Lust for Life (32 page)

“Jim told us to tell Kashmir that he’d found Lemuria. Do you know what it means?”

He stares at me for several seconds, then shakes his head slowly. “You know, until
just now I wasn’t sure you actually saw Jim when you died. I thought you were hallucinating
or lying.”

I’m impressed with his skepticism. I wouldn’t believe us, either.

“We both heard him say it,” Shane offers, “but I couldn’t make out the word. So what
does it mean?”

“It was an inside joke between them. Lemuria is a mythical lost continent in the Indian
Ocean.”

“Like Atlantis?” Jeremy asks.

“Yeah. They always said they’d find it one day and start a vampire colony. There was
more to it than that, but they never explained it to me. You know how it is with inside
jokes—they take on a life of their own.”

I think of all the phrases and songs Shane and I have made up in the last three years,
especially since we started living together. We could record an entire album’s worth
of tunes about Dexter—if there was a market for that sort of thing.

Then I remember an odd thing Jim said to me last spring, just before he broke my wrist
and tried to abduct me. Something about the world having been all one continent, and
that the gaps were getting bigger, and one day everything would fall into the ocean.
He sounded so sad.

David comes up from downstairs. “Everything ready?”

Mom displays the poster to him. “What do you think?”

“It’s, um, moving. Well done.” He looks at us. “Colonel Lanham called. He’s bringing
Special Agent Anca Codreanu-Petrea with him.”

“He’s bringing a date to our funeral?”

Everyone gives me a puzzled glance, then David continues.

“She wants to do a ceremony during the wake. It’s a necromancer thing.” He explains
to my mother, “A necromancer is someone who can talk to the dead.”

“Supposedly,” I add.

Shane asks David, “What kind of ceremony?”

“To honor the three of you.”

Honor, my ass.
“Does she think she’s going to be able to talk to us from beyond the grave?” And
if she somehow can, will she know we’re not dead?

“I asked her that.” David puts his hands in his pockets, looking abashed. “She took
offense. Apparently it’s bad manners to contact the dead during their funeral.”

“How convenient.” I scowl at the dust on the holy-water pistol I’m about to uncap.
“We’ll keep a close watch on her.”

“You still think someone in the Control has it in for you?” David asks. “Even though
Jim got out more or less on his own?”

“Someone will always have it in for us.” I smile at Shane. “It’s the price we pay
for being interesting.”

Sunset comes, then civil twilight a half hour later, when it’s safe for vampires to
be outside. As the crowd starts to gather in the clearing near the station, Shane,
Jeremy, and I move into the lounge to monitor the goings-on, bringing holy-water pistols
and of course Shane’s trusty katana sword. Soon we’re alone in the building, except
for Noah on the air.

Though Shane and I were late add-ons, Lori and my mother managed to put together a
pair of beautiful eulogies. Unfortunately the cameras have no sound,
so I have to gauge the beauty of their words by the number of tissues used by the
onlookers. Just watching my mom’s impassioned performance sends a few tears down my
face.

I’ve just finished blowing my nose when Shane says, “What’s she doing?” He points
to the left side of the screen, where Anca is withdrawing a small object from her
purse.

“Maybe it’s part of the ceremony.” Jeremy picks up a holy-water pistol from the card
table. “But just in case . . .”

“That won’t do any good against her. She’s human.” I realize by the pink reservoir
cap that it’s the same pistol that shocked me. “Be careful with that one.”

My mother finishes her eulogy, and Anca steps up to the podium. I wish I could hear
what she is saying. Seeing the nighttime video with no sound is creepy.

Anca gestures skyward, then to the ground where our grave markers sit three in a row.
As she lifts her hands again, smoke pours between her fingers. It’s followed by sparks
and flames that don’t singe her skin.

“Nice effect,” Jeremy murmurs. “But you can buy that stuff at any magic shop online.”

The con artist in me has always loved magicians. Like us, they give people what they
want
to see, not what’s really there.

I step closer to the monitor. “My dad always taught me that magicians do tricks with
misdirection. They make you look at their left hand while their right hand is hiding
the secret.” I put my finger on Anca and her flailing smoke and sparks. “If you want
to see through them, look in the opposite direction from what they’re showing you.”
I draw my finger to the other end of the crowd.

