by Gemma Files
Thing was, when stuff’d already gone that far, that was pretty much the point where prayer and a 911 call stopped being any sort of use at all, and white magic against black took over; magic plus a bullet, or a load of cold iron buckshot mixed with salt. ‘Cause just as Jeptha’d always said, Exorcist movie franchise aside, sometimes the Power of Christ alone wasn’t up to compelling shit.
And: Oh God, Samaire, she could remember Mrs. Morgan crying, tinnily, on the other end. I told you it was a bad idea to take up with her. Told you that nice as she seemed, she was probably just as psychologically disturbed as that man, her father...oh baby, and you were doing so well, too, even after Jesca! My smart, smart girl. Where’s it all going to >end now?
Good enough question, back then; even better question seven years on, parade of victories balanced against the occasional defeat or not. Though it wasn’t like Dee really had the first or faintest idea of an answer, either way.
Ruhel Maartensbeck had come equipped with two fat files that night. one was full of background stuff on them, which Dee found creepy, enough so to mainly skip over, but she’d seen Sami studying it off and on since, apparently fascinated by how the Maartensbecks had managed to trace the exact moment where the long-defunct European Cornîches had broken off into their only slightly less so Americanized brand, after a younger brother of witch-finder Guilliame Cornîche converted to Hugenot Protestanism, fleeing France for Québec in the wake of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. The other file, meanwhile, was about Miss M’s “little problem” itself, a crisis forty years in the making—one that’d started all the way back in 1971, with Professor Maks’s tragically quick and surprisingly unheralded passing, from Stage Four prostate cancer...
...except, well, that turned out to be a bit of a face-saving fib, on the Maartensbecks’ part: i.e., for “prostate cancer,” read “undeath.”
“‘Vampire-hunter turned vampire, no news at eleven,’” Dee’d commented, munching a fry. “Understandable, right? I mean, that’s really gotta rankle.”
“Somewhat, yes.”
Sami, nodding: “Be hard to cover up, though. Unless—oh, tell me you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Dee’d demanded, watching Ruhel Maartensbeck nod, sadly. But then the penny dropped, with an almost audible clink—‘cause while she might not’ve been able to get much schooling beyond what her Spec-4 called for (high school equivalency, plus some Engineering Corps courses and a whole two years of Explosive Ordnance Disposal training), no one could accuse Dionne Cornish of being completely unable to follow things through using plain old logic.
“You stuck him in the vault,” she said, out loud. “‘Course you did. ‘Cause given that place is like a toxic dump, ‘cept for magic crap, there must be some real full-bore sons of bitches trying to slip in there—and a live-in vampire? Best security system money can’t buy. Don’t even have to feed him, just let him keep what he kills, long as he doesn’t actually turn any of ‘em...”
“Well done, Miss Cornish the Elder.” Ruhel sighed. “Yes, that was the plan—his idea, actually, a contingency protocol decided on long before it happened, which he made me swear to honor, if and when. Imprison him in there and wait for the vampire who killed him to come free him, as a trap. But it never showed up, and after a certain amount of time, I simply ceased periodically dropping by to check on...that thing.”
“Not like it was really your grandpa, anymore.”
“No, of course not. You understand: everything I know I learned from him, and it knows everything he did, so it knows not to even bother claiming to be him. Vampires aren’t people; not the people you hope they are, anyhow.”
Sami, took into care far too young to remember Jeptha and Moriam’s bedtime stories, raised one eyebrow. “So what is it, then?”
“A demon wearing my grandfather’s skin which says horrifying things to me in a beautiful voice, such as ‘oh, you’re pregnant—it’s a boy, how lovely. Babies taste so good, or so I’ve heard.’ Not to mention one entirely capable of biding its time, fashioning an escape plan and just waiting, as such things can, until I’m too old to do anything about it.”
Said without rancour, so far as Dee could tell. This swank old lady had killed a thousand similar monsters in her time, probably—more than she and Sami’d ever seen—but when it came to emotional weaknesses, everybody had their something; if she wanted to contract hers out, Dee could certainly relate. No different from any other job, long as the money was good.
