Crossed (25 page)

“Touché, Magbidion.”

“Here he goes. Watch him! Watch him!”

“I
am
watching him.”

Fang reached the middle point of the building and gunned his engines. He lost traction on the slick exterior surface, smoke billowing free of his tires as he began to slide back
down the wall, veering far enough to the right that I feared one of his wheels might plunge through the glass windows on either side. The Mustang drifted another four or five feet before lurching upward pedal-to-the-metal, rocketing up the side of the building with ever increasing speed, leaving tire tracks in its wake.

I switched over to the
akasha
and watched Fang’s power build; a corona of brilliant purple energy flared out from his frame, centering on his engine. Violet sparks arced from the rapidly spinning prongs of his simulated knockoff hubs to the building and back.

“He’s not slowing down.” I caught myself standing up, leaning toward the scene without intending to do so.

“He won’t.” Mags’s voice was excited. “He did the first time and they had to start over, but . . .”

The magician’s words trailed off as Fang cleared the top of the building. Greta’s whoop of exhilaration was audible even from where I was.

The car hung in the air, a fly in invisible amber. I counted under my breath . . .

One . . .

Two . . .

Three . . .

And the car exploded into motion, falling backward hood over trunk, headlights burning red, then purple when, tumble completed, the Mustang’s wheels were once more oriented toward the ground and the fall slowed to a lazy crawl.

“He’s—” I began.

“—gliding!” Magbidion broke in.

In the
akasha,
twin wings of magic like those of a gargantuan bat, the same purple as the car’s aura, billowed out on either side of the unearthly vehicle.

“Chitty Chitty Fang Bang.” My words were a whisper.

“That way! That way! That way!” Greta shouted from the
driver’s seat, her long blond hair trailing behind her like the tail of some golden comet. Her aura was still pained, but the joy, combined with what I interpreted as a renewed sense of purpose, was keeping her functional.

“Got any flight amulets, Mags?”

“I’m no good with that kind of working, Talbot. You could try the Mage Guild, but I think the going rate is upwards of four million bucks for something that really lets you fly at will.”

“That much?”

“It’s a luxury item with a sustained effect.”

“Later then.” I touched the button on my headpiece, ending the call, and stuffed the thing into a jacket pocket before rubbing my ear. I hate those things.

Eschewing the more mundane routes meant Greta and Fang would make it to the concert before me, but I was less concerned about beating them there and more concerned about . . . that! Breaking away from the roofline of a condemned Gothic-style church, a goat-headed being with gray wings took flight, cutting from building to building in short trips as if it wanted to remain unseen. Three minutes later and I’d counted half a dozen of them.

It would have been so much simpler if I’d staked Greta and left her in Fang’s trunk until Eric got back. I looked down the side of the building and shook my head, picturing myself attempting to slide down the side of the thing using my claws to slow my fall. Maybe if I weren’t banished and could make the leap into dreams like Dezba . . . Maybe if I were younger and had more lives left . . . Maybe. But not today.

I took the elevator down to the bottom floor and walked over to the deck where I’d parked my motorcycle. Straddling the bike, I donned my helmet, because even a Mouser can get in a wreck. I’m not much of a biker, but during the music festival, and really, any time there’s a huge traffic disaster, it’s easier to get around town on one. I test-drove a Hellcat Combat from
Confederate Motors, but in the end, it seemed like a waste to buy a machine like that and only drive it a few times a year. Eric would have pitched a fit if I’d bought a crotch rocket, so when I decided to get a bike a few years ago, I went with American made: a 2008 Harley-Davidson XL 1200N Sportster.

The early evening rain was gone for the moment, leaving the normally intense city scents muted. Warm sticky air made my clothes cling to my skin. Pulling out of the parking deck, I looked up before heading out. The clouds told me the rain would return, and my nose for trouble advised me I’d be seeing the gargoyles too. Despite the weather, the crowd showed no sign of dissipating, and the music festival was in full swing. Somewhere up and to my right, Greta and Fang drifted toward Morne Park.

Void City has several small parks, but Morne is the largest of them all, the center of the festival, with most of the other parks hosting a smaller stage, and lesser bands playing on street corners throughout West and East Side. Ebon Winter often held a huge party at his club, the Artiste Unknown, but this year, he’d closed the club and agreed to play the festival. Belatedly, I caught myself wondering why.

Had he bet on Greta? On me? Against either of us?

How strange. An hour ago, I’d been worried about how to keep her focused, and now that she
was
focused, I was fretting about why she was focused.

Greta had come to me wanting to know what to wear to Winter’s concert, and had been almost disappointed to hear that he’d be playing at the festival and not at the Artiste Unknown.

“Every woman needs a little black dress.” I’d helped her sort through some of the other girls’ things, most of which were too short for her. “Even the crazy vampire women.” She donned the dress, an off-the-shoulder mini in basic black, and I flicked a stray bit of white string with my claw, removing
it from the tight, body-hugging sheath. In this kind of dress she’d have to be careful walking upstairs, bending over, or kneeling unless she wanted it to spontaneously transform into a T-shirt equivalent.

“So, do I look okay?” She’d let me get Erin to do her makeup, hair, and nails. Erin hadn’t flinched when Greta insisted that the red nail polish be applied to her fully extended claws, too. The combat boots detracted, though.

