Of Man and Monster

by Saje Williams

  She'd ignored the dead thing and found her first meal wandering the city streets alone. A low-rent hooker she swallowed in half a dozen large gulps. She left her lying there, unconscious but not dead. Or even dying. Her heartbeat had still been strong and healthy.

  Veronica hadn't looked back. She'd taken a car at a nearby light, snatching the driver out and tossing him from the street to the sidewalk before leaping in and taking control of the vehicle. She was heading south before the blood dried in her mouth.

  They called. Loudly.

  She felt like laughing suddenly. This place—this town—had been ripe for the plucking. She'd pulled in late one evening not three weeks ago in the third car she'd commandeered, leaving it abandoned a ways out of town along a barely used dirt road leading into the wilderness. She'd hitchhiked into town, using a little telepathic jolt to make her would-be good Samaritan pliable, then drank him down to about halfway, psychically erasing all memories of her.

  She found she had a talent for that—for screwing around inside a person's head. Maybe she'd learned a little more from Dr. Seymour than she'd thought.

  The thought of her former mentor, her former lover, the man who'd used and abandoned her without even a backward glance, made her faintly sick to her stomach. Such physiological responses didn't seem to have a lot to do with being alive or dead. Even vampires got nauseous, apparently.

  He'd been so slick. But, then again, slick was the name of the game when you're a nationally renowned televangelist.

  She'd been a Divinity student, caught up in an almost rapturous love of God and Christ's teachings. She'd been raised that way—her parents had been very pious, and had insisted she attended only the best religious schools. Even the college they'd chosen for her had a reputation as a fine, upstanding, morally righteous institute of higher learning.

  It deserved its reputation, she supposed. But not once it had accepted Dr. Seymour's offer to teach classes there. For as righteous as the school thought it was, and as righteous as Seymour pretended to be, he was simply trolling for young, impressionable, naïve young women. And what better place to find them than in the Divinity department of a prestigious religious university?

  He'd gotten her pregnant, then used his influence to frame her for an assortment of petty crimes and transgressions that violated her contract with the school. She'd been unceremoniously dumped, her accusations against Seymour falling upon ears not only deaf, but filled with several feet of solid concrete. It occurred to her at the time that it wasn't as though they didn't believe her. They didn't want to believe her, or act upon it even if they did. It would be a scandal, and an expensive one. Between other alumni who'd withdraw their support, they stood to lose several million dollars in grants from Seymour himself if they didn't back his play.

  Nothing personal. Merely politics.

  Shamed to the point of contemplating suicide, she'd refused to return home. Her parents might have accepted her back, but there was no way they'd ever look at her the same. She'd be tucked away, allowed to have the baby, and then shuffled off somewhere else where they wouldn't have to be reminded of her sins.

  So she chose a slow death on the street. She'd sold herself. Not once, but multiple times. If she was already disgraced, what could it matter?

  That's where the bloodsucker found her. On the street, trying to cadge a couple dollars to feed herself and the tiny spark of life gnawing at her belly from the inside. Pure unadulterated evidence of her disgrace.

  And then, after she'd lost everything else to Seymour, the demon had sucked her life and her humanity right out of her and left her for dead in an abandoned warehouse.

  She hadn't expected this at all. This new existence she both loathed and treasured in equal measure. It would give her the power to take her revenge. She could even do it now, and probably would have already if not for those infernal voices in her head. Promising her more than she'd ever dreamed of having.

  She'd decided that God had turned his back on her. Why not, since she was obviously evil enough to do the dirty deed with Seymour—to corrupt a man of God with the filth of her sexuality?

  She wavered between seeing herself as a victim and seeing herself as the source of the corruption. Either way she was damned, right? Especially now, taken from the world of the living and thrown bodily into the regions of the night?

  She had a new master now. One who hadn't abandoned her. One who understood and accepted what she'd become. One who'd sent the vampire to her because of her base nature, knowing she'd learn to revel in the dark power he granted her.

  She'd stood on the church lawn for what seemed like hours before trying the door. But as she approached and realized that the cross didn't repel her, she'd grown bold. She'd forced the door and wandered in, anticipating a lightning bolt but not really expecting it. Hadn't she become a dark power herself? Chosen by God's nemesis to fight him? Why should religious symbols do her any harm? Wasn't it said that a demon could recite the Lord's Prayer if it served its purposes?

  It suited her that she could enter the church, lay her hands on the altar. It took an effort of will not to trash the place just because she could. To use her rampant strength to destroy what men had erected in awe of the very God who'd turned his back on her.

  She'd waited there until nearly dawn. Then, to her surprise, she had the opportunity to meet the minister who led the congregation, a fragile looking older man whose placid, peaceful demeanor had simply infuriated her. How dare he feel so content in his faith when she had suffered so greatly because of her own?

  She remained in hiding as he began preparing for the morning's sermon, puttering around, humming a hymn under his breath.

  She'd nearly killed him but stopped herself at the last moment. A plan was forming at the back of her mind, a plan she was certain had come from her Dark Master himself. A plan worthy of Him. To take the Lord's place and turn it to His uses. A way to avenge herself on the Deity who had spurned her.

