The door clicked closed as Jetta, Mystikite, Elphion, Phineas, Naruto exited Dizzy’s hotel room. Mystikite let go, and let his tears finally fall; he had been holding them in so long now. And now he let them loose. God, leaving hurt so badly. He had never felt pain like this. Never. Not even losing his mom had hurt like this. Not even losing his dad before that. No, no pain he had ever felt compared to the grief inside him at this moment, the colossal rift in his heart that doing this had opened. Fuck the whole “being turned into a Vampire” thing. He could probably live with the whole “being one of the Damned” thing. He had been damned before. By his no-good brother, who was dead now, and whom he could never reconcile with, taken from him by his own goddamn carelessness in getting behind the wheel drunk. By the kids at school when he’d been younger. By a few ex-girlfriends — Jetta here included among them at one time. So yeah, he could live with being one of the Cursed Ones. (If that was what they even called themselves. Hell if he knew.) But he doubted he would ever get over this. Gadget. What would Gadget do without him? How the hell would that poor sod get along without him there? He didn’t look down on Gadget; far from it; he respected the hell out of anyone who could live with what Gadget lived with in his head nearly twenty-four-seven. But he would worry now, constantly: Was Gadget getting enough rest? Was he taking his meds on time? Was he getting to his psychiatrist appointments? And Zoë . . . God. He would miss her so goddamn much. So fucking much. She was his world. Well, had been his world. She was — had been — everything to him. Had he still been . . . . Alive? Was that the right word? He still felt alive . . . Had he been, he would’ve said she was the force that kept his heart beating. The reason his lungs kept breathing, his blood kept pumping, his synapses kept firing. Everything. And now he didn’t have her anymore. She was on the other side of that door, a million lightyears away. What in God’s name had he done, and all in order to protect her from . . . himself?
“Mystikite,” said Jetta, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are we going, or not?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said, startled out of his melancholy reverie. “I guess so.”
“C — come on man,” said Naruto, “it’s — it’s not so bad. I — I know how you feel. My — my dad’s g — gonna cry himself to death when he thinks I’m g — gone forever.”
“Aye, laddie,” said Phineas. “It’s no use crying over it. Wha’s done, is done. You’re one of us now. I though it would be hard, sayin’ goodbye to tha world of mah Human life. But wasn’t so hard after all. When Elphie told me . . . told me she’d been turned, I didna wanna believe it. But then . . . when she showed me the bite . . . and showed me wha she could do . . . I was all in. So like the laddie says . . . it’s not sa bad. Once ye get used to it.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, referring more to Gadget and Zoë’s absence, rather than his condition.
“It was easier for me because I’ve got nobody special,” said Elphion, thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s harder when you’re leaving behind someone — or two someones — you love.”
“You’re goddamned right it is,” said Mystikite. He sighed.
“I know this is hard,” said Jetta. “But it’s for the best, Mystikite. Trust me, it is. You did the right thing.”
He merely nodded absently, and started to walk down the hall. Jetta and the others followed him in silence. Elphion and Jetta held hands.
“Well,” he said, glancing at their interlocked fingers, “I see you’ve found someone special after all these years, Jetta. Congratulations.”
“Yeah, it just sort of . . . happened,” said Jetta. “A lot of things are happening fast for me. You try being locked up for three years in a cell. It causes your appreciation of the little pleasures in life to increase significantly. You learn not to pass up the opportunity to drink them in.”
“I guess in your case, you mean that literally,” he said, and tried to smile at her.
“I suppose so,” she replied, and gave him a small smile in return.
They walked on in silence, passing by costumed con-goers and others — they passed a Blue Raja in resplendent Indian garb, with forks hanging off of his sash, hanging close to a Shoveler, a light-bearing hard-hat on his head, a hockey uniform belted around his torso, and a garden shovel strapped to his back, and a Lo Pan in gorgeous red Chinese robes, with a Fu Manchu mustache, pale white skin, and long fingernails — until they came to the elevators. Mystikite punched the “down” button and they waited. The car arrived, and the doors opened, revealing a Klingon making out with a Delvian priestess.
“You two again?” said Elphion.
“Hey,” said the Klingon, with a grin behind his waxed mustache and through his — amazingly done — crooked teeth, as he parted from the blue-skinned Delvian’s lips. She looked perturbed at both him and them. “Don’t I know you?”
“Sort of,” said Jetta.
The Delvian got off the elevator, side-eyeing Mystikite and Jetta and the rest of them, and leading the Klingon away by the hand.
“Who was that?” asked Mystikite.
“Just somebody we ran into earlier,” said Jetta. They got on the elevator, and she pushed the “1” button, taking them back to the first floor. Damn, thought Mystikite. Talk about returning to the scene of the crime. The Grand Hall. The place where their earlier battle with Ravenkroft had taken place. They waited a few minutes, and the elevator “dinged,” indicating that they’d arrived. The doors opened, and they stepped out, into the Grand Hall. The place was still a mess. And yet, nobody seemed to think anything of it; people came and went, to and fro from the Game Room, to the Huckster’s Room, to the Auditoriums where the panels were being held, to the Conference Halls, where more panels and film festivals were being shown, out onto the Courtyard, where the mini-Ren Faire was being held. Nobody acted like anything was wrong. Nobody acted like the front doors of the hotel were still smashed, and broken glass and twisted metal littered the whole area. Like part of the Registration Desk hadn’t been smashed into a million broken wooden pieces and shrapnel and splinters. Like nothing had happened at all. Damn, Gadget’s “Mind-fuck” wave had really done its job!
“Oh my God!” said a voice to his left. Mystikite turned and looked. A cute, perky-seeming girl, somewhere in her mid-twenties and with that wild-eyed look that came from too much caffeine that Mystikite knew well, and dressed to the nines in Goth attire — slinky black dress, black leggings and combat boots, black lipstick and fingernail polish, leather choker collar with spikes on it, black eyeliner and black hair-dye in her short-cropped, pixie-cut hair, and very pale skin — came running up to him, clutching her phone and snapping a photo of him. He winced at the flash. “You! I so totally love your Vampire cosplay! ALL of you! You guys are perfect!”
“Er, thanks?” he said, not sure how to respond.
“Why, thank you!” said Elphion, taking a small bow and smiling. How could she be enjoying this?
“Thank you,” said Jetta.
“We try, lassie,” said Phineas.
“Y — you wouldn’t b — believe how muh — much work it is to — to g — get our look just right,” said Naruto.
“Oh don’t I know it!” said the girl. “I’m still working on mine. See?” She lifted up her lip to reveal fake fang coverings over her incisors. It was easily the worst prosthetic job Mystikite had ever seen, but he said nothing, and instead only smiled.
