One Foot in the Grave - The Halflife Trilogy Book I

by Wm. Mark Simmons

  “Now,” the old crone cackled, “how about a nice, relaxing, hot bath?”

  The bathroom was spacious, with a great sunken tub that could comfortably accommodate three with room to spare. As the steaming water neared the top, recessed jets turned on, swirling my bath into a bubbling jacuzzi.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of laying out a variety of toiletries and shaving implements,” the old chamberlain said, turning the taps to the off position. “If you have any grooming needs, just utilize the house phone to make your needs known.”

  “Great.” I squinted at the reflective panels of glass. “How about a special mirror that will enable a semi-vampire to shave himself?”

  She grinned, displaying teeth that looked like a two-hundred year-old picket fence. “I think we can come up with something that will satisfy. . . .”

  I lay back with my eyes closed, letting the heat from the water sink into my cool flesh. It was the first time that I could remember feeling warm in days. Relaxation gave way to sleep and I had a most curious dream.

  In this dream I was still lying back in the tub, my arms and legs drifting in the bubbling swirls of heated water. A woman’s head poked above the water’s frothy surface. “So what would you prefer?” she asked, her green hair swirling about with the currents. “A trim, a full shave, or a compromise where you keep the mustache?”

  “Full shave,” I murmured, bemused by the turn this dream was taking.

  She rose up halfway out of the water to reach for the shaving implements that had been laid out on the side of the tub. Now there was no question that I was dreaming: not only was this green-tressed woman both bare and beautiful, but her lower body seemed to be occupying the same space as my own. Had she been real, I would have felt her weight upon me, legs straddling my sides. Instead, she seemed to have no substance below the waterline: her waist seemed solid enough, but the pale flesh below her navel seemed to bleach toward transparency, her hips disappearing and reappearing in the roiling froth of the water.

  An interesting effect, I thought. Almost as interesting as the effect of her bending over me. . . .

  And then I was distracted by the sensation of cool lather against my hot, sweaty face, surprisingly solid fingers smoothing it down my cheeks, beneath my chin, across my jaw and throat.

  The shave was pleasant.

  The “aftershave” even more so.

  I awoke to the fact that the waterjets had been shut off. I opened my eyes with the memory of the watery barber fresh in my mind. Instead, I was treated to the sight of rheumy, yellow eyes that bulged from an ancient, leathery face: the aguane.

  I repressed an impolite scream.

  “The Doman sends for ye, lad,” she cackled. “I would’na keep himself waiting any longer than necessary.” She handed me a large towel and turned to go. At the doorway she paused. “Nice shave.” Her mouth stretched into a gap-toothed grin and she disappeared around the corner.

  I put a hand to my face: it was true, I was now clean-shaven.

  And the closets were now full of clothing, shoes and boots arranged in two military lines across their floor areas.

  I dressed in a daze, scarcely aware of my surroundings as I examined the pink patches of new skin on my elbows, hands, and knees. Gone were the oozing wounds from my ungraceful slide on the asphalt from just an hour before.

  Gone was the life I had known just four days before.

  Less than a week ago I had figured on a short future with long medical bills. Now? Well, dead was dead, but undead? At the very least there did seem to be some physical advantages.

  There was a knock at the door as I finished tying my shoes. It was Dr. Mooncloud, who had managed a change of clothes and some fresh makeup.

  “How’s Lupé?” I asked.

  “Fine. She’ll be up and around in no time.” She offered her arm. “Shall we go? The Doman is having us for dinner.”

  “An interesting choice of words,” I observed as we exited my new quarters.

  “Until the Doman makes any decisions concerning your fate,” she answered, “the ambiguity is apropos. Don’t embarrass me tonight.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m just dying to make a good impression.”

  Chapter Four

  The Doman was not what I expected.

  First of all, he wasn’t old. Or at least he didn’t look old: late twenties to early thirties, to all appearances. Instead of black and swept back from the requisite widow’s peak, his hair was brown and wavy and parted on the left. His eyes were grey-blue with flecks of brown—chameleon eyes, but open and friendly at this particular moment. The nose was not the thin blade of flesh I had imagined in a vampire leader: it was long but rounded, rather, with a slightly predatory bent that reminded more of an owl than a hawk. Beneath it, he wore a neatly trimmed mustache—nothing heavy, sinister, or possessing handholds for twirling.

  Taken separately, none of his features seemed to suggest inhuman qualities and their sum did nothing to suggest a vampire warlord.

  No tuxedo or evening wear here, either: he wore a pair of black slacks and a silk shirt of shimmering purple. The Doman stood just over six feet and had a slender physique that seemed more sinuous than powerful. Stefan Pagelovitch was not a fearsome sight, at all. He seemed pleasant and rather young for such implied responsibility. I tried to imagine him wearing a cape. Failed.

  Then we shook hands and I felt the subtle power that radiated from the man as the chilled flesh of fingers and palm enveloped my own.

  “Welcome, Mr. Csejthe, and enter. You are my honored guest.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pagel—”

  “Please: Stefan.” The cold grip of the Doman’s hand drew me into the room. “It will be so much better if we put aside such formalities. May I call you Christopher?”

