"How about a ride?” Gerald asked as Michael pulled on his jacket. "It's chilly out there."
"We'll walk," Michael told him. Clumsily, he helped Susan into her coat. "Maybe it'll sober me up." He wove his warm fingers through Susan’s and gave her hand a sweet little squeeze.
"Or give you pneumonia," Joanne said. She was clearly ready to go home, but Gerald had already moved to the other end of the bar, having found another buddy to talk football with.
Susan and Michael stepped out into the crisp October night. The cicadas were like electricity, and a light breeze touched their faces and puckered their lips with the saltiness of the ocean. Nobody good traveled the single-lane road that led back to the bay this late, unless they were coming to Yeoman’s for a late meal and a drink. The walk should have been a quick one.
The men were on them before they reached the end of the parking lot.
There were two of them, and the first one was huge, not muscular, but massive bulk—meaty arms and a big swaying belly under a dirty flannel shirt that left the bottom edge of his hairy gut exposed. The other one was smaller, only as tall as Susan, but his body was as tight as a wire.
Susan recognized them right away—relatives of Owen Lee, the man she had shot in front of the church. The big one was Alton Lee and the smaller one, Charlie Franks. Both were no strangers to the local police. Susan had arrested Charlie twice in the past year for beating up his girlfriend.
Charlie dove at Susan and grabbed her around the waist with lightning speed. Savagely, he threw her to the ground. The force of the move was so surprising that she lay there a moment, drunkenly trying to catch her breath and gather her wits. Charlie then flopped on top of her, crushing the breath out of her once again. He easily pinned her arms to her chest.
Gravel rained down into the collar of the woolen pea coat—a gift from a handsome killer she often wore like some sort of morbid reminder. Inside her blouse, the pebbles tore like claws into the flesh of her back as she struggled. Then, a loud, solid THUD. She needed to get her arms unpinned and grab the revolver that was holstered against her ribs underneath her coat. Charlie’s jagged nails dug into the skin of her wrists. She would see ugly black bruises ringing her arms like mottled bracelets the next morning.
Michael fell, disappearing behind Gerald’s police SUV. Susan screamed for help, but it came out hoarse and weak, as though her throat was made of sandpaper. A dirty hand covered her mouth, crushing her lips against her teeth, drawing blood, cutting the sound abruptly before anyone heard. She only hoped that Gerald and Joanne were almost ready to leave.
She wrestled with her attacker, struggling fiercely to find Michael. Finally, Charlie moved just enough for her to pull her leg free of him. She brought her knee up hard, aiming for his groin, but missed and struck his sharp hip . The bone cracked dully; Charlie howled with pain and rolled away from her like a wounded animal. Susan’s leg went numb from the knee down, refusing to work right as she tried to stand.
"You bitch! I'll fucking kill you," Charlie yelled.
Susan managed to get on her feet, then slipped in the gravel and had to fight to get back up again. Charlie snatched at her foot with one hand, but she deftly dodged him. Then, she reached under her jacket, searching for her revolver. To her horror, it was gone. When she jerked around, Charlie Franks, grinning like a shark, waved it at her.
There was a sickening, loud snap as big Alton’s boot caught Michael in the ribs. Michael’s breath left him in a defeated groan, and he fell flat on his belly. That asshole was going to kick her husband to death if she didn’t get a move on. Michael scrambled onto his knees, fighting to get off the ground. He had almost made it when the big, square work boot drilled him in the ribs once again. Susan wanted to cry, but bit it back—she had to keep it together. She had watched someone she loved die before. She sure as hell was not going to let it happen again.
"Get away from him, you shit!"
Alton Lee was one horrible creature, with a tangled beard that reached the raveling collar of his food-stained shirt. What little of his face was visible was ruddy with exertion. Susan’s only hope was that he might drop dead of a heart attack. Of course, she could never be that lucky. Rancid body odor, beer and filth enveloped him like a fog. He stopped a moment, and his eyes fixed on Susan's.
"Whacha gonna do, babydoll?”
