8

Poor old woman. Carson sat at Neave’s side and tenderly held her cool hand. Intravenous dripped, machines beeped and just outside the door hovered a human nurse, glancing in suspiciously every time he glanced out at her. Seemed the real people were harder to read than the supernaturals in Maxtla.

Outside the window, the dangerous, long night encompassed everything like an ominous entity. It gave an ugly black chill to the snow covered ground, the buildings, the very air inside and out. He’d never experienced a long darkness, much less nighttime that presented such peril. He hadn’t yet formulated an idea of how the town survived its own inhabitants, but it was pretty obvious that it wouldn’t take much to upset the applecart.

Walking away was certainly an option, but in truth, there was as much danger to him and his dead supernatural buddies as there was to the old woman on the bed. Not being able to die presented its own set of horrors. Living on after losing large portions of one’s body, like a leg, an arm or two, a head. Living on in unbearable physical pain. Or, living on and on as a punishment for not reaching whatever goal was set for them by the gods. For him it was crazy Tlazolteotl, for the others, it was the Big Kahuna in the sky. None of them could simply bleed out and wake up in heaven or hell like normal people. Nope, they’d all been given additional tasks and punishments to endure. Did any of them deserve it? From his observations, he couldn’t really say.

Outside the open door a shifter cop dropped into a folding chair, flirted with the nurse and sipped hot coffee. Heavy scents of cleanliness and sickness surrounded Carson and for the first time he wondered how it all fit together. Everything in life fits together, what could be the connections that made Maxtla a sudden part of his? The answer was sleeping peacefully and well sedated. Deep drug-induced sleep or not, he knew how to reach her and figured it was best not to waste much time about it. The most effective way to latch onto Neave’s mellow brain activity was a well played shock factor. Leaning close he spoke quietly.

“You’re dying, Grand Matron. Are you listening to me? You are dying.”

Nothing.

“Neave Britannia Cook, are you listening to me? You must confess or your death will be an eternal emptiness. Confess and cleanse your soul. Confess.”

“I … I …” her voice was dry as dirt, rasping quietly but understandable. “I … am … not … dying … you fool.”

“Well then wake up, woman. We’ve got no time for this. We need to get back to civilization.”

Silence followed, so deep he feared she’d already slipped away.

“Grand Matron? Neave?”

“We don’t leave.”

“Too dangerous, my dear. Wake up and let’s hightail it out of here.”

Silence.

“Wake up … or confess, for surely you are ending.”

“No. Never.” Her eyes fluttered but it appeared she had no vision at all, looking everywhere, seeking something she couldn’t see. “Merlin,” she whispered.

Carson shot to his feet and blinked. The nurse rushed in and fussed over the patient.

“Mer …. Mer … Mer …” Neave gasped as tears slid from her eyes.

“Is she speaking? Is she asking for something? Maybe … Martin? Shall I call for the Elder?” The nurse was pretty, far prettier than Carson originally thought. Too bad his intense impulses to choke the old bat to death drowned out any pleasure at the scenery.

“No clue. She’s confused. The doctors are right, she needs to sleep. I’ll just, you know …” and he left the room, walked outside and followed the trail of cops toward the log cabin.

“Hey, Carson! Dude!”

He turned to an unexpected scene – silly enough to bring a smile to his face – Dori, and another warmly-wrapped gal stumbling toward him. They held each other up but to no avail. In the span of moments, the girls had slipped and thumped onto the snow at least twice, giggling through it all. He moved to assist. “What have we here?”

Dori laughed like a loon. “Father Carson, this is Cassie Herself. Cassie, this is Carson, a guy who’s not really a priest.” She introduced then pointed. “Oh look, company!”

A wimpy looking teenaged boy, haphazardly bundled against the cold, shivered and made his way toward them.

“Charlie?” Cassie seemed suddenly sober. “Charlie, you okay, hun?”

His head shook, his face glistened with sweat. “Doctor,” was all he said before he buckled into her arms.

“Where’s Martin?” The boy mumbled and Cassie repeated more forcefully. “Charlie, where’s Martin? Does he know you’re sick?”

Martin? Did she say Martin? Carson, who at first thought to help get the boy into the clinic, now had reason to get as far from him as possible.

“Pops,” Charlie gasped. “Pops is with the sheriff.” The kid’s lights went out and Cassie whipped him up into her arms.

“You get him to the doctor and I’ll get Dori home safely, all right?” Carson said, but Cassie had already rushed away with her limp, dangling burden. He abruptly gripped Dori’s arm and shook to gain her full attention. “Where’s Gabriel?”

“Isn’t she nice? She’s going to be a famous songwriter.”

“Dori!” he shouted and she blinked. “Where’s Gabriel?”

“No clue, too mad at him to give a damn. Did you know he was a blood sucking monster? A vampire who killed people?”

“Yeah,” he tugged her along. “And I know he’s not a vampire anymore. You need to throw up?”

“No.”

They rushed inside the cabin. “Where’s Gabriel?” Carson repeated.

Clovely looked up from musing at the fire in the hearth and nudged his chin toward one of the bedrooms. “Might be bad timing, buddy. He’s a little pissed off.”

“Fuck that.” Carson knocked. He pounded. He shouted.

Gabriel opened the door, almost tearing it from the hinges and glared. “What the hell do you want?”

Carson didn’t even try to reach him through eloquent thought or careful words, he simply stated fact. “We have big problems I can’t even explain. One of us has to make a run for it. Tonight.”

