Chapter 30 - Flint Gets Nicked

An hour after hearing Goldie’s door lock behind him, Flint still couldn’t settle down. He’d made himself dinner, taken a lightning-fast shower with the bathroom door open so he could hear better, played video games with the volume muted, and generally been a nuisance to himself. What was up with Goldie, anyway? Saying she’s so angry he didn’t protect her and then, when she had the chance, not letting him protect her?! If he lived a million years he would never understand females.

And with her so mad at him he hadn’t had the chance to ask his questions: Who was the guy in the tan sedan and why was he following her and Darby? Hell, what was the guy? And was Flint going to glow green every time Goldie was in trouble? Even if it wasn’t vampires? She better get real good at that air bubble thing, or he was going to be lit up every time Goldie went for a damn walk. The good news, he guessed, was that with her car totaled and then some, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. He felt a little guilty for celebrating her predicament, but it sure as shit made his job easier.

From the other side of the duplex Flint heard a slow, throbbing beat pick up and recognized a song by The Arctic Monkeys. He turned lights off as he moved through the duplex to his bedroom, as close as he could get to Goldie on the other side, so he could hear the words and, he was pretty sure, Goldie’s feminine voice scream-singing along. Whoa, he thought, scratching at his bare chest as he listened. Pumpkin’s feeling angsty.

As he plugged his phone in to charge on the nightstand Flint thought about going over there, knocking on the door, making her have it out with him. But Goldie was so skittish, it was as if giving her what she needed sent her further away from him instead of bringing her closer. And he just didn’t get that at all. And worse, he didn’t know how to be anything else. He loved her, and he wanted to show it, to her and everyone else. Hell, with his heartbound glow, there wasn’t any hiding it. But he wanted more.

A thump near the front of the house drew Flint’s attention. Bryce coming home? But he was supposed to be staying all night at the hospital, watching over Darby. Flint stepped into the hallway and headed for the kitchen. The pass-through bar was still full of his grandmother’s silver that he’d polished the night before. It caught the moonlight from the picture window and gave off a subtle sheen. Slacker. You still haven’t put it away. He would do it now, before he went to bed.

Flint hadn’t taken two steps when the smell of pine and bitter herbs assaulted his nostrils, acrid and shocking. Vampires! Here! Flint whirled in a circle and came face to face with the Fatherborne he and Goldie had fought in the forest, standing - how the fuck was he standing? Flint had damn near ripped his leg off! - just a yard away and snarling. “Found you.”

Flint started to shift, but in that same instant the bloodsucker’s arms whipped out. In the dark Flint had the impression they were long and muscular, like giant pythons, with lots of little snakes curling off of them, and they wrapped around him and suddenly Flint had no energy. His bear was stuck somewhere so deep inside him Flint couldn’t access it, almost couldn’t even feel it, and he was sinking into a great void, like falling asleep under sedation. It was undeniable.

Pain in his knees and the view changed and after far too long Flint realized he had fallen to kneeling but by that time his face hurt, too, and all he could see from prone on the floor were expensive black leather motorcycle boots walking across the tile to the back door, and an equally snazzy pair of black and red sneakers joining them. His brain was having trouble processing. Sneakers? Motorcycle boots? I always pictured bloodfuckers as the loafer type.

He thought about getting up, ordered his arms to brace beneath him, but they wouldn’t obey. Tied. He was tied with something. The vampire’s arms? But the vampire was ten feet away, so his arms couldn’t be here on the floor. Could they? Flint squeezed his eyes shut tight then opened them, willing his mind to sharpen. Why couldn’t he move? With great effort he tried again, but only succeeded in making a metallic clunking sort of noise. Did my arms always sound like that?

The Fatherborne vampire chuckled, his voice several feet above Flint. “You like them? I call them bloodchains.”

Flint growled shakily, helpless. Chained. Bound. Goldie. He had to paint the walls with this vampire’s blood so he could check on his woman. The bloodsucker crouched down, his smarmy smile so close Flint could see the two white points of his fangs encroaching on his lower lip. His face up close had a gray cast, almost as if it was stone covered by skin. If he’d been human, Flint would have guessed his age to be mid-fifties, and not easy years at that, from the way his skin gathered in craggy wrinkles around his eyes, ears, and neck. Flint snapped at him, but weakly. Fuck.

Despite the vampire’s smile, the expression in his eyes was approaching bored. “I mean, I say ‘instead of killing’ but the truth is I don’t know. You’re my first test subject. I suppose if we leave you chained up long enough there’s a chance they could kill you. Let’s test the hypothesis, shall we?”

Flint snapped again, almost getting flesh, unable to speak. The vampire laughed at him. “I assure you this is all perfectly scientific, if that’s your issue.”

All vampires must fucking die. This one first.

The Fatherborne gestured to his partner in the sneakers and before Flint could figure out what was happening the bloodsuckers had each grabbed one end of the chain and started dragging him down the hall towards his room. Move. Now. It didn’t work. He could barely move at all. The thump of music from Goldie’s side of the duplex reminded Flint of what, of who was at stake. Fuck! Move, dammit! An impotent rage built as he tried to command his muscles to rebel, to call on his bear to shift, to break the chains, but the best he could do was give a weak growl that had both bloodsuckers laughing at him.

He stopped trying to fight and opened his eyes instead. Think his way out of this. He wasn’t nine anymore.

