Nightlord: Orb (40 page)

“Eventually, that set will get big enough to be a statistical universe on its own,” I pointed out.  She shrugged.

“So?  I don’t know what they do; I was never in that scene.  Somehow, they manage.  For all I know, they rent data monkeys to hide data, or they have silverback crackers on the payroll to fix things.  Which, eventually, we may have to do.  You can’t be on record as immortal.”

“Yeah, getting a fake identity is a pain,” I admitted, and left it at that.

“Meanwhile,” she diverted, changing the subject, “would you mind if I asked a few questions about how we did that?”

“Shoot.”

“How did you throw me?”

“Magic.  I used a magic spell to make you lighter.  Then I used my vampire powers to steer you.”

“Like when I click tumblers inside a lock with my mind?”

“Yes.  Although on a larger scale.”

“I got that.  I remember you moving stuff.  I didn’t realize you could move things that big.”

“Size matters not,” I quoted.  “It’s weight.  You were lightened, remember?”

“So, magic spells and super-vampire powers,” she spat, disgustedly.  “I hope I’m undead long enough to get all that.”

“Give it time.”

“Oh, you’re funny.”

“Thank you for noticing.”

The fire flared up and changed to a bright yellow.  Flames danced higher and higher, rocketing up the chimney.  Francine scampered across the floor and hid behind me, crouched and growling at the fireplace.  I put a hand on her head and scratched behind her ears.  She calmed down, but she didn’t like that fire.  Mary grabbed the biggest fire extinguisher and readied it.

A voice came out of the flames.

“Father?” it said, with a rushing, crackling sound.  I recognized the voice.  In the streams and ribbons of fire, I thought I saw the outlines of a familiar face.

“Amber?”

“Father!  I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“You succeeded,” I replied, surprised.  “What’s the matter?”

“The Church of Light.  I have word it’s trying to recruit magicians again.  It might be trying to spread its influence, but I think it’s planning to try to find you.”

“As I recall, it doesn’t much care for Sparky, either.  And, by extension, you or Tianna.”

“I know, but I’m here and know more about what’s happening.  You’re there—wherever there is—and would be taken by surprise. I wanted to warn—” Her voice cut off as the flames vanished, their fuel exhausted, leaving only hot ashes in the fireplace.

“Well, damn.”

I tried to damp them down, Boss
, Firebrand offered,
because of how the candle behaved.  I don’t know if I helped or not.  There was weird magic going on in that.

Divine?

Probably. I’d guess it was a priestess-thing, not a magician-thing.

Thanks for trying.

De nada, Boss.

Mary lowered the fire extinguisher and regarded the dark fireplace.

“I suppose you find that odd,” I commented.

“Actually, yes.  I do find it odd, which is odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t find it terrifying, weird, freaky, scary, spooky, nerve-wracking, or spine-tingling.  It’s just odd, and that’s odd.”

“I see what you mean.  Think you’re adapting to the supernaturally weird?”

“I’ve been undead for quite a while, now.  I guess it’s about time.  Plus, I’m hanging out with an unholy evil from the elder days of the world.  That should count for something.”

“Good point.”

“So, who was that?” she asked, stowing the fire extinguisher and resuming her seat.

“My daughter.  Her name is Amber.”

“And she’s a… fire thing?”

“No, she’s… well, yes, actually, she is, come to think of it.”

“That must have been a hot night for you.”

“In a manner of speaking,” I agreed, thinking of Tamara and her patron fire-goddess.  “No, she was born normally, like any other mortal.  She grew up as a priestess to a fire-goddess thing.  When she was assassinated, I bound her spirit into divine fire and she lives on that way.”

Mary leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers.  She scrutinized me over them while I petted Francine.

“You know,” she said, quietly, “I’m really not sure what to do, here.”

“Hmm?”

“Look, the Elders are probably worried you’ll upset the status quo.  When you’re on top and immortal, keeping things going as they are becomes pretty important, I’d guess.  I’d sure like to live long enough to find out for myself.  Younger vampires don’t want to wait; when you’re immortal and on the bottom, it works the other way.

