Anyone Here

by Jackie Ivie

  “Don’t you think it needs saying? Wasn’t that what you screamed about for six nights and five days? Didn’t you curse every one of them while you waited to die? Buried alive. In that little pine box? In the dark?”

  She would have collapsed if it hadn’t been for the restriction of the lines about her. And he just wouldn’t stop talking.

  “They heard you. Did you know that? That makes it worse somehow, doesn’t it? You moaned just as they shoveled on the first bit of dirt. And they finished with it anyway, attempted murder carrying the same punishment as the real thing and all that. Isn’t that right, Miss Braun?”

  She didn’t answer. Jake did.

  “On my God.”

  “God doesn’t have much to do with what happened next, Jake. It seems that Miss Braun didn’t die. Not then anyway. We don’t even know for sure how long she was in there. Could have been moments, really.”

  It wasn’t. It had been five days. She hadn’t any way of telling time, but it had been long enough to scrape her way through the top of the box allowing dirt to rain in on her. It was Akron who’d found her. And saved her. And told her.

  “All we really know is that when the viscount went back six days later, in the hour before dawn, the ground had been disturbed. And when he dug, he found the grave empty. That’s right. Empty. Did you know he came back, Miss Braun?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You enjoyed haunting him, didn’t you? His confession ends with the hope that your spirit can rest now. He says he tried not to go out at night, and never alone. He’d see glimpses of you if he did. You never aged. Never changed. You’d just stare at him and then disappear. And that’s when we knew what you were. Time?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  She was going to cut this close. Cassandra worked an arm slightly, rippling the mesh. The ropes had dried. It didn’t hurt. And her skin was healing.

  “What the hell are you saying?” Jacob asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? She a vampire.”

  There was complete silence for about a second. Then Jacob started laughing. He laughed so hard he rocked the chair. Cassandra smiled slightly at how joyous and unrestrained he sounded.

  “For a minute there, I thought you were serious, man. Hell. I can tell you that’s not true. She’s all woman. And this is ridiculous.”

  “I happen to be completely serious, Mister Walsh. You might want to spare the levity.”

  “Call me Jake. And cut me loose. I won’t fight. Hell. I just want some pants.”

  The webbing pulled away from the wall slightly, and then she saw the fasteners they’d used. Cassandra slapped her eyes closed as the effect rippled through her. Every spike had a crucifix or other religious icon etched into it. The more she pulled, the more got revealed, and each one sapped at her strength, riddling her with ill effects. Ingenious.

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust you. Or her. But…in about twelve minutes, you’ll see for yourself. And then this will all be over. We’ll leave. You can go back to making video games. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, really. What am I going to see? A beautiful sunrise over New Hampshire?”

  “Miss Braun here is going to turn to dust. And decay. She’ll be a dead thing. Exactly like she should have been over a century ago.”

  “Right.”

  “You’ve been humping a corpse, Jacob. You might want to consider that.”

  A huge thump echoed through the entire structure. The room went absolutely black. Silent. And then a voice boomed out a name, the sound penetrating everywhere. The moment she heard it, Cassandra’s shoulders sagged with relief. Akron.

  “Chester Beethan. ” Akron intoned it, like he was passing sentence.

  A spotlight turned on, highlighting the leader.

  “Who wants to know?”

  The voice chuckled, the sound eerie and vast. “You attacked and tied humans? Chester. Where are your manners?”

  “Akron? It’s Akron, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Time?” Chester yelled.

  “Eleven minutes.”

  “Didn’t your grandfather teach you any better than this? Aren’t you supposed to follow some sort of ethical code?”

  “You kill for profit and you’re talking ethics?”

  “You know, I prefer your grandfather. Where is the general, anyway?”

  “It’s Lord Beethan to you. He’s…ill.”

  “Hope it’s not terminal.”

  “Not yet. He’s had a bad reaction to tattoo removal surgery.”

