She brought it up to the light to examine it more thoroughly. It looked and smelled familiar. Where had she seen it before? When nothing came to her immediately, she moved onto the less pressing, but still intriguing mystery before her. She pried the lid off of the Tupperware container of blood.
As soon as the scent hit her nose, she knew. The blood was human, and it was relatively fresh. It was not Martha’s, either. She knew the smell of Martha Stout and many of the other women on the historical committee. She’d specifically memorized them so she could begin walking the other way when she scented them. This scent was familiar too. Sweet and young and ... female, she thought.
It suddenly clicked. The hamburger on the counter was not the leftovers of an abandoned cooking project. The powder on the counter was not salt or flour. She licked her finger just to be sure. The same bitter taste hit her tongue and made her stomach roll.
Martha had slipped just enough animal flavor into the drink to make Kierra’s poisoned blood palatable. Priscilla’s stomach heaved again, this time for a whole different reason.
There was a gentle tut from the kitchen doorway.
“I was going to let you walk away,” Martha said, sounding genuinely saddened. “But you just had to go and pry, didn’t you? I suppose that means I need to expedite things.”
Priscilla spun around faster than the human eye could follow. It was not fast enough to avoid the ax that came arcing down toward her head.
Chapter Sixteen
Priscilla’s world tilted to the side, and the same thing that had caused the sickness probably saved her life.
Her knees went weak and she collapsed to the ground at Martha’s feet. The ax embedded itself in the wall, right where her head had been only moments before. Martha let out a sound of indignant protest and tried to yank her ax free from the wall.
“Look what you made me do,” she griped, as if it had been Priscilla’s fault she’d swung it in the first place. “That was genuine craftsmanship there, and now it’s got a nasty dent.” She paused for a second, considering. “Though the property value might go up if I tell the next owner it was done by an angry spirit.”
While Martha was musing on that possibility, Priscilla got her feet beneath her and began to stumble out the way she’d come. She just had to navigate the living room, the front hall, and pry open the front door before Martha caught up to her with the ax.
She might as well have had to run a marathon with no training, no skill, and no food. As soon as she’d forced herself forward, she felt a dizzying sense of vertigo and almost hit the ground again. She stumbled forward and hit a wall, bouncing off it without feeling the pain until a moment later. She gripped her head in both hands, trying to contain a muffled sound of discomfort.
Martha’s footsteps sounded very loud behind her, like that of a monster in a horror movie. What an irony that the Hollywood monster that everyone was so afraid of, a vampire, was running in fear of a 60-something history teacher.
“I’d hoped this would happen in the greenhouse,” Martha continued in the same benign tone she used to teach in. “Much easier to dispose of you there, if you collapsed. Chop up the bits of you and hide them in my fertilizer until the cops cleared out. But you just had to snoop, didn’t you?”
The ax whistled in the air above them and Priscilla stumbled forward another few steps, using the wall as support. The ax missed its mark again and clattered against the wood as Martha narrowly avoided sticking it in the wall again. It was this consideration, more for the building than another living building, that allowed Priscilla’s muddled brain to put it together, even through the sickness.
“It was you,” she gasped, turning the corner, putting her back against the wall. She was not going to allow her head to be caved in from behind like an overripe jack-o’-lantern.
“Well spotted,” Martha quipped. “Brilliant deduction, detective. But it’s a little late, isn’t it? I’d hoped you’d take the offer of blood. I could have slipped it to you in some other way, but it would have been hard to make a needle stick look like an accident, and of course, your blood doesn’t circulate. Vampires have to absorb it directly from the stomach, like some kind of sponge, so digestion was the most effective course.”
Martha came around the corner swinging and Priscilla ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade once again. The sudden motion made her stomach heave and she vomited all over the floor.
“Ugh. The ketamine I mixed into your little cocktail should have knocked you out sooner than this.”
