Undead to the World (14 page)

I shift my grip, spreading my hands farther apart. I bring the mop handle down and
my knee up, snapping the handle into two equal lengths. I drop into a combat stance,
one in each hand. “
Now
I’ve got fangs. And they’re a lot longer than yours, Yak-boy.”

I’m back.

It’s that sudden, and that complete. I know who I am. I know where I came from. I
know who my friends are, and who Isamu is.

But most of all, I know what I can
do.

A little voice is talking in the back of my head. But it isn’t whispering
You must be crazy
or
This isn’t really happening
or
You’re out of your depth
. In fact, it isn’t whispering at all. It’s too
gleeful
for that.

And what it’s saying is:
Please do something stupid please do something stupid, please please PLEASE leap toward
me like a big, overconfident moron so I can introduce a stake to your left ventricle
while you’re still hanging in midair like an idiot balloon.

Hello, brain. I missed you.

But Isamu doesn’t do that. He just jumps down from the counter, then unties his apron
and pulls it off. He’s wearing a blue Mickey Mouse T-shirt underneath. “Come on, then,”
he says, gesturing. “We shall see if you are as formidable as you believe yourself
to be—”

I run.

Well,
jump
might be more accurate. And not toward Isamu, either; I’m traveling over the line
of booths, using the tops of the seats and the tables as stepping stones. Staying
on the high ground, but forcing Isamu to either follow or try to block me. I know
how fast pires are, but Isamu—
this
version of Isamu—is newly minted; despite his claims of remembering exactly who he
is, he’s still getting used to his increased abilities. The two conditions contradict
each other, sure, but that’s how magic usually
works.

Hello, magic. I still hate you.

But at least I
understand
you. Okay, not really, but enough to know a few basic guidelines—including that different
realities often have different magical rules. For instance, in Thropirelem lycanthropes
have no problem with religious items like holy water; in fact, the Catholic Church
is mostly made up of thropes. I asked about that once, and nobody could give me a
satisfactory answer; the best guess was that once there were more supernaturals than
human beings, faith-based weaponry was no longer effective against creatures of the
night.

But according to Azura, this world doesn’t
have
its own thropes. Or pires.

I get to the end of the booths. Isamu, as I expected, keeps pace with me. We’re in
the corner now, where there’s a little alcove formed by the dead jukebox and the far
wall.

“I’m going to turn you into what you fear and hate most,” Isamu growls. “A monster,
just like me.”

“Yeah? Cross your heart?”

I bring the two sticks together into a very familiar shape. Isamu’s reaction is everything
I hoped for: he howls, throws his arms up as if blinded and staggers backward into
the little alcove. “Noooo!” he screeches. “What—what are you
doing
? What
is
that?
Keep it away from me!
”

I hop down from the table, forcing him even farther back. I know that the instant
my two sticks stop forming a crucifix he’s going to attack. I know he’s about to shove
the jukebox out of his way or try to leapfrog right over me. I know he’s much faster
than me.

And because I know all these things, I don’t hesitate.

The jagged end of the first stick goes into his right eye. The other stabs into his
chest, sliding under the breastbone and directly through his heart.

On Thropirelem, a pire’s body instantly becomes its true age, either rotting away
or crumbling into dust. I’m not sure how things work here, but I’m a little surprised
when Isamu bursts into flames. I step back, leaving my improvised
escrima
sticks where they are.

“
Escrima,
” I say to myself softly as I watch Isamu’s burning corpse slump to the floor. “Not
screaming eskimo.
Escrima.
”

Then I get a fire extinguisher and put out the flaming heap of bones that used to
be my boss. I consider making a bad pun about him being the one getting fired, and
decide I’m above that sort of thing.

Besides, Charlie isn’t here.

*   *   *

I remember Thropirelem. Not everything, but …

I remember watching crowds of drunken thropes partying in the streets during their
monthly celebration while I drank scotch on a rooftop patio under a full moon.

I remember babysitting a three-month-old pire baby and feeding her bottles of pink
milk.

