Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  His gaze fell again on the three losers at the end of the bar. They screamed humanity with the countless bits of metal embedded in their skin, reminding Vall of so many Voodoo dolls stuck with pins. Another hex, another pin. I wish. But it was his people who were cursed, not the mortals.

  He straightened to leave when a movement beyond the bar caught his attention. A young woman alone at a table tucked her hair behind her ears as she turned to look at the men at the bar. Her unsmiling look mirrored his feelings. The woman was quite beautiful, with long dark hair, but even more appealing was her face, touched by sadness rather than makeup and glitter.

  Maybe this tavern check wouldn’t be a waste of time after all. Plenty of mortal females were fascinated by vampires, but most from Middle America preferred to pursue their fantasy liaisons through ads or the Internet. Only whores and wannabes hung out in the bars to try to pick up a fang-sporting boyfriend. This woman was clearly neither. And there was something vaguely familiar about her, as if he’d seen her in a magazine or on TV. What the hell. There was a good chance she’d blow him off, but he’d never been shy around women. He turned the volume all the way down on the handie talkie at his belt and walked to her table.

  “May I join you?”

  Her gaze shifted from the bar and lifted to the sound of his voice, and her mouth parted for several seconds before she spoke. Her pupils were huge in the dim light, and he couldn’t quite fathom the color of her eyes.

  “I’m not sure I’d be good company . . . but sure.”

  He liked her hesitancy. A veteran bar-hopper would have had a ready reply to his request—either a come-on or a “get lost.” “I’m willing to take the risk.”

  She stared at him without answering, her eyes widening just slightly, and he quickly realized she knew him for what he was, or at least suspected. The look of recognition in a mortal’s eyes was something he’d been forced to get used to, but he didn’t enjoy it. It made him feel naked and far too vulnerable.

  She finally spoke. “You’re a night person.”

  He took off his coat, dropped it over the back of the chair opposite hers, and sat down. “You needn’t bother with the politically correct term. A vampire, yes. The word doesn’t offend me.” To the media, the politicians, and those on their best behavior, he was a “night person.” To the vast majority of mortals who didn’t bother to hide their hate, he was a “squid” or a “maggot.” In truth, he hated being called a night person even more than he hated the derogatory names. It had been bad enough that he’d been forced to assimilate into human society and abide by human law, but being referred to by a name as bland as “night person” made him truly feel like a eunuch.

  “I haven’t known many vampires,” she said, and he wondered if she was apologizing for her forthright statement. In any case, it didn’t feel like a lie, which made her observation all the more remarkable.

  “Yet you recognized me for what I am. It makes one wonder how we were able to walk among you undetected for so many millennia. My name’s Duvall.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Just Duvall? You don’t have a first name?”

  It amused him that his name caused her more astonishment than what he was. Well, he did have a given name, but he didn’t care to divulge it. It was one small piece of his identity that made him feel good to keep a mystery. “Just Duvall. Vall, if you like.”

  Her gaze was bold now, steady and challenging, and he felt his blood respond, as in the old days.

  “I’m Veronica.”

  “Just Veronica? No last name?”

  She smiled, the first smile he’d seen on her face, and it was like a full moon rising, bright and full of light. “Just Veronica.”

  He curved his mouth in response, as thankful for her old-fashioned name as for her cheer. She looked in her early twenties, a safe bet she’d been born before the war. Young girls nowadays had odious names like Dawn or Sunshine, their parents making none-too-subtle political statements through their children, passing on a legacy of hatred to a new generation.

  Her smile faded just a little. It was not unexpected. Even in this day and age, a vampire’s smile was a suspect thing.

  “So what made you single me out? There’re a lot of beautiful women in here, and I can guarantee they’re all in a more fun-loving mood than I am.”

  He glanced toward the bar. The drunks were off their stools and weaving their way toward the back entrance. “Vapid, giggling females hold no charms for me.” He didn’t bother to add that blood with a high alcohol content didn’t suit his palette. What did it matter anyway? The taking of human blood without consent was forbidden now. But when he looked back at her, the question was still lodged in her eyes.

