Halfway Bitten (21 page)

It was time to hotfoot back down the street and ask Mathieu a few more questions, because I had a suspicion he was being used even more horribly than we’d imagined, if that was even possible. I added
being surprised by scummy vamp behavior
to my list of things I didn’t anticipate seeing in my lifetime, right next to an attractive drawstring pant and fat-free maple syrup.

I was having one of those out-of-body moments where I compared cooking at the diner with battling undead minions of some unseen evil force. It might surprise you to know that I prefer the cooking, and not just because it involves quality control sampling of waffles and pastries and—well, everything. I think that deep down I’m a little bit frightened of my magic. Not in the way that I fear losing control of a spell, but more like an intense wondering about what happens after the last spell has been cast and Halfway is safe once more. I
know
I can be beaten in a fight, but Gran? With Wulfric? No chance. The three of us are more or less unstoppable, except for one small detail: what if I find that unleashing destructive magic is to my liking? Other than Gran stripping me of my power, there would be other more long-ranging consequences. What about my soul? Would it be stained? Is it the kind of corruption that can be cleansed? I hated that something in my town could force me to ask such questions, but Gran trained me to take a long view on problems relating to the purity of my power. I swore to myself that whatever was going to happen, I would braid justice with mercy no matter how badly the unknown circus leaders needed to be removed.

I was in the midst of my woolgathering when I snapped to attention at Gran’s door. Apparently, I could walk and wrestle with metaphysical questions, which wasn’t a bad skill to have on one’s back pocket, if you ask me.

“Carlie! You want me to drop these candles off at your place, or leave ‘em here?” Tammy called to me from the street.

Turning, I saw her delivery truck blocking one lane of Main as the cars piled up behind her. She looked in her rearview mirror and grinned impudently, even waving when one driver had the gall to honk their horn at her affront to the progress of traffic.

“Here is good. How do you know they’re candles?” I asked, walking toward her. She’d pulled my parcel from the back and held in out with one toned arm. Say what you want about her fashion choices, Tammy had an occupation that kept her body in peak condition for her other pursuits.

“Simple, babe. They smell like a queen bee orgasmed into a box and left it in my truck.” Her pert nose wrinkled at the scent of royal beeswax. I admit, it might be a bit much in a warm truck.

“Right. Heh, well, the little tramps
are
rather spoiled. Thousands of boyfriends waiting on them. Sort of like you. Speaking of, how’d your night with Geoff end up? He’s a
cutie
. Did you leave the circus early?” I asked, signing her digital clipboard and taking the box.

“Circus? Why would I go to a circus?” Tammy asked, as the chorus of horns began to rise in tenor and volume.

People were transitioning from irritated to mad. It didn’t take long.

“I saw you with him. At the circus. Last night.” I looked at the blank expression on her face, then took her hand. The mark given by the worker outside the tent had faded, and the infinity symbol was a mere whisper of the vibrant color it had been hours earlier.

“Babe, I’d rather drop dead than go to a circus. Hate clowns.” She looked at the traffic and made a rude gesture, while popping one hip out to show more cheek. The dad in the rental car right behind her grimaced and turned away to his wife, whose face ranged from scandalized to admiring. Tammy really
did
have a nice bum, if a bit flattened from her hours in the saddle, so to speak. With a wicked smile, she winked and jumped back into her chair before waving. “See ya, kid!”

Interesting.
I stepped into Gran’s to find Mathieu had moved to the couch, where he was chatting amiably about something to do with food being cooked in a single kettle.

“Carlie, dear. We’ve been discussing the merits of stews done in a French Canadian style. It’s quite gripping. Come in and tell us what you’ve discovered.” Gran’s face was placidly friendly, but there were tears of boredom threatening to glaze her eyes at any moment. I didn’t know that a nearly-changed vampire could be dull, but it seemed that Mathieu fit the bill.

“Mathieu, do you know the woman who was stamping a symbol on patrons as they came into the tent? The infinity symbol, sort of a figure eight on its side?” I asked.

He looked puzzled, but said, “Of course. It is to allow visitors to come and go as they please in the event the show runs long. Why?”

I turned to Gran, my eyes bright with conclusion. “I know why we’ve never heard of this circus before. Think about it—how could they go up and down the state, or states, all the way into Canada, without leaving
someone
behind to ask questions? Missing people, murder, unexplained things? No way. Not without something powerful on their side. Not without magic.”

“I agree. What did you find?” Gran asked. Her laconic pose told me she’d considered the matter at length.

“The stamp is a charm, but not like mine.” I held up my wrist, jingling the powerful enchantments on their silver chain. “It’s temporary. It causes a sort of amnesia, but only after the charm is washed off, or worn off.”

“So the customers have time to tell others of the wonders within the big tent, and continue the cycle. Brilliant,” Gran said, her voice tinged with grudging respect.

“Yep, and now we know how they can move about so freely. Which leads me to believe that whatever it is they’re going to do, it won’t be here. They’re not done eliminating the competition, and I think I know why,” I told them both. “Brendan had some interesting things to show me at the library.”

