by Garon Whited
Mary nodded at the now-normal Firebrand and asked a question with her eyes. Firebrand didn’t object, so I handed it over. She kicked a recovering vampire over on his back and nailed him to the floor of the barn with Firebrand. The pain restored him to consciousness. He snarled at her and exploded into a thousand or so bats.
Mary’s exclamation was unladylike; so was mine. Nobody told me they could do that. Apparently, nobody told Mary, either. The other prisoners were still unconscious with head wounds, so they didn’t give us their opinions.
I was more than surprised; I was disgusted. Why don’t I get to turn into a cloud of bats? Is it just a case of being the wrong species of vampire? If so, can I eat other vampires and gain their powers, or is it a case of one kind of vampirism dominating over another? If I can only have one set, I’d like to see a menu of options!
The bats fluttered madly, screaming in the ultrasonic and screeching in the normal ranges. They whirled around the inside of the barn and I snatched up Firebrand. It lit like a flamethrower and we roasted bats on the wing like rats through a rocket engine. We didn’t get them all, of course. Maybe half, probably less. They swarmed out the busted door or up through the hayloft.
I poked at twitching bat-corpses and wondered how many he would need to re-form. One? A hundred? Could he find a blood bank and a bathtub and form a new body from one bat? Or could he turn into a humanoid form, albeit somewhat smaller than before? Was mass conserved at all?
More things to find out. Someday.
Then the bat-corpses dissolved, melting into a black, gel-like substance for several seconds before starting a sublimation process. Within minutes, they dissipated completely.
I don’t get to do that, either. Anything I leave behind stays behind. Why do they get to do that? It seems so unfair, somehow.
Mary accepted Firebrand again and I started putting out the scattered fires inside the barn. I also checked for any bats that might still be lurking, spying on the proceedings. Either they weren’t smart enough for that or way too smart for that.
Mary picked another Constantine out of the pile and tried again, nailing him to the floor. Firebrand ignited briefly, prompting consciousness and a scream, then went out.
“Hi. Want to see the Sun?”
His answer was what lawyers call nonresponsive.
“We’re going to talk,” she lilted, cheerily. “Actually, you’re going to talk. Because the other option isn’t really an option.”
“Burn me,” he grated, almost snarled. “Get it over with!”
“No, no,” she protested, smiling sweetly. “You’re going to talk, or I’m going to tell him he can go ahead and suck the soul out of you and eat it.”
He glanced at me. I smiled and touched him with a tendril, checking to see if I could. Yes, he had a soul in there. It would be hard to get it out. It seemed awfully well-attached, possibly a requirement for being in an undead body. In a living body, there’s some give-and-take with the organic processes. In a corpse, the soul is less interactive with the flesh and more… stuck? Mounted? Embedded, maybe. With a little work, though, I was sure I could sever the connections and pull it free. I’m good at that sort of thing.
I tugged on it as a test. He felt me doing it.
Give him credit for courage. He still refused to talk. I might drag his soul from his body, but he wasn’t willing to answer questions. On the other hand, getting your soul eaten is an experience most people can’t really grasp; it’s a threat without a real referent. Mary decided to persuade him with direct experiences.
I’ve never seen someone actually picked up by the scrotum before. God willing, I never will again, either. It’s definitely an attention-grabber.
I didn’t stop her. There was a day when I would have. I’m not sure if I’ve become a more practical person or a more calloused one. However you slice it, I’m pretty sure it’s not a sign of being a better person. Instead, I went about my business, draining power from the Stalls and storing it for later, digging out bullets from vampire brains to move the process of recovery along, that sort of thing. It helped me to not watch what Mary was doing and to avoid thinking overmuch about how my house was burning to the basement.
Major spell work. Carpentry. Insulation. Wiring. A little plumbing. That desk I liked. My gem-farm setup. The blast shield I worked so hard and so pointlessly to build into the fireplace. All my plastic symbols in their neat little boxes. My warp magnet experiment. My electromagical transformer. All gone, just like that. It wasn’t really my home, I suppose, but it was the place I lived. I liked it.
