“Sure, Maxine, sure,” Chan reaches into his bag and prepares to inject me.
The young assistant’s eyes are in danger of taking over his face when he sees the needle. The scent of fear is so overwhelming, I think he might wet himself. He gulps and looks back at me, taking shallow breaths. He is obviously well informed. When he sees the laser the Doc needs to break the skin, though, he blanches and turns away.
While Doctor Chan tends to me, I take in the rest of the room. We are back upstairs in the house, in the living room. It’s always been the most normal room in the house, with its caramel leather sofa and two big comfy chairs dominating the room. There’s a mahogany sideboard under the window, and a few other bits of furniture dotted around. No knickknacks, no family photos; nothing that truly personalises the room. There are barely any cracks in the leather seating, and the deep pile cream carpet, despite being over ten years old, looks like new. Although, after tonight, I suspect it might show some signs of wear.
There are humans coming and going; uniformed police, suits, and those I guess can only be crime scene officers, with their baggy white plastic costumes. They look and sound like rustling clouds, drifting in and out. Aliens, invading my world. I want to scream at them to get out. They have no business here, taking my refuge and turning it into a freak show. The only ones here should be Howard, Libby, and me.
The thought of my parents brings back the memory of Dillon disappearing with Libby, and Howard trailing after them. I search the room in panic, until my eyes find Howard. He looks nervous and troubled, the frown so deep it’s wrinkling the top of his nose, but otherwise he’s unharmed. Libby is sitting beside him, and he has an absent-minded hand on her shoulder. She is gripping it with both her hands, the bones of her knuckles showing through her dry skin, making sure he doesn’t leave her side. She looks as pale as he does, but other than a livid red mark round her neck and a couple of scratches on her arm and face, she looks fine, too. She isn’t taking her eyes off me.
I let out a breath of relief, and lay my head back, waves of dizziness and nausea washing over me. I have no idea how Howard managed to get her away from Dillon. I guess Dillon must have dumped her when he came back for Sam. I’m glad he did, otherwise we would all be dead. Then I remember how he betrayed me, and any gratitude I might have felt evaporates. Boiling anger fills my face, and tears sting my eyes. Because of him, any chance I ever had of anything approaching a normal life is gone.
“How did this happen?”
The Doctor Chan’s voice pulls me back to my own state. I tuck my chin into my neck, looking down the length of my body, and turning my head gingerly as I raise my arms, ignoring the resulting shooting pains. I’m a mess. Loose flaps of skin hang from gouges in my arms, stomach, and legs. I feel more wounds on my back. I’m covered in blood, but I things are already starting to knit back together. I probably looked much worse when they found me. Given a few hours, the wounds will look superficial.
“It’s not as bad as it looks, Doc,” I force myself into a sitting position to emphasise the point. “You know I just bleed a lot.”
He looks back at me, weighing up the possibilities. He is human, though, and there are limits to his imagination. There’s a difference between knowing your patient is half-vampire, and seeing them come back from the dead before your eyes, I guess. He comes to a decision, and nods.
“Well, it’s a good job you heal fast then, Missy. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He helps me to stand, biting back a yelp when I overbalance and squeeze his arm a little too hard. I hear the sickening crunch as his bone breaks. I try to apologise, but he waves my concern off with his free arm, even as the blood drains from his face. It’s not the first time he’s suffered injuries in the course of his vocation.
I think it’s the drugs kicking in rather than my speedy healing, but I’m starting to feel a little better. Light headed and giddy, but comfortably numb.
“I can manage,” I smile, a small pathetic smile, and let go of his arm. He doesn’t look convinced as I wobble, regaining my balance, but he doesn’t stop me as I head for the bathroom.
I SHOWER, WITHOUT turning up the heat. As I wash off the blood, I get a better idea of the damage. My wounds are already starting to heal enough that they won’t need bandages. What were gaping wounds now just look like nasty cuts. They will have healed by morning. I also have a few scratches, bruises, and enough of a shiner not to want to be seen this evening.
