by Hal Bodner
“Clive?” began Becky, her voice tinged with horror.
“What is it now?” He was absorbed with a particularly difficult knot. “Vampires!” he snorted. “Y’all really had me going there for a while.” The knot came loose. “I’ve had grandmothers fussing over traffic tickets who were tougher to take down than that guy. I can’t believe I actually fell for that crap.”
“Uh, Clive?” Becky said again.
“You’ll never take him alive,” he mimicked. “God, you and your weirdo boyfriends!”
Burman stood up. She looked past Clive’s shoulder ready to blast Becky for the whole Count Dracula thing when her eyes suddenly grew as large as dinner plates.
“Clive?” Pamela said.
“What?” he snapped.
“I think you’d better pay attention to what Becky’s trying to tell you.”
“What the hell is it?” he demanded, whirling around to face Becky. His view was blocked, however.
Rex Castillian had gotten to his feet. He was standing in the center of the broken glass, grinning. His shirt was still open, the back of it hanging in tatters. The skin on his chest was smooth and unmarked.
“Now,” he said, “let’s have some fun.”
As soon as Chris had realized that Burman was alive and evidently unhurt, his thoughts turned to Troy. He knew Becky and the others were in mortal danger, but Troy was his primary concern. The thought of going through even one day without Troy’s effervescent smile and outrageous campiness filled him with a foreboding of unbounded loss.
He knew Troy was still alive—he sensed it—but in what condition, he couldn’t tell. From the moment they’d entered the building, he had the feeling Troy was near. But where? He wasn’t in Burman’s apartment: Chris had been certain of that as soon as they’d entered. The intensity of the feeling had decreased when he’d walked through the door. But he knew Troy was close by.
As Becky and Clive left the living room for the bedroom, Chris ran out of the apartment into the hall. The feeling got stronger. Sweet Jesus, where was he? Close, oh so close. In fact, Chris could almost smell him. If only he could still the panic that threatened to overwhelm him and think!
Wait a minute...smell him...smell him...
Hell’s bells! thought Chris as the scent of Troy’s blood finally fully penetrated his conscious mind. I can smell him!
Knowing Troy was nearby and bleeding, Chris began following the scent like a bloodhound. It seemed to be strongest near the elevator. With a cry of panic, using all of his unnatural strength, he forced the elevator doors open and leaned out over the empty shaft.
The smell grew much stronger. As he took a second whiff, something wet hit him on the top of the head. He wiped the dampness away absently and stopped, looking at his hand in amazement—blood. He tasted it. With a pang of horror, he realized the blood was unmistakably Troy’s.
Behind him, he heard a gunshot, followed by the crash of glass shattering. He debated for a split second. Then, more frightened for Troy’s safety, he leaped out into the shaft, grasped the cable, and began to climb.
He got only six feet up the cable when he collided with something soft in the darkness. He reached up and a volley of legs began kicking him in the head.
“Go away!” Troy shrieked. “You get away from me! You touch me and my lover’ll stake your ass so hard...”
“Monkey!” cried Chris, irritation mingled with relief. “It’s me! Stop kicking!”
“Chris!” Troy’s voice was joyful. Chris climbed up past him and took him in his arms, the two of them dangling fourteen stories above ground, lips plastered together. Troy finally broke the clinch, childishly eager to tell his story.
“I saw the light when the doors opened,” Troy said. “I thought it was him.”
“Are you all right?” Chris demanded. “My god, Troy! If he’s hurt you, I swear I’ll-”
“Look,” said Troy happily, holding out his bleeding wrists. “I used the elevator cable. I cut my leg pretty bad, though.” He looked down, ruefully. “And my shorts are a total loss.”
Chris, without another word, kissed Troy again long and deep. A moment later, Troy came up for air.
“Hey, I keep telling you. One of us still has to breathe here.”
“Let’s get you down.” Chris swarmed up the cable to the machinery above. By pulling the rope attached to Troy’s harness, he was able to haul the blond onto one of the metal beams crossing the elevator shaft. In moments, the rope harness had followed Troy’s other bindings down into the darkness below.
