Limbo's Child

by Jonah Hewitt

  Nephys immediately felt embarrassed. There was only one bed and he hadn’t thought about where Maggie was going to sleep, but before he could say anything she spoke. “Don’t worry about me. There’s a place to lie down in your foyer.” “Foyer – ” he liked the way she had said that word. It felt more important the way she said it. “If I need a pillow I can always inflate the ol’ whoopee cushion here.” And with that she nudged Hiero hard with her foot. Hiero jumped back but said nothing but his usual drone.

  Nephys stood there awkwardly and didn’t know what to do. She moved slightly towards him as if to hug him or something, but he tightened, and she got the message and stepped back.

  “Well goodnight, Nep,” she said simply, arms at her side.

  Nephys nodded and Maggie walked to the atrium.

  “Come on you bile-filled rucksack.” Hiero gave out an angry “pharnt!” but followed by her side like a surly dog. She certainly had a way with Hiero that Nephys had never seen before.

  Nephys lay down on the simple cot. It had been an amazing day. Any one of the strange things that had happened to him would have made it exceptional by itself, but altogether it was overwhelming. He felt genuinely tired and the subtle aftertaste of bitterness; wonderful, awful bitterness, still clung to the back of his tongue. He thought about the stone and all the things Maggie had mentioned: trees and leaves and ponds, frogs and lizards and green apples. What else? Her daughter’s eyes. He thought a lot about those eyes and the stone and thought it strange he wanted to see them both so badly. He drifted off imagining the color, and wasn’t the slightest bit afraid he would lose himself at all. It had been a good day. The first good day in more than a thousand years.

  As he drifted, he thought he heard Maggie speaking to Hiero in the atrium.

  “Something’s up with you, isn’t it, you disgusting excuse for an overstuffed alligator handbag.”

  Hiero just huffed angrily.

  “You know more than you are letting on don’t you? You didn’t just happen upon me or Nep by accident, did you?”

  Hiero was dead silent.

  “All right then,” she continued, “Let’s make a deal. I’ll keep your secrets…and you can keep mine.”

  Hiero hooted sharply once. That usually meant, “yes.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Long Drive

  Tim’s vintage Chevy Impala didn’t have the largest selection of vintage eight-tracks. This was the fifth time this trip that Schuyler and Miles had heard Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” and Schuyler’s patience was wearing thin. When Tim started singing along with the chorus, Schuyler couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Enough!” Schuyler reached up and pushed the eject button on the eight track player. Tim just pushed the cassette back in.

  “I keep telling you…don’t touch my tunes, dude.”

  Schuyler gave Tim a look of death. At any other time, Miles was sure Schuyler would have drained Tim dry for that, just out of spite, but after Hokharty’s wholehearted endorsement of Tim earlier, Schuyler was a bit wary. One just couldn’t take a bite out of the servant of the most powerful vampire in the world without consequences. But Schuyler was reaching his limits.

  “Y’Know, Tim, just because you drive a crap car from the seventies, it doesn’t mean you have to listen to crap music from the seventies, too.”

  Tim couldn’t let that go and he started into another spirited defense of his musical choices. That led to another snide comment by Schuyler and that started a whole new round of arguing, insults and occasional frantic yelling. Each time Schuyler spoke Tim’s name with a special contempt he usually only reserved for people like…well people like Miles. Miles just sat in the back silently and didn’t get involved. It was nice not to be the target of Schuyler’s spite for a change.

  Miles had listened to the two squabble from the back seat the whole way from Rivenden. Miles and Schuyler had spent most of the day inside the manor, anxiously awaiting Hokharty’s return, just as they had been commanded. Graber had spent the time whipping the remaining vampires into shape, mostly by chasing them up and down the manor and throwing them through walls. Schuyler, and even Miles, had fared surprisingly well. It was impressive how much a partially decapitated zombie can sharpen even a vampire’s already sharp reflexes. After a while, Graber left them to their own devices. Where he went or what he was up to no one knew. That was a merciful break, but then the kittens practiced by turning Miles into their personal scratching post. Sky seemed to really enjoy that.

