Bloodstone (23 page)

“I’M SO SORRY,” ROXANA SAID, PULLING ON HER COAT. “I really thought the ointment would work.”

“You made it as strong as we dared,” said Mab. “More wolfsbane would have been too risky.”

Kane was fine, no worse for wear than if he’d taken a twohour nap. I’d checked his paws: no burns or ulcerations. His heart beat normally, and he was alert, although he seemed despondent that Roxana’s spell had failed. We all were. More than that, though, I was relieved he was okay—in any form.

“Well,” Roxana said, “at least this might be helpful.” From her coat pocket she pulled something that looked like a small crocheted snowflake. It dangled from the end of a string loop.

“What is it?” I asked, taking it. A buzz passed from the object into my hand.

“It’s a diminution charm,” Roxana said. “It makes something big and powerful look smaller, less threatening. I thought it might be helpful if Kane wants to go out.” She looked around. “You have a great apartment, but who wants to spend three weeks cooped up in one place?”

“Thanks, Roxana. It’s a great idea. I’m so glad you thought of it.”

She glanced at Mab and smiled. “Your aunt suggested we have a contingency plan.”

“Quite so,” agreed Mab.

I slipped the loop over Kane’s neck. The air around him shimmered. His appearance blurred and then altered. He looked like a German shepherd: still ferocious, but less so than a two-hundred-pound werewolf. A perfect disguise. I removed the charm and placed it on the coffee table. In a moment, Kane was back in all his wolfish glory. Roxana wouldn’t take any payment for the charm. After she left, I went into my room, lay down on top of the comforter, and napped for a few hours. My sleep schedule is always erratic, living between the norm and paranormal worlds as I do, so I’m used to snatching a few z’s when I have the chance.

When I woke up, it was dark out, and I was hungry. I ran my fingers through my hair, stuck my feet into slippers, and went into the living room. Mab sat in a chair, reading. Kane was stretched out on the sofa, watching PNN. The story told of a planned protest march through the streets of Deadtown, tonight. Zombies were gathering to protest the code-red restrictions. I felt for the zombies—they must be suffering cabin fever big-time by now—but nobody would give a damn about their march. Not if it was in Deadtown. In the eyes of Police Commissioner Hampson and other norms, they could do whatever the hell they wanted—as long as they stayed inside the boundaries of Designated Area 1.

“Who’s hungry?” I asked.

Kane woofed, and Mab admitted she was feeling “a bit peckish,” so we all trooped into the kitchen. I opened the freezer and peered inside. “Let’s see. We’ve got lasagna, Salisbury steaks”—Kane howled at this point—“pizza, sesame chicken, fettuccine . . .”

“Heavens, child, is that how you get your food?” Mab looked every bit as horrified as if my freezer shelves held human heads instead of frozen dinners.

“If I had Rose to do my cooking, I’d eat as well as you. But I don’t cook.” My kitchen skills were limited to knowing which buttons to press on the microwave.

Mab made a sour face, but she chose fettuccine Alfredo with chicken.

For the next fifteen minutes, I gave the microwave a good workout. Everyone ate their food as soon as it was ready. Mab even admitted that her meal tasted better than she’d expected. I noticed she scraped up all of her Alfredo sauce.

After dinner, it was time to pick up the IDs from Carlos. “I’ll get those, then check on Juliet. I want to see how she’s doing, but I also want to ask her some more questions about the Old Ones.”

“I’ll come with you,” Mab said.

“You won’t—” What would be the best way to phrase this? “It won’t bother you that she’s a vampire?”

“I solemnly swear I’ll be on my best behavior,” Mab said. “If your Juliet really managed to escape the Old Ones’ thrall, she’s someone I want to meet.”

 

 

THE STREET WAS PACKED WITH ZOMBIES, ALL HEADED IN THE same direction we were. The protest march would start at the Old South Meeting House, proceed down Washington Street and along Winter Street, and finish at the Tremont Street checkpoints. Our goal, 24-Hour Copy, wasn’t far from the meetinghouse. The march was due to start at eleven—still more than an hour from now—but the zombies were already on their way. Some carried signs with slogans like ZOMBIES AREN’T MONSTERS and PERMIT THIS, HAMPSON! Others walked along doing what zombies do best—stuffing their faces with junk food. Laughter rang through the night. The scene felt festive, like the march was a parade, not a protest.

