Страница 53 из 63
He dropped Hardin, who stumbled away. Arcing his back, he fell to his knees. Didn't make a sound. Like the blond one, he was new. He didn't turn to ash, instead becoming a corpse before our eyes. Flesh and clothing dissolved, hanging on bleached bones. He smelled like mold.
"Jesus Christ!" Hardin pressed a hand to her neck and stared at her attacker. "Am I—Oh, God, am I going to turn into one of those?" She looked at the blood on her hands.
"No," I said, panting. "They have to drain you. If they only take a little you're okay."
She didn't look okay. Panic burned in her eyes and she was almost hyperventilating.
"Detective," I said, catching her attention. "Breathe."
She nodded quickly and took a deep breath. That slowed her down. She found a handkerchief in a pocket and held it to the wound on her neck.
I knew, but I had to do it anyway. I touched Sawyer's neck, feeling for a pulse that wasn't there. His neck was twisted at a strange angle, and his eyes were open, staring. He didn't deserve this.
"Sawyer?" Hardin called. I shook my head.
I looked for the others I knew must be out there. And there she was: a pale, svelte woman at the top of the stairs, blocking our way down. She had white hair and an icy expression.
"Stella," I murmured. "What's the deal? Where's Rick? Where's Ben? They're supposed to be here."
"None of you are supposed to be here." She stalked toward me.
"Detective?" I murmured.
"Out of ammo," she said as she went to retrieve the bolts she'd already fired.
Great. I'd dropped the cross to do the stake thing. I didn't think I could stake her by surprise—she was ready for me. I quickly retrieved what I could, shoving everything back in the pack. The spray bottle still had some holy water in it.
I met Stella face-to-face. Or as face-to-face as possible, considering how tall she was.
"Just a hint," I said, letting my mouth do what it did best—run away with me. "Did you get Rick? At least tell me whether or not you killed him. I'm sure you'd love to tell me how completely we screwed up." But she didn't tell me that we screwed up. She didn't tell me where Rick was. Maybe because she didn't know.
I hadn't noticed any other evidence of dead vampires apart from what we'd just made. I was willing to hope Arturo's gang hadn't killed Rick before he got inside. He'd evaded them. This wasn't over. I let her come closer. Let her think she didn't have to work for this one.
"Come on, you can tell me. I'll beg for it, will that make you happy? What's going on? Is Arturo here? Is Rick?" And Ben, where was Ben, goddammit?
"Oh, you haven't completely screwed up," she said, wearing a pained smile. "You're in the process of completely screwing up."
She was within arm's reach and still talking when I let loose with the spray bottle.
The mist caught her in her pretty marble face. She hesitated, blinking, confused, like she didn't know what had just happened. A rash broke out, red spots appearing on her mouth and cheeks and radiating outward. Then, she sneezed, then started coughing. Her eyes widened in shock, and she clutched her throat.
Vampires only draw air in order to speak. I'd certainly never heard one sneeze. But she'd been opening her mouth to say something, had just happened to draw a breath, and thereby inhaled a fine mist of holy water, which had gotten into her nose, sinuses, and throat. From what I'd observed, holy water had a similar effect on vampires that silver had on lycanthropes—it produced an allergic reaction on the skin, rashes, hives, that sort of thing.
I tried to imagine breaking out in hives in my sinuses and down my throat. And I thought, Oh, yuck.
She didn't stop coughing. She dropped to her knees, and the rash erupting over her face turned fiery.
By that time, Hardin had returned, her newly loaded crossbow trained on the incapacitated vampire.
"She out of commission?" Hardin asked. I nodded quickly. Stella didn't seem concerned with much of anything at the moment but her own discomfort.
The radio at Hardin's belt was calling again. She ran for the front of the building, and I chased after her.
"Lopez, talk to me!" Hardin called.
Sneaking a look around the corner, I could see the two officers, back to back, weapons out—one had a gun, the other a crossbow. Both of them looked wild-eyed and on the verge of panic, waiting for an imminent attack.
"I don't know!" Lopez, the one with the gun, called back. "There were three—"
"—four," the other cop said. "Four of them."
"I don't know, three or four of them, I thought we were finished. But they just disappeared."
I still hated when vampires did that. Reflexively, I looked behind, up, all around, waiting for another shadow to move and strike.
"They won't have gone far," Hardin said. "Keep watching."
Again, I turned my nose to the air. I had other ways of watching. They were here. I could smell them, even differentiate individuals. They had different flavors to their scents, but I couldn't quite identify them. Part of it was the nature of the place—it all belonged to vampires. We could get rid of them all, bulldoze the building and plant a garden, and some of that undeadness would still linger.
We stayed like that, stalled in place, waiting for shadows to strike.
Finally, Hardin said, "Well? We scare them off or what?" She smelled of nervous sweat, but her ma
I wasn't willing to make any guesses. The street was quiet. Nothing could possibly happen on a street this quiet.
"I'm going to go back to check on Kramer," Hardin said. "Call me—"
Lopez fired another shot.
"Would you stop doing that!" And there was Charlie, yelling at the officer and rubbing at a smoking bullet hole in his T-shirt. He came around the corner and dropped a body—vampiric, male, built like a fighter—in front of us. He looked me up and down. "What are you doing here?"
Hardin's cops trailed after him, still tense to the point of quivering.
"Where's Rick?" I shot back. "Where's Ben? Ben was coming to help but I don't see his car—"
"Rick's downstairs. I need your help, Violet's hurt."
"Wait a minute, is this another vampire or what?" Hardin said.
"He's one of the good guys." I think. "Charlie, Detective Hardin, Detective, Charlie. So is that guy dead or what?" A dead vampire decomposed. This one hadn't, so what was he, knocked out?
How do you knock out a vampire?
But Charlie didn't answer. He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me around the opposite corner.
Lopez pleaded with Hardin, "What the hell is going on?"
"I don't know. Follow Kitty's lead, keep your eyes open."
Propped against the wall, safe in a shadow, lay Violet. A glistening trail streaked the front of her black shirt—blood, streaming from a gash in her neck. Something had ripped half her throat out—vertebrae were visible. The shredded wound wasn't bleeding anymore—all the blood had drained out. Lopez turned away, a hand covering his mouth.
Her eyes were closed; she didn't move. I couldn't tell if she was dead. More dead. All vampires smelled dead. It looked like all the blood she'd borrowed—that was why vampires drank, to replace the blood they'd lost when they were turned—had spilled out, and maybe she was gone forever this time.
Charlie knelt by her and tenderly cradled her in his lap. "Violet, Violet baby, I brought help. Stay with me now, okay?" He stroked her cheeks, her hair, clutched her hand, and she didn't respond. "Kitty's going to help, okay? Hang on for me, baby."
"What can I do?" I murmured, my heart breaking over the scene.
Charlie looked at me. "She needs blood so she can heal. Strong blood."
Of course she did. She didn't even need much, a mouthful or so. I'd seen how this worked.