“We’re still wanted,” Sami reminded her. “Sticking around in the States wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Oh, no doubt. But you’ll need new identities, won’t you, to cross the border into Canada? Unless you’re planning on using magic, that is—and that does leave a trail.”
“Not one the FBI can follow, far as I know.”
“Ah, yes. But what of Miss Chatwin, your former partner in escape?” Here Ruhel had tapped the second file, lightly. “Turns out, there’s a fair deal of historical linkage between her family and yours, above and beyond the sad fact of both your mothers having decided to initiate, ahem, intimate contact with the same member of the Goetic Coterie—”
Dee: “Careful.”
“I’m always careful, Miss Cornish; so should you be. Especially since I know you both know that Allfair Chatwin remains fixated on her half-sister, for...various reasons, all of them toxic. A dangerous woman.”
Dee shrugged, reluctant to state the obvious. But it was Sami who answered, anyways.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t think we have any problem with hunting your grandfather down, per se. But what is it you want us to do with him, exactly, once we find him?”
—
“So she gave you a phone too, huh?” Chatwin shook her head, grinning. “Can’t say they ain’t a canny lot, them Maartensbecks. Particularly like her usin’ me as a threat, too, to light a fire under your asses.”
Dee snorted. “‘Threat,’ Jesus. Annoyance, maybe...”
“Now, now, Lady Di. No need t’be insultin’.”
But: “Just shush it, both of you,” Sami broke in. Then asked, of Chatwin: “So who’d you talk to? Ruhel again?”
“Naw, they sent me a pretty little brown gal in undercover cop slacks and a Kevlar neck piece, tough as nails. Said her name was Anapurna Maartensbeck, so I’m thinkin’ she’s probably this generation’s granddaughter, but she didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout her great-great-great...whatever. Just how there’d been a break-in at the vault, some big black books took, an’ now they needed somebody t’get ‘em back, an interested third party knew enough of what magic smells like t’sniff ‘em out.”
“They sent you after books.” Dee shook her head. “The fuck.”
“Funny, that’s what I thought; them books weren’t the only things stunk, by a long shot. Most ‘specially so ‘cause when I did track ‘em down, they turned out t’be mainly no great shakes—I mean, sure, I guess if you never seen a grimoire in your life, you might get all het up. But really: Agrippa, Paracelsus? The Petit Albert? They’re the Time-Life series of black magic—ten a penny, find a copy any damn place. Hardly worth the lockin’ up, ‘sides from this...”
Bitch meant what she had under her arm, of course—that squat, thick tome, more folio than book at closer examination, ill-bound in sticky-pale leather. She flourished it forth at Sami with a little half-bow, running her thumb along the embossed title, which Sami read out loud: “Of The True Heirarchy of Hell, or Pseudomonarchia Daemo-nium, blah blah blah. Greatest Magickal Hits bullshit, like you said.”
“Uh huh. Now flip it open.”
Sami did, gingerly. And Dee watched Chatwin grin even wider, so much so it was like the top of her skull was in danger of falling off, as her—their, shit on it all—half-sister’s eyes widened, when she saw what was written inside.
“Clavicule des Pas-Morts,” she said, amazed. “This is...this was burnt. Wasn’t it?”
“Oh, more’n once, from what I heard. Then again
, those might’ve just been rumours put ‘round by whoever had it at the time, to throw everybody else lookin’ for it off the scent. ‘Cause once you got a copy of this bad boy, you probably want to keep it just as long as possible, don’t ya think?”
Dee looked at Sami, the resident expert. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because whoever has the Key of the Not-Dead can cure vampirism,” Sami replied, eyes still firmly riveted to the thing in question. To Chatwin: “How’d you find it?”
Chatwin shrugged. “Easy enough. Miss Anapurna give me a box of forensic samples, said they took ‘em at the crime scene—I whipped up a trackin’ spell, but didn’t get more’n one trail and that gone cold hours back, ‘cause it looked like the old boy who made it was already dead. odd thing was, though...”
“He was still moving?”
“Mmm. Just like old Professor Maks, I’d bet—or like that gal he left behind here would’ve been, you hadn’t performed an emergency head-ectomy.”
