The odor was overwhelming. It split him in half, it maddened him. He went toward her. She saw, stared curiously with those huge eyes. He saw shimmering there a puff of eternity—soul, yes. We do go on, he thought. But the smell—oh, oh—he took another step, his hands came up—people were making way. Afraid. Good, yes, let them fear him.
He had the apple, he had to cut the skin, had to get at the flesh within, to make it bleed, so he could lick, could suck, could swallow. His hands were tight on her shoulder, her arms. She was babbling now, her voice going high. It was as if he’d caught a chicken in a barnyard, a starving man.
His body howled blood, blood, blood—
No, crazy! Crazy! Bum trip, help. Help me, God—
Then the taste of her skin, the taste of her skin! Salt sweeping into him, salt and sunburn and wicked sweat…and under it the flower of the blood. His jaw began to tighten, his throat to suck. Distantly, he heard her babble turn to screams, was aware that she was kicking and twisting. He’d gotten strong, though. Iron, like Lilith. She could not prevail.
A voice cried out. Above. Far above. Arabic, high, a cry that filled the air, that swept into his heart and beat with his heart. He didn’t understand the words that shot down into him, deep into him where his humanity was whispering its last.
The old voice, rich with years of prayer, spread its message through all the cells of his body, washing, cleansing, dousing the fires of him as if with purest water.
He raised his head. High in the dark above the street, he saw a towering minaret. There was no muezzin there, no old man, but rather just the empty tower and a couple of loudspeakers. But the meaning of the call could not be mistaken, not by the deep goodness that abided within Ian Ward, in which his father did not have the courage to believe, but which was there nevertheless, what of common humanity that belonged to him.
He screamed, leaping back. The woman had become a pillar of fire, glorious golden flames rising off her skin that made him cry out from the pain of the heat, the beauty. He was seeing a common, ordinary soul in all its reality, and seeing the preciousness of the life to which it was attached. Beyond words, beyond ideas, in the airy meat of mind itself, he saw what she was and why she was here, and the grandeur of it caused him to turn away in agony, that he had even considered taking this life or any life.
He burned, though, burned to eat blood. Also, he saw that the blood was only an incident in a larger process. It was not about feeding on the liquid itself, but the life it bore and ultimately the meaning of that life.
He could not steal that, no. He could not!
But he wanted to, oh, with every screaming cell he wanted to. He went for her, stopped himself, stood shuddering, his teeth bared, while the glorious being cringed away. He fell, staggered, got up again, then loped off through the crowd, wanting to get to the mosque, to drink and eat of the sacredness there—prayers now seemed like healing fumes to him, for what he had become had nothing to do with something so simple as a new way of eating. Predator versus prey, the elegance of nature’s way. No, what he had become was an etheric beast, and he needed the goodness of man to fortress him against the cruel dark sacred that now swarmed about inside him, famished and seeking the ruin of the world.
As he loped and staggered, fell and came to his feet again, a boy came up to him—soft, concerned eyes—and took him by the hand. He saw in the eyes the truth, that the boy was being guided not only by his own childish compassion but by the whole vast wisdom of a species.
The boy took him closer to the mosque—closed doors—crying out as they went—and the doors opened, and they went in. Ian fell on the wide floor, in the scent of the room, dry and faintly sweet, and beside him the boy and two old men prayed their incomprehensible prayers, and water from heaven poured down, cooling Ian’s fire, leaching the dragon within him of its heat, settling it like a lizard on a cold morning.
Ian began to feel quieter, quieter and lighter…and better. At length, he stood. The boy smiled up at him. One of the old men, still crouched in prayer, snored softly. The other smiled his wrecked old smile.
“Help me,” Ian said.
Chapter Sixteen
The Poisoned Boy
One moment she was standing beside Leo, the next she was gone. Leo could not run after her, she was too fast—so fast, indeed, that she seemed like a shadow darting off down the alleyway.
