“For—my—Vesta,” Urie Polder grunted. “Ahum!”
But the feedback of the energy he was drawing away from Malvern was too much. First Heather succumbed, dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Smoke wafted off her smoldering dress. With Heather gone, the spell was too much even for a hexenmeister of Urie Polder’s strength. His whole body shook as if he were enduring a grand mal seizure. The flames from his wooden stump spread to his shirt and began eating at his beard and hair. He screamed wildly, uncontrollably, as the power burned out his internal organs, until cracks of light appeared on his exposed skin. Until his eyes burst in puffs of steam.
Clara couldn’t watch what came next. She couldn’t bear to see him die.
So instead she did the one thing she thought she was still capable of. She dashed across the clearing, toward the cave mouth. If Caxton was going to go up against Malvern in there, she wouldn’t do it alone.
“Clara!” Glauer called after her from not far behind. “Don’t!”
But Clara refused to listen. She didn’t even slow her pace when she heard a sudden scream behind her, though she spared one glance over her shoulder. Just enough of a look to see Urie Polder release his hold on Malvern. Just enough to see Malvern move again in a flash of white muscles, just enough to see her fingers strike at Urie Polder’s face and chest like the raking claws of an eagle.
Clara had no doubt he was dead before he even fell to his knees. He had been the best that a man could be—brave, wise, and willing to do something utterly stupid if it meant helping others, if it bought the rest of them a second of grace.
As Clara reached the cave mouth and hurried inside, she made a mental note to honor him properly at some later date. Assuming she lived through the night.
[ 2004 ]
Sometimes—only sometimes—the cards turned over, and the one trump the gambler needed was lying right there. Sometimes old sins came back not to haunt one, but in the form of blessings.
A hundred vampires. An army of them, waiting in the earth like the bulbs of poisonous flowers, just waiting for the time to sprout. The same army of vampires Justinia had created for the Union army a century and a half before, never used but only hid away from the light of the sun, had risen to plague the good people of Gettysburg.
And arrayed against them was Laura Caxton and whatever scraps of human refuse she could pull together in a single day.
Caxton didn’t have a chance.
As Justinia lay in her coffin in some dismal museum’s basement, listening with Jameson Arkeley to the reports coming over the police band radio, she could only gloat. If she did nothing, if she let the course of events play themselves out as they were bound to, Caxton would die. The newest thorn in her side would be drawn from her by Alva Griest and his legion of the dead. Justinia had no doubt that Griest and his fellows would be destroyed ere long. They were weakened by their time in the earth and they would be hunted, hemmed in on every side, rooted out during the daylight hours and laid low, one by one.
But not before Caxton perished. How delicious.
Of course, that was if she did nothing.
There was more to be won if she but lifted her hand. She let her weak fingers play across the keys of her computer, her only method of manipulation now.
ye can yet save her, if ye choose to
Jameson slammed the lid of the computer shut, nearly trapping her fingertips. He didn’t want to hear it.
Luckily for her, she didn’t need to say more. The idea was already planted. The curse was already in Jameson, from long years before. If he but turned his hand against himself now, it would be enough.
And oh how tempting it must be. His mortal body, heir to all the shocks of flesh, was crippled and bent now. One hand was little more than a club. His spine was fused in many places, his muscles withered by disuse. How low the mighty vampire killer had fallen.
Strength could be his. Power unlike any he had ever known. He could race to the little town and fight for Caxton’s life. Be her protector. Her savior. Justinia Malvern knew just how seductive it was for a man to be needed. How desperately this man wanted to save the girl he thought of as his spiritual daughter.
He turned and stared at her with desperate eyes as the radio crackled and spat. As reports came in, one after the other, of men cut down, of vampires swarming through the city streets of Gettysburg.
“I could cut out your heart right now,” he said, his mouth a hard line. “I could do one good thing, at least. I could end this. I could end our little dance.”
He could. Weak as he was, he was still far more sound of limb and wind than Justinia. He could destroy her any time he chose.
But when he rose from his seat, when he went to fetch a scalpel—she was not overly worried.
She’d called plenty of bluffs in her time.
51.
Caxton saw plenty of blood and dead bodies as she ran across the clearing toward the cave. She refused to let it get to her. It didn’t matter that Urie Polder was sacrificing his life back there. It didn’t matter that Fetlock was dead.
It shouldn’t matter that Clara and Glauer were out there, standing around looking helpless. Waiting to die.
It shouldn’t matter at all. She’d hardened herself against the possibility. For the last two years she’d worked hard—so damned hard—to divorce herself from everything she used to care about. All the fragments of her old life could be used as weapons against her. Malvern was an expert at manipulating people, at turning loved ones and family members into liabilities. Caxton could not afford to hesitate now, not even for a moment.
She had known, when she started designing this trap, that Malvern would come hard. That she would not pull any punches this time. One of them, if not both, was going to die here, tonight. By planting the rumor that she was going to start a clan of vampire killers, that Patience and Simon Arkeley would breed a whole gaggle of children raised for nothing but Malvern’s destruction, she had ensured that Malvern would come and try to nip things in the bud. She had bought herself one solid chance, one single opportunity to end the vampires for good.
