…he could see the detectives in that large, rectangular building with all the windows, bringing his servant Roach into a room where they were going to ask him questions. Roach sat at a table, and one of the detectives—a black man—switched on a tape recorder. “All right, Benefield,” the black man said. “We’re going to ask you a few more questions.”
“Questions? (MASTER HELP ME!) When can I go home?”
“Remember the photographs I showed you this afternoon?” the black man said. “The four bad girls?”
“I remember them,” Roach said.
“Good.” The detective opened a folder and looked through some papers. Then he shivered and glanced up at a larger man who sat across the room. “Does it feel cold in here to you, Farris?”
“Yeah, kind of,” the one called Farris said. “A little chilly.”
“Chilly, my ass! Feels like a north wind blew in!” He shivered again and then returned to the folder. “What were you going to do to Vicki Harris after you knocked her out with that stuff, Benefield?”
“Nothing.”
“Really? Let me read you something from your rap sheet. Do you remember a young woman named Gilly Langford from August of ’76?”
“No. (MASTER HELP ME!)”
“That’s odd because she knew you when she picked you out of a lineup in an attempted rape case. She said you tried to strangle her, and she had the bruises on her throat to prove it. Then there was a little girl, Janis Chessler, eight years old. November 1977. Do you remember her?”
Roach closed his eyes tightly, clenching his hands into fists. (SAVE ME MASTER! THEY’RE GOING TO TRY TO MAKE ME TELL!)
“Do you remember Dr. Carl Friedman, Benefield?” the black man asked. “He was the State Mental Health Board psychologist assigned to your case after your molestation sentence was suspended. We’ve been in contact with him. Shall I tell you what he says about you?”
“Lies,” Roach. “Everybody lies about me.”
“He says you’re what’s called a paranoid-schizophrenic,” the black man said. “That things get mixed up in your head sometimes and you lose track of past events. He says you complain of severe headaches and you have abrupt mood changes. Dr. Friedman says you show hostility to women. Are those lies, Benefield?”
“Yes…”
“I’ll ask you again. What were you going to do to Vicki Harris?”
Roach trembled and whispered, “He…doesn’t want me to tell…”
“He? Who are you talking about?”
“The Master.” There were beads of sweat on his face. “He says I’m not supposed to…”
Prince Vulkan broke mental contact with Roach and looked over at Paige LaSanda. Her spoon was scraping the bottom of the silver bowl; her chin dripped with beef gyulash, and it had splattered down onto her dress. The woman’s eyes were glazed, brimming with tears and totally insane.
“That’s enough,” Vulkan barked. Immediately Paige’s hand opened, and the spoon clattered to the floor. He turned his gaze away from her, looking inward again. He wasn’t certain how strong Roach’s will was and how long the man could bear this sort of questioning. The night before, Vulkan had made the castle tremble with his screams of rage when he’d realized Roach had been caught. The man was bringing his offering—and Vulkan’s food—up the mountain. But Roach was a loyal servant and could be put to future use, so now he had to be saved from the den of the enemy. Vulkan put a hand to his left temple and looked deep into the night, concentrating on what he wanted done. His dark essence, like a formless shadow, left his body and traveled upward, squeezing through a chink in the wall and moving outward; it was something the Headmaster had taught him to do. All of the city gleamed underneath. In just a moment he could see the bats spinning in the black sky like a mad whirlwind, hundreds of them flying from their caves in the San Gabriel and Santa Monica Mountains, gathering directly above Parker Center in downtown Los Angeles. They churned there, a squeaking cyclone of wings, awaiting his next command. When the sky was filled with them, he watched in his mind…
…the bats dropping lower, still spinning in a huge circle, hovering like a black noose around the gray-green building. They began to split formation and fly into the walls and windows. Those that didn’t smash themselves to death flew a distance away and then came back to strike again…
Vulkan shifted focus, linked with Roach again and saw…
…the black detective looked up suddenly from the folder. He glanced at Farris, his brow creasing. “What was that? Did you hear something?”
“Wait a minute,” Farris said, listening.
