by Declan Finn
Marco cleared his throat. “I sort of made an impression.”
“On Jimmy's face,” Zeng complained.
“Oh, it's not like he had anything going for him anyway. At least his face has character now.”
Zeng smiled at the vampire. “You see what his general attitude is.”
“Yes,” Amanda said, nodding. “History is rife with small groups of professional soldiers outmatching larger groups of superior numbers.”
“Exactly. That's why I spent the next summer training them. I wanted them to at least be able to march in formation.” Marco glanced at the hallway clock. It was two o’clock.
Amanda could almost see him doing the math: “If sundown is five, and Amanda can go out in low light without becoming a crispy critter, we have about two, two and a half hours to kill.” Or something like that.
Amanda leaned over, and asked, softly, “Are you their leader, or are you just for emergencies?”
“I'm legitimate,” he replied. “My father takes care of their wounded, the local cops like him, and I work on that reputation because I've put in more hours here than some med students have in their years of rotation. There's a reason I'm here with you on a Sunday and not at home doing my five pounds of homework.”
“Oh? I thought it was because you are a genius,” she teased.
“PA programs fail out people who Harvard accepted. Smart is one thing, handling pressure is another. I'm good at handling pressure.”
“And everyone else who gets in your way, it seems.”
* * * *
After several hours of Vega and Zeng cautiously telling Amanda about their times with Marco, with occasional commentary, they had to depart. By then, the sun was already sinking behind the horizon.
Marco asked her, “You good to go?”
She glanced outside, then nodded. “Da.”
The two of them spent their time darting from shadow to shadow, putting enough space between them and the hospital. Marco wanted the next part of the conversation to be more private.
Marco stopped at an alley, leaning casually against the wall. His smile was still there, and she was tempted to take it as a cue to relax.
I should know better by now, shouldn't I?
“I assume I should start with what I've already figured out,” he said. “Some of it I knew before I met you, and some of it I've guessed since then.”
“What is that?”
“Vampirism is a virus, transmitted through contact with fluids.” He moved his hands apart in a motion that said obviously. “We know this from all the 'create a vampire by an exchange of blood' deals. Therefore, it generally lives in the bloodstream. Only in the blood is there enough concentration of the virus for it to be transmitted into a new host. But, like any other virus, it comes out in the saliva as well. How much do you know about viruses?”
She shrugged. “I have a medical degree.”
Marco stopped, blinked, and said, “How recent?”
“Twenty years old.”
“Good enough, I suppose. Are you familiar with a minor paper—actually, a dissertation—of Doctor John-Emery Konecsni, out of NYU, in the late sixties?”
She blinked, and thought a moment. He pronounced the name ‘co-ness-knee,’ but it sounded wrong that way. “K-o-n-e-c-s-n-i?”
“That's the one.”
“It is pronounced 'co-nyech-knee,' she told him. “It is Eastern European. I may have heard of it. I audited some of Sidney Hook's classes when he taught there. This Konecsni you mention, he was a student of Aquinas in a class of Secular Humanists, but I simply heard of him, nothing more.”
“Well,” Marco continued, “I read parts of the dissertation. It's quite straightforward. If you follow Aristotle's definition of life, part of the requirements for something to meet the threshold is that reproduction comes from using an organism's own parts. Humans create sperm and egg from their own matter, and the DNA itself is what makes us 'us'. But, since a virus duplicates itself like a Xerox machine copies paper, it does not give of itself, but uses materials from other cells to create duplicates.”
Amanda could see where he was going. “You mean, viruses duplicate like vampires.”
“Exactly. If you want to be rather technical, while a virus comes close to meeting Aristotle's definition of life, it's just on the threshold.”
The vampire laughed aloud. “So, a virus is undead.”
“Exactly. If a physical virus can be undead, then why not a metaphysical one?”
Amanda arched a brow, studying him a moment. She hadn't considered that he would give quite this much thought to it. But then, he over-thought the fictional vampires, why not the real ones? “Interesting way to put it. What makes you so certain, however, it can live in other fluids? Wow, that sounded better in my head.”
Marco waved it away. “I know what you meant. Trust me, the amount of jokes that go around biology classes about fluids aren't fit for polite company.” He stopped a moment, looking over his shoulder down the street.
Amanda followed his gaze. With her enhanced vision, she could see clearly, all the way down the road. Two men with guns were backing out of a liquor store, with a third man in a car outside. It looked like the muggers were carrying bottles in plastic bags—she could make out several as Johnny Walker Blue, easily two-hundred-dollar bottles. Someone was smart enough to access the inventory from the back room.
Marco looked around as he pulled out a glove from his back pocket, slipping it on. “As for why I'm certain the vampire virus can live in fluids other than blood…” He walked into the middle of the street, stopping at a manhole. He reached down with the gloved hand and grabbed the cover.
With one hand, he lifted the hundred-pound manhole cover, took aim at the getaway car, and flung it like a Frisbee.
The cover found its mark, smashing part of the undercarriage of the car on its way to slicing through the rear wheel.
