A Coldness in the Blood

by Fred Saberhagen

  “And the crocodile—I suppose it was only a natural crocodile then—?”

  “Precisely. And it ingested the Philosopher’s Stone, along with most of the thief’s head, in his first or second bite. A few more gulps sufficed to devour the thief entire body, or most of it. But it is with his brain that we are chiefly concerned here. The human brain, and the magic Stone, both inside his luckless head.

  “Imagine, if you will, chunks of raw human flesh, billions upon billions of human cells. The vast majority of them were still totally alive, only moments after being swallowed into the belly of the beast—and this sample of live humanity was suddenly brought, at the same time as the crocodile’s own flesh, into contact with the transcendent power of the Stone.

  “The angry men who came bursting into the courtyard moments later, desperate to recover their priceless Stone, were stopped in their tracks.

  “What emerged from the pool to greet them was no longer a mere beast, and it was something at once much greater and much less than a human thief, and very different from the crocodile who had lived in the water.

  “Priests and guards and laborers all fell back in fear and trembling. A new kind of being, one that they had never seen before, now walked—or crawled—among them.

  “Perhaps it stood before them on two legs. Almost certainly it spoke to them—though what its first words were may not be easy to imagine. They were humans, bound by the conventions and the knowledge of their time and place. What choice had they but to fall down and worship this monstrous, talking apparition from the sacred pool? It was they who, by worshiping the Crocodile, first convinced him that he was Sobek the god.

  “What the Stone would have made of the crocodile’s body alone is difficult to say. Perhaps the result would still have been a memorable monster—on the other hand, the treasure of the ages might have remained inert, and passed through the creature’s gut like so much gravel.

  “But human lives are unlike any others. They have a special quality.”

  Andy was nodding. “Then human deaths must be different too.”

  “Indeed they are. And this one was, I must suppose—unique. When he who had been a human thief regained awareness of himself and his condition, he much preferred to believe he was a god, rather than face the fact that he had also been a mindless animal.”

  Maule’s audience were motionless, listening.

  “Consider. How did the creature who called himself Sobek acquire that name? How did he become so unshakably convinced of his own divinity? Ancient Egyptians confronted with this huge, monstrous crocodile would never have doubted it to be the god Sobek in the flesh. They must have called the creature by that name as they fell down to worship.

  “In that time and place were many gods, and many who wanted to believe in them. Those who had driven and harried the thief to his doom probably just assumed that the god had appeared and devoured him.

  “And after a time—perhaps that part of the process required a long time—the idea that he had ever been less than a god would become unthinkable.

  “And why not? His new powers transcended anything he had imagined in his few years of brutish life.

  “Only by the overwhelming magic of the Stone could a human body and brain be melded with those of a crocodile—I suppose no other power on earth could have accomplished such a feat.

  “Both his human memory and his crocodile memory were effectively destroyed—the human memory surviving only as part of the subconscious—only as a source of dreams.

  “Perhaps there were moments when his purely human consciousness struggled to reassert itself. He might then have briefly considered himself a dead man, a spirit on his way to the Egyptian underworld, to undergo judgment. It might have been then that he discovered the usefulness of the false doors—everyone knew they were basically intended to enable the departed to revisit their old world in spirit, to partake of the offerings placed inside their tombs.

  “At some point, some of his worshipers must have dared to ask their god what had happened to the Stone—and that he could not tell them. What he still retained of the thief memories no longer seemed to Sobek like his own—they were too full of fear, and flight, and weakness. And the thief had never understood that what he stole was anything more than a fine gem.

  “What he did not realize was that it was now somewhere in the center of his own reptilian body. Where it remained, until I struck it with a spear whose point was fortified with Merlin’s magic. I hoped to win the battle with that thrust, but the golden bonus came as something of a surprise. Perhaps it should not have done; the main attribute of the Stone, in its legendary appearances, is its power to transform whatever surrounds it into gold.”

  After several seconds of silence, Dolly asked: “But—that was thousands of years ago—what was Sobek doing all that time?”

  “It is possible that his powers allowed him to travel extensively through time. His experience of duration might have been very different from ours. For him, perhaps, the theft of the gem took place only a few months ago, or only a few days.”

  Dolly was gazing at Uncle Matt with awe. “How did you manage to figure all this out?”

  And Connie muttered, with an air of mockery: “Your cousin Sherlock would be proud.” Everyone had noticed that Connie was looking much more cheerful this morning, and in fact had been up early to do some shopping in Red Lodge. Her camouflage suit was gone, replaced by an outfit she evidently considered much more stylish.

  Maule ignored her mention of Cousin Sherlock. “In my last dream I learned that the thief was carrying something hard and solid, cold and heavy, in his mouth, in the last moments of his human life.”

  Joe Keogh shook his head doubtfully. “It would seem too much to swallow—”

  “It was. And so might the story. But it is true.”