I remember swing dancing with a golem in a pin striped suit and stealing his fedora
halfway through.

I remember pire businessmen wearing smoked goggles, calfskin gloves, and full face
masks as they strolled through the financial district at high noon.

I remember when my dog-were would turn into a paunchy, middle-aged man when the sun
went down, and how he still liked to lick people’s faces.

I remember all the people who have tried to kill me, or worse.

I remember my partner.

I remember the man who loves me.

And I decide I should really go see him before I do anything else.

*   *   *

Jimmy Zhang is still lurking out there somewhere, and it’s full dark now. I don’t
care. I find a broom in the back and do the same thing to it I did to the mop, then
hide the pieces in the sleeves of my jacket. If Zhang jumps me, he’s in for a big
surprise.

It’s strange how empty the place is. This time of day I’d expect to find Mayor Leo,
Joe Silver, or Don Prince here, at the very least. I wonder where Therese is.

I wonder where everyone is.

The streets are empty, too. I look up into the sky and realize that a huge, dark mass
of clouds has bloomed there like a malignant growth. Kansas thunderstorms can be loud,
drenching, violent things, and I really don’t want to get caught outside in one.

Sure. Except I’ve never been in one before, have I?

I stop for a second, dizzy with cognitive dissonance. I can clearly remember many
such storms, the sound of the rain hammering at the roof and walls, the ear-splitting
crack of the thunder, the veins of lightning sparking across the sky. I’ll bet those
memories are real enough; they’re just not
mine
. Stolen by Ahaseurus from some other Jace, I’ll bet, and stuck in my head to convince
me I was someone I wasn’t. If Ahaseurus weren’t already dead, I’d kill him all over
again.

I hurry toward the B&B, keeping a wary eye out for Zhang. When I knew him, he was
the head of a Chinese Triad based out of Vancouver and a powerful shaman; I had no
idea what abilities, if any, he retained in this world.

I charge into the house without knocking and sprint up the stairs. The door to Cassiar’s
room is closed; I pause, then knock. “Dav—Cassiar? Are you there?”

“Just a moment.” There’s the sound of a lock disengaging and the door opens. Cassiar
looks at me quizzically. “Ah, Ms. Valchek. How are you—”

I grab him and kiss him.

When you do that to someone, there’s always a moment of shock. Most people freeze
up. Then they respond, either negatively or positively.

Cassiar’s reaction is … cautious. Willing, but tentative. More polite than passionate.

I break the kiss, pull back, and study his face. He blinks at me, clearly nonplussed.
I sigh and slip past him into the room.

“That was … unexpected,” he says, closing the door. “Jace, are you—”

“I’m fine,” I say. “The question is, how are you? Or rather,
who
are you?”

“I’m exactly who I said I am: David Cassiar. I can show you identification—”

“Your name isn’t Cassiar, it’s Cassius. Your memories have been tampered with, just
like mine. You’re not a monster-hunter, you’re the head of the National Security Agency
on an alternate world. And a centuries-old vampire.”

To his credit, he doesn’t try to edge closer to the door. But he doesn’t abruptly
straighten up with a surge of realization, either. Instead, he studies me carefully,
then glances to the side with a look of consideration on his face. “That’s an intriguing
scenario,” he says. “Can you provide me with some hard data for corroboration?”

Damn it, that’s
exactly
what Cassius would say.

“We had a relationship?” he asks.

“Yes! What do you remember—”

“That’s deduction, not recall. Attractive women rarely show up at my door and throw
themselves into my arms without good reason.” He smiles. “Tell me more.”

“Okay. Here goes.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, hoping he’ll join me, but he
stays on his feet. Not a good sign. I take a deep breath, and then try to sum it up
for him in a way that won’t sound completely schizophrenic. “You and I are from a
parallel world. You’re my boss and my lover. The head of the cult you’re tracking?
He’s actually a sorcerer named Ahaseurus. He kidnapped both of us and brought us here,
mainly to torture me. Everything you said about the Gallowsman is still true, but
the reason Longinus—Ahaseurus, I mean—picked
me
as his victim is because he well and truly hates me.”

