The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “Sleep, you dirty little trollop,” he ordered. “You will sleep .”

  My lids shut all on their own, but I didn’t go out. My head hurt too badly to be bothered, though Jack’s blood in me had something to do with it.

  It was too much for Katie. She’d been so brave, but her only friend was down for the count. She began making that awful toy machine gun hiccuping. In another second she’d cut loose, but all the tears in the world wouldn’t save her from the handsome vampire here on the side of the road by the dark, dark woods.

  “Be quiet,” he snarled.

  She gasped and shut down, probably staring at him.

  “What the devil did you do to your hair?” he demanded. “You’re ugly now, and after I made you so beautiful—”

  “Shut up,” she said in the steely tone she used when talking about becoming a widow. “You just … shut up .”

  He thought that funny to judge by his brief laugh. “You’re not the first to show a little spirit, sweet Katherine. I’ll bring you around. I like my girls calm and quiet. Keeps them prettier longer.”

  “Who cares what you want, you—you four-flushing dewdropper.” She put enough acid into the borrowed slang to make it sound like real cursing.

  Atta girl, I thought, trying to think of options. I was in no shape to run and hide in the woods. He’d spot me, night was day to him. But across the road—yup, Lake Huron. Miles and miles of it stretching into a black forever. He couldn’t come after me. Vampires and free-flowing water don’t mix. I could outswim his helpers.

  It would leave Katie in a tough spot, but I had to look after myself in order to come back to fight another night.

  All I had to do was get clear until dawn. If his hypnotized gang drove them back to Ohio, so be it. I’d find a way to follow. Thinking about killing no longer made me sick. For him, I’d do it with a grin.

  He wasn’t done scolding Katie. “What have you been doing all this time? Dancing onstage like a drunken harlot? How many men did you let—”

  The flat, businesslike crack of my Detective Special interrupted his ego. She’d found it in my purse. Oh, good girl.

  It cracked again. Duvert staggered, looking surprised at two spreading patches of blood in the center of his chest. Point-blank range made it easy for her. She fired a third round, hitting his shoulder. Lead wouldn’t kill him, but it did hurt like hell.

  He vanished. An agitated gray maelstrom spun in the air where his body had been.

  Seconds, just seconds before, he returned. He’d come back, healed and hungry.

  I lurched up, determined not to be his first-aid nurse. Blood hammered the top of my skull. My damned eyelids did not want to stay open. I leaned into the cab. Katie was backed against the passenger side, my gun in her shaking hands.

  The broomstick was on the floor, within reach. I yanked it clear and turned toward him. The grayness was beginning to thicken as he eased back to solidity.

  I sagged, dizzy and sick, no strength in my arms. I was barely able to hold the damned stick, much less knock him silly with it.

  Katie, I need help, I tried to say, but weird mumbling drivel spilled out instead.

  He was halfway back, taking his time. You could see through him. He waved tauntingly at Katie, and she wasted the last three bullets. They zinged harmlessly through his ghostlike form. He went back to being a gray cloud.

  It drifted toward the truck cab, oozing inside. She moaned disgust as the chill grayness covered her. He’d re-form on top of her, perhaps to feed, and drain her into a blood-exhausted stupor.

  I reeled toward them, leading with that broomstick, hoping to buy time until I could recover enough to do him real damage.

  He went for another instant materialization. I stabbed in just before he was fully solid—then, oh my God, the shriek he gave knocked me right over.

  The wood skewered him in midchest, front and back, like a pinned bug. He screamed and roared and clawed at the makeshift spear, finally falling from the truck. He slammed hard on the pavement, thrashing violently, trying to pull the thing out, but he’d re-formed right around it, and it was firmly stuck.

  And wood kept him from vanishing.

  Strangely, there was no blood. Just as well, this was bad enough.

  But he might force it out … yeah, he was trying to do just that, lifting up and dropping on his back. He howled each time, but it pushed a few inches of wood along, and he was desperately pulling with his hands.

