The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

64

Isla Margarita Santiago-Corrigan, Pinched

Fucking heck I could use a cigarette.

The interrogation room I was being held in was cold. Uncomfortably so. I'd been freezing my nips off for hours and was kind of beginning to suspect I had hypothermia. On top of everything else. Didn't help that I couldn't change my clothes, so I was stuck in wet pajama pants and Greg's holey t-shirt.

My robe—my precious, beautiful, lavender, silk robe—was both ruined and had been collected as evidence upon my arrest. You know, on account of all the blood and dirt and viscera clinging to it.

At least the bastards hadn't gotten to the Grumpkins. I sent the boys scampering home, straight home, before a trio of witches touched their brooms down in the yard. When they finally give me my phone call, I plan on spending it to call Sal to take care of them. Yeah, I could call my parents or sisters, but I don't have to. They'll find out about this eventually. But Sal won't ask questions about why Grumpkin suddenly sported a twin. Plus he fed his babies the premium kitty kibble.

I bent my head to down to reach my hands, which were bound to the table with silver plated and bespelled handcuffs.

The table itself had been carved with various runes and sigils. Salt lined the perimeter of the room. Hex bags and charms hung from the ceiling like cutesy windchimes. Pentacle was etched into the floor under me. Room emanated protective magic. Hexed jawn crafted to seal in the big baddies waiting to be questioned.

Magistrate had really pulled out all the stops for me. How sweet.

The walls were even covered in silver backed mirrors. Meaning I had an excellent view of how ratty I looked. My hair was frizzed to heck. There was no hiding the massive cut stitched up across my forehead. Or the bruise radiating out from under it. The swelling in my one eye had gone down a tad, meaning now only a quarter of my face was black and purple. Instead of half. Not counting the bags under my eyes or smeared mascara. Yay.

I had other bruises. On my arms and neck. Soles of my feet were in such bad shape I barely hobbled into my holding cell. My hands and knuckles were littered with scrapes and cuts. A few of my nails were broken. The beds were stained a ruddy brown, on the ones where an officer hadn't already scraped away the goo.

At least they'd given me a pair of paper-thin slippers for my bare feet. Pretty sure these were the ones they used to walk through crime scenes without leaving footprints or whatever.

Yeah. I looked the part of the wicked necromancer, alright.

Even after a witch had tended to my face and cuts with herbs and stitches and a magic salve—and not gently, by the way. I wasn't allowed painkillers, apparently. Or, at least, the witch had felt vindicative enough about my crimes that they figured I hadn't earned the luxury of anything beyond a single Ibuprofen.

I pressed my thumbs against my eyes. Exhaustion haunted my bones. Clung to me like a poltergeist at a pool party. Ugh. I'd been here all day and they hadn't let me sleep. For my own good, they claimed. Cause of the head wound. Had to be close to midnight now.

Jerks just wanted to see me suffer.

I hoped Greg was able to get some rest. Tried to will it from my cell, a couple of times this afternoon. Had no clue whether it would work, but a necromancer could try, couldn't she? At the very least it kept my mind occupied. Squeezed my eyes shut and meditated on allowing him rest. Letting him sleep. Gentle and warm. Cozy and not at all corpse-like in his bed. A real nap.