  In another hour Maule and his five helpers, with both of the nosferatu heavily shaded against the morning sun, were gathered again in the forest, standing over their incredible trophy where it lay hidden in the thicket. This time they had brought with them suitable tools for cutting up soft metal.

  Maule strongly urged that the treasure be divided equally, without trying to estimate the various contributions to victory of the several members of the club.

  Dolly agreed to that. “It’s not the treasure Gramp thought he was leaving me. I don’t see how I could rightly claim more than one share for myself.”

  Joe Keogh, who was making it a point to notice certain things this morning, saw that when bright morning sunlight fell on Dolly’s throat a certain way, two small red dots showed up quite plainly. He also noticed that this morning Dolly had a special way of looking at Uncle Matthew—nothing too overt, just a fierce glance now and then.

  Well, that was all right with Joe. He would have been very upset if red dots had shown up on Andy’s throat as well. But there were none, and he and Connie were paying each other no special attention.

  Connie was fluttering her eyelids delicately at Uncle Matthew. “I was a good girl, was I not?”

  “So far, your behavior in this matter has been—acceptable. You shall have a share.”

  “Dear Vlad, you are so generous.”

  When Dolores Flamel looked at the estimate of a full share’s value someone had jotted down, her eyes widened and she said: “My God, this is more than even … well, no, it isn’t more than Dickon told me I’d be getting—oops, shouldn’t have mentioned that fella’s name. But this is real. Good lord!” Evidently struck by a new and disconcerting thought, she fell abruptly silent.

  Andy asked: “What’s wrong, Dolly?”

  “Looks like for once in my life I may have to pay income tax.”

  Maule hummed a small sound of amusement. “I myself have found that unavoidable. The subspecies Homo dirus, also called the ‘undead,’ has only a few members—but if the category of ‘untaxed’ exists at all, its numbers must be much smaller, approximating zero.

  “If you would strive to hold financial dam
age to a minimum, there are in Chicago many expert counselors. I know one in particular who should look with favor upon any friend of mine. Her fee should be quite reasonable.”

  “That’s one lady I’m going to want to talk to.”

  The phone in John Southerland’s hotel suite was ringing.

  At the moment, Maule was alone in the front room of the suite, looking broodingly out the window through a chink between drawn drapes, and wondering if he ought to try to sleep again. Actually he felt well rested, well healed of the cuts and bruises he had suffered in the fight, and generally content. A moment later, John’s voice sounded from somewhere in the remoter recesses of the apartment. “Could you answer that, please, Uncle Matt?”

  “Of course.” Maule roused himself from contemplation. He lifted the receiver and by way of greeting pronounced the number of the room.

  The childish voice on the other end sounded somewhat disconcerted: “Daddy?”

  Maule’s attention was abruptly recalled from exotic speculations about the web. He cleared his throat. “This is Matthew Maule, and I trust I am not your father. What is your name?”

  A pause. Then: “My father is John Southerland.”

  “Ah. I surmised as much. Your father will soon be available.” Maule hesitated awkwardly. Conversing with children had never come easily to him. At last he repeated: “And what is your name?”

  When he heard the answer, he frowned, and repeated it, as if not quite certain of what course to take. “Your name is Andrew V. Southerland?”

  “That’s right,” came the treble over the line. “Andrew after my grandfather and my uncle.”

  Grasping at a conversational straw, Maule ventured : “And what does the middle initial stand for?”

  “Vlad. Isn’t that a goofy one?”

  Driving the SUV toward the Billings airport, with a fortune in gold aboard, wrapped in small packages, Maule told Joe that he looked forward to being able to get back to trying to develop his web site—though he was coming round to the idea that a further period of study and contemplation might be in order before the site could actually be established.

  Joe suggested diplomatically that Andy might not be helping his Uncle Matt this time. “When I called Kate last night, she kind of put in a special request along that line.”

  “That is understandable.” Maule was not surprised. “Yes, understandable.”

  “Oh, and of course she sends her love. Her congratulations.”

  Maule nodded.

  Andy said, from the backseat: “Give Mom a little time to cool off, Uncle Matt. In a while she’ll come around. Especially if you went and talked to her.”

  “We shall see.”

  While they were helping load the packaged gold aboard the aircraft, Andy asked Dolores, almost casually: “Going to be staying in Chicago? I mean after we get this gold thing divided up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Andy had noted, but did not mention, the two small red spots. “He’s a pretty neat guy, my Uncle Matt. Taken all in all, quite a man, as I think someone in Shakespeare says.”

  As far as Joe Keogh could find out, by means of a few cautious and long-distance calls, asking carefully crafted questions in the right places, the Chicago police had never caught on that they ought to be looking for Andy Keogh and Dolores Flamel. Going home ought to be safe enough.

  Joe felt sure that the current situation, reports of mysterious death and destruction scattered across the country, with Matthew Maule lurking just out of sight in the background, would definitely ring a bell with Charley Snider—if Charley ever heard about it. But, thankfully, the homicide captain had retired years ago.