It really gave me a new appreciation for burning down other people’s houses. Maybe I shouldn’t do that so much. It really is a lot of trouble. Or, at least, I should only do it to people who actually deserve something so drastic.
Which, of course, implies I don’t think I deserved something so drastic. No man is a villain in his own eyes, or so I’m told. How would I know? If I really am a monster, how do I tell? I don’t feel like a monster. Well, yes, I do, but not a monstrous monster, if that makes any sense. Then again, I don’t feel human, either. Is it more monstrous to be a human without feeling human, or to be a monster that feels more human than monster?
Yay, philosophy!
Mary wasn’t too pleased about current events, either. She was upset about something, anyway, and the first of our prisoner interrogations reflected that. I tried not to pay too much attention; I dislike torture, too.
When Mary was done with her victim, she removed the hands and feet and threw him into a corner. Bronze moved on her own to look down at him. She snorted enough fire to convince him silence and total immobility would be an exceptionally good idea. He played dead quite believably, aside from the wide eyes and the staring at Bronze.
Never make eye contact with a Phrygian or an annoyed, fire-breathing golem horse. It’s hard to look away. I think, in Bronze’s case, it’s the molten eyeballs. That’s a sure sign she’s in exceptionally short temper.
Why is it all the women I like can be incredibly vicious? Is it part of being female, having that sort of savagery? Or is it stronger in them? Or closer to the surface? Maybe I’m attracted to dangerous women. Wait, that’s redundant. Maybe I’m attracted to particularly dangerous women, with Mary being an excellent example.
I like her, Boss.
I can tell. So do I. Mostly. I’m not comfortable with her willingness to torture people, though.
I know, Firebrand said. If it helps, I can tell she’s really pissed off, and so are you.
I am?
Yes.
When your psychic sword tells you you’re angry, you should listen. I didn’t realize I was angry. No, that’s not true. I didn’t realize how angry I was.
I did like living in that house, I admitted.
So did she. And stop being worried about her interrogation techniques. It’s not an everyday sort of thing for her; she liked living here with you. She likes you.
So you’ve said.
You like her, too. So does Bronze.
Maybe I should let you two decide who I date.
Maybe you should, Boss. You and Tort would have been much happier if you’d—
Shut up.
Mary quizzed our captives. I helped by standing behind her and looking grim. My knee still hurt, so looking grim was easy. I was a trifle hungry, too, and was looking forward to dinner.
When she finished, we had quite a pile of hands and feet. Bronze had to back up a little to make room in the corner for prisoners.
“I vote we stake them to the floor and burn the barn,” Mary stated.
“The barn is the only place we have to live,” I pointed out. She stared at me for a second, then beckoned me to follow her outside. Quietly, she whispered in my ear so no one else could hear.
“Rather than leave it to the local vampires, the Elders of the three tribes sent a vampire hit squad to this city to help the locals kill you. That’s why we didn’t see Wallace, Teeth, or Knuckles. Those Constanti
nes were all out-of-town muscle.
“Once they figured out where you live—I don’t know how, but they did—and they went to the logistical trouble to attack the place right after sunset, when they thought we would be getting ourselves together after waking up. That speaks to extensive planning and determination.
“On top of that,” she continued, “some of bat-boy’s bits made it out. If he can report in squeaks or simply re-form, I don’t know, but he’s doubtless trying. It may be a while before they get a second assault together, but the fact they tried in the first place says they will.
“But the big take-away is this: Now they know our address.”
Oh.
Well.
Now that she mentioned it, it did seem like a bad idea to stay.
“Did you find out why?” I asked, in an equally-quiet whisper.
“No. They didn’t tell—” She broke off when we heard the deep, bell-chime THUD of a hoof followed by a squeak of terror. We checked inside; the captives were all crowded much closer together and trying to get deeper into the corner, farther away from Bronze. The situation was well in hand.