“Tell me,” Gran ordered, but kindly. I had the full weight of her considerable attention, and it was intense.

“Brendan knows who Philip is, or was, rather.” I took the necklaces from my pocket with delicate regret. “Alex brought him these. The vampires from other clans are being lured here and picked off one at a time in the forest, away from the circus and other prying eyes. It’s a setup, and Philip’s identity tells me why it’s happening.”

“Who was he?” Mathieu asked.

“A king. His name was Metacomet, and he was the leader of the Powhatan tribe, and a few more, too. His people lived in the tidal coasts of Virginia, and they fought the British for decades before losing,” I said. “He was supposed to have died in 1676, but that obviously wasn’t true because I spoke to him here in Halfway.”

Gran looked at the shark tooth necklaces. “Is one of those his?”

I nodded, a small concession to the grim truth. “Yes, and it ought to concern everyone. He was
old
, and powerful. And yet, that necklace is all that’s left of him. There was another picture; a carving that Brendan found at another library. It depicted—I guess we’d call them pilgrims—shooting and chasing down natives. It was awful, like some kind of an extermination.”

Gran drummed her fingers together, thinking. “Would you say the scene came from Metacomet’s time? His historical lifetime, that is?”

“I would. It looked like the 1600s to me. And to Brendan, who pointed out their clothing as being thoroughly English,” I added. I drew an uplifting breath and looked directly at Gran. “I think that we’re dealing with something new here. I’ve never heard of vampire sorcery. Is that what this is, Gran?”

“It is,” she said calmly. “And yes, I’ve heard of it before. In Boston, nearly a century ago there was a shadow war fought between two covens of witches.”

“Covens fight all the time, Gran. At least, I thought they did?” I asked her, confused at the use of something as mundane as witches slugging it out in a city. Covens often had different goals, and there was conflict to settle it. One coven would thrive, and the other moved on or was consumed. Quite Darwinian, if you thought that he approved of magic as a means to employ the survival of the fittest.

“This was an unusual situation. Both covens were undead, and hated each other well past the point that reconciliation could occur. The Gray Guard, on the north side of the city, were vampires. Their opponents were a rather fanciful bunch of gents who called themselves Liberty Grove. As you might guess, they were Revolutionary War era undead who’d been mummified as a group in 1781. There was a necromancer in Boston—he’s gone now, but at the time he envisioned a small personal army of his own to fend off any future British incursions. Naturally, his own creations turned on him, but the undead he made turned to witchcraft and became powerful practitioners. The war was short, vicious, and deadly,” Gran explained.

“Who won?” Mathieu asked.

“The Gray Guard controls North Boston to this day, although some of the sisters are a bit long in the tooth, you might say.” She grinned at her dark humor, then added, “It’s interesting that there are woodcuts of a scene like you described. History has often been sanitized in the name of preserving good feelings, yet the power behind this circus doesn’t seem to care who knows the truth of their goals.”

“You mean other than blood?” I asked. There were layers to this scheme. Vampires seemed like the kind of beings who would love puzzles and word problems. No wonder I didn’t like them.

“It feels like an old grudge is being dealt with, Carlie, and time is no issue for the beings who are righting what they see as an ancient wrong,” Gran said.

“A correction, lady.” Mathieu’s tone was deferential but firm as he addressed Gran. “We leave tomorrow, so time is short. Whatever is happening has been done, and the circus will move on. I’m almost certainly being missed by this point. I don’t think it’s safe for me to go back,” He said, and there was naked worry in his voice. He was right; sending him back would be an act of casual cruelty on our part.

After a beat or two, Gran simply nodded. “Well then, our haste will be completely warranted. Carlie, if you’d be so kind as to go home and roust that layabout boyfriend of yours, we’ll meet here fifteen minutes before moonrise tonight. You are to eat, drink something hot, bathe, and then rest—there will be no randy lovemaking—”

“Gran! Stop! Ohmygod. You can
not
talk to me about that kind of thing!” I squeaked in absolute horror. My face went crimson as Mathieu began to snigger under his breath, narrow shoulders rocking with the effort to contain his laughter. I turned on him with my most heated stare, but he kept right on laughing.

“Well, it has to be said. I need you well rested, and you’re young and vigorous, and come to think of it so is Wulfric—”

“Gran!” I interrupted again before she could really get rolling. “Please. I’m begging you. This is even more uncomfortable than when mom bought me the cartoon chart on the male reproductive system.” That boondoggle was still legendary in our family history. I couldn’t watch cartoons for—well, ever again.

She gave a dignified sniff, but her eyes danced with mischief. “Very well. I’ll refrain from such things, but only if you swear to get some rest.” Her tone shifted to iron then, and I bowed my head in half-mocking supplication.

I knew what she meant. A well-rested witch meant good timing and pure magic. I wouldn’t do her the disservice of reporting for duty in a state of dishabille. Well, my
hair
might, but the rest of me would be ready to go.

