Night Owls

13

VAL FLOPPED ONTO Cavale’s tattered couch. The blood loss had made her woozy, and it had been several days since she’d last fed. The wound would close over time—a day’s sleep would do wonders—but in the meantime, blood kept seeping out of the hole in her torso, and the skin around it itched from contact with the silver spike.

Chaz and Cavale took one look at her sprawling form and ashen face and, without a word, sat on either side of her and rolled up their sleeves.

“Oh no. No. You two stop that.” Val struggled to sit up straight, digging her elbows into the back of the couch and heaving her upper body forward. “I’m not drinking from either of you. Or anyone in this house,” she said, as Cavale’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen.

“Val, you have to.” Chaz sounded like he was speaking to a child reluctant to take her medicine. “We need you sharp for this.”

“No you don’t. Sun’s up in an hour or so. You won’t need me until tomorrow night, and by then this will have closed.”

Cavale piped up from her other side. “But you’ll still be weak.”

“So I’ll feed when I wake up. I’m not drinking from either of you. Now put your sleeves back down.” The gesture was noble and even sweet, but much like some people had a policy never to sleep with friends, Val refused to drink from them. Especially these two. Especially Chaz.

Some vampires did drink from their servants. Matter of fact, a lot of Renfields considered it a point of pride to provide a meal for their masters. They didn’t get any special benefit from it. Being fed from worked a lot like giving blood: you sometimes ended up dizzy and dehydrated. You weren’t supposed to lift heavy objects for twenty-four hours in case you reopened the bites. Some of the more well-to-do vampires kept several Renfields, and watched them jockey for favorite status. They’d drink from whoever had pleased them best as a kind of reward.

If the minions lived long enough and didn’t fall out of their master’s good graces, the most loyal were first in line to be turned. What better way to prove your worth—and your future subservience—than exposing your throat to your superiors and granting them sustenance?

While the endless maneuvering made Val vaguely uncomfortable, it outright disgusted Chaz. To him, the human servants were not only being treated like pets, they were enjoying it. He’d told Val that he suspected some serious mind-fuckery there as well—he didn’t talk about his three-day nightmare with the Stregoi, but Val thought whatever had happened, he’d gotten all the proof he needed.

Maybe it was different in some of the newer communities; she certainly hadn’t seen debauchery to that extreme in California, though it still existed. But here in the Northeast the old blood ran strong. Which meant the old ways were kept—if occasionally bastardized—and used to claim superiority over the New World vampires. In New England, every colony had at least one person claiming that a sire’s sire had come over on the Mayflower. Val only knew of two who actually had, neither of whom were on the passenger manifests you could look at up in Plimoth Plantation. Others came later, after the Revolutionary War, and brought with them the bloodsucking traditions of Eastern Europe, the British Isles, and any number of ancient rules and practices.

Val herself was relatively young, as vampires went. Born in the late nineteen forties, she’d come of age at a time when the country’s youth was busy questioning authority and demanding change. So, too, did the newer brood of vampires start chafing against the draconian practices of their elders. Some of them even insisted on existing without any thralls.

Val wasn’t that good, or at least, not for the kind of life she wanted. If you owned a business, you needed someone who could be there during the day. She and Chaz worked well together, and though he was her Renfield, he was first and foremost her friend. He’d had a taste of how others like him lived when the Stregoi woman had taken him. Val had sat with him through weeks of nightmares after she’d brought him home. Sometimes, even three years later, the paranoia still crept in. And yet, here he was, offering her his wrist because he trusted her not to go that far.

She pushed both of their arms away and plucked at their cuffs, trying to smooth them down. “Guys, please. Don’t make me make you.”

They exchanged one last, hesitant glance, then Chaz shook his head and rolled his sleeve back down. “Fine. But if you’re not a thousand percent better tomorrow . . .”

“I will be.” She waited until he dipped his head in acquiescence, then turned to Cavale. “Is this why you wanted us out here, or did you have something about Justin for me?”

“I have something. But it’s not good.” Cavale finished buttoning his sleeve before he continued. “We can hand over whatever he writes to them.”

“But?”

“But all it’s going to do is buy some time, and that’s assuming they don’t test it for themselves before they leave, or worse, know just by looking at it that it’s useless.”

Chaz leaned forward, hands on his knees. “How can it be useless? He’s writing out the stuff that went missing, isn’t that what they wanted?”

