Halfway Bitten Read online

  Gus interrupted my thoughts with a single deep mroooowwwt.

  “Yeah, yeah. You big galoot. I’ll get it.” I moved unerringly to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of actual cream—my snobby cat won’t drink anything but the good stuff. After I filled a dish large enough to swim in, I started peeling off clothes and heading toward the bathroom. I took an experimental sniff as I passed my bedroom, sensing the lingering essence of Wulfric, my boyfriend. He’d left just before dawn to go on what amounted to a patrol of his lands. I should probably explain why I have a boyfriend who needs to patrol anything, so here goes.

  Wulfric is a thousand-year-old half-vampire, half-Viking, who guards a section of the forest so that mortal hikers don’t get turned into undead monsters by an evil spring that we sometimes call the Fountain of Youth. He also has a daughter, Emilia, with a no-good skank named Anna, who is actually a Werepanther, hula-hoop addict, litterer, and general malcontent. Anna’s also really hot, which means that for the most part she got away with all manner of anti-social behavior, but absconding with my boyfriend’s kid puts her squarely on my shit list, and I’ve got news for that trampy little kitten.

  I’m not scared of any kind of cat. I live with Gus.

  Chapter Three: Refugee

  I let the next day get away in a sliding blur, and that isn’t me. It was day two of my four-day stretch, which is nothing to me unless I let my duties as protector and witch get in the way of life’s true pleasures. Like making waffles.

  There’s something wrong when I can’t enjoy making waffles. This was one such day. I put on the best face possible and snuck a quick call to Gran before girding my metaphorical loins for battle. Or waffles, but you understand. I dialed her while standing in front of the expanse of glass windows that cover the diner.

  “Yes dear?” She knew it was me. I felt my face flush with odd relief.

  “Tea after my shift?” I sounded somewhere between whiny and confused, even to myself.

  “Of course. I’ll have a hot cup ready. Will it wait until then?” Her voice was caring, soft.

  “It will. Thanks, Gran. Love you.” Tears dotted my eyes. I don’t know what the universe saw in me, but the gift of Gran was an embarrassment of riches.

  “Love you too. See you soon.” She clicked off, and I realized the tension in my chest was easing just from the anticipation of her presence. I sent a little prayer on wings of thanks and stepped into the diner, where I passed my shift in a blur of tickets, plates, and banal chatter that usually warmed me from within. Today, that same routine left me wanting, and it was with a mixture of anger and relief that I stepped into Gran’s house at just after two in the afternoon, tired and needing her presence. The phone call had only gone so far as a bandage; I needed the real thing. She’s a short distance from me, and my memories of her start at the most distant images that I carry from my earliest childhood. Some of them are just hints and outlines, but taken together they form the pillars of my history like the touch of a warm and comforting hand.

  I inhaled the scent of her home, and felt my mood begin to shift. Her house has that effect on me; it’s a soothing blend of stability and spices that fills me with thoughts of my childhood. I feel safe every time I walk through the door, and it’s my harbor.

  “Are you here because of the body?” Gran asked, leaning against her kitchen door frame, cup of tea in hand. She looked beautiful in a green dress and low heels. Even well into what would be old age for most women, she cut an elegant figure. Her eyes were bright blue and intelligent, and her hair was swept up in curls like a vintage pinup girl. She’d been expecting me.

  I stopped, lifting a boot to adjust it with one savage jerk of my thumb. “Body?” In that word, I knew I’d opened some sort of heartache to the light of day.

  Gran jangled the keys to her pickup truck and pointed at the door. Unlike me, she can operate a vehicle without destroying it in a matter of hours, witnessed by the near mint condition of her thirty-year-old truck. “We’ll speak on the way. Brendan is meeting us there.”

  “Where’s there?” I asked, even as I began to move. I knew better than to grill her if she thought we needed to be in motion.