“Where’s Becky?” Troy asked.
“Good god!” Chris exclaimed, “I almost forgot. They’re in the apartment! With him!” He turned to Troy. “Can you make it down the cable?”
“Just go,” said Troy. “I’ll be right behind.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Rex was enjoying himself immensely. He took great satisfaction in positioning himself in front of a different item of furniture every time Clive was ready to pull the trigger. So far, the bullets had passed completely through his body each time to totally demolish the television, an antique armoire, a glass and brass shelf unit, and Pamela Burman’s signed limited edition David Hockney lithograph—among other things.
Between Clive’s frustration, Burman’s howls of protest at the destruction of her property and Becky’s terror, Rex reflected that he’d rarely before been able to cause such an emotional upset in a group of normals without resorting to at least some physical force on his part. It was almost worth being knocked off his feet with the impact of every bullet. But the gun only held a limited number of bullets and then...!
As this thought crossed his mind, the hammer of Clive’s pistol clicked down on an empty chamber. Clive stared at it, an expression of disbelief on his face, and then in a burst of frustration he hurled the empty pistol at Rex’s head. Rex dodged it easily, and it sailed across to room to land on the crystal decanter of brandy that Burman kept on her bedside table. The reek of spirits filled the air.
“That was antique Waterford,” Burman snarled. “Somebody’s gonna pay for this!”
“Get out!” Clive hissed at her.
“What?” she asked. “How dare you...”
“Just take Becky and get out!” He pulled the passkeys out of his jacket pocket. “Get into another apartment.”
“I don’t think it would be wise to try that,” said Rex mildly. He crossed to Clive and caught hold of his arm as Clive drew back his arm to toss the keys to Burman. “That won’t do at all.” Slowly, inexorably, he covered Clive’s hand with his own and began to squeeze.
Through her fog of panic, Becky heard the bones in Clive’s hand shatter and the captain sank to his knees with a bellow of pain.
Rex released him and the keys dropped to the floor. He picked them up and Clive scuttled away, clutching his mangled fingers.
“We won’t be needing these,” he commented and, without looking, tossed them over his shoulder and through the shattered glass doors where they sailed over the balcony to plummet to the pavement fourteen floors below. “Come to think of it,” Rex continued, “we won’t be needing you either. At least not all of you.” He smiled.
“What...what do you mean?” Clive moaned.
Rex crossed to Clive’s huddled form and reached down to grasp his shirtfront. Hauling him into the air with one hand, he said, “I only need one worm for the fish I mean to catch and somehow, and I doubt you’d be the most effective bait.” Rex slowly raised his other hand toward Clive’s face, fingers spread. Placing his thumb and little fingers on opposite temples, he squeezed gently. Clive screamed in agony.
“Now,” he said to Pam and Becky, “I haven’t done this in a very long time but...” He squeezed again, harder. “If you do it just right,” he frowned in concentration, “the eyes will come clean out of the skull.” Clive shrieked.
“That will be enough.” Chris’s voice was forceful, but calm. He stood in the doorway to the bedroom.
�
��Ah,” said Rex, with an overly polite little bow, “my final guest.”
“Put him down.”
“Certainly,” said Rex and effortlessly tossed Clive aside where his body impacted with the sole surviving intact item of furniture in the room, Pamela’s art nouveau dressing table, reducing it to splinters. Pamela rushed to Clive’s side.
“Why are you doing this?” Chris begged.
“Simple, my young friend. As I explained to this dear young lady...” He reached out and grabbed Becky, whirling her around so that she was facing away from him, the broomstick flying out of her hand through the remains of the glass doors to clatter on the balcony. “I dislike being told how to live my life.” He pulled her closer, and her hat was knocked to the floor. “I especially dislike competition.”
He unsheathed one long fingernail and held it to Becky’s throat, drawing a small droplet of blood. He daintily licked his finger. “Delicious,” he drawled.
