by J. C. Staudt
“How?”
“King Glendon’s enemies are all around us. They may not strike today, or tomorrow, or the next day. But if the ones who took him from us are still out there, they will strike. It isn’t a matter of if, but when. In the king’s absence, you are our lord. Prince Cade Cadigan, the One Who Suffers. Will you take up the command?”
“Hold on. Back the truck up. What’s all this about suffering?”
“As foretold in the prophecy of Mazriel the Fiendish, you are the One Who Suffers.”
“A fairy recently told me I was a disaster waiting to happen. Is that kind of the same thing?”
“I found him tossing a priceless ring off his thumb like a coin,” says Fremantle, returning through the sliding door sans Lorne. “This must be the One Who Suffers.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m dumb.”
“Then if suffering is what lies ahead, it is your own fault.”
“That’s usually how it works out.”
“I didn’t stand guard on the parapets of your father’s castle for a thousand years so I could watch you cause your own downfall. You are a stupid human. You should stop doing stupid things.”
“I’ll take that under advisement. Every othersider I meet either thinks I’m doomed, or is trying to cause my doom themselves.”
Ryovan purses his lips. “You were wise to have gone into hiding after your run-in with the Disciples of Velos. They’re far from the only ones who would bring about your destruction if given the chance.”
“I only went into hiding because I banished Arden’s soul by mistake. I didn’t know I was a prince until the satyrs showed up. Ersatz knew, but he was no help. And when you finally decided to make contact, you did it with a black ribbon containing a cryptic message that sounded more like a threat than a warning.”
“I apologize for that, your highness. It was Mazriel who inscribed the message on the ribbon. Her choice of wording can sometimes be ill-suited to the circumstances. We chose to contact you with a fiendish script for two reasons. First, because only a true wizard would be able to decipher such a script. Second, because we knew you’d hit a dead-end in your search for Paige Tarpley, and we wanted to help. Your use of magic that night proved you were the prince in disguise.”
“What if I hadn’t shown up? What would’ve happened to Paige?”
“We were there to make sure she was safe. As for you, we might’ve believed we had the wrong man. Thank the gods you came.”
“So the men who dropped her in the abandoned lot were Mottrov’s thralls. It makes no sense. Why’d they let her go and keep Lorne?”
“Something to ask him when he wakes up. In the meantime, I’ll show you around. Introduce you to the others.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Eleven, including you.”
“I wouldn’t count me just yet.”
Ryovan looks hurt, but he nods resolutely. “As you say. Follow me, please.”
The sliding door whisks open as Ryovan leads me and the others into the hospital. “The hospital’s front building is sealed off. We don’t use it anymore. We don’t need the space. It’s less expensive this way, and it offers the illusion that the whole building is vacant. This wing has its own separate HVAC and plumbing, a deliberate design feature to gird the original facility against outages.”
“How have you kept the place running all these years if it went bankrupt?”
“Most of us keep jobs. We pool our resources. Though we come from all walks of life, we’ve formed a community here. We may not always get along, but we always work together. Our goals are the same, and we tolerate our differences.”
Des smirks. “Oh, yeah. We’re a big happy dysfunctional orgy of tolerating each other.”
Ryovan smirks, but continues his narration as we enter a large surgical suite where the air is hazy with smoke. “This is our primary medical facility, run by the inimitable Dr. Janice Drummond.”
Lorne is lying on an examination table, eyes closed, while an IV line drips into the already-battered veins in his forearms. A tall figure in a long white lab coat hunches over a countertop, back turned, humming a lighthearted tune in a high female voice. She pulls a hand away from her face to reveal two startling things. First, she’s holding a fat Cuban cigar between her fore and middle fingers. Second, those fingers are nothing but bare bone.
The figure turns around. “This him?” she asks. Her skeletal jaw bobs up and down as she talks, an almost comical sight reminiscent of a Halloween horror show. Still more unnerving are the parts of her body beneath the skeleton. Her eyes glow green; squiggles of gray matter pulse through the hole in her nasal cavity; and a fleshy pink tongue slithers aside every time she takes a puff of her cigar.
