The Vampire Files, Volume Four

by P. N. Elrod

  The cold made him clumsy. It took him a while to link everything together, and he was hampered by his manacles. Eventually he ran a length of chain to the door, along with another hook, looping it around the horizontal push bar.

  That didn’t work either. When he hauled on the chain and pulley that had dragged me up, all it did was snap the bar from the door. The broken pieces cracked in half, the chain whipping dangerously around in recoil.

  Dugan sagged. Apparently that was his last brilliant idea. I had a couple but couldn’t express them. However, I was lying flat, which was much better, even if my arms were pinned and numb under my back. I could sense the remaining blood in me slowly settling, spreading out to where it was supposed to be.

  Without having to struggle against gravity, I managed to bring in a small trickle of air . . . and blow it out again, whistling against my teeth.

  In the heavy silence, the sound galvanized Dugan. He turned like he’d been struck and glared down at me.

  Glaring back, I blinked. Twice.

  He didn’t want to come closer, wary after what I’d done to Bristow, but he had to in order to hear.

  “You’re alive?” he whispered.

  I was dead. The rest of me just hadn’t caught up yet. I drew air, timing my words, choosing them. “Willhelpyou.”

  It took him a bit to digest this. “Help me? Why?”

  “Wannalive.”

  He couldn’t seem to work out whether that was a reply or a question. “How can you help me?”

  “Bloodfirst.”

  “What? I’m not feeding you.” He looked disgusted.

  “Theirs.”

  He gaped. “I can’t!”

  Breath. “Thenweboth.” Breath. “Freezetodeath.”

  Dugan thought it over. Not for long. “What do I do?”

  “Cutone. Getblood. Pan. There.”

  He cast around, spotting a stack of wide flat pans against the wall. They were shallow, only inches deep but a couple of feet across. I didn’t know their precise use, but with Dugan’s help I could improvise a horrifying new one.

  Fear made him a quick study. He fetched a pan. A few words at a time, I told him what to do. He got the ropes off my ankles and used them on one of the dead men, similarly trussing his feet. Tib. Dugan used the hook and pulley again, and lifted the body up until it hung upside down over the pan.

  Then Dugan found the knife and, hands shaking, cut deeply across Tib’s throat.

  Only he wasn’t quite dead, either.

  Tib choked and gagged himself conscious. His flailing arms set him swinging, and he made a hell of a mess as his arterial blood shot across the floor. Some of it splattered me, but not near my mouth. Dugan actually screeched, completely unnerved, darting out of range of Tib’s clutching hands.

  It seemed to take forever for him to die, swaying like a clock pendulum, but eventually his fighting weakened and slowed and stopped. The last of his blood trickled into the catch pan below. It steamed in the cold air.

  I was still tied at the wrists. That didn’t stop me. The bloodsmell was crazy-making. I wriggled toward it, too weak to crawl, too desperate to wait.

  Dugan, visibly fighting revulsion, came over and cut the last of the ropes. I couldn’t feel my arms but used them, dragging myself up and over the edge of the pan.

  Human blood, more than I’d ever dared take from a living person before. No problem about the living this time. It had pooled at my end, and I pressed my face into it, drinking deep. Cooling already, it was still sweet . . . and terrifying. I ignored the latter and fed, and I felt my body trying to heal itself, using every ounce I took in, flushing me with warmth, then fiery heat. My back and sides burned steadily, then suddenly were much too hot. Had to stop, gasping. It was almost like being skinned all over again, but in reverse. Couldn’t hold back these cries, either. I fell away, shuddering, convulsing out of control.

  If I could just vanish, the awful healing process would be done in an instant, then I’d materialize again, tired, but whole.

  Impossible with that metal point in me. The idea of asking Dugan to cut it out . . . no. Couldn’t trust him, didn’t dare. He hovered just out of reach, his face a mask of hope and horror as the shakes tore through me.

  The spasms gradually eased in force, then stopped. I felt drowsy, but the pain of hunger kept sleep at bay. The bloodsmell tormented me to get up again and take more. The longer I lay the worse it became. When the craving overcame my lethargy, I drank again until all the blood was gone. Then I slumped and rested, waiting, relishing the slow restoration. Everything hurt, though not as badly; I was still impossibly fragile. My hands, arms, were skeletal, the skin shrunken. My face must have looked like a skull with eyes and hair.