Leo didn’t move. She hardly dared breathe. But Lilith had gone running after Ian. The thing cared only about Ian, had completely put her out of its mind.
Still, she stood there. Dared she attempt escape? The creature had all kinds of powers. It was quick as lightning, it was hideously strong. Also smart, so maybe this was a trick.
Cars passed at the end of the alley. In the distance, somebody called out, a sonorous old voice on a minaret. Behind a lit basement window, a telephone rang.
She took a deep breath. And then she decided: I’ll try to run. She went in the opposite direction that Lilith had gone. The possibility of surviving presented itself, and she wanted to survive, she wanted badly to survive.
She could get in her plane and be back in New York in a few hours. She could stop in Paris and get a huge suite at the Crillion and live like an empress for a month. She could go down to Mustique and take a house and hole up across the entire winter, flying to some huge, trackless city like Rio or Mexico City when she was hungry, and eat there without fear of being caught.
But she didn’t want to eat again, not ever.
So what would she do? She had to eat if she was going to live. She ran hard, up and down alleys, along streets, through buildings, ignoring the occasional voice that called out as she passed an open door or dashed through a shop, in the front and out the back. She had to put as much of Cairo between her and Lilith as possible. But she was also running from another monster, one that ran right with her, for it was in her, and was her.
Then she came out into a street—she saw lights, cars. Breathing hard, she hurried along the sidewalk. She was looking for a taxi. In seconds, three of them were looking for her. She jumped in the closest one. “Mena Hotel,” she said.
Her one chance was to get on her plane and get out of Egypt. She had bought her way past officials for Lilith and Ian, who were passportless, and had to pay a little more for Egyptian visas for herself and her crew. Without having to worry about the two with no passports, leaving would be easy enough.
She would get the finest doctors in the world. If there was a way, they would find it. But what of all the people she’d killed—what would bring them back? There were children without mothers or fathers, parents with lost kids—how did she help them? Did she go to prison for them, maybe end up getting the death penalty? She was one of history’s worst serial killers. She, Leo Patterson, who had never been loved.
With Miriam it had all been so miraculous and amazing and wonderful, but Miriam had been almost human, and Lilith was not even close. Still, you had to grant one thing to Lilith: she made you see the truth.
She watched the lights passing, the streets thronged with people, even as late as it was. Cairo did not have the reputation it deserved. From what she could see, it was an intimate, sophisticated city with a flavor similar to Paris, but at once more exotic and at the same time friendly, almost familial. It was one of those cities that felt instantly like home, and she wondered if in some past life she had perhaps spent time here.
There was none of that faintly sinister cast that came over certain cities at night, the wary, haunted atmosphere of a dangerous place. Cairenes were used to being out and about, and they did not expect trouble. When this all ended, she decided, she was going to come back and explore Egypt.
“Mena,” the driver said. He turned around and smiled as she thrust money into his hands. She was not careful with money. She spent until it was gone, then called her man at Coutt’s Bank and told him to refill whatever needed refilling, or George did it just by monitoring her accounts. No matter how much she spent, every year at her
financial meeting, it turned out she was richer than she had been the year before, usually by millions.
She didn’t want to die, she didn’t want to go to prison, she wanted to be free. Maybe a complete blood transfusion. Maybe something else, some kind of cancer drug, who the hell knew?
Sarah Roberts had tried everything to save herself, even complete blood replacement. “It gets into your cells, it becomes part of you.”
Okay, shut up! Take it one day at a time. The important thing is that Lilith and her cave are behind you.
At the desk she said to the clerk, “Please call Captain Williams for me. Tell him Miss Patterson is ready to roll.” If Williams was out, he wouldn’t be far away. That was the rule: when she called, they had to be ready to start within an hour.
“Patterson is at the front desk of the Mena,” General Karas said, his voice tight with suppressed excitement.
“Ian?” Paul asked.
Karas gave his head a curt shake no. “She came in a cab. The driver is being questioned now.”