Roach’s eyes were full of tears. He smiled as he heard something shatter glass outside beyond the door. “The Master!” he shouted joyously. “It’s the Master come to take me home!”
“Shut up!” the black man said, rising from his chair. More glass broke, and now there were people shouting in the corridor. “What the hell’s going on out there?” He opened the door and stood on the threshold, transfixed by what he saw. Windows exploded like gunshots. A dozen bats flew over his head into the room, and Roach laughed as Farris ducked away from them.
The black detective suddenly shivered and took a step backward.
“Reece?” Farris shouted.
The one called Reece staggered back, a ragged cry torn from his throat. He whirled around, his face covered with bats. A storm of them swept into the room, darting into Farris’s hair, catching onto his shirt. Roach clapped and shouted, “YES! YES!” None of the bats touched him; they attacked the other two men, covering their bodies like a crawling tide. The walls were covered with bats, and they spun around the room like bits of black paper caught in a high wind…
“Roach,” Vulkan said softly, speaking through his mind. “Come to me.”
“YES!” the man shrieked. He leaped up from the table and ran past the black man’s body, which was twisting on the floor in agony. He ran into a larger room where there were other men trying to fight off the creatures, but the bats numbered in the thousands now and were still coming in through the broken windows. Roach passed a man whose head and back were swarming with furry bodies; another man ripped blindly at his shirt, his eyes reduced to bleeding holes. The bats parted to let Roach through and closed in his wake. He ran into the corridor, which was also filled with bats, and on to the elevator. A few bats tangled in his hair, but they felt the Master’s presence on him and flew away. When the elevator came he stepped in, escorted by two dozen or more swirling protectively around him, chittering and squealing. On the first floor he ran toward the main doors where a uniformed officer shouted and drew his gun. A phalanx of bats whirled away from Roach and shredded the policeman’s face.
Roach burst through the doors and ran into the night along a wide avenue bordered by huge buildings. “Thank you, Master!” he shouted. “Thank you, thank…”
Prince Vulkan brought himself back and opened his eyes; the pupils were tightly slitted and seemed to be glowing with green fire. He thought Kobra and in another moment Kobra stepped through a door at the far side of the room. “Roach is coming to join us,” Vulkan said. “Take a few of the others and go down to help him. Hurry.”
Kobra left to find Viking and Dicko and any other members of the Death Machine who’d already awakened. It would be good to ride his Harley again, to feel the cold wind in his face, to see the stars burning savagely in the night. He’d been right—this was the greatest drug there was.
When Kobra was gone. Vulkan turned his attention back to the madwoman in the chair. He approached her, saw her eyes moving feebly toward him, her mouth opening in a soundless “no.” He took her hand and felt the blessed heat flowing like volcanic currents beneath the flesh. As he kissed the back of her hand, he could smell the sweet, delicious blood millimeters away from his fangs. He kissed along her arm, pushing the sleeve back, licking with a black forked tongue.
Paige LaSanda shuddered, her eyes rolling back to white. “Boogeyman, Mama,” she said in a little girl’s v
oice. “Boogeyman…boogeyman…”
When he reached the pulse at the crook of her elbow, the coldness within him turned unendurable. His head snapped forward, his fangs piercing the flesh. A bubbling fountain filled his mouth, and he drank with great, thirsty heaves.
In a few minutes Paige whimpered, her face chalky yellow, and then she was silent.
6
* * *
Wednesday, October 30
THE HEADMASTER’S GIFT
ONE
Rico Esteban, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a silver jacket and head bowed in thought, was walking home along Sunset Boulevard. Around him the boulevard swirled with nightlife—the sidewalks were crowded with rockers in sleek, black jackets, their hair cut rooster-style and dyed in a variety of outrageous colors; transvestites hung around the entrances of the El Lay Club and the Disco 2001, hoping to be escorted in by some unaware stud; teen-aged girls in jeans so tight they deadened the ass stood in groups on the corners, talking among themselves about shoes and records when they weren’t trying to flag down the driver of a passing Jaguar or Porsche; furtive older men stopped to ask them what time it was or how to find a good disco, and when the laughter hit, they hunched down and scurried off into the shadows; pimps in long Cadillacs cruised up and down the Strip, diamond rings flashing on their hands, their eyes alert for action or trouble. Music crashed around Rico like throbbing, electric thunder from a dozen rock clubs; the lightning was blue and white and green neon, pulsating like silent fury.