Flint looked at the chains that bound him. Black, but not painted or coated. It was almost as if the blackness moved inside of the metal. Inhabited it. And just as he’d seen in the forest yesterday, spilling of the vampire’s very form, these chains had snaking tendrils of dark magic that wound through and around the links, in constant magical motion. Flint’s eyes moved up the chain to the Fatherborne’s companion.

The second vampire looked younger than the Fatherborne, closer to late twenties and dressed like it, in skinny black jeans and an olive green canvas jacket with a vintage concert t-shirt underneath. He had gauges in his earlobes and his hair was a uniform brown, no stripe. Not Fatherborne. So he couldn’t phaze.

They reached Flint’s bedroom and hoisted him onto the bed, which was a feat in itself. They were stronger than they looked, the skinny little fuckers. The Fatherborne reached into a pack on the other vampire’s back for more black chain and used it to spread Flint’s arms and legs wide, tether them to the four corners of his bed frame like a man about to be drawn and quartered. Flint gritted his teeth. The sting of the metal on his skin was fucking unreal, like a million tiny insects biting him.

Think. Escape. He racked his brain as the Fatherborne pulled up a chair and dug in the breast pocket of his classic leather motorcycle jacket, coming out with a triangular black blade. Flint couldn’t tell what it was made of, metal or stone, but the sheen on it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It was as if the light captured by the surface of the blade was moving on its own, like there was an oil slick inside the blade that could slosh back and forth, but with its own will. Gravity wasn’t invited to the party. Just looking at the blade made Flint’s heart beat faster, his breath speed up. Last time he’d been this close to a bloodblade nearly everyone he loved had died.

Something caught his attention and Flint squinted closer, not sure if he could trust his eyes when he was hurting so bad. But in the light Flint could see the tiniest tendrils of the same oily, black liquid smoke that poured off the bloodchains, that had surrounded this bloodsucker yesterday in the forest, just before he’d phazed. What the fuck is this shit? It reminded Flint of the magicks he’d seen dripping from Goldie’s fingers, up at Resperanza.

The vampire spoke, his tone amicable, conversational. Flint wanted to spit in his face but he listened instead, focusing on the bloodsucker’s words over the pounding music he could still hear. “You know what this is, don’t you, Bear? May I call you Bear? My name is Vlade. You see, Bear…”

Vlade leaned back in the chair and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, as if settling in for an intimate talk. He gestured lightly at Flint’s neck. “I knew you’d get the idea of bloodchains.” He looked more closely at the scar, examining it as Flint seethed and plotted which limb Vlade would lose first. They’re all coming off at some point, fucker.

But the vampire was still talking about Flint’s scar like it was a piece of performance art. “Not my work, if you were wondering. I never would have left you alive. I suppose I can’t blame my siblings, whoever they were, for thinking they’d done the job. It is quite an ugly wound. You must be a strong one.” The vampire’s jaw hardened and clenched, his dark eyes going steely. “Of course I already knew that, from our previous encounter. Took me all night to heal that ruined leg.”

Flint’s mouth curved in a lazy smile. Serves you right, bloodfucker. He’d had to brush and floss his teeth six times to get the lingering taste out of his mouth, but knowing he’d ruined - what had he said his name was? - Vlade? What kind of stupid-ass name was that? Anyway, ruining Vlade’s night made all the extra doses of mouthwash worth it.

The vampire with the dumbass name set his jaw and smirked. “Enjoy it while it lasts, shifter. I want to know everything you can tell me about Mitch Garner, and I’m going to make sure it hurts.” He lightly dragged the tip of his black blade down Flint’s bare chest, barely grazing the skin, and Flint could swear his flesh was being seared with a red-hot poker. The oily black smoke around the edges of the blade curled and snapped, seeming to whip and lash at Flint’s skin, adding to the agony. He watched the curls of his chest hair burn away, the skin go red and angry along the blade’s track.

All he could do was grit his teeth and send his mind to somewhere safer. An image filled his brain, of himself reclining on the overstuffed sofa in Resperanza’s upstairs living room, Goldie on his lap, his nose tucked close to her throat, smelling her scent of basil and rosemary, taking it deep inside. Even now the scent was so strong, like she was right there with him.

Vlade stood, glaring at the wall over Flint’s head, running his hand through his skunk-striped hair as a nasty sneer of rage settled on his face. “Father condemn it, your neighbors are rude! Must be the woman I spied a few days ago, whose pink hair makes binoculars unnecessary.” He leaned over Flint’s bound body and met his eye with a smarmy smile. “Maybe after we’re done with you we’ll go teach her some manners.”

Flint almost laughed. Poor fussy bloodsucker didn’t appreciate good music. Anyway, Flint knew that if Vlade tried to take Goldie out, she’d stick him for sure. Then Flint sobered, thinking about Goldie, just on the other side of the wall. How would she feel when she learned he’d died less than twenty feet from her? Would he just be one more person who left her when she needed him most? Would she know how much he loved her, even though he hadn’t said so? Fuck, why hadn’t he said so?

From the other side of his room Flint heard the crash of door hitting wall. As if he’d conjured Goldie’s voice with his love, it rang through his head, more confident than he’d ever heard before. “Good luck with that. I’ve been trying for twenty-four years and it ain’t stuck yet.”