Night Rising

by Chris Marie Green

  Even his television—the lifeline to Above—was silent.

  The Master had been keeping to himself for years now, away from the Groupies and Servants and Guards. Only Sorin, the second in command, and the elite citizens gained audience with the Master, and that was because the Elites’ silence was guaranteed through an exchange of blood and money: they did not dare reveal that Sorin was not really the one in charge of the Underground.

  Their punishment for that would be swift and devastating.

  But, these past few years, the Master’s loneliness had reached a peak, and this concerned Sorin.

  “News?” the Master asked in a lifeless whisper, one that all but covered a foreign accent that had faded with time and educated effort.

  Sorin tried not to lose hope at this further evidence of decline. Over three centuries ago, when the Master had first made Sorin a vampire, he was full of colorful moods and the desire to explore. But gradually that had changed. Sorin had noticed the exhaustion, the almost destructive carelessness with which the Master had been making decisions lately.

  He was tired of existing, and that was living death for a vampire.

  Sorin could not stand by and watch it happen. Could not bear to see his maker waste away. As a first step to righting matters, he settled on giving the positive news before the negative. “All the Elites, except the one, are doing well.”

  “Good.” He sounded disinterested.

  Sorin’s frustration welled. That led to anger and impulse. “Would it elicit a reaction if I mentioned that three Guards had a run-in with humans tonight? And these humans happen to be ones our Servants and Groupies have noticed asking questions Above during the last year? They killed two Guards.”

  A shimmer of movement told Sorin that the Master had become more interested. “I did feel something earlier…”

  Sorin remained calm, vampire-cool. “You felt something a year ago as well, Master, but after the initial scare, you were lax. You have—”

  “That’s enough, Sorin.”

  He fisted his hands. He wanted to say so much more. Wanted to remind the Master that his Awareness was the first defense against danger, that if another master was in the area, they needed to discover if his intentions were civil or malicious. A lot had happened since all the masters had separated and created their own secret undergrounds over a century ago. And, once some of the others were discovered, there had been takeovers, wipeouts of entire vampire societies, although it was true that the other masters did not always have ill intentions. Some of them were loners, seeking to join established undergrounds; some wished to wed their own societies with a more dominant one in order to strengthen their numbers.

  Perhaps the Master had not aggressively responded to the first throb of Awareness one year ago because he did not wish to face what had occurred with his first Underground. Understandable, yet Sorin had attempted time and again to convince his maker to be proactive in any matters of defense. He recalled the terror of losing the first paradise all too well. However, with the threat, the Master had seemed to delve that much deeper into secrecy, avoiding the issue, without taking the precautions Sorin feared they required.

  All the same, did the Master not see what could happen? Sorin knew that his maker’s mind powers—the Awareness that allowed him to feel those other masters and keep track of his own blood children—had grown weak with boredom and lack of care. In Sorin’s opinion, this left the Underground vulnerable, and he had a heavy feeling that the Master was in the process of surrendering, though it was impossible for a master to commit suicide, due to the oath taken so long ago.

  But if the Master had lost his will…

  The older vampire sighed, world-weary and final. “Go outside and play, Sorin. We both know that hunters are legion in this country, in Los Angeles. We’ve dealt with them and eluded them for years.”

  “Even so,” Sorin continued, risking his Master’s further wrath—an emotion he would have welcomed at this point—“you have already had one notable sign of danger—the Awareness you felt of another and have been shielding against for a year.” Here, Sorin heard the Master lean forward in his chair, and the bold gesture pushed him to continue. “And now you have these humans who are capable of decimating two Guards….”

  Sorin stopped, wondering if he had overstepped his bounds, glad to have done so.

  “Go on,” the Master said.

  Holding back a victorious smile—finally, some concern—Sorin added, “Our surviving Guard told me something disturbing. While listening, they heard the humans mention Frank Madison, and one of their own referred to him as being her father.”

  “Really.” The Master slowly sat back in his chair, then gave a short, mirthless laugh.

  There, Sorin thought. Another flicker of interest, a flinch of the sleeping giant.

