by A. J. Aalto
“Spicer shows up after sun-up,” I finished, “traps Malas in his casket, and re-kidnaps his creation.”
“Why?” De Cabrera returned from scouting the corners. “What the hell does Spicer want with a female zombie-vampire?”
“I'm hoping it's just a greedy slave labor thing, but I'm so afraid to find out,” I admitted, “that I'm not even going to ask. I'm just going to kick his ass, destroy the monsters, and help you arrest them both. You guys can do that, right?”
Golden and de Cabrera gave me identical duh looks.
“Maybe Malas had nothing to do with the zombie part,” Declan suggested. “Maybe Malas is innocent. All he's done is turn a woman who admitted she wanted to be turned, asked to be turned. That's not illegal.”
He looked hopeful. It bothered me to see the light in his eyes, the shine. Just for a moment, I was no longer sure whose side Declan was on.
“I think it's unlikely that Malas didn't know about the zombiestuff,” I said. “Spicer would have stunk of death and Vodou materials — herbs, chalk, candles, blood — every time he came back to attend Malas. You think Malas just ignored that? A revenant this old didn't last this many centuries by being careless.”
“So where's this hybrid abomination? Did Batten get to her before us?” de Cabrera asked. “Did she chase Batten out? Was she held somewhere else?”
There was no sign of Anne Bennett-Dixon, but the seat to the right of Malas’ throne was empty and covered with a layer of greenish-brown slime that made my lip curl. (“You will use both of your gifts, ducky.”)
“Let's find out, shall we?” I dug the Waterloo tooth out of my pocket. “You guys might want to stand back.”
I didn't have to ask twice; Golden and de Cabrera took up opposite stations in the far corners of the chamber, close enough to shoot — which would frankly do them no good — but far enough away from the casket for their comfort.
“You're not letting him out, right?” Golden said hesitantly.
“Not all of him,” I said, holding the small, discolored canine in my palm.
De Cabrera crossed himself .
I warned, “Get that out of your system now, Cuban. When his phantasm is out, don't you dare pull that shit unless you wanna piss him off.”
Declan backed off into the near shadows, setting his doctor's bag at his feet.
I stood over Malas’ casket and, in a voice clear and forceful, summoned, “Death Rejoices, Malas Nazaire, maréchal Toussaint, Vicomte de Brisbois, cherished master of the grave and keeper of the gift of immortality.”
Daring and bright-eyed, like he'd just jumped off his warhorse, the filmy phantasm of young Malas Nazaire leapt out of the ether directly in my face, his dark hair in riotous curls, his full lips smiling. This all changed when he saw me vault backward from his spectral form; a courtly arm shot out to steady me but drifted right through me. I continued on my self-destructive arc, hitting the wall with a molar-jolting thud.
“Fucking OW!” I said. “What the merry crap? Personal space, dude.”
The laugh that flowed out from the spotty miasma hovering before me was rich, sumptuous enough to raise goose bumps on my arms and elsewhere; I blamed the little white vitamins for the lust, though I'd have never admitted the wash of pleasure that sluiced through me. My libidinal dance card was overwhelmed as it was, and I didn't need to be adding ghostly French guys and angel-faced demon lords to the Sisyphean tasks Mr. Buzz was already facing.
His eyes widened slightly, and the laugh came again like a gift from the rapture gods. “Hail, honored DaySitter,” Malas said formally, sweeping a courtly bow. “Centuries untold celebrate your gift of submission and honor the blessing of consanguinity.”
He's not really here, my brain reminded. Just a little phantasm bilocation. But Lord and Lady, imagine that flood of intensity at full power. And: No wonder Anne wanted him. I looked to see if Golden had felt it too. The half-aroused, half-confused, all-nauseated look on her face confirmed that she had.
The hand with which he indicated the table to my left was like a movie projection stuttering with dust motes, and that's when I noticed that both of his hands were perfect. No withered arm. I did a double take at his face.