Marco turned back to her and said, “I think I just proved my point. The virus is symbiotic, isn't it? Unlike the parasitic nature of a normal virus, this does everything it can to keep its host alive. Since it comes out in the saliva, the virus also wants to make certain that the food stock doesn't run low. It acts like some viruses that influence the behavior of their hosts. One virus I've heard of can manipulate an ant to seek high altitude, because then, the ant can get eaten by the bird that the virus came from originally.”
Amanda laughed, shaking her head. “Where do you find all of this?”
“I read a lot of medical trivia.”
“That is putting it mildly.”
“Yup.” He moved closer to her, taking her hand in his naked one. “I can feel the pulse in your fingers, and the warmth of your body. You're not a corpse. You don't need to be. Then again, given that you have complete control over your body, you can maintain your heartbeat and breathing for as long as you like. Or shut them down.” He held her hand still, looked deep into her amber eyes, and asked, “So, are you undead because you died, and are animated, or are you only undead because you're somewhere in the middle?”
“I would think that was obvious,” she said, her voice at a whisper. “Comes with the vampire logo.”
“Great. So you're a franchise?”
“After a fashion.”
They stayed that way for a moment, for a reason neither one of them could comprehend. They didn't want to move, and saw no reason to, but equally saw no reason why they should be standing there.
Finally, a reason to move struck them; yelling from down the street, and sirens. Apparently, the cops had arrived. There was a cluster of three gunshot bursts, and a few loud booms.
Marco frowned and looked over his shoulder. The cops had brought out a shotgun, and the idiot muggers were apparently still interested in getting away.
“Morons.”
The two of them both went to their right, picking a rock off of the sidewalk. They turned as one, arms cocked, rocks ready to throw. As one, they hurled the stones.
Marco's landed in the right shoulder of his shooter, and Amanda's blow landed in the right side of hers. Both of them crumpled.
Amanda looked to Marco. “I think it is time for us to go.”
“Couldn't agree with you more.”
* * * *
Five minutes later, they were two miles away, with Marco slowing down to catch his breath. He bent over, hands on his knees, and coughed. “Well, that was fun. Sorry, I'm a little slow.”
Amanda smiled, patting him on the back. “Don't apologize. You're still alive. You can burn through additional strength my bite gives you. So, do not rely on it, okay?”
“Gotcha.” He glanced at the date on his watch. “Listen, can you eat? Real food, I mean?”
She nodded. “I can. As noted, I keep my body functions going—breath and heart and other things I do not strictly need. Eating keeps my body generating some of its own blood. Why?”
Marco glanced up from the pavement, trying to catch her eye. “It's going to be Christmas in a few weeks. You object to hanging out with the family?”
The vampire was silent a moment. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had invited her to Christmas dinner…or anywhere, for that matter. “Why?”
“Well, there are more suicides during the holidays than there are at any other point in the year. I naturally assume that, after the first three dozen Christmases alone, it becomes tempting to walk out into the early morning sunlight and get a tan.”
Amanda smiled at him. He was tired, and not even trying to put up a false front. There was no ulterior motive in him.
“Besides,” he said, “we're the only friends we have.”
Chapter Seven: Vampire Christmas
December 24th
Amanda Colt knocked on the door to the Brooklyn brownstone. Marco opened the door. He had been standing there every time he had a spare moment. He thought ahead, but he didn't think far enough ahead to realize that she would probably have figured out that he was waiting for her to knock.
Marco gave a slight bow to go with his smile. “Welcome. Come on in, dinner should be soon…ish.”
She nodded slightly, looking over his simple outfit: green pants, red polo shirt. “You look very Christmas-y.”
“Sort of the idea.” He stepped to the side of the door so she could come in. Closing the door behind her, he allowed himself to be hugged.
Amanda held onto him as he returned the hug. They both relaxed a little, enjoying each other's warmth. She could hear the blood in his veins and smell him plainly; a clean smell of thoroughly washed skin, but nothing chemical or artificial. Did he do that to make certain not to offend?
They disengaged at the same time, each forcing themselves to be relaxed and comfortable. Marco did it so well. Amanda couldn't pick up on what he felt, and she could read most kinesthetic signs and indications from human beings easily.
Marco led Amanda into the apartment. To the left was the sitting room, the next room over was the living room, then the dining room. The living room was wide and laid out for comfort, with a decorated Christmas tree in the corner. It was a nice, neat home, with comfortable furnishings. There was no art on the walls, except for a few family photographs. This was not an overly sentimental household. More like Nero Wolfe's brownstone.
She took a deep breath, and then paused. She could smell stuffed mushrooms, shrimp, and enough types of seafood for a small Italian army…or a Sunday dinner. But she couldn't smell anyone else in the house.
“Am I early?” she asked, looking around, in case her nose deceived her.
Marco shook his head. “Not particularly. The family is out working. They'll be here in another thirty minutes or so. Thankfully, most of the food is prepared far enough in advance that they can let me near appliances.”
“Is that generally a problem?”
“You've seen me in action. Think of MacGyver. In a kitchen. With a gas oven.” He was about to say something more, then stopped and shook his head. “Long story, never mind. Would you like a beer? Some vodka? Something else?”
“Beer would be fine.”