“It’s very good,” he said, nodding. “You should keep working on it.”
Thoroughly nonplussed, the girl said, “Thanks. But you guys. You guys are totally rocking it. Just wanted to say that.”
“Well, you’re most kind,” said Jetta. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Cool,” said the girl. “Well, gotta go! Laurel K. Hamilton is here this year! She’s on a panel for Advice To Young Paranormal Romance Writers! Can you believe it? The Laurel K. Hamilton!”
“Huh, didn’t know that,” said Mystikite.
“Yeah!” squealed the girl. “Unbelievable, right? See ya!” She giggled, blew a kiss at Mystikite and winked. “I’m in room 304, by the way. If you wanna . . . y’know. Stop by sometime.” She made a “chick-chick” sound with her mouth, and then hurried off.
“Nice lass,” said Phineas.
“Can we eat her?” asked Elphion. “I’m hungry.”
“What?” exclaimed Mystikite. “No!”
“You’re just saying that because you think she’s cute,” retorted Elphion. “Admit it. You want to bone her. Well, fine. You can bone her and then we can eat her.”
“Goddamn it,” he snapped, “I don’t want to bone anybody! And we’re not eating her. And that’s final.”
“And just who made you the boss?” sneered Elphion. She turned to Jetta. “Who made him the boss?”
Jetta sighed and pinched her nostrils together. “Look, Mystikite is right. We’re not eating her, okay? Where would we hide the body? You have to think of shit like that, Elphion, if you’re going to survive. Hell, I’ve only been a Vampire for one damned night and I know that. Now come on. Let’s hit our last save point here, and leave this level of the game, okay? I’ve wallowed in enough memories of cons past here to sate my palette for it. And I’m not safe from Ravenkroft here, anyway. The further away I can get from this place, the better. So come on. Let’s head out.”
They left the hotel without further incident and vanished into the night outside. Of all the goodbyes he had said tonight, it felt odd that saying goodbye to the con itself was also a hard one. For, it occurred to him, he would never attend con again . . . No, never again. Never again would he be among the fannish hordes who, once every year, arrived first in a trickle in the night, and then in a tidal wave of geekdom . . . and finally, in a veritable monsoon of nerdiness the next day or so: The fannish hordes, with their cosplay — some of it intense, some of it casual, some of it just plain strange — and their merchant booths, their Magic cards and their games of D&D, Pathfinder, and Mage; their Live-Action Role Playing games of Vampire and Werewolf — whereupon the entire hotel and all its secret places briefly became the stage of their Globe Theatre — along with their peace-bonded weapons of war, their Pan-Galactic Gargleblasters and their Aftershock Rocket Fuel. Ambassadors from Centauri Prime, their peacock-styled hairpieces two feet tall and fanning out from their heads in semicircles — each dressed as though starring in an avant-garde historical romance produced by Lady Gaga, in which they each played a gay clone of Napoleon Bonaparte — would waste no time in breaking out the Bravari and the statues of their household gods . . . just as the Romulans and Middle-Earthers would waste not a moment in popping open their respective casks of lager and ale. But he, Mystikite McKraken, would not be there to partake of it. The jam session would always play on into in the wee hours and had keep on jamming ’til morning, but he wouldn’t be there to listen. The game room would keep on gaming . . . but he wouldn’t be there to play. The con would not slow down or miss him. Except for in one particular hotel suite, from now until the End of Days: Gadget and Zoë’s. There, he would be missed.
And now, in the wee hours of this morning, as the con was — as it always was, this time of night — granted a big blast of nitrous oxide into its metaphysical dream-engine, its tires squealing as it popped a wheelie and pulled ahead for another several laps around the pod-racing circuit — he stood here, an outcast from its mayhem and mirth, alone on the sidewalk outside. He had company, but he felt so alone. So utterly alone.
The moon was full that night, bright and blue-white and pregnant in the sky above, and shining down over the city, illumining the darker elements of Boston in all their gory detail. Mystikite suggested they head to the parking garage, where his car was kept; they could take it and escape into the twilit dawn, and never be seen again. He and Gadget and Zoë, he explained, had arrived in two separate cars . . . his and Zoë’s. Her car, a battered 2010 Ford Focus, was parked right next to his, a much nicer 2017 Lexus RS Crossover; it would probably be best, he said, for her sake — emotionally speaking — if the first thing she saw when she and the others came back was not, in fact, his abandoned vehicle sitting there empty. Elphion, however, wanted to take her car — an equally-banged-up 2019 Honda Odyssey — instead; it was a minivan, and could more comfortably hold all of them, she said. But Jetta had other ideas. No, her idea was much different. They could easily take either of the vehicles, she said, or both . . . when the time was right. But first, she suggested, they should roam the streets for a while. Get used to their new, Vampiric bodies. Their abilities. Their powers. Slake their bloodthirst with a few unsuspecting victims — perhaps a few criminals, gangbangers, or lowlifes who happened to be passing by. Then come back and get the cars, once they had satiated their hunger, and their veins were throbbing with fresh blood . . . and once they had gotten a glimpse of the life that awaited them for all Eternity. If that was truly how long they had.
Elphion was the most eager. She practically salivated at the chance to kill. They walked down the sidewalk a little ways, away from the hotel. Mystikite grew nervous the further away from the hotel they got. He kept glancing backward, as though expecting Zoë or Gadget to come out of the hotel’s ruined front entrance at any second, calling after him to come back. No such luck, though. Eventually he stopped looking. They rounded the corner at the first stop light, and turned left, and as they progressed, the streets neighborhood grew less and less prosperous; less and less ritzy shops and big-businesses dotted the street-corners and sidewalks, and less and less affluent housing marked the perimeters of the areas where they trod. They got honked at often; but of course they did, Mystikite thought — they must’ve looked ridiculous, still wearing their cosplays. Elphion especially, with her green skin with the circuit-etchings in it. And Phineas, in full Scottish regalia! And Naruto — dressed as an anime character! Jetta, by turns, merely looked like a high-priced hooker with a very light complexion . . . and he, well, he must’ve looked like her pimp, albeit one with a taste for all things Gothic.
They tested their abilities. Jetta told them that they had, essentially, superpowers: Enhanced strength, speed, agility, dexterity, and healing power. She showed Mystikite how to lift up a car . . . and throw it three meters.
“Wow,” he told her, “a Strength bonus of +10.”
