by J. C. Staudt
God, I’ve got to do something quick. There are three residue pills churning in my stomach and a reserve of blood in my thigh I didn’t have time to mix properly before the injection, but I’ll be damned if I can do anything with them. Mottrov’s voice tells me to stop talking to Carmine and take my seat. I resist, thrusting the entire force of my will against it, but the voice carries the allure of an ice-cold lemonade on an August afternoon.
“I’m gonna go find my seat,” I hear myself say. “The night’s about to get started.”
Carmine looks at me strangely. “Alright. Well enjoy yourself, okay?”
“I will,” I lie, head throbbing.
I cross the room without knowing where my seat is, only to find myself standing behind a chair with my tented name card over the place setting. I’m at a back table by one of the ballroom’s rear exits. Lord Belthazar must be batting cleanup tonight.
I sit and scan the room. Carmine takes her seat at a table near the front. Mottrov sits beside her, long black hair flowing down the back of his chair. It startles me when he turns around and looks me in the eye. There’s a glimmer, and my hand shoots out to grab the glass of ice water in front of me. I bring it to my lips and take a gulp, my body moving of its own volition. Or Mottrov’s, depending on how you look at it.
My table mates sit down and introduce themselves. They’re all normals except for the vampiric couple across the table, a tall slender blonde in a white sequined dress and her lithe tuxedo-wearing beau, a man with piercing ice-blue eyes. They’re haughty and well-to-do, affecting a disinterested air as they wait to be entertained. These must be my targets. I’m Mottrov’s dirty little vampire assassin.
When the waiter comes around to ask whether I want steak or salmon, I say salmon. The correct answer is clearly steak, but Mottrov makes me say salmon instead. He’s taunting me. Wielding his power over me for show because I’m the only one of his thralls who can tell I’m being manipulated.
Dinner is served.
I’m hungry, but uninterested in eating. Mottrov coaxes me into it, and I devour my spinach salad and the hunk of beautifully grilled salmon garnished with a sprig of parsley. I hate salmon, and eating it reminds me how much I hate Mottrov.
The night drags on. I make small talk when pressed. All the while the forces at play in my head are rising to a cacophony, drowning out any sense or clarity I possessed when I woke up just a few hours ago. I try to stand a few times, to cross the room toward Mottrov, but the vampire’s will forces me back into my seat. Quim and Ersatz were right; there’s no way I’m getting anywhere near him—not while he’s dominating me.
Toward the end of dinner, a man takes the podium on the ballroom’s front stage. It’s Ponytail, Mottrov’s son Felix, now dressed in white tie and looking no worse for the wear after last night’s events. He clears his throat and leans forward to speak into the microphone. “Hello, and welcome to the first annual Save the Children fundraising gala. I’m Felix Mottrov, and I’d like to personally thank each and every one of you for being here. Your contributions to this cause are making a difference, not just here in our midst, but around the world. We’re here tonight to celebrate the future. To take one small step closer to ending hunger once and for all. It’s sure to be a night we all remember. First of all, I’m proud of the work my father and his team have done in putting this event together, so let’s give them a round of applause.”
The crowd shows its appreciation as Felix gestures toward the front table. Mottrov raises a glass. Felix continues.
“For those of you who may not be aware, this is a special night for many of us. Mottrov Multinational has sponsored tonight’s festivities, alongside the generous donations and outrageous prices-per-seat you’ve each paid to be here—” scattered laughter, “—to make this evening a success. Tonight we will be welcoming back a few members of our esteemed charitable foundation who we haven’t heard from in a while. It’s a delight I’m very much looking forward to, and I’m sure you will be as well.”
I hear a click behind me.
Two men in tuxedos have stepped into the room, locked the doors behind them, and are standing with their hands folded behind their backs. Across the ballroom, pairs of them do the same at each and every exit door. My head is pounding, a dark vignette spreading from the edges of my vision. I feel the top of my head for any sign of breakage. Nothing yet, but the itch beneath my chin has intensified to a burning sensation.
