Butcher, Baker, Vampire Slayer: A Retelling of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night Read online

  “Sit with me at dinner,” I said, soothingly.

  “Me?” Andy asked, bouncing back from the locker.

  I ignored him with difficulty. “Sebastian,” I said, nudging him. “We’ll put the past in the past. This is our last year. We need to be united if we’re going to survive.”

  I felt the slight rush of euphoria even as I felt more tired, drained from that slight contact. He needed so much more than the little amounts of contact between us. He needed me to clasp his hand and hold it for a few minutes at least, letting my strength flow into him.

  He glanced at me suspiciously, like he could hear my thoughts. I just tried to smile and look pleasant and not turn around and hurt Andy. The imbecile couldn’t take a hint.

  “We’re going to survive, Orion. We’re going to thrive!” He swung his arm to emphasize his point and almost clocked Tancetta. Tancetta ducked while I grabbed Andy’s arm and squeezed.

  His eyes bugged out of his head while Tancetta took that opportunity to escape. “Get back to your studies. Your timing needs work.”

  I was angry, more angry than I had a right to be. Andy wasn’t a terrible Butcher, just an incredibly annoying human. There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with being annoying. I’d found Sebastian incredibly annoying last year. And the year before, and the year before, but not like Andy. He’d never tried to please me, never tried to be obedient and willing. He wasn’t now either, but for some reason, I didn’t mind so much. All I had to do was get him to bake me something.

  Later, after a dinner during which Sebastian was conspicuously absent, I left Calder proper and walked through the courtyard between the guardhouse archway and the crenelated towers of the boys school. In the shadows beyond was a building strictly off-limits to all innocent boys. Beyond tall, iron gates, I could see an assortment of rusted looking machinery with jagged spikes that gleamed wickedly. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and a distant rumble of thunder growled in the background as I took my time with the key in the lock.

  “Slightly ominous,” I muttered as I stepped through the shapes that reminded me of Gargoyles with rusted, metal teeth, crowding over the walkway that led to the square work yard where my boys would gather for training. The grey space, stone, gravel, had no decorative sprig of life to soften the stone and metal.

  A ball of fire exploded behind me from the work house, knocking me to my knees. I kept rolling across the hard stone while flames singed my shirt. I came to my feet, greeting the laughter with my own smile as I faced the Butchers with knives in my hands.

  “Tardiness rarely goes unpunished at Calder.” Mal looked superior and scathing while Toby rolled his eyes behind him.

  “That’s my line,” Francis said with a wide smile. Almost as tall as I was, the dark Butcher spent too much time and energy on pranks, probably not enough on technique. He had the appearance of severity, but felt humor was essential to the sanity of a Butcher.

  I shook my head, but smiled back at him. “Mal’s delivery was impeccable.”

  “Your shirt is singed. Clearly, you’re getting old,” Francis replied with a laugh. “I think it’s time you retired, old man. Turn over the title to someone more worthy. Someone like Sebastian Tancetta, right?” he asked, turning towards the other boys who laughed like he’d said the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. The three dozen boys wore training gear, black clothes with masks trailing down from pockets. I looked them over, searching for signs of weakness. None of these boys would be standing in the work yard if they hadn’t already passed a series of tests meant to try their endurance and their strength, of body and mind. Past the work yard, a small woods contained a series of obstacle courses that could lead to dismemberment and death, and of course, the parking garage where the few of us with cars kept them.

  “Someone’s been indulging a little too freely with wine from the sacristy,” I replied easily. The boys laughed, some nervous, all of them at attention. Francis was the closest thing I had to a friend, and yet, even he knew better than to get too close. I checked my shirt. Singed it was, but other than being a little stiff, no holes would develop. It was a good shirt.

  As the smoke disappeared, I saw with stinging eyes a tall figure cloaked in black, walking slowly towards me. The other boys edged backwards, giving us space. His coat dragged the ground, his large hat pulled low over his eyes while his white scarf was wrapped around his throat and chin.

