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Mortal Coil
Caelan was standing on an embankment that dipped five metres down. He didn’t look round as she approached. Instead, he kept his gaze on an old couple below him, out for a brisk midday stroll. Valkyrie wondered, briefly, if he was hungry.
“I need your help,” she said, and watched him turn his eyes to her. Being held in his gaze had become an electric experience that was as addictive as it was unsettling. She didn’t like this power he had over her. Being around him was like being around China, but with China she at least had the knowledge that the attraction was coerced through use of magic. With Caelan, though, the attraction was real, and so it was a lot more dangerous.
“I’m waiting,” he said, with a slight smile, and she realised she hadn’t spoken a word for the last few seconds. She looked away, letting her hair fall over her face to hide the blush creeping through her cheeks.
“You’re probably not going to like it,” she said, “so it’d be a huge favour I’d have to pay back. The problem is that I can’t really tell you why I need this done. You’ve just got to trust me when I say I have my reasons.”
“What do you need?”
Valkyrie hesitated. “I need you to taste my blood.”
Caelan’s smile froze on his lips. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dusk bit me,” she said. “You know how much he wanted to kill me, and he had his chance, but he didn’t take it. Haven’t you ever wondered why he let me go?”
“Because I stopped him,” Caelan replied gruffly.
“No. You arrived after he’d pushed me away. He told Billy-Ray Sanguine that he tasted my blood and … I don’t know. Whatever happened, whatever was in my blood, it changed his mind. He no longer wants to kill me. They both think it’s a lot crueller to let me live.”
“You want me to tell you what’s so special about your blood?”
“Yes.”
“Dusk is hundreds of years older than me. He could detect a thousand different nuances in your blood that I couldn’t begin to identify. Dusk is a connoisseur. I’m not.”
“But you can try.”
“There’s no point.”
“Caelan, there’s something wrong with me, do you understand? There’s something wrong with who I am and Dusk knew straight away, from one tiny bite. You might not have his experience, but I need you to try.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking. It’s far too dangerous.”
“I’m used to dangerous.”
“For me, Valkyrie. It’s too dangerous for me. I don’t know how Dusk managed to deny himself, but I’m not that strong. If I bite you, I won’t stop feeding until you’re dead.”
“Then don’t bite me. I’ll cut my finger – you can taste a drop.”
“Would you please remember who you’re talking to? I’m a vampire! There’s a reason I’m classed as a monster! You really think that letting me taste a drop of your blood is a good idea? Really? You think that won’t drive me insane? One drop and I’d need the rest. I’d need all of it.”
“You’ve still got a mind. You don’t lose the ability to think, do you? You’re not an animal.”
“That’s precisely what I am. You look at me while the sun is shining, and you think this is me. This is Caelan. You think the vampire is the thing that comes out at night, then goes away in the morning and Caelan comes back. You don’t understand yet that the vampire is Caelan.
“This face is a mask. This skin is a disguise. Beneath it is the real me, Valkyrie. I’m not a tortured soul. I’m not a brooding romantic figure. I’m a monster, and not a moment goes by when I don’t want to rip your throat out. No other vampire on the planet wants anything to do with me, and I really don’t want to be cornered by the Skeleton Detective and his vengeance-hungry friends after I’m done feeding on your corpse. I quite like immortality. You get very used to it after a while.”
Valkyrie looked at him, but didn’t speak, and the anger slowly left him, until they were just two people, standing there in silence.
“You know,” she said at last, “that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you speak.”
Caelan nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“You feeling OK?”
“Vocal cords are a little sore.”
“You might want to sit down.”
He smiled, and she smiled back.
“I need you to do this.”
His smile vanished. “I’m telling you, no.”
“Listen to me, OK? I’m working on something, something to help me, something that could hopefully solve all my problems. But the thing is, it’s dangerous. And I mean really dangerous. I might not live through it. And I can’t tell Skulduggery or Tanith or Fletcher because they’ll try to stop me.”
