All Hallows Read online

  “You don’t know that. Anyone may have what another wants. Beauty finds the eye, but want hides in the hand.”

  “You’ve shown me your hands. Empty. I would have expected resistance. Do you know of the bounty?”

  “What, on me? I do now. Whatever have I done this time?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Who, Mary? I thought we were done. If you didn’t ask about my crimes before agreeing to bring me in… it must be quite the offer.”

  Slager’s yellow eyes flickered. “You can’t imagine.”

  “Sure I can. I imagine constantly—though I confess curiosity on the particulars of a bounty. I thought you above such errands. You keep to a code, though I doubt you’ll admit it. It is sad to see you turn mercenary.”

  “I haven’t. The bounty’s… it’s not for me.” Slager paused. “Not directly.”

  “Not for you? That’s a larger surprise than the rest together. My wanted poster must have been nailed-up by someone you do respect. If it is Mary, I trust you took an advance.”

  “I asked. It’s all or nothing, nor is the contract exclusive. I know enough of Mary to say I don’t want to know her well. This was—” Slager caught himself. “This was confidential. I won’t tell you who, nor the base rate.”

  “A girl can try. I hope they can deliver, Slager—and I hope you didn’t give your word. Whatever you may think of my face, magic doesn’t age. I won’t be taken.”

  “Capture isn’t… they want you dead.”

  “Killed? And they asked you? Alone? Your back is to the wall. You’ll soon wish it were not.”

  “If we are discussing the hypothetical, I could go through this fence like paper.” Slager’s hands shifted slowly. “There’s no way for you to match me, Maren. Not now. Hold still, and I’ll make it quick. Pleasurable.”

  “Did you use that line on the blonde or the wrestler?”

  “You’re a witch at the end of her days. If I’m not the instrument, age will be. They say you’ve vowed never to feed again.”

  “I never said that. I about slipped this afternoon, if you must know.”

  “You should have. You’d have had a chance to go down swinging, as they say. A witch without the gift is no witch at all.”

  “Crude of you, telling me what I am. Typical of a man. I’ve found you pleasant at times, but darkness is showing your colors. You are a narcissist, Slager. A bratty boy who’s never had to share a toy.”

  “I do everything I can for—” Slager raised his upper lip in scorn. “You’re right, Maren. I should be more courteous. It is the work of the weak to threaten, particularly with words.” He pointed a wand-like finger in the direction of the partygoers. “I prefer to do. Action speaks with a persuasive tongue, for what is said is already done.”

  “Be that as it may, you observe the old ways. You are selfish, but you don’t forget your heritage. As such, allow me to perform for my supper—or become it, if you don’t like my routine.”

  “Perform? Hands out of the bag. Thank you.”

  “Sorry; habit. I won’t sing, for I don’t want to torture us… but I will show what power an old woman can possess. Speak your grace of truth, Slager.”

  The vampire smiled broadly, teeth showing. “Speak the grace? Is there nothing else you want from me? Shall I anoint your feet as well?”

  “Please. I’d die for a massage.” Maren shook a neon shoe, loose hose flopping around her calf.

  “You won’t distract me with nonsense. When I want you dead, you will die.” Slager folded his arms, his expression stern. “May I ask why?”

  “I have walked the day through. It might be the onset of bunions, or the byproduct of new shoes—”

  “—Silence. I have no time for idiocy.”

  “And I have no time for idiots. Why, you ask? The grace is no trifle to say. I know it, and you know I know. I have asked anyway—so why indeed? I ask so that you may be certain. I don’t demand to hear your take on the prayer. I need only to know that the arbiters have been invoked.”

  “Take the blood oath. It’s faster.”

  “Yes, and it can be manipulated. There are reasons the grace is reserved for important matters. I work over chemicals and cauldrons more than most—it is a fool who adds seven cups when three will do, or three when seven’s the call. I want stew, not dilute soup or a bar of soap.”

