Underground Vampire

by David Lee

  Basically, he liked watching her get dressed. And so long as he was quiet, she allowed it. Selecting the day’s outfit was serious business. Idle chatter, ignorant opinions, helpful suggestions and calls for action courted summary banishment and, truth be told, as much as he admired the living room view he admired her so much more that he quickly learned to be quiet, in the moment, and enjoy her most excellent coffee. Her only concession was to allow him to choose the music. This morning was Live in New York City featuring performance versions of Mr. Simon’s body of work, which, upon first listening, she’d judged mature with arrangements befitting lyrics.

  He knew they were in for it when she slipped jeans over her hips and pulled a black turtleneck over her head. Incongruous, she tried on several pairs of heels before settling on a spiky pair of red ones with red soles, the hallmark of some guy whose name Jesse couldn’t remember but he knew they were expensive. “The only good thing about being a Vampire is I can wear heels all day and night and not get tired,” she’d explained, “and I really like wearing heels.”

  Jesse was sure she was the only woman in Seattle with a weapons section in her dressing room, with the guns arranged from matte black to highly polished silver and a section racked from floor to ceiling with edged weapons. This morning she slid her favorite .45 into a pocket of her bomber jacket, the oak stakes into the inside pocket and a short sword into the sheath on her back.

  “Why don’t you go to work,” casual the way she dropped it on him, “Show your face in the station and see what’s up with the SPD.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “No one cares if I show up, in fact, they’re happy if I don’t,” he complained, a little of the hurt still in him.“ I keep walking around down here and they’re happy. I’ll go with you.”

  “Maybe not, Jesse, I need to make a statement.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  “The Queen called Malloy. She’s threatening open war if we don’t get this under control; she wants a bold statement.”

  “Hey, I’m Seattle Police. It’s called resisting arrest.”

  “I don’t want you to see me in action, it won’t be real feminine.”

  “I’m going with you, to protect you.”

  “I like the way our relationship is; I’m afraid this might … change things.”

  She stopped for a moment, her treasured bomber jacket held in her hands.

  “I’m at war; this is not a police action, you can’t arrest anyone; I’m in the service of the Queen, a mercenary who will complete her service.”

  “I understand,” he said, “I couldn’t live with myself if I don’t go with you.”

  “You must do what I say.”

  “Is Malloy going?”

  “Those days are over for Malloy,” she said, looking him square in the face. “He has information.”

  Jesse turned away, she didn’t and wouldn’t use her sight against him, but when she was making a point she looked direct and he knew she was serious. Arabella was the front line warrior and did the hand to hand, face to face activity. Bit by bit, he’d felt himself sliding closer to active engagement, and he wasn’t sure if it was to protect the Humans from the scourge, or her from them or a little of both. All he could be sure of was that he didn’t want to go to the station and wait this one out. He wanted to go with her and protect her.

  “Promise me one thing,” she said, as she shrugged into her jacket.

  “Sure, anything.”

  “Don’t protect me. I don’t need it and you might get in the way trying to help. Just take care of yourself and do what you are told.”

  “Ok.”

  “No independent action.”

  “Got it.”

  “If I go down, you run.”

  “Well ….”

  “Promise or stay home.”

  “Promise.”

  “If anything happened to you I couldn’t live.”

  “I’ll take care.”

  “Promise.”

  “Done.”

  He walked her to the door feeling close to her and happy with his decision. Whatever happened he was doing what he wanted to do and, he believed, the right thing. Now he was antsy to go Underground and face them, pre action jitters fluttered in his gut but that was normal before the unknown, it was a good thing.

  Opening the front door he was confronted by the ugliest and, he had to admit, the scariest looking Vampire he’d met to date. The ones in the Underground were either rancid frightening or the highly polished thugs of the bar. This one had dead black eyes, a sallow complexion that had never seen light, let alone sun, and fingernails like claws. There was no doubt in his mind that this one brought death.

