by D C Young
“I was hoping to find a doctor who was capable of splitting genes, at least,” Maestro said, his voice as even and level as he could make it. “Instead I find one of the doctors who pioneered DNA research seventy years ago! You’ll forgive me if I’m just a bit shocked, even somewhat star struck, if you will. You were what, twenty-five then? That makes you—” Maestro did some fast math. “95 years old, at the best I can tell. Yet from the research I’ve done, you’ve made some amazing discoveries in the last few years; discoveries a much younger man would have been delighted to make. I’m awed, if I’m to be honest.” He forced a grin, stepped forward and held out his hand. “Dr. Mengele, it’s a real honor.”
Chapter Eleven
“So, you’ve worked your way into a more regular sleep pattern now?” Kingsley asked, or, at least, that’s what Sam thought he asked. As usual, his words were very muffled as he attempted to talk around the side of beef he was chewing on.
They were at Mulberry Street Ristorante in downtown Fullerton, sitting by the window, drinking wine and eating steak. Just like regular people and just like they always did when they ate out together. It was their usual place, mostly because they got the food right every time. Of course, Sam wasn’t so much eating as she was slurping the bloody juice pooling around the very rare steak on her plate, and Kingsley wasn’t so much eating his steak, as he was wolfing it down almost whole. But the point was, the steaks were always done perfectly and for Sam, that tiny bit of consistency, no matter how trivial it seemed, meant a whole lot to her.
She nodded in response to Kingsley’s question. “Somewhat, but I’m still a creature of the night. I’m still weaker in the daylight and I still need to sleep during the day. At first, I still felt like crap when I had to get up and pick up the kids but I’ve found that the equivalent of a simple lay-in in the mornings does the trick. The medallion doesn’t turn me into a full on day walker, normal person type, Kingsley. It only gives me the ability to tolerate the sun.”
“So, you’ve completely ditched the Coppertone and that ugly hat?” he snorted between bites.
“Yeah. A shame, isn’t it?”
Mulberry’s was busy as always. It was busy every night, as far as Sam could tell. Looking at the place and its clientele through her newly educated eyes, she couldn’t help but wonder if the experience there was always so accommodating because they were used to serving more than their fair share of immortals. It was probably a vampire’s restaurant of choice, especially since the cooks and waiters were so damned good at serving up the Sam Moon special; one order of raw meat, extra bloody.
Now, as she spooned up the last of the warm blood on her plate, she looked up at Kingsley and something occurred to her. “Now I have a couple of questions for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know a vampire called Julia and her merry band of twelve ancients that call themselves the Immortal Council?”
“Of course, I do. Don’t you read Chanel Smith?” A sly grin spread from the corner of his lips until it was plastered all over his face.
“Good one. Please tell me you know more than what’s been written by that hack fiction author at the behest and probably deep pockets of an attention seeking publicity whore, Veronica Melbourne,” Sam retorted , then paused to take a sip of her wine. “Julia said she’s as much to blame for all the drama in the city as you and I are.”
“Wow, that’s a bit melodramatic, even for a Greek.”
“How much could telling her story to the world have helped though?”
“I mean its just fiction, Sam. I doubt it’s done much to expose us to the world for who we really are. I honestly think that’s what was going through Veronica’s mind when she wrote them.”
“You mean, when Chanel Smith wrote them, right?”
“No, Sam. I meant what I said. Veronica wrote those books. That’s why Julia stopped sending her on Council sponsored missions. She actually came close to revealing the hidden location of Vlad Tepes’ and Erzabet Bathory’s current castle, not to mention completely exposing John Harker and his wife, as a descendant of Van Helsing.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“Veronica is Chanel Smith.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, lowering her voice.
“Why, Sam? Is it because you don’t think the vagabond vampire huntress can write a good story?” he asked as he lowered his voice to a low growl. “The thing is, she’s really a smart girl and quite talented.”
“All I know is she must be a terrible hunter if she sleeps with crossbow brandishing vampire killer freaks like Rand, the UPS guy.”
“Right,” he said, a little sarcastically.
“Don’t be like that, Kingsley.”
“Don’t be like what? I’m not the one making snap judgments, Sam. I know the dude tried to kill you but let’s face it, you were drawing a lot of attention to yourself with the bat thing going on.”
“So what do you suggest now? I have to find out more about Alexei, who this person Julia refers to as Maestro is and where in the hell I can find him. None of the Watchers have heard of him before. They only have the name from Alexei’s messages to his sister.”
“I think you should have a talk with Spinoza. Maybe he can get in touch with Veronica, she’s your best bet right now. She has her sights on so many immortals that aren’t toeing the line; she may know exactly who Julia is talking about.”
“I like that idea. Would you set it up for me?”
“I already did, babe.”
Sam winced at the term of endearment and Kingsley quickly apologized. After his indiscretion, he’d been trying hard to get back into Sam’s good books and any move to make her feel rushed or otherwise uncomfortable was not on his ‘To do’ list.
“Sorry about that.”
“Never mind,” she replied, tossing him a small smile. “I’m a bit more bothered by you setting up meetings for me than I am about that.” She was lying but saving Kingsley some face was high on her priority list and the opportunity to do it didn’t come up very often.
