by Declan Finn
Marco cleared his throat, and furrowed his brow. “That’s just plain strange. Wasn’t all this cleared up after they held Dad hostage for a few hours?”
Amanda shook her head. “Nyet. For that, we sent Father Rodgers and his Vatican Ninjas. Then, they did not know we were also in collusion with police officers. And, now that they do know, they are attempting to take… liberties.”
Doctor Catalano ‘hmmed’ and said, “Have you explained to them that you don’t need the mob? After all, it’s not like they’re all over the place; they’re limited in where they can go, and what they can do. This isn’t 1920s Chicago or anything.”
“They believe themselves indispensable,” Amanda explained. “They push no matter what we do or say. We have yet to formally cut ties with them, but that is, in practice, what has happened.”
Marco blinked hard, and shook his head to clear it. “What does that mean in standard English?”
Amanda blushed, and composed herself, her speech changing with it, and her accent becoming less pronounced. “We’ve stopped helping them, even though we will occasionally talk to them. In short, everything has fallen apart as far as the Mafia are concerned.”
Marco growled. “Fine. As you said, we don’t need them. They’re nice support and a little extra firepower, but that’s all. If they can’t be content to accept the small legal protection that I’m sure you offered, then they get nothing at all from us.”
Amanda nodded. “Precisely.”
“What protection?” Robert Catalano asked.
“Immunity for all people carrying weapons, as long as they’re on the vampire hunting detail,” Marco answered. “Assigning all of the NYPD officers who are in on the vampire situation to Mafia-controlled parts of New York so that they can recognize each other and try to not get in each other’s way. That sort of thing.” He glanced back at Amanda. “You did that, right?”
Amanda nodded. “But of course.”
“In other words, it’s basic politics,” Robert muttered. “Lovely. I’m surprised that you haven’t eaten them all yet, Amanda.”
The vampire grinned. “It wouldn’t do me much good in the long run, Doctor Catalano.”
“Please, call me Robert,” he objected. “You’re older than I am, you’re allowed.”
Amanda blushed again, and continued. “If I were to eat the Mafia, it would be utterly selfish. I can kill people in self-defense, but not for simple negotiation. Otherwise, it would be immoral, and I would risk going over to the dark side… and I like going to church. Thank you.”
“Ah, that’s right. Religious artifacts only hurt you if you’re leaning on the evil scale.” Robert swerved around yet another curve, and a double-parked car. They still weren’t out of the airport yet. “It’s hard to keep track of which of the various and sundry vampire myths are real anymore. They keep rewriting it.”
“Usually to write out the religious parts of it,” Marco said. “It’s all Blade and Ann Rice, and The Mormon.”
Robert blinked. “The Mormon?”
“Sparkle-pyres?” Marco prompted.
Doctor Catalano made a face. “Oh, yes. Her.”
Amanda laughed. “It is so nice to know I am not the only one who dislikes that series.”
“Like Marco, I draw the line at a female protagonist who has no self-esteem, and doesn’t mind being stalked.” Robert glanced at his son. “So, what did you think of San Francisco?”
* * *
Marco hesitated, caught flat-footed by the sudden shift in topics. He half-expected his father and Amanda to banter for a bit before getting onto the topic. In fact, if he had waited until Amanda was back in Manhattan, and he was back in Brooklyn, Marco wouldn’t have been at all surprised.
Instead, he had to go straight to it. Oh well, good old dad. Always right to the point. So refreshing…usually.
“It was okay,” Marco answered. “They’re not bad. There are some nice attributes, but nothing that makes me want to go there, or utterly discount it.”
He made certain to look at his father the entire time as he said this. It wasn’t so much to make certain he maintained eye contact to establish the truth of his statement, but it was to make certain that Amanda didn’t catch on to the lie of the matter. It wouldn’t have gone over well to say he was looking for reasons to stay home because he wanted to stay close to Amanda.
