I said nothing and she wandered over to the microfiche reader that I had left on for cross-referencing.
“Traité sur les Apparitions des Espirits, et sur les Vampires, ou les Revenants de Hongrie, de Moravie—”
“First edition, Paris, 1746,” I appended. “But I’m really more interested in a rather recent work.” I lifted the bound manuscript I’d been studying and turned it so she could read: Vampirism and the Subconscious Mind: The Id Unbound. By Dr. Taj V. Mooncloud, Ph.D., M.D., S.D. “I’m impressed: Doctor of Philosophy, Doctor of Medicine. . .” I cocked an eyebrow. “S.D.?”
“Doctor of Shamanism.”
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke,” she answered coolly.
“Well.” I hefted the book. “I’ll bet there’re no copies in the Library of Congress.”
“No, and more’s the pity,” she said, pulling up a chair across from me. “Ten years of semicooperative national and worldwide research and we know more about the AIDS virus than ten centuries of scholasticism on the subject of vampirism.”
“We still don’t have a vaccine for AIDS,” I said, unsure of whether I was undermining or underlining her point.
“Bad enough that we can’t utilize public facilities, personnel, or funding efforts in our research,” she continued, “but it’s difficult to secure cooperative information from the other enclaves, as well.”
I tapped the manuscript. “You seem to have made some substantial leaps beyond anything else I’ve read.”
“Theoretical leaps. We have a Magnetic Resonance Imaging device, an electron microscope, substantial lab and diagnostic facilities . . . but it’s a drop in the bucket compared to the resources we really need—not to mention the statistical base!
“The bulk of the books you have there were first published before the turn of the century, some before the turn of the last century, and more than a few from before even that. They’re such a hodgepodge of myth and third-hand stories that you can’t be sure of the truth even when they seem to validate your own findings. . . .
“But you,” she reached across the table and between two stacks of books to grasp my hand, “may help to change all that!”
“The missing link,” I said.
“Oh, don’t say it that way! It sounds so—so—”
“Guinea piggish?”
It took her a moment to find her smile. “Exactly.”
“Oink, oink,” I said.
She tossed my hand back at me. “Guinea pigs don’t go ‘oink, oink.’ ”
“I guess someone will need to coach me.”
“Obviously, after that stunt you pulled at the pool.”
“Ah, which brings me back to my research.” I thumped the manuscript back open to my last bookmark. “I need to know all kinds of stuff. About mirrors and garlic and crosses and holy water—”
“You need someone to coach you,” she said.
“—and why this stuff works the way it does. I mean, I used to be a great swimmer! What happened to me?” I flipped to the beginning of her manuscript and then back to my last marked passage. “I’ve skimmed the first part, here, where you venture several theories about the physiological changes that take place in the human body.”
“It’s really a brief summation of another paper I published earlier.”
“ ’Published’?”
“Within the underground network that ties all the enclaves together to some degree.”
“Yeah, well I noticed that you skipped a lot of the empirical data and just highlighted the conclusions. But it still begs the question on certain aspects of vampiric lore. I see how the physiological changes in body tissues may alter mass, augment strength, prolong longevity . . . but what about holy water, the crucifix, requiring invitations to cross thresholds?”
“Keep reading.”
I glanced at the three-inch-thick remainder of unread pages. “I’m in a hurry.”
“So am I.” She glanced at her watch. “All right. Quick overview. The virus—and immediately we are in the realm of theory, here—the virus seems to enter the cells and combine with the DNA to reprogram the strands of code.”
“Like genetic engineering.”
“Right. And it produces rapid mutations in the cells and tissues so that entire systems become both more efficient and yet develop built-in redundancies. At the same time these changes create new vulnerabilities, new weaknesses to replace the ones that human flesh is heir to.”
“Sunlight,” I said. “Garlic.”
“Like porphyria,” she said.
“Wooden stakes?”
“Wooden stakes, iron lances, silver arrows—it makes no difference as to whether you’re alive or undead: one through the heart and you ain’t never getting up out of your coffin again.”
“Crucifixes?”
“Ah, now here we enter the realm of the subconscious. Are you aware that there are certain codicils to the use of holy relics?”
I nodded. “Basically two that I’ve run across, so far. One source claims the effectiveness of the crucifix is dependent on the faith of the wielder. Other sources indicate that the cross only works against vampires who were devout Christians in their former life.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Which is it?”
Mooncloud shrugged. “We do not know for sure. There is actually enough anecdotal material to support both theories, but we simply have not had enough opportunity to apply rigorous scientific testing. But the common thread that runs through both theories is—”
“Belief,” I finished for her.
“Yes. Belief. And it is the same with so-called holy water.”
“So what are you saying? That these basic scourges of the undead are psychosomatic at their core?”
“Something like that.” She looked around and then got up and walked over to the door. After checking the outer corridor, she closed the door and walked across the room and around the table to sit beside me. “The virus has a variable range of effects on each person who contracts it,” she continued in a lowered voice. “And that extends to the mental and emotional adjustments each must make, as well.”
