Crossed (32 page)

By the time I hit the ground, Captain Stacey stood over Magbidion, glow fading as he reverted to his humanoid form. He already held a tire iron in his hand, the same one I’d used to impale Squidly, but from the sapphire gleam in his eyes, I expected he had a different plan for where to shove it.

Fortunately, Fang had other plans, too.

Captain Stacey lunged for the Mustang’s hood and Fang shot into reverse, passing over me, lifting me up against its undercarriage, breaking my nose for a second time in under an hour, and proceeding backward through the winding center spiral, up, up, and up again toward the top of the parking deck.

“Stop that Mustang, Stacey!” Lord Phillip shouted. I could hear but couldn’t see him.

As Fang’s speed increased, the magical extra space that seemed to exist underneath him narrowed and soon left my back dragging the concrete, scouring away first the skin then muscle beneath it. Hair ripped free of my scalp, taking small hunks of skin with it. I knew Fang wanted to avoid eating me again or he’d have already done the deed. But I wished he’d get it over with. I might come out hungry again, but better one giant ow that goes away than this continuous scraping. I’m a rip the Band-Aid off in one go kind of girl.

When we hit the roof, the night air rushed over me, surprisingly cool, the humidity tolerable for Void City at this time of year. I fell away from Fang’s undercarriage, and the crossbow bolt didn’t come with me. It hung there from the bottom of the car, metal tip still lodged in my chest, but not quite deep enough.

“Good boy, Fang!”

I rolled out from under the car, holding the bolt in my hand to avoid accidentally re-staking myself, and tore it free of my sternum. Fang’s painful trip had made a mess of Magbidion’s robe, but as I climbed into the passenger’s seat I found a new set of the exact same clothes I’d been wearing before, my jeans and Dad’s T-shirt. They weren’t warm, like Dad’s clothes are when he remakes them, but they still had Dad and New Mom’s smell on them, which was even better.

I whipped the shirt over my head as I regenerated and struggled into the jeans as Fang revved the engine and rammed
the wall of the parking deck. He hit it once, twice, and on the third time, broke through. We glided free just as I heard the elevator doors ding open and saw Oranges step out, leveling a crossbow at me.

Captain Stacey was the one who worried me.

Every bit as fast as most vampires, he came running up the parking deck ramp and, without slowing, leapt after Fang, golden claws and sapphire eyes sparkling in the night. He landed on the trunk and I stood up in the seat, claws out, ready for a fight.

“Talbot’s combat mode is cooler,” I said, opening a series of bloody gashes in his chest. A blow I’d meant to get me a handhold on his vitals was reduced to mere flesh wounds by his speed. Damn Mousers.

“How fortunate His Highness isn’t here right now.”

He leapt at me and I took his charge, the two of us clawing at one another. Flames leapt up from my wounds and I hissed. His claws were holy, just like Talbot’s. Why not?

Fang lurched down and then up, maximizing his gliding range. Stacey and I brawled wildly, a flaming furry whirlwind of vampire and Mouser. In short, Oranges’ shot was miraculous. Staking a vampire with an arrow or a crossbow bolt is no mean feat to begin with. Old Mom was exceptionally good at it, from years of having to stake Daddy to calm him down, but the shot Oranges made—a shot like that would have given Robin Hood a hard-on. If the other bolt had still been in place, I’m relatively certain she would have split it in two.

My thought as Captain Stacey grabbed me, tore open Fang’s trunk, and leapt back toward the parking deck with me and Grandma (one over each shoulder) was this:
Oh no! There’s a hole in Dad’s T-shirt!

    31    

GRETA:

A PRAYER AT BEDTIME

Lord Phillip didn’t say a word to me the first night. He had a debt to repay. After Phillip carried Grandma and me back to the Highland Towers with the VCPD running Fang interference, he had servants in bellhop uniforms come in to strip us, measure us, and bathe us both in blood. Then a second set came in and doctored our stakes. They cut Grandma’s down so it was flush with her skin and then affixed a platinum stopper to her back and chest that completely covered the wood.

I couldn’t easily see what they did to mine, but it appeared to be a similar thing with a golden stopper. Then, the first set of servants came back in carrying sets of clothes that might have looked more at home in a Victorian brothel than in modern-day Void City, and dressed us.

Phillip’s study was the same as it had been the last time I was there, except that the curtains had been drawn back, revealing his larger-than-king-size bed, which, with the curtains drawn, dominated the room. It was a four-poster bed of some rich mahogany or maybe a darker-colored wood. Lavishly embroidered pillows lay on top of an equally elaborate comforter.
Cords running from both the comforter and the mattress had been disguised to match the carpet, and I could barely make out where they snaked underneath the bed toward a wall socket even when the bellhops had me down on the Oriental rug working on my stake.

Once we’d been dressed, a third group of hired help (this time not in bellhop uniforms) came in, did our hair and makeup, and gave us each a manicure and pedicure. When they’d finished, the bellhops returned, arranging us by the fire in lush green velvet upholstered lounge chairs. Phillip’s fantastical knickknacks lined the walls, and I could just make out Roger’s soul prison in its ornate golden holder on the mantel next to the box of all the things Lord Phillip had used to ascend.