  She wormed her way into the preacher's mind, injected a memory of a phone call that had never happened. A recollection of a woman's voice, a woman of high regard in the church, who was currently traveling the country as a guest speaker. A woman who knew the glory of God like none other.

  He would schedule a late Sunday sermon for her benefit, to welcome her into town and allow her to speak to his congregation, to tell them of her experiences and to share her faith with them.

  It had been so easy. Mortal minds were so pliable, especially in a place like this—where piety was as common as the coins that fell into the collection basket from eager fingers. She returned the next night to a crowded house. Her power radiated from her as she took the podium. She felt it passing over the audience like a dark, heavy wave. Within seconds they all adored her, would do anything to serve her. So she had them bring others with them on subsequent nights. Family members. Neighbors. Co-workers. Even those who attended other churches. They appealed to their curiosity, if nothing else.

  Redburn was a pious community. Most small towns, particularly ones that are somewhat isolated, tended to be. It took her a week to establish her dominance of their minds, but once she had it, it was unbreakable.

  And all of this happened under the cops’ very noses. Until she turned her first victim. She drained her dry, as she herself had been drained, and left her in her own apartment. It hadn't been hard to extrapolate that the change would take three nights. It had for her.

  She could've stolen them away, kept them somewhere safe, but it amused her to see the cops spinning their wheels trying to figure out what happened. She'd been a little concerned about that woman cop, that Rachel Flynn. She was smart, savvy, and dedicated. The exact wrong kind to find in a small town with little real crime.

  Then her boy had been snatched. By another vamp, obviously. He'd come back and started some sniffing around of his own. Veronica couldn't let that happen. She confronted him, thought he'd knuckle under if she threatened his friend.

  She hadn't expecte
d the friend to go all furry on her. That had been a shock. And she didn't like shocks.

  From that point on it had been one after another, so quick she couldn't make a move without stumbling over one of them. The delving had been going fast enough—as well it should with over two thousand people working on it.

  They were down here. She knew it. She could hear them shrieking in the back of her mind, driving her like a whip.

  She gestured and brought her fledglings running. “Enough fucking around.” It was time to start fighting for real. If her human zombies couldn't do the job, and her thralls fell short, that left one option. They'd have to do it themselves.

  * * * *

  Bigby and Tooms crouched in the dark, waiting for the flood of zombies to pass. The big man wasn't sure if they'd actually notice them but he wasn't willing to take a chance. He'd promised Tooms that he'd help him find his wife, foolish as that might have been.

  He didn't want to admit what the woman was after, not even to himself. He'd kept their secret, and the mystery of this place, to himself for far longer than he had ever expected. He'd thought his creator—the creator of all his kind—would have tracked him down long before this and forced him to lead him to the gems.

  But that hadn't happened. Bigby had lost himself in his mortal guise—in playing human. He'd been doing it for several centuries now and he'd almost forgotten what it was like to be what he really was. In the early years he'd transformed himself when it suited him. There were few humans here then, and all of them primitives. They looked upon him in his natural form as some supernatural being. Which, for all intents and purposes, he was.

  He had no doubt the gems had called the bitch here. They were meant to be in the world. Had they been able to speak to him, he could easily believe they would have eventually forced him to do their bidding.

  But instead they'd waited until a receptive mind came on-line and summoned her with whatever promises moved her spirit. He hadn't thought the things sentient, but maybe he was wrong. How would he know, after all? He hadn't created the things. He didn't even know who had. Or for what purpose.

  But he'd found them. Well—he'd torn them out of the body of their symbiote after he'd been forced to kill him. So maybe that counted as “found.” It did to him, but his species was known for its predatory, avaricious nature. They couldn't help it.

  The gems were hidden with the rest of his hoard, buried so deep that he would've sworn no mortal could ever find them. But he knew now how wrong he'd been. So wrong that countless humans had died in a search for them.

  His own instincts told him that they were getting close. Probably closer than even that damned woman knew. A faint tingle of amusement ran through him as he considered that. To be so close and yet not even know it.

  Or maybe she did. It just didn't matter now. Bigby's sense of his own domain told him that others had invaded it. Probably Rachel and the others. Or so he hoped. The thought of others down here made his flesh crawl. He couldn't risk anyone getting their hands on the gems. He just couldn't. He thought—hoped—that if Rachel and her band of weirdoes found his trove, he could somehow convince them to keep silent. If not ... he'd do what he had to do, whether he ended up regretting it or not.

  Once the zombies had passed they stood and headed in the opposite direction.

  * * * *

  Gavin Chase slunk down a tunnel not too far away, heart pounding in his chest so hard he would've sworn they could have heard it. But the vampires had been too intent on something else, apparently. Or maybe they'd simply assumed he was one of their zombies.

  No matter. He'd managed to slip past them. He was getting close to the end of their tunnels. If what they were seeking was nearby, he might well have the chance to find it before the battle that would soon commence could be decided. He hoped he could.

  He needed those gems.

  Hades couldn't possibly know he'd even learned of their existence. It had been accident, after all, that put him outside in the hallway when the bastard had been discussing them with his Fey majordomo. "Power beyond imagining," he had said.

