Greg, In Grave (Wink) Danger

When I was a boy... that was so, so long ago. When I was boy, I had a particularly bothersome loose tooth. It dangled in my mouth for days longer than it was welcomed. Eventually, I was so perturbed by the stupid thing I tied a string around it and yanked. Popped out, before it was ready, in a bloody pulp.

Why was I thinking about this?

There was a pressure. On my skin and in my lungs and my teeth and bones. Taunt yet soft? Urging but gentle. A delicate whisper in my ear with a firm tug of my hair.

Wake up.

My blood warmed. Slowly. Pleasantly. Liquid heat tingled in my veins, chasing away a cold numbness that seemed to encase me.

Wake up. Wake up.

And then my heart beat. Hit me like a fanging shot to the chest.

That pressure, that tight, persistent, pressure centered in my fangs, pulled.

Wake. Up.

Gasping, I lurched forward, thrust into the living world by the weight pinched around my fangs. There was pain. In my belly. Deep and searing. Burning. Yet I was cold. My whole body surrounded by a wet chill.

I opened my eyes.

And hissed.

It was bright! Too bright. Flung an arm over my eyes. Why was it so fanging bright? Burned my eyes. Blurred my vision. Specks and splashes of neon colors danced behind my eyelids. Sweet hell that hurt.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

A shudder coursed up my spine. I needed to get up. To go. To follow that... that feeling. Insistent and overwhelming and making my pulse surge.

Groaning, I opened my eyes again. Slower (no, faster, go, go, go, get up). The world was white. I was outside. It was snowing. The sky gray and so, so bright and snowing. A torrent of white flakes fell on my face and chest and hands... my pale hands. Fangs, you could white balance a camera off these mitts.

Was it... daylight?

I squinted up, hand as a shield over my eyes. That sky. It was overcast but unmistakably sunny behind the clouds. I remembered that. The way clouds looked with the sun trapped behind them. Peaceful and foreboding, all at once. Haven't seen it in centuries. But I remembered. It was day. I was awake and it was day.

No. No. That couldn't happen.

Where the hell even was I? Hey, now, believe it or not but I ain't the kind of vamp that makes a habit of blacking out and waking up in strange tombs. In daylight no less.

A tunnel of earth surrounded me. Dirt and snow scraped against my shoulders and the soles of my feet. It was tight. Too tight, for my liking. Suffocating. Too much like being... in the ground... was I in the ground?

For a moment, glimmering there in the light, I thought I caught the trail of a red thread leading from my mouth and out and over the top of the pit. It was taunt. Pulling hard at my incisors.

An overpowering need to follow that path clawed up my back.

I dug my fingers into the frozen earth to lift myself up and "Fuck!"

Pain ripped through me. Hot and flaring. Sawing into my gut. My ribs splintered around something hard, and I groaned. A stake.

Took a deep breath. Slow inhale. Slow—ouch, shit—exhale. Alright, old boy, think hard. How in all the saints in hell did you get here?

Last thing I remembered was rolling up to Dmitri's house. It was getting early. His door knocker froze the skin right off my palm. Lily—no, Rosemond was there, wearing poor Lily's skin like a suit. It all made sense then, watching that kooky broad reveal the stake hidden behind her back like she was on some kind of game show.

There was no Lily. Least, not right then. Jury was still out on if I'd ever met Lily at all. She could've truly, really, honest to fangness the reincarnation of Dmitri's wife whose memories finally resurfaced after all this time during Isla's seance. Or, given how loosey goosey Isla played with her own magic, I popped my tent up in the botched resurrection camp.

Dmitri held me down—my shoulders still felt scraped and bruised—as Rosemond rammed the stake through my chest. Surprisingly strong, that one, for a walking corpse. (Though I guess if you squinted me and Dmitri were nothing but walking corpses too).

"I knew you'd deliver this for me," she said. "Just like I know she'll come for you."

