Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  “Not anymore,” Max said. “Based on my experiences, though, I am convinced that the killer is not undead.”

  Thack nodded. “Although I wasn’t very attentive to my grandfather’s teachings about these things, I think you must be right, Max. An undead monster would be noticed before long. They’re not exactly stealthy, I gather.”

  “Moreover, an undead creature would inadvertently create more undead, at least in some instances. Which would also not go unnoticed,” Max said. “I believe the murderer is a living vampire.”

  “Living vampires don’t infect their victims with vampirism?” I asked.

  Max shook his head. “The living create another vampire only by sharing their blood. When they prey upon people, the victims stay dead.”

  “Do you think the killer is an illegal made vampire?” Thack let out his breath in a rush. “That’s a scary thought. Aren’t they dangerously unstable?”

  “They can be,” Max said.

  Nelli gave a little groan of discomfort.

  “When you say ‘illegal,’ you mean not authorized by the Council of Gediminas?” I guessed, absently patting the dog’s side as she lay by my feet.

  “Yes,” said Thack. “I’ve heard that getting a permit from the council to make a vampire is slightly harder than getting a papal dispensation from the Vatican. So if he is made, he’s probably illegal.”

  “He?” I prodded.

  “Legal or illegal, the vampire would have to be male,” Max explained.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you telling me that in addition to hereditary vampirism being strictly a male gig, only males can become made? That is so unfair!”

  “Don’t look at me,” Thack said. “I told you—I turned my back on all that. Apart from drinking a little blood to keep my family happy on the rare occasions when I visit them, this all has nothing to do with me.”

  Dragging the discussion back on topic, Max said, “We must also consider the possibility that the killer is a rogue Lithuanian.”

  “They have those?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” said Max. “It’s the sort of problem the Council of Gediminas was founded to regulate.”

  “You really know your vampire history,” Thack said, clearly impressed.

  “What exactly is a rogue Lithuanian?” I asked Max.

  He gestured courteously to Thack. “As the only vampire present, perhaps Thackeray would like to explain.”

  Thack grimaced. “It’s sort of a power-mad addiction to blood that drives a vampire to kill—and keep killing.”

  “Aren’t all vampires, by definition, addicted to blood?” I asked, hoping not to offend him again.

  “No, of course, not.” He added, “Ah, I mean, hereditary vampires aren’t.”

  “Certainly the undead are,” Max said to me, as if trying to encourage a slow student. “You are correct about that.”

  “And made vampires are addicted, too. Which is precisely why making one is so strictly regulated,” Thack said. “When you make a vampire, you are, for all practical purposes, creating an addict. So it’s just not a good idea.”

  “But the made don’t have the same needs as the undead,” I guessed—otherwise, Max’s long-ago Serbian acquaintance Bosko would have been exposed as a vampire almost immediately upon becoming made.

  “No, their need is typically much more moderate,” said Thack. “I believe that feeding once every week or two can keep a made vampire sated. Is that correct, Max?”

  “Yes. Unlike the undead, the made eat normal food and drink normal beverages, after all. Human blood sustains only their mystical aspect.”

  “And when they feed,” Thack added, “the made don’t need anywhere near the quantity of blood that the undead do. So if they become killers, it’s mostly due to lack of discipline or lack of guidance.”

  “How much blood do they need?”

  Looking to Max for confirmation, Thack estimated, “Perhaps the equivalent of a wineglass every week or so.”

  “Oh!” I said in surprise. “Well, that’s not very much, is it? Even I kind of believed Daemon’s claims that he was getting quantities like that from sexual partners.”

  “That ludicrous poseur is correct only in the sense that real adult vampires often do get their sustenance from an intimate partner.” Thack added with disdain, “But it’s not done as a sex sport between virtual strangers who then go around bragging about it.”

  “If you don’t have fangs ... Er, you don’t, do you?” I peered into Thack’s mouth, wondering if I could have somehow missed this during the three years I had known him.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” He opened wide to show me his excellent and perfectly normal dentition.

  “She is not to blame,” Max said to him. “I hold fiction writers responsible for such misconceptions.”

  “I blame Hollywood,” Thack said darkly.

  “And Van Helsing is not that similar to me,” Max added to no one in particular. “Not his speech patterns, certainly.”

  “Without fangs,” I said quickly, “how do you extract human blood?”

  “Well, if you’re modern and civilized, you do it with a hypodermic needle and a syringe.” Thack shuddered with distaste as he continued, “But if you’re a stubbornly orthodox family that cherishes all that self-aggrandizing guff about being descended directly from Gediminas himself, then you do it with a ritual vessel of some sort—usually silver or pewter—and a very sharp blade.”

  “Ouch.”

  Max said, “Mothers, sisters, wives, and friends of the family are the usual donors.”

  “Oh, great, men do the cutting and the drinking, and women get to be the donors,” I said in disgust.