But only if everything went according to plan.
Fetlock had nearly ruined that. Had Caxton still been shackled when Malvern arrived, had she been unable to fight, it would have been over. If Fetlock had taken the witchbillies away from the Hollow before nightfall, if he had sent Urie Polder off to jail—everything would have fallen apart.
She had only luck to thank that she was still breathing. That she still had this one last shot at Malvern.
Luck and, of course, Clara. Clara who had slipped her the handcuff key.
She was grateful for that. But not so grateful she would let herself feel a thing when she ran right past Clara, not so grateful that she would slow down even to nod in her former lover’s direction.
At the mouth of the cave she pulled aside the makeshift gillie net that had hidden its very existence from view. It was pitch black inside, and she had no way of making a light, but it didn’t matter. She’d rehearsed the next part of her plan so many times she could do it blindfolded. She grabbed up the nylon bag that Urie Polder had left for her just inside the cave mouth. Tearing it open, she found the plunger and quickly attached the leads of the detonation cable. Malvern would be at most a few seconds behind her. She needed to make every one of those seconds count.
There was a place about ten yards inside the cave mouth where she could stand and be safe. Patience had actually proven herself useful for once by pointing it out. Patience had seen all of this, everything that had happened tonight, everything that would happen. She’d been stingy with the details, as was her way, but when Caxton was planting the dynamite Patience had been endlessly forthcoming. Caxton knew exactly how the blast would happen and where all the rocks would fall.
“Caxton?” someone called from just outside the cave.
That was something Patience hadn’t mentioned.
“Clara? Is that you? Get the fuck out of here!�
�
“No,” Clara said. She stepped inside the cave mouth, silhouetted by the fires that still burned outside. “No. You don’t get to do this alone.”
“Clara, I’m warning you—”
Clara came inside the cave and pressed her back up against the wall. She kept her face turned toward the cave mouth, her weapon ready to fire at anything that showed itself.
It was a good position to shoot from, with plenty of cover. It was also right in the middle of the blast zone. “A lot of us have worked for this. A lot of us have sacrificed everything. Not just you. So—so screw you, I’m not leaving. I’ll help with this or I’ll die trying.”
In about three seconds, Caxton thought, you’ll get your chance at that. She looked up, over Clara’s head, and visually checked the twenty sticks of dynamite duct-taped to the ceiling of the cave mouth.
“I don’t have time to explain. Just move your ass!” Caxton shouted.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Caxton looked down at the plunger in her hands. All she had to do was push down on the handle. A coil inside the plunger would generate an electrical spark, which would then travel down the length of wire to the blasting caps. The dynamite would explode, bringing down the roof of the cave. Sealing it off from the outside world. Malvern was supposed to be caught in that blast, and buried by the falling rocks.
The explosion wouldn’t be enough to kill her. Patience had been clear on that. But it would slow her down while she dug herself out of tons of rubble. It would give Caxton enough time to get deeper into the cave, to the killing floor she’d laid out.
Patience had promised her it would work.
The girl had not mentioned that Caxton would have to drop all that rock on Clara’s head to make it happen.
For two years Caxton had worked hard to purge herself of every bit of concern, compassion, and love she had ever felt for another human being. She had trained herself to think of everyone—including herself—as expendable. She gripped the handle of the plunger. There was no time to argue with Clara. Already Malvern would be streaking toward the cave mouth. This was going to take split-second timing.
Her knuckles went white where they clutched the plunger’s handle.
Everyone was expendable.
Everyone.
Caxton dropped the plunger and ran forward, into the blast zone. There was just enough light that she could see Clara’s eyes go wide. Caxton grabbed her former girlfriend by the arms and pulled, hard. Clara tried to dig in her feet, but Caxton was bigger than Clara and considerably stronger.
“Come on,” Caxton groaned, and shoved Clara inside the cave. “There’s no time for this!”
There really wasn’t.
Vampires, being unnatural creatures, made the very fabric of reality curdle wherever they went. When they passed by, cows stopped giving milk. Dogs howled. The tiny hairs on the back of Caxton’s arms all stood up when one came near.
They were standing up at attention just then, like little soldiers.
“Oh, shit,” she said, and turned to see a white streak come racing toward the cave. It was like watching a lightning bolt come straight toward one’s face.
It was too late. In half a second Malvern would be inside the cave, in the blast zone. There was no way Caxton could reach the plunger in time, no way she could bring the roof down on Justinia Malvern. The entire plan had failed, and she had lost her one chance. And now she would die because she had refused to kill the woman she loved more than anyone else in the world.
Stupid sucker, she thought. You couldn’t be hard enough. You couldn’t do it when it really counted.
And yet—there was one thing you could always count on when it came to Patience Polder’s visions. They always came true. Not, typically, the way you expected them to. But every one of them was foreordained.
As Malvern hurtled toward the cave mouth, another shape accelerated inward on an intersecting course. A shape that blared with red and blue light and screamed with a cry of sirens. A cop car, a patrol cruiser, came out of the night and slammed into Malvern at top speed.
