Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  “Presley!” she called. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, madame,” the butler’s voice responded, muffled by the wood of a closet. “I look forward to being released, to be sure. But I’ve not been harmed.”

  “I’ll be back for you,” she promised.

  But first, she needed to check outside. She could hear a car approach. The enemy might be out there even now.

  Taylor crept into the foyer as a form approached the front door. She lifted her arms and immediately elevated up and back into a shadowed corner of the ceiling. At the same time, she applied all her powers of invisibility and obscurity.

  The door burst open.

  “I got you, Taylor.” Remington gasped and struggled to drag in a breath. He was red-faced and thoroughly winded and struggled as he heaved her coffin to yank it foot by foot over the threshold and into the foyer. “Don’t worry. I got you.”

  Taylor gawked while she watched him from on high. He wasn’t speaking to her but to the casket.

  “I’ll make sure you’re safe until you can get up, finally. We’ve made it this far. I only have to get to the cellar now.” He patted the wooden lid.

  Well, that clarifies a few things—the bastards plotting against me must have stolen it and somehow, my new employee brought it back. She decided not to reveal herself yet, though. Remington might have more to say.

  “And once you get up,” he went on, his voice ragged, “I guess it’s more of the other two M’s. We’re beyond mitigation at this point, ha, ha. We have some murder to do. And then I think I could use a mindwipe. Don’t want to constantly see all this stuff in my sleep at night.”

  What did he do?

  Remy dragged the coffin across the floor a few feet, bunched one of the rugs, and gave up for the moment. He was breathing heavily and needed a rest.

  “You know”—he patted the casket again—“I really have learned all kinds of useful things from you. I almost wish someone would have taught me some of this crap sooner. Like, why was everyone so nice to me when I was a kid? I didn’t deserve it. They only taught me that I could do whatever I wanted. I wish someone had kicked my ass a little more.”

  Riley, the fairy from Fluttershire who’d been with Remy before, flew up to the doorway. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he told her. “Wait at the car for now. I need a couple of minutes alone.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged and flitted out into the night.

  He took a deep breath. Taylor didn’t think her coffin was that heavy but it had been a long, long time since she’d been cursed with merely mortal strength.

  “And the trust,” he went on. “You actually trusted me to do things. Now that I think about it, my family only trusted me to…I don’t know, be a Remington and collect dividends, I guess.”

  At that, he laughed and looked into the distance for a moment before he returned his attention to the oblong box. “Not that I didn’t think you were kind of a bitch with that fairy assignment at first, of course. That was an intentional hazing, wasn’t it? But maybe it’s what I needed. I was…ignorant. And, you know, that which does not kill me, uh…well, it didn’t kill me.”

  Taylor began to wonder if maybe he were back on drugs. She didn’t smell any but he wasn’t usually this emotional.

  “And you know,” he continued, “really, you’re the only friend I have now. And I mean that. Well, besides Riley, but I’m not sure someone only a few inches tall really counts. Anyway, it’s been a while since anyone wasn’t using me for what little is left of my money…or because I know the good dealers…or because they were hoping the Remington fame would rub off on them. Hell, you want less attention, not more. I respect that, dammit.”

  The vampire had to admit she was enjoying this.

  Remy wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed his hands on his pant legs. “Okay, yeah. In a way, you’re using me to deflect attention from yourself, so no one realizes that you’re old enough to draw a pension multiple times over. What decade did they start pensions, anyway? Or century? I forget. But, whatever. I can’t complain. You’ve paid my account damn well for the privilege of using me. If any of my other friends did that, I wouldn’t be in this place.”

  He exhaled and calmness settled over his face. “Not that I entirely mind being here.”

  Finally, he again tried to hoist the coffin up but it seemed he was having even more difficulty than before.

  A smile crept onto Taylor’s face. She floated from the ceiling, landed soundlessly behind the young Remington, and said, “Need any help?”

  He spun with a tense, jerky motion, stared at her with eyes like tea saucers, and dropped the coffin.

  She slid past him, caught the casket’s bottom edge with one hand, and easily supported it to prevent it from crashing into the floor. “You know, David,” she chided, “a little more situational awareness might do you some good.”

  He cleared his throat and impressed her by regaining his composure in about a second.

  “Yes, situational awareness,” he drawled, straightened his tie, and smoothed his hair. “I’ve heard of that. And I suppose you heard everything I said. Not that I have any idea how you got out of the coffin so fast when I wasn’t paying attention. But aside from the bitch comment, nothing I said was particularly scandalous, anyway.”

  “By all means,” Taylor remarked, “keep telling yourself that. First, though, might you be able to tell me why my coffin was not in my cellar? And why it is damaged?” She had seen the long, jagged slash.

  His nostrils flared. “It was Tucker,” he stated. “No great surprise there. And Riley and I overheard and saw enough to know that he definitely wasn’t working alone, although he and his men pulled the heist off. The…um, stealing you heist.”

  She nodded. Deep within, she seethed with rage. A bonfire had flared in the core of her being but no one looking at her would have been able to guess this. Her exterior was not of fire, but of ice. “Who else was working with him?”