  Sooner or later some hunter or hiker or snowmobiler in the Montana woods would stumble over signs of remarkable conflict, such as the half-wrecked cabin and the broken trees. Well, at least this time there were no bodies of unbreathing breathers to be found.

  Dolores Flamel had taken the seat right next to Andy on his father’s plane. They had climbed to altitude and leveled off, jets droning smoothly, pushing them to Chicago.

  “It was good being with you, Andy,” she said sincerely. “I mean, I don’t see how I ever could have got through all that alive without you. Let alone come out of it a rich girl, like it looks I’m going to be.”

  “It was good being with you too. Don’t know anyone I’d rather”—he felt a twisted giggle coming—“fight monsters with.”

  She smiled. “Got a girlfriend, Andy?”

  “One or two. Nothing special, yet. They’ll never—”

  He had to break off, shaking his head. “They’ll never hear anything about this.”

  Dolly nodded sagely. “I’m not going to be talking ’bout it much, either.” She drew breath. “I was wondering—would you be upset if I kind of took over your job?”

  “My job?”

  “With Uncle Matt. Teaching him what to do with his computer.”

  Andy was shaking his head again.

  Dolly smiled. “I know a little bit about the web. I guess maybe I could show him a thing or two.”

  Dramatis Personae

  MATTHEW MAULE—has lived and gone to his grave in other centuries, under other names, most notably VLAD DRACULA. Currently Maule is developing a theory in which vampires, the nosferatu, form a distinct subspecies: Homo dirus, or man inspiring dread. Few are going to argue the point with him.

  JOE KEOGH—a generation ago, as a young Chicago cop, Joe married into the Southerland family. Ever since he has been bound to them, and to Maule, by ties of loyalty and money, blood and love, horror and secrecy. Now Joe is worried about his son, Andy.

  ANDY KEOGH—a few weeks past his nineteenth birthday, he had no idea that vampires were real. The facts of life, Southerland family style, would come as a great revelation.

  DOLORES FLAMEL—her grandfather was a great magician who left young Dolly a puzzling legacy, plus a warning about certain of his associates. When she came to the big city, she thought it wise to bring along a sawed-off shotgun.

  SOBEK—was something both more and less than human. In ancient Egypt, he had been offered the sacrifice and worship due the god of crocodiles. In twenty-first-century America, he intends to accept no less, from breathers or vampires.

  CONSTANTIA—almost as old in the ways of the nosferatu as Matthew Maule himself, she is still as young and beautiful as the day she turned eighteen—and very little wiser.

  DICKON—probably the oldest vampire Mr. Maule has ever met—but even more frightened than frightening. Centuries of being terrified have made Dickon very good at sheer survival, and he can be extremely dangerous when cornered.

  LAMBERT—quite young for a vampire, and exceptionally violent. He was fascinated by the rumors of a magnificent magician’s treasure, a Stone that gave all wealth and power to its possessor. Lambert fears neither Maule nor monster.

  Tor Books by Fred Saberhagen

  The Berserker® Series

  The Berserker Wars

  Berserker Base (with Poul Anderson, Ed Bryant, Stephen Donaldson,

  Larry Niven, Connie Willis, and Roger Zelazny)

  Berserker: Blue Death

  The Berserker Throne

  Berserker’s Planet

  Berserker Kill

  Berserker Fury

  Berserker Star1

  Berserker Prime1

  The Dracula Series

  The Dracula Tapes

  The Holmes-Dracula Files

  Dominion

  A Matter of Taste

  A Question of Time

  Séance for a Vampire

  A Sharpness on the Neck

  A Coldness in the Blood

  The Swords Series

  The First Book of Swords

  The Second Book of Swords

  The Third Book of Swords

  The First Book of Lost Swords: Woundhealer’s Story

  The Second Book of Lost Swords: Sightblinder’s Story

  The Third Book of Lost Swords: Stonecutter’s Story
<
br />   The Fourth Book of Lost Swords: Farslayer’s Story

  The Fifth Book of Lost Swords: Coinspinner’s Story

  The Sixth Book of Lost Swords: Mindsword’s Story

  The Seventh Book of Lost Swords: Wayfinder’s Story

  The Last Book of Swords: Shieldbreaker’s Story

  An Armory of Swords (editor)

  The Books of the Gods

  The Face of Apollo

  Ariadne’s Web

  The Arms of Hercules

  God of the Golden Fleece

  Gods of Fire and Thunder

  Other Books

  A Century of Progress

  Coils (with Roger Zelazny)

  Dancing Bears

  Earth Descended

  The Mask of the Sun

  Merlin’s Bones

  The Veils of Azlaroc

  The Water of Thought

  Gene Rodenberry’s Earth: Final Conflict—The Arrival

  Notes

  1 forthcoming

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  A COLDNESS IN THE BLOOD

  Copyright © 2002 by Fred Saberhagen

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  www.fredsaberhagen.com

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