Derek’s face twisted with rage, his eye flicking to de Vries. “You’re insane, old man. Just because you despise what you are doesn’t make you the agent of God.”
“You’re wrong,” said Priest. “That’s exactly what it makes him. And as his witness and priest of the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, I pronounce sentence on you, Derek D’imato. Witnessed and recorded.”
De Vries smiled. “She has a way with words, don’t you think?”
“I declare you an abomination in the eyes of the righteous,” said Priest.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Foam-flecked spittle flew from Derek’s mouth, and his incisors tore a small, bloodless wound in his lower lip. “How can you do this? We’re the same.”
De Vries felt his anger surge. “We are nothing alike, you and I.”
Derek’s torn lip healed up almost immediately. “Whatever you say, vampire. But you and I are not that different.”
De Vries ignored him and turned to face Short Eyes. He gestured with one fine-boned hand. “Priest, it is time.”
Priest walked across the room and picked up a ceramic basin filled with water, a silver spoon, and a large sponge. She carried them back to the edge of the circle. “I am ready.”
De Vries silently acknowledged her, then gathered his power around him. When he was ready, he drew himself up and stepped close to Derek.
“Don’t come near me.” Derek’s voice was calm again, the edge of insanity turned to something far more cunning.
“You were raised Catholic, weren’t you, Derek? I should think you would appreciate all the trouble I’ve gone through for you. For you and your father, who has forgotten his faith.”
Derek just grunted, his unreal blue eyes tracking de Vries. De Vries took the towel from Priest and wet it in the basin’s water. “Are you ready for your final baptism?” He wrung the excess water from the sponge.
“After all,” de Vries continued, “you were baptized as a child, and seeing as you have just recently been born a child of darkness, I thought baptism was a fitting way to prepare you for what I have in store.” De Vries chuckled as he moved the sponge close to Derek’s face, watching carefully as the man’s neck muscles bulged, trying to move away.
Abruptly. Derek’s head lunged violently forward and he tried to sink his fangs into de Vries’ wrist.
De Vries spoke a word, and the air around Derek’s head seemed to crackle with magical electricity. Derek’s fangs stopped a mere centimeter from contact with de Vries’ skin.
“You like that?” asked de Vries. “I learned it from a young woman in New Orleans about a year ago. You feel the pressure on your throat? You move too much, and you lose your head. You know what happens to a vampire who loses his head?”
With a soft chuckle, de Vries wiped at Dereks immobile face, and with each touch of the sponge, the caked make-up disappeared. Underneath, Derek D’imato’s skin was black. Not the black of someone with African blood, no, the intense sun of that continent had never touched something so dark. As the make-up was patiently washed away, the darkness became so absolute that Derek’s features began to meld with each other. Even in the camera’s floods, the black flesh absorbed the light and gave nothing back.
When de Vries was done, Derek had become a faceless nightmare, with only the tiny crescents of his teeth and the violent white and blue of his eyes to testify that this was a face, and not some black pit.
De Vries dropped the brown-smudged sponge, and took the small silver spoon from the bowl. With two swift, precise motions, he used the lip of the spoon to pluck the blue discs from Derek’s eyes. Then he dropped the spoon back into the bowl.
Derek didn’t blink, and now his eyes were simply white, with two small pinholes of night at their center.
“Holy mother of God,” whispered Priest.
De Vries stepped back. “What did I tell you? If his kind is allowed to spread its infection, metahumanity is doomed.”
Priest shook her head as if to clear it after too much strong drink. “Are you ready, then?”
De Vries laid a hand on Priest’s shoulder, and looked at Derek. “You are familiar with the sacrament of extreme unction? As a good Catholic boy, you should be.”
Derek glared at them both.
Beside him, Priest chuckled. “You know, last rites? I even know it in Latin.”
De Vries grinned at Derek, who still couldn’t move. “You see, I have taken pains to make this as formal as possible. Your father should appreciate that.” He made a small passing motion with his hand, and Derek’s nothing face continued its truncated arc, his teeth snapping shut on the air where de Vries’ hand had been when Derek had begun his attack.
“You’ll pay for this, de Vries!” he screamed. “My father will make you and this chiphead priest suffer beyond anything you’ve ever imagined.”
Priest began to chant as de Vries lit incense along the edges of the circle. “Per istam Sanctum unctionem et suam piissimam inisericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti…”
Priest finished anointing Derek, though instead of actually touching him, she simply sprinkled water at him from outside the circle.
There was one final touch de Vries wanted to make. He turned to face one of the cameras, looking straight into it. “Marco D’imato,” he said. I have taken your son, and he is no more to you. Soon, you will be visited in the dark of night, and I will set you on the road to follow him.”
It was time.
Derek screamed as de Vries turned back to him. And there was little wonder why. Short Eyes had taken the Priest chip, and was back to her normal self. She had also pulled a small surgical pump from out of her bag and was holding it out to de Vries. This wasn’t how de Vries preferred to work, but if the information he’d received was correct, for him to ingest Derek’s blood would have devastating consequences. So new methods had to be found. Stepping up to Derek, he spoke the word he’d learned in New Orleans last summer, and Derek’s head snapped into stillness once again.
