Zara's Curse (Empire of Fangs) (10 page)

15.

Twig stood at the big iron gate of the Caspari mansion.
 
He had checked on Vivian—she was still at her ballroom dancing class downtown—and Micah and the rest of his coterie were with Zara at the museum.
 
He tried not to think about the danger he had put Zara in.
 
He’d let himself become obsessed with these creatures just as his father had.
 
He would have to make risking Zara’s life worthwhile.
 
He had to kill Damon, or it would have all been in vain.
 
There would be no saving her if he failed.
 
There would be no saving himself if he failed either.

He eased the gate open just enough to slide past, and crouched down, moving quickly to the door.
 
He took out a small tube filled with liquid from his backpack.
 
The tube had a makeshift trigger on it, and he squeezed it, spraying the plaque, which immediately began to bubble and foam from the chemical reaction.
 
He couldn’t do what he needed to do so long as the house was protected by the plaque’s power.

He crept around the side of the house, stepping softly on the flagstone walkway.
 
He knew everyone had gone out, but imagined the Caspari’s didn’t survive this long by letting people just walk through the front door and stake them while they were taking their power naps.
 

On his waist he wore a leather stake-holster belt that held three custom-made black walnut stakes that had been polished and sharpened for maximum penetration.
 
During his first encounter with one of the creatures a stake had broken in half when he missed its chest and he’d driven it into the creature’s shoulder, and he’d had to get really creative to finish the thing off.
 
Eventually he discovered that severing their heads worked just as well as staking them, but was much harder and much messier, so the stakes remained the weapon of choice.

Just the same, he wore a machete on his side as well. The belt was noisy though, and he made a mental note to modify it later so that it would be quieter.

The backdoor was locked, as he expected.
 
He sprayed the door handle with the corrosive liquid and watched it bubble, then gave the door a light push and it opened.
 
He readied a stake, gripped it tightly, and stepped into the dark house.

16.

Micah parked the Porsche in an empty parking lot.
 
Zara looked up at the Denver Art Museum: a towering grey sharp-edged fortress rising into the night sky.
 
Normally, Zara would consider it a work of post-modern brilliance.
 
Tonight, though, she thought it very closely resembled a doomed prison filled with very clever torture devices.
 
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Micah asked.

“Are you sure it’s open? There’s nobody else here…” Zara said, scanning the empty parking lot through her window.

“It is for me.
 
I happen to know the curator, we’re like this,” Micah crossed his fingers. She wanted to ask why he lied about the “promotional event” but decided she had much bigger things to worry about.
 
Clearly Micah just did whatever the hell he wanted and didn’t concern himself with the consequences.
 

“So, I wanted to tell you something.” Micah said, placing his hand gently over hers.
 
She wanted to recoil, but didn’t.
 
He still commanded a powerful influence over her, and she could feel Twig’s potion waning inside her.
 

“I wanted to say, that sometimes we push so hard against what we know is right, because we are really just used to life being…a disappointment, and we are afraid to be truly happy.
 
I mean…are you really happy living in that little apartment, knowing such a hard life is waiting for you, so much meaningless toil to just get a few drops of happiness when it rains on other people?”

Zara blinked and looked sadly away.
 
She wanted to slap him.
 
Tell him he was just a monster who knew nothing of her life and only wanted to drag her down into his own darkness.
 
But he was right.
 
Her whole life she had worried about whatever new problem was lurking around the corner—always waiting to spring forth and knock her down from whatever precarious footing she’d managed to get.
 
Everyday her father worked himself into an early grave just to keep the electricity on and help pay for her school.
 
She wondered, deep down, if her community college art degree would grant her the life she constantly daydreamed of, or even one half as fulfilling.
 

She also pictured her mother, latching on to the first guy to come along who offered to deliver her from her life.
 
She had left a hastily scribbled note for her sixteen-year-old daughter that read “I love you but I can’t stay,” before jumping on the back of the guy’s Harley and saying “Get me out of here!”
 
The guy had waved with a smug look on his face.
 
As if he took sadistic pleasure in knowing he had a hand in making Zara’s already tough life harder.
 
She was no dope, though, even then.
 

Thinking about all this made her angry.
 
She looked over at Micah, that sincere, boyish face with ancient eyes, flickering with mystery.
 
He wasn’t like them.
 
