by Garon Whited
Then it occurred to me… how many churches and former churches and shrines and chapels and so on does Rome have? Are there any sections of public streets which might still be regarded as “holy ground”? And was there a way to tell, short of stepping on the land mine?
I worked my way back to Twilight, carefully, slowly, always alert for that little voice inside to warn me the next step might be my last. Rather than stay for a day or two and take in the local atmosphere, the idea of leaving immediately—and swinging wide around Vatican City—struck me as the more prudent course.
Tuesday, December 22nd
Berlin has a very different feel to it than Paris or Rome. Paris makes me think of a work of art. Rome makes me feel as though I’m walking through the guts of a museum. Berlin makes me think of wheels and tracks, railroads, engines—machines. It’s a clockwork city with everything ticking in time with everything else.
I’m starting to think all the major cities in Europe forbid manual traffic. I’m not complaining. I’ve got a huge truck and don’t feel confident driving it in tight streets. But it’s eerie to watch the cars around me create a hole just big enough for Twilight to slip through. I grew up with manual-drive vehicles, so watching the vehicular ballet around me never gets old.
Once Twilight found herself a parking spot—no mean feat for a human, but Google coordinated it—I walked the rest of the way. The museum Mary picked for a potential rendezvous or message drop was on Große Hamburger Street—more impish humor from the vampiress, obviously. I walked along, looking for the numbers on the buildings, and eventually found it.
It was a museum of magic. Of course.
I bought a ticket, adjusted Firebrand’s carrying case, and wandered around. They had a number of artifacts from all around the world, many of which were esoteric enough to be interesting. I especially liked the eight-foot statue of Thoth. Oddly enough, there wasn’t a single thing in the place with an actual magical aura. You’d think in a museum dedicated to the magical, they would have lucked into at least one actual artifact.
Then again, in a world where there really are magi, I’m sure they cruise the museums. Why dig in the desert for trinkets when you can endow a museum to dig for you? When they bring it back, you either tell them it’s garbage or swipe it for your private collection. I wonder if the British Museum or the Smithsonian have anything real in their vaults. Come to think of it, maybe those museums are fronts for houses of magi. The vaults may be full of magical stuff.
I examined a relic purported to be from the Carpathian Mountains. It was a skull with elongated upper canines—fangs. The plaque claimed it a vampire skull. I doubted its authenticity, but I’m a cynic. On the other hand, it was a perfect spot to put a magical note, much like the one at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
I wandered around the museum a bit more, enjoying the artwork. A few of the exhibits struck me as possible magical items in the sense they could have been built that way, but were not actually enchanted. An amulet here, a mask there—these things had line and symbol arrangements conducive to holding a magical effect. It was almost tempting to lay spell-lines over these things and give them a charge, just to see what they might do. I resisted the impulse. Next year, maybe, if I was still alive.
Afterward, I headed next door to a local café to eat a late but enormous lunch. Across the street, I noticed a cemetery, apparently a Jewish memorial, which made me wonder about graveyards in general. If vampires can’t stand holy ground, why are we expected to hang around in graveyards? Aren’t people generally buried in consecrated earth? Or on church property? Or something? How do we manage to be all grave-earthy and suchlike? Do we leap from headstone to headstone? Or are there more un-consecrated graveyards than I think? And just how do you un-consecrate a graveyard? Is there a ritual for it? Or do you get someone to commit a suitably-awful sin within the bounds of it? What would that be? Murder? Fornication? Theft of goods, or of bodies?
This is not purely intellectual curiosity, you understand.
I would have toured the Jewish memorial cemetery, but the gates were closed. I walked back to Twilight in a thoughtful frame of mind.
Someone busted the lock on the rear door while I was in the museum. The door was closed, but unlatched. I latched it from the outside and circled around to the cab to enter through the access hatch.