De Vries attached the surgical pump to the side of the chair and fastened the drain tubing to the side of Derek’s neck, The surgical pump had been modified so that it would clamp independently onto Derek’s head, and the hose would drain the blood from his jugular. At the same time, the silver needle on the pump would stop Derek’s natural regeneration from closing the wound. Clamping the needle into the skin of Derek’s neck, causing it to puncture the jugular, de Vries started the small motor a the base of the pump.
A tiny whining noise filled the warehouse as the suction pump began to siphon Derek’s black blood from his neck, down the tubing, and into the large bucket Short Eyes had placed on the floor at de Vries’ feet.
Like petrol from a car, thought do Vries with a sad smile. With a wave of his hand, he released Derek’s head from the barrier.
Derek screamed, a loud piercing wail that shattered one of the windowpanes, high in the warehouse.
2
Hey, Stem, I need a favor-off the record. I thought you OC guys might be able to get me something on a small security corp named Fralellanza. inc. here in town. I hear the name means “brotherhood” and that these guys popped up out of nowhere about seven years ago. The scan I got says they’re a little family-owned organization, which is growing fast. Some of my snoops say they’re Mafia, and considering what happened today, it seems plausible. The son of Fratellanza’s owner died in a very peculiar way a few weeks back, and we’ve been holding the body pending certain tests. Then, today I found out that the stiff had been released to the family and that my captain had closed the case. I don’t want to get in his face on this. but the whole things got me wondering. Think you could do a little legwork on your end? I’ll owe you one.
–Inter-departmental email, Lone Star Security Services Inc., Mike Powell. Department of Homicide, to Stem Carlson, Department of Organized Crime, 03 August 2060. Transmission intercept by Fratellanza deckers. Scan word: Fratellanza, 05 August 2060
Rachel Harlan sto
od naked in the cluttered studio, her strawberry-blonde hair cascading down her back and shoulders. She wiped sleep from her eyes, then walked over to Warren’s latest sculpture and threw back the cover cloth. Underneath was a demon, vicious and cruel, straining to break free of its marble prison.
Rachel studied the creature’s partially formed wings, outspread and anxious to take flight. The face was unfinished, but she could picture what it would look like when Warren was done sculpting it-a ruined visage, scarred and twisted with a rage so intense it scared her.
Rachel reached out and ran her fingertips over the hewn stone. Anyone watching might have been struck by the sharp contrast of her beauty to its ugliness. Where Rachel’s nose was pert and straight, the sculpture’s hooked into a hideous beak. Rachel’s eyes were wide and blue, her lips full and naturally red. The demon eyes would shine with dark intensity, Its lips would be torn by its jagged line of teeth.
Rachel shuddered. She didn’t understand Warren’s choice of subjects, but he was the artist, not her. This demon sent a chill like ice running all the way down her spine.
She stepped back from the table-actually a large wooden door propped up on twin metal filing cabinets-and studied the block of marble from a distance.
The damn thing is ugly, she thought, then quickly tossed the cover cloth back over it.
When Warren had selected the marble block from the quarry, Rachel thought he was seeing an angel inside the large chunk of rock. An angel would have been sweet.
But now she knew that he’d been seeing a demon all along. And she didn’t know what was more frightening, the demon or Warren’s mood while carving it. He’d been distant and sullen all week and she couldn’t figure out why.
She turned from the block and crossed the large, open studio, her bare footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors and bouncing off the high, white stucco ceiling.
She walked to the trid, past the midnight-blue futon couch that was the large room’s only furniture, except for easels and worktable. She slipped a chip of Cool Phantom’s “Millennium Bygones” into the rack, letting the lead singer’s soothing voice pour out of the wall speakers. She swayed to the music as she made her way into the kitchen.
A surprise August drizzle spattered against the window pane, clouding her view of the tire retreading shop across the street. It was cool in the kitchen, and she felt a tightening around her nipples as the chill did its work on her skin.
She poured two cups of fresh-brewed soykaf into the mugs she’d gotten Warren for Christmas that year.
“Babe?” From the bedroom, Warren’s voice was an early morning rasp, harsh against the background of soft music and slow rain; still, it made her smile.
“What?”
“You making ‘kaf?”
Rachel’s smile stretched into a grin as she looked out the kitchen window at the early morning drizzle. “Already made.”
She could hear Warren shifting in bed. “You bringing me some?”
She laughed. “Already poured.”
“I worship the ground you walk on.”
She picked up the mugs, ready to head for the bedroom, then hesitated an instant, looking out at the cold rain. There was something perfect about the moment, and she wanted to let it linger, like the scent of perfume hangs in the air after the passage of a beautiful woman.
But the moment passed, and she sighed as she crossed to the bedroom, holding the steaming mugs in front of her.
The bedroom looked as if a small hurricane had hit it. The walls were crammed with prints of various artists, but the dominant force was Michael Parks. His surreal pictures hung at angles, overlapping the others.
The futon, twin to the one in the studio, was opened into a bed and occupied the center of the room. Sprawled across it was Warren, his long, dark hair spreading against the white pillowcase as he turned to look at her.
