I’ll take monsters any day. Or night.
Because monsters can be run from. Or fought.
But how do you escape when that monstrous, stalking doom is part and parcel of your own anatomy? When it pursues you through the looping corridors of veins and arteries, and nests in the four bedroom chambers of your own heart?
For months my dreams had been scored to background threnodies and funereal winds moaning like a macabre Greek chorus. In time the wailing had changed and I recognized the voices as they took on new tonal qualities.
The sound of my own blood.
Singing.
A vast, choral paean of the Dies Irae reverberating through my body: Day of Wrath. . .
There had been no solace in waking up. In time I had discovered the nightmare requiem was but a reflection of my waking reality: shadows were gliding through my bloodstream like sharks turned loose to hunt in a watery theme park. . . .
But now I awoke feeling somewhat rested for the first time in months. Lying in the dark confines of the makeshift bed, I listened to the drone of tires on pavement and then reached out to feel the wooden walls that enclosed me like a coffin. Surprisingly, the panic signs of claustrophobia were absent and I felt rested—a sensation that had eluded me for the better part of a year, now. The sun, I could tell through some arcane faculty, had set nearly an hour before.
There was a knock on the wooden barrier to my side.
“Yes?”
The ceiling lifted up, swung away on side hinges like a casket lid. Dr. Mooncloud reached down, offering her hand. “We’re almost there.”
She helped me climb out of the rectangular storage space that had been adapted for my sleeping facilities, then closed the cushioned lid that converted the area back into a padded bench seat. The storage area had served as sleeping space for a dozen such recovery missions, she had explained just before sunrise.
“Hungry?” she asked now.
I groaned.
“Admit it, now. You are feeling much better since we introduced hemoglobin into your diet.”
I had no ready-made answer to that.
“Well, you’re still in transition so we’re not exactly sure of your needs and tolerances. If you had completed the transformation, you could go for days—weeks even—between feedings. As it is, we’ll have to trust you to be honest about your hunger pangs.”
“Please—you make me sound like a—a—” I fumbled to fit a word to the feeling.
“Predator?”
“Specimen. It’s all been animal blood, so far. Hasn’t it?”
She nodded. “And diluted.”
“Just don’t switch me over to—to—”
“The human stuff?” The thought seemed to horrify her. “Certainly not before I get you into the lab!”
So much for the subtler nuances of the Hippocratic oath.
The Winnebago coasted to a standstill, backed up and came to a dead stop.
“We’re here,” Garou’s voice crackled from the intercom.
It looked like a castle.
Especially if you’d never seen a real one.
The building across the street looked more like a scaled down fairytale palace that had been airlifted out of Disneyworld and dropped into the far end of Seattle’s business district. The crenelated walls rose two stories above street level with twin gate house towers. A recessed keeplike structure rose another two and four stories, respectively. There was even a water-filled moat between the sidewalk and the castle proper, overshot by a wooden drawbridge that looked fully capable of supporting a Sherman tank. The word “Fantasies” in blue neon calligraphy was hung above the portcullis in the main archway and strobed off and on like a torpid firefly.
Additional contrast to the weathered stone was provided by expensive, late-model automobiles that lined the street and studded the parking lot like colorful gems.
“Parts of it are real,” Mooncloud remarked as she took my arm and started for the crosswalk at the corner. “A good portion of the stonework was recovered from an ancient ruin and shipped over from the old country, stone by stone, and reassembled here.”
I smirked. “The old country?”
“Of course, some adjustments were made in reconstruction,” Garou said, hanging back to activate the vehicle alarm system. The RV chirped and she hurried to catch up. “Front door or back?” The light changed and we started across the street.
My attention was momentarily caught by a flash of white: a face at the rear window of what looked like, by God, an authentic black and white 1931 Duesenberg parked halfway down the block.
“Back,” Mooncloud decided. “Not that it makes any real difference, I suppose.”