“I suppose some have a more difficult time than others?”
“An understatement, Mr. Csejthe. Insanity is the byproduct more often than not. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes a psychosis that grows over the years, the centuries. Sometimes all higher thought processes are lost and the virus reduces its host to a mindless animal. In other cases the madness manifests in subtler and more cunning forms.”
“So,” I cleared my throat, thinking about my own recent state of mind, “why are some affected and others immune?”
She stared at me for a long and discomforting moment. “You don’t understand,” she said finally. “The virus affects the brain. In every case. The differences only lie in the severity of the psychosis, the amount of time involved in the alteration of the individual’s brain chemistry, and how resistant you are to your particular brand of dementia.”
“So, you’re saying that insanity is inevitable?” I didn’t like this at all.
“By your definition? No. But every functioning human being is heir to various mental aberrations—most of us just fall into the so-called normal range. Haven’t you heard that there isn’t one person who couldn’t benefit from a little analysis?
“But the virus does seem to work most frequently in lowering the mental barriers between the conscious and the unconscious areas of what we call the mind. It makes the host more susceptible to certain forms of suggestion, irrational belief systems, perhaps even racial memories.”
“So,” I steepled my fingers, “if I were a devout Catholic and I woke up in my coffin shortly after my funeral, I would have an incapacitating terror of crucifixes, communion hosts, and holy water?”
She nodded. “The Church has deeply ingrained prejudices concerning vampires and the Powers of Darkness.”
“Apparently it works both ways.” I thought about the power of the mind over the human body. About how a few, sp
ecial test subjects under hypnosis would display bruises, cuts, burns, various bodily stigmata produced by a belief in an injury that only existed in their minds. Was it any great leap to imagine a vampire’s belief that he couldn’t cross another’s threshold unless specifically invited to do so?
“What about mirrors?” I asked. “Why don’t vampires cast reflections?”
“That’s a little more difficult to explain.”
“Try.”
“I’m not sure you’re ready.”
“Try anyway.”
“Well,” she hunched her shoulders. “As I said, the virus affects the brain, alters the brain’s chemistry—possibly reconstructing certain neural pathways in the process. This is difficult to prove as there are no remains—ergo, no brain—to dissect following a wampyr’s death.”
“Cat scans? MRI’s?”
She shook her head. “Electromagnetic radiation, whether it’s in the visible spectrum or not, is harmful to vampiric flesh. Which reminds me, you should probably avoid using microwave ovens or sitting too close to the TV.”
“You’re kidding.”
She wasn’t. “Under these limitations, we can only postulate.”
An unpleasant thought occurred: “Or open up a vampire’s skull while it is still alive.” Or undead. Or whatever.
Mooncloud squirmed. “Vivisection of the undead has been—documented. But, even without such extreme proofs, the evidence of changes to the brain are undeniable.”
“So you’re saying that the absence of a mirror image is due to the psychosis?”
“No. There are other mental changes, as well.” She looked back at the door, again. “Have you ever noticed how the Doman rarely has to summon someone he wants to speak with?”
It took me a moment to understand the question. Then I remembered how Suki had shown up unexpectedly to finish my initial tour of the castle. “Telepathy?”
“Not just telepathy, but other psionic talents as well. You’ve read about the vampire’s ability to cloud men’s minds? Or dominate them?”
“So the vampire either consciously or unconsciously blocks the perception of his reflection in the mirror? For himself and anyone else within mental range?”
Mooncloud clapped her hands. “Very good, Mr. Csejthe! I had to explain the concept to Stefan twice before he could grasp the basic theory. You are—”
“If one more person says that I’m a quick study, I’m going to belt them!” I propped up my chin with my right hand. “So, are the vampire’s psionic abilities standard equipment or wild card?”
“Wild card. Which brings us back to the conclusion that this is a mutative viral agent. While there is a set range of effects, different hosts manifest different degrees of strengths and weaknesses.”
“So why have my mutations stopped?”
“Well, they haven’t. Exactly.”
I leaned forward. “Well, what have they? Exactly?”
“Well, in some areas, such as strength, reflexes, and the enhanced spectrum of your five senses, the mutation seems to be going forward—although it has slowed recently. In other areas, such as the development of fangs and anticoagulants in your saliva, you don’t appear to have even begun the processes. Strange, though—”
“What?”
“You have developed rudimentary clotting sacs. . . .”
“What?”
“They’re small sacs that form beneath the tongue that exude a clotting agent when the vampire is done feeding. It closes the wound and speeds healing.”
“How nice.”
“Not if you’re suckered in by Hollywood’s version of the mythos. All those movies where the vampire bites the victim’s neck and the victim survives? That’s all poppycock. The most potent clotting enzymes won’t seal a torn jugular vein in time. A vampire goes for the throat with the intent that his victim not survive. Otherwise, he must feed on the less volatile blood vessels. This would especially be true in your case.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a meeting with Stefan.”
“Just one more question, Doctor.”
“Yes?”
“Why?”
