Demon Night

it in front of my mom and dad—only behind their backs. I did, except I sang it, drawing it out so that they couldn’t tell what it was. I’ll unfortunately never sing ‘motherfucker’ like that again, but let me tell you: It was amazing when I did. Jane could probably give you a demonstration, if she wasn’t laughing so hard—but her contralto is reedy, so it’d sound like crap anyway.”
    Charlie paused for a quick breath. Jane’s lips were pressed tightly together; she was trembling, and there was color in her face. And Mark was looking and his psychic scent sounded a little saner now—if completely bewildered—but his gun was still against Jane’s neck, so it was time to tell him what she’d do if he didn’t lower it soon.
    “I didn’t like the same what’s-his-name actor, though—”
    “Bruce,” Jane said.
    Charlie grinned. “Bruce, yes—because I liked the bad guy better. Until about a year or so ago, I was alone at home watching movies, and I see Bruce in another film, and he’s looking up at this gigantic blue alien, and she’s got this synthesized coloratura soprano, and he’s about to cry because it’s so beautiful. Then the singer gets killed—which isn’t a surprise, because singers always get killed—but then Bruce suddenly turns into this big damn hero and goes after all of the bad guys. And at one point, a bad guy is holding a gun to a good guy’s head. But Bruce just walks into the room, and before the bad guy can react there’s a bullet through his forehead.”
    Mark blinked, and his gaze shifted to Jane, then to Charlie’s pistol. Uncertainty chased away the rest of the madness.
    Charlie wasn’t smiling now. “I’m really, really fast. But I like to think you’re a good man, Mark—and I’ve recently been told that it’s hard to wash a good man’s blood off your hands.” The gun wasn’t so tight against Jane’s neck now, but it still wasn’t enough. “For Jane, I’m willing to scrub. And if you do anything to her, not only will I shoot you like a bad guy, it won’t even matter. Because I’ll heal her with my blood, and if I can’t do that I’ll turn her into a vampire to save her. She won’t like it as much as I do, because her boyfriend probably won’t respect her free will—but she’ll be alive. You won’t be.”
    Mark swallowed hard. Charlie stood motionless, and didn’t look away from him when she heard the front door easing open…and the sudden noise from outside. The tread of boots was unmistakable. Ethan. Oh, God, please please please don’t let his appearance frighten Mark and undo everything she’d just done.
    Mark’s eyes widened, fear erupted from his psyche—and he tossed his pistol to the side. He touched his free hand to his forehead before holding it up in surrender.
    Charlie bent forward a little, her relief so profound it hit her like a fist. She turned her head; Ethan was blinking, his gun aimed at Mark’s head, his brow furrowed. Relief projected sudden and heavy from him, too.
    “Well, hell,” he drawled. “I was all set to be a bad guy. I sure am glad I didn’t have to be.”
    Charlie laughed, but Mark still had a hold on her sister’s arm, and he’d scared the shit out of all of them.
    She moved quickly, then pulled her punch at the last second so she didn’t take off his head. Unconscious was good enough. His head snapped back, his eyes rolled up, and he dropped.
    “Holy shit, Charlie,” Jane said, and collapsed to the floor, her laughter turning to loud, wrenching sobs.
    Charlie sank down with her, shoving Mark’s crumpled form to the side, and wrapped her arms around Jane’s shoulders. She looked back at Ethan. His clothes had been cleaned, and there was a large healing splotch on his throat that she didn’t want to think about.
    “The nephil’s dead?”
    Ethan nodded, and he glanced at Jane before meeting Charlie’s eyes again. “Seems that vampire blood does something to it. Heals the human flesh so the possession doesn’t take and it can’t maintain its form.” His smile was crooked. “Leastwise, I figure that’s what happened.”
    She held his gaze; she wanted to hold on to him , and she thought he probably wanted the same, but even this small, intimate connection of sight and speech felt wonderful, perfect. “So I guess it was a good thing Mark shot me.”
    “I reckon it was.” But he didn’t manage the easy tone she had, and he looked away from her for just a second. His voice