by Kirk Zurosky
But I could not let the insult of my earlier passage through these parts go unpunished. That would be so very unvampire-like of me not to deal out just punishment when I had been wronged. What was causing that scratching anyway? Nails coming out of his cheap shoes? Peg leg? No matter, my fist in his face was all the payback I wanted for putting my hand in his love juices. A low grunting came around the corner in conjunction with the scratching. Was his pet pig there with him? No matter, little piggy would be a nice side of bacon tomorrow. Another grunt, well more a bleat—what, was the whole meadow up here on the roof watching? This guy was sick!
I could not take it any longer. Why was I tarrying in the first place? I drew my sword, slunk around the corner, and stopped dead in my tracks. There before me, peering into the peephole was Cabernet, the bartender from the Golden Rule, with one hand strumming a vigorous tune on his satyr manpipe, and the other one bracing himself as his goat feet scratched the two-step into the wood path as he grunted and bleated his way to happiness. I turned away, but it was too late as that image would be burned into my brain for at least a century or two. But the sound was the worst—a satyr’s symphony of self-love played on the most personal of organs. I tapped my foot uncomfortably. Forget finding the mad scratcher—Cabernet was the mad whacker, and as he completed his concert of one, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he gave a satisfied bleat before he realized with all due horror that he was no longer alone.
“Sinister,” he cried, reaching for his breeches. “How long have you been there?”
I turned and shook my head in disgust, resolving for my boots’ sake to stay on my side of the roof. “Way too long my old friend, way too long,” I said. “What brings you to England from Immortal Divorce Court?” I had resolved to try and have a conversation with Cabernet like what had just happened had, well, not happened.
“I have some information that Justice wanted me to hand deliver to you,” he said.
I smirked. “Uh, that can wait, because I am sure as hell not shaking hands with you right now,” I said as he flushed in embarrassment. “All right, let’s get this out in the open. I get it you’re a satyr, a notoriously randy bunch. But what were you doing at this inn, on this rooftop, getting up close and personal with yourself?”
Cabernet sighed deeply. “Sirius,” he said. “I am old and flea infested, but I am still a satyr. We are overwhelmingly bred to—”
“Sow your wild oats?”
Cabernet hung his head in shame. “Sorry,” I said. “That one was just too easy. Go on, my good man.”
“I have not had a regular partner for years and years,” he said. “Not unusual for satyrs. Despite being immortals, the longer we are on this planet, the more we look like actual goats, which I can assure you does not make us as popular with the young ladies as we were in our younger days. But we are literally still horny old goats. And so, all across the world are places like this, for us to, you know . . .”
“Make the old rooster crow?”
“Right,” Cabernet said. “That’s a new one.”
“And you are an old tavern hand—sorry, that one was accidental, but still funny all the same.”
Cabernet let out a chuckle. “It was. I have missed you, Sirius Sinister.” I gave him one last funny look. “No, not that way!” he protested.
“Were you here right before the coronation of King George?” I said. “Because if not, one of your cohorts was doing the deed and caused me to take a nice tumble off this ledge into the stable, when I put my hand and then my boot in his peephole pleasure.”
“Nope, wasn’t me,” he said. I am not sure if that made me feel better or worse. “The owner of the Three-Legged Turtle is a satyr. It must have been old Portimus up here handling business, or another of our people.”
“So who was in the tub tonight?”
“How do you know about the . . .” he started. “Oh right, you looked in the screen, didn’t you?”
“Indeed,” I said. “Three years ago, it was a dark-haired beauty with a deliciously plump, firm ass.”
“That’s funny,” he said. “Because that’s who was here tonight.”
Just as I was pondering the coincidence of that and considering the great number of dark-haired beauties with deliciously plump, firm asses I had bedded, the hair began to stand up on the back of my neck. But Cabernet was now ready to spill his guts with Justice’s news.
“About a month ago, two of the Immortal Divorce Court deputies were in the Golden Rule and had a little too much to drink,” he said eagerly. “They got into an argument, and I sidled closer to see if I needed to summon their sergeant to get them out of my tavern. That is when I heard one of them say your name.”
