“So, I’m a prisoner, like you.”
“Look,” said Marc, “In a real sense this is your own fault. After you saw A’eiio you could have just kept your mouth shut. Many witnesses have encountered Mythicals and while they were shocked, they decided nobody would believe them and kept quiet. We watched them for a while, then let them go on with their lives. You, however, came roaring downstairs into a crowd, drunk, hollering about seeing a creature. I happened to be in the entry hall when it happened.”
“The waiter, Geniato, didn’t say anything, and he disappeared. Is he dead?”
“He did say something. To you. And he’s very happy. And you could be, too. Let me tell you about the options.”
Jack shook his head in resignation. “Fine, I’m listening.”
Deborah began what sounded like a recitation she had done before. “We give those who have discovered us two options. You may choose to live on our home planet, which you have seen. It is a pleasant life, with no worries, no pressure.”
“And it means leaving my home, my family, my job.”
“That’s why you may choose to become an Ally.”
“I heard that word on your planet.”
“Being an Ally means risk, but it means a rewarding, challenging life on your home planet. It means that you pledge to keep our secret and to help us remain anonymous, in whatever role you find acceptable and gratifying.”
“And betraying my race?”
“Not at all. You’ll find that Mythicals are contributing to society. You’ll help us do that.”
“Okay, what do I get out of it, besides the possibility of being labeled a traitor?”
“You tell us what you want out of life. We help you get that.”
“You mean make me rich, make me powerful?”
“Maybe. If riches are what you really want. Actually, that’s where the myth about leprechauns and their pots of gold came from. Centuries ago, somebody caught a Mythical leprechaun, and he gave them riches. But when you think about it, that’s probably not what you’ll want.”
“No, probably not.” Jack sat back in his seat, his expression contemplative.
“We’re like the genie giving you wishes. As a matter of fact, that’s another old tale that involves Mythicals. We simply ask Allies what they hope to achieve in their lives, and we help them achieve it. We don’t give it to them; we help them.”
“I grew up in a small town in the north. Way back in the woods. Very isolated. But my parents had big ambitions for me. They sacrificed a lot to send me to school to be an engineer like them. They were frankly disappointed when I wanted to be a journalist. I want to prove to them that I’m successful.”
“We can do that.”
“I want to report on you.”
Marc laughed sarcastically. “So you basically want to expose us all to your species? Impossible!”
“No, not at all. Here’s the deal. You’re a clandestine group . . . now. Nobody knows you exist, except for your Allies. But this is a new era of instant, global social media. If just one video of what I saw in that bedroom goes viral, you’re revealed. It’s going to happen. Until then, I’ll protect your secret. Absolutely. But what I’m asking is that you let me cover everything you do. Everything. I’ll cover the good things, but I’ll also cover the bad. And if you are revealed, I’ll put out the whole story. It’ll be to your advantage.”
“That’s unprecedented,” said Deborah, shaking her head. “Nobody has ever been given such knowledge. You could put us at grave risk . . . even put your species at grave risk.”
• • •
Jack sat on his couch in his apartment, his phone in one hand, a drink in the other. He was trying to drink his way to bravery. Over the last few days, he’d seen things that had shaken him to his soul.
He took a drink, his hand still trembling a bit. He still occasionally got those shivers when he thought about the trip through the wormholes and the “options” he’d been given.
But he’d also summoned the courage—even without alcohol—to assert himself. And now, A’eiio was talking to her Warden about whether to grant his audacious journalistic request. If they let him cover them, he could go down in history.
An abrupt signal from his phone startled him out of his reverie. It was a text from Sam! His day had just gotten much better. Then he read the text, and it got much stranger.
“I’m dancing tonight. The City Ballet. Left you a ticket. Please come! You’ll meet some friends.”
She was a ballerina! She’d mention that some pixies were ballerinas, but he hadn’t realized she meant herself. He was eager to see Sam again. Very eager! But meeting her friends? He didn’t know whether he could withstand the charms of more than one pixie. Sam was intoxicating enough. And why had she contacted him now?