  “You look sad tonight. It’s a feeling I can relate to.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. He hadn’t found a mortal problem yet he gave a damn about, but it was a lie small enough to sound convincing.

  She stared at him for a moment, and he could feel her eyes gauging the sincerity of his words. “It’s a feeling you can relate to, or it’s a feeling you can exploit?”

  He’d thought this girl might be different, but he’d been wrong. He’d heard the anti-vamp tripe more times than he could count. He didn’t care to hear it again. He pushed his chair back. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to exploit you, it wouldn’t be like this. Have a good night.”

  “No, wait,” she said, before he could stand. “I’m sorry. My upbringing, if you know what I mean.”

  He did. She was born before the war, but raised in the postwar atmosphere of fear and loathing. Music filled the air, replacing the sounds of conversation. It was a rock ballad, slow and dreamy, and suddenly Duvall was glad he wasn’t in one of the East Side bars after all. A ballad suited his mood tonight much better than the Goth noise that the posers preferred. “Dance with me, then.”

  Her eyes looked down. “No, thanks.”

  Her heart was racing. He could hear it and feel it in the vibrations in the air. “You don’t want to talk, and you don’t want to dance.” He dropped his voice. “What do you want to do?”

  She raised her gaze, and he admired that. She was afraid of him, but she didn’t let it show in her eyes. “I would like to talk.”

  He laughed softly and held out his hand. “A dance first. Come. There are those who would have you believe we’re cold and clammy creatures, but we’re not. Here, take my hand.”

  She stared at him through long lashes, and he waited with the patience he bore every night. This was a small game of seduction and innocent enough—all he was allowed nowadays—and a quick surge of anger tore through him. In the Old Days, B. H., Before Hell . . .

  No, I mustn’t think those thoughts. He shut his mind down and simply waited. Waiting, in and of itself, was easy enough if he could keep the bitterness from quickening his blood.

  She didn’t take his hand, but prodded his palm with her fingertips, as if she were poking an unmoving animal to see if it was dead or alive. He wrapped his worn patience even tighter around his mind and waited, reminding himself that it wasn’t hatred but only the ignorant teachings of yesterday that guided her actions. Well, he’d teach her something new.

  When she slipped her hand into his at last, he knew the wait had been worth it. The heat of her touch radiated up his arm and warmed him—almost, but not quite—like the intoxicating elixir of life. Not the imitation crap, but the real thing.

  The appeal of her blood and the anger over the bottled alternative gave him a hard-on. “See? Our touch is nothing to fear.” The words slipped out somewhere between sappy sarcasm and dry cynicism, but she only looked at him, saying nothing.

  He held on to her hand as he stood, lifting her to her feet as well. She would not have a chance to refuse him again. He guided her through the maze of tables to the small dance floor, and when he felt her fingers begin to slip from his he tightened his
grip, but not harshly. She was tall and waif-thin, yet her snug sweater and tight jeans managed to find enough curves to suit him.

  He moved in time to the music, slow and easy, and pulled Veronica nearer, but she moved only so close and no closer, leaving a good foot between them. He could feel the tension in her arms and in both the hand that very properly rested on his shoulder and the one that held his.

  “Relax, Veronica,” he whispered. “Enjoy the moment. It’s all either of us has.” He wasn’t sure why he said that, except that immortality was no longer something he could take for granted. Not any more—not since the war the undead had simply dubbed Hell.

  She looked at him, but her eyes were filled with darker things than attraction or relaxation. “I can’t do this.” She pulled away, scooted back to her table for her jacket, and headed toward the back door without a look back.

  Vall stifled the impulse to groan. Even the game of seduction had changed. In the days before Hell he would have been looked upon as a mysterious, slightly exotic stranger short on worries and long on sex appeal. Now he was either a cheap thrill or a disgusting bloodsucker. And yet this female hadn’t seemed to harbor hate or revulsion, but simply an attraction that scared her.