“This is him,” says Ryovan.
“Welcome aboard, kid.” She blows a smoke ring, pokes the cigar between her teeth, and turns back to what she was doing.
“Your doctor is a zombie?”
Dr. Drummond whirls and blows a puff of smoke in my direction. “Call me a zombie one more time, kid… I swear. I’m a lich. I’ve got free will, dammit.”
“You’re a lich. As in a long-dead sorcerer who’s conquered death through magic.”
“As in a recently-deceased medical doctor who’s conquered death through dumb luck, and is doomed to swirl around in this black-hole toilet of a world for the rest of eternity.” She licks her teeth, spits a tobacco fragment off her tongue, and stokes her cigar. She doesn’t elaborate.
“Dumb luck, huh? It takes some heavy magic to beat death.”
“Wouldn’t say I beat it, kid. Every day I spend with these jokers feels more like losing.”
I move to Lorne’s bedside. “How’s he doing?”
“Those vampires used him like a soda fountain. He was so dehydrated I needed a magnifying glass to find a vein.”
“Why would they do that to him? Keep him around, I mean. Don’t vampires usually hunt a person once and leave well enough alone?”
“Rare blood type. AB-negative. Less than one percent of the population has it. Vampires go ape-shit over the stuff.”
“So he’s a delicacy. Any bite marks?”
Janice can’t affect much in the way of facial expressions, but a pause is enough to tell me it’s bad news. “One pair. On his ankle.”
The tension in the room undergoes a palpable shift.
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone didn’t play by the rules,” Janice explains. “Usually you’ll find bite marks on the neck or the wrist. Seeing them on the ankle means someone was trying to hide them. Lorne wasn’t supposed to get bitten, but somebody couldn’t help themselves.”
“Does that mean he’s a vampire?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. We won’t know until he wakes up.”
“What if he’s a thrall?”
“Then shit’s creek just earned itself a new boat enthusiast.”
“Is there any way to make him not a thrall anymore?”
“Oh sure, there’s one way. Kill his master.”
“Great. Killing vampires—that’s exactly the business I want to be in.”
“It’s not a fun business, but there’s a good chance you’re in it. Once the bond between master and thrall has been made, there’s no breaking it. Except in death.”
Chapter 19
“Isn’t there an antidote or something? Another way to break the spell?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” says Janice. “You could talk to Maz. Maybe she knows something. Doubt it, though.”
“All is not lost,” says Ryovan. “I’ll take you to Mazriel’s lab next. We’ll see what she’s got to say.”
Janice puffs her cigar. “Something vague and unpleasant, probably.”
“But I want to be here when Lorne wakes up.”
“Go see Maz,” Janice instructs. “I’ll send for you the second he opens his eyes.”
“He doesn’t know about the otherside. He probably shouldn’t wake up to an an
imated skeleton staring down at him.”
“I’ve got tricks,” Janice says. She turns toward the fluorescent ceiling light. Skin and lips and long blonde hair appear over her skull in cross section.
“Better.”
“He won’t know the difference between this and any other hospital in the city,” she assures me.
“Except for the lack of other patients,” I point out.
As if on cue, Urdal doubles over and vomits on the floor.
I suck air through my teeth. “Yeah, that’s my fault.”
“What’s his problem?” Janice asks.
“I drew off him.”
“Drew what?”
“Magic. This happens. People get sick afterwards.”
“What kind of sadistic son-of-a-bitch are you?”
“The kind who needed to save our skins from a horde of bloodthirsty vamps.”
“Baz. Wheel in another gurney, would you?” Janice asks. Smoke pours out her teeth, earholes, and eye sockets as she speaks. It reminds me of Ersatz, and I wonder if he’s worried about me. It must be late by now. Most likely he’s sleeping in a nook somewhere, belly full of roasted mouse, and doesn’t care a wink. I should call him anyway, maybe get him over here. I should get Quim here too. After what’s happened to Lorne, I’m not keen on letting my friends fall into peril on my account.
