Companions of the Night by Vivian Vande Velde

Kerry bit her lip to keep from asking why, then, God would permit such evil to exist under the moon.

  "You"—Marsala pointed at her again—"you're an in-between case. Like Joey. Seduced by the glamor of evil."

  The word seduced made her cheeks grow warm, which he no doubt saw.

  He nodded, and she was sure he thought it was worse than it was. "Fight them," he said. "I know they've got their claws in you, but fight them."

  "They do not have their claws in me," Kerry protested, "and at least they don't go around ramming school buses and kidnapping innocent people."

  "I don't think you know half of what they do," Marsala said. Which was probably true. "How old is your young-looking friend? Fifty years? A hundred? Two hundred? Multiply that times three hundred sixty-five nights a year, and call me cold blooded."

  "They don't kill every night."

  "Something else they told you?"

  Ethan hadn't killed last night, she thought. Or, at least, she was fairly certain he hadn't. On the other hand, the night before, he and Regina had killed four. And tonight he was planning on killing at least one.

  She ran her hand through her hair. "I don't want to argue," she said "I didn't come here to defend them. But I'm not one of them. And I'm not one-of-them-in-training. I want some assurance that you haven't hurt my dad and my brother. If you can give me that, I'll tell you where Ethan is, and how you can get him."

  Marsala sat back and looked at her as though evaluating. "Vampires don't lie?" he asked.

  "I never said that. I just—"

  "Do you lie?"

  Kerry worked hard to look him right in the eyes. "No."

  "Then you told your father exactly what happened Thursday night"

  Kerry looked away. "I ... He didn't ask, and I didn't volunteer the information."

  "Which is not the same as lying?" Marsala said.

  There was no good answer to that.

  "Then let me ask you this," Marsala continued. "How did your friend know who I was?"

  "He recognized your picture in the paper."

  "If he saw the paper"—Marsala gave a grim smile—"how is it you didn't know your father and your brother are safe?"

  "What?"

  "You didn't ask, and he didn't volunteer the information?"

  "I don't understand what you're getting at."

  "They were in the car," Marsala said. "In the trunk. If they're not home now, the police must have them in protective custody."

  "You—" Kerry made a conscious effort to lower her voice. "You rammed into a school bus with my father and brother in the trunk of the car? You could have killed them. They could have suffocated."

  "I admit I wasn't thinking straight," Marsala said. "I went to your house to get you. When I found you weren't home from school yet, I forced your family to get into the car, with no clear plan in mind. When I saw the bus ... It was stupid, I admit. I didn't think of those other children on the bus. I only thought of you, becoming what I had seen Joey becoming, feeding on people's blood, killing people, night after night after night for centuries. I didn't stop to think—about your family in the back or about your innocent classmates. But my point is, unlike the vampires, I didn't hurt anyone. The people on the school bus survived, and your family survived." Marsala waggled his finger at her "And your friend didn't tell you that. He figured he could use you better if you didn't know."

  "He didn't know," Kerry started, then she changed that to "I don't know. You might have them buried in a shallow grave in your backyard, for all I know."

  Marsala turned around in his seat and called out to the student cashier, "Max!"

  "Yo," Max said, not quite diverting his attention from his game.

  "Do you still have that newspaper? The one with the picture you thought looked like me?"

  Max rapidly hit a few more buttons before reaching under the counter. He tossed the newspaper, and it almost made it to their table.

  Marsala leaned over and picked it up, then folded it back to the front page. There was her school picture, and the diagram of the accident scene, and the composite drawing of Marsala. The professor tapped his finger on a paragraph in the first column. "... Stephen and Ian Nowicki," the article said, "found tied and gagged in the trunk of the car, shaken but unharmed." The following paragraphs described how a man wearing a ski mask and armed with a gun had forced his way into their house, demanding to know where sixteen-year-old Kerry Nowicki was. Told she was still at school, he'd tied them and gagged them. Then, after searching the house, he trashed the living room, after which he forced them into the trunk of their own car.