He decided that, after what he’d been through, sitting quietly in a dark theater watching a pixie dance was a piece of cake. He messaged her back, accepting with pleasure.
Now to make a call he’d dreaded. Anna and he had been dating for about six months, and until his drunken behavior at the reception, had enjoyed each other’s company. And the sex was great. But for both their sakes, the relationship had to end.
She answered quickly, and with accusation. “Jack, you didn’t call. You didn’t return my calls. What’s going on with you?”
“I’m sorry. Look, Anna, I’m involved with something that you don’t need to know about.” He stopped himself. How stupid of him! He absolutely regretted telling her that the instant it came out of his mouth. Now she would be suspicious.
“What do you mean? Does it have something to do with that intruder you said had wings? What the hell, Jack?”
“I’m sorry, Anna. I like you a lot. You’re a great person. And that’s why we can’t see each other anymore.”
“What did you find out, Jack? What’s this all about?”
“Anna, you take care of yourself. I’ve got to go.”
“Jack!”
He ended the call, cursing himself. He had left her suspicious. She might tell her boss about her suspicions, who would notify the government’s foreign affairs department. Or maybe the intelligence agencies. They would make it their business to investigate an unknown intruder in a friendly embassy. And to investigate a laid-off reporter who knew something he wasn’t telling. Shit! He’d have to figure what to tell the Mythicals, if anything.
He worried over his stupidity until it was time for him to leave for the ballet. He took care to dress in his best suit. He took a cab to the Capital Performing Arts Center, picked up his ticket and made his way to his seat, fifth row, third seat from the aisle in the soaring, warmly lit theater with its gold curtain. Nice seat, he thought absent-mindedly. He was deeply involved in mulling over his foolishness and the decision he had to make.
So he did not pay attention to the tall, somewhat sinister-looking four men who took the seats on either side of him.
The lights went down, the curtain swept open and the ballet began. It was a drama of love and betrayal. On a dimly lit stage, the dancers writhed and gyrated through ominous scenes. Jack scrutinized all of them, looking for Sam. But when she appeared, there was no doubt it was her.
As an alluring temptress—an appropriate role—she was riveting, elegant, sensuous, as she seemed to float across the stage in a tattered, diaphanous dress.
“That is our mutual friend,” he heard a rumbling voice in his right ear. He flinched and turned to see looming beside him a large man in a black suit, black shirt, and blood red tie.
“Uh, excuse me?”
“We are friends of Sam,” said the man gesturing at the four men flanking Jack, two on either side.
He suddenly felt hemmed in.
From his left came a similarly deep, stentorian voice, muttering “Good ballet. I like the dark themes.”
“Uh . . . if you say so.” He tried to concentrate on the stage, as the ballet continued through its first act, its foreboding atmosphere adding to his growin
g discomfort at being boxed in by these men.
Intermission didn’t bring any relief.
“Won’t you join us for a drink?” asked the man on his left.
He couldn’t very well refuse, since they’d advertised themselves as friends of Sam’s.
As they made their way out of the theater, he couldn’t help noticing that all four were dressed in black, except for a splash of red—a red tie, a red cravat, a red pocket handkerchief, a red scarf. Some kind of signal? And all four were preternaturally tall, towering over the other theater-goers.
They entered the soaring foyer, with its crystal chandeliers and red carpeting, and headed to the bar. The glittering crowd in formal dress was milling tightly around it, seeking an alcoholic libation to add a pleasant glow to the evening. But Jack knew that no amount of alcohol could stem his growing anxiety.
The four towering men seemed to part the crowd. Whether the person in their path was an imperious dowager or a silver-haired mogul, the objects of their attention would take one look at the phalanx approaching them, grow quiet, and back away.
Jack wondered whether they had some pheromonal power like Sam’s; only theirs was the power to intimidate, even frighten.
