by D. R. Perry
I don’t bother healing the bullet holes riddling the parts of my flesh uncovered by Kevlar. Yeah, I vest up ever since Kayleigh came at us in Esther’s apartment. Being shot stings. I also don’t want to know what happens when too many unhealed holes add up in my midsection. But I need my speed now more than unblemished flesh. Priorities suck, but blood is a limited resource for vampires.
Dodging into the bullets instead of away from them gives me perspective. Not about life, about the direction they’re coming from. And it’s above, farther up the stairwell. So, I shoo my trio of friends as far off to the side as I can. Outside would be better, but the exit is right in the line of fire, and a skinny guinea like me isn’t enough cover for a horse-sized lady and a wolfed-out teenager.
Anyway, I see the shooter now that I’m standing in the stairwell’s box. They’re wearing a hoodie with a ski mask on underneath. It’s eerily similar to the night Kayleigh shot my dad. Yeah, she did that. Thought he was me. It’s nothing personal, she was doing it to pay her fiance’s medical bills, and we fixed that. At least, I thought. Is this attacker another hunter?
I take a breath in through my nose and know right away this isn’t my ex-girlfriend. It’s a dude, though too slight in build to be her father. Hunting is a family business. The tinny odor of antiseptic and tang of saline remind me of the ICU room. I blink, drawing a conclusion that makes little sense.
Could this be Calvin? He's also a hunter, which gives him reason to shoot at shifters and a vamp like me. I know he was just in a coma. But then again, maybe Esther’s alchemy is extra powerful. The urn Sparky stole seems to imply that, anyway. But is it enough to return a coma patient back to fighting trim in thirty minutes? If so, Domino’s alchemy more than delivers.
“Parlay!” At least that’s what I try to yell.
But no sound comes out of my mouth. I feel my throat vibrating with the words, though. And that’s when I realize the gunshots are making no sound, either. Nothing is, or has been since I came back. It’s silent as a Chaplin flick in here. And of course. I realize this can't be Calvin Kelley even if he's all better in a medical sense. He's been in a coma for so long he'd have no idea Scott or Doctor Maris are anything but human. The same goes for my vampirism.
At this point, the guy's identity isn't important. A pause in the gunfire means he’s reloading. I dash up, clearly faster than he expects judging by the scent of adrenaline. I’m almost to him when I realize he’s stopped moving. His eyes dart to a spot just above the second-to-last step. And it’s definitely a doozie I’m too late to save myself from. Speed has its downsides.
The wire trips me and I go down, arms pinwheeling. One of them knocks over what looks like a gray mushroom with blinking blue lights studding the top, and sound returns.
“Shitballs!”
Scott’s howl rings out in counterpoint with my exclamation. He’s dashed up the stairs behind me, leaping into action and tackling the shooter. Kid should play Lacrosse or something. Nah. Too cliché.
I hear the metallic snick of a blade being drawn. It glints silver under the fluorescent lights. Even with my speed boost, there’s no way to get in between Scott and the masked man. My only weapon is my voice.
“Stop!” I struggle to my feet, stepping over the wire that tripped me up earlier.
The manic laugh from under the mask doesn’t match my recollection of the recently comatose man’s cracked voice, though it is raspy. Because I was right. It’s not Kayleigh’s fiance. This is someone who's plagued me for years, judging by all my urns in the Vault. Carmine, the Lethian.
“Die, son of a bitch!” Carmine jabs his knife, missing Scott’s midsection by millimeters.
“My dad’s the werewolf, dumbass!”
I laugh at Scott’s exasperated battle-cry. I kick at Carmine’s knife hand, but it’s not where I expect it to be. Instead, he’s flipped the blade, and it’s coming straight for my side.
At first, I wonder what the mafioso hopes to accomplish with that move. But when I hear the crunch of shattering pottery and feel a gush of water, I understand. He’s destroying Zack’s memory urn. How did he know it was there? Oh, right.
“Scott! Get out! Carmine’s a Lethian!”
As I shout, my hands dart into my torn opera cloak, where the remnants of the urn clatter in the left pocket. A shard slices my finger, and because I’m only a new vampire, I put it in my mouth. Along with the water. Which turns out to be a good thing, actually.