He didn’t look at her and see all the things she wasn’t.
 
He looked at her and saw the things she could be, if only she could be lifted out of the quicksand.
 
She suddenly felt empathy for her mother.
 
She could see how easy it is to forget who you leave behind when something wonderful lies in front of you.
 

“Who says I’m not happy?” she squeezed his hand and he leaned in and kissed her on the lips lightly.
 
She felt a rush of something like electricity surge through her. She felt his breath on her, felt his icy hand run through her hair and caress the back of her neck.
 

“Sometimes it’s easier just to swim with the current.
 
That’s all I’m saying,” Micah said, leaning back into his seat.
 

Just then, a loud Mustang roared up to the Porsche.
 
She looked over and saw Drake’s devilish face.
 

Micah put her window down and leaned over her to talk to his friend.
 
Zara looked at his neck, and felt dizzy with urges she could barely suppress.
 

“Just in time bro!”
 
Micah said.
 
“Ready to get gruesome?”
 

“Hells yeah.
 
My girl loves bondage,” Drake cackled.
 
Abby’s head leaned into view.
 
She frowned.
 
“Hello Zara.”
 

They all got out of their cars and the two couples stood opposite and seemed to appraise each other.

“You couldn’t have picked someone else to hook up with, could you?
 
You know her little hipster friend almost got me mad the other night,” Drake said, while leering at Zara’s legs.
 

Zara narrowed her eyes at him and then stared daggers at Abby who was giggling.
 
A rage began to boil in her and her muscles tensed.
 

“Knock it off dude” Micah said.
 
“I’ve made my choice and you made yours.
 
No point in bickering now.”
 

Zara had no idea what they were talking about, had he meant they had chosen brides?
 
She felt oddly relieved by the notion.
 
They wouldn’t kill their brides?
 
Would they?

Drake snorted and put his arm around Abby’s waist.
 
Abby kissed his cheek and then stared daggers at Zara.
 
“Sure bro,” Drake said.
 
“But do yourself a favor and clue her in.
 
She keeps company with the Sollero kid.
 
Who knows how much she’s told him already.”

“I don’t know why you chose a peasant to begin with,” Abby snapped.
 
“She’s not like us.”

Drake grabbed Abby her by the throat and lifted her up off the ground like a toy doll.
 
She began to kick and wheeze.
 
“You’re not like us.
 
Not yet.”
 
Drake snarled at her and the evil painting popped back into Zara’s head.
 

“Stop it, both of you,” Micah shouted, and Drake set Abby down and she coughed and gasped for air.
 

“Mister chivalry,” Drake said with a sneer.
 
“I remember when you used to have a sense of humor.”
 

Micah ignored him and turned and looked at Zara sympathetically.
 
“You know what we are.
 
And you know what you’re becoming.
 
It’s not unlike a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.
 
Call it a metamorphosis if that helps you.
 
Soon you will look at humans and wonder how you ever suffered being one.
 
How you ever could be so weak and helpless.
 
They are animals.
 
Soon you will have a real family.
 
A strong family.
 
You don’t understand how great an honor it is to be chosen…” He seemed to lose his train of thought and then smiled.
 
“But enough of that.
 
Let’s get some culture.”
 

“That was a good speech.
 
We’re gonna have to get you into office very soon.
 
Mayor or something,” Drake said, slapping his friend on the shoulder.
 
The two of them walked ahead, towards the museum entrance, speaking in hushed tones.
 

Abby stood there with Zara for a minute while recovering from being choked, but when she caught her breath she croaked: “Leggings, really?”
 
Zara almost laughed.
 
Some things never change
.

Zara was debating whether or not to run when Drake shouted at them, “C’mon, get your asses in here!” She knew she wouldn’t get away.
 
She had to maintain her act until the time was right.

Abby followed after Drake and Zara followed her.
 
She wondered how Twig was doing.

17.

The kitchen was dark save for a little light that crept in from the living room.
 
Twig remembered the layout from the party, and made a point not to bump into anything.
 
He noticed that he was breathing loudly and tried to calm himself.
 
This wasn’t some third-stringer he was coming for—like the last few he had staked—this was the big leagues.
 
He wouldn’t underestimate the comatose Damon.
 
He would be quick about it, he told himself in an effort to still his agitation.
 

He suddenly froze—there was a light on in the living room and two people were talking, a man and a woman.
 
