Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

  * * *

  Estika came alive after sunset: the old buildings and gothic architecture were highlighted by spotlights from various angles. It turned each street into a work of art. The play of light and shadow on the gargoyles and grotesques was intricate and beautiful, if slightly disturbing.

  There were also more people around right after dark than in the day: an exodus of skin-tight leather disappearing into the clubs and bars that lined the streets.

  Mitchell keyed his radio. “We’re about five minutes from you.”

  “Roger,” Truman said. “We’ll be waiting.”

  The car lapsed back into silence. McGregor was too focussed on his laptop; Clarkson had woken from one of his many naps to stare out of the window with wonder at the big wide world; and Mitchell had no desire for conversation with either of them.

  The lights in the apartment overlooking the castle that Truman and Skylar had rented were off, presumably so the castle’s inhabitants wouldn’t know a soldier was aiming an L115A3 Long-Range Rifle at them. Mitchell, McGregor, and Clarkson slipped into the apartment and McGregor sat at the plastic dining set. The apartment was comprised of brand-new DIY furniture that, for all its attempts at style and sleekness, would never look like anything other than furniture assembled by amateurs.

  “Report,” Truman said. He liked his reports.

  “We collected Clarkson from Archee and came here,” Mitchell said.

  “Mitchell wouldn’t even let me visit my sister,” Clarkson added.

  “You—”

  “I wasn’t going to let her see me, obviously: I’m officially dead. I just wanted to check she was doing okay.”

  “Wait,” Truman said, “how did you stop him?”

  “It was actually pretty amazing,” McGregor said from behind his laptop screen. “They did a whole macho stand-off, then Clarkson tried to hit him and take his gun, and then—”

  “He doesn’t need a blow-by-blow commentary,” Mitchell said.

  McGregor looked away, not that he’d been looking at Mitchell in the first place. “I’m just… it was impressive. You beat a vampire in hand-to-hand combat!”

  “It’s not that hard. Only takes one decent punch.”

  “But landing one is damned near impossible from what I remember,” Truman said.

  Mitchell shrugged. “I find it’s easiest to hit them if you pin both their arms behind their back and press their face into the carpet with your knee.”

  “It is effective,” Clarkson agreed.

  “Lancashire might not have the gang problems you do in the States,” Mitchell told Truman, “but I can handle myself in a scrap.”

  “Do we have a game plan now that we’re all here, sir?” Skylar asked, one eye still pressed to the rifle’s scope. “Beyond shooting out their tyres if they try to run.”

  “Convince the Andrastes they’re better off back on Archi,” Truman said.

  “How?”

  How did she think? “We use our sparkling personalities,” Mitchell said. “And if that fails, we put bullets in them.”

  “I’ve asked Doctor McGregor to examine Clarkson,” Truman said. “We’ll have a better idea of their combat capabilities then.”

  “I went over some of the basics while Mitchell was loading the jeep,” McGregor said. “There’s some more science stuff I can look into, but this should do for starters.”

  Truman gestured for him to take the floor. “Lead us through Vampire One-Oh-One, doc.”

  “The, uh, preliminary examination of Clarkson produced a number of findings that could be quite important. There’s no physiological reason why he can’t go out in daylight, and also nothing in the Book of Tipote. Vampire make-up is a blend cat and human and neither of those has a problem with sunlight except in rare cases.”

  “The Andrastes weren’t faking it,” Mitchell said. “The elder son burnt after only a few seconds in the light.”

  “There is a genuine cause,” McGregor said, “but I don’t think it relates to vampirism. I think the concept that vampires can’t come out in daylight is because the Andrastes are the only vampires left. If the modern vampire archetype was perpetuated by someone who met the Andrastes, they’d naturally assume that since none of the vampires they’d encountered could go out in daylight, no vampires could go out in daylight.”

  “Are we sure it affects the entire family?” Truman asked.

  “Without examining them all, no. But they all avoided the sunlight when we were in their manor. It’s a decent assumption.”

  “Any tips for fighting them?” Mitchell asked.

  “They’re fast. Very fast. But only over short distances. They might outrun you for a block, but you’ll catch them in two. Of course, they can also leap nearly fifteen feet vertically, and over forty-five horizontally, so they could probably still get away. Uh, the teeth are sharp and designed for tearing through necks, so some kind of protection may be in order.”

  “Should we really expect them to bite us?”

  “Well it is more likely they’ll use weapons. Clarkson doesn’t seem any stronger than he used to be, so that’s a plus, and they’re mortal. We don’t need silver or garlic or stakes. Bullets will do the trick if we can hit them, which will be quite hard because of the aforementioned… fastness. Uh, what else? They have one more thoracic and two more lumbar vertebrae, they’re digitigrades – they walk on their toes – and they have higher heart rates and temperatures than the rest of us.”

  “How does that help us?” Truman asked.

  “Well, uh, if we draw them into longer conflicts, they’ll overheat and tire. They’re built entirely for speed and stealth – sneak attacks – not continued battle.”

  That was all well and good, but how were they supposed to keep the battle going? By the sound of it, the Andrastes would attack by ambush. Followed quickly by a massacre.

  “Anything else, doctor?” Truman asked.

  “They sleep a lot. Their sense of smell is stronger than a human’s and their low-light vision is better, but their daytime vision is worse. They can’t taste sweetness. They can only eat meat, which we already knew. And Nepeta Dynatos sends them into a frenzy.”

  “Do we have any?” Clarkson asked, straightening.

  “Paddington is bringing some,” McGregor said. Clarkson nodded and went back to lounging against the wall.

  Archi-strength catnip. The Andrastes had gone mad for the stuff the last time they’d used it – leaping and pawing and completely forgetting about the Team. It might even be enough to draw them into a trap.

  “That’s all great,” Skylar said, “but do we have a game plan or not?”

  “We wait for Paddington,” Truman said.

  This was Truman’s plan? To wait? They should be on the offensive: wait until half an hour before sunrise, then tell the vampires that if they don’t surrender immediately, they’d bomb them at first light. Either they’d make a run for it or they’d burn.

  “So we’re killing time?” Mitchell asked.

  “What’s that?” Clarkson said. “It’s killing time? Finally!” In an instant, his rifle – issued to him against Mitchell’s better judgement – was in his hand and he was speeding toward the window.

  “Holster that, Clarkson!” Truman shouted.

  “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m officially dead, remember? You can’t order the dead around.”

  “You’re officially dead to keep you safe. You can’t go around flaunting what you are like you can on Archi. If anyone learns that vampires are real and that you’re one of them, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a lab.”

  “Being probed by men far less gentle than me,” McGregor added.