Spectral Evidence

by Gemma Files

  He hadn’t wanted to agree with her, then; just shook his head and looked away, agonized, as she picked his half-healed neck-scars open again, and bent to lick the blood surface-wards. But now, trapped in Cija and Goran’s diffident embrace, he knew at last how right she really was…how nice she’d been trying to be, in her own way. The way even he (most times) was to those tricks and treats he brought Chuyia and the others, not because he had to, but just because he could. ‘Cause it cost him less than nothing.

  He couldn’t feel anything for “real people,” not at all—never before, probably not in future. But at least he felt an attraction, one-sided and screwed as it might be, for things like them; that had to count for something, didn’t it?

  So: Thank you, he’d told Chuyia, as her teeth slid out. And felt her nod against him in reply, ever so slightly, as the pain washed back up over him like a black wave, tinged with red: Oh no, thank you…

  Kissing the whip-handle, the branding iron. Kissing the hand that stroked his hair, stroked him to full attention then slid down even further, all the better to slit his pulsing throat.

  —

  “Bad teeth,” Cija said, examining them closely, running her finger over their ragged grey edges—a dirty old snowbank to her fresh salt-ice, opaque as haematite. “Do they pain you? They must.”

  “Naw. They come back in like that, after my Momma took a hammer to the first set.”

  Cija, to Goran: “A joke?”

  “Have you known him to?” They both turned to look him at once, this time with slightly more interest. “So. Not a fanatic, after all—a dresser-up, a…poser? Is this the word?”

  “It’s one. But no, I ain’t that, just like I keep on tellin’ you. Jah sh’te oupir, kom toy.”

  “Oupir? Necht, merkecht.” Goran paused. “Dhampir, perhaps. You know this word?”

  “Means—halfbreed? Born, not made. But not like—”

  “—us, no, never. Not even if we drain you dry. But if your father was very fresh when he got you, this might explain; dead man’s sperm lives for some time after, viably. Why is it you want this so badly, though? You’re not them, born meat, so find your own way, your desire. Hunt accordingly. Why be hyena, if you can be wolf? Don’t have to eat our leftovers forever…”

  Cija: “You don’t have to let us hurt you, either. But maybe you like that.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Then it’s settled. It’s what he wants, Goran—you heard him. So very little, really.”

  “No, I think not. Do you even remember their names, who had you last?”

  “Why should I? They didn’t want me. Passed me on to you. You even remember my name?”

  “Benjamin Boucher. Says so, on your driver’s license.”

  He looked down, oddly shamed. Muttered, resentfully: “Y’all say it Boo-shay. ‘Sides…I know your names.”

  “Mmm, no doubt. But, as I say: We leave tomorrow, travelling fast…so fast, you cannot keep up. This is goodbye, little virus. You are…too much work.”

  “How? How am I? I do everything for you. Everything! Y’all don’t do nothin’ for yourselves—”

  Cija: “But we don’t have to, Ben-ja-min, not while we have you. Or someone like you. They are so easy to find, too, always—”

  —You know that.

  “We can of course pass you on again, if you want. There are more coming always, even now: Mortlake, Hushien. Marival, and her get…”

  Despair welling up in him, sharp yet removed as the sight of someone else’s tears: “But you won’t, that it? Never? Not under no circumstances?” Goran just shook his head—not unkindly, if not exactly kind. Which only made him snarl, already near weeping: “Well, why the God shit Hell fuck not?”

  (And Cija, cutting in subvocally, from what seemed very far away: Oh look, he’s crying! Such pure wonder in her voice, such a depthless, awful joy. As though his pain was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen.)

  “Because…” Goran said, eventually; a pause, long even for him. And then—

  “…I don’t know what you would become, after.”

  Which, he could only think, put pretty much forever paid to that.

  Goran looked away, pointedly, while Cija kept on grinning, her blank eyes ravenous-covetous. He took a long, sobbing breath, into great silence.

  “Then kill me,” he said, finally. “Just kill me, right damn now. I want you to.”