  Reflexively, Jesse reached for his service revolver. The Vampire wrapped his claws around his wrist and throat without, as far as Jesse could see, moving.

  “Release him,” said Arabella. “Now please, Petru.”

  Again without movement he was released, the only evidence of the attack scratches on his wrist and a choking throat. Petru stood there unconcerned and uncaring, saying nothing. Jesse wanted to shoot him but knew it would do no good, even if he could get his gun up.

  “Why are you here?” asked Arabella in a peremptory tone he’d never heard her use. It was the tone you use with a strange pit bull snuffling around your leg.

  “Speak, I’m waiting,” she said directly into Petru’s face.

  Jesse thought she treated him as if he were hard of hearing, either that or she just liked yelling at him. Either way, nothing seemed to affect him; he continued to stand obdurate and dense.

  “I’ve been ordered,” he said in an old voice, unused to speaking Petru’s throat produced mitteleuropa sounds unheard for centuries, “to accompany you to the Underground.” Apparently, he felt that all the explanation necessary, for he stood again as mute as a post.

  Arabella seemingly understood, for she pulled the door behind her, locking it with the only key she carried saying, “Petru, this is my Human, look at him.” Petru turned and opened his black eyes wide and Jesse felt the skin scour from his face, so powerful was this beast’s vision. “Do not harm him and if he is threatened, protect this Human; he is important to the Queen.”

  Petru considered the statement the way a bulldog looking at a bone considers NO, and finally acquiesced with a courtly bow, returning to stand like a stone after the social interaction.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us,” Jesse quipped. Petru had the personality of a giant lizard he’d seen on a nature program, and perhaps the same instincts, he thought, as the odor of dirt and potatoes filled his nose.

  “Petru doesn’t meet people, he eats them, kills them or ignores them; he’s not really interested in the social part.”

  “Isn’t that right,” she said, smiling at Petru.

  “Yes,” the lizard face croaked, wormy lips stretching into a response, “We must leave, we have work to do.”

  “One of his more charming abilities is that he can smell the fluids leaked by a wounded Vampire and track the smell.”

  “Like a dog?” Jesse blurted.

  “Yes. He can also taste your emotions, smell the chemical signature of your muscles and predict what you are about to do, so no sudden movements, please.”

  Jesse felt an overwhelming desire to run. He understood that Petru wouldn’t attack; he understood that Arabella had some control over his actions and he understood that he had dodged having his throat crushed, but the Vampire was an abomination who made him want to vomit. Terror punctured the emotional membrane Jesse maintained between himself and the world for the first time. Involuntarily, his hand went to his service revolver and he drew the gun, knowing all the while it was as useless as a popgun against a gorilla.

  Petru watched him with no interest, unconcerned because there was no threat. Jesse lifted the pistol and Arabella closed her hand around it, whispering in his ear, “It’s alright. You are safe; give me the gun.” He released his hand from th
e grip and she took the weapon. “Petru has that effect on Humans and Vampires alike, he is a very scary being.” Whether he agreed or not was of no importance or concern to Petru, who stood waiting to leave, and Jesse understood that if Petru decided to kill him, then he would be dead.

  Arabella steered him to the elevator, they rode down, the three of them, and once on the street she slipped his gun into his pocket, whispering, “Are you alright?”

  “I can do it,” he whispered, recovering now that he was out from under Petru’s sight.

  “Petru and I will lead; we have fought together before. You follow close behind, protecting our backs.”

  On the walk from the Smith Tower not much was said, pedestrians shying away from Petru, Arabella transforming to combat mode. Mr. Finkelstein saw Arabella at the doorway to the bar. The Indian was in his customary spot at the shuffleboard, helping himself to a stevedore’s dollar bills.

  Beckoning Mr. Finkelstein over, she said in a low voice, “Will you grant entry to him?” Finkelstein looked at Petru thinking, “No, never,” but said “Why?”

  “Hunting.”