She said he was essentially correct. The car’s alarm went off when she picked it up, though, so they had to vacate the area with haste — which was when she showed him, and the others, how their superspeed worked. Essentially, you had to will yourself to use it, to envision yourself at your destination a split-second after wanting to be there, and then to “blink” yourself there with an act of will. It took some practice; but Mystikite eventually got the hang of it. Naruto was the first to master it, though. Before an hour had passed he was zipping to and fro, a literal blur to the eyes, like a ghost on film in front of them as he whizzed from point to point, laughing, his body moving with the speed of “a hummingbird’s wings,” as Jetta put it.
Then she taught them about their agility. She ran up a wall and somersaulted backward, two-hundred-and-seventy degrees, and landed on her feet.
“Now you try,” she said.
Mystikite tried, and fell on his ass. He tried several more times, and eventually got it. Elphion mastered it in four or five tries. Phineas tried and tried, but with his weight and size, he simply couldn’t do it. So Jetta taught him other things — martial arts moves she remembered from her Tae Kwan Do training. Those he was good at. They were all preternaturally good at those, and mastered them in a single two hour session as opposed to months of practice. And for dexterity, Mystikite found he was now ambidextrous. As were they all.
As they journeyed, and as the neighborhood grew rougher around them, the comments from passing cars grew more and more hostile, more mocking and jeering. More sexual, too. More and more people called him and the other two men “fags,” and the girls got more cat-calls and offers to buy them for the night. Around a half an hour into their trek, they picked up a tail. Two young black dudes, late twenties, both wearing baggy stretch pants, one with a shiny Glock holstered in the rear of his where he thought no one could see it; one of them had a goatee, the other was clean-shaven. They tried to act like they were just walking in the same direction — “Oh, don’t mind us” — but Mystikite knew a tail when he saw one. Half a block later, a white kid with a glassy-eyed look — also wearing baggy pants, and a backwards baseball cap, with short, scraggly red hair, and sniffing a lot — joined them. The next run-down house, another white kid joined in, this one with bleach-blonde hair and a scruffy beard. Exchanges of “‘Sup, homie?”; mutterings; laughter, directed at them; more mutters; then exchanges of “Yeah, I feel you, G” and “yeah, oh yeah” followed. It would be soon now.
“Now?” asked Elphion, casting a sideways grin at Jetta, when the three trailing them had narrowed their distance to about five meters, and they were about to pass by a darkened alley in between two low-rent housing projects.
“Almost,” said Jetta, and she smiled. “Everyone ready?”
“Yeah. Yeah I think so,” said Mystikite. His skin crawled with nerves. Was he? Was he really ready for this, for what he knew would soon follow?
“Good,” said Jetta. “Welcome, by the way, to what I went through a few hours after I broke out of confinement. On the count of three, everyone. One. Two. Three.”
The five of them walked down into the alley. Their tails followed. And there, in the darkness of the alley, they halted, and all five of them turned around. The four punks following them all halted as well.
“Hey yo,” said the white kid with the scruffy red hair. He had a goatee and wore a mechanic’s jersey with the name Jacob inscribed on the left breast pocket. He pulled out his gun — also a Glock; the first young black kid did likewise — and cocked it. “We don’t want no trouble, ah’ight? Just give us whatever money you got, and you walk out of this. Comprende, freaks?”
“Yeah,” said Jetta, and she smiled, showing her fangs. “We comprende. You can have our lunch money. But that just means you’ll have to give us something to eat.”
Mystikite could’ve predicted that Elphion would’ve lunged first. And she did. She ran at them. The white kid shot her. The bullet went right through her shoulder; blood flew from the wound, and she spun around on her heels in mid-run, but then spun right back around and continued to run at him. She cackled laughter as she tackled him and for the briefest of seconds, his eyes held raw fear; the black kid with the Glock put two slugs into her as she sank her fangs deep into the white kid’s neck — his screams must’ve echoed for blocks and blocks — and Mystikite looked around, furtively, to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was.
Phineas and Naruto charged the other three punks, their fangs bared, Elphion’s attack lending them courage. Naruto actually hissed at them. No doubt this was his chance to get back at all the punks who must’ve bullied him in high-school. And he took it. He became a blur to the eyes — literally — as he sped through the air and grappled the clean-shaven black kid, and buried his fangs in his throat. The black kid screamed blue-murder, blood pouring down his neck and chest, staining his t-shirt a bright crimson color as Naruto lifted him up in a chest-lock, drinking deeper. Phineas took off after the other black kid, who tried to run as well. But even with his considerable size, Phineas also proved the faster; he moved — like Naruto — with the speed of a dragonfly’s wings, and grabbed the kid by the throat. He thrust him up against the wall of the alley, choking him.
“Sorry ‘bout this, laddie,” he said. “But a man’s gotta eat, yer know? An’ ye meant us no small amount er harm back there. So . . .” He dove for the kid’s neck, and drank from him. Blood spilled out from between his lips and fell in rivulets down the kid’s arms and shoulder.
And it was then that Mystikite felt the hunger growing in him. It sickened him briefly, but then it came back . . . stronger, more insistent. Like a throbbing pulse that worked in time with his heartbeat. Pulse. The thought of blood. Pulse. The image of it in his mind, a picture of a river of crimson; of him swimming in it, tasting it, of it running over his tongue and sluicing away his sins as it poured over his body. Pulse. The dry, arid thirst he now felt in his mouth. How good it would feel to quench it, to drink, to taste liquid. Pulse. Red liquid. Crimson liquid. Pulse. The thought of blood, of red meat, of tearing flesh. Of rending muscle, of eating meat raw. Pulse. The image of him doing it, of him biting tender skin, of his teeth going into it . . . Pulse. A waterfall of blood. Pulse. Images of Zoë. Of him biting Zoë’s neck, and blood welling up from the puncture wound. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Pulse. Blood. The aching hunger he now felt in the pit of his stomach. The need to feed, to eat. He was starving. Positively starving. He had to eat. Had to. God, he was so hungry. Pulse. And so thirsty . . . Pulse . . .
“Phineas?” said Jetta, her voice like a clear, ringing bell cutting through the guttural growls and snarls and slurping sounds the others were making as they fed.
Mystikite backed away slowly. He knew what she was going to say, and he did not want to hear her say it. Pulse. The hunger . . . God, his stomach ached with it. His mouth was so dry. Dusty in fact. Pulse. A lake — no, a river — of blood. The taste of blood. The quench of the thirst . . .
Phineas looked up from his meal. Blood coated his lips, was smeared on his cheeks, and ran down his chin. The kid he was feasting on spasmed and squirmed and moaned softly. “Er, yeah Jetta?”
“Save some for Mystikite.” She turned to him. “It’s your turn.”