He appeared as the old Malas, or rather, the young Malas: early thirties, his unruly black hair a sweaty shock of curls at his ears, eyes flashing, smile lopsided and rebellious. I'd seen this face before, the bold cavalryman whom Napoleon had despised. Did a phantasm form show a revenant in his most appealing state — a protective measure that might prevent any harm from coming to the apparition — or was it Malas’ choice to appear to us like this?
“You look damn good tonight, for a four thousand-year-old dead guy,” I told Malas. “Fair warning: I have a weapon that can set your ass on fire. Please don't make me use it, sir. I would really hate to destroy someone your age.”
“This I know,” came the surprising reply. “You grieved deeply for a time after staking my Gregori, and to this day you regret that action. You wish that he had not pushed you to that final act, that you could have saved him in the end, though this is not something you will openly admit.”
It was true, and he was right; admitting it in front of Golden, de Cabrera and Declan felt like weakness of a sort that I should never show. Not if I wanted to be kick-ass.
“Your respect for immortality has not gone unnoticed,” Malas continued. “You are a particular delight to me, DaySitter. You honor me with your call, your trust, and your respect.”
“Oh. Okay, then. Swell.” I let go of my vice-grip on the modified Taser, handed it off behind me to Declan. “Glad we understand one another.”
“Please, mademoiselle, do sit.” Malas motioned to the empty chair beside his throne. The nearest hurricane glass rattled as his kinetic power sent a warm ripple through the air surrounding his indistinct arm. I looked at the chair; the goo bubbled in response to his focus.
I shook my head. “Think I'll pass. It's kinda ooky.”
“You are here in regards to our last conversation, I must presume, to apologize for wronging me,” he said. Before I could say no, he continued. “Gregori left you no choice; I realize that was the way of it. In lashing out at his wayward DaySitter, Gregori did force your hand.”
The relief that flooded through me, I knew, could very easily becoming from Malas, part of his Telekinetic control over my brain chemistry, a rewarding dose of hormones to lull me into believing that Malas was a safe harbor. For a moment, everything in me wanted to believe it; there was an insistent tug at my desire to be safe and protected by a creature so old and powerful. I fought it as best I could, but could see why Anne Bennett-Dixon would not have.
“Do not mourn him any longer, DaySitter,” Malas said, with kindness I had not expected. “Gregorius had a long life, full of wonder and joy, but he was a warrior with a heart tending toward jealousy and possession, battle and vengeance. I do not believe it could have ended any other way for him, eventually. I have decided to forgive you from taking my Younger from me. Forgiveness is healthy.”
Though he spoke to me, I sensed his focus shift over my shoulder, to Declan, who was maintaining a tight-lipped silence. The Blue Sense woke in me with a soft ripple, and I rolled off my other glove, tucking it with the other in my pocket.
“Well, that's spiffy, thanks,” I said, “but I'm actually not here to discuss Gregori. I'm here to inform you that you, sir, have been ass-fucked by your partner in crime.”
I pointed to his casket. He gazed upon the silver chains and crosses with a little choke-sputter of surprise. Malas’ phantasm slid toward me, faltering in the candlelight. It reached out for me, a ghost trying to get its relative's attention. I resisted the urge to dodge his shadowy hand, felt it slide through me, a cold sting through flesh and bone. I wondered if that was how my World of Warcraft characters felt when they ran through each other, and vowed to steer more carefully if I lived long enough to play again.
“A temporary setback,” Malas said, “for I have
no reason to doubt the intentions of your company.”
Uhhh, okay? “So you admit that you were working with John Spicer? That you knew who Ben actually was?”
His smile was pitying. “Do you think he could have hidden his true desires from me, DaySitter?”
“Maybe he was a champion liar.” I motioned to the casket. “After all, he did fool you about his desire to chain you up and take off with Zombie Anne. He used you, Malas. He lied to you. He told you what? That he wanted to help you make female revenants?”
The phantasm lowered his chin and looked up at me from under a stormy, spectral brow.