  Mr. Finkelstein nodded at Petru and, stepping back, wondered if someday he would look up to see this death come for him. Passing through, Petru stopped at the Indian. The stevedores shrunk back and, setting their schooners down, filed out the door. The Indian held his ground, oblivious to Petru’s threat. “Do you hunt me, Human?” asked Petru, as always skipping the ‘hello, how are you,’ part of the social contract.

  “He’s with me, under my protection,” said Mr. Finkelstein, invoking his privilege as the host. “Leave him be.”

  “He wants to kill me,” replied Petru, “I taste it.”

  Intruding between them, Mr. Finkelstein said, “You are on the same side now; later you can settle.”

  Petru considered. Familiar with European realpolitik, he acquiesced. “I will kill you when this is over; until then you may live.”

  Negotiations concluded, he walked to the back stairs, following his nose to the Vampire smells wafting from the basement.

  The Indian looked at Arabella. “Welcome aboard,” was all she said.

  Jesse stuck out his hand and they shook, falling in behind Arabella.

  “What happened?” said Arabella when they reached the basement.

  “They were able to breach the protections,” said Finkelstein. “They reached in and took one of us.”

  “Without an invitation?”

  “They seemed mindless, they just kept pushing forward.”

  “How did you stop them?”

  Mr. Finkelstein hesitated, thinking of what happened. “We said the prayers, sacred words unheard for centuries, and held the parchments containing the secret names of God lettered in numbers.”

  “And that did not hold?”

  “No, they kept pressing forward as if they were alive but not really, more Golem than man, more demon than Vampire, maybe another bastard race.”

  “But you stopped them finally. How?”

  “Not us, him.”

  “You keep turning up,” said Arabella, stepping toward the Indian.

  “Just trying to help,” he said, standing firm as they all examined him.

  “How’d you do it?”

  In answer he produced two large knives from under his shirt, the one in his right hand held tip out for stabbing and slashing, the other in his fist tip down blade out.

  “Whatever they are, they die,” he said, “when their heads come off.”

  Petru likes that, thought Jesse, watching his lips pull back exposing sharp teeth, like he filed them to points.

  “He was there,” said Mr. Finkelstein, “directing them somehow.”

  “Oliver?”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “He’s not,” she said, turning back, “that’s why we’re here.”

  Without another word, Mr. Finkelstein stepped aside as Arabella led the group to the door. Petru stepped forward and began to snuffle about, drawing deep breathes into himself. Bending over at his waist, he thrust his face into the cones of ash from the dead, flicking his tongue about then rising and, without another word, set off down the tunnel.

  Jesse and the Indian stared after him as he trotted off, like a pig after truffles snoggling his nose to the ground.

  “Charming, isn’t he?” Arabella laughed looking at their faces. “Just don’t get in his way,” she admonished, “he can be indiscriminate.”

  She handed the .45 to Jesse, “Use this, and don’t shoot us.”

  “You, try not to cut me when you’re waving those knives around.”

  Finished, she turned and flashed off following Petru. They looked at each other then called out, “Yes ma’am we’ll try not to hurt ourselves.”

  “If either of you get hurt I’ll be upset, so watch out,” echoed down the passage.

  The sensory glands embedded in Petru’s mouth picked up residue in the sidewalk beyond the Blue Anchor, and they marauded through the Underground tracking the Vampires who assaulted Humans. Finally tracking them to a dim portion of the Underground they attacked, Petru and Arabella leading the assault, the Indian close behind staking the fallen while Jesse proved adept at protecting their flanks with deadly accurate firepower.

  When the brief savage encounter was concluded and they stood among flickering mounds of smoldering Vampire bones, Petru acknowledged the big Indian’s prowess, saying, “I look forward to killing you; worthy adversaries are rare these days.”

  Without buckling, the big Indian met Petru, “You won’t have to look for me, I’ll be coming,” he said with a smile.

  “What about me?” asked Jesse.

  “Human, you are hers,” replied Petru inclining his head toward Arabella, “I would not kill you without her permission, it would be wrong.”

