Spectral Evidence

(And Cija, cutting in subvocally, from what seemed very far away: Oh look, he’s crying! Such pure wonder in her voice, such a depthless, awful joy. As though his pain was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen.)

“Because…” Goran said, eventually; a pause, long even for him. And then—

“…I don’t know what you would become, after.”

Which, he could only think, put pretty much forever paid to that.

Goran looked away, pointedly, while Cija kept on grinning, her blank eyes ravenous-covetous. He took a long, sobbing breath, into great silence.

“Then kill me,” he said, finally. “Just kill me, right damn now. I want you to.”

Goran nodded. “All right.”

But when Goran’s eyes were already rolling back and his own pulse was racing shallow, dying away, he suddenly thought: I ain’t gonna die like this, not after all I done. I deserve more. Who the hell are you to take my life away, anyhow? Even if I did give it? Fuck you, dead man. Fuck the pair’a you, and not like I usually do…

So he turned and bit deep into the neck of the monster who had him pinned, instead—battened on like a tick, held fast and didn’t let go, not even when a howling Cija ripped his ear off at the root; something inside told him it’d probably grow back, especially if he finished what he was doing. Just kept on drinking ‘til Goran groaned into coma, free hand shooting forward to choke Cija silent with abruptly vampire-grade strength before finally turning on her, as well. Strength on top of strength flaring to life inside him, like a double-twisted halogen coil: the wily parasite whose contaminant

touch alone had been enough to bring a lion—two lions—down.

That was the thing, with vampires: All the ones he’d met, anyhow, before or since. So old, so arrogant. So utterly convinced they’d seen everything there was to see, so sure they knew it all. They never saw it comin’.

It tasted good, too, damn good. And when he caught sight of himself afterwards, shaving dry with Cija’s black-handled knife as a haphazard razor, he found he shone so brightly he could hardly bear to look at himself at all—a bleak halo of stolen light all ‘round him like some eclipse turned inside-out, Goran and Cija’s long, shared midnight ramblings instantly translated to a full-body crown whose crenellations made one point each for every soul they’d ever taken, in turn.

When he finally tracked down Owain and the others, nesting in Montréal, they only had one thrall left between ‘em—made him think maybe they’d come down in the world a little, just for a moment, ‘til he recalled how they’d always liked travelling light.

Owain opened the door, frowning when he saw who it was. “We told you not to come back,” he said, warningly.

He nodded. Told him: “Goran and Cija said ‘hi.’”

And again, no immediate warning bells seemed to go off—Owain just turned his back, sighing disgustedly, head cocked at a perfect angle for the upswung axe to connect with; it left his slippery hands with a slight, odd “pop,” lodged deep in the pareital lobe. Owain went down, seizing, and he saw Chuyia’s blood-dimmed eyes widen from across the room, (pleasantly?) surprised, her mouth moving silently, words booming through both their synapses at once: Little spider, my born-again jungle creature. Oh, you treasure, you.

Then she was on him from one direction, Saoirse from the other, tag-teaming him both at once. Not that it ended up doin’ either of them all that much good, in the end.

The thrall was just a girl, meanwhile—maybe sixteen and deep-tranced, so much so she beat at him ‘til they were all dead, then hugged him tight and cried into his neck: You’re not another one of them, are you? Oh God! are you?

And: “Naw, not hardly,” he answered, hugging her back. “Me, I’m somethin’ else.”

Thought about killing her too, little as she and her kind still meant to him. But he forbore instead, for now, knowing full well how she’d be good help and better bait, once he moved on to richer hunting-grounds—first in a long line of leech-traps, soft skin over hidden teeth. Another potential predator’s predator, one he could teach the true value of pretending to be born prey.

He caught his own glance in the bedroom mirror, eyes like peridot set in gold, and smiled a jagged black pearl smile. Thought: My Christ but I’m handsome, all o

f a sudden. Must be the light, the angle—something I did. Something I am. Something…

(Someone)

…I ate.

—

They spent the rest of the night dismembering their former

masters with all the skill taught by long experience, stopped off at a local hospital to use the biohazard incinerator, slept ‘til dawn. Then loaded up the van, him and his new apprentice, and headed for fresher pastures. And every time she glanced at him, all worshipful-drunken, he knew just what it was would keep the vampires flocking to ‘em: that endless lust to see your reflectionless self cast back from others’ eyes, mirrored a thousand times normal size. Demigod promoted to full God status, if only for the length of time it took to make your victim’s gaze fix, dim, cloud over with dust and dreams…go out entirely. After which you moved on, and on. …You, or someone like you. For they are so easy to find, always…

Well, yeah. But what went around came back the other way ‘round, too, that was for damn sure; just as fast, if not faster. And twice as hard.

Because he could still hear them, blaring behind his eyes even as he drove—all those pirate dream-broadcasts spilling out into the night, calling to him. That was how he navigated down this particular lost and endless highway, knowing full well they’d never even think to hide.

And when they finally fucked for the first time, him and the girl, it was in yet another motel, on yet another dirty bed—the old familiar pattern, varying only in how he deliberately forced himself to be gentle with her, pay attention to her pleasure, like he was breaking her cherry for real this time, with all the traditional attendant joys on tap. Physical show of affection, give as well as take, mutual orgasm, “love” (or something like it…’cause what did she know, anyhow? Sixteen. What she understood about love would probably fit on a sleeveless baby tee, with room left over for two whole additional rows of dirty jokes and Internet quotes).