Marco smiled, and described the campus, and the area, and the park that was such an obvious rip-off of his park (it was New York, the park was his, dammit). And for some reason, it had a windmill in the middle of it. All very strange.
As for a skyline, the most impressive building they had was the Pyramid Building, in the “good” part of town, near the piers and the Embarcadero—a strip of stores that was almost an outdoor mall. And it looked like just that—a pyramid. It was a jewel of the city, the peak of San Francisco 20th-century construction. Beyond that was the Bay, and there, Alcatraz.
Down the road from Chinatown, within walking distance through a more Italian part of town, was the large, square-shaped, marble visage of Saint Peter’s- Saint Paul’s. It was a pure-white church, immaculate and unyielding. Set in front of Grant Park, it was a great, traditional church that had stood against the ages and ravages of time and modern architecture.
As Marco let his mouth run off without his brain, he tried very hard not to think about Amanda. While he had been in San Francisco, he had managed to not think about her quite well. He could not think about the feel of her body as he hugged her; or her scent (which was a light, vanilla spice that apparently needed no perfume to generate), or her smile, or her lovely full lips.
Basically, had Marco not had the mind of a supercomputer, most of his brain cells would have been dedicated to the pure pleasure of seeing Amanda again. From the instant he had seen her, his heart practically leapt his in chest, despite the amount of breathing and meditation exercises he had gone through in order to hide his attraction. By the time he was down the escalator, he had already gotten himself under control. But it had taken a huge hunk of his brain matter to get his breathing and heart rate from giving him away.
It was bad enough Marco was in love with Amanda. He couldn’t begin to imagine her reaction if his pulse shot up every time he saw her. She might take it the wrong way.
Or worse, she would take it the right way.
Looking at it objectively, Marco couldn’t begin to imagine putting Amanda in the uncomfortable position of being lusted after by a semi-sociopath. He had no problem killing people he thought needed killing; he rather enjoyed it.
Groucho Marx once said, “I wouldn’t join any club that would allow me as a member.” Since all of the good clubs didn’t allow Jews, he was too good for any club that would allow him to join. In my case, I wouldn’t date any woman I loved, because I’d care too much to have her date a crazy person… hmm, I think I’m more screwed up than I thought.
“All in all,” Marco concluded, “I can think of worse places to get a free ride. It’s a very… pretty city,” he said, making it sound like an insult. But then again, he would be the first to admit that he was a New York chauvinist. He finally gave Amanda a glance, and his little smile, and felt conflicted. He knew he really should go, but seriously didn’t want to. “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”
Amanda gave him a broad smile. “Good. I would miss you if you went.”
“Same here,” Marco said. “Same here.”
CHAPTER 7:
DEATH IN THE FAMILY
San Francisco, August 1st
Merle Kraft looked around his magic store at his small crew of vampire hunters, and winced. Three women of relatively healthy build, one athlete. There was George, built like a brick wall, and Rory, whose major achievement was that he was a vampire.
Do I trust these people enough to leave them alone for a few days?
Tiffany Whitman didn’t even bother to look out from behind the cash register. “Go, have fun, boss. We promise not to
steal anything from the cash register.” She looked up, and her perfectly clear blue eyes were as sincere and as vacant as her head. “Honest. I mean it.”
Merle rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Tiffany, that’s oh so reassuring.”
“What? I meant it!”
“He knows that,” Yana told her, putting her hand on Tiffany’s shoulder. “He trusts you.”
“Oh. Well. Good.” Tiffany looked back to the cash register.
George chuckled, amused by his girlfriend—and Merle couldn’t even think of Tiffany as George’s girlfriend. Damn, she is such a blonde. “Don’t worry, Merle, we’ll be fine.”
Rory leaned up against a wall and grinned. “Aye, what could happen?” He lit up a cigarette and inhaled. “You’re going out for, what? A day or two?”
Merle nodded. “Right. I’m going to help my wife and…” he caught himself, cleared his throat, and said, “my ex-wife and son move to San Francisco. It shouldn’t take long. Can y’all try not to get yourself killed in the meantime?”