I already feel enough of a fool, without the whole world being able to see the evidence. I can’t believe I let Sam and Dillon get the better of me like that. Shame pricks my cheeks. I stand under the cool torrent, my face turned upwards, until the urge to cry passes. By the time I get out of the shower, the burning anger in my chest has been replaced by a cold knot of hatred in my gut.
My clothes are ruined. I toss them in the trash basket beside the laundry bin; just one more sign of the not-quite-normal in this house. I dab myself down with a towel but give up on that. I don’t want to ruin the towel as well, so I wrap myself in a dressing gown of Libby’s hanging on the back of the door.
I hear Doctor Chan and his young assistant leaving downstairs, and eavesdrop on their thoughts. The Doc is concerned that anything could have done that much damage to me. He thought I was indestructible; now he’s not so sure. The assistant thinks I’m like Howard, and is petrified. Not that it takes a mind reader to know that.
A quick mental scan of the house shows there’s a slayer in the basement, overseeing the collection of samples and evidence. He’s talking in a low, authoritative tone to the human who’s supposed to be in charge.
My mind reels. What is a slayer doing in the house? What has happened to Howard?
My concern is unfounded; he’s discussing something with another slayer in the lounge. I can’t get the exact details; the second slayer has a kind of blur to him I have never seen before. The thoughts and actions of those around him are fuzzy.
Even the conversation between them sounds muffled. From what I can gather, he’s unhappy about Howard’s suggestions, but aware he’s going to have to give in to them.
I don’t understand why Howard seems so calm around these new slayers, until it dawns on me - he knows them. I always knew Howard has contacts of his own, but I was not aware some of them were slayers. I guess The Breed doesn’t have such a tight hold of them all as I was led to believe.
That gives me a glimmer of hope. If there are other slayers not bound to The Breed, maybe they can help us. I try to suppress the brief stab of anger. If there was a choice all along, why did Howard force me to go along with The Breed? Why couldn’t he have just sent me to these guys in the first place?
I leave the bathroom, looking like I have been in a mild scuffle. In my room, I change into almost identical jeans and a turquoise t-shirt, before re-joining the throng.
AN OFFICER APPROACHES me. Uniformed, but not young. The insignia on his epaulettes announces he’s an inspector. If I had to guess, I’d say mid-forties. Not much older than me, despite appearances.
“Miss Maxine Tornicasa?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.”
Before I respond, a voice I recognize as belonging to the slayer from the basement interrupts.
“That will not be necessary, Johnson. I will take it from here.”
Inspector Johnson looks bemused, but shrugs and moves on without a word.
A tall grey-haired man with eyes like weathered slate accompanies the voice. He has lime-washed oak for skin. He wears slim-legged camel colour trousers, tucked into calf-length black boots, with a loose white tunic beneath a three-quarter length black coat. The hair, parted in the middle is a little longer than shoulder length, straight and heavy. The ensemble gives him the air of an ancient corsair, or an ageing adventurer. I dip my head to hide the smile that sneaks onto my face. If he were human, I would guess he were in his nineties. For a slayer to be that old he must h
ave lived a thousand years.
“You should try to relax, Maxine. We have everything under control.”
He rests his hand on my shoulder, and it feels like a dead weight. My legs feel like lead and, afraid they might buckle under me, I move to the sofa. Slumping down on it, I fight the heaviness in my eyes. I’m not sure whether it’s the after-high slump from all the adrenaline that was flowing earlier, or the relief of allowing someone else to take charge, but all I want to do is sleep. I can’t with all these humans around, though, so I settle back and watch the circus. I feel disconnected from it, like it’s all just another vision, and none of this is happening to me.
I’m not sure what the cover story will be, but there will need to be one. There’s too much commotion here. There are police of every rank and description all over the place. I’m amazed how little the scene disturbs or surprises them. Most are ambivalent; some have a clearer idea why they are here, what they are doing. None of them appear to know what I am, or the other slayers. They think we’re all like Howard, echoing the mistaken views of the younger doctor. That’s a relief, at least. It also explains why the human hunters at the station don’t trust us, and why these haven’t attacked Howard. They think we’re all the same.