“What the hell do you want? Money? Take it. My wallet? Fucking take it,” Michael said.
"Don’t worry, asshole, we will.”
Alton Lee reached down and grabbed the collar of Michael's field coat. He jerked him from the ground, then punched him hard in the face, leaving a nasty gash under his left eye. Blood streamed down Michael’s face, and his head dropped back. Alton then hauled him upright, and held him out like a shield.
Charlie moved forward, slightly bent at the waist. He pressed Susan’s revolver under Michael’s chin and with his other hand, rifled through Michael’s pants pockets, taking first his keys, then his wallet. “This is for what your little bitch did to my cousin.”
Susan looked at Michael. His eyes drifted; he was out on his feet. Alton hauled him straight up until his loafers barely brushed the gravel parking lot.
"Tell you what,” he said. “Come with us, and we let him go. Otherwise, we kill him, and you still go with us. In the end, it's all gonna be the same."
Michael slowly opened his eyes. "Don't listen to him, Susan."
Then, Gerald was there.
"It's about time," she snapped at the police chief.
"You can't seem to stay out of trouble, can you?" he answered. Joanne cowered in the doorway of the restaurant where the sparse late-dinner crowd had gathered to watch the show.
Everything took on the surreal, slow-motion quality of a dream after that. A switchblade came to life in Alton’s grimy fist. In a flick of the wrist, blood appeared on Michael's neck, thick and dark, running like slow molasses. Alton bellowed laughter.
From the darkness, someone or something flew by Susan, and a flash of memory hit her like a blow to the face. Twenty years ago and a dark walk home. Like déjà vu, the big silhouette plowed into Charlie like a linebacker and sent him flying across the parking lot. The revolver sailed from his hand. Susan leapt for it, skidding on the rocky surface, and snatched it up, ready.
In a breath, the shape reappeared behind Alton, who blinked stupidly into the darkness, confused and still gripping Michael’s jacket collar. The shadow took hold of Alton’s ratty hair and yanked his head back. The blade clattered to the ground. Alton loosened his hold on Michael, but gave him a hard kick to the back, sending him reeling face first into the rocks. He tore his chin open and ripped his palms as he tried to break his fall.
Because of the darkness, Susan couldn’t see very well, but the sounds were nightmarish as the tall stranger proceeded to beat Alton to a pulp. Blood sprayed upward like black mist in the chilly darkness. He stood over the wretched heap for a moment, his wide shoulders heaving. He turned toward Susan, and for an instant, the light touched his face. Susan’s heart nearly stopped.
Devin.
As quickly as he had appeared, he vanished into the shadows of the oaks and the tall ship masts.
Before anyone could stop him, Charlie took off as well, his boots crunching the ground as he disappeared into the night.
Michael sat up, glassy-eyed. Susan ran to him as Gerald approached the battered attacker with his gun in hand and ready to fire, if necessary.
Susan kneeled in front of Michael and held him in her arms. She kissed him tenderly, still clutching her gun in a death grip. "Baby? Michael, speak to me.” She pulled back a little to get a good look at the cut on his neck. The flow of blood was already slowing, and the gash didn’t appear very deep.
Michael nodded slowly. "Yeah, I'm okay," he told her, his fingers trailing first along his jaw and then his throat. The switchblade had not been close to his jugular, thankfully. "Are you?"
"Yeah," she said, although she was not entirely sure.
<
br /> “Who the hell was that guy? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” The lie came so smoothly that Susan surprised even herself.
“He saved our lives, you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
chapter seven
Michael walked unsteadily out of the emergency room with only a few stitches below one eye and a couple of butterfly bandages closing small gashes in his chin and neck. Susan felt like crying with relief, but forced a wide, false smile and wrapped her arms around him.
The attending doctor had prescribed pain medication that made Michael loopy, and Susan laughed most of the way home, Michael’s head resting on her shoulder in the backseat of Gerald’s white police-issue Tahoe. She was stone sober now and perfectly able to drive, but Gerald and Joanne would not hear of it. Michael muttered nonstop about how terribly slow the E.R. had been and how vastly inefficiently the staff had worked; he seemed to have forgotten that he worked the E.R.himself a couple of times a week.