The would-be thief was still in there. The poor guy crammed himself into a forward corner of the cargo area, huddling as small as it was possible to get. Bronze stood in front of him, head lowered, nostrils aimed at his face. I could smell smoke. At a guess, she breathed fire at some point to demonstrate; her captive was unfried.
“Thief?” I asked. She agreed. I shook my head. Whoever he was, he wasn’t having a good day. I crouched next to him.
“Do you speak French? English?”
“I speak French,” he agreed, with a German accent.
“I’ll give you a chance,” I told him, slowly, choosing my words carefully. “If you tell the truth, you’ll have the best possible chance. If you lie, no matter what the lie is, I guarantee things will go extremely poorly. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Take a minute,” I advised. “Think about ‘extremely poorly’ and what it could mean. I’ll wait.”
He thought about it. Bronze snorted smoke. He made a sound and squeezed farther into the corner.
“I see you’ve thought about it. Now, do you want to find out what I consider ‘extremely poorly,’ or would you rather tell the truth?”
“Truth!” he squeaked.
“Did you break into my truck?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s riding low so I knew you had stuff in here. I thought it was a moving truck, so you would have a whole house full of goods.”
“And when you saw it was just a statue?”
“I was curious. I came in to look.”
“And…?”
“There were bags on the statue.”
“Ah. That explains it. You tried to take one, or open one, or something?”
“Yes.”
Firebrand?
He’s not lying, Boss. At this moment, I’m not sure he can. A lot of his brain is occupied with tracking Bronze’s position and keeping his bowels clenched. Mostly on tracking Bronze’s movements, so don’t distract him too much or it’ll smell bad in here.
“Fine,” I said, aloud. “How much of a head start do you think would be fair? Two minutes? Five?”
“Could I have ten, please?”
I liked the fact he said “please.” Polite criminals always get away with more, at least with me.
“I tell you what. You’ve been a very reasonable and polite thief. You’ve minded your manners—once you were caught—and nothing’s been stolen. You owe me for the lock on the truck, though. If you’ve got twenty euros, I’ll call it even and give you twenty minutes. Is that fair?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, it is.”
I nodded to Bronze and she backed away all of twelve inches. Her captive rummaged in his pockets and came up with cash—actual coins! —to the tune of about eighteen euros. Close enough.
“Now, do you think you can find a safer profession?”
“I’m damn sure going to try!”
I believed him. I went out through the access hatch, around to the back, and opened the rear doors. Bronze politely moved aside for him. I beckoned him out and helped him down.
“You seem like a good kid,” I told him. “Please try not to be a disappointment. Now run along.”
He took it literally and sprinted away. I latched the doors, climbed into the cab, and told Twilight to stop by a hardware store.
Wednesday, December 23rd
Traveling to London was equally straightforward. I didn’t expect to be able to drive across the Channel. I thought I’d have to wait for a ferry, or—worst case—leave Twilight behind while I took the train under the Channel.
Not so! There are two traffic tunnels under the C
hannel, now, in addition to a high-speed train tunnel. I didn’t even have to swipe my digital money stick through a toll booth. Twilight notified me the tunnel toll was charged to my predeposit on the rental as we rolled merrily on.
Sometimes, technology is a wonderful thing.
London, if you’re interested, was different from the other cities on my route. They all have their own character, and London is a labyrinth. It’s a maze of twisty passages, all alike. Some identifying landmarks help, but most of the time you can’t see them. Getting lost in London is like hunting for minotaurs. Without string. While drunk. I can find my way around inside my pet rock, but I have a supernatural advantage on my home ground. London—for me, anyway—is not user-friendly.
Thank you, Twilight, for knowing where you’re going. Between you and Bronze, I stand a good chance of not wandering in the desert for forty years. I doubt anyone around here is going to send a pillar of fire and pillar of smoke to show me the way home.
Twilight negotiated with Google for a parking spot again. She found one reasonably close to the designated bar—excuse me, the “pub.” It’s a British thing. Twilight displayed walking directions for me—about half a block and around a corner. The place was an historic-looking four-storey building called “The Tea Party.” Turns out it’s not only a pub, but also a Victorian-themed hotel.