  When Hokharty returned that afternoon after having spent most of the day with Tim running errands doing who-knows-what – Tim looked even more shell-shocked than usual – he had a special task for the three of them: retrieve one thirteen-year-old Lucy Miller, unharmed, and return her to Rivenden ASAP. The only thing that they knew about Lucy Miller was that she was the daughter of the corpse Graber had laid on the lounge in the wrecked ballroom at Rivenden. Hokharty had treated the body with a special deference, so it was obviously important. It turned out that Hokharty did have a master, some important bloke named the “Necromancer,” and that he needed this Lucy Miller at all costs.

  Why Hokharty or Graber couldn’t come, they didn’t say, but they obviously had pressing business elsewhere. Hokharty had made three things perfectly clear before they left however. One, the girl was not to be harmed in any way. Two, she was very powerful, deadly in fact, particularly to vampires. That raised Sky’s eyebrows. Fortunately, she had no idea how powerful she was which was their only advantage. It did complicate things though. She could not be forced or compelled to come, but she had to be persuaded to come of her own free will. Third, and finally, Tim was in charge. The first two conditions didn’t seem to bother Schuyler. He was already working up new monologues and angles on how to trick the young lady into compliance, but they were very troubling to Miles. He couldn’t imagine how they were supposed to manage to persuade someone who had the power to kill vampires to come willingly. It was the third condition however, that was currently chafing Schuyler.

  They had left before sunset to get a head start on the trip to Harrisburg and to make sure that Miles and Schuyler had a full night to work with before dawn. (Even then, Schuyler had insisted on taking time to change clothes. He was now wearing a pair of black jeans, a white silk blazer and a pair of vintage, black-and-white wingtips, but still no shirt.) That meant that Miles and Schuyler had to ride the first hour in the trunk to avoid a deadly sunburn. (Graber had knocked a hole in the outside wall of Rivenden so Tim could back the large 70’s sedan right up to the manor doors. That corpse was like a walking bulldozer.)

  The trunk was at least roomy enough, but after the first half hour, Schuyler became convinced Tim was driving around after dark just to spite them. Tim didn’t pull over and let them out until Schuyler started kicking huge dents into the trunk from the inside. Tim insisted that Schuyler had to pay for that, and Schuyler said he would as soon as he got that hour of his life back.

  That had been the start of the never-ending argument. Since then they had argued about, in this order, the route, the mission, the route again, the music selection, the mission again, the route again for the third time, and now the music selection once more and finally the quality of the various classic rock bands of the seventies. As long as Tim was taking the heat off of Miles, Miles was content to sit in the back and just enjoy the show.

  “Every Boston song is the same dang four chords, that’s all I’m saying!” Schuyler yelled emphatically. Tim fumed, but stewed in silence for a while.

  After a long, tense pause, Tim decided to start picking at the scab again.

  “You kids have no respect for the classics,” Tim mumbled under his breath.

  “Kids?!” Schuyler was indignant, “You do know I’m a vampire, right? After all the events of the past night that fact hasn’t escaped you, has it?! Look, Renfield, I may look seventeen to you, but I’m a heckuvalot older than I look. How old are you, Tim, Twenty-five? Twenty-six?!!


  “Twenty-eight,” Tim said sheepishly.

  “Right. Twenty-eight,” Schuyler spat nastily, “So you weren’t even ALIVE in the 70’s, dude, but I lived through the entire soul-sucking, mind-wasting excuse of a decade, from the avocado corduroy bell-bottoms to the glam rock feather boas. I’ve suffered through hedonistic disco and folk music from hippies whose B.O. could melt your face off, and the last thing I need is for some snot-nosed poser hipster punk to tell me what a golden age it was for music, BECAUSE IT WASN”T!!” On those last words, Schuyler let his full fury and power as a vampire out for just a second. His fangs seemed sharper and longer and his eyes flashed blood red, if only for a moment.

  Vampires normally didn’t look any different than normal humans, perhaps a bit leaner, paler or toothsome, but that was all. Vampires had a certain amount of glamour, a psychic haze that made people pass over the reality of what they were. Instead of seeing dead things, animated corpses…monsters, they saw what they wanted to see. Only once in a rare while did a vampire break the illusion, usually in a fit of rage or anger, and let anyone get a real good look at what they really were. Tim must have caught a glimpse of it however, because this time he didn’t have a ready comeback but just drove on silently.

  A few tense moments later Schuyler blurted out in frustration, “Where are we?!!”

  Tim jumped, but only a little. “Just outside Ephrata.”

  “Where the heck is Ephrata?!” Schuyler shot back.

  “Here.” Tim said sarcastically, regaining some courage.

