Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  “Oh sure,” she answered. “Roman’s real nice. We’ve been seeing each other for three months.”

  “Do you serve as donor for the other two as well?”

  She shook her head and turned an appealing shade of pink. “Just Roman. We’re a . . . couple, you know?”

  He did. She meant they had a sexual relationship as well as the blood bond. Vampire-mortal liaisons were becoming more and more common.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Leeann.”

  “Got ID?”

  She pulled a driver’s license out of her back pocket and handed it to him. The corners of the plastic card were bent, and the address was old and out of date, but it was her. Leeann Roberts, age nineteen. An adult in the eyes of the law—not old enough to drink alcohol, but old enough to swap body fluids.

  “Give me your hand, Leeann.”

  She held her hand out, and he took it. Kilpatrick came to life, springing at him like a dog defending its sheep against the big bad wolf.

  Kilpatrick grabbed the leather of his coat and pulled his arm down. “Get your hands off her. An interview is one thing. Putting your claws on her is somethin’ else.”

  Vall stared at his partner, but kept his voice low for the sake of the girl. “I’m checking to make sure she hasn’t been overused.” He smiled, showing his fangs just a little. “But I forget. This is one of your people. Perhaps you’d like to test her for anemia.”

  “Uh . . .” Kilpatrick looked from him to Roman. To his credit, the suckling took it all in stride, not saying a word. No doubt he’d seen the ignorance of mortals far too many times to be surprised by one dumb cop. Even the girl, taking her cue from her master’s composure, waited patiently.

  “No, uh, you go ahead with this one.” Kilpatrick took a step back.

  Vall started over with the girl. “Your hand.”

  She looked to Roman. Vall knew it was important that in his own domain Roman felt he was indeed master. It didn’t matter how young he was, or how old the house was, dignity was dignity. Vall waited for Roman to nod his head.

  Vall took the girl’s hand and rubbed it between his own, feeling her pulse throb against the pressure of his touch. Her thin fingers were lost among his, but her skin was warm and her heart rate normal. Her skin was pink, not jaundiced, and her breathing was as steady as her gaze.

  “Any fatigue, Leeann? Dizzy spells or weakness?”

  She shook her head. “Roman takes care with me.”

  Vall nodded. “Let me see your bite marks.”

  Leeann asked permission of Roman again with her eyes, and he answered silently with a sage dip of his head.

  The girl unbuttoned her blouse, slipped one bra strap off her shoulder, and peeled down enough of her bra to reveal the better part of one breast. Though thin, the girl was well enough endowed for her flesh to strain enticingly against the remaining material. The skin above her nipple was bruised, but the lacerated skin was healing and showed no sign of infection. It showed remarkable control on the part of a vamp so young, and Vall gave Roman a nod of his own, an acknowledgment from master vampire to suckling that the youngster had done well.

  Behind him, Vall could hear Kilpatrick clearing his throat and shuffling his feet.

  Vall gave Leeann his card and told her to call him if she ever did need any help. I must be getting soft, he thought. Playing white knight to two mortal females in one night was something he normally didn’t do.

  Vall ignored Kilpatrick’s impatience and addressed the other two vamps in the house, asking for their registration. They pulled out their cards and, following Roman’s example, politely handed them over. Levi Luther and Hercules Beckwith. Vall didn’t read the names out loud. He didn’t especially want the vamps to have to endure Kilpatrick’s rolling eyes and derisive snorts.

  “Do you use donors as well?” asked Vall.

  “No, the bottled stuff,” answered Levi.

  “Show me.”

  Levi led the way to what had once been the kitchen and opened a metal cupboard door to reveal several six-packs of Magma. Magma was the cheap stuff, a blood substitute based on water-insoluble synthetic organic fluids in which oxygen could dissolve. The stuff could be produced inexpensively in large amounts, had a long shelf life, and could be easily controlled for purity, as if anyone in the synthetic blood business cared about that.

  “If you boys can afford it, buy Jiva instead of Magma. It’s made from human donor blood,” said Vall. Jiva was a blood substitute made from modified hemoglobin. It, too, had a long shelf life, but was closer to the real thing than Magma.

  Levi nodded, but there was a beaten-down look in his eyes that had been missing from Roman’s. “Jiva’s pricey. Roman’s the only one of us with a job.”

  “What about Rush?” asked Hercules.

  Rush was yet another of the many blood substitute brand names. Vall leaned in close to the suckling and whispered in his ear. “Bovine hemoglobin.”

  “WAS ALL THAT really necessary?” asked Kilpatrick when they got into the squad car.

  Duvall ignored him, pulling out his memo book instead to scribble some notes. It was clear to Vall that he’d have to take responsibility for the both of them—for their safety, their effectiveness, and their reputation in the vampire community. The meatball was crass, uninformed, and had no people skills with either vamps or mortals.

  “Well, was it?”

