Necroscope: Defilers

by Brian Lumley

  “Antiques,” Garzia answered, rolling down his sleeves. “My collection. You have your treasures, from Le Manse Madonie, but such as these have more appeal to me. I’m told that truth drugs will do the job as well, but where’s the pleasure in that?”

  A low moan sounded from an adjacent room, and the vampire Castellano cocked an ear in that direction. “Consciousness,” he said. “So soon! An amazingly resilient man, don’t you think? He held up well, and was extraordinarily reticent—at first.”

  “He knew the truth meant death,” said Garzia with a shrug.

  “But when he realized that death would be preferable, and that in any case it couldn’t be avoided …”

  Garzia nodded. “What point then in holding back?”

  “And for all the drawn nails and crushed bones, scarcely a drop spilled,” said Castellano. And once again: “Extremely well done, and very enlightening once his tongue was loosened. But I could see how you relished the work. I would hate to think that you might one day have me upon your bench!” His coarse laughter echoed for a moment or two in the smoky gloom, then tapered off to a phlegmy gurgling.

  “Or me upon yours,” said Garzia, watching Castellano clean his hands and forearms on a towel.

  “But such a shame that we are reduced to this,” Castellano grimaced as he tossed the soiled towel aside and commenced soaping down his arms in a bowl of tepid water. “Surely this Georgi Grusev—this spy for Gustav Turchin—surely he could see when we brought him down here that the game was up? If he had spoken sooner he might have saved himself a great deal of pain.”

  “And that would have been the real shame,” said the other. “We so rarely have the opportunity to practice …” He picked up and examined a pair of pincers, their jaws stained a rusty red. “If I had been on top form, he would have talked sooner.”

  “Each to his own means and devices, of course,” Castellano answered. “But unlike you, I do not find a man’s most sensitive parts to be on the outside. And naturally females are even more susceptible in that respect. As for tools, I have my hands—”

  —Which were finally clean. But they could never be clean of their atrocities.

  And as another low moan sounded from the adjacent room:

  “Perhaps we should see to our needs now,” said Garzia, his voice thick with lust. “Grusev must be very close to death, and if his heart were to stop pumping … such a waste! Before that, however, won’t you tell me how you knew he was a spy? Was it your oneiromancy, or just a clever guess?”

  “Well it’s true that I’ve had certain dreams,” Castellano answered. “Dreams that go back … oh a very long time. But the trouble with dreams lies in their meaning, their interpretation. For years now I’ve anticipated the advent of a man who will try to destroy me; but whether by infiltrating my organization—as this Russian would have done—or by more direct means … who can say? On the other hand, some odd things have been happening recently, and I would be a fool if I had failed to notice their obvious connections.

  “Odd things?” Garzia frowned. “Like the problem we’ve been having with this Jake Cutter?”

  “Cutter for one,” Castellano nodded. “What, a single man—an apparently ‘ordinary’ man at that—who has taken out three of my best, and done it so very inventively? Obviously he’s not so ordinary! But it’s a tangled skein, Garzia, and difficult to unravel. For example, how is it that Cutter is no longer one of Europe’s most wanted? Our various connections in the Surete and Interpol seem just as baffled as we are. I’m told that the word has come from above, from the highest offices, which we haven’t yet penetrated, that Cutter’s apprehension is no longer considered a priority! He is off the hook … but who or what got him off the hook, eh?”

  Castellano had commenced pacing the stone floor; he leaned forward, seeming almost off-balance in that aggressive, loping, praying mantis-like posture, to which his second-in-command had long since grown accustomed.

  But in a little while, when Garzia remained silent, he mutteringly continued: “No, Jake Cutter is by no means an ‘ordinary’ man, and his involvement in this—this whatever it is—goes a lot deeper than any simple vendetta. Indeed, he could even be the one I’ve been waiting for, who featured in those earliest dreams of mine. And the hell of it is, I once had him right where I wanted him! But I thought he was only interested in the girl, Natasha. If I had suspected otherwise—that she was only a tool, a means he was using to get to me, and that in fact I was the focus of his … his what? His investigation?—then you can be sure I would have got my hands dirty long before now!”

