by Alex Archer
“That’s me,” she said, “always foreseeing the future.”
Luke carefully carried the slide into the bathroom, and Doug settled beside Annja to show her the footage he’d edited so far. He was good, she had to admit. Even using a device not designed for film work, he’d managed to get some great mood shots of the full moon silhouetted by dark, spindly tree branches, and the eerie forest shots were perfect. He camped it up with a running sequence, as if the person holding the camera was being chased, but she liked that, as well.
“When do you put on the fangs and ask me to chase after you with that fancy stake of yours?” she asked slyly.
“Annja, would you do that?” Doug handed her the iPad and stood, looking around the room. “Where are my fangs?”
“I was just kidding, Doug,” she said.
“Yeah, but I’m not. Give me a second to find my fangs!”
Grabbing her cell phone, she excused herself to get out of the room, and once again attempted to call Garin.
Chapter 11
A black taxi dropped Garin off at the corner down from his destination. Strolling the sidewalk that fronted a neighborhood of brick houses, his eyes shifted side to side and his strides moved his head occasionally to take in the periphery. The Chelsea neighborhood wasn’t far from the bustle of London’s city center. It had been bohemian in the sixties and punk in the seventies—its heyday—but now it was a quiet, wealthy area that offered the odd private business such as the massage salon he was currently passing, and the Happy Aging Clinic next door to it.
The day was growing long, but it wasn’t yet closing time. The next brownstone featured a small brass plaque on the iron gate that announced Middleston Antiques: Private Queries Only. Not what he was looking for, but it could be a clever front, and this was the address listed on the business card.
Garin shoved open the unlocked gate and strode up the brick steps to knock loudly on the door. He didn’t wait for an answer, and pushed open the door. The mood in the small reception area was subdued, furnished as it was in dark wood and Berber carpeting. An Adele song whispered out of the overhead speakers.
The receptionist pressed her black-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “Oh, Mr. Thurman?”
“Yes,” Garin replied, sliding a palm down the immaculate cut of his Armani suit. He’d stopped to catch a few hours of sleep and purchase some new clothing after the flight last night. The Ritz was always top-notch, and catered to him as if he was a king.
The business card had brought him—Mr. Thurman—here. Now, to learn what was up.
“We’ve been waiting. Though you are a bit early.”
“Wasn’t sure how long it would take to get here.”
“I understand, you being from Germany.”
She had that one right. “Exactly.”
“The goods have arrived and we’re just now authenticating them for the ritual. If you’ll come with me?”
“Of course.” The ritual?
He strode after the squat secretary whose nylons shushed with each step that brushed thigh against thigh. The goods were presumably the items in the white cooler. But the mention of a ritual clogged the back of Garin’s throat. He felt a little sick. Nothing good came of rituals.
There were four doors down the hallway, two on each side, and he noted the distinct odor of disinfectant. Taking a deep breath, he couldn’t place any other scents, and didn’t know what to expect. He was shown into a small, spartan room with two chairs and a stainless-steel sideboard. Much like a doctor’s exam room, without the hazardous waste disposal and rubber gloves.
“Will this take long?” he asked. “I have dinner reservations.”
“Not at all, Mr. Thurman. I’ll send someone in to process your purchase momentarily.” Closing him in the room, the secretary shushed away.
“Not feeling good about this,” he muttered. “Wonder where Mr. Thurman is?”
Obviously they hadn’t expected anyone but Mr. Thurman to arrive. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have so willingly invited him in, and without so much as an ID check.
If Annja were here, she would have never allowed them to be closed in this tiny room. Of course, she would have already called the police by now, which is why he’d had to knock her out. Bet she sported a beauty of a bruise. He could only feel a modicum of guilt for that.
Garin put his finger to his lips, and visually scoured the corners of the room. It could be bugged, even outfitted with a camera. He rotated his head on his neck, tilting it side to side. Antsy, he shook out his arms and began to pace.
There were no clues he could get from the room, or the little he had seen walking from the reception area and down the hallway. The smell bothered him. He wondered if some kind of medical shenanigans took place in any of the other rooms. It was the obvious guess, having seen what was contained in the cooler.
He needed to take a look in the other rooms. And the best way to do that would be...?
Garin opened the door to find himself face-to-face with a tall, thin Indian man holding a titanium box against his gut as if it were a prized relic. In fact, the box was decorated with arabesques and tiny red jewels that reminded Garin of Moorish design from centuries past.
“Mr. Thurman, I’ve got some instructions for the ritual. You have the cash?” he asked Garin.
Smoothly, Garin slid his hand inside his coat and produced the black envelope he’d received at the exchange. “We had agreed to...?”
“Five large,” the Indian man said huffily. “Hand it over.”
The exchange was made, and the man gingerly handed Garin the box. It wasn’t heavy, the only weight, he guessed, produced by the case itself. He decided against shaking it to see if anything rattled about. Was there a human organ inside? If so, he was breaking too many laws right now, and would not look.
“It must be tonight,” the other man said quickly. “Beneath the full moon. We’ve already emailed the ritual to the address you provided on your application.”