  Ever since the invention of moving pictures, the Master had been enthralled. He watched all the movies, learned from them, even lived through them. Eva Claremont’s life was manna to him—her films, her A& E biography, her E! Entertainment special reports.

  “Eva Claremont’s daughter was at the Pennybakers’,” the Master said, as if turning the thought over in his mind, prodding it to see how it reacted under an outside influence.

  “I assume she is looking for her father.”

  “She probably is. And maybe that’s all there is to it.”

  Silence buzzed the darkness as the second in command waited for the Master to filter the information, to command Sorin in his passion to keep the Underground safe.

  But when the Master did not say another word, Sorin braved one last comment.

  “Keeping track of these humans is a necessity. I request more of a presence Above, even if we have to press more Servants into service, or if…”

  Sorin gestured to his chest, offering himself up for anything the Master might require.

  All the same, black silence reigned while Sorin deferred to his maker, all but raging while the Master decided if he cared enough to protect the Underground….

  Or if Sorin would have to take matters into his own hands right here and now.

  Seven

  The Ghost Of The Past

  The Pennybakers’ air-conditioned parlor was a stark depository for blunt art: paintings and sculptures which were all circles and squares, severe black-cushioned furniture, white walls. The decor echoed Robby’s mom, who looked like her soul had been turned into a deadened room ever since the death of her son twenty-three years ago.

  Right now, Breisi was poised on the couch next to Nathan Pennybaker, her casual manner disguising what Dawn recognized as building questions. Sure, there’d been some introductory small talk after the missus had expressed her surprise at seeing the bruised and torn Limpet associates at her front door, but it’d only been a formality.

  Dawn could see the good-cop/bad-cop pattern emerging. Breisi, uncharacteristically loose and friendly. Kiko, glowering in the corner while holding some of Robby’s old clothes, just to see if he could get any new vibes off of them.

  In the meantime, Dawn sat quietly on the fringes, sweat drying to stickiness on her bruised skin as she gripped one of the glasses of iced tea Mrs. Pennybaker had served. Since there was no fighting involved in this round, she was really out of her element, and that humbled her, made her uncomfortable and frustrated. Still, she was savvy enough to know that watching how Kiko and Breisi worked the room would be way more beneficial than opening her mouth to ask all the questions knocking at her.

  There was especially a lot to learn from seeing Breisi finesse Nathan Pennybaker, yet it was all Dawn could do to keep from ripping into him and the missus about how Robby had been allowed to get so out of control.

  In contrast to his prematurely ancient wife, hubby was well adjusted and well fed, his stomach rounded under the silk of an Armani shirt. His skin glowed with health and probably a good European facial or two. His graying hair was carefully styled in one of those Roman senator cuts; Dawn guessed that old Nathan had
been too busy snacking on gnocchi and manicotti to notice that Gladiator was out of the theaters, the hairdo dead and buried in the cemetery of unfortunate trends.

  “I’m sure you understand the reason we couldn’t contact you immediately upon my return,” he was saying to Breisi. He clasped his hands together and stared at his manicured nails. “Being back in this house is hard enough. Talking about Robby…”

  Nathan had one of those pseudo-Euro accents. It was almost enough to detract from the fact that he’d lost a son just as horrifically as his traumatized wife had. But at least he’d moved on…something Dawn had tried so hard to do, too.

  Across the room, Kiko traded one of Robby’s T-shirts for another. Immediately, his compact body tensed.

  Was he feeling something? What was he seeing?

  Breisi seemed not to notice the show since she was busy patting Mr. Pennybaker’s shoulder. “I understand, Nathan. But I’m sure you see the need for taking another look at Robby’s situation.”

  A pained sigh came from Mrs. Pennybaker. “The film. He was right there, alive!”

  When Dawn saw yet another anxious gleam in the woman’s eyes, her stomach tightened. Mrs. Pennybaker was never going to get her little twelve-year-old Robby back again, even if he had returned as something else. Earlier, before Nathan had come downstairs, Breisi had tried to tell Marla about the red-eyed vamps, but the old woman wasn’t hearing any of it. In fact, she was refusing to hear any talk of paranormalcy. But why? Hadn’t she thought something was weird when a supernatural PI agency offered to take her case?