“Why?” she echoed.
“Why? Why am I turning into a vampire and why am I stuck halfway in between?”
She rose from her chair. “That’s two questions. And I still don’t know the answer to either.” She walked around the table and paused by the door. “During our next session, I’ll use hypnosis to regress you to the time you passed through Weir. Perhaps the answer lies there.”
“Why can’t we just do it all at once and get it over with?”
“The Doman insists on being present, now, and he can’t make time until tomorrow night.”
There was something in her eyes. “And?”
“And your blood pressure goes through the roof every time we approach that period under hypnosis,” she said reluctantly. “We’re spacing the sessions out to give your body a chance to recover.”
She yanked open the door and Elizabeth Bachman practically stumbled into her arms.
“There you are, Chris,” Bachman gushed as she pirouetted around Dr. Mooncloud. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“Me?” I looked at Mooncloud who offered a warning glance as she turned and headed out the door.
“You! It’s time we checked you out for that position I was thinking of!”
“I thought the Doman was dead set against my leaving the premises,” I said as we exited the elevator.
“He doesn’t want you leaving the building unescorted,” Bachman answered, slipping her arm through mine. “We’ve made some security arrangements and he’s approved them.”
“Security arrangements?”
“The Doman believes New York still wants to acquire you, but Damien and I should be more than enough to handle anything unhuman that might come along. And in your enhanced condition as a—what? Semi-vampire?”
I shrugged but silently promised to bite the next person who used that term.
“You should be able to handle anything human, as well.” She smiled. “You nearly hospitalized a busboy and two of the cooks the other night. Deirdre is still sporting a shiner and, wonder of wonders, you actually gave Damien a split lip!” She laughed. “I’m sure you can take care of yourself if you’re really threatened.
“Besides, since you’re here, you no longer pose a threat to the greater Undead community. There’s no logical reason to want you dead—no ‘un’ attached.”
“So what do they want?”
“They probably want to recruit you for their own research purposes. Which means they wouldn’t want to actually harm you.”
“You sound as if you wouldn’t mind.”
She hugged my arm even tighter. “Oh, I’d mind! I want you all to myself, remember?”
Sigh.
“Anyway, cars come and go from our underground garage all the time. We’ll take a limo with tinted glass so no one can see who’s inside.”
“Won’t that arouse suspicions if Fantasies is actually staked out?”
“You watch too many cop shows. I use this particular limo every Saturday night.”
We arrived at my door. “Should I dress formal or casual?”
“Invite me in and I can help you select your wardrobe.”
I smiled and chucked her gently under the chin. “Ah, but then we’d only end up being late, wouldn’t we?”
She sighed. “True. Dress casual. I’ll meet you in the garage in ten minutes.”
Whew. I let myself in as she walked on down the corridor.
My night vision had developed to the point that I almost forgot to turn on the lights. Visual acuity into the infrared and ultraviolet spectra, however, makes for poor color coordination when you’re dressing.
I was belting on a pair of tan Dockers when I noticed the piece of paper lying on my bed.
It was folded, with my name written on the outside. Inside was a note, written in a shaky, ballpoint scrawl: I had to decipher as much as read it.
<
br /> Darling—
It said.
Kirsten and I are alive! There is no time to explain right now! You are in danger!
The people you are with are not your friends! Destroy this note when you have finished reading it! Tell no one that you have further cause to believe I am alive!
You must escape!
I cannot come to you, again; you must come to us! When you do, our friends will help us start a new life!
I love you, darling, and Kirsten misses her Daddy! You must try to get away, soon!
Love,
Jennifer
Below that, in a childish scrawl was:
I love you, Daddy—please come soon!
Love,
Kirsten
I looked around wildly and ran through the rooms, throwing open closet doors as if I might find—what? More messages? Evidence of its authenticity? My dwindling rationality? Only the solidity of the paper in my hand had any palpable reality in this terrible moment.
But the message rang a false note.
I stared at the handwriting, trying to remember if there was anything distinctive about Jenny’s style. A year had passed, my memory dimmed, and Kirsten might be a year older in her own still-developing penmanship. . . .
A cold chill had permeated my body and now I felt the first flush of a white-hot core of anger. Jenny never signed her notes to me as “Jennifer.” It was always “Jenny” or, more frequently, “Jen.” If this was a trick, a false lure, it was unimaginably cruel and sadistic.
If it was, I would find out who—and kill them.
If—
I opened a dresser drawer. I refolded the note and slipped it inside one of the socks at the bottom of the pile.
Destroy the note? Not bloody likely!
I dressed in a furor, visions of carnage playing in my head.
If—
But, if it were true, then maybe I was in peril from the people who claimed to protect me. . . .
The Doman had warned me about the bloodlust, the appetite for violence.
He had neglected to mention the paranoia.
I should have expected the first assault.
Damien was up front, driving. Bachman pressed a button and suddenly a tinted glass partition slid up between the front seat and the passenger area where we were sitting.
One Foot in the Grave - The Halflife Trilogy Book I Page 11