“But you can tell me because you think I won’t try to stop you?”
“No, I’m not telling you either. But before I do this, I have to know if this is the right thing to do. I need to know what Dusk saw, or what he felt, or what he sensed. If it’s as bad as I think it is, then I’ll go through with this dangerous thing because it’ll be my only option. If it isn’t as bad as I think, I won’t. Simple as that.”
Caelan turned away, and didn’t speak for a long time.
“Fine,” he said at last. “But afterwards, it would probably be best if we never saw each other again.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps.”
“But that’s stupid. Why should we never see each other?”
“You say that like you’d miss me.”
“Of course I’d miss you. You’re my friend.”
“No, I’m not.”
She frowned. “You’re not?”
“You and me could never just be friends, Valkyrie. We were fated to either be nothing to each other, or everything.”
She stared at him, struggling to make sense of what he was saying. “Uh …”
“Eloquent as usual.”
“I mean … Caelan, I’m with Fletcher. And I like Fletcher, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I … I don’t know how I feel about you. This is a bit of a surprise to me, to be honest.”
“You truly didn’t know how I felt?”
“I really and truly didn’t. I’m sorry if you think I did.”
“I see.”
She looked at him as he stepped back. “And now I feel awful.”
“Don’t,” said Caelan.
“I can’t help it. Do you … I hope you don’t think I was leading you on, or anything.”
He shook his head, but kept his eyes down. “Of course not. This is my fault.”
“It’s no one’s fault, Caelan. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just, you know, I’m with Fletcher, and I never really thought about … the possibility of you.”
“Because I’m a vampire,” he said softly, like he was cursing his very soul.
“That’s part of it,” admitted Valkyrie. “But most of all it’s because I’m sixteen and you’re, like, a hundred.”
“Ah,” he said, cracking a smile. “I’m too old for you.”
“Ever so slightly.”
“And there is no part of you that wonders what it would be like?”
She swallowed. “I didn’t … I didn’t say that …”
“You need me to do this?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Very well.” He stepped up to her, one hand at her shoulder, the other sweeping her hair slowly from her neck. “I’m sorry to say this will hurt.”
“I’ve been bitten before,” said Valkyrie, and gritted her teeth.
Caelan pulled her towards him and she waited. When she was this close to Fletcher, she could feel his warmth, the heat emanating from him with each rapid heartbeat, but there was no warmth coming from Caelan. He was cold as smooth stone. Even though his mouth was a centimetre from her bare skin, she felt no breath. The fingers of his right hand curled in the collar of her jacket, the fingers of his left in her hair. She waited for his teeth. His cold body sagged, and he stepped back.
“I can’t,” he murmured. “I’d tear your throat out.” He took a penknife from his pocket, slid the blade free, and gave it to her. “Just a drop. No more, Valkyrie, OK? I should be able to handle a drop. I think.”
She pressed the blade into the pad of her fingertip, wincing as it pierced the skin. A drop of blood swelled up, and she brushed it with the knife and handed it back to him. Caelan hesitated, then brought the knife to his lips, running his tongue the length of the blade. He worked the blood around in his mouth, and as he did so, he folded the penknife and put it away. His movements were slow and deliberate; his eyes were closed. He swallowed, and licked his lips, like a lion standing over a felled deer.
Valkyrie had a sudden urge to step away.
“Caelan?” she said softly.
He was on her, lifting her off her feet and driving her back, teeth bared and diving for her throat. She twisted in his grip and hit a tree and he moved from her throat to her mouth and kissed her, his mouth crushing against hers. The kiss took her by complete surprise, and she hung there for a long moment before she realised she was kissing him back. She felt her arms wrap round his neck, felt his hard chest press against her. Then something sparked in Valkyrie’s mind.