Adrian stands alone near the back of the gathering. He wipes his eyes and lowers his
head.

Then he disappears, jerked backward out of the light.

“Whoa.” Shane clicks on his field radio. “Elijah, did you see what happened to—Elijah,
are you there?” He fiddles with the settings on the radio.

Static comes from the speaker in the ceiling. I hurry to open the door to the studio
hallway.

Behind the window, Noah is pulling off his headphones. He rubs his ear, wincing.

A loud bang sounds behind me, beyond the lounge. I realize it’s coming from the other
hallway.

“That was the outside door.” Shane lifts his katana, the blade gleaming in the lamplight.
Jeremy aims his holy-water pistol at the closed door.

I grab two stakes from the table, bring one to the studio, and toss it in to Noah.
“Lock yourself in. No matter what, stay on the air.”

I turn back to the lounge, ready to fight with my puny little human body. In the clearing
outside, the crowd stares at Anca, mesmerized. In addition to creating a diversion,
her little fireworks show must have interfered with our communications system and
maybe even the radio broadcast.

The door to the other hallway opens. Kashmir starts through, then sees me and Shane.

“But you’re . . .” He tilts his head. “They told me you were dead.”

“Old news.” Jeremy steps forward and fires the holy-water pistol straight at Kashmir.
Instinctively the vampire throws up an arm to block the stream and—

Nothing happens. No sizzling or burning. The water is only water.

With a roar, Kashmir lashes out at Jeremy, hurling him across the room. Jeremy strikes
the wall with a sickening thud, then plops on the floor like a rag doll, his eyes
open and empty.

“No!” I run forward, but Kashmir catches me. Behind us, I hear the swish and
shing
of Shane’s sword.

“Ciara, run!” he shouts. “You can’t fight him.”

I twist out of Kashmir’s grip and sprint upstairs into the main office. If I could
just get outside—

Kashmir tackles me. We roll over and over, across the hardwood floor. I scramble to
get away, but his weight is on top of me, and my neck is in his hands.

This can’t be it,
I think as time stretches out.
I didn’t go to hell and back just to be snuffed out again.

Hell and back.

“Lemuria!” I rasp out with my last breath. “Jim said . . .”

“What?” Kashmir loosens his grip. “What did you say?” He shakes me by the neck. A
sharp pain shoots out to both shoulders, but at least pain means life.

“We saw Jim,” I choke out, “after we died.”

“Where?”

“On the Isle of Wight.” I drag in a breath through my bruised windpipe. “Doors were
playing. He was bitten.”

“Where?” Kashmir’s fingers envelop my neck. “Prove you saw him. Where did they bite?”

“His thigh and his wrist and his neck.”

“Where else?”

I close my eyes, trying to remember the fourth wound. “His mouth.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to tell you he found Lemuria. And that everything was groovy.”

Kashmir’s amber eyes bore into me. Downstairs the sounds of battle rage on—furniture
smashing, a sword zinging, Shane roaring in defiance—but here there’s radio silence.

Then Kashmir laughs. His chin tilts up as he bays at the ceiling, long and hard. For
a moment his face is pure joy, and again I see the young man he once was. I can almost
picture him surfing.

“Thank you,” he says, with what sounds like genuine gratitude. “I’m so glad you told
me that before you died.”

This time when his hands start to squeeze, he’s wearing a smile.

Kicking and writhing, I try to pry off his hands, but it’s futile, so I lunge for
his face instead, hoping to jab him in the eye. He moves his head out of reach, still
smiling. Yellow and black patches form in my vision, like spots on a jaguar.

I’ve been here before, battling for my life, holy water filling my brain until I took
away its power by telling myself,
It’s only water.

I’ve lost those powers, the price I paid for a new life. I’m nothing now. I couldn’t
even neutralize a drop of—

Wait.

The water in Jeremy’s pistol didn’t work on Kashmir. The water that I’d touched and
wished it had no power. Did I neutralize it with my mind? If Jeremy dies, will it
be my fault?

Even so, this is different. I can’t wish away an entire vampire. Can I?

Kashmir squeezes harder, his fully deployed fangs a contrast to his beatific smile.

What do I have to lose?