  I looked for a rock or more wood to stun him with … nothing. Maybe there’d be a tire iron in the back of the truck.

  Katie came sliding out, her face determined. She had her little suitcase in hand.

  She swung it low like a croquet mallet, hitting him square in the head. She used so much force that the handle broke, the case popped open, and her things scattered.

  But it got quiet again. Duvert lay sprawled and still in the middle of the road. Maybe there was wood in the sides of the case. I wondered why vampires were so vulnerable to it, but no matter, so long as it worked.

  Katie came and dropped next to me and had herself a good long blub. I joined her; it had been a hell of a night. When I felt better we’d clear up the mess and drive into Cheboygan, and I’d have her call her mother.

  But for now we leaned on each other, not speaking, and sometime later we watched the sun come up over the lake.

  Rapid aging shriveled Duvert’s features. Jack had once told me what he knew about the slow process of dying for vampires, not giving much detail. With good reason.

  Duvert must have been old . He went from beautiful young man to dried-out mummy, and by full sunlight he was a shrunken husk with blackening skin and bones.

  Soon not enough was left of his rib cage to hold the broomstick in place, and it swayed and fell over into the growing pile of dust.

  I grinned and hoped, really hoped, that it had hurt .

  NINE-TENTHS OF THE LAW

  Jenna Black

  Nothing good ever comes from private citizens visiting my office. Which was why I looked up from my pile of paperwork and scowled when a middle-aged couple stepped through my office door without knocking.

  I guessed the man’s age at about fifty, though it was a well-preserved fifty. His neatly trimmed hair was a dark blond that camouflaged a hint of gray, and he had rounded apple cheeks that would always give him an aura of boyishness. The woman was considerably younger—late thirties, early forties—and beautiful enough to qualify for trophy-wife status. Both were impeccably dressed, and obviously tense.

  “Are you Morgan Kingsley?” the woman asked tentatively, looking me up and down with a little frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. All right, I don’t dress like a corporate clone; so sue me. It was hot as hell out today, so I’d gone for a clingy camisole top and low-rise capris. Just as well Ms. Stick-up-her-ass couldn’t see the drugstore flip-flops that graced my feet.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling tightly. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  “May we sit down?” the woman asked.

  My knee-jerk reaction was to tell them to call for an appointment and then ignore the phone calls. I don’t much like being sneered at.

  You need the money, Lugh chided gently in my mind.

  You’ve got to love the irony of an exorcist possessed by the king of the demons, don’t you? Once upon a time, ours had been a silent partnership, Lugh residing deep within the recesses of my mind, able to communicate with me only when I let my mental barriers down in sleep. Now, he was my constant companion. And, apparently, my business manager.

  He was right, though. Ever since he’d possessed me, my life hadn’t been my own, and the day job had been on the back burner. In a separate house. Ten miles outside the city.

  Long story short, it would be beyond stupid for me to send potential clients away, whether I liked them or not.

  “Please, have a seat,” I invited with a wave of my hand.

  They sat in the chairs in front of my desk. The man was f
idgety, and seemed disinclined to make eye contact. I suspected that wasn’t a good sign.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked again.

  “I’m Patsy Sherwood, and this is my husband, Scott,” the woman said. Her husband nodded a greeting, but still didn’t make eye contact. “We have reason to believe our daughter is possessed.”

  “Against her will you mean?” I asked, just to clarify things. If their daughter was a legal, registered demon host, then there was nothing I could do to help them.

  The woman’s eyes flashed dangerously, and her hands clenched in her lap. “She would never accept the Spawn of Satan into her body,” she said with a curl of her lip.

  O-kay. Not a big fan of demons. Having been a champion demon-hater myself once upon a time, I knew where she was coming from.

  I was constructing a tactful reply—tact not being one of my strong suits—but Patsy continued before I came up with one.

  “She’s only eighteen.”