  Gran winced, a sure sign that we had gone to something unpleasant. “Inlet,” she replied. It was the nearest town at the head of Fourth Lake, and, while idyllic, there was plenty of magic to be found in and around it, as well as the smaller community of Eagle Bay. We got in the truck and Gran lost focus for a moment, letting emotions purge from her like a tea kettle at full boil. “We’re going to visit an old friend, but for a very bad reason.”

  Chapter Four: Ice Cream, Ruined

  Inlet looks a lot like Halfway, just smaller. There are the requisite tourist traps, local businesses, and cabins dotting the lake. Just like my town, there’s a strong sense of family despite the hordes of tourists. That authentic feel keeps people coming back, and it makes them behave better, too. Gran wove through traffic to one of two ice cream parlors; this one was appropriately named The North Star and featured a faded paint and neon sign with a penguin holding an ice cream cone. There was a line of people waiting out front, and the building itself was packed with sun-browned patrons lazily enjoying all manner of frozen dairy. Occasional rebels ate sherbet, but for the most part, I saw a forest of sundaes and cones, just as it should be.

  We walked around back to a weathered white door, and Gran pecked twice with one knuckle in a rapid ba-bap. The door opened immediately to reveal a nervous looking Brendan Kilmeade, his moss green eyes shadowed with worry. He’s our local librarian friend, and fully aware of the magical nature of Halfway due to an attack by a wight in which I showed him the violent side of magic. He’s also cool under fire, able to keep his mouth shut, and steady. If he was here, and upset, it meant that I was about to get incensed by something unpleasant. I was not disappointed.

  We were looking into a storage area filled with stainless steel racks holding all manner of syrups, fruit, and sprinkles. Basically anything you’d ever want on a sundae was here, except for the teenager who would actually assemble your masterpiece. I was relieved to see the room free of workers or prying eyes.

  “In the walk-in cooler,” he said, gesturing that we should go past him to the stippled aluminum door with a sideways handle. Gran tugged it open and the light came on instantly. She stifled a gasp, and I looked over her shoulder to see what had caused her reaction.

  It was a body. It had once been a living girl, but no longer.

  Gran looked questioningly at Brendan, who shrugged and cut his eyes at the cooler. There was room for all three of us and the corpse. Standing there like a council of judges, we all squatted to get closer to the person that rested on a cold floor, naked, curled like a child, and incredibly pale. She had been a strawberry blonde, and freckles perched on her cheeks like impudent stars. In the cooler, the air was cold and moist, and a whirring from the fan lent an industrial discord to the atmosphere.

  “She was found in the lake last night. It was a. . .friend, who found her. He called me and told me to bring both of you. Said you would understand.” Brendan eyes were flat with horror.

  Gran reached out and squeezed his hand. “You’ve done right. Where was she found?”

  “Just near the pass between Third and Fourth Lakes. She was found by the owner of this place, Daniel Gillen.” That name, I knew. He’d been a patron of our family magic for some time, but other than the occasional foray into kitchen magic, he left the heavy lifting to us. In the stillness that hung between us all, Brendan’s eyes never left the girl. The horror of her presence was inescapable.

  “What do you see, Carlie?” Gran asked, touching her neck remotely. I got the message; Brendan might be aware of our nature, but he knew nothing of my witchmark. For some reason, Gran wanted that fact to stay hidden. I obliged, resisting the urge to touch the mark even as I turned my gaze to the body of the girl.

  I let my senses roam. Gran did the same, her eyes flickering in and out of reality in a series
of minuscule tics that were the sign of a witch casting into the Everafter.

  Brendan cleared his throat, pointing at one of the girl’s arms. “Look at this, Carlie.”

  The wrist he pointed to was thin, pale to the point of translucence, and embossed with the sordid red marks of long confinement. Seeing that detail, I looked up and down the nude body, feeling a wash of shame at violating this poor dead girl with the simple act of looking at her. She could not give me permission, but I pressed on. I thought that if she could speak, she would tell me to find who had done this to her.

  And then, avenge her.

  I lifted her arm, loose in death, and water dripped down my hand in a cold shock that held the echo of the lake. “How old do you think she is?” I asked. She was painfully thin, malnourished, and somehow frail.