Gerald even offered to have an officer park outside their house, in case Charlie Franks decided to pay another visit. Of course, Alton Lee would not be doing very much visiting for a while, after the beating he had received from Devin.
Devin. Susan could not stop wondering why he had decided to reappear after all this time. Had he been watching her, as he had in Charlestowne? He had not aged a day in the last twenty years. In fact, he was exactly the same, except for his hair, which was now cut very short, and a stubble of moustache and goatee.
He was the same. Just as she was . . . almost.
Obviously, he had not come with the intention of killing her.
Susan helped Michael undress for his shower. Purring loudly, Elvis wound around and through their legs; miraculously, they managed not to fall over him. Susan found a number of ugly, black bruises darkening Michael’s back and belly. The x-ray had revealed a couple of fractured ribs, but there was little to be done for that, aside from rest. They stood under the hot water together, washing away the stink of blood. She soaped Michael’s face, then neck and chest, gently touching the bruises and cuts. Michael grinned at her, his eyes half-mast. “You know, you should soap me up all over. I’m really, really dirty.”
Susan laughed. “I know you are, but we should get some sleep.”
“Okay,” he said, agreeably. He yawned. “I’m sooo up.”
“I know, but you’ll be fine in the morning.” She kissed him on the lips, mindful of the cut there. Below their feet, the water swirled pale pink down the drain.
They toweled off and she clumsily helped Michael into a pair of shorts then got him into bed and under the covers. Next, she pulled a loose-fitting t-shirt over her head, slipped into a pair of boy-shorts and collapsed on the bed. It was only then that Susan realized the full extent of her own injuries. Nothing major, but she would be walking slowly, her muscles sore and tender, for a week. Her knee was the color of a grape, swollen and stiff, where she had struck Charlie Frank’s hip, but she was too exhausted to go back downstairs for an ice pack.
Michael suddenly whispered, “Iwas supposed to take care of you, .”
She propped herself up on one elbow and watched him a moment. He said nothing else, obviously having fallen asleep immediately after his comment, but she found the slow, soft sound of his breathing comforting. She touched his cheek with her fingertips and then planted a small kiss on his mouth, again mindful of his cut lips.
***
Susan had often wondered what had become of the man who had killed her brother. Any other man would have been mortally wounded with the gash she had given Devin. She had assumed he had disappeared into the night and died. Memories of that night had softened with time. She no longer hated the man, reasoning that it had indeed been an accident that had taken Peter. After all, he had been her protector. He would not have saved her, not once, but now twice, only to turn around and kill her.
As sleep eluded her, Susan recalled the first time she had seen Devin; it was perhaps three or four months before Peter died.
She had been walking home very late at night when she realized someone was following her.
She probably should have taken the train, but she loathed the notion of being underground.
Underground meant rapists, robbers, druggies, and rats. She had already had enough rat encounters since moving to the city. The city was teeming with them. Besides, at barely twenty years old, Susan relished the time alone, despite the uneasiness. She remembered how her grandmother had always told her that the “monsters” came out after midnight, but she was not especially concerned about monsters.
She had gone out with an exchange student from Malaysia named Mary Lei, who carried with her a vast knowledge of the occult and a fake I.D. Susan hadn’t told Peter because he would have wanted to tag along and monitor her every movement. Together, she and Mary had spent the little bit of money Susan made working evenings as an artist’s model for continuing education students on Wednesday afternoons. They had drunk cheap wine in the corner booth of a dank pizza parlor while discussing scary books. Mary, who was far more strange and interesting than any of the other girls Susan knew, spoke cryptically of how the entire city had become infested with something called k’uei, which, as it turned out, was some sort of Chinese vampire. However, after she made a drunken pass at Susan, Susan had decided it was best to leave. Susan enjoyed Mary’s company, but even with her extremely limited sexual experience, she was quite positive that she preferred men.
