Bitten in Two

by Jennifer Rardin

  He glanced back at me. “Aw, now, yer being modest. Yer not just any vamp. All hoity-toity, living in this house here, surrounded by humans. Kinda like a Trust, as it were,” he said, his grin revealing an overabundance of brown teeth dominated by sharp, yellow incisors. “Which means yer Vampere. Which means you put a whole lotta store in contracts.”

  “I am impressed at your knowledge of the inner workings of the Trust. And yet you have somehow managed to miss the most important rule.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That Trust members must be protected at any cost. Even if that means breaking a solemn vow.” Before the scoundrel could do more than widen his eyes, I strode forward and seized him by the throat. At the same moment a short but immensely broad-shouldered olive-skinned man burst through the door. He brandished a sword, while the white-aproned woman behind him held an iron skillet aloft with both hands.

  “Berggia, does that weapon contain any silver?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  “Did that monster hurt my baby?” asked the woman. Her hips were even broader than the man’s shoulders.

  “I am afraid so, Madame Berggia. Unfortunately, he—” But that was enough for her. She swung her frying pan down over her husband’s shoulder and smashed it into the Were’s head. He fell limp in my hands.

  “That’ll teach ’im,” she announced. Dropping the pan on the floor, she rushed to the chaise to tend to Helena.

  “Call the bobbies,” I told Berggia. “We shall treat this as a human matter. Which means we must first remove the wolf that lies in the gutter outside the door.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but they came and took it away already.”

  “You saw?”

  “Yes. That was what sent me and the wife running inside from the errand you sent us on.” I did not bother to tell him that the chore had been a ruse of the wolves to remove them from the premises. I could tell from the haunted look in his eyes that his story would not bear interruption. He said, “It was strange enough that two people were loading a bleeding wolf into a carriage. But even more bizarre that one of them, well, seems like I saw the same lady during the war. She was a’leaning over one of the dying chaps. And after it was over, they both stood up and walked away.”

  “How did you recognize her again?” I asked, a ring of ice encasing my heart. Berggia, who had never stepped away from a task in all the years I had known him, blanched. “Come, now, man. I must know.”

  “Hu… her dress belt looked like it were made from snakes. Like living, moving ones that intertwined at the clasp. And this gel had the selfsame belt on.” And now, surely, my heart had stopped altogether. For Berggia must have witnessed one of the cubs of Medusa herself. “What was it, sir? What did I see?”

  I strode to the desk and began pulling out papers. Though I could not read their contents, their seals told me enough. Only the ones most vital to our travels would be packed. The others must stay to make it look as if we meant to return. Because the Berggias had to understand our plight, I said, “That werewolf wanted Helena for his own. He is obsessed with her. And now he is in the hands of a Gorgon.” I tried to speak as clearly as I could despite the necessity for speed and my growing fear for my daughter. “Gorgons can eat death.”

  I waited for the Berggias to recover from the initial shock. They had seen enough in their time with me that it did not take long. I continued. “I will not describe to you the nature of this consumption. It is”—I looked up to find them both staring at me from pale, still faces—“quite ghastly. But you must understand that once Roldan—the wolf—agrees to the Gorgon’s terms, he will become beholden.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Madame Berggia. She had maneuvered Helena’s head onto her prodigious lap, and was now smoothing back her shining brown hair.

  I had emptied the drawers and now moved to the safe that was hidden behind a series of books on the occult. Turning my back to them (Not because it is difficult to face the fearful eyes of those completely dependent on me, I whispered to myself) I said, “The Gorgon will return when Roldan’s life has run its natural course. And every night thereafter she will eat Roldan’s death until the Were’s soul shatters.” I heard Madame Berggia gasp, but did not turn around. Reaching into the safe, I pulled out all of my earthly goods.

  “How long do you suppose that will take?” asked my valet.

  I deposited the small trunk in which I kept my cash and valuables onto the desk. “It depends on the wolf. But I doubt that Helena will survive him. So we must take her out of the country. And we must leave tonight.” Opening the trunk, I began to load it with papers.