  Gran lifted one of the girl’s oxbow lips with a matter-of-fact flick of her thumb, revealing even white teeth. “She’s late teens, but her body is barely out of puberty. This girl has been kept somewhere.” Gran’s tone was iron, and I could feel the air hum with her controlled anger. “Kept for a long time. Perhaps years. This is a young woman who has not drawn a free breath since she was late in her childhood.”

  I put a hesitant hand over the girl’s heart, wishing it to thump under my touch. Stillness greeted me, and then the echo of her spirit charged up my fingers only to die out like a guttering candle. I wanted to cry, but the fugitive sensation was gone as quickly as it took root in my mind. Instead, I stood numbly, and bit confused at all of the scene. Brendan broke the momentary quiet with an angry conclusion.

  “She was groomed,” Brendan said, surprising himself. At our collective attention, he explained, “I read about things like this. Bad people keep, you know, kids,” he said, pausing to gather himself. It was a disgusting topic to discuss, but he was a scholar of sorts. With a loud exhalation, he went on. “People keep trophies. They turn humans into things. At least that’s what it feels like when I see her, laying here.” With a shake of his shoulders, he made it clear what he thought of this practice.

  I peered into her half-lidded eyes. They were brown, with flecks of gold. Beautiful, really, and I felt like crying when I saw the long lashes clumped into spikes by the waters of the lake. “Why would someone do this?” It was a maddening violation of the world, all before me in a naked sprawl.

  Gran nearly growled, then reached and turned the girl’s head to reveal a porcelain neck shot through with fine blue veins. A series of healed punctures mottled the skin in death, just as they had while she lived. “I know why.” Gran’s long fingers ticked across the divots as she traced years of violation, one bite wound at a time. “This girl was kept as a Feeder.”

  I thought of Wulfric. Was he capable of such things? Would his human half win out, given the chance to sip from the intoxicating fountain of blood that us mortals presented? I shook myself free and looked into Gran’s eyes. They shimmered with a ferocity that scared me.

  “What are we going to do about it, Gran?” I asked, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it aloud. Brendan sensed the moment as well, looking at both of us with a febrile intensity.

  Gran paused, then closed the girl’s eyes with a rueful twist of her mouth. “We are going to track—and kill- every vampire who has every put their ivory fangs into this sweet child’s flesh. And then, we will burn their world to the ground.”

  Chapter Five: Olive You

  The clowns were back. It was just before the lunch rush, and there were three of them sitting at a booth, picking their way through the three chopped salads I’d made for them. Under the greasepaint, they were alternating between frowns and complaints, which wouldn’t necessarily bother me, but my nerves were raw from the previous day.

  I slapped my towel down, dropped the tongs I was holding, and went out onto the floor with more than a little anger cooking in my belly. Customers averted their eyes when I passed. Good move. I was in no mood for chit-chat.

  “What’s wrong with your salads?” I asked, resisting the urge to grab a fork and begin flipping the gorgeous Romaine lettuce over to expose the fresh veggies and cheese. I make a damned fine salad. The tomatoes winked up like jewels, and the tuna was roasted perfectly. All three men jumped at my hostile approach and question.

  “You are the chef, yes?” said the clown with blue false eyelashes. He blinked, sending the three-inch lashes up and down in a hilarious wave, and I felt the absurdity of my anger begin to leak out of me.

  I drew a breath through my nose, closed my eyes, and said, “I am the cook. There is no chef. Had I gone to culinary school, I would happily accept the mantel of chef, but as I did not, you must direct all questions to me.” I leaned down to get closer.

  All three clowns drew back instinctively. The middle guy, a skinny fellow with a nose that no amount of makeup could hide, took up the narrative and ran with it. Both his companions uttered audible sighs of relief at his sacrifice. I must have looked really pissed.