  Schuyler just shook his head, “Who the heck takes 322 to Harrisburg anyway?!”

  “It’s the most direct route,” Tim began again. Miles smiled a little. This was the fourth time they had hashed over this topic.

  “But why not the turnpike?! For crying out loud, it’s faster.” Schuyler had made this riposte before too.

  “It’s faster, BUT the turnpike costs too much.” This was the same reply Tim had made before, but Schuyler’s redirect was new.

  “You are the Renfield to the most powerful vampire in the world and you are worried about toll roads?!” When Schuyler spoke the words, “The most powerful vampire in the world,” he lowered his voice and said it with an exasperated, overwrought emphasis to express his full frustration with Tim. It was a rhetorical question, uttered more in disbelief to himself than directly at Tim, but Tim answered it anyway.

  “Look, he may be the most powerful vampire in the world,” Tim replied, mocking Schuyler’s melodramatic emphasis, “but he hasn’t exactly got deep pockets, ok?! In fact, this entire adventure (including all of the gas money!), has been fully funded out of the Bank of Tim, and it doesn’t exactly have an endless credit limit!”

  Tim seemed frantic, desperate. Miles was beginning to realize that Tim had been through an awful lot in the last eighteen hours. No sleep, no rest, no food, and that was usually enough to hash a mortal even without the introduction to the customs of the creatures of the night. The stress was really beginning to show. Tim was approaching a breaking point which was almost as scary as seeing a vampire’s true form.

  “Wallach had money, Renfield,” Schuyler muttered contemptuously.

  “Yeah, well Wallach’s dead. Beef jerky!! Ok?! And he didn’t exactly leave a will or even an ATM card!!” And then as an afterthought he added, “And stop calling me RENFIELD!! Geez! What does that even mean, anyway?!”

  Schuyler just shook his head in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” Miles just smiled. This was at least something different to argue about than the route or the music selection.

  “Haven’t you read any books about vampires?” Schuyler said more in disbelief than in anger.

  “Sure, I’ve read tons on vampires, Saberhagen and Hambly, but I don’t recall anything about any Renfields,” Tim offered in all honesty.

  “What about Stoker?” Schuyler asked impatiently.

  “Who?” Tim said earnestly. Even Miles widened his eyes at this. Schuyler turned around and looked at Miles with a confused look of desperation, hopeful for any sympathy. Miles just shrugged at him and tried to suppress a smile. Schuyler turned back to Tim.

  “Stoker?!! BRAM Freaking STOKER?!!” Schuyler said, emphasizing each syllable carefully. “Only the most important vampire author…ever!”

  “Never heard of him,” Tim said flatly.

  “Never heard of. . .” Schuyler was cut off by another one of his silent fits. This usually meant the argument was going to go back to their mission. Right on cue, Schuyler folded his arms across his chest and began muttering in utter resignation.

  “Doomed. I’m doomed. I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere on a mission for the Father of All Vampires with the most ignorant Renfield in the world and the worst vampire in history.”

  “Oy!” Miles piped up. This was the first thing he had said in nearly an hour. He didn’t know why Schuyler had to drag him into this.

  “Oh, so you ARE listening,” Schuyler said sarcastically. Miles was about to jump in to defend his vampire honor when Tim spoke up.

  “Yeah, well…you two don’t know as much as you think you do either.”

  Schuyler and Miles exchanged looks. What was Tim driving at?

  “What are you talking about, Renfield?” Schuyler asked skeptically. Tim just laughed a little, unnerving, crazy laugh. He was becoming a more proper Renfield all the time. Schuyler turned around to look at Miles as if to say, “He’s just pulling our leg.” But Miles wasn’t so sure. Tim was gripping the steering wheel like a man clinging to a lifeline in icy waters. Miles decided to try a different tack.

  “Tim, what do ya know that you aren’t tellin’ us?” Miles’ plaintive question was met with another disconcerting laugh. There was a pause, but then Tim swallowed hard and spoke plainly.

  “Dudes, it’s the end of the world.”

  “Get out of here.” Schuyler was trying to be dismissive, but Miles could tell there was a moment of hesitation to Schuyler’s usual snide reply.

  “No, seriously, it’s the end of the world.”

  “Did Hokharty tell ya that?” Miles asked.

  “No…but it’s obvious isn’t it?”

  “No way,” Schuyler shot out.

  “Seriously,” Tim responded.