Rachel paused, her sense of the sublime triggered. It Still amazed her that they were together. He was gorgeous; he was an artist. What had she done to deserve him?
Warren stared back at her with gawking admiration, and Rachel felt self-conscious. She smiled and put the coffee mugs in front of her breasts.
“Oh, that certainly covers up a lot,” Warren said, laughing. “I can still see your-”
“You want kaf or breakfast?”
“Kaf first,” he said. “Breakfast later.” He struggled into a sitting position, revealing his tightly muscled stomach.
Rachel handed him one of the cups. “Black,” she said, “with tons of sugar.”
Warren blew on the soykaf, making the steam billow out gently. He took a sip, then another, but his eyes never left her body.
His look was devilish and aroused the first stirrings of desire. Her skin tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from a chill. “Just ‘cause they’re hard,” she said, “doesn’t necessarily mean I’m horny.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Warren laughed. “And just because I’m looking at the menu doesn’t mean I want to order.”
Rachel moved fast, grabbing a pillow with her free hand and targeting Warren’s face with an expert throw. The pillow hit him in the side of the head.
He grinned and set his soykaf on the floor beside the bed. “Oh course you know…”
“Yeah, yeah… this means war.” She leaned over and set her mug on the lamp stand. Then, with a laugh, she was on him. She swarmed over him, her naked body covering his. She pushed him onto his back, her desire for him suddenly urgent.
They wrestled for a moment, Rachel straining to pin his arms above his head, and finally succeeding. I’m getting stronger, she thought. Those workouts with Flak are helping.
“I win,” she whispered.
Warren’s breath was warm on her face. “The battle, maybe.” He kissed her on the lips, softly. A brush of skin on skin.
She released his arms and returned the kiss, a little more forcefully, then harder and harder.
Warren’s skin was warm against her, and he smelled of sleep. He tossed the blankets off and pulled Rachel onto him so that she straddled his hips.
Rachel brushed her fingernails along the ripples of his stomach, then bent to take his left nipple in her mouth. Her hair tumbled over his chest as she bared her teeth against his nipple and suddenly bit it.
Warren gasped, and grew hard against her.
Rachel looked him in the eye, resting her chin on his chest. “Are you ready to order now, or do you need some more time with the menu?”
He reached down and took her face between his hands. Pulling her toward him, he kissed her fiercely, suddenly out of control.
She plunged her hands into his long hair and kissed him hard, sucking his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of fresh soykaf.
Warren ran his fingers down her back, making her shudder and moan into his mouth.
He pulled back. “Miss, I’m ready to order.”
Her voice had grown throaty. “Oh?”
“I think I’ll have the special, with orange juice in a tall glass.”
She laughed again, and began a smooth rocking motion of her hips. “One special,” she said. “Coming up.”
She leaned over Warren, her hair cascading down over his face. She covered his mouth with hers, biting his lip as she pushed her hips down over him.
Warren moaned, holding her tightly, forcing her to take it slow. Prolonging her pleasure.
By the time they were done, their soykaf was no longer steaming. Rachel was covered in sweat, her hair a damp tangle down her back, which quickly chilled in the cool air. Her throat was dry. “Water,” she croaked, as she fell off Warren and lay on her side.
Warren laughed and got out of bed, the sheen of sweat on his back making him look like he’d been dipped in oil. He returned a few moments later with two bottles of mineral water, and Rachel chugged half of hers before pulling the bottle from her lips.
Warren lay down beside her, and she ran her fingers through his hair. “Baby, that was so rocket.”
<
br /> He smiled, and gently reached out to tweak her nipple. “You say that as though it hasn’t been good every time.”
“Well, your mood this past week has been pretty fragging dark.”
Warren shot up suddenly and started pulling on his clothes. “Oh, drek!” he said.
“Were are you going now, Storey? You can’t just jam and run. I’m not that kind of girl.”
Warren threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt. “I completely forgot about something I’ve gotta do today.”
“Forgot?”
“Oh, I’ve got this damn funeral.”
Rachel was suddenly sorry she’d been joking. She stood and hugged him. “Oh, baby.” She kissed his neck softly. “I’m sorry.”
Warren reached for his black engineer boots and pulled the right one on, without socks. “Don’t be, He was a real prick.”
“Whose funeral?”
Warren pulled on the other boot. “You remember the telecom call I got from my dad, about a few weeks ago?”
Rachel frowned. “The same guy?”
Warren nodded.
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t get it. If he died back then, how come they’re just burying him now?”
Warren shrugged. “There was some big investigation, something to do with the way he died. Lone Star wouldn’t release the body until now.”
Rachel reached out and touched Warren’s shoulder. “Do you really have to go?”
He twisted to look Rachel into the eyes. “Rachel, believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do than stay here and make love to you until some time tomorrow morning. And barring that, I was hoping we could catch some breakfast, and then maybe a matinee.”
Warren stroked her cheek. “And maybe some time real soon I’ll be able to explain why I have to go to a funeral for someone I could give a frag about. But for now, you’ll just have to trust me when I say that I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important.”
Terminus Experiment Page 3