Eventually the humans file out, taking bags of evidence and most of Howard’s lab equipment with them. Only the two slayers stay with Howard, Libby, and me. Much of the collected evidence will be lost somewhere along the way. This crime scene cannot be allowed to become public. There will never be any trial.
“Are you sure?” Libby holds Howard’s hands and peers up into his face, looking for any sign of doubt.
His face is emotionless. He looks through her as if she were a stranger and says simply, “Yes. Pack what you think is essential.”
“Are you sure?” The older one with the deep voice asks. “I cannot guarantee their safety Howard. After all this time, I cannot even guarantee yours.”
So, they know each other.
“Yes Quidel, I am afraid it is our only option. They will be safe.”
As Howard heads down to the basement to gather what he can from the remains of the lab, the younger one, who has been staring at me with a look of petrified horror, tears his gaze from me to Quidel and asks:
“But are you sure?”
Quidel turns to me and says, “I am sure.”
“Sure about what?” I ask groggily, but no one answers. It’s as if I’m suddenly invisible. No one will even look at me. Even Libby seems to have withdrawn into herself and refuses to meet my eye.
Apparently, we’re leaving. Everybody’s sure except me, and my opinion doesn’t seem to count for much with this bunch.
HOWARD HAS GONE to the basement, though I can’t imagine there’s much left down there to salvage. Libby goes off to gather the things she thinks absolutely necessary. The other two are ignoring me, their heads bowed in silent conversation. I don’t feel comfortable around them. I want to ask them who they are, what they’re doing here, and what they have planned, but I’m still reeling from everything that’s already happened. Something tells me they wouldn’t answer me anyway, so I head off to my room in a sulk.
I feel as if I’m being punished for Howard’s mistakes. After all, he’s the one who thought he could escape from The Coven and live among humans. He’s the one who insisted it wasn’t time for me to get away from The Breed, and he’s the one who risked everything for a lousy hot meal. It’s not like there wasn’t enough blood in the house to sustain him until the coast was clear; he didn’t have to go running off like a stupid bloodsucker.
I can’t dwell on that right now, though; can’t let anger cloud my judgement. Sam and the others won’t stay away long. Just long enough to assemble a force big enough to make sure no-one survives, and a clean-up crew. We must get out of here.
The only thing I want to take with me is my cello, and some sheet music, but that’s not an option. I pick up the cello and run my hands up and down the neck, plucking idly at the strings. The discordant twang does nothing to raise my spirits. Without thinking, I pick it up and swing it like a bat, throwing it at the mirror. Both shatter on impact, sending slivers of glass and shards of wood flying.
I pick up the prospectus. It falls open at the music department page. I stare at it in frustration, then tear the page out and fold it, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans.
I throw three pairs of jeans and three t-shirts into a backpack, with clean underwear, and my hairbrush. Then the drugs really kick in, and I curl up on my bed and doze fitfully.
The Vampires are Coming
AN OLD WOMAN in a torn grey sackcloth dress stands barefoot on top of a pyre, tied to a stake. Her hair is matted, her skin dirty and bruised, but her green eyes are clear, gleaming in the evening sunlight.
A bearded man wearing black clerical garb, with a strange-looking cross emblazoned on the chest, waves a burning torch.
“Suffer ye not a witch to live. Doesn’t the good Lord tell us this?” He addresses a small crowd, inciting them to hatred. “The demon must be burned out of the unholy wretch.”
The crowd jeer and throw stones in frenzy. The woman ducks her head and hunches her shoulders, the only defence she has against the pelting. Several of the sharp rocks hit the target, creating fresh bruises and bleeding gashes on her skin.