Grandma had been posed so she looked over my shoulder at the display case in which Percy was stored. Nobody knew why Percy was in there, but he was staked and displayed in doll collector fashion, with a plaque underneath him that read, “My dear Percy, who serves as a remembrance to all that I do not bluff, I do not make empty threats, and there are indeed worse fates than death.” I used to make up stories about him and the things he must have done to merit that end.

We waited, the hands of the mantel clock counting down the hours, and waited.

And waited.

So, I got my own little dose of what it must have felt like for Dad to be trapped in the remains of the explodicated Demon Heart all those months when he was a ghost, but compressed into hours. Before dawn, Oranges came in with another group of bellhops. They moved our chairs in turn, taking us to the alcove where Uncle Phil stored his magic mirror.

The golden dragon worked into the frame seemed to leer at me. New Mom had mentioned the mirror once. She said it had a demon inside that let her see her reflection, but made her feel bad for all the horrible things she’d ever done. I don’t
know what she was talking about though, because I didn’t feel anything bad. It was nice to know my burns had healed when they gave me the blood bath, though.

“Good girl,” the demon within the mirror whispered in my mind. “What a precious thing you are. What a treasure.”

“Do you know what Uncle Phil is going to do to me?” I thought at the mirror.

“A vampire like you, with your understanding, your composure?” It burbled at me. “No more than you allow.”

Four bellhops traded me out for Lisette and when they brought her back, streaks of blood were running freely down her cheeks. I guess she’d been happy to see her reflection, too. It was a little weird she could still cry while staked, though. For that to work, she pretty much had to be connected to her body very closely and still be feeling things. What’s the point in that?

The fire,
I thought,
maybe she likes feeling the fire.

And that’s what I was thinking when the sun rose on my first day as a P.O.P. (Prisoner of Phil).

On the second night, the ritual repeated. They bathed us in blood, changed us into fresh skanky brothel-wear, and gave us each our turns in front of the mirror.

“Still here?” the demon asked.

This time, when he spoke, he brought me back to my first favorite memory, except that the mirror was there in the beach house, hanging over the burned-out television.

“I guess he’s mad at me for something.”

“Well, sure, Phillipus is like that, but I’d expect your father to have come for you by now.”

“But he’s in Paris.” My memory self scowled at the mirror. “It’s his honeymoon.”

“True, but I thought he was only going to be gone for a few days.”

“How did you know that?”

“You know it”—the eyes of the dragon frame seemed to glimmer—“so I know it . . . while we’re together.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Well it’s not like he’s been gone such a long time.”

“But you expected him back yesterday.”

I looked away as the mirror spoke and focused on the version of Daddy in my memory, asleep on his bed, exhausted from the act of creating me.

“Or you expected him to call.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You can’t tell fibs to me, Greta.” The demon’s voice took on an edge of friendly menace. “You haven’t wanted to face it, but in the back of your mind, you expected him to show up tonight and save you, but he hasn’t even called. Talbot hasn’t come looking for you either. I wonder why? Maybe if you’d finished the job with Lisette . . .”

I opened my mouth to respond, but I was being carried away from the mirror. Demons lie. I knew that, but what if the stupid mirror was right? If
Daddy
was mad at me, if I’d been bad, then he might not come at all, not until I’d been punished. . . . It would have to be something worse than being locked in the freezer.

Grandma had her turn at the mirror next, and the moment she’d been returned to her spot, I sensed Lord Phillip. He was coming.

The door to Phil’s apartments opened behind us and our chairs rotated to face the opening. A line of bellhop-clad girls filed into the room, with Oranges in the lead, her uniform differentiated by the collar and leash she still wore around her neck.

They chattered among each other, wondering why they were here, all together. I knew Uncle Phil ran a contest every few years to see who his next offspring would be and that the competition was fierce, but, like the girls, I didn’t think it was
time to choose a winner and I was too preoccupied by what the mirror demon had said to think about it too hard.

“Favete linguis,”
Phillip’s voice intoned. From the reaction, I guessed he’d just told them to shut up, in Latin or French or something. He flowed into the room as a cloud of mist, materializing with his hand on Oranges’ leash.

“Some of you may no doubt wonder why we have gathered here out of turn and you would be right to wonder . . . as it has happened only once before.” He fiddled with Oranges’ leash, towing her free of the line, and she followed willingly, a look of superiority clear in her eyes. “Every decade, I hold a contest to determine my next two children, one male and one female. Offspring in whom I see the potential for becoming beings who will keep my unlife . . . interesting.”

“It’s a cycle.” He placed his hand on Oranges’ waist and her lips jerked slightly down. “First I appoint my
nulli secondus
and then my
nulli secunda.
My young man and woman. My son and my daughter.” He began to unbutton her overshirt, letting the air hold her leash in place through one of his little magic tricks, and the smile on her face vanished, replaced by a thin rigid line of null expression. “As the Latin implies: my second to none. Tonight I appoint my
nulli secunda.
”

Alive with objections, the air filled with words and Phillip fed on it, grin widening like a jack-o’-lantern’s.

He silenced them with a gesture.

“I could remind you of the old adage:
Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim
.” He looked directly at me when he translated, “‘Be patient and tough; some day this pain will be useful to you.’” His hands twitched as if he fought the urge to applaud himself. “But that is no longer up to me. As Senator William Learned Marcy once said, ‘ To the victor belong the spoils,’ or, in the case of my little competition . . . to the winner belong”—he looked down the line, spots of red sparking in his eyes—”the losers.