We were halfway through the crosswalk when another car came out of nowhere, bearing down on us at better than sixty miles an hour. There was just enough time for us to dodge left, see the headlights track our escape route, change direction, see the car adjust to follow, and then I found myself being flung across the road with inhuman strength. A red GTO careened past, narrowly missing Mooncloud and myself. Garou was not so fortunate, having lost her advantage in throwing me out of harm’s way: the grille caught her with a dull, smacking sound.
Once again time seemed to slow perceptibly and I stared in horror as she tumbled across the hood like a broken rag doll, striking the windshield and rebounding in a starburst of shattered glass. Her body was tossed off to the side where a parked car broke her fall back onto the street.
I stumbled to my feet, barely aware of the strips of abraded skin that flapped from my tattered hands, elbows, and knees. There was no pain, yet; just a disturbing sense of disorientation—that time was out of sync. And a feeling of rage that flashed white hot as I saw her bloodied corpse crumpled between a green Lotus and a grey Mercedes-Benz.
Mooncloud wobbled to her knees, looking slow and stunned. I turned and saw the GTO brake, performing a skidding turn in balletic slo-mo. It was coming about, the driver preparing to make another pass.
Hazed by fury, I ran toward it, sprinting across the asphalt like a noseguard locked in on the opposition quarterback. An old joke flitted through the back of my mind—something about dogs chasing cars and what would they do if they ever caught one? I shook my head, hands balling into fists.
The muscle car was fully turned now and beginning to accelerate, but it still seemed to be jerking through successive frames of sluggish film. It must have been a trick of perspective for I seemed to be moving twice as fast as the automobile. In ten subjective seconds we would meet.
And then what?
In my fury I had insane visions of plowing through the car’s front end like it was so much breakaway cardboard or vaulting the hood to smash feet-first through the windshield like in an old Chuck Norris movie. . . .
The headlights were just a few feet away when sanity finally prevailed. There was more than enough time to pirouette and sidestep, the fender caressing my pants leg as the car motored past—plenty of time remaining to reach through the driver’s side window. I tore the lap belt and shoulder harness apart like crepe paper and yanked the driver out through the open window.
The car continued to meander down the street as I spun the man around to face me. He reached for something—a weapon, most likely. Time was still dragging so there was plenty of time to intercept his wrist. But I didn’t do that. I gave in to the rage, instead. I slammed my fist into his face, distantly surprised at how easily bone and cartilage gave way before my knuckles. The man went limp in my grasp, blood literally bursting from ears, eyes, mouth, and the cratered remains of a nose.
Now the car snapped into high speed, veering off to the right and smashing into a Coupe de Ville parked near the corner of the intersection. The madness was fading and I tossed the driver’s corpse aside without even looking at his face. There was no point, anyway: not even his own mother could recognize him now.
“Taj?” I called, like a man waking from an uncertain sleep.
“Over here.” She was kneeling bes
ide Garou’s body. “Come help me.”
I walked over in a daze, the adrenaline rush suddenly gone. I knelt beside her, feeling all dead inside, again. Was this part of the transformation? I wondered. This past year I had felt my emotions flicker and die, one by one, until anger, alone, remained. It was the one true passion that I still recognized; everything else seemed like so much window dressing.
Mooncloud had turned the body over onto its back. Garou’s face was bloody, her eyes disturbingly open and staring. Gently, I reached down and drew her eyelids closed with my fingertips.
“Get your grimy fingers out of my eyes!” Garou snarled. I fell over backwards and landed on my rear. Undignified maybe, but I had some consolation in the fact that my jeans were still dry.
“She’s alive,” Mooncloud explained gently.
Duh.
“As if it’s not enough to get both legs broken along with crushed ribs and multiple skull fractures,” Garou’s “corpse” groused, “I have to suffer the indignity of this cub trying to poke my eyes out like some kind of Three Stooges routine.” She turned her head and spat out a mouthful of blood. “Where’s the perp?”
I was trying to get my legs back under me. “I guess I killed him.”
“Great!” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
“It would have been better if we could have interrogated him.” Mooncloud looked around. “We need to get her inside.”
I was dubious. “Should we move her? Internal injuries—”
Garou clutched my arm in a weak grip, her own arm sagging at a funny angle. “I’m a lycanthrope, you idiot. I’m already starting to regenerate.” She coughed, a wet ragged sound. “But I’ll be more comfortable inside, in bed, and off the street.”