  “The blood oath—”

  “—Is stark madness to perform before your kind. A blood oath suffices for playground secrets. You think it good enough for this. You say that now. What I have to say will be said once. Having heard, you’ll concur the protections of the grace were wise—and as I said, you will want to be sure.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I do. This is to your benefit, Slager. Don’t make me belabor it. And do not take me for less than I am—if you think I can’t tell when a serpent is positioning itself to strike, you have something left to learn.”

  “I haven’t moved a muscle.”

  “My point exactly. Say the grace, hear me out, and we may part in peace. If you want to show me scented oils and your fancy footwork after that, I’m up for a rub.”

  Slager lifted a finger in dismissal of Maren’s sarcasm, curiosity smoothing his features—though his face was more generally that of a weasel laying odds as to which direction a cornered rabbit might hop next.

  He considered Maren’s demand, yellow eyes soaking with moonlight. He was exceedingly tall in the alley’s mouth: athletically built, dark-skinned, his cheeks black with stubble. Slager was motionless in an alepinne trench-coat, his clothes moving for him.

  The coat was a fine garment, either cloud-gray or a royal purple (or reversible and thus both). Maren thought she might like one.

  Slager would reply when he was ready, and while she waited, Maren shopped. The vampire wore an ethereal scarf of camblet, extremely long and lovely: deep violet with gold thread piping. The scarf floated in time with his long, sable hair, curly and recently combed. He looked every ounce a man who was meditating while underwater.

  He spoke evenly. “What I should do is tear your limbs apart and impale your head on a pole.”

  “Ever the gentleman. I had reservations about finding what I found. I’m glad I did. You no longer hold me as your peer. I have just the remedy for that. You will regain your respect soon enough. Hear what I have to offer—death, if you like one word. But you will not believe me, as I’ve said.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.”

  “Any hints I give could be overheard by—the road is thick with magic tonight. Do not make me goad you to the grace. The price is high, yes—but it has its protections.”

  “Very well,” Slager said, his voice too easy, too soft. “I would warn you that this had better be good, Maren—but I’d prefer that you have nothing worth saying. None could blame my actions then. Not when you asked for the grace.”

  “Are you asking permission to begin? You may,” Maren said primly.

  “Indeed.” Slager twisted at his scarf, spread his arms, and crossed his legs, Christ-like. Maren watched his wide, sensuous lips move in a pagan prayer.

  Pools of light began to interact in his palms, the arteries visible; blood surging. His bones looked as dense as steel.

  The stigmata of the veridic stance was painful beyond the tolerance of most—and it hurt anyone. Maren shivered to see Slager’s lips curl into a reckless smirk as the grace hit him like heroin. If he did not relish the anguish, he certainly withstood the physical component.

  While in the stance, Slager would be recipient to unerring credibility. The method was ancient magic, and long-forgotten by most, it being a third party service without an advertising campaign.

  The judgment came from unknown beings. Norns, some said. Shapands, others would argue. Those from the orient had different names for the arbiters, as did those of the southern hemisphere.

  None were correct; none were wrong—any name was adequate: the judges were timeless, dispassionate, and exi
sted beyond bribery, beyond conversation, beyond the reach of any influence Maren knew.

  When paid in pain, the judicants reported whether a sworn statement were indeed true. The answer was provided as a simple yes or no.

  However complex the argument, however heated the debate—no matter what hung in the balance—the answer was binary, and the ruling final.

  Slager’s hands twitched, the potential for violence leaping within his mind. The grace went past the physical, and the mental assault was worse for most applicants.

  So tall that he could seem slender, Slager’s strength was more than regular sinew. Maren judged his shoulders to be fully three times the width of her rear end—and that, despite the ravages of old age, remained… ample.

  She waited for Slager to pass the apex of his agony and the formless voices that came with the grace.

  The vampire’s calm face and expressive eyes only made him more intimidating. He breathed irregularly through his teeth, accepting a thousand lashes; withstanding vivid illusions and recollections that would blind a mortal for eternity.

