Suck It Up and Die (23 page)

As they crossed the entrance hall, Birnam held Morning’s arm. “I only have one last wish, my boy. Like so many last wishes it’s selfish, self-centered, and so mortal.” He stopped and turned his watery eyes on Morning. “I don’t want my dream to die with me. I want you, and Rachel, and Penny, and my Leaguers to keep up the good fight. You’ve got to stop DeThanatos from pushing us back into a coffin we never rose from.”

Morning started to speak, but Birnam stopped him with a hand. “I know what you want to say.” He pulled Morning toward the door. “That your days of being the IVL’s poster boy are over, that you just want to be a firefighter and go about your quiet heroics.”

They moved through the door, and outside. Birnam shielded his eyes against the late-afternoon brightness. Morning scanned the front of the museum for threats, like a bunch of monstered-up Loners coming straight at them with stakes, fire, and leaf blowers.

“What you don’t see,” Birnam added, “beyond your blindfold of youth, is that if my dream of Leaguers and Lifers living in peace dies, so will yours.”

Helping Birnam totter down the steps, Morning knew the old man was right. As he maneuvered him toward a waiting cab, Morning asked, “If you care so much about your dream, why don’t you stay and fight for it?”

“It’s very simple.” Birnam reached into his pocket, pulled out a half-eaten Baby Ruth, and smiled at it like a greedy little boy. “I’m not a vampire anymore. I’m mortal.” He bit off a chunk of Baby Ruth, chewed euphorically, and swallowed. He fixed on Morning with dim eyes. “You see, my time is up.”

When they reached the cab, Birnam turned to Morning and held up a bony finger. “In the endless relay that is humanity, the baton of time has been passed to you. How and where you run with it is your decision. I hope you choose well.”

As the cab pulled away, Morning watched Birnam’s wrinkled head, framed in the cab’s back window, disappear into the New York chaos.

In Prowler’s firehouse, Morning sipped a Blood Lite. He had just finished explaining his predicament to Prowler, including his troubles with Clancy at the fire academy.

Prowler squinted as if the latest flock of wild new developments were still finding a perch in his head. “Let me see if I have this straight. You started to age again because you’ve been pursuing your Lifer dream of being a firefighter, and you’re getting close to achieving it. But before you found this out, Portia broke up with you because, at the time, you were locked at sixteen. But now that you
are
aging, you think you can win her back.”

“Yeah, if the major reason she broke up with me was because of the nonaging thing.”

“Right, but for all you know it could’ve been other things as well, trivial things like bad breath.”

Morning pulled a long face. “Do I have bad breath?”

“Now that you’re half Leaguer, half Lifer, who knows what kind of breath you have?”

“According to Zoë, it’s
Leafer
breath.”

Prowler gave him a startled look. “Zoë knows and Portia doesn’t?”

“It was an accident.”

“So be it. But for the future, never, ever let your girlfriend’s best friend know something your girlfriend doesn’t. If your girlfriend finds out she’ll immediately think you’ve got your fingers in the wrong cookie jar.”

Morning eye-rolled. “Do we have to go there?”

“No, back to the facts. So, you have a chance to win Portia back, ’cause you’re aging, but you’re also one screwup away from being expelled from the academy, and if that happens, your Lifer dream is gonna be aborted and you’re gonna stop making some weird body juice called
pneumabrotus
, which means you’ll probably go back to being immortal, which means even if you
do
win Portia back, you’ll just lose her again.” Prowler took a breath and exhaled. “Does that cover the bases?”

Morning nodded. “Yeah.”

Prowler waggled his head. “And you thought some of
my
stories were convoluted.”

“Yours are always about some myth. This is real.”

“Okay, two questions. One, what’s more important, getting Portia back or being a firefighter?”

Morning gave him a
duh
look. “Like, both.”

“Right, you’ll take a pass on that one. Two, what makes you absolutely sure you’re aging?”

Morning shot out a leg, showing him the high cuff on his pants. “I’m pretty sure I’ve grown some.”

Prowler shrugged. “Could be laundry shrinkage.”

“That’s what I thought.” He pulled open his shirt, thrust out his chest, and showed off his three hairs. “Didn’t have these before.”

Prowler’s hand shot forward and plucked one.

“Ow!” Morning yipped. “What’d you do that for?”

“Had to see if they were real. Besides, you’re a vampire, or half of one. It’ll just grow back, right?”

“I hope so!” Morning blurted as he realized what would truly prove he was part mortal. He jumped up, opened the irons box on the fire truck, and pulled out an ax.

“Whoa,” Prowler cautioned, “what are you doing?”

“A test.” Morning lifted his shirtsleeve, grimaced, and swiped the ax blade across his shoulder muscle.

Prowler jumped up. “What the …?”

Morning stared at the gash on his left. Blood welled in the wound. It didn’t heal up. He smiled through the pain. “I think I’m more Lifer than Leaguer.”

Using a first-aid kit, Prowler dressed the wound and issued his advice. “For one, no more screwups in front of Clancy, not even the whiff of one. Also, you gotta make sure no one at the academy knows you’re going mortal.”

“I’m not telling anyone,” Morning said. “But why’s that important?”

“ ’Cause as a mortal sixteen-year-old you really will be too young to be a probie, and Clancy will take the minimum age waiver they granted you as a vampire and shred it.”

It was late as Morning rode his bike back to St. Giles. He kept feeling the dull ache in his shoulder under the bandage. It was
lingering
pain, something only mortals feel, something he hadn’t felt for a long time. Never had pain been so welcome.