  He retrieved his coat from his chair and left through the same door Veronica had exited a moment before. The November rain had stopped, and there was only the sporadic dribble from tree branches and power lines that dripped like cold sweat. He waited just outside the back door. A burned out light bulb above the entrance turned the recessed doorway into a vertical coffin, close and dark, and nearby, among the overflowing Dumpster and stacks of empty cartons, shadows flourished like weeds. He stood motionless, feeling right at home.

  The tavern had a small parking lot adjacent to the alley, and the girl was at the far end of the lot, surrounded by the three drunks who had been inside earlier. Vall had no problem hearing them—not because of his acute senses, but because they seemed to enjoy hearing the sound of their own voices.

  “Hey, babe, looking for a good time? Come on, we can show you some real fun.” The three tripped around her like marionettes on strings, their moves erratic and ungraceful.

  Veronica tried to walk on, apparently trying to reach her car, but the tallest of the three blocked her path while the runt of the litter, behind her, made a snatch at her purse. Animals now, closing in for the kill.

  The wet pavement was like a great mirror, reflecting the midnight sky, the gray buildings, and the light from the lone street lamp, doubling the size of the night. The humans all looked small and insignificant by comparison, engaged in a little drama no one knew or cared about. Except Duvall.

  He detached himself from the shadows and sauntered across the lot. Two of the men turned to gape at him, but the third, the one behind Veronica, grabbed her in a chokehold and pulled her against him. She widened her stance, trying to regain her balance.

  “Duvall, help me.” Her voice was strong, as her eyes had been earlier, and he again admired her spirit in the face of fear.

  Vall stopped and ignored her, staring instead into the eyes of her abductor. “Let the girl go.”

  “You her boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Then get lost, asshole. This don’t concern you.”

  “Normally, I’d give a moron like you a second chance to avoid the kind of pain I’m going to give you, but I don’t feel charitable tonight.”

  Before the punk could open his mouth again, Vall lashed out his foot in a forward kick. Veronica screamed, but a second later the man holding her screamed louder. He let his prize go and reached for his crotch. Veronica stumbled toward Duvall, but he pushed her behind him as the other two, still bolstered by the alcohol, readied for their attacks. One pulled a knife, and with a flick of his wrist, the long blade winked in the lamplight.

  Duvall smiled. “Thanks, sonny. You’ve just made my night.” Up until now he was going to limit his blows to soft body tissue. His superiors frowned on complaints filed by humans that a vamp cop had broken an assortment of bones, especially when said complaints were backed up by doctors’ reports. But a kick to the family jewels was something Duvall always got away with.

  The display of a deadly weapon in the presence of a human victim, however, was all Duvall needed to respond with his own brand of deadly force. He waited patiently, body relaxed, relishing the moment.

  The punk with the knife brandished the weapon, slicing the air. “When we get done carving you up, hotshot, we’re gonna have your girlfriend for dessert.” But in spite of the bold taunts, neither seemed to want to be the first to actually attack.

  “Eddie! Come on, man, get him!” shouted the short one, still clutching his crotch. Pain was obviously making the man impatient for retribution, but his friends held back.

  When Eddie finally lunged forward with the knife, Duvall sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, and forced the blade downward into Eddie’s thigh. Eddie cried out, a blubbery combination of moans and curses, and for good measure Duvall stepped back and delivered a side kick to Eddie’s knee. Eddie went airborne, only to land in an oily rain puddle ten feet away.

  The force of the kick wasn’t lost on the third man. Seemingly the smartest of the trio, which wasn’t saying a lot, he gaped at Duvall. “It’s a blood-suckin’ leech! Mike, call 911 on your cell phone, man! Leeches aren’t allowed to touch humans. They’ll fry his ass for sure!” He grabbed Eddie and dragged him to the other side of the lot.

  Mike followed, his hands still grabbing his balls as if they’d fall off if he let go, obviously none too eager to either make a phone call or help Eddie, who wheezed like a deflating balloon.

