by Garon Whited
“Find out anything?” I asked.
“Yes. He’s been remarkably cooperative.”
“Good. Maybe I won’t have to kill him.” I turned on the recorder, held it in one hand, and grabbed him by the lapels and the shirt underneath. I jerked him to his feet and held him off the ground against the wall of the shower.
“Tell me,” I growled, “everything you told her.”
And he did. He went on at length about Carlo and Henderson and how they were having a little bit of a turf war. It only took a little prompting to get him to add details about how the three toughs went and bagged Mark to bring him here. Then we quizzed him about everything he’d ever seen or heard about Carlo’s operations and people.
“We figured, you know, since he didn’t work for Henderson anymore he wasn’t protected. Nobody would look at it twice. What’s one more guy, you know?”
I thumbed the control on the recorder and smiled.
“I know. And you were wrong.”
I dropped him and handed the recorder to Mary, who took it with a pleased grin. We dragged in the bodies—two unconscious, one exsanguinated. I raised an eyebrow at Mary. She shrugged. Oh, well.
Duct tape. Every mob interrogation has it. We made sure Business Suit and his muscle weren’t going to move.
“Hey,” Mark called. “They’ve got the key to these.” He rattled his handcuffs where the chain ran through a hoop in the tabletop.
“Yes, they probably do,” I agreed, still adding gravel to my voice. “But the cops will want to ask you some questions. And, since the boss, here, is the only other person who saw what happened, he’s going to sound utterly insane if he tells the truth. Meanwhile, you’re a poor, innocent man, wrongfully snatched from his home in the dead of night with no idea why. Right?”
“Huh?” Mark asked. Then he got it. “Right. Yes, right. And I’ve got a brain injury. I woke up from them smacking me around.”
“Good man.”
Mary and I triggered the fire alarm on our way out. We watched a fire truck show up and the subsequent arrival of three carloads of police. Mark was taken away in an ambulance while the police did their thing in the building.
“Do we know what they want, now?” I asked. Mary nodded.
“His former involvement with a rival organization makes him a target. Not a great one, but he’s got some value. It’ll diminish over time as what he knows becomes obsolete.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem of him surviving until then,” I pointed out.
“True. But we have evidence that can make Carlo uncomfortable. How do you plan to use it?”
“I don’t. That is, I don’t have a plan. Having it struck me as a good idea even if I don’t need it. It’s like finding a box of potions. You may not know what they are, but they might be useful later.”
“I suppose. So, do you have a plan of any sort?”
“I was thinking of going to Carlo, holding him by one ankle from a high place, and asking him nicely to lay off.”
“Direct. Brutal. Effective. And probably more trouble,” Mary advised.
“Whatever happened to ‘Go big or go home’?” I asked. Mary wore an embarrassed expression.
“I’m sorry about that. I thought you wanted to send a message about messing with your man. I didn’t know you were trying to get someone out of the game entirely. The first is easy. The second is more involved.”
“Now you tell me.”
“I didn’t know all the details!” she protested. “I thought I was helping. Besides,” she added, “you were being distracting.”
“I’ll take the blame,” I allowed. “The idea seems to have worked, at least as far as his original employer is concerned.”
“You sent a hell of a message.”
“Do I have to send a copy to everyone?”
“I don’t think so,” she mused. “At least, not the same message. The original, Henderson, may have decided it’s not worth it to push the matter. Other people want other things. In this case, they want… no, not ‘they,’—the guy in the suit, Leo, wanted to get in good with his boss by finding out what Mark knows. Other people may get the same idea.”
“So, as long as we can convince everyone he’s a complete amnesiac, he should be fine.”
“Pretty much.”
“Since that’s not likely to happen—at least, I don’t have any idea how to do it. Do you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s our plan B?”
“Convince the competition it isn’t worth it?” she tried.
“Aaaand we’re back to the rooftop, dangling a crime boss.”
“I’m not objecting,” she noted, “I’m saying there may be a better way to go about it. Carlo may be able to put out the word that leaving Mark alone is a good idea, but you’re attracting even more attention to him and drawing immense amounts of attention to yourself.”
“There aren’t many survivors, much less in any condition to testify,” I countered.
“But there are survivors. And your theatrics attract attention.”
“Got it. I need to be more subtle.”
“Good God, yes!”
I gestured for her to walk and we followed the sidewalk away from the scene.
“So, I need to be subtle, send a message, and go big. I also need to convince people they want what I want. Any other advice?”
“No, that about covers it.”
“You’re so helpful.”
“I try to be,” she murmured.
“You’re actually pretty good at it. I’m being sarcastic again.”
“You do it well.”
I took her hand and she squeezed mine. We walked in silence for a while, getting more distance from the scene of the crime. Doubtless, the police were having an interesting time interrogating a lunatic and his thugs.
My thought was the recording of Mr. Suit—Leo Newsome—had to be worth something. If nothing else, it implicated a bunch of people up the chain of the organization, all the way to Carlo, himself. While it might not get anyone thrown in prison, it was at least an excuse for law enforcement to be extra-vigilant, and no criminal wants extra attention.
