by J. C. Staudt
I channel a fire spell, but Mottrov senses my movement and shoves my wrists to the floor as flame spews from my open palms, trailing across the hardwood and climbing the wall. His headbutt feels like a battering ram to the skull. I crack my head on the hardwood floor and feel consciousness slipping away from me.
The last thing I see before my sight goes dark is Mottrov tearing off my right shoe and sinking his teeth into my ankle.
Chapter 28
I jolt awake.
I’m in my own bed, sheets soaking wet. Thank god. It was all a dream. A very bad dream.
There’s a thick, yeasty smell in the air. Maybe I drank too much. I wonder when the dream started. Before I met the Guardians of the Veil? Before vampires attacked the Green Mercury concert at Megatavern? Before I sealed Paige Tarpley into my guest suite with a magic ward? I must’ve dreamt all of that. Which means Paige Tarpley doesn’t exist.
I sit up and look around. The room is trashed; drawers pulled out, clothes everywhere. The solid red security light glows on the gun safe in my closet. My foot throbs. I tear off the covers and find I’m wearing the clothes I had on yesterday, along with all three empty gun holsters.
Down by my feet, the sheets are stained red. I lift my pant leg. Congealed blood fills two large holes beside the bone of my ankle, a trickle of dried crimson crusting between them. And that yeasty smell; it’s in my clothes. Beer. Beer and sweat and smoke from the bowling alley.
It was no dream. It all happened. In fact, I can’t remember dreaming at all last night.
I limp into the living room. It’s wrecked, the way I left it after finding Paige in my office. The door to the guest bedroom is closed, and it won’t budge when I try to open it. I speak the password to dispel the seal. There she is, lying in peaceful slumber, just like I left her.
Someone knocks on the apartment door.
I hurry to the safe and type in the code to unlock it.
Another knock. A regular knock, not like Calyxto’s pounding boom.
All my handguns are gone except the one in the vent duct, so I slap a mag into my AR-15 and sneak to the door. I grab the knob and prop the barrel of the gun against the wood, holding the stock under my arm. When I squint through the peephole and see who it is, I exhale and pull the door open.
“There you are,” says Ersatz, standing on Quim’s shoulder.
“Here I am?” I shout. “There you are.”
“Quiet down. Stand aside.”
I do, and we sit down at the kitchen island.
“Where on Earth have you been?” Ersatz wants to know.
“You don’t get to ask me that. I came home last night. You weren’t here.”
“I tried calling you.”
“Yeah, a fiendish warlock threw my phone into a beaker of gray water.”
“Quim told me. I wasn’t here because a mob of thralls stormed the apartment and tore the place apart.”
“I was wondering how Paige could’ve done all this damage herself.”
“She was very much accompanied. A fight broke out amongst the thralls; something about the will of the coven. This difference of opinion resulted in half the mob leaving and the other half engaging in fisticuffs. I cast a spell, attempting to break the already weakened link between the thralls and their masters. I don’t know how well it worked. They noticed me and chased me out. I fled to the only safe place I knew.”
“Quim’s.”
“I thought if anyone knew where you were, it would be Quim. We came here looking for you, but you’d already come and gone. Paige was locked in the guest room. We saw your search history and followed you to Gutter Sharks, only to find we’d missed you yet again.”
“Yeah, not having a phone sucks.”
“You ought to remedy that.”
“I’ve been busy. I’m sure Quim’s told you about the Guardians.”
“He told me you’ve been acting like an utter nincompoop.”
“Really. You’re sure that was the word he used?”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
“Well, he’s right. But I’m not going to be acting like anything for much longer. Mottrov bit me last night.” I show off my ankle.
Quim slaps a hand over his mouth and turns away retching.
“You should never have gone to the bowling alley by yourself.”
“This didn’t happen at the bowling alley. It happened at Carmine’s apartment. Mottrov must’ve had some of his thralls bring me home.” I glance at the clock on the microwave. “How is it four-fifteen already?”
“You must’ve slept for quite a while.”
“No thanks to Calyxto and his selectiveness in saving my ass. Have either of you heard from him?”