“Mathieu, do you need anything before I go?” I asked. He might still eat real food, for all I knew.

Gran waved me off. “He’ll be fine here. I’m going to brew him a draught and see if something light sounds good.”

At that, Mathieu smiled in thanks.

“Okay, Gran. Love you, and see you at moonrise with Wulfric at my side. Any other orders?” I asked. I needed her guidance just then, as the enormity of our evening’s work began to loom.

“Clear your heart. Rest well.” Her smile was patient and restorative.

“What about witnesses, Gran? What we’re doing tonight—” I began, but she only laughed.

“There will only be one witness left if our aim is true, dear.” She pointed up with one finger as her smile grew chilly. “The moon.”

I ran one finger down the knobs of Wulfric’s spine, marveling at the graceful contours. His skin rippled in response, so I took it as an invitation to do it again. And again. Through half closed eyes, I took stock of my room. One witch, check. One boyfriend, check. A warm buzz and tangled sheets, check that one off three times. And for the crowning glory, one view of Wulfric’s bum lit by the last rays of the Adirondack sunset.

“Magnificent,” I said, trailing fingers down his narrow hip.

He regarded me like a large cat might stare down a mouse. “I won’t be objectified, you rogue.” Then his tongue flicked into my ear and I let the current of our connection race through me with welcome abandon. In that moment, the last of the sun deflated behind the smudged mountains, and I knew that playtime was over.

“Time to get ready,” I groaned in protest. I slid from the sheets, stretched, then deposited a lingering kiss on Wulfric’s lips, before walking—although I wanted to stomp—toward the shower.

“Then I shall prepare as well,” he announced in deep tones of resignation. “I would join you, dear heart, but I think my gear will not prepare itself.”

As the water began to steam, I felt my witchmark tingle, a sure sign that even if my body was still in bed with Wulfric, my mind was drawing toward a diamond clarity. Magic was at hand, and my psyche welcomed the focus with ease. “It’s not okay, but it’ll have to do.” I let the water dance on my skin and reached for a hyssop soap that Gran made; its purifying properties were ancient and powerful. There’s a lot to be said for routine, and witches know this better than most. I let the symbolic cleansing bring my spirits higher, until a smile crept over my face.

It surprised even me, because I should have been worried. Knowing that Wulfric
and
Gran were with me, somehow didn’t seem fair to whoever we went to meet. Drying myself off with purpose, I wondered what the ringmaster would wear, or be wearing, when we confronted him. I do love a crisp dresser, but the stink of villainy outweighed any man who could coordinate suspenders and shoes. He had to go, and his partners with him.

“Babe?” I called out. The house was silent, until Gus lofted a mournful cry up the stairway. “Where’s Wulfric?” I asked him.

The cat’s response was to sit at the bottom stair, look over his shoulder at the door, and then regard me silently. A chill went through me, even though my skin still steamed from the shower, and I caromed from wall to bannister in a dash downstairs. Gus darted to the left in an impressive burst of motion, but I’d leapt his former position to bang against my front door in a slide that shed my towel and dignity with one move. My sense felt nothing; he was gone. Fear erupted in my heart as thoughts spun wildly.
Why? How?
Then back to
why
again, but with a note of panic that reached cold fingers into my heart.

Before I could tear the door open, I noticed the paper. It was small, folded once, and white. I snatched it from the floor as Gus rested a paw on my foot. “Why didn’t you tell me, bum?” I groused at him, but he merely looked down at the resplendent fur of his chest.

When his green eyes fixed on me with accusation, I rolled my eyes and unfolded the paper with shaking hands.

I will see you at the tent. Do not doubt me or my love for you.

Numbness spread through me. I stifled a sob because it would be childish and indulgent, but damn if I didn’t want to. How
dare
he leave me at this second. I didn’t care if he
was
nearly ten centuries older, I’d take his lonesome hunter hide and nail it—

My mind interrupted the rant before I could really cut loose and revel in the pity. As thousand-year-old vampire half breed who happened to be a Viking, he’d spent the bulk of his life hunting when he wasn’t at war, and his people made the act of conquest into a business.

“Okay, Carlie. Sound it out.” My voice sounded ragged in the hall, causing Gus to twitch. I reached out to scratch his ears, setting him into a rumble of pleasure that lowered my blood pressure instantly. “A hunter. A Viking. A vampire. He left to go do something he either doesn’t want me to see or . . . what? Maybe it’s something I can’t do. What do you think?” I asked Gus, who responded with a bored yawn that implied I was wasting his time even asking such a question. “Good point. Okay, so it’s something outside my skills.” That could be anything from reaching something on the top shelf to catching trout with my hands, neither of which struck me as particularly useful in my line of work. I took a calming breath and shook my hands out like a fighter. There was a distinct breeze, and my bum grew chilly enough that I knew the first step I needed to take toward the evening’s business.

I’m a witch with power and I’m not afraid to use it. But first, I was going to need pants.