  Goran nodded. “All right.”

  But when Goran’s eyes were already rolling back and his own pulse was racing shallow, dying away, he suddenly thought: I ain’t gonna die like this, not after all I done. I deserve more. Who the hell are you to take my life away, anyhow? Even if I did give it? Fuck you, dead man. Fuck the pair’a you, and not like I usually do…

  So he turned and bit deep into the neck of the monster who had him pinned, instead—battened on like a tick, held fast and didn’t let go, not even when a howling Cija ripped his ear off at the root; something inside told him it’d probably grow back, especially if he finished what he was doing. Just kept on drinking ‘til Goran groaned into coma, free hand shooting forward to choke Cija silent with abruptly vampire-grade strength before finally turning on her, as well. Strength on top of strength flaring to life inside him, like a double-twisted halogen coil: the wily parasite whose contaminant

  touch alone had been enough to bring a lion—two lions—down.

  That was the thing, with vampires: All the ones he’d met, anyhow, before or since. So old, so arrogant. So utterly convinced they’d seen everything there was to see, so sure they knew it all. They never saw it comin’.

  It tasted good, too, damn good. And when he caught sight of himself afterwards, shaving dry with Cija’s black-handled knife as a haphazard razor, he found he shone so brightly he could hardly bear to look at himself at all—a bleak halo of stolen light all ‘round him like some eclipse turned inside-out, Goran and Cija’s long, shared midnight ramblings instantly translated to a full-body crown whose crenellations made one point each for every soul they’d ever taken, in turn.

  When he finally tracked down Owain and the others, nesting in Montréal, they only had one thrall left between ‘em—made him think maybe they’d come down in the world a little, just for a moment, ‘til he recalled how they’d always liked travelling light.

  Owain opened the door, frowning when he saw who it was. “We told you not to come back,” he said, warningly.

  He nodded. Told him: “Goran and Cija said ‘hi.’”

  And again, no immediate warning bells seemed to go off—Owain just turned his back, sighing disgustedly, head cocked at a perfect angle for the upswung axe to connect with; it left his slippery hands with a slight, odd “pop,” lodged deep in the pareital lobe. Owain went down, seizing, and he saw Chuyia’s blood-dimmed eyes widen from across the room, (pleasantly?) surprised, her mouth moving silently, words booming through both their synapses at once: Little spider, my born-again jungle creature. Oh, you treasure, you.

  Then she was on him from one direction, Saoirse from the other, tag-teaming him both at once. Not that it ended up doin’ either of them all that much good, in the end.

  The thrall was just a girl, meanwhile—maybe sixteen and deep-tranced, so much so she beat at him ‘til they were all dead, then hugged him tight and cried into his neck: You’re not another one of them, are you? Oh God! are you?

  And: “Naw, not hardly,” he answered, hugging her back. “Me, I’m somethin’ else.”

  Thought about killing her too, little as she and her kind still meant to him. But he forbore instead, for now, knowing full well how she’d be good help and better bait, once he moved on to richer hunting-grounds—first in a long line of leech-traps, soft skin over hidden teeth. Another potential predator’s predator, one he could teach the true value of pretending to be born prey.

  He caught his own glance in the bedroom mirror, eyes like peridot set in gold, and smiled a jagged black pearl smile. Thought: My Christ but I’m handsome, all o
f a sudden. Must be the light, the angle—something I did. Something I am. Something…

  (Someone)

  …I ate.

  —

  They spent the rest of the night dismembering their former

  masters with all the skill taught by long experience, stopped off at a local hospital to use the biohazard incinerator, slept ‘til dawn. Then loaded up the van, him and his new apprentice, and headed for fresher pastures. And every time she glanced at him, all worshipful-drunken, he knew just what it was would keep the vampires flocking to ‘em: that endless lust to see your reflectionless self cast back from others’ eyes, mirrored a thousand times normal size. Demigod promoted to full God status, if only for the length of time it took to make your victim’s gaze fix, dim, cloud over with dust and dreams…go out entirely. After which you moved on, and on. …You, or someone like you. For they are so easy to find, always…

  Well, yeah. But what went around came back the other way ‘round, too, that was for damn sure; just as fast, if not faster. And twice as hard.

