by Sara Beaman
The nausea returns. I can’t let him die—I can’t kill him—
He flails at the door. “You can’t leave me here!” he screams, his voice growing hoarse.
The ghouls lurch closer and closer. My heart races; my grasp on the swarm begins to slip.
“It’s him or us!” Mnemosyne says. “If you let him in, he’ll kill us. He’ll kill Adam. Are you a fighter, little human, or are you as good as dead?”
Can I really force myself to eat a man alive?
“Of course you can.”
I open my eyes and look at Adam lying lifeless on the ground.
Of course I can.
This time I become the horde; my consciousness merges with their undead flesh. I am a hydra—I have a multitude of mouths in my many heads, each full of a multitude of vicious teeth. I am a solifuge, a millipede, a kraken. He screams his throat raw as I extend my limbs toward him, embracing him.
The work is exhausting. Human mouths and human hands were not made for this kind of savagery. As sharp as our teeth are, his cold flesh is tough underneath them. His blood flows in waves down our throats as we tear through his ribcage, seeking his heart.
We find his lungs first; the screams stop. We topple over one another as his heart is revealed, the sight of it making us mad with desire. The strongest of us—or the fastest, or the most fortunate—grabs it first, wrenches it free and sinks our teeth into it like a stone fruit.
The taste is unspeakable.
Once the prize is gone, we are overwhelmed by the desire to continue devouring. He is still so full of blood...
“Katherine.”
I don’t want to return to myself. We are all so full of blood—even once he is gone—
“Katherine!”
Once his gone the weakest of us could go first. We could continue until only the strongest remain—and then only the very strongest—and then nothing—
“Katherine, that’s more than enough. Desist.”
I snap back into my body.
I can still taste the ghost of Desmond’s heartsblood lingering on my lips. Through the camera I see the ghouls disperse, running away as quickly as they can on their ungainly limbs.
What did you do?
“I sent them away.”
Why?
“I cannot afford for you to lose your head.”
I snort.
She ignores me. “If you’re concerned about that girl Warden, we need to act quickly,” she says. “The ghouls will seek her blood the same as any other.”
She’s right. I have to get back to the ramps to the incinerator room. But I can’t drag Adam that far. I guess I could leave him locked in here? Yes—he’ll be safe in here.
Next to the door handle is a button. I push it; the mechanism releases. I throw all my weight against the door to the panic room, shoving Desmond’s ruined body out of the way. Holding the head in one hand, I stoop down and collect the key clenched in one of his fists. I push the heavy door shut, hoping to God that it will be enough to keep Adam safe, and set off down the hallway to the ramps.
I hear us—I hear them lurking not far enough away. I don’t know how permanent what Mnemosyne did to them will be, how long it will keep them from pursuing us. I’ll have to run.
As I reach the double doors to the ramps, I can almost hear them decide to follow. I sprint downwards, several times nearly toppling forward under my own momentum. The heat is overwhelming. I start to feel lightheaded, my vision starts to double, and for a second I imagine myself back in the SpiraCom building, running down the stairs to Basement Level Three—
No. I’m not there, although I’m not sure I’d rather be here.
There’s Haruko, slumped on the ground. I grab one of her hands—the one that isn’t still on the machete—and tug her behind me to the door. I take the key from my pocket and force my way inside. I’ve just barely managed to lock the door behind us when the world starts to spin. I think I’m going to pass out.
“No,” Mnemosyne says. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
What does she mean? What else could I possibly do?
“Take the Warden’s weapon.”
Even through my vertigo, I comply mindlessly, wrenching it from Haruko’s hand.
“Bring it to my tomb.”
I drag myself across the obsidian mandala to stand in front of the coffin.
“Open it.”
I can’t, I protest. I’m not part of the House of Mnemosyne.
“Aren’t you? You awakened me with your touch, didn’t you? Slice your wrist open.”
Trembling, I place her head at the edge of the basin. I draw the blade against my wrist, slicing laterally. Bright red blood streams from the wound into the basin. I pick the head up once more, wavering, just barely maintaining consciousness long enough to see the liquid seep into the stone.
“Push.”
The lid slides off easily—too easily—and then her body is exposed to the open air. The sight of it is terrible—
“Put my head into place.”
I can’t. I would, but I can’t. My muscles are spent. I’m going to collapse—
“Don’t you dare disobey me!” she hisses, shocking me awake. I reach down into the tomb and position her head against her neck.
“Your blood,” she demands.
I bring my wrist to her lips.
Immediately, her flesh knits itself back together. Her eyes snap open; her fingers flex. She draws her left hand up, grabs on to the edge of the tomb, pulls herself up to sitting, and from there to standing.
I stagger backwards, but it’s too late. She seizes me with her terrible gaze, and I am powerless. I have no will of my own, I am nothing. I sink to my knees.
Mnemosyne steps out of the coffin as if exiting the bath, her flimsy garment pooling on the black floor around her. She kneels in front of me, smiling with something that seems like kindness. She brushes my hair behind one of my ears, kisses my forehead.