  Akron’s laughter boomed out. “I heard about that incident. Bad form. All around. Apologize to him for me, will you. Cassandra? We’ll be leaving now.”

  “Like hell you will. This here is sanctified wood. And I’m a fantastic shot. At this distance, I can’t miss.”

  The man had yanked his crossbow over his shoulder and aimed it right at her.

  “Tsk. Tsk. Chester. You should know better. Invaris? Hit the lights. Slowly. No need for itchy trigger fingers.”

  Barely there at first, and then so softly it looked like dawn, the room got illuminated. Where there’d been thirty-some-odd hunters, they were interspaced with an uncountable number of black clothed figures. Faceless. Silent. Frightening.

  “Allow me to introduce a few of my 4-D Teams, Chester. You’re looking at Red, Yellow, Blue, Green, and Black. I wanted to make sure you understand.”

  “Time?” Chester asked.

  “Nine minutes.”

  The lights went out again. It wasn’t quite as dark anymore since the sun was just starting to tint the sky and somewhere there was a window that wasn’t covered.

  “You want a massacre for your first battle, Chester? Or are you going to give me Cassandra nicely? That’s what I came for. That’s all I want. Unless Mister Walsh wishes to accompany us. Jacob?”

  “You got to be kidding me,” Jacob answered.

  “You’re her mate. She’s yours. I don’t separate mates, unlike Chester, here. They give badges for it. You have thirty seconds to decide.”

  “She’s a real vampire? Real? You’re talking blood-sucking, undead…real?”

  “Eternal life, Jacob. Twenty-two seconds. Don’t so much as breathe, Chester. I’m watching you. You know I prefer your father. Even if he is hooked on that damn video game at the moment.”

  “My father is dead. He died in a car wreck when he was nineteen.”

  “Not…exactly. But close. I think your grandfather might have his own deathbed confession for you, Chester. Fifteen seconds, Mister Walsh. What’s it to be?”

  “You want me to decide on life or death? In fifteen seconds?”

  “Most people don’t get that much time. Ten seconds. Answer please?”

  “You’re inhuman!”

  “In a word. We all are. Decision please? We’re cutting it close as it is.”

  There was a garbled sound. And then a choked word from Jacob. Just one. It was followed by a moan she’d give anything to retract. It carried every bit of her anguish. And they all heard it.

  “No.”

  There wasn’t a descriptor for the pain. It radiated outward from where her heart should be. Encompassing. Consuming. Overwhelming. She sensed motion. The flurry of material. Swish of air. Arms reached about her, wrenching her free of the wall. Cassandra got lifted, cloaked by fabric that waved with the swiftness of flight, and then she was deposited in the pine box she’d secured in the darkest section of the jet.

  And then there was nothing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The street she’d decided to inhabit tonight was dark. Rain-washed. Crowded. Full of humans. Lots of potential prey. Cassandra toyed with ignoring the cell phone as it vibrated against her palm. Again. Ceaselessly. Annoyingly. It clicked against the signet ring she still wore. She frowned and moved her eyes from contemplation of the portly fellow she was planning to dine with, down to her lace glove. She was wearing a red lace ensemble tonig
ht. Blood red. The color was dyed into the leather inserts defining the slenderness of her waist. The color continued through the weave of her stockings. And to accent this outfit, she’d placed little touches of electric blue. That included her gloves. She’d used buttons of perfectly matched stones in a deep blue topaz. They matched her hat pins, the fasteners on her bustier, and the ones down on her ankle boots. Some said they matched her eyes. But they didn’t say it twice.

  “Yes?” she answered.

  “Hi Babe.”

  “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that. Ever.” Her voice went low, somehow hiding the pain. It made it sound more threatening, too. Bonus.

  “Look Cassie, I was told to call you. You don’t have to snap my head off. Oh. I forgot. You’re into knives now. Sharp knives. With surgical edges.”

  “What do you want, Nigel?”

  “Not me. The boss. He said to tell you the Hunters evacuated the Walsh complex. This afternoon. Guess they got tired of sitting around and playing video games while they waited. I don’t know how. Jerks.”