  The article said that Stephen Nowicki felt the car swerve and hit something repeatedly, but at some point during the crash into the bus or the fire hydrant, he banged his head on the car's tire iron and lost consciousness. During the time the police and ambulance were at the scene, only four-year-old Ian Nowicki was conscious, and he had been warned by the intruder not to make a sound, "or else." So he dutifully remained quiet. By the time his father regained consciousness, the car had apparently been impounded by the police because no one heard his cries for help. The two weren't discovered until police investigating the bus incident opened the trunk at about nine o'clock in the evening.

  Kerry looked up from the newspaper and met Marsala's triumphant smile. "He knew," she whispered.

  "Apparently he didn't think it was important enough to mention," Marsala said.

  Kerry couldn't think of how often they'd skirted the subject of her family this evening. Ethan knew how frightened she was for them. Over and over he'd had the chance to say, They're all right. Marsala doesn't have them. Relief and a sense of betrayal balanced so precariously she didn't know whether to laugh out loud or cry.

  "They're treacherous," Marsala said. "You can't trust them. They don't think like we do. They don't even consider themselves human. They're like aliens; they're like vile and vicious animals." Marsala reached out and covered her hand with his. It was warm and slightly rough, as though chapped from the weather or from honest work. "Will you really help me stop him from killing other people's sons and daughters?" he asked. "Or are you here to defend him?"

  "He knew," Kerry repeated. "I held my little brother's toy bear and cried, thinking he and my father might both be dead. And Ethan didn't say anything. I cried in front of him, and he didn't say anything."

  She looked into Marsala's face, the face of a man who'd lost his son and—in a different way—his wife to vampires. A man who'd been unable for three years to convince anyone of the terrible truth only he knew, and who'd fought back in the only way he could.

  "He wanted me to trick you," she said, "to convince you that I was helping you, but to bring you back to his house, where he planned to kill you."

  "Good," Marsala said.

  "Good?"

  He had a quirky smile that reminded her of the picture she'd seen of his son, Joe. "I don't mean good that he plans to kill me, I mean good that you told me. We've had enough lies told to us, I think, you and me. So I'll tell you the truth, Kerry Nowicki: No matter how good a little helper you've been to this vampire, he can't afford to let you live. You have to decide who's going to die: him—or you and me."

  Chapter Seventeen

  KERRY TOLD MARSALA everything she'd learned about Ethan. Some of it he didn't believe, and she couldn't tell if that was because he thought she was lying or because he thought Ethan had lied to her. By the end she wasn't sure how much of it she herself believed.

  "Do you know how he plans to kill me?" Marsala asked. "No," Kerry said.

  "But you do accept that he plans to?"

  "He admitted it." Kerry squirmed because by saying so, she admitted that she had knowingly plotted to kill the man she now was facing.

  Marsala didn't point that out. Instead he said, "Pull your chair around closer."

  Kerry glanced around to see if somebody appeared to be listening. The young couple in the back looked cheerier—they were sharing an order of french fries—but
other than that everybody in the room looked the same as when she'd entered. She moved her chair closer to Marsala anyway.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Don't get jumpy," he warned.

  And, by that, she knew.

  He didn't pull the gun out of his pocket; he was just showing her. "I don't suppose," he said, not sounding very hopeful, "you've ever used one?"

  Kerry shook her head. "What good's a gun going to be against a vampire anyway?"

  "Fired from close enough, this'll slow him down."

  Kerry remembered the laundry, remembered Sidowski holding his revolver up to Ethan's head and saying much the same thing. She forced the image from her mind.

  "They heal fast, but not that fast. Besides, this has silver bullets."

  "Isn't that for werewolves?" Kerry asked, eager to stop thinking, to lose herself in the details.

  By the disgusted look on Marsala's face, she guessed that whoever had sold him the gun and ammunition must have said something similar.

  "Vampires can't stand the touch of silver," Marsala said. "Same as garlic. Not as bad as sunlight, but it'll be an extra kick."

  Kick, she thought.

