by P. N. Elrod
Both were stocky, short-haired, and well trained. But they were only human. I bared my teeth as the lieutenant raised the crossbow again, and their fear was sweet tonic to me. It was not enough—my charges had suffered more.
Which one should I keep to tell me where their captain was?
I took a single step forward, still smiling, my fangs aching with delight and my jaw crackling as the Thirst sang in my veins. I would need to hunt again before this night was out, the use of speed and strength taking their toll even on one so old.
The Burner dropped his guns and bolted. I leapt for him, and the world exploded with a roar.
The lykanthe leapt on the lieutenant, his teeth sinking into flesh as the man let out a high rabbitscream. It was too late to pull back, I collided with the Burner, my nose full of the reek of death, pain, and fuel. Bones snapped. He was dead before he hit the floor.
I spun. Wolf growled again, hunched over the body hanging in his jaws.
“Drop him!” I commanded, sharply.
He shook the limp form, fur standing up, alive and vital. He had lost his jacket, and his fluid form rippled with muscle. Bits of drywall and slivers of wood clung to his pelt. He looked a hairbreadth away from tearing flesh free of the body and swallowing it, and if he did that …
I know enough of lykanthe to know the taboo. Thou shalt not eat human flesh . I did not know quite what would happen, but I was certain I did not wish to find out here.
“Drop him,” I said again, softly but with great force. “Wolf. Drop him. Now.”
His eyes were mad silver coins. He stared at me, chest vibrating with the growl, and if he attacked me I would have to kill him. It is no large thing to kill mortals, but another of the twilight? A blood-crazed lykanthe ?
That is altogether different.
His jaws separated. The body thumped down, and his growl faded.
I put my wet, bloodslick hands on my hips. “If he is dead, I will not catch their captain as easily. Did I not tell you to stay?”
He merely watched me. Narrow graceful head, the snout lifted a little, blood marking his scarred muzzle. His clawed front paws tensed and relaxed, as a cat will knead a pillow or its owner’s thigh.
There was no pulse echoing from his victim’s body.
I sighed, though the tension did not leave me. And I waited. The air still reverberated with their screaming, blood and death and terror.
The fur receded gradually until he stood there bare-chested, his jeans painted with spatters of blood, and shook drywall dust out of his shaggy hair. He hunched his shoulders, as if he expected a reprimand.
It would do no good. To chastise the uncomprehending is cruelty.
It took effort to speak softly. “Come. We shall search this place, and then we shall burn it.”
His head dipped in an approximation of a nod. “S-s-sorry.” He could not even force his mouth to shape the simple word correctly.
A great pointless rage flashed through me and away. “It is of little account, young one. Come. Help me.”
* * *
There was a bank of computers, the monitors glowing. Crates of ammunition, stacks of those odd canisters of petrol. The additive was in gelatin form, a large box full of premeasured packets of the stuff set carefully away from the tanks of fuel. There was a filing cabinet as well, and I opened both drawers, reading swiftly and collating information as Wolf touched the glowing screens with his blood-wet fingertips, fascinated.
More of them? I memorized dates and locations, a sick suspicion growing under my heart. Humans have hunted us before, piecemeal and never very successfully. They usually focus on Prometheans.
But this group hunted Preservers. Or their helpless charges. Not utterly helpless, but there is no reason for a ward to learn combat or hunting. It is the Preserver’s function to learn those things, so the ward may focus on his or her art, whatever that art is.
Somehow, incredibly, these humans found Preserver houses in cities. Was it the Sensitives? I would have sensed human surveillance; I have moved my charges many times, when notice or war seems likely. Still, what could—
I opened another file, this one red and marked CLASSIFIED . Gasped, shock blurring through me.
Pictures. Of my house. Of Amelie in the garden, her heart-shaped face turned up as she studied the oleander tree. A blurred shot of Zhen through the windows of his dance studio, arms out and face set in a habitual half-smile. Virginia at the piano, her head down and her long dark braids tied carelessly back. Peter, standing on the front step with his mouth half open, caught in the act of laughing, probably at one of Amelie’s artless sallies. No picture of me—of course, I was more careful, out of habit. But there was something else.
