Counting Costs, page 14
part #3 of Supernatural Vigilante Society Series
Because the next thing I remember after taking that fall is waking up to Ma telling me I’d been in the hospital. And nobody ever told me how seriously bad a condition I was in, either. Not even Maury or Kayleigh though she’d broken up with me that day.
“What is that thing?” I point. The question’s mostly rhetorical because I don’t expect a kid like Sparky to have any answers, salamander or not. He surprises me.
“Lethian.” He shakes his head. “Nasty things. That explains a lot.”
“Well that’s going in the notebook.” I flip to a blank page and jot it down with the golf pencil. Sasquatch’s blog might have information to look up later. Then, I consider all the urns with my stolen memories in them. “Hmm.”
“Five minutes left.”
And just like that, I’m almost out of time. Why am I here again? Oh yeah. To solve an impossible case for Zack Milano. And his memory is the one I need for that, not any of my own. I stuff the pad and pencil back into my pocket and pace quickly down along the stacks.
Sparky’s footsteps tap along rapidly behind me as he trots to keep up with my longer stride. A glance at my watch makes up my mind to burn some blood. I’ve got bags in my pockets to drink later for exactly that reason, after all. But I grab Sparky’s arm first. Don’t want him to get lost in here.
Doctor Maris told me I can only bring one thing out. She never said what. Since Sparky isn’t a thing, exactly, and he came in via my pocket, he’ll have to leave that way, too. But there’s one huge fact I don’t know. The only way to find out is to ask an awkward question.
“Uh, Sparky?”
“Yeah?”
“When you change into, um, an amphibian, can you bring stuff with you?”
“Sure can!” He pats his chest. “It goes under my skin until I shift back.”
“Cool.”
Unfortunately, I ask this too late for the kid to go back and grab that first urn of mine. But my stolen memories are so numerous I’m only just getting to the end of them. Several more sit on the shelf next to me. I stop, about to ask Sparky to just grab one at random. Before I speak, I glance across the aisle and see Esther’s urns. There are only four but I don’t look at three of them. Because the first is like a picture of Hell.
And now I understand why she’s surly, where the artificial arm and leg come from, and why she keeps that creepy doll Frankie chats with. I blink, something cold wetting my face so suddenly, I glance up. But there’s no leak in the ceiling. I’m crying. For Esther fucking Solomon, of all people.
She’s in Army battle gear, out in a desert. And her uniform’s got more stripes than I expected. A Lethian has its arms outstretched and what looks like fifty fingers of gray smoke curl out from it, connecting to everyone in her platoon. Shattered bottles litter the ground at her feet as though Esther’s already thrown every potion she had at it. Her right arm is translucent, along with her left leg.
Beside her stands another soldier, this one with short but unruly jet-black curls peeking from under her helmet. The women hold hands, mouths open like they’re chanting some incantation. The name on her uniform's patch says Solomon, too. And her body’s disintegrating, fading away from the ground up. A child’s discarded doll lies prone on a flagstone between them, a glowing green stretching between it and the woman who’s got to be related to Esther.
I go with my gut.
“Sparky, take this urn right here.”
“This one with Esther on it?” The salamander blinks. “You sure, boss?”
“Absotively.”
“Okay.”
And just like that, I blow my chance to bring anything of my own back. But Esther needs this more than I do. At least my instincts say she does, and she does so much for the rest of us without asking for anything. When Sparky snags the pottery jar, the mood in here lifts. It’s as though Mnemosyne herself approves of my decision. Though why a Greek goddess cares about a pair of Jewish alchemists, a salamander, and a Roman Catholic vampire is beyond me.
In twenty paces, I see Zack’s section. It’s nowhere near as big as mine and less disturbing than Esther’s. And most of his urns depict nights of getting blackout drunk than anything else. Except for two. One glance at the first has me dropping my jaw.
My old rival’s getting punished by his father for taking home a silver State Thespian Festival award instead of a gold. Punished so hard this memory got lost.
