A Bloody Deal, page 20
“Woah, too much too soon, fella. You can’t just hop on the champion bull. Gotta woo me first.”
He tapped his foot. “What do you want?”
Zola licked her fangs. “Extra blood.”
“Done.”
“And new clothes.”
“You got it.”
“And a new car! Come on down! You’re the next contestant–”
He smacked her. Once, twice, three times. The smile cracked then faded. None of it hurt her, not physically. Human strength compared to a vampire’s constitution was like a fly smacking a window. But she had to know how upset he was.
He wrenched her up by the cusp of her shirt collar. She rose an inch before the chains went taut. Her eyes went hazy, vacant, like she disappeared into herself. Slowly, as his breathing calmed back to a regular rhythm, she returned.
“Breath mint, Eugene.”
His jaw trembled. Her shirt was in disarray, revealing pockmarks poking out in criss-crossing patterns.
“Tell me where she is.” He leaned in close. “Or I’ll request a kit.”
Immediately her temperament changed.
The spacious leather kits contained everything needed to maim, but not kill, a vampire. Each device designed to inflict maximum damage to drive the tortured insane. He could see the gears churning, the memories of all the different instruments she’d experienced over the years.
Eugene had long suspected Zola’s pain fetish was just talk. But he never had a reason to test it. Until now. A sick wave of disgust washed over him as her pupils shrank to watery dots.
“Y-you’d never…”
“I haven’t before, no.” He put as much salt into his words as he could muster. “But desperate times.”
“All right. All right!” she relented. “It’s no fun when you get all serious.”
Eugene pulled a chair out from the corner, unplugged the camera, and took a seat across from Zola. “Talk.”
***
Grace slipped the remainder of her cash into Richard’s sister’s mailbox. No way of knowing if Richard had left money to her or the kids in his will – if he had a will – but Grace didn’t care. Granted, it wouldn’t cover her sins or make restitution. But she couldn’t think of anyone else to give it to.
She borrowed a new ladder from one of the neighbors. It was wonky and cheap but would do the job. The rain finally came to a stop after an hour of deluge, leaving the streets wet, empty. Calm. She stayed hidden until she could be sure there was no chance of accidental discovery. She didn’t want anyone trying to stop what was about to happen.
Once in position, she set up and climbed atop the metal contraption. She hoped she might have a moment of peace at the top, but when her head cleared the fence, there he was. She sighed. It was better this way, she told herself. Less time for second thoughts.
Diavolo’s clothes were damp, dark hair clinging to his face. He must have been out in the storm. But when he spoke, his voice gave away nothing. “Grace Blackwell. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She stared up into the light-smothered night. “You know, after my sister was abducted, my father escaped into books. Any and all kinds to bury his head in and not come out. The one that had the most impact was this little novel by Stephen King. It was about this nine-year-old who got lost in the woods. But her radio broadcasted baseball games to her every night. They kept her going. She loved the pitcher, this Christian guy who thanked Jesus at the end of every game, win or lose. But in those woods, there was no pitcher, no Jesus. But there was a capital G, God. A wasp-faced monstrosity. The God of the Lost.”
“…and you feel I am this God?”
“You?” She shook her head as she turned her gaze back to earth. “No. But my father worshiped Them both. Would kneel down next to me in my closet and whisper Their truths. I pitied him. But soon I understood. He was right. The God of the Lost does exist. I used to think both Gods controlled my life, taking turns with a castaway toy. But no. I've only belonged to One. And I have been in His Domain for far too long.”
Diavolo blinked. “And how does this relate to our rendezvous?”
“It means I have an answer for you.”
“I see. And the question being?”
“You asked how many more lives were worth my own.” Her hand shook as she spoke. But it wasn’t from fear, only the lingering chill.
“Ah. And you’re, uh, sure,” Diavolo said, his voice unusually high, “you have the answer?”
“I am.”
“Then I do not accept, Grace Blackwell. Turn back.”
In response, she pulled out wire cutters from her pack.
“Grace–”
“I’ve made my choice.” She severed the first wire. “This ends tonight.”
27
Eugene swore as he left the Hellmouth. Grace might have delivered another victim to Diavolo while he was getting the story straight. He berated himself for taking so much time with Zola, but he had to be sure, especially with her nonsensical ramblings. Parts of her story provided much needed context, but exactly how guilty Grace was would have to be sorted out later, by a jury of her peers.
No use taking the patrol vehicle he’d been lent. She’d flee from sight long before he could catch up to her. That left going on foot. His crutch slipped off a curb and clacked the asphalt lot. Wonderful.
At night, under the shaky beam of his flashlight, The Plain Dealer and Beret outposts stood as still as photographs. No one looked out, no one questioned him. Where was everyone? A cold sweat broke out on the nape of his neck.
He hobbled on. His left leg spasmed when he put weight on it. He refused to slow. If he did, he’d be done and he couldn’t stop now. Somewhere along this fence, Grace was going to commit another terrible crime, if she hadn't already. She was too smart for the Berets. Too connected. It was up to him.
