MaryJanice Davidson: Dead Over Heels

“You’re making a fatal mistake, Bernie, and you won’t be the first to underestimate The One.”

The kid scowled. “Oh, hush up, Vampire King. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your greed—and your bite marks—gave you away,” Sinclair informed the kid. “Too narrow for an adult vampire.”

I whirled on him. “You knew a kid was doing this?”

“I suspected. The second victim confirmed it. Really, Bernie. Five bites? It’s a wonder you haven’t been caught before.”

“The staff,” Jessica rasped, then cleared her throat. “The staff protects her.”

Bernie stood, so quickly it was like she teleported to her feet. “The staff fears me,” she said, “as should you. Now get out of my hotel.”

And with that, she turned and bounded up the steps into the Grange Hotel.

We all stared at each other, and then I broke the silence with an unoriginal, but heartfelt, “Get that little bitch!”

And up the steps we went.

We chased her through the lobby and across the lounge, around tables like a crazy game of tag. Which I’m betting Bernie thought this was. The staff and guests stared at us, or ignored us—I guess the true (human) New Yorkers were the ones who were ignoring us.

“Help me!” Bernie shrieked as we closed the distance (we had adult legs, after all). “They’re going to kill me!”

I didn’t dare look back to see if anyone was coming to the rescue; Bernie had proved before that she could disappear like a rabbit in a hat. I had no intention of taking my gaze off her.

Then, in a case of truly awful timing, the elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and a family of four stepped out. W ho the hell goes sightseeing at midnight? Quick as thought, Bernie snatched the toddler right out of his stroller, holding him up by his neck. The parents didn’t even have time to scream before the doors slid closed and she was gone.

“Text me!” I yelled as Sinclair shoved the stairwell door open and started pounding up the stairs. I followed him, fishing out my phone.

“8888888888888888888888!” Jess texted.

“That’s our floor,” I muttered. What with the window fixers and the crazy vampires, it was gonna get mighty crowded up there. “What the—eighth floor!” I called up to my husband, who was already a flight ahead of me. I heard the door slam open again and knew Nick was doing his best to back us up, though he was four floors away.

In a few more seconds, we were in our hallway and Bernie was holding the squalling toddler and kicking at our door. “Let me in , you idiot!” she was screaming, while the kid wailed and wriggled.

Sinclair wrenched a lamp fixture off the wall and flung it straight at Bernie’s head. It landed dead on; she shrieked, clutched her head, and forgot all about the kid, who she dropped.

I ran as fast as I could, slid on my knees the last couple of feet (argh, rug burn!), and just caught him before he hit the carpet. I knew the room next to us was unoccupied—at least, I’d never heard anyone in there the entire time we’d been at the Grange—so I bounded to my feet, kicked that door open, tossed the kid into the middle of the king-sized bed, and shut the door with one hand while texting Jess, “Kid in 810 SAFE!”

I emerged just in time to get knocked sprawling as Bernie and Sinclair fought. She was on him like a cat, clawing and biting and shrieking, and he was slamming his back against the wall, trying to shake her loose.

“Oh no you don’t !” I yelled, and seized two handfuls of her gorgeous hair. Then I yanked. Hard.

She yowled (I just couldn’t get the cat metaphors out of my head) and twisted with frightening speed and agility, and then her little hands were around my throat and I jerked my head back just in time to avoid her slashing fangs. God, she was fast! Those kids never had a chance. Frankly, the outcome of this fight was in doubt, and I was three feet taller.

I wrenched her hands off and threw her—hard—into the wall. Plaster cracked and dust fell everywhere. Nobody was breathing, so nobody cared.

She sprang at me again, and again I batted her away like a fly—barely. And still she came at me, so this time I hit her with a closed fist. I could feel the bones in her face break, and still she wouldn’t quit.

Meanwhile, I could hear Sinclair frantically searching rooms—I was betting for a wooden chair leg.

“Bernie, just stop !” Wincing—I couldn’t believe I was beating up a child—I hit her again. This time her nose broke, and black blood trickled down to her lips.

“I can’t! You have to kill me. Why would I stop?”

Because I can’t bear to hurt you. Because even though you’re a monster, you look like an angel. Because somebody, a long time ago, really hurt you, and I want to make that up to you.

One of her little fists got past me and all of a sudden there was a ringing in my left ear. I shook it off and heard the stairwell door open, heard Nick run past us to the room where the toddler was still crying. Thank God. Thank God.

I caught her next fist in mid fly and broke her wrist. She screamed and tried to kick me. So I did what any asshole would do; I let go of her wrist, grabbed her by the ears, and twisted.

She fell to the carpet, all the fight out of her. But the awful thing was, she was looking up at me and trying to smile. Looking up at me, with her head twisted halfway around. I’d broken her neck, but she was still alive.

“I guess . . . I guess you really are the queen.”

I dropped to my knees beside her. “Bernie, I’m so sorry. I-I-It wouldn’t have been my choice to kill you. If only you weren’t so fucking bloodthirsty!”

“It’s all right,” she said faintly. “It was bound to happen eventually. I just didn’t think a blond fashionista would do it.”

“Well, uh, thank you.”

“I lied.”

“Which time?”

She reached for me and, wary of a trick, I took her hand. But she only squeezed it and said, “The staff—it’s not their fault. I’m small, but I’m old. I was made when they were building the Brooklyn Bridge. No one else here is more than forty, and they’re afraid. It’s why they didn’t help—didn’t help the others. Don’t—punish them.”

“I won’t.” Maybe. “But who did this to you, Bernie?”

“You idiot, is your attention span so limited? You did!”

“I meant, who made you into a vampire?”

“Oh.” Bernie managed a nod—it was a gruesome sight—over my shoulder. I looked—and saw Sinclair standing there with a snapped-off chair leg.

“No!” I almost screamed. “No, no, no, it’s not true!”

Then Sinclair ducked, and the redheaded bellboy (bellman) went sailing over his shoulder.

“Robert,” Bernie said faintly. “At last.”

I nearly swooned onto the carpet. “Ha! I knew Sinclair hadn’t killed you. And what were you doing in our room?”

“Snooping,” he admitted.

Robert slowly got to his feet, pale even for a vampire. “Oh, Bernadette, what did they do ?” He glared at me. “You’ll die screaming, you pretender! You—”

“You did all this? You killed her parents, killed her ? Made her into this-this thing that eats kids? And then took your time coming to the rescue, you fucking coward? She was kicking our door and screaming for help and you only came out now ?”

“I can hear you, you know,” Bernie murmured. “And of course he’s a coward. He preys on children. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “so do I. But that’s more a size issue for me.”

Robert rushed at me (I guess he wasn’t interested in answering any of my questions), and I was bracing myself for the attack when there were three quick shots and his head exploded. Just when I thought the week couldn’t get yuckier.