Sallow House

by Phil Malone

  “I was engrossed. Anyway, when it finally crossed my mind, that’s when I noticed my phone was dead. It won’t happen again.”

  “You missed the vote on your infrastructure bill.”

  “Trust me, with what we’re working on, in the long run it’s not going to matter.”

  They started walking out of the kitchen, heading in the direction of the living room. Melody retreated back up the stairs so they wouldn’t see her when they passed by. At the top landing, she crouched, hidden from view, still within earshot.

  Her mom started to say something, but her dad talked right over her. “You’re going to have to get used to it, Dawn. I’ll try not to be gone for days at a time, but there are going to be a lot of very late nights. I’m talking three, four, five in the morning before I get home.”

  “When are you going to sleep?”

  “On the days I can sleep in, if there’s nothing urgent going on or Congress is in recess, then I’ll sleep during the day. Otherwise, I’ll take naps at the office whenever I have a spare hour or two.”

  Melody peered around the doorframe, her head barely poking out, and watched her mother fold her arms unhappily. “Are you sure you don’t have a girlfriend?”

  Her dad made a face like he’d tasted something unpleasant. “I’m sure." He shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes. His wallet and keys went into a bowl on a stand near the foyer.

  “Fine." Melody lost sight of her mom when she strode from the room, heading for the master bedroom. “You can sleep in the guest room. I don’t want your new schedule interfering with my sleep.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  The bedroom door didn’t quite slam, but Melody heard it close firmly. All she could see of her father was his face and the top of his chest, enough of a view to watch him loosen his tie.

  He stopped in mid motion, abruptly standing as still as a statue. A few seconds passed while he frowned, but didn’t budge. Then he turned just as suddenly, facing Melody’s direction, peering towards the darkened upstairs balcony.

  Melody ducked out of view, heart hammering. It was weird. There were no lights on upstairs. Even so, for the split second that she’d met her dad’s gaze, his eyes seemed to glimmer with a pale, reflected light, the way a cat’s would.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bleda was still waiting when Sallow woke up. They were in his attic, surrounded by the wood frame skeleton on the inside of the roof. Pink, furry insulation filled in the gaps between the two by fours. Sallow found himself lying on a dirty floor of particleboard, with dust bunnies and mouse droppings beneath his back.

  A cold, gnawing hunger gripped him. It felt like icicles stabbing at his bones, and he realized all at once what Bleda must have done to him.

  It hurt to move, but he struggled to sit up anyway. Bleda stared at him from the shadows where the roof sloped downwards. On the floor beside him, Sallow saw the plastic sippy cup he used to feed Dagobert.

  “I heated this in a pot on your stove,” Bleda said, as he inched the cup towards Sallow with his foot. He took care not to knock it over. “That was a few hours ago. I wasn’t sure when exactly you would wake up. So the blood might have gotten cold.”

  Sallow snatched up the cup and squeezed its contents into his open mouth. The blood oozed out, sluggish. It was only lukewarm, as promised, but it helped stave off the bone deep cold that threatened to immobilize him.

  “You had a big steel jerrycan in your pantry full of the stuff. I could smell it. You must have been using it to feed Dagobert. Good thing, too, because I wasn’t planning to snatch some random person off the street and bring them here for you to snack on.”

  The blood left in the cup after Sallow drank his fill had thickened into a gel that wouldn’t pour. He dropped it and watched it roll away. Room temperature blood left a foul taste in his mouth. His body still ached, but at least it didn’t feel like his heart was pumping razor blades.

  Ignoring Bleda, he groped for the trapdoor that opened onto the hallway below. It lowered when he pushed on it, and steps unfolded all the way to the ground. Shakily, he climbed down.

  On uncertain feet, he stumbled in the direction of the nearest staircase. His senses felt sharper, more attuned to his surroundings, but getting anywhere was like learning to walk all over again. He heard Bleda alight almost soundlessly behind him. Sallow kept going. Let him stop me if he wants, he thought. In the meantime, he had more important things to worry about.