“Alrigh’, alrigh’,” said Phineas. He picked up the mostly-limp, weakly-writhing body of the kid he had murdered and carried him in his arms over to where Mystikite stood. Revolted — but breathing heavily — and hungry, God, I am so hungry — Mystikite stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide with fear, and comprehension. He swallowed — hard to do, with his mouth so dry and arid; pulse — and looked at Jetta. She exchanged a glance with him.
“Go on,” she said. “I had to learn to do this, too. Just earlier tonight. Come on. If I can do it, you can do it.”
After this, there could be no going back. Hell, there was no going back anyway, but this . . . this sealed it. This was the part of the map beyond which “there be dragons.” With this ritual, that of feasting on human blood, he became well and truly damned . . . even if there was no God to do the damning. No, no God would damn him, but the universe itself would, as a thing not meant to exist — at least, not in this world. A single tear leaked from his left eye as he tried to fight the rest of them from assaulting his face. In the end, he grimaced, the emotional torment overtaking him just as the hunger flared-up inside him again, both things overpowering him at once. Then, a furious fit of pique exploded in his chest, and he could stand it no longer.
Mystikite knelt, took hold of the kid’s body, shut his eyes tight, and sank his teeth into the unbroken flesh of the kid’s neck.
The kid grunted and whimpered a bit, then groaned . . . whether in pleasure or in pain, he couldn’t be sure, because at the moment, he got lost in a near-infinite void of nirvana. He drank, letting the blood splash against his teeth and tongue, letting it wash away the thirst, like the apotheosis of all ocean waves crashing over and drowning the sands of the apotheosis of all deserts. His knees weakened as he suckled the wound and drank deeper, swallowing the crimson liquid in hurried gulps, some of it dribbling down his cheek and his chin, but he cared little for table manners at the moment; the divine rapture of the feast flooded his nervous system with fire and lightning, dopamine and endorphins; he felt as though he flew, his feet leaving the ground as though levitating, his whole body thrumming, pulsating with some arcane form of energy that radiated inward as well as outward.
And the images. The sounds. The . . . were these memories? The memories of his victim? He thought they were. The poor kid had come from an abusive home. His father — a drunkard; damn, Mystikite could relate — stayed out most nights, when he wasn’t drifting from one job to another. His mother wasn’t around. Instead there were a string of stepmother figures. Girlfriends of the father. None of them worth a damn. The current one was a meth-head whose dealer hit the kid whenever he was around. He was also her pimp. The father didn’t care. In fact, sometimes he watched. The kid had dropped out of school earlier this year. Couldn’t hold a job. Got beaten for that too. Regularly. Dealt drugs to the kids who still were in school. Adderall, to hype you up for that big test, and Gabapentin, to come down from the Adderall. He hung out with other criminals. He had killed before. It had not been an accident. His friends had helped him sink the body in the river. A young girl. Sixteen.
No! No more! He couldn’t take this! His head swam, and he felt a bit dizzy as he forced himself to stop. He let go, broke the connection, blood dripping from his mouth. He groaned as he stood up, and stumbled, then caught himself against the brick wall of the alley, trying to make the rest of the world stop spinning. He dropped to one knee, and tried to steady himself. Dear God, what a ride!
“Holy shit,” he breathed, blinking his eyes to clear away the stars.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Jetta smiled at him. He looked, and could see the others all reacting similarly, all except Phineas, who — though by the look in his eyes, was slightly buzzed — was at least trying to play it cool. Failing, but trying.
“Congratulations, Mystikite,” she said. “You’re now officially a Vampire, a Beast of the Night.” She paused. “I actually have no idea what that means. I just like the sound of it, I guess.”
Mystikite rested against the wall of the alleyway for a moment, catching his breath. Christ, his head was still spinning. He took deep, regular breaths, trying to force his system to calm down. He almost tripped over a bundle of long steel pipes that were lying discarded near the wall of the alleyway next to an empty wooden crate, and that had rusted from the rain.
“Man, what a freakin’ rush,” said Elphion, giggling — not to mention giving voice to his thoughts. “I’ve . . . I’ve never felt anything like that. Not even when you fed off of me, Jetta. And their memories. So . . . so sad. So bittersweet. Tragic.”
“Ah — all of them w — were t — t — tragic,” said Naruto. He sat cross-legged on the ground. Tears streamed from his eyes. “Their — their lives s — s — sucked compared to ah — ours. Elf — Elphie, I — I — I wanna go home now.”
“Well ye can’t go home,” said Phineas, his tone a bit rougher than Mystikite thought it should’ve been. “An’ there’s no use cryin’ about it.”
“Will you please,” said Mystikite, “stop talking in that ridiculous Scottish accent, and stop being such a ridiculously huge asshole to everyone? Please? Can you arrange that, Phineas?”
Phineas stood up, straightening his broad shoulders and puffing out his chest, and sticking out the rest of his beefy physique. “Are you lookin’ fer a fight, ye runt?”
“Aye, that’d be righteo then, cap’n me lad!” said Mystikite, in his own most ridiculous Montgomery Scott impression. He stepped up toward him, unafraid. What could possibly harm the living dead? He laughed and went on in the same Scottish brogue: “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye! Why laddie, I’ll punch ye in da t’roat! On T’ursday! At t’ree t’hurty! O, aye, where’s me leprechauns? And me Lucky Charms?”
Phineas grabbed him by the throat. His grip was like an iron vice. He slammed Mystikite up against the wall of the alley; his head hit the brickwork there and he saw a bright flash of light — not to mention felt a splinter of pain rip through his skull. Ow. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea in the world. Phineas drew back a mighty fist with his other hand and held it steady. Mystikite closed his eyes, waiting for he inevitable punch and broken nose.
“I got stuck with me goddamn accent when Jetta here turned me!” growled Phineas. “Somehow’r’n’other, me cosplay persona got mixed up with me real personality when she turned me! I don’t know who I am anymore, laddie! Do ye unnerstand that?” He was practically screaming now. “I don’t know who I foockin’ am anymore! Me brain’s been foockin’ scrambled like an egg! So don’t gimme no shit! Unner-foockin’-stand?”
Mystikite opened his eyes and looked into Phineas’s. And what he saw was . . . not anger. But heartache. Sadness. And terror. Sheer, raw terror. He wasn’t sticking with Jetta because he liked her, he saw now. No. He was sticking with her because she was the only hope he had of figuring out anything; she was the only thing in the world that made sense to him now. What he was now . . . was what he was; it was all he knew now. Because he wasn’t sure of anything else. Not who he was . . . not anything. Jesus Christ, the poor guy. The poor, poor sod.