Several of them exchanged a glance at the blue eyed-California Asian saying y’all like a Texan. Sarah “Buffy” Bell laughed, and nodded, then slapped him on the arm. “Sure, chief, whatever you say.”
Merle sighed, and walked out the door, before he could talk himself out of leaving. He wanted to keep his people safe, but he wanted his son and his ex-wife closer to him, and farther from the resting place of Dalf Kraft. Dalf had been the one who prompted the entire move. He had visited his nephew recently, a visit that had even prompted the tough NYPD Detective Kristen Kelly into leaving the east coast.
Though he did wonder if there could have been another issue…
* * *
Six people moved through some of the darker ends of Haight-Ashbury—San Francisco’s traditionally “hippie” district. Also home to a number of marijuana plants left so long they had tipped over and seemed to be heading towards street level like hanging vines.
“So, what are we doing here?” George Berkeley rumbled. His deep bass voice sounded like it came from the inside of a tank.
“Multiple vampire attacks have been listed here in the past week,” Sarah “Buffy” Bell said casually. “Merle said it was probably nothing, but I want to check it out anyway.”
Rory rolled his eyes. “Aye? Is that so? Why is that, then?”
Yana Rosenburg gave the other redhead a glance. “Because this is our test run. We all know that Merle has a business outside of San Francisco. This is him letting us out on our own. He can get back to his business, and we can kick ass and take names all on our own.”
Tiffany looked around like a nervous cat. “Does anyone else know where the hell we’re going?”
“Yup,” Yana said, pointing, “that’s where I get my herbs for my spells.”
Rory sighed. “Ye say ye’re a witch, lass, but do you actually make any spells that work?”
“Um, no, but I’m still working on it. I’ll get it right, really.”
Rory sighed, and said nothing for a long moment. “Whatever ye say, dearie. Whatever you say. Wiccans.”
Sarah looked over her shoulder. “Don’t vampires have super-sensitive hearing? Then how about you all shut up before somebody hears—”
Sarah was cut off by the sound of screaming, and she looked around, trying to narrow down the location. Rory pointed and said, “I think it’s over there. But—”
Before he could finish speaking, Sarah had taken off, with Yana and George right next to her. Tiffany and Tara were right behind them.
Rory sighed. “Kids.”
He chased after the five of them, hoping to get to them before they could do something really stupid. Five normal college students were more than a match for a mediocre vampire. Unless he was the sort who committed murder on a semi-regular basis, the sheer numbers were enough to overpower him. So, by the time Rory had gotten there, there was already a dead vampire.
However, the person they had come to save was also dead. A hippie-type with long blond braids and bulging eyes, her neck had been broken, probably when she was tossed aside like a rag doll against the solid brick wall.
Rory shrugged, lit a cigarette, and said, “Well, that’s nice of ye. Can we go and find a real vampire threat n—?”
Rory cut himself off, and looked around. This was a standard alley. There was a fire escape, a garbage bin, and two ends of the alleyway.
And there was also the strong, sudden sense of vampires. Lots of vampires.
“Under the fire escape! Now!” he bellowed, and leapt for his cohorts. He grabbed Yana and Tara, throwing them under the fire escape. He had just reached Tiffany and George when the sky started to rain vampires.
They were suddenly everywhere. They had been dropping from the rooftops, and coming in from both ends of the alley.
Three had landed on Sarah Bell, pressing her down to the ground.
* * *
New York City, August 2nd, 7:00am.
A 5’3” athletic, golden-haired blonde (leaning heavily on the gold) stood in the arrivals section of LaGuardia Airport in New York City, with strands falling smoothly to the nape of her neck. Rich blue eyes set over smooth Celtic cheekbones locked onto Merle Kraft immediately once he was down the escalator stairs. She wore a lightweight black sweatshirt with a zipper in front, opened partly at the neck, revealing creamy skin he knew so very well, with a pair of black jeans.
