by Clark Hays
The shelves were lined with little sculptures and photographs in silver frames, most of them of her and a woman I took to be her mother. Occasionally, there was a dog-eared book tucked here and there and I pulled one down to flip through. It was a thick old book by some Russian writer with a name I couldn’t pronounce. Reading at random, it seemed he hadn’t led a particularly happy life either; sorrow tinged his words like water damage to a carpet. I wondered if he’d ever had the woman he loved taken from him by vampires. If he did, I feared I too could end up a sad old Russian.
I went into the kitchen with Rex trailing along. The sound of his claws on the strange linoleum of the strange kitchen was somehow familiar and reassuring. Standing in the half-light of the opened fridge, I was dismayed to find it in a worse state than any I’d ever seen. Nothing but a half-empty bottle of mineral water and some ancient take-out Chinese food. I rummaged around in the cupboard until I found some red wine and a jar of peanut butter that was almost edible and carried them into the bedroom.
The bed was in disarray and I sat on the edge and drank straight from the bottle and scooped out peanut butter with a spoon.
There was a photo album on the nightstand. I pulled it out and laid it open on the bed, flipping through more pictures of her mother and pictures of her as a kid. In all of them, she was looking far away like she was thinking something too secret to tell.
There were other pictures too. Pictures of friends and boyfriends and scenery and toward the end there were even pictures of me, which brought a pain to my heart. I found myself praying I could find her and make everything okay.
Eventually, I couldn’t look at her frozen memories anymore and dropped the album to the floor. I found a sweater in the closet that looked familiar — she must’ve once worn it in LonePine — and curled up with it on top of the bed, tucked the Casull under the pillow and drew the covers over me.
The bed still faintly bore her scent so familiar to me. Rex was overcome by her smell too, wandering listlessly around until finally curling up at the foot of the bed. We dozed for about an hour until I heard him sit up with a little growl, the same noise he made back at the cabin.
I grabbed the Casull from under the pillow and leaned the shotgun by the door. My body was stiff from the plane ride and sleeping bunched up, so I hobbled tenderfoot into the living room and could just make out two shadowy forms.
“Hold it right there,” I said real quiet. I stepped in through the doorway, flicked on the light and raised the Casull up. Rex took up by my side, growling.
They both turned and one of them smiled a toothy smile. “You didn’t die after all,” he said, recognizing me.
I thought about the voices, the shapes around me when I was laying for dead, and figured him for one of them. The thought of him taking Lizzie filled me with a terrible rage. There was a hesitation to him, like he wasn’t sure exactly how this was going to work, me not being dead and all. I pointed the gun toward him, hoping maybe that would help make up his mind.
“This may not kill you,” I said, “but it’ll hurt like hell. That other old boy was squealing like a baby when Dad popped him.”
“A lie. Your weapon is useless against us.”
I pretended to think about it and nodded. “You’re probably right.” I dropped the hammer and holstered it.
They smiled and moved confidently toward me, taking it slow.
I reached behind the doorway and brought out the shotgun, swinging it up to bear and thumbing back the hammers.
They both winced simultaneously, dreading what they must’ve thought would be a painful inconvenience. I thought of Lizzie and the rest came easy. I pulled the trigger and the hollow roar nearly deafened me as the shotgun slammed into my shoulder. The wooden missile reached out and tagged one of them just below the shirt pocket, damn near doubling him over backward as he clutched at the stub end of the shaft now protruding from his chest. I gave a silent thank you to Lenny for his wooden bullet design.
That dark bastard dropped to his knees, black, foul blood trickling through his pale fingers, looking dumbly up at me. “It’s a … it’s a …”
“It’s a stake,” I said, finishing his sentence for him. “That was for Lizzie,” I said, “and for Snort.” I swung the barrel toward his companion. “You know I’ll pull this trigger, don’t you?”
He looked at me, then down at his friend who was opening and closing his mouth like a fish on a line and slowly leaning back to die, spasms racking his body.
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
“You are already dead, ugly,” I said, and part of me wanted so bad to send him back to hell, to pull the trigger and engulf the room in blue flames. But that could wait. “Tell your boss that Tucker is in town. Tell him I want Lizzie back. If I don’t get her, I’ll dedicate my life to hunting him down. Him and every other one of you blood-sucking freaks I can set my sights on.”
His friend was turning to dust before our eyes, as if his body had not been made of flesh, even undead flesh, but rather had been made of tumbleweeds now coming apart. I heard sirens in the distance and someone yelling downstairs.
I figured I’d better make myself scarce so I grabbed the duffle bag. “I’ll be waiting at the train station to see Julius,” I said.
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one?”
The vampire rolled his eyes at me and I felt like a country hick.
“Have a taxi take you to the front of the Empire State Building and wait there,” he said.
TWENTY-FOUR
In the six centuries she had known him, Julius rarely allowed his anger to show, yet now he sat rigidly at his desk, face twisted by rage. His gaze passed through Elita as if she wasn’t there. When he spoke, it was to himself as much as her. “Things are becoming unnecessarily complicated.”
