Habeas Corpses - The Halflife Trilogy Book III

by Wm. Mark Simmons

  I opened my mouth to say “no” again. But I didn’t. We both paused, holding ourselves very still. The only movement was the blood (the blood! oh, the blood!) turning to rivulets, crimson streams of life and power, trickling to the roughened delta of aureole, circumnavigating the globe in search of southern latitudes, until two streams converged.

  A third tributary formed.

  The convergence grew, swelled, formed a second, liquid nipple, tumescent to the tweaking of gravity. It grew heavier and finally dropped down on a thin ruby strand like a one-way bungee jump of blood, falling onto my lips.

  My self-control was a trembling house of cards, collapsing in all directions. I pulled her down and pressed my mouth to the river’s source.

  Perhaps it was Deirdre’s blood that overwhelmed my resistance—its unique alchemy made it stronger and sweeter than the nectar that ran through human or vampire veins.

  Certainly living blood, hot and pulsing from its nursery of flesh and bone, was more compelling than my usual fare. Long-dead plasma and platelets—stored and frozen in plastic and warmed over to simulate its former liveliness—were pale, watery substitutes when offered honeyed ambrosia.

  Still, I had resisted live blood-offerings before. But this time the need, the Hunger, had grown beyond all previous demarcations. I was surprised by its new depth of urgency, catching me in a sudden, heady undertow. I barely heard the footsteps coming down the hallway. The pounding of my heart reverberated in my head, revving its four-chambered engine to match the hammerstrokes of Deirdre’s own. The whisper of the door was lost in sighs from her throat, the gasps in my own as I nursed at the red spill of life across her bosom.

  The voice, however, was crystal clear both before, when it called: “Oh Chris! I came as soon as I heard—”

  And then after, when Lupé said: “—I guess I did not come soon enough.” There were autumnal tones in her voice, promising a deep and endless winter.

  I didn’t push Deirdre away nor leap from the bed to claim that it wasn’t what she thought. I didn’t hurry down the stairs in her wake, apologizing and begging for her to hear me out. I didn’t even move until I heard the front door slam like the last beat of a cardiac muscle in final arrest.

  Only then did I carefully, gently, but implacably, move Deirdre aside and rise from the ghost town of my bed.

  “Where are you going?” Deirdre asked softly.

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, dabbed at my chin. “To make a phone call.”

  “To Kurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “The sun hasn’t set, yet.”

  “Here,” I answered. “In New York it is already dark.”

  I walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Sometimes it looked like a man. It was not a man and if you looked into its eyes, you knew this immediately. The soldiers who encountered it near the road instinctively gave it a wide berth and little more than a sideways glance. Anyone who looked closer or longer, felt his bowels loosen and an unaccustomed scream building up in the back of his throat.

  Off the road and deep in the green hell of the jungle, it appeared to the peasants as a great shadowy jaguar by day and a great, winged darkness by night. The peasants would cross themselves in obeisance to modern catechism, then invoke more ancient prayers upon the altars of their ancestral hearts.

  Something had awakened. Something walked among them. It had not stirred from the dark depths in twenty-five hundred years but now it was come forth.

  It was hungry—as hungry as anything might be that fed on villages, snacked on armies, dined on pestilence and plague. But its hunger was as nothing in comparison to its need!

  Blood!

  It must have the blood!

  It did not stop to feed. It turned neither to the left nor the right. Only one certain kind of blood would serve.

  The demon moved relentlessly, heading north by northeast. Day and night it traveled. Implacably, tirelessly, until it came to the ocean.

  The Gulf of Mexico would lead it in a great, arcing approach, through Mexico, then Texas, and finally into Louisiana. It weighed the advantages of velocity versus distance and decided against the speed bumps of human population centers. It gazed out over the gray-green swells of the Atlantic Ocean and then walked forward into the water.

  It was heavier and denser than a human so first the breakers and then the undertow had no effect as it moved deeper and deeper into the pounding surf. Soon its head disappeared beneath the waves as it continued its long walk toward the man it had glimpsed in its own fearsome dreams only a brief decade before.