“These didn’t know the reasons,” Mary finished. “They were simply sent.” I beckoned her to follow me back into the barn.
“So, am I going to have to summon up the ghosts of the ones we killed to find out?” I asked, aloud.
“I guess so. None of these know why the Elders sent them.”
“All right. Bring me any ashes from the ones who burned, please.” Mary bowed and backed away theatrically before turning to go. “You lot!” I snapped, facing the prisoners. “It’s my understanding you were sent here by the Elders of the tribes to kill me. You weren’t told why, just to go and get it done. Is this so?”
They agreed it was so.
“Fine. I appreciate your honesty. Don’t go anywhere yet; I may have further questions for you.”
They stared at Bronze. She didn’t move. They didn’t move.
Mary brought me two handfuls of ashes—Phrygians, on the theory the ones with mind-control powers were more likely to be in charge. She laid them down in careful piles and went back for others.
I scooped up one pile, mixed it with some lamp oil, and painted a symbol for speaking on the floor. That done, I drew a conjuring circle around it, lit small fires in place of candles, and burned enough magic to summon up a ghost.
Oddly enough, I’m not too great a necromancer. I mean, yes, I’m an undead monster, feeding on the blood of the living. Yes, I’m a soul-sucking creature who can act as a door between life and death. But I’m not really all that talented at opening up the door, reaching through, and dragging someone back. Some people will never master the piano, for example. By dint of practice and work, they can learn to play the thing, but it will never come naturally. In much the same artery, I’m a lousy necromancer.
Don’t get me wrong; I can do it. It’s part of my magical repertoire. I’ll never be good at it, but I know how.
The ashes sizzled and steamed within the diagram. A thick, dark mist rose up and formed a face. The spirit took form that way, becoming a grainy—well, ashen—countenance within the summoning circle. It looked around and seemed confused at first. When it realized its situation, it was unhappy, as in screaming fits unhappy. I didn’t care about its emotional state; I only wanted it to shut up.
Once we had things more in order, I commanded it to answer Mary’s questions. This let her do her part—ask the right questions—and let me focus on both keeping the spell going and the ghost in line. When it started giving monosyllable answers and failing to elaborate, I punished it. When it struggled to break out, I kept it in.
We repeated the process twice before the third summoning actually got us someone who knew anything. By then I was annoyed at the uselessness of the magical expenditures, but, in for a penny, in for a pound. At least we did find one that could enlighten us. It took a little prodding, but it opened up.
According to the ghost, the Elders wanted me dead. True, it was partly because they thought I was an Ancient Evil from the Dawn of Time, but also because I had a cure for vampirism.
This came as news to me, Mary, and everyone else in the barn. I didn’t have a cure; I didn’t even have the beginnings of a cure. I barely had any ideas on a guess about a hypothesis about a cure. That was a lie I told to get the vampire-hunting magi off my back. Even then, I didn’t say I could do it, only that I was looking into it.
Maybe the Elders had poor information and thought I had a spell to zap people back to mortality whether they wanted to go or not. Maybe they were afraid it would develop into something like that. Maybe they knew I didn’t have a cure, but told their flunkies otherwise. Whatever they actually believed, it was apparently the straw that mortally wounded the camel. At least, that’s what they told the ghost during its more corporeal days.
Why? I didn’t see any reason for it. So what if the malcontents and misfits wanted to quit the mosquito business and rejoin mortal society? Why would the Elders object to that? I didn’t have an answer. Maybe Mary would, later, when we had a chance to talk about it.
Mary also asked it about the one who divided by bat and got away. Our ghost was less helpful in that area. Some guy named Balaur showed up when the rest of the extra Constantines did. Our ghostly subject didn’t know where he came from or why—and hadn’t cared, since the Constantines were only there as muscle for the hit squad.
Mary nodded to me; she was done with the ghost. I grabbed it with my tendrils, wrapped it in darkness, and it vanished in a screaming vortex, swirling down the drain into me. That made the third one to disappear in that fashion. Their exits made almost as much of an impression on the captives as Bronze did. I concede that Bronze is more visually impressive, especially at close range.
