Authors: A.J. Aalto
“You're sure, huh?” de Cabrera hissed, his arm a hard, sturdy line behind gun and Maglite.
I gave him my best no-worries smile, but it came across shaky. “Pretty sure?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, why am I here?” de Cabrera said, mostly to himself. “Geek Squad can kiss my ass.”
“Hey, where's that sunny positivity, Cuban?” I whispered.
“I'm positive I don't see Batten, and I'm positive we should go. Now.”
I pressed along the wall, pulling Declan behind me, and the Feds stuck together in a line, staying out of the halo of candlelight. Gulping air through our mouths, we tried not to breathe through our noses, not that it helped much. The stench of dead roses and stagnant water clung to the roof of my mouth.
I glanced at Golden, and saw her face reflect the same horror that was rolling in my belly. “Why would Malas sit with the dead?” she asked, voice low.
“They're failed experiments,” I said. “Look at their necks.”
“Women. All of them. He tried to turn them,” Declan agreed, “and when he failed, instead of ditching the bodies, he kept them.”
“Why keep them?” de Cabrera wanted to know.
“Remorse?” I murmured, pushing further into the room. “Insanity?”
“Little of both?” Golden said. “What I want to know is, if Malas is as gross as you've described him, how could he have attracted Anne? Or any woman?”
“He's Telekinetic,” I explained. “With enough practice, he could have learned to control fluctuations in people's bodily fluids, flood the human brain with hormones and chemicals: dopamine, serotonin, prolactin, phenylethylamine.” I listed these on my fingers.
“English?” de Cabrera suggested.
“Love, lust, attachment, passion, contentment, affection,” Declan translated.
“Exactly,” I said. “With his particular psychic Talent, Malas could attract any human being he wanted. He could make their brain fake love.”
Golden nodded. “Heart rape.”
I thought that was apt, if harsh. Being lied to by the chemicals being pumped into your bloodstream was a bad scene no matter how you looked at it. “That's not even going into how he can thought-toss shit around and break faces with his mind,” I said.
We searched the room surrounding Malas’ casket, a polished ebony affair with brass rails that showed no fingerprints or smudges. The chains wrapping Malas’ casket were flimsy-looking, looped around and around, but it wasn't their thickness that would hold sway, here; every inch of the chain hung with a pair of tiny crosses.
“Solid silver?” Golden asked.
“Double-crossed,” I said with grudging appreciation. “Digging the symbolism.”
Declan let out a slow breath, seemingly transfixed by the casket. “Is this Malas Nazaire?”
I nodded. “You see what happened here, don't you?”
“Batten do this?” de Cabrera asked.
“You kidding? Silver chains like this would cost more than Batten makes in a decade; he'd have to sell the Bugatti to afford this kind of hardware. This must have been Spicer,” I said, noting Declan's shift in mood. I watched the side of my assistant's face with interest as it went curiously slack. “Malas must have known who Spicer was all along. They were working together. A collaboration before the double-cross.”
I stood closer to Declan, felt what he must have been feeling radiating from the casket: a low vibration, the hum of kinetic power bundled up and packed tight, waiting to spring forth. When I nudged Declan, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“All right?” I asked him.
He nodded rapidly. “Just… so old. The crosses are moving.”
Golden moved to the other side of the casket, checking her blind spots, gun still leading the way. She checked de Cabrera's location in the room with a quick cut of her eyes, then glanced at Declan and I. She got close enough to the casket to watch the little silver crosses jitter and hear the soft
tink-tink
when they touched. Malas’ resting aura, even when he was still in VK-delta sleep, was full of potential energy, bubbling like a pot on rolling boil.
“Why didn't he notice Spicer coming in here and wrapping the chains?” she asked.
I shook my head. “If a revenant is deep enough at rest, you can pound a stake through his chest, he won't notice. Even right now, he's like-dead.”
“Why the hell would John Spicer help Malas Nazaire make a female revenant in the first place?” Declan asked.
“Spicer supplies the girls, Malas supplies the UnDeath,” I guessed. “When Malas finally succeeds, Spicer unleashes zombie plague on her. Turns her.”
“But Malas reclaims her from the hospital,” Declan said, “thinking she can still be his.”