“I noticed you in town last week, cousin,” he continued pleasantly. “You should be pleased I recognized you. Although I’ve managed to withdraw from society for a while, I make it a point to keep my ears open. Christopher Driscoll, isn’t it? Born in the mid 1700’s? I understand you have quite a reputation for, what’s that phrase you all use? Ah yes, ‘putting down’ our more voracious relatives.” His voice lost all pretense of politeness. “As if we were rabid animals!” he spat. “No, my dear Christopher,” he said mockingly, indicating the others in the room, “these are the animals! Cattle to be used at our pleasure.”
“Now,” he continued in a falsely civil tone, “you will be so kind as to go over there to that broken table and find a piece of wood. A long, sturdy piece of wood.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Chris asked defiantly.
“Instructing you in the art of suicide, of course.”
“What makes you think I’ll do it?”
Rex thrust his finger a full quarter inch into the flesh of Becky’s throat.
“So what?” Chris feigned nonchalance. “She’ll be dead in twenty or thirty years anyway. What’s to stop me from just walking out?”
Chris was desperately trying to keep Rex’s attention. He could see over the villain’s shoulder, and the sight filled him with dismay. Troy was clambering onto the bedroom balcony. He spotted Chris and smiled brightly, then he pointed toward the living room, obviously pleased with himself.
Chris realized with horror that Troy must have gone out the doors in the living room, onto the balcony and, Chris shuddered at the thought, jumped across to the adjacent terrace outside the bedroom. Chris fought against trying to signal him to go back where he came from. If Rex had the slightest inkling Troy was standing behind him, Chris knew he’d abandon or perfunctorily kill Becky in favor of Troy as a better hostage.
Rex began to laugh. “Your reputation as a humanitarian, your penchant for putting down rogues, the knowledge that I make an extremely patient enemy. Any one of a dozen things.”
Rex’s gaze became steely like a serpent about to strike. “And the knowledge that I will slowly, oh so slowly, crush the life from your dear friend. Your lover, I believe?” he asked with scorn.
“Where is he?” Chris shouted unnecessarily. Burman had finally seen Troy on the balcony. Chris hoped his outburst had covered her gasp of shock. Fortunately, the night was windy and the air rushing through the broken glass doors would prevent Rex from smelling Troy’s bleeding wrists and thighs. At least, Chris hoped it would.
But Rex was enjoying himself far too much to notice either Burman’s stifled gasp or the faint smell of Troy’s blood. “Oh, he’s hanging around. Somewhere.” Rex giggled.
On the balcony, Troy was looking for a weapon. At first pleased with himself for thinking to leap from one balcony to the other, he was now seething with frustration that he hadn’t thought to carry anything with him.
He considered one of Pamela’s lounge chairs momentarily and discarded the idea when he realized he’d never be able to move them quietly enough so that Rex wouldn’t hear. Besides, they were plastic, not wood. He brightened at the sight of a dying ficus tree in a large clay pot. If he could manage to yank it free and use it as a battering ram to stun Rex with, Chris might be able to finish him off. On second thought, the dirt was dry and compacted; there was no way he could get it out without noisily smashing the pot.
Troy had absolutely no doubt that Chris would save the day. He just needed a little help. If only there weren’t so many normals in the room.
Troy picked up a heavy ceramic ashtray, hefted it with satisfaction, and moved toward the room, hoisting it over his head to strike.
“No!” Chris yelled, his control slipping for a moment when he saw what Troy had in mind. He recovered, barely, and managed to pretend his outburst had been aimed at Rex. “You’d better tell me where he is,” he demanded.
“Or what?” asked Rex.
“Or...or...” Chris’s mind was racing. Suddenly, he had an inspiration. “Or I’ll stake you so hard, we won’t be able to sweep up the dust.”
What is he talking about? Troy wondered. Then he saw Becky’s wooden witch’s broom, lying in the corner. Taking it up quietly, he smiled.
Becky’s thoughts were in turmoil. She was terrified, and her throat was starting to hurt, but there was something she was sure she’d missed. Something they’d seen when they entered the bedroom. She mentally ran over the scene they’d been greeted with.
Pam was tied to the chair and she was yelling. Nothing odd there; Pam is usually yelling. Rex was threatening to gag her. Well, couldn’t really blame him for trying...Wait a minute, she thought. Why couldn’t he manage to get the gag into her mouth?