Isla. She was after Isla. I was nothing but bait. Chum in the water.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Yes. Right. I needed to go. To move. The hole in my stomach had patched itself up. Good. My nerves fizzled under my skin with the urgency to go, go, go get up, go to her. Isla. It was Isla's voice echoing in my head. Urging me forward. Her magic pulling and luring and tugging and caressing my will to go to her, now, yes, go you fanging idiot, she needs you.

I wrapped both hands 'round the stake in my belly and pulled. Drew it out slow. Oh, goat-suckers that hurt. Skin had healed around the spike that I tore and shred from my own body to free myself from the dirt. Bit a hole through my lip, grunting. A droplet of smoky blood bubbled onto my lip. Eventually, the weapon—slick with gore and red clumps of I don't even know which of my organs, swell—slid free with a wet pop.

A figure appeared above me. Looming. Blotted out the pale sun. The sleeves of her faded gown dripped into the mouth of the grave.

"Oooh looky here what I found!" Rosemond sang out.

I launched myself out of the grave, hissing and snarling. It was her. This whole time it was her stringing us along. Threatening Isla. She was hurt. Her blood pulsed in me, around me, everywhere. I could smell it. See it. Glowing, red and bright and lovely, in the snow covering the graveyard.

I was going to murder Rosemond again for every mole she harmed on Isla.

So I grabbed her by the throat and drove my fangs into her jugular.

She screamed. Yeah, getting your getting neck noshed on hurt. Not sure how it worked for the reanimated, but if the gal was anything like me, then being undead didn't take away any pain.

Her noxious blood flooded my mouth. Tasted rancid. Tacky and stale and overripe. Rotten to the very core. She'd been walking around as a dead woman too long. Fought back the need to gag, and instead let her festering decay spill out from my mouth and trickle down the front of her gown.

Isla was in the mausoleum. Right there, across the yard. Her bones glowed beneath her skin, reflecting off the white snow. Dark eyes locked to mine. Chest heaving. Face swollen and bloody. A red thread, wet and glowing, was pulled taunt between us. Her arm. My teeth.

She woke me.

My girl woke me up in broad daylight.

Well dang. Wasn't that something.

But her wrists were bound.

She was bleeding.

There was so much blood.

Ignoring every urge in my throat to vomit, I bit down harder into Rosemond's neck. Teeth touched bone. Even still, she wailed and jammed her elbows ferociously into my torso. I gargled on her stolen blood. Managed to wrestle the shovel from her and toss it aside, but she stomped on my toes, which dang it, did hurt.

Biting down hard, I ripped my teeth from her. Cleaved her skin. Shredded her meat and muscle beneath. Her body went limp in my arms.

Dropped her into the awaiting grave. Just like she'd done to Pearl and the others.

I retched the putrid blood into a nearby, hacked up looking shrub, expelling every last bit of that hellish woman from my system.

Good riddance.

Bitch.

... I may have been spending too much time with Isla lately.

Isla.

In the mausoleum, Isla was pushing herself onto her feet with all the grace of a newborn deer. I ran to her. Was there in a flash, looping an arm around her soft waist. Pulled her body, delicate and fragile, against me and a sweet, gentle, relief passed through us both. She was frigid. Shivering all over. Wearing nothing but a nightgown and her wet robe.

"Oh," Isla leaned heavily against me. "Good morning."

Her pulse relaxed. Just a fraction. Mine slowed to match perfectly. Our hearts beat in unison, Isla's clearly setting the rhythm. I didn't like that. The feeling of my fate being literally outside my own chest. But, for now, fang it, I was just glad she was alright.

"It's okay," I cupped her cheek. Her face was so swollen. One eye nearly shut. A gash decorated her forehead. "I got you. You're okay."

"Spit!" she slurred.

"Spit?" Oh nelly. I squeezed her a little tighter. "Not judging if you're into that, but I don't think now's the best time. What you hit your head on?"

Isla pointed behind me.

Where Mrs. Cabroni lay, bleeding out, on a pedestal. "Shit."

"Spit on her—please?" Isla yelled. She pushed out of my arms and flung herself on the were-woman, pressing her already ruined sleeve into Mrs. Cabroni's split neck. "Do—the—thing. Lick her neck or something— I'm asking! Please, Greg?"