“Plus we’ll need to make a few alterations in the evidence of tonight’s events before the authorities arrive.” Mooncloud turned to a child who had just appeared from behind the Mercedes. “Mordecai, the driver is over there.” She pointed at the crumpled body back down the street. “You know what to do.”
As Mordecai passed by I saw that my first impression was wrong: this was no child but an old dwarf dressed in livery and a fool’s cap. The little man placed a couple of stubby fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill and complicated whistle as he hurried toward the corpse.
I gathered Lupé Garou into my arms as if she were some oversized rag doll. As I stood, I saw the cover of a manhole rise from the street and several more diminutive figures emerge. I turned to Mooncloud. “What—?”
“Knockers,” she answered curtly. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah. . . .” Garou’s voice was weak and I had to bow my head to listen. “The mines below the sewers are full of ‘em. The Doman almost named the place after ‘em. Can you imagine?” Her smile was cut short by another cough and Mooncloud’s announcement that we were going in the front door. I nearly dropped her as her body squirmed, shifting in my arms, reassigning mass and shape and flowing into the form of a great, bloodied wolf. Now her clothing hung loosely from her lupine form and Mooncloud quickly pulled it off, stuffing the tattered material in her purse.
“Come on, don’t dawdle!” She tugged at my elbow as the great wooden doors, strapped and bound with iron bands and large oval rings, began to swing open. “Make way!” she yelled, pushing through the gathering crowd. “Had a little accident out here! Coming through. Some guy just hit a dog and lost control of his car!”
“My Caddy!” a new voice shrilled. As the man pushed past, I looked back and saw that the body of the driver was already back behind the wheel of the GTO. There was no sign of the knockers and Mordecai was standing on the sidewalk, looking like nothing more than a curious spectator. Mooncloud was moving deeper into the castle’s interior and I had to hurry to keep up.
The entry hall split three ways, opening up into a dark, cavernous room between two outer passages. As we passed the inner portal and started down the left corridor I glanced in at what might have once served as a king’s great hall. The darkness was studded with pinpoints of candlelight denoting constellations of tables. At the center of the great room was a nucleus of light, revealing a stage bordered by a vast, circular bar. I caught a glimpse of the dancers on the stage and suddenly understood Garou’s sardonic comment regarding the knockers. Then I was past the portal, trying to keep up with Mooncloud as she continued down the outer hallway.
Antique elevator doors opened at the end of the corridor. Inside the filigreed iron cage was a tiny apparition perched atop a high stool. The man couldn’t have topped three feet if standing erect and looked even smaller folded in on himself as he sat. His red hair, beard, hat, and spats formed a Christmasy contrast to his green frock coat and breeches. Tiny dark glasses bridged his face, delicately spanned between oversized ears and nose. He cocked his head as they stepped aboard and sniffed delicately. “Fräulein Mooncloud?”
“Yes, Hinzelmann. We need to go down straightaway.”
He pulled a lever that closed the doors, then pulled another and the cage started a smooth descent. “It is Fräulein Garou, is it not?” he asked, continuing to stare straight ahead. “Is she hurt badly?” Genuine concern leaked through the formality.
“Not so badly that I won’t be taking the stairs in a couple of days,” the wolf growled. I nearly dropped her, again.
“Hinzelmann, this is Mr. Csejthe.”
The little man nodded gravely without turning. “Herr Csejthe, guten Tag.”
“Mr. Hinzelmann, sehr angenehm,” I managed.
“Ach, it is nice to meet a young person with manners these days. Csejthe . . .” he ruminated, “. . . from Hungary?”
I shook my head. “Frontenac.”
“Frontenac?”
“Kansas,” I elaborated. “Just next to Pittsburg, no ‘H’.”
“Pittsburgh-no-’H’?”
“Pittsburg, Kansas—with no ‘H’ on the end of Pittsburg. It’s right next door to Frontenac.” He looked blank so I added, “It’s where I’m from.”