  “More,” I said to Dugan. My voice was odd, hoarse. All that screaming had taken its toll. “Get me another one.”

  “I can’t. I can’t touch them.” He’d pressed against the door.

  I gave him a look. “You will. If not them, it’ll be you. Sooner or later, you’ll fall asleep in this cold. What you wanna bet that I last longer?”

  He made a small noise in his throat, and he stooped to lug another man over. Bristow. He’d been shot once, seemed to have caught it in the heart and hadn’t bled too badly. It took ten long minutes for Dugan to swap the bodies around. He hesitated over cutting this new throat.

  Impatient, I saved him the trouble and moved in. Kneeling put me on a level with Bristow’s neck. He dangled, meaty arms hanging out from his thick body, looking like his namesake, a slaughtered hog.

  As I drew near and stretched his neck just that much more, I realized he was also still alive. His eyes were open. And aware.

  Oh, but this was good.

  “Hello, Ignance,” I whispered, grinning.

  He gave a little moan. He wasn’t too far gone. He could still be afraid. Maybe in his tiny little brain he’d finally worked out that there really was something different about me, something he should have been afraid of all along.

  I drew in his fear scent, tasting it like wine with nose and tongue. Heady stuff. Unforgettable. Unique. Delightful.

  It stirred things in me, long-buried things. Stuff I never looked at if I could help it. Dark, bloody insanity was the least of that dreadful hoard of sickness. It surged up and caught me hard, and this time I saw no reason to resist its pull. It was right, had always been right. Why hadn’t I seen that?

  I bit, hard and careless, tearing Bristow’s flesh as he’d torn mine. He wailed and fought, not as strongly as Tib, just enough to make his blood pump out that much faster. I didn’t get it all at first, but God, what was there . . . satisfying and potent. Who’d have thought the bastard would taste so wonderful?

  My strength growing, I held him fast and fed and fed and fed. I could feel my limbs filling out. It had never hit me this strongly before. I’d enjoyed human blood, from the smallest sips taken in the ecstasy of love to vast gulps while trying to save my life, but it had never been this intense in its effect. Those other times I had not been trying to kill. Not on purpose. I’d come close to it, once, seduced by curiosity and lust. In the end, and just in time for my victim, I’d snapped out of the spell. Not so now. No need for it. I wanted this man dead, and I would be his willing and joyful executioner.

  His struggles diminished, eventually ceased. His heart fluttered frantically a little longer, trying to push blood that wasn’t there, before giving up. He slipped quietly into that last silence with me still strongly holding him, feeding from him.

  Cooling, but yet sweet. I drank long. Gravity, not a pumping muscle, made that red fountain flow. The taste changed now that he was dead. The headlong rush of vitality too quickly faded, making the blood no different from that which had been stored in a bottle. Regardless, I drank like a bum on a binge, past the point where need ended and greed began.

  Then past that point as well.

  “Fleming! Stop!”

  Continuing to drink, I sluggishly looked over. Apparently the suck
ing noises had been too much for Dugan’s sensibilities.

  He seemed aghast, was on the verge of tears. “You weren’t like this in the cattle pen.”

  No, but I’d not been this close to death then. I could look back on that moment with fond affection for my complaisant innocence. How neatly I’d accomplished that feeding, taking care not to spill, being so tidy with my handkerchief. Now it was as though I’d bathed in the stuff.

  And I liked it.

  Slowly, I pulled away. There was nothing left. I’d taken it all.

  “You were curious about me, my kind,” I said, fighting off the threat of more thin laughter. “Well, here it is with the gloves off. Whatd’ya think?”

  He had no words, though his expression was eloquent. He wanted no part of it.

  I was oddly lightheaded. Had the impression I was standing outside of myself, hands clasped, watching a play starring me. It had been a very long time since my last experience with this feeling, but I remembered it. I was drunk. Very drunk. The alcohol in Bristow’s blood had me all but reeling. It felt good.