“It’s . . . shit. I’m . . . I’m sorry, man,” he managed to eek out, despite the choke-hold that Phineas had on his neck. “I didn’t know. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know.”
Phineas held him there for a moment longer, gazing into his eyes. Then he let him go. Mystikite's feet hit the pavement again, and he could breathe once more. Shit, that had been close. Phineas, meanwhile, stalked back to where he had been sitting, on the ground next to Naruto and Elphion, near the bodies of their recent victims. Jetta stood off to one side, her arms folded, studying the scene, with a slightly bemused expression on her face.
“Jetta,” he said, once he had regained the power of speech. “Jetta tell me something. Can we die? Like, at all?”
“Yes,” she said. “Listen up. All of you. This is important.” The others all got up and came over, and gathered around her. Once she seemed certain she had their attention, she continued: “We can die. We can be killed. Ravenkroft told me so, while he was . . . experimenting on me. Sunlight can kill us, so we’ll have to find shelter very soon. And fire. Fire can kill us. And silver. Silver will burn us, burn right through us. If we absorb enough of it, we die. And beheading. If we lose our heads — or our necks get snapped, or our spinal cords are severed or severely injured somehow — we’re toast. So we need to be careful. All of us. We need to stick together. No stupid arguments. Or fights. Or getting into it with each other.” She cast her eyes toward Phineas and Mystikite. “Understand?”
“Well, well, well,” said an unfamiliar voice from behind them, “what have we here? Looks like trouble, to me.”
Mystikite turned around — as did the others — and looked. There, about seven meters away from them, stood a woman dressed all in black leather, like a reject from a biker gang. She had short-cropped black hair that clung to her forehead, bee-stung lips, and wore copious amounts of dark eye-shadow around dark blue eyes set in a cherubic but severe-looking face. Her skin had the same alabaster paleness as his own. She had her hands on her hips and stood with her jack-booted legs slightly apart, seeming to appraise them, size them up. Behind her stood four large men, each as burly and well-muscled as the next, all dressed just like she was, more or less: Leather, spikes, chains, leather boots — two of them bare chested beneath only a leather vest, and covered in tattoos — and all of them had the same shade of paleness to their skin. One of them wore sunglasses and carried a length of steel pipe; one had a blonde mohawk and carried a hunting knife; one had a tattoo of a rose surrounded by barbed wire on his breast, and had daggers sheathed on either side of his belt; the fourth wore brass knuckles, and had a spiked choker collar around his neck.
“And just who are you?” asked Jetta, stepping forward.
“You don’t know?” said the woman. “Now I find that odd. Every Vampire in this city knows me. Hell, every Vampire in the world probably knows who I am by now, knows my face. But you . . . you don’t? Hmm, how interesting.”
“No, I don’t know you,” said Jetta. “I’m . . . new. So are my friends. And we don’t want trouble. If you’ll just let us be on our way, we will.”
Whoa shit. Mystikite eyed the four muscle-bound brutes behind the woman. This did not look good. This smelled all wrong. It obviously smelled wrong to Jetta, too.
“Now see,” said the woman, “I can’t do that. Because you just gave something away. Now, before we go any further, allow me to introduce myself, and introduce you to a few concepts. Since you’re . . . new.” She smirked. Mystikite detected a large dose of contempt in that smirk. “My name’s Krycek. I’m a Vampire, like you. And you are what the rest of us call ‘Emarginato.’ It means ‘outcast.’ Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s not your fault. But you’re Creatorless. It means that when the one who Created you — made you what you are, bore you to the Darkness — did . . . what he or she did . . . they didn’t get permission to do so from their Creator. Or from . . . anyone else.” She smiled a menacing, fanged smile. “And then — you poor things — your Creator left you to the wilds of the world, an orphaned thing, a beast with no lineage, no heritage. And we . . . the rest of us . . . well, we can’t abide such creatures in our midst. We just can’t. We’re sworn — at least, the Protectorate is sworn — to . . . exterminate any such creatures we find. It’s the Law of Midian, the oldest Law there is.”
Jetta took a step back, and the others with her — getting behind her. Mystikite took a step forward and blinked in recognition. “The Law of what?”
“My Tribulators and I — that’s the gents behind me — ” continued Krycek, ignoring him, “we were just out . . . strolling along . . . looking for any of the Rebellion — that’s another group of Vampires you don’t know anything about — who we could find. And maybe punish for some . . . things they’re doing that we disagree with. But now, we’ve found you. And so I’m afraid that this . . . well, this is the end of the line for you. We’re going to have to do something now that’s regrettable, s regrettable. But it has to be done, you see. I’m sorry. But it’s necessary. To keep the bloodlines pure, you understand. To preserve the proper lineage of the Vampire Kingdom. So, I’m sorry. I’m just so, so sorry.” She shook her head. The worst part was, the regret seemed genuine. She raised her head, and then said, “Boys?”
The brutes behind her strode forward, as did she herself. Apparently this “Krycek” wasn’t above getting her hands dirty. The brute with the steel pipe rhythmically smacked it into his hand, grinning as he advanced. The one with the hunting knife slashed it through the air, back and forth. The one with the daggers drew them. The one with the brass knuckles punched his palm, cracked his knuckles, and glowered at them with a grimace.
“Guys,” said Jetta, “get ready to test your abilities for real.”
“Oh we’re ready, alright,” said Elphion, putting up her fists, and falling into the Tae Kwan Do fighting stance that Jetta had taught her earlier. Naruto ran to the side of the alleyway and grabbed a length of the steel pipe that Mystikite had almost tripped over earlier. Mystikite did the same. But the brute with the daggers and ran to intercept Naruto, as did Krycek Mystikite. Jetta ran forward to intercept the brute with the mohawk and the hunting knife, and Elphion tried to run the opposite direction to attract the attention of the brute with the steel pipe.
Mystikite saw Krycek clench a fist and raise to clobber him just as he bent over to grab hold of the length of steel pipe. He had no real idea what his new Vampiric body could do in a fight, but oh well — one way or another, he was about to find out. His body slammed into “hyperactive defense mode” as she swung her fist downward and it made contact with his head.
The pain slammed into his skull and he went down onto the pile of steel pipes; it felt like getting hit with a sack full of bricks and then landing on rolling logs as the pipes clanged and rattled out from underneath him. She grabbed him by the lapels of his trench coat and hauled him to his feet and then punched him in the gut. That too felt like someone had pile-driven a tree into his stomach. He stumbled backward and tried to catch him breath. He managed to raise his head just in time to see her next punch coming.
