oversized two-legged ticks without remorse.”

  “You don’t know their motives,” Dare protests.

  Loki seems not to have heard or not to care. Still leading Sleipnir, Loki continues, “There needs to be change in Asgard … in all the realms. Change is good, you know. Without change everything is boring.” Loki almost slips on a stone. “Life is meaningless when it’s boring.”

  The tunic Dare wears is already soaked through, but he finds his skin heating. Loki lives in Asgard, and partakes of the immortality-bestowing apples of Idunn. He will never grow old or die unless he suffers an accident. Dare’s people are supposed to be immortal, just like the Light Elves, but they suffer The Curse, and he’s watched too many slip away in the last few centuries.

  “You idealize change because you don’t have to deal with the consequences,” Dare says, thinking of his people’s move from Midgard to Alfheim. It was supposed to make them stronger, more independent. “With change comes death. But you’d know nothing of that.”

  Dare sees Loki’s shoulders stiffen. For another fifteen paces, Loki says nothing, but he steps with all the subtlety of an angry dragon. Dare thanks the Norns that it’s raining, the pitter-patter of drops muffling their steps.

  Ahead he sees a break in the trees and hears someone shout, “Halt!”

  Tipping back his flask, Loki keeps walking, his steps becoming faster and more sure. The trees part and Dare sees a low stone wall with a wrought iron gate. Atop the wall, a man holds a crossbow loaded with a bolt with a glowing tip. Dare can feel its magic from across the clearing.

  Spinning to Dare, Loki snarls, “Never say I don’t understand death.”

  “One more step closer and I’ll shoot,” the man on the roof declares. Dare can see the point of his ears. He also sees the glint of fangs. The man is either angry, frightened, peckish … or all three.

  Spinning back to the fortress, Loki throws his flask into the air. The archer looses the bolt—it pierces the flask midair, and both burst into flame.

  In front of Dare, Loki’s back and neck muscles tense, and his magic rises around him as though he is a human torch. He drops the reins and Sleipnir rears backward and dashes into the trees. Loki lets loose a blood-curdling scream, his magic rises up around him, and Dare swears he sees Loki’s skin turn blue. The plume of magic rising around Loki turns into a vortex, and it blasts through the gate.

  Dare sees light, throws up his arm, hears a boom, and the next moment he is flung backward. He lands on wet earth, thankfully missing any stones. Loki is beside him. Gasping for breath, Dare sits up and sees the small fortification is rubble.

  Leaning on his elbows, Loki whispers, “They must have been storing gunpowder in there. Humans have that … it’s …”

  “I know what gunpowder is,” Dare says, springing to his feet. The fires in front of him continue to burn, despite the rain. He thrusts his hand into his satchel, and his hand clasps a very un-human object, a magic stone. Letting its power rush through him, he closes his eyes, and feels what is happening. In his mind’s eye, he sees clouds of energy clumped in groups of three split and turn into flame. It is not his magical training that informs him what is happening; it is his time in Oxford among humans. Loki’s magic is rendering water molecules asunder, and then exciting the hydrogen and oxygen, making them combust. The stone warm in his hand, Dare focuses, reaches to the molecules, imagines them bound together, calmer, and unchanging.

  Wind howls, the rain picks up, and he feels the heat of the flames lessen.

  Exhaling, he opens his eyes and finds the fire beaten back to embers by his magic and the rain. For a moment he wavers on his feet. The stone is a power reservoir—his own magic is weakening—on Earth. Nourished by Gretta’s blood, he wouldn’t have needed its power at all.

  “Impressive.”

  He looks over his shoulder. Loki is walking toward him. His skin no longer appears blue. Perhaps it was Dare’s imagination.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Dare mutters, knowing that Loki means the display of magic.

  “Liar,” says Loki.

  Dare’s eyes narrow at him. Loki is still well in his cups; no one will believe him if he repeats this story. Dare doesn’t like his magical abilities well known, especially among his own kind, but his people deserved a trial, a chance to prove their innocence.

  Clutching the stone tighter for strength, Dare sets out to the ruined wall, Loki following. From within the rubble, he can tell the fortress was just a few dozen meters in diameter. He feels for life, and finds none. Walking the circumference, he finds three smoldering corpses and feels bile rising in his throat.

  “The gate is there,” Loki says, indicating rubble that might have been a building. “I’ll let you through.”

  “You’ve done enough damage,” Dare hisses. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Loki shakes his head. “They shouldn’t have been storing gunpowder.”

  Dare has more than a passing familiarity with gunpowder. There was none here.

  “Go, Loki,” Dare says.

  “Are you sure you don’t need help?” Loki asks, producing another flask from his cloak.