  As Castellano loped and talked, his frustration had become increasingly apparent. His voice was a low, rumbling growl; his scarlet eyes bulged in a deathly grey face twisted with hatred, and his lips were drawn back from gleaming, knifelike teeth. A split tongue writhed in his cavern mouth. Garzia had seen these transformations before, but rarely so pronounced.

  “Oh, yesss!” Castellano went on. “How I would have enjoyed wringing it from him, until all of his secrets were mine! Then, instead of leaving it to those four fools, I would have seen to it personally that Jake Cutter bothered me no more!”

  “Luigi,” said Garzia, as his master came to a halt, trembling with rage in the middle of the floor, “I’m not at all sure I understand what you’re saying. Your powers, your reasoning—such things are beyond me.”

  “No, of course you don’t see,” said Castellano. “For I am what I am, while you are what I made you. But I remember things Garzia! I connect things and total them like numbers, until the sum of their parts is clearly visible. And if they don’t add up … then I worry about them. There are matters here that go far deeper than we see on the surface. They go back in time, as far back as my mother, and as far forward as the present … beyond which I can’t any longer see. And that is an odd and disturbing thing in its own right: that I no longer dream …” He glared at the other, Garzia, who could only shrug.

  “Then let me try to explain,” said Castellano. And after a moment: “In the last days of Le Manse Madonie, before it fell into the gulf and took the Brothers Francezci with it, my mother had more time for me. That is, I could see her more frequently, but always in secret. For she swore that if ever her masters should find out about me, if ever they discovered that one of them had fathered a son, and there was issue from their use and abuse of their servant, Katerin, then that they would surely kill her—and me, too!

  “And so, even as I myself was rising to power, I kept well out of their way. No easy matter, for they were advisers to all the heads of the Mafia. You will remember, Garzia, how in those early days I rarely brought myself into prominence? And now you know the reason. I knew that my mother’s warning was genuine. I knew that if the Francezcis believed they had spawned me, then that they would kill me.

  “Anthony and Francesco, they used her. No longer sexually, no—for she had grown old and they were still young—but as a servant in Le Manse Madonie, as before, and also as a messenger and a spy. When she was out and about on Francezci business, in Bagheria or Palermo, then she would contact me, and I would find a way to see her.

  “But the things that she told me! That the Francezcis were monsters, and Anthony a changeling creature that waxed in shape and form! That they kept their own father in a dungeon pit, and feared the end of their days—which was coming!

  “She reminded me of vast treasures in the caverns under Le Manse Madonie, gave me documents which she had kept hidden away all those years—the records of her brief confinement, and of my birth—and told me of my legacy: that I was the only ‘legitimate’ heir to the estate of the Francezcis.

  “As to why she did these things: because the Thing in the pit under Le Manse Madonie had forecast the end of the Brothers Francezci; also, because she feared that the madness of Anthony would be the end of her, too. Not that she was afraid of dying, no, not at all—on the contrary. For having seen what she had seen in their service, knowing what she knew of the horrors in and
under Le Manse Madonie, death was a prospect she welcomed.

  “Now think, Garzia. My own grandfather—a monstrous Thing so gross that they kept it in a pit—had forecast the downfall of his sons, the Brothers Francezci. Forecast, yes! And now you must see where my oneiromancy has its origin! These things connect, do you see?

  “Let me get on:

  “Not long before the end, the fall of Le Manse Madonie, my mother told me that the Francezcis feared a man. I repeat: they feared a man, Garzia! One man. He had been into their vaults to rob them; impossible, according to my mother, but he’d done it. A man who came and went like a ghost—who moved through stone walls and steel vault doors like they were water, or as if they had no substance at all—but nevertheless a man who was flesh and blood, just as we are flesh and blood. The Francezcis, they were vampires, Garzia, even as we are vampires, yet they feared this one ‘ordinary’ man.

  “He had a name; he had two names! One was Harry Keogh, and the other was Alec Kyle. So, perhaps there were two such, these men who could come and go like ghosts. The brothers traced him, or them, and discovered that he/they were members of an organization—catled E-Branch!

  “Ah! I saw you start!” Castellano pointed a slender, trembling finger at his second-in-command. “You are beginning to see the emerging pattern. Oh, yes, Garzia: E-Branch—that selfsame organization of which Lefranc spoke only a few short hours ago: the organization which now gives Jake Cutter its protection. So quite obviously, he is an agent of this E-Branch.