“Or,” I said, “Malas comes for her to keep his creation out of the press, out of the spotlight. He's still trying to maintain a low profile, despite Spicer's making a mess of things and attracting the attention of the FBI.”
“There's conflict between them,” Declan continued with a nod. “Malas wants one thing, Spicer wants another. Spicer knows he can't overpower Malas, he has to pretend to go along with Malas until he gets a chance to double-cross him.”
“Spicer shows up after sun-up,” I finished, “traps Malas in his casket, and re-kidnaps his creation.”
“Why?” De Cabrera returned from scouting the corners. “What the hell does Spicer want with a female zombie-vampire?”
“I'm hoping it's just a greedy slave labor thing, but I'm
so
afraid to find out,” I admitted, “that I'm not even going to ask. I'm just going to kick his ass, destroy the monsters, and help you arrest them both. You guys can do that, right?”
Golden and de Cabrera gave me identical
duh
looks.
“Maybe Malas had nothing to do with the zombie part,” Declan suggested. “Maybe Malas is innocent. All he's done is turn a woman who admitted she wanted to be turned, asked to be turned. That's not illegal.”
He looked hopeful. It bothered me to see the light in his eyes, the shine. Just for a moment, I was no longer sure whose side Declan was on.
“I think it's unlikely that Malas didn't know about the zombiestuff,” I said. “Spicer would have stunk of death and Vodou materials — herbs, chalk, candles, blood — every time he came back to attend Malas. You think Malas just ignored that? A revenant this old didn't last this many centuries by being careless.”
“So where's this hybrid abomination? Did Batten get to her before us?” de Cabrera asked. “Did she chase Batten out? Was she held somewhere else?”
There was no sign of Anne Bennett-Dixon, but the seat to the right of Malas’ throne was empty and covered with a layer of greenish-brown slime that made my lip curl.
(“You will use both of your gifts
,
ducky.”)
“Let's find out, shall we?” I dug the Waterloo tooth out of my pocket. “You guys might want to stand back.”
I didn't have to ask twice; Golden and de Cabrera took up opposite stations in the far corners of the chamber, close enough to shoot — which would frankly do them no good — but far enough away from the casket for their comfort.
“You're not letting him
out
, right?” Golden said hesitantly.
“Not all of him,” I said, holding the small, discolored canine in my palm.
De Cabrera crossed himself .
I warned, “Get that out of your system now, Cuban. When his phantasm is out, don't you dare pull that shit unless you wanna piss him off.”
Declan backed off into the near shadows, setting his doctor's bag at his feet.
I stood over Malas’ casket and, in a voice clear and forceful, summoned, “Death Rejoices, Malas Nazaire, maréchal Toussaint, Vicomte de Brisbois, cherished master of the grave and keeper of the gift of immortality.”
Daring and bright-eyed, like he'd just jumped off his warhorse, the filmy phantasm of young Malas Nazaire leapt out of the ether directly in my face, his dark hair in riotous curls, his full lips smiling. This all changed when he saw me vault backward from his spectral form; a courtly arm shot out to steady me but drifted right through me. I continued on my self-destructive arc, hitting the wall with a molar-jolting thud.
“Fucking
OW!
” I said. “What the merry crap? Personal space, dude.”
The laugh that flowed out from the spotty miasma hovering before me was rich, sumptuous enough to raise goose bumps on my arms and elsewhere; I blamed the little white vitamins for the lust, though I'd have never admitted the wash of pleasure that sluiced through me. My libidinal dance card was overwhelmed as it was, and I didn't need to be adding ghostly French guys and angel-faced demon lords to the Sisyphean tasks Mr. Buzz was already facing.
His eyes widened slightly, and the laugh came again like a gift from the rapture gods. “Hail, honored DaySitter,” Malas said formally, sweeping a courtly bow. “Centuries untold celebrate your gift of submission and honor the blessing of consanguinity.”
He's not really here
, my brain reminded.
Just a little phantasm bilocation. But Lord and Lady, imagine that flood of intensity at full power.
And:
No wonder Anne wanted him.
I looked to see if Golden had felt it too. The half-aroused, half-confused, all-nauseated look on her face confirmed that she had.
The hand with which he indicated the table to my left was like a movie projection stuttering with dust motes, and that's when I noticed that both of his hands were perfect. No withered arm. I did a double take at his face.