  I allowed myself to be led toward the table. The room was dark, its only illumination coming from a pair of flickering candelabras on the dining table and the mixture of city lights and moonglow that trickled in from the open terrace on the far wall.

  As we were seated, I noticed that there were others in the room, as well. Across the table sat a hirsute, barrel-chested man. He was seated next to a blond woman whose flesh revealed by her décolletage was so pale as to seem an additional source of illumination in the pervading gloom. Both studied me intently as Dr. Mooncloud sat to my right and the Doman took his place at the end of the table, to my left. At the other end of the table sat a man and a woman of incomparable beauty. Dark, lean, with black, curly hair and a clean aquiline profile, he looked like the cover model for countless romance novels. His companion had red hair, blue eyes, and a face so flawless that it—well—defied comparison to anything else. Both embodied the kind of physical perfection that evoked neither lust nor jealousy, so far removed was it from competition or attainment.

  Introductions commenced.

  The perfect pair were Damien and Deirdre—no last names were offered.

  The round, fuzzy guy turned out to be Lupé’s brother, Luis. “Can’t stay long,” he growled, nodding curtly. “I must look in on my sister, again.”

  The white-on-white blonde in the black dress was introduced as Elizabeth Bachman, “ . . . better known to countless viewers as Lilith, TV’s late-night scream queen and horror movie hostess,” Pagelovitch explained. “Elizabeth has been a Saturday night staple here in Seattle for the past ten years, but just last year several of the major markets have picked her up in syndication. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

  I smiled a cordial smile and shook my head. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “I look somewhat different on television and in all of my public appearances,” Bachman said. “I wear a long, black wig and lots of eye makeup.” Her voice matched the black velvet of her dress—low, throaty—sounding of whiskey and cigarettes and ten thousand barstools.

  “Ah,” I said, “sort of a cross between Morticia Addams and Elvira.”

  Her expression twisted and, for a moment, I was reminded of Ki
rsten’s first taste of sweet and sour sauce.

  For a moment. . . .

  And then I bundled that memory back into the black trunk of forgetfulness.

  Bachman recovered with a smile, saying: “Elvira may call herself the ‘Mistress of the Dark,’ but I am the Queen of the Damned. And my dresses are more daring. . . .” Her mouth formed a poutish little moue.

  “More daring?” I echoed weakly.

  “I shall be very happy to prove it to you.” She smiled again, showing teeth this time. Some of them were pointed.

  “I invited Elizabeth here to meet you, Christopher.” The Doman was regarding us over the rim of a crystal goblet. Claret-colored liquid caught the light from the candles and bloodied his face. “I understand you are in broadcasting. I thought Elizabeth would be the ideal person to help you settle into our circle. Her contacts will make it easy to find just the right job.” He turned to Bachman. “Perhaps you already have a position in mind, my dear?”

  She licked her lips and the smile grew. “Oh, yes, I’m thinking of a position just this very moment. . . .”

  “Stefan,” Dr. Mooncloud said, “there is something we need to discuss before Mr. Csejthe leaves this room.”

  “I should think there are a number of things to discuss, Doctor.” He took a sip from the goblet. “Just what did you have in mind?”

  “Mr. Csejthe’s status.”

  “Status?” Luis Garou was curious.

  “According to all we know so far—second-hand lab reports and two days’ observation on the road getting here—Mr. Csejthe is in transition. Apparently stuck in mid-transition.” She gave the Doman a meaningful look. “Did you know that he entered the premises without invitation or hesitation?”

  The room became very still.

  “Mr. Csejthe,” Pagelovitch was suddenly very attentive, focusing with an intensity that was at odds with his relaxed manner of a few moments before, “did anyone invite you to enter this building?”

  I was struck with a sudden case of laryngitis: I shook my head.

  Mooncloud cleared her throat. “Neither Lupé or myself had offered the specific invitation, yet, but since we were headed for the door, the implication—”

  He cut her off with a gesture. “It would make no difference.”

  “So, like, everyone—” I had recovered the upper registers of my voice and was still fishing for the lower “—who comes to your—um—nightclub, here, has to have an invitation to get through the door?”

  “Not the human clientele,” Bachman said. “Only the wampyr.”

  “So I am still human.”

  Mooncloud steepled her fingers. “But not fully human.”

  The Doman leaned forward. “The question is: How much?”

  Mooncloud shrugged, but an aura of tension fairly crackled about her diminutive shoulders. “You have my initial report based on the blood tests and lab work I intercepted. Mr. Csejthe’s appetite for solid food has declined. He’s showing an increasing sensitivity to solar radiation. His night vision continues to improve and his strength has already passed human norms for his frame and musculature. While he can still tolerate and even draw nourishment from ordinary food, blood has an increasingly potent and revitalizing effect on his system.”

  “That’s nothing,” I said modestly. “You should see me touch my nose with the tip of my tongue.”

  Deirdre laughed, a short, musical, merry sound. It was also the only sound from that end of the table so far this evening.