One person bucked the crowd, plowing through with her head down, like a rowboat with an underpowered outboard putt-putting against a strong current. I recognized the blond hair first, pulled into a high ponytail that swung as she walked. She wore a curve-hugging white T-shirt with a green plaid miniskirt, torn fishnet stockings, and black combat boots. The gigantic tote bag she lugged—pink accented with zebra stripes—looked like it could hold half my worldly possessions, including my car. As she got closer, I read the bold pink letters on her T-shirt: LOVE IS THE ANSWER. She barreled right past us; on the back of her shirt, black letters asked, WHAT THE HELL WAS THE QUESTION?

“Tina!”

She stopped in her tracks and turned around, searching for the person who’d called her. When she saw me, she scowled in greeting.

“Aren’t you joining the march?” I asked. It seemed like the kind of diversion that Tina would be first in line for. The closer to the front, the better the chances of getting on TV.

“Yeah, but I was going to your place first. Now at least I don’t have to trek all the way over there.” She knelt on the sidewalk and dug into her bag. She pulled out three celebrity gossip magazines, four tubes of lip gloss, a hairbrush, cell phone, assorted ponytail holders, and two pairs of sunglasses before she found what she was looking for:
Russom’s Demoniacal Taxonomy
, the book I’d loaned her during the weeks she’d been my apprentice. “Here’s your book,” she said, thrusting it at me. “If you won’t teach me about demons, I don’t need it anymore.”

I reached for the book, but Mab stepped between us. “Ah, so this must be the young lady you told me about a while back. The one who was your apprentice.” Funny that I’d never mentioned Juliet to Mab, but I’d told her all about Tina on my last visit to Wales.

“Young lady?” Tina wrinkled her nose. “That’s what my mom used to call me when she was mad.” She shoveled items back into her bag. Then she stopped and squinted up at Mab. She looked at me, then at Mab again. “Wait. Are you Vicky’s aunt? The one who taught her how to fight?”

“Yes,” I said. “This is my aunt Mab.”

“How do you do?” Mab said.

Tina stood, hauling the bag back onto her shoulder. She stared at Mab appraisingly. “So you must be, like, better than Vicky, right? At demon fighting? I mean, since you taught her and everything.”

Mab didn’t answer, but she favored Tina with her tiny, pursed-lip smile.

Clutching
Russom’s
, Tina said to Mab, “Would you teach me? Vicky’s all graduated and stuff, so you need a new apprentice, right? Plus my dad always said if you want something, you should go straight to the top.”

“Mab’s retired,” I said. “Anyway, she’s only in town for a few days before she goes back to Wales.”

“Oh. That’s another country, isn’t it?” Even Tina knew it was virtually impossible for zombies to get visas to travel internationally. It was due to fear of the plague. Although the possibility of contagion was long past, there was still widespread terror of the virus that had killed and reanimated two thousand Bostonians. Boston had no choice about its zombies, but nobody else wanted them.

Tina looked down at the book in her hands, as if trying to memorize its cover. When she held it out to me, she didn’t meet my eyes.

I reached out again to take
Russom’s
, but Mab stopped me, putting her hand on my arm. “We’re on an errand right now and can’t be lugging books about,” she said sharply. Tina stepped back as if slapped. “If you want to return my niece’s book, bring it to her apartment after you’ve finished school for the night.”

“But I don’t go to school anymore.”

“Did you earn your diploma?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have no business saying you’re done with school. Go to class. Learn something. And then return
Russom’s
in the morning on your way home.”

Never before had I seen Tina at a loss for words. She gaped at Mab, red eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and stunned into silence. She held
Russom’s
in front of her like a shield. Then she shut her mouth and gave a tiny nod.

“Tina,” I said, “if it’s easier, you can leave the book with Clyde. He’ll make sure I get it.”

“Not good enough.” Mab waved away the very idea. “We’ll expect to see you in the morning. Now, off you go to school.”

Tina turned and fled. But not, I noticed, in the direction of her school. She joined the flow of zombies pouring toward the starting point of the protest march.

I watched her go. WHAT THE HELL WAS THE QUESTION? bobbed through the crowd until she was out of sight.

“Mab,” I said, “I think you’ve just become the first mortal creature ever to terrify a zombie.”