“What did they say about me?” I coaxed. “I know I am still a legend there, but what are they doing—still telling stories about Garlic?”
“Sirius,” Cabernet said with a shudder. “You are in danger.”
Well, of course I was in danger—that was nothing new, but oddly there was a feeling of dread gnawing at me, begging me to move. “What kind of danger?” I said. “For me that is nothing of consequence. So this had better be good. I did, after all, see parts of you that I never ever cared to see.”
Cabernet sputtered a curse. “Sirius, you are, with all due respect, an idiot,” he said. “You are being targeted by someone at the IDC. The deputies said you were finally going to get your just desserts.”
“Well that doesn’t make any sense, since I am not even married,” I replied. “That was so important you had to find me in person and tell me that? Justice is an idiot. I am so sorry, Cabernet, to waste your time.”
The feeling returned again, and I found myself staring out into the darkness, but saw only the wind moving through the trees. Why then did I feel death was all around us?
“Oh, that wasn’t the news,” Cabernet said, a bit of spittle coming from one corner of his mouth.
“It wasn’t?”
“No,” Cabernet said. “A new young lawyer just got sworn in to practice at the IDC.”
“So, big deal,” I said, “Who?”
“Martin, the son of the one you call Bloodsucker Number One.”
“I don’t see why that is important,” I said. “At least that pretty boy is trying to make something of his scrawny self instead of just being a manipulative creature like his dear old mum. Why couldn’t Justice just send a message, or come tell Hedley that himself?”
“Because Justice can’t leave the IDC for one second,” Cabernet said. “Martin is clerking for Feminera to learn the trade. Justice is trying to find out how high in the IDC this conspiracy truly goes. All his resources must be focused on finding out what this plan is all about.”
“Head Magistrate Dough is beyond honest,” I said. “Even Feminera and that fop Sir Gareth working together could not sway her.” Then I thought about when Immortal Divorce Court was under siege by Hades, and the Head Magistrate had acted in her own self-interest. But that was under extreme circumstances. Surely she would not bow down to the forces of evil? Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of dread washed over me. “We have to get off this rooftop, Cabernet.”
“But, why?” he said. “It is quiet, and no one can see us talking. This place is perfect for telling you what Justice wants you to know.”
“It is going to be a perfect place to die if we don’t get moving,” I said, scanning the night for the danger I felt. A rooster crowed eerily, but dawn was hours away. It was no rooster! “Get down,” I screamed, diving for Cabernet as I heard incoming death speeding toward us. I was a second too late. The arrow grazed his open hand, opening a red welt that quickly turned black as a familiar noxious odor assaulted my nostrils. Kunchen!
“It’s that blasted basilisk poison, isn’t it?” Cabernet said, so calm and matter of fact in the face of impending doom as he stared at the welt on his hand. He slumped against the wall, and I st
ared into the darkness for more arrows that never came. The rooster crowed again, this time far away and faint. Kunchen had disappeared into the night. “Well, I had better talk fast because my time here with you is short,” Cabernet said, coughing loudly.
Tears came to my eyes, but I couldn’t argue with him. “Go on,” I said, racking my brain to try to come up with a way to save him, but I knew of none.
“Justice thinks it is not Feminera that is the threat,” Cabernet gasped. “It is Martin.”
“Martin?” I scoffed. “That namby-pamby is no threat to me.”
“Maybe so,” Cabernet said. “But his father happens to be Gulth Scorn—who most definitely is . . . and with that, I must go now.”
A cold chill came over me as Cabernet’s head fell back, and his eyes closed. “No, Cabernet,” I cried out, putting my head to his chest. “Don’t go. You have much left to do.”
I could hear a faint beating of his heart as it fought the blackness that threatened to extinguish its life. Cabernet was still alive! A hidden door flew open, bathing Cabernet and me in a warm welcoming light. Waddling out onto the platform, his goat hooves clattering loudly on the platform, old Portimus the satyr looked with great horror at the scene in front of him. His nostrils flared wide as the scent of the basilisk poison caused him to let out a terrified bleat. “Bring him, Sinister,” Portimus said. “We still have a chance to save him before the poison gets to his heart!”
