Undead to the World (22 page)

“Then become something else. I did.”

“I’m not you.”

“And pretty soon you won’t be anything.”

I shake my head. “You know better than that. I just won’t be
here.
”

He sighs, and stares up at the foliage. “I’m so…”

“Angry?”

“
Tired.
Tired of saying goodbye to the people I care about.” His voice is bitter. “I should
know better by now.”

“You really should,” I say.

His gaze snaps back to me.

“But you keep doing it, over and over,” I say. “I don’t know why, not for sure. Maybe
you need to feel something vicariously through those that you’ve lost. Maybe you’re
addicted to the bittersweet intensity of inevitable loss. Maybe it’s just a pattern
you’re locked into and don’t know how to stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“The dying are always beautiful, David. I can’t remember where I heard that, but it’s
true. And it’s a kind of beauty you find irresistable.”

“You weren’t dying when I met you.”

“Sure I was. Human beings are dying from the moment they’re born. Most of us try to
ignore that fact, but to someone who’s been walking the earth for a few thousand years
it’s glaringly obvious. You’ve known I was going to die from the second we met. I
think part of you even looks forward to it.”

And now he looks shocked. I’ve never seen Cassius look shocked before; I didn’t know
it was even possible. It makes him look
alien
somehow.

“I don’t have a lot of time left to me,” I say. “You know that. It brings things into
sharper focus, really makes me aware of my priorities. Being tactful, I’ve decided,
isn’t one of them. You’ve seen a lot of women you love die, but I don’t know if you’ve
ever been with one like me—one who
knows
she’s going to die, and soon. Have you?”

“No,” he says quietly.

“Then maybe I can give you something none of them did. Some perspective, from a person
about to cross that line you can’t.” I meet his eyes and hold them. “Maybe you have
an unhealthy obsession with death. Maybe you’re punishing yourself for things you’ve
done or haven’t done; maybe you’re just afraid of committing to anything past a few
decades. Well, whatever the reason, here’s my big insight:
It doesn’t matter.
”

He frowns. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s
true,
you big dope. Not that love doesn’t matter; it’s the
reason
for the love that doesn’t. I don’t care if you love me because you think I’m temporary
or because you find wrinkles sexy or because I’m a dead ringer for someone you knew
in Pompeii before it blew up; what I care about is the fact that you
do.
Right here, right now,
you
love
me.
I know that’s real. And that’s all that matters.”

David looks troubled. And then he looks hazy—there’s something wrong with my vision.
Everything goes sideways before going away completely.

That’s it? Seems like there should be more, somehow.

Sorry.
Azura’s voice, in my head.
There was some kind of consciousness spike and I lost the connection. I don’t know
if it was enough to kick his real memories loose, either, but it’ll have to do—there’s
so much dimensional interference now I can’t possibly get through. Even talking to
you is—
She cuts off abruptly, and I’m suddenly aware of my own body again. “That’s it,”
I mutter. “I’m switching dimensional carriers first thing in the morning. I have
had
it with dropped calls.” I open my eyes.

Which is when I see the werewolf.

FOURTEEN

I’ve seen plenty of lycanthropes before, of course. But somehow, this one is scarier
than any of the others.

It must be nine feet tall; even crouched over, the tips of its ears brush the ceiling.
Its fur is midnight black, its eyes a blazing yellow. There’s blood on its long, curving
claws, and its lips are drawn back in a snarl.

It seems really, really angry.

The shock of going from an intimate post-passion scene to one where I’m confronted
by a gigantic, hairy monster is enough to lock up my brain. I can’t even take my eyes
off the thing; its presence fills my whole world, a pure incarnation of savage rage
trembling with barely suppressed violence. Any second now it’s going to—

It slashes at me.

I hear my clothes tear, feel the claws cut through my skin. Once again—what is this,
the third time in twenty-four hours?—I’m dead.

The beast pulls back and stares at me with its inhuman yellow eyes. I think, absurdly,
of the golden light given off by the Solar Centurion’s armor, and how different it
is. I look down, expecting to see my own guts hanging out of my belly.