  I levered to my feet, off balance a moment. It was reassuring to see everything solidly back on the floor again and no longer clinging to the ceiling. “And you didn’t care for Sarah ’cause of a little drool? How about the unvarnished undead? You should give it a try!”

  “You promised to get us out of here,” he said, easing along the wall away from me.

  “I guess I did, and I’m a man of my word.”

  What an amazing song the blood made, playing light through my brain. No beating heart within to keep time, but you couldn’t have everything. I was still able to dance, though, and cut a turn on my way to the door. Nearly slipped. The floor was slick. What a mess. Not mine to clean up. I’d have one of the waiters see to it. I’d bring the whole damn crew down here, band and all. In a space like this, the music would boom through the huge building. Lots of room for dancing.

  Fell against the door. It rattled. I threw a disgusted look at Dugan. A grown guy like him, and he couldn’t take care of a little thing like this? It was cardboard, nothing but cardboard. Pressed against it, tried to vanish. Oh, that wasn’t working right now. No matter. One good shove.

  Ow. Bare wet shoulder on freezing cold metal. All right, another shove, hit it hard and fast.

  Crack, crash, thump, as its hinges came out and the slab of metal-sheathed wood slammed open and fell with a boom. Dark office. Didn’t hold my interest. Stagger across to the other door. Huh. Even that sissy in the back could take care of this one. Well, maybe not. I went against it before noticing it opened inward. No problem. Grasped the knob and pulled it like a bad tooth. Let it fall with a clunk. No lock, no prison. Very simple. I greeted the fresh night air.

  Damn, that tasted fine. Much better than the stale stuff trapped in the meat locker.

  Dugan hurtled past me. There was a car in the street, missing its driver’s door. He got into it, jangled some keys. He was shaking, stealing quick looks at me while trying to find the starter. The motor turned over, and he gunned out, nearly stripping the gears in his haste.

  I wanted to chase after him, but it was just too much trouble. He’d go to his friends. I’d look them up later. We’d have a big party. I’d find out just how much Four Roses Anthony dear could pack away in one sitting. Maybe Bobbi would oblige me and sock back a bottle, then I’d take it out of her again so I could keep on feeling like this. We’d make a contest of it...

  Missed my footing and fell. Landed painfully in a wet gutter. Rolled on my back in the cold street. This wasn’t nice at all.

  Took stock. Pants and shoes, but no shirt and coat. Can’t get into any class places without those. No money. Wallet was in my missing coat.

  Not promising, said the spectator outside of myself. He looked just like me but was dressed and cleaned up. Indulgently bemused expression on his mug. Held my wrist toward him. I still had my watch. So what if it was so thick with dried blood I couldn’t tell the time. I could pawn it for some booze . . .

  The spectator wasn’t applauding this performance. He shook his head and pointed toward the wings. I didn’t like being onstage anyway. MC work was as far as it went; leave the entertainment to the talents.

  Crept to my feet again, left the gutter, began walking. No shirt, no shelter, and it was getting damned cold all of a sudden. I should go back and find my clothes . . .

  They’ve been cut off, the spectator told me.

  Shied away from thinking about what happened after that.

  I plodded on, vaguely recognizing the streets. Of course. Escott’s office was around here. Rent was cheap this close to the Yards. The stink was hell in the summer when the wind was wrong, but you got used to it. One more corner, halfway down the block, up the stairs . . . only to find the pebble-glassed door with his name painted on it was locked. Couldn’t remember where the key might be. Too bad. I pulled the knob off this one, too, and pushed inside.

  This place was too plain. Just the same old desk and chair and empty white walls. I’d go nuts in here. Maybe that was his problem. He was nuts and didn’t know it. But then I heard all English guys were crazy.

  I dropped behind the desk and grabbed the phone, dialing the number and waiting awhile before realizing I’d not taken the earpiece off its cradle. That was damn funny.

  But the spectator visibly sighed, rolling his eyes. Try again.

  I did so, calling home. Let it ring a dozen times. Gave up. Who should I call next?

  The spectator pointed at me.

  Well, that made sense. I dialed. Ring-ring-ring a lot of times, then a man said hello.

  “Hello?” I echoed back.

  “Is that you, Mr. Fleming?”

