Karl went over to his own desk, and I turned back to my computer and brought up Google. I typed in Opus and Mago and clicked "Search."
A few seconds later I was looking at the first hundred of my 28,343 hits. A lot of them involved classical music, although several seemed to refer to some penguin in a comic strip.
Realizing where I went wrong, I went back to the search screen. This time, I put quotation marks around Opus Mago so the search engine would read it as a phrase.
Eight hits. That was more like it.
Seven of the references were duds. Five of them lumped the Opus Mago in with fictional works like the Necronomicon, the Lemegeton of Solomon, and the Grimorium Verum. Shows what they know. Two other hits brought me to bogus black magic sites, constructed by obvious wannabees who'd probably run screaming for their mothers if they ever got close to the real thing. It didn't take me long to figure out that these morons didn't know the Opus Mago from the Kama Sutra.
The one hit left was a news item saying that a prossor at Georgetown University had translated some fragments of the Opus Mago, which the article said was one of the oldest and most obscure works in the black arts. Dr Benjamin Prescott was described as "one of the foremost authorities on the ancient grimoires." Then I read that Prescott had refused to allow his translation to be published. Anywhere. Ever.
Georgetown University, I found out, is a big place – especially if you're trying to find your way around by using their website. I finally learned that Professor Prescott's office was located in the Department of Theosophy, and even persuaded a campus operator to connect me to his direct line.
That's where my luck ran out. I'd been hoping against hope that I'd find Prescott working late in his office, but all I got was an answering machine.
I left a message saying who I was, but not what I wanted. I asked him to call me back the next night, anytime after 9:00. Then I got his email address from the campus directory, and sent him the same message that way.
The professor could read the email at any time – whenever he felt like checking his account. And if he was one of those people who didn't do that regularly, he'd probably get my phone message tomorrow. Assuming he wasn't off on a research trip to Transylvania, or someplace.
The rest of the evening was typical of a night shift for the Supe Squad, if you'd want to call anything we deal with "typical."
A ghost was haunting one of the girls' dorms at Marywood University. Marywood's coed now, but it used to bill itself as the Largest Catholic Women's College in America. Some guys at the U (a Jesuit school that used to be all-male, back in the day) used to say "Mary would if Mary could, but Mary goes to Marywood."
I hear that Marywood girls are a little different, these days.
A haunting isn't necessarily a big deal, but the pesky spirit was hanging around the bathrooms and ogling the young lovelies as they stepped out of the shower. Some of the girls were terrified; others were downright offended, since the ghost liked to make comments about their attributes. Not all of his observations were kindly.
Turned out the spook was the spirit of an old guy who'd been a janitor at the school for years. He'd come back to live out some of his fantasies.
We sent for an exorcist. Several Jesuits at the U are qualified and on call. Father Martino compelled the old guy's ghost to depart the premises, and imposed a geas on him against returning. Before he was expelled, I suggested he start haunting one of the city's strip clubs, where nobody would much care how much skin he looked at. He seemed to think that was an idea with some merit.
Then we got a call that a female vamp was using Influence on some of the customers at Susie B's, our local lesbian bar. A lot of vampires have powers of fascination. That "Look into my eyes" stuff you see on TV is real, although it's exaggerated – like everything else on TV. Despite what you hear, Influence can't take away somebody's free will – but a proficient vamp can weaken it quite a bit. And sometimes, that's all they need.
Karl and I dropped in at the bar and talked to the owner, Barbara Ann, who'd called in the complaint. She wasted no time pointing out the bloodsucker among her clientele. "She's the one at the corner table sitting by herself – but she won't be alone for long," Barbara Ann said.
We went to have a word with the young lady (who was probably neither very young nor much of a lady), ignoring the hostile glances from some of the other customers. Men aren't popular in Susie B's, and cops even less so.
The vamp said her name entsucretia. It might even have been true – she had an old-country Italian look about her: midnight black hair, with eyes to match, pale skin, and red, red lips. Nice tits, too – for a vamp.
I was surprised that she found it necessary to use Influence in order to get laid – here, or anyplace else. Of course, she was probably in the habit of using her beautiful mouth for more than cunnilingus. Most ladies who'll happily spend a few hours trading orgasms with another woman will draw the line when it comes to giving up a few pints of the red stuff.
Karl and I took turns explaining to Lucretia that the law prohibits the use of Influence to secure consent for any kind of transaction, whether sexual, commercial, or vampiric.
"I really don't know what you're talking about, officers," she said, all wide-eyed innocence. "I wouldn't do a thing like that. Now I think you should both leave." Her words seemed to echo inside my head, and Lucretia looked right at me as she said them, those coal black eyes burning into mine irresistibly…
She must have been pretty old. Her Influence was strong. I actually felt my feet begin to move under my chair, before my will reasserted itself and made them stop. If I'd had any doubts that Miss Lucretia been using her power improperly, they'd just been staked, but good.
I smiled at her and shook my head. "Nice try, Vampirella, but no sale."
Our police training includes the use of deep hypnosis to make us pretty much immune to that kind of stuff, and we get boosters twice a year.