“On the table in front of you,” Felix continues, “you’ll each find a program outlining tonight’s order of events. If you’ll take a look at it with me, you’ll notice there’s an interpretive performance piece scheduled immediately after this address. We’d like you all to stay in your seats during this portion of the evening, as it’s a tricky business getting the steps right. Our performers are going to be out in the crowd, mingling among the tables. They’ve worked long and hard to perfect this particular piece, so it really makes it much easier for them if there aren’t people getting up and walking around during the performance. We thank you in advance for your cooperation on this matter.”
Felix starts to say something else, but a guest interrupts the speech by surging to his feet and crashing onto the table. He flounders like a landed fish, gurgling and clutching his neck. The top of his head splits open, and the green-purple slime of vampiric afterbirth splashes out.
“Ah. We’re starting early,” says Felix, looking to his father for confirmation.
Mottrov scans the room, casting me a brief glance. He’s surprised at this early transfiguration, as I imagine he’d intended to have us all emerge at once. Guess that’s what happens when you toy with ancient magic you have no experience with. This doesn’t bode well for the Guardians at the portal, since it means the first spirit has already gotten through.
I try to stand, expecting to be forced back into my seat. To my surprise, I can move. Mottrov is distracted, not paying me any attention.
My vision is trembling and my skin feels like it’s melting. My first lurching step makes the room spin, and I stagger into the woman beside me. She cries out as I catch myself against her, trying not to grope but unable to discern the location of my numbed hands. I must be touching something I shouldn’t, because her date shoots to his feet and shoves me away.
A waiter carrying a chrome-plated serving tray loaded with full champagne glasses is nice enough to stop me, and we tumble to the floor in a sparkling shower of bubbly. I give myself a shake and rise on unsteady feet. The two door guards advance, but I snap my fingers to awaken a strand of flame on my palm.
“Stay back,” I warn, brandishing the spell. “Back.”
The sea of round dinner tables between me and Mottrov might as well be a maze for as confident as I feel navigating them. I blunder through the labyrinth while the screams of astonished guests accompany the wet ripping sounds of a vampire clawing its way out of the fleshbag it has called home for the past few seconds. A second guest falls out of her chair, writhing and clutching her throat. Her long brown hair parts in a gush of viscera.
Mottrov vaults onto the stage, pulling the mic away from his son. “Everyone please remain seated and stay calm. I repeat, stay where you are. There’s no reason to be alarmed. We’ll have this situation handled shortly.”
His tone is even-keeled, yet even in the midst of my stupor I can sense the glimmer of hysteria in his voice. He’s not about to handle anything. He’s going to watch these people—humans, othersiders, and vampires above him in the coven’s order of succession—meet their deaths and undeaths accordingly. He knows they’ll listen to him and stay in their seats. Why? Because no one wants to believe everything’s going to hell. People don’t die in fires because they panic; they die in fires because they don’t get up and leave until it’s too late.
Mottrov notices me from the stage and narrows his eyes. I stop in my tracks and extinguish my flame spell under his command. He juts a finger at the vampire couple back at my table and speaks his violent words into
my mind. They are yours, Lord Belthazar. Come forth and have your due.
A shrilling sound peals through my skull. I cover my ears, though I know it’s coming from within. It’s Mottrov’s doing, though he’s forcing me to believe the vampires at my table are responsible for it. I whirl and charge them, knowing I’ve got no chance against them but unable to change my course.
I wake fire in my fists and barrel toward the female vampire in the white sequined dress. She’s as agile as any of her kind, but the long tight dress restricts her movement. She shuffles a few steps, then gets frustrated and tears a slit up the side of her dress with a sharp fingernail, cutting so deep she opens a gash in her leg. The gash closes as she vaults out of my way, turning my leap into a blind topple.
I land in a skid across the tabletop, knocking glasses and dinner plates asunder as my flaming hands sweep the tablecloth, live torches on a bed of cotton. The threat of incendiary doom is one of the few things capable of scaring vampires, so when I tumble off the far edge of the table in a heap of flaming cotton, my two targets scatter. I clamber out of the fire, slapping my suit to snuff the smoldering embers.