Baz and Janice help Urdal get comfortable on his gurney while Ryovan takes the rest of us to the hospital laboratory. A mild odor like the pit of a pig’s stomach hits me as I walk through the door. Crafts made of animal parts adorn the lab’s sleek modern machines, a voodoo-esque display of totemic splendor. Gourd shakers, willow hoop webs, feathered trinkets, carved masks, and charred incense burners cover the lab counters and microscopes and centrifuges of yesteryear. Half the fluorescent ceiling bulbs are burnt out, and the other half flicker in an eerie cadence.
An overweight woman in a wolf-skull headdress and beaded clothing shuffles into view from behind a tall lab machine, waving a finger at me. Her skin is a smooth apple-red, like Calyxto’s but so dark it’s almost black. Her horns are long and thick, curling around her head like an old mountain goat. “Don’t touch, don’t touch. The whispers of the machines must be silenced.”
“I didn’t touch anyth—” I begin, but she’s already pegged me.
“The One Who Suffers,” she cries. “It’s you. You you you.”
“It’s me,” I admit.
“Let me see those eyes,” she says, and yanks me by the collar so I’m nose to nose with her. Her own eyes are a vivid blue, miles-deep. Her breath stinks of low tide, and the hands gripping me are wrinkled with age but possessed of a strength. “Ah, yes. Just as I knew. You, the you. The you. The One.”
“I’m not the one. I’m definitely not the one.”
She lets me go. “So would say the One, when the One knows there is no other answer.”
It’s then I notice Githryx at the back of the lab, perched atop a tall filing cabinet. He’s soot-smudged and sweaty, eyes closed, shoulders slumped, taking slow, heavy breaths. The little guy did more than his share against the vampires. I should thank him, but letting him sleep seems like the best thanks I can offer. Thinking of Quim and Ersatz again, I take out my phone to check the time and see if I have any messages.
“No no. Not this,” says Mazriel, plucking the device from my hands. She drops it into a Pyrex beaker full of murky water.
“Oh come on. That’s my second phone this week.”
“Prince Cade, meet Mazriel,” says Ryovan with a smirk. “Our resident warlock and technophobe.”
“I thought female warlocks were called witches.”
Mazriel slaps me. “I am called by whatever name the eldritch powers demand.”
I rub the sting off my cheek. “Do the eldritch powers know how to release someone who’s been enslaved by a vampire?”
Her gaze intensifies. “The powers know what they know.”
“Um, okay. Will you ask them?”
“No need. Your wish is beyond the realm of possibility. The bond of a blood servant remains until death and the end of undeath.”
“Death and the end of undeath.”
“That is what I said. Bring me his blood, and I will seek the face of his master.”
“I’ll have Janice send a sample,” says Ryovan.
“Thank you. Thank you both.” I glance at Githryx, still sleeping on his perch.
Mazriel notices me looking and follows my gaze. She flinches as if seeing him for the first time, then grabs a handmade broom from the corner and sneaks toward the imp’s perch as though she’s about to swat a bug or scare a bird who’s found its way inside. When she gets close, she winds up and almost loses her balance, then unleashes a forceful swing. The broom misses Githryx and smacks the thin metal cabinet beneath him.
The imp startles awake with a screech. “Infernal woman,” he shouts, winking out to avoid Mazriel’s next thrust. He winks in, trailing smoke. “Leave me be.”
“Shoo, black bat,” she screams. “Shoo. Shoo. Away from here. A hex on you. Ill fortune, and the devil’s own luck.”
I turn to Des. “What’s with them?”
“They’re either best friends or worst enemies, depending on the day,” she says.
“Depending on the fumes they’ve been inhaling,” Fremantle corrects. “Lots of herbs and potions getting mixed around in here.”
“She’s the one who wrote the fiendish script on the black ribbon, right?”
Des nods. “That’s her. Fiendish as they come.”