“He said his afternoon is clear. You can join him anytime, but of course, you know that if he can get Veronica to come, she won’t be there until after sunset,” Kingsley reported. He slid a card across the table at her and continued, “His new contacts.”
Sam nodded and put the card into her pocket.
“This is going to be a difficult one. I can feel it. The raw emotion that the man was putting out in those telepathic messages to his sister only indicates the seriousness of the situation, for a vampire of his stature and age to be frightened beyond being able to defend himself.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he needs help. Lots of help.”
***
The ancient face instantly relaxed into a large, mostly toothless smile. “Maestro, I believe you’re called? Have you no other name?”
Maestro shook his head. “Not in many years, Doc.”
Mengele bobbed his head once, sharply. “I understand. I began a new life too. Now you must explain why you traveled all the way from California just to visit such an old man.”
Maestro’s eyebrows shot upward. How had the old man known where he lived? Oh, what did it matter? There was serious business at hand, something that could benefit both men. And it was clear the doctor likely knew a lot more than he’d thought. Lying to him was pointless, so Maestro told the old doctor everything.
It was nearly dark by the time he finished describing his latest experiments on the VNA patients; Vampire DNA, as he’d dubbed them. Mengele hadn’t shown much interest at first, even when Maestro described ‘dream time’ and how he’d extended his life by years. But the moment he’d mentioned a woman that Bruno had found, the ancient doctor’s blue eyes had begun to gleam with excitement. She’d fascinated both Maestro and Bruno at the time; her almost-alien DNA and her stubborn refusal to die even under the torture they’d applied when asking about her background.
“So, obvio
usly, I need a qualified molecular biologist, a geneticist, or someone who can deal with DNA at gene level, and possibly make copies of a certain sequence of genes I’ve isolated to place into someone else.” Finally he was done, and he was both parched and ravenous after having spoken for so long.
“Hans!” Mengele shouted. The door opened, and a man in his forties entered. “Can you bring our guest and I some of the dinner we missed? And open a bottle of the ‘59 Wehlener Sonnenuhr Trockenbeerenauslese as well.”
Maestro didn’t miss the other man’s eyes widen as Mengele ordered the wine. Must be special, then. Another indication that the old doctor was highly excited by Maestro’s news. All the better, he’d throw himself into the project and hopefully produce some great results in the shortest amount of time.
Maestro was sick of being sick; sick of being in pain, unable to walk even the shortest distances without agony in his lower back and legs, not to mention small indignities like constant constipation. He grimaced at the thought.
Mengele didn’t miss the small movement. “You do not look so happy. What is on your mind, Maestro?”
“That I look forward to a time when I can take a good, normal shit like I did twenty years ago! Christ. It’s true, you never know what you got until you can’t get rid of it.”
Mengele was silent for a moment, and then both men roared with laughter. That had easily broken the ice.
Over dinner, they brainstormed. Both were highly intelligent and each found a like mind in the other, although, one had somewhat of a different reaction, albeit a very deeply hidden one.
The next day, Maestro was shown the amazingly modern medical facilities in the ancient chambers beneath the old pyramid. Generators ran night and day to power the machinery, he was told. There were multiple backups as well. At the end of the tour, Mengele took him back out into the village proper, then to a hut almost at the edge of the jungle. To Maestro’s surprise, two children ran out to greet the old German, speaking in his language.
“Speak English,” he scolded them. “Or our new friend will not understand. Maestro, meet William and Estrella. I brought them with me from Germany.”
Once again Maestro was nearly speechless. “Are they...”
“No,” Mengele cut him off. “These are normal children with an abnormal gene, much like a cancer. Except in this case, the cancer has eaten away at genes that cause aging. Not something we’d want to duplicate even if we could.”
“But why?” Maestro asked. “Seems to me that’s exactly what we want!”
Mengele sighed. “So I thought, except thousands of children haf died from these genes. The cancer, it attaches to other cells and then, there goes the kidneys, the liver—you name it. They died long, very painful deaths.” He paused, and his eyes went distant. “Ach! That, of course, was a good thing. Bastard, Juden!”
He nearly spat, and now those blue eyes shone with an unmistakable madness. Maestro used every device at his disposal to keep from reacting, including biting his own tongue until it bled.
“Ach! You are bleeding. Did you bite your lip?” Mengele said with a laugh.
Chapter Twelve
Detective Spinoza’s desk was smiling at his two favorite vampire investigators and shaking his head a little. “Why the Cheshire cat grin, Spinoza?”
“I’m just glad you two are getting along. You have no idea how much I was dreading this meeting. Even though bringing Veronica along was my idea.”
“Yeah,” Veronica taunted, “Why’d you do that anyway? You know how it is with this one and Rand and with Rand and me.”
“I do, but I think you two should meet and bury the hatchet.”
“Oh, you don’t want to know where I want to bury that hatchet, Spinoza, Trust me on that!” Sam spat.
“Rand is a cool guy,” Veronica interjected.
“You mean besides being a vampire slayer?”
