Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

She surprised me by walking across the weedy parking lot without any protection—no hat or gloves or even an umbrella. Vampires are highly allergic to direct sunlight. They burn like paper under a blowtorch—sizzling skin, smoke and odor, and mighty pain.

Yet Isleen walked with confidence radiating from her pale, lithe body. I kept pace, waiting for her to explode in a fiery ball under the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Nothing, not even a flinch of discomfort. Next to me, Alex shot curious glances my way, but didn’t ask. I was wondering the same thing.

Alex barely fit in the tiny sports car’s backseat; it was designed more for looks than function. I scooted forward as far as my knees allowed. Isleen reached forward and turned the key in the ignition. Up close, I noticed the shimmer on her skin. Not sunscreen—there wasn’t an SPF high enough to protect her particular skin type. Something else.

“Where?” I asked.

“South,” she said. “There is a Sanctuary. Few know of it. It will be safe enough to let our guard down.”

Says you . There were protected places in the city—buildings or just rooms considered sacred by Dregs. Magical hotspots, places where the magic of their world below (or above, or next to) bled into ours, sort of like hot springs. They were the invisible sources of the Fey’s power and well guarded by them—and apparently, also by vampires. Places where the Gifted were born. Similar to churches or cathedrals; but very few of Dreg-kind respected human faith.

The major difference was that the Dregs didn’t hang signs on their Sanctuaries, advertising their presence. For all I knew, hotel room 29 at the Holiday Inn Express could be one.

I rarely ventured into this part of the city. South of the East Side, but still on the opposite riverbank from Uptown, it was a blend of low-rent motels, abandoned storage facilities, car dealerships, and factories. The city seemed grayer there, less bright. Full of secrets in a way that even Mercy’s Lot could not challenge. The side streets were quiet for mid day and we zipped past block after block, moving farther south. We didn’t speak. The radio stayed off.

Isleen turned left at a blinking light, taking us down a road with a self-storage center on one side of the street and a used-car lot advertising “Very Clean” cars on the other.

A shadow bolted out of the used-car lot, swifter than man or beast had any right to move, on a collision course with our car. Isleen yanked the wheel. I saw black fur and razor teeth an instant before the hound slammed into my door. Metal groaned. Glass crackled. Tires squealed as the car skidded sideways.

I banged into Isleen’s shoulder. She kept control of the car, depressed the gas pedal, and we shot forward. The engine roared. So did the hound tracking us. I righted myself in what space I had. Half the door was smashed in, uncomfortably close.

“Evy?” Alex asked.

“I’m okay.”

I twisted around in the bucket seat. The hound was trailing us, seeming unfazed by its headlong tumble into solid steel. It kept pace with its four muscled legs, each springing leap taking it as far as we could drive in the same span of time. And it was gaining.

“How did it track us in a car?” I asked.

“It was following me,” Isleen said. “I killed another this morning. I may have failed to properly wash its kin’s blood from my tires.”

“You drove over it?”

“Through it, actually.” The corners of her mouth quirked. It was almost a smile. “Hold on.”

She said it too late and yanked the wheel hard left. I slammed shoulderfirst into the impacted door. Needles of pain danced up my arm, and I cried out. My back hit the dash. I slipped and found myself in the uncomfortable position of being stuck ass-down on the floor, with my feet in the air.

“Apologies,” Isleen said.

“Is it still gaining?” I asked.

Alex peered out the rear window. “Yeah. What the hell is it?”

“No idea,” I said, tugging myself up. No small feat, given the zigzagging pattern Isleen was making through traffic. And I couldn’t imagine what passersby thought of the animal chasing our car down the street.

“It is a vampire and goblin crossbreed,” Isleen explained. Her tone remained even, without a hint of the panic that was singeing my nerves at the very idea of such a combination. “The two species are not sexually compatible, but with the advent of genetic cloning, many things are possible.”

“There’s something else in there, too. I know goblins run faster on all fours, but this thing’s got some beast in it.”

“It is possible, but I do not know its exact origin, or how many more exist.”

“Wyatt and I killed one, so that’s at least three,” I said, climbing back to a semisitting position on the front seat. “The miracle of modern science.”

“ ‘A malady of modern science’ is a more appropriate euphemism.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “Got any weapons?”

“In the glove compartment.”

Naturally. I popped open the dash, expecting the customary assortment of registration papers, napkins, trash, maybe a parking ticket or two. Instead I was presented with a slim leather case containing the registration and insurance cards, and nothing else. I felt along the edge of the lining until my nails caught. I ripped it away and found three Glocks.

“Center weapon,” Isleen said. “The bullets should be able to pierce the hound’s hide.”

The gun was too heavy in my hand—a foreign object I hated using. I flicked off the safety. One centered kick popped out the fractured door window, and we left it behind on the street. Isleen made another sharp turn. I held on to the door handle this time and managed to keep my bearings.

My head, shoulders, and arms went out the window. Air blasted my hair in front of my face, creating a curtain of brown that was difficult to see through. Missing my old, short hairstyle, I took aim at the snarling hound and fired.

The bullet struck its left foreleg. Murky blood and flesh exploded from the wound. The hound wailed its pain and fury, drawing back thin lips and fixing its wild eyes on me. I aimed for those eyes. Squeezed the trigger. The car hit a pothole and bounced, and the shot went wild. My ribs slammed against the door.

“Goddamnit,” I said.

“Apologies,” Isleen replied.

From Alex, I got, “Jesus, Evy, be careful.”

Third bullet hit the same foreleg, a few inches higher. Blood trailed in a slick stream, but didn’t slow it down. Give me a blade and an open field any day. Guns were just a pain in the ass.

“Stop missing,” Isleen said.

“Would you like to do this?” I tried to get another bead on my target. The damn thing was learning, weaving now, making sure I couldn’t get him in my sights. “Shit.”

Isleen snorted—a surprising sound from her. “Hold on to something.”

The car surged forward. I clutched the smashed door so I didn’t fall out the window. We flew through an intersection to the tune of honking horns and screams. The hound leapt neatly over the hood of a braking sedan, hit the pavement, and was promptly struck head-on by a careening van. The van came to a sudden halt, but the hound’s body rolled. It came to rest against a street sign on the far curb.

An ounce of hope was quickly shredded as the hound crawled back to its feet, seemingly unfazed by its collision. It continued to track us, oblivious to the shrieking pedestrians. Every scream echoed in my ears. It was the most blatant display by a Dreg I’d ever seen. No way the brass could explain this one away.

Of course, I’d said that about the gremlin strike and been wrong.

“Didn’t work,” I said to Isleen. “Got any more ideas?”