#vampire!speirs

“Actually,” says Molly, quieter, calmer, “there are more stories about zombies than about trolls. More diverse tales, too, and not just region-bound like the ones you were telling earlier about trolls lurking under bridges.”

“But all the stories about zombies spring from, well.. less, uh, cultured areas, Molly, you know that.”

Billie smirks as she spots the telltale twitch to Molly’s lip that spells nothing but trouble for Web.  There is something exhausting about dealing with someone who thinks he has all the answers to life, the universe, and everything else. It’s even more exhausting when someone like Molly makes you realize that at least half of those loudly proclaimed answers are false.

It’s funny, though, too, and Billie nearly laughs when she sees Tab’s face light up in a knowing smile right before Molly quirks an eyebrow and goes to war.

“Yes, David, I agree that Hollywood is not the most cultured point of origin for the zombie stories Floyd mentioned earlier and that you expanded upon so much in the past ten minutes.” Molly tucks her hair behind her ear as she continues to march beside Floyd, slightly behind Webster, and her voice carries louder than all his futile explanations did. “However, the real point of origin for tales about zombies lies in several African and South American regions. There is hardly any mention of brain-eating anything in those. What’s interesting here is that the Haitian tradition also mentions an incorporeal zombie that is related to the human soul –”

“Mahoney knows her stuff,” murmurs a voice behind them.

“She likes history,” says Billie, halting in her tracks a moment until he falls into step beside her. She nods as Molly glances back at her – I’m okay, please continue – and smiles as her friend starts to expand upon the idea that something like necromancy affects the human soul and could very well be no different from the way humans are turned into vampires. “I think she enjoys correcting Web even more, though, especially when he talks about what is cultured and what isn’t.”

“He would be surprised to learn, if he ever opened his mind.” It’s a scathing observation, spoken by one who’s seen far more of the world than she. “Zombies aren’t real, though, I promise you that.”

“Oh? Have you been to Haiti?”

“Once, long ago,” he allows, dark eyes distant a moment before he focuses on her, “when they came to me with these sort of stories. People remained adamant about their existence, for a time, until it became clear that the toxins ingested during the ritual would cause this zombie-like affect in humans. I believe I would know, if it were otherwise.”

“Or maybe there are more things between heaven and earth than even you could know.”

“I will take you to Haiti someday,” he muses, so softly that only her ears pick up on it amid the loudness of the company they are surrounded by, “so you can see it at work for yourself. You’d enjoy the rituals. They are beautiful, in their own way, and the people would enjoy having one like you to accompany them there.”

She nearly stumbles. Would trip over her own two feet if not for his hand on her arm. “One like me?”

“One who is bled, but does not die.” He nods. His hand tightens in the crook of her elbow, almost as if she is the one steering him through this world instead of the other way around. “They honor that, as it is the sign that you carry a particularly strong gros bon ange.”

“Big good angel?” she laughs, recognizing the French.

“Part of how they see the soul. Ask Mahoney, later, when she is done eviscerating Webster.”

Molly, up ahead and now gesturing fiercely at an increasingly stunned-looking Harvard man, certainly would be the one to ask about things like that. Billie’s asked before, about history and vampires and all the names that have tumbled around in her head so freely since she first bled beneath his fangs, but lately it’s Floyd doing all the asking and Molly leaning into him with a smile that’s different from any of the conspiratorial ones she shares with Billie.

“I’d rather ask you,” she decides, then, and glances up at Ron’s impassive face as she says it. There’s a flicker in his eyes that says he’s heard her, even when he doesn’t respond any other way. “You’ve got the better stories.”

“I’m no scholar.”

“Neither am I.”

“I have paperwork tonight,” he says, and she knows she is close to winning ground. “You’d need to –”

“I need to eat first,” she decides, “and then I probably need to stage an intervention between Lieb and Maggie. Latest rumor is she’s finally going to let him cut her hair, so we’re expecting a fair few screams and threats of murder to occur.” She snorts as she watches the pair in question, even further up ahead, almost trip each other while arguing. “I’ll swing by wherever you’re staying after that. Trade you for your stories.”

“Trade me?”

“A kiss for each,” she says, daring, and dances out of his reach with a laugh before he can tell her no.

“Yes,” he answers all too readily and then amends, “and this is your fault, by the way.”

“Oh? What’s my fault?”

“Me saying yes to –” He huffs. Gestures. His tone dips and weaves into deeper, richer notes that send a shiver down her spine despite the exasperation his words are tinged with. “I can’t say no to you.”

Heat rises to her cheeks a moment, quick and bold, before she finds her voice. “I hope you have many stories.”

“Can think of a few.”

“Yeah?” Billie slips closer to him, close enough for his arm to brush hers and his hand to tangle briefly with her own. “Nothing about brain-eating, I hope?”

His soft laughter is for her ears only. “I would think you prefer blood-drinking, love.”

Love. She recognizes the lilt in his voice as he says it. Knows it’s from long ago, so offhand that he couldn’t hope to control it, but the thought still makes her preen. Love, he murmurs, every so often, when she’s in his arms or huddled close to his body, and sometimes there is a kiss for her that’s void of fangs and all the toxins this world carries.