I stare at that frieze, notice a ruddy glow splaying out at Zack from his father’s mouth. My brain puts that together with the smoky Lethian tendrils and the green glow of alchemy from Esther’s wartime scene. It’s magic. The Milanos are magicians and Zack’s having the memory of his second-place win removed by dear old dad. Possibly because he used magic to compete. Or maybe because he didn’t use enough of it to get gold.
Zack's shouting, too. But the magic coming out of his mouth is directed back on himself. It's not shielding him from what his dad's doing. I've got the impression it's literally changing Zack's own mind. So, Milano’s a magician. The spell-singing kind, just like his father. But he doesn't remember.
In the second urn full of serious business, Zack’s getting handed over to Deep Ones, which I expected. What surprises me is who’s making the trade.
Instead of Francesca Caprice, it’s Mrs. Kent leading my bound and gagged client. Carmine is with her, gray smoke wreathing his head even though he’s got no cigarette. I wonder why but the frieze holds no clues. Zack’s got his mouth covered, of course. Magicians who do magic with their voices are dangerous without a gag. Even though Zack doesn't know his own magical strength, the others do.
So, Whitby’s had his henchwoman working with the Caprices as well as the Deep Ones. And hers is a longer game than I’d have ever imagined. Mrs. Kent gives Zack to the Deep Ones in exchange for another prisoner.
It’s Sasquatch. Maya said something about the cryptid missing memories, too. I glance over my shoulder and immediately see Sass's section. A very similar urn rests directly across from this one of Zack's. Except it’s from a different perspective, one that shows a hungry gleam in Carmine’s eyes.
Zack isn’t the only one who needs the memories in here. Practically all my friends and allies do. But Zack's is the focus.
When I pick his urn up, it sloshes. Of course. Memory, oblivion, and water are a thing in Greek myths of the underworld. Mnemosyne’s got a river of memory there. And didn't Hades also keep a river of forgetfulness? What was that called again? Oh right. The Lethe. Maybe these things aren’t quite as mythological as I originally thought, what with a centaur running the ICU at Kent County Hospital. Anyway, I snag a bag of blood from my pocket and guzzle it. That makes room for me to tuck Zack's urn in there.
“Okay, that’s it,” I announce to nobody in particular. “Got what I came for and need to find the—”
“Look!” Sparky points at the end of the stack we’re in. He starts shifting immediately, then scuttles up my leg and torso to return to my shirt pocket. The urn he’s carrying goes with him, showing up as a large black spot on his shiny salamander back.
The round, steely, reinforced door appears. I glance at my watch, realizing we’ve got maybe thirty seconds left before we’re shut in here forever. I burn blood and hightail it toward the open portal. It’s a long way but I make it before the door clangs shut again. Just barely.
No pressure, right?
I walk out into a firefight and immediately thank God because it’s not flames Scott and Doctor Maris are dodging. It’s bullets. Silver ones. Those definitely kill werewolves but I’m not sure about centaurs or salamanders. I pause, worried about the kid. Sparky must be reading my mind because he scuttles down from my pocket and away from my feet, leaving me free to conduct Operation Vampire Shield.
Don’t worry. I got this.
And just like that, I’m intercepting projectiles faster than the human eye can track. My speed surprises me because it’s increased since the last time I did something like this. I’m quick enough to knock back the rest of my blood bags while I’m at it. Which is more than necessary. It’s dire.
I don’t bother healing the bullet holes riddling the parts of my flesh uncovered by teflon. Yeah, I vest up ever since Kayleigh came at us in Esther’s apartment. Being shot stings. I also don’t want to know what happens when too many unhealed holes add up in my midsection. But I need my speed now more than unblemished flesh. Priorities suck but blood is a limited resource for vampires.
Dodging into the bullets instead of away from them gives me perspective. Not about life, about the direction they’re coming from. And it’s above, farther up the stairwell. So, I shoo my trio of friends as far off to the side as I can. Outside would be better but the exit is right in the line of fire and a skinny guinea like me isn’t enough cover for a horse-sized lady and a wolfed-out teenager.