“Did he tell you about the necromancy, or did you smell it?” I wondered aloud, studying the phantasm's face for twitches of rage. “Could he have hidden that from you? I can't imagine that you would agree to Anne's zombification. In your own weird way, you wanted her. I won't say you loved her, or even liked her. Love is denied to the immortals, and I'm not sure you like anyone but yourself.”
“Your tongue is unfettered,” Malas warned.
“I've heard that before,” I agreed. “Spicer didn't tell you the whole truth, just enough of the truth for you to taste, is that it? Or did you know he was making hybrids? Did you help him, or did he do that to Anne without your permission?”
Again, the revenant fell silent, and his gaze wandered in Declan's direction.
“It's clear he wanted something different than you,” I continued, “or he wouldn't have chained you up. What was the plan, anyway? Might as well tell me. You ain't goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”
“John Spicer is impatient, and his greed knows no end,” Malas said. “His plantation is already the largest in all of Haiti, yet he is unsatisfied. I have done everything he has asked, and still he wants more.”
“This was his idea?”
“I have no need for such things.”
“What do you need, Malas?” I asked. “What was in it for you?”
The rage that flickered across his ghostly face was enough.
“Spicer knew that you were reaching the right age and had the right disposition to do this, and that, sooner or later, you were going to succeed with your experiments. He promised that if the experiment worked, that you could keep the first, you could keep Anne, or whomever it turned out to be.”
“His gadgets failed to control her, but she always answered the call of her true Master,” Malas said.
“He's determined to make it work,” I guessed. “With the Bluetooth. He had to get her away from you, away from your influence. The call of your voice, of your mind, of your Bond, was too strong for him to talk over.”
“And lo, you have rallied your forces to my defense.” Malas smiled grandly. “Your devotion is noted and appreciated, DaySitter.”
“Whoa, hold your horse, cavalryman,” I said. “You just admitted to colluding with a necromancer and creating a monster. I can't just spring you from this rather fortunate trap.”
“Oh, but you must, mademoiselle, for whilst I never did gain complete control over Anne, to be sure, my control over her was far better than Monsieur Spicer's.” His smile was unpleasant. “As he will soon discover.”
I followed his logic. “She'll kill him. Infect him. And then the two of them will continue infecting others.”
“I will prevent this, of course, when you release me,” Malas said. “It is in my best interests to protect the humans dwelling in my territory, as I have always done.”
I frowned, again motioning to his casket meaningfully. “You're already under arrest, Malas. What makes you think the law isn't going to be all up in your business within the hour? Can you break those silver chains?” When he didn't answer, I continued, “Can you remove those crosses yourself? You don't honestly think I'm going to release you?”
“What I expect, DaySitter, is that you will carry out the orders you have received from our Infernal Father.” His gaze flicked in Golden's direction, and cut to de Cabrera. “You have the blessings of Asmodeus to rely upon, and rely upon them you shall. With the Overlord at your side, the plague of undead will not touch you as it will others. I cannot in good faith vouch for the safety of your mortal companions, however, until you release me.”
I cringed at the cold victory in his cornflower gaze. As the Blue Sense woke to do my bidding, I drew a big circle of psi around me, pushing out to probe his phantasm form. What I felt empathically was Golden's anxiety, de Cabrera's readiness, and blatant conceit from Malas Nazaire. There was a conspicuous hole where Declan Edgar's presence lurked behind me.
“Your obedience is expected in this matter, DaySitter,” Malas said, his voice still tickling up my spine like a feather. “There shall be no exchange of words, no entreaty heard, no bargain made. John Spicer will be exterminated.”
“I'm not calling on a demon king. And I'm not killing John Spicer, I'm arresting his ass. You, however, are in bigger doo-doo. Spicer's human. He's going to prison. You're not.”
“No, I am not,” Malas agreed, swinging the full weight of his attention at last to Declan. “Am I, little monster?”
Declan flinched.
Malas flashed fang, that single yellow barb. “Crossing by water was clever, child.”
“All the best by sea and sail,” Declan said, and I recalled the first time he'd said it, in the Buick, driving back to the cabin after we'd first met. I didn't understand it then, and I struggled to understand its relevance now.