On the plus side, at least we knew why the Elders wanted me dead. Sort of. And my spiritual digestion confirmed what my spells already knew: the ghost had told the truth, albeit only because it was forced to.
“Anybody got a working phone?” I asked. Nobody did. “Fine. You—crawl over here and help me find your hand.” She did and we went through the pile. We found her right hand and both feet. I tacked them on with a little flesh-welding so her own vampire regeneration could do the rest.
“I’m forgiving all of you for your part in this,” I told them. Mary and Firebrand both seemed upset. I ignored this and plowed on. “Your compatriot here—what’s your name?”
“Christiana.”
“Christiana can now load you idiots into the cars I saw parked out front. Christiana,” I continued, to her, “will you please take my unwelcome guests wherever they need to go?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“That’s Dread Lord,” Mary corrected. She remembered my comment. I glanced at her, but she wasn’t smiling. From the look in her eyes, she really wanted to, though.
“Yes, Dread Lord,” Christiana repeated.
“Thank you. Please go open the gate and drive a car up here.” She got a salvaged electronic key from Mary and did as she was told. I’m not sure, but I don’t think Christiana even considered running for it. Either that, or she didn’t want to find out if Bronze enjoyed chasing cars.
Cars might be able to outrun Bronze, but my money is on her when it comes to fighting one.
I went through the pile of body parts again, selecting all the left hands. I used a pair of cutters to remove the little fingers; these I put in a pouch.
“Just because I forgive you,” I told their puzzled and worried looks, “doesn’t mean I trust you not to do this again if ordered to.”
I took out a finger at random, chanted over it and gestured. The severed end glowed with a small blue flame; one of the prisoners’ wrists also caught fire. I extinguished it before he could do more than give a brief scream.
“Found your finger,” I told him. What I didn’t tell him was it only worked so well because of proximity. Let them think I could do it anytime, anywhere in the world. “Tell everyone you kn
ow that I don’t want to upset anyone. All I want is to be left alone. I mean it. I’m fully capable of becoming the only vampire on the planet if that’s what it takes to be left alone.” Christiana pulled up the drive and parked next to the remains of the barn door.
“Here’s your ride. Now stump aboard and get out of here. Now!”
They moved like a Grand Guignol parade on fast-forward, limbs flailing, bodies wriggling, stumping and thumping and piling aboard with a complete lack of dignity or caution.
As they were leaving, Christiana stopped, got out, and shut the gate before driving them away. She was taking no chances when it came to offending the Dread Lord of Night any further. It was even more amusing that nobody in the car protested.
“Okay, have we dealt with all the evidence we can?” Mary asked.
I agreed we had. Bronze helpfully kicked my deep-impact footprints into oblivion. We threw the miscellaneous remains into the still-burning flames of the house. Francine went to Edgar’s house; Larry and Susan seemed to like Francine. All my project materials either became snacks for Bronze or were already burned. We double-checked the barn for structural integrity and sparks.
At least it could stay as a clubhouse for the kids. Hopefully, someone would claim the tools. I didn’t like the thought they’d hang there and rust. Maybe someone would use them to rebuild the broken door, too.
Should I work up a last will and testament? I could put everything I couldn’t take with me into a trust for the Four. How much trouble would that be? I’ll look into it.
“Now, key question,” Mary continued. “You have magic gate thingies, right?”
“Sort of. There are various sorts of them, ranging from an enchanted—”
“Great, you’ve got magic gate thingies. Can you use one of those right now?”
Technically, I could. I had enough magical power to open a local gate, one that moved from place to place, rather than universe to universe. Opening an inter-universal gate would require far more power and, therefore, extensive preparation—days, possibly weeks. A local one, though, would have to be the size of a barn door, since that was the only thing I had available. It wouldn’t last long, but it could be done. All I needed was an hour or so to get it put together. I interpreted “right now” to mean “immediately,” however.