“So you figure out he’s a vampire, kill him, grab the book—and? Maartensbecks are the ones who lied to you, why aren’t you takin’ it up with them? How’d you even know where to find us?”
“Aw, now you’re drainin’ all the fun out of it.” Chatwin waited for Dee to rise to the bait, then sighed when she didn’t. “Well—as it ensues, Princess here was always gonna be my next stop already, but let’s lay that by, for the nonce. Given Mister Book-Snatcher didn’t look like he’d been undead too long, I decided t’use his blood and see how near the one’d turned him was, just in case it decided to come lookin’; that’s what brought me this-a-way, though I guess I’m runnin’ a bit late in terms of catchin’ up with the head monster-maker himself. Imagine my surprise, though, when I snuck up t’peek through the diner window and saw the two of you standin’ there, all large as life, ‘bout to cut yourself some fresh new vampire’s throat!”
“Like Christmas,” Sami agreed. “or Hallowe’en.”
“Six of one, darlin’. And now...here we are.”
A pause. Sami looked away, tapping two fingers against her lips and cogitating so furiously Dee could almost smell the gray cells burning. Chatwin took advantage of her distraction to run a frankly admiring look up and down Sami’s frame that made Dee long to knock her into the middle of next week, thinking: Eyes front, bitch. I got a cold iron knuckle-duster in one pocket and a shaker full of salt in the other, both with your name written all over ‘em.
But: “Okay,” Sami said out loud, interrupting Dee’s reverie. “Professor Maks is a vampire, been one since 1971, and Ruhel still seems pretty cut up about it—so if they have the Clavicule, why don’t they use it? ‘Cause...”
“‘Cause—they didn’t know they had it,” Dee answered, slowly. “Not until it was already banked. only thing that makes sense.”
“Yeah. They take the cover at face value, then find out they were wrong. But by that time, it’s already inside the vault, with not-Professor Maks guarding it.”
A-Cat frowned. “Just a second of enlightenment here, ladies, for all those who ain’t in the biz...wouldn’t havin’ a vampire squattin’ over your stuff put a kybosh on the Maartensbecks’ whole magic item-loanin’ sideline?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure they could negotiate with him to get him to send things out, considering how dependent on them he’d be,” Sami replied. “Give him extra blood, maybe even donate their own...but they certainly wouldn’t tell him about the Clavicule, because he’d know what they wanted it for.”
“Granted,” Dee agreed. “So—say they did want to get it back out—”
“Arrange a break-in. It’s pretty much the only way.”
Dee frowned. “They must’ve known he’d get out, though.”
A raucous snort, from over Chatwin’s way. “Known? Lady Di, I’ll stake my box they was bettin’ on it.”
They both turned to look at Chatwin, who nodded, almost to herself. Then added, for clarification: “Yeah, just before I told that old boy to put the book down and step back, I recall he was goin’ on about how he didn’t understand why ‘the money people’ hadn’t shown up yet. In fact, I think he kinda thought I was one of those people.”
Dee: “Why’d you want him to step back?”
“Oh, that was so’s none of him’d get on the book when I opened the door t’let the sun in, basically. ‘Cause one way or another, I knew I was gonna need it, later on.”
That smile again. Sami looked anywhere but, while Dee met it straight on, glaring extra-hard: You’re gonna get yours, Chatwin, and sooner than you think. That’s if I got anything to say about it.
Would she, though? This was starting to be the baseline problem, whenever Sami and Chatwin got in close proximity. There was no denying the witch could be useful, in her way, but Christ.
She’s evil, Sami, Dee tried to signal her sister. And you, no matter what happened, ‘fore you had me help you cut those binding tattoos into your skin—you’re not. Don’t matter how much blood you share; you and me must share the same amount, right? And human trumps demon, or should...
But it wasn’t like Sami could hear her, anyways. At least—
(—she didn’t think so.)
Chatwin was leaning forward now, hand raised tentatively, like she actually thought she was going to try and lay it on Sami’s shoulder in mock-sympathy, or some such shit. If she did, Dee thought, it was more than likely she—Dee—would respond to that unbearable provocation by leaning forward herself, and sticking her vamp-killin’ blade so far through the part of Chatwin’s wrist that didn’t connect with Sami’s flesh she might succeed in severing both bones at one chunk.
