“We planned on having more time to convince you.”
“We hadn’t counted on one of Bassarab’s hounds showing up so soon,” Garou said.
“Whatever,” I said, waving my hand. I had no intention of being sidetracked now. “Pull over.”
“Lupé and I will decide when and where to stop, Mr. Csejthe.”
“What is the big deal here?” I gestured toward the windshield. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Kansas back roads at three a.m. No traffic. Nothing but cornfields in every direction for miles. Where am I gonna go?” My captors exchanged a look. “Except behind a bush.”
Mooncloud nodded and began slowing the Winnebago.
“Find me a spot with some bushes. I’m modest.”
“I don’t like this,” Garou muttered.
“It will be all right, dear,” her companion said. “I think once we’re done here, Mr. Csejthe will be a little more trusting.”
Garou scowled but nodded. “And, perhaps, a little less testy.”
Gravel crunched as the RV eased over on the road’s shoulder and coasted to a stop. Mooncloud killed the lights. Garou opened the door and swung down. Brandishing the crossbow, she gestured to a clump of bushes straddling a barbed-wire fence. “Two minutes, no more. You run and I’ll shoot. I can put a bolt through your leg at thirty feet.”
I forced a smile as I stepped down, noting that the shrubbery was no more than twenty feet away. The crossbow came up and tracked me all the way across the ditch and over to the fence. “Where are you going?” she demanded as I spread the strands of fence wire.
“Behind the bushes, madam. Or would you prefer an ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ arrangement?”
Garou looked back at Mooncloud who nodded. I eased my body through to the other side of the fence.
I had already decided to make a break for it in spite of the crossbow. The odds had to be better than getting back in the vehicle with two escaped lunatics. Now that I was behind the bushes, on the other side of the fence with a cornfield maybe thirty feet beyond, it almost looked too good to be true.
The real danger would be those first ten yards without cover.
“Hurry up,” Garou called.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I called back, “I need to relax for the plumbing to work, and you’re not helping any. These things take time, so shut up and let me concentrate!” I crouched down, hoping that would end any dialogue for the next couple of minutes.
“Lupé, we might as well give Mr. Csejthe some slack right here,” Mooncloud was saying, “or else how are we going to convince him of the truth?”
A dark shape glided overhead, an owl hooted, and I missed her reply.
“Here, give me the crossbow,” Mooncloud said. “You can climb into the back and change now. It will save us all time.”
I parted the foliage and peeked back at the road, surprised at how well my night vision was operating, especially with so little moonlight escaping the barricade of clouds. Garou scowled but finally acquiesced, handing the medieval weapon to Mooncloud. I didn’t wait to see any more but dropped to my hands and knees and began crawling toward the perimeter of the cornfield.
“Mr. Csejthe,” Mooncloud called, as I left the hiss and crackle of dry grass and began creeping across the quiet dirt, “this is to prove to you two very important points. One: you cannot escape. And two: that we are not mad but know very well of that which we speak.”
That did it. It’s the crazy ones that make just that kind of speech.
I slipped between the cornstalks with nary a rustle and rose halfway to my feet. Rogers & Hammerstein wrote a little ditty in which “the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye” but, by midsummer in Southeast Kansas, it was only as high as a man’s shoulders. I hunched over and made like Victor Hugo’s bellboy of Notre Dame, hoping I was far enough in to prevent any rustling stalks from targeting me.
“Don’t hurt him, Lupé,” Mooncloud called as I moved deeper into the field. Another thirty feet and I dropped to my belly and began crawling at a right angle to the rows, working my way through columns of cornstalks. Suddenly, I stopped crawling and pressed my cheek to the dirt, listening. There was a susurrus of leaves as something else entered the rows of greenery. And the patter of feet.
Two pairs of feet.
Very light, somewhat small feet.
A dog running loose, I thought, following the trail I had made into the heart of the corn. Did these women keep bloodhounds in the back of the camper for such exigencies?
I raised my head and reached out to crawl through the next row.
My hand encountered a shoe.
Empty?