Martin had listened closely to the beautiful Gen d’Longville who warned him with a strategic subtleness perfected over centuries, the kind that rode easily over the heads of all present, including her husband. She warned him of the driving impulses racing through the room by using a secret code the Elder and sheriff’s wife had developed over time. ‘Curative’ meant blood taken without agreement. ‘Fragmented’ meant malignant and malevolent. ‘Colorful’ meant simply, out of control. These are code words she’d learned at his knee long, long before she was turned vampire – over one thousand years ago, a different world, a different realm and a very different menace.

As the town leaders half-listened to Gen’s account, all deep in their own proposals for gaining satisfaction, Mrs. d’Longville finely shifted gears and leaned slightly forward in her seat.

“Oh dear me, this infant is sure to kick me to death before he arrives.”

Luc snapped to attention and gently tucked a pillow at her lower back. The others recovered from their disinterested expressions long enough to nod or offer a kind phrase.

“And my dear Elder Martin, tell me, how is young Charlie?” She smiled sweetly.

“What’s wrong with Charlie?” Luc grunted then blinked. His brows rose and face grew even paler than usual. Gen patted his hand and together they awaited the answer.

“Flu. I should get back soon.”

Stetzle and Hawthorne slowly, threateningly rose to their feet and growled. “Not until we’ve resolved this.”

“What do you wish to resolve?” Martin understood that these leaders and their followers had designs on the outsiders, but he was still waiting to hear exactly what those designs could be.

Raven stood to join the others then shrugged and snorted before shaking his head. “You all resolve this. I got no interest in dead supernatural flesh or blood. The Inuit step away from this. Just let me know your decisions so I can advise my people to do … whatever we have to do to protect ourselves.”

“So you’ll turn tail and run?” spat Stetzle, his eyes glowing a menacing red that didn’t scare the old Inuit one bit.

“My people have survived this frozen wilderness since time began. We’ve survived you and the vamps since you arrived to hide and live safe. We’ve stood by you and protected you, taught you how to exist and sacrificed so you could thrive and now … with this … we’ve reached our limit.” He plopped his fur-lined hat over his grey hair. “I have spoken to the double-dead vampire. His spirit is strong and you may be able to pull him to your choices but not for long. We all lose if this comes to pass. I’m going home to my warm wife and fireplace.”

Luc looked to his wife and gave an almost indiscernible nod. “We accept your decision, Raven, whatever it may be. We’ll let you know the outcome of tonight’s discussion.”

And the old man walked out.

“And so the splintering begins,” Martin whispered with a sigh. He sipped hot tea and waited for the next dramatic exit. Centuries in the making and one silly plane crash could have the power to destroy it all. “Just what is it that the vampires and shifters wish?”

“You’re not the final word on anything, old man,” hissed Hawthorne and with that, d’Longville swiftly pinned the darkness-maddened bloodsucker to the wall.

Gen stood and spoke softly. “Please. Cool heads must prevail.”

Martin laid a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Let him speak, Luc.”

Hawthorne was the oldest vampire among them, far older than even Hawthorne could count or remember. He was volatile at the best of times, in full summer days and bright nights and during the most comfortable of situations. The Elder had long been trying to perfect a treatment that could help the vampire find calm, but he was beginning to worry that it may be time for Hawthorne to go to the earth’s womb and find his final sleep. Pity too, as his wife, a young vampire of only 300 years, was heavy with child like Gen. The infant would be Hawthorne’s first. Was there a rhyme or reason to Maxtla’s vampiric procreation without death? Did it speak for the ancient vampire’s value and efforts? The answers were well beyond Martin’s understanding.

Stetzle spoke, defusing the angst. “This isn’t terrible, this is an excellent solution that can be good for us all, even the Inuit. I’ve heard from the officers watching the house that the double-dead vamp is wavering. Possibly curious about Maxtla. This could solve all our problems!”

“What problems?” Martin stared at the shifter. Had the man gone mad?

“All the problems! Think about this!” Hawthorne began to pace. “The vamp is already twice dead. That makes him an endless supply of nourishment for the living vampires. He can not die, he will eternally regenerate blood … as will that disgusting leprechaun and pretty muse.”

Stetzle raised his arms and shouted. “Just imagine! A life where shifters and humans no longer must donate blood to nourish the Maxtla vampires. Our lives will become amazingly simple and easy!”

“And what exactly are you suggesting?” Luc paced, rubbed his chin but blessedly appeared to be strongly against the idea. “Lock up these guests? Hold them prisoner and feed off them for … what … ever? Jesus, haven’t we gotten past this shit?”

“The double-dead vamp may be willing. He can convince the others.”

Martin feared his rising blood pressure would explode his old heart. He actually coughed and raised a hand for attention. “And why on earth would he do that?”

“It’s worth a shot!” bellowed Hawthorne.

The sheriff hissed in response. “Silence, or I swear I will send you to the ice caves.” The threat was heavy and intense, loaded with power only Luc could wield with the Elder at his side.

No one moved a muscle except for Martin who slowly sat to catch his breath, thanking all that is holy that d’Longville still had his control. At least Martin wasn’t alone in his commitment to get the strangers out of town as quickly as possible.

The phone rang and Gen rose slowly to answer. “It’s for you, Elder.”

Martin accepted the receiver, listened then pulled Luc aside. “I must go, Charlie is very ill … at the clinic … and … it seems one of our guests has made a run for it.”

The sheriff snorted, pushed a hand through his hair. “I’ve got half a mind to let the bastard freeze solid ’til spring. Keep this quiet. I’ll chill things here, tell them we’ll resume tomorrow. It’s late. Oh … and let us know how Charlie’s doing,” he said as Martin rushed from the warm house into the frozen darkness.