  I almost sighed before I straightened and stared evenly at the man who came close enough to tug on my shirt, tearing it where the explosion had failed. I growled back at him, what I could make out of his eyes in the shadow beneath the hat.

  “You weren’t paying attention. That little prank could have gotten you killed.” The independent Butcher’s voice was a rough growl that put up my hackles.

  I smiled slightly, forcing myself to stay calm, to relax. This was nothing more but an opportunity for him to test me. I hated being tested.

  “Are you convinced in the durability of my shirt, or do you want to try something with a little more kick? Maybe you can get me to bleed.”

  His exhale was half growl. “Your energy is off, or you would have sensed the attack.”

  I raised an eyebrow as I responded in a low voice that the Boys and Butchers shouldn’t have been able to understand. “Do you have something to say, or do you really think that I need more training?”

  He stared at me until my skin prickled then he finally said, “you’ll come with me tonight. There are matters that have been forgotten for too long.”

  He turned with a swirl of his long, black coat before he walked away, merging with the shadows beneath the gleaming spikes towards the guardhouse.

  “He doesn’t give you an inch,” Francis said sympathetically.

  I gave him my coldest glare. He swallowed and backed away. “Which is why I am what I am. One of you may become the Butcher after me. It is a heavy burden. You must each be strong enough to carry it and each other. Whips!”

  They pulled out whips and began the first stance, kicking and whirling while the black leather cut through the air with precision that had taken them four years to achieve. I took out my whip and worked with them, feeling the rush of air behind each snap. After a workout that exhausted them, I bid them adieu and slipped out of Calder into the darkness, my own long coat heavy on my shoulders. Not so heavy as my father’s, but heavy enough.

  I took the metro Northeast, getting off downtown and continuing on foot towards the boundary between light and dark, good and evil, chaos and order. One hundred and forty murders happened a year on the North side by the river where very few people went who didn’t have to, particularly after dark.

  I passed a man pushing a shopping cart beneath a flickering neon sign of a barred pawnshop, one of the few past Bordertown. The end of civilization acquired lost tourists from time to time. The stadium, the old Theater, those were downtown, but four blocks North was Bordertown, where the werewolves weren’t the worst things you could run into, then beyond that, nothing.

  My father hadn’t mentioned where I should be, but I knew. I’d been avoiding the closest thing we had to a witness of the Tancetta murders, the pack leader.

  He fell in beside me, a shadow that smelled like wet dog as we walked through the darkening night.

  “You have something for me?” His voice was a low growl that he couldn’t help.

  “No. My knives are sheathed this evening barring unforeseen events.”

  “Pity. You could use the practice.”

  I glanced over at him with a scowl. I did not want to do small talk. “What do you know about the murders six months ago?”

  “Five months,” he corrected with a sharp and gleaming smile on his swarthy face. “Aren’t you going to simply execute me for the assumed guilt?”

  “You didn’t do it,” I responded with my own growl. “I know what it looks like when you kill something.”

  I gave him a hard smile at him which made him back off before he leaned clos
er, sniffing me then pulling away before I could shove him.

  “You smell different.” His smile shifted, became something curious, more animal, less monster.

  “What do you know about the murder?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.” His yellow eyes began to take on an inward glow and intensity that made my skin crawl. That’s what they looked like before they shifted from man to wolf. It began with the eyes.

  “Try me.”

  “Why do you smell like vanilla?”

  “Why do you smell like wet dog?”

  He cocked his head, his face narrow and predatory. “You know how dangerous it is to use scented products as a Butcher. I taught you better than that.”

  I stared at him while a wave of emotion and memories swept over me. Olivia, her face when Armand was pardoned, his face the last time I’d seen him human, the last time he’d been my brother, giving me advice about how to secure weapons for the most efficient drawing. He always gave me advice before we Hunted, because he knew so much, my older brother who could do no wrong, who my father had always held up as the perfect example of what The Butcher should be.

  I inhaled slowly, forcing my hands to remain at my sides instead of drawing my silver knives. “I’m not here to reminisce. What do you know about the Tancetta murder?” I repeated the words slowly and evenly, forcing my shoulders down, relaxed.