  With some difficulty, he made it downstairs, moving like a drunkard. He navigated the den and the living room, passing through the kitchen until he found one of the doors leading into the garage. It was locked. Sallow usually kept them locked, so he wasn’t surprised. At the moment, though, he couldn’t remember where he left the key.

  He tugged at the doorknob for a moment, then hesitated. It was a heavily reinforced door. A little effort, though, and he might be able to loosen it. He gripped the knob tightly, held his breath, then yanked hard.

  The lock burst, and the door flew open. Behind him, Bleda laughed. “No chance you could have done that back when you were human.”

  Even with the lights off, Sallow could see. Everything had a shape, and every shape a different shade of black. One of the shapes moved when he tore the door off its hinges. It blinked, and looked at him.

  Sallow sagged in the open doorway, relieved. “I was afraid you were going to set him free,” he told Bleda.

  “I almost did, but look at him. You cut his limbs off and let the stumps heal. A vampire might be able to reattach a missing limb if they stitch it back on, but in his case it’s been too long. Who’s going to take care of him? Who’s going to catch his food? Honestly, he’s better off with you.”

  Dagobert struggled for just a moment. A quick burst of resistance, his mutilated body straining against the cables tying him down. The table he lay on skidded an inch across the concrete floor. Then he collapsed, exhausted, and looked away.

  After exerting himself a little, Sallow felt his strength returning. His legs carried his weight more easily, and his hands felt steadier. The aching cold subsided. He picked up the broken door and leaned it, as best he could, against the gap opening onto the garage. He’d have to replace the lock and get new hinges, but the door itself was probably salvageable.

  Then he glanced over his shoulder. “What do you want? Why did you do this to me?”

  Bleda pointed his finger towards the makeshift door, and the helpless vampire on the other side. “Originally, I came looking for him. Imagine my surprise when I found you.”

  “He’s the only vampire I knew of.”

  “Yes, and you managed to capture him. Despite being only human. On top of that, you were willing to kill people and drain their blood, providing sustenance for him, just so you could keep the torture going on longer. You have a singular disposition, Edgar.”

  “I’m still not hearing a reason." Sallow brushed past him and stalked into the living room. On instinct, he glanced around, making sure nothing was out of place.

  Bleda followed him. “Consider the possibilities, now that you’re one of us. You were already a gifted monster. Imagine what you can accomplish now.”

  “All I know is, I’m infected with whatever turns people into vampires." He looked at his hands, flexed his fingers. “I feel soiled.”

  He never saw Bleda move, but Sallow was abruptly knocked off his feet. He landed on the sofa, sprawled out, making it tip precariously backwards under the force of his sudden weight. His fingers dug into the cushions.

  When he looked up, the vampire stood over him, leaning close enough to count the bloodshot veins in his eyes. He must have fed recently, Sallow could tell.

  “I don’t care how you feel,” Bleda snarled. “You’ll do what I tell you because I want to see what you can accomplish. I could use someone like you. Someone capable of sneaking up on a vampire, of capturing one, killing one if the opportunity presents.”

  Sallow frowned in confusion. “You want m
e to kill vampires?”

  “One particular vampire. One who threatens our entire way of life for his own selfish reasons. Use whatever skills you have. I can tell you where he lives. Shadow him, find out whatever you need to know to get the drop on him. Kill him at the first opportunity.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  Pain erupted inside Sallow’s skull, every nerve ending a screeching violin. He tried to scream, but his voice wouldn’t work. His body refused to move when he told it to. And then, as suddenly as it began, the pain was gone.

  “I made you,” Bleda told him. “I can destroy you. Never doubt that. You are in my thrall, Edgar. If you don’t do what I say, you will die.”

  Sallow blinked away the tears in his eyes. Clearly, he had a lot to learn about being a vampire. In the meantime, he had no choice but to do as commanded.

  “What’s this vampire’s name?”