They exchange glances.
“Not from him, exactly,” says Quim.
“He’s been imprisoned,” says Ersatz. “An envoy from Gryphon Enterprises came to deliver a message shortly before the thralls arrived.”
“Gryphon Enterprises. That’s the big media conglomerate owned by the fae.”
“And headed by the Fae Council. Seems Calyxto has run afoul of them by violating the terms of a sacred pact he made with one Sildret Wilder. He was to keep his distance from a particular human girl by the name of Helayne Grigsby. He didn’t.”
“He couldn’t resist,” I say, shaking my head. “Why did they come here?”
“As a courtesy, the Fae Council has sent word to everyone possessing Calyxto’s mark that while he is their captive, he no longer holds sway over them.”
“I’m pretty sure Calyxto’s mark is irrelevant now that I’m Mottrov’s slave. The gala is in less than three hours. If I don’t find a way to kill Mottrov, the soul of a dead vampire is going to reincarnate inside my body and shed my skin like a fucking candy wrapper.”
Quim blinks. “Say what?”
“Mottrov is plotting to kill the leaders of the Ascended using the grimoire to unleash a pack of revenants at the fundraiser tonight. He’s taken some of the most powerful families in New Detroit as thralls so his ancient vampires can wake up and assume lives of affluence from the get-go.”
“Mottrov has been targeting you and Lorne and Carmine from the beginning?”
“Lucky us, right? The Guardians haven’t been following me around just to keep tabs on me. They’ve been doing it to protect me. They’re the only reason I didn’t get bitten before Lorne and Carmine did.”
“I bet you feel terrible about the things you said to them.”
“Let’s not pile on, Quim,” says Ersatz.
I look at my dragon, stunned. “Wow. Thanks, Ersatz. That’s nice of you to say.”
“Don’t thank me. I think you’re an idiot.”
“I’m an idiot with a vampire caterpillar growing inside me, waiting to spread its wings and bust out of its cocoon. The gala tonight is my only chance for another shot at Mottrov before the transfiguration takes place.”
Ersatz raises an eyebrow. “We’ve established your utter ineffectiveness against a single vampire lord while in your right mind, and yet you’ve decided to confront dozens of them while under mental domination. Sounds like the logical thing to do.”
“Ersatz is right,” says Quim. “You’ll never have a chance to get close to him while he’s mind-controlling you. We need to call in the Guardians.”
“Good idea, except I don’t have the number for the Bat Phone.”
“I do. You called me from Ryovan’s cell, remember?”
“Holy shit. Call him up.”
Quim dials. When Ryovan picks up, he hands me the phone.
“Ryovan. It’s Cade. Can you load up a van and be at the Civic Center in two hours?”
A pause. “What for, Cade? We’re a little scattered right now.”
“Scattered?”
“Things didn’t go well at the crossing last night. There’s to be another one just before sunset. Half our number is out there taking a look at it.”
“What happened last night? Is everyone okay?”
�
��We arrived at the portal on time, but when it opened… it was one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. A spirit crossed over. A very powerful and vicious spirit. It sensed us from a distance and attacked. Shenn was hurt. Mazriel says it was an ancient soul, journeying across worlds to find its new body. A bloodsucker.”
“Strix Montrovia,” I breathe.
“Huh?”
“I fought that spirit last night at the bowling alley. Mottrov is going to do the same thing tonight at the fundraiser, only dozens of spirits will be crossing over at the same time. He’s using the grimoire to make a play for the Ascended. You’re saying you can’t round up a crew to help me out?”
“Not unless I call them off the portal. That must be where all these spirits are going to come through.”
“Is there any way to fight them? Maybe delay them a while?”
“We couldn’t handle one. We most certainly can’t handle a dozen or more.”
“Ryovan. I’m bitten. One of those spirits is headed for me.”
A longer pause. “You’re Mottrov’s thrall?”
“Not just his thrall. One of his vessels. I’m in my apartment. That’s the only reason I’m talking to you without his influence.”
“But wait a minute. How can you be Mottrov’s thrall? Aren’t you carrying the mark of the half-fiend?”