“We’ll have something that’s blood-red” said the one that had been to his right. Then abruptly he laughed, and the others grinned and chuckled. “Just kidding. We’ll have what you drink. We will like it.”
“Uh, okay. How did you know what I like?”
“A little bird told us. She dances like a lovely bird in flight, does she not?”
“Yes, she’s amazing.” He took his drink and tried to avoid slugging it down. “How do you know her?”
“We all know each other. I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Vlad . . . short for Vladimir.”
Jack shook his hand, finding it cool, even room temperature. The other three introduced themselves as Radomir, Milorad, and Gennady. Jack shook their room-temperature-cool hands.
“You will have dinner with us afterward, won’t you?” asked Vlad, grinning toothily. “Sam said you would join us.”
Jack was severely conflicted. Dinner with these four could be unsettling. But then, being with Sam would be a great antidote to that. He was noncommittal. He would ask Sam about these guys first.
The intermission ended, and they made their way back into the auditorium, watching the second half of the portentous ballet. Periodically, Vlad would hmmm his approval at one particularly sinister scene or another.
After the performance, they made their collective way out of the hall. Jack felt more nervously claustrophobic than ever. The four towering, black-suited behemoths seemed to surround him as they walked. His anxiety grew when they invited him into a black limousine, raising the partition between them and the driver.
“Where are we going?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“We have to fetch our little bird. Then we will have dinner . . . and many more drinks.” Vlad laughed, and it was the first time Jack realized he had very white, almost luminous teeth.
The limousine pulled around to the dark alley that held the stage entrance and waited, seemingly forever.
Finally, thankfully, Sam emerged with several other dancers, some possessing that same fascinating allure that she held. Probably pixies, thought Jack, but Sam was special . . . to him, anyway.
She wore a filmy white silk skirt and a sky-blue silk blouse that matched her eyes. She smiled merrily at him, when he climbed out of the limousine to invite her in. He wanted to kiss her so badly! She gave each of the behemoths a hug and settled happily into the seat beside him, accepting their accolades and a glass of sparkling drink.
“And now, little bird, we take you to a dinner and a celebration,” announced Vlad.
“Uh . . . well . . . I can’t stay too late,” said Jack.
“Why not?” challenged Sam. “You don’t have to go to a job. And you deserve some fun after all that you’ve been through.” She tossed her head and looked impishly at the four behemoths crowded in with them. “Besides, I can absolutely guarantee the party won’t last past dawn.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re vampires!”
• • •
“Stop the noise, fool!” scolded Senator Warren F. Lee, standing beside the truck and slapping its side window to stop the driver’s honking.
The driver let down the window. “Open the garage door! My suit is dying. I’ve been stuck in it for five days!”
“Relax. Your suit will regenerate,” said Lee, as he moved inside the warehouse, grabbed the controller and raised the overhead door. The driver gunned the truck in, and Lee closed the door, scanning out the window in the smaller door to make sure nobody had seen the truck approach.
The driver jumped down from the truck, the musky stench of five days’ driving billowing out, and jabbed his chest to relax the flesh-suit. It sagged away from his muscular, furred frame, and he quickly but carefully stripped it off. He carried the limp, beige suit to a nutrient canister and plunged it in.
Now free of the suit, he yanked out his dentures to reveal a mouthful of needle-sharp fangs. He stretched luxuriantly, scratched his matted pelt to fluff it up, and yawned, peeling back his lips and growling contentedly. He turned to glare at Lee, who had also removed his suit, becoming the werewolf Flaktuckmetang.
“Why couldn’t you have gotten an Ally to transport this thing?” demanded the driver. “We have them to do such common tasks.”
“If any Ally saw the cargo and figured out what it was, we would face a full-scale revolt. You had to do it.”
“Well, I’ve done it. I’m staying here for a few days to let the suit recuperate, then I’m gone back home.”
He moved to leave, but Flaktuckmetang held up his claw to stop the departure. “Not just yet. Help me unload this and run diagnostics. We don’t want the device to blow up when we first use it.”