Anyway, I see the shooter now that I’m standing in the stairwell’s box. They’re wearing a hoodie with a ski mask on underneath. It’s eerily similar to the night Kayleigh shot my dad. Yeah, she did that. Thought he was me. It’s nothing personal, she was doing it to pay her fiance’s medical bills, and we fixed that. At least, I thought. Is this attacker another hunter?
I take a breath in through my nose and know right away this isn’t my ex-girlfriend. It’s a dude, though too slight in build to be her father. Hunting is a family business. The tinny odor of antiseptic and tang of saline remind me of the ICU room. I blink, drawing a conclusion that makes little sense.
Could this be Calvin? He's also a hunter which gives him reason to shoot at shifters and a vamp like me. I know he was just in a coma. But then again, maybe Esther’s alchemy is extra powerful. The urn Sparky stole seems to imply that, anyway. But is it enough to return a coma patient back to fighting trim in thirty minutes? If so, Domino’s alchemy more than delivers.
“Parlay!” At least that’s what I try to yell.
But no sound comes out of my mouth. I feel my throat vibrating with the words though. And that’s when I realize the gunshots are making no sound, either. Nothing is, or has been since I came back. It’s silent as a Chaplin flick in here. And of course. I realize this can't be Calvin Kelley even if he's all better in a medical sense. He's been in a coma for so long he'd have no idea Scott or Doctor Maris are anything but human. The same goes for my vampirism.
At this point, the guy's identity isn't important. A pause in the gunfire means he’s reloading. I dash up, clearly faster than he expects judging by the scent of adrenaline. I’m almost to him when I realize he’s stopped moving. His eyes dart to a spot just above the second-to-last step. And it’s definitely a doozie I’m too late to save myself from. Speed has its downsides.
The wire trips me and I go down, arms pinwheeling. One of them knocks over what looks like a gray mushroom with blinking blue lights studding the top. And the sound returns.
“Shitballs!”
Scott’s howl rings out in counterpoint with my exclamation. He’s dashed up the stairs behind me, leaping into action and tackling the shooter. Kid should play Lacrosse or something. Nah. Too cliche.
I hear the metallic snick of a blade being drawn. It glints silver under the fluorescent lights. Even with my speed boost, there’s no way to get in between Scott and the masked man. My only weapon is my voice.
“Stop!” I struggle to my feet, stepping over the wire that tripped me up earlier.
The manic laugh from under the mask doesn’t match my recollection of the recently comatose man’s cracked voice, though it is raspy. Because I was right. It’s not Kayleigh’s fiance. This is someone who's plagued me for years, judging by all my urns in the Vault. Carmine, the Lethian.
“Die, son of a bitch!” Carmine jabs his knife, missing Scott’s midsection by millimeters.
“My dad’s the werewolf, dumbass!”
I laugh at Scott’s exasperated battle-cry. I kick at Carmine’s knife hand but it’s not where I expect it to be. Instead, he’s flipped the blade. And it’s coming straight for my side.
At first, I wonder what the mafioso hopes to accomplish with that move. But when I hear the crunch of shattering pottery and feel a gush of water, I understand. He’s destroying Zack’s memory urn. How did he know it was there? Oh, right.
“Scott! Get out! Carmine’s a Lethian!”
As I shout, my hands dart into my torn opera cloak, where the remnants of the urn clatter in the left pocket. A shard slices my finger and because I’m only a new vampire, I put it in my mouth. Along with the water. Which turns out to be a good thing, actually.
In the blink of an eye, Zack’s full memory comes back to me. The detail’s more vivid than my blood visions and without all the ash-puking side-effects. I could get used to recall like this. I smell things, hear conversations the frieze on the pottery couldn't convey. So I try to focus, needing to remember this so I can tell it all to Zack. And I start to think maybe I will. The vision's just that evocative. But there’s a price for even such a brief moment of clarity. Always is.
Bone shatters, ash erupting from the new wound in my shoulder. A machete’s lodged there, socked into the heart of my rotator cuff by Carmine. I blink, not surprised over the fact that he attacked me but at how. I bare my fangs and hiss only partly out of hunger. Mostly, I’m vamping out to cover for the side-eye I’m throwing at the mafioso.