Because of the wine, her thoughts meandered along roads they typically would not have traveled, back to “monsters”—thank you very much, Mary. long carmoved down the avenue at coasting speed. The broken blacktop crunched beneath its bald tires. It eased past, leaving Susan with the smelly vapor of exhaust.
When she rounded the corner onto her block, she spotted the man. Stupid with wine, she wondered if he was the one who had been following her, and if so, how did he get ahead? She carried nothing she could use as an effective weapon—her canvas bag contained only her apartment keys, a sketchpad and two pencils. She reached inside the bag, wrapped her fist around the pencils and picked up her pace.
The man emerged from the piss-yellow rain of the street lamp, his steps quickening to match hers as he walked toward her. His head was down, so she wasn’t able to see his face. Fear settled in Susan’s chest, cloying inside the pit of her throat. Thoughts of Mary Lei’s vampires came again, and Susan reasoned that she was only buzzed. She scanned the leaning, decrepit houses on the block. No lights, except for the blue glow of a television set from a window here and there. Most had their drapes shut tight and doors sealed against the night.
The man finally raised his head. His hair and eyes were ink-black, but his skin was as pale as the moonlight. She shivered and considered fleeing into the shadows. Silly, she decided, became determined not to allow her fear to overtake her rational thoughts.
Now ten feet away, the man smiled. Or, was that a smile? His teeth were glinting, lips curled back like the maw of a mad dog, the shadows of the old houses falling across him and then away in thick bars. She did turn then, but as if by magic, he sprang, his fingers brushing the back of her blouse as she began to run.
Another shape flashed by, and Susan tripped on the uneven, weed-infested sidewalk as she glanced over her shoulder. She fell sprawling, tearing the skin of her palms and scraping her knees through the fabric of her jeans. A flash of a six-year old Susan hit her, falling in the schoolyard, tangled in a jump rope. Wincing, she rolled onto her hip as the larger figure hoisted her would-be attacker from the ground and hurled him out into the street. The man landed in a heap with a loud oomph, then lay motionless.
From the darkness, Susan’s savior appeared, square-shouldered and fair. He stalked the man lying in the street, his fists clenched at his sides. Susan climbed to her feet and sprinted up the sidewalk toward her flat before she could witness what happened next.
***
Sleep threatened more and more as t
he minutes passed. Susan watched the sheer white drapes billow out and fall back in the light breeze. The soothing autumn air cleared away the last of the alcohol haze, but she slipped out of bed and closed the window anyway. She then locked it and drew the drapes. For the first time since moving in with Michael, she was afraid of being in the big house. They often slept with the bedroom window open. The house was old and a bit musty. It played hell on her allergies. Nevertheless, tonight, the open window was nothing short of frightening. It seemed dangerous, as though she was inviting someone, or something, . wanted to lock herself and Michael in against the darkness. She blamed the events of the night finally catching up to her, but it didn’t change the way she felt.
Her eyes finally closed, and she eased immediately into a dream where Owen Lee, a huge chunk of his skull missing thanks to her shooting skills, scaled their outside wall like a huge, hungry fly. He headed for their window, but this time, he had pointed white teeth that glinted in the moonlight like the steel of a blade. He left a long slug’s trail of blood and brains behind him on the whitewashed wood veneer of the old house.
Susan jumped awake. “Don’t be so stupid,” she muttered into the darkness.
She thought of the growing stain of blood on Michael’s throat, imagined it changing the front of his white shirt into bright red. That image brought back the memory of Peter staring blankly at her as his blood drained away.
It was a long time before she found sleep again.
chapter eight
A week later, the sound of footsteps on the sandy road out front pulled Susan from a light, troubled sleep.
Lying awake, she stared into the gray of the bedroom, telling herself that it was nothing, just another nightmare. Next to her, Michael lay curled up and warm, sleeping soundly for what must have been the first time in days. His injuries had been rough on him—cracked ribs prevented him finding a comfortable position in bed.
Darklands: a vampire's tale Page 4