Luckily for everyone concerned, however, it didn’t prove necessary, after all.
“We need to get to Professor Maks first,” Sami said. “Then hold him, ‘til his relatives show up. After which we can discuss all the people they’ve let him kill so far just to get a chance at turning him back, not to mention whether or not we were supposed to be three of them.”
Dee sighed. “There go the spankin’ new IDs.”
Chatwin laughed at that, heartily. “Oh, Lady Di,” she said, “that’s precious. You should’a heard what they promised me, to get me t’deal myself in.”
No, I shouldn’t, Dee thought.
—
Dee left the magic shit to Sami and Chatwin, just like last time, when they’d ended up using a spell called the SATOR box and a scrap of dead girl’s soul stuffed in an aspirin bottle to bust themselves out of M-vale. Just sat there and listened to them hash out how to use blood from two of old Prof Maartensbeck’s spawn and that goddamn book a whole bunch of people who’d never heard of him had all paid so much for to locate where he was right now, then drag them towards it, like iron filings to some tainted magnet. She was trying to remember everything Jeptha and Moriam had ever told her about vampires, which wasn’t much, aside from don’t get within grabbing range and only thing really works for sure is the head comin’ off, so...
(And here she had a clearish image of Jeptha shrugging, somewhat baffled by his own contradiction. Shooting Moriam a smile as he did and seeing it returned, softly, yet with interest.)
Thinking: They did love each other, once. Just like Sami and me.
That’s the fucking pity of it.
Then remembering a little further on, the last time she’d seen him, after the date’d finally been set and all his appeals wrung out. Sitting there across from a man she barely recognized anymore, listening to him rant about how if she ever found out where her little sister was he was counting on her to finish the damn job, this time, sentiment aside. You hear me, Dionne? To which she’d just shook her head and answered no, on no account, no fucking way—you hear me, Dad? Just goddamn no.
They’d sat there a minute, glaring at each other with the same fierce eyes. Because she’s my sister, and I love her, no matter what. You do remember how that goes, right? Family is family, that’s what you always said...up ‘til the night you decided it wasn
’t, anymore.
Think I didn’t love your Mama, Dee? he’d answered, finally. I did. Still do. But—
—sometimes, that didn’t mean as much as it should, in context. Sometimes it couldn’t. Not when civilians were involved. And she knew that, too.
Britishisms aside, the Maartensbecks had to “understand” it just as well, if anybody did.
(Civilians like Jesca Lind? that voice at the back of Dee’s mind asked her, though its tone also Jeptha’s, as it often was. Not that that likeness was ever enough to keep her from ignoring it.)
I made my choice, Dee thought, giving her machete a last quick, sharpening scrape. And tuned back into the conversation still going on to her right, even while stowing the whetstone away in one of her jacket pockets.
“Now, you got to keep a tight hold, this time, Princess,” Chatwin was warning Sami. “Don’t wanna go spinnin’ off all unexpected-like, not given the forces we’re playin’ with, here...”
“You just make sure we all arrive together—me, you and Dee,” Sami replied. “Because if I come out of fugue and find her gone again, first thing I’m gonna do is put a thrice-blessed iron cross-nail right through your Third Eye.”
“Witch’s lobotomy? Perish the thought.”
Dee stood up, tucking the machete out of sight. “All that mean we’re good to go, or what?” she demanded, eyes firmly on Sami, who sighed. Replying, as she did—
“Good as we’ll ever be, I guess.”
Things contracted, then: there was some old-fashioned Appalachian hair-knotting and a bit of haemoglobin fingerpaint action, followed by a three-way handfasting and widdershins footwork on three, two, one. Seconds later, with a pitch-black spacetime rip through a wormhole where only Sami’s lit-up tats showed the way, they stumbled like one clumsy, six-legged animal into the parking lot in front of one of those weird new airport motels with the courtyard inside the building, six stories of glass-fronted apartments looking only inward, where a sunken fountain-pool combo and some scattered built-in couches lurked.