  Slager took the punishment in silence. His reaction to the hate and hurt and delusions was an emanation of power and pheromones. As he bore the effects of the grace, he smiled at Maren, simultaneously erotic and terrifying.

  “Get on with it,” he hissed. “Your death will be slow.”

  Maren nodded, wondered what Slager might do if she were to reach for a spoon to keep the beat, and abandoned the pretense of rhythm or melody.

  Instead, she spoke with wooden care, interpreting lines authored by none and known to few, fluctuating in meter, the lyrics amended to the situation—yet unmistakably reserved for the ceremony of the ritual…

  All the way from Wallachia,

  The hunters patiently pursued;

  You fled to Appalachia,

  Tracing the paths of snake and shrew.

  Red is for false, but blue burns truth;

  By sign of elders never wrong,

  Your hands tingle: witness my proof…

  Do I, Maren, know like a song,

  Where he here standing keeps his teeth,

  His hidden home, and his relief?

  I do.

  A jet of blue flame, hot and bright as a propane torch, burst from Slager’s palms. The vampire screamed in the way of any sentient creature set on fire.

  Slager’s eyes matched the fire that guttered to candlelight in his hands. His clothing and scarf snapped as though braving a gale; he stood motionless.

  Maren wondered if she should have woven a more obvious suggestion that he not kill her into the recital.

  “You braying fool,” he said softly. “Why tell me this? You murder yourself.”

  Maren extended her right arm, bent at the wrist as though to fend a charge. It was a symbolic gesture, for Slager could be on her in the bat of a lash, snapping the bones in her arm; puncturing her heart and liver with the resulting splinters.

  “Before you act rashly, look here, please.”

  Reaching with the deliberation of a gunfighter, Maren pulled her own, rather more wind-resistant neckwear down several inches. The fur revealed twin adhesive strips in parallel.

  “What new stupidity is this?”

  “Get with the times, Slager. This one’s Pikachu; this is Naruto. The Naruto is a knock-off, but the Pokémon are real-deal, high-end Band-Aids. They’re in complementary colors.”

  “Poor wards against the artifacts I control.”

  “They aren’t meant for protection. Not from you. They are for boo-boos, and they conceal what I have done. Our hearts are locked, and linked—and for a while, they will fare as one.”

  “What?”

  Maren swallowed. “Your life, mine, and… I have proven I know where your remains lie at rest. If you murder me, you will murder us both—and the number does not end there. How is Carmilla?”

  Slager stepped forward before he regained control, his movements flowing with the coursing speed of a mamba. His voice was gravel. “You play a dangerous game, Maren. This will be very temporary. There will come a time—”

  “—Will there? I thought I was no threat, nor anyone to respect? Come closer. Show me how strong you are. Time can end for us in this instant. See if you can disembowel a shriveled old woman in the street. I’m harmless, after all.”

  “Harmless,” he growled.

  “You said as much, and you’re right. Rather, I should like to be. What gain did I have in telling you? Don’t think of me as a threat—though by the first bones, Slager, get it into your head that I can be. I have respected you. Honored you. This knowledge I give freely is of inestimable value to others. Do not count me an enemy.”

  Slager’s growl was the least human part of him, and he made no attempt to hide its volume. “What I will do is count the seconds while you bleed away.”

  “I’ll attribute your hysteria to the effects of the grace—and to the unhappiness at being discovered. Who likes to be unearthed? Improve your black mood, for I have shared this with no other. Call me your friend.”

  “Oh, yes—my friend. I can halt the search for an enemy. How long have you bonded our fates?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? For as long as I desire—though I could be lying. Speak the grace again, if you like. No use flipping coins.”

  Slager’s lips rose above his large, white teeth, and he gestured slowly with his smoking palms. “I’ll take your word. And if you die by the hand of another?”

  “Why would I? Do you still find me frail? Unworthy? Are you worried about the bounty? I will rescue myself from whatever comes. Remove yourself from the hunt… or you could follow along. Guard my life if you see me imperiled, for it will save your own. I made no such offer to Mudmush.”