Mazriel is chasing Githryx around the lab, tripping over the decor she’s carefully arranged to ward off the evil spirits in the machines. She chases Githryx until he lifts one of the panels in the drop ceiling and crawls out of sight. Mazriel throws down her broom, surveys the mess, and wrings her hands in irritation before bustling around the room to tidy up.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with,” says Des.
“Or avoided altogether,” I observe.
“We’d better get you cleaned up,” says Ryovan, “unless there was anything else you wanted to ask her.”
“I’ve seen enough. Give me a sleeping bag and a box of Band-Aids, and point me in the direction of the nearest vending machine. I’m a simple man with simple needs.”
“How about a hospital bed and a fully-stocked kitchen?”
“Less simple. Just as welcome.”
“Shenn,” says Ryovan, “see that the prince is given first aid, would you? Make sure he’s fed, and show him to his room.”
“First aid?” Shenn complains. “Why can’t Janice do it?”
“Janice is busy tending to Lorne and Urdal. Now do as I say.”
Shenn sighs her annoyance. “Come on.”
We break off from the group and head down the hallway. Through a wide set of doors we enter a cafeteria wherein a hundred-or-so plastic chairs encircle a dozen round tables. Beyond lies a deep industrial kitchen, stark and cold and full of stainless steel. A box of Lucky Charms on a high shelf catches my eye. I reach for it.
“Hands off,” Shenn says. “Those are mine.”
“You like Lucky Charms?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“They’re my favorite.”
She rolls her eyes. “There’s a box of shredded wheat up there.”
I grab the box and look it over. Plain old shredded wheat; not even frosted. No one likes this stuff. It’s the traffic jam of cereals. “Why does this exist?”
She shrugs. “I don’t even know who bought it.”
I grab a bowl, spoon, and some milk from the big industrial refrigerator and eat standing over the counter. It tastes like stale cardboard. Shenn grabs a first aid kit, then leans against an adjacent table and scrolls through social media on her phone while she waits for me to finish. I announce the meal’s completion with a loud belch.
“All done?” she asks. “Strip down to your undies.”
I grin.
“And keep your mouth shut abo
ut it.”
I follow instructions. Removing my clothes is painful, not only because of my injuries but because Arden’s clothes are a size too small now that I’m Cade. Shenn produces tweezers, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a packet of cotton balls.
“This is going to hurt like a bitch, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Only if you are one.”
Fifteen minutes later, an assortment of bloody glass slivers are arranged across the stainless steel table beside me. I feel like half a mummy under all the Band-Aids, but it’s a vast improvement from before. I want to stay up and wait for Lorne to come out of it, but the thought of sleep is enticing.
“You’re going to need stitches in a couple places,” Shenn says, drying her hands on the dish towel above the sink. “Janice can fix you up tomorrow. For now the butterfly bandages should hold as long as you don’t thrash around in your sleep. I’ll show you to your room.”
“Thanks for cleaning me up.”
“It’s whatever. I didn’t really have a choice.”
I frown. “What’s your deal, huh?”
“What do you mean what’s my deal?”
“I mean you didn’t have a choice in any of this. How we met. The dates we went on. It was all a ploy to find out if it was me hiding behind Arden’s identity. Everything you told me about yourself was a lie. Something to fill the silence.”
“Some of it was true. But yeah, to answer your question—I had to pretend I liked you.”
“Because your boyfriend put you up to it.”
“My boyfriend? You mean Ryovan?”
I nod.
“Ryovan’s my dad, you moron.”
I stare at her. “Oh.”
She rolls her eyes. Shakes her head.
“I guess that makes Des your mom.”
“That woman is not my mom. My mom died when I was little.”
“I’m sorry.”
Shenn looks at her feet. “It’s fine. I only remember bits and pieces of her.”
“Did your parents meet on the otherside, or this one?”
“They met here. Their story is the classic romantic tragedy. Man falls in love with elf maiden. Forbidden child comes along.” Shenn indicates herself using her best Vanna White pose. “Bad stuff happens. Blah blah blah. You know the rest.”