What to do with it, though, was a good question. Mary and I talked it over. We could send it to the police, but the threat might be more useful than the action. We could find a way to deliver a copy to Carlo, but Carlo didn’t seem to be involved in this incident—it was Leo’s idea to get a leg up on Henderson’s organization. Attracting the head honcho’s attention might not be the best course.
We had a debate on that one. For the pros, if the boss says we’re done, we’re done. There’s no one else to take it up to. For the cons, it involves far more effort and trouble to convince the boss, and if he doesn’t convince on the first try, there are consequences.
Our circuitous route eventually took us home, still thinking.
Saturday, November 21st
Mary lay down in the basement Sphere, as usual.
The morning dawned, I had my shower, and I heard something from the basement. Mary. She wasn’t feeling well at all, but she was awake and feeling. Her breathing was labored, her heartbeat rapid, her temperature slightly over a hundred, and she sweated like an ice cube in a sauna. She couldn’t keep anything down for longer than an hour, even water, but I insisted and she kept trying. I eventually left her long enough to get a kiddie pool for her to soak in, along with a bag of ice. I also used up part of the basement spell’s power in a generalized healing spell. There was also a fair amount of over-the-counter medication involved. Individually, each helped a little. Taken all together, it seemed to be fairly good at reducing the symptoms.
It was early afternoon before she really started to feel better. She started keeping down water, so I kept it coming. I was out of ice, so I started running water through a hose and down into the kiddie pool. The basement drain handled the overflow and Mary was happy to have fresh, cool water flowing over her. Her fever started to go down.
I le
ft her for a little bit to answer the door. Gary was glad to have his Dad back and wanted to thank me.
“I didn’t find him,” I lied. “All I did was drive around and look for him while doing some cybersearches.”
“But the cops said he was in an old gym.”
“Good for them! I’m glad they found him. I wish I could have been more help.”
“Thanks for trying.”
“Anytime.” As he started to turn away, I asked, “Hey, Gary. Why did you come all the way to my house when you were in trouble?”
“Because you’d help,” he said, puzzled, as though I’d asked how wet water was.
“Fair enough.”
He went away and I went back downstairs to Mary. Her recovery was going well. She stood up and stretched, making her back and joints pop. She lay back down in the water as though the effort exhausted her.
“I think… I think I feel better.”
“Good. I’d hate to think you felt worse.”
“Me, too. But everything seems… different.”
“Different how?”
“The colors are all… pastel. And the shadows are dark. And I feel so heavy…”
“Mortality. Sort of. You’re coping with the limitations of being an enhanced human instead of an undead monster. That’s normal. I don’t even notice it anymore, myself.”
“Is this going to happen every day?” she asked, miserably.
“I doubt it. You probably need to recover from the transformation, but it should get easier pretty quickly. It’ll always get ugly around sunrise and sunset, though.”
“Every time?”
“Every time.”
“Does this mean I can… go out?”
“In the sunlight? I think so, yes. Want to try it?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she decided. “I’m still feeling below par.”
“Certainly. But shouldn’t that be ‘over par’? I mean, in golf, it’s good to be under par, because the objective is to have the fewest—”
“Stop overanalyzing the metaphor or I’ll throw up on your shoes.”
“Sorry. Take your time.”
I hung the hose from a hook, angled to be a makeshift shower. She sat under it while I went to get her a towel. Sunset was coming, so I went up to take my own shower.
Mary met me in the bathroom, as usual. Physically, she seemed perfectly fine—dead, but fine.
“I never want to go through that again!”
“It gets easier,” I told her. I sniffed. “But the smell of fevered sweat is forever.” I held the curtain aside for her. She needed no urging.
“So, how do you feel now?” I asked.
“Like my old self. Like today was a nightmare. Daymare. Now I feel wonderful.”
“Glad to hear that. We’ll see how you do in the morning.”
“God, no—don’t remind me. I’d rather not think about it.”
“I understand perfectly. Talk about something else.”
“How alive do I get?” she asked.
“As alive as anyone, I suppose. If you’re like me, if something kills you during the day, your corpse will get up that night and your soul will vacate the premises. Avoid that.”
“Check. But what about… other things?”
“What other things?”
“Female things.”
“What female things?”
Mary stuck her head out through the shower curtain.
“You can’t be that dense.”
“Oh, female things. Right.”
“So, what about them?” she asked, going back into the shower.
“I presume everything works,” I evaded. “I mean, you’re only alive for one day at a time. Everything should reset to zero overnight.”
“So, no recurring bleeding? No pregnancies? None of it?”
“I suppose, technically, you can be pregnant for a day, but it won’t last. The only time you’ll bleed is when you’re injured.”
“This will take some getting used to.”
“Tell me about it,” I sarcasmed.
“Any thoughts on Carlo?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I’m still thinking. Any thoughts on the Elders?”
“Lots.”
“You first.”
“You’re a threat to the power structure. We need to get you out of that position,” she insisted. “I think I have a couple of ideas.”
“Keep talking.”
“One option is to fake your destruction and try to falsify your identity. Claim to be someone else, move to another country, and pretend.”