“I see. And why am I here?”

“Bait. See, you were on Ahaseurus’s trail when he captured you. He wanted me to come
after you, which I did—but I didn’t have any more luck than you did. He tampered with
our memories, so we’re not even aware of the cage he’s put us in.”

He nods. “If I were the head of the NSA, I would have access to considerable resources,
wouldn’t I? It’s difficult to believe I would let myself be trapped like that.”

“You were off the grid. Hunting Ahaseurus for me, not the NSA. He was the only one
who could get me back to my native reality—I’m not from the same world as you are.
I started having weird dreams, which were you trying to contact me from
this
reality. That’s the last clear memory I have. I don’t remember what I did to find
you, or how Ahaseurus captured me. But I do know that most of my memories of this
town are false; I didn’t grow up here, I’m not even
from
Kansas.”

“And you know this how?”

I tell him about Azura. And my magic TV. And my fry cook boss who’s really a vampire
yakuza gangster, or was until I killed him with a mop handle. It sounds crazier and
crazier, until even I’m having a hard time believing it. “Look, I know how it sounds.
I know that the simplest and easiest explanation is that I’m just nuts, a delusional
woman with an elaborate fantasy. But you
know
the Gallowsman is real. You said you’ve seen evidence that pires and thropes—sorry,
vampires and werewolves—used to exist on this world. Is it so hard to believe someone
might have found a way to bring them back?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Thinking. “No, it isn’t,” he finally says. “Until now, I
suppose I’ve always thought of the supernatural in terms of less physical dimensions,
like the astral plane or spiritual realms. But actual, concrete, alternate realities …
It’s a lot to take in. I’m willing to consider that what you say is accurate, but
there’s one point I’m having trouble with.”

My heart sinks. “Which is?”

“You say you’ve recovered your true memories—”

“Some. Not all.”

“Why haven’t I?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Jace. I don’t feel as if my life
has been a lie, or that I’ve ever been anyone other than myself. A life which includes,
by the way, a considerable amount of time spent in direct sunlight. If I were truly
an ancient ‘pire,’ as you say, how could that be? Wouldn’t a being as old and presumably
experienced as that be harder to fool?”

I hate to admit it, but he’s got some good points. And so far, none of them are on
the ends of his teeth. “I needed a powerful emotional shock to wake me up; I thought
the same might apply to you.”

“Ergo the kiss.”

“Yeah. It was worth a shot—believe it or not, I used the same trick to save your life
once. And as far as the sunlight thing goes…” I touch the back of my head and wince.
“Both the pires I’ve encountered so far seem to have been human until recently. Maybe
that’s my unreliable memory, too—but I don’t think so. They both
acted
like newbies, like they weren’t used to their new abilities and limitations yet.
But at the same time, they were clearly recovering older, suppressed memories.”

“An interesting contradiction.”

It’s not the only one, either. What I don’t tell him is that Azura claimed Ahaseurus
only brought a single pire and a single thrope across the dimensional divide with
him: the master vampire and the alpha wolf, supposedly to create more like them.

Which suggests the master vampire is Cassius.

He’s definitely masterly, and I know he was in Ahaseurus’s clutches. But that’s actually
a vote
against
the idea—because, as Cassiar himself just said, a pire as old and cunning as he supposedly
is would be difficult to brainwash. I’ve been inside Cassius’s mind, and I know how
formidable his mental prowess is; the only reason I was ever able to slip past his
defenses was due to highly unusual circumstances.

“I don’t know what the answer is,” I admit. “The rules seem to be different here,
too. On the
real
Thropirelem, there’s no such thing as a ‘master’ vampire. I guess after centuries
of propagation, whatever control the first pire exerted over those he turned got so
attentuated it just faded away. But this place seems to have different supernatural
restrictions.…”

An idea occurs to me. A very simple, obvious idea. I let my hands droop down, so both
my improvised stakes fall out of my sleeves and into my hands. “Tell me, Mr. Cassiar,
what do you think of …
this
!”