Then, mostly to see what would happen, I said, "You know, I don't think Vollman would approve of you taking advantage of people this way. It doesn't exactly reflect well on your kind, does it?"
Her heart-breaker's face grew very still. "You know Mr Vollman?" Lucretia asked, in a tight, quiet voice she hadn't used before.
"Sure," Karl said, with a shrug. He'd picked up on what I was doing. "We do favors for him sometimes – and vice versa."
"You don't want us to ask him for a favor that has your name on it, do you, honey?" I said gently.
Lucretia shook her head stiffly. In a quick rush of words she said, "No, I'm sorry, I won't do it anymore, I have to go now, g'night."
She stood up and quickly walked out of the place, without once glancing back in our direction.
"Guess Vollman wasn't shitting us," Karl said, as he watched the beautiful vamp's departure. Maybe he was checking her ass for clues.
"Nope," I said, and pushed my chair back. "Looks like he really is The Man."
• • • •
I'd been on duty less than half an hour the next night when my desk phone rang.
"Supernatural Crimes. Sergeant Markowski."
"Yes, Sergeant. This is Dr Benjamin Prescott from Georgetown University. I believe you've been trying to get in touch with me."
So the professor wasn't one of those Hey-call-meBen types. Well, he had lots of company.
"Yes, sir, I have. Thanks for getting back to me."
"Quite all right. So, what can I do for the Scranton Police Department? I assume this has something to do with my visit. I hope there isn't a security issue that's arisen."
There was a wheeze in Prescott's voice, as if he suffered from asthma. Maybe he was just a heavy smoker.
"Visit?" I said. "Sorry, I don't get what you mean."
There was a pause, then he said, "I'm speaking at the University of Scranton the day after tomorrow. It's part of the Thomas Aquina lecture series that most of the Jesuit colleges participate in." Another pause. "I gather all this is news to you?"
"Yes, sir, it is. But I'm glad to hear you're going to be in town. It'll be easier than trying to do this over the phone."
"Easier to do what, Sergeant?" He was starting to sound impatient.
"To ask you some questions about the Opus Mago."
The silence that followed had me wondering if we'd lost the connection. Then Prescott said, "Okay, cut the bullshit. Who are you, really?"
"I'm who I said I was, Professor."
"Really? Seems to me that anybody can answer the phone by saying 'Supernatural Crimes.' I bet you've been doing it all day, haven't you, waiting for me to call."
"Professor, I-"
"What are you, a reporter? I don't talk to you people, not about that subject. Why can't you get that through your thick skulls and stop bothering me?"
I sighed, loud enough so that he could hear it on the line. "Professor Prescott, I left my direct number on your answering machine because I figured it would be easier than making you work your way through the system. But, okay, I tell you what: let's hang up, and you get the number for the Scranton Police Department from Directory Assistance, or the city's web page. I could give it to you myself, but you'd probably think it was a trick. So, get the number, call it, then tell the switchboard you want Supernatural Crimes. That'll get you this office, and our P.A.'ll transfer your call to me when you give her my name. Think that'll ease your mind?"
More silence. Finally, Prescott said, "I suppose that won't be necessary. But I hope you understand that I have to be careful about discussing certain aspects of my work."
"I understand completely, sir. The Opus Mago is a pretty scary book, from what I hear. That's why I wanted to talk to you about it."
"I assume your interest isn't… academic?"
"No, it's not. We've had three murders that appear to be tied to the book in some way. And I'm afraid we might be due for more if I don't figure out what's going on."
"On what basis did you conclude that the homicides you refer to have anything to do with… the book we're talking about?"
He doesn't want to say the name out loud. Interesting.
"The first victim had a copy of the Opus Mago in his possession. He was tortured to make him tell where the book was hidden, then killed after he gave it up."
"My God." The wheezing in Prescott's voice was worse now.
"The other two victims are apparently part of some kind of sacrifice connected to a spell from the book," I said. "At least, that's the theory we're working from right now."
"And how on earth did you reach that unlikely conclusion, Sergeant?"
"Each victim had occult symbols carved on their bodies, symbols that aren't part of any recognized system of magic. I've been told that the symbols may have been taken from the Opus Mago."
"Told? By whom?"
"A local guy who's acting as a… consultant on this case. His name's Vollman, Ernst Vollman."
There was no long pause this time. The name was barely out of my mouth before Prescott said, "I'm afraid I can't help you."
"Professor, listen, if there's-"
"I really doubt there's any real assistance I could offer," he said. "I've only translated fragments of the book in question, and I can't see how my very limited knowdge on the subject could be of any use to you. It would just be a waste of your time – and mine."
"Professor Prescott, I-"
"I'm sorry, Sergeant. Goodbye."
A second later, I was listening to a dial tone.
I hung up and said several nasty things about Prescott under my breath. Once that was out of my system, I grabbed my Rolodex and looked up the phone number of a guy I know who's a professor at the U.
If he didn't know the time and place of Prescott's guest lecture, he'd sure as hell know how to find out.
I was hoping to hear from Vollman before my shift was over. Instead, I got a call from Lacey Brennan.