“Well, I said he was a cool guy, I didn’t say he had a cool job.”
Sam sat quietly looking at the young vampire seated beside her for a moment, then she burst out laughing. When she had finished, she turned to her and said, “I like you, Melbourne. You’re cool.”
“You too, Moon, when you don’t have a stick up your butt.”
Veronica reminded Sam a little of her daughter, Tammy. They both had a quick wit and smart mouth. Of course, Tammy’s mouth wasn’t as filthy as Veronica’s and if Sam had anything to do with it, it never would be.
“So,” Detective Spinoza said, “What’s this all about, Sam?”
“It’s a new case I’m working on. Kingsley said you might be able to help, but now that I’m here I think I already know what he meant by that.” She pointed a thumb in Veronica’s direction.
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah. Listen, Spinoza, I know you’ve seen a lot of freaky stuff these past few years, maybe even more than you’d have liked. Before I go any further, I’d just like to warn you that you’re going to hear some more.”
“I’m okay with that, Sam. The freaky and the freakish are apparently part of my life now.”
“Good.” Sam ran her fingers through her hair and closed her eyes for a moment, wondering where to start and if the meeting would even be of any help to the case. Pushing her doubts aside, she started talking.
When she was finished, Spinoza opened his desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass and poured himself a drink. Meanwhile, Veronica just sat there staring at her hands for a long, awkward moment. If Sam had to take a guess, she would have said the gothy vampire was also in shock.
“You’re kidding me right?” she suddenly blurted out. “Did you just say that Alexei’s been kidnapped?”
***
Maestro spent two more weeks in the jungle, even going on hunts with the natives who seemed to worship Mengele as a god returned from the dead. The two older men spent night after night eating immense meals and drinking just as heavily. On one of those nights, Mengele made a mental break-through.
“I have it! I know where your problem lies,” he said, a bit of spittle flying from the old lips with his excitement. “The creatures you’ve found and tried to use—they’ve been young ones, you see. Their blood is potent with their ‘Dark Gift’ but it is not seasoned, not very good for the procreation process. We need an older one. One with more powerful, developed… more pure genes!”
Maestro saw the brilliance of it immediately.
“My lord, you’re right. But how do we find such a creature? I imagine they stay well hidden; they’d have had to, to live this long without discovery. Not to mention their strength. It took all we had to keep our past subjects restrained.”
“Those complicated issues I will leave for you to solve,” Mengele said. “I cannot travel, as you can see. You must look for old folk stories about creatures that never age, never die. Such tales are often based on truth. I’d begin with European stories, go from there. When you locate the creature, let me know if you need help in, ah, retrieving it.” The thin old mouth smiled, but the sentiment never reached his eyes. “There are quite a few men here who are more than happy to do as I wish. One word and they’ll be at your side.”
“Wow, that’s handy,” Maestro mused. “Your own private guard and army all wrapped into one! Aren’t you the clever one,” he said, meaning it as a gentle dig.
The older man didn’t take it as it was meant. He beamed with pride, then reached over and covered one of Maestro’s hands with his own thin, bony one. “Thank you for saying so, Son. You don’t mind if I think of you as mine son, do you? All of my relatives are long gone, you know. And although I care for my natives, they aren’t the same as we are, of course. They can’t be.”
Maestro got it. Of course the ancient Toban genealogy was nothing like that of the Aryans. Lucky for the Tobans, Maestro thought privately. Being the modern Californian that he was, Maestro didn’t care much for that kind of thinking but he’d never do or say anything to indicate otherwise to Mengele. Oh, no! He’d go along with it
until the doctor managed to extract whatever he needed to make them both young again. That Mengele would succeed was never a question in Maestro’s mind. The only real question was how long it would take, once the right creature had been located and brought to the jungle.
***
Back in Fullerton, Maestro immediately hired several historians to comb through folk stories throughout Europe for tales of those who couldn’t die or had an eternal life. But nearly six months passed before there was a report of an old Russian folk story that seemed to be a perfect fit.
This ancient Russian tale had been around for more than 400 years. It was about the royal Russian Romanov family. A certain Alexei Romanov took power in the mid 1600s, when he was only 16 years old. Russia was at peace during his reign, something unusual for them. Rene, a historian who’d stumbled across the story, added that Alexei was known to have died at 46, though how he died remained a mystery. Russia was thrown into turmoil and war after Alexei’s death. From that came the Russian fable about a good and kind Tsar who vanished when Russia was finally at peace, and who would return at the time of the Motherland’s greatest need.
It was very close to what Maestro and Mengele had considered a good possibility in that Alexei Romanov had never officially died, so Maestro hired detectives to find any current Romanov descendants and their locations. He’d inform Mengele when he had real information to impart.
Results immediately began to pour in. It seemed that the Romanovs were prolific pro-creators and had been for the past 400 years! Members of the family were scattered all over the globe. Maestro had a bit of difficulty explaining his needs to the detectives, without admitting that he was looking for a Romanov who’d never really died. Ultimately he let on that he was researching a fiction novel, but he wanted as much veracity as possible. So he needed a Romanov who’d never been officially declared dead.