Groping upward, I encountered an ankle, a leg.
Looking up, I saw a giant white spider dropping toward my face: a hand. Cold, implacable fingers closed on my collar and I found myself suddenly ascending, rising into the night sky to hover with my feet off the ground, the tops of the cornstalks now just barely reaching my waist.
“Urk!” I said defiantly, staring back at the red-eyed man who was holding me off the ground with just one arm.
“So,” hissed the holdup artist, “yer da one dat’s put us ta all dis trouble.” Then he smiled.
Imagine Jack Palance.
Doing a Jack Nicholson grin.
Displaying Bela Lugosi’s eyeteeth.
With Arnold Schwarzenegger’s accent it would have been a certified Ex-Lax moment. Somehow the Brooklynese made my assailant sound like Cliff Claven on old Cheers reruns; I might have snickered had I not just entered the second stage of asphyxiation.
The roaring in my ears became a growl and a dark grey shape hurtled across my shrinking field of vision. The next thing I knew I was lying in a tangle of broken cornstalks, gasping for air.
“I command you!” the man shrieked as the silver-and-grey furred beast bore him to the ground. “I command you!” The wolf snarled and redoubled its efforts to tear out the man’s throat. It almost succeeded. Then an ivory fist connected a roundhouse swing and the animal went flying past my shoulder.
“Unnatural bitch!” the man hissed, rising to one knee. “Abomination! I will teach you your place! I will show you who’s master! I will—”
He stopped suddenly, looking down at the wooden shaft that had just planted itself in his chest. Mooncloud stepped through a row of cornstalks, reloading the crossbow with another sharpened dowel. It wasn’t necessary; the man fell backward, pale fingers wriggling about but not quite touching the bolt in his chest. His body writhed, smoked, then crumbled to dust, leaving an empty set of clothes behind.
Porphyria, my ass!
Maybe Spielberg or Lucas could’ve topped it, but it was better than any Hammer flick I’d ever seen and the Brits had set the standard.
“You okay?”
I fumbled for an answer before realizing that Mooncloud had addressed the wolf. It whined a bit, limping over to sniff at the ashy remains of our assailant.
Time to leave: I tried to ease backwards, through an adjacent row of corn, but the crackle of crushed stalks betrayed me: the wolf turned its head, growled, and trotted toward me.
“Lupé. . .” Mooncloud warned.
The wolf placed its paws on my shoulders and stared down at me with green eyes, its breath like a furnace on my face. Then the muzzle changed—withdrawing, absorbing back into the creature’s face. Eyes migrated. Fur retracted. Ears slid downward, revising their shape and configuration. Forget Spielberg and Lucas! Close up this was way beyond any ILM computerized morphing. I was now looking up at the face of Lupé Garou. Looking down at a body that was undeniably human and definitely feminine. Not to mention unclothed.
Oh my.
“We’d better get moving,” Mooncloud said, breaking the spell. “Mr. Csejthe, do you still need a bathroom break?”
Lupé was already up and disappearing in the direction of the road as I looked down again—this time rather ruefully.
“Not anymore.”
I emerged from the RV’s
closet bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. “You didn’t tell me that there were facilities on board.” I clutched at the doorframe as the rear suspension compensated for a pothole. “We could have avoided the whole bush and cornfield routine.”
Mooncloud stood over the propane stove and stirred the contents of a small saucepan. “You needed to make the attempt and we needed to prove to you that escape was not possible. I needed Lupé to retrieve you so that you would believe our credentials.”
Ah.
“That guy—”
“The vampire,” she coached gently.
“The vampire,” I conceded reluctantly. “That was a nice touch. Most convincing. The frosting on the cake, as it were.”
“We didn’t expect him. We should have: Bassarab’s enforcers usually travel in pairs and he wouldn’t have sent just one for an intercept so far from home.”
“Whoa, whoa; you’re losing me here. I’m just getting used to the idea of vampires and werewolves being for real.” I staggered the length of the camper shell and sat on a padded bench beside the fold-down table. “Uh, Ms. Garou is a werewolf . . . right?”
