Zara's Curse (Empire of Fangs) (11 page)

While Damon seemed distracted, Twig seized the opportunity and grabbed the tube out of his pack and aimed it at Damon’s chest.
 

“Oh dear boy,” Damon said with a laugh.
 
“I really didn’t want this to get messy. I
just
had the floors buffed.
 
You see, the police are already on their way.
 
I sensed my poor nephew’s blood on one of your stakes when you came onto the property and did what any responsible citizen would do and called them.
 
They should be here shortly.
 
An amateur mistake on your part I suppose.”

“Let her go,” Twig said sternly.
 
Damon pushed Norah away from him and leaned towards Twig, sneering with contempt.
 

“I figured you would want to be reunited with you father, but if you prefer the morgue, I guess I can exercise my right to defend myself against burglars.”

“I swear I’ll spray this right in your smug face,” Twig said, sweating bullets now, the vampire’s ancient power burning away the power of his father’s resilience potion.
 
He could feel his resolve wavering and began to hear faint whispers in his head.
 
The room felt like the inside of a furnace.

“Holy Water?
 
How quaint.
 
I drink the stuff with some a slice of lemon.
 
And I use the Bible as a coaster for my evening coffee.
 
Crosses and holy water don’t work.
 
Catholic nonsense,” he said, dismissively.
 

Twig narrowed his eyes.
 
He squeezed the trigger of the spray gun and sprayed Damon in the eyes.
 
“You drink hydrofluoric acid too?”
 
The corrosive liquid made Damon double over and emit a tortured roar of pain.
  

Twig sprung to his feet and freed his machete from its sheath and took a wild swing down at Damon’s neck, but Damon was swinging wildly himself, and one swipe caught Twig on flush in the chest and sent him flying across the room and into a bookshelf. A shower of weighty tomes crashed down on him.
 

Twig groaned in pain.
 
He lumbered up slowly to his feet and moved in for another attempt while Damon was still flailing, but Norah jumped on his back and began clawing at his face and pulling his hair, shrieking wildly.
 
Twig wrestled her off of him.
 
“Snap out of it!
 
I’m trying to save you, you idiot!” he shouted at her, but she clung to his leg.
 
She bit him in the calf and he kicked at her.
 
One kick caught her hard across the face, and the shock of pain seemed to make her snap out of whatever delirium she was suffering.
 
She let out a whimper and crawled to the corner of the room.
 

When Twig looked up Damon was gone.
 
He scanned the room desperately and swung his machete crazily in front of him.
 
The needle on the record player had been lowered again, and a creepy sonata had begun to play.
 
Something fluttered to his left.
 
Then his right.
 
He spun desperately around, swinging his machete into the air.
 
The smoke in the room made his eyes water and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest like a piston. He heard Damon laugh—a demonic, inhuman sound that seemed to come from all around him.
 

Twig panicked, and ran for the front door.
 
He had to regroup, he had to get help—Damon was much more powerful than he had anticipated.
 
He swung open the door and froze.
 
Half of the Denver police department had their guns trained on him.
 
He dropped the machete and laid down as they yelled instructions at him.

He looked up to see Damon standing over him, his face fresh and unmarked.
 
“Don’t worry Nicolas.
 
I have many friends at Whispering Pines.
 
Seems we are both to have a family reunion.”

18.

“Now this is art!” Drake said, tracing his fingers over the outer shell of an iron maiden.
 
I remember a girl I used to know, and she had something exactly like this.
 
What was her name Micah?

“Elizabeth of Bathory,” Micah said dully.

“Right!
 
She was a kinky one for sure.
 
And she knew how to throw a party.”
 
He opened the Iron Maiden and cast a sinister look at Abby.
 
This is where I’ll put you if you ever forget your place.
 

Abby looked at the contraption with her mouth agape.
 
“Do you even
know
how dirty that thing probably is?”
 
Zara couldn’t help but wonder how Abby would cope with being a blood sucker.
 
She threw up if she noticed pulp in her orange juice.
 
None of it made any sense.

“If you don’t both shut up I’m going to put myself in there,” Micah said.

Drake frowned at him.
 
“Seriously bro, lighten up.
 
Don’t be mad because you’re gonna lose our little bet.”

Micah scoffed and shook his head.
 
“We’ll see about that.”

“Yes, we will,” Drake replied coyly.

Zara was lost in a dream state.
 
She couldn’t understand what was being said.
 
Something about a bet?
 
The concoction Twig had given her was wearing off, and she found herself hanging on Micah. The spacious hall seemed to flux and sway.
 

“See.
 
