Kevin Hearne - Hammered

“Oh, very punny. You will show them what yellow cowards they are,” I said.

“Right after I flush them out of the crowd.”

“You will rain down upon their porcelain skin a deluge of justice.”

“Ugh! And I will have to wash my hands afterward.”

I chuckled, and Leif’s face finally cracked into a grin. It felt good to laugh, but then I wanted to ask Leif if vampires ever peed. Since he’d never answer that, I asked him something else.

“Leif, why is the Memphis nest at the stadium?”

“It’s a direct challenge to me. They are symbolically laying claim to all those people.”

“If you take them on during the game, there’s likely to be collateral damage.”

Leif nodded. “They’re counting on it.”

“That you won’t want to hurt innocents?”

“No, that I will not want to cause a scene and leave a bunch of dead vampires lying around with a bunch of dead humans, thus exposing the secret of our existence. But they have miscalculated; I do not care about that anymore. I do want to cause a scene. Leaving the stadium littered with undead corpses will doubtlessly make the news. It will let everyone know I am still around and very capable of holding this territory.”

“And it will also let everyone know that vampires are real. Isn’t that kind of a fatal flaw in your plan?”

Leif dismissed the point with a wave of his hand. “They will never admit the possibility. Science is so very sacred to them now, and scientifically vampires cannot exist, therefore we do not. Vampires are safe by this tautology alone. Any lab results they find outside the norm will be assumed to be contaminated.”

“Do you know if these Memphis vampires are very old?”

Leif snorted contemptuously. “I am the oldest vampire on this side of the Atlantic.”

“And on the other side?”

The blue ice of his eyes slid coolly from contemplating his empty goblet and regarded me. “The one who created me is still there. And there are … others.”

“Any of them older than me?” I asked brightly.

“There is one I know of. There may be others. I have never met him, mind; I have heard of him only, but I am told he still hunts.” I half-expected him to throw back his head and let rip with a shrill, hoarse cackle worthy of the Crypt Keeper, but he chose instead to remain silent and let the tension build.

I think you’re right , I told Oberon. He needs a soundtrack .

“Do you dare speak his name?” I whispered softly.

Leif rolled his eyes, acknowledging my mockery. “He is called Theophilus.”

“Ha!” I barked, amused by the Greek roots of his name. “There’s an ancient vampire in Europe whose name means ‘loved by God’?”

“I did not say he was in Europe. But, yes, that is the name he professes to the world. I do not know if that is his original name or if he is merely being ironic.”

“What’s the name of the vampire who created you?”

The vampire narrowed his eyes. “Why do you wish to know?”

I shrugged. “Curiosity.”

Keeping his eyes on me to gauge my reaction, he carefully pronounced, “Zdenik.”

“That doesn’t sound like an Icelandic name,” I observed.

“Your sharp ears serve you well. It is a Czech name.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You were turned by a Czech vampire in Iceland one thousand years ago?”

“I never said I was turned in Iceland,” Leif replied, smirking.

I frowned and reviewed our relationship, realizing that I’d been operating on an assumption all this time. “Touché,” I said. “Will I ever get to hear the story of how and where you were turned?”

His smirk disappeared. “Perhaps someday. For now I have some havoc to wreak and territory to defend.” He stood up and offered me his hand. I stood as well to shake it, and he shrugged diffidently as he said, “There are only eighty of the young ones scattered about the valley, and most of them are at the football game. See you tomorrow night, Atticus.”

I don’t think vampires poop , I replied.

We saw Leif to the door and wished him farewell. Time to hit the hay for the last time in this old house , I told my hound as I closed the door on the vampire.

All right, buddy. What’ll it be?

The Boondock Saints , because the Irish guys win. Plus the cat ends badly. It affirms my worldview and I feel validated.>

I yawned and stretched luxuriously in the morning. I make noises when I stretch, because it feels ten times better than stretching silently. I made my favorite breakfast with a sense of wistful nostalgia, seasoning the kitchen one last time with the smells of cooking. For Oberon, there was a pan full of sausages. I had coffee and orange juice (the kind with pulp in it), toast with orange marmalade, and a fluffy omelet made with cheese and chives, sprinkled with Tabasco. Making a good omelet is like living well: You have to pay attention to the process if you want to enjoy it.

The newspaper was full of headlines shouting about Leif’s territorial defense at the football game. STADIUM SLAUGHTERHOUSE, The Arizona Republic splashed across its front page. Phrases like “total carnage” and “war zone” were bandied about. I noticed that the body count was sixty-three, precisely the number of vampires he’d mentioned last night, so he’d managed to wipe out the Memphis nest without killing a single human.

And the humans had no idea that one man—or, rather, one vampire—had been responsible for it all. There had been a blackout—Leif’s doing, no doubt—and when the lights finally came back on, hours later, there were bodies everywhere. Plus a significant number of sexually harassed fans, some injuries, panic in the restrooms, and a line judge who’d thrown one too many flags and was “accidentally” knocked down by a “disoriented” player. People had exited the stadium using the collective glow of their cell phones, and fantasy football fans shat themselves because Larry Fitzgerald never got a catch, much less a touchdown.

The police suspected it was a gang war. Someone asked Dick Cheney about it and he promptly blamed it on the terrorists. A few of the state’s bigoted politicians pointed fingers at illegal immigrants and human trafficking rings, because in their view everything bad was the fault of someone south of the border. Ugh.

Oberon asked.

“Sure, pal. I don’t see why not. We won’t stay all day though. I’m just packing up my rare books and stocking some random newer ones in there.”

“Well, I have to hide all the rare magic books somewhere safe. And I need to talk to Coyote.”

I smiled fondly at my hound’s weak grasp of time. “I expect he’s fine, Oberon. It’s been only three weeks, after all. And he’s a survivor.”

There was one final chore to attend to before I left my home for good. I slung Fragarach across my back and adjusted the strap because I was wearing a thick leather jacket over my T-shirt. It was too warm for the mild Arizona autumn, but I figured I’d be grateful for it in Siberia and, later, in Asgard. I locked up the house, then plopped down onto the front lawn and methodically removed every single one of the wards protecting my home, every single alarm, and sent my sentry mesquite tree back to quiet sleep. It had saved my skin not long ago against a demon escaped from hell, so I rose and gave it a hug before I left.