  Duvall let them go. He found Veronica crouched down next to a small red car he assumed was hers. He took a moment to memorize the car’s tag, then squatted beside her and brushed the hair out of her face. Her clothes were wet, but her face was dry. He’d have guessed she wouldn’t cry or go into hysterics, and he’d have been right. “You all right?”

  She nodded, not looking at him, but over his shoulder. He turned to see that the back door of the tavern had opened. It seemed their little drama had finally drawn an audience. Moments later, a big man in a long trench coat strode across the lot like a cavalry of one, his drawn Sig Sauer doing a better job than a bugle of announcing his arrival. The drunks, seeing their salvation, moaned even louder for attention.

  “Police! Who did this?” With his coattails flaring behind him and his slick black hair gleaming blue in the artificial light, the cop looked like a huge raven—a raven with a gun.

  The three pointed at Duvall in unison. “There he is! That’s the leech!”

  Vall stood as the cop approached, but the move must have been seen as aggressive, because the cop swung his fist without asking any questions. Vall saw the blow coming and could have easily avoided the hit, but he also saw the barrel of the Sig pointed right at his head. The cop’s fist struck the side of his jaw harder than Vall expected, snapping his head to the side. He lost his footing on the wet pavement and landed at the girl’s feet in an ungraceful heap.

  The big cop loomed over him, but the Sig loomed bigger. “Easy, maggot. You just stay down now, hear? ‘Cause this little gun is chock full of Nasty Flesh-Ripping Bone-Shattering Call-911 Too-Dangerous-For-Average-Citizen For-Whom-The-Bell-Tolls Death-Dealing Exploding Black Claw Squid-Killing ammo.”

  Duvall’s head pounded with pain, but the temporary discomfort and a moment of embarrassing submission was preferable to being shot with the special vamp-killing rounds that all human cops carried in their weapons. The Claw was a black bullet having six serrations on the rim of the hollow point cavity and six “claws” that deployed when the bullet expanded. The claws were jacket petals with perpendicular tips, and they looked and acted exactly like their name.

  Patrons and tavern employees squeezed out the back door, jostling each oth
er as they tried to be the first to get a good look at whatever action might yet transpire. The big cop glanced over his shoulder at the crowd. “Any of you know a squid named Duvall? He was supposed to be here tonight.”

  Leon, the owner, nodded at Veronica’s feet. “Hey, I think you just decked him, man.”

  The cop turned back to him with a slight shrug and cock of the head, but Vall got the impression the gesture was more an acknowledgment of his mistake than an apology for striking a fellow officer.

  “Look! They’re getting away!” Veronica pointed down the alley, where the three drunks were making their getaway with best possible speed.

  Vall was on his feet in an instant, but the same fist that had hit him was now clutching a handful of his leather coat. Vall stared first at the offending fist, then raised his eyes to those of the cop. “Let go. They attacked the girl. And me.”

  The cop only tightened his grip. “I don’t care. We got bigger things to worry about.” He lowered his voice. “Three more vamps were found dead today.”

  Vall continued to meet his gaze straight on. The cop’s bulk and muscle were easy to see, but so was his heart. Vall dropped his voice to a whisper he knew Veronica wouldn’t hear. “What do you care, meatball?”

  The cop’s eyes didn’t back down, and Vall admired that at least. Duvall’s gaze could be intimidating if he chose to make it so.

  The cop smiled from one Elvis Presley sideburn to the other and released Duvall’s collar. “There’s a briefing downtown in an hour. We’re in on it. And don’t call me meatball. My name’s Kilpatrick, and I’m your new partner.”

  Vall didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry, but he donned his usual poker face. “All right. Give me just one minute.”

  Kilpatrick stepped back and shrugged. Vall moved closer to Veronica, turning his body so that Kilpatrick could neither see his face nor hear his words.

  “I have to go. Those three won’t see jail time, and for that I’m sorry, but they’ll be living in a world of pain for days to come, believe me. You sure you’re okay?”