  At Nathan’s appearance, Breisi had backed off, though Dawn guessed she’d be sitting Marla down for another talk later. Instead, the actress had reassured the old woman. “In the end, we’re out to see to the peace of Robby and your family, Mrs. Pennybaker, just as Mr. Limpet promised.”

  Now, Dawn couldn’t help relating to Marla’s reluctance to hear whacked-out theories. As it was, there was something bothering Dawn—Robby’s age, his appearance in the film….

  She stirred in her seat, whiting out her brain, still in partial denial about what had gone on tonight, even though she’d seen—felt—more than enough proof.

  In his seat, Kiko relaxed, peered at Robby’s shirt, then laid it down gently. He was frowning, and when his eyes met Dawn’s, he shook his head. Not a good sign.

  “May I ask,” Breisi said to Mr. Pennybaker, “why you left the country?”

  Kiko slid out of his chair, coming to a stand, using his intimidator glare as he limped to where Nathan could see him. Dawn could tell the psychic was digging deep into the man’s mind, searching for all the words that weren’t being voiced.

  The dapper manager cleared his throat and focused on Breisi, studiously avoiding Kiko. “I left because I couldn’t take the reminders. I stayed away because I found a home in Bari, Italy. An old college friend had moved there, and it was far away from L.A….” He closed his eyes. “I couldn’t bring myself to come back until now.”

  All the while, Dawn was cataloguing Mrs. Pennybaker’s reactions. She was fisting, then unfisting, her veined hands, spreading them flat against her thighs as if forcing herself to peace. Her face remained a wrinkled mask, emotionless except for the eyes. Dawn tried to decipher what was being reflected in them—anger? resentment? affection?—but she couldn’t. She wasn’t Kiko, with his skill for understanding how people thought.

  A twinge of profound isolation grabbed her again. She just wanted to wake up and find herself back at yesterday, back in Virginia, hammering nails and not knowing that Frank had been hunting vampires.

  Yeah. Hunting. Vampires.

  How the hell had her dad gotten into this? And why? More than ever, she realized how much of a stranger he was.

  The alienation expanded, gnawing at her, dredging up the hunger, the need to feel a part of something. She started to ache, to itch for some fulfillment, however temporary.

  As Dawn sat there throbbing away, she realized that Breisi and Kiko were trading one of those meaningful glances again.

  Breisi stood. “Mrs. Pennybaker, would it be okay if I used the restroom?”

  Ah, Dawn thought. The locator.

  “Of course.” The old woman started to get up.

  “Oh, no, I can find it.” Breisi pointed to the hallway. “Through here?”

  “Yes.”

  The room was quiet as Breisi left. Subtly, Kiko took his associate’s place on the couch, looking as confident as Mel Gibson, except for the fact that his legs didn’t reach the floor.

  “We’ve read the police report and heard different accounts,” he said to Nathan, “but we haven’t really gotten your side of the story.”

  “The story,” Mr. Pennybaker repeated, eyebrows knitted.

  “The story.” Kiko glanced at Mrs. Pennybaker. “The night Robby…”

  “…left,” she finished.

  She was watching Kiko, her lower lip trembling. Maybe it was because his small body made him look so much like a boy. Maybe it was because she was seeing Robby in her memories.

  At any rate, Dawn thought, Mrs. Pennybaker hadn’t used the word “died.”

  Her husband had stiffened in his seat. “I fail to understand why this will help, Mr. Daniels. Rehashing this is upsetting my wife and—”

  “You might know some details that can help us now,” Kiko said. “Robby’s out there…somewhere…and we need to do everything we can to find him.”

  “Please,” Mrs. Pennybaker said, still staring at Kiko. “Tell him, Nathan.”

  Bit by bit, the man wilted, then ran a hand through his neat hair. “It’s not going to help. Robby’s gone.”

  Kiko nodded. Then he pulled a Breisi, resting his hand on Nathan Pennybaker’s shoulder in “comfort.”

