Carole Douglas - Silver Zombie

Ric caught me eyeing his profile. “No traffic cops lying in wait until we approach Salt Cedar.”

“That’s right. Ex-FBI guy likes to take lawless midnight spins out into the desert dark.”

“You’ve learned way too much about my deepest darkest secrets since I was unconscious in Christophe’s bridal suite mainlining other people’s blood.” He smiled his promised revenge. “I’ll have to show you some new tricks, then.”

“We’re heading straight to your home ground.”

I checked the rearview mirror, pleased to see only the distant headlights of a semi. “Why were the Karnak vampire armies out for a run?”

“Our scouting expedition to their secret underworld did destroy the centuries-kept herd of human cattle they bred to feed on.”

“Only after we released those poor souls to their long-delayed Afterlife,” I said. “Howard Hughes is hoping his work with the wine-god we freed will get them all on brewed blood substitute.”

“Howard Hughes was a demented genius of a human being and now he’s a vampire, Del, not your Big Daddy. You can’t trust him.”

For a wild moment, I speculated that maybe he could be … my daddy, that is. Anybody could be, from Hector Nightwine to coroner Grisly Bahr to, hey … Donald Trump. That’s the catch when you’re an abandoned baby. You could be anybody. Or anything.

Ric was still in warning mode.

“And don’t let the big, loin-clothed lug you freed from two thousand years of pillar duty under the Karnak lull your defensive instincts. That wine-loving Shezmou dude had a double role in ancient Egyptian mythology. His other specialty was Lord of the Slaughter. So, before everybody in the Vegas vampire empire can get nicely-nicely civilized via some Hughes invention, they still have to seek prey.”

“What’s out here to prey on?”

“Isolated ranches. I imagine the worker vamps can subsist on herd animals without killing them, if they have to, and the twin Pharaohs would get first dibs on any human herders.”

“What about the Zobos and your horses?”

“The silver barbed wire will repel them.”

“Vampires? I thought it was werewolves that silver bullets can hurt.”

“Silver is one of the oldest vampire repellents. It fell out of favor in the days of the cross and holy water, but ancient Egyptians wouldn’t be subject to Christian symbols. Silver recovered much of its mojo after the Millennium Revelation.”

I touched my hip. My own silver familiar often went undercover as a slim chain.

“Your newly silver eye?” I asked.

“Yet to be seen,” he answered, “but promising.”

“Silver barbed wire. Where’d you get that stuff?”

“Custom-made. I have contacts in the Mexican jewelry trade on both sides of the border.”

“Sterling silver? Isn’t that metal too soft to make effective barbed wire?”

“I gave it the evil eye after it was nailed down around the compound.”

“So you’ve … used … your silver iris?”

“Sure. If you got it, use it. My concentrated stare produced a cool blue aura around the wire. Then it hardened like your silver familiar did when you touched Cocaine’s albino lovelock and it morphed into a solid form. My amped-up wire proved diamond jeweler’s saw-and torch-resistant, just like Snow’s pretty-pretty white hair. I’m betting this wire now has some supernatural power that makes predators of the paranormal sort back off.”

“And how do you know this wire is impenetrable?”

Ric grinned as widely as Quicksilver. “First, my Taxco amigos tested it with saw and torch. Second, I have a feeling silver is our lucky charm. Even your super-dog has those changeable silver circles on his collar. Time I shared the bounty, babe.”

“You know I hate to be called that.”

“Yeah, but you’re hogging the driving and you can’t do anything about it now. Or this.”

His hand returned to my inner thigh and didn’t look to be leaving until we hit Vegas. Gotta say the bouncy road feel wasn’t hurting anything, either. Dolly’s vintage shocks were set to velvet vibrate. That Ric. From comatose to cocky after just two dangerous missions. Delilah the secret sex therapist was very happy.

“Where does your silver body jewelry thingy go, anyway?” Rick asked, “when you wear that skintight super-suit?”

This was the man who so memorably removed my new werewolf salsa club duds and twenty-four-year-old virginity in front of his bathroom mirror (before I started seeing dead people in looking glasses) asking. I blushed anyway, but only the half-man in the moon could see that with us zipping down the deserted straight-pin road at almost a hundred miles an hour.

“When you got cozy with what would be my bikini wax job—if I had one—eight miles back,” I admitted, “the silver familiar, ah, migrated to a less active erotic zone. Sometimes it doesn’t like crowds.”

Ric’s rhythmic caresses stopped. “Living up to its name, I see. But I don’t see. Where?”

While he examined me for a clue, I watched the speedometer. It took a mile, less than a minute, for him to get it.

Ric sounded smug. “Elementary, my dear Watson. I detect two new symmetrically placed oversize silver studs on the chest of your catsuit. Hmm, spiked studs. Muy provocative. Your familiar isn’t being shy, Del, it’s upping the erotic ante. However or wherever that outfit opens and shuts, I’m going to take my time finding out.”

Behind us a huge sigh and agitation on the leather upholstery indicated that Quicksilver was settling down on the backseat for a resigned doggy snooze before he spent the night on outside patrol. He’d always been an ultrasmart and sensitive dog.

ONCE THE GOLDEN glow of the Las Vegas Strip was unfolding like a fan on the horizon, I checked in with my landlord on my hands-free cell phone.

Actually, I checked in with his butler. He was the one who’d fret about my whereabouts.

I didn’t even need to worry about waking him up, because he was one of the celebrity zombies known as a CinSims. You really can’t wake up William Powell from The Thin Man and My Man Godfrey films, among other classics, since the actor has been dead for decades and his various acting personas have been grafted onto contemporary zombie bodies at select Las Vegas entertainment locations.

What does it say when the only person who worries about your well-being like a father you can always count on isn’t actually a real person?

Quicksilver and Ric listened hard to my end of the conversation.

“Godfrey? Yes, we’ve stayed out really late, but we’re safe and sound.” …

“Master Quicksilver will be fine. Ric has a smart house but Quick is smarter, so we can always use the extra security.” …

“Yes, we’re heading to Ric’s place. Master Quicksilver and I are doing an overnight. Tell your boss I’ll check in with him in the morning.” …

“ After breakfast, Godfrey, yes.” …

“Indeed. We are being ‘deliciously scandalous’ and will ‘enjoy ourselves.’ Yes, maybe even champagne, but certainly Brimstone Kisses.”

I winked at Ric as the phone’s ultraviolet glow faded with my conversation.

“Brimstone Kiss.” Ric mused. “That’s the Inferno Bar cocktail you whipped up for the Humphrey Bogart Casablanca CinSim when you were trying to ply him with booze to save my hide. Is my liquor cabinet likely to stock the right ingredients?”

“If you have OJ in the fridge and orange brandy on hand, I can mix up a Brimstone Kiss.”

“Brandy? Nope. You’ll just have to rely on my homemade brews and kisses.”