Mooncloud nodded.
“Well, you’ve mentioned this Bassarab guy twice now. Who is he and why does his hired muscle sport fangs? And why are they after me?” I arranged the towel for comfort and modesty as I stretched out my legs. “For that matter, why are you two after me?”
She sighed. “I’m afraid, Mr. Csejthe, the answers to your questions are a bit complicated.”
No shit. I didn’t say that, however; I just looked at her.
“Let’s start with vampires. For the sake of argument, you will admit in the possibility of their existence?”
I nodded. I could do that—admit to their possibility—without buying a membership in the club for myself.
“There is ample reason for your skepticism, Mr. Csejthe. First, most human beings do not have a close encounter with the undead and live to tell about it. Second, the wampyr have a vested interest in keeping their existence a secret.
“While the Children of Bassarab tend to be solitary predators, they have learned that they must cooperate to preserve their anonymity. If any of them threatens the secret of the wampyr, that one is hunted down by agents of its own kind—enforcers—and destroyed lest it betray all others of its bloodline.”
“These enforcers, they were after me.”
Mooncloud nodded, adjusting the heat under the saucepan. “Agents of the New York enclave. Their ruler is supposed to be a direct descendant of the original Bassarab and has taken his name. That is as much as we know. Beyond that it is not hard to guess at basic motivations. Your existence is more than a scientific curiosity, Mr. Csejthe. Your medical documentation is a threat to the unmasking of enclaves everywhere.”
“Enclaves?”
Garou’s voice crackled from the intercom: “Merde! Must you explain everything to this pup? Let the Doman tell him what he will. No more.”
“The Doman?”
Mooncloud sighed. “Lupé, you are only adding to our guest’s curiosity—”
“Guest!”
“—and making my attempts to reassure Mr. Csejthe that much more complicated. You drive and let me worry about the explanations.”
The intercom grunted.
“Or I shall send our guest up to sit in the cab with you and let you answer all his questions.”
Oh, great.
There was a tinny growl from the tiny speaker but no further comments.
“Enclaves, Mr. Csejthe, are population centers where vampires gather and agree to live under a set of laws that insure food and safety for all. The leader of this social underground adjudicates the laws, settles disputes, and looks after his own. He—or she—is known as the Doman for that particular enclave. New York is the largest, but Seattle, where we are taking you, has a fairly strong enclave as well.”
“What if a vampire does not wish to retain membership in an enclave?” A tangy aroma was beginning to fill the air and my stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten for the past two days.
“Most enclaves will permit members to apply to other demesnes. Both groups must agree to the transfer and that can be complicated by issues such as resources, competition, questions of loyalty—”
“I mean, what if a—” I hesitated over the word “—um, vampire—didn’t want to be a member of any enclave?”
“Then he or she would be considered rogue. And nearly every rogue is hunted down and destroyed for the safety of the enclaves.”
Swell: no undead is an island. John Donne would have approved. I tried to concentrate past my growing hunger pangs. “Why is one vampire more likely to expose himself than a whole colony?”
“Think, Mr. Csejthe.” She turned off the burner and moved the saucepan to the sink. “Vampires tend to beget two things: bloodless corpses and other vampires, either of which threatens to take bloodsucking monsters out of the tabloids and put them in Time and Newsweek. The enclaves have developed systems for undead population control, ample but safe food supplies, and the means of disposing of corpses and covering up such faux pas if such should occasionally occur.”
“Sounds like a bloodless society.”
“Mon Dieu!” the intercom squawked. “He thinks he has a sense of humor!”
Mooncloud hit the off button on the intercom. “Would you like something to eat?”
I nodded and watched her ladle the soup into a bowl. “So what’s to become of me? That—um—”
“Vampire.”
“Okay, okay: vampire! Seemed more inclined to take me back dead than alive. Or should I say ‘undead’?”
“I cannot speak for the Doman of New York. I am here at the will of Stefan Pagelovitch.”
“So what does he want?”