Oh. Isla knew vampire saliva could slow bleeding. She'd seen me do, the other night when I drank from her as we made love (banged it out, according to her turn of phrase). Mrs. Cabroni was wilting quick. Her half-lidded eyes fluttered as weakly as her twitching limbs. But the flow of her blood from the wound was steady. Her pulse still beat. It was slowing by the minute, but by no means gone.

Well, old boy, you've been around the block a few hundred times, but you sure never spit in a werewolf's neck wound before, so, first time for everything.

"Clever girl," I said to Isla, lifting her off the bleeding woman.

Took a deep breath. Stretched my jaws. Allowed a veritable puddle of saliva to pool on my tongue. I spit on Mrs. Cabroni. A fat glob of it that fizzed where it landed. The werewolf shifted and moaned, though she appeared to remain unconscious. I smeared my spit in her wound. Dug my thumb—gag—into the meat of her throat. The blood slowed at once. Not stopped, not completely. Vamp saliva wasn't a miracle drug. But it slowed. Helped to clot the wound. Hopefully, if we could get this woman to a doctor, she'd survive.

"S'it working?" breathed Isla.

"Yeah—"

A rustle in the snow alerted me. I draped my arm over Isla's shoulders and ducked, just as a shovel came soaring into the mausoleum. It clacked against the back wall. Right where my head would've been. The wooden handle splintered, leaving only a small stub attached to the blade.

"Finish my spell, you filthy slag!"

Isla and I spun.

Rosemond wielded the long stake like a spear. It was still messy with my viscera. And hers, at this point. Brown and black liquid oozed, slow and gelatinous, from the undead woman's neck. Left an ugly gash in the snow, marring the frosty headstones with gore. My bite had torn a pretty hole in her. One to rival the wolf scratch in her abdomen. It bent Rosemond's head at a terrible angle. Flaps of skin blew in the wind. Said skin, and fabric and the errant curls of her hair, caught on her shards of exposed vertebra.

Now, that dame's neck was broken. Very much so. Now it turns out I'm not as versed in necromancy as I'd thought, cause I'd never seen one of Syme's experiments do that. Even us vamps, when you broke our necks like that, we tended to stop walking. At least till it healed up fully. Didn't make any sense as to how her battered body could keep moving like that, trudging toward us full of wrath.

Powerful stuff.

No wonder those books were kept such a secret.

"Can't you command her to be still? Go back to her grave? Eat her own fingernails, something?"

Isla shook her head. "That only works on the soulless undead and that bone bag has a soul, but it's the wrong—"

Smashed my own elbow into Isla's shoulder. Knocked her right back over. "Sorry, darling, but you need a breather," I mumbled and threw myself at the woman with the stake.

Couldn't very well let her stab my girl with that thing, now could I? Rosemond had gotten me with it before. I could take it. Oddly, despite knowing it was black magic—evil magic that was responsible for the unstoppable sack of bones and rage out for our blood at this very moment—knowing Isla could wake me right back up should I take another stake to the chest was relieving.

Rosemond only managed to clip me with the point under a rib as I tackled her. Our backs hit the snow. I growled. She screeched. We rolled. She jabbed blindly with her stake at my back—actually hitting her fanging target.

Sweet hell, was I not allowed to have any jackets?

But she couldn't get a good angle with me on top of her. Not enough force and space to drive the point all the way through my torso. Didn't stop Rosemond from stabbing wildly into my shoulders anyway. Ouch. That was going to leave splinters.

As she threw her arm back for more leverage, I snatched her wrist and smashed it into the ground. The stake bounced out of her hand, but she continued to claw at my back with her other. I could feel more of those acrylic nails popping off against my jacket.

I twisted her wrist in my hand. Tighter and tighter. Rosemond screamed as the bones beneath her skin all shattered, her muscle and tendons torn out of place. Anchoring my knee against her pelvis I dug my nails into her wrist and tore.

Her hand popped off like a chicken wing.

I lobbed it across the yard.

Bits of skin and meat and blood rained down on us, mingling with the snow.

