Salvation in a Plastic Bag

© 2004 P. Kirby
All rights reserved.

If he had to do the killing, drive the bolt through their big thick heads, he would never eat beef. At home he rarely ate meat; at home he was expected to hunt. But here, meat came in neat packages, all semblance of a once-living critter wrapped away in plastic and Styrofoam.

Or in this case, folded into a warm corn tortilla. Talis angled the taco sideways and bit down through tortilla, lettuce, cheese, and spicy shredded beef. He chewed, watching the restaurant's doorway and the dark street beyond. He was midway through his second plate, beef burritos, when Breas finally showed up.

"Talis," the vampire said. Even as he sat down, his gray eyes continued to roam the restaurant. A consummate practitioner of the art of survival, Breas took his immortality seriously.

"Hey, Breas," said Talis.

"Hey, yourself," Breas replied. His gaze fell on the empty plate. "You got some kind of Fey tapeworm?"

Talis shrugged and swooped up a forkful of rice. Better than any fad diet, his habit worked like Teflon, keeping any weight from sticking to his tall frame. A friend had once described him as a chocolate covered skeleton.

The waiter returned and filled his water glass. "Gracias," said Talis. The waiter nodded and moved on, seeing only a thin dark-complexioned human.

With his rich brown skin, sky-blue canted eyes, soot-black hair and pointed ears, Talis was anything but human. A cloaking glamour kept his true features hidden from human eyes.

Breas glanced at his watch. "You done? We're supposed to be across town in twenty minutes."

"Yeah, I—" Talis stopped, his mouth open. Across the room, in the short hallway that led back to the kitchen, the waiter stood talking to a busboy. As Talis watched, the waiter's olive complexion began to fade and bruises bled across his face, dark irregular islands on a sea of dead gray skin. Behind the man, the restaurant grew dim and was replaced by—

Pain.

Talis had fumbled blindly on the table, closing his hand on a fork and driving the tines into his thumb, banishing the portentous vision. The waiter laughed, hearty and hale, silhouetted by the yellow light that poured from the kitchen.

"I, uh, gotta run to the restroom," Talis said, ignoring the look of disgust that passed across the vampire's face. He tossed a handful of bills on the table and headed for the men's room.

"You're still using, aren't you?" Breas asked when they emerged from the restaurant.

"Why do you ask, if you already know the answer?" Talis said with uncharacteristic anger.

"Stupid kid," the vampire muttered. "That crap won't cure whatever ails you." Without a glance at Talis, he turned and walked toward a parking lot on the side of the building.

Talis shivered, the drug trickling though his nervous system. "I know," he said in a small voice.

The Elf Dust did nothing to mask the vision. It hit Talis just as they passed Asarco, the copper refinery on the far west edge of El Paso, Texas. Starting with the visual hallucinations that might signal a migraine, his sight tunneled to a pinprick of light. The spot of light then expanded, the scene shifted and he stood in the middle of a wide lawn. Someone, Breas perhaps, spoke, his voice coming through muffled and distorted. A duct-taped cardboard box sat on the ground about six feet away. Talis shivered. Little rivulets of blood dribbled out various tears in the cardboard, leaving vertical red stripes down the brown surface. Pain shot up Talis's arm.

"Hey!" said Breas. The vampire's fist had smashed into Talis's upper arm. The vision evaporated, replaced by the lights of Westside El Paso, a carpet of bright pinpoints huddled beneath the dark mass of the Franklin Mountains. "What the hell did you take?" asked Breas.

Talis's head slumped forward and he stared at the buttery soft leather car seats. "Nothing," he said, rubbing his arm. His lank black hair fell over his face and he risked a glance in Breas's direction. "I'm fine," he added, in an attempt to sound reassuring. He pushed his hair off his face and turned to look out the window. Catching a glimpse of a thin dark face blinking spectral pale eyes, he swung his head around and stared at the dashboard.

Breas didn't indulge in trite vampiric flamboyance. Blue jeans, a sweatshirt with a sports team logo and hiking boots were his uniform. He kept his blond hair cropped short and he never wore black. But Breas loved sleek, overpriced European cars. Talis's eyes wandered over the rich walnut dashboard, pausing on the radio. He reached out and scanned through frequencies, stopping on a country station.

In response, Breas's hand darted out and punched a preset button. The station changed and something heavy on strings and low on twang sang out of the car's speakers.

"Hey! That was Reba," Talis said.

"My car. No hillbilly shit," Breas answered.

"You're a snob."

"I put up with you, don't I?" said Breas, jaw clenched. "Can you even do magic?"

