Demon Moon

portside aisle, past the sleeping businessmen and-women, to the coach class. Two blue seats near the windows, four in the center. The nosferatu was in the second row; she didn’t look at it as she made her slow circuit, crossing to starboard behind the last line of seats in the cabin. Most of the passengers slept.
    Michael? Selah? Now would be really, really good . The nosferatu’s arm hung over its armrest, its fingers flexing. In anticipation? How had it afforded the flight? Where had it obtained identification? Had it simply slipped in with its inhuman speed? Was there a body in the cargo hold—or in the airport—belonging to the person who was supposed to have been in seat 29B?
    She shook her head. It took some effort, but she quieted the portion of her brain that screamed for answers. Some things were very simple: Gravity made airplanes fall out of the sky when pilots and passengers were dead; a long distance divided by a short time made a fledgling’s speed too slow ; nosferatu were Evil, with a hatred of humanity, and no Rules preventing them from murder.
    Worse than demons. Or vampires.
    Or suitable boys.
    She uncapped the hellhound venom and poured it into her mouth, held it on her tongue. It tasted oddly sweet and heavy, like nectar from a sun-warmed peach. It was too bad her face had to be the delivery system.
    The passenger behind the nosferatu had reclined his seat. Hopefully asleep—and hopefully he wouldn’t mind that Savi was going to sit on his lap for a few seconds.
    She lifted the wire coil from around her neck. Made a single loop.
    Then she stepped into the row behind the nosferatu, dropped the loop over its head, and fell into hopefully-sleeping-guy’s lap.
    She didn’t have to pull much; the nosferatu’s powerful surge to its feet did most of the work. It yanked her forward, and she smashed into the seatback, almost swallowed the venom. The wire slid through her left hand, providing enough friction to tear and rip—her fingers, and judging by the sudden spray, its throat. Like pomegranate juice.
    The copper snapped. Oh god, oh god. Please let it have cut the carotid artery . It wouldn’t kill it, but it would give her time. Sleeping-guy yelled and struggled beneath her. She leapt up, her stomach against the headrest. Blood was everywhere. She sealed her lips against the side of the creature’s gaping neck, the pumping blood, felt its hand come up, its nails digging into her right shoulder—and she expelled the venom.
    Like blowing up a balloon, Savi . A wet, cold, disgusting balloon.
    Screams rang in her ears. The hand fell away from her shoulder as paralysis set into the creature—maybe it would be enough. It would have to be; it was all she could do.
    She ran. A passenger managed to grab her skirt—but he couldn’t hold on. That was the thing about momentum and velocity: it often won despite good intentions.
    Locking the door was unnecessary, but she did anyway. Nosferatu blood covered her chin, was in her mouth, her throat. She gagged and spat into the sink, splashed at her face. Her right arm and her fingers were numb. Nani sat on the commode and quietly sobbed into her hands.
    Savi smiled weakly, forcing out her words through the chattering of her teeth, the sudden shivering that had overtaken her body. “A surgeon? A neurosurgeon. Ivy League. Fair-skinned. Tall and handsome.”
    But not too handsome.

    “…so…beautiful…” The blonde moaned the words as she came. The third woman that night, but he could not stop drinking. A dull ring in his ears—his cell phone, Colin realized dimly. Lilith.
    He didn’t want to know. Neither Selah nor Michael had been in Caelum; the fledgling Guardian Lilith had sent had been forced to wait until one of them had returned. It had taken more than an hour and a quarter before the fledgling alerted Selah. Colin had flipped on the television once, only to hear of “Terror in the Skies.”
    Then he’d left to hunt.
    He broke away and pushed the sleep onto her. She fell limp, unconscious in his arms. He sliced his lip and mixed his blood with hers to heal the punctures. He’d almost taken too much, but she was strong, young. She’d recover quickly.
    He let her slide to the linoleum floor in a boneless, quivering heap. Her groceries still sat on the counter. He paused to inhale the scent of oranges, then shoved the bags into the refrigerator and carried her to her bedroom. A nice, tidy flat. A moderately intelligent woman, but she