“As things stand, the Elders want you, in particular, to go away; the younglings want to drink your blood.  Thing is, you have stuff going on in the
background
of your life that makes me think these issues are nothing more than a sideshow.”

“Trust me on this,” I told her.  “I take the local problems seriously.  Nothing is more serious than the man right in front of you with an axe.”

Mary pointed at the dead fireplace.

“And that?  Is that local?”

“No, that’s about as far from here as you can get.  But I’m
here
.  I have to take here seriously.”

“Fine.  The face in the flames didn’t bother me too much, but you… you scare me.  What the hell am I doing here?  What do you really need me for?  Can’t you go tell the Elders to piss off and leave you alone?  Or drain off a couple of gallons of blood and tell everyone who wants it to come and get it?”

I like that first idea,
Firebrand commented.  Mary’s eyes widened; Firebrand included her.

“You,” I told Firebrand, “are not helping matters.”

“What was that?” Mary demanded.  I glared at Firebrand.

“Introduce yourself.  Politely,” I added.  Firebrand obligingly covered itself in fire.

Hello.  I’m Firebrand.  I’m the spirit of a dragon the Boss, here, dragged out, couldn’t digest, and upchucked into the metal of this sword.  I’m also known as the Sword of Kings, the Dragonsword, and “You jerk,” but that’s a nickname among friends.  I kill things by cutting them or burning them or both.  Nice to meet you, Mary.

“You… have a… talking sword,” she said, slowly and carefully, as though the words might break.

“Technically, it’s a psychic sword.  But yes, it talks.  Too much, sometimes.”

Where do I get that from, Boss?  Dragons only have conversations when eating you isn’t an option—and eating you is
always
an option.

“Still not helping,” I replied.

“A psychic, flaming sword,” Mary insisted, “with a dragon in it.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a vampire with a psychic, flaming, dragon-sword.”

He’s also a deposed king, an angel, and has been mistaken for a deity a few times,
Firebrand supplied, unhelpfully.

“Shut up, you.  She’s having a hard enough time adjusting.  It took me years to adjust to being this weird and I took it in stages.  She’s getting it all at once.  Lay off.”

Mary licked her lips and closed her eyes.  Firebrand extinguished itself.

“The evening was going so well,” she remarked.  Francine padded over and put her head in Mary’s lap.  Mary scratched Francine’s head, absently.

“Look, forget about all that,” I advised.  “I’m trying to deal with the Elders, the younglings, and fitting in with vampire society.  The rest of it isn’t your problem.  Help me solve the political issues and I promise, you can either get the full explanation of who I am, where I come from, how I got here, all that… or you can choose not to find out, ever, and never be bothered with it.  Red pill or blue pill, your choice.”

“Red pill?  Blue pill?”

Shucks.  My cultural references are out-of-date.  I’m going to have to get used to that or pay more attention to pop culture.  Assuming I ever sit somewhere long enough to do so.

“The choice is yours,” I clarified.  “Entirely.  All I want is your help dealing with vampire culture.  If you would like to help me blow up, burn down, and rob mob boss houses, I’d appreciate it.”

“You’ve got that in the wrong order,” she pointed out, smiling slightly.

“Huh?”

“You rob them first.  You blow up or burn down afterward.”

“Ah.  Right you are,” I agreed.  She smiled more and seemed to gather herself.

“And you mentioned you wanted to teach me some things about being a vampire?”

“Yes… but only if you’re interested.  It’s entirely up to you.”

“Well.  If It’s entirely up to me,” she said, “okay.  Teach me something about being a vampire.”

“Okay.  Tomorrow night, when we can get an early start.”

“All right.  Do you have a safe?”  She started stacking money.

“Do I need one?”

“How about we just put this away somewhere?”

“Good thought.  I’ll show you where I hide the guns.”

“The guns?”

“I have a collection.  People die while trying to kill me.  I get dinner and their wallets.  I also take their weapons and other valuables, if it isn’t too inconvenient.”

“Loot the bodies,” she agreed.  “I understand.”

We stowed the money and Mary went to the bathroom for a haircut.  I saw her down to her resting-place, put various clothes in the laundry, and stowed my damaged outfit in a power circle—the repair enchantments built into it would work much faster there.  I made a mental note to check the barn for spiders.  Building up a supply of spider-silk in advance might be a good idea.

