by Edward Lee
“Oh, believe me, Inspector. Your indulgence is my plea sure.” Fredrick awkwardly brought two glasses to the desk. “I seldom get a chance to talk about these things.”
Vernon looked at the dark wine. I never drink before ten o’clock, and…it’s past ten o’clock. “Thanks very much.”
“Did you know that Romania is the ninth largest wine producer in the world? This one’s from the Tarnave vineyards…in Transylvania.”
Vernon paused before taking a sip, then thought, Fuck the French. That’s damn good. “I just have a few more questions, if that’s okay.”
Now the old man seemed lulled. “Please…”
“It helps me to know what our killers actually believe. But I’m still not clear on Vlad’s death.”
“Understandable, since there are so many versions. Vlad’s vampirism and heretical atrocities were reported to the pope and the emperor. Vlad knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be assassinated by them, or by contractors hired by the Turks. So he circumvented it all by planning his own death, allowing Kanesae to bleed him to death. Think of this as the very beginning of a chain of events, the last of which—your killers think—are taking place now. But, remember, Vlad’s last words on earth were the words he whispered to Kanesae as his blood was drained into the flagon—the secret.”
“What was the secret!” Vernon raised his voice.
“Well, that’s subject to interpretation. Monks who had remained loyal to the true Order of the Dragon seized Vlad and cut off his head, to end his reign of evil. They were dumbfounded, though, when Vlad’s body didn’t bleed upon decapitation. They presumed that this was a symptom of his vampirism…but they were wrong.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“They never knew that Vlad had already set an occult rite into motion. The monks buried the flagon, along with the chalice, in the monastery’s stream, which served as the property’s water supply. Since this was consecrated ground, the stream ran with holy water, and this would prevent any malign entity—such as Kanesae—from absconding with it.”
Vernon frowned. “So this stuff is still beneath this stream in Romania?”
Fredrick shook his head, a grimness now in his eyes. “The flagon and chalice had been secured in an iron keg, but this keg was upheaved during the 1977 earthquake. Some men ran off with it, and I know this to be fact because I saw it with my own eyes.”
That’s right. His leg was crushed during the same quake, Vernon recalled. “Who were the men?”
“I’ll never know for sure but they may have been descendants of the original Order of the Dragon, since the rumor abounds that the Order never dissolved. Keep in mind, when I saw this I thought I was going to die; it could’ve been a near-death hallucination or something.”
Vernon thought things over. Impalements. Desecration involving the colors of the Order. And homeless women who believe in the spirit of a vampire nun …“You said that Kanesae recruited prostitutes?”
“To be her acolytes, yes. To assist her.”
Virginia Fleming and Scab both had rap sheets for prostitution, Vernon reminded himself.
Fredrick continued, “Allegiance in return for reward— an age-old symptom, Inspector. They believed that they would be granted immortality, as vampires. Supposedly, as Kanesae’s power peaks, and as she becomes more and more flesh and less and less spirit, her acolytes would become vampires as well.” The old man sipped more wine, relaxing. “Over the years, I’ve researched every angle of the legend, more by default than anything.”
“Sir?”
“Before the earthquake I had no professional interest whatsoever in fifteenth-century Romanian history. But after an experience like that?”
Of course. He was almost killed at the same place all this supposedly happened, Vernon realized.
“And so not to fully avoid your question of a while ago,” the professor began and smiled. He fired up his pipe again. “No, I don’t believe the legend myself.”
Sure, but somebody does. And that’s my biggest lead. They both jumped a little when Vernon’s phone rang. It was Slouch.
“Oh, good, I was beginning to think you’d been impaled.”
“What are you talking about, Slouch?” Vernon frowned.
“Well, you never signed off-shift, and nobody’s heard from you for about twelve hours.”
“I’m in the middle of a consultation with an expert on…” Vernon stalled. Forget it. “But I’m leaving soon.”
“So I can go home now?”
“Yes, yes! Did you get that—”
“—current address for Cristina Nichols? What do you think I am, a slouch? Of course I got it. Finally reached the company owner, a guy named Bruno von Blanc. He wasn’t too keen on giving up the info but then I sweet-talked him, you know?”
“Yeah, like you sweet-talked me for your last promotion,” Vernon said.
“She lives with a hotshot lawyer named Paul Nasher.”
“Yeah, but where does she live? That’s what I need to know.”
Slouch paused for effect. “Are you ready for this one?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I mean are you really ready?”
“I’m ready to transfer you to motor-pool duty. How’s that?”
Slouch laughed. “Cristina Nichols lives four doors down from the corner where all our bum-chicks have been seen.”
Vernon stared.
“You there, How?”
“That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”
“That’s a big hell yeah, boss.”
“Give me Nichols’s address.”
Slouch did so, then Vernon recited the information as he jotted it down: “1387 Dessorio Avenue…Jesus. That’s right down the street from that hot dog vendor.”
“Um-hmm. Strange, huh? But you’re not going there now, are you? It’s past midnight.”
“No, but I might drive by just to see the place, and see if any of these homeless women are out.”
“Okay, boss. But watch out for sharp sticks.”
Vernon hung up, intrigued. Another link, however inexplicable.