  “Ah,” I said. The legal age of consent for demonic possession is twenty-one. If the girl really was possessed, then her demon was an illegal, and I could lawfully cast it out. “What makes you think she’s possessed?” Usually, it’s hard to tell that a person is possessed if the demon doesn’t want you to know. When a demon takes a human host, it has access to all the host’s thoughts and memories, and can mimic its host’s behavior to a tee. The legal ones don’t bother, since it’s a matter of public record that they’re in residence. The illegal ones, however, have every reason to hide, especially in Pennsylvania, which is one of the ten states that executes illegal demons that can’t be cast out.

  Patsy frowned deeply. “Melanie’s been acting strangely for a long time now.”

  “Almost a year,” her husband put in.

  Patsy shot him an annoyed look, and a hint of red colored his cheeks. Apparently, this was Patsy’s show, and she didn’t appreciate the interruption.

  “She’s been sullen and rude,” Patsy continued. “She started swearing—she’s never sworn before in her life! And the way she dresses…” Patsy shuddered.

  “She’s going through a goth phase,” Scott said, earning himself another glare.

  “It is not a phase,” she snapped. “It’s a demon!”

  “Sounds like a typical teenager to me,” I commented. I think I managed to keep a straight face.

  Patsy shook her head vehemently. “It’s more than that. She has refused to join us in m—” Patsy forced a cough. “—church.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Church? What were you about to say before you changed it to church?”

  She waved the question off. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you believe me, either. I want to hire you to examine her aura. Surely you’re willing to do that even if you think I’m imagining things.”

  I sat back in my chair and thought about it. Based on her reference to demons as the Spawn of Satan, I suspected her dislike of demons ran to the fanatical. Had the word she’d stopped herself from saying been “meeting”? As in a God’s Wrath meeting? My gut instinct was yes, and that was a serious cause for concern.

  If the girl was possessed, then I had no problem with casting the demon out and sending its ass back to the Demon Realm where it belonged. But if Patsy was a member of God’s Wrath, she would be unlikely to accept exorcism as a solution. According to the wackos in God’s Wrath, those who host demons must be “purified” by fire. As far as they’re concerned, demons cannot possess the pure of heart. Therefore, if you’re possessed, you’re corrupt enough to justify being burned alive.

  Was Patsy the kind of God’s Wrath wingnut who would burn her own daughter? I had no way of knowing, but just the suspicion made me want to refuse.

  She’ll just find someone else to do it, Lugh reminded me . And that other someone might not care what happens to the girl if she’s possessed.

  Once again, Lugh was right. I was far from the only exorcist who had ever hated demons. Generally, you didn’t get into this profession if you thought they were here for the good of mankind. I balked at the idea that any of the exorcists I knew would look the other way while God’s Wrath burned a young girl to death. But there were plenty of exorcists I didn’t know.

  “All right,” I said, trying not to sound as reluctant as I felt. “How do you want to do this?”

  As a general rule, I deal with the police, casting out rogue and illegal demons that have already been judged guilty and sentenced. Those ceremonies are conducted in the demon containment area beneath the courthouse, with the demons thoroughly restrained and fitted with stun belts. Those who try to resist are given a good jolt of electricity, which fucks up a demon’s ability to control its host’s body. If Melanie really was possessed by an illegal demon, I couldn’t see her holding still long enough for me to examine her aura.

  Patsy reached into her fussy little purse and pulled out a business card. The address printed on the card was crossed out, and another one was handwritten off to the side.

  “Come to the house tonight at ten,” Patsy said, putting the card on the top of my desk and sliding it toward me with one finger.

  That sounded suspiciously like an order. I don’t take orders well. “Sorry, but I only operate during normal business hours.”

  She gave me a schoolteacher glare. “Naturally, you will receive a bonus to make up for the … inconvenience. Would double your usual fee do?”

  “Depends. How do you plan to convince your daughter to hold still for the exam if she’s possessed?”