His flashlight pierced the dark around the next bend. The fence ran another thousand feet before cutting to the right. He huffed along, each breath agony. A second pain hitched in his left side and he clutched his chest.
Why Grace? All that talk she had filled him with. Her noble infiltration of Komarov’s. Meting out justice, rooting out corruption. She was nothing more than a cheap vigilante, playing with fire in an oil drum. She probably killed Richard Obolensky, too.
Silver glinted in the distance. He increased his pace, pain temporarily forgotten. Metal lines began to take the shape of a capital A: a ladder. Straddling atop, hands obscured by the fence’s barbed wiring, was his suspect.
“Grace!” Eugene sped up, a cramp roared in his stomach like a fist trying to burst through. He slowed, still dozens of yards away. “Grace, freeze!”
She turned.
He picked up speed, his lungs burning, hating him. No kidnapped victim in sight. Was he too late?
Her features went slack as she recognized him, settling into an expression he couldn’t quite read. Pity mixed with sadness. Or was it some kind of resigned joy? She gave a sheepish wave.
No. She couldn’t–
“Grace!”
In one swift motion, she grabbed the top of the fence and leaped over.
28
Diavolo’s arms were surprisingly soft. That was Grace’s first thought. Her first thought in hell.
Diavolo had hesitated when she dove, the pavement growing in her vision until it almost consumed her. But before she struck, he appeared.
His hands searched her, an impossible feat as he kept her suspended in the air, four feet above the ground. Yet there was not a single second she didn’t feel wholly supported.
His breath stank of decay as he hissed, “Where is it?”
“What?”
“The stake.”
She understood. To him, the only way she could give herself up, to not exchange another in her place, was if she tried to kill him. The story of his life spread wide before her. Not the details, but the motives. Why he did all this. How alone he must be, hardening himself against pain and betrayal. No family, no companions. No one to speak to except abusive wardens, helpless prisoners, desperate murderers, and those he threatened into deals.
“I don’t have any weapons,” she said.
He caught her eye as he finished searching. “That makes you a fool, twice over.”
“Halt!”
The detective waved a flashlight at her from atop the ladder.
But Diavolo carried her away toward the line of housing. He gave a slight nod to a dark yet familiar shape. Alexei?
The former bodyguard set a fist over his heart, then dashed off. What the hell was going on?
“Stop in the name of the law–” A series of hacking coughs cut Eugene off.
Diavolo turned. “The law is what put me here, detective.”
A roar erupted from somewhere nearby, accompanied by a shattering of glass and cracking of wood. Grace looked in the direction of the sound but determined no source.
“And unjust laws deserve to be broken.”
The world blurred as Diavolo raced off. Grace gasped and didn’t hear the sound escape her own lips. All she could do was cling to Diavolo as the violent chilling wind tore into her and pray for it to stop.
***
The vampire faded into the night with the perp. For a moment, Eugene considered pursuit, but who was he kidding? There was a battalion of Green Berets a quarter mile away who weren’t about to fall over. Let them handle this.
If they’d help him.
Uh uh, none of that paranoid stuff. This was the exhaustion talking.
Still. Why had the Berets abandoned their posts?
This investigation was two steps forward, one leap back. He sank to the ground, feet half-stepping, half-slipping down each rung of the ladder. He just needed a minute to figure this out, to catch his breath. Then things might make sense.
One minute.
***
The world returned to Grace in the center of a raging sea of rioting vampires. Acrid fumes thickened the air into boggy soup. She covered her nose but it was no use, the mass of bodies was too compact.
This was insane. She’d waited all her life to see a vampire, and now here stood dozens. Vampires danced on rooftops, broke second-floor windows, and tore off shutters. Every time glass shattered or siding cracked, thunderous applause broke out from those on the street below.
It was violent, it was loud. And to the untrained eye, it would appear genuine. But Grace had covered enough protests to see an invisible hand directing it all. How the crowd swayed in unison, the heads all turning in the same directions right before something happened. This was staged.
Everyone wore the same metal plate on the back of their neck. Some kind of uniform or symbol she couldn’t ascertain a meaning to. All of them were identical except the lack of one on the back of–
“Alexei.” Diavolo’s lilting voice rose over the din. The former bodyguard materialized out of the crowd and stepped in close to Diavolo. The two spoke in a hushed tone.
“A-aren’t you going to bite me?” Grace asked. “And since when are you friends?”
They ignored her.
A hard thump in the small of her back sent her sprawling. “Hey!”
A vampire spun on her, snarling. She shrank back. He wore no shirt. His face and neck were covered in horrific, mangled scars of various shapes and sizes, like the ones on Diavolo.
His eyes focused on her and his face softened. “Sorry. Reflex,” he muttered before being absorbed into the crowd.
As she stared at the space he’d vacated, she noticed everyone bore similar scars to his, peeking out from rips and holes in their dilapidated clothing, cleaving their faces into horrid masks. Each mark was too long and too deep to be self-inflicted. Or at least, most of them.
She thought only Diavolo bore such wounds, remnants from his upbringing. But this…
The scope of it silenced her.
“What the hell did you think you were doing, Grace?”