He’d made some good sales tonight—a couple of grams of coke in front of the Whiskey à Go Go, some Colombian Red inside Disco 2001. Now there were a couple of ounces of Red left in the lining of his jacket, and he knew he could’ve sold that too if he’d stayed around the disco any longer. But he’d gotten a creepy feeling in there just as the Jets were singing “Body Heat” and the strobe lights had started flashing so fast everybody looked like windup dolls gone berserk. The walls had started closing in around him, reminding him too much of the feeling he’d had in that building on Dos Terros Street. As he’d rushed out, shoving through a knot of people who stood around a couple writhing on the floor, urging them on, a girl with bleached blond hair and glitter on her cheeks had gripped his hand and whispered, “Come home with me, baby.” He’d seen something horrible moving behind her vacant gaze, and her hand was as cold as death. Suddenly the girl on the floor whimpered—Rico heard it quite clearly, though no one else seemed to—and when he looked down, he thought he saw the boy astride her, his lips pressed against her throat. Rico jerked free and ran.
He walked on, keeping his head down to avoid eye contact. Things were going crazy. Everything was falling to pieces. He almost bumped into a skinny kid with a crew cut. When he looked up, Rico saw that the kid wore a T-shirt with WHO IS THE GRAVEDIGGER? scrawled across it in red crayon. The kid cursed and stumbled on, his eyes aflame with uppers. Rico hurried away, the gold chains around his neck merrily tinkling against each other. In another moment he felt himself being watched and looked up again. On the corner there were two teen-aged girls, one in a wrinkled, violet dress and the other in a pink satin jacket and dirty jeans. They stared at him with hunger in their eyes, their childlike faces vulpine and as pale as the ashes of a long-dead fire. Rico shuddered and found he could not look away. The girl in the violet dress smiled and motioned for him to come over. He had almost reached them when a blue Porsche with two guys inside swerved to the curb. One of the guys said, “Want a ride, baby?” and the girls climbed in without hesitation. The car roared away, and Rico felt cold beads of sweat trickling down into his eyebrows. He went on, walking much faster now.
It seemed to him that the endless party had gone on much too long, and now it was out of control. Something unspeakable had invited itself in because here the door was always open and everyone was too stoned or crazed to guard the entrance. Rico shivered; someone had just walked past him who gave off cold like an icebox. He was afraid to see who it was. He kept moving, the blare of music from the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party almost blasting him out into the street. Someone else bumped into him—an older man in a white shirt. Rico felt those waves of cold gnawing at him again. Lifting his gaze high enough to see brown spots on the front of the man’s shirt, he suddenly pushed a couple of kids out of his way and was running, hearing a long shriek behind him that turned into a chilling howl of laughter.
He thought he could hear the noise of boots striking the concrete, chasing after him. He seemed to be at the center of a din of screams and laughter rising like a dark wave, crashing over the music. A girl’s hand clutched at his sleeve. He cried out and pulled away, almost tripping in his haste to escape. It was only two blocks later that he dared to slow his pace and look over his shoulder. There was no one following him, no one at all. Just figures moving along the sidewalks and back and forth across the boulevard, bathed in cold neon.
What’s wrong with me? he thought. I’m cracking up or something! He walked another block, then turned into a doorway centered between the Temple of the All-Seeing Eye and the Rubens Nude—Fingerpaint a Real Live Nude!—Art Studio. He climbed a narrow, dimly lit stairway and stood in the hall. His was the third door on the right; he’d been lucky to find an apartment with a view of Sunset Boulevard. He switched on the lights and locked the door behind him. It was a one-room with a kitchenette and cracks in the ceiling that sometimes leaked brown drops of water. There was a long mirror on the wall beside the door, and now Rico peered into his face to see if he looked crazy. His eyes were a little bloodshot from the smoke at Disco 2001, but otherwise he looked okay. He walked across the room, his weight making the loose floorboards squeal, and looked out a small window onto Sunset. A few figures were running along the sidewalk; one of them, a woman, tripped and fell. A man stopped and helped her to her feet, then they all ran out of Rico’s field of vision. In another few seconds a pack of grinning teenagers passed, running in the same direction. A car’s tires screeched far in the distance. Somewhere a siren wailed like the voice of a woman, rapidly fading.