  “He no longer casts a shadow and his reflection is barely visible in a mirror,” Mooncloud continued. “But I would be hard-pressed to classify him as either alive or undead without further lab work.” She shot a look at Bachman. “Which I intend to start first thing tomorrow.”

  The blonde’s eyes reflected pinpoints of candle flame as she studied me again. “What fascinating possibilities that raises.”

  “Precisely my point.” Mooncloud turned imploring eyes on the Doman. “We know nothing, yet, of how his condition was contracted or from whom. . . .” Her gaze swept back to the blond woman and hardened. “It’s very crucial at this point that his system not be exposed to further contamination.”

  “Well!” Bachman’s outrage seemed more theatrics than true indignity. “I like that! Contamination!”

  Pagelovitch nodded slowly. “Perhaps not the most diplomatic of terms, Doctor, but you are correct. His current status must not be violated—for scientific and ethical reasons, as well.”

  “Ethical?” The word in Bachman’s mouth was even more distasteful than “contamination.”

  I was tired of sitting on the sidelines. “And what does that mean?”

  “No doubt you believe the fantasies of pen and film that brand us as creatures of the night—without conscience or scruple,” the Doman said. “But we live by a code of necessity and we acknowledge certain responsibilities for what we must do.”

  “Dr. Mooncloud explained how you’re careful to keep your existence a secret,” I said, making a cursory effort to keep the irony out of my voice, “and how you’ve set limits on your population growth in regards to the food supply.”

  “It’s not just a question of available resources nor a desire for safety that drives us to keep our numbers down.” Pagelovitch continued calmly. “And we are not always successful in our efforts to do so. The fact is, Christopher, that we do not fully understand how the condition is passed along to some and not to others.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the redhead had stopped eating and was staring at her plate with an almost stricken expression.

  “Why do some humans sicken and die over a long period of time while others expire in a single night?” the Doman was saying. “It is not, I assure you, tied exclusively to blood loss. Why do some find resurrection while still on the coroner’s slab while others—in those countries that do not practice embalming—lie in their graves a full month before sundering their coffins to crawl upwards through the dark earth?

  “There are many variables that we cannot explain. The good doctor here has hopes that your particular condition may be the key to unlocking some of these many mysteries.”

  Everyone was staring at me, but I particularly felt the weight of Damien and Deirdre’s gaze from the far end of the table.

  “And she does not want—” Pagelovitch smiled at Bachman, showing his own pointed teeth “—contaminated blood mixing with your own until she knows everything she can learn from its present condition.”

  “I think I understand the scientific angle here,” I said. “But you said there was a moral angle, as well.”

  “Yes, I was getting to that. The Code of the Grave—” he gave a short, deprecating laugh “—just as there is a Code of the West. We have standards of conduct for our little society of nightdwellers. . . .

  “That code places a heavy responsibility upon the hunter. Once I have taken you for sustenance, you become my responsibility until certain conditions are satisfied. If you live, I must see to it that you are unable to betray my existence or the existence of the greater community to which I belong. If you die, I must see to it that your death does not provide the same betrayal through physical evidence. And if you rise from your grave, I must mentor you, bring you into the Community. Or see to it that you are destroyed for the same reasons that I just spoke of.”

  “The responsibility to the Community,” I said.

  The Doman nodded. “But not just that. If I am responsible for your infection, I have a moral obligation to you, as well. More so today than a century ago.”

  I responded with my eyebrows.

  “A century ago most victims would end up in a pine box under six feet of earth. While those circumstances might seem daunting to most mortals, it is the egg from which most of us are hatched. We come into our greater strength cracking that wooden shell and clawing our way to the surface. But there are limits to what even augmented strength and iron fingernails can do when locked inside a steel casket and a concrete
grave liner. Imagine if you will the fate of a newly resurrected vampire sealed for an eternity in such a prison. It is a horror that might befall any of us and so we are all committed to seeing that it happens to none.”

  I repressed an unexpected shudder.

  “Which brings me back to the point. Although I am not responsible for your present condition, I am responsible for having you brought here. Under those circumstances and, as I am Doman over this demesne, I must assume certain obligations for your welfare. Which brings me to a very important question. Do you wish to join us?”

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, as I kept trying to tell Dr. Mooncloud, I was quite happy with the job I had and—”

  “No, my friend, you do not understand. Your lot is now cast with us. Even were I to release you from our enclave you would just be killed or acquired by another Doman. As it stands now, you are already being hunted by at least one other enclave. And they want you so badly that they have been careless.”

  “Three disappearances and a homicide by the time we got to you,” Mooncloud said.

  “One of the disappearances has since reappeared,” Luis amended. “Or at least the body turned up.”

  “Mutilated and drained of blood,” Bachman added. She shook her head and made tch-tch noises. “Sloppy.”

  Pagelovitch scowled. “But at least there were no evident fang marks and the authorities are more inclined to blame Satanic cults than look for evidence of vampires.” He shook his head. “Still, through no fault of your own, your existence has already threatened our anonymity. This carelessness worries me. But all that I can do for the moment is deal with your presence here. What I am asking you, here and now, is: Do you wish to complete the Transformation? To become as we are?”