Okay, now, this was more like it!
The inside was even more lovely than the outside. The pub was done in dark woods and leaded windows, or good facsimiles. It had a few tables scattered around and a row of booths along one wall, out of the way. The bar itself looked antique. The hotel proper was quite cozy and the desk clerk as friendly as was consistent with being professional. I went for the full Victorian flavor in my room. It came with a four-poster bed, complete with curtains, and an antique (looking) bathroom—pardon me again. “Water closet.” The works.
The Eiffel Tower was beautiful, but inconvenient. The Vatican was deadly. Berlin was humorous. But the pub Mary picked in London? It made up for everything else. I provisionally forgave her for her sense of humor.
I sank into the mattress and sighed contentedly. It almost felt like home. Right then, I decided to haunt the streets of London and live here until I had a darn good reason not to. Find me a place to park Bronze and I’ll hang my swordbelts on the pegs just inside the door. So what if the pegs are for hats and coats? Gentlemen have swords.
I’d check with room service later. For now, it was time to sit in the pub and have a pint with my fish and chips.
I love this place. Bernie Spain Gardens is a small park a little way to the west. Once it got dark, Bronze climbed out of Twilight as we paused on a bordering street. Bronze found herself a spot she liked and stopped moving there. I spoofed a couple of security and traffic cameras while she was moving into position and I didn’t see anyone in a position to watch. I think we got away with it. We’ll see if people notice her as an addition to the park, and what they think of her. I think she’s magnificent. So does she.
Twilight is no longer being charged to my account. I hope she’s enjoying her new job, wherever it is.
As for me, I’m enjoying strolling around London in the dark December night. There’s something about this city I really like. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s more than the language, or the twisty streets. Maybe it’s the juxtaposition of old buildings and ultramodern ones—glass towers next to gothic ones, that sort of thing. It appeals to me. I wish it were a bit foggier, for the atmosphere, but I’m guessing the improved air quality over the past century or so has shot down the old reputation. Still, the river seems to throw up a bit of a cloud, so it’s not all gone.
I like it. I think I may spend Christmas here.
Hmm. Christmas. What will I do for Christmas? Perhaps there will be some shopping for presents, if I can find a suitable orphanage.
No, on second thought, I have a better idea.
Thursday, December 24th
Looks like we’ll have no snow on Christmas. Oh, well. I blame global warming.
Everything else is delightful. The food is good, the natives are friendly, and people seem to feel exceptionally festive.
Let me reiterate: seem to feel.
While I’ve been here, I’ve wandered the streets, seen the sights, bought some presents, enjoyed being a tourist, sampled the entertainments, and, inevitably, caught up on the news.
The East Coast of the United States is almost completely covered in strange, overlapping barriers of some unknown nature. They shimmer like the rainbow colors on soap bubbles, but the colors move and shift much more rapidly. They’re not exactly opaque, but they do blur things inside rather badly. The walls of force go as far south as South Carolina, a trifle farther than Myrtle Beach. The northern edge, at least on the coast, gets most of Rhode Island and Massachusetts, narrowly missing Cape Cod Bay as it curves away from the coast. New Hampshire is almost entirely within the most-northern circle of the overlapping domes, and the group of them take a bite out of Canada, too—Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto are all inside, as is most of Georgian Bay, all of Lake Ontario, Lake Erie, and the southeastern half of Lake Huron.
Internationally, it’s considered a state of emergency for North America. Troops are mobilized, navies are parked outside the overlapping barriers, all the usual stuff you expect. Everywhere else, it’s the topic of discussion. Opinions range from aliens to secret American government projects to conspiracies involving Them, whoever “Them” are.
About the only opinion I haven’t heard is anything involving magical shenanigans. Maybe if I visit Ireland. You never know what they’ll say the faerie court is up to.