  Chase needed that kind of power. He needed to come up with some way to free his wife and child from Hades’ grasp. He wasn't foolish or naïve enough to assume that Hades would be satisfied by the simple act of bringing a vampire for him to study. He'd always have just one more thing he wanted out of him. One more task to perform.

  He wished he didn't feel like he'd betrayed everyone. But he had, of course. He'd betrayed his wife first by having an affair. It hadn't lasted long, but it didn't take long. He'd been out at one of his assignations when Hades’ men had abducted her. He'd left her vulnerable.

  He knew, on a rational level, that the fact that he was fucking around on her had nothing to do with it. Knowing it and feeling it were two different things. He felt guilty, responsible for the whole damned thing.

  The note he'd found lying on their bed had been enough to send him skating to the edge of sanity. It had been signed, and he had little doubt as to the authenticity of the signature, Hades. Lord of the Underworld. One didn't work for the Thorn Academy, or under the auspices of the Paranormal Affairs Commission, without hearing that name.

  Renegade immortal. Zombie master. A genetic engineer of the same caliber as Loki, the trickster who'd created the vampires in the first place. Gavin knew the history as well as any mortal did. He'd pretty much had to, to teach at the Academy.

  He trotted up to a fork in the tunnel and, after a moment of consideration, chose the left hand path. He wasn't sure why. It just seemed like the proper choice.

  Not that he had any history of making the right choice. When he found the note, he should have gone to Athena. Or Loki. Or Renee. Or even Thoth. But he hadn't. The note had warned him to keep quiet and he'd be contacted.

  He had. May he be damned to hell forever, but he had. He'd done it to assuage his own guilt, even managing to convince himself that he was protecting her. Even though he knew better. He was protecting himself, his reputation, his sense of who he was.

  He wasn't even sure he loved his wife anymore. But he owed her.

  When he found out about Cory, he'd planned on snatching him right away. But his curiosity had been aroused by Veronica's actions. She seemed to be after something in particular and, after raking through his memory, he stumbled across a good theory as to her goal. She was after those gems. Hades had known they were down here somewhere in Central Oregon. Chase had recalled there being something about that in the conversation he'd overheard. He knew they were here, but well guarded. He hadn't wanted to risk any of his men in what could turn out to be a fruitless search.

  Chase planned to turn that to his advantage. Right now Hades held the stick. He had everything wrapped up in a nice little package. His own inside man at the Academy, or so he thought. But Chase had screwed that up for him. He'd whispered something about his wife and child going missing and took a sabbatical.

  He'd tried to make it sound like a marital dispute to give him some maneuvering room, but had no idea whether or not it had worked. Even if it had, the whole thing was blown wide open now. Amanda Keening had seen to that.

  He swore under his breath as the tunnel abruptly ended. Of course he'd picked the wrong branch. Frowning, he tapped on the wall with the butt of a pick lying nearby. Was that a hollow sound? He drew back the pick and swung. Struck and swung again. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping into his eyes as he slashed at the stone time and again.

  It crumbled, revealing a doorway into a huge cavern that seemed to glow with a light of its own. He took a hesitant step inside, a tingle of anticipation rising from his feet to the tip of his head in one heated rush.

  Nineteen

  They came upon them in a flash, four pale blurs out of the clinging darkness. Before they could react the vampires were in their midst, striking with hands curled into savage claws, using their immense strength to throw the mortals around like dolls in a playroom.

  Cory whirled, death in hi
s eyes. He lunged to intercept Veronica in her rush for his mother, only to be caught in the side by one of her Get and hurled bodily into the nearest wall. He rebounded, momentarily dazed, to see Veronica deal Sgt. Scorpius a staggering blow that sent him skidding on his knees for several feet before collapsing to the floor.

  "No guns!” someone yelled, as a burst of gunfire flashed through the dark. He felt one slug snag his shirt sleeve as it passed to shatter white hot against the wall behind him, spraying his face with stone splinters and molten lead.

  These were more dangerous than their last vampiric adversaries. Those had been beasts in the clothes of men. These were wily, sentient, and vicious creatures.

  As if to prove this realization true, Veronica caught Rachel up in her grasp and lifted her above her head. “Stop!” she roared. The word echoed through the chamber like the voice of God. Without thought the mortals froze in place, held fast by the power of her will. It vibrated through the chamber like it had a will of its own.

  His vampires all became as statues as well, not held in place by her power, but by the sight of Rachel in such grave peril. Veronica smiled thinly. It seemed Rachel's weight meant nothing to her. She showed no strain holding her in the air above her head. “We are at an impasse, you think?"

  Rachel began to struggle, hand clawing at the inside of her jacket. What's she after? And then it struck him. “Run!"

  The other vampires realized what she was doing about the same time he had. They spun in concert, streaking for the side tunnels strewn along the cavern walls.

  * * * *

  Light exploded through the cavern as the ankh fell free of Rachel's pocket. She heaved herself over, slapping the device against the side of Veronica's face. The undead woman shrieked and let her tumble free. Rachel landed half-supine, the emblem against the stone floor, throwing up an orb of magical light.