  Kerry wondered if that was just another superstition, like that vampires' images aren't reflected in mirrors, which she had seen wasn't true. Ethan hadn't mentioned anything about silver; but, then again, if it was true, Kerry supposed he wouldn't have.

  If it was true, maybe it would serve to kill him more quickly, painlessly.

  Marsala said, "I want you to take this and hide it. See if you've got a pocket big enough. Otherwise you can stick it in the waistband of your jeans."

  "I'm not sticking a gun down my pants," Kerry whispered at him.

  "It's got a safety," Marsala said. "Check your pockets."

  They weren't her pockets. It was Ethan's jacket, which seemed terribly unfair. There was an inner pocket. "I can't," she said. "I could never shoot anybody."

  "Not even knowing what he is?" Marsala asked. "Not even knowing he's killed uncountable others, and intends to kill you, and may well decide that your family has seen too much and kill them, too?"

  Kerry withered under this onslaught. "I don't know," she admitted. "But even if I wanted to, I'm sure I'd never be able to hit him. I have terrible aim when it comes to—"

  Marsala had taken the gun out of his pocket and was holding it under the table. "Take the damn gun before somebody sees it," he interrupted. "All I'm asking is for you to hold it."

  Kerry took the gun. The dark metal was cold, and it was heavier than she would have thought. She gingerly stuck it into her pocket.

  "Here's an extra clip." Marsala handed over the extra bullets. "Put it into the outside pocket, same side."

  "Why?" Kerry asked.

  "Same side so that it's easy to find. Outside pocket so that when you pull out the gun, you don't pull out the clip at the same time and drop it."

  Not only did it make sense, it almost sounded as though he knew her.

  "In case you do need to use it"—Kerry shook her head, but he kept on talking—"you need to slide back the safety by the trigger. Stop shaking your head and listen. It can't hurt to know."

  He was right. Kerry stopped shaking her head.

  "The safety," he repeated, "is by the trigger. You push it back with your thumb. If you fire, it'll recoil—it'll kick back. So be prepared for that. The empty shell will drop out automatically and the next bullet will be ready to fire. You don't need to release the safety again, but you need to let go of the trigger, then pull it back for the second shot. Do you understand?"

  "More or less," Kerry said miserably.

  "Do you understand?" Marsala insisted.

  "Yes."

  "The clip holds nine bullets. We're not even going to talk about reloading."

  Good, Kerry thought, but she knew not to say it.

  Marsala put his hand over hers again. She didn't like it, but pulling away seemed too unfriendly a gesture.

  "I know this is difficult for you," he said. "But if he manages to take me by surprise, he'd be a fool not to search me for weapons. And one thing this vampire isn't is a fool."

  "I understand." Kerry wriggled her hand free and pushed her hair back from her forehead, then she put both hands in her lap.

  "Just be ready to hand it to me," Marsala said. "And I probably will say 'it,' rather than 'gun,' which might or might not give us another second or so of surprise. Whatever you do, don't let him separate us."

  "All right."

  Then, before Kerry was ready for it, Marsala stood. "We might as well get started. The closer we get to his cutoff time, the more nervous he's going to get, the more eager he's going to be to do it fast—which gives us less of a chance to turn the tables on him. Steady now." He took her elbow to help her get to her feet. "It's more clear cut than you think. It's good versus evil no matter how attractively the evil disguises itself."

  "Fine," Kerry said. He was right, she knew he was right: Did he have to be so self-righteous about it?

  "Just don't let him confuse you," Marsala warned.

  THE STUDENT UNION was situated in the middle of the campus, easy access for those who lived and went to school in the surrounding buildings, which meant that there were no parking lots right nearby. Which meant that Marsala could have parked in any of several places.

  Which meant that Ethan must have been following her all along and been waiting for them, even though Kerry hadn't heard a thing, hadn't seen a thing.

  Because, suddenly, he was there, materializing out of the shadows as Marsala leaned to unlock the car door, his arm crossing in front of Marsala so that his open palm rested against Marsala's chin, the other hand placed behind the professor's neck.