“Not quite. I—mmph. Watch.” Cavale dragged the coffee table closer and produced his chalk again. He drew a simple rune on it. Then he pulled out a pin, pricked his thumb, and squeezed a few drops into the middle of the rune. It lit up for a few seconds, then subsided. “Most magic needs a source. I can draw runes all day, but if nothing powers them, they’re just pictures.”

“But there were things all over the Clearwaters’ house. There’s no way they ran around jabbing themselves to power them all.” Chaz jerked his thumb toward the back of the house. “If that were the case, shouldn’t your friend look like a pincushion?”

“Not when you can go buy a tub of animal blood at your local butcher shop.”

“You can do that?” Chaz’ jaw dropped. His idea of going food shopping was browsing the aisles at the gas station quickie mart when he filled his tank.

“Sure. People cook with it.”

“Fuck this. I’m going vegan.”

“Anyway. Those runes I drew over the book should’ve lit up like a Christmas tree if there was any magic left in it. But they stayed dormant.” He wiped the chalk lines from the tabletop with his hand, avoiding Val’s eyes. “I think if I’d drawn them on Justin, they’d have activated. That spell and its source are in him now. And it’s not the sort of thing where you can substitute, I don’t know, chicken blood and call it good. Something like that, in a book that old, it was imbued with a specific kind of energy. They’ll need that, too. Not just the words.”

“So how do we get it out of him?”

He looked up at her. Worry drew down the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know yet. You’re going to have to buy me some time. I have some ideas on how, if you want them.”

JUSTIN WROTE FOR ten minutes or so, pausing only to sip at his refilled coffee. At last, he put his pen down and massaged his hand. “Do you think this looks like it’s repeating?”

Elly pushed herself off the counter and took the seat formerly occupied by Chaz. Creepscrawl filled six pages’ worth of notepaper, the letters jagged and rough. A shudder ran through her as she looked at it. Memories from the previous night threatened, but she forced herself to stay calm. She flipped back and forth, from the first line to the last and back again. “Yeah. That looks the same to me.”

He stared at the page. “You’d think since I’m writing it, I’d be able to read it, too.”

“That’s not how these things work.”

“No, I know. Okay, well, I don’t know, but . . .” The silence stretched as he scrutinized the marks.

Elly shifted in her seat, more aware with each passing minute how close they were sitting. They were separated by a good foot or two, but her perception of the kitchen had done another dimensional flop. Gone was the cavernous feel of twenty minutes ago. Now that she was within arm’s length of Justin, with no idea what kind of small talk was even appropriate, the walls had started closing in on her again. The low murmur of conversation drifted through the door to the living room. Elly inwardly cursed Cavale for not feeling her distress.

Stop it. He’s not psychic.

Maybe he thought she’d developed social skills in the two plus years since he’d seen her. She hadn’t. If anything, her only companion being fifty years her senior might have made the few skills she’d had deteriorate. Badly.

Father Value had sent them to school, sometimes, when they were somewhere he thought they could settle down for a while. He’d have his contacts draw up fake transcripts and send Elly and Cavale off to whatever grade was appropriate. They never stayed more than a few months at a time, though, usually just long enough for the other kids to move from pick on the new kids to hey the new kids are kind of weird. The days they came home to find their stuff boxed up and ready to go to the next place felt like how she imagined most children felt the day school let out for the summer.

That wasn’t to say either of them were uneducated, though. When they weren’t enrolled anywhere, Father Value insisted they learn on their own. Sometimes they had textbooks as guidelines; sometimes he’d even know someone who could come tutor them. Most of their schooling, though, came from Father Value himself and each other. “We’re book smart,” Cavale used to say to her, in those days when they were watching each other’s backs against new classmates, “but I wouldn’t say we’re people-smart.”

What she wouldn’t give for some people-smarts right now.

The salt from Cavale’s runework was still on the table. Elly gathered it up in front of her, smoothing it out into a thin layer along the tabletop. With one finger, she drew patterns in it: spirals and squares, tic-tac-toe grids, whatever came to mind and helped her pretend she could totally handle sitting next to someone.

When Justin looked up from the notepad and spoke, Elly bit back a yelp.

Justin didn’t seem to notice. “Do those, um. Do something?” He pointed at the salt symbols, careful not to actually make contact with them.

“No. They’re just, y’know, doodles.” A blush crawled up her neck; the tips of her ears felt like they were burning.

