Mark of the Moon

by Beth Dranoff

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  My companion grinned now, his lips twitching mischief. He reached behind his back and pulled out a chiseled wooden stake from a concealed holster, then replaced it just as smoothly. He opened his leather jacket and displayed several blades, sewn into the lining of his coat. Another blade against his tailbone. Another one in his boot.

  This guy was packing.

  I couldn’t help but laugh, although I tried to keep it quiet. Between the two of us, the odds of our survival had just gotten a lot better.

  Kaynahorah. Knock on wood. I muttered the words in my head, just in case.

  Quietly, we hatched our escape plan. It was brilliant, really. On the count of three, we would make a run for the truck. Okay, so maybe it lacked complexity and layers of strategy. But hey, points for being direct and goal-oriented, right?

  The only loose thread was the man having his life force drained from him even as we stood. Hopefully that thread wouldn’t turn into a rope that twisted around our necks to hang us. Because we couldn’t leave him behind.

  Humans, or at least us human-like beings, needed to take care of each other. Damned if I didn’t feel responsible for the guy. Do unto others and all that I guess. I mean, if I was daggered and being fed on by some less domesticated vamps, I think I would want to be saved. Right?

  I touched the shoulder of my partner in flight. His eyes, shocking blue now and glowing in the reflected light of an overhead bulb, turned to me. Waving my hand—surprisingly smooth and human-seeming again, thankfully—I pointed to slumped Goth Guy. Even from here, I could see his chest continuing to faintly rise and fall.

  “Any ideas on how to get this guy out?” His whispered breath, my chest, a straight line of heat. Man, what was with me tonight?

  I leaned into his personal space to whisper back.

  “I’ll distract them, while you sneak around and start loosening the daggers. If you can, get the guy into my truck and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Or,” I paused, “you could always help take them on with me.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Two on two—we can take ’em, right?”

  He shrugged and gave me a half-grin.

  “What the fuck,” he responded. “Ready?”

  One...two...

  I touched his arm to stop him before he took off.

  “Wait,” I said. “In case anything happens to either one of us. What’s your name?”

  He smiled down at me, full lips curling back over large, evenly formed white teeth.

  “Nothing is going to happen to me,” he replied. “Or to you, if I can help it.”

  “Full of yourself much?”

  He snorted quietly.

  “Samuel. Sam. Call me Sam.” He gave me a small, mock bow. “And you are?”

  “Dana,” I replied. “Okay. Now that we know what to put on each other’s gravestones, are you ready to go?”

  He nodded assent. Leaned forward to whisper in my ear, his lips a caress as his words promised more. “Nobody is dying here tonight,” Sam said in a low growl. “Except vampires. Let’s do this.”

  One...two...three...

  “Hey!”

  Okay, so maybe yelling wasn’t the smartest thing to do. But I couldn’t think of anything else right then. And it did get the vamps to stop feeding.

  Unfortunately, I was fresher and—alone, relatively unarmed—I was a walking stereotypical girl target. And I’d just let the nice vamps know that dessert had arrived.

  Great. Just great. A good little distraction...assuming I didn’t get killed or vamped first...

  But my maneuver served its purpose. They released their grip on the limp human. Point for me. Problem was, they were now slinking towards me, the picture of a B horror movie tag-team effort.

  Were there this many vampires before? The duo had multiplied exponentially.

  One dropped and exploded into dust, Sam’s stake driving a hole through its back. Now was no time for a fair fight. Another went down in a matter of seconds. Stake, move on. Stake, move on. Watching Sam in action was like watching a macabre dancer, each move a part of a complex pas de deux.

  But I didn’t have time to watch him for long because those not collapsing into a pile of ash were getting closer.

  The first vamp, a hard-bodied woman who looked about twenty years old, attacked. I reached down to grab my stake, thrusting upwards and out in a clean motion just as the vamp was about to land.

  An explosion of glittering dust shivered around me. But instead of littering the ground, the ashes seemed to hover in the air, floating lightly on a nonexistent breeze.

  No time to watch the show, though, because the rest of the group attacked. Kick, feint, punch, roundhouse kick to the head, stake. Solar plexus slam, uppercut to the chin, stake. Head butt to the vamp holding me from behind, double kick to the vamp bearing down on me from the front. Double stake as both rushed me in tandem.

  Quick mental calculation: five down, ten to go.

  Sam was holding his own. He’d nailed four to my five and had just smashed two more heads together before staking one and tossing the other to me to stake.

  That put our collective count to eleven. We were fighting back-to-back now, punching and kicking and staking the odds more into our favor.

  There. One vampire left. It was almost too easy.

  Sam and I moved forward, fully expecting the vamp to run away. Nobody likes to lose, and dying is even worse than losing—especially if you’re practically immortal.

  But the vamp wasn’t running. Instead it was looking over to the area where most of its former buddies should have been dust bunnies in the wind. And started to cackle.

  I couldn’t help myself. I looked over too. And saw a glowing, swirling spiral of sparkling green and yellow particles. The vamp rushed at me, shouting, “Behold the glory of Alina! She who walks will slay the righteous and reunite us all! Behold that which is to come! Be...” And with that, Sam skewered her with a satisfying thud and then a poof as the dust exploded.