  “I’m sure I don’t want your help,” Dare replies. He steps toward the gate and squeezes the stone tighter. He hardly has any energy left, in the stone, or in himself, but Loki is waiting. What damage could that man do on Earth where the inhabitants have so little defense from magic?

  Loki gives Dare a manic, sharp-toothed grin, and spreads his hands. “I’m right here if you need me.”
>
  Dare has to do this, and he has to do this now, without Loki. Taking a deep breath, turning the stone in his hands, he concentrates on pulling back the veil of space and time between Alfheim’s land of the Night Elves and Earth.

  There is rainbow light, and then white light and heat so bright he bends in pain. Unbloody Helheim, of course it would be daylight. He takes a deep breath of air that is hot and humid, sees what might be the shadows of trees, and hears someone say, “There was no scheduled arrival.”

  “Hit him!”

  And then everything goes white.

  Too sick. Can’t make it.

  Scowling at the text from Veronica, Penny wobbles on one high heel and tries to itch her calf with the other.

  Next weekend?

  Penny frowns, and tugs at the bottom of her borrowed skirt, cursing as her nails tear the hose. Her feet already hurt. Some people like getting dressed up like this? Ugh.

  Don’t go without me! Veronica writes. It could be dangerous.

  Penny blows her bangs out of her eyes. No, she’s doing this tonight. It took her forever to get her nerve up.

  Don’t worry. Get better. Penny texts back to Veronica.

  The line outside the club edges forward, and Penny moves with it. She’s surrounded by girls in skimpy outfits, and a few guys dolled up nearly as much as the girls. As far as she can tell, she’s the only person in this line alone. She looks across the street. A blinking sign advertises, “Guns! Guns! Guns! Pawn and Guns!” She swears that once you get past the spires of the theme parks, there is a pawn and gun shop on every block in Orlando. She believes in the second amendment, but it seems a bit much.

  She notices she’s had a call routed to voicemail, and clicks. It was her mom. Maybe it is the monumental nature of what she’s about to do, but Penny finds herself listening to the message.

  Come home, Penelope. You’re going to go to Hell just like your sister if you don’t. Disconnecting, Penny sighs. No, she’s going to a different hell than Chantilly.

  “IDs!” a man bellows.

  The girls in front of her giggle, and Penny ducks her head and starts rummaging in her clutch. Stupid, skimpy dress with no pockets. Someone bumps into her, and Penny pitches forward. Flailing at the air, she has sudden certainty that she’s going to belly flop. She’s had the same certainty when she’s been thrown from a horse, but it’s not sawdust beneath her or mud, it’s pavement, and her body is all wrong and ...

  Large, cool hands catch her, and she finds herself staring at a pair of men’s boots. Regaining her feet, she rights herself, looks up, and finds herself staring at a man she is sure must be a movie star that she should know, but doesn’t. He has a square jaw, a perfectly straight nose, full lips, longish golden hair that curls around his temples, and blue eyes that she’d swear are glowing in the low light. The Cove is obviously so named to feed off of the popularity of a certain pirate theme park exhibit, because he’s dressed in an open shirt and leather pants that look pirate-y, or medieval, or something. Her brow furrows as her eyes travel from his clothes back to his face. Forget movie star, she’d say he’s a Greek statue come to life.

  He smirks. “ID please?”

  Penny blinks. “Oh, right.”

  She holds up the ID. No wonder the girls were giggly. He’s just too beautiful to be a bouncer, or to even be believed.

  He looks down at her ID, and then back to Penny. “You alone?” he asks.

  What would a cool, sexy, confident party girl say right now? “Uh …”

  His eyes graze her neck. He’s way too close, and she hopes she doesn’t smell too much like horse. That would disqualify her from the cool girl club. Can you be turned away at the door for being uncool? Of course you can, and part of her hopes she is.

  His eyebrow lifts, and he gazes deep into her eyes. Has she smudged her mascara? He’s obviously judging her. Oh, wait, she was supposed to answer his question. “Uhhhhh …”

  Inclining his head toward the door, the man whose picture is probably beside the dictionary definition of “statuesque” says, “Go ahead in.”

  She blinks at him. “No cover?”

  He winks. “No.”

  Penny feels a shiver race down her spine at the same time she feels her resolve increasing. No way someone like her, with borrowed clothes and falling over in her heels, gets in without paying—something nefarious is definitely afoot. Trying not to trip again, she heads beneath the blinking neon light into the darkness and the thrum of music beyond.

  A few seconds later she enters the club proper. The music is loud, there’s a packed dance floor with booths along three sides, and a bar directly ahead. It’s dark, and there are disco balls and lights. Above the bar she sees mirrors.