  “Oh, you know,” said Remy, “a number of mercenary types, some good old boys, some mobsters…that guy Albert, who runs the shitty casino in Lower Manhattan I was at before I investigated James’s house, was apparently in on it as well. Although he and Tucker obviously hated each other since I happened to stumble across a little gift he left for our Southern friend.”

  The vampire cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Silver bullets,” he explained. “I suppose amongst werewolves, that’s the equivalent of putting a horse’s head under the covers. It was intended as a message. I, however, actually used them, so that worked out nicely.” He smirked a little. “Tucker won’t be a problem anymore.”

  “I see. That saves me the trouble of having to rip his spine out. However, once it gets out that you have killed a werewolf, your position in the preternatural world will change. We had better prepare you for it.”

  It looked at her like he was about to make some ridiculous comment about how much of a hero he was for overcoming the lycanthrope, so she spoke again before he could. “Now, tell me the rest.” She put enough command into her tone to ensure he responded.

  “Uh, yes,” he stammered, somewhat disoriented by having his nascent boasting cut off. “Tucker mentioned someone he called Mr G, whoever that is. I got the impression he was working for him. And Albert’s letter referred to the same person.”

  She nodded. Her eyes narrowed and she knew they were on the verge of emitting a faint red glow.

  “Gabriel.” She all but growled the word.

  “Who?” Remy asked. “Well, obviously, you think that’s what the ‘G’ stands for, but—”

  “Gabriel Joshua Simons. The third of my three main suspects. A rather young and moronically arrogant vampire. He’s always struck me as the vicious, hotheaded type—Precisely the kind who gives my species a bad name with humans.”

  He massaged his throat. “Another vampire. I’d almost started to think you were the only one.”

  “I’m no
t.” She started to pick her coffin up. Remy, apparently suffering an attack of chivalry, stooped to help her even though she could more than support the weight. She allowed him to hold the foot-end, nonetheless.

  As they marched down the hallway and sought the cellar door, she continued. “I cannot be one hundred percent certain that it’s Gabriel yet, but I would be surprised if it weren’t. Unfortunately, I don’t know where he is. But I’m sure some of his allies or lackeys do.”

  “That makes sense,” Remy agreed.

  She supported the casket with one hand, opened the cellar door, and descended the staircase with Remington trundling along behind her, still holding his end of their load somewhat awkwardly.

  When they reached the bottom, Taylor guided them toward the sarcophagus and directed him to circle to the other side. He complied and they lowered the box into its home.

  He cleared his throat. “I have to ask, though…where the hell were you? We all assumed you were in the coffin, including Tucker and his pals.”

  “Obviously,” she responded, “you were wrong. I never sleep in it. It is what you call a misdirection. And you don’t need to know where I do sleep, either.”

  If he had examined the stone coffin in detail, he would have found the trapdoor built into its bottom and surmised that she slept somewhere deeper underground.

  The young man nodded with a sour frown. “To be honest, I thought they would take the coffin to a foundry or something and stuff it into a blast furnace. Anyway, if you had been sleeping in the damn thing, I would have actually saved your life.” He attempted to smile.

  Taylor finished adjusting the box’s position within the sarcophagal enclosure. She flicked her gaze at him. “If. But true enough. Thank you, Remy.”

  “The fairy helped too, of course,” he admitted. “I left her in the car, but I’ll go fetch her in a minute so you can thank her yourself. First, though, where’s Presley? And what do you plan to do next?”

  “Presley,” she said and brushed her hands against each other, “is in a closet upstairs. He’s fine. I’ll release him presently. And as for what I am about to do…” Her voice dropped to a low and icy register. “Think of everything you’ve heard about what happens when someone tips a motorcycle belonging to an outlaw biker. Now multiply that by seven, and you have some idea of what happens when someone fucks with a vampire’s coffin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Harrison, Westchester County, New York

  Taylor crushed the severed zip-ties in her hand and threw them into the trash. Presley nodded to her and rubbed his sore wrists.

  “Thank you, madame,” he said. His voice was weak and scratchy, probably from thirst.

  She went to the kitchen sink and filled a glass with water. “You know you don’t have to thank me for freeing you, Presley. I’m only glad they weren’t stupid enough to kill you.”

  “Indeed,” the butler acknowledged, accepted the glass, and tipped it toward his mouth.

  Remy watched them from the kitchen doorway. “Ah…I’m sorry I didn’t check the house for you, Jeeves,” he said and scratched the back of his neck. “I suppose I simply assumed that either they took you with Taylor, or that you were already under a few tons of wet cement somewhere. No offense.”

  The old man stopped drinking for a moment to respond. “None taken, sir.”

  He continued. “Pardon my asking, but why didn’t they simply kill you?”

  The vampire answered the question herself. “My enemies are not particularly smart,” she began, “but they are not utter fools, either. Presley, too, is a werewolf. He’s no pushover.”

  The young man blinked in surprise. “I did not know that.”

  The butler smiled as his mistress admitted, “We should have told you sooner. We were half-hoping that you might spread misinformation about him being human, in which case they wouldn’t dare to kill him. The authorities turn a blind eye to most incidents involving preternaturals, but all bets are off when it comes to mortals.”