  Berggia said, “What do you want us to do?”

  “Take Helena upstairs and tend to her. I wish we had time to call a surgeon around, but we must trust that she will wake soon and make a complete recovery. While she sleeps, pack as if we are simply taking a short trip. But take everything we cannot do without. I shall go and book tickets on the first steamer out of port.” (And then we will board the second. Perhaps that will throw Roldan off long enough for me to devise a better plan.)

  Sharp pain, beginning at my neck and shooting around to my spine, ending at the backs of my knees. Which had begun a fine tremble. I felt Vayl’s former reality melt away and reached out for it, as if I could give it enough support to find out what happened to Helena. “No, no,” I heard myself murmur. “Where’d she go?”

  I felt something impeding my hand, which wanted badly to reconstruct the picture in my head, and realized it was a broad, hard chest. I rolled my head straight, letting the wall behind me provide support for a heaviness I was pretty sure my neck couldn’t yet handle, and peered up at my sverhamin. He stared down at me, his eyes dark as a forest path. I watched him lick my blood from his lips. Felt him press his handkerchief against my wound, his fingers so warm I could feel each one of them through the linen.

  “You are too generous with me, my Jasmine, you always have been.”

  “What?” I slapped my hand against his so he couldn’t back away. “What did you call me?”

  His eyebrows twitched. “Are you quite all right?”

  “What is my name?” I demanded.

  “Madame Berggia, of course. It always has—”

  “You just called me Jasmine.”

  He pulled his hand away, leaving me to hold the temporary bandage. Even if I hadn’t been able to read irritation in the lines between his forehead and beside his lips, I’d have sensed his withdrawal from a mile away. No wonder Wraiths were often found encased in the ice of their own breath. Eventually you get so cold nobody wants to touch you.

  He said, “If I did, which I am certain I did not, it was no doubt a slip of the tongue engendered by the fact that I have been corresponding with a lovely woman from this city who goes by that name.”

  “You’re so fulla shit,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I need to learn to knit.” I began trudging in the direction of Sister Hafeza’s shop. I was really trying to feel like crap. It seemed like the appropriate moment and all. But my postdonation high had kicked in, big-time. And I had to think Vayl whispering my name was a hopeful sign. An unbreakable curse showed no weak seams to begin with. I’d just found one. Which meant this state Vayl had found himself didn’t have to be permanent after all.

  If I skipped down the street, would he pull out the pockhole and try to fire me again? It might be fun to tell him to shove the snooty. Only then I wouldn’t get to read any more hot love letters. Oh! No, I didn’t… yup. Just shower me with confetti now, girls. Because I’ve just dreamed up the best note motivator ever!

  I said, “Speaking of that Jasmine chick. She didn’t just have a courier drop her letter by. She brought it herself. While you were, uh, sleeping.”

  “What? I missed her?” I didn’t dare look at him; he’d pick up on my barely disguised glee. “Did she resemble the portrait?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”


  “Oh. You know how artists take liberties.”

  Aw, man, don’t tell me 1777 Vayl is shallow too! “Would it matter?” I asked.

  “Not the least,” he said. “But now I know the face I envision every time I close my eyes is genuinely hers.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, uh, then you could understand why she wanted to take a look at you too.”

  “She… wanted to see me? During my day-sleep?”

  “Well, we said no. But this girl, she’s very strong-willed. Just insisted. Said things like she couldn’t go another day without gazing upon your manly visage or some such thing. And we couldn’t be responsible for her jumping off a parapet, could we? So, you know, we gave her a peek.”

  Now I just had to look. Vayl was staring down the street we’d turned onto, past the crowds of pedestrians, into a world that looked like it kinda freaked him out. “What did she say?” he whispered.

  “She was concerned that you sleep with your mouth open. Because, you know, bugs and dust can get in.”

  “Oh.” Destitute. What, had he forgotten the note already? I decided to let him off the hook.

  “And she liked your butt.”

  He jerked his eyes to mine. “What?”