  “Men can be donors, too,” said Thack. “It’s just that a woman can’t be a—”

  “Vampire. Uh-huh.” I folded my arms and scowled at my companions.

  “I didn’t make the rules,” Thack reminded me. “And the rules were made in the fourteenth century, after all.”

  “Hmph. Well, all I can say is, there must be a lot of anemic women in Lithuania. And Wisconsin.”

  “We really don’t drink that much,” Thack said.

  “A wineglass every week or two is a lot of blood for a woman to—”

  “Ah, that’s for a made vampire,” Max said. “And they’re very rare, after all.”

  “Oh? So how much does a hereditary vampire drink?”

  “It depends on how orthodox he is,” Thack said. “I, for example, haven’t had a drink of blood in about two years.”

  “You can survive that long without blood?” I asked in surprise.

  “Hereditary vampirism isn’t about needing blood,” said Thack. “We don’t wither and disintegrate like the undead or go into withdrawal and fall into a decline like the made if we don’t get blood. We just lead normal human lives without it.”

  “Then why drink it?”

  “Well, partly to honor the ancestors and keep the old traditions alive.”

  “Ah.” Being Jewish, I knew something about that.

  “And partly because drinking human blood enhances us. A vampire’s metabolism transforms blood into mystical energy. By consuming it, we improve our strength, speed, and agility, and our senses become keener.”

  “That seems very desirable, Thack,” I said. “Why don’t you drink blood more often?”

  “I live and work in Manhattan,” he pointed out. “I don’t want a keener sense of smell—in fact, in summer in New York, I’d pay real money to disable the ordinary sense of smell I’ve already got, thank you very much. And if my hearing got any better, I don’t know how I’d manage to sleep in the city that never sleeps.” Warming to his theme, Thack continued, “Since—much to my parents’ disappointment—I did not choose a career as a hockey player or a Navy SEAL, I also don’t feel a burning need for enhanced strength, speed, and agility. What am I going to do with that, for God’s sake? Leap onto the roof of a subway train to catch a ride when the cars are all full? Tackle waiters
and physically force them into submission when I want my check now, please?” He shook his head. “Look, I can see why a medieval warrior king might have wanted these ‘gifts,’ but I really think it’s time to put all this stuff behind us. It’s not the fourteenth century anymore, folks! Vampirism in the modern world is like a Humvee in the suburbs—I mean, please. Are you taking the children to preschool or invading the Middle East?”

  I shrewdly sensed that my innocent question had aroused longstanding grievances and incited a habitual rant.

  “If a hereditary vampire doesn’t need blood to survive,” I said, deliberately changing the subject, “then how does that power-mad murderous addiction that you mentioned occur?”

  Thack took a deep breath and regrouped. “It usually happens when someone decides he does want to be a medieval warrior king, and there are no elders around to stop him.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The individual in question,” Max said, “may be inherently bloodthirsty and lack guidance.”

  “Vampires can be bad seeds, just like anyone else,” said Thack.

  Max continued, “Or an individual may crave enhancements and empowerment beyond what is normal among orthodox hereditary vampires.”

  “And for that, he needs a lot more blood than normal practices allow,” Thack said. “More blood than a cooperative donor can afford to lose. After killing donors who expected to live through the ritual, he’d move on to killing unwary strangers—including ambushing his prey, if need be.”

  “Eventually, the enhancements endowed by so much blood,” Max added, “mean that only the classic methods of dispatch would be effective in stopping such a vampire.”

  “Fire or decapitation,” I said faintly.

  Thack nodded. “Me, you could kill any old way. But a hereditary vampire who, in defiance of all norms and values governing the community, has been drinking liters of blood from his victims?” His expression was grave. “Very hard to kill.”

  I looked at Max, my heart thudding in alarm. “In other words, a rogue Lithuanian is a really bad thing.”

  “So is a made vampire who’s run amok,” said Thack.

  “No wonder the Council of Gediminas has been needed all these centuries.” Battling the undead was just one of their crucial roles.

  “If our theory is correct, then this individual, whether made or rogue, must be stopped,” Max said. “This vampire will keep killing—and the rate of the murders will accelerate.”

  “Addiction,” Thack said to me. “The more he drinks, the more he’ll want.”

  Max said, “The most recent victim was the first to be fully exsanguinated. I suspect that indicates that the vampire’s thirst is increasing.”

  “Oh, God, I hate this,” Thack said with feeling. “I love theater. Art. Wine. French-Asian fusion cuisine. The Baroque composers. Cashmere and linen. Sondheim musicals and Shakespeare in the Park.” He shook his head, his expression distressed. “Bloodthirsty murder does not belong in the same world with such wonderful things.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Max agreed. “Yet here it is. And our duty is to eliminate it.”

  Thack said, “Our duty? Look, Max, I told you, I am not equipped—”

  “You are a Lithuanian vampire whose heredity goes back centuries,” Max said. “Given the current inexplicable absence of another of your kind, I implore you not to walk away from this situation while the innocent are unprotected and the killer is at large.”

