by Garon Whited
There are innumerable subroutines like that. Most of which, to be honest, I don’t know what they do.
I think it’s time to stop cutting-and-pasting when I cast the spell and start learning how to build one—learning how it works, and why it works, rather than how to operate it.
This is going to take a while.
I made it back to the charity stand before school let out. There was another pile of loot to haul away, so I got started on that, putting anything that wouldn’t mind the cold out in the barn. I also emptied the cash bucket. Susan helped me move stuff. She came by the house earlier, when she saw Fred holding down the stand, but I didn’t answer the door. I made a note to put another doorbell downstairs; if I’m concentrating, I don’t hear it down there. Maybe I should get a link to my skinphone. I’ll have a word with Diogenes.
That feeling of being watched came back and haunted me for a while. There were plenty of people around, but no one paid me any special attention. Still, my paranoid feeling persisted. I didn’t see a scrying spell, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one, only that I didn’t find one. Someone with a technological spying setup? A drone? No, I didn’t see one, and they don’t make invisible drones.
Well, phooey. Maybe they do. I’ll have to look it up.
Could there be a spell on me? Or could Sparky be watching me, somehow? I doubted there was a spell on me. Once alerted and actively searching, I would notice—or Firebrand or Bronze would. But I don’t know the mechanism by which energy-state beings do anything.
I went down into the basement and stood in the Ascension Sphere. The feeling of being watched stopped the moment I stepped over the line.
Well. What does this tell me? First off, I’m not imagining it. It’s magical, whatever it is, and it doesn’t produce a visual distortion near me.
This does not comfort me.
I stepped out of the Sphere and waited. The feeling did not return.
Okay, so, it’s broken when I step into an Ascension Sphere. Either the Sphere eats the spell or it breaks the target lock. How do I find out which? Considering what I have to work with, I don’t.
I hate that.
Other than that, the afternoon and evening were similar to yesterday. There was less in the way of baked goods, more along the lines of hot drinks. We still had a wave of people wanting to give stuff away.
Maybe I’ve spent too long being a suspicious and unpleasant person. Or too much time with my own inner demons. I’m not used to this… this… unbridled generosity. Oh, sure, the things we’re getting are mostly small or old—a couple cans of soup, or someone’s spare shoes, a quilt from the back of the closet, or the couch that’s been in the garage for the last two years. But people are making an effort to scrounge up this stuff and actually bring it. They’re not saying “Oh, wow, sucks to be them.” They’re doing something.
I’m surprised. I’m not sure what that says about me. Nothing good, I’m sure.
Tallying up the loot went much more quickly with Fred helping. I get the impression he’s part accountant. Then again, he’s a preacher; they take up a collections. I suppose he should be good at this sort of thing. Of course, now I have a mental image of him dumping all the collection plates into a big chest in some back room and raking his hands through it, laughing like a pirate who just unearthed a treasure, gold and jewels running through his fingers. This is totally at odds with Fred sliding checks and bills across his skinphone to scan them into an accounting application.
I did the lifting and carrying, he did the counting. We were done in nothing flat.
Thankfully, this meant I had time to go out for the night. I double-checked my humanity in the basement—I can’t see myself in a mirror, but I can cast a scrying spell. I do show up in those. With a little makeup touch-up, I was ready to go to town.
The Gold Dome was, like it says on the label, a gold-colored geodesic dome. Truth in advertising at last. It was built onto, or had built onto it, a more regular, one-storey structure, square, toward the back. It wasn’t exactly a restaurant, but it wasn’t a bar with a dance floor, either. Somewhere in the middle… maybe a nightclub, in the old-fashioned sense? Dinner, a singer, dancing, maybe a show of some sort, all that in one spot. That seems closest.
The place was busy.
There was a single-room structure serving as both entryway and kennel for the guard dogs—excuse me; the head waiter and the bouncers. I should have dressed more formally than my usual jeans and shirt, but at least I remembered to wear a jacket. I think the jacket did it; it was a nice jacket. That gave me the chance to buy a membership at a ridiculous price. The head waiter looked down at me from behind his podium—he was at least four inches shorter than I, but he managed. He sniffed as though I needed a shower. Eventually, he summoned one of the lesser waiters to show me to a tiny table at one end of the bar, by the toilets.
It was a bit crowded, but what can you do when you’re popular? It was a nice place, otherwise. The lighting was dim but not dark, slightly augmented by a bottled candle on each table. Nicely intimate. The chairs were comfortable, the sound system subtle, and the clientele seemed more interested in having fun than in getting drunk. Unlike the underground rave, this wasn’t trying to give me vampiric seizures. I liked it.
Given there were minimal drugs in use and only moderate alcohol, the spirit of the place had a healthy, vital flavor to it, too. Maybe that’s why Mary liked it. I thought it was tasty, too.