Diavolo finally faced her. No Blackwell. No fancy grammar. His voice had changed too. All manner of his character shed like a second skin.
“I don’t–”
“Didn’t you understand a thing I told you?” His eyes were wide, alert. On edge. “Didn’t you investigate?”
Her brow knitted. “Of course I did, but I don’t see–”
“Of fucking course, you don’t.” He sighed. “I suppose I played too good a villain.”
Played a villain? What did he mean?
“It doesn’t matter. If this plan is going to work, we have to go.”
She opened her mouth to object but before she could, he picked her up once more in his steel grip and darted off. She waited for the world to return as her mind raced with questions.
***
Eugene was going to puke. One more step and every organ would spew out of his body like a broken fire hydrant. And he was only halfway.
He stumbled forward, reaching out to the wall for support. He stopped just shy. A thrum hummed through the air. Frying himself alive would certainly solve things. Sizzle his flesh into a gaseous ball of putrid meat and puss–
His dinner came up in a burning gush. Once, twice. After the shame and heat melted away from his face, he felt better. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and straightened his tie.
Careful not to repeat the event, he plodded along until he reached the Hellmouth’s lobby. The metal detector shrieked. The guard from earlier who’d let him in had gone. Now, the sausage-headed asshole from a few weeks prior – what was his name? – sat behind the Plexiglass at the check in station, waving Eugene away. “Interview hours are over.”
Eugene licked his lips and replied in between gasps: “I have pertinent information. Time sensitive.”
“Oh, ‘time sensitive,’” the guard mocked. “ID in the slot and wait for your pat down.” The guard went back to his crossword puzzle.
"I need immediate—”
"ID and wait for your pat down!"
Eugene bit back his next reply and slid his card into the slot. The guard moved at a speed a sloth would call lethargic. Eugene paced. How long had passed? A few minutes, ten at most? He resisted looking at his watch. The barest glance might send him hurtling at this asshole, despite his exhaustion.
Instead, he snuck a glance out the facility door’s window slit into the compound hallway beyond. Two lines of Berets stood at attention, dressed in full tactical gear.
“Step back,” said the sausage head.
“You guys are fast.” Eugene inched closer to the window. “The whole thing only just happened. I’m impressed.”
He faced the guard and was met with a bewildered expression. The man had no idea what he was talking about. So what was this? Well, maybe orders hadn’t reached the front desk? He was only the door guard, after all. Chain of command was need-to-know.
“I know it’s against procedure,” Eugene said, crossing his arms around his jittering frame, “and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, but can I join you guys?” He coughed and it felt like a tiny piece of him died. “Like in the situation room. This case has been…a load and a half. I’d like to see it through.”
The guard gave him a once over and shook his head. “No can do, det—”
A phone rang behind the Plexiglass, cutting him off.
“Wait here.”
Eugene waited until the guard was absorbed in the phone call before collapsing against the door. His forehead rested against the cool glass. Through it, soldiers were decked out with the usual crosses, faux-sunlight flash-bangs, and crossbows. But a few had strapped on shotguns. How did those work against vampires? Guess he had a lot to learn.
“I think we could find a place for you.”
Eugene started. He hadn’t noticed the guard slip out from his booth. Unsettling as the man stood inches from Eugene. Had he passed out?
The guard sneered. “If you can manage.”
“I’m more than capable.” Were his knees literally knocking together? “Lead the way.”
After a quick scan of a keycard, the door gave a sharp click and they were inside. The commanding officer between the two lines of soldiers cut off mid-sentence and angled Eugene’s way, dark faceplate hiding his expression. Eugene shuffled behind the closest guard in line until he was concealed from the CO’s sight. Still, the officer did not continue.
A side door opened, a guard cutting the tension with a jangle of metal. She carried dozens of handcuffs, their metal shimmering in the fluorescent light, religious symbols filed into each one. A second soldier followed the first carrying a similar amount but with one exception. Two handcuffs lay over his shoulder, separate from the rest. Eugene couldn’t make out any symbols on these. In fact, as far as he could tell, nothing separated them from the pair tucked into his belt right now.
Maybe it was the paranoia, or the residual adrenaline from the rush over here, but a connection sparked.
Useless shotguns. Two sets of handcuffs. Two unauthorized humans:
Grace.
And him.
“You know,” Eugene said, turning back toward the door guard. “I should radio this in.”
“My CO is already handling it.”
Like hell. “I have a few other cases to check up on. Lab results coming in. You know how it is.”
The guard continued to stare. The exit lay at his back. He had positioned himself to block the door, the space on either side of him narrow and tight.
“I’m just gonna…” Eugene sucked in his gut and stood on tiptoe. The guard refused to budge. In fact, he didn’t even turn his head as Eugene stepped around.
“This is getting to be a habit,” Eugene said as he made it through to the other side.
He took one step before a loud whistle from behind made him pause. A bird? In here?
Next he knew, he was on his knees. The top of his head felt warm. His fingers brushed his scalp and came away red.
A shadow covered him. He looked up to see the guard, his baton raised, the tip the same impossible red.