She simply nodded and he continued. “He lives.”
“So it seems.”
“And thus we must fear the worst for Desard.”
A fleeting, almost academic sadness tugged at her heart and she nodded. “It appears we underestimated the cowboy.”
“A mistake we shall not repeat. Take three to the rendezvous and deal with him, permanently.”
“I have an idea,” Elita said.
“By all means,” he snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “share it. I am breathless with anticipation, as I am certain it entails sexual conquest and his inevitable, torturous death.”
She smiled lazily at the compliment. “Of course. But first, I propose we use him to,” she sought the proper word, “retrieve our errant queen.” It couldn’t hurt to shake his suspicions and regain her position of favor with Julius, Elita thought.
Julius regarded her for a moment and then nodded his head. “Continue.”
“Apparently she loves him,” Elita said. “She made that quite clear during her brief stay with us. If we can convince the cowboy it’s in her best interest for him to assist us, we can …”
“Use him as the bait. Of course,” Julius said. “How deceitful. I truly admire the way your mind works.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“And though he appears to know our weaknesses, we know his.”
“We do?” she asked.
“Of course. His weakness is love. How easy it will be to convince him that by joining us he will, in effect, be rescuing his dear recently departed.”
“When he sees her, he’ll be angry,” Elita said. “He’ll know we’ve lied.”
“When we have her, he will no longer be of use to us.”
“Other than, perhaps, a continued point of leverage.”
“I suppose we will burn that bridge, or not, when we cross it,” he said. “Send someone for him and make it clear he is to arrive safely.”
“Certainly.” She stood and stretched, arching her back.
Julius let his gaze linger upon the curves displayed there. “Elita, one more thing.” She swung her head to catch his eyes. “In order for
your plan to succeed, you must quell any notion of taking him. Do not let passion and hunger override our goals. Be a good girl.”
“Only promise he is mine once she is ours again.”
He nodded. “Consider his life yours.”
TWENTY-FIVE
I could land in the middle of the Tetons with nothing but a book of matches and a pocketknife and be in Jackson for dinner, but for the life of me I had no idea where I was now.
After a limo picked me up at the Empire State Building, we wound our way through the city, finally stopping in front of a row of apartments that didn’t look much like a Count Dracula castle at all. One of the men got out and held the door open for me.
He let me snuggle the barrel of my shotgun into the small of his back and off we went into one of the houses, passing straight on through another set of doors and out into an open park of sorts. The air was cool on my face and sweet with the smell of grass and pine, so out of place in the city. There was a mansion in the middle of the park and we followed a cobblestone path to a flight of stone steps leading to an ornate pair of double doors.
Once inside as the door closed behind us, we all breathed a sigh of relief as it became clear I wasn’t going to blow a hole through anybody and, at least for now, my blood was safe.
“Julius is waiting,” he said. “You may leave your bag here. Your gun as well, if you prefer.”
I laughed and kept walking, gun and bag in hand. He caught up to me and led me up a wide, spiral staircase carpeted in what seemed like a foot of red velvet. Rex padded along beside me with a strange look in his eyes caused, no doubt, by being so deep in the heart of the wild undead kingdom.
My guide pointed to a massive door at the end of the hall. I strolled down to the door, took a deep breath, grabbed the brass handles and yanked it open. Inside, a relatively plain looking man sat behind a mahogany desk with a quill pen and old-time brass inkwell next to a sheaf of heavy paper. I don’t know what I expected — slicked back hair and cape, I guess — but he was almost normal looking, though with the confidence of a man used to getting his way.
He stood. “You must be Tucker,” he said, tugging a crease straight in his pants. He came out from behind the desk and crossed the room slow and controlled, like a big cat after a little bird. He offered his hand.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, taking it. It was cold like marble and the strength of his grip was barely contained. He could’ve squeezed my hand to jelly if he’d wanted.
“I’m Julius,” he said. “I’m a friend of Elizabeth’s.”
“That’s funny. Where I come from, friends don’t do what you done.”
He smiled, but there wasn’t much to it. “I’m afraid there has been a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“Naw, I don’t think so. In fact, I think I understand pretty well. You’re a murdering vampire that took my woman and I aim to get her back.”
“I see you’re a man unafraid to speak your mind. All a matter of upbringing, I suppose.” He gestured at the bar behind him, set into a mirrored alcove and glittering with row after row of bottles and crystal tumblers. “Care for a drink?”
“Look, I ain’t here to dance around with you. I came for Lizzie. That is,” I said, hating to miss the opportunity for one last drink before things went to hell, “unless you’ve got some whiskey in there somewhere.” No sense hurting his feelings before I killed him.
I watched as he poured a triple shot from a decanter. “It’s older than you are,” he said, handing me the glass.
“And a hell of a lot smoother,” I said, after taking a sip. “Now why don’t you save us both a load of trouble and tell me where Lizzie is?”
He moved back behind his desk and gazed absently out the window behind his desk. “We no longer have her,” he said.
I set my glass down, empty. “What the hell you mean you don’t have her? You took her.”