  “Of course, being a lady, she couldn’t say it out loud. But you were lying on your side, so there it was, all outlined by your, um, that thing you wear to bed. And I could just tell.”

  His chest swelled with the breath he took. “I will write her tonight. I will demand to meet her.” His hands clenched. I could tell he was imagining what he wanted to do to her… me… with them. It took my breath away.

  When I finally managed to gulp myself back to reality, I said, “What about the vamp she’s with? Aren’t you worried about him at all?”

  Vayl’s voice dropped into the sexy growl that set parts of me on fire. “She will leave him willingly once we have… spoken. I am sure of it.”

  Me too. “Um, Lord Brâncoveanu?”

  “Yes, Madame Berggia.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how many women have you… you know… since you became a vampire?”

  He shrugged. “I have lost count. For a time all I knew were women, as if only they could keep me from completely destroying myself.”

  I imagined Vayl rolling in a virtual sea of naked bimbos and felt sick. “Oh.”

  “I have tried many avenues of excess, Madame Berggia. None of them have given me the reward which I seek. But somehow, looking at this portrait of Jasmine, I feel she may be the key.”

  “Uh.” Me? The key? More likely the nitro that blows the key to bits.

  “Perhaps Madame Hafeza can confirm my suspicions.”

  “Well, there’s her shop.” I pointed to a two-story building in the middle of the block, the door of which had been left open to allow the night breezes in. Above it hung a sign bearing the international symbol for psychic, a pentagram with the Seeing Eye at its center.

  We stepped inside, the smells of incense and dried herbs covering the scents of the street behind us. All we could see was a single room, as broad and deep as a bus station, with light wooden shelves lined up to form three wide aisles halfway to the back. Finely woven carpets covered every inch of the floor, and the walls were tiled, not in some typical geometric pattern, but on one side to depict a woman with flying blue hair riding a stallion across the desert. On the other side litter bearers carried a queenly figure down a palm-lined street.

  The shelves were packed with books. Small plaques on the edges organized them into categories—if you spoke Arabic or French. I did see a few titles in English. But nothing I’d ever heard of.

  Vayl whistled. “Sister Hafeza must be immensely wealthy to have collected so many tomes in one location.”

  As if she’d heard her name, a woman nearly six feet tall threw open the beads that curtained off the back room and strode up behind the blue-tiled counter that held a cash register, credit card machine, matching black containers for office supplies, and a pack of tarot cards.

  “You’re here!” she announced in a deep alto. I took in her heavily shaded eyelids and cheekbones, perfectly outlined lips, and long red nails. She wore an ankle-length dress in pink satin that, along with her strappy heels and curly brunette updo, screamed nineties prom. The Adam’s apple sealed the deal.

  “Sister Hafeza?” I said.

  Vayl pointed at her. “That is a man!”

  Aw, shit.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I wanted to smack myself in the forehead. Or club Vayl in the back of his. I forced a smile, the kind only Lucille Robinson can shine on impossible situations. “He’s sick,” I told Hafeza.

  “I am not!”

  I ignored him. “He thinks it’s 1777.”

  “It is!”

  “See?” I looked at him. “Tell me you’re not this big of a schmuck about transgender people in the twenty-first century.” I turned back to Hafeza. “Or do I misunderstand? Are you just into the clothes or—”

  “No,” she confirmed. “I was born in the wrong body.”

  “There is no such thing!” Vayl bellowed.

  “See there?” I pointed at my boss. “He never yells. Or swears. But lately that’s all I get.”

  Vayl stepped forward, his brows a straight line, his eyes nearly black. “I have had it with the both of you! Now, tell me how it is that you are masquerading here as a Sister of the Second Sight before I tear you limb from limb.”

  Sister Hafeza’s hand fluttered to her massive, well-constructed breasts. “You are a forceful one, aren’t you? Well, basically, I went to the initiation. And Sister Lizia, that’s the Highness right now, well, she touched me and, of course, she knew right away who I was and where I belonged. Because I am a Seer. Only”—Hafeza gestured at her large frame—“somewhat unique among women.”