He appeared as the old Malas, or rather, the young Malas: early thirties, his unruly black hair a sweaty shock of curls at his ears, eyes flashing, smile lopsided and rebellious. I'd seen this face before, the bold cavalryman whom Napoleon had despised. Did a phantasm
form show a revenant in his most appealing state — a protective measure that might prevent any harm from coming to the apparition — or was it Malas’ choice to appear to us like this?
“You look damn good tonight, for a four thousand-year-old dead guy,” I told Malas. “Fair warning: I have a weapon that can set your ass on fire. Please don't make me use it, sir. I would really hate to destroy someone your age.”
“This I know,” came the surprising reply. “You grieved deeply for a time after staking my Gregori, and to this day you regret that action. You wish that he had not pushed you to that final act, that you could have saved him in the end, though this is not something you will openly admit.”
It was true, and he was right; admitting it in front of Golden, de Cabrera and Declan felt like weakness of a sort that I should never show. Not if I wanted to be kick-ass.
“Your respect for immortality has not gone unnoticed,” Malas continued. “You are a particular delight to me, DaySitter. You honor me with your call, your trust, and your respect.”
“Oh. Okay, then. Swell.” I let go of my vice-grip on the modified Taser, handed it off behind me to Declan. “Glad we understand one another.”
“Please, mademoiselle, do sit.” Malas motioned to the empty chair beside his throne. The nearest hurricane glass rattled as his kinetic power sent a warm ripple through the air surrounding his indistinct arm. I looked at the chair; the goo bubbled in response to his focus.
I shook my head. “Think I'll pass. It's kinda ooky.”
“You are here in regards to our last conversation, I must presume, to apologize for wronging me,” he said. Before I could say no, he continued. “Gregori left you no choice; I realize that was the way of it. In lashing out at his wayward DaySitter, Gregori did force your hand.”
The relief that flooded through me, I knew, could very easily becoming from Malas, part of his Telekinetic control over my brain chemistry, a rewarding dose of hormones to lull me into believing that Malas was a safe harbor. For a moment, everything in me wanted to believe it; there was an insistent tug at my desire to be safe and protected by a creature so old and powerful. I fought it as best I could, but could see why Anne Bennett-Dixon would not have.
“Do not mourn him any longer, DaySitter,” Malas said, with kindness I had not expected. “Gregorius had a long life, full of wonder and joy, but he was a warrior with a heart tending toward jealousy and possession, battle and vengeance. I do not believe it could have ended any other way for him, eventually. I have decided to forgive you from taking my Younger from me. Forgiveness is healthy.”
Though he spoke to me, I sensed his focus shift over my shoulder, to Declan, who was maintaining a tight-lipped silence. The Blue Sense woke in me with a soft ripple, and I rolled off my other glove, tucking it with the other in my pocket.
“Well, that's spiffy, thanks,” I said, “but I'm actually not here to discuss Gregori. I'm here to inform you that you, sir, have been ass-fucked by your partner in crime.”
I pointed to his casket. He gazed upon the silver chains and crosses with a little choke-sputter of surprise. Malas’ phantasm slid toward me, faltering in the candlelight. It reached out for me, a ghost trying to get its relative's attention. I resisted the urge to dodge his shadowy hand, felt it slide through me, a cold sting through flesh and bone. I wondered if that was how my
World of Warcraft
characters felt when they ran through each other, and vowed to steer more carefully if I lived long enough to play again.
“A temporary setback,” Malas said, “for I have no reason to doubt the intentions of your company.”
Uhhh, okay?
“So you admit that you were working with John Spicer? That you knew who Ben actually was?”
His smile was pitying. “Do you think he could have hidden his true desires from me, DaySitter?”
“Maybe he was a champion liar.” I motioned to the casket. “After all, he did fool you about his desire to chain you up and take off with Zombie Anne. He used you, Malas. He lied to you. He told you what? That he wanted to help you make female revenants?”
The phantasm lowered his chin and looked up at me from under a stormy, spectral brow.
“Did he tell you about the necromancy, or did you smell it?” I wondered aloud, studying the phantasm's face for twitches of rage. “Could he have hidden that from you? I can't imagine that you would agree to Anne's zombification. In your own weird way, you
wanted her. I won't say you loved her, or even liked her. Love is denied to the immortals, and I'm not sure you like anyone but yourself.”