“Guinness okay?”
“Da. Just nothing German. I have not enjoyed that since Dresden.”
“Guinness. Gotcha.” He came back quickly, bottle in hand. “With or without a glass?”
“Bottle is good. Less temptation to use fangs.”
“Ah, understood.”
Marco handed her a bottle, then sat down on the couch, across from Amanda in the armchair. “So, I've been thinking.”
“Yes?” Amanda asked. That phrase had all sorts of possibilities. Was he thinking of opening up to her? Was he thinking of amending the “let's be friends” agreement? What could he be thinking?
“What happens at the far end of the spectrum?
Amanda started. Of all the possibilities running through her head, this wasn't what she expected. “Oh? I am sorry, what?”
“We never exactly went into end results in regards to vampires? What happens when a vampire hits sainthood?” He took a sip of Guinness. “Or just plain good and damned?”
She was not expecting this sort of conversation at Christmas. “Why do you ask?”
* * * *
Marco leaned forward on the couch and gathered his thoughts, putting as much brainpower as he could to avoid thinking about Amanda. Despite all of his excellent control, strict discipline, and thorough knowledge of what she was and what she could do, he was still a teenage male left alone in the same house, and the same room, with a woman as beautiful as Amanda. He could still smell her perfume: a light, vanilla base, and he even caught the slight chemical odor of unscented shampoo.
Thinking about vampires and philosophy would be far safer for him than anything else. “What you have seems to be a system that operates somewhere along the way of Aristotle's four kinds of people. Those people who knew the good, wanted the good, and did good were virtuous—in Vampire terms, let's say sainthood. Those who know the good, wanted the good, but fell short were continent—which would be most vampires, who are like most people. They don't get the negative religious side effects, but they aren't perfect.”
Marco took another pull at the bottle. He knew he was rambling, and sounded pedantic. He only had the option of going into a rational, long-winded conversation he could focus on, or risk letting his heartbeat and respiration go up, and he didn't want Amanda to ask why his body was acting funny. “I assume that most of the vampires who are effected by crosses and such are incontinent: they know the good, but want and do the bad. The last one is vicious—they know, want, and do only the bad. I'll call them demonic. Which begs the question: what happens when you become the perfect evil? Or simply perfect?”
“Oh, we do not know if they have ever happened. Those stories that have mentioned them are mostly rumors.” She laughed. “I like to think that the saintly ones have been taken up into Heaven, and that the ones from Hell are dragged there and allowed to take over. Vampires are, in some ways, like high school girls,” she said, making it sound like gyrls with a rolled R. “They gossip without stop.”
“Remind me to never become a vampire then.” He smiled, awkwardly, this time, watching her lips. They avoided being Angelina Jolie full, and settled for not being anemic. And pink. No lipstick, just naturally pink.
Why am I staring at her lips?
He was about to say something else when the front door opened. “I'm here,” Doctor Catalano said loudly from the hallway. “You can disengage lip-lock.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “Excuse him, he thinks he's funny.” He leaned backwards so he could see into the hallway. “I thought you'd be a little later.”
The doctor nodded, stopping long enough to throw one of the locks closed. “So did I. My patient decided to die on me instead of letting me continue with his major, lifesaving surgery.” He slipped off his coat and folded it in front of him, stopping a moment. “I hate to say this, Marco, but one of your friends died.”
“I'm sorry, um, who?”
&n
bsp; Robert Catalano stepped into the living room, and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “One of the lizard people was murdered.”
Amanda looked to Marco. “I assume he means one of the Dragon street gang.”
“I still object to the label,” the senior Catalano muttered, undoing his tie, and undid the top button. “Especially when they bust some heads, then break out the zip-ties the local cops give them, and call 911. Their idea of a gang war is to see who can turn over more criminals to the cops.” He growled. “A real street gang isn't something to aspire to.”
“Anyway,” Marco said, interrupting his father's rant, “who died?”
Robert frowned, and whipped off the tie. “A fellow named Nissin?”
Marco let out a sigh of relief. “Oh. Red. I thought it was someone important. Nissin was kicked out of the Dragons a year ago, easily. Brutal, thuggish little creep. If he got torn apart, we're all a little better this Christmas season.”
Doctor Robert Catalano rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, you should keep me apprised of these things. I wouldn't have wasted my time trying to save his sorry ass on Christmas Eve.”
Amanda smiled. “I see where you get it from.”
Father and son looked to her. “Get what?” they asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Never mind. So, why is he called Red?”
Marco chuckled. “Nissin is a type of fish. In fact, it's Japanese for a herring.”
Amanda looked at him a moment, then decided to ignore the joke. She turned to Robert Catalano. “So, Doctor, what is up?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“A murder is considered ordinary?”
“They aren't. Well, they weren't ordinary, not until a month or two ago. They seem fairly common now, which makes me wonder what's going on. However, I don't take too much notice. We haven't gotten much in the way of attention from the police, and we haven't had that many people brought into the hospital, all told—”
The knock on the door stopped him mid-sentence. “Rob,” came a deep, masculine voice, “it's Don.”
Marco rose from the couch, strode past his father, and opened the door.