  “And not even Moroccan,” Vayl said bitterly.

  “Nope. I’d place your accent at, um, Atlanta?” I asked.

  Hafeza nodded, her broad smile letting me know how pleased she was that I’d recognized her roots. “But you didn’t come here to discuss me,” she told Vayl, laying her red-nailed hands gently on the countertop.

  He stood stubbornly silent, his fists clenched at his sides.

  Hafeza nodded at me, though she kept her eyes on my currently questionable prize. “I see you’ve tasted recently of your companion here,” she told Vayl.

  My hand stole to my neck, my fingers brushing the wounds that he’d reopened over the old scars. They wouldn’t be easy to hide from the rest of the crew. Should I get a scarf like Kyphas’s? And if I did, would I somehow manage to accidentally decapitate myself with it?

  Vayl said, “Who I feed upon is none of your business.”

  Hafeza fluttered her lashes at him, like they both knew he was joshing. “What did you feel when you bit her?” she asked.

  His lips pressed into one another. For a second I thought he wasn’t going to respond. And then he whispered, “Power.”

  “That should prove to you she’s not who you think she is,” Hafeza told him. “But you can trust her. And for the same reason that you can trust me, even though I’m not who you thought I’d be.” She turned her hands over and let him see her empty palms. No weapon here.

  He finally nodded and dropped his hands onto hers.

  She closed her eyes. Nothing happened for so long that I started to get bored. I picked up a book and read the title. How to Make Love to a Man by Alexandra Penney. Really? People needed directions? And if so, did that mean I was doing something wrong?

  Vayl blew out a quick breath. I looked over to see Hafeza clutching at his fingers, her nails digging into his skin until drops of blood rose from the wounds. Her lips drew back and through her snarl I could see her molars grinding, as if she was trying to chew through ropes.

  As quickly as it started it ended. She jerked her hands away and pressed them against her stomach. “You are in some deep shit, my friend.”

  Vayl didn’t even glance at me. “I know.”<
br />
  “No, you don’t. But I understand why, so I’ll try to make this as clear as I can. You haven’t escaped Roldan yet, all right? The only way to make that happen is to accept the help of a warlock named Sterling.”

  Vayl jerked, the blood from his hands splattering onto the counter tiles as he moved. “Warlocks are evil.”

  “You should know better than to believe everything you hear,” said Hafeza.

  Vayl dropped his eyes to his hands. “All right, then, what about my sons? Did you… See anything about them?”

  Hafeza cocked her head sideways. “You’re something of a legend among my Sisters, Vasil. According to the Enkyklios files, this search of yours has been persistent, to say the least. And we’ve always given you the same answer. But you’ve changed. You’re more alive than dead now.” She glanced at me. “I think I know who to credit for that. And maybe that’s why the vision has changed.”

  Vayl’s fingers arched, the tips digging into the countertop so intensely they turned white.

  “Um, Lord Brâncoveanu?” I said. “You’ve already broken one of those in the past few weeks. Here.” I handed him the book. “Maybe you could work on this instead.”

  He curled his hands around the binding without replying or even looking at me. It was like, if he let his eyes waver from Hafeza, maybe she’d disappear, and then he’d never find out what she had to say. And then he’d surely die. He said, “What did you See?”

  “You will meet your sons again. Only this time the three of you won’t die together.” Vayl let out a breath I didn’t even realize he was holding. Hafeza went on. “But I still see death stalking all of you. Whatever surrounds your reunion could still destroy your line forever.”

  “Thank you for the warning.” Vayl hesitated. Then he got that determined look you see on people right before they jump into extra-cold water. “One last question, if you would. I need to find a woman named Jasmine.” He pulled out the note I’d written him earlier and handed it to her. “Can you tell me where she is?”

  Hafeza took the paper and, without even blinking, handed it to me. “This woman will lead you to her.” She leaned forward, making sure Vayl got the drift. “So stop threatening to dump her. It’s bad for your karma.”