He blocked it by catching her fist in his hand, then head-butted her. She stumbled back and caught herself on the wall of the alleyway. She ran forward, picked up a length of the steel piping on her way and held it like a fighting pike, turning it over in her hands, twirling it in front of her. She came at him with it, and took a whack at him. He ducked just in time, and her piping-pipe went whisking through the air where his head had just been. The pipe slammed into the wall of the alleyway. He jerked back up into position and slammed his own length of pipe into hers and it became a contest of strength. She whirled around and smashed him in the head with hers. Dazed and stunned, he stumbled to the side, grasping his head. It hurt like all seven hells. He almost lost his footing, but caught himself just in time, and forced himself to focus on her. He twirled his own fighting-pike — trying to affect a casual disregard for her display of alacrity with the weapon — and advanced on her, trying to ignore the ache in his head. His body responded almost on its own, moving with preternatural superspeed, just like all the others did — both he and Krycek became blurs of motion, after-trials of movement in the air as they moved with incredible velocity, delivering a dozen blows to one another at once, a flurry of punches and kicks to one another, a threesome of clanging steel pipes together here, a foursome of blows to the head there; they spun and whirled and ducked and jerked to and fro, as did all the others.
Mostly, the five-some of newborn Vampires ran, or backed away from their attackers; they simply couldn’t hold their own against the more experienced brawlers. They were geeks, after all; they were the people who had spent their adolescence being picked on and beaten-up, being shoved around and given wedgies and swirlies, and pushed into lockers. Ridiculed and made to feel small. They were the ones who had, never before in their lives, ever owned any power. But they did now. And gradually, as the fight quickly progressed, one by one, lightbulbs went off over their heads, and they began to realize that. Because as the more experienced Vampires’ energy levels began to run down — and their constant use of super-speed and super-strength caused that to happen rather rapidly — the playing field leveled somewhat.
Jetta fought off the big ugly with the hunting knife. With a chi yell, she executed a quick snap-kick to his left wrist — a precise blow that caused him to drop the knife. Before he could pick it back up she executed another kick, this time to his stomach, but he managed to grab hold of her leg, and twisted it at the ankle. She cried out and fell on her ass. He reached down to grab her, but she kicked him in the face. He went stumbling back a few paces and she scrambled to her feet. He went for the hunting knife, but she stepped on it and punched him in the face twice. He punched back. She staggered backward, and he went for the knife again. He got hold of it, and Jetta bolted away from him and grabbed the last remaining piece of steel piping that lay on the ground, and whacked at him with it. It tagged him in the head. He went stumbling to the side, blood coursing down his head, and Jetta advanced. She went to hit him again, but this time he grabbed the steel pipe, pulled her closer, and drove the knife into her gut. She screamed, kneed him in the balls, and he went down to his knees, letting go of the knife briefly. She then punched him in the head, knocking him to the ground. She pulled the knife out with another scream, and blood poured from the wound. All of this happened within seconds instead of minutes; their sped-up fight took only instants to happen. She then ran to the end of the alleyway, using super-speed, a blur to the eyes . . . And with very little effort, she picked up a motorcycle that was parked there, turned, and threw it through the air with the ease that a Human might’ve thrown a football. Like a huge chrome and steel and cherry-red-highlighted projectile with handlebars, it flew down the alleyway, straight as an arrow, and collided with the Vampire she’d been fighting, and mowed him down, crushing him and killing him, his skull shattered against the pavement.
Meanwhile, Krycek struck at Mystikite again, a downward attack that came across from the left. He parried, bringing his pipe up just in time. He thrust it out in front of him to push her away. Their pipes hit each other midway and they pushed against each other, a contest of raw strength once again. Krycek won out — for now — and succeeded in pushing him back and into the wall of the alley. He relented, and she brought her pipe around from the side, attempting to whack him in the ribs. He put his out to the side, aligned vertically, and hers slammed into it instead of into him. He then tilted his pipe and rammed its upper end forward and downward, cracking Krycek in the head. He then quickly leveled his and moved to slam her in the side with it, and succeeded. He tried to go for it again, but she parried, blocking his attack, and then brought the bottom of her pipe swinging up and to the side, crashing it into his shin, knocking his footing out from under him.
Mystikite crashed to the ground, and she towered over him, raising her pipe like a baseball bat, for the delivery of a crushing, finishing body-blow, but he reached up from where he lay with one leg, cocked back his foot, and kicked her, hard, in the stomach. Krycek flailed backwards, hitting the wall of the alley behind her, and Mystikite used his super-strength — the first time he’d really ever used it — to leapt back up and onto his feet again in one smooth, forceful wave of bodily motion.
Meanwhile, Elphion fought the Vampire with the steel pipe with her own length of tubing; and she fared for the worse, though kept herself alive — just barely. The Vampire came at her, swiping his pipe downward at her in a swift and brutal attack, but she parried the blow by holding her pipe upward and horizontally, blocking it from bashing her brains in. She withdrew, and backed up, as he swiped at her from the side. She slammed her pipe into his with all the force she could muster, her heart hammering a million miles an hour and her nerves on fire with adrenaline. She swung her own pipe at the brute, but he blocked her attack easily, then moved to strike at her again, pushing her back and back toward the end of the alley. If he pushed her much further she’d venture out of the alleyway entirely . . . and out into the street beyond, where there was traffic on the road. And she’d be killed by an oncoming car. His job would therefore be easy. She kept looking over her shoulder, checking the distance as she parried blow after blow, continually backing up, and backing up. But then suddenly, she crouched down and vaulted into the air, using her super-strength and speed to propel her jump, and launched herself four meters into the air . . . Up, up, and over the Vampire she fought, until she was behind him . . . Flipping through the air, and then landing on her feet . . . And then she swung the pipe before he could react. The pipe hit him square in the jaw, and blood flew. Elphion smiled as she hit him again and again in the head. Now he was the one backing toward the traffic. But then he managed to spin around and hit her steel pipe with his, knocking it out of her hands completely. He began advancing on her. She used super-speed to get away from him, zipping back away toward the entrance to the alley, getting as far away as possible but still within sight of the others. He zoomed after her.
Meanwhile, back on his feet right after as Krycek had been ready to kill him, Mystikite thought: Apparently, being a Vampire gives you a +10 to all acrobatics and martial arts checks. He went at Krycek afresh, thrusting his pipe forward like a battering ram aimed straight at her chest. He heard bones crack as his pipe smashed into her, forcing her back against the wall of the alley even further. She brought her pipe up and around, held horizontally in front of her, and knocked his down, and then thrust hers forward and clanged him in the face with it. He staggered back, nose bleeding, and she whacked him in the left side of the head — the pipe came away bloodied, the wound already trying to heal itself — then whirled around and tried to bash him in the right shin with its other end. He parried, blocking her shot, and brought the opposite end of his own pipe crashing into her head.