  Because he could still hear them, blaring behind his eyes even as he drove—all those pirate dream-broadcasts spilling out into the night, calling to him. That was how he navigated down this particular lost and endless highway, knowing full well they’d never even think to hide.

  And when they finally fucked for the first time, him and the girl, it was in yet another motel, on yet another dirty bed—the old familiar pattern, varying only in how he deliberately forced himself to be gentle with her, pay attention to her pleasure, like he was breaking her cherry for real this time, with all the traditional attendant joys on tap. Physical show of affection, give as well as take, mutual orgasm, “love” (or something like it…’cause what did she know, anyhow? Sixteen. What she understood about love would probably fit on a sleeveless baby tee, with room left over for two whole additional rows of dirty jokes and Internet quotes).

  He slit his wrist open with Cija’s knife at the height of it, too, and let her drink from him ‘til her lips were crimson, ‘til she shivered, blinked and near passed out from the desperate jolt of it. Thinking: Won’t make you like me, I reckon, but it’s good enough to keep you mine…and that ain’t too bad, is it? Considering how I’ll for damn sure treat you better than any of those fuckers ever treated me.

  So. Because he wasn’t them, he finally knew, not really; never had been and never would be, no matter what. But he wasn’t nobody, either—not nothing. Neither wolf nor hyena but something new, something other, entirely. A chimera, of sorts.

  A victory of half-life over half-death, made unexpected flesh.

  CROSSING THE RIVER

  …dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

  over the plain houses, light by light:

  a lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

  A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

  I have been her kind.

  —Anne Sexton

  Here’s how it probably happens, that first time, if you’re anything like me…

  Your Momma wakes you in the middle of the night, takes you up on the mountain. Says she has something fine and secret to show you, something that sets you and her apart from all the rest of the common herd. This here is our’n, baby girl, she tells you, gifted by Him who made us to the whole of our blood—and you more than most, darlin’. You more than any.

  And what is it you see once she’s got you up there, anyhow? Maybe a dog with horns or a black cat bigger than a bull, a goat with women’s breasts and owl’s eyes, some sort of beast having ten horns, ten crowns, and on every head the name of blasphemy. Or maybe just a pale man with a black beard and a sad face, like the ghost of Osama bin Laden, who lays one hand on the top of your skull, the other on the sole of your foot and laughs, saying: Shall I really take you for gift on only your mother’s word, all of you, everything which lies between this hand and that? What true mischief could I ever possibly do in this world with such a little one as you, Gley Chatwin’s gal?

  If you’re anything like me, which most just ain’t. Because my Momma was a witch, same as hers, and so on; it’s from their side of things that I can’t stand the touch of salt, can’t cry real tears. But I sure ain’t no hill-woman like her, either, out hollering to old Scratch every full moon—and I never did kiss any man’s ass but for money, horns or no. I got my pride.

  So: I can throw out a fetch, given time, and dirt enough to build one from. Bring anyone my way and keep ‘em long as I want, using nothing but a drop of their blood, a drop of mine and a hank of my own long hair to tie the knot with. Spread out a pack of cards and tell you your future; knock a rag against a stone and raise up a wind, then write nonsense words on myself to whip that same wind into a Force Three twister; make doors slam, tables tap and call up a ghost to talk through me, just like that woman of Endor who got old King Saul in so much trouble with the Almighty.

  I’ve read some books, too; Montague Summers, Scott’s Discoverie, Stuart’s Daemonologie. The mighty Hammer. I know my history, such as it is. My culture is different than yours, older still than the Travellers with their tricks or the Injuns with their anger—ain’t just moonshine and trailers, back where I come from. And I got but two things to blame for everything I’ve done since, I suspect: Gley Chatwin and the Daddy she chose to get me on her, her cold witch blood and his hot demon seed. or three, maybe, if you choose—like I do—to also count my own bad self.

