Part 32 (2/2)

”Cax,” Arkeley sputtered. ”Caxt-you. You knee.” He took another grating breath. ”Need to...” He couldn't seem to finish his thought.

Scapegrace didn't like it at all. He reached for Arkeley's other hand. ”Do you have something more to say?” he asked. ”Some last kind word for your young friend here? You've failed her, old man. She's going to die, you're going to die. Everyone is going to die. You've failed everybody. Maybe you'd like to say you're sorry. Go ahead. Whisper in her ear. We'll all wait here patiently for you to think up your dying words.”

Caxton leaned close, leaning against the edge of the coffin. Her s.h.i.+rt trailed in the blood but she didn't care. ”Jameson,” she whispered. She'd never used his first name before and it felt strange in her mouth. ”Please don't apologize.”

”Kneel,” the Fed told her. It wasn't what she was expecting. ”Kneel before her.” She recoiled from the words, from the very idea. She sought his eyes, wanting to let him know how angry she was that he would just surrender like that, that he would want her to embrace her doom so wholeheartedly. The light in his eyes was wrong, though. There was a distinct streak of defiance in the wrinkles around his eyes.

He'd never been wrong before. She dropped to her knees and lowered her head as if she were praying in church. She knew very well that it would take more than a simple prayer to save herself, though.

Down on her knees she saw something-a shadow tucked away in the near perfect darkness under the coffin. She saw the triangular shapes of the sawhorses and between them something else, something flat and angular. She squinted and saw that something had been secured to the bottom of the coffin with a silver X of duct tape. She squinted again and finally understood. It was a handgun. A Glock 23.

He must have put it there earlier, of course. Perhaps back on the night when Scapegrace and Reyes had come for Malvern and he had threatened to tear out her heart. He must have planned for this, just as he planned for every possible contingency. That was how you fought vampires-you never let them get the drop on you.

She glanced up at Arkeley's face. He wasn't giving anything away. She looked back at the pistol. She knew it held thirteen bullets-there would be nothing in the chamber. She looked up and around the room. ”Scapegrace,” she said.

The vampire stepped closer. He was no more than five feet away. ”Hmm?” ”Catch,” she said, and tossed the skull into the air. Instantly its high unearthly shriek split the air. Scapegrace grabbed at it, his white hands up and reaching.

She tore the Glock free from the tape holding it to the bottom of the coffin. She worked the slide to chamber a round and saw the vampire's red eyes go wide. His brain understood what was happening but his hands kept going for the skull. He caught it and crushed it unthinkingly between his pale fingers.

Fragments of yellow bone and clods of dirt swarming with worms trickled down the front of his s.h.i.+rt. The shrieking stopped. Caxton pressed the barrel of the pistol against his chest and fired. He fell backwards, his head smas.h.i.+ng on the concrete floor. His eyes swiveled around to fix on her. ”Pretty good,” he said, and tried to get a knee under himself so he could rise and kill her. His limbs didn't seem to want to cooperate. ”s.h.i.+t,” he said, and fell back.

”Go! Get help!” Hazlitt shouted at the half-deads. One of them rushed for the far exit, for the darkness there. Caxton pivoted on her heel and snapped off a shot and the half-dead's back erupted in a cloud of rotten flesh and torn clothing. She turned to shoot the next one but it was gone, already having fled the room. The third half-dead crouched down on the floor and hugged his knees.

She turned to Hazlitt next. She didn't point her weapon at him-you never pointed a weapon at a human being until you were prepared to shoot them. He stepped behind a cart of medical instruments and raised his hands. He was too smart, she decided, to actually try something.

Scapegrace had rolled over onto his side and was pus.h.i.+ng himself up into a sitting posture when she looked again. His eyes wouldn't meet hers. ”You nicked it,” he said.

”What?” ”You nicked my heart,” he finished. He pushed upward with one knee but his arms were trembling. ”That was pretty tricky.” He got up on both knees. ”You waited until I'd given all my blood to Her. You waited for the moment when I would be at my weakest. Pretty tricky. Listen,” he said, rising to his feet. He lifted his hands into plain sight. ”I'll go quietly, okay? Don't kill me.” He wheezed as he spoke-had she punctured one of his lungs? She would have given anything for a chest x-ray just then. ”Please,” he continued. ”You can lock me away forever, whatever you want. But please don't kill me. I'm not even eighteen years old.”

”Don't,” Arkeley breathed behind her. Don't listen, he was trying to say. Arkeley. Was he still alive? He wouldn't be for long unless she got him down and bandaged his wounds. She turned half around to look at him.

It was the opening Scapegrace had been waiting for. He flew across the room, a pale streak of lightning. Red blood erupted from Hazlitt's throat and chin as the vampire tore off half of the doctor's neck. Hazlitt gurgled out a scream. Caxton fired a round into the back of Scapegrace's head, just by instinct. It didn't even slow him down. She fired again into his back but he just redoubled his efforts, pressing his face and his rows of triangular teeth deep into the hole he'd made in Hazlitt's neck.

Every drop of blood he drank would make Scapegrace stronger. He would be bulletproof in seconds. She needed to kill him instantly. Carefully, holding her breath, she lined up another shot and fired through the back of his t-s.h.i.+rt. The bullet tore through the vampire's body and made him double over in howling pain. He staggered away from Hazlitt and fell across a rack of IV stands. They clattered to the floor as his hands clutched and clutched at nothing, at air. His legs shook like rubber bands and he collapsed to the floor and finally, convulsively, died.

Hazlitt took one last look around the room, his face and chest and the whole front of his body one continuous sheet of flowing blood. Then he slumped to the floor as well, just as dead as the vampire.

The half-dead in the corner jumped up and started running for the door. Caxton fired reflexively and missed him. She fired again and pulverized his left arm. The half-dead started whining in pain but he didn't stop. She fired a third time and his whole body fell apart in pieces.

Part V - Malvern.

There's a stake in your fat black heart / And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you. / They always knew it was you.

-Sylvia Plath, ”Daddy”

”Five,” Arkeley moaned. She shoved the handgun into the empty holster at her belt. It almost fit. With the step-ladder and with hands that shook badly she managed to lower Arkeley onto the floor. She found rolls of gauze and surgical tape in a rolling cart.

”Five,” he said again, as if he'd just remembered something. His injuries were terrible. The half-deads had really worked him over-his skin was a maze of cuts, most of them inflamed, and the skin that wasn't sliced or torn was bruised and even chewed in places. His eyes were swollen shut and his mouth was black and swollen with bruising. Then of course there were the fingers that Scapegrace had torn off. Caxton wrapped his left hand in gauze that instantly turned red with bright arterial blood. She wound more and more bandaging around the wound, tight but not too tight. At least it was his left hand. He would still have the use of his right hand. He could still shoot.

Except-he wasn't doing any shooting anymore. Not that night, probably not for months. He couldn't even sit up.

A cold flash went through her when she realized she had been expecting him to get up this whole time and reclaim his gun. She had really thought that her part was done and she could let him mop up.

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