Phineas faced the Vampire with the brass knuckles. He appeared to consider using his broadsword for a moment, then let go of the grip. He put up his fists, and went at the other Vampire bare-knuckled. He threw his first punch — and the other Vampire blocked it with his arm, and punched back, hitting him square in the jaw with his brass knuckles and bloodying him. Phineas staggered back and then caught himself, and came forward and punched the other Vampire in the face with three quick jabs — one, two, three! The other Vampire stumbled backward, and then came at Phineas with a right hook . . . Phineas moved to block the punch, but it turned out to be a feint, and the Vampire hit him with a left hook instead. Phineas lumbered to the side drunkenly, blood flying from his jaw. The other Vampire used super-speed to attack him and kick him in his large stomach. Phineas cried out, and staggered backward, and fell on his ass. The other Vampire walked forward, picked up the last remaining length of steel piping, and bludgeoned Phineas with it. Phineas stumbled to the side, and now he drew his broadsword. He brought it swinging up and clanging into the length of steel pipe, which the other Vampire wielded with enough strength to hold his own against. Sword and pipe clashed at the sword’s hilt in a contest of raw power, and they struggled for control of the fight. They each threw their super-strength into it. The lengths of steel pipe began sparking and smoking from the friction involved.
Krycek stumbled as Mystikite hit her in the head, a bit dazed, recovered, then spun her pipe in her hands and swept Mystikite's legs clean out from under him with one quick, broad gesture. He crashed down flat on his ass again, the pain exploding in his coccyx as he landed right on it, dropping his pipe, which went rolling toward Krycek. She went to her knees and grabbed for it just as he did, and they waged a visceral tug of war — as he cried out in pain and she grinned, a hellish expression writ upon her features, her eyes almost aflame with the passion of the struggle. Of the two, it appeared she was the stronger . . . She pulled the pipe closer just as Mystikite began to lose his grip, but he rallied at the last second, and threw his whole body into it . . . and managed to pry it from her grasp at the last sliver of the last possible moment. The pipe flew from her hands and banged him in the face. Krycek cackled laughter.
Naruto had the ill-luck of taking on the Vampire with the daggers. He used his super-speed to zip out of the way as the Vampire threw one of them at him. The dagger sliced through the air and embedded itself blade-first into the brickwork of the alleyway wall. The other Vampire growled and snarled, and super-sped after Naruto. The two became a blur of whizzing movements all around the other fighting Vampires, zapping two and fro throughout the alleyway; one moment the Vampire was choking Naruto; the next moment, Naruto was trying to punch the other Vampire; the next, the other Vampire was launching a kick at Naruto; the next after that, Naruto was prying the dagger out of the wall; then Naruto was throwing the dagger. The dagger zoomed through the air and found the shoulder of the other Vampire. He cried out as it embedded itself in his flesh and blood poured. The two continued super-speeding and warping from place to place throughout the alley, and so it went.
Mystikite scrambled to his feet, as did Krycek, and they faced each other again, each slowly whirling their banister-pike, each circling the other. The female sneered at him and grinned. “You can’t win this, Outcast. Give it up. Give in. You’ve fought fairly honorably thus far. Go to your Final Death that way. And be remembered.”
“Y’know,” said Mystikite, panting for breath, but summoning all the sarcasm he still felt capable of, “if these were lightsabers, you’d be dead by now. I would’ve already cut you in half with purple fire, bitch.”
“Purple?” She blinked in surprise. “What — ”
“‘Cause my lightsaber, like Mace Windu’s, would have the words ‘bad-ass motherfucker’ engraved on it. Or better yet, on the Kyber crystals inside it, thereby lending crystal clarity to the issue of who’s gonna kick who’s ass here in a minute. Or . . . something.”
“Talk is cheap, kid. I’ve been alive for over a hundred Human years, and I’ve heard brave words from upstarts like you before. They always die in the end, though, begging for the Final Death before I’m done with them. You’re no different.”
“Oh shut up! Let’s get this over with!” she cried. She drew back her fighting pike, coiled herself back, readying for a full frontal assault, and came charging at him, striking in large, swooping slashes with her pike and exclaiming in chi sounds as she backed him up. He parried each blow as best he could, but quickly ran out of room to work in. He was almost up against the wall behind him. The female hauled back her banister-pike, to deliver one final killing blow, but then —
A set of headlights suddenly flooded the alleyway with a brilliant white light. Everyone was momentarily blinded by their irradiance. Mystikite turned and looked. He saw the vague outline of a large delivery truck. And people — he thought he saw five figures with what looked like machine guns — were piling out of it.
“Hold it, Krycek!” shouted a voice. “You and your Tribulators, hold it, right there! We’ve got four Uzis full of silver bullets aimed right at you and your goons. So just freeze where you are, you cast iron bitch!”
Krycek dropped her length of steel pipe and merely smiled a sleazy smile over Mystikite's shoulder. Her brutes stopped their fights with the others, and everyone turned to look in the direction of the newcomers. Mystikite did a double-take between Krycek and the new arrivals as well.
“Well?” said Krycek in a loud voice, putting her hands on her hips. “Aren’t you going to kill me, whoever you are? You could you know. Right here, right now. End the Civil War once and for all. Go ahead. Mow me down. But then, ah . . . you’ll have to mow down these Creatorless mongrels with me. And whoever you are, something tells me that just . . . isn’t your style.”
No one said anything. Hesitation on the other side. Mystikite's heart thundered in his ribcage. What the hell was going on? Civil War? What?
“You,” said one of the figures. He motioned toward Mystikite as he stepped into the light, and Mystikite could see him clearly. He was — or had been in his Mortal life — an African-American man, frozen somewhere in his mid-thirties, with a short-haired afro underneath his gray sailor’s cap and wearing a grey tweed coat and waistcoat over a yellow dress shirt, with matching gray slacks and shiny black dress shoes, and a rose-colored bow tie, with matching suspenders . . . all of which made the Uzi he held in his hands look all the more out of place. “All of you,” he said, “the ones she just called Emarginato. Into the delivery truck. Now. No questions.”
Jetta, Mystikite, Elphion, Phineas, and Naruto — all their limbs, hands, faces, and clothes bloodied, all of them out of breath — exchanged worried glances. Mystikite didn’t need Gadget’s Dr. Manhatten Helmet to read their thoughts, because he knew that all of them were thinking the same thing — well, if they’re not bluffing about the silver bullets . . . then what choice do we have?