We are almost bound,” Micah said, noticing Zara’s euphoric glow.
 
He looked deep into Zara’s eyes.
 
“Soon you will have whatever you want.
 
You will have enough money to buy your father a proper house to retire in if that’s what you want.
 
You won’t have to live on dreams ever again.”

Zara thought of her father, and her resolve seemed to strengthen.
 
“My father would know what I’ve become.
 
It would destroy him.”

Abby scoffed, “What a shame that would be.
 
Who would cook my French fries?”

Micah snarled at Abby.
 
“Her father will believe anything she tells him.
 
As will any mortal.”

“I dunno, using persuasion on your own father, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” Drake said with a sarcastic tone.

“Give it up Drake,” Micah said, annoyed.

“Whatever, you all bore me.
 
I’m going for a stroll down memory lane,” Drake said, before turning and walking down the spacious hallway.
 
Abby followed him like a loving kitten.
 
“Wait for me darling!” she shouted.

Zara looked at the exhibit.
 
So much pain could be felt by just looking at the old rusted relics.
 
How many had been tortured and killed by these ugly things?
 
How much agony was induced?

She felt hopelessly lost.
 
“How long will it take before I fully change,” she asked, while touching the exposed spikes of the torture device. They were still sharp.

“Well,” Micah said thoughtfully.
 
“Perhaps a couple hours, perhaps more.
 
You seem to have taken something that is hindering your change.
 
I’m not mad, of course.
 
It’s natural to resist.
 
Pointless, but natural.
 
Abby will change any moment now.”

Zara nodded sadly.

“I don’t want you to be scared.
 
There is no stopping it now so why worry so much?
 
You will have to come live with us, of course.
 
But is that so bad?
 
Living in a mansion? Living with me?” He asked gently, running a hand over her hair.

“I suppose not,” she muttered.
 
“Will it hurt?”

“Yes…a bit.
 
Everything worthwhile usually does.”

Micah smiled and put out his hand.
 
“C’mon.
 
Let’s go look at some paintings.”

She took his hand and she pulled him closer and gave him a hug.
 

They walked together to the staircase leading to the next floor.
 
Upstairs she could hear Drake cackling about something.
 
She slipped Micah’s car keys stealthily into her pocket and held them tightly.

19.

Twig tried to move but found he was very securely strapped down to a cot.
 
Above, a fluorescent light flickered and buzzed.
 
The room smelled faintly of urine and chemicals.

He was woozy.
 
He felt drugged.
 
A man in a lab coat was sitting on a plastic chair next to his cot writing on a clipboard, occasionally glancing up at him.
 
He had a bony face with wavy red hair.

“Good morning Mister Sollero.
 
Well, that was a short nap.
 
I thought you’d be out longer.
 
You know you thrashed pretty hard when they brought you in.
 
Looked quite exhausting,” the man said in a bored tone.

Twig tried to sit up again, and then slumped back.
 
“So this is how it ends,” he said.

“Well,” the doctor said before taking a sip of his coffee.
 
“To be blunt, yes.
 
Mister Caspari was a bad choice of people to try to murder.
 
Did you know his donations paid for this entire wing?”
 
The doctor went back to his clipboard.
 
Twig could see he was doing a crossword puzzle.

“So you’re all his puppets,” Twig said.

“Yes.
 
As are you,” the doctor gave Twig a stern look.
 
“Want some free advice?”

“Pass,” Twig said dryly.

“You’re here for the long haul Mister Sollero.
 
We have no interest in harming you, nor does Mister Caspari.
 
He makes a good profit from this establishment and it’s just bad business beating on our patients.
 
Above all else, I think what has kept Damon Caspari alive all these years is his ability not to take anything personal.
 
Of course, you didn’t hear that from me—although it’s not like anything you say will ever be taken even remotely seriously ever again.
 
So do yourself a favor and just accept this place as your home and settle in.”

“Can I see my father?” Twig asked.
 
His wrists and ankles were sore from struggling against the straps, and they burned and made him wince in pain.

“Of course.
 
If you behave, you can even go into the recreation room.
 
There are plenty of board games to play and books to read, and don’t worry, we’ll give you plenty of medicine to keep you happy.
 
But if you can’t behave…well, we have methods to correct defiance that one of us would not enjoy.”

The man smiled and stood up.
 
“Welcome to ward five.
 
I’m the head doctor here.
 
You may call me Doctor Jenson.
 
I’ll have the orderlies come undo your straps and take you to the rec room.”
 
He strolled out of the room whistling some low, somber tune.
  

Twig laid there unmoving until two men the size of refrigerators came in and undid his straps.
 