  Vall put his memo book away. “Yeah, it was. These sucklings haven’t yet learned how to be cliquish. They’re too young to throw mud at each other—they’re still in the dirt-dishing stage. And the mortals who live among them would put the tabloid press to shame. In between your big sighs and your sanctimonious throat clearing, did you notice how all the vamps in that house were looking at me? Their eyes never left me. Roman thinks I’m some sort of god. I’m probably the oldest master he’s ever met, and I expressed concern for him and his donor. That gives him, and by extension his friends, importance. I can guarantee you that what just happened will be more on vamp tongues tonight than blood. From now on, if there’s anything to be shared with the authorities, who do you think they’re going to come to?”

  The meatball snorted, seemingly unconvinced.

  Vall let him drive the car. It was the only thing he was good at.

  The rest of the interviews in Little Transylvania went swiftly and without incident. Duvall asked for information he knew he needed for his reports, but he asked his own questions as well. Did they use donors or the synthetic blood? Had any of them recently felt tired, weak, or ill? Had any of them known any of the six vampires who had died?

  By the time the shift ended and Vall headed home, he should have been filled with frustration. He’d gained no insight into what had caused the vampire deaths. He had a clueless partner who wouldn’t talk to him and a lieutenant who lied to him. But at least he was on the case. He could control Kilpatrick. And the girl at Leon’s had been an unexpected bonus. He knew the license plate number on her car. Finding her again would be the easiest of his future plans.

  Plans. The word was a stranger to the realm of his thoughts. Yesterday he had been adrift, lost in a rubble of nights upon nights, one no different from the next. But he had a purpose now, and a plan. He would fight for those like Roman whom the doyens and mortals alike had abandoned to their fate. And no one was going to stop him.

  Five

  Fort William Henry

  August 8, 1757

  SURRENDER. EVEN though Wulf had known it would come, the word stuck in his throat like a piece of tough meat. There’d been no sunset this evening, and he’d been glad of it. Thick clouds, heavy with moisture, had boiled across the heavens, obliterating the sun, the sky, and now the stars. All that remained was a gray that darkened with the onset of night.

  He, the rest of the 35th Regiment of
Foot, and the entire garrison of regulars and provincials were now parolees. There would be no prison, merely a promise not to bear arms against the French for eighteen months. They were to keep their colors, arms, and personal belongings. Even a private like Wulf realized that such terms were unheard of in their generosity.

  But huddled in the open entrenchment outside the fort, it was hard to be happy with the surrender settlement. It would be a sixth night without sleep, there was no cover as there had been inside the fort, and worst of all, there was no rum. Monro had ordered it all destroyed.

  Wulf sat back to back with Elijah Quinberry and Duncan Wood, so that between the three of them they could see everything around them. But what there was to see chilled Wulf’s blood, and not even the torpid summer air could warm him. French-allied Indians roamed the encampment like stray dogs looking for scraps of meat, and every one he saw held either a knife or a tomahawk. Their words were foreign to him, but neither the taunt in their voices nor the gleam of mischief in their eyes went unrecognized.

  Sergeant Turnby of the 35th bent on one knee beside them. “Listen up, lads, and listen well. These Indians are trophy hunting. I know we said you could keep your packs, but it seems the Frenchies didn’t bother explaining the terms to their friends here. So if one of them asks for your baggage or your musket, give it up. Better than losing your scalps, right, lads? No resistance and no killing. Understand? That’s an order.”

  Wulf turned and caught Quin’s eye. He could tell Quin didn’t like it any better than he did, but he mouthed “yessir,” and the sergeant moved on.

  Ten minutes later an Indian took his place, squatting in front of him. Light from their campfire gleamed off both the warrior’s near-naked body and the knife he used as a prod, first against Wulf’s pack and then against his chest. Words in a tongue he didn’t understand accompanied the pokes and jabs.

  Wulf stared down the savage. “I don’t understand a bloody word you’re saying.”

  “For chrissake, Wulfie, it’s plain enough,” said Quin. “Give him your pack.”

  Wulf glared at Quin, then at the Indian. He shoved his haversack forward. “Take it.”

  His challenger snatched it, but continued prodding him in the chest with the point of the knife. With each touch of the knife point, Wulf felt a bead of cold sweat run down his back.

  “Your shirt, Wulfie. He wants your shirt,” said Duncan.

  “Bloody hell, Dunky. What’s he going to do with a shirt?”

  “Give it to him, and be thankful he doesn’t want your breeches.”

  Wulf took off his linen waistcoat and white linen shirt and tossed both at the red man. Five minutes later French soldiers finally came through the camp and cleared the Indians out, but they stayed as close as the French allowed, ringing the entrenchment for the remainder of the night.

  Wulf was right in his prediction. It was another night without sleep, for fear was stronger than fatigue.

  Six

  “JOHHNNN . . .”

  There it was again, that annoying sound, like a cat scratching at a door. He wanted it to go away.

  But it was too late. The bubble of sleep had been broken, and the memories of his dreams, in that one moment of perfect clarity when every detail was fresh, flooded his mind. Night. A huge city, much larger than Chi-No. More like the Chicago that once was. Skyscrapers like dark Christmas trees strung with thousands of white lights, black against an even blacker sky. Empty of people. But full of things, dark things that walked toward him, naked from the waist up to reveal their foul bodies. Pale they were, with greenish, distended bellies and brown veins that branched and ran just beneath their translucent skin like some creeping weed. Blisters covered their arms, their eyes were sacks of liquid ready to burst, and when they opened their mouths, bloodstained fluid ran out . . . and he heard his own screams in his head.