I stacked fuel in the fireplace again.  Firebrand started it going and I watched it for some time.  No faces appeared, no voices came forth.  Maybe I should set a bush on fire.

As much as I appreciate hearing from my daughter, it seems unfair I can only get calls, not make them.  I don’t know a spell for that—at least, not yet.  I have some ideas involving the correspondence of flames, which is why I could reach Sparky.  It seems unlikely, though, that I have enough power or sufficient focus to reach—or summon?—Amber.  Which means I can’t ask her for more details on the Church of Light, Sparky’s claims, or Tort, and I really want to.

I could call Sparky, of course, but I don’t think I will.

I need to finish a gate, even if it’s only a small one.

Eventually, I got up and went out to the barn to carve some letters.  There was also a weather spell I wanted to try.

Saturday, November 7
th

Saturday was bright, clear, and almost warm.  Father Sky wasn’t paying attention, didn’t mind, forgave me, or had no power here.  I felt sure if things were otherwise, my little weather-working would have been slapped aside in favor of pouring rain and sleet. 

I needed it to be a nice day for the Four.

Gary came back from visiting his father in the hospital; Mark was out of ICU and seemed to be recovering.  The brain guy said it looked worse on the scans than it really was.  Myrna and Fred said it was a miracle.  Gary said he was glad his dad was getting better.  I said nothing.

The Four manned the stand first thing after breakfast.  I think Fred’s phone call started things off, because shortly thereafter people started lining up.  True, there were no pickup trucks with furniture, but there were hundreds of people, each with something.  A few cans of food, some clothes, a cash donation—I emptied the bucket
twice
—or something useful for moving into a new place.  Who thinks to donate a mop and bucket?  Or a broom?  How about a pair of toothbrushes and toothpaste?  A box of plastic eating utensils?  Paper plates?  Aluminum foil and plastic wrap?  Duct tape?

Okay, I would have thought of the duct tape.  You can’t run a household without something like duct tape.

There wasn’t much big stuff, but there were a thousand little things.  I had to go to the store and get more boxes to hold it all, as well as sticky notes and markers to inventory it.

I also stayed out of Myrna’s way and let her boss the thing.  Fred stayed near her.  I think they had a talk about letting the kids be the face of the charity; Myrna mostly only bossed things after the kids took in the donation.  I can live with that.  So can she.

Pizza showed up.  A lot of it.  Fred accused me of being nice again.  I evaded his questions and did my best not to lie to a man of the cloth.

“Gary and Mark are going to need a place to live,” I pointed out, derailing the interrogation.  “Has anyone bought the house on the corner?”

“Not that I know of.  I think it’s still for sale.”

“Everything along this street is the same cookie-cutter make, right?”

“Well, the interiors are obviously different, based on the homeowner’s own sense of—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I cut him off, “but the layout is the same.”

“Yes.  They were all built together.  One company put up all the subdivisions around here, one right after the other.”

“Great.  Once we get the cash processed through, can you make arrangements to use it as a down payment?  It would be nice if Mark has someplace to come home to.  Besides, I’d like my barn and bedrooms back.”

“That strikes me as a good idea,” Fred agreed.  I found out later he had already started the process.  He didn’t tell me.  He let me think it was all my idea.  Which, technically, it was.  I had it all on my own, even though he had it first.  He has more practice being charitable and kind.  He’s a minister, not a monster.

At least, I assume he’s not a monster.  For all I know, Myrna’s a werewolf and he’s an elf after plastic surgery.

“Myrna can pick out the furniture from the stack,” I added.  “She can also decorate the house.  We’ll sell the excess furniture and suchlike.”

“You’ve got a talent for this,” Fred told me.  “Want to help me with the Christmas food drive for the homeless?”

“No.  But if you ask me for something specific, I’ll probably agree.”

“Like, can we store everything in your barn?”

“That would be specific.  Yes.  Do you think you’ll need to?”

“No, I don’t.  We have a big kitchen at the church and lots of other space.  Never fear—I’ll think of a way to make you useful.”