This, annoyingly, did not seem to perturb her much. Instead of crying or losing strength from the massive blood loss she was inevitably suffering, Rosemond swiped the jagged stub of her wrist bone through my eyes.

For a moment, I went blind. My vision was only red and pus and pain.

"The fang does it take to re-kill you," I snarled, wiping my face and struggling to keep the thrashing woman under me pinned down. I blinked, my eyes healed and vision returning, and spotted Isla quaking in the mausoleum. "How do we kill her?"

Isla loudly hissed through her teeth. "I, uh, seem to skipped that part of narcolepsy lessons... Necro... lepsy."

I scowled down at Rosemond, drenched in her own toxic blood. "How hard did you hit her?"

"Not hard enough!"

She kneed me in the groin.

Knocked the wind from me. I fell off her. My back suddenly cold and wet in the slush.

Isla's bare feet—bare feet?—sprinted past my head, kicking up snow. She left glowing, bloody footprints in her wake. "I have a plan!"

"What plan!"

Rosemond was up to her knees. She made to rush after Isla. I kicked out. Knocked her right in the knee, and sent her tripping, nose over toes, over a rocky headstone.

Just as I was pushing off a weather worn angel's wing and onto my feet, Rosemond sprang up over the grave, wielding both the stake and her jagged bone as spears. She stumbled toward me, her one knee now rotated to be perpendicular to her opposite leg.

"I want to live!" Rosemond howled. "I want my body back! It isn't fucking fair! Why does she get to decide who gets a second chance!"

"You want this!" I gestured to her bent neck, the stub of her wrist, and then to the hole in my shirt. "For eternity? This isn't living. Dmitri did right by you the first time. Look at him, he's older than dirt and losing his damned marbles. Living forever will destroy your husband, Rosemond. It will destroy us all. Death, to finally rest, is a relief."

She blew a raspberry at me. "You're just boring—gaaah!"

The end of the stake—the one that we'd dropped in our tussle—pushed through Rosemond's chest. Her ribs shattered outward. Organs pierced in a juicy squelch. Splattered my face with thick blood and goo.

"Ha! Tis but a scratch!"

Rosemond made to twist—and Isla ripped back her hand and dropped the stake. It tumbled out of the undead woman's chest cavity, plopping red and wet into the snow. There was warm blood on Isla's hand. A fresh and splintery slice across her palm.

"Greg, hold her down."

That was a command. The force of Isla's curse launched me forward. I latched my hands around Rosemond's arms, one slippery in the blood spilling from her severed wrist, and pulled.

Isla's magic, strangely, wasn't as heavy as before. As oppressing. This time, fulfilling her command sent pleasant tingles down my spine.

Hope that wasn't going to be a problem in the future.

Rosemond landed, kicking and screaming, half on top of me. We twisted. She shifted onto her back. I flung my leg around over her head, managed to grab her and pin her flailing arms down to the snow with my knees. Which, wowie, this sure was an awkward position, her face that close to my—

Isla climbed onto Rosemond's hips facing me, straddling her kicking legs. Her one hand was brown with the gore of the undead woman's insides. Under Isla's other arm were two cats. Wait... one cat. Was that her cat?

"The fangs happened to Grumpkin?"

"She did!" yelled Isla. "Hold him for me, please?"

"What?"

"I need more hands for this!"

I did not want to carry her bisected cat, but Isla literally tossed me the body... bodies? I fumbled, for a moment juggling the beast to keep from dropping him into the filthy snow. Boy had been split right down the middle. His paws and tail still twitched.

"Two hands! Like this!"

Isla drove her hands into the gaping hole in Rosemond's chest. She wrapped her fingers once again around the other woman's exposed spine. Cracking. Twisting. Smearing her own blood against the walking corpse's bones.

Rosemond snarled.

I held back a gag.

"You can't be—"

"Greggy."

Fangs. Gently, carefully, I dipped both my hands into the separated halves of Grumpkin. Poor thing. I always liked cats.