“Yeah. So?”
“He had you first. His claim overrides Mottrov’s.”
“His claim has been postponed. He’s been imprisoned by the Fae Council.”
“Get him unimprisoned.”
“What good will that do?”
“If you want any shot at killing Mottrov tonight, you need to be a free man. Free from him, anyway.”
“And into a fiend’s service instead?”
“Do you trust the fiend?”
“I don’t trust either of them.”
“Do you trust him more than you trust Mottrov?”
“If you want to call it that.”
“Then freeing Calyxto is your only option. I’ll talk to Mazriel; see if there’s a way to fight these vampire spirits. We’ll do everything we can to hold them at the portal tonight.”
“Thanks, Ryovan.”
“Oh, and Cade. Good luck.”
“You too.”
I hang up wondering if I’ve just said goodbye for the last time. There’s a pall hanging in the air, made worse by the stinging in my ears. My head aches. My vision swims. I feel flushed and feverish. My feet are strangely warm. I walk to the hall mirror. My cheeks are red and blotchy, but that’s not the worst of it.
My chin is starting to itch.
Chapter 29
I feel awful, but I look damn good in Arden Savage’s tuxedo. It’s one of the several hanging in his closet, because rich people need to be prepared for classiness at all times. My bowtie is a pristine white to match my starched shirt and vest. My hair is combed and pomaded to the max. My father’s signet ring is on my finger. I’ve got a pompous swagger and a dapper complexion, thanks to the redness of Lord Belthazar’s nearness in my cheeks.
I took a shower despite Janice’s orders to the contrary, because if I don’t show up clean to have my head split open and give birth to a vampire, you know, it’ll be a letdown. Quim dried my stitches and covered them with fresh dressings so that if for some reason I don’t die tonight, I won’t have infected wounds to look forward to. I also made sure not to look in the mirror while I wasn’t wearing the spellvault belt so Mottrov doesn’t find out there’s a real me.
Paige Tarpley is beating her fists on the guest bedroom door as I enter the living room. Ersatz has warded the door on my behalf in case Mottrov’s influence breaks through the threshold and commands either one of us to do something rash. As long as Paige stays in my house, the vampire spirit shouldn’t be able to reach her. I’ve been able to hear Mottrov’s whispers for the last hour. Nothing compelling or forceful. Just a voice, calm and clear, telling me who to be. Guiding my steps.
Quim whistles when he sees me. Ersatz laughs so hard his legs give out. He rolls onto his side, wheezing smoke and coughing embers.
“Alright, alright. That’s enough out of the peanut gallery. You guys know what you have to do, right?”
“Reach an agreement with the Fae Council to secure the temporary release of Calyxto from their custody.”
I nod. “Just for an hour or two. Tell them he’ll be right back, and you’ll vouch for him. They can hold you personally responsible for his keeping the terms of the agreement.”
“Not me,” says Ersatz.
Quim shakes his head in agreement. “I don’t like fairies. The glitter gets everywhere.”
“Okay, fine. Tell them I’ll be personally responsible for making sure he goes back.”
“It’s a long shot they’ll let him out of their sight for a second,” says Ersatz, “let alone for several hours.”
“What did Wayne Gretzky say? You shoot a hundred percent of the people you don’t miss?”
Quim frowns. “I don’t think that’s right.”
“Don’t hate on Gretzky. He was a very wise man in his day.”
“It’s not Gretzky. It’s you—”
“Quim, I could do with a little less of your negativity right now. You too, Ersatz. Let’s think positive thoughts. All I can think are Mottrov’s thoughts. I’d better head out or I’ll be late. Good luck with the fairies. I’m going to need it.”
More thuds from the guest bedroom door.
Quim points. “You realize she’s going to tear that room apart tonight, don’t you?”
I shrug. “It might as well match the rest of the place.”
“Take plenty of pills with you tonight,” Ersatz reminds me. “Swallow a few now, while you can.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure?”
“Do it. You’ll thank me later.”
