Page 21 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Twenty

I jolt upright on the sofa, gasping.

Fred. Fred, are you all right?

“Yes,” I manage. “But there’s a girl—early hours tomorrow—who will be murdered by a vampire.”

I pour out everything: The Downbeat, the rain, the time, the victim, the clan, the predator. My voice shakes, but I don’t stop until it’s all said.

“I must go out tonight .” I groan. The words land like a dare. My heart thuds, loud and uneven, pounding in my throat.

Fear hardly covers it. I’m no fighter. I’m no gritty avenger with battle scars and brass knuckles. I’ve thrown exactly one punch in my life, and that was into a vampire’s head while he murdered me. So, no, I’m not the punch-and-kick type .

But I’m not a coward either, and I won’t let that girl die. I cannot imagine what might happen if I ignore the vision, the compulsion to act is almost overwhelming. These visions must matter. If she were meant to die, why show me? Someone—something—saved me; now it’s my turn.

“I can save her, House.” I stand, fists clenched. “Any idea how to stop a vampire?”

A few, she replies, deceptively casual. Go into the kitchen .

Baylor doesn’t stir, flat on the carpet, snoring like a faulty motor. I frown and walk to the kitchen. A new internal door punctuates the far wall.

“Where did that come from?”

Oh, that, House says breezily, is the armoury.

“The what?”

Spells , enchantments, tools, things that go zap. You know, an armoury. I have been storing magic for years. I can alter the layout, and I thought a basement war room might be fun.

Is there nothing House cannot do? I stare, then turn the handle. The door creaks open?—

I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

No stairs. No basement steps.

A slide.

“You are joking. A slide?”

Stairs are boring, she says, amusement clear in her voice.

Despite my nerves, I laugh. “Last time I used a slide, I was ten. It was one of those old metal ones, hot from the sun, rivets digging into the backs of my legs. I burnt my arse and went home with bruises.”

This one’s smooth — and fun.

I don’t hesitate. I sit, tip forward and whoosh. The slide whirls me down in warm, magical speed; I laugh, hair whipping behind me. I land—miraculously graceful—on solid stone.

The room sprawls before me, softly lit by floating orbs. Shelves, cabinets, and racks gleam with unfamiliar weapons, shimmering bottles, and scrolls bound with silver twine. A workbench, a wardrobe. An armoury.

My mouth falls open. “Holy?—”

Welcome to the good stuff, House says.

I don’t know what to do with all the good stuff. The room is a maze of magic. I don’t dare poke around in case something explodes. I shuffle forward, hand hovering over a glowing object shaped suspiciously like a gilded pineapple, when?—

No! Don’t touch that! House’s shriek ricochets off the brick walls.

I screech and stagger back.

She giggles. Giggles.

“You are not funny.” My heart does a frantic tap-dance and I fold my arms. “That’s it! I’m not touching anything. Keep your creepy basement toys.”

I spin to leave. I have no idea how I’m going to climb the slide, except it has vanished. In its place stands a flight of stairs.

I rub my forehead. “Of course there are stairs now. Why wouldn’t there be?”

Come on, House says, ever so cheerily, you want to save this girl? I’ve got just the thing.

Something drifts from a top shelf and hovers in front of me. I squint at the floating, perfectly carved piece of wood.

If you are going vampire - hunting… you will need a stake .

“A stake? Really? Stabbing vampires is a myth. Humans don’t have the strength to drive wood through a chest.” As if I’m going to stab anybody.

Ah, House replies smoothly, but you don’t go through the ribs, you go up, underneath.

I stare at the ceiling or wherever she’s speaking from.

“You have spent too long alone. I’m not sliding a sharp stick under anyone’s ribs.

I was thinking… a sticky spell, a binding charm, like the one they used on me when I was arrested.

Something non-lethal that says, ‘I’m brave and resourceful but also a decent human being. ’”

You are no fun. Just touch it.

With a sigh I grasp the stake and concentrate. It’s warm. Not room temperature, warm.

“Why is it warm?”

Magic. Slayer magic. A little soul-binding, too ? —

“Nope. Creepy.” I let go and wave it away.

You live in a house powered by soul magic, House points out, voice softer now.

Oh no, now I’ve gone and hurt her feelings. “Oh no. I didn’t mean you. You are not creepy, House. You’re—you are brilliant. You are amazing. Just… wielding a dead vampire hunter’s stick is a bit creep-flavoured.”

It won’t hurt you. It will guide you. Help you.

“And when I turn vampire, will it try to stab me?”

Don’t be silly. Take her, just in case .

I wrinkle my nose at the thing. “Fine. But if it starts whispering in my pocket, I’m setting it on fire.”

Deal.

I tuck the stake gingerly under my arm.

You said he had his back to you?

“Yes, but that might not be the case tonight. In the vision I wasn’t physically there. My presence could change things. He will be able to scent me, hear me.”

Things fly through the air and land with soft thuds on the long workbench in the centre of the room. I step closer and duck as one more thing sails over my head.

These, House says, ought to knock a vampire out.

A handful of blue glass vials wiggle in place.

Throwing spells, non-lethal, enough to scramble his senses and drop him like a sack of potatoes .

And this one —a little spray bottle filled with something that looks like black goo— will mask your scent and muffle your sound .

It won’t make you invisible, but it will make you hard to track.

I grin. “Now, this is more like it. Thank you.”

You are welcome. And you are still taking the stake.

“Of course I am,” I mutter, though I have no intention of using it.

A satchel appears on the table, and everything drifts neatly inside.

There. Sorted, House says with satisfaction.

As I buckle the flap, House hums thoughtfully. You should know that stake has a name.

“A name?” I blink at it like it might blink back.

Beryl.

“ Beryl ?” I pause. “You are telling me this ancient vampire stabbing stick…”

Slaying artefact .

“ The slaying artefact is called Beryl?”

She was a very angry Victorian lady, House says, smug.

Turns out, wrath and embroidery weren’t enough, so she took up vampire hunting .

Kept a stake in her knitting bag next to the crochet hooks.

Slayed a hundred and seventeen vampires and one particularly rude reverend.

When she died, her soul was bound to her favourite weapon. That one, right there.

I stare at the polished wood. “A human soul in a stake.” Magic-users are strange.

You must keep her out of sight. If anyone discovers her, she will end up in some magical laboratory. Beryl will be helpful. She hums when danger’s near, buzzes if she dislikes someone, and comments on your posture.

“Brilliant,” I mutter. “Just what I need, a Victorian ghost who doubles as an etiquette trainer.”

The stake vibrates.

She likes you, thinks you have good hands .

“Well, I’m glad she’s not judging my hemline.” I shift the satchel onto my shoulder. “All right, I’d better have something to eat before I die for the night. I feel like Gizmo from Gremlins ,” I grumble. “The question is, what food complements vampire-hunting?”

That’s obvious, House says with a laugh. How about steak?

This is going to be a very long night indeed.