Someone knocked at Rico’s door.
He whirled around, his heart racing with fear. For a long time he stood where he was, staring across the room at that door. In another moment the knob rattled.
“Go away!” he shouted and instantly thought, Oh, God! Now they know I’m here!
The knocking was repeated. Then a voice in an urgent whisper—“Rico! Open the door! It’s me!”
“Who…? Merida?”
“It’s me, Rico! Hurry! Open the door!”
He let out his breath, almost overcome by dizziness. God in Heaven! Merida! He stepped to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open. Instantly she leaped forward into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. “Merida!” he said. “Where have you been? I’ve been…I’ve been crazy looking for you!”
“Don’t say anything, please,” she whispered. “Just hold me. Tight. Tighter.”
He squeezed her against himself, feeling her cold lips against his cheek. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, and he realized then how very much he did love her. She was shivering, and her flesh was so…so cold…Something dark stirred in the pit of his belly. “You’re freezing!” he said. “Where have you been? God, I’m so glad to see you!”
“Don’t talk,” she said, burrowing closer. “Just love me…make me warm…”
And it was then that Rico turned his gaze toward the mirror.
He was embracing an empty dress, wrinkled where it might have been pulled by the movements of a human body. But he knew, and the knowledge almost made him scream, that what he was embracing was no longer human…
She lifted her head, her dark eyes swirling with tendrils of red and silver. “Make me warm, my darling,” she whispered. “Make me warm.” Her mouth opened. The fangs slid out like a rattlesnake’s.
“NOOOOOOO!” he screamed, pushing her away and taking a step backward. He tripped and crashed down against the wall, cracking his head on the edge of a junk-shop
table. Through a red mist of pain, he saw her approach as silently as a puff of smoke. “Ricooooo,” she whispered, her eyes yearning. “I’ve come back to you. I’ve come back…”
“Get away!” he gasped, trying to scrabble to his feet. They wouldn’t work; his brain spun between poles of frost and fire.
“…for you,” Merida said. “Now we can be together forever…”
“NO! NO!” His voice cracked, his eyes about to pop out of their sockets. Deep inside himself he heard the first faint chucklings of mad laughter.
“Yes,” the vampire whispered. “Forever and forever and forever.” She reached toward Rico, her eyes glimmering like Sunset Strip neon. He screamed and thrust out his arms to protect himself, to give himself a few more seconds of life. Merida grasped his right arm, grinned, and sank her fangs into a vein at his wrist.
He was shot through with pain, and now he could hear her sucking the life out of him. He tried to strike at her with his other hand, but she grabbed that wrist and held it with extraordinary strength. Her fangs plunged deep, not missing a drop. Her eyes began to roll back in her head with pleasure, and Rico began tumbling down into a dark place that was so terribly cold, so…terribly…terribly…cold…
When she was finished, she let his arm drop to the floor. She crouched down on all fours and licked up the few red spots of blood that she had missed. Then she crawled over to Rico and cradled his head against her bosom, gently rocking his cold body back and forth. “Now,” she said. “Now, we’ll be together for always. We’ll always be young…and we’ll always be in love. Sleep, my precious. Sleep.” She held him awhile longer, then she went to the unmade sofa bed and pulled off the sheets. She laid the sheets down on the floor, dragged him into the middle, and wrapped him up. Now, she thought as she finished the task, you can sleep undisturbed until the Master bids you to awaken. She knew he’d be filled with hunger when he got up and might not be able to hunt for himself, so she would come back to help him. Her love knew no bounds. She dragged Rico’s shrouded form into the closet, piled a couple of cardboard boxes around him, and closed the door. Now the sun, that hated bringer of pain, couldn’t get to him.
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