But no—there’s some blood, but no gaping wound. The thing cut me, but didn’t kill
me. Why?

It’s obviously asking itself the same thing, because it cocks its head to the side
like a puzzled cocker spaniel and its growl shifts higher to a whine.

Which is drowned out a second later by gunshots. Can’t see where they’re coming from,
so I dive for the floor out of instinct.

When I look up, the thrope is gone.

The room is trashed. The TV lies on its side, the screen smashed. The table is a pile
of splintered wood, and the door’s been ripped off its hinges. Stoker’s sprawled on
the floor with what looks like one helluva developing black eye, his gun in his hand.

No Cassiar.

“What the hell just happened?” I ask, getting to my feet.

“You tell me,” Stoker snaps. He doesn’t lower his gun, either.

“Hey, I just woke up, okay? At least I
think
I’m awake.…”

“And just what
was
that, anyway? The screen flared white, then both of you hit the floor.”

“Can the explanations wait? I’m bleeding all over your nice interrogation room.”

Stoker climbs to his feet, keeping his gun on me the whole time. “How bad is it?”

I eye him, considering possible responses:
Not too bad, as werewolf-inflicted injuries go
;
Ask me again when the moon is full
;
I’m fine, but the livestock in this county is in a lot of trouble.
“Not life threatening, as far as I can tell. Hurts like a bitch, though.”

He studies me, then slowly holsters his gun. “Where’d Cassiar go?”

“You’re asking
me
? Where’d the giant hairy monster come from?”

He approaches me slowly, pulls my arm away from my belly. Examines the wound. “It
busted in here a few minutes after you passed out. Gave me a good smack, turned my
lights out. When I came to, I opened fire. Cassiar was already gone—he must have ducked
out during the attack.”

Which raises even more questions: Why would Cassiar run? Why would the thrope let
him? Unless …

Stoker touches his eye and shakes his head, then winces. I realize he’s still a little
woozy. This might be my best shot at escaping myself.

“
Damn
it,” Stoker blurts, then turns and sprints out the door. Having no immediate plans
myself, I follow.

We find Deputy Silver lying beside the front desk. The thrope wasn’t as lenient with
him as it was with me; Silver’s throat has been ripped open.

“It killed him,” Stoker says. He doesn’t sound nearly as upset as I thought he’d be;
more annoyed than anything. “That unholy thing killed him.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I feel a little dizzy, not from the sight of blood but from losing
too much of my own. I stagger and lean against the wall.

“You need medical attention,” Stoker says. “I’d take you myself, but with Silver dead
I can’t just leave. Get Charlie to drive you over to Doctor Pete’s.”

“You sure? You’re not afraid I’ll just take off the way Cassiar did?”

He gives me a cold, flat glance. “I don’t believe you will. After all, where would
you go?”

I don’t know how to answer that, so I don’t. I dig out my phone and call Charlie instead.

*   *   *

“Stoker’s a
what
?” I manage as Charlie speeds me toward Doctor Pete’s offices.

“Serial killer. Terrorist. Bram Stoker’s great-great-grandkid. Genius-level psychopath
who tried to end the world. Take your pick, then add all the others and mix well.”

I stare out the window and try to stay conscious. “So that’s what you’ve been trying
to tell me since the first time you saw Stoker.”

“Yeah. I was about ready to tie notes to rocks and chuck them through your window.”

I think about what Charlie just told me, trying to trigger a memory cascade, but all
I can call up is the look on Stoker’s face as he stood over the dead body of his deputy.
The coldness in his eyes, the irritation in his voice. Not like a man who’d just lost
a friend and colleague; more like a chess player whose opponent just took a valuable
piece.

But something else is nagging at me, and I realize it’s the deputy’s name. Quinn Silver.
Quicksilver.
The Quicksilver Kid.
A lem bounty hunter Charlie and I have run into once or twice. “Didn’t recognize
him,” I say groggily. “Looked different with a metal face.”

“Stoker has a metal face?”

“No, the Kid did. Quicksilver Kid. Didn’t think Ahaseurus was using lem counterparts,
too.”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

I frown. “Can’t transform, though. Not like pires and thropes. Not like you can bite
someone and turn them into sand. You know, like a … a sandpire. Or a were-rock thing.”