[ 2004 ]
Of all the vampires Malvern had known, of all the mortals to whom she had given the curse, none were more obnoxious to her than Jameson Arkeley.
It had been his purpose, of course, to merely save the day, then allow himself to be destroyed. He had been quite sincere in desiring the power only with the best of intentions. Now that he understood, now that he knew the strength the blood could bring, naturally he had changed his mind. Yet he could never seem to come to an accommodation with that fact. He would not accept that he wanted to live. That he wanted anything, beyond base heroics and cheap nobility of spirit.
Yet want it he did. He wanted the blood, sure as any drunkard wanted drink. Surer than that. There was no drug in the world more enticing, no surcease of sorrow that could compare to the feeling, oh, that precious feeling when the blood hit the back of a dry throat.
She knew it so well. She knew that every night that passed, every night he persisted, his desire grew stronger. Whether he would let himself voice his bloodlust or not.
He had returned for her after saving Caxton and the town of Gettysburg. She’d known that he would. He had threatened her endlessly, even as he demanded information from her, told her in graphic detail over and over how he would tear out her heart when she became useless to him. When he had sufficiently picked her brains.
Justinia knew how to play that game. She promised secrets she did not possess. She tempted him with her knowledge of the orisons, whispered secrets of vampiric lore, much of which she made up on the spot. He knew, of course, that some of what she said was lies. But he could not know how much. In exchange for the few truths she allowed to trickle from her lips, she demanded that he bring her blood. That he make a safe home for her and protect her from all who would destroy her.
And so he had. He found a place no one would ever look for them—at the bottom of a burning coal mine, a place so thick with evil fumes and blistering heat that no one but a vampire could stand it. He made a throne room for himself there, and placed her coffin at its side. He would never see himself as her knight protector, she knew. He would never fall for the cheaper blandishments of her seductions, for the forms she took as she tried to tease out his sexual desires. She made herself look like his wife, Astarte, and that elicited no more than a sneer. She formed herself like Vesta Polder, who had been his mistress. He slammed shut the lid of her coffin and did not open it for many nights.
Justinia took it too far once. She caused herself to resemble Laura Caxton, but a Caxton who liked boys. She made herself naked and writhing in her coffin, begged for his touch in Caxton’s voice.
He nearly ripped her heart out that night. His hand closed around it and squeezed. Another few pounds of pressure and he would have crushed it like a grape. Eventually he let go, though the look of disgust on his face remained a long while.
She stopped trying to sway him with orisons after that. Anyway, she’d always been able to seduce with words far better.
“This is what ye are now! Ye must come to some accommodation with your new face,” she told him, while he brooded on his throne. “Lest ye tear your soul in half.” If he didn’t, she knew, it was only a matter of time before he turned on her. And she could not resist him now.
“I’ll die before I accept what I’ve become,” he said.
But she knew he would not. Or he would have already returned to Caxton, knelt before her, and bared his breast to her.
“Be the angel of death, like my master Vincombe,” she suggested. “Be the conservator of our tradition, like dear Lares.” Give in to your darkest perversions, like Reyes, she did not say. Accept me as erotic mother-figure, like the Chess boys. Let me justify your vengeance, like stupid Easling. “Ye must find some purpose. Some rationale for all ye’ve surrendered. All thou hast sacrificed. Ye saved Caxton the one time. Save others, if you like!”
“Save them? I’m as likely to
devour them. I know you understand—every time I come near a human now, all I can think about is ripping their throat out. Drinking their blood. And it will always be like that from now on. I can’t leave this place. I can’t be human again. Even if somehow I managed to hold back, it wouldn’t matter. My family would spurn me if they met me now. Caxton would … she would …”
“She would destroy ye. Your family would fear your approach. Because ye are different than ye once were.”
There were times when Justinia surprised even herself with how clever she might be. As she watched his face, his red eyes hard with anger and self-loathing, she began to see what it would take.
“Of course,” she said, picking her words with infinite care, “there’s no reason they have to be so different. There’s no reason, say, they couldn’t accept the curse themselves …”
52.
Standing still, with her feet braced, Malvern could have picked up the car and thrown it. She could have torn it in half. But she wasn’t standing still, and she wasn’t braced for the impact. And even vampires have to obey the laws of physics sometimes.
Malvern’s headlong course was brought to a very abrupt halt. She was thrown sideways by the impact, away from the cave’s mouth, out of Caxton’s field of view. The car slewed to one side as if it had struck a steel fence post. It fishtailed into the side of the ridge, hard enough to make dirt and small rocks cascade downward from the roof of the cave. Glass shattered and the siren’s pitch changed as the speakers on the roof bar crumpled, changing from an eagle’s shriek of vengeance to the mournful blatting of a dying walrus. One of the car’s tires exploded with a bang.
The driver’s-side door flew open and Glauer rolled out, shaking his head as if he’d suffered a concussion in the impact. Blood leaked from his nose and he held one leg stiffly, as if the knee wouldn’t bend.
He stumbled forward, into the cave. Leaned hard against the wall and didn’t move. Just breathing, with difficulty.
32 Fangs: Laura Caxton Vampire Series: Book 5 Page 28