  Slager chuckled grimly. “He cannot be bonded, nor did he tell you of the bounty. He didn’t attack you?”

  “Didn’t get the chance.”

  “Does he live?”

  “As much as a lich can.”

  Slager cracked his neck, each vertebrae firing. “Bonded. It’s been a while since I cared whether a sister died. For now. You will not enjoy our next meeting.”

  “You don’t know that. You’re angry at being ferreted. It was not easy. Besides, you are not ashes. Think on that. Nothing stayed my hand, save that I chose—but you wouldn’t believe that, either.”

  “You’ll tell me how you found—”

  “—I will do and say as I want, Slager. Recover yourself. Contemplate if I were as petty and weak as you continue to imply. Had my hand trembled at murder, I could have collected a bounty of my own. You have enemies.”

  “A few,” Slager said. “I’ve been thinning the numbers.”

  “Bah. I heard something of that. They will breed and be back. But I digress—I have questions. You owe me that much. Your dance-hall girl will stay warm a while longer. She toppled into a bed of thorns. She was not dead then, nor will she fly away. She’s pinned like an insect.”

  “She won’t die. I no longer strew the land with unnecessary corpses. Mankind notices, especially now.” Slager moved his fingers slowly, as though testing for sensation.

  “You have hit upon one of my questions. The girl is not dead, and neither are you. I was told you were killed. I’d like the story from your side.”

  “The slayers are no story.” Slager’s fangs shot into place, and Maren recoiled until she established that his gaze was trained on the past. Looking abashed, the vampire swung his fangs away like a set of short stairs leading to an attic—the absence left him momentarily gat-toothed.

  Slager pressed at the roof of his mouth. Maren heard the spongy click of cartilage as ceramic-sharp blades caught and reloaded in his palate.

  “Touchy, are we?” Maren asked.

  “I was fine until you… the story presents little new. I made a mistake, as you will exult to hear me say. Much as you have done tonight, a group of slayers made the prospect of my mortality all too real.”

  “Their numbers are up agai
n. I blame graphical novels and movie theaters.”

  “The groups are more active. Well-outfitted, too—they brought infrared, ultrasound, and an evolution of offensive weapons. In the end, I was saved by superstition.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Maren said. “I’m proud to have contributed a silver garnish to the legends.”

  “Silver hurts as much as any other bullet. I wish you had chosen wax. Anyway, I’d let myself grow weak. I sometimes… punish myself. As the busiest body in creation, you may know why. I hope you do not.”

  “I know.”

  Slager pulled at his lower face with irritation. “Of course you do. I became careless; my signs were seen… or perhaps you were,” he said, rocking his head to appraise this revelation. “I’d never considered others might have come and gone.”

  “I didn’t approach with a marching band. What I found was far away and indoors. If my search was not entirely by accident, I daresay I can use magic not easily wielded. That, and I read the newspapers. I had good fortune.”

  “Good fortune? We do not share your perspective. Why newspapers?”

  “Most who kill do so within a radius. Their residence is roughly central. You, on the other hand, draw away from yours. Plot enough missing persons, and I determined where you were by where you hadn’t been.”

  “Impressive. You call us fast friends, yet… that would have taken you years. Why the effort?”

  “For reasons that have nothing to do with you. My time was spent seeking mentions of something far less common than reports of a vampire’s kiss. As I had no reason to believe I would find what I sought, I looked for additional patterns that might serve in other ways.”

  “That’s not the first time you’ve shown a sharp mind.”

  “Said without so much as a sneer! I may write that down. There’s a place I’ve passed where one may make dog tags carrying inspirational messages.”

  Slager opened his mouth, closed it, and began again. “At any rate, I took a stake to the chest, was fed enough garlic to keep the ladies away for a month… and then there was the matter of my beheading. They thought me dead. Didn’t find Carmilla. The final blow glanced off the bone around my heart—a common… mistake.”