  He circled me, his hair past his shoulders, a mottled brown color, eyes fixed on me as he sniffed. He moved closer, as if he were about to whisper in my ear when he licked me instead. His tongue felt like sandpaper on my neck. The shock brought two knives across his throat before I knew I’d moved. He winced with a distasteful expression on his face.

  “Definitely vanilla but with a hint of jasmine. I think I got it all off of you.” He spit to the side. I moved my knives with him so he didn’t cut his own head off on them.

  I spoke through gritted teeth. “You are trying to get a rise out of me. Did dad ask you to do that, to test me? Haven’t I had enough testing?” I slammed him back against the brick wall behind him.

  His head hit with a resounding thunk, but he only raised an eyebrow as if curious at my reaction.

  I stepped back, sheathing the knives up my sleeves. Repetition wasn’t working. If this was a test, then I would pass it. I always won the fights that didn’t matter. What did Armand care about? His pack. He was a good leader, kept them out of trouble for the most part, not an easy task when you came down to it.

  “I haven’t met your new second,” I said, coldly as I began walking North, where the streetlights had all gone out a long time ago. “How is the new order working out?”

  He growled and frowned at me, lips curling away from his teeth. “Too many died trying to follow the rules. Butcher rules. It’s more difficult to convince people to follow rules that don’t only not work, but get your friends killed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear the trouble you’re having following rules. You have so many of them.”

  His eyes glinted in amusement or anger, I wasn’t sure which. “Feeling suffocated by Butcher rules? Werewolves may not have very many rules, but they make up for it in being extremely boring. How long have you been The Butcher now?”

  I stared at him flatly. “An eternity. How many wolves did Lance kill?”

  He shook his head. “Not Lance.”

  I gritted my teeth as I tried to think which Butchers would feel strongly enough about Lance’s death to try his vigilante methods. Olivia would certainly be game for that sort of fun if it didn’t explicitly go against the entire purpose of Butchers. Surely, she could see that, couldn’t she? It wasn’t easy to put aside personal feelings, but we were Butchers. We did what was necessary, not what we wanted. Self-denial, Self-control, Self-sacrifice. Those were the Butcher tenets.

  “Show me,” I said. Werewolves were always better at show than tell.

  He turned and ran, his footsteps light against the pavement. He reminded me for a moment of Tancetta, running across the gym floor, light and lithe. Armand was far too large, but still light on his feet. Thinking of Tancetta reminded me of Tony, Tancetta’s old friend would do whatever stupid idea anyone had whether it was to go and wipe out werewolves for good or burn down Calder. The werewolves could be trouble, but they also helped hold back the North side. Also, not having them in the semblance of order they were in under Armand would make them as dangerous as the monsters that lurked in the North side.

  I shouldn’t have spent so much time tracking Lance along the river, searching for him instead of focusing on my duties. I ran after Armand, keeping my own footsteps quiet as we raced.

  I heard a scuffling ahead, a whine and snap of a wolf and then a harsh, human laugh. The movement was in shadows, difficult to make out although I saw a glimmer of reflected metal and three distinct figures, two human-like, one wolf.

  I didn’t hesitate before I tackled the larger figure, the one with a dagger against the side of the wolf. Rich blood filled my senses, wolf blood mixed with a little bit of human as I wrapped my arms around the body of the man, knocking him to the pavement. He twisted and broke my hold, but I was already on my feet, turning to meet the other one, smaller but still as large as one of my Butchers.

  He came at me with a knife, the gleaming reflection on the edge of a knife blade visible as it rushed past my face, nearly nicking my nose before I jerked back. I should have been able to see them better, but they wore masks and cloaks like Butchers, special, light absorbing coat like my own. Their technique was unfamiliar to me, so they weren’t any Butchers that I’d trained, unless of course, they were putting on this show especially for me.

  I kicked the small one back then spun twist the knife out of the bigger one’s grasp. Somehow he managed to get the edge of his knife under my coat and slice through my shirt over my ribs before I sent it clattering onto the pavement.