A heavy cream-colored card, with the address of our house written in rusty ink, a fountain pen’s scratching at the surface of the paper. Ancient, spiky calligraphy, but still readable enough. It reeked of him, the perfume of a Kin.
Dear gods.
I closed the file. Brought it to my chest and hugged hard, the heavy paper crinkling.
Wolf whined low in his throat.
In a few moments, I had the other information I needed. Three locations, one of which was certain to hold this captain of theirs.
There was enough of the night left to accomplish that part of my revenge before I found the traitor who had given pictures of my family to these monsters. And I would make him pay , no matter how old, powerful … or Promethean.
I stared at the petrol canisters for a long moment before shelving my rage once more. There was work to be done.
When the house was aflame, we left.
* * *
The first location—an anonymous ranch house in the suburbs—was empty, but I found evidence of their presence. It was the second, a slumping tenement in the worst sink of the city, that held the prize. The entire place smelled of despair, urine, fried food, and the burning metal of poverty and danger.
I had rescued my Amelie from a place such as this. My hands made fists, loosened, made fists again.
I slid down the hall, crushing the cheap stained carpet under my fouled boots. My hair reeked of smoke again, and my fingers stung with splashed petrol. Wolf padded behind me, his head down. He would need more food before dawn, and a safe place to sleep.
Soon. Very soon.
We rounded the corner, and I saw the door, number 613. It was open a crack, spilling a sword of golden light into the dimness. I halted, and Wolf almost walked into me. He stopped, and tension sprang up between us.
A soft growl, far back in his throat. “Vrykolakas.”
Even through the slurring, I had no trouble deciphering the word. I did not know whether to be saddened or relieved. My own answer was a whisper. “As I am.”
For I sensed him too.
I pushed the door open with tented fingers. Stepped inside. Had he wanted to kill me, I would never have scented him. I would never have heard his strong, ageless pulse.
The apartment began as a tiny hall, a filthy kitchen to the right, a foul bathroom to the left. At the end of the hall, a single room with only a bed and a chair crouching on the colorless carpet.
The narrow bed held the captain’s body, facedown. The dried, shriveled things hanging outside the slits between his ribs were his lungs. It is an old torture—the suffocation is drawn-out and excruciating. His wrists and ankles were lashed to the bed with cords, probably from the cheap blinds covering the window. Or brought to this place, because a careful killer is a successful killer.
Perched in the other chair, his back straight and his sallow face expressionless, was Tarquin.
Wolf snarled and lunged forward. I caught him by his hair, and he folded down to the floor, his knees hitting with a thump that shook the entire room. “No.” I yanked his head back, exposing his throat. “ No , Wolf. He will kill you.”
He might very well kill us both . I met Quinn’s flat dark gaze, his jaw set and a muscle ticking in his cheek. His hair was cut military-short, as ever, and
he wore boots to match mine. No spot of blood fouled his leathers. The room could have been a charnel house and still he would have been pristine. Only once had I seen him covered in blood, and screaming.
I shuddered to remember.
“I am not here to kill you.” Flat, as usual, each word with the same monotone weight.
Wolf surged forward. I tightened my grasp in his shaggy hair and pulled him back. Quinn watched this, and a shadow of amusement fluttered in his dark eyes.
“Then what?” The enormity of the treachery threatened to choke me. “ He did this. Your precious White King. He gave over his own kind to mortals!”
“Eleni.” Tarquin’s gaze dropped to the lykanthe. “You were a Promethean, however briefly. You were a prize for him . When you left, he took it ill.”
“No more ill than you did?” Old hurt rose.
That garnered a response. His face twisted briefly. It was shocking, a break in his customary immobility. “I made you. I do not wish to see you unmade.”
He said it as if it would be so easy. I did not doubt that for him, it would be.