“Ah!” A light dawned in his eyes. “Ich bitte um Entschuldigung—I mean originally.”
“Oh. Originally, Kansas City. Missouri not Kansas.”
The light dimmed, nearly going out and the little man grunted as the elevator came to a stop. “But your family—of the Nadasays, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Mooncloud agreed as the doors opened. “There is much that Mr. Csejthe doesn’t know, yet—particularly about himself.”
“Another knocker?” I inquired as the doors closed behind us and we continued down a corridor hollowed out of solid stone.
“A hütchen.”
“A what?”
“A German home sprite.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Mr. Csejthe?”
“More like sixteen bars with coda.” The rattle of small-wheeled casters drew my attention up the corridor. A young woman dressed in a samite gown was pushing a gurney toward us. A textbook Nordic beauty, she had pale blue eyes and wore her white-blond hair piled in coils upon her head. “Human?”
Mooncloud shook her head.
I sighed. “Of course not.”
“Weisse Frauen.”
“Weisse or weise?”
“One of the White Ladies,” said the wolf.
“Hush,” Mooncloud scolded. “No unnecessary talk or movement till you’re more regenerated.” She turned to me as the gurney arrived. “ ’White’ or ‘wise’ serve equally when dealing with the Fainen women. Where did you learn German?”
“My great grandfather. I picked up a smattering when I was a toddler.”
“You seem to have kept up.”
“I live in what used to be called the ‘Little Balkans’ area of Kansas.” I shrugged. “Or did live, anyway. . . .”
“They called down and warned us,” the pale woman said as I gently laid Garou’s lupine form on the gurney. “Surgery is prepared and ready.”
“Thank you, Magda.” Mooncloud took my arm. “Take her on down. Tell Dr
. Burton that I’ll be along in a moment.” She led me off down a side corridor. “I’ve got to go tend to Lupé, but we must get you settled, first.” We came to a cross corridor and she called out: “Ah, Basa-Andrée!”
There is no excellent beauty, Francis Bacon wrote, that hath not some strangeness in the proportion. Perhaps, but I’d warrant that Frank never imagined strangeness in every proportion. It was shuffling toward us now in the form of an old and very ugly crone.
“How is the little one?” it—she—rasped in an ancient, rusting voice.
“I think she’ll be fine eventually, but I must tend her for now. Basa,” she pulled me forward, “this is Christopher Csejthe. He’s the one we were sent to recruit.”
Basa-Andrée clasped gnarled, lumpy hands together. “Ah! Welcome, honored guest! Please allow me to show you to your quarters.” She looked me up and down. “I will draw you a hot bath and see that you are provided with fresh clothing.” To Mooncloud: “Leave him to me, dearie. You just run along and I’ll see that he’s ready for his audience with the Doman.”
Mooncloud smiled gratefully. “Go along, Chris; I’ll be by to check on you later. You’re in good hands, now: Basa-Andrée is one of the chamberlains.”
I leaned over and whispered, “She’s not human either, is she?”
She shook her head. “Aguane.”
“Of course. Don’t know why I didn’t see that immediately.”
The old woman cackled as Mooncloud took her leave. “Come with me, dearie. Stefan has decreed that you are to be shown every courtesy.” She cackled again as she started off down the corridor. The grasp of her hand was like weathered iron and I tottered behind her, trying to keep up.
My quarters turned out to be a six-room suite that rivaled any hotel I’d ever visited save for the fact that there were no windows and the walls were dressed stone. The aguane showed me through the various rooms, explaining that the kitchenette would be stocked as soon as my dietary needs were understood and as for the closets. . .
Less than two minutes after we had entered the suite, two brownies and a leprechaun (or so Basa-Andrée identified them) had bustled through the door. The tour was sidetracked as they subjected me to a thorough series of measurements and detailed questions pertaining to fashion preferences, fabrics, and which side I “dressed” on. One of the brownies even held up a color chart and pronounced me a “dramatic winter.” Then they were bustling back out the door and apologizing that it would be close to an hour before they could return with a complete wardrobe.
One Foot in the Grave - The Halflife Trilogy Book I Page 4