A chair slams me off my feet. I hit the ground hard and black out for a second. The male vampire swings again before I can recover from the fall, hard metal legs bashing my face and chest. He pummels me, breaking the chair over my shoulder before picking up a second.
So this is it. I’m going to die WWE-style, getting beaten over the head with a metal chair. Then I’m going to hatch an ancient revenant through my cranial birth canal. A fitting death for a guy like me, isn’t it? Living on the edge. Reaping what you sow. Taking no prisoners and asking no favors.
Only I’ve asked quite a few favors tonight, and not one of them came through for me. The Guardians are obviously outclassed against the vampire spirits flooding through the portal. Quim and Ersatz were no fit negotiators in the face of the Fae Council’s swift and decisive judgment. And last—and certainly least—I’m a failure. A liar, and an impostor. An utterly useless wizard with a penchant for bad decisions and an addiction to dangerous magic. Congratulations, Cade Varsellus Cadigan. You’re about to get what you deserve.
Chapter 30
The only thing I can hear above the dissociative clamor of my own death is Mottrov’s voice. Not his creepy telling-me-what-to-do voice. His actual voice, screaming through the PA system, no longer able to contain his excitement. “Destroy them. Destroy them all. Together we will take back the Ascended and forge a new future.”
It’s then I feel another will entering my body. An invasion of the psyche; an intruder attempting to force his way in and shunt my selfdom aside. Lord Belthazar. Overcome by an uncanny strength, I knock my assailant’s chair aside and stagger to my feet. He tackles me, and we go tumbling. Engaging a vampire in fisticuffs is a horrible idea, but Mottrov’s command is impossible to disobey.
The vampire rakes his nails across my face. He grabs me by the collar and slams my head against the floor. I grab him by the wrists, my father’s silver signet ring sizzling against his skin. When I discharge fire from my palms, the vampire screams and staggers away as his arms disintegrate in a flurry of ash.
“Finish it,” Mottrov bellows through the speakers. “End him.”
“Ah-ah-ah,” booms a second voice, louder than Mottrov’s. “You didn’t say the magic word.”
Calyxto is hovering ten feet above me beneath the ballroom’s cavernous ceiling, legs crossed like some glorious djinni, a demonic angel preparing to fulfill my deepest wish. Apparently the plastic milk crates under the carpet in his stand at the DMV were only there for show. He flashes me his cheshire grin and winks.
“Thank god you’re here—”
The vampiress in the white sequined dress tackles me to the floor and continues the assault, enraged by what I’ve done to her lover.
“Calyxto,” I grunt. “Help.”
Calyxto descends until he’s a few feet above me and clears his throat. “As previously mentioned, I’m not allowed to directly intervene. Sorry. It’s part of the gig. What I can do is suggest you put on the Nerve Ring so this doesn’t hurt so bad. You’ll also be unable to feel emotion, which means no one can tell you what to do. Not me. Not Mottrov. Not even the ancient spirit who’s trying to latch onto your subconscious and peel you like a banana.”
Holy shit. He’s right. I couldn’t put a guilt trip on Quim while he was wearing the Nerve Ring. Mottrov won’t be able to control me, and neither will the ancient vampire lord who’s knocking on the door to my soul.
There’s just one problem.
I don’t have the Nerve Ring.
It’s sitting on the top shelf of the gun safe in my bedroom closet.
I catch the vampire’s fist in my left hand, stunning her with the signet ring’s silver. I gather the last of my magic and push flame from my hand, engulfing her arm and soaking her dress. She screams and flails away, backing into a table and catching the cloth on fire.
I lay there for a moment, stunned and aching and bloody. Before I can work up the strength to pick myself up, Mottrov’s will slams into me. He’s noticed the signet ring, and he doesn’t like it. I watch myself take it off and fling it across the room. It rolls across the carpet, past chair legs and through running feet.