  Soon, it thought, very soon . . .

  One final, bloody sacrifice for Camazotz, Lord of the Underworld, and then eternal silence and endless darkness.

  Forever and ever.

  Amen . . .

  Chapter Nine

  I awoke from the dream as the landing gear of the 737 bounced on the runway. One minute I was dreaming that the waves of the Atlantic Ocean were rolling over my head, the next I was descending to earth from a sojourn in the skies.

  I had expressly forbidden Deirdre and Suki to come to New York with me. That’s why they were sitting three rows behind me instead of occupying the seats on either side.

  I tried to ignore them but it finally became necessary to fake a trip to the restroom so I could lean over and speak to the Asian vampire. “Stay out of her head,” I whispered. “Out of respect for me if not her.”

  Deirdre’s distress level dropped a little after that but Suki’s amusement only grew. Bad enough that the blood-bond made me sensitive to the redhead’s emotional state; I had no idea why I was tuned in to Suki’s broadcasts, as well.

  The rest of the flight was uneventful except for the dream. Nightmares are bad enough when you’re asleep. When you wake up you should be able to shake it off, dismiss it as a bad dream, and know that you are safe in the bright light of day.

  I couldn’t do that. Something was stalking me. The dreams were merely progress reports, reminding me that the Darkness was drawing closer, even when I was awake.

  At least I had two small consolations.

  First, this trip was buying me time on the demon front.

  And second, I hadn’t embarrassed myself by screaming during my in-flight nap.

  * * *

  There was no avoiding my two shadows as we deplaned at La Guardia. It was just as well. A limo driver was wandering about holding a placard with my name written on it.

  I grabbed Deirdre’s hand before she could point. “No, dear, a limo isn’t for us,” I murmured. “We’ll take a cab.” We ambled past the chauffeur and I exerted all the mental influence I could muster to keep Deirdre’s and Suki’s attention diverted until we were out of earshot.

  “That driver was looking for you,” the redhead said as soon as I released my grip, both mental and physical.

  “A lot of people are looking for me,” I said. “Not all of them are friendly. Ah, here we go . . .”

  Another limo driver had come into view. This one wore mirrored sunglasses and held a placard with the name Henry Clerval printed across it. I steered in his direction.

  “Mr. Clerval?” he asked as we approached. He was shorter than me, slighter of build, and I could probably knock him down and run before he could get a weapon out. He didn’t seem old enough to grow the moustache and goatee that narrowed his already narrow face. Adding to the oddness of his appearance was his apparent lack of an Adam’s apple.

  “No,” I said, “the name is Murnau. Friederich Wilhelm Murnau. But you can call me Fred.”

  He looked at me uncertainly. “That’s not part of the password.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Not the Fred part.”

  “Okay, call me Mr. Murnau. Listen there’s another limo driver back there holding a card with the name of Chris Cséjthe on it. Who sent him?”

  “I don’t know, but we expected this might happen. Follow me.”

  We followed him out to a black stretch
limo with black SUVs parked in front and behind. All had their engines idling. Five other people followed behind us: two businessmen, a woman pushing a baby stroller, a college student with a backpack, and a kid who looked like he was lost but wasn’t. They flanked us as the heavily tinted passenger window rolled down in the back.

  A very angry master vampire sat inside just beyond the sunlight’s reach. “I am not pleased,” Kurt Szekely announced with a scowl.

  * * *

  Actually, he was furious.

  Furious at me for coming with no more than a moment’s notice. Furious that I was flying commercial with next to no security precautions. Furious at the ladies for letting me.

  And, I suspected, for necessitating his traveling about in the light of day.

  The risk was relatively nil, however. Back in Louisiana the expected high was a balmy sixty-four degrees under sunny skies. Here in the northeast the sun hadn’t made an unshrouded appearance for days. A storm front had dropped a foot of snow from the Canadian border to the Jersey shores and the wind chill was rumored to be in the minus twenties. I should have brought a coat—more for camouflage than comfort as my transformed flesh was becoming less sensitive to temperature variables.