Slowly, Mystikite backed away from Krycek.
“This isn’t over,” she said to him. “We will meet again, Outcast. And next time, I’ll finish what we’ve started here. I can promise you that.”
“Yeah, well,” he said as he walked toward the delivery truck and its headlights, and the tweed-coated Vampire and the four other figures, “don’t count your Vampire chickens before they hatch and devour the other chickens. And by the way — my penis is enormous. Just throwing that out there.”
Jetta, Elphion, Phineas, and Naruto followed suit, each backing away from the other three of Krycek’s goons and heading toward the delivery truck. The other four Vampires with the tweed-coated Vampire, all holding the Uzis, cleared a path for them. There were, among them: A female Vampire wearing a red-sequined evening gown and high-heels; a male Vampire wearing an extremely old-fashioned French Army uniform; a female Indian Vampire in a tan, weathered trench-coat, brown slacks, a poet’s shirt, a brown leather vest, a pocket watch, and leather driving gloves; and an Asian Vampire wearing combat boots, black leather pants, black leather shirt, and black leather trench coat that flowed around him like a cape. He wore eyeshadow, lipgloss, and blush. And on his back, he wore twin katanas in leather sheaths, there are hilts decorated with serpents, their eyes made of ruby. Once Mystikite and Jetta and the others had climbed into the delivery truck — it was cramped, with all of them inside — the other four Vampires piled in, making it even more cramped. Finally the lead Vampire — the one in the tweed suit — got in the driver’s seat up front, and shut and locked the door. Krycek and her goons remained standing in front of the delivery truck, watching, that same smirking grin on Krycek’s face.
“We should just run over her,” said the Vampire with the katanas. “It is dishonorable, but we should do it anyway.”
“I agree,” said the Vampire in the red-sequined dress.
“No,” said the tweed-suited Vampire. “I won’t do that. I won’t sink to her level. We’ll win this war. But we’ll win it our way. We’ll find this ‘Mystikite’ person at this ‘FantazmagoriCon’ event and — ”
“You’ve found him,” blurted out Mystikite. Goddamn it, what was he getting himself into? He sincerely hoped it wasn’t deeper trouble.
Slowly, all eyes turned to him.
“Let’s get . . . the hell . . . out of here . . .” said the Vampire in the French Army outfit, with just the slightest trace of a French accent.
“I concur,” said the tweed-suited Vampire. He floored the gas, and the delivery truck lurched forward, the tires squealing.
Krycek and her goons dove out of the way of the delivery truck as it sped forward using their Vampiric gift of super-speed.
“Thank you,” said Jetta. “Whoever you are. For saving us from them. But we could’ve held our own.”
“I’m sure you could’ve,” said the tweed-suited Vampire. “But we’re not like them. We value the lives of all Vampires.”
“That’s good to know,” said Elphion.
“Should have run them over,” said the female Indian Vampire. “Krycek and her Tribulators, I mean. I would’ve. I think it’s time for a vote on who’s leading this party.”
“Shut up, Taurial,” said the tweed-suited Vampire as he drove.
“No, seriously,” said Taurial. “I really mean it. If you can’t do what’s necessary — ”
“Basil said shut up, Taurial,” said the Vampire in the red-sequined dress. “Basil is in charge, whether you like it or not. The rest of us have faith in him. Don’t we, guys.”
“I have known Basil a long time,” said the Asian Vampire. “He has never acted dishonorably, and has always made good decisions. And his inventions always work. Always. Well, almost always. There have been a few mishaps, resulting in broken limbs — but, I digress. Yes. I have faith in him.”
“Basil’s the man I want leading us,” said the one Mystikite decided to call ‘the French Vampire’ for now, until he had a better name for him. “You’re too quick on the draw, Taurial, if I may say so.”
“Hmph!” snorted Taurial, and folded her arms.
“So. Mystikite,” said Basil, addressing him for the first time. “You’re the one we’ve been looking for.”
“I, uh, I am?” he said.
“Yes,” said Basil. “You are. You may not know it now, but you have a destiny.”
“He does?” said Jetta and Elphion together, both frowning and looking him up and down, as if to say, This guy? You’re kidding me . . .
“I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else,” he said. Goddamn it, no. Just no. The last thing he believed in at the moment was fate, or destiny, or any kind of preordained order to the cosmos. And dammit, he certainly didn’t want to hear that he had some “destiny” among Vampires. To even think about the idea that him becoming one had somehow been “fated” made him brutally angry. No, not angry. Enraged. “You can let me off at the next stop,” he said. “I’m out.”
“Out?” said Basil, and Jetta, together.
“Yeah, I’m out,” he said.
“Out of what?” asked Basil.
“Out of this. The whole thing. The whole ‘Vampire’ thing. If I have to be one, I’m doing it alone. By myself. Out there, in the big, wide, world, away from all of you. And your ‘war’ which I’ve apparently stumbled into. And your Emarginato, and your Tribulators, and your Protectorates, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam. No way I want any part of any of that shit, ever again. Just let me out, and let me go my own way. Away from it all.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Basil. “You’re too important. You’re the Chosen One, spoken of in a prophecy over a hundred years old, given to us by the alien god Orogrü-Nathräk.”
“Say the fuck what now?” said Mystikite.
“Please,” said Basil as he continued to drive, making turn after turn. They got on the expressway. “Please just listen to me. I promise to explain all this. Just give me some time, will you? That’s all I ask. Let me take you back to my Family and Coven’s Enclave. There we can talk, and I can explain.”
Mystikite sighed. Well. He wasn’t going to get any answers on the street, that was for sure. And if he met up with Krycek again, he wasn’t sure he could best her in a fight, or even come close a second time. Besides, what if next time, she came armed with an Uzi full of silver bullets? He’d be toast. And what if she brought three or four Tribulators with her, and they also had Uzis filled with silver bullets? Same end result. Plus, he found he liked the others’ company more than he’d thought he would. And at least all this was keeping him from thinking about Zoë. Ah, shit. He’d just thought of her. Goddamn it. He hoped she was okay. That she was coping. And that she and Gadget had figured out a way to kick the ever-loving crap out of that Ravenkroft asshole and get Dizzy back. The world wouldn’t be the same without Dizzy in it. He’d only known her personally for a very short while, but she was . . . She was alright. A decent person. And wildly creative and inventive. The world needed more people like her, and less like Ravenkroft. And Krycek. And who knew . . . Maybe what Basil had to tell him could help him figure out a way to make there be less people like Krycek in the world . . . Starting with the bitch herself.
They drove on, into the night.