“We? What do you mean we?” I was told it will be only you. I’m out of here as soon as possible. I’m in too deep as it is. If my Warden finds out—”
“The Wardens have approved this test. And with a successful test, they will approve . . .” he didn’t finish the sentence. It wasn’t a good idea to bring up the planned fate of the planet’s inhabitants, for somebody who didn’t need to know—even if it was a fellow werewolf.
The driver sighed in resignation. “Okay, but if I’m helping, I’m getting time off my sentence.”
“That’s up to the Wardens. But you know we want to keep them happy. And this will make them happy. And that could mean time off your sentence. Help me unload.”
Growling under his breath, the driver shoved the cargo door of the truck up, to reveal the shiny metal cylinder, strapped down with the parabolic reflector facing them. He lithely leaped into the back, unstrapped the cylinder, and pressed a button. With a faint hum, four legs unfolded from the cylinder, hefting it upward. Flaktuckmetang slid out the truck’s ramp, and with the driver pressing a button on its control panel, the cylinder adroitly walked its way down to the concrete floor to the whine of its motors.
“There’s meat in the refrigerator,” said Flaktuckmetang. “Go feed. I’ll run the diagnostics. Then we’ll talk about a first target.”
The driver checked his immersed flesh-suit to make sure it was getting nourishment and oxygen, then hurried off, driven by the prospect of gnawing on a hefty chunk of meat.
Flaktuckmetang moved to the control panel, touched a few glowing lights and stood back as a deep whine filled the warehouse. The weapon was coming to life.
• • •
The owner of the plush downtown steakhouse had greeted the vampires, the pixie, and the mixed-emotional Jack with delight and led them to a private room—with rich, ornately carved paneling, a crystal chandelier, upholstered chairs, and candles burning in silver candlesticks. If he didn’t know better, Jack would swear he was in an ancient castle. It was probably the kind of environment that would make centuries-
old vampires most comfortable.
“Very nice,” pronounced Vlad, holding back Sam’s chair for her to sit. The vampire sat between her and Jack, an arrangement that did not suit Jack. But he decided to say nothing to the blood-sucking creature.
Milorad, a hefty vampire with a pug nose and full lips, plunked himself down to Jack’s right. Once more, Jack noted, he was hemmed in between vampires.
“Nice place,” he said, trying to make conversation. “You know the owner?”
“He’s an Ally. One of ours. A few years back, he happened upon Gennady enjoying a nighttime stroll . . . in the nude. And we vampires kind of glow in the dark, so he figured out what Gennady was. We asked him what he wanted out of life. He always wanted to own a restaurant, so we got him one. Besides, I supply him with meat. I own a meatpacking house.” He started to continue, but a formally clad waiter appeared, and the table ordered drinks.
“And we’ll have a cannibal mound,” said Vlad. He noticed that Jack had stiffened, eyes widening a bit, and he explained: “Not to worry. That’s another name for raw, minced meat.”
“Oh,” said Jack, not wanting to pursue the issue further. He subtly reached up and touched his neck, wondering if it would be punctured by bite marks at some point in the evening.
But the vampires seemed like cheerful company, and Sam’s presence alleviated his unease. And, the waiter arrived quickly with the appetizers and six bottles of excellent drink, and they all ordered. Predictably, thought Jack, the vampires ordered their meat rare. He hoped he wasn’t offending them by ordering his medium.
“So, you eat raw meat?” he asked.
“That’s our diet,” said Vlad, taking a bite of the minced meat with toast. “Raw meat. We need the hemoglobin.”
Jack’s relief grew, but still, there was the coming prospect of watching the vampires gnaw on bloody steak. “Well, it’s kind of—”
“Disgusting? We find your diet disgusting. We don’t eat baby animals. You do.”
“No, we don’t! That’s outrageous!”
“And what of the young farm animals you consume as delicacies?”
Mythicals Page 8