"Of course—"

"I mean, hopped up on—" Breas paused and sniffed, "at least four hits' worth of Elf Dust?"

Talis lifted his hand, straightening and folding his elongated fingers in a smooth rhythmic motion. The radio crackled and Reba McIntyre replaced Vivaldi. "Not many Fey can do that. Surrounded by iron," Talis said.

Breas nearly smiled.

Hiding the pain the effort had cost him, Talis turned away, forced to face his reflection.

Thirty-thousand years ago, spurred on by the precognitive visions of seers that foretold vast riches beneath the fishing waters of another race of Fey, the Elves set about exterminating their only obstacle to prophesized wealth—the Mar'Gwynt, Talis's people. The Elves, who approached extirpation with a cheerful zeal, were nearly successful, the few surviving Mar'Gwynt driven into barely habitable coastal marshes, demoralized and stripped of most of their culture. Though, in the ensuing millennia, they rebuilt much of their civilization, Talis's people still longed for the sea and cursed the Elves.

Talis watched brightly lit signs, motels, gas stations, and warehouse stores whiz by, grateful for the glare that washed away his reflection. El Paso was a long way from any ocean.

Born on Fey Plane nearly 150 years before, Talis had spent the majority of his life on Earth. When life on iron rich Earth Plane didn't quell his precognitive visions, he had resorted to chemical controls. Using led to dealing. If he needed extra money, he ran errands and provided backup for Breas, who called himself a "procurer of hard to obtain artifacts." Talis called him a smuggler, but never to his face.

Talis's visions started when he turned forty. His father, scandalized by his son's gift—Precog ability belonged to the "stinking Elves"—promptly disowned him. Not all visions were bad. Some—lottery numbers and winning slot machines—paid the rent. The foreknowledge of his sister's death initiated the darker phase of his visions.

Talis could not save his sister or any unfortunate soul he "saw" thereafter, no matter how hard he tried. The fate revealed by the visions had the consistency of glue, never relinquishing those it caught.

"You done brooding?" Breas said. "We're almost there."

Talis ignored the vampire and tried to picture his sister's face, finding, as was usually the case, that her features eluded him. The swift current of Elf Dust carried away most real emotion and eroded his memories.

The car skimmed up Country Club Road, passing older homes on large lots. Tall trees, an anomaly in the desert, flanked the roadway. The turn signal tick-tick-ticked and Breas turned left on a narrow street. When a flickering streetlight winked out as they passed, Breas shot a questioning glance in Talis's direction.

"Wasn't me," said Talis. Despite his bravado, Talis's demonstration a few minutes before had stripped him of his innate power. It took tremendous energy to cast through a drug-addled brain.

They drove up a curved driveway, stopping before a two-story brick house. Breas pulled down the window long enough to test the air before shutting down the car and getting out. Talis followed. Two bulky shadows separated from the dark of the porch and moved in their direction. With a sense of smell as keen as a vampire's, Talis sniffed and detected the earthy smell of Sharet demon.

They closed distance until the two pairs stood about five feet apart. Both demons were tall with almost comical proportions—massive shoulders set on a torso that tapered to a narrow waist. In the dim light of the streetlights, their green skin took on a grayish cast. The taller of the two demons inclined his head. "Breas?" he asked, with a grating metallic voice, yellow eyes settling on the vampire.

Breas nodded. "Yes. And this is my associate, BelTalis'aresh ap Darafinet."

The demon nodded in Talis's direction. "I am called Fred. And this is my brother Ned."

The corner of Breas's mouth twitched. "I have your requested item. Do you have payment?" Breas's number one rule of business: Keep small talk to a minimum.

"Yes." Fred gestured at his brother. Ned stood motionless, his stare fixed on some point on the ground. "Ned!" Ned jerked awake and stumbled over to Breas. His green hands shook as he handed the vampire a cloth bag. While Breas counted the money, Talis studied Ned. Little rivulets of nerve tremors slithered up and down the demon's neck. Ned's strung out, Talis thought, with not a little pity.

Talis's attention shifted from the demon to his surroundings. The home sat far back on the grassy lot, hunched like a dog guarding a bone it had long lost interest in. Beyond, Talis smelled the moldy tang of old horse dung. The previous owners must have been part of the horsy set.

Fred spoke. "Sixty-two thousand in Elf currency, as specified by the contract."

Breas smiled, the expression bypassing his eyes. "It's all there." The air shifted as he turned his hand in the air, the motion similar to that used to unscrew a light bulb. A tiny flash produced the smell of ozone and a lacquered box appeared in the vampire's hand. Fred nudged his brother and then nudged him a second time. Ned shuffled over to Breas, retrieved the box and gave it to his brother, who then inspected his merchandise. Talis sighed, the Elf Dust humming in his system, and studied the ground.