  But if any of the above meant I could witch myself right in and out of prison anytime I felt like it…well, we wouldn’t have too much to talk about, now, would we?

  ‘Course, biology does count for something, at least in terms of execution. If I was a man, they’d probably have to keep me in Ad Seg 24/7, for fear of me trying to stick my dick in anything that moved close enough past me for me to grab at it. Being I’m not, though, my “unrepentant serial sexual offender” sins always tended to err more on the side of knew I shouldn’t’ve, but I went on ahead and did it anyways: it, her, him, them. Whatever.

  I mean, sure—my not-Daddy messed around with me some, just like everybody else’s. But I’ll gladly own the rest.

  Sometimes I feel like I must’ve been drunk, high, picking up

  trade and robbing folks blind for a straight year before the Powers That Be finally got around to slinging me right back in where I so obviously needed to be. Seems like I looked up the once and I was in custody, looked up twice and I was in court, allocuting before sentence. Looked up the third time and I was already dug deep down here in Mennenvale Women’s Penitentiary, Block A, max security—sweating hard, getting clean; not such a bad place to do it, either, when all’s said and done. Certainly does concentrate the mind wonderfully.

  Getting into Hell, that’s the easy part, always; people do it every damn day, though far more often by accident than by intent. It’s getting out that’s harder, ‘specially on demand—though it’s not like that can’t be done either, exactly.

  Not so long’s you can only make yourself patient enough to wait for just the right sort of…leverage.

  One way or the other, what you maybe need to know most about me is this: I don’t think of myself as a monster. Never have. Never will.

  But then again, I guess most monsters don’t.

  —

  Now, leverage comes in many different forms, by many different methods. I mean, if you’re looking to understand just how somebody like me ever came into partnership with two kick-ass do-gooders like Samaire and Dionne Cornish in the first place, much can probably be made of the plain fact that Cornish and Chatwin lie almost right next to each other come roll-call, alphabetically speaking…but then, there’s really no earthly reason I wouldn’t’ve noticed them anyhow, eventually—Samaire, in particular. And not for the reasons you might initially assume, given my record.

  That same morning, just before the fish truck pulled in, I was lounging at the cell-door with my pretty little Maybelle already all ground up against me, one thigh slung so tight over mine I cou
ld fair feel the heat of her through my pants (sweat-moist, or what-have-you), over my hip-pocket. Murmuring in my ear, as she did it:

  “They got the Cornish sisters comin’ to call in this batch, Alleycat. Pulled life plus nine-nine between ‘em both, mainly ‘cause of the three strikes rule.” Pause. “Well, that, and they had a whole car full’a concealed weapons, when the Feebs finally caught their asses at the Border.”

  She was mainly putting on a show for rubes like that new CO Brenmer, who threw us a full-gawk double-take as he went by, pulling at his crotch like he’d suddenly noticed someone slipped ants in his shorts.

  “Oh, you’re so bad, baby girl,” I told her, and watched her pout, more in confirmation than denial. “But I guess you aim to be.”

  “I do.”

  “Thought so.” I pulled her closer, adding, in a murmur: “Hell, ain’t like I mind.”

  And oh, didn’t she just perk up and glow at that? ‘Cause May always was easy to please…just as well, what with her being Grade-A born victim meat thrown straight into the lions’ den, rare and bloody as any potential bitch-turned-butch might hope for. Her ability to enjoy herself under pressure was probably pretty much all that helped keep her sane, given the circumstances.

  Was a time when I could do sweet (if not innocent) fairly well myself, but prison ain’t exactly conducive to that. oh, I guess I could glamour up now and convince you my skinny stringbean bones were sleek and foxy, this hillbilly hatchet-face of mine “interesting” rather than off-putting, my many visible scars fascinating rather than freakish. But one of the few things I like about lock-down is how you can breeze by on half-speed, or even quarter-, you just know how to play it right; talk people in and out of things like a human would, fuck and fight to a stand-still without ever even having to use your own full strength.