Then why had he not done it already? Why wait here, with the last victim but one of my vengeance dead on the crusted sheets of the narrow bed? “Why?”
“Because Leonidas is my King. I cannot stop him.” He paused, considering. “Not yet.”
Somewhere in the tenement, a baby woke. Its shrill faraway cry spiraled into an agony of need. In the street, gunfire echoed.
“But you will?” I did not credit my ears. His name was synonymous with loyalty, and had been for far longer than my own long lifespan.
He nodded once and rose, smoothly. Wolf tensed, and now Quinn looked faintly amused. “Only you would preserve a lykanthe .” One corner of his mouth pulled up, a millimeter’s worth. On him, it was as glaring as a shout.
I opened my mouth to tell him what he could do with his amusement, and his master. But he forestalled me.
“Take your dog and flee. I will tell Leonidas you are dead. Preserve what you can elsewhere, and stay away from the White Court and the Red.” He indicated the bed with a swift, economical motion, and I dragged Wolf back as if his hair were a chain. “Some day, Eleni, I will avenge all his victims. Then I will need your help.” He stopped, hands dangling loose and empty by his sides. “Do we have a bargain?”
I considered this. “Why should I trust you?”
“You are still breathing, are you not? And so is he.” This time it was a flash of disdain as he stared down at the growling lykanthe . Sooner or later my hold on Wolf would slip. Then what?
“Very well.” The words were ash in my mouth. “Make him suffer, Quinn. He must suffer to his last breath.”
“Have no doubt of that.” Quinn pointed at the bed again. “I am not merciful, Eleni. That is why you left me.”
“No—”
But he was gone. The window was open, and the cloth-tearing sound of a Kin using the speed slapped the walls. I stared at the body on the bed, the dried lumps of the lungs. Exquisite, and I could be sure Quinn had done it with no wasted motion, not a single wasted drop of blood.
“I left because you did not love me,” I finished, because it must be said.
Wolf sagged, and I realized my hand was still cramped in his hair. I let go with an effort. He caught himself on splayed hands, crouching, shaking his head as if it hurt.
“Bad.” He peered up at me, craning his neck. “Bad vrykolak. ”
“Yes.” There was no reason not to agree. “Now we must leave. It’s too dangerous to stay here.”
But before we left, I examined the body on the bed. The face was left intact, in a mask of suffering, the eyes stretched open but clouded by death. I put my face near his hair and inhaled deeply. Underneath the mask of death, yes. The smell of male, dominance, gunfire, and a faint fading tang of smoke and petrol. It was indeed one of the mortals who had been inside my house.
My vengeance was—mostly—achieved. But all I felt was emptiness.
* * *
The long gray of predawn found us miles away from the city limits, in a north-facing hotel room. The Rest On Inn was cheap, but it was safer than staying in the city. Stealing a car was easy, as was changing the license plates; I had also stopped in an all-night bazaar and bought another jacket for Wolf as well as a load of groceries. Simple, high-carbohydrate and high-protein things, either easily heated or good to eat cold. The lykanthe did not demur.
He crouched by the door, eating cold beef stew out of a can with his fingers. I used the duct tape to fasten the cheap curtains down, the weight of approaching dawn filling my entire body with lead.
“Don’t open the door,” I said, again.
He nodded vigorously. “No housekeeping. No visitors. No no.”
I did not bother to take off my boots. Tomorrow we needed more money, a different car, more travel. There were other cities. They all held Prometheans, true, but Leonidas would not look for me if Tarquin said I was dead. And I had no fame among the Kin. I was merely an anonymous Preserver, working to hold back the tide of time.
I watched the lykanthe as he dropped the empty can in the rubbish bin and selected another one. A quick deft slice of his claws took the top off neatly. “Eleni.” He half-sang my name, happily. Just as Amelie was wont to sing as she painted. “Eleni. Pretty Eleni.”