They were listening to some old classical record, Beethoven, Twig guessed, but he wasn’t exactly knowledgeable on the subject of classical music.
 
Damnit
, he thought.
 
Who the hell were these people?
 
The house was supposed to be empty!

The woman’s voice was not Vivian’s.
 
It sounded a little older, and when she laughed there was a lilt that was usually common in the laughs of the privileged and elite.
 
He suddenly remembered it.
 
Norah Winters.
 
But who was the man?
 

He crept quietly towards the archway and peaked in.
 
The man was sitting on a leather couch with his back to Twig, and Norah was dancing seductively in front of him in a dark purple dress and a glass of wine in her hand.
 
She was wearing dark red lipstick and her hair was loose and wild.
 
This wasn’t the same Norah Winters who had sprayed disinfectant on every chair Twig had sat on when he attended her daughter’s graduation party with Zara.
 
That woman was as stiff as a shot of Wild Turkey.
 
Twig watched her sway and dance.
 
She must be one of them
, he thought.
 
Everything had suddenly gotten very complicated.

Twig waited in the shadows.
 
Eventually Norah started towards the kitchen to fetch something.
 
The man seemed content to bob his head to the music and rap his fingers on his knee to the thunderous concerto that filled the house.
 
With his other hand the mysterious man waved a glass of brandy with the jerky movements of an orchestra conductor.
  
Next to him there was an ashtray with a smoldering cigar butt in it filling the room with wisps of smoke.
 
The smoke smelled like old leather to Twig.
 

When Norah reached for the light in the kitchen switch Twig grabbed her arm and spun her around so her back was to him, then locked his arm around her neck and put a stake to her chest.
 
She shrieked, and Twig began to drag her into the living room.

“You flinch and she dies,” he said to the man, who continued to bob his head to the music and sip on his glass of wine.
 

“I’m talking to you!” Twig shouted.
 
And the man sighed and set his glass down next to the ashtray where the cigar stump still burnt.
 
He stood up and walked over to the old record player and lifted the needle off of the record.
 
His movements were fluid and easy.
 

“Were you?
 
I guess old age has either left me with poor hearing or poor manners.”
 
The man turned and faced Twig.
 
He looked to be about 45-years-old.
 
He was broad shouldered and tall, and wore a dark suit and wingtip shoes.
 
He had his short black hair slicked back, with grey patches above the ears, with a sharp black goatee framing his chin.
 
Both his eyes were a light shade of blue.
 

Twig tightened his grip and Norah whimpered.
 
He stared at the man menacingly.

“You need to get the hell out of here and don’t look back.
 
I’m going upstairs to end this,” Twig said firmly.

The man laughed.
 
“By all means, go up there and end whatever you need to end.
 
There is nobody up there.”

“Damon Caspari is up there.
 
Save your lies, I’m not like the other sheep.”

“Even a vampire can’t be in two places at once,” the man replied evenly.

Twig felt his heart sink.
 

“Go ahead and stake her.
 
I would love to watch you explain to the police how you just murdered a well-respected socialite like Mrs. Winters here because you thought she was a vampire.
 
Maybe your dad can corroborate your story from his padded room.”
 
The man Twig now realized was Damon Caspari moved swiftly closer.
 
He stood before Twig, completely unafraid.

“You know.
 
I’ve been under the weather lately.
 
It happens when we don’t…expand.” Damon said. “But luckily for me my son has brought new life into our fold, and it has so revitalized me.
 
I feel like ten men.” Twig dropped Norah and she fell to the floor, wailing.
 

“Norah, you’re having a wonderful time.”
 
Damon snapped, seemingly annoyed by the shrill noises she was making.

She jumped up and smiled.
 
“I am having just a wonderful time.”

“Fetch our guest a glass of wine.
 
He looks positively parched.”

Twig kept his stake raised, and Damon turned his back to him and walked over and sat on one of the couches.
 
“Come, sit.
 
I’d say I don’t bite but we both know that’s a lie.”
 
He gestured his hand towards the couch that sat opposite of him.

Twig moved closer, still holding the stake in front of him.

“Now…now.
 
I don’t want to have to break that arm.
 
Please lower it.
 
It’s so rude.”

Twig lowered it, and sat down.

“And pointless I might add,” he opened his shirt and displayed a small patch of black strapped over part of his chest.