“You’d look better if you were four-legged and furry, but as non-furry two-legged people go—”

“
Tal
bot.” Greta had elbowed me so hard that not flinching required an effort.

“You look great.”

“Not fat?” she’d asked.

“You’re way past the amount of reassurance people can reasonably expect from a Mouser.” I’d touched her chin—a dangerous test. She hadn’t bitten my finger or snapped at me, which meant she had herself under control again. “You know that?”

“But do I look fat?”

“Why would it matter if you did?” I’d gestured at myself. “I’m not exactly a string bean.”

“You’re all muscled and stuff.” Greta had poked my stomach. “Guys aren’t supposed to be skinny.”

“Are you sure you won’t at least try a different pair of shoes?” I’d held a pair of open-toed black flats up for her inspection. “I understand that you don’t like heels, but—”

“Is Dad going to be there?” She’d already known the answer and that had been her point. If Eric were home, she’d have worn whatever was necessary. In his absence, Greta curtailed her willingness to make accommodations.

“Why are you going to Winter’s concert again?”

“I told you.” Greta had pretended to admire herself in the mirror even though her reflection was a no-show. “It’s a secret.”

“You’ll keep an eye out for gargoyles, at least?”

“Not really.”

Her words played again in my mind as I weaved in and out of traffic, zipping past one of Void City’s Finest as she directed traffic. I brushed her leg as I passed; I couldn’t resist. Vampires aren’t the only supernatural beasties with mystic speed.

I scanned the sky for gargoyles, but I should have been watching the ground. Running down the center lane two blocks from Morne Park, a stretch limo inched its way forward. I was zipping past the rear right bumper when the door burst open.

Completely unavoidable. Too stunned to react, I dropped into the backseat of my mind as if the body hurtling through the air was not my own. I saw the rear fender of a Lincoln Town Car and thought,
Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the show?
I had time for only one more thought before I lost consciousness:
At least I wore a helmet.

When I came to, there was an awful tightness around my throat and the feeling of being trapped. I blinked twice at the bleary image of a woman with full cheeks and a haughty nose. Her hair was done up like a modern Marie Antoinette, all ringlets and ribbons. Her hands were around my neck, and her claws sank into my throat, carefully, threatening, not ripping. She grew, skin changing from pale to black.

I found Lisette.

My own transformation began, but as the
akasha
flowed over me, Lisette slammed my head into the hood of her limo five times in succession, breaking my concentration. One hand reached inside my trousers and her claws touched my testicles.

“No transformation, Mr. Talbot.” Her harsh voice cut through my head, increasing the headache that was already throbbing. “I wonder if you’d be willing to save us both a great deal of trouble by telling me where exactly in this city I can find Eric Courtney?”

    25    

GRETA:

FAT ASS GRANDMA

When Daddy’s home, I never get to do this. Never ever. He has to save the day, because it makes him feel good. Happy. And I like him happy. He’s more fun that way. And just as I was thinking about him, I thought I heard someone say his name. I almost didn’t hear it—the sensation was more of a feeling than a sound, like when you could swear you heard someone say your name, but it’s only the wind or someone saying something close to your name . . . that or they’re lying to you and they really did say it, in which case it’s perfectly fine for you to drain them on principle even if they
are
selling ice cream. Never mind.

“Did you hear that?” I didn’t raise my voice despite the wind. The question was rhetorical, but Fang answered with an affirmative rev all the same. “I’ll catch up with you at the concert.”

“Eric Courtney.” It had been Daddy’s name, said by someone with a French accent. I crouched down across the floorboard so that when my clothes fell off they wouldn’t blow
away. Then I slid inward, like a sponge when someone wrings the water out: tight, dense, compact.

Daddy tends to transform into a vampire bat (which I totally don’t get because echolocation gives him a headache, and he can turn into anything he wants, unlike the rest of us). Vlads usually get more choice in the matter, but it boils down to this: a vampire turning into an animal for the first time can
try
for anything it wants, but it has to be careful, because the less powerful a vampire is, the more likely it is to get stuck with the first animal it picks as its only option. Dad even had this vampire working in his old club that could only turn into a frog. Heh.

Tabitha had tried a bird and a cat and then gotten tired of doing either, preferring to focus on seeming human. I can only do three, but they’re a really good three and I’m keeping two of them secret. The way I see it, every vampire should have a bat in its repertoire; it’s a classic, but I did a lot of research before trying mine and went very specific. I turn into a
zorro volador filipino,
a giant golden-crown flying-fox, because they’re fucking awesome! Plus, since they’re the biggest bats in the world, with a wingspan of at least five feet, turning into one doesn’t actually hurt much.

I clambered back up onto the seat, and Fang opened the driver’s side door for me so that I didn’t have to struggle against the wind so much when I took off. It’s times like these that I wish vampires showed up on film so that I could see the whitish mask of fur on my face and how it mixes in with the reddish-brown fur. I’ve had Talbot describe it to me, even made a guy paint it once, but that’s not the same as seeing it with my own eyes.

“He’s not here.” Talbot’s voice strained, but I could still hear it as I cut through the air.

“Don’t lie to me!” the French voice snapped.