I’m not so sure I will, since I managed to inject a blood mixture into my thigh while Quim and Ersatz were in the other room. “I’d rather not take any yet.”
“Cade. Take the pills.”
I take them.
We ride the elevator downstairs and say our goodbyes in the parking garage. Ersatz launches himself off Quim’s shoulder and glides into the night. Quim morphs into a red-breasted finch and flaps after him.
The Maserati’s gas pedal feels good beneath my foot. It’s the only part of me that feels good right now. It’s stuffy in the car’s cabin despite the winter chill. My palms are clammy and my face is flushed and my feet are burning. My collar’s too tight, my neck itches, my stitches are sore, and the injection site on my thigh is throbbing. The pills are taking hold too, and on top of the lightheadedness of a magical overdose setting in, I’m starting to get a bad headache. Only a matter of time before it becomes a splitting one. Ba-dum. Ching.
Rather than use the Civic Center’s rooftop parking deck, I park across the street by the old diner like I did when I came here earlier in the week. It’s a longer walk, and there’s no valet, but I’m not leaving out the possibility of this whole place being a pile of rubble by the end of the night. As I enter the building, I’m approached by a concierge in a coat and tie with John on his name tag.
“May I help you sir?”
“I’m here for the, uh, fundraiser.” I’ve forgotten what it’s a fundraiser for, and my head’s so full of gunk I can’t remember the name of it.
“Ah, yes. The Save the Children event. Mottrov Multinational.”
I wince as lightning forks through my skull. “That’s the one.”
“Are you alright, sir?”
Not at all, my dear Watson. “Lead the way.”
He brings me up an escalator and ushers me toward the second-floor ballroom at the top. “Have a lovely evening, sir.”
Not gonna happen.
It’s a beautiful event, beautifully decorated, with beautiful people standing in beautiful clusters holding beautiful champagne flutes and—my head feels like a circuit breaker shorting out. Glimpses of my future hang like pain
tings in empty space, floating through my field of vision as the lights sparkle and glamour unfolds to the easygoing swing-song of old-timey background music.
Partygoers look me over as I weave through the room. Some greet me with smiles, others with a strange curiosity, still others with loathing or sheer indifference. I raise a detection spell and find, to my complete lack of surprise, that the room is bursting at the seams with vampires. Ascended, I’m sure.
They’re all gorgeous, sallow faces and pale skin and those runway-model features you’re only blessed with after you’re dead. There are plenty of plain old humans here, too. Humans who are about to have the night of their lives, and not at all in a good way. There’s no way to tell which ones are Mottrov’s thralls, and I don’t know any of New Detroit’s most powerful families well enough to identify them.
I find a spot in the room to stand by myself and avoid conversation, feeling too sick and worried to engage anyone. The minutes pass until every heartbeat makes my head pulse and my vision blur like a deep bass hit. Out of nowhere, Carmine runs up and hugs me from behind. “Ardy,” she says, happy-go-lucky. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
I throw an arm around her and hug her back, surprised at her complete change in attitude from last night. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
“Great,” she says. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, I was so nervous about today. I had some weird, crazy dreams, but I’m alright.”
Don’t you remember me coming over? I want to ask, but my words crash hard against a verbal roadblock. It wasn’t a dream, I will myself to say, but Mottrov’s will is stronger. My lips won’t form the words, and I’m left staring at her in frustration with Mottrov’s mental grip tight around my throat. I finally manage to squeeze a few words through the coffee filter around my mind. “Are you excited for tonight?”
“So excited,” she says, giddy.
“You’ve worked hard for this. You deserve it. You’ve done a fantastic job with the decorations. Everything looks great.”
She hugs me again. “Thanks, Ardy. You’re the best.”
Her evening gown is incredible, a backless affair of long blue silk with a train that sweeps the floor as she moves. She’s got some extra chin like Mr. Tarpley did, and she’s wearing more makeup than usual. There’s a raised, bumpy quality to her skin beneath the foundation, as if those blotches from last night are now rashes. Her makeup was doing a good job of covering the cracks from a distance, but from here her whole head has the softness of an orange on the verge of rot.