  “Hello, I’m calling Mr. Fleming. He’s got to be there or I wouldn’t have called.”

  “This is Wilton, Mr. Fleming. You okay? You sound funny.”

  So there, I said to the spectator. I can be amusing. “I am great! Strome and Derner are okay like me. Maybe. You tell that to Gordy. They didn’t stick around an’ they shoulda—”

  “Is Mr. Escott there?”

  “Strangely, he is not, and this was his office the last I heard, but Bristow is bust-o, only you can’t tell anyone. Wasn’t me that did it. Wish it had been, but the tooth fairy ain’t taking orders.”

  “You want I should find Mr. Escott?”

  “Why? Does he owe you money?” I began to snicker, couldn’t stop.

  “Where are you, Mr. Fleming?”

  “On the damn phone, where do you think?” Another burst of laughter. I couldn’t stop.

  “You need some help?”

  “Yes, I think I do. We’ll put in to the NRA tomorrow. Work for everyone. Bulldozers and picks and shovels, and we’ll make a new parking lot. Picks . . . pick, ice pick. Those things hurt like hell. Did you know that? They still do. Ow.” I hung up, satisfied I’d done a good job.

  Crick in my back from all the work. A really bad crick. It had no business hurting that much. Maybe if I had a nap, it would go away. Escott kept a cot in the next room. He wouldn’t mind me using it.

  This half of the joint was plain, too. He should do it up like my nightclub. Put in some pictures or something. I swiped sullenly at an unrelieved white wall, leaving behind a smear of red. Uh-oh. Tried to wipe it off. Made it worse. Washroom, towels there. Clean it before it dries.

  Stared with shock at the empty mirror over the sink. Now that was taking the plain Jane stuff just too damned far. Where had I gone? The spectator reflection peered over where my shoulder should be, shrugging.

  Well, a lot you know. He looked way too much like me. Maybe I could look at him instead of the mirror.

  As long as I was there, I washed my hands. God, that water was cold. Sluiced it over my arms, face, and torso. The sink filled up with red; the floor and walls got splattered. A new job for the waiters. They’d want a raise for this.

  A very insistent alarm clock went off. I shut the water and, dripping, searched for the annoya
nce. It was still dark out. I didn’t have to get up for work until eight. My editor didn’t come in until nine, and what he didn’t see wouldn’t hurt me . . .

  Ringing, ringing. Oh. It was the damn phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack? Are you all right?”

  “I’m great! Who’s this?”

  He sounded surprised. “It’s Charles. What’s happened to you? Where’s Dugan?”

  “Driving around—”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t look so good, but I’m just great!”

  Pause at the other end. I cheerfully waited him out. “Jack, I want you to stay right there in the office. Promise me you won’t leave.”

  “Sure. Bring up a bottle. There’s a legger lives just around the corner from me. His stuff won’t blind you. You know the one?”

  “Erm—yes, of course. You’ll stay there?”

  “We need ice.”

  “I’ll get some. You sit and wait for me, all right?”

  “Sure!”

  There was a hard clunk as he hung up. Guess he was in a hurry. Poor duck should get out more. Where had I met him . . . ?

  Gosh, I was cold. Still hadn’t quite cleaned up all the way, either. Won’t get a girl at the party looking like this. Where was my shirt? Maybe I should stay home for once. Funny kind of house. You call that a bed? Was I back in the army again? Naw, couldn’t be, this place didn’t have any roaches. France was full of ’em. Rats, too. They liked the trenches.

  Uh-oh, something ugly down that road I didn’t want to see again, either. Pull back, look for a flop instead. There, easy does it so the cot doesn’t break under me. Wrestle the blanket around. Warmer, now. Hey, a radio. I must be rich. Nice one, too. Didn’t have to wear a headset to listen.

  Dance music. Funny stuff. Didn’t like it. Twirled the dial. Lots of static. Everyone’s gone to bed already, dammit. There, couple of guys talking. Sounded like Shakespeare. Yeah, that’ll put me out.

  Their recording must have gotten scratched; the needle stuck in the same groove. One of them kept saying wake up, wake up. Then he started shaking me. Ow. That hurt something in my back.