  It looks normal … it was probably coincidence that this was the last place her sister was seen. Her eyes fall on the bartender. He looks a lot like the bouncer … pirate-y get-up, too good looking, and if he’s not the bouncer’s brother, he’s his cousin. Her eyes skim the crowd, and she sees a few more people like that who are obviously bouncers standing by a hallway. As she watches, a few girls try to go down it and the bouncers point them toward a restroom sign a few meters away.

  Penny takes a deep breath. The hallway with the bouncers, that’s where she has to go, obviously. She bites her lip. Had Chantilly gone down that hallway and never come back? Her nails bite into her palms.

  Looking around, she sees a woman in a black sheath dress with puffy pirate sleeves heading purposefully in her direction, a tray above her head. With long legs, a mane of thick curly hair, a flawless face, and preternatural grace, she has to be the sister of the bouncers and bartender. She’s also too gorgeous to be staring as intently as she is at Penny. Licking her lips, Penny turns away, pretending not to have noticed. Stepping out of her damn heels, she slips through the throng in her stocking feet, swaying to the music, moving from one guy to the next, trying to keep her eyes on the guarded hallway, and politely declining offers of drinks.

  It’s probably after 1 a.m. when a fight breaks out. It’s so ferocious that the music stops, and the two guys guarding the hallway step in to break it up. A throng forms a tight circle around the combatants and the bouncers, hooting and hollering. Checking over her shoulder to make sure no one is looking, Penny bolts down the hallway, shoes in hand.

  The hallway is almost pitch black, and she feels a stab of fear. What is she doing? This is a job for the police. She grits her teeth. The police were here and found nothing. If she gets caught, she’ll just say she was looking for the bathroom … and that will work great if the proprietor of The Cove is innocent like the police say.

  The music in the main area comes on again. Penny feels her way along the wall. Her fingers trip on a doorknob. Pausing, Penny peers over her shoulder and sees the backs of the guards. She could probably be as loud as an elephant and they wouldn’t hear her. The music is nearly deafening and she knows her ears are going to feel like they’re stuffed with cotton later. She tests the handle, and it gives. With one more backward glance, she slips through the surprisingly heavy door.

  The first thing she notices is that her feet are on thick, plush carpeting. The next thing she notices is the comparative quiet—the door must be soundproof. This hallway is nearly as dark as the last. There is only a faint red glow emanating from an open doorway on her left. She can just make out another door across the hall.

  From the red room she hears laughter, the clink of glasses, and sighs. The air is heavy with incense, but she can’t smell marijuana, or the burnt sugary smell of heroin—she’s never tried it, but Chantilly had—Penny’s never forgotten the smell. She creeps up to the doorway and peers in. There are couples making out on ridiculously opulent chairs and a low divan. She sees wine glasses, but no signs of open drug use. Her shoulders fall. She’d hoped there would be a drug den back here, and that she could just call the cops and there’d be a raid.

  Scanning the two dozen or so people in the room, she lets out a breath. Her eyes pause on
a girl who has ginger hair and whiter than white skin just like Chantilly and Penny. The girl tilts her neck back, and the guy next to her, who’s probably related to the bouncer outside, leans in and starts giving her what looks like the hickey to end all hickies. The girl smiles, and pushes his hair back behind an ear with her fingers. Penny’s mouth gapes. Does he have pointed ears? She backs up and wipes her eyes. Must be the smoke from the incense. She sighs. There’s no sign of Chantilly there. She has to keep searching. Turning to the other door, she tries the doorknob, but it’s locked. Biting her lower lip, she unsnaps her clutch and finds her ID.

  She hesitates for a moment.

  What is she trying to find?

  Anything. She’s trying to find anything that will help her find her sister.

  Slipping the card between the door and the frame, she feels it catch and the lock give. Moments later, she steps into the darkness beyond and immediately falls—but not far. Her hands land on something soft. For a moment she is disorientated, but then she realizes she’s on a staircase covered with the same plush carpeting as the hallway. Her eyes adjusting, Penny sees a faint light above, and crawls to the top on her hands and knees. On the landing is an open door. She peeks in and her breath catches. It’s an office … but it looks like an office from, well, she doesn’t know, a palace maybe? The dark wooden desk is heavy and enormous, with inlays of gold. The wooden chairs have velvety-looking backs and seats and look like thrones. All the rest of the furniture is similarly antique looking and the whole place is dimly lit by an enormous crystal chandelier. Only three things look remotely modern: the window to the club which Penny guesses is the “mirror” above the bar; a softly humming juice machine like the kind that you see in Mexican restaurants mixing horchata—only this one is filled with some sort of red punch; and a computer on the desk.

  Penny heads for the computer and sits down at the chair. She’s greeted by an enormous Windows XP icon, and of course she doesn’t know the password. What is she doing?

  She blinks. What are they doing? They’ve obviously got money … but they’ve got Windows XP like her granny?