Ketamine. Well, that explained a lot. It was usually used to maintain anesthesia during a surgery. It had also seen an upswing in recreational drug use in recent years. That was probably how Martha gotten it. She’d confiscated it from a student at Bellmare High and simply failed to report it.
This was where Priscilla’s vampire biology was both a curse and a blessing. She was immune to disease and resistant to most forms of poisoning. Heavy metal poisoning was the only exception and a major concern when it became a regular contaminant in years past. If Martha had really wanted to kill her, she should have dumped a vial of silver flakes into the mix. It would have burned like whiskey on the way down, but at least it would have done the job. Now, her system was fighting the poison until she could purge the substance or heal.
But her body was also trained to absorb any blood it came into contact with almost at once. If she ingested blood, she didn’t have to wait for it to break down in her stomach the way humans did. The effects were almost immediate, and noticeable.
“You killed her over a building!” Priscilla choked out, swallowing back still more bile as she began to crawl through the maze of furniture. It was like a horrible game of hide and seek, with neither of them very good at their role. Martha’s eyesight was failing along with her hearing, and she knew that the woman was practically blind without her spectacles. Perhaps if she could get them off, somehow …
“Not just any building,” Martha said, peering around the large armchair by the fire. There was very little chance of hiding among the spare furnishings that were common in Puritan homes. If she’d been in another building, it might have been different. “Robshaw Inn. It’s one of our most treasured historical landmarks. Its halls are filled with history. It’s bad enough those biddies voted to allow tours in it. People tromping in and out of it as they please. But they let people rent it!”
Martha’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “They let those two brats rent it out as if it were some cheap no-tell motel for their wanton debauchery!”
If Priscilla had been feeling more confident in her abilities, she might have retorted with sarcasm and pointed out that the Robshaw Inn was the furthest thing from cheap she’d ever seen. As it was, she could barely contain a gag as her stomach fought to expel the poison that had leached into her system. It would be best for her to throw up, but she didn’t need to alert Martha to her position. Her body would continue to do so until she’d gotten rid of the offending agent, or until her healing factor kicked in
Which it wouldn’t, because Priscilla hadn’t fed properly since before Kierra’s murder. If she were eating as well as she should have, she should be feeding twice a week on live blood. Since that was practically impossible, she made do with what she had. The only injuries she usually suffered on the job were cuts and occasional burns which were gone within the hour.
But to heal something of this magnitude? She’d need blood, and lots of it.
A plan began to congeal slowly in her mind. The only thing she could come up with came with a great deal of risk to her life. But if she didn’t feed, she’d likely die anyway, even if it took hours or even days for the poison to do its dirty work.
She collapsed noisily in the front hall, upsetting the candles and Bible that lay on the decorative table there. The Bible fell only inches from her hand, and if it had landed on her, it would have scuppered the plan entirely. She was sure she couldn’t play dead, or dying, with a holy item burning into her skin.
> Priscilla sagged boneless against the hardwood of the hall. She let her eyes flutter closed, the way they’d been trying to do since the poison had fully absorbed into her system. For a minute, she considered actually giving in and letting sleep take her. It wouldn’t be such a painful way to go. She might not even feel it, if the drugs were potent enough.
But death by history teacher was not the epitaph she’d always envisioned. So she’d have to live for a little while longer, at least.
Martha’s footsteps were slow and measured as she approached, a vulture circling its prey from high above. It wasn’t convinced the possum was actually dead, with good reason. Everything, even a predator, had survival instincts. If the prey was still alive, it could cut and bite and tear at you.
Martha continued to speak, presumably to get a rise out of Priscilla in case she really was awake. “It was fortunate I ran into her, you see. I wasn’t on that list of names your little vampire assistant gave her. I was waiting at Robshaw Inn with a batch of cookies ready for her, laced with ricin. But I wasn’t confident they’d work. Heat tends to denature poisons, you see.”