  A reading, Dawn thought, again impressed by Kiko’s confidence and ease, by the talents he so easily wielded.

  Mrs. Pennybaker sat back in her chair, closed her eyes, and covered her face with one hand, as if to shield herself. Dawn imagined that her own grief about Eva Claremont would be just as fresh if she’d seen her mom’s image in a recent movie, if she’d been given more hope about getting her back, too.

  “I wasn’t even there when he…” Mr. Pennybaker said, forehead wrinkling. “Robby had snuck out to our housekeeper’s cottage on her night off and was experimenting with her pill stash. He overdosed back there, and he wasn’t discovered until later that night. Ingrid, the housekeeper, found him.”

  Mrs. Pennybaker was shaking her head, in total denial.

  “She’s the one who killed herself?” Kiko asked, with more gentleness than Dawn would’ve ever given him credit for.

  “It’s all in the acting,” he’d said by the car earlier, spreading out his arms dramatically. The talent he’d boasted about was sure shining through now.

  “Yes, that was Ingrid.” Mr. Pennybaker grimaced. “She felt guilty about the pills and rightfully blamed herself for Robby’s overdose.”

  Suddenly, Kiko seemed to get some kind of charge from his contact with the man’s shoulder, because he jerked back his hand, as if scorched. Dawn leaned forward in her chair, but Kiko just shot her a wide-eyed I’ll-tell-you-later glance.

  Mrs. Pennybaker spoke, her voice muffled by her hand. “Robby had an accidental overdose—he didn’t commit suicide.” Her breath hitched in agony.

  “Nobody said he did,” Kiko offered. “We’re not the press, Marla. We don’t jump to those kinds of conclusions.”

  Dawn remained silent. Twelve-year-olds were too young for addiction, for depression. Weren’t they? Even in this town?

  “I just wanted to make sure that was clear,” Marla added. “They never found his body after it disappeared. How…” She laughed, a trace of nervous disbelief in the sound. “…how does a body disappear from the morgue?”

  Good question, Dawn thought, turning her face from a mother’s raw grief. And what kind of world allowed Robby’s perversely wild lifestyleandhis missing body to make him a shining star in the ann
als of Hollywood lore?

  Her throat dry, she sipped her drink, the ice rattling in the silence, echoing against the walls and high ceiling.

  Luckily, Breisi returned. While Kiko got to his feet again, she kneeled next to her duffel bag. Thanks to the psychic’s diversion, Dawn might’ve been the only one to see her associate slide a small, metal object—the locator—inside the canvas as she extracted two other pieces of equipment.

  Standing, Breisi unwrapped a wire from around a white rectangle while holding another palm-sized instrument in her other hand. She came over to Dawn, pushed one of the dealy-bobs at her.

  “Here,” she said. “Just hold this level to your body as you walk around—it reads from the front only. Look for oscillation in the numbers, okay? Oh, and careful around electrical outlets—they’ll mess up the results.”

  Filled with even more questions, Dawn sat there, looking at the foreign doodad.

  “Excuse me,” Nathan Pennybaker said, “but what are those?”

  Breisi stood still, watching the handheld white rectangle as she held the connected wire out in front of her.

  Kiko answered, all important-like. “Tools of the trade. Ms. Montoya is using a thermo-anemometer, a sort of temperature gauge. She’s taking the base reading of the room right now so we’ll get a foundation for comparison as she tests different parts of the house for deviations in temperature. Ms. Madison will be using a magnetometer, which searches for shifts in the electromagnetic field.”

  Smiling like a Price is Right model, Dawn tentatively held out her magnetic thingie to Mr. Pennybaker, not comfortable in doing anything else with it, really.

  “What’s the purpose?” the man asked, eyes narrowed.

  While Breisi tapped her foot, waiting for the base temp to show up, the missus rubbed her hand down her face. “Let them do their jobs, Nathan.”

  “We’re seeing if there’s any paranormal activity around here,” Kiko said. “We’ve tested the premises before, but because of what happened outside tonight—”