I pulled up the blankets. Bleach, industrial-strength detergent, and the ghosts of mortals lived in the cloth. I arranged the flat pillows and lay on my back, hugging the red file folder to my chest. Evidence of Leonidas’s treachery. Even Prometheans were not supposed to turn on their own kind. How long had he been planning this? How many other Preservers had died, or lost their charges to this malice?
Did it matter? I am immortal too. I could keep this evidence for a long, long time. If there was ever a chance, I could find a way to make the viper sting the White King.
And Wolf? Did Leonidas have a reason to hate him as well, or was he just the victim of mortal cruelty? Where were his kin? Destroyed? Still living?
Did it matter? He was my ward now. One more thing to save. Perhaps I could do a better job of it now.
“Pretty Eleni,” he slurred. “Good vrykolak . Good Eleni.”
Our kind does not weep. So why were my cheeks wet? I shut my eyes and called up their faces, each printed on the darkness behind my lids.
Zhen. Virginia. Peter. Amelie. Vengeance did not give them a heartbeat again. It did not salve the wound.
Another empty can hit the pile in the bin. I breathed steadily, wishing for the unconsciousness of daysleep. The sun was a brass note hovering at the edge of my hearing, ready to climb over the horizon and scorch the earth once more.
The sun drew nearer, and my body became unresponsive. The bed creaked. Wolf climbed up and settled against me. The file’s heavy paper crinkled, but I freed one arm and he snuggled into my side, his head heavy on my slender iron shoulder. He made a low, happy sound.
I fled into darkness as the sun rose, and wept no more.
VAMPIRES PREFER BLONDES
P. N. Elrod
WATERVIEW, MICHIGAN, AUGUST 1937
My weeklong singing engagement at the Classic Club was over, and my hard-earned pay was safe in a grouch bag hanging from my neck. All I had to do was trade my stage gown for a traveling suit, then get to the station to catch the milk train heading home to Chicago.
I was just dropping on a slip when my dressing room door crashed opened.
Being a damned pretty girl with a head of carefully tended platinum blond hair, guys “accidentally” blundering in on me has been a common occurrence since my first night onstage. As the star of this week’s show I had the luxury of a private room, kept locked against such interruptions. This door’s hook-and-eye latch was enough to discourage the casually curious, but not a meaty shoulder banging against it with serious force.
The latch snapped, one piece flying across to ding against the lighted mirror. I yanked the slip down and swung to face the invader, think
ing it was a thief after my money. I put one hand in my open purse on the dressing table, fingers slipping around the grip of the .38 Colt Detective Special inside.
Four men crowded the opening, staring. I don’t mind when I’m onstage, but this was my sanctuary. Had they burst in two seconds sooner we’d have been arrested by the vice cops.
“What?” I snapped, ready to fight. Just how drunk were they, how had they gotten past the bouncers, and how much belligerence would be required to get rid of them?
The closest was the biggest and apparently the muscle behind the breaking-in. He was unshaved; his clothing was seedy; his eyes were puffy, bloodshot, and oddly calm. The others were similarly unshaved and red-eyed, but one was in a new suit and looked like a respectable banker, another wore brown pants and a blue coat over just an undershirt, and the third was fully dressed but had no shoes, just filthy wet socks.
Collectively an alarming sight, but my intuition said to stand my ground and act tough.
“What is it?” I demanded, prepared to cut loose with a healthy scream if they made a move. I could shoot, but preferred having the club’s bouncers deal with this … whatever it was.
The banker said in a flat voice, “She’s not the one.”
No-Shoes said, “She’s blond, it’s the right hair.”
“She’s not the one,” the banker repeated. He had something in one hand that might have been a photograph and held it up for the others. Sluggishly, they looked at it, then back at me, while the skin on the back of my neck went tight and cold. Whatever was wrong with them was an unnatural kind of wrong, yet weirdly familiar.
“She’s not the one,” they finally agreed in identical flat voices, then turned and went down the backstage hall to the next door along.
Same operation: Seedy Guy forced the door open, and they looked inside.
The other headliner, a ventriloquist, was surprised as hell and more talkative, angrily asking questions, getting no answers.