  Sitting in the car, we were treated to a detailed explanation of his ill temper while our luggage was attended to. The limo was stretched and armored, outfitted with a wet bar, and occupied by another familiar face. Stefan Pagelovitch sat across from me, wearing a dark double-breasted suit, dark shirt, dark tie, and very expensive wingtip shoes.

  “Hello, Dennis,” I said as the girls slid in next to me.

  Pagelovitch’s face began to sag, melting and rearranging itself until Dennis Smirl sat across from me in the Seattle Doman’s place. “How did you know?”

  “The outfit’s too monochrome for one. Stefan likes color; he wouldn’t wear black to a funeral much less a business meeting. Those shoes? Nice, but not imported. Stefan favors the Italians. And, as a master vampire, he has a palpable aura. You? You’re surrounded by—” I sniffed. “Brut?”

  “Hai Karate.”

  I blinked. “You’re kidding.”

  “You’re one to talk, Old Spice boy.”

  “But how? Where do you get—?”

  “There’s this warehouse—”

  The door opened again and the limo driver passed Kurt a note while the hired muscle stood around outside with their gun hands inside their jackets. The snow had picked up again and it looked like Paul Bunyan had flicked his cigar ashes over their heads and shoulders.

  “Nothing like a low-profile meeting at the airport,” I said as the ambiguously gendered driver closed the door and walked around to sit in the front seat.

  Kurt gave me the look. “Do you think your arrival here is a secret? Under the circumstances this is the best I could do with short notice. Besides, we must demonstrate a level of security befitting your status.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “The idea is to impress your enemies.” He turned the lapel of his overcoat and spoke into a tiny microphone. “As soon as the luggage is secure, we drive.”

  Kurt Szekely could have been a Doman, himself. He had spent over a hundred years in the service of a Great Evil—an ancient demon who had pretended to be the bloodthirsty Countess Elizabeth Báthory. When I unmasked her perfidy he executed her physical body, himself. Then he and the Szekely Clan swore fealty to me, declaring me the new Doman of the New York demesne. It was an honor Kurt might have taken for himself. Instead, he assumed the role of majordomo and ally as other fanged wannabes stepped forward to contest for the throne.

  I still was unsure of his motives at times.

  But I was pretty much out of alternatives.

  The fact that he was out and about in the day—albeit under a ton of sunscreen despite the solid cloud cover—bespoke his age and power.

  He wasn’t especially tall—just under six feet—but I had met undead with a six-inch or hundred-pound advantage that didn’t exude half the menace that Kurt put out. As we used to say in the broadcasting biz, he had a face made for radio. It wasn’t that he was ugly or even unattractive; there was just something about even his most casual expression that made you want to look away. And you didn’t turn your back on him without that unpleasant prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.

  The funny thing was I seemed to amuse him. When you’ve spent the last couple of centuries scaring the hell out of everyone you met, it’s a refreshing change of pace to run into someone who actually goes out of his way to irritate you.

  At least that’s what he once told me.

  As far as I’m concerned, that assurance belongs on the list of other trusted expressions which include: “I’ll still respect you in the morning,” “the check is in the mail,” and “I’m from the government, I’m here to help you.”

  “So,” he said, fixing Suki with a jaundiced eye, “you are the Oriental vampire.”

  “Asian.”

  “What?”

  “Asian.” She refused to be intimidated. “’Oriental’ is a misnomer.”

  “Misnomer?”

  “It’s her politically correct way of telling you that ‘Oriental’ is politically incorrect,” I said. “She’s Asian.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “I was curious as to your ability to move about after sunrise. How old are you?”

  She favored him with a smile. I knew Suki’s smiles: there was nothing behind it except teeth. “One should never ask a lady her age, Kurt-san.”

  “Asian vampires differ from the European,” I offered. “The differences are more than just cultural.”

  “You saved her life, too,” he said, changing the subject abruptly.