He pondered his next move with Portia. First he had to tell her the great news and sweep her off her feet. He had to wrap it like a fantastic gift; then their whole future would stretch before them. They really could be eternal beloveds, as long as mortals can be, and it would begin with him asking her to the End Is Upon Us Ball in December. Sure, she didn’t like dances but she did like rites of passage. And if the world was going to expire on December 21, they would miss out on the springtime rite of senior prom. So why not celebrate prom a few months in advance?

Morning’s reverie was broken by a man on a bike swerving around a corner and riding behind him. Looking
back, Morning’s gut clutched with fear as he recognized DeThanatos. “What do you want?”

DeThanatos offered a friendly smile. “I was in the mood for a family reunion.”

Morning fought his fear with bravado. “If you’re here to recruit me for your ridiculous Take Back the Bite movement, forget it.”

“I don’t have to recruit
you
,” DeThanatos said, oozing lugubrious satisfaction. “You already took back the bite when you gave Portia the ivory deuce.” He snapped his jaw shut with a clack of teeth.

Morning thought about racing away, but trying to outpedal a vampire who could turn into a bird and land on your handlebars was pointless.

“I wanted to congratulate you,” DeThanatos said.

“For what?”

“For your new lease on life. Or should we call it a lease on death?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your mouth can feign ignorance but”—he sniffed the air—“your scent gives you away.”

Morning wasn’t sure if DeThanatos was bluffing. “What scent?”

“I believe Birnam has a term for what we crave in human blood. What did he call it?
Pneumabrotus?
I can smell it coming from your shoulder.” He enjoyed a laugh. “You’re wondering how I know this. I had a little chat with Birnam at JFK.”

Morning’s stomach wound tighter. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing,” he said innocently. “I like Birnam; he’s been a worthy adversary. And even though it’s my duty as a Millennial to destroy him, I spared him.”

Morning hesitated, but couldn’t stop from asking, “What’s a Millennial?”

“Vampires who have stalked the earth for a thousand years are a rare breed. We are the guardians of our cherished traditions, bloodlust and immortality being the most sacred. When we learn of a vampire who has contracted the immortal equivalent of rabies, the lunatic madness of re-aging, we put them out of their misery.”

Morning’s eyes darted to the vampire’s hands, wondering which would deliver the stake to his chest. But the knife of fear dissolved when he remembered DeThanatos couldn’t destroy one of his blood children without destroying himself. His fear shifted to curiosity. “What about the treaty all Loners signed after World War V? You agreed not to slay any more Leaguers.”

“I didn’t sign it, and neither did any Millennial I know of. Even if we did,” he added with a beguiling smile, “vampires aren’t known for keeping promises.”

“Then what stopped you from destroying Birnam?”

“I’m taking a break from my duties.”

“What about me?”

DeThanatos let go of his handlebars but kept riding. “As you know, when it comes to you, my hands are tied. That is, until you become a full-fledged re-mort.”

“A re-mort?”

“Yes, a re-mortal. It’s what we call wishy-washy creatures who get flipped to immortality, then flop back to their formerly mortal selves. When you finish your flop, maybe I’ll finish the job I botched that fateful Thanksgiving.”

Morning shot him a hateful glare. “We destroyed you once. We can do it again.” He turned onto his street.

DeThanatos rested a hand back on his handlebars and followed. “Ah, yes, you and lovely Portia. Hopefully, when
we have our little rematch, it’ll be just like old times: me against my favorite pair of eternal beloveds.”

Morning was glad to finally reach St. Giles. He was tired of listening to the sinister vampire. He carried his bike up the stoop.

“It’s been lovely,” DeThanatos said from the sidewalk. “Blood father and blood son going for a spin, having a little sire-spawn chat, getting to know each other.”

Morning wanted to go inside and shut the door on DeThanatos’s unctuous sarcasm, but curiosity got the best of him. “If you mean it, I’ve got a question.”

The vampire spread his arms. “I bleed answers.”

“What
about
you?”

“What
about
me?”

“Do you ever worry about going back to your Lifer dreams and becoming a re-mort?”

DeThanatos’s head tossed back with a laugh. “God, no. My Lifer dream is long dead.”

“What was it?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Morning nodded. “Yeah.”

“Will you use it against me if you can?”

Morning was surprised how easily DeThanatos could read his mind. “Of course.”

The Loner wagged a teasing finger. “There’s some evil in you yet, a chip off the old block.” He chuckled. “It’s hard to believe, I know, but I was a Benedictine monk.”

Morning scoffed.

“Really.” DeThanatos crossed his fingers. “Me and God were like this. I was communing with Him one night in my cell, when a vampire interrupted us. Having taken a vow of silence, I didn’t cry out. My faith-filled heart called
for God to save me. But God fled the room. I haven’t heard from Him since—fine by me. As I pursue my diabolical ways, God is too shamefaced to intervene, and anytime I remember my monk’s cell with the slightest whiff of nostalgia, I go out and commit bloody murder.” He flashed glistening fangs. “Just talking about it makes me thirsty.”

Morning shuddered with disgust, opened the door, and began pushing his bike through it.

The Loner called after him. “I can’t guarantee some other Millennial might not come after you.”

Morning turned back, swallowing hard. “Like who?”

“We don’t communicate much. We simply strike when necessary. As for me, I have my eyes on a bigger prize.”