He’s not using his weird Lethian smoky powers to whammy my memories. My vampirism can't be preventing him because I’m pretty sure he’s been there and done that after I got turned as well as before. No. It’s got to be something about the water from the urn. If only I could figure out of why and how to use it against him.
I’d better think faster, because Carmine’s finally back to reloading his guns with silver bullets. Scott managed to dodge the memory-sucking attack I sensed before but smacked into the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He’s currently gasping for air right in the Lethian’s line of fire.
Hunger decides me. I’ve got no idea whether Carmine bleeds like a human while pretending to be one but he’s got a pulse for sure. I leap at him, fangs out. The machete’s hilt knocks into the elbow of his firing arm, making him drop the gun with a wince that has too much grin in it.
My shoulder's wrecked but I don't care. The only thing that matters now is that pulse, its beat driving me forward without hesitation. Pushing his head to one side with my still functional arm is easy with Carmine up against a wall. Too easy.
“Keep your fangs off him!” Doctor Maris’s footsteps are bipedal now.
“Huh?” At this point, I’m as close to salivating as a vamp can get. burning that much blood on our powers makes us hungry. I’m close enough to a rage that my give a damn's selective. Still, I hope somebody stops me because I know that what comes next ain’t pretty.
Scott snarls, pushing off from the wall. He knocks me away from Carmine, holding me back. I’m reminded of the showdown with Kayleigh in Esther’s apartment again. I bit Scott that night and then promised I’d never do it again. Famous last words, right?
Carmine pulls off his ski mask and pushes through the stairwell door, escaping without a scratch on him. And he’ll get away without any issue, too. If anyone sees him, he’ll make sure they forget about it unless he needs an alibi.
But I’ve got no time to worry about that. The machete falls from my healing shoulder, clattering to the floor. An alarm sounds from somewhere in the hallway outside the door. Carmine pulled the fire alarm. Because of course he did.
So what happens when a centaur, a werewolf, and a hungry vampire get caught by security with illegal weapons in a stairwell?
Fortunately, something hits me on the head and I never find out.
***
Everything’s dark. At first I think I’m dreaming. Having a nightmare, actually, because of the smell. It’s that rank and salty aroma from under Providence. That’s right, folks. My nostrils are getting the Deep Ones treatment for the second time in as many weeks. Because that’s just my luck.
Sure, I didn’t want Carmine the Lethian wiping my mind or for security to catch me vamped out in a hospital stairwell but this is worse. I already beat the Deep Ones. Well, my friends did, anyway. And besides, there’s a truce now. Raven negotiated it so the agreement’s airtight and in our favor.
I try to open my mouth, protest this treatment. But there’s something in it that tastes like old socks. Eww.
Wait a minute. Zack was gagged in the frieze on his urn. Which shattered in my pocket. Right. So it’s not me with Deep Ones. I’m finally able to experience what Zack Milano did in his missing memory. I open my eyes.
Sure enough, there’s a trio of froggy-looking, slime-scaled, big-eyed bastards. Literally bastardly, too. They mate with humans and definitely don’t marry them before or after. But that’s another story.
Poking into my back is what feels like the barrel of a gun. A small one but it’s at close range against my spine. No, not my spine. Zack’s. This is his memory and his body. And since the urn’s broken, this is the only chance I’ve got to investigate the mystery he hired me to solve.
If only I remember this whole thing once I’m back to experiencing my own unlife. I can't take notes here so this whole experience might be useless. Like me.
There’s no time for self-deprecation. Glancing to my right, I see Carmine. He’s got no smoky tendrils around him like I remember from the frieze. But that makes sense now. The pottery art was only trying to tell me his true nature, not failing to illustrate a cigarette. Unless he wipes it from my mind, I’ll probably never forget he’s a memory-stealing Lethian.
Anyway, I know for sure now that it’s Mrs. Kent holding the gun on Zack. She’s also got hold of one of his arms, her grip cold and steely like the vise in my dad’s basement workshop. Some feeling emanating from her hand radiates sluggishness, like when you open the door on a day when the wind chill’s tens of degrees below freezing. I guess she's got some kind of paralyzing power.