  “So?”

  “Have you seen the latest Walsh game? Super cool. Features a gorgeous Victorian-era avatar named—”

  “I’m a bit busy, Nigel. Can you…cut this short please?”

  A hint of trauma stained her voice. Not enough for Nigel to catch it. Cassandra swallowed. Hard. And then she fought the shivers that heralded the grief-ridden, black-edged nightmare. She focused on the fat man she’d selected for her feeding. Smiled. Watched him work at his tie, as if it suddenly choked. Then he smiled back.

  “Akron said you should know.”

  “Goodbye, Nigel.”

  “Wait!”

  She shut the phone, slid it back beneath the suede lining on her palm, and started refastening the buttons, giving every facet of it her complete attention. The entire time, she was blinking rapidly and with consuming patience on every satin loop. All eight of them. And somehow the combination of effort worked, sending the nightmare of ache to the deepest section of her belly. And there it sat. Dormant for now. Yet still it throbbed, as if to a nonexistent heartbeat, echoing off the cavernous emptiness inside.

  Not bad, Cassandra.

  She was gaining control. Finally. It had taken weeks just to figure out how to do that much. Weeks, when she’d lain silent and alone in that pine box in worse shape than when the viscount and his friends had buried her in it. Much worse.

  Let it go, Cassandra. Let it go.

  Her non-verbal command worked. All of that was in the past. Over. Done. She’d had to rise. And feed. Or perish. The only way to do it was with a blocking technique. The images. The emotions. The memories. The agony.

  Cassandra moved her hand to her veil and lifted it a fraction, giving the portly fellow a peek before letting it drop. The man straightened and sucked in his belly. That was almost amusing. If anything could be that anymore. Her target had a receding hairline, his teeth needed work, and his suit wasn’t from a major designer. His fat was the least of his worries. He didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to—

  She stopped her own thoughts.

  “Good eve, Cassandra.”

  She started slightly at the voice coming from the depth of shadow behind her and to the left.

  “Akron?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Ah. London. Wonderful city. Especially the nightlife. Look how busy it is. You can’t even get a decent spot for a drink. Or a bit of conversation. The potential for feasting is increasing daily. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

  “You rarely leave your castle.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t. With the correct incentive. And London seems to have gained that. You should cut him some slack, you know.”

  “Why? He’s fat. Disgusting.”

  “Not your mark.”

  “Nigel? Oh, please.” She should have brought a parasol. It wasn’t necessary in the dark, but it gave her something to fidget with. Flirt with. Lean on.

  “Jacob Walsh. Your mate.”

  “I don’t have…a mate.” She actually got the statement out without losing her voice, although the middle warbled slightly.

  “You know…I‘d heard it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

  Cassandra snorted. “Meaningless literary twaddle. Worth less than the paper it’s printed on.”

  Her voice broke on the last word. Despite everything. There wasn’t any comparison to how it felt to be without Jacob. It was better to be ignorant. The loneliness had no margin. The loss became a bottomless pit. The ache that permeated her was endless and ever-increasing. Nobody could quantify how it felt to lose such bliss – because they’d have to know how the ecstasy felt first. Being without it was an impossible weight. One that just kept increasing until limbs and joints couldn’t hold it any longer. And then the body crumpled and had to figure out how to block it and go on.

  Or not.

  “You mean it’s not true?”

  The view blurred as a tear cursed her, actually flirting with dropping onto her cheek. Cassandra tightened every muscle she controlled and forced the grief down. Sent it to join the mass already congealing in her belly. She could deal with it later. After it accrued to the point she could no longer stand upright.

  “What…do you want, Sir?”

  “Don’t turn around.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Good. I don’t want to frighten your intended target. Prime gent. Looks tasty, if a bit cholesterol ridden for my taste.”

  “Is that why you’re here? A meal?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be here? I think everyone’s starting to descend on the city. It’s a very happening place. Dark. Sinister. Steamy.”