Hmm. Is there a faerie court? We have vampires and magi in this world. For all I know, we have werewolves, faerie, and hidden civilizations in the hollow earth. I don’t think I want to open that can of wyrms.
So, while a major international crisis is going on across the pond, I’m enjoying Christmas in London. I think it’s a denial thing, pretending everything is happy and festive. Even the criminal classes seem to have the holiday spirit. No matter what neighborhoods I stroll through, I haven’t been mugged once! I think there’s something very wrong with a civilization when a common criminal doesn’t dare show his face. Maybe they were all at home, sipping eggnog and munching on Santa’s cookies.
In accordance with the abundance of the Yuletide spirit, I decided to play Father Christmas for a bit. A red suit, a funny hat, and a sack were, strangely enough, easy to come by. I thought I’d have a hard time finding them, but I found a fat man snoring in a park and smelling suspiciously like a drunk. He was much more comfortable in the nice, warm police car. Of course, he was also in his underwear, but that’s my fault.
Yeah, I could have drunk his blood. I’m going to say I don’t care for the taste of drunk.
After little touch-up mending and an intense cleaning, I had my costume. With some purchased presents stuffed in a sack, I went off to visit children’s wards in the local hospitals. Every time, staff would stop me to ask what I was doing. For answer, I opened the sack and showed them old-fashioned coloring books—real ones, made of paper, which are actually harder to find than you’d think in this ultramodern digital age—along with small boxes of crayons and the odd stuffed animal toy.
“Why don’t you come by during visiting hours?”
“Father Christmas shows up overnight. This night.”
“They won’t see you in that outfit. And you don’t have the beard.”
“They’re not supposed to see me. That’s the point. But if I do accidentally wake someone, they’ll see Father Christmas, not some stranger leaving gifts. Just leave the lights off.”
They didn’t all like the idea, and they always had a male nurse, orderly, or security guard accompany me. Nobody actually refused, though.
I gave out presents, silently, and ran tendrils through every kid I could find in Oncology. Today’s cancer treatments are pretty good, I hear. Combined with a creature of darkness w
ho sucks the life right out of a tumor, or several tumors, I imagine modern therapies are amazingly effective.
Why? Because I can. Because I want to. I don’t need a better reason, do I?
Friday, January 1st, 2049
Happy New Year!
Last night there was a lovely party—several, in fact—and I wandered from festivity to festivity. It’s easy. Listen closely for the sounds of laughter and music and bring something to drink. I’m not sure if Brits are always so easy-going or if world tensions and bringing a bottle worked together to make them so. Whatever the reason, I vitality-surfed through the evening and made it back to my rooms at The Tea Party before dawn.
After breakfast—I wasn’t alone in the hotel’s restaurant-bar, but I was the only one feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—I looked into finding gambling establishments in London. If I was going to stay here for any length of time, I was going to need a source of income. London is many things, but cheap is not one of them.
Where the hell is Mary? I’m starting to get worried.
Anyway, London has a number of high-end establishments for loosening wealth from the wealthy. There are even more low-end establishments that want to avoid official notice. I don’t really enjoy gambling, as such, but spending an afternoon in the equivalent of a gentleman’s club with a casino room—nothing loud or raucous—is a pleasant way to kill a day and practice being subtly telekinetic. Later, after dark, spending the evening with people who try to kill me for winning—afterward, when I’m alone—is pleasant on a whole different level.
I’m trying to avoid doing too much of that. Again, I’m being incognito, or trying to, but a vampire’s got to eat.
Tuesday, January 5th
Mary arrived today. I was having an early high tea—sunset happens so early this time of year! —when she walked into the place. Her hair was a dark auburn and done in tumbling curls, cascading from beneath a beret-like cap. She looked around the room, pretended not to recognize me, and slinked in a sexy vixen way over to the bar. Underneath her overcoat, her outfit was an off-the-shoulder dress in a dark green, and short enough to make me wonder how women avoid freezing to death.