Charlie shoots me a worried look. “Yeah, we need to get you to a doctor.… I heard
the gunshots from across town. Funny no one else came running.”

“More magic, probably. If Ahaseurus can whip up a spell to make everyone on the planet
not take firearms seriously, he can make a few townspeople ignore gunfire.”

Charlie glances at me. “You remember the anti-gun spell? That’s a good sign—you’re
getting more memories back.”

“What I remember is that I used to have a gun myself. A really, really, big one.”
I sigh. “I miss my gun.”

“Wouldn’t be much use without the right ammo.” On Thropirelem—the world, not the town—I
had silver-and-teak bullets specially made.

We pull up in front of Doctor Pete’s place, a two-story brick building with a clinic
on the main floor; he lives on the second. There’s a buzzer beside the door for emergencies,
and Charlie runs over and leans on it.

I feel oddly calm for someone who’s just been clawed by a thrope. I look down and
see that the front of my shirt is soaked through; guess I’m bleeding worse than I
thought. Things start to get a little blurry.

Then Charlie’s helping me out of the car, and Doctor Pete’s asking questions, and
there’s the smell of antiseptic and bright lights and somebody sticking poky things
in different parts of my body. My arm first, then my stomach. Doctor Pete is asking
more questions and Charlie’s stonewalling him.

Good ol’ Charlie. I have to remember to hit him with that one later, the one about
the stone wall. That’s what he is, y’know. Not the kind that blocks you out, the kind
that holds stuff up. The kind that protects you. The kind you can lean on …

Things go away right about then, but I’m not out for very long. I can tell, because
when I open my eyes Doctor Pete’s only halfway through stitching up the six-inch-long
gash just above my belly button. I’m flat on my back with my shirt off and there’s
an IV in my arm, feeding me plasma to replace what I’ve lost.

Doctor Pete notices I’m awake. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Still a little woozy. How’s the embroidery going?”

“Coming along fine. You lost a fair amount of blood, but the cut doesn’t go all the
way through the muscle. No sit-ups for a while, though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I look around. “Where’s Charlie?”

“Guarding the door. Seemed a little concerned that whoever did this might come back
to finish the job.”

He goes back to work. There’s something different about him, something I can’t put
my finger on.

He notices me studying him and raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I got this newly minted scar?”

“Not my business. If I was going to hazard a guess, I’d say it was a knife wound.”

“Sure, let’s go with that. I was cleaning my Ginsu and it went off.”

“So this is self-inflicted?”

I hesitate before answering. “Not so much.”

He keeps working. He must have given me a local, because I can’t feel a thing. “You
getting into fights again?”

“I wouldn’t really call this a fight. More like an animal attack.”

“Is that a put-down of the person who did this, or a joke I don’t get?”

“If it’s a joke, it’s on me.” As in, I’m the one who’s going to howl about it … but
maybe I’m not the only one. “Say, doc—you get any others like this?”

“What, knife wounds?”

“No. Animal-inflicted injuries—bites or claw marks.”

Now he looks at me and frowns. “You’re saying this was
literally
done by an animal? Because it doesn’t really look like it. There’s no way it’s a
bite mark, and claw wounds tend to come in multiples.”

“Humor me and answer the question.”

He shakes his head. “No. Not like this. If this did come from an animal, it’d have
to be a big one, and there’s nothing like that locally. Not unless somebody’s got
a Bengal tiger that I don’t know about locked up in their barn.”

So nobody else has been bitten or clawed. There’s a pire on the loose biting people
and activating implanted false memories, but no thrope equivalent. So how did Mayor
Leo and the rest get infected? Is Doctor Pete lying to me?

Suddenly I realize what’s different about him.

“So,” I say. “Am I keeping you from something important?”

“What? No, I was just watching a movie.”

“Uh-huh. Better get back up there before she eats all the popcorn.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s almost midnight. Your hair is less shaggy than usual, verging on actually being
combed. Those pants are new and even a brand I recognize. You’re on a date.”