I scooped up Cabernet, who indeed felt old and frail in my grasp, and rushed into Portimus’s chamber. The pudgy satyr kicked the door shut behind him, then rummaged frantically in a large chest of drawers. Quickly, he found two items that met his approval, but began cursing as a third eluded his eye. “It is just going to have to do,” he announced. “Put Cabernet down on that table there and tie this rope around his arm, and pray we are not already too late.”
I cinched the rope tight around his arm, hoping I was stopping at least some of the poison from traveling to his heart and dealing Cabernet instant death. Portimus pulled out a small brazier and lit a fire underneath it. “Heart of the weasel,” he said, holding out a bit of crimson-colored flesh, which he dropped into a pot that he set upon the brazier. “Brain of the cockatrice,” he said, mashing a gray spongy-looking ball into the weasel heart. He took another vial and dumped its bright red contents into the pot. I sniffed the air—blood, but from what? Cabernet was shaking uncontrollably, fighting the cold hand of death squeezing the life from his body. “Hold him down,” Portimus yelled, and instantly I was on Cabernet, pushing his arm down. Portimus slathered the mixture of blood, brain, and heart on the wound on Cabernet’s hand and then poured the rest down his throat. Cabernet gulped, coughed, and then unconsciously swallowed. He slowly stopped shaking and lay still. I put a hand to his neck, and thought I could feel a faint heartbeat, but I wasn’t sure.
“Is he gone?” I asked Portimus, who stood with his hands stained garnet with the mixture he had just administered to Cabernet.
Portimus shook his head. “He is more dead than alive to tell you the truth,” he said. “I did not have the final ingredient to save him. I don’t know if I ever will, either.”
“What is it?” I pleaded. “What do you need to save him?”
“The blood of a Sacrificial Lamb,” he said.
“That’s easy,” I said. “Surely, you have a sheep out there in the yard. I will be right back.” As I began to stand up, Portimus grabbed my arm.
“No, Sinister,” Portimus said. “Not that kind of lamb. We need the blood of a person who has given their life without a moment’s hesitation to save one they love. So rare to find one so selfless in this selfish world.”
I nodded, considering what Portimus had said. “I fear Cabernet will lie like this for eternity,” I said, putting a hand on Cabernet’s arm. “What blood did you give him?”
“Oh,” Portimus said. “The blood from the bravest hunting hound I ever had. She expired just yesterday, and I took some of her blood to remember her by.”
“How very vampire of you,” I quipped. “But you knew Cabernet was coming this way, right?”
Portimus nodded. “I did,” he said. “We are old friends, and he asked about the cure for basilisk poison in a letter to me before his arrival. On a hunch, I kept my sweet pooch’s blood, but I never thought I would have to use it to try and save poor old Cabernet!”
“I think he knew of the danger he faced in coming to find me,” I said. “Chance caused us to cross paths, but fate and an assassin’s arrow seem to have conspired to end his life.”
“A cruel coincidence indeed,” Portimus said. “But you know the assassin, don’t you?”
“Aye,” I said. “It is not the first time, nor the last time that we shall meet.” I thought for a moment. “He is an expert shot, but that being said, I am not easy to take out. I heard the arrow coming in, and could not keep Cabernet from being the target this night.”
“Why would he want this old goat dead?” Portimus asked.
“He wanted to keep Cabernet from telling me information that he did not want me to know, I guess,” I replied. “But he was too late.”
“Was he?” said Portimus. “It seems you would have gotten that information at some point. And not to pry into your business, and you have no real reason to trust me, but is what he said that crucial to your cause?”