  “I’m glad you asked." Bleda smiled. “They call him Napoleon.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Members of the council began arriving at Napoleon’s home shortly before midnight. Damien Sanger stood in a darkened, empty room upstairs, watching through the window as the first limousine swung at a languid pace into Napoleon’s wide, curving driveway.

  Their man on the door was only human, but maintained a cultish devotion to Napoleon. His name was Hugo Head, and Sanger could see him from the upstairs balcony. He stood ready to greet the guests, take their coats, offer them privacy in a room upstairs with a selection of young women drugged and ripe to be drained. Sanger initially met the man on his first night as a vampire, when Napoleon had instructed Hugo to drive him home. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, unless the topic strayed to Napoleon’s countless virtues.

  Enough council members had arrived by half past the hour that Sanger decided to put in an appearance. As a member of Congress, he’d attended countless gatherings of politicians, media, financial donors, and other rent seekers, both at work and in a social setting. This was different.

  There was no small talk, no banter, no laughter, no friendly arguments. Napoleon escorted him around from one council member to the next, telling Sanger each member’s name and the territory they represented, while introducing him as an aide. They displayed very little interest in him, hardly deigning to speak to him at all. If any recognized him or his name, they didn’t show it. Some merely nodded and moved on. Others seemed more eager to head upstairs for a snack.

  But Sanger heard their names, and remembered them. He knew their faces, too, from the portraits in the meeting room. Every one of them was represented in that ostentatious gallery. In person, they seemed much smaller.

  When they finally filed into the meeting room, each council member claimed the seat beneath their own portrait. It reminded Sanger of nothing so much as an assemblage of super villains. In a sense, he supposed that’s what they were.

  As with Hugo Head, each member of the council had their own human retainers. Some acted only as drivers and remained in their cars. A few followed their masters inside. They claimed the seats along the wall, allowed to observe, though not interact.

  At first, amidst all these human thralls, Sanger thought he would be the only vampire without a seat at the main table. But two more came in with council members as the night wore on. Sanger received no introductions to them, but he could tell what they were. Unlike the humans, these two didn’t smell like food. For the moment, though, they remained a mystery. But both of them nodded in his direction, in acknowledgment, before taking their seats.

  The seat at the head of the table remained empty until nearly one o’clock. Napoleon stood with Sanger in the doorway, waiting. As host, it was customary for him to wait until all his guests had arrived before taking his own seat.

  “It’s just like Caligula to keep us waiting,” he muttered. Sanger didn’t know Caligula, but he knew the type, the prima donnas that liked staging a late, grand entrance. This was the first council meeting he could witness, and he was impatient to begin.

  Caligula finally arrived, tailed by his own vampire aide. He declined the offer of refreshment and leaned one pale, spotted hand on his assistant’s arm. “Lead the way, Bleda,” he said in a querulous voice. With his stooped posture, translucent skin of a pale, nearly blue color, and wrinkled, pointed ears, he looked frail and hideous.

  Sanger didn’t believe the act. He looked old, yes, but Sanger knew from experience how invigorating a mouthful of human blood could be. There might be a political advantage in pretending to be weaker than he really was. Sanger preferred strength. He would act like he already had everything he needed, and get people to go along so they could share in his success. The strategy had worked to get him as far as the United States House of Representatives. He could sense greater horizons in the distance.

  With Caligula finally seated, Napoleon joined the council. Sanger took the seat behind his maker. And then, at last, they could begin.

  They started by formally thanking Napoleon for hosting them. He had been a part of the council for almost a year. They took turns hosting the gathering, and this was Napoleon’s first. Sanger hadn’t known that.

  A woman calling herself Wu Zetian brought the first order of business. She had a Chinese name, Sanger noticed, but she was red haired and didn’t look remotely Asian. Her large eyes burned as brightly as her hair.

  “A man in my New England territory thinks himself a vampire hunter,” she began. “He has managed to kill a few of us. We learned his identity only from accounts pieced together by vampires who escaped, or who nearly killed him but let him get away.”