  “But if there were any doubt, I have yet more proof.

  “I have mentioned how my oneiromancy no longer works for me, how I no longer see the future in dreams; not even a hint, not even a glimpse. My last dream of that kind was more than a month ago. Its theme had been repetitive for three years, yet I had never before seen it so clearly.

  “In it, I saw two faces and a shadow. A man, a woman, and a shadow. The first was handsome, the second beautiful, and the other … was other. But like you and me, Garzia, all three were vampires. They were very great vampires, and they were here!

  “The handsome one: I saw him clearly. He dwelled in a high place called Xanadu, like Kubla Khan, yes. In my walking hours I checked, and Xanadu exists—or rather, it existed!”

  “That casino resort in Australia,” said Garzia. “Where you sent Alfonso Lefranc.”

  “My reasons were twofold,” Castellano nodded. “Other than myself, Lefranc is the last survivor of Jake Cutter’s vendetta. Therefore, one: I was using Lefranc as a lure—in the same way as I used Frankie Reggio—to see if he would attract Cutter’s attention away from me. And two: I was eager to know more about the vampire master of Xanadu. But I have to admit that the last thing I suspected at that time was that Cutter, or rather, this E-Branch for which he works, was interested not alone in me but in others like me!”

  “But they were,” said Garzia. “And they destroyed Xanadu!”

  “Yes,” again Castellano’s nod, “and for all I know, a very handsome vampire with it—just as they bad destroyed Le Manse Madonie some thirty years ago! For that’s what they do, Garzia: they kill such as you and I, and destroy all our works!”

  “And Cutter?”

  “Is an agent in a long line of agents with strange skills. It can only be so. Harry Keogh, Alec Kyle, Jake Cutter. Not one and the same after all, for as I’ve seen with my own eyes, this Cutter is only a very … he’s only very …” Castellano paused, stood frozen like a mantis in the moment before it strikes. But he had nothing to strike at. Not yet.

  “Only very—?” said Garzia, frowning.

  “Young,” said Castellano finally and flatly. “Keogh, Kyle, and Cutter …” Then, slamming his fist into his palm: “What? Do you suppose it’s possible, Garzia?”

  The other flapped his hands, looked bemused.

  “Do you know the expression—about using a thief to catch a thief?”

  And Garzia gasped. “You think that they’re using a vampire … to track vampires?”

  “It would explain a great many things,” Castellano nodded. “Somehow they control one of our kind, and use him as their pet bloodhound. Keogh, Kyle, Cutter—they could indeed be one and the same. Ageless, as we are ageless. Silent and secret, as you and I are silent and secret. Hah! But of course Keogh, and Kyle—and now this Jake Cutter—of course they come and go like ghosts! Even as we come and go, when we have a mind.”

  “But you told me Jake Cutter was only a man.” Garzia waved his arms aloft. “And you have actually seen him!”

  “Seen him?” For a moment Castellano frowned, before slowly continuing: “Yes, I saw him—I had him in my power—a man who dared not betray his true nature to another of the same nature, who would know how to deal with him! His was the cunning of the vampire, Garzia; he survived that clumsy ‘accident’ which those four idiots arranged, escaped from the car and returned to kill three of them. What’s more, he also escaped from that prison in Turin, when according to very reliable contacts there he should have been weighted down with enough lead to roof over a church! Now tell me, who but an accomplished vampire could do that?

  “As for his vendetta: I cannot doubt but that Lefranc will be next … and then myself! Except that’s not going to happen.

  “Forewarned is forearmed, Garzia, and we’ll be waiting for him. Jake Cutter first, and then this E-Branch. So they want to know my movements, do they? And this Georgi Grusev, sent by the Russian premier, was their sniffer dog? See how these old enemies have now joined forces and are in league against me. As for my whereabouts: well obviously they now know where I am. And if they plan to use Jake Cutter against me, so be it. Indeed, I’ll send him an invitation via Moscow: this Grusev’s ears, his eyes and all his fingers. They’ll have his prints, of course, and so will know his fate …”

  In a little while, when Castellano’s silence made it clear that he was done, Garzia said, “And so our cover—and likewise our nature—is blown. These people who know where we are, and what we are, they won’t suffer us to live, Luigi. The drugs we deal in is one thing, but what we are … is something else. Is it the beginning of the end, do you think?”

