Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(60)
“Are you sure? You sound uncertain.”
I do a rapid calculation in my head: A letter delivered to a signee of a treaty banishing vampires from Poland on the eve of that provision taking effect cannot be anything positive. It’s not a fond farewell, a “So long, and thanks for all the blood!” It’s a challenge and a provocation. And if I don’t meet it immediately—if Bartosz decides to get physical—I’m not going to survive, because he’s seconds away from figuring out I’m not like other humans, not easily swayed and controlled and consumed. But I don’t have my staff with me, and there’s no easy access to the earth’s power either. I am a weak human at the moment, with only one advantage: the ability to unbind vampires. Well, maybe two other advantages: surprise, and the American talent for bullshitting.
I flash a grin at him and nod, maintaining eye contact as I switch my language to Old Irish, reciting the unbinding that will separate his component parts and turn him into a slurry of minerals and blood. His frown deepens, because he doesn’t recognize the language, and halfway through he tries to interrupt. “Wait, what? Speak Polish.” I keep going, and it dawns on him that regardless of what I’m saying, I’m not charmed, as he thought I would be, and in fact something very untoward might be in progress. He might have been warned to expect something like it. His eyes go wide as the thought registers that I’m chanting something, not really speaking, and then he hisses and pops his fangs, lunging out of his chair to grab me as I complete the unbinding.
Those fine chiseled features shift and melt as the bones lose their shape and get pushed around by the liquefying muscles inside. I sidestep quickly to avoid an anticipated gush of blood from his open mouth—it vomits forth and drenches the drink-prep containers of citrus wedges and maraschino cherries. He deflates for a moment like an emptying bladder and then the skin comes apart, letting all that liquefied mess spew where it will. It fairly erupts out of his neck along with some chunks of tissue and brain, raining down on poor Maciej and plopping wetly into his beer pudding.
A goodly number of screams tear through the bar at the sight of this—most people don’t see it all but catch the end, where a dude just appears to explode, and their fight-or-flight instinct takes over and there’s an exodus for the door. Maciej lets out a raw, panicked yell and cringes a bit but otherwise doesn’t move. He sees I’m still standing and the creepy guy is toast, and that’s good enough for him, though after a couple of deep breaths he does start to shout, “Fuck! Shit!” over and over. I use the chaos to dart forward, snatch the blood-soaked envelope off the bar, and absorb the worst of the gore with a bar towel before cramming it into my back pocket.
Oliwia comes over from her end of the bar and says, “Oh, my God, what happened?”
“I don’t know; that guy just exploded.”
“What do you mean, exploded?”
“I mean he exploded.”
Maciej stops his cursing, looks at his jacket, now all gules, and begins to laugh. “That! Was! So! Metallllll!” he shouts. I step away from Oliwia and lean over the bar to speak to him in low tones.
“When the police come, I need you to say nothing about why he was here or what he wanted. He just sat down, ordered pudding, and told us his name was Bartosz before he died.”
“Hell yes,” Maciej growls. “That is exactly what happened. I will say that I asked him about his job and he just exploded. Must have been a very stressful occupation.”
“Good, that’s good. I’ll say the same. Your tab is on me today. Order whatever you like. Need anything now?”
“A shot of ?ubrówka and a beer. And maybe a bar towel.”
“Coming right up. And let me get that out of your way, because eww.” I reach for his pudding goblet, now ruined with a small pond of blood and bits of brain in it, but Maciej stops me.
“No, no, wait, I need to take a picture first,” he says, taking out his phone. “Blood pudding is the most metal pudding of all, ha ha!”
The manager emerges from the kitchen, takes a brief look at the scene, then says we’re comping everyone’s tab because it’s not good business to make people pay for their emotional trauma. He closes the pub until the police arrive, and then for hours I’m busy pouring drinks and answering questions—from my co-workers, the police, and even the press, though I insist on no photos or images of any kind.
When I’m finally released, Scáthmhaide, my staff, is waiting for me in the employee area behind the kitchen. As soon as I pick it up, I draw on the power stored in the silver end and feel better; those two small bindings had wiped me out.
With a sliver of privacy at hand, I take the bloody envelope out of my pocket and open it. I read it twice and then dial a stored number on my phone, more pissed than I’ve been since I last saw my stepfather.
“Hello, Granuaile. I expected a call from you tonight,” a cultured voice purrs in my ear.
“Fuck you, Leif. You knew he was coming?”
“I knew who …? Excuse me. Has something happened?”
“Yes, something’s happened! I had to unbind a vampire in my bar tonight!”
“Did you get his name?”
“Fucking Bartosz.”
“Hmm. I do not know a Fucking Bartosz, but I can consult my roster.”
“He’s not why I’m calling. Before I unmade his ass he gave me a letter, which I just found time to read. It’s signed by someone named Kacper Glowa. You recognize that name?”