  “Oh, John . . .”

  “Lemme sleep.” He didn’t want to return to the dream. It was a recurring dream he’d had since he was a kid, when adults told horror stories of vampires to their children. No, he didn’t want to dream again, but he didn’t want to get up, either. He wanted blessed nothingness.

  Warm fingers stroked his arm. “You’ve been sleeping for ten hours.”

  He’d never told Candy about the dreams. She would probably just push harder for him to either request a transfer or quit his job altogether.

  “Come on, honey. Time to get up.”

  It was no use. Fully awake now, his body had its own pressing agenda, and it wasn’t Candy. He rolled out of bed, stumbled to the bathroom, and cursed the gallon or so of gas station coffee he’d downed in between interviews. He returned to the bed, but Candy, flaunting a lot of skin and very little else, had poured herself into the indentation he’d left in the mattress.

  “Umm. You left it nice and warm,” she purred. “But not warm enough. Come here.”

  At least she was in a better mood than last night, and he had no intention of spoiling this mood. He lowered himself next to her and let her warmth burn away the last fragments of his night dreams. She was like his Candy of old, confection and perfection, as he used to think of her. But that was yesterday. She was two sizes larger now, not that he cared about that. Curves were curves, and so what if they were a little more sweeping now? But her personality had changed too, and that had been a loss.

  Right now, though, her open mouth was the way he liked it, kissing instead of nagging. The bosses at work plotted their political moves like generals on a battlefield. The squids wanted God knows what. And Candy, like the greatest politician of them all, was forever campaigning for herself. But when she selfishly wanted to be loved, and he just as greedily wanted sex, all was right with the world.

  She was warm and soft and full of passion, and the urging of her lips and hands tore away the years. He was twenty-one again, a rosy-cheeked recruit eager to mend society, and she was the most beautiful girl he knew, the home fire that made the daily struggle worthwhile. She tore at him as if she hadn’t seen him in all those twelve years, and he responded with all the zeal and stamina that had then been in his heart and body. He drove into her, and the magical time machine traveled on. Through the eyes of youth, the world around them was a sunny day, all the wrongs would right themselves, and sunset would once more mean nothing more than kicking back and enjoying the colors of the sky.

  He collapsed beside her, as spent as though he had run a marathon, and Candy moaned in appreciation of his efforts.

  “Mmm. Maybe your working nights won’t be so bad after all.”

  The time machine ground to a halt in the present. He rolled away from her and bent down to pick up his shorts off the floor, not wanting to respond. Whatever he said was bound to start a fight.

  She pressed on. “So how did it go last night?”

  He knew from past experience not to tell her too many details about his job. If he made it sound too dangerous or unpleasant she would just badger him all the more to find easier work. “It was okay. I’m hungry, babe.”

  “Breakfast is in the oven. Well, actually it’s last night’s dinner. So, what did you do all night?”

  “Nothing.”

  She halted in pulling on a T-shirt and sweatpants. “Nothing?”

  He cocked his head. “I drank a lot of coffee. Does that count?”

  “I don’t understand. I thought they needed you so badly . . .”

  He snorted. “My gung-ho partner insisted on doing all the work.”

  Candy sat cross-legged on the bed and screwed her face to match. “What’s his name again?”

  “Duvall.”

  “That’s it? Don’t vampires have first names?”

  Kil shrugged his shoulders. “A lot of them don’t like to use first names. Squids and rock stars. I guess it makes them feel special or something.”

  �
��Even if he continues to do all the work, you don’t trust him, do you?”

  “Hell, no.” The truth slipped out too quickly. As soon as he said it, Kil knew it was a mistake. Candy, like a terrier with a prize in its jaws, wasn’t going to let go. He just knew it.

  “So now I have to not only worry about some criminal trying to kill you, I have to worry about your partner, too.”

  Did she worry about him at all? Sometimes he wondered. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. Especially with another long night ahead of him. “I’ll handle it, Candy.”

  “Can’t you write to transfer back to day shift?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good.” Another wrong answer, and again he knew it.

  “How do you know until you try? I don’t understand why you can’t find a different job. You say yourself you don’t care about half the cases they assign you to, and now . . .”

  He left the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen, trying to tune out her voice. Candy’s cooking was much easier on his sense of smell than her words were on his ears. And if there was any chewing to be done, he much preferred it be on dinner than on a subject that had already been gnawed to death in months past.

  She followed him into the kitchen, another predictable move. “God, John, why do you have to be so stubborn?”

  He could have answered that with any number of responses, but most would only fuel the fire, and he was hungry. Some kind of dessert bread was out of the oven and cooling on the counter. He wasn’t sure what it was—pumpkin, cranberry, or whatever—but it didn’t matter. He sliced a piece out of the middle, took a large bite, then shrugged at Candy. She couldn’t very well expect him to answer with his mouth full, could she?