His cell phone rang again.
“Bill, please,” Jean said to the waiter. Then, in French, which was much spoken here, “It’s not this magnificent food, for which we could not be more grateful. We have an unfortunate emergency and must go at once.”
Karas hung up. As they left Shepheard’s, he said, “He picked her up in Old Cairo. She was alone. He did not see anyone with her when she came toward the taxi. At the hotel, they say that she asked for her pilot to make ready. He’s been told to respond just as if all was completely normal.” They got into Karas’s limousine and headed for the Mena.
“This isn’t a vampire,” Becky said. “It’s—” She looked at Karas. “You’ve read the Roberts papers on blood mixing?” Dr. Sarah Roberts had left behind a number of papers about the blood of the vampire, including its curious relationship to human blood. She had left pitiful reports on her attempts to remove it from her system.
“I’ve read them,” Karas said. “We’ve never encountered one of those—what do you call them? Do you give them a name?”
“Things,” Jean said. “We had two in Paris.”
“What happened?” Karas asked. “Were they as difficult to deal with?”
Jean shrugged.
“You blew them apart, right, Jean?”
“They were like the others. Very quick. As smart, I don’t know. We killed them.”
A vampire was a tough creature, and Paul could scarcely imagine what one of those phosphorus-tipped high-explosive bullets would do to an ordinary human body. “You shot them?”
“If you shoot a human being with one of my guns, he is not there anymore,” Jean said. “It’s just—you know—a spray of blood.”
“Are they fast, or—what are we to expect?” Karas asked.
“They’re very fast,” Becky said. “Sarah was fast. She was canny. And when she went down—her eyes. I think that the consciousness lingers, just like in the full-blooded creature.”
Nobody spoke for a time.
“Vampires are damn clever,” Paul said at last.
“I am thinking also of a trap,” Jean said.
“To trap us? Kill us?”
“Your boy is the bait, obviously. If it is a trap. Think if the four of us were killed. They would gain so much. Their freedom.”
Suddenly they were at the Mena. Paul realized that he was scared. Terrified. “Patterson knows what I look like,” he said.
“I’ll do the collar,” Karas responded.
“If there’s a problem?” Becky’s cheeks were drawn tight, her eyes were swimming.
Without answering, Karas entered the hotel. His Egyptian team was so smooth and practiced that even another professional couldn’t see the stakeout.
“He’s got an impressive operation,” Paul said.
Jean nodded.
Karas stood in the doorway chatting with one of his operatives, who had materialized out of a passing crowd of businessmen. They spoke in Arabic, gesturing and smiling as if they were friends enjoying a chance meeting. Then the general disappeared into the hotel.
They waited. The only sound in the car was that of Jean stroking his pistol, which gleamed cold blue in his lap.
Leo at first simply turned away from the Egyptian who came toward her from the front of the lobby. But that didn’t stop him, hardly. He came closer, a stocky man smiling from behind a brush mustache. She noted that he was wearing a Savile Row suit, but he was still obviously a fan, and the very last thing she wanted to deal with right now was a fan.
Where in hell was Williams? She pulled out her cell phone and called him again. “Let’s go,” she said when he answered. “I’m getting bothered down here.”
“Then we’ll go up,” the businessman said.
“Come on,” she said into the phone, then to the businessman: “Get the fuck outa here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said and opened his jacket. There was a gun there. She looked at the gleaming steel of it, the worn, well-used butt. Everything got slow and quiet. Her eyes returned to the smiling face, then went back down to the huge sidearm. The man’s hand came onto her shoulder, and they began moving toward the elevators. She was aware of people behind her, many people. Then the elevator opened, and she was pushed inside.
“Don’t turn around,” the man said. Something, presumably the gun, was thrust hard into her back. “If you move a single muscle, I will fire.”