Pamela kept kicking him, of course, but Becky couldn’t see how a creature that could take a half dozen bullets to the chest and barely flinch could be put off by an irate Burman in platform heels. And hadn’t Pamela said something about her dining room table? Just what the hell had she been talking about?
Stake! her thoughts cried out. A wooden stake! And Pamela’s platform shoes have wooden heels!
Unable either to look down to check or to remember which pair of black pumps she’d put on when she’d changed, Becky took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and slowly lifted her right foot.
Poised to thrust with the broom handle, Troy stopped in dismay. The end of the handle was blunt. Maybe Chris had the strength to drive it through Rex’s chest, but Troy certainly didn’t. He reconsidered.
“Enough chatter,” Rex said. “Either you pick up one of those table legs and place it against your chest or the mortal bitch dies. Now.”
In exasperation, Chris saw Troy fingering the broomstick and immediately understood the problem. “Please God,” he prayed, “just this once, let him use his head.”
Slowly, Chris moved to the wrecked vanity table and picked up one of the wooden legs. Hoping Troy would get the idea, Chris brought the table leg down sharply across his knee, breaking it into two halves with wickedly jagged ends.
Out on the balcony, Troy finally saw the light and began to look around for something he could use to break the broom in two.
“Lest you think you can manage to use that thing on me,” Rex continued inside, “remember, there’s someone who’s come between us.” He carefully maneuvered so that Becky was between his own body and the table leg. “Now,” he continued, “open your shirt and place the wood over your heart.”
Chris slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He reversed his grip on the shaft of wood and positioned the jagged edge against the left side of his chest, feeling slight pricks of discomfort as the splinters bit gently into his skin.
“More toward the center,” Rex said nastily. “Don’t play games with me. I’ve seen enough innards to know where the heart is.”
Chris sighed and moved the table leg so that it was directly over his heart. “Fat lot of good medical school did me,” he murmured.
“That’s better,” said Rex with satisfaction, “Now, you will fall
forward, and it will be I who will sweep you up.” The tension in the room was almost a physical presence.
Troy’s frustration was boundless. He didn’t have the strength the break the broom; besides, Rex would hear the crack. But with Chris standing there, about to skewer himself, Troy knew he could wait no longer. Raising the broom stick over his head, he silently crept into the room.
No one was prepared for Rex’s curse of pain when Becky brought her heel down sharply on his instep with all of her strength. His grip loosened for a moment as she twisted almost fully out of his grasp.
“Bitch!” he shrieked and, as he made a grab for her throat, Troy rushed up behind him and clobbered him over the head with the broomstick with enough force that it snapped clean in half.
Rex wobbled slightly, his hand going to clutch at the lump on his head. He lost his grasp on Becky altogether and she slipped away.
Troy stood frozen, looking with astonishment at the jagged end of the broom he held clutched in his hand. “Now, why didn’t I think of that sooner?” he asked wonderingly.
“Hit the dirt!” Chris yelled to the coroner, at which point, both Becky and Troy dropped to the floor.
Chris reversed the chair leg and lunged. At the last second, Rex twisted to the side, and the wooden spear, instead of striking him in the heart, pierced his left shoulder, running clear through his body, the point emerging from his back.
Rex let out a roar of pain and grabbed the chair leg with both hands. Cursing, he started to pull it from his body.
Chris lost no time. He stooped, stumbling over Becky’s prone body, and grabbed the broken broom handle from Troy. He stood, brandishing it like a spear.
Rex smiled evilly through the pain. “Not so easy to kill, am I?” With a final grimace, he yanked the chair leg from his body and hurled it at Chris.
Surprised, Chris instinctively batted it away with the handle of the broom as Rex attacked, fingers contorted like claws, reaching for Chris’s throat. At the last possible second, Chris swung the broom handle back around and watched, horrified, as Rex, unable to check his forward rush in time, impaled himself upon it. Unfortunately, the handle had penetrated Rex’s body too low to be fatal. Wounded, Rex was likely to become even more dangerous.