“Nonsense. I merely made some suggestions about manners and the importance of education. Things she’d do well to consider.”

Tina, consider manners? That seemed about as likely as Commissioner Hampson stopping by Deadtown to link arms with protesters and lead the march. But I wasn’t going to ponder that now. I wanted to complete our errand and see Juliet.

 

 

CARLOS WASN’T IN, BUT HE’D LEFT AN ENVELOPE WITH MY name and the amount I owed penciled on the front. Mab’s eyes widened when she saw the figure, but I paid without telling her it was only half the total.

Outside, I gave Mab her card. She scrutinized it, and a most unladylike snort erupted from her. “Mabel!” she exclaimed, waving the card in my face. “He has me down as
Mabel
Vaughn.”

“That’s not such a bad thing, Mab. It puts a little bit of distance between you and your false identity.”

“Hmph.”
Mab held the card as though it were a particularly slimy piece of garbage. “You won’t have to call me that, will you?”

“No. You only need to show the card when you pass through a checkpoint. Or if a cop asks for it. Most people never see it.”

“Good. Because I will not be referred to as ‘Aunt Mabel.’ ” She harrumphed again as she slid the card into her pocket. “Sounds like a Victorian charwoman.”

I laughed and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mab. Your secret is safe with me.”

 

 

MAB PASSED THROUGH THE CHECKPOINT OUT OF DEADTOWN like she’d lived in Designated Area 1 all her life. As we walked the half-block to Creature Comforts, I tried to prepare her for meeting Axel. “He’s obviously not human, but nobody knows what he is. And nobody likes to ask, either. Axel doesn’t say much, and his privacy is important to him. Like,
really
important.” We stopped in front of the door. “So if he won’t let you downstairs to see Juliet, please don’t take offense.”

I reached for the door handle, then paused. What would Mab see when I pulled it open and we went inside? A dingy dive bar with a surly bartender, most likely. That wasn’t an inaccurate assessment. But Creature Comforts was more than its appearance—at least, it was to me. It was like a second home, and I didn’t want Mab to judge it too harshly.

I opened the door and gestured Mab inside. I followed. The place was empty. No rowdy werewolves tonight; that was one good thing. Axel leaned on the bar and watched us approach. His small eyes glinted as he took in Mab.

“Axel, this is my aunt, Mab,” I said. “She’s come with me to see Juliet. I hope you won’t mind if she visits your guest room with me.”

Axel regarded Mab as if sizing her up—or thinking about having her as a snack. Mab appraised him just as coolly. For a minute, I thought we were headed for some kind of O.K. Corral showdown.

Then Mab stepped forward. She offered her hand and said something in a language I didn’t understand. It sounded a bit like German, although it wasn’t German.

A grin cracked Axel’s face. He shook Mab’s hand so vigorously it rattled my teeth where I stood beside them. He spoke in a rapid-fire barrage of words in the same language Mab had used. In two minutes, he said more to her than I’d heard him say in three years.

Mab laughed, and Axel laughed with her. He came out from behind the bar, bowed, and offered Mab his arm. The two of them chatted away like old friends as they walked back to the storeroom together. I followed, feeling like a third wheel.

In the storeroom, Axel was showing Mab how to open the secret door. She clapped her hands together, impressed, then tried it herself.

Axel walked over to me, chuckling. “Lovely lady, your aunt,” he said. He picked up a couple of cases of pretzels and, still laughing to himself, carried them into the bar.

Mab stood by the open door, smiling a private smile.

“What did you say to him?” I asked. “What language was that?”

“Trollspråk. It turns out Axel and I have some mutual acquaintances. I simply passed along news from the old country.”

“Axel is a troll?” I’d wondered for years what species Axel was. And Mab had figured it out at a glance.

“Yes, of course, a
jötunn
, one of the Old Norse giants.” She shook her head. “I must say I’m disappointed you never recognized him as such. But then, you were never a keen student of mythology. If it wasn’t a demon, it didn’t interest you.”

“Hey, I was focused.”

Her face softened. It may have looked about as soft as marble to anyone else, but I could tell the difference. “That you were, child.”

Mab moved aside so I could go first, and then she followed me down the stairs. As we reached the bottom, I half-expected my aunt to start conversing fluently in whatever dialect they spoke in fourteenth-century Verona, but there wouldn’t have been much point. Juliet was dead to the world, asleep.