“The thing is, I don’t know.” He tapped the notepad, then, tentatively, the edge of the salt pile. “Before today, I’d’ve thought these were just about the same thing.”

The edge of the circle she was tracing wobbled. “How could you think Creepscrawl was a doodle?”

“You ever sat through a lecture on the metaphysical poets?”

Elly blinked. She had no idea what he was getting at. And she’d never even sat through a lecture, unless you counted Father Value’s. She was pretty sure Justin’s version of a lecture was vastly different. “No. But it sounds interesting. Metaphysics?”

He chuckled. “Not that kind of metaphysics.”

“Oh.” Great. Now I sound like an idiot. She wanted to crawl under the table and die.

“Hey, no.” He reached over and touched her wrist; she jerked it away. To his credit, he didn’t make a big deal of it. He placed both hands on the table in front of him, right where she could see them. “I just meant, your kind would probably be kind of neat to hear about. But unless you’re a huge nerd”—he dipped his head to indicate that yes, he was one—“those classes can sort of drag. I watch people who are just taking them for filler credits, and they’ve zoned out five minutes in. The girl who sat beside me last semester doodled the whole time. Never took a single note as far as I could tell. It looked a lot like that.”

Elly stared. “But . . . but Creeps can’t go out during the day.”

“Believe me, there are plenty of creeps at Edgewood. They’re out at all hours.”

“Not that kind of Creep.”

“Oh.”

Now it was Elly’s turn to reassure him. She couldn’t bring herself to touch him, though, so instead she refilled his coffee cup.

He murmured his thanks and loaded more sugar into the mug. “So, okay. Are your Creeps the same as Val’s Jackals? She gave me a rundown, but I don’t remember her calling them Creeps.”

“Yeah, they’re the same.” They were back in familiar territory. She didn’t even know how to talk about college life, let alone poetry courses.

“So are they . . . ?” He struggled with the words. Started again. “Val said they’re what killed Professor Clearwater. And Helen.”

Shit.

Elly looked at Justin. His eyes were shiny with unshed tears. What the hell am I supposed to tell him? “Yes, your mentor died a horrible death?” She opened her mouth, casting about for a good way to hedge, hoping for a platitude to fill the silence. Or for lightning to strike her dead so she wouldn’t have to speak.

“Please don’t,” said Justin, softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t soften it. Don’t . . . Look. You don’t know me. You don’t have any reason to protect my feelings.” He scrubbed his hand beneath his eyes and drew a steadying breath. “I want to know what happened to them.”

“I don’t know if I . . .”

“Please.”

It wasn’t going to help him. It never did. She’d watched from below as they pitched Father Value off that roof. She’d heard them kill Helen Clearwater. And Henry . . . There were things burned into her brain from the last week that’d give her nightmares the rest of her life.

But if I hadn’t been there when Father Value died, I’d want someone to tell me what had happened. It would have driven her crazy not to know. Things like that had a way of eating at a person; their imaginations tended to step in and make it even worse. She should tell him. It was his right to know.

She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Okay. Yes, the Creeps killed them both. But we got a few of them, too.”

“How?” He pulled the paper and pen close like he was going to take notes. A small sound of frustration escaped his lips as he realized the futility of it.

“Hey. We’ll get them. I promise.”

“‘We’?” He looked dubious.

“Cavale and me. Your friend Val. They’re not going to hurt anyone else. Not on our watch.” It sounded more confident in her head. Hunting without Father Value’s guidance seemed wrong, like this was some sort of test to see if she could do it without fucking it up. But he wouldn’t be there at the end to praise or criticize, and she had to start accepting that.

Empty as she thought her speech had sounded, Justin nodded along. “How did it happen, though? I mean, did they swarm, or break in, or . . . ?”

So Elly found herself starting at the beginning, trying to show him how brave the Clearwaters had been, how calmly they’d both set about barricading doors and readying the small arsenal of stakes and knives Henry had kept locked away in the cellar. “Helen asked if we could draw some of the runes with sugar instead of salt,” she said, “so when a Creep crossed them it’d explode and the boiling sugar would stick to it. She said molten sugar hurts like a bitch. We didn’t know if it’d work, but . . . it did.”