“Yes, of course,” Garin said.
“I cannot express how important it is to follow the ritual to the letter. If you wish to receive your greatest desire, then you must be fierce and bold. Do not be repulsed by the ritual.”
Now that didn’t sound like something he wanted to give a try. “I have a few questions first.”
“Ah? But those should have all been answered in the emails. I don’t do customer service, Mr. Thurman.” The man’s brow was rimmed with sweat beads. “I merely act as liaison, as you have been clearly told. You did read the emails?”
“Er, yes.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Mr. Thurman. I’ve just one more thing.”
He left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Garin staring at the silver box. His thumbs worried at the raised decoration. He suddenly felt as if he were standing in the middle of a gun range, all barrels aimed directly at his head. Open, exposed, he didn’t feel right holding the mysterious box, yet he hadn’t brought anything along to put it in.
The idea of looking inside seemed obvious, but apparently he was supposed to have been informed, in an email, no less, about what was inside and what to do with it. And to follow the repulsive ritual to the letter. Whatever organ or blood he’d carried in the cooler was now inside this box; he knew that with strange certainty.
And it was time to start asking questions of the good doctor and his receptionist. Palming the pistol holster under his left arm, with his other hand clutching the silver box, he tried the doorknob. It was locked. Garin jammed his hip against the door but felt no give.
“Dead bolted from the other side,” he said. “Guess they figured out I’m not Mr. Thurman.”
Garin scanned the room, his eyes tracing along the ceiling and floorboards. No windows, either. Again, he charged the door, knowing it was going to hurt like hell. He swore. The door didn’t budge.
And now he smelled smoke.
Not the kindest way to put a man down.
“The bolts,”
he said, looking around the room for a tool to use to pry out the hinge bolts, but there wasn’t much to search. A file cabinet, which was empty, and two chairs.
Setting the box on the floor, he grabbed one of the aluminum-legged chairs, inverted it and banged it up under the highest hinge. Unsure he wanted to open the door if he could hear the fire—he might open the door to a flaming wall—he continued to pound at the bolt. The first bolt popped free and landed on the carpeted floor with a muted thud. The next quickly followed.
He touched the door carefully, finding it wasn’t hot, but smoke purled under the bottom in a creepy wisp.
“Good thing I’m hard to kill.”
Yet if he inhaled the smoke, the oxygen deprivation could knock him out. And if the building burned, he’d be burned along with it, and, longevity aside, he didn’t want to test his ability to survive a blaze and recover from third-degree burns. He wore scars from injuries over the years, but he’d never tested fire. Not like Joan had. And after witnessing her death so many years ago, he never wanted to test it.
Besides, if the scars had stayed with him, so would the burns.
Using the hinges to pull the door inward released spumes of choking smoke into the room. Flames glanced at his legs as he rushed out of the room. Down the hallway where he’d wanted to investigate is where the fire had originated. But it was creeping along the bend where the floor met the wall, all the way up to reception. They must have laid down gasoline.
He cleared reception and ran out through the front door and immediately veered around the side of the building and to the back in case they were still there, waiting to count the casualties. The windows on this side of the building were already letting out smoke. He could see flames, as well.
Splaying his hands open, Garin realized he’d left the box inside.
“Damn it.”
The box was the only evidence that something shady had been going on here, and a feeble tie to Bracks, at best. He could go back for it, but the flames had already entered the room he’d been in.
He pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the London emergency number. He was not going to get any information now, and he worried the houses were so closely spaced it wouldn’t be long before the flames jumped to the next building. He reported a fire and gave the address, and decided he had about five minutes, tops, to get the hell away from the scene.
At the back, a tight alleyway marked with black tire treads revealed signs that someone had left in a hurry. Garin swore again.
“What the hell are you up to, Bracks?”
* * *
LUKE DROVE THE Jeep toward the dig site. In the back seat, Doug filmed the scenery. They’d muddled over the brick for most of the afternoon. Annja had made no headway in searching for information online about Bracks.
They’d decided to head back to the site before the sun set so Doug could get some local flavor shots. Later he would dub the narration into the edited footage, but he liked to record while filming, as well. There was a lot Luke didn’t know about what went into producing a television show, so he soaked it all up.
Of course, Doug wasn’t a cameraman or a film editor. But even Annja had to agree some of his footage wasn’t bad. He clearly knew enough to get by.
Quite the pair, these two.
Annja sat in the passenger seat, her focus on the laptop. The vehicle hit a rut, jogging Doug so that Luke grasped quickly over the seat, caught the man’s shirt and managed to yank him back to safety before he keeled headfirst out of the vehicle.
“Would you buckle up back there?” he said.
“Can’t get a good angle if I do that.” Doug did shift back onto the seat and, turning, began to film behind them.
That wasn’t where the action was, though. When Annja saw the black smoke billowing into the clear gray sky on the horizon, her heart sank and she swore. “Step on it,” she directed.
“What’s that?” Doug slid to face forward over the passenger seat. “Is that the dig site? There’s a fire! Hurry up, man. This is going to be good!”