  Glancing at Jesse, Arabella giggled, “So behave.”

  Jesse laughed, weakly.

  The incursion of the four into the tunnels marked a vicious turning point in Oliver’s return. What had been a localized problem became a full-fledged war, with the Queen unleashing her forces to eliminate, no prisoners taken, any opposition.

  Where Oliver had been a disrespectful underling, a disobedient subject casually breaking the law, he was now a heresiarch, the traitor who must be killed lest the exalted Crown be weakened and others encouraged to flout God’s authority.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Stalemate,” said Jason, “we lose.”

  Oliver continued to drink at the throat of the Human. Kneeling at his feet, the young man whimpered at Oliver’s greed.

  “Easy,” counseled Jason, “That’s the last one, the cupboard is bare.”

  Lifting his face, Oliver confronted Jason’s unspoken reproach, “There are more where he came from.”

  “Yes, there are,” Jason replied as Oliver returned to the neck, jaws sawing at the unfortunate throat, “but they are hard to acquire.”

  Ignoring him, Oliver fastened onto the work at hand, violently chewing at the neck, till the sallow youth stiffened, twisted in his arms and expired.

  “Send out for more,” ordered Oliver. “Tell them to bring back more Humans, enough to fill my craving, I am still hungry.”

  Jason watched as Oliver threw himself upon the couch. Blood covered his face and dripped down on his couch. “Perhaps you should see the physician,” suggested Jason, “maybe he can give you something to slake your thirst.”

  “Not him,” snarled Oliver, rising from the couch, “no more of him and his talking. I need blood, Human blood, not his questioning.”

  Jason nodded, hoping Oliver’s needs would subside as his most recent feeding took effect. Placating his master, he explained, “It is difficult as matters stand to access the city.”

  “Not your excuses again,” raged Oliver, “I am sick and tired of failure.”

  “As we all are,” soothed Jason, “but our access to topside is limited, thus limiting our access to Humans.”

  “What do you suggest
?” suddenly rational, Oliver said, “I mean as field commander, counsel me, advise me, tell me what I should do.”

  Jason took a moment, thinking how far he should go, how much truth and reality Oliver could accept and handle; it was increasingly difficult to accurately gauge his moods.

  “I’m listening,” snarled Oliver, no longer reasonable, “and I’m hungry, so make it short, please.

  “Why don’t I see to replacing the Humans,” placated Jason, striding to the door. “We can discuss strategy once I’ve fixed that problem.”

  “Must I do everything,” moaned Oliver at his back, “can’t you do anything?”

  Jason cringed. Oliver’s isolation in his hidden bunker sealed him from reality, leaving his paranoia free to develop grand plans and devious strategies; plans and strategies that accomplished little but cost dearly in lives and territory. Continuing, he slipped into messianic Oliver, his vision far away on a grand scale that would turn the rebellion on a single stroke.

  Inwardly, Jason groaned, cursing boredom, the fatal flaw in his character, emotional ennui that compelled him to follow charismatic fools. Thankfully Oliver, fully invested in his dream, did not notice his momentary indiscretion.

  Rising, Oliver crossed to his desk and, removing a document, spun back to him proclaiming, “Here, here is how we will do it,” he waived the sheets of paper in Jason’s face.

  “What is it that we are doing?”

  “We are leaving; enough of living in tunnels, eating rats and fighting for dirt. I returned to be a King not to live in a hovel.”

  “Hardly a hovel,” commented Jason. But truthfully, Oliver had slowly and inevitably turned his quarters into a disheveled mess bordering on psychotic disarray.

  “I need a place with a view, a home on a hill, something with an address, a pedigree,” mused Oliver.

  “Lots of people want to live in those houses,” said Jason.

  “Yes they do, that’s what makes them desirable.”

  “And defended.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about making a purchase offer; I’m moving in.”

  “And the current occupant?”

  “She has to go.”

  “She won’t like that.”