“Kevlar.
 
Very resilient to pointy sticks.
 
You know, I tried to get an old friend to wear something similar a long time ago.
 
But he was just too damn proud.
 
Pride is a real killer you know.”

“Your friend.
 
His name was Vlad wasn’t it,” Twig said, trying to buy himself time to think, and his best bet was to keep Damon talking.

“Yes…a great man,” Damon said sipping on his wine.
 
He looked happy to be recalling such a fond memory of his ancient friendship.
 
“I can still remember the battlefields near the Danube.
 
They say that the fat little Sultan Mehmed turned away in horror, back to his own country, when he first saw the impaled soldiers.
 
A forest of corpses, with not a drop of mercy spared to a single one of them.
 
My only regret is that I didn’t get to see his face when he saw our little work of art.”

The cold, sadistic pleasure Damon was getting from recalling skewered soldiers filled Twig with fear.
 
He had never sat next to someone who had committed genocide.
 
He wracked his brain for a way out of this.
 
He could feel power radiating from the creature.
 
Twig felt weakened just being in his presence.
 

“Tell…me.
 
Do you really think killing me is going to help your friend?” Damon asked. “I’m not the one who bit her.”

“You’re the elder…the head—” Twig began.

“—Please,” Damon snorted.
 
“That’s not how it works, boy.
  
Only by slaying he who actually did the biting can you break the bond.”
 
He leaned in and glared coldly at Twig.
 
“But it must be done quickly, before the turn is complete.
 
After that, well…” Norah returned with two goblets of wine and set them on the table. Damon kissed Norah on the cheek and grinned.
 

Twig tried to stay as composed as he could.
 
“After that you become a mindless agent of evil.
 
A blood junkie, right?”

“Please.
 
Don’t be so naïve boy.
  
We just cull the undesirables from society.
 
It’s not like we are out there killing anyone of value.
 
Blood is blood.
 
Might as well get it from those nobody is going to miss.
 
Like you for example.
 
Why are you hunters always such whiny liberals?
 
Are you and your ancestors so innocent?”
 

“My ancestors didn’t exterminate anyone,” Twig retorted, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa.
 
“Far as I know, they weren’t murderers.
 
I’ve only killed your kind in defense.
 
Also, I’m a libertarian.”

“Don’t be so sure of the innocence of your elders, boy.
  
I know more about your kin than you do.” Damon took a long swig of his wine and closed his eyes, savoring the taste.
 
Twig noticed it was a very dark red wine.
 

“I specifically remember a scrawny young painter, Enzo Sollero,” Damon said once he had snapped out of his ecstasy, “who tried to drive a sharpened paintbrush into a man he was painting. Of course, this painter was punished in a very ugly way, and his family had to flee the country or face the same fate.
 
Over time, the Sollero name was forgotten.
 
A fly in the ointment that was squashed.
 
That was until your own father began delving into the old family business.
 
Shame really, he was making such strides in his field I’m told.
 
There was even a rumor being circulated by a few of my colleagues that he had developed some kind of concentrated sunlight, a rather vicious chemical weapon intended to be used on my kind.”

“So perhaps it was not that your ancestors didn’t exterminate us, but that they
couldn’t
.
 
Then, centuries later, your father also tries to destroy us.
 
As you do now.
 
It must be something in the blood that compels you both to such foolish pursuits.
 
You see, my dear boy, we are all, in the end, slaves to our blood.”

Norah refreshed Damon’s goblet from a dusty green wine bottle. Twig’s head reeled from Damon’s story.
 
He suddenly felt like an insignificant pawn in some greater game.
 
He wondered if Damon had lied when he told him how to stop Zara from turning.
 
If it was true, he had endangered Zara’s life for no reason—he had sent her to her doom.

“Thank you darling,” Damon said cheerfully to Norah, who blinked back at him vacantly.
 
He looked at Twig and shrugged, “Norah is such a beautiful woman, don’t you agree?
 
She is thinking of leaving her husband you know.
 
Poor woman, he treats her terribly. Also, Mrs. Winters has connections in Washington, and I’ve just been dying to get out there and rub elbows.
 
Maybe put a word or two in the President’s ear.”

Norah slumped on the couch next to Damon and he began running a finger up and down one of her legs.
 
She cooed and purred at him.