  “Well,” he interrupted, “they tried to kill me.” He put his hands on his hips.

  “That,” she retorted, “is probably because you attacked them, in the first place, and they assumed they could pass it off as a well-known substance abuser getting in over his head at a drug deal gone bad.”

  His gaze went distant as he considered this. “Yeah, true.” He was glad that Riley had returned to her nest. Taylor had already spoken to her and he feared that if she were present, she might embarrass him.

  “Furthermore,” she continued, “Presley has a great many friends and connections by now. If he were murdered, no one in authority would seriously believe that he’d brought it on himself by some misbehavior. The DA might be personally involved in no time. You may not have seen Presley at swanky charity events, but I guarantee you that he knows half the servants and vendors and security people your family has had dealings with, Remington. And they would miss him.”

  Presley smiled wanly. “You’re too kind, madame.”

  Remy could recall a few people like that—individuals who were not exactly famous but who seemed both beloved and indispensable wherever they went or wherever they were known.

  “Presley,” said Taylor, “contact our allies immediately. If the enemy hasn’t already moved against them, they need to be prepared for what’s about to come.”

  Remington felt a surge of excitement at the way she said that. He clapped his hands. “Okay, so now we go kick some ass, am I right?”

  The vampire pulled a pitcher from her fridge that contained something that almost looked like tomato juice. “You’re mostly right, aside from the ‘we’ part. Both of you will stay here—the enemy might well try a counterstrike. And before you protest, think back to what you said about not wanting to deal with some of the ugly memories you got from your first taste of real violence. I’m about to create several memories of that kind. It’s better if you simply let me handle it.”

  He allowed his hands to hang at his sides. “Yes, Mom.” He groaned. “I suppose you’re right, though.”

  After drinking a glass of her scarlet provender, Taylor showed him to the mansion’s safe room hidden in the interior of the house on the second floor. It had its own crude but serviceable facilities—water, food, weapons, and cots. It was fireproof, bulletproof, and climate-controlled. She opened it with her palm-print and explained that only her hand could open it again—or program the time-lock.

  “I’ll set it,” she informed him, “for ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I intend to return by dawn, for obvious reasons, but I can survive past sun-up if need be. That means if I’m not back by ten, you may assume me killed in action, at which point, Presley will take over the agency’s affairs and you will continue to work under him.”

  Remy’s gut tightened at the matter of fact way she said this. “Do you expect to get killed?”

  “No,” she replied immediately, “but it’s always possible.” She turned to look into his eyes, her own black and deep. “Thank you, again, Remington, for providing me with leads and for trying to rescue me, even if I didn’t actually need rescuing. You have more mettle than I thought. Assuming I return, we’ll need to temper you a little more. Much more, actually. But still. I am pleased.”

  She turned and left, moving so fast he was surprised to find her simply gone and the safe room’s metal door already closed.

  “Bye, I guess,” he quipped halfheartedly.

  Presley stood beside him. “Don’t worry too much, sir. While it’s true there is real danger, she’s rather experienced in this kind of thing and not one to be easily pushed over.”

  He rubbed his eyes and sat on the nearest cot. “I’ll try to take your word for it but I can’t help worrying. Don’t tell her I said that, though.” He stretched and made himself comfortable. “Don’t mind if I pass out here. I was in a battle myself recently, and you’d be amazed how tiring it is.”

  His brief attempt to relax was interrupted by what sounded like the blastin
g-off of a jet engine. He jerked himself into a seated position.

  “What the hell was that? I didn’t know she had an F-16.”

  Presley’s mouth twisted with what almost looked like amusement. “Only a car, sir. Although not a Tesla.”

  Outside, Taylor’s huge black muscle-car roared up and out of its subterranean compartment, which lay below and beside the formal garage that housed her other vehicles. It careened out of the driveway and surged down the winding residential streets before it reached one of the main roads leading toward New York City.

  As it rocketed down the avenues at speeds normally reserved for professional racecar drivers, a deputy of the Westchester Sheriff’s Office saw it streak past in his cruiser.

  “What the flying fuck? Was that even a car?” he sputtered. By the time he checked his time-lapse camera, the vehicle was already long gone.

  He called it in with the intention that someone farther south could deal with it and read the license plate number. There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment before Officer Larkin—who was usually as monotone as hell—spoke again in a confused tone of irritation.

  “Sit where you are,” she said to him, “and let it go. That’s what they’re telling me. I repeat. Do not pursue. This comes directly from the commissioner, apparently.”

  The deputy shook his head. “Cloak-and-dagger shit, man.”

  Sullivan Street, Lower Manhattan, New York City

  The vampire’s nose and sixth sense identified the Chattering & Chips Casino before her eyes did. The place smelled, as it always did, of preternatural activities, but the vibe of the air around it was tinged with warning.

  Her black mechanical warhorse naturally tended to force other vehicles aside and she quickly found a parking space that was close to the sub-level entrance. A couple of drunks wandered down the sidewalk and stared at her.

  She ignored them as she got out. The muscle-car was not a subtle vehicle but she was beyond the point at which subtlety was advisable. What she needed now was speed and power—considerable power.