She pushed off against the tree with one foot while she tripped him with the other. They both fell to the ground, and she rolled off him and got to her feet. She tried to speak, but he was already behind her, his cold hands on her face, turning her head to kiss her again. Valkyrie folded into him, weakness flooding her body, before she forced strength back into it. She broke off the kiss and leaned away.
“This is not going to happen,” she breathed.
“It already is,” he said, his eyes dark.
“What did you see? Caelan! My blood. What did you see?”
He smiled. “Nothing. I tasted your blood and saw nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t know what insight Dusk gained, but I gained nothing. The only difference between your blood and anyone else’s is … history.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s old blood. It stretches back to power.”
“To the Last of the Ancients?”
“That’s probably it.” His hand reached out to her and she slapped it away. His smile broadened. “But everyone knows you’re descended from the Ancients. I can’t see why it should come as such a big revelation to Dusk.”
“Maybe he saw something else.”
“Very possible. I’ve changed my mind, you know.”
“About what?”
“About how we should spend some time apart.”
“Caelan …”
“Now I think we should spend more time together.”
“I think I need to go now.”
Valkyrie went to walk by him and he laughed, and grabbed her hand. When she swung back to face him, his laugh was gone. “Fletcher’s a boy,” he said.
“That’s why they call it a boyfriend.”
“We’re meant for each other.”
“Holy God,” she said, “do you always come on this strong?”
Caelan looked like he was about to sneer, then he frowned, and backed off. “I told you,” he murmured, looking away. “I’m not … I’m not always in control.”
Valkyrie took the opportunity to hurry away.
“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder.
Caelan didn’t answer.
Thrasher opened the rear door and Vaurien Scapegrace, the Zombie King, stood there majestically, blinking against the cold afternoon sunlight.
“We have arrived?” he asked imperiously.
“We’re here,” Thrasher said, nodding his idiot head. “We got lost for a little bit. I took a wrong turn, had to stop and ask for directions. I had a map with me, but it’s pretty old, and with all these new one-way systems it’s pretty hard to …”
And he prattled on, annoying the Zombie King with mind-numbingly boring detail. Not for the first time, Scapegrace wished he’d picked someone else to be his first zombie recruit. Every recruit after Thrasher decayed at the normal speed for a dead body, but Thrasher had – unfortunately – inherited some of Scapegrace’s longevity.
But even the great Zombie King was looking poorly these days. Months earlier, his face had been badly burned by Valkyrie Cain. He had tried to peel the burnt skin off in giant flakes, but that only made things worse. His body would not repair itself, and so the disfigurement stayed, and occasionally another bit of him would fall off or stop working. Survival had become his only ambition. He went everywhere in this refrigerated van, he stayed out of the sun as much as possible, and he covered himself in car fresheners that struggled to mask the stench of rotting meat with sickly wafts of pine.
Survival. That’s what it was all about. And that’s why he was here today. Scapegrace stepped out of the van, on to the road.
“What do you need me to do, Master?” Thrasher asked, eagerness ripening his features.
“Stay here,” Scapegrace replied, “and don’t annoy me. How is my face?”
Thrasher hesitated. “It’s … good. Fine. The make-up is … it really hides the, uh, the worst of the scarring.”
“And my suit? Do I have any bits on it?” His ear had fallen off the day before. He’d stuck it back on with glue.
“It looks clean, sir.”
“Excellent. Back in the van you go, Thrasher.”
“Yes, sir … only …”
Scapegrace sighed. “What?”
“Don’t you think I should be the one to talk to these people, Master? They are civilians, and I don’t have the … distinguishing features that may alarm them …”
“Nonsense. I have it all worked out. I have my plan, and I’ve accounted for every single possibility. Every question they are likely, or even not so likely, to ask, I have prepared an answer for. My backstory is rock solid. My lies are intricate and one hundred per cent infallible. You’d only mess it all up.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Back in the van, moron.”
Thrasher bowed, and did as he was bid. Scapegrace adjusted his tie, then strode purposefully along the pavement. The road was a cul-de-sac, with only three buildings on it – a funeral parlour on either side, and a large house at the end with a car outside.