I looked him dead in the eye, trying for a moment to assess if this old, gruff satyr could indeed be trusted. He had tried to save Cabernet, so I doubted he was in league with Kunchen and Scorn. The truth of the matter was that I just did not know, but my instinct said Portimus was no threat to me. “I guess it could be,” I replied. I did not really know that either. So, Martin was the horrid, hair-flipping result of an ungodly union between Scorn and Bloodsucker Number One, and he was now, of all things, a lawyer. It is not like he had a choice in who his parents were. “I think my old enemy is trying to get into my head,” I mused.
“I don’t think so,” Portimus said. “You are too practiced a warrior for that. I think he intends to get into your heart by hurting those close to you.”
It was nothing I had not thought of many, many times before. In actuality, it was nothing I had not thought of on a daily basis since the birth of my werepires long ago. It was a strategy as old as war—take the head of those close to your enemy and soon you will have your enemy’s head. “Possibly.” I breathed through clenched teeth. “But it is so hard to predict crazy.”
“So what are you going to do?” Portimus said. “Take the heart of those close to Cabernet’s assassin?”
“That would seem to be a logical plan to follow,” I said. “But I can’t do that.”
Portimus nodded, looking almost relieved. “You are an honorable man, Sirius Sinister,” he said. “I understand your wish to live and fight your battles in the right ways. You are most admirable to feel that way.”
“Oh, it is not that,” I said, pulling a dagger from my belt. “I would drive this blade into the heart of his newborn child if it would save the world from this madness.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Portimus said, calling my bluff. “You are not that man any longer, if you ever were at all. What did you really mean when you said you can’t take the heart of those close to the assassin?”
“Well,” I said, sheathing my dagger. “I can’t take her heart because she already gave it to me.” I wondered if dear Sonam was still at the Temple of Dorje. Maybe by now she had found her chosen one and peace.
“Well, that would certainly make for an unhappy assassin,” Portimus agreed. “Especially a crazy one to boot.”
“And for that, Kunchen, the assassin, hates me for all eternity. And now that he has teamed up with the old Head Magistrate Gulth Scorn, it looks like that might actually be a distinct possibility.”
At the mention of Scorn, Portimus’s cherry-red face turned a dusky rose. “Yo
ur assassin is in league with Gulth Scorn?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Portimus,” I said. “You don’t look so good. What is Gulth Scorn to you? You work for him too?”
Portimus bleated a great snort of derision. “More like been worked over by him,” he said. “It has been four hundred years, and yet my ex-wife still gets half of the proceeds of my inn’s rents. I would say damn that Gulth Scorn, but he has already been quite damned. All the same, I can’t even afford a serving wench with proper-looking teeth.”
“Well, her tits are fantastic.”
“Yes, they are, aren’t they!” Portimus agreed.
“And before I heard this poor old goat having a pull, I was seriously considering bedding her.”
“Were you?” Portimus said. “That’s awfully nice of you, thank you for that. I hear she is quite good at polishing the ole knob. I wouldn’t know of course, doesn’t pay to crap where one eats you know.”
We had a good laugh, which broke the tension. But I was not done with old Portimus just yet. “Let me ask you this, Portimus, how did you know of the cure?”
“I am an old satyr,” Portimus said. “We know many ancient secrets that are hidden from the rest of humanity for their utter disrespect for nature. Satyrs serve at the pleasure of Nature herself.”
“Yes, you are all about the pleasuring,” I said. “And I have known Nature in ways your horny little head could only dream of. No, tell me the truth, Portimus. This is not your first run-in with basilisk poison, is it?”
“It is not,” he admitted. “I saw what happened to Gulth Scorn.”
“You were one of the soldiers on the beach when Hedley Edrick, Malakar, Justice, and Scorn went after that basilisk in Greece, weren’t you?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, and I wish I could forget it, let me tell you,” Portimus said. “We were down on the beach and heard a scream of incredible anguish. We rushed back to the cave where we saw what used to be Gulth Scorn doused in basilisk venom and blood. He was literally melting away before our eyes. Malakar and Hedley worked as fast as they could, but just like now, they lacked the blood of the Sacrificial Lamb. And I could see Gulth Scorn’s eyes going from person to person, wondering if they would give their life to save his.”