“I did not sense you for some time, until you were already deep in my territory.” Malas pressed closer to us, and I backed up until I was shoulder-to-shoulder with Declan, who did not retreat. “The ocean,” he continued admiringly. “Yes. All that deep, running water. Atlantic currents.”
My mind scrambled for bearing. Water would have dulled a revenant's powers. What would it have done to Declan, who was obviously not a revenant, but also not exactly human? What the hell was he, to be altered by the running water, to have powers to hide from a master revenant?
“How long did it take for your faculties to rebound?” Malas asked.
Declan faced that with silence.
“What faculties?” I asked.
Malas laughed, a snake's rattle. “They call my Anne the abomination, but look what we have here, DaySitter. George Ansell will also be hunting this little monster. Perhaps he already is?”
Declan's face crumpled only for a second, like a kid denied candy. Then his face tightened in a rush, to pure fury. He pointed at the phantasm accusingly. “Anne is the reason Spicer and his Priors came, not me. Anne, that horrible thing you made.”
“Like that other thing that I made?” Malas hissed. “Is that what you came here to find out, little monster? Dreppenstedt cannot tell you. Dreppenstedt does not know.”
Declan's project. I'd known Declan was digging for specifics: dates and times and locations, all hindered by the revenant habit of lying about numbers. I watched the side of Declan's face for clues, but it gave me nothing.
“Only I have your answers,” Malas said. “Let's ask the DaySitter which Halfling is more dangerous, shall we?”
“Halfling,” I breathed. “What is he saying, Declan? What is this, the Year of the Half-Breeds? Ogre-vamps and zombie-vamps and whatever the hell you are?”
“Surely, you know what this is, this thing before you?” Malas asked me. “It certainly looks like a man. What say you, DaySitter? Did you find his godsburden?”
The melancholy bird I'd only managed to glimpse and had heard scritching at my window and cooing late in the night.
“Debt vultures only follow revenants,” I said uncertainly, remembering the pale flutter of feathers, white and grey.
“And it wasn't a debt vulture that you found, was it?” Malas paced forward. “Do you not know what's been under your roof, mademoiselle? Sharing your food? Shadowing your hearth? Standing beside you now, listening to the thrum of your pulse, watching the slow pull of your breath with alien eyes? Paddling through the dark waters of your past for his answers?”
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I shook my head rapidly, my words failing.
“I do. I knew the minute he flooded my city with his essence, the day he settled his unnatural bones under Dreppenstedt's roof, stinking of absinthe and anise.” Malas rasped, drawing out his words like he was chewing a smile. “He smellllsssss like her.”
Absinthe. He doesn't smell like absinthe. Not always, my brain teased.
Declan let out a heart-piercing half-cry, choked off by confusion.
“Every other word out of your mouth is a lie,” Declan charged. “You didn't know her. You weren't even in the Swabian Alps at the right time.”
“Nor was your mother,” Malas countered. “Nor was my dearest, oldest friend, Wilhelm.”
Declan's face went through a range of hard emotion; uncertainty, frustration, and the disillusionment of a lost little boy all played across his brow. “I've got it all in my records, the math doesn't add up. Someone is still lying to me. Centuries of lies, and all I've uncovered is more goddamn lies.”
“I will tell you the truth, little monster, though you will wish I had not.” Malas smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about it. “It was Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, not Guy Harrick, who did spend his last mortal day tearing through his estate like a rabid dog, taking down every warm throat in his path, including that of his own widow, your charming mother. But he was not alone.”
“Guy Harrick was not—,” Declan choked on it.
“Oh, no, child, you have wildly miscalculated young Guy's age, for Guy Harrick is largely disinterested in protecting himself in such a fashion. It was Wilhelm and I who were turned on the very same three days,” Malas answered, and glee lit his face. “And at the end of the third day, I joined him near the Bitter Pass, to flush out the stronghold at Svalbard. Ah, but the hunger of the grave could not be sated that day, nor could our lust for warmth, for life, those last precious drams…”
“You,” was all Declan could say, a soft, sad statement barely more than an exhalation.