  “Leave that to me. She’ll hold still for it.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. But, as Lugh had said, if I didn’t do this, someone else would. And double my fee was undeniably tempting.

  Feeling sure I was making a big mistake, I agreed to the deal.

  * * *

  The Sherwoods lived out on the Main Line, which was the border between Philadelphia proper and its suburbs. I’d known the Sherwoods were well-to-do based on their clothes, so their enormous house—big enough to hold my apartment three times—came as no surprise. I parked by the curb, thinking they might not want my junker cluttering up their driveway.

  Patsy met me at the front door before I had a chance to ring the bell. Being my usual contrary self, I hadn’t bothered to change into anything more formal, and I could see it bugged her. But hell, it was still hot and muggy, and the air conditioner in my car hadn’t worked since the previous century, so she was just going to have to deal with my outfit.

  For a moment, I was sure she was going to shut the door in my face, but she somehow resisted the urge.

  “Come in,” she said, her tone of voice telling me I was about as welcome as a door-to-door salesman.

  The house was refrigerator cold, and goose bumps peppered my sweaty skin the moment I stepped inside. I’d hate to see their electric bill. The decor was almost as cold as the air, everything blue or beige or white.

  In the living room, the furniture had all been pushed to the walls, and a large circle of white pillar candles had been laid out. A white blanket emblazoned with a stark black cross had been neatly folded in the center. Scott Sherwood sat on one of the chairs against the wall, his elbows resting on his knees, an empty highball glass in his hands. He looked up and gave me a brief nod, then left the room—in search of more booze, if I read his expression correctly.

  “We’re operating under the assumption that you will perform an exorcism once you’re satisfied that Melanie is possessed,” Patsy explained.

  The words should have soothed me. After all, if they planned on having the demon exorcised, that meant they weren’t going to burn the poor girl at the stake. Right? But my feeling of unease persisted. I would be glad when this was all over and I could get the hell away from Patsy and company.

  I nodded. “And where is Melanie?”

  “Follow me,” she said, and then led the way upstairs.

  The stairs were not carpeted, and the house was eerily silent. The clack, clack, clack of Pat
sy’s heels echoed as she climbed, as did the thwack of my flip-flops. I paused briefly to look at a stiff, formal family photo on the wall. Scott and Patsy stood behind two pretty blond girls. The younger girl, who looked about twelve, smiled brightly at the camera, but the older one—Melanie, I presumed—looked bored and resentful.

  When we reached the top of the stairs, Patsy reached under her jacket and pulled out a Taser.

  I came to a screeching halt, wondering if I would be better off charging forward and tackling Patsy to the floor, or leaping off the side of the staircase in hopes of avoiding her first shot. But she didn’t turn the Taser on me, instead arming it, and then holding it down by her side.

  “I put enough chloral hydrate in her cocoa to knock out a horse,” Patsy said, apparently not having noticed my double take, “but just to be on the safe side.” She held up the Taser.

  I gaped at her. “You drugged her?”

  Patsy looked surprised. “Of course. How else would I get her to submit to the examination?”

  I took the remaining stairs two at a time. If Patsy’d given the girl enough chloral hydrate to affect a demon, then it was probably enough to kill her if she wasn’t possessed.

  Patsy followed more slowly. She didn’t look at all worried that she might have just killed her own daughter. “The demon won’t allow its host to be harmed,” she assured me.

  I wanted to grab Patsy by the shoulders and give her a good shake. “Where is she?” I demanded.

  Patsy gestured to one of the closed doors down the hall, and I sprinted for it. I had visions of bursting through the door and seeing a dead or dying teenager. But when I shoved the door open, I saw nothing but an empty twin bed, looking forlorn in a barren room.

  The white walls were stained yellow in places, and little patches of paint had been peeled off here and there. The stains and patches tended to form rectangular patterns, and I had a hunch the walls had once held posters that Mommy Dearest had not approved of. The bed was rumpled as if slept in, and in its center sat a sheet of yellow legal paper.