  “How do you know that?” Schuyler retorted.

  Tim shook his head a few times, but then began shakily. “He’s…we are gathering an army.”

  “Really?” Miles asked amazed.

  “Really,” Tim said emphatically, “Why do you think he’s sent us to fetch this girl…she’s important, she’s some kind of vampire queen or something. Maybe she’s a…”

  “Not a chance!” Schuyler broke in, “There are no other vampires within miles of Philadelphia. Wallach would have known! He would have killed them or forced them to join Rivenden.”

  “Dude,” Tim began, “Wallach didn’t know the half of what was out there – vampires and other…dead things.”

  “Other dead things?” Schuyler asked, “Like what?!”

  “Like not vampires, I dunno what you call them!!” Tim gestured wildly with one hand in frustration. Then added, “I’m still new at this.”

  “No joke,” Schuyler had resumed his more sarcastic reply.

  “Look, it’s the only thing that makes sense,” Tim continued, “Hokharty is uniting all the dark, or dead, or whatever they are…forces for some final, epic battle or something.”

  “You’re full of it.” Schuyler sounded like he was trying to convince himself, but Miles knew exactly what Schuyler was thinking. The back and forth between Wallach and Hokharty before Hokharty had kicked Wallach’s rear up one side and down the other was hardly the usual vampire banter. Then he destroyed Ulami and Forzgrim – the scariest vampires Miles had ever known – like they were an afterthought and had Graber drag Wallach into the early dawn and turn him into charcoal. Then there was all that talk about how Hokharty was going to restore vampires to their “true purpose.” It wasn’t just high-sounding prose and
boasting like Wallach used to spin. Miles hadn’t known the Father of All Vampires more than a day, but it didn’t seem like Hokharty was given to empty melodrama. Tim was right; something was up.

  “Fine,” Tim said indignantly, “If you don’t want to know, fine, just don’t come whining to me when the whole universe starts falling apart.” At this, Schuyler just gave a dismissive “hmmph” and turned to look out the window, but Miles knew Tim had hit a nerve. After a while Miles leaned forward over the seat and started again.

  “Tim, what exactly were ya and Hokharty doin’ today?”

  “Yes, please regale us, Oh GREAT Renfield.” Schuyler’s back was still turned to them.

  “Look, if you don’t want to hear about it…” Tim began.

  “No, no, no!” Miles prompted, “Go on mate, we want to hear about it. Right, Sky?” Miles raised his eyebrows at Schuyler.

  Schuyler just said, “Whatever,” and turned back towards the window.

  Tim began nervously but eagerly. He obviously wanted to get this out of his system.

  “Ok, guys. So first, after we, me and Hokharty, left Rivenden, we headed up to Fishtown, some Eastern European community, I don’t know which, maybe Ukranian or something. Anyway, we go up to this common row home adjacent to a funeral parlor. At first I thought there was a funeral going on or something because everyone was in black and out front, dozens of ‘em, but no, it turns out they were waiting for us! Like they knew we, well Hokharty at least, was coming.”

  Schuyler and Miles exchanged looks. Tim went on.

  “So they take us upstairs, all these old ladies in black, and they take us to this cramped bedroom. And there lying in this old-fashioned, wrought-iron bed, in an ancient room with peeling, red velvet wallpaper are these two really old, I mean ancient, crones, identical twins they looked like, holding hands the whole time, right there in bed together. Majorly weird. So Hokharty goes right up and bows to them.” From the look on his face, Miles could tell this piece of information really surprised Schuyler.

  Tim didn’t hesitate but went on, “And then they talk in some language I don’t know, Ukrainian maybe, and the crone on the left is finishing the sentences of the one on the right and vice versa, like they had one mind between them, with Hokharty asking questions, kneeling right beside the bed, like they’re his distant, sainted, dying aunts or something. Anywho, after some niceties, Hokharty gets up and says something, I don’t know what, and the room goes dark, it’s day out and the whole room goes dark, like crazy dark, and then these two women start talking in unison, but in this big, gigantic, booming male voice, like a subwoofer from hell. It was crazy. It was shaking the paint off the walls, and all the rest of us too, all crowded in this tiny room. When they stopped speaking, the light came back into the room and they fell down on the bed exhausted and Hokharty got this pleased look on his face.” Miles looked to Schuyler. He had peeled himself away from the window and was trying to hide the fact that he was listening intently.