“Works for me.”  I tossed empty pizza boxes into the recycling bin, consolidated some lonely slices, and laid out more full boxes.

Susan buttonholed me and drew me aside.

“Gary hasn’t got much in the way of spare clothes,” she told me.  “I wash whatever he isn’t wearing, but another set would be helpful.  Could we go through the donations and find more that will fit him?”

“Sure.  But there’s dozens of bags.  We’ll need help.”

“Oh, well.  I guess,” she agreed.  She recruited Mei Ling and Rosa—Rosa is Patricia’s mother.  We went to my place, I introduced them all to Francine, and we went through piles upon piles of clothes.  I carried a trash bag full of clothes into the room, dumped it, and they went through it to check the sizes.  I fetched another one, dumped it, and carried the bag of rejects out to the barn.  I had to step quickly; they were faster than I anticipated.  We worked our way through the pile in surprisingly quick time.

I did not have a fire going in the fireplace.  Getting a flame-call while they were present did not seem a good idea.  Firebrand understood and lay quietly on the mantle.

With a sack full of clothes, Susan went to run them through the wash.  Mei Ling and Rosa both thanked me profusely for being such a nice guy.  Rosa even clasped her rosary crucifix and thanked God I was there to help.

I’m definitely pleased she’s happy.  I’m not sure how pleased she would be if she knew.  I feel like I’m lying to her, somehow, and I don’t like it.

The Four haven’t spent much time in the barn, lately.  That’s okay; they’ve been busy.  I suspect they’ll be back on Sunday, though.  The big charity drive is over and life can go back to whatever passes for normal.  They got their pictures taken, smiled all around, kudos were awarded, and they accomplished something.  I’m happy about it; they’re happy about it.  Gary’s especially happy about it and has no idea how to adequately express his thanks.

He asked me what he should do.  Write notes?  Shake everyone’s hands?

“Gary, who did the hard work?”

“You and Fred.”

I growled at him a little.

“Patty, Luke, and Ed?”

“That’s better.  So, who do you thank?”

“Patty, Luke and Ed.”

“Very good.  How do you thank them?”

“I don’t know!” he blurted, exasperated.

“You say it,” I told him.  “They’re your friends.  They didn’t do it for thanks.  They did all this because they love you.  You don’t
have
to thank them.  But, if you want to, say it and move on.  If you make a big deal about it you’ll embarrass everyone.  Say ‘Thank you,’ and never mention it again unless one of them brings it up.  Okay?”

“And that’s it?  That’s all I do?”

“Are you four friends?”

“Yes.”

“What else would you ever need to do?”

We packed up everything late that afternoon.  Fred and I handled the money before we started moving boxes into the barn.  We left the stand assembled; taking it apart would be a project.  It was nailed and screwed together.  I promised to handle it myself with battery-powered tools.

Then I had to fake a phone call as an excuse to leave Fred to the other work; sunset was starting to bother me.

After my Shower of Death, I woke up Mary, had her help me with my makeup, and went back out to apologize to Fred.  He really wasn’t in shape for hoisting and hauling boxes.  I sent him home and finished it for him.  We were almost done, anyway.

Mary and I tried more rabbit blood.  She reported it was equally disgusting tonight.  It still slithered its way across the table to me, but it barely crawled.  Good enough for emergencies, then, but not at all palatable.

I took Mary to dinner in the big city.

“Tell me something,” I started, during the cab ride.  “Is there a privacy setting for cabs?  Or do I need to get my own car?”

“Get your own car,” she advised.  “I’ve never been sure if these things record or not.  It’ll still track your movements—a self-driving car is part of the traffic system, so it happens automatically.  You should be able to turn off the microphones in your own car, though.”

“Fair enough,” I replied, and we remained silent until we got out.

“So, what did you want to say in private?” she asked, taking my arm and playing the part of girlfriend out on the town.  I put my hand over hers and smiled at her. 

“How to be an angel of death.”

That stole her tongue for a bit.  She walked next to me, hand on my arm, while she thought it over.

“I’m not sure I know where you’re going with this,” she admitted.

“Let me start with a question.  What are vampires for?”

“You mean, like, as a species?”

“Exactly.”

“Giant mosquitos?”