  Another council member, a vampire calling himself Adronicus, interrupted her. “These vampire hunters always appear from time to time. If you know who he is, have him killed. Why bring this to our attention?”

  “Because he is here. He is in the Washington area. The police had him in custody for most of a day, but they let him go. I would have taken care of it already, but I do not know where to find him. And besides, this is not my territory. I haven’t the resources here that I do at home.”

  Caligula shifted in his seat. “What is this man’s name?”

  “Mario Lucado. An older man, who walks with a cane.”

  “Have you any notion of his purpose here?”

  “None. If he knows about the council meetings, he might be here for us.”

  Napoleon spoke up. “One elderly human could never disturb us here. There are too many of us. I promise you, you are safe in my home.”

  “We are all very grateful for that, Napoleon,” Caligula said, with a perfunctory smile. “The mid-Atlantic region is my territory. My resources are here. If my people come across this man, they will deal with him. In the meantime, ignore him. As always, it is best if the humans do not know we exist.”

  The rest of the council, including Wu Zetian, nodded in agreement. Only Napoleon refused to follow suit. He turned to glance at Sanger, and gave him a knowing look.

  Then he turned back, and faced the rest of the council. “If I may,” he said, “I have a point of order.”

  Caligula gestured in his direction. “By all means.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if the humans did not know we existed. I shall not claim to know. None of us do, because that is a hypothetical world in which we do not exist. Yes, their knowledge of us comes from stories, and most of them do not believe, but those who do pose enough of a threat that we must take them seriously.”

  Inwardly, Sanger couldn’t help but agree. Until the subject was just brought up, he didn’t know there were vampire hunters, let alone one wandering around in his own back yard.

  Members of the council watched Napoleon mostly with disinterest. One woman smirked. Caligula rubbed his temple with one hand, as though soothing a headache. “Where is this leading?” he said.

  Napoleon stood. His chair scraped against the floor as it was pushed back. “I would like to bring a proposal.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The night it happened, M
ario Lucado was late getting home. In his dreams, he knew what awaited him, but he never got there any quicker. Never soon enough to stop it.

  “Olivia?” he called out as he walked through the door. He heard no reply.

  Always, he went into the kitchen to start putting groceries away. He only had a few bags with a few items, taking a scant few minutes to store them in the pantry, the refrigerator, the freezer. He could never get those minutes back.

  When he finished, he realized he still hadn’t heard his wife. Maybe she’s in the bathroom, he thought, as he started up the stairs.

  Halfway up, he heard smacking sounds, like an animal gorging on a wet mess of a meal. For one confused, disconnected moment, he wondered if she’d gotten a pet without telling him.

  Then he saw the man’s back as he hunched over Olivia’s prone body, cradling her around the shoulders. He wore a long, heavy black raincoat that hid most of his form. At first Lucado thought the man was kissing his wife, and he almost blurted out some angry warning. But he could see Olivia’s mouth, just behind the man’s shoulder. She stared at him, and never blinked her eyes.

  He couldn’t remember what he finally shouted. ‘No,’ probably. The man set Olivia’s body down, gently, and slowly looked over his shoulder.

  Lucado stood at the top of the stairs, frozen in horror and disbelief. The man’s eyes were so pale they reflected the light. With blood on his lips, he smiled open mouthed. Slick red fangs jutted from his upper jaw.

  The man moved with a blur of motion too quick for Lucado to follow. Something hit him in the chest and he toppled over backwards. Belatedly, it flashed through his mind that the stairs were just behind him.

  His plunge back down to the first floor was a chaos of pain and confusion. He couldn’t tell which way was up. His arms flailed out, battered against the railing and the wall, but couldn’t catch hold of anything to arrest his fall.

  By the time he tumbled to a stop, he was blind with pain. Something was wrong with his leg, he could tell. Agony radiated from his knee. Shouting rang in his ears for what seemed like an eternity before he realized it emanated from his own throat.