In the blink of an eye, Zack’s full memory comes back to me. The detail’s more vivid than my blood visions and without all the ash-puking side-effects. I could get used to recalling like this. I smell things, hear conversations the frieze on the pottery couldn't convey. So I try to focus, needing to remember this so I can tell it all to Zack. And I start to think maybe I will. The vision's just that evocative. But there’s a price for even such a brief moment of clarity. Always is.
Bone shatters, ash erupting from the new wound in my shoulder. A machete’s lodged there, socked into the heart of my rotator cuff by Carmine. I blink, not surprised over the fact that he attacked me but at how. I bare my fangs and hiss only partly out of hunger. Mostly, I’m vamping out to cover for the side-eye I’m throwing at the mafioso.
He’s not using his weird Lethian smoky powers to whammy my memories. My vampirism can't be preventing him because I’m pretty sure he’s been there and done that after I got turned as well as before. No. It’s got to be something about the water from the urn. If only I could figure out why and how to use it against him.
I’d better think faster, because Carmine’s finally back to reloading his guns with silver bullets. Scott managed to dodge the memory-sucking attack I sensed before but smacked into the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He’s currently gasping for air right in the Lethian’s line of fire.
Hunger decides for me. I’ve got no idea whether Carmine bleeds like a human while pretending to be one, but he’s got a pulse, for sure. I leap at him, fangs out. The machete’s hilt knocks into the elbow of his firing arm, making him drop the gun with a wince that has too much grin in it.
My shoulder's wrecked, but I don't care. The only thing that matters now is that pulse, its beat driving me forward without hesitation. Pushing his head to one side with my still functional arm is easy with Carmine up against a wall. Too easy.
“Keep your fangs off him!” Doctor Maris’s footsteps are bipedal now.
“Huh?” At this point, I’m as close to salivating as a vamp can get. burning that much blood on our powers makes us hungry. I’m close enough to a rage that my give a damn's selective. Still, I hope somebody stops me because I know that what comes next ain’t pretty.
Scott snarls, pushing off from the wall. He knocks me away from Carmine, holding me back. I’m reminded of the showdown with Kayleigh in Esther’s apartment again. I bit Scott that night and then promised I’d never do it again. Famous last words, right?
Carmine pulls off his ski mask and pushes through the stairwell door, escaping without a scratch on him. And he’ll get away without any issue, too. If anyone sees him, he’ll make sure they forget about it unless he needs an alibi.
But I’ve got no time to worry about that. The machete falls from my healing shoulder, clattering to the floor. An alarm sounds from somewhere in the hallway outside the door. Carmine pulled the fire alarm. Because of course, he did.
So what happens when a centaur, a werewolf, and a hungry vampire get caught by security with illegal weapons in a stairwell?
Fortunately, something hits me on the head, and I never find out.
Everything’s dark. At first, I think I’m dreaming. Having a nightmare, actually, because of the smell. It’s that rank and salty aroma from under Providence. That’s right, folks. My nostrils are getting the Deep Ones treatment for the second time in as many weeks. Because that’s just my luck.
Sure, I didn’t want Carmine the Lethian wiping my mind or for security to catch me vamped out in a hospital stairwe
ll, but this is worse. I already beat the Deep Ones. Well, my friends did, anyway. And besides, there’s a truce now. Raven negotiated it so the agreement’s airtight and in our favor.
I try to open my mouth, protest this treatment. But there’s something in it that tastes like old socks. Eww.
Wait a minute. Zack was gagged in the frieze on his urn. Which shattered in my pocket. Right. So it’s not me with Deep Ones. I’m finally able to experience what Zack Milano did in his missing memory. I open my eyes.
Sure enough, there’s a trio of froggy-looking, slime-scaled, big-eyed bastards. Literally bastardly, too. They mate with humans and definitely don’t marry them before or after. But that’s another story.
Poking into my back is what feels like the barrel of a gun. A small one, but it’s at close range against my spine. No, not my spine. Zack’s. This is his memory and his body. And since the urn’s broken, this is the only chance I’ve got to investigate the mystery he hired me to solve.