He was deathly cold on the inside. Wet and clammy. The frayed ends of his shattered bones sharp against my hands. Drawing my blood up from my veins and lathering the cat's bones—no, it wasn't really my blood now, was it? It was Isla's given blood. The magic always relied on her blood. Not mine.

"Bloody hell are you doing?" Rosemond shouted. "Piss off!"

"What you asked me to," said Isla, voice low and smokey and echoing. She leaned down hard on Rosemond and whispered in her ear. "Pearl, Agatha, and Rusti can't wait to drag your ass across the veil, by the way."

The sky darkened.

Energy crackled through the graveyard. Electric. Sizzling. Shadows seemed to spring forth from under headstones. Black and oily. They slithered forward. Hissing. Whispering. The buzz of a thousand tortured souls held within them.

Wind and snow kicked up around us. The blizzard swirled to near white out conditions. But through it all, Isla glowed. That haunting, fascinating glow of her bones. Beautiful. Frightening. Flickering and flashing under her skin. Again, her one eye blown completely black, the swollen one the milky gray of dead tissue. Gold teeth shimmered in her mouth.

"Sorry about this," she said.

Isla kissed me.

The world wet dark. Still. Soft and quiet. Isla's lips moved against mine, eliciting a strangled moan from my throat. Hell she felt good. Warm. Plush. I pressed my mouth harder against her, hooking a fang against her lower lip. Her taste, mulled wine and smoke, caressed my mouth.

Energy zapped my lips. Quick and fierce as a bolt of lightning.

Beneath us, Rosemond roared in pain. "You horny buggers!"

She kicked. Thrashed. Fought hard to escape. But she couldn't. Isla's hands around her spine drew power from her. I could feel it. The current of it coursed hot and strong through Isla's body, connecting with my lips in a fierce fizzle that surged straight through me.

Funny feeling. Bit like kissing an electric fence, I guess. The moment she zinged my lips—and I leaned in, seeking a deeper kiss, deeper connection, wanting to feel that current hit me in my very bones like a fool—a slight, numbing tingle consumed me. Gooseflesh rose under my clothes. Made all the hairs on my neck stand on end.

The energy Isla channeled through me pulsed and pulsed and gathered in my fingertips. It left me through my own blood by the little tears of myself I ripped open on the bones of her cat. Tiny zips and zaps of life spilled into the creature.

Beneath us, Rosemond's scream faded first. Then her pulse. As she kicked, she cooled. Her voice went coarse. Stuttering. The weight of her eased. Thinned. Her skin dried and flaked. The ill-fitting dress loosened like a sack around her bony shoulders. She choked. Gurgled. Hair fell from her scalp in white tufts. Fingernails—real fingernails—slid right off sagging skin, sinking into the snow pile.

The tips of Rosemond's toes and fingers—of Lily's toes and fingers—dissolved to sand. The current raced up her limbs. Disintegrating them. The blizzard's winds sent the particles flying into the air, emptying her gown, scattering her bits of dust and hair and bone across the graveyard.

Eventually, Isla and I were kissing, oh, sweet hell, I lapped greedily at her tongue toying with mine, atop an empty dress.

And my hands were warm.

Isla pulled us apart (a shameful whimper rose in my throat). She gasped for air. Cheeks rosy. Panting. The glow in her bones had subsided. Her eyes, back to their natural, earthy darkness, beamed at me. Even the mostly swollen shut one.

"Hey," she said, softly.

"Hi."

"My plan worked."

A cat, soft and mewling, bumped against my right elbow. While a second cat nibbled on my left thumb.

I looked down.

Grumpkin—two Grumpkins had sprouted from the individual halves of the dead animal. Both appeared in perfect health. Black fur long and glossy. Fluffy tails swishing in the snow. Flakes of it caught on wiry whiskers and the wispy tufts of fur at the tips of their ears.

The only tell that felines were not fully alive was the marbled gray orbs of their eyes staring up at me.

One, trilling, returned to the awaiting, cooing arms of Isla. The other stretched lazily and decided to curl up into my lap, body small and warm. It purred.

]"Troll tits," Isla panted, scratching a Grumpkin under the chin. "I could use a cigarette."