  “Um. Not really. At best, we all saved each others’ lives—it was sort of a tag team approach.”

  “I speak of before. When she was helpless, with a broken back, in the lair of your enemies.”

  I pointed at Smirl. “More his doing than mine.”

  “It proves my point,” Kurt said as our limo, flanked by the SUVs, caravanned away from the loading zone and began plowing through ripples of miniature snowdrifts. “Your greatest strengths lie in marshalling the talents and abilities of others. A Doman is more the general than the lone warrior.”

  “How about ‘distant figurehead?’”

  He didn’t bat an eye. “Figurehead, perhaps . . . in the best sense of the word. Distant . . . under certain conditions. But, for now, you must prove yourself a diplomat and formidable adversary. At tonight’s reception—”

  “Tonight?” Suki protested.

  “Do you have any idea of how difficult it is to run security on a room full of people?” Deirdre demanded.

  The temperature in the back of the limo dropped a good ten degrees. “First of all,” Kurt said quietly, “you are in my demesne, now. I act as seneschal for the Doman and administer all matters in his name. As you are guests here, I extend certain courtesies but those courtesies have limits. If you are here as Christopher Cséjthe’s consorts, you may enjoy a greater degree of informality with him . . . but not with me.

  “If, for example, he takes Darcy Blenik as another consort while he is here—and through ignorance or design she brings him harm—I will be obligated to kill her and go to war with her family. Do not presume that I would treat you any differently.”

  “Uh, Kurt,” I said, being careful not to look at either Deirdre or Suki, “neither one is a consort . . .”

  Kurt addressed Suki and Deirdre directly, saying: “Then I am even less inclined to cut you any slack.” He turned back to me. “Please keep your friends on a short leash until the formalities of the next three nights are concluded.”

  Deirdre was not sufficiently cowed. “I’m your Doman’s Chief of Security,” she told Kurt.

  “Not here you’re not. Here, you are an unnecessary complication. All security matters are my concern, now. Tonight Christopher Cséjthe will meet with representatives of other enclaves and factions who will o
ffer tribute and seek alliances. Tomorrow night he will address the families of this demesne and settle any challenges to his succession as Doman. Your only real value lies in your unique biochemistry and which clan alliance he might purchase by offering you for their study.”

  “I would never do that,” I said.

  Kurt answered me by continuing to speak to Deirdre. “He has not sufficiently transformed to consider sacrificing you for his own personal gain. Yet.” The last word hung out there in midair, resonating with all of its implications. “However the time may come when he must choose to sacrifice one life—or two—to save many. And that time may come quickly.”

  “So,” said the shapeshifting gangster from the Chicago demesne after the silence had lengthened, “how have you been?”

  As I opened my mouth, Deirdre asked: “Who’s Darcy Blenik?”

  * * *

  We took the Queensboro Bridge into the city and drove down 60th Street, skirting the boundaries of Midtown and the Upper East Side, passing by Bloomingdale’s. I knew that the enclave owned a number of properties from Morningside Heights and Harlem all the way down to Lower Manhattan. Kurt briefed us on the various “safe houses” in hotels, churches, synagogues, office buildings, brownstones, warehouses—even a bank. We didn’t go to any of those. Instead, we took a right on Madison Avenue, passed by the Museum of American Illustration, then a left on 81st Street, and another left on Fifth Avenue. We drove into the parking garage for the Metropolitan Museum of Art at 80th Street as a parade of snowplows passed by, flanked by a pair of sand and salt spreaders.

  Our driver produced some sort of pass and we drove in and eventually down. We parked on an underground level that had no painted slots and was occupied by a few old service vehicles.

  “How can you have a vampire safe house in a church?” I asked as we exited the car and entered an elevator set in a bare concrete wall.

  Kurt slipped a plastic card into a slot below the panel of buttons as Deidre guessed: “I suppose you defile all visible icons and religious symbols.” She steadfastly refused to act abashed in Kurt’s presence. I liked her all the more for it.