Another measured step forward. Priscilla was hyperaware of every vibration in the floor as she approached. It took every ounce of her Puritan upbringing to keep her face schooled into a careful mask. She wanted to snarl at Martha. How could anyone be so dispassionate when speaking of murder? She’d never been able to be, even though murder was a way of life for some of her species.
“So when she mentioned the mints, I knew I had my answer. Uncooked, and packed with artificial flavoring. Stupid girl never knew what she’d eaten until it was too late. Much like you, Priscilla Pratt. I was hoping to preserve your life for posterity’s sake, but …” Priscilla fought not to tense as the ax was swung into its upright position. The air displacement itself sounded like a hiss of metal through flesh. “Now I’m afraid you’ve outlived your usefulness.”
Martha brought the ax down. Priscilla’s eyes snapped open, and in the seconds it took Martha to realize exactly what had happened, she’d seized the handle of the ax and snapped it clean in two. The head landed uncomfortably close to her head, shearing off about an inch of her hair on one side. It was that brief, petty flash of annoyance that allowed her to fight the growing lethargy and push to her feet.
“She wasn’t stupid,” Priscilla snarled. “She was annoying, she was entitled, and yes, she was a pain in my undead behind, but she was not stupid. That girl you killed loved Faulkner. She knew every single Hammer horror film ever produced, and she knew enough about Robshaw Inn’s history to want to stay there.”
Martha looked suddenly small, standing in the glow of the streetlamps filtering through her windows, clutching a broken ax handle. She tried to brandish it as a stake at the last moment, but too late. Priscilla slammed her full weight into the older woman and pinned her to the wall. She twisted the woman’s wrist almost to the breaking point until she let go of the handle. It clattered to the ground with a strangely discordant sound. Or perhaps that was her perception of it. Nothing looked or sounded right.
“She wasn’t stupid. She was trusting.”
“Foolish to trust anyone,” Martha said, a hint of bravado sneaking into her voice, despite her position. “You trusted me too, remember? And what jury is going to convict a short, stubby teacher close to retirement over the word of a vicious vampire?”
“I will.”
Priscilla’s head whipped around. When had the door opened? Why hadn’t she heard it? Right. She’d been focused on the throbbing pulse in Martha’s jugular vein, aching to take a bite. She needed food. Badly.
Arthur and Jack stood silhouetted in the doorway. Priscilla didn’t think she’d ever seen a more beautiful sight in her life.
Martha began to struggle fruitlessly. “No! No! This is not how it was supposed to happen.”
“Save it for the judge,” Arthur barked, withdrawing a pair of cuffs from his belt. Priscilla let go of Martha abruptly, shoving her toward the officers. She’d wanted so badly to feed. So badly she’d nearly assaulted another sentient being to get it. She could reason all she wanted that Martha deserved it, but at the end of the day it was still wrong.
Priscilla slumped to the ground, too tired to keep her head up. Martha put up only marginal resistance when Jack dragged her out of the house.
Arthur knelt next to her. “You look awful, kid,” he said. Priscilla fought a weary smile. He’d called her kid. He only used endearments like that for people he liked. She was happy to have finally made the list. “What happened here? I tried calling your phone. You didn’t answer.”
“Poison,” Priscilla said. “And ... ketamine. I’m dead beat.”
“Emphasis on the dead part,” Arthur said with a chuckle. “We need to get you to the hospital ASAP then. I’ll have Jack call the paramedics. Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”
“Blood. I need blood.” She didn’t glance up at him. After everything that had happened, she didn’t think she could take it if she saw disgust on his face.
In response, Arthur sat next to her and half-pulled her onto his lap. It was an awkward angle, but put her within striking distance. “Go on then, kid,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”
“I shouldn’t,” she panted. Saliva was already flooding her mouth in preparation. Her jaw ached and her mind screamed at her. What was she saying?
“I’ve got a cross,” he said softly. “And a gun. Don’t make me shoot you.”
