Charlaine Harris - An Apple for the Creature

She knew that there was something terribly wrong with the mansion and with Fiona and with everything else they’d experienced since they’d stepped inside the house. If she and Happy were foolish enough to open the decrepit door at the end of the hallway, then any negative outcome that occurred would be of their own doing. She didn’t know if Happy was going to appreciate where her thoughts were leading her, but she hoped so . . . because Callie had been hoodwinked too many times in her life not to recognize a setup when she saw one.

“Nope. Not gonna happen,” Callie said, holding her ground in a pair of dirty Jimmy Choos. “I think we’re gonna go back down this hall and you’re gonna use that little key of yours to open the door to the room you stashed Agatha in—”

The words had no sooner left Callie’s mouth than Fiona was scrambling for the doorknob, using the element of surprise to try to open the door before Callie and Happy realized what she was doing.

“Not in this lifetime!” Callie cried as she dove for Fiona’s waist, wrapping her arms around the older woman’s middle and toppling them both onto the red shag runner.

Fiona was a spitfire, almost bending in half in order to dig her French-manicured nails into Callie’s throat, cutting long crimson gashes into the girl’s otherwise pristine flesh. The “Girl Who Would Be Death” cried out in pain, losing her grip on her opponent as she tried to stanch the flow of blood from her wounded neck.

“Don’t you dare!” Callie heard Happy scream, then she watched as the tall brunette launched herself at the wily woman in the camel-colored suit, the two of them rolling across the floor.

The blood was flowing fast and loose from Callie’s throat, but she ignored it. Dropping her hand from her throat—it was useless there; her body would heal of its own accord without any external help—she flipped herself onto her belly, slip-sliding in the puddle of blood that’d gathered underneath her, while a few feet away from her, she saw Happy punching Fiona, hard, in the solar plexus.

“I see . . . that you . . . don’t need . . . my help,” Callie wheezed, finally managing to pull herself up alongside the brunette, who seemed to be rather enjoying the pummeling she was giving the older woman.

“I think she’s incapacitated now,” Happy said, as Fiona’s green eyes rolled up behind her eyelids and she stopped struggling.

“I think so,” Callie said, appreciating the quick work Happy had made of Count Orlov’s associate. “Let’s grab the key and get out of here.”

Happy nodded, grasping the chain around Fiona’s neck and giving it a good yank.

“The bitch tried to bite me,” Happy said, as she pocketed the key, then looked down at her hoodie, which was streaked with Callie’s blood and Fiona’s saliva.

“That’s disgusting,” Callie said, reaching into the pocket of her dress and pulling out a moist towelette. “Moist towelette?”

Happy stared at the neat white package, disbelief in her eyes.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

Callie shook her head.

“I never kid about hygiene. Here, take one.”

Happy accepted the packet, tearing it open and fishing the moist towelette from its innards.

“What about you? You’re losing a lot of blood,” Happy said, pointing at Callie’s throat.

“I’m . . .” She paused, not sure what to say—a last-minute impulse brought out the truth.

“I’m immortal and I’m pretty sure I come from an alternate universe. Just FYI.”

Happy snorted. “Of course you are and of course you do.”

“Now I’ve told you all about me so we’re even-steven,” Callie said, starting to laugh a little hysterically.

“It’s not funny,” Happy continued, helping Callie to her feet. “I think there’s a powerful telepathic illusionist running this show—someone we’ve dealt with in the past. And if that’s the case, then Agatha’s in a whole heap of trouble.”

“A telepathic what?” Callie asked as she followed Happy back down the hallway.

“Illusionist. Someone who can manipulate matter, affect people’s minds,” Happy replied. “And they can wreak all kinds of havoc if left unchallenged. Especially this guy. He’s obsessed with Agatha and has a serious bad attitude to boot.”

“That’s not good,” Callie said, shuddering.

“No, it’s not.”

When they reached what they thought was the door Agatha had disappeared through, Happy thrust the key into the lock, but it jammed, not wanting to go in.

“Wrong door,” Callie murmured. And then she slumped forward, grasping for the wall as her body went limp and rubbery.

“Callie!” Happy cried, grabbing the other girl around the waist and slowly easing her to the ground.

“I feel so . . . woozy,” Callie said, eyes fluttering as, for the second time in her life, she realized she might actually be dying.

It had almost happened once before, when she’d been poisoned with promethium—every immortal had a killing weakness, one that was totally unique to them, and Callie’s just happened to be promethium—but she’d been careful to stay far, far away from the stuff since then.

“Is there . . . promethium?” Callie choked out, fear etching her gut like acid.

“Promethia-what?” Happy cried, confused. “I thought you said you were immortal. You’re still bleeding like a stuck pig!”

With a shaky hand, Callie reached up and put her fingers to her neck. Sure enough, the wound had not closed, but, instead, was continuing to leak her lifeblood out onto the rug.

And then it dawned on her.

“It’s you, Happy,” Callie said, finally understanding why she hadn’t been able to call up a wormhole while she was in this alternate universe. “You inhibit psychic ability . . . what we call ‘magic’ in my universe. And it means that you’re blocking . . . my immortality.”

“Shit,” Happy said, backing away from Callie.

“No, no . . . come back,” Callie said. “I just need to stop the flow of blood for now. Give me . . . your hoodie.”

Happy unzipped her jacket and slid out of it, handing it to Callie.

“Pressure,” Callie breathed, lifting the hoodie to her neck. “Put pressure on the wound.”

It was obvious she was much weaker than she’d realized because Happy had to take the jacket and wrap it around the wound for her, securing the makeshift tourniquet in place by tying the sleeves into a tight bow.

“I think that should work,” Happy said, sitting back on her heels to admire her handiwork.

“Feel better . . . already.” Callie sighed, giving Happy a weak smile as the other girl helped her to her feet.

“God, I hope so,” Happy said, her face wan. “Now let’s find Agatha.”

With Callie holding on to Happy’s arm for support, the girls continued down the hallway. This time it seemed luck was on their side, because the next door they tried was the right one, the key sliding into the lock and turning with a satisfying click .

“Okay,” Happy said, grasping the doorknob with her right hand. “One, two . . . three!”

She threw the door open and Callie screamed as she realized they were teetering on the threshold of a yawning abyss.

“It’s not real,” Happy said calmly, reaching out a hand so that it hung in the empty air before them.

Suddenly the yawning abyss disappeared, almost as if it had never existed at all, and in its place, they discovered a bare octagonal room with an army cot in one corner and a chamber pot half hidden underneath it.

“Happy!” Agatha cried, jumping up from the cot and racing over to them. “I knew you’d rescue me! Count Orlov never came—I don’t even think the invitation was really from him—and then the door was locked and I couldn’t get out . . . Ew, what happened to your hoodie?”