If only I remember this whole thing once I’m back to experiencing my own unlife. I can't take notes here, so this whole experience might be useless. Like me.
There’s no time for self-deprecation. Glancing to my right, I see Carmine. He’s got no smoky tendrils around him like I remember from the frieze. But that makes sense now. The pottery art was only trying to tell me his true nature, not failing to illustrate a cigarette. Unless he wipes it from my mind, I’ll probably never forget he’s a memory-stealing Lethian.
Anyway, I know for sure now that it’s Mrs. Kent holding the gun on Zack. She’s also got hold of one of his arms, her grip cold and steely like the vise in my dad’s basement workshop. Some feeling emanating from her hand radiates sluggishness, like when you open the door on a day when the wind chill’s tens of degrees below freezing. I guess she's got some kind of paralyzing power.
The Deep One’s voice echos like water dripping in a vast underground cavern, even though we’re in a small concrete tunnel.
“Where’s the human behind this agreement?”
I blink, unsure whether the flutter of shock I feel in Zack’s chest comes from him or me. But of course, it’s his. I already know Francesca Caprice is the villain of this piece. The fact that Zack doesn’t realize this, even with her henchman standing right there, speaks volumes. He might be a magician, but my old rival seems woefully uninformed about criminals in the mortal community.
“I’m here as her representative.” Carmine inclines his head toward a large shadow across from us, behind the two Deep Ones. “Release your captive.”
“Not to you.”
“Fair enough.” Carmine’s chuckle echoes with a rasp like flint on steel. “Give the yeti to the vampire. This agreement’s with her coven, too. I’ll handle your magical celebrity guest.”
“Wipe him.” Mrs. Kent shoves the barrel of the gun harder against Zack’s back as she speaks. “Before I lose my grip on him. This one’s particularly dangerous even if he doesn't know it yet.”
“I’ve eaten magicians for breakfast since before you were born, Kent.” Smoke blooms from Carmine’s fingertips.
“Not like this one.”
He ignores her warning, generating more smoke. It lengthens into thready tendrils that reach toward Zack. Four stream out to circle his ankles and wrists while a fifth and sixth curl and unfurl toward his head. Mrs. Kent drops his arm.
I feel Zack make one last desperate attempt at escape, struggling to spit out the disgusting rags he’s gagged with. And he does it, but winds himself in the process. Sucking down an enormous breath, I feel his diaphragm engage like he’s about to sing Ave Maria or something. Which is close to the truth because Mrs. Kent's words jogged his memory. He knows his voice has literal power now, even if he's unsure how to use it.
A hot rush of hope floods through Zack, or maybe it’s magic. I wouldn’t know how casting spells feels after all. But it outstrips the sensation of burning blood. Whatever it is, that rush is powerful, more so than any ability I ever engaged in my short unlife.
And for a minute, I think he’s going to do it. Despite the fact of the urn's existence proving otherwise. I'm convinced Zack’s going to get away.
Except Carmine’s way too experienced and too well prepared. Zack never stands a chance.
That fifth smoky tendril closes around his neck, cutting off Zack’s impending utterance before it can meet his voice-box. His gaze cuts to one side where he sees Sasquatch getting the same treatment. Carmine smiles, his teeth as stark and hungry as a shark's. And then the last smoky tendril wreaths his temple, and Zack’s caught out of time and mind.
“Is he gonna bite us when he wakes up?”
I try to answer, but nothing on my face moves, not even my eyelids. It’s like my body’s under a ton of cement or lead blankets. Maybe both.
“Dammit, kid.” Doctor Maris snorts. “I’m a centaur, not a vampire. Use your brain. What do you think transfusions are for?”
“Putting blood back in.”
“So, what’s your hang-up?”
“I dunno. It’s just that I’ve seen him have, uh, a bad reaction to blood.”
“You’re trying to tell me this vamp has an allergy to blood?”
“Not all blood.” The dry sound of Scott Fitzpatrick scratching the patch of hair behind his hair is unmistakable. "Just some of it. But I don't know why or what kind."