Mooncloud put the ladle aside and turned to face me. “I have lived among the wampyr for most of my life and I have devoted years—decades—to their study. I know everything that they know about their existence, their history. More, in fact, than most.” Her eyes narrowed. “But all that I know—all that is known—pales into insignificance beside the questions that remain unanswered to this day. There is still so much that we do not know. For example, why do some victims rest quietly in their graves while others come back as the Children of Bassarab? We know that a two-way exchange of blood between the vampire and victim is significant . . . but not conclusive. You, Mr. Csejthe, may be the missing link in our research.”
She turned and picked up the bowl of soup. “Our Doman has sent for you, Mr. Csejthe, and offers you his protection.” She set it on the table before me. “What we have done this night may set us at war with the New York enclave, with Bassarab, himself.” She handed me a spoon and napkin.
“When Lupé said that you were a dead man, she meant that there was no going back to the life you have known. Whatever has altered your blood and metabolism may eventually lead to your death. Or your undeath. But the process has begun and you have entered a state of Becoming. Bassarab will not permit you to run free. And, frankly, neither can we. We offer you sanctuary. A chance to make a new life that will accommodate the changes you are going through.”
I lifted the first spoonful of soup to my mouth. “And this Bassarab? Just who is this guy?” I swallowed, feeling saliva flood my mouth and throat.
“As I said, we don’t really know for sure.” Mooncloud came and sat down across from me. “The Bassarabs were a great dynasty of the Vlachs, ruling Walachia and fighting off invasions by the Mongols, Turks, and Hungarians back in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Various princes ruled under the names Vlad I through Vlad IV. One of them was so bloody and evil that he was known as Vlad Drakul—which means Vlad the Dragon or Vlad the Devil. His successors, according to legend, were as bad or worse: Vlad Tepes is known to this day as Vlad the Impaler and Vlad Tsepesh was called the Son of the Devil—Drakul, with the diminutive ‘a’ added to the end.”
I looked down at my bowl, which was nearly empt
y. “You’re saying that this Bassarab is Count Dracula?”
She shook her head. “We don’t know anything beyond the fact that he claims to be a Bassarab. News from the East Coast has become unreliable these past several years and all we have to go on is rumor and innuendo. But, as you said, his enforcers did seem more inclined to bring you in dead rather than alive. In fact, I’m sure they had something to do with last night’s murder in that Joplin hospital.”
“Why?”
“I believe Dr. Marsh relayed some of your blood samples through the Missouri labs and the New York team was backtracking your records to find you and destroy all existing evidence. The fact that a hospital employee was killed means that they were either desperate or sloppy. But still very, very deadly. You’re lucky that we found you first.”
I digested these words with the remainder of my soup. “Thank you,” I said finally. “For everything, I guess, if I’m to believe even half of what you’ve told me.” I pushed the bowl across the table. “The soup, too. My appetite hasn’t been too normal, lately. I’d forgotten how good tomato soup could taste.”
“Tomato soup?” Mooncloud smiled.
I frowned. “There was something else in it—kind of tangy, like V-8 juice. Secret herbs and spices?” I asked hopefully.
Her smile grew broader.
I considered the coppery aftertaste in my mouth and suddenly felt my legs go rubbery. “You’re not going to tell me . . . to tell me. . .” Fortunately I was sitting down.
“Some of it was tomato soup, Chris. And, yes, I did add some V-8 juice and a dash of salsa to the mix. But . . .” Her smile grew terribly wide.
I looked down at the remnants of my meal coagulating at the bottom of the bowl.
The worst part was that I had actually enjoyed it.
Chapter Three
Give me monsters. . . .
Crazy-quilt renderings of mismatched flesh with bolted necks stalking through mazed corridors. Demonic beasts of hunched fur and poisoned talons slavering in steaming pits and crawling forth, unhindered by pentagrams and mystic seals. Lunatic shapes that caper and gibber and reach out for you in ways that suggest that there are worse things than death and you can take a long time in getting there. . . .
One Foot in the Grave - The Halflife Trilogy Book I Page 3