“In God’s name!” The man thrusts the torch deep into the pyre, which catches with alarming speed. I feel the heat of the flames and look down. Yellow tongues lash out at my bare skin, which scorches and blisters, turning a livid red. I scream. Acrid black smoke stings my eyes and fills my lungs, the sooty taste making me whoop and cough. The agony confirms that the flesh I smell burning is my own.
The swirling fog is washed away by the sharp slap of water. It is freezing cold and salty. The extreme change in temperature comes as no relief. I gasp and swallow too much of the brine, making me choke and gag. I cough it back up, my eyes and nose streaming, only to swallow more as another wave submerges me.
I try to move, to fight my way back up to the surface, but my arms and legs are tied. I’m spread-eagled, with my back arched, keelhauled to the underside of a small fishing vessel. My head breaks free of the water and I gulp in freezing air. Above the roar of the ocean and the piercing cries of the gulls in the air, I hear the jeers of the fishermen, although I can’t see them.
“Repent, witch, and cast out the demon.”
Their hatred is palpable, their vicious joy at my suffering a dagger in my heart. My eyes, nose, throat, and lungs are all burning as the third wave consumes me.
The roaring of the ocean in my ears subsides. The salt tang fades, replaced by the musty scent of damp earth. I open my eyes, but it doesn’t make any difference; there is not even the faintest glimmer of light. I’m lying on a rough wooden floor. The air is stale and dusty. With a sense of foreboding, I run my hand along the floor away from my body, and after only a few inches, feel the clammy barrier of the wall. It is made of the same rough timber as the floor. I repeat the exercise with my other hand, with the same result.
I hold my hands in front of my chest and push upwards, meeting with resistance at once. I thrust forward with all my strength, but feel the weight of the soil above. I should be able to move this easily, but my strength has gone. I start to pound my fists against the coffin lid, and shout out to raise the alarm. The sound of my cries is muted and I panic. I try to scream but only a hoarse rasping noise comes out.
I hear the echo of Libby’s words. Cu vampirii se indreapta spre.
Three black vans, with tinted windows, are racing through the streets in convoy. Through the dark glass, I see the driver of the lead vehicle and his passenger. They both have close-cropped dark hair, and wear matching black roll neck sweaters. Their skin has an unhealthy pallor.
I spring upright from the waist, sweating, but the images are still in my head, even with my eyes open.
The translation springs fully formed into my mind: “The vampires are coming.”
<
br /> I jump from the bed and pull back the curtain, as the vans pull up in front of the house.
“NO!” I YELL, and run from my room down the corridor. I leap down the stairs into the hall, and then burst into the front room to warn the others. I’m sure the slayers must be able to sense them, but they don’t seem to be alarmed.
Quidel moves past me into the hall to open the door, even though there is no knock.
Libby is carrying a small valise and hugging a backpack to her chest. She tightens her grip on it and looks at Howard. Her lips are pressed tight together, her eyes wide and unblinking. The air is thick with the pungent odour of her fear. I run my tongue along the roof of my mouth and over the back of my teeth, trying to cleave it from the back of my throat.
Howard, with a cool box in one hand and the cage with Vlad and Max in it under the other arm, moves to her side. I’m not sure how the humans missed those, but I suspect it has something to do with Quidel. He seems to have an ability to make them overlook things. My backpack and a brown leather briefcase, crammed to bursting with reams of Howard’s paperwork, are on the sofa.
“Wait!” I shout to Quidel as he reaches for the door and the adrenaline begins to flow.
Ignoring my warning, Quidel swings the door open. Six vampires, identically dressed in black cargo pants and roll necks, greet him, and then stand aside, parting for us to move toward one of the vans. Its doors are open, another four bloodsuckers in it. The driver and another vampire are in the front, glancing nervously around. There are two more vans, each surrounded by a dozen more of them, all wearing the same black uniform.
“Are you insane?” I yell at Howard. “You expect us to go with them? They’re,” Okay, I know how bad it’s going to sound even before it comes out, but I just can’t help it, “fucking VAMPIRES!”
Breed: Slayer Page 7