  “Forgive me, we were merely wondering if we could have olives.” When I blinked at him stupidly, they exchanged Gallic shrugs under their fluffy costumes before the first clown added, “For the salad. To go with the tuna. It is quite good.” He spread his hands out in submission while I processed their eminently reasonable request.

  “I, ahhh. Of course. May I bring you a dish of chopped cured olives?” I asked, attempting to adopt a tone that indicated I realized the mistake had been mine. Pride goeth before a corrected lunch and all that.

  They all beamed, a terrifying conglomeration of smiles. “That would be perfect,” enthused the third clown, who had apparently taken my admission of guilt as a sign that he could expect to leave the diner alive.

  In the minute it took me to chop olives, plate them, and walk back to the table, I found myself composed and more than a bit embarrassed. My apology was waved away genially, and I stood talking to the men as they expertly divvied and garnished their plates. That was when I noticed they all ate carefully, but with an underlying enthusiasm that seemed almost as if they feared their plates getting up and walking away.

  “You know, we’ve just pulled the loveliest bread from the oven. Salted and buttered on top. May I bring you some? As a sort of thank you for bearing with my excruciating lack of manners?” I entreated, using my most winning smile. They demurred for the proper amount of seconds, before allowing me to run off yet again. I know hungry people, and, despite their reasonable orders of tuna salads, I wanted them full, happy, and with their loins girded for a hot afternoon and evening of terrifying one in three humans they came in contact with. I returned with an entire loaf of bread, sliced and buttered, and a second loaf wrapped in foil and placed in a brown bag to keep it warm. Their effusive praise and thanks lifted my mood as only a kindness granted can bring, and I watched them leave a few moments later from my perch at the grill. My honor was defended, their stomachs were filled, and for the moment I nearly forgot about the pearly skin and staring eyes of the dead girl. Almost.

  Chapter Six: Birthday Suit

  Sometimes, when I need to burn off tension, I walk. I don’t run unless I’m being chased, but walking is quite acceptable, especially among the bucolic mountain scenery of my home. It’s tough to keep a bad mood thriving after a few dozen lungsful of Adirondack air. I know, I’ve tried.

  After feeding Gus and changing into ratty clothes that were more forest-ready, I wandered up the back path between my house and a row of birch trees that were busy shedding bark like a dog’s hair on a white couch. Their small leaves rattled happily in the light wind, ignoring my bad mood altogether. I cast a look of mild reproof at the irritatingly pretty row and stalked off onto a well-worn path hemmed by low ferns and the odd blackberry. Up a mild incline, I found a deer path that doubled as a cut-through to the other side of town, a sort of impromptu sidewalk that locals used. The meandering track wove in and out of the trees, always at the edge of the meadow that circles the upper crescent of the lake where there aren’t many cabins or homes.
One of the reasons Halfway is still tranquil is that we haven’t allowed it to be overrun with cheap vacation homes or hideous McMansions filled with visitors who don’t care about the lake. Or the town. Or us, for that matter. You can always tell that type in the diner; they rarely remove their sunglasses when ordering the waitresses around. I’m glad we’ve dodged that particular tourist bullet. So far.

  I reached that point in a walk where the mind begins to travel in a sort of cheerful meander. I missed Wulfric, but knowing he was out there somewhere felt good; I knew he would come back, and we would celebrate by beginning the joys of discovery all over again. He was a sweet and careful lover; not that I’ve taken a ton of men to bed, but I could feel a gentle strength within him that told me at every second we were together, he was aware of me. My needs. My size, which is more important than you might think.

  You try sharing a bed with a guy whose feet hang off the end of the mattress.

  He would take my face in his gentle hands and kiss me, all the while letting his body ease onto me with the grace of a deer. There was something primal about him that made me relax; Wulfric was above all else a man, not a boy. I reveled in his warmth when the sun was just coming up in that cool hour before the world woke up and life began.

  I picked a lovely fiddlehead fern and marveled at the mystery of its knurled green shape. After a few minutes, I was shadowed by some pines that ran along a slope, when I noticed something.

  Actually, it was a lack of something. As in silence.