I sat at my table and uncoiled tendrils, spreading them invisibly through the great room. I didn’t drain the vitality out of anyone; that wasn’t the point. People walked through them without so much as a sudden chill. No, I was searching for Mary. I could spot her through a mile of night, but there was a crowd to look through and eyes sharp enough to draw blood are not the same as x-ray vision. Although, a spectrum-shifting spell could let me see x-rays; it’s not a terribly power-expensive spell… but then I’d be looking through a sea of mist-shrouded skeletons. Not really an improvement.
If I brushed her with a tendril, however, it would be like swimming in the ocean and brushing against a shark. Nevermind that I’m a shark, myself; it’s something you notice.
After five or ten minutes, I was fairly sure she wasn’t there. Maybe she wasn’t there yet.
“Sir?”
I diverted my attention to the waitress. She smiled at me and put down a glass of water. She probably wanted to take my order.
“I’m sorry. Lost in thought.”
“Do you need a minute?”
“Actually, I’m really waiting for a friend of mine, a lady named Mary Thessa-something. I have a terrible time pronouncing it. She’s a regular here, I believe. She was supposed to meet me.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Would you like something while you wait?”
“How about a cup of coffee?
“Coming right up.”
The waitress breezed away. I sat back to enjoy the ambiance. It really was a nice place. Maybe a little noisy, but that was probably my hearing. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. I practiced patience and waited for my meeting. I’m the new guy in town, after all; I suppose I should have the decency to check in with the local vampire community. If I’d known there was such a community, I’d have checked in before buying the house!
Blending in can be so troublesome. I hope I don’t have to move. I feel all settled down.
Still, I searched the menu on the off chance they had something subtly vampiric on it—maybe the place was owned by a vampire and had a “Bloody Mary Special” or something.
Hmm. Mary. Bloody Mary. Coincidence? Probably. She wasn’t old enough to be the originator of the drink. On the other hand, one of her predecessors might. I wonder what the actual origin of the drink is? Maybe I should look it up, sometime.
The waitress slid a cup and saucer onto the table, along with a small container of cream and packets of sugar. Real sugar, I noticed, not the synthetic stuff.
&nbs
p; The menu itself was one of those leather folders with little pockets to hold the corners of the parchment-like paper. The actual dishes leaned toward what I think of as “real food.” That is, nothing soy-based, vat-grown, or artificial. Everything was actually grown the way Nature intended, either picked off the plant or cooked right on the bone. I wondered how they could stay in business. They didn’t list the prices, which meant the prices might cost you your appetite. If you can afford to be here, then the price of your meal should be immaterial. Apparently, the membership fee wasn’t the only thing with too many zeroes. Some of that must be inflation and the economy, but still…
Nope, nothing hinted at being outside the range of human food. I closed the folder and put it away.
The candle blazed white. I put the saucer on top of it until it dimmed and went out. The last thing I needed was a conversation with a fire-goddess-thing in a crowded restaurant. It’s embarrassing.
The candle didn’t light again when I removed the saucer. I put it back under the coffee and pretended to sip the stuff while I watched the room. It’s more fun to watch a crowd, somehow, when they’re bright things. When it’s hard to see the outsides, they seem like spiritual beings, moving strangely around each other. I don’t know what it is, but a crowd seems almost to have a life field of its own, a vitality that is linked to, yet separate from, the individuals. Energy moves from one person to the others, back and forth, up to the singer on the stage, back down to the listeners, and circulates.
How amazingly subtle. I never noticed that before. Maybe that’s what Mary was after at the rave, rather than anything from individuals.
A slight dissonance in the crowd attracted my attention. An elderly man was at the bar, apparently arguing with the bartender. While such an argument would hardly attract attention under normal circumstances—there’s always someone who’s grumpy about something—the strange patterns of the elderly fellow were noteworthy. He seemed agitated and upset, but the way he was upset seemed… strange.
I moved closer to examine him unobtrusively, and to hear pick out his voice from the ambient noise.
“Sir, I’m going to tell you again, we don’t have any flowers.”
“What kind of a place is this? I’ve been giving my wife flowers for forty years at our anniversary dinner. Why aren’t they here?”
“Sir, this isn’t a flower shop!”
“But I ordered them!” he insisted.
At closer range, I could see his confusion. I don’t know what he was thinking, but he seemed to feel that there should be flowers. The bartender wasn’t a florist, but, somehow, in his mind, a florist should be involved. Was he drunk? No, that’s pretty obvious in Vamp-O-Vision. Confused, yes, but not drunk.
The bartender was reaching the limits of his professional cool. Fair enough; he’s not paid to deal with this kind of thing. On the other hand, a quick look around—from a standing vantage, rather than a sitting one—showed me a small table with a worried elderly lady and an empty chair. A suit stood nearby; he watched the interplay at the bar with a keen expression, but he couldn’t hear what was going on at that distance.
“Excuse me, sir?” I interrupted.
“What do you want?” the old man snapped.
“Flower delivery, sir. We need to know which table they go to.”
“The—oh. Um.” He turned and his gaze wandered around the room, searching. He pointed. “There. That’s our table.”
“Very good, sir. We’ll have them there before the end of dinner.”
“You’d better,” he mumbled, and headed off to his table, confusion still swirling in his spirit, damped somewhat by satisfaction.
