S. Harper - Cursed

I sit back in the chair, sighing with frustration. The top of Pierce’s desk holds a blotter, a potted plant, a metal divider tray, a pen set.

An elaborate pen set.

I look up at Zack. “Couldn’t be . . .”

He shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”

He reaches over my shoulder and his fingers tighten around the first pen in the rack. It lifts free. Then he tries the second. This one doesn’t. He tugs at it and it levers down.

At the same time, there’s a gentle sliding sound. I spring from the chair to watch the bookcase swing forward on a well-oiled track.

Zack and I move through the door, Glocks in hand.

We find ourselves in what looks like a small laboratory. A long table holds an autoclave, a microscope, and a desktop computer, as well as racks of test tubes and blood samples. There are other machines I don’t recognize on a second table. The shelves above them are filled with supplies, including towels, sheets, and a stack of fresh scrubs. To my right are two closed doors. Directly across from us is a window. Through it, we have a clear view of the operating suite. On the other side of the glass are six coffins on stainless steel biers. Zack and I exchange glances. Pierce keeps the vampires in coffins? A macabre joke? Each casket has a large tank at the end of it. A coil of plastic tubing connecting them. I surmise that’s how the silver anesthesia Alan mentioned is administered. One coffin is open, but from this vantage point we can’t see inside. A woman dressed in scrubs stands in front of it, blocking our view. Her back is to us, but I know it’s Pierce. I recognize the upswept blond hair from last night.

We move in tandem to the adjacent door. Zack stands to the right, I, to the left. With a sweeping motion, he cracks the door open. The sound of a Rogers and Hammerstein tune spills out. Pierce is cheerfully humming along. The door opens as soundlessly as the bookcase. Pierce doesn’t hear us enter, doesn’t even look up as we move behind her.

She’s standing over a coffin, a syringe in her hand. The lid and sides of the coffin appear to be lined with silver. There’s a blanket that looks to be of spun silver pushed to the end and partially draped over the side. The coil of plastic tubing hangs disconnected from its tank at the end. From over Pierce’s shoulder, I can see inside.

Isabella. It’s horrifying to get my first glimpse of what has become of her. The wispy woman with the radiant smile I’ve been searching for is stretched out, nude, her body withering away. Her long brown hair looks like straw. Her lips are drained of color and peeling, her skin pale and pruned. Across her abdomen is a series of ghastly-looking scars that have yet to completely heal. She’s moaning softly, her eyes closed.

Pierce reaches inside the coffin and lifts Isabella’s arm. “This will put you to sleep for the final time. In a moment, it will all be over.”

Just as she touches the syringe to Isabella’s arm, I step forward, chambering a round. Zack has moved to my left, his gun trained, too, on Pierce.

“Drop the syringe,” I order, struggling to keep the emotion out of my voice. “Or don’t. I would love an excuse to shoot you.”

I expect her to whirl around, be startled, yell.

She does none of those things.

To my great disappointment, Pierce obeys. The hand with the syringe drops to her side. “You don’t understand,” she says, still not moving, not turning around to see who has invaded her private lab. “If you did—”

“Oh, but I do understand. Better than you imagine. We’ve just come from your son’s office.”

“Alan? Is he all right?” She’s staring into the coffin.

“He told us everything. Now, I want you to step away from the coffin and turn around, slowly.”

“I need to give Isabella a shot,” she says, remaining motionless. “She is recovering from a powerful sedative. If she is allowed to become fully conscious—”

She doesn’t get the chance to complete the sentence.

Isabella’s hand flies up from the coffin and fastens on Pierce’s throat.

“Isabella, no!” I shout.

Zack moves to intervene.

We’re both too late.

With one strong flick of her wrist, she’s pulled Pierce into the coffin. The doctor flails, trying to break away, but the promise of sustenance seems to breathe life into Isabella. She sits up, pulling Pierce to her chest. She fastens her jaws on the doctor’s neck and begins to drink.

I hate what Pierce has turned Isabella into, but there are strict laws in the vampire community about when and how a vampire feeds. And killing a well-known doctor and draining her blood might put Isabella in just as much danger from her own kind as she was from Pierce.

Zack grabs hold of Isabella’s hair in an effort to pull her free from Pierce’s body.

Isabella easily throws him off, jaws snapping at Zack’s throat.

“Find blood,” he shouts. “There’s got to be some around here.”

I’m already headed for the door across the way. When I push it open, there’s only one bed inside. It’s an operating suite, complete with monitors and an oxygen supply. The table is empty. My heart is pounding as I run for the second door. It also leads to a patient room. Again with one bed. This time occupied. Dexter is still and pale under the blanket tucked around him. Intravenous tubes in his arms connect to two overhead infusion bags—one containing blood, the other a clear liquid that I assume is keeping Dexter hydrated—and sedated. In this room, there is a refrigerator. When I open it, I find the blood bags. I grab several and race back to Zack.

He’s moved in again. This time instead of trying to grab Isabella, he goes for the coffin. Its silver lining burns his hands. He pulls away with a hiss, shaking them both. Then his expression turns resolute and he grabs the side using only his left. I smell his flesh burn, watch as smoke curls up between his fingers.

“Zack!”

Sweat beads on his forehead. He grits his teeth and growls in rage, not backing down. Before I can reach him to help, the coffin tips. Zack is pinned beneath it along with Pierce and Isabella. I catch a glimpse of his blistered hand as I move to help lift the coffin. I needn’t have bothered. Isabella, now stronger from the blood, arches her back and throws it off, then turns her rage on Zack.

With lightning-fast reflexes he’s on his feet, poised and ready. Isabella rushes toward him, pushing him through the open door, out into the lab, and they fall to the floor.

I lower the shields and try to get into Isabella’s mind—to plant a calming seed. But she’s too far gone to listen to rational thought. Half mad from silver poisoning, her mind is broken. She’s capable only of acting on instinct, acting to ease the pain of starvation and to fight for survival.

She’s forgotten Pierce now, turning her snapping jaws to Zack. Even with Zack’s damaged hand, he’s able to fend off her attacks, holding her at arm’s length. Under normal circumstances, a Were would be no match for a vampire’s strength. But Zack is powerful and Isabella is young, weak, and her need to feed is paramount.

I grab a scalpel from a nearby tray and slice open one of the bag’s ports. At the smell of blood, Isabella whirls toward me. I hold it out and she snatches it from my hands, latching on to it like a babe sucking at its mother’s breast. By the time she’s finished with the first, I have another open and ready for her. “Get more, Zack,” I yell.

When Isabella accepts the blood, there’s the dawning of recognition and wonder in her eyes. I catch a glimpse of myself in the window and am reminded that the shields are still down. I glance around for Zack. His back is to me, heading into the laboratory. I realize this may be my only chance to get into her head.