Fredrick had overheard. “So this Nichols woman is—”
“A novelty toy designer,” Vernon said. He held up the plastic nun again. “The creator of this.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
(I)
All the pieces are coming together, Rollin thought miserably. He trudged home from the hotel, eyes wide open in a dreadful contemplation. He pulled the pendant out from his shirt and touched its surface, then touched the silver ring.
I’ll have to enter the house myself, with a gun if need be …
His surveillance of the annex house had amounted to nothing to night. Through the binoculars, he’d seen Cristina Nichols come in and out of her studio several times later, but that was all. Were those two friends of hers staying the night again? Rollin had only seen the dark-haired woman once. I’m spying on the place from two directions, he thought, and what good has it done me?
Again, he faced the fact: he’d have to enter the house himself, and without the owner’s knowledge. I don’t suppose priests fare well in jail, he chuckled to himself.
The hotel behind him now, full dark stretched down Dessorio Avenue. Traffic and pedestrians seemed strangely scant. When he passed the alley, though, he thought he heard the faintest voice, then a scuffling.
One of the homeless girls?
He squinted in the grainy sodium light. Two wan figures stood by some garbage cans, then—to his disbelief—one of them seemed to disappear. He could tell they were women. Where did she go?
Rollin walked along the edge of the alley, using the shadows to conceal himself. Yes! he thought. He could see the second woman now: greasy-haired, and a T-shirt that read THE DAMNED. It’s them …He froze in the dark and watched, fascinated. Now she was lying on her belly. After a moment she, too, seemed to disappear between the garbage cans.
So that’s where they’ve been hiding the whole time …
&nb
sp; He quickened his pace. When he arrived, he could see that the garbage can had been dragged back. From inside the building? It must be. Very carefully he moved the can back and saw the hole in the brick wall, about a foot in diameter.
Rollin was delighted that he’d finally found their hiding place, but…
What now?
He looked at the hole without much confidence. I’m probably too fat to squeeze in there.
Calling the police made the most sense but then that would only bring undue attention in proximity to the house. A lifetime of service to God may well be boiling down to this moment, he considered.
He whispered a brief prayer, then got down on his belly and began to crawl into the hole…
(II)
Vernon didn’t know what induced him to glance down the alley at that precise moment, but when he did he saw what appeared to be a portly figure in black fidgeting on the pavement. Oh, for God’s sake, I guess I better …
He pulled the unmarked into the alley, just one turn before the road that Cristina Nichols lived on. He didn’t know why but he wanted to look at the place, figured he’d stop by and question her tomorrow. But now this…
It is my job, he reminded himself. He parked in the alley and got out. Probably some wino having the D.T.’s, but then he looked close and saw that this person was wearing decent black shoes and slacks. A man, obviously. Vernon shook his head.
He’s crawling into a hole in the wall…
Vernon nudged the man’s leg with his shoe. “Police,” he announced. “Crawl back out of there or I’ll pull you out.”
Amid grunts and scuffs, the portly figure shimmied back out and stood up, clearly embarrassed.
Vernon slumped. It was a priest.
“Uh, uh, good evening, Officer,” the man bumbled in a slight accent that sounded European. “I’m Father John Rollin, of St. Amano’s Church on Dessorio. I can imagine how this appears.”
“Why is a priest crawling into a hole in the wall of an abandoned building at twelve thirty at night?” Vernon tapped his foot. He didn’t smell alcohol, at least.
The priest seemed to ruminate, obviously nervous. “My church was vandalized recently, by several homeless women—”
Suddenly Vernon was all ears.
“—and I just spotted two of them, right here, crawling inside the building.”
Vernon suddenly felt overenergized. He all but grabbed the priest and dragged him to the car. “Really, Officer, I—”
“Bear with me, Father.” Vernon grabbed his flashlight from the car, along with an envelope. “Have you ever seen these homeless women?” He shined the light while the priest examined the photos.
Rollin looked right into Vernon’s face, deadpan. “This is uncanny, Officer. Two of the women in these photos are the same two I just saw crawl into this building. I’m 100 percent certain.”
Vernon suddenly felt weak-kneed.
“And this third woman here”—the priest pointed at the next security picture—“the one with the pink glasses. I’ve seen her in this area many times as well.”
I may have just solved the fucking case, Vernon thought, incredulous. The killers have been using this old Banana Republic as a place to squat…and two of them are in there right now …
“Pardon me, Officer, but is there some reason that you look overjoyed right now?”
Vernon gaped at him. “You wouldn’t understand, Father.” He took out his gun. “Excuse me.” He stepped past the priest and got down on his belly.
“You’re…going in?”
“You were going in, weren’t you?”
“Well, yes…”
“Look,” Vernon said over his shoulder, “if I’m not back in ten minutes, call the Twentieth Precinct, will ya?”
“I’d like to follow you in, if you don’t mind,” Rollin asked uncomfortably.
“Fine, fine. Come on.”
Vernon’s slender build didn’t impede him. He slipped through the hole into a maw of malodorous darkness. Another hole could be seen only a few feet ahead. He plowed the flashlight beam forward, saw distant clutter, then shouted, “Police! Identify yourselves and come out of there!”