Above me, Calyxto bites his knuckle in suspense. He flicks two fingers; a chair falls over and stops the ring in its tracks. He cuts his eyes furtively. “You didn’t see that.”
I roll over and crawl for the ring. As I reach for it, someone kicks it into motion once more, and I change course.
“You’re killing me, Smalls,” Calyxto mutters.
“I’m trying. I’m trying.”
I catch up with the ring and slap a hand down to stop it.
Someone steps on my hand.
I bite back a scream and yank it in, shaking with the agony of my impending divorce from my mortal soul. As I fumble the ring onto a finger, I catch a glimpse of Mottrov across the room. He isn’t on stage anymore; he’s on Carmine. Gripping her head, fingers digging into the tender meat of her crown to pull open the birth canal.
“Get out,” Carmine is screaming above the din. “Get out of me.”
I scramble to my feet and cross the room, vision doubling at the torment in my skull. Everything fades except the monster touching my sister. He sees me coming and pierces me with a look. My legs stop cold. Again he bids me yank the signet ring off my finger and hurl it across the room, where it bounces through an open door and rolls off the second-floor balcony.
Calyxto facepalms. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I’m close enough to douse Mottrov in flame, but I’m all out of magic. When I reach for the case of residue pills in my pocket, my arm freezes. I grit my teeth and push against Mottrov’s command, but it’s too strong. I stand locked in place, unable to move except to speak. “Take your hands off her, you bloodsucking freak. I’m not giving birth to one of your abominations, and neither is she.”
Stay still and be consumed, Mottrov demands. Death is coming.
I can feel Lord Belthazar squeezing into me, stretching out and making himself comfortable. My head throbs, soft and swollen. My skin ripples with life.
“Okay,” says Calyxto. “I’ve seen enough.”
He snaps his fingers.
The mark on my palm glows orange and burns like a hot brand. The pain sears my mind, freeing me from Mottrov’s stranglehold. The spirit clawing at the edges of my soul withers and falls back, and the headache recedes.
Mottrov tries to command me again, but Calyxto butts in. He’s my slave, Gilbert. Get your own.
I charge into a sprint.
Mottrov’s eyes narrow. I barely register his movement as he blurs toward me. Next I know we’re on the ground, my wind knocked out. He sinks his teeth into my neck, the perfume of death borne on the metallic scent of my own blood. He’s draining me. Sucking out every last drop. My fingers tremble against my coat pocket where the pills lie in their case. When I slip t
hem out, Mottrov bats them out of my hand. The tin flies open, and the pills skip and scatter across the floor.
My eyes close, and I wait for the end. The Guardians aren’t here to guard me, and my two best friends probably sold half their basic human rights to the Fae Council to get Calyxto out on bail. If he can’t intervene physically, there’s nothing more he can do. I’m all out of tricks and gimmicks and weapons and magic. I’ve got nothing left.
Nothing, I realize, except the most important thing of all. The thing that’s made all this possible. The spellvault belt, an accessory ill-suited for a tuxedo. It’s not the belt that matters, though. It’s the buckle.
Mottrov is lying on top of me, binge-drinking the last vestiges of my mortal life. With fingers on the edge of total numbness, I reach down and pull out his shirt tails to expose his stomach. Then I do the last thing I ever imagined doing to my worst enemy in the world.
I hug him.
His teeth retract. He screams as the silver belt buckle burns into his bare abdomen. He struggles against me, then stiffens like a rigor-mortised corpse while his flesh sears and smokes. He tries to speak, but can’t. I don’t even hear him in my mind, such is the potency of Calyxto’s master override. “Where’s the book, Mottrov?”
He shudders, weakened and depleted. “Fuck. You.”
Planting my foot for leverage, I roll over on top of him. There’s a residue pill on the floor beside his head. Holding him with both arms, I press my face into the carpet and crane my neck, reaching out with my lips. It’s no good. I extend my tongue. I’m almost there when Mottrov jabs the pill with an elbow to send it skipping away across the floor.
“Damn you.” I drive my forehead into his face.