Grass. Winter brown grass.

In his vision, it had been day, the grass green. But things often shifted in his visions, perhaps filled with some symbolism his untrained mind could not interpret. Talis lifted his head and surveyed the grounds with all his senses. The box sat about twenty feet away. No blood. No duct tape.

Talis was just a step away from the box before he realized his feet had moved.

"Talis, what the hell?" said Breas.

"Kittens," Talis said, crouching down by the box. The six small cats lifted their heads and issued a greeting. He smiled with relief. "White, yellow, calico, even a black one." He turned, directing his words at the Fred. "You giving them away?"

The demon looked scandalized. "Of course not. They are for the Tithe games."

Tithe games? Talis thought, stumbling over a gap in his memory.

"The main event at the Sharet Tithe festivities. Their warriors fight blood-crazed Fhomor bears," Breas said, cutting a hard glance in Talis's direction that indicated he recognized the Fey's memory lapse. "This time of year, the bears are just coming out of hibernation. They're lazy and hard to provoke."

A few of the loose connections in Talis's brain snapped in place. "Y-you throw the kittens to the Fhomor bears?" Talis's heart pounded, a deep bass to the kittens' high-pitched snare drums.

"Yes," said Fred, a happy glint in his eye. "They are easy prey. The bears tear them apart, their shrieks drive—"

"That's horrible," Talis blurted, glancing at Breas for support.

Breas shrugged. "Blood-sucking creature of the night, remember?"

Talis stood up, his attention still squarely on the box, listening to the thumps and mews of the playing animals. The black kitten sat apart from its compatriots, tawny stare fixed on Talis.

He took two quick steps away from the box. Every year the humans sent thousands of these creatures to "shelters" where most were killed. The little cats were doomed; it made no difference whether they met their fate on a demon world or here on Earth. His guilt wasn't a problem. The Elf Dust may have started to lose its efficacy against his visions, but it still did a fine job of reining in pesky attacks of conscience.

"Yeah, let's go," he said to Breas.

"You doing an impression of a statue?" Breas said when, a minute later, Talis's legs still hadn't performed the necessary walking motions. "Any less movement and you'll have pigeons crapping on your head,"

Talis turned to face the demons. "Perhaps we could work out something—"

"Talis," said Breas, a sharp edge on the name.

"Got any Surreal?" asked Ned, his eyes picking up an eager orange tint.

A spark of hope flickered in Talis's chest. It can't be this easy, can it? "Yeah. Yeah, I do," he said, fumbling in his jacket pockets. He never took the stuff anymore; it stopped working years ago. Now he just sold it. He pulled out the bag, holding it before the demon addict's eyes. "You can have it all. For the kittens."

Ned started to nod, but was interrupted by the Fred. "One kitten." Fred's imposing face scowled at his brother.

"No," Talis said, desperation starting to squeak through his voice. He felt for his power, only to be thwarted by the Elf Dust that rode his blood.

"Yes. In Sharet homeland, these creatures are worth four bags of HallowBone," said Fred, referring to a premium hallucinogen.

"Let it go, Talis," said Breas.

Talis, his hands shaking, pulled out the last of the Elf Dust he carried.

Fred's sneered. "No Elf Dust. My people don't—"

"But you can sell it," Talis said.

"No," said Fred. Ned, however, eyed the package of Surreal in the manner a starving dog watches a steak.

Breas groaned. "Come on, kid. Give him the junk and grab a cat. Or—"

"Okay, okay." Talis lowered his hand and jammed the drug back in his pocket.

He shut his eyes and reached into the box. His hands closed on one water-bottle-hot body and he pulled the creature away from its siblings and free of its fate. He stuffed it in his jacket pocket without a glance and walked back to the car. Breas unlocked the vehicle and both men got in.

The ignition clicked and the engine purred to life. "You got the black one," Breas said. Talis's thin shoulders rose with a sigh and he eased the kitten out of his pocket.

Breas reached over and scratched the kitten behind its ears. "I'd wager this is the first time Surreal saved a life."

Talis bowed his head and met the cat's yellow eyes. This is the first time I've saved a life, changed fate. He pushed his thin fingers through ebony fur, feeling the warm possibilities in the cat's vitality. The spark of hope he had felt earlier ignited dry despair and flared to a small flame.

"So, what's its name?" asked Breas.

"Her," Talis corrected gently. The cat sat on his lap, quiet and proud, fierce gaze demanding an answer.

"Eithne," replied Talis. "Little fire."

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