  “That’s probably the fog.”

  “Fog. Smoke. Mist. Whatever. London can be a creepy place. During the last millennia it was the largest city in the western world…and only second to Beijing. Did you know that?”

  “So?”

  “There’s a lot to interest a body in London lately. Every amateur sleuth is booking a flight. And bringing the family. It’s hard to find decent accommodations.”

  “So?” she said again.

  “That sort of spotlight could be rather dangerous to a certain member of my organization. One…who just might have a death wish. So. I decided to do a quick check-up, among other things.”

  “You’re here for me?”

  “Smile at your meal, Cassandra. He’s starting to wonder at your continuing interest in him.”

  She complied.

  “They’re here for Jack. You know that, don’t you? Of course you do. It’s all over the news. They all want to be here. It’s like the Ripper has come back to life. Almost. It’s a copycat. A very good one. With a few changes. The victims are all dead first. There’s very little blood at the site. And this time around, the victims are male. They’re found with the same wounds, however. Sliced. Dissected. Disemboweled. Certain portions removed. And oddly - of the three men - they’ve all been convicted felons. From all over the world. Here in London. Hmm. Murderers. Rapists. Set loose through some legal loophole or other contemporary issue. How…odd.”

  “So?” It was getting to be her instant answer. Easy. One word. Said without inflection.

  “You know, the authorities claim to be stymied. They’re doubling the force and considering outside help. I don’t think they’re entirely focused on the objective. They might not want to catch the killer just yet. Vigilantes are helpful at curbing crime. At first. And just look at the tourism it’s generating.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Poor chaps. If they’re stymied, it’s not their fault. They haven’t any promising leads. No prints. The DNA is inconclusive. Hmm. I rather wonder what a sample of our blood looks like under a microscope, don’t you?”

  “Not especially.”

  “I’m certain it’s giving the forensics department over at Scotland Yard fits. What an amusing thought. I may
have to check on it later.”

  “Sounds like I may have to help them. Send a message to the newspapers. Maybe, write on a wall,” she answered.

  “I’m worried about you, Cassandra. Suicide by cop is never acceptable, but you forgot to factor in the careers of the bobbies involved. That would be a shame, don’t you think?”

  “Who?”

  “Imagine for a moment the scenario: London’s finest officers have actually arrested the perpetrator of the Ripper copycat killings. They’ll call in. They’ll transport her to the ‘Yard’. They could try and photographer her. They’ll fail. Everything about this alleged murderess baffles them. And sooner or later, the sun will come up. She’s not been turned long old enough for any UV immunity. She’ll turn to dust in the handcuffs, her cell…why, she might even be heading to trial when it happens. And poof! There goes the copycat - escaping into Ripper lore. How is anyone going to explain that? And still keep their careers?”

  “So?”

  “You were never cruel, Cassandra. And I didn’t save you from that randy peer and his friends just to watch you perish from a broken heart. Not if I can do anything about it.”

  Her eyes burned. She forced the emotion down. Concentrated. Stared. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. Anything. Anywhere.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She shrugged in reply. The satin rustled slightly.

  “Does any of this help calm the rage?”

  “Rage? Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. So tell me. If it’s not rage…what?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’ve never met my mate, Cassandra. Despite the time involved. Do you realize how very lucky you are?”

  “Lucky?”

  Tears. Again. Damn him. She blinked helplessly and had to swipe at her cheeks when it didn’t work. Damn him. Damn this. Damn everything. Vampires didn’t cry. They didn’t have emotions. They were cold. Dead. Why weren’t any of her blocking techniques working?

  “What would you call it?”

  She sniffed. “You really want to know? All right, I’ll tell you. It’s complete and total blackness. I’m a hollow shell. A big, empty cavern that continually fills up with pain. And that’s when I can control it. You got that? It’s worse than any death. It has to be. And I have an entire eternity of it to face. Is that what you want to hear? Well?”