Immortal

pithy—the situation calls for it—but then I hear him crunching down on the glass and swishing the contents around in his mouth like he’s at a wine-tasting. Then he stands up straight, shoots me a smile, and spits the cork onto the carpet.

“A little bitter,” he says, “but not bad. Could’ve used some pepper.”

“Oh shit,” I say, succinctly.

“Sorry. You want me to jump around, maybe scratch my throat, wave my arms or something?”

A couple more pieces fit into place for me. “It was you,” I say. “In the third room.”

“Yeah. Well, me and Ringo. Doc fixed us both up so we don’t get sick no more. And that’s just the start. Mr. Grindel’s gonna take care of all of our friends, too. Time our kind came out of hiding.”

“How could he have been so stupid?” I ask. Because it’s one thing to try and help people who get sick. It’s another to fix the immune system of an otherwise invulnerable race of sociopaths. Bob and Viktor both must have been out of their minds to even consider it.

“Mr. Grindel seems to think there’s only a few of us around,” he explains. “He’s in for a surprise. Too bad this came too late for Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?”

“The one you killed in New York. I’m gonna have to hurt you for that, cuz he took that job after I recommended him to Mr. Grindel, so I’m feeling guilty now, and I hate feeling guilty.”

With one arm he lifts the desk and throws it up against the wall. Which is bad, as I was in the process of putting the desk between us at the time. And there’s nothing else that’s big and heavy to hide behind, other than Brutus.

“You’re gonna have to pay for Ringo, too,” he says. “He was a straight-up guy.”

“I didn’t kill Ringo,” I argue.

“May as well have.”

He takes a step toward me. I raise the gun, but just for show, as it would be a huge waste of bullets unless I managed to hit an eye. (Demon eyes are small and deep-set, as if they evolved in anticipation of just such a moment.) Brutus is still standing between me and the door, and the office isn’t particularly large, so I don’t have a lot in the way of maneuverability to work with.

Seeing no other option, I take the only exit that’s available, the window.

I spin around and run straight at it, hitting the glass as hard as I can with my shoulder. It gives, but not quite as efficiently as I thought it would. This would be my first time through plate glass, and I stupidly assumed it would be as easy as it looks in the movies.

So I end up a bit stunned by the impact. And falling fifteen feet is not a good time to be stunned, just in general. My trajectory takes me to the edge of the awning. I bounce off it—the good news being it slows my descent, the bad being that it feels like I’ve dislocated my shoulder—and then fall the remaining distance.

I nearly get my feet under me before impact, but not quite. One leg is all I can muster. Something goes pop in my knee and then I’m down in a heap. It’s a non-dead heap, and for that I can only be grateful. I just wish every part of my body didn’t hurt quite so much.

The gun lands a few feet away. It takes all the energy I have left to reach it. And just as I do I feel the ground tremble.

“That was pretty good,” Brutus says. I look around, which is a treat because there’s a piece of broken glass under me, and whenever I shift it digs a bit deeper into my ribcage. Brutus had jumped out of the shattered window after me and is now standing a few feet away, looking perfectly sound. I am about to die.

“I didn’t quite stick the landing,” I admit.

“No, but points for trying. Pretty ballsy.”

I’m trying to come up with an adequate prayer for this moment, but one doesn’t come to mind. Too many faiths to choose from. Too many gods. Don’t think any of them are listening.

And then a blur from the corner of my eye becomes a whoosh of air and a loud, violent impact in the center of Brutus’s chest. My first thought is that someone has fired a rocket from somewhere.

The demon doesn’t move, although in hindsight he probably wishes he had. By not giving in to the impact, he just makes it easier for the vampire to drive her arm straight through him.

They stand still like that for a few seconds. She is rooting around inside of his chest, which is just about exactly as disgusting as it sounds.

Then she jerks her arm out again and takes a tangle of internal organs with her, and punches him flush in the face, causing his pug nose to actually cave in. Brutus gives a little whimper, falls to his knees, and then sags onto his side.

She remains standing over him holding what looks to be his heart waiting to make sure he can’t go on without one. When it’s clear he cannot, she tosses the heart aside.

I’m wondering if she still doesn’t feel like killing me.

And then she speaks.

“Lord Venice… What is this place?”

My jaw drops. “Eloise?”

She turns and brushes the hair from her face. It’s her all right, as beautiful as ever, but in sore need of a bath to wash away the dried blood.

“I knew your smell, but it did not seem possible. I thought you dead.”

“And I you,” I respond. By my calculations she’s at least two and a half centuries past her expiration date. “How have you lasted so long?”

“I was well-schooled in the art of immortality,” she quips. A blood tear streaks down her face, poor thing. She looks so confused. “Tell me, milord, have I gone mad?”

“Don’t move, either of you!”

I tilt my head—the best I can do for the moment—to check the source of the voice. Bob has emerged from the admin building. In front of him, holding the briefcase, is Clara. He has a gun pointed at her head.

“Bob!” I greet. “Where’ve you been?” I try standing up, but discover two things. First, my knee is not at all happy with me, and second, I’d apparently hit my head on impact, as the world goes all spinny when I try to move too quickly.

“I’ve got all I need,” Bob says to me. He’s edging his way past us, heading—I assume—for the helicopter pad. “So don’t fuck with me and I won’t shoot you or your girlfriend.”

“I know this man,” Eloise says.

“Yes,” I concur. “He is the one who brought you here.”

“Tell that thing to back the hell off!” Bob shouts, meaning Eloise. I keep my gaze focused on him and fight the urge to black out, which seems like an inviting option right now. My ears are already ringing, and I imagine in a second or two my vision will start to go on me. Which is a bad time to try shooting a gun.

“I would like to kill him,” Eloise says calmly.

“What did it say?” Bob asks.

“She said she wants to kill you,” I translate. I’m noticing my lips feel fatter than they should.

“She better not try!” Bob declares, pressing the barrel harder against Clara’s temple.

“Oww!” Clara says.

The ringing is starting to really annoy me. I figured it was just another symptom of a concussion but now I’m wondering if it’s an external sound. Can anybody else hear it?

“Calm down,” I say to Bob. “I’ll talk to her.”

I switch to French. “Eloise, are you fast enough to rip out his throat before he damages the girl?”

“I do not think so,” she says.

“Pity. I will have to shoot this asshole myself.”

Clara giggles. Apparently she speaks French.

“What did it say?” Bob asks.

“Her name is Eloise, Bob. Be respectful. She may be the oldest vampire you’ll ever meet.”

“Fuck you. What did it say?”