  The fact that he obviously hadn't trusted her, combined with the fact that she had just betrayed him, served to bring the color to her cheeks. Was his eyesight good enough to be able to tell?

  "I could kill you here and now," Ethan warned Marsala, "though in principle I'm against leaving dead bodies strewn about parking lots."

  Kerry saw Marsala's eyes shift to her, but he didn't say anything, and he didn't struggle. Ethan, standing behind, had no way to see. He kept one hand under Marsala's chin but ran the other along Marsala's torso. Kerry could tell he found something by the way he reached into one of Marsala's pockets.

  A second gun? Kerry wondered. Didn't Marsala trust her either?

  But what Ethan pulled out was something much smaller, and not at all shiny. It took her several seconds, and then it was the smell that told her: a handful of garlic cloves.

  With an expression of mild disgust, which may have been for nothing more than the smell, Ethan let them drop. "Get in the backseat," he ordered. "Kerry, you drive."

  Marsala handed her the keys. She couldn't tell from his face what he wanted her to do.

  Ethan got in the back with him.

  What was she supposed to do if Ethan attacked him there, drinking his blood while she was behind the wheel? Marsala's gun weighted down the jacket, so it hung lower on the right-hand side.

  "Ethan?" Could he hear the tremor in her voice? Would it make him suspicious?

  "His house," Ethan said.

  It would help if she could read his expression. When Marsala was talking, she could recognize his emotions: hate for the vampires, tenderness for his son, anticipation mixed with fear at the thought of having this finally done. But she couldn't tell what Ethan was feeling, whether it was anger at Regina's killer, or satisfaction because he'd caught him, or simple bloodlust.

  What should I do? she wondered.

  Sitting behind the steering wheel, it took Kerry several seconds to realize she couldn't follow Ethan's instructions, even if she wanted to. "It's a stick shift," she said. "I don—"

  "Push in the clutch with your left foot," Ethan told her, "then turn the key."

  Nothing happened.

  "Do it again," Ethan instructed. "Keep the clutch in."

  This time the car
started.

  "All right, put the car in gear: pull the stick toward your leg, then straight back. There's a diagram on the ball. You want to go from P to one."

  Kerry did exactly what Ethan said, and nothing happened. She pressed harder on the accelerator, and the engine raced, but still the car didn't move.

  "Ease up on the clutch," Ethan said. "Slowly."

  The car shudder-hopped several feet.

  "More gas," Ethan advised.

  The car lurched forward and Kerry slammed on the brake. The engine stalled. "I hate this," she said.

  "Try again."

  The fourth or fifth time the car stalled, Ethan finally gave up.

  "All right," he said. "Kerry, you get in the back. We'll ride in front."

  She'd been afraid that he would abandon her there in the parking lot, which would leave Marsala weaponless and on his own. But the fact that he wanted her along strengthened Marsala's claim that Ethan planned to kill her, too, once he'd gotten rid of Marsala.

  Ethan pulled Marsala out of the car. He opened the front passenger door, obviously intent on getting in first and then pulling Marsala in after him, which would entail crawling over the stick shift—but that way at least Marsala wouldn't be alone in the front seat. However, taking up the entire passenger seat was a toolbox, the huge kind, such as Kerry would have imagined a professional construction worker having.

  "I'll move it," Kerry offered. She'd gotten out of the driver's seat and circled around to the right side of the car, but Ethan—still holding on to Marsala with his right hand—had already leaned in to get it out of the way himself.

  Kerry saw him freeze, then turn to Marsala. She looked over his outstretched arm. At first she couldn't tell what had happened, except that the cover had come up. Then she realized what was in the box: at least a half dozen pointed, two-foot-long stakes, a mallet, a silver crucifix, and—by the smell—more garlic at the bottom. On top of it all was a hatchet, no doubt the one Marsala had used on Regina.

  Seeing the hatchet, imagining Marsala watching Regina die in the sunlight and then chopping off her head, Kerry felt her resolve begin to melt. She glanced at Ethan, expecting to see anguish or—at the very least—fury. Nothing. She could read nothing on his face.