Doctor Maris snorts. I want to get up, pull out the IV. At least I don’t feel hungry now. But I’m still like a lead brick for whatever reason, drowning slowly. Yeah, that’s melodramatic, but I need to write down the info I can still recall from Zack’s memory, or his case might go unsolved. I can’t afford that, and neither can he. My struggles against whatever’s wrong with my body reaches a crescendo I can’t maintain. Luckily, I don’t have to.
“He can hear you, doc.” The salamander kid to the rescue.
“Hmm.” I feel icy fingers press against my lips. Cold hands, warm heart. What could the centaur possibly be feeling for? “Well, he’s not out of the woods yet. But he’ll recover. I can let him up now.”
Something tugs against my pinkie finger, like when you realize there’s a hair stuck in your glove after you already started shoveling snow. I feel a tingle, then a snap. Whatever has a grip on me releases, and I sit up slowly with a wobble, like Frankenstein’s monster rising from his slab for the first time.
“Paper. Pen. Now.” My voice is creaky, but the words come out okay. Sparky picks my pocket and hands over the goods. I jot down everything I can remember from the vision. Unfortunately, that’s only something about Deep Ones, which I already knew. I hang my head.
“What’s wrong?” Concern pulls Scott’s eyebrows down.
“Strike one.” Swinging my legs over the side of the stretcher is easier than I expected. When I stand, it’s like the weight of the world’s bobbing behind me like a lead balloon. “But there’s no time to worry about that.”
It’s the bottom of the ninth, and I’ve got one more swing before this vampire debt-reduction game is over. My interview with the social worker is tomorrow, and I haven’t done a single thing to spruce up Pickering House.
As I walk toward the door of what turns out to be a hospital room, something crashes behind me. The aroma of blood meets my nose. When I turn to see what happened, something tugs and itches at the crook of my elbow.
“Sorry, Doctor Maris.” I sigh over the exploded bag of donor blood, my eyelids unexpectedly prickly with a fifty percent chance of tears. “Sorry.”
“Don’t go Canadian on me, Crispo.” She reaches out and pulls the tape and needle from my arm, which stings just enough to snap me out of all the fatalism. “And don’t cry over spilled blood. Just get out of my hospital and fix all this.”
“I can’t. Urn’s broken.”
“So what? So’s your brain. Doesn’t stop you from sticking your nose in where it wasn't invited. You always find a way. Now get out there and mind everyone else’s business. You already had enough to drink. Go know
things. Even if you forget them later.” One of her feet clomps against the linoleum. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Um, okay.”
I head out, Sparky and Scott following along. Because I get the idea that arguing with a centaur doctor might be hazardous to my health.
Chapter Sixteen
After dropping Sparky at a park where he can call Baba Yaga, I head to The Belfry and pick up the outfit I’m wearing for the home visit. That’s because I’m spending the day at Pickering House. When I arrive, Scott’s already there, unloading some garden equipment to spruce things up on the outside of the house. His dad’s beat-up blue pick-up is parked at the curb. I back into the driveway and get out, slinging my bag over my shoulder as I close the door and lock it behind me.
I put my hands on my hips and sigh. There’s nowhere I can possibly park my car without the social worker seeing it later. Even though all of Sasquatch’s hair has been removed from the bumper, clearly, it’s been in an accident. Unreported, too.
“What’s wrong, Valentino?” Stephanie steps out of the shadows beside the garage.
“Everything.” Usually, I’m not this candid with her, but my inside voice is just as busted as my give-a-damn.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She strides toward me, looking more like a coyote pacing toward a wounded rabbit than a concerned parental figure. But that's Stephanie for you. Matronly isn’t a word that’ll ever apply to her. “How can I help?”
“I dunno. Turn a good mechanic? Or stick me in the ground for fifty years.”
“Tino.” She shakes her head. “Surely, you’ll think of something.”
“That’s the problem, though.” I tap my temple like my finger’s the barrel of a gun, and wonder whether that’d kill a vampire. Now’s not the time to ask, and I’d probably forget anyway. “My thinker’s not working right, and after tonight, I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about it.”