The elevator rose, its motor whirring. There were also other sounds—breathing, the busy ticking of half a dozen wristwatches, her own jagged heartbeat. She thought, Is everybody always surprised to die?
But she would not die. They weren’t going to bother to burn her to ash and scatter it to the winds. On the contrary, she was going to end up like the poor creatures in Lilith’s trap, or like Miriam and Sarah, languishing somewhere in tortured silence.
“You are faster, you are stronger,” Miriam had said. “Trust your blood. Your blood will defend itself.”
The elevator stopped. She heard the doors open. “Back out,” the gunman said.
“Who are you? Is this about my visa? Because if it is—”
A voice spoke from behind her: “It’s not about your visa, Leo.”
Paul Ward! Unmistakable! Automatically, she started to turn toward that familiar tone.
The gun thrust into her back so hard she staggered forward, back into the elevator. “I said, don’t turn around.” This time, they held her arms from behind.
She was marched down the hallway to a suite, which was opened immediately by a policeman. Inside, Williams and the rest of the crew were seated together on a couch, being watched by an armed man. A dozen more armed men stood around. The room was thick with cigarette smoke.
“Now turn.”
Her eyes went from one cold face to the next. A man she did not know, either European or American. Paul Ward. Becky Ward. Two more unknowns, both Egyptian. All were pointing guns at her. Behind her, she could feel another one thrusting into her back. Only when a phone rang in the pocket of someone elsewhere in the room was there a stirring. She could hear a voice speaking low in the background, in Arabic.
“Where is our son?” Ward asked her. His manner was mild.
Becky Ward had an odd sort of a smile on her face. “Tell us,” she said, “and we’ll let you go.”
They would tear her to pieces to get this information, she had no doubt of it. As she thought how hopeless her situation was, tears began.
“Tell us.”
Miserably, certain of what it would bring, she whispered the truth, a truth they would never believe. “I don’t know,” she said.
She closed her eyes, waited. But there was a silence. Then a crisp, accented voice said, “He’s at a police station in Old Cairo, on the Sharia Ahmad Omar.”
“Let’s go,” Ward said.
“What about this one?”
“Bring it. Don’t let it out of your sight.”
“I’m a human being!”
“Were.”
A tall, narrow man with those same ice-cold eyes opened his jacket and withdrew yet another monstrous pistol. He ejected a shell into his hand. “It has bullets like this,” he said in French-accented English. “That’s a phosphorus tip, that light part. The bullet explodes inside you. What it doesn’t vaporize, catches fire.”
She stared at the huge bullets with their angry white tips, dull silver shells, and long black casings.
The next thing she knew, they were going back downstairs. “I want you to run,” the Frenchman said. “Please do it, I would be so happy.”
His voice shook with hate. But she wasn’t hated. She was Leo, one of the great stars. She was beloved.
The Egyptian, who was apparently some sort of commander, stood face to face with her in the elevator. He was smiling the most hate-filled smile she had ever seen. “How many people have you killed?” he asked.
They had called her “it,” had referred to her being human in the past tense. “I want to see somebody from the embassy,” she said. “I want a lawyer.”
Nobody spoke. Then she could hear Paul Ward, and she thought he was laughing. Becky laid her arm halfway across his broad back, and she knew that the sound was not laughter.
“I didn’t understand. I didn’t know about the killing,” she said. Even as she uttered the words, she felt the lie. Sarah had told her everything, had urged her not to be blooded. But she had wanted it and had loved it…for a while.
“Blaylock blooded you without telling you?” Ward asked without turning around. “I don’t think so.”
“No, she did. She did exactly that.”
He whirled, so fast that the elevator shuddered as it glided into the lobby. “You were begging for it! I was there, remember? You begged for it, and you got it, and you’ve loved it. Loved it! So don’t lie to me, you vicious piece of filth.”
“I was gonna switch to people who beat criminal raps,” she said miserably. “I have to eat.”
Lilith’s Dream: A Tale of the Vampire Life Page 33