  “Don’t suppose she might have told us something useful,” I said. “Do you?”

  Sam shrugged, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Theatrics got boring,” he said. Then he cocked his head towards the ash pile. “What’s that?”

  I turned to look.

  The last vampire had exploded into dust. I’d seen it myself. But instead of scattering on the ground, the ashes floated a moment and then started to swirl around in an increasingly glowing vortex of light and dust. Sam and I watched the molecules dancing closer and closer together. Each centrifugal swoosh seemed to strengthen the force’s pattern and the particles began to glow an eerie neon green.

  “Nice light show,” I said, my voice pitched low. “Seen anything like it before?”

  Sam shook his head without taking his eyes off the spectacle, which was morphing into a green-smoke version of the vampire staked just moments before.

  “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,” the ethereal presence said. “It has already begun. All is turning to dust, to ashes. She will open her mouth to suck everyone into her hell on earth. We will rule the surface again.”

  “So you’re, what, Toronto’s version of a preternatural dust-buster?”

  “You dare to mock?” the mist whispered indignantly. “Mock not.”

  “The way I look at it,” I commented, “why put off until later what you can mock now?”

  Beside me, Sam snickered.

  The pile of dust drifted closer and, if you can believe it, looked me in the eye. Don’t ask me how that was possible because I don’t know. What I do know is that I was looking at a floating pile of dust, and that pile of dust was staring straight back at me.

  “We will meet again, sooner than you think,” it hissed, moving in closer until we were almost touching noses. I started
feeling that nasal tickle that presages a big sneeze. The transparent arms rose, reaching out to give me a great big powdery hug.

  Aaaatchoo!

  It was a good one. Big glob of snot, right in its ephemeral eye.

  Thwaaaaakk!

  It exploded on contact.

  Sam whistled in astonishment. “Way to go,” he said.

  I shrugged. It was planned. Really. Inspired phlegm.

  “Let’s get that guy and get gone,” I replied.

  Sam nodded and together we walked over to the Goth Guy’s body. He was still breathing, but only just. Between us, we were able to pull out the knives. Dried blood flaked loose as we worked the blades free from both the barrels and his limbs.

  Time to divide and conquer. I found some clean snow and rubbed it on the various re-opened, oozing holes.

  Sam was cleaning the knives in a different snowbank while I did this. When he was finished, he put them into a leather bag I hadn’t noticed before; guess I’d missed it in all the dusty carnage.

  Our respective jobs complete, we switched. I got the bag of sharp, pointy objects and Sam got the dead weight. Screw equality; I was fine with Sam doing some heavy lifting. And why not? He was taller than me by about a foot, all his limbs were longer which gave him better leverage, and he was clearly strong enough to handle it.

  I opened the passenger door to the truck, flipping the front seat forward so Sam could lean in and roll our rescuee into the back. Together we covered the guy with a blanket. Sam then flipped the seat back and got in, pulling the door shut beside him.

  I did the same. We waited in silence as the truck warmed up and the defrost cleared enough of the fog for me to see through both my windshield and rear window. Then I shifted into gear and pulled out of the lot into the waning night.

  Chapter Seven

  While I drove, Sam made himself useful.

  First he watched me fumble for my cell phone. No, that’s not the useful part. That came once he realized what I was trying to do, and instead he fished out his own phone from a hidden pocket inside the lining of his jacket.

  I shifted my weight and raised my hips up off the cracked vinyl seat, making it easier for me to wedge my free hand into the pocket of my pants.

  Out came the crumpled, still slightly sodden business card. Anshell Williams. He’d said he’d help me, and he obviously knew our victim.

  I handed it to Sam.

  He scanned the card quickly, his face neutral. Then punched in the number while looking out the window.

  Either he had a photographic memory, or Sam knew Anshell.

  Everything clicked into place.

  Of course Sam knew Anshell. They’d walked into the bar together. Sam had also been the random guy who caught me when I’d been surprised into a near-faint by Anshell’s arrival.

  Which meant...?

  For the first time, I looked at Sam. Really looked.

  His profile lay in shadow, hollows highlighted by the street lamps that flickered as we sped by. Friend? Or was I now in more danger?

  Sam had fought beside me. If not for his help, I’d probably be dead now. Which meant that if Sam was danger, it probably wasn’t of the immediate kind. So maybe being with him was a good thing. Wait and see, that’s what I was thinking.

  Sam was off the phone now. I hadn’t even listened to what he said. Damn. Getting sloppy already.

  “Go to the address on Roxborough Street,” he said. “The one on the card. Mr. Williams says he’ll take care of things from there.”

  “You trust him,” I said. Statement more than question, but my voice raised a note on the word him all the same.

  “Don’t you?” His question was pointed. “You’re the one who handed me the card.”

  “You knew the number without my help,” I answered. “I’m Dana. Bartender at the Swan Song. And you are?”

  Sam was silent for a full minute. I know. I counted.