“We did take her. She got away.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “Don’t pull that shit on me, Dracula. You’re going to get her for me. And you better pray to whatever God you call your own she’s all right.”
A storm cloud of anger broke across his face and I could tell he was fighting back the urge to choke me to death. I half expected him to come for me and half hoped he would.
“Tucker,” he said slowly, “you cannot frighten me. I have been part of this world for nearly eighteen hundred years. I have seen many powerful men.” He looked at me with a barely contained sneer. “I assure you, none of them did me any harm whatsoever. Your wrath is — please don’t take this the wrong way — laughable.”
The whole time he was talking I was reaching nonchalant for the crucifix tucked into my waistband and I drew it out with a flourish and shoved into his face. “That’s right,” I said. “Not so high and mighty now are you. How’s that feel?”
“Painfully embarrassing, actually,” he said, plucking it out of my hand. “For you.”
Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I planned on standing over him as he writhed in agony, getting the information I needed and then stepping on his neck and driving a stake right through his evil heart.
“What the hell? I thought crosses made you burst into flames or something.”
“More whiskey?” he asked.
I slumped back onto the couch, dejected. “I reckon.”
He handed me the crucifix and then refilled my glass.
“Think about it, Tucker,” he said. “You’re a man of the world, a horseback philosopher so to speak. Why would a crucifix, in this day and age, cause me even the slightest pang?”
I felt like a kid in school when the teacher asked a question I didn’t know the answer to because I’d been out hunting rabbits instead of doing homework. I crossed my legs and looked hard at my boots, the duct tape unraveling there. “I always figured it was because God didn’t like y’all much.”
Julius dismissed my notion with a wave. “God created vampires.”
“Not the devil?”
“Have you ever read the bible?” he asked. “I have some particularly rare copies. Perhaps I could lend you one. Satan was not a creator. He was just, how should I say, misunderstood. He was an angel, in fact.”
I was feeling a little stupid now, and getting loose from the whiskey. “How come them Hollywood types make it look like crucifixes work?”
“A long, long time ago they did. In the dark ages, man believed fervently in God. He had faith in a higher power of good. The crucifix was a dramatic symbol of this belief. The cross, symbol of one God, was believed power enough to ward us off by those who followed that religion. To our everlasting shame, we believed man was right. Proof that vampires are as prone to erroneous beliefs as humans. Now, however, humans have about as much faith in God as they have in their legal system or their politicians. It’s a dim, barely conceivable notion that once made sense. The crucifix no longer holds the power of faith for you, so why should it have any power over us? It has to work both ways. Do you understand?”
I nodded, shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Deep inside the front pocket of my jacket was one of Lenny’s duct-taped grenades and I looped my forefinger around the pin. The bulky explosive was only slightly reassuring. If I popped it in this room, we would both be gone. It would obviously be a damn site more effective than the crucifix though.
Just to keep the conversation going I said, “What about wood? How come that works?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t understand its mechanism ourselves. Not yet anyway.”
“And sunlight?”
“Sunlight is the bane of our existence. Its rays are poison to us. This is the price we pay for immortality. When I was a young vampire, barely a hundred years old, I tested the sun. I fought the urge to blackness, fought death. At dawn, as the sun crept over the horizon, I held my hand past the windowsill.” I could see the memory slipping into his eyes and I knew it to be real. “The pain was remarkable. I’ll never forget it. It was like holding onto damnation. I f
led to my coffin and have never been as close to the sun again.” He ruminated a moment. “Enough questions.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Let’s get down to brass tacks.” I pulled the grenade out of my pocket and yanked out the pin, tossing it on the desktop. “So quiet you could’ve heard a pin drop,” I said.
All trace of civility disappeared. There was open scorn in his eyes. “And what is that?”
“This is a thermite grenade. Are you up on current military technology?” He waved the question away as if absurd. “It’s like liquid fire,” I said. “Enough to turn this office into Mt. St. Helens.”
“You’d be destroyed as well,” he blustered and believe me, it was a sight I enjoyed. Probably been a couple hundred years since anyone ruffled that smooth exterior.
“I’d rather die than live without Lizzie,” I said. “You make the choice.”
His eyes took on a look like when you drop a rock onto thick ice and the fractures drive down and out. “Put the pin back. There’s no need to do something we both will regret. I am sorry about this,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “misunderstanding, but know that we allowed you to live. It’s an act of good faith.”
I didn’t make a move for the pin, just let him watch my fist and how close it was to our end. “Misunderstanding or not, y’all took Lizzie and you killed my horse. I want her back. And there’s got to be a reckoning for my horse.”
“As I said, we do not have Lizzie,” he said. “And I apologize for my associates. They were a little, shall we say, enthusiastic.”
“They damn near enthused my head right off my shoulders.”
He cut me off with a chop of his hand. “No one was supposed to get hurt. Not you. And not your horse. Their instructions were simply to bring Lizzie to me.”
“What do you want with her?”
“Quite simple, really,” he said, watching me closely. “She is our queen.”
That shut me up. I really didn’t know what to say, so I put the pin back in and stuck the grenade back in my pocket, but I kept my hand around it.