“Possibly doable,” I agreed.
“The other idea is more complicated. Do you have spells that can blow someone up?”
“Do you mean in the sense of a spell that acts like an explosive?”
“I mean a spell that can cause someone to spontaneously detonate or burst into flame.”
“Technically, in a very limited and not-too-useful sense, yes. It’s not easy in this world. If it’s going to be strong enough to kill someone, I’ll need serious amounts of prep time to set it up. Days, at least—more likely weeks. I won’t know until I run some prototype spells and get a feel for it. I’ll probably need a sample of the target, like hair or blood or something, too.”
“Can you do something, a spell on your blood, maybe, so anyone who drinks it will explode? Or make them dissolve into a puddle of goo? After what I went through, I wouldn’t think it would be too hard.”
I thought about it while I applied makeup. I wouldn’t want to make my blood volatile, but maybe… Someone else drinking my blood would have it mix with theirs. Could I have the mixing trigger a reaction? It might not be an explosion, but it could be something suitably detrimental. Maybe a sudden coagulation, locking up all the blood in the drinker? What would that do? Or something more entropic, to make the blood rot in the vampire body? Or maybe if it simply boiled?
“I can come up with something,” I mused. “I’m not sure what, exactly, but there ought to be a way to make it unpleasant.”
“Good. If we can demonstrate it, we can explain to the Elders how you’re not a threat and make them believe it. Or, at least, believe nobody will profit by drinking from you. If bothering you will cause more trouble than you’ll cause by existing… Let the sleeping tiger lie, that sort of thing.”
“How do we do that?” I asked. She turned off the water and stepped out, started to towel down.
“If we tell Tony nobody can drink from you, we can get them to ask you to prove it. When they pour your blood down someone’s throat and he explodes, they’ll stop worrying about you fueling the younglings’ potential rebellion. They’ll only have to worry about you trying to take over. As for that, if you’re asking them to leave you alone so you can mind your own business, I don’t think they’d do more than keep tabs on you.” We moved down the hall to her bedroom—well, the one with her closet; I was using the room for letter storage. She started going through her clothes.
“Of course,” she added, “you’ll have to stop being theatrical and obvious. It’s not a good idea to be an angel of death, or the vigilante known as ‘The Dark.’ You’ll have to be a tiny bit more subtle if you want to keep bothering the criminal classes.”
“I can do that. It’ll take effort, but I trust you’ll still be around to advise me?”
“I’m not going anywhere. In this scenario, nobody can drink your blood; there’s no guarantee about mine. Besides,” she added, showing teeth, “I like you.”
Diogenes chimed an alert on my skinphone. Frowning, I lifted my arm as Firebrand shouted.
Boss! Company!
Mary stiffened at the shout, then snatched at a jumpsuit. I regarded the images in my skinphone. A dozen people, perhaps?
Then the firelight, the swirling of flames through the air, and the shattering sounds of breaking glass. In an instant, the porch was on fire. The entire porch. All the way around the house. My house was going to burn down, along with everything in it. Turnabout
is fair play, I suppose, but it still pissed me off.
“Magi?” I asked Firebrand.
I can hear these. They’re nightlords, Boss.
“They’re vampires,” I corrected, grimly. More glass containers shattered on the walls, windows, roof, splashing fire everywhere. “I’m not sure how they found me, but they’re going to learn the difference between a vampire and a Lord of Night.”
Hot damn!
I hurried into the computer room and pulled the memory core—a solid-state hard drive, basically. I put it in its case and tucked it in a back pocket. With equal speed, I hit the attic, grabbed gems from the farm, and drained power from the circles in the house—attic, bedrooms, and basement. The smoke was thick as I broke the last of the spells, but I don’t need to breathe. All it did was irritate my eyes and cut down on visibility.
Mary stuck her head up into the attic. She was dressed in her tactical athletic wear, complete with both knives and at least one pair of pistols. She offered me a machine pistol. I shook my head at her suggestion and finished gathering power into gems. She grinned, showing fangs again.
“Why the burning?” I asked her. We slid down from the attic and I grabbed my armored underwear. It didn’t fit well over my regular clothes, but time was pressing.
“Looks like someone finally decided killing you was worth the risk. They want to drive us out rather than come in after us. They know you’re dangerous in close quarters. Tony certainly does.”
“How many?”
“Probably about ten. That’s about how many we have in the metro area, I think.”
Can we please get to the carving part? Firebrand asked.
“One second. Are we likely to get any sympathy from the Constantines? We had a discussion with them and it was surprisingly polite.”
“My guess is they won’t dare,” she replied. “They might bite during the fight to get some blood—risky, but that’s about the only risk I expect them to take in front of everyone else.”
“We could call the fire department?” I asked. She shook her head.
“Phrygians. They’re not going to do something this blatantly obvious without tons of preparation. I’m sure they’ve either hit the whole street, telling people nothing unusual is happening, or they’ve hit the local firehouse. If I had the vampower for it, I’d go for the street. If no one calls it in, there’s no investigation into why the firemen didn’t respond. Then you don’t have to expose your civic-authority servants to scrutiny by having them cover it up.”