They stood him up, took him by the elbows and led him out into the hall.
 
His legs felt like jelly, and his chest hurt when he breathed.

The recreation room was large, with a few plastic tables and chairs and a few ugly couches here and there.
 
Along the far wall there were big windows fitted with rows of thick white bars across them to prevent escapes.
 
Between the bars he could see it was still dark, and he could make out a few bushy spruce trees that crowded the view.

Most of the people in the room were elderly and had gathered around a very small TV that was mounted in the corner. It was showing an old episode of Quantum Leap at a loud volume.
 
Twig knew the show well.
 
He wondered what Ziggy—a computer that the hero of the show sometimes consulted for the probability of his mission’s success—would calculate the odds of Twig’s escape.
 

He scanned the room for the aforementioned recreation.
 
There was a warped ping-pong table that looked about 100 years old, with no net.
 
Next to one of the couches some trashy romance novels had been messily piled into a shoddy bookcase.
 
Sitting alone at a table by a large bay window, he saw his father James.
 
He was much grayer since he last saw him, some years ago.
 
He looked like he had doubled in age.
 
He was now staring at a monopoly board and looked rather content.
   

Twig jerked his elbow free from the orderlies’ grips.
 
“Thanks so much,” he said bitterly to them, before walking over to his father and sitting down next to him.
 
The orderlies each lumbered to separate doorways and leaned against them.
 
They looked as bored and sedated as the patients.

“Dad,” Twig said hoarsely.
 
His throat was dry and cracked from screaming. “It’s me.
 
Nicolas.”

James moved a little metal thimble slowly around on the monopoly board, tapping it on each property and announcing the name and price as he went.
 
Twig grabbed his hand and held it still.
 
“I tried, Dad…I tried to end this.
 
I had him in my sights and I blew it.”

He finally seemed to hear him.
 
“Damon,” he said quietly.

Twig laughed lightly, “That’s right Pops.
 
Your old pal.”
 
He was relieved and surprised his father was able to respond sanely.
 

“My old pal,” James repeated slowly.
 
He crooked his neck and looked at one of the fluorescent lights overhead and shook his head as if he found something profoundly disappointing in it.
 

Twig took a deep breath and looked around.
 
“I want you to know I’m sorry.
 
Sorry I doubted you when you first told me about all this.
 
I had to learn the hard way I guess.”

“Me too,” James said, turning the thimble in front of his eyes, admiring it like a diamond.
 

“I don’t suppose you have a tunnel going, or some brilliant plan to get out?”
 
Twig asked, folding his arms on the table and burying his head in them.
 

“No just this.”
 
James laid his palms on the monopoly board and swept them gently over it, as if it was some precious heirloom.

Twig looked at one of the doorways where a guard stood.
 
There was a thick metal door with a complicated locking system behind him.
 
Through the Plexiglas window on the door he could see trees.
 
An exit.
 

“That door.
 
Who carries keys for it?” Twig asked his father.

“Anyone with the right fingerprint,” he replied.

“I can’t stay here dad.
 
My friend has been taken by them.
 
She…is turning.”

“She is gone then,” his father said dryly.

“I need to know something.
 
The liquid sunlight, is it real?”

His father seemed to concentrate.
 
“Yes…yes,” he finally answered.

“Yes what? Where did you hide it? It’s important dad…”

“Somewhere safe,” he murmured.
 
Twig put his hand on his father’s shoulder and turned him towards him, forcing him to face him.

“Where dad?
 
Tell me where.”

His father looked at him with his sad and tired eyes.
 
“I had to protect you from them.
 
It never goes away, never…” he said finally.

“Where?” Twig repeated.
 

His father’s voice lowered to a whisper.
 
“I put some in your blood.
 
And hid the rest.” He grinned widely and slammed the thimble down on Baltic Avenue.

“You did what?” Twig yelled, catching the attention of a few old ladies who told him to keep it down.
 

“It was the only way to be sure they would never get to you.
 
That you would never become one of them,” his father said sullenly.
 

“Well, I guess I understand,” Twig said reluctantly.
 
“But you have to tell me where the rest is, because if I ever get out of here I am gonna need something stronger than wooden stakes to take him out.”
 

His father looked around and leaned in to whisper.
 
“I can’t tell you.
 
Not here.
 
They listen to everything.”

Twig felt helpless and frustrated by his father’s cryptic responses.
 
He stood up and walked around the table a bit, noticing that both orderly’s eyes followed his every movement.
 
He could see how someone could get a little paranoid living in this place. He wondered what time it was.
 
There wasn’t a clock anywhere in the room.
 

Zara…where are you,
he thought.