“Barkeep?”
“Yes, sir?” He sounded relieved.
“What’s up with the old guy?”
“I don’t know. Old people get a little crazy, sometimes.” He shrugged.
“Fair enough. Is there someone here who handles… hmm. Who would take care of unusual guest requests?”
“Georges. He’s the assistant manager.”
“Very good. Could you send him to my table, please?”
“Of course, sir.”
I sat down at my table and pretended to sip coffee. It wasn’t easy to see the older fellow, but I had an intermittent line of sight on his wife. She seemed quite happy.
Mary came into the room, dressed for a society dinner and accompanied by a smiling gentleman in black tie. I was acutely conscious of them since they both felt like the metaphorical sharks swimming through the ocean of life around me. They sensed me about as quickly, obviously on the alert. By the time they actually reached me, I had returned the menu to the waitress and placed my palms on the tabletop. I smiled, but didn’t show teeth.
“Good evening,” he offered. They stood near the table, close enough to talk, but without crowding. I noticed he had dark hair, bright blue eyes, long fingers, broad shoulders. He could have been an Hellenic wrestler or a concert pianist. Judging by his looks and his speaking voice, he might manage lead singer in a rock band without too many problems, either.
Why are so many vampires devilishly good-looking? You’d think there would be more average-looking people, but with charming personalities. I know there are some average-looking people with socially inept personalities. One, anyway.
But why the preponderance of beauty? Is it an immortality thing? Pretty things should be preserved? Or does vampirism add something indefinable to ones features and form? Am I more handsome and exotic than I think?
I would think vampires, of all people, would learn to value personality over appearance. Then again, personality changes over time; the appearance stays pretty much the same. Maybe the really old fangsters know something I don’t on this. I’ll figure it out eventually, assuming.
“Good evening to you,” I replied.
“My, but it’s dark in here,” he continued. “Would you mind if we joined you?”
“Not at all,” I replied, picking up on the emphasis. Did Mary overhear my conversation with Powers? Maybe. She might have asked around the party guests to try and find out my name. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
He slid into the seat opposite me and clasped his hands together on top of the table, smiling. He showed teeth. I smiled back at him the same way. Mary sat to my left, miniature purse-thing on the table, fingers laced under her chin. In that pose, she reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in… oh, what was that movie? Breakfast At Tiffany’s, that was it.
“I’m Antonio Corbano, Thessaloniki, and I believe you have already met Mary. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have you had dinner?”
“No, but I’m not especially hungry right now. And Mary and I have not been formally introduced. I was under the impression her last name was Thessaloniki.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, sounding contrite. “The, ah, circumstances weren’t ideal. Mary Lambert, of the Thessaloniki.”
“Mary Lambert?” I asked. “As in ‘Mary had a—’”
“Please don’t,” she interrupted.
“I’d imagine it was tempting to get married if only to put a stop to that,” I observed.
“You have no idea,” she agreed, wearily.
“You haven’t changed it in assuming a new identity…?”
“It’s not time for that, yet. It’s easier to alter records than manufacture them. Give it another fifty years and I’ll have inherited everything from myself.”
“Oh. It sounds as though you’ve got a system all worked out.”
“Of course.”
“Halar?” Antonio asked. “I understand you wanted to discuss something?”
“Yes, of course. To business. I’d like to know if the area can stand to have another member of the club, so to speak.”
“You’re thinking of settling here for a time?” he asked.
“Thinking, yes. I don’t want to step on the toes of any blood relations,” I said. Antonio chuckled at that.
“Blood relations. I like that one. But
, really, I don’t know anything about you. Mary told me what she could, of course, and I did some checking, but you’re something of an enigma.”
“Not a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma?” I joked. He and Mary both shot searching gazes in my direction.
“I was told you hadn’t been up and about all that long,” he half-asked, glancing at Mary. “Is that from the last time you were ‘around’?”
“I read it somewhere,” I told him, which was the truth, although not all of it. “A man named Churchill, I believe.”
“Yes,” Antonio agreed. “I never met him, but I respected him as a statesman.”
“I would have liked to meet him,” I said, honestly. “One moment, please.”
A tallish fellow in a black suit arrived at the table.
“I am Georges, the assistant manager in the Gold Dome. Miss Lambert, Mister Corbano. It’s a pleasure to have you with us again.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here, Georges,” Tony replied.
“I understand there’s a special request?”
“That would be me,” I offered. “Halar Smith.”
“Mister Smith,” he said, inclining his head. “How may the Gold Dome be of service?”
“Are you familiar with the elderly couple over there?” I nodded toward them. He glanced over.
“I am, sir.”
“The gentleman seems to be under the impression he ordered flowers for his wife of forty years on their anniversary. He seemed a bit confused to me—maybe he’s having a bad night. I doubt they would be out in public if he was always in such a state. I think it would help him greatly if he saw his wife receive flowers—on his behalf. Could you please arrange for an emergency delivery of an anniversary arrangement before their dinner is over?”