There was no sound in response. He waited a moment and listened some more.
Nothing.
This is really stupid, he thought, then crawled through the next hole.
Good God! he thought, gagging. The stench was overpowering. Something dead in here, he knew. The flashlight beam seemed dimmer for some reason. He turned it back to the wall and saw the priest laboriously squeezing his way through.
“What an awful stench…”
“Tell me about it,” Vernon said. Looks like an old boiler room, he noted. A pile of trash filled one corner, while boxes of more trash seemed to partition the room. Smaller boxes and milk crates sat arranged on the floor around a broken television, and there were unlit candle stubs everywhere. Vernon took a step forward and—
Shit!
—almost fell flat on his face. He’d stepped on something that had rolled. Pay dirt, he thought when he shined the light down.
What he’d slipped on was a red magic marker.
“There’s no one here,” the priest said.
“We don’t know that. They could be hiding in the boxes, so be careful.” Vernon slowly nosed around, gun forward.
“I really don’t think there’s anyone here, Officer.” The priest was looking around behind him. “And if they’re not here—”
“Where did they go?” Vernon’s gut clenched when he looked behind several more boxes and saw several broom handles whose ends had been whittled to sharp points. A few whittling knives lay beside them.
“There must be some other access, which makes sense,” the priest said.
“What?”
“Just because…” Rollin’s next words faded as he began to pad around the wall.
But Vernon was already staring. What he’d noticed first were two plastic figurines sitting on the floor. More of Nichols’s dolls …He picked them up without thinking, tainting any fingerprints, and read their bases. Hypothermia Harriet, Leprosy Linda …
Then he turned into another area sectioned off with more boxes. The stench trebled, and when he shined his light toward the wall he felt his heart stop a moment.
“Officer? Could you bring your light over here?” Father Rollin requested.
“No,” Vernon croaked. “I need you to look at this.”
Careful footsteps scuffed.
“God Almighty…”
The flashlight beam hovered across six corpses impaled on broomsticks: two men, four women. Pools of blood congealed at each base, the telltale Christmas tree stands. Two had been impaled upside-down, and all were nude. Most of them had been scrawled on with black, green, and red markers.
Vernon and the priest backed out of the cubby, hacking. Rollin muttered prayers in Latin, in spite of being half in shock, while Vernon reached into his pocket and swore.
“Father, I left my cell phone in the car. I need yours.”
Rollin blinked out of daze. “I—I’ve never owned one.”
“Let’s get out of here so I can call this in.”
“Yes, but…Look at this first.” The priest guided Vernon around more clutter to the wall. “They must’ve left through here.” Vernon held the light while the priest showed him an area low on the wall where two cinderblocks had been prized and pulled out.
“They’re in the house next door,” Rollin said. “Cristina Nichols’s house.”
Vernon’s eyes widened. “You know her?”
“Oh, yes, and I also know that these homeless women have been sneaking in and out of her house for some time now. They’ve been…preparing for something.”
Vernon out of impulse grabbed Rollin’s black shirt. “Is there a nun with them?”
Rollin stalled. “She’s not really a nun. She merely poses as one. Her name is Kanesae.”
Vernon leaned against the wall, to think. “Listen. I have to go in ther
e. I want you to crawl back outside, get my cell phone, and call 911.”
Rollin sighed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on coming with you, Officer. Your 911 won’t help you, believe me.”
Vernon was about to shove him back outside but his eyes flicked to something around the man’s neck. There was a cross on a chain; behind it, though, was pendant, a small disk showing a dragon strangled by its own tail, and the words:
O QUAM MAGNIFICUM, O DOMNUL
Rollin absently touched a ring on his finger, with the same emblem and words. “Let’s go now, both of us. You don’t know what’s happening here.” He crossed himself. “I do.”
(III)
Did Britt hear a voice?
“Singele lui traieste …”
It was more like a dream-sound behind something else: the wind rustling through a dense forest.
And a dog barking…
Britt tried to open her eyes but the dream kept her pinned behind its caul of sheer black. At the same time, though, the lewdest sensations began to crest. What was happening? Her back arched, her hands came desperately to her breasts, and then a ravenous orgasm broke as what could only be a mouth tended to her most private place. Still, there was only utter darkness, and for a moment she received the ghastly impression that she’d just had her orgasm in a closed coffin.
When her hands reached down to run her fingers through Jess’s hair, her eyes finally opened. It took a moment to remember where she was: Cristina’s guest room. That’s right, we spent the night again. She looked down and smiled, still playing with Jess’s hair. “Oh, Jess, honey, that was lovely. You know how much I like it when you surprise me like that…”
“My name’s not Jess, it’s Sandrine,” came a sharp female voice.
Britt sucked in a long deep breath to scream when she saw the dirty face rising from between her legs, some vagabond girl with crusty hair.
When the girl grinned, two narrow fangs flashed.
A hand slapped across Britt’s mouth, stifling the scream. Suddenly two more unkempt, naked women were on her, both grinning with similar fangs.
“You can join the convent, too,” said the one with her hand over Britt’s mouth. Dirty blonde hair, clunky glasses.