Scapegrace entered the first funeral parlour. A man in a sombre suit hurried up to him, took one look at his face and faltered.
“It looks worse than it is,” Scapegrace chuckled good-naturedly.
“I … see,” said the man.
“It was the same accident that killed my brother,” Scapegrace continued, realising that he should probably stop chuckling. “It’s a tragic shock. We’re all very saddened by his loss.”
The funeral director shook Scapegrace’s hand, and gave him a sad smile. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked gently.
“I would, yes. I’m feeling quite faint, because of the loss of my dead brother.”
The funeral director showed him to a comfortable chair, then sat behind his big desk and solemnly opened a ledger. He picked up what looked to be an expensive pen, and raised his eyes to Scapegrace. “May I ask your name?”
Scapegrace had rehearsed this part a dozen times, coming up with answers for every possible question. This was an easy one. “Elvis O’Carroll.”
The funeral director hesitated, then nodded, and wrote it down. “And your brother’s?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your brother’s name?”
Scapegrace froze. It had all been going so well. “My brother’s name,” he managed, “is … a name that makes me cry every time I hear it. His name, my brother’s name, my dead brother, is …” His mind raced, careered off walls and stumbled over hurdles. A name. A simple name. All he needed was a simple name to get to the next stage of the conversation, and he could not think of one. Aware that he was staring at the funeral director with a perplexed look on his face, Scapegrace seized a random name from history. “Adolf,” he blurted.
The funeral director stared at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Adolf O’Carroll,” Scapegrace continued, trying to be as calm as possible. “That’s with two L’s at the end.”
“Your brother’s name was Adolf?”
“Yes. Do you find something wrong with that? It’s a common name in my family. I had an uncle Adolf, and a great-aunt Adolf.”
“A great-aunt? You realise, of course, that Adolf is traditionally a man’s name …?”
“Well, that makes sense, as my great-aunt was traditionally a man.”
“You do seem to have an interesting family, Mr O’Carroll,” the funeral director said politely as he scribbled notes.
“Please,” Scapegrace said. “Call me Elvis.”
“Indeed. May I inquire as to what service you wish us to provide for you, during this trying time? The funeral, of course, is what we specialise in, but we also—”
“Embalming,” Scapegrace said. “Do you do your own embalming?”
“We prepare the departed for their final resting place, yes.”
“And you do that here?”
“On the premises, yes. We have a staff of professionals who take care to treat each individual with the utmost respect. We have found there to be dignity in death, as there is in life.”
“How long does it take?”
“The embalming process?”
“How long does it take to stop the decomposition?”
“I’m not sure I understand … What exactly are you asking us to do?”
“I want him preserved.”
The funeral director put down his pen, and interlaced his fingers. “Are you … Are you asking us to perform taxidermy?”
“Am I? What’s that? Is that when an animal is stuffed and mounted?”
“It is.”
“That’s it!” Scapegrace said happily. “That’s what I want! Can you do that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the actual animal body is not used in taxidermy. The animal is skinned, and the skin is stretched over a replica animal body. Note, I keep saying animal. That is because taxidermy is not done to humans. It might be seen as somewhat barbaric.”
“Wouldn’t suit me anyway,” Scapegrace murmured. “It needs to be the original body. So can you embalm it and just give it to me?”
“I’m afraid that we do not provide a take-away service.”
“Maybe the place across the road does.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” the funeral director said huffily, “but I doubt even they would stoop to that level. Mr O’Carroll—”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis, I think the death of your brother has affected your judgement. You’re not thinking clearly. What you’re asking for is … unsettling.”
“It’s what Adolf would have wanted.”
“I’m sure he would have appreciated a more peaceful resting place.”
“His last words to me were, ‘Don’t bury me’.”
“We also provide a cremation service.”
“And then he said, ‘Don’t burn me either’.”