  The other unfroze, turned his gaze upon Garzia, and smiled a monstrous smile. “Apart from yourself,” he said, “I have kept my poisons trapped within me. But if it’s to be war, then we’ll need troops of our own. Not these simple thugs, these so-called ‘soldiers’ with which we’ve surrounded ourselves, but vampires, whose lust for life is as great as our own.”

  “Time to start recruiting, then,” Garzia nodded.

  “How many men,” said Castellano, “are in the gardens?”

  “A dozen,” the other answered.

  “Then we shall start with them,” said Castellano. “A small nucleus at first, but in the next day or two rapidly expanding. And as for anonymity: ‘synonymous with longevity,’ is it? I say to hell with it! Anonymity be damned! For I fancy we’ll soon be fighting for our longevity, Garzia!”

  His second-in-command’s gaze went to the arched doorway to the adjacent room, from which once more a low moan had sounded. And licking his coarse lips in anticipation, he said “Luigi, it shall be as you say, of course. But first, before that, there’s something we really should attend to.”

  “Yes, we should,” Castellano agreed, leaning in that weird way of his in the direction indicated. “For as the blood is the life, for too long we have held ourselves in abeyance. Time now to fortify and make strong. Come …”

  They entered the other room, one of many in the deep labyrinth of cellars under Castellano’s stronghold villa, and stood for a moment by the table bearing Georgi Grusev’s body. “A Russian,” Castellano commented, “but scarcely a gentleman.”

  “Or if he was,” Garzia gurgled, “you’d never know it now!”

  Their naked victim was manacled to the table hand and foot. Heavily built, his pale body showed severe bruising around ribs, knees, ankles, and wrists. His fingers and toes were bloody red blobs where the nails had been
drawn, and he was still bleeding from the ears, though not profusely. His rib cage bulged on the right, where broken ribs were pushing outwards.

  “His breathing is irregular,” said Garzia.

  “But his pulse is still strong,” Castellano answered. “And that is all that matters.”

  Quickly they stripped off and loosened the manacles, tied the Russian’s feet together and hooked them to a chain that dangled from a pulley in the ceiling. And without pause, hauling on the chain, they hoisted Grusev’s body vertically—head down, hands and arms dangling—until his head was some seven feet from the floor. And as Castellano dragged the table to one side, his man Garzia stood on a chair and cut the Russian spy’s throat ear to ear with a razor-sharp knife.

  Then, as the warm red cascade began, Garzia set the still-living body spinning on its chain, got down from the chair and kicked it away, and joined his awesome, awful master where Castellano stood naked, open-mouthed and crimson-eyed, staring up in hideous ecstasy while his pale flesh was drenched from that as yet living, twirling font of vampiric life.

  But now an additional transformation—a metamorphosis of sorts—took place in these monsters; for not only were Castellano’s and Garzia’s mouths gaping wide, but also the very pores of their bodies, making their faces and forms alveolate, honeycombed like sponges!

  All the better for soaking up the spurting life-essence of an alleged Russian gentleman …

  PART THREE

  MEETINGS AND CONFRONTATION

  13

  IN ENEMY TERRITORY

  On Saturday morning, about 10:30 local time, Liz Merrick, Lardis Lidesci, and Ian Goodly boarded the Russian-built ferry, The Krassos, at Keramoti.

  From the lower of two observation decks, they watched maybe a hundred passengers come aboard on foot, also two German tourist buses and several large Greek flatbed trucks; but this late in the season, neither the freight deck nor the passenger decks were filled to capacity. And despite the cloudless sky (or maybe because of it, in this long El Niño summer), there were only one or two private cars parked centrally between the trucks and buses, none of which carried the foreign plates that would have identified them as tourist vehicles. The renowned Mediterranean sunshine wasn’t any longer a blessing but a curse, and with the temperature already in the eighties and climbing, almost everyone had had more than enough of it. The ferry’s passengers were looking forward to a breath of fresh ocean air.