You don’t deserve to be a vampire.
I wrap my hands around his.
You’re not a vampire.

My mind reaches out, playing those words again and again. The mantra gets louder as
my vision turns blacker, and faster as the yellow dots dance.

Finally I feel it with all my being—not a plea, not an insult, just a statement:

You’re not a vampire.

I’m zapped by what feels like a million volts. My legs jerk and my back arches.

“What are you—”

Kashmir’s eyes widen. His grip weakens, spasms around my neck, then starts to slide
off. Air rushes in, an almost foreign feeling.

I close my eyes, hold on tight to his hands, and summon every shred of belief in my
disbelief, every bit of faith in my lack of faith.

With nothing but my mind, I
pull
.

The magic shoots into me like a lightning bolt. For one moment I feel everything a
vampire feels: the strength, the sadness, the rage, the fear. The glory of a life
lengthened by years and shortened by hours.

Then the power streams out of my body, into the air and ground, unable to stay inside
me. Where my skin meets the floor, I burn.

My body spasms, every muscle clenching. Kashmir lets go of my neck, but I can’t let
go of his hands. He falls off me, like a cowboy from a bucking bronco, turning me
on my side as I hold on to him.

My vision flares in red and green and yellow. My heart starts to race, twenty times
too fast. My chest feels full of wriggling centipedes crawling over each other.

I’m dying. Again. Dammit.

Lying a few inches away, his face to mine, Kashmir ages. His skin sags and his hair
whitens. Those amber eyes cloud as they stare into mine. He draws in a wheezing breath.

“What have you done?” he rasps. “What am I now?”

About sixty-seven,
I think, as the black curtain falls once more.

33

Magic Man

“Should we zap her again?” Franklin says.

Adrian’s voice comes from somewhere to my left. “She’s breathing now, and her heartbeat’s
steady. She doesn’t need it.”

“I know, but just for kicks? I like to see her squirm.”

Without opening my eyes, I use all the strength in my battered body to raise my forearm
and give Franklin the finger.

Then I notice the world is mostly silent. Memory comes rushing back, and I open my
eyes.

“Shane?”

Franklin sits beside me, on the top stair of the station’s main office. “He’s fine.
The Control agents noticed Adrian was missing and came in to investigate. I followed
them.” He glances at Adrian, then looks away. “I was curious.”

“How do you feel?” A female Control paramedic comes into view. She shines a piercing
light into my eyes.

“Everything hurts.” I try to raise my head again. “What happened to Kashmir?”

“The Control got him,” Adrian tells me. “Shane hacked off Leon’s legs, and Elijah
staked Billy to save Shane.”

I notice Adrian’s not rolling around in agony. “They took Kashmir alive?”

“Yep, thanks to you.”

“I de-vamped Kashmir somehow. But it almost killed me, didn’t it?”

“You went into cardiac arrest,” Franklin says flatly, like he’s telling me it’s partly
cloudy outside. “Luckily Adrian knows CPR.”

“He saved me?”

“The paramedics saved you,” Adrian says. “I just did CPR until they got here with
the defibrillator.”

“I told him not to bother,” Franklin says, “that I’ve been trying to get rid of you
for years, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Adrian’s smile is strained, and when he looks past me and Franklin, it fades completely.
I hear Shane downstairs, making grievous noises that bend my heart.

“What’s wrong?” I start to get up. “Is my mom okay? Lori? David?”

“They’re all fine.” Adrian gently pushes me back. “You have to lie down or you could
go into shock.”

I flail my other hand until I hit Franklin’s knee. “Tell me what happened. Is it Shane?
Is it—” A sudden memory hits me, of a flying body, an unyielding wall. “Jeremy.”

“He’s . . .” Franklin rests one hand on my shoulder while the other rubs his forehead
hard. “It was quick.”

Now I hear Shane’s labored, sorrowful breaths coming from downstairs, beyond the open
door to the lounge.

Then he starts to sing. His voice is richer than ever, sweeter and rougher than it
was as a vampire, even more than it was the other night in bed. He croons “Asleep,”
the Smiths song about suicide, the one Jeremy wanted sung to him as he was vamped.

Which he’ll never be now. He’ll never be undead, just dead.