The funeral director sighed. “Elvis, I don’t think we are the people to help you. It is not often I recommend our rivals across the road, but I feel they would be more suited to your needs. I’m sure they’d be happy to deal with your … requests.”
He smiled.
Scapegrace left the funeral parlour and crossed the road, dousing himself with a half-can of deodorant as he went. He was greeted by another sombre funeral director, explained his injuries without the chuckling this time, and was shown to another comfortable chair. He skipped through the tragic loss stuff quickly and got down to specifics.
“Adolf was a devout Catholic,” he said. “And I mean, devout. Oh, he was crazy for that religion. He’d be praying every day, sometimes twice a day. It was all Our Father this and Hail Mary that. Rosary beads and signed pictures of the Pope. He went nuts for the whole thing. He thought priests were great altogether.”
The funeral director nodded slowly. “So at least he was comforted in his time of need. Then it will be a traditional funeral you’re looking for?”
“Not at all. Have you read the Bible?”
“I have, yes. I find great strength in its words.”
“Did you read the bit about the zombies?”
“Uh …”
“The bit at the end, where God raises the dead for Judgement Day.”
“Um, I … I’m not sure I …”
“It’s when God decides who gets into Heaven and who doesn’t, and all the dead climb out of their graves and they all wait there to see who gets in. That’s in the Bible, right? That’s what Adolf wants to do, but he wants a head start on all the others. He doesn’t want to waste time crawling out of a hole in the ground. He wants to be ready for the sprint. So I want you to preserve him.”
The funeral director paled. “Preserve?”
“I was thinking, if you pump all that embalming fluid into his veins, then I can take him away, store him somewhere cool, and he’ll be ready to go at the end of the world. What do you think?”
“Are you … being serious?”
“I’ve got my dead brother in the back of my car. Of course I’m being serious.”
“Mr O’Carroll …”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis, what you’re saying makes no sense.”
“Do not deride my brother’s religion.”
“I assure you, I am doing no such thing. But what I am saying is that … your plan is nonsensical. A dead body will rot, sir, no matter how much embalming fluid is injected into it. Over time, everything decays.”
“Adolf is particularly resilient.”
“Even if Judgement Day happened before he started to decompose – say, if it happened on Thursday – embalming fluid would actually be a hindrance. It suffuses the muscles, stiffens them until they can’t be moved. Do you understand, Elvis? He wouldn’t have a head start on anyone. He’d actually be left behind, unable to move.”
Scapegrace frowned. “So … So there’s nothing you can do to stop decomposition?”
“I am sorry.”
“What about those bodies they find in bogs, hundreds of years old?”
“Do you really want to lay Adolf to rest in a bog? Elvis, unless you’re prepared to mummify your brother, he is going to decompose.”
“What’s that? Mummify? He’d be a mummy?”
“We don’t do that sort of thing here.”
“Well, who does?”
“Nobody.”
“What about the Egyptians?”
“Nobody apart from the Egyptians,” the funeral director nodded. “Take him to an Egyptian funeral parlour. They’ll wrap him in bandages and put him in a sarcophagus and he’ll be right as rain come Judgement Day.”
“Really?”
“No. Those morons across the road paid you to come in here and waste my valuable time, didn’t they?”
“Of course not.”
“Did they tell you to act so stupid?”
“I’m not acting,” Scapegrace responded.
“Tell them if they want to start this practical joke war again, then I’m fine with that. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. If it’s a war they want, it’s a war they’ll get.”
Scapegrace left the funeral parlour, confused and disheartened. It was as if the universe was closing off every avenue just as he was realising it was there. He had pinned all his hopes on being embalmed, and what was he left with, now that science had let him down?
He stopped in the middle of the road. Magic. Of course. He hadn’t considered it before because, quite honestly, he had no sorcerer friends. But surely there must be something a mage could do. They were always coming up with new and exciting ways to live for as long as possible. Would it really take that much power to stop meat from rotting?