“Be serious.”

“Not if I can possibly avoid it.”

“Well, a little more serious than that, at least.”

“Okay.  Not a clue,” she admitted.

“Nothing in nature is without purpose.  Everything fits together to form an ecosystem.  Does that make us apex predators?” I asked.

“I’d have to guess so,” she answered.  “Ecology isn’t my area.  I suppose humans need something that eats them.”

“That’s my thought.  Now, first lesson.  Let’s go to a hospital.”

“Am I going to enjoy it?”

“It’s a good place to get dinner and a show.”

“Oh, this I have to see.”

We went into a hospital and I started spreading tendrils out, the strands radiating outward all around us like an invisible cloud.  They brushed over and flowed through stone and steel and wood and flesh, touching lightly on every spirit we passed.  Still holding Mary’s hand, I gently drew her feathery tendril outward, spreading it wide to feel what I felt with mine.  Like a child on her father’s shoulders, her senses expanded, riding along.

It didn’t take long to find someone.  Oncology and ICU are usually good places to look.  I try to avoid the psych wards; people in there are usually confused or medicated.  That makes it hard to find someone who really is in a fit state to eat.

“Feel that?” I asked, indicating one particular tendril.  She nodded, wordlessly.  “Can you feel… him?” I asked.  She nodded again as we found seats in a waiting area.  “How he hurts, how he’s tired, and how he wants it all to hurry up and be over with?  He’s dying.  He knows it.  It’s all over but the pain.”

“I can,” she whispered.  “I can.  It hurts.”

“Then help him.”

“I can’t.  Not from here.”

“Then I’ll help you.  Come on.”  I helped her reach out to him, guided her to his spirit.  Again, with a child simile, it was like lifting a child to let her place an ornament at the top of a Christmas tree. I helped her reach out to the dying man.  Her feathery touch wrapped around him, enfolded him, and slowly drained away what little vitality he possessed.

“Keep going,” I told her.  “Don’t stop now.”

“How do I—?”

“Work your way in deeper,” I encouraged.  “Dig down.  There’s more in there, but you have to reach for it.”

“There isn’t anything.”

I took her tendril in mine and pushed with it, drilling down, digging in.

“…wait.  There
is
something.  It feels… different.”

“That’s it,” I encouraged.  “Push deeper, then pull.  Take as much time as you need.”

She kept going, frowning, trying to pull more from him.  It’s much harder to drag the soul out of someone than the vital energy.  I make it look easy with lots of practice and more than a little brute force.  Mary had neither, but she had help.  Slowly, the substance of the man drained from his flesh, swallowed in tiny bits by the touch of her feathery darkness.

I handed Mary a tissue; bloody tears were leaking down her face and trying to slide in my direction.

“He passed away without pain or fear,” I whispered, “and some part of him will forever be a part of you, immortal and eternal.”

“Dennis,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.  “His name was Dennis.”

“There you are.”

“I didn’t know… that we could… that after we drank from them, we could…”

“Suck out the rest?” I guessed.  She nodded.  “The vitality you’ve been feeding on is good stuff, easy to extract, and tasty, if that’s the word for it.  It takes work to extract the soul.  But that’s what we’re for.  We’re the doorway between life and death and rebirth.  I look for someone who wants to die, who is ready to die, and we take a walk together into eternal night.”

“How many—?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay.  Is that all we do?  We wait for the dying to be ready, then take them?”

“That’s what we’re for,” I told her, gently.

“But… that feels like… it’s like we’re vultures.  Scavengers.  I’m not sure I like that.”

“You can look at it that way,” I admitted.  “Or you can bear in mind an angel of death is the final physician.  After our ministrations, all the agonies of the flesh are ended.”  I glanced around.  We were still mostly alone.  I lowered my voice.  “There are other things we can do, as well.  Wait a minute.”

I worked hard for a few minutes, surrounding us with a minor I-Belong-Here spell.  As long as we didn’t do anything unruly, people would assume we were supposed to be there and pay us no attention.  We went to a locker room and changed into scrubs.  I found a cart to push and Mary carried a clipboard.  We might not even need the spell; no one questions a person who carries a clipboard and walks with purpose.