Page 86 of Lucy Undying

I drop the knife—useless now; it’s steel, not silver—and sprint back to the kitchen. My momentum slams me into the table so hard it scrapes across the floor. I scrabble for the dish I need, ripping off the lid just in time to turn around and fling Anthony’s roasted garlic right in Ford’s face.

She screams in agony, clawing at her eyes. I duck past her flailing limbs and back into the hall. The fox flies out in front of me, enormous and still in fighting form. I can’t escape that way.

The locked room! I rip the key from the chain around my neck and unlock it, then dart inside. I slam the door and lock it once more. It’s a flimsy defense, but I just need a few seconds to make a plan. To figure out what I can do to keep Ford’s attention on me and away from Anthony.

That’s when it hits me where I am. The boarded-up window cuts off most of the light, but I can still see the bed where Lucy’s mother died. Where Lucy drew some of her last mortal breaths.

Brilliant. I locked myself in the death-by-vampire room. I’m not ready to join that club. I rush to the windows. The one that isn’t broken is sealed shut. I move on to the boarded-up section, tugging on the lengths of wood. Of all the things in the house to be sturdy after this long, of course it’s this.

I grab the little stool by the vanity and slam it against the intact window, closing my eyes against the anticipated shards of glass. The stool breaks instead.

“How fucking thick is this window?” I scream, incredulous.

The first blow hits the door. It won’t hold for long.

Two of the stool legs broke off, forming perfect little stakes. Which would be awesome if it were possible to drive a wooden stake between ribs. But it’s not, no matter how easy movies make it look. I tried to kill Ford that way once; she laughed at me. I hold on to one of the larger splinters, though, more for reassurance than anything else.

The door buckles, the frame half off. One more blow.

Think, think. Lucy said every vampire holds the same things holy in death that they did in life. What would Ford hold holy? What burrowed so deep that I can use it against her?

“Stop,” I say, channeling my mother’s voice in a pitch-perfect imitation.

Silence descends. The door stays still. This might work. Oh god, this might work.

“Bring a car around, Ford,” I command. And then I use a phrase I heard so many times I could imitate it in my sleep. “We’ll deal with this in private.”

This being me.

“Ma’am?” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Ford sound uncertain.

“You’re a silly, selfish girl, Iris,” I say, and again, it’s easy to mimic what I know. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Why do you make me do this?”

I whimper a response in my own pathetic voice. “Mom, please. How are you here?”

My voice shifts up. “Stop asking stupid questions. Stand up straight, you look poor when you slouch like that.”

“Ma’am?” Ford prompts once more.

“Ford, the car. Now, please,” I say, and then I freeze. My mother never said “please” to anyone she considered beneath her, which was everyone. Maybe Ford didn’t notice. Maybe—

The door explodes inward. I throw an arm over my face to protect myself. Ford takes my wrist in her hand. She yanks it up so hard my arm pops at the shoulder. Bright spots of pain dance in front of my eyes and I gasp for air.

Ford laughs. “Nice try. Seriously, I’m a little impressed.” But she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at my extended arm. She twists it so the cut is facing her. Another burst of pain makes me afraid I’m going to pass out from shock.

“You can’t touch me,” I gasp. “It’s against the rules.”

“I’m tired of rules.” Ford’s bright red tongue darts out. I was right about her teeth: There are too many, and they’re sharp. So sharp. “The rules exist so we can serve her. And that’s what I’m doing. Serving her. Protecting her line. Bringing back her useless whelp. But.” Her eyes go hazy, a red light kindling in them. Ford, or what’s left of Ford, is quickly receding. “It would be like tasting her.” There’s a note of awe and worship in her voice. “I’d have part of her in me, always. I can stop. Just a taste, just a drop of her power, her legacy. That’s all I’ll take, that’s all—”

I try to kick her between the legs, but Ford is too fast. Jarred from her blood-haze revery, she glares at me.

“She’s dead,” I say. “My blood is mine, not hers.”

“You sweet, sweet idiot.” Ford pulls my arm closer to her. My toes are barely touching the floor, the pain in my shoulder unbearable. I must scream, because Ford laughs again, happier than ever.

“Since when does death matter?” She considers my arm, then shakes her head. “No, already old. Already ruined, scabbing and wretched. No beat, no rush, no life.” She grabs me around the waist, lifting me in the air and crushing me to her as she nuzzles my neck. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

“Gross,” I say. Then I jam the wooden splinter straight into her eye.

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