  They were good, fast and tough but I’d been doing this a long time. I levered up, twisting until I dislocated his elbow.

  I spun around to the small opponent while the big one shrieked behind me. The back of my neck prickled, an awareness of something other, a threat that lurked beyond these two rebel Butchers. Where were we? Eight blocks past Bordertown, where screams, scuffles, werewolf blood would attract wraiths and other unpleasant things. Wraiths. I hated wraiths. I knew in my bones that wraiths were coming. I had to finish this quickly.

  The small one head-butted me and we both crashed backwards, my already cut stomach screaming and bleeding, staining my shirt. We rolled and I slid my arm around his throat until he was making gurgling sounds. I didn’t want to hurt them. I needed information, but if they kept fighting me…

  The big one blew shimmering dust towards me, dust that tinkled as it came towards my face. I threw myself back, but the powder enveloped my head and I hit a wall at the same time I was unable to move or feel. The small man rolled away from me while I held my breath. They’d used a toxin on me meant for zombies and vampires, the undead, to dull their superhuman senses and level the playing field. It leveled me completely.

  I heard their receding footsteps and felt the first cold fingers of a wraith against my ankle. They liked joints, tender places they could creep in with their death touch. I hated wraiths. Give me a zombie any day. Wraiths were formless shades that sucked out your life force. Nearly impossible to kill, and terribly difficult to run away from, they fed on your soul. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even move. I was going to die from a wraith. Where was Armand? Was he safe? He’d never leave me like this, dying from a wraith. Of course his duty was to get the wolf out, to safety and make sure it was treated for its wounds, which would be severe. He wouldn’t leave me to wraiths intentionally. I should have been fine. Me against two enormous Butchers wasn’t anything. So why was I lying on the ground with a wraith edging up my leg while another licked my wrist. Licking. Armand had licked my neck. That was the precise place he’d leaned his forehead against my skin.

  Tancetta.

  I for
ced my hand to move, the one on the side where Armand licked me. I flicked my knife out into my hand. The handle of my knife had a glass dome at the top like half a big marble. If I had the strength to press it just so…

  Flames erupted around me, the fire bright and warm that threw showers of golden sparks above and around me. The wraiths fled the light leaving half of my body feeling dead, the other half singed. The circle of flames lasted ten minutes. Ten minutes of lying on the concrete in the middle of a dead city with a falling down, bricked up building behind me and a gathering of monstrous on all sides.

  I sighed. When the flames flickered out, the decaying stench of zombified flesh overwhelmed me. I rolled over, kicking my foot through the decomposing ribcage of the first monster.

  It took me a long time to feel my limbs entirely, particularly the bits wraith kissed. Hunger grew from my core, spreading out through my limbs as instinct took over, the Butcher that had been born and bred for the fight. Every time my silver knife ended one of them, I felt hungry for another. I wasn’t really. Experience had taught me that it was an illusion, the hunger was for life energy I’d get from Landry’s bread, but in the meantime, it gave me the edge I needed to cut a swathe of destruction through the zombies and the two vampires who joined them. After I stumbled around, hacking up the creatures, they began running away, particularly after I decapitated one of the vampires. The other one backed up, recognition flashing through its gaze as it looked at me. I didn’t look back. One didn’t do that sort of thing if they were busy not becoming mesmerized and under thrall. Also, I was a bit occupied killing zombies with only one side of my body completely mobile.

  When I stumbled into Bordertown, I pulled my hood down, the hooded jacket I wore beneath my long coat another layer that hid my singed flesh and stabbed ribs until I healed. I hadn’t seen my father. He’d probably been perched on a roof somewhere with his seventeenth century pistols cocked, waiting for a serious threat. That’s what I told myself as I fell onto a bench on the train to take me back to Calder. It felt a little bit better than the idea that he’d thrown me to the wolves without backup. Not that wolves wouldn’t have been more pleasant. I shuddered as I rubbed my wrist where the skin was tinged the blue of death. It would pass. But wraiths. I hated wraiths.