Merle smiled instinctively at the first sight of her. He wanted to run into her arms, and hold her for all he was worth …
Then he remembered they were divorced. And that his job was the reason; middle of the night calls and secrets he couldn’t divulge would doom any marriage.
“So, how’s Arthur?” he asked politely.
She shrugged. “Asleep at home. There wasn’t anything on today’s agenda, and I thought it would be nice if we all had breakfast together before we finished the packing.”
Merle smiled. “That sounds like a great idea.”
They went straight to the parking lot, since all Merle carried was a backpack, just in case the return flight was screwed up somehow.
“How much is left?” he asked.
“Not too much,” she said with a smile. “But enough to keep you busy.”
Merle chuckled, and stopped at the car door. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, and he turned it on. “Sorry, but I really should be in contact at all—”
His iPhone went off like a Fourth of July fireworks display. Alarms for voice mail, text, email, and an incoming call all went off at the same time—which meant that a Star Trek phaser fired, a bomb exploded, and the theme to The Sorcerer’s Apprentice went off at the same time.
Even Kristen jumped back from the car, reaching for her sidearm. “What the hell?”
“My cell phone,” Merle said, confused. “I wonder what blew up while I was away.” He frowned, confused, and slid into the seat as he answered the phone call.
“Hi,” he said, buckling up, “who is this, and why are you trying to shut down my iPhone?”
“It’s Yana,” the redhead sobbed, “something has–has hap-hap-happeeeeeennnnned.”
Merle jerked the phone away from his ear. “What the hell?” he muttered. He looked at Kristen as she slipped in, and he shrugged. “Get the car moving. I suspect I’m going to be on the phone for a while.”
Kristen rolled her eyes and started the car, while Merle tentatively moved the phone back to his ear. “What’s happened? Hello?”
“Yeah,” came the deep, gruff voice of George Berkeley, Tiffany’s boyfriend, the one built like a linebacker. “Yana can’t handle this right now…she held together until she got on the phone with you. You see she’s…um…well, she’s… ” George took a deep breath. “She’s dead.”
Merle blinked. Yana was dead? But she was just talking to me. Does that means she’s a vampire now? “Who’s dead?”
Kristen looked over. She put the car into drive, and pulled out.
This went on for a while as Merle tri
ed to calm down almost everyone in turn. In the end, Rory had to tell him the story. The century-old vampire was the only one who could get through the tale without breaking down into tears. But, as Rory had told Merle, he had lost everyone in his life at least twice.
However, even Rory seemed to hesitate at moments as he told the story of the night before.
Merle sat and listened as Kristen drove. He had to fight to keep his face impassive. Because, it had been the night that the vampires had come to San Francisco to kill Merle Kraft.
These vampires had been well trained. Very well trained. Rory had said that they were all as good as Merle Kraft was. Considering that Merle knew who Rory had been when he still had a pulse, that meant something.
These people had been well-trained, meaning full military-level training.
Unfortunately, there was only one person that Merle could think of who had that many vampires like that, and he was already dead.
But that doesn’t mean everyone else dies off too, now does it? All of Mikhail’s friends, and followers, and everyone who he had ever trained. Someone had assassinated him to keep him from talking. And they’re apparently not happy that they had to do that.
The tale Rory told was somewhere between the most horrid thing that had ever happened in Merle’s life, and the most glorious act of heroism unseen by a civilian in years.
But the night of August 1st was the night they came—a group of vampires spawned and trained by Mikhail the Bear himself.
It was one hundred of them versus some humans and Rory.
Merle’s people had been led into a trap, blocked in an alley in the back end of Haight Ashbury. Vampires were at both ends of the alley, Sarah and Rory at either end, the others for support. There was only one way out, and it involved climbing atop a dumpster to get up to a fire escape. Sarah ended up holding off the hordes, and she cut down forty of the best-trained vampires in the world—in Rory’s opinion.
The rest were finished off long-range by arrow, holy water, fire, and crucifix.