“You’ve done very well tonight,” she says. “but I have yet one more favor to ask of you.”
I close my eyes, too exhausted to face what comes next.
Her lips meet mine. She forces my mouth open, forces her tongue inside. I can’t bring myself to care. If this is all she wants, what does it matter?
My throat starts to burn, then to sting. It feels like I’m being lacerated from the inside by a thousand razorblades. My esophagus fills with blood; it streams from my mouth into hers. I can’t breathe—she’s crushing me to her so tightly. Soon it doesn’t matter; my lungs have started to fill. I might as well let go, give up, pass out. This is the end. Soon I’ll be dead and gone—
Dead, she whispers to my inner ear. Not gone.
She keeps me awake until my heart stops.
///
My name is Katherine Avery, born in 1980 in Richmond, Virginia. My mother was Jewish; my father was Episcopalian. They were both schoolteachers. My older brother’s name was Eric—five years older. He died of a drug overdose when I was thirteen.
I was an angry kid; I took karate instead of ballet. I dyed my hair black all through high school and I had a nose ring. All I really wanted to do was write, and it was probably the only thing I was ever any good at. I wanted to educate people, to expose the injustices in society. I edited my high school’s newspaper, won some awards, went to Chapel Hill on a scholarship. I had a string of shitty relationships, drank more than I should, lost my virginity to one of my TAs—I thought he thought I was smart. I read too much, got obsessed with things I’d never be able to change, problems I’d never be able to solve.
I graduated, ended up working for Spira Communications, and then the rest of it happened.
And now I’m dead.
30
The Call
{Mnemosyne}
The dhampyr’s blood tastes of sweat, port, and coriander seeds. I know from experience the blood of her kind always tend towards strange permutations of flavor. Hers is particularly complex, with a lingering finish th
at slowly turns earthen and vile. Peculiar. Certainly much of the blood is Adam’s, which means the root of it is mine, but that can’t account for the blackness that coats the back of my throat well after I’ve released her.
Ah yes. Of course. Mirabel. Just the thinnest remnants of her blood remain in Katherine’s veins, but even that much is enough to carry the taint of the coil.
I look down at the dhampyr laying motionless on the black marble, overtaken with a tenderness I am sure I can afford. Clearly Adam worked his hardest to prolong her little life. As did she. Her remarkable determination—that tenacity with which she clung to any chance at survival—must have kept him captive.
I see still more in the girl: a delicate balance of empathy and amorality, idealism and egotism, humanity and brutality.
I’ve made up my mind about her.
I bite down on my tongue until it bleeds, then spit out a handful into my palm. I place a drop behind each of eyelids, then pull them both closed. A third drop goes on her tongue.
It will be sufficient. It is never anything less.
First her memories will return, including the missing motor memories that rendered her mute. Then her heart will begin its constant, rhythmless push, sending my blood through the little networks in her body, reviving her brain.
I won’t be here to see her awaken; I can’t afford to wait. Before long, the Wardens will deduce that something has gone awry. They will send a contingent, and I am still too weak to face them.
I reach under Katherine’s limp form and withdraw the handheld device from her back pocket. I’ve never held one before, but our brief contact has left me with a vague idea of how to use it. I press a green button; the object lights up with an image. Numbers. 4:00 AM. Three hours to dawn, this time of year. Not much time, but time enough.
I press the green button again, and more numbers appear in a sequence I don't comprehend. I press the button a third time. The device begins to emit a high pitched noise, something like a xylophone. And then a voice:
“Hello? Page slave?”
A telephone. How convenient.
“Yes. Hello. This is Katherine.” I mimic the dhampyr’s voice.
“Christ. What did I tell you about names? Over an unencrypted line?”
“I apologize.” I don't bother to sound contrite.
“What is it?”
“I’m in trouble. Two of my friends are badly hurt. Could I ask you to come retrieve us?”
“We’re still talking about the here from before, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, we’re already on our way.”
We?
I inhale, thinking. The voice is familiar; I am suspicious that it’s being altered somehow, made to sound higher, but the speech patterns are those of someone I’ve met before.
“Good,” I reply, still digging for her identity.
Ah. Guinevere Schuster, also known as Jennifer. Haruko’s benefactor. Which means, most likely, the other part of the ‘we’ would be my own Julian. Not the ideal situation, to be sure, but something I can accept.
“We’ll be there right after nightfall,” Guinevere says.
Traveling during the day? Reckless children.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”
I place the telephone on the floor next to Katherine. Walking to the door of the crypt, I consider my next move. Mirabel's ghouls are waiting on the other side. Seizing them will prove no challenge, no matter their number, but their company will hinder any chance at discreet travel. I will have to discard them somewhere. Perhaps I’ll compel them to hide in the forest until the Wardens arrive.
Yes. Let them deal with the havoc Mirabel wrought.
From there it will simply be a matter of finding transport, then shelter. And then the matter of Markham.
I nod, smiling to myself, and open the door.