Lacey works the Supe Squad over in Wilkes-Barre, which is twelve miles away and the biggest city in the Wyoming Valley, after us. We've done a little business over the years when a case crossed jurisdictional lines – like the time when a werewolf serial killer was going around tearing up people in both her county and mine.
Lacey's a good cop. A fine-looking woman, too, but I wasn't hot for her or anything.
Besides, she was married.
The first thing I heard when I picked up the phone was, "Hey, Stan, how many vamps does it take to change a light bulb?"
"I'm fine, Lace, thanks for asking," I said. I'm used to her supe jokes by now, although they never seem to get any better. "I don't know, how many?"
"Trick question – they can't do it. Because when it comes to changing light bulbs, vampires suck."
"That one's a hoot, it really is. I'm cracking up, but deep inside, where it doesn't show." If I ever actually laughed at one of her jokes, I think Lacey'd be offended. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked.
"I hear you've got murder vics turning up with weird shit engraved on the bodies."
"Where'd you hear that?" There's no reason to hide stuff like that from Lacey, but in this job caution becomes a habit after a while.
"Ah, you know how the rumor mill is. Cops gossip worse than old ladies at a bake sale."
"Well, you heard right. Two corpses, so far. We're still working on what the symbols mean."
"Anything unusual about the CODs?"
"Cause of death for the first one was a slit throat. The second guy was shot."
"That doesn't exactly sound out of the ordinary, Stan," Lacey said.
"No, but get this: the knife was apparently coated with silver, and the bullet we dug out of the other vic seems to be made of pure charcoal. Oh, and there's one thing I forgot to mention: both victims were vamps."
"Holy fuck," she said softly. I never figured out whether Lacey swears because she wants to be considered one of the boys, or if she's just a natural guttermouth.
"My feelings exactly," I said.
"What about the perp – you got any leads that aren't totally worth shit?"
"Bits and pieces, but nothing solid yet. Why?"
"Because it looks like your perp's broadening his range. I'm pretty sure last night the motherfucker did one over here."
I got authorization from the lieutenant to put in some overtime the next day in the cause of inter-departmental cooperation. The chief always loves to hear about stuff like that. When my shift was over, I headed home to grab a few hours' sleep. After lunch, I'd head down the line to Wilkes-Barre, to see whether Lacey Brennan had turned up the third victim of our serial killer.
My headlights illuminated her for a second as I made the slow turn into the driveway, a young woman with dark hair who looked like early twenties, wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt. As the lights passed over, her eyes reflected back a red glow.
Far as I know, there's only one creature with eyes that show red in response to light. Not cat or deer or raccoon or fox – nothing in the natural world.
Vampire.
But even without the red reflection, I'd have known what she was.
I parked in the right half of the two-car garage. It had come with the house – a big, weathered Cape that had been just about the right size when my family and I had lived there. But I live alone now, and the place has more space than I need. A lot more. I've thought about selling, but I've lived there a long time, and I'm used to the house and its ghosts.
The front porch has three concrete steps leading up to it, and the vampire was sitting on the bottom one. I eased myself down next to her.
We sat there in silence for a while, until she asked, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"I… you know I can't do that."
Her shoulders twitched in what I assumed was a shrug. "Just checking."
We sat there some more, letting the silence grow between us. Then she said, "Damn, I wish I still smoked. It would give me something to do at times like this."
"Guess there's no reason why you
can't take it up again, if you want to."
She made a sound that in a human might have been laughter. "Yeah, lung cancer isn't much of an issue any more, is it?" She shook her head gently. "No, no more tobacco for me. There's only one thing that I crave now."
There was nothing for me to say about that. The quiet settled back down over us, like a shroud. Finally, I said, "So, to what do I owe the-"
"Pleasure? Is that what it is?"
"Sure. You know I'm always glad to see you."
"And yet you won't invite me inside."
I decided to let that go. We'd covered this ground before, and it led exactly nowhere.
After a while, she said, "There's somebody new in town, killing vampires."
I didn't bother to ask how she knew. "Yeah, two so far. That we know of. And maybe one in Wilkes-Barre. I'm checking that out tomorrow – later today, I mean."
Her voice was bitter when she said, "Have you given him a medal yet?"
"I do my fucking job!" I snapped. "I'm a professional. If somebody's committing murders, he's breaking the law. And when I find him, and I will find him, he's going down. Period."
She nodded slowly. In a normal tone she said, "Yeah, that's what I told them."
"Told who?"
"Some people I know. There's been a lot of talk in the local community-"
"You mean the vamp, uh, vampire community."
"That's the only one I hang with, these days. Some of them are saying that you're giving this guy, the killer, a free pass because he's hunting vamps. Your feelings about us aren't exactly a secret."
"Listen, I just told you-"
"I know you did." She placed her hand on my wrist for a moment, and I made myself not pull away. But her touch was cold, so cold. "And I said the same thin, myself."
"Thanks for the endorsement," I said. "And you're telling me about this because…"
"Because some of them are saying they should deal with this themselves. Find the killer themselves. And dispense justice themselves."
"That would be about the worst thing they could do, for a whole bunch of reasons. Vigilante is just another word for murderer, as far as the law's concerned."
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