  “I’m a friend,” he said. “That’s all I can tell you. But you can trust me.”

  I snorted. “Not big on the whole trust thing,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “I hear you,” said Sam. So, I was possibly not the only person in the car with trust issues. Good to know.

  Then he smiled. His teeth seemed to glow, reflecting the lights of the night.

  “It’s the best I can do, Dana,” he said. “If Williams promised to help you, he’s good for it. And I don’t want to walk into the nearest human hospital with this guy and try to explain what happened. Too much damage for them not to call the cops. And telling the truth to the cops? Not something I’m gonna do. Those extra-natural guys tend to guard their privacy with your blood, know what I mean?”

  I sighed my frustration. “Is your name even Sam?”

  “Yes. Wanna find out more about the guy in back? I know I do,” he said, flashing me a grin that could only be described as shit-eating.

  Sam twisted around and reached backwards to fumble in the limp guy’s pockets before coming back to face front with a battered black leather wallet. He rifled through its contents.

  “Joseph Dalton Morgenlark,” Sam said. “Age 23. 45 Windermere Drive. Probably lives in his parents’ basement and listens to the Cure and Marilyn Manson and Rasputina on his headphones while the folks eat dinner upstairs, wondering when he’s going to come out of his dark phase, get a job and make something of himself.”

  I smirked.

  “The question,” I said, “is what the hell put him at the Swan tonight? More to the point, was what happened to him a chance thing, or was he the intended target for some reason?”

  Sam shrugged and looked out the window.

  “Was that an I-don’t-know shrug or an I’m-not-going-to-share shrug?”

  Sam cocked me a half-smile and shrugged again. This time, though, he was teasing, watching for my reaction.

  He was rewarded pretty quickly as I growled frustration and directed my attention back to driving. Hard work, driving, when there’s nobody else on the road. Right. Speaking of right, oh look, the exit for Yonge Street. I signaled my intentions to the nonexistent traffic, then exited and started heading north. Since I had no way to know where on Roxborough Street we were going, I figured I’d stick with the closest thoroughfare and assess direction when we got there.

  Yonge Street is weird at any time of day but especially in the middle of the night. Down where Lakeshore exits into the north-south city bisector, you’ve got the questionable shadows of Union Station. From there, it’s the hotels and glass towers of the financial district. Past Adelaide the semi-grunginess starts—across from the south end of the Eaton Centre you’ve got jewelry markets and fast-food restaurants and the beginnings of large big-box store chains.

  All this changes at Dundas. Past there, the neon flashing lights flicker over the faces of hustlers, street kids, homeless people and late-night partying stragglers. Then you’ve got the businessmen in town for some convention or meeting, drunk out of their gourds, stumbling out of one of the many strip joints that litter the street.

  Interspersed with all of this seediness is the City’s attempted clean-up job on the area. Massive Jumbotrons beam out news and ads to potential consumers. Oversized name brand chain-store locations occupy prize corner spots, and cardboard posters of emaciated, bored models look out at pedestrians.

  Annoying? Hell yeah.

  Sam seemed to be catching up on his window shopping as we cruised north. The stores gave way to a more upscale environment past College Street, and as I stopped at the lights just south of Bloor at Charles Street, even I had the urge to hop out and do a bit of shopping. Go figure.

  Yonge Street narrowed north of Bloor, signaling the outer edges of Rosedale. One of the old money parts of town. Big brownstones, big lots, big property tax bills, big enough
incomes to cover it all. I periodically wondered what all of those people did for a living that they could afford multi-million-dollar homes in the middle of the city. Were they born with it? Did they work their way up to it? What kind of people were they?

  So far, I’d never gotten the chance to find out. Apparently today would be my lucky day. There it was—Roxborough Street. I slowed down, signaled left. Just a guess. Sam didn’t comment, so apparently I’d guessed right.

  The driveway was dark. A latticed wood archway connecting to a similarly patterned fence divided the lane from its neighbor, and the large-leafed vines draped and woven through the slats looked like grapes. Tasty privacy. The motion-sensor-triggered light flared as I pulled up, only to be extinguished an eye blink later. Unexpected; I jumped, checking in the rearview mirror. A reflex against the dark.

  Anshell had the front door open the second I killed my headlights. Four people, a woman and three guys, rushed past him and around to the truck. Human? I squinted, trying to trick myself into seeing something that wasn’t there. Instead, a streak of trailing orange energy as Sam opened his door and jumped out, pulling the seat forward behind him. In a spin too quick for the others to notice, Sam flipped Joseph’s wallet on top of him. A quick conspiratorial grin at me before stepping aside to let the others do their work.

  Anshell Williams melted into my periphery. One moment I was leaning against the side of my truck watching his people and their efficiency, separate from the action, and the next I had company.

  “Hey,” he said. “Thanks for this.”

  I nodded. Maybe Goth Boy didn’t want to deal with Williams and the Pack, but they sure still had feelings for him.

  “You doing okay?” His question was nonchalant, but when I glanced over Anshell was watching my face for the words I maybe didn’t plan to say aloud. “Anything...change?”