Rolling her eyes at the man’s macabre enthusiasm, Annja gripped the row bar as Luke stepped on the accelerator. The bumpy road tossed them in their seats and the trowels and buckets in the back clattered. As they rolled onto the grounds before the dig site, Annja spotted the usual crowd.
A man stood out, holding a lit torch and shouting in triumph as he spied the Range Rover. The three hopped out.
“Guess they don’t have flashlights in the Czech Republic, eh?” Doug said, clearly delighted to see a burning torch. “Can either of you see anybody waving a pitchfork? That would be the money shot.”
“Do you know who that is?” Luke asked, ignoring him.
“Do you?” Annja saw that the guy with the torch wore a black T-shirt with some kind of death metal logo on it, but he didn’t look familiar.
“It’s the American hawker who was selling stakes and garlic,” Doug said. “What the hell?”
Luke stalked up to the man in the T-shirt. “You’ve destroyed an archaeological dig. I will notify the authorities and this won’t go well for you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“We slayed the vampire, man!” the American shouted, and fisted the air. “As for the mullos over there...” The seller crossed his arms and nodded in pride. “They aren’t going to rise again any time soon.”
“Rise again? They’ve never risen!” Luke kicked the dirt. “I’m surprised at you. Is this how you increase your sales? By erasing the reason for selling the stakes in the first place?”
“I know these people. They needed a hero,” the man shouted. Another fist thrust rallied his odd crew of followers.
Luke punched the man in the jaw, and he went down without another word.
At that moment, another man appeared from out of the forest. The one who wore a sword on his back. He looked at Luke, who held up his fists ready in defense, then shouted for answers.
Annja shoved past one of the local protesters and a path was cleared for her to approach the dig pit where she smelled the kerosene and couldn’t get too close because the blaze was twelve feet high. All her life she’d had nightmares about fire. Because Joan had been burned at the stake? Or was it deeper? Something to do with the loss of her parents, of which she had no recall?
Wrapping her arms across her chest, she shivered even as the heat scorched her cheeks.
Doug joined her side, the tablet computer’s tiny camera eye aimed at the fire. “I’m sorry about this, Annja, but you know if I document it, you might be able to use it as evidence.”
“Thanks, Doug. Doesn’t look like you’re going to get your show, after all.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. If this is the reaction to the possibility that vampires exist, it’s perfect.”
Around them shouts that they had “stopped the mullo” were greeted with cheers. Annja, however, received more than a few evil eyes. The audacity of ignorance burned her more viciously than this fire. She felt sure the blaze wouldn’t completely reduce the bones to ash―it took a higher temperature and longer burn to do that―but the remains would be damaged beyond rescue.
“A total loss,” Luke shouted, joining her side. “Hell, the security guard must not have been around. I should have camped here overnight. Kept an eye on the area. I should have hired security for more than the evenings.”
“It’s out of your hands,” she said. “They were going to destroy this site one way or another.”
“Yes, but I can’t believe the idiot selling stakes was the one who helped them do it.”
“Good left hook,” Annja commented.
“The guy with the sword seems as surprised as we are at the fire and he’s questioning his people right now. He may prove an ally.”
Scanning the surroundings and determining that the fire was contained in the pit, that it shouldn’t leap the forty or fifty feet to the forest, Annja stepped back, arms crossed, and watched as Doug panned across the crowd with his video camera. The
crowd played to him with exaggerated gestures. And—oh, yes―there was the proverbial pitchfork poking the sky in triumph.
“I did not authorize this!” the man with the sword said, at Luke’s side. “This is no way to create peace. It was unnecessary. You and I both understand the mullo does not walk this earth.”
Stunned at that confession, both Annja and Luke gave their attention to the man.
“Then why play to their superstitions?” Luke insisted. “Isn’t it the old beliefs and ways that keep them from integrating with modern society? Isn’t that what you want for your family?”
“I want peace, not fear. The old beliefs and ways will never die. I can fight it all I want, but until the fears die with the elders, I must do what I can. The elders, my parents and cousins, they believe. They have lost two children in the past year. And myself...” He heaved in a sigh and looked away from them, up over the tree line.
Himself? What wasn’t he telling them? Had he lost someone? Annja wanted to ask about the missing children, but right now her attention was divided between making sure the flames didn’t spread and keeping Doug from stepping too close to the fire.
Abruptly turning back to them the leader said, “And for you to bring this horror into the lives of my people has pushed them over the edge. This bonfire was started by fear and yet...it will serve to cleanse them, do you understand?”
Annja did understand, but that didn’t mean she had to like it, or approve.
“They’ve lost children?” Luke asked. “Don’t tell me your people believe a mythical creature rose from the grave to—what? Suck their blood?”
The leader shook his head, bowed it, then lifted his gaze to land, Annja presumed, on the parents in question who must be in the crowd. This was the first clue she’d been given and she wasn’t going to let it go.
“We’ve not been formally introduced. My name is Luke Spencer,” he said. “And this is Annja Creed.”
“I know who she is. And I know you are the man who unearthed this nightmare.”
“And you are?” Annja interjected angrily, trying to calm the urge to call up the sword and let him have it right now.