She wanted to argue with him, but practicality overcame her squeamishness when it came down to it. With a hungry sound, she lunged for his neck. She hadn’t done this in decades, and yet it still felt as natural as walking to her. Her teeth unerringly found the cluster of veins in his neck. Her body nearly sang at the feeling of flesh resisting her fangs, ultimately failing as she found her prize.
The sound she made was almost indecent, like a candy addict getting their first taste of chocolate after a year of abstinence. She pulled herself upright enough for Arthur to get an arm around her. The blood was free of chemicals except for the mild antidepressant she hadn’t realized he’d taken until that moment. It was a million times better than half-baked animal blood, and a cut above cold, expired blood shot through with anticoagulant.
She could feel every beat of his heart as she drank, and for that brief time, she was one with him, sharing that throbbing pulse. It was almost too intimate a thing to share with the father of a friend, but she wasn’t about to stop.
She hadn’t been aware she’d wound her fingers into his hair until she tugged him closer by the back of his neck. She was dimly aware of someone saying her name. It didn’t matter. The blood was inside of her, washing away the pollution and making her whole.
Then something stung her in the back and the world swam in Technicolor, and she knew no more.
“Why’d you put a heart monitor on her?” Arthur grumbled from nearby. “She doesn’t have a pulse to measure. You’re just going to send your staff into a panic every time they see a flatline.”
“Standard procedure,” an unfamiliar female voice said. “Take it up with Dr. Sakar. He’s her physician during her stay.”
“Still stupid,” Arthur said.
Priscilla opened her eyes to find herself in an unfamiliar, dimly lit room. It had white walls, solid print furniture, and a window with the shades drawn tight. It took her a moment longer than it should have to realize the strong smell burning her nose was antiseptic cleaner. Someone had to have doused the place with it recently.
“Where am I?” she asked, her voice sounding like it had come from a laryngitic.
“You’re in the Wakefield hospital, sweetie,” a petite nurse in yellow scrubs said. “You’re undergoing hemodialysis to get the remnants of the poison from your system. It will probably feel uncomfortable, since we’re having to force circulation.”
That would explain why she felt so sore. She hadn’t felt this much physical discomfort since she was human, and the pain of sor
e muscles was a distant, almost forgotten memory.
“How long do I have left?”
“Another day or so, honey. I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake,” she said, and shuffled out of the room.
“About time,” Arthur said from a bedside armchair. “I thought we might have killed you.”
“What happened?”
“I got you off me with a cross, and Jack Tasered you to keep you down. I didn’t realize it was gonna cause so much damage.”
“It wasn’t your fault. That happens in the case of near-fatal injury. I would have passed out anyway, after feeding. I’m sorry about that, by the way.”
“Not your fault,” he said, parroting her words back to her. “It’s basic survival instinct. Sometimes human drowning victims end up almost drowning their rescuers.”
“I could have killed you,” she said, stomach rolling again in a weak echo of nausea. She’d honed her instincts to perfection over the years and didn’t think she’d have hurt him. But she’d also never been that close to death before.
“Could have, but you didn’t. I also notice you didn’t take a bite of that witch of a woman when you had the chance to. That took restraint. More than I thought you had at that point.”
“I didn’t want any part of her inside of me,” Priscilla admitted. “And murdering a murderer doesn’t make the world a better place. It just makes me a killer too.”
Arthur let a cross spill between his fingers and she had to look away from it. “That’s why I respect you, Pratt. I suppose that’s what Emily saw in you too, huh? I was just too blind to see it until now.”
“That’s Emily’s?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said with a distinct sniff. “It was one of her favorites. She stopped wearing it when she met you, though. I thought it was stupid. Why would she remove that protection around a predator? I guess it was because she didn’t need it.”
“You should wear it,” Priscilla said. The cord was leather and the cross not effeminate. It wouldn’t look too strange around his neck. “Because you’re right. I am dangerous. My first instinct when threatened is violence.”
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