Justin got that look people had when they were remembering something good about someone who’d died. She and Father Value had crashed more than a few wakes in the past, and she’d seen the same look on the faces of the bereaved. “Helen made candy,” he said. “She loved it, but it was just the two of them, and Henry wasn’t supposed to have too much sugar. So she’d bake things and send them to campus with him. There’s a joke that if you’re in one of his classes you don’t gain the freshman fifteen, you gain the freshman fifty.” He ducked his head. “If you were in one of his classes.”

Elly was hoping maybe the prelude had satisfied him: Your friends died well. They faced it bravely. Let’s stop talking and wait for Cavale to bring Val and Chaz back. But no such luck.

After a few deep breaths, he lifted his head. “What happened when they came? What did they want?”

“They wanted—” She stopped. How much had Val left out? Had she really not told Justin they were after the book, or was he testing her? Paranoia, never truly suppressed, reared its head. No, stop it. He has no reason to do that. She tried thinking like a vampire, to suss out Val’s motive for leaving Justin in the dark, but Father Value had only ever taught her to think like a Creep.

Think about it like you’re his friend. Great, another thing she had no idea about. But it made sense: Val was his boss, and she seemed to like him. Every step she’d taken so far—bringing Justin here, trying to find a cure for him—had been about protecting him. Hell, even keeping her own nature from him was probably as much about sparing Justin a ride on the freak train as it was about keeping herself safe.

Then it hit her: that hungry look wasn’t only a need to know the specifics of their deaths; it was fear that he’d played a part somehow. He’ll blame himself. That’s why she didn’t tell him. He finds out they’re after the thing in his head, he’ll think it was his fault. Just like she thought it was her own, for bringing the book to them in the first place. He’s going to blame me, too.

Difference is, I actually deserve it. She’d brought the Creeps to the Clearwaters’ door. Henry had chosen to send the book away. Nothing Justin could’ve done to prevent that. Elly, on the other hand, could have just stayed the hell out of town.

“Elly?” He leaned forward. “What did they want?”

Tell him. It’s only fair. “They wanted—”

She was saved by the kitchen door banging open, making them both jump. Cavale entered first, followed by Val, then Chaz. Elly caught Cavale’s eye and glanced pointedly at the clock: How could you leave me alone for so long?

He seemed to catch her meaning, wincing and shrugging an apology.

Val reclaimed her seat at the table. More blood had seeped from beneath her bandage, staining the cloth a rusty red. Earlier, Elly had thought her thin. Now Val’s skin had tightened, the hollows beneath her eyes deepening until she looked almost skeletal. Her collarbone jutted out, sharp and unsightly.

Justin was halfway out of his chair. “Val? Are you okay?” He shot a glance at Chaz, who’d gone to stand in front of the coffeemaker, arms folded, the scowl back on his face.

“Don’t look at me, kid. She says she’s fine.”

“I am fine.” Val picked up a mug and sniffed. Its contents had to be cold by now. “Change of plans, though. It’s too close to dawn for me to go home for the night, so I’m going to stay here. Chaz is going to take you somewhere safe for the day, and probably through tomorrow night.”

“But I have classes. And I’m scheduled four to nine thirty tomorrow at the store.”

“You’re playing hooky and Chaz will get someone to cover your shift.”

“And you’re staying here?”

“Cavale has graciously offered me lodging in his basement.” She threw Elly a tired grin. “As long as you’re not going to drag me out into the sunlight once I’m asleep, that is.”

Elly shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Justin, are you going to argue with me, or can we agree that missing one day of classes won’t kill your GPA?”

He’d looked ready to argue, but after a moment he relented. “I’ll e-mail my professors. I’ll . . . I’ll tell them I need a day to myself.”

“Good. Because I think you do need one.” She clapped her hands together and got shakily to her feet. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be dead to the world.” The cellar door was adjacent to the sink. The thumb bolt looked like it was probably the original, which meant it had been painted over every time the door got a new coat. Layer after layer had worked like glue, fusing the parts together. Elly’d toyed with it earlier while she’d toured the house and been unable to make it budge.

Val flicked it up and slid the bolt back like it was newly installed and well oiled. Flakes of paint drifted to the floor. The hinges screamed as the door opened and the smell of dank earth rushed up from below, the musty scent of an old New England basement wafting through the kitchen.

They were all quiet for a moment once Val’s footsteps disappeared down the wooden stairs. Finally, Justin cleared his throat. “Um, Chaz? Where is this safe place we’re going?”

Chaz grinned. “I’m dropping you off with the succubi.”