  “Oh . . . damn.” Thack obviously felt cornered by this supplication.

  Really scared by their theory, I said, “Couldn’t the killer be a homicidal mundane person who knows how to exsanguinate his victims?”

  “Do you have any idea how much blood the human body contains?” Thack said. “It’s a lot more than the tidy demi-bouteille you see on Crime and Punishment. If the killer isn’t a vampire in an advanced stage of addiction, then what the hell is he doing with all that blood?” As he pulled out his cell phone, he added quickly, “And before you speak, that was strictly a rhetorical question. I’m freaked out enough already. I don’t want more psychotic images entering my head.”

  “You’re phoning someone?” I said incredulously. “Now?”

  “I’m calling my Uncle Peter in Wisconsin. He’s peripherally involved in council politics, and he’s also done a little vampire hunting.” Thack dialed the number, then held the phone to his ear as he met Max’s gaze. “I’m way out of my depth here. We need help from someone who is equipped to deal with this before anyone else gets killed.”

  Max nodded. “Excellent.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Waiting for someone to answer his call, Thack said, “That must be Leischneudel. I told him we’d stop by his room to collect him. The poor kid must think we forgot and left without him!”

  “Oh!” I flew to the door and flung it open.

  Daemon was standing there.

  Behind me, I heard Thack say into his phone, “Uncle Peter. Yes, it’s me. Yeah. Fine. No. Listen, we have a big problem here.”

  “Hi,” I said without enthusiasm to Daemon. “What do you want?”

  “Just seeing who’s still here,” he said. “I . . .”

  We heard sprightly footsteps coming this way, accompanied by the sound of cheerful humming. We both looked down the hallway—and I was surprised to see Bill approaching.

  He was smiling and there was a lively bounce in his step. “Esther. Daemon.” His smile became a delighted grin. “Great show today, guys! Loved it. If only every performance were that entertaining.”

  Daemon closed his eyes and lowered his head, looking like he might start weeping. I smiled wanly at Bill, who was still humming as he passed us and continued bounding down the hall.

  “I think I prefer him when he’s depressed,” I said.

  “What are you doing now?” Daemon asked. “I don’t really feel like being alone.”

  Chilled by the implication that he thought I would spend time with him, I said, “You have a gazillion fans outside the stage door. Go hang out with them.”

  “Not tonight,” he said tragically. “I really can’t face ... Some of them aren’t very ... Victor says there’s grassfeet ... grass ... grass-fiti—”

  I realized he was drunk. “Graffiti?”

  “Thank you. On the side of the theater. Did you hear it with your own eyes?”

  “Uh, no. And I’m busy right n—”

  “Murderer.” He swayed a little on his feet. “That’s what it says. They think I killed that girl.”

  “Oh, only a few of them think that,” I said dismissively. “The rest of them still love you. Go outside. You’ll see.”

  I tried to close my door. He leaned against it, folding his arms as he continued morosely, “They think I could kill someone. Me! I was almost a vegetarian! Though, okay, that was really more about getting laid by—”

  “I can’t talk right now,” I said, trying to nudge his body weight off my door so I could close it.

  Behind me, I could hear Thack explaining the situation to his uncle. Nelli sneezed a couple of times. Max promised her they’d leave here momentarily.

  “And that performance.” A tall man, Daemon lowered his head to confide in me. I noticed that his breath stank of whiskey, not Nocturne. “God. I think my career could be over after that.”

  Since I was still aromatic with liniment and ointment, his irritated eyes started watering as soon as he got that close to me. I noticed that his pink nose was running and quivering, too. I took a couple of steps back, not wanting the romantic prince of the night to sneeze on me again.

  “Well, we certainly shouldn’t do it twice, but everybody has a disastrous performance once in a while. That’s live theater.” I shrugged. “It goes with the territory.”

  I could afford to be philosophical about it since, through no fault of mine, today’s show had been a dismal flop well before I inadvertently triggered Daemon’s allergies—and then, at least, we woke up the bored audience.r />
  “The police think I killed her, too,” Daemon said sadly. “But you don’t think that, do you?”

  “Not really. Is Victor still here? He should probably help you get home. You seem a little—”

  “Hey, there are visitors in your room!” Daemon said, cheering up. “Introduce me.”

  “No, you’ve already met—”

  Daemon sneezed messily as he shoved his way past me and entered my dressing room. He greeted Max and spoke earnestly to Thack, evidently not noticing that the agent was on the phone. Then Daemon sat down near Nelli—and sneezed again. As he wiped his nose with his black silk sleeve, I recalled that the dog was another of his allergies.

  Thack gave me an exasperated look. I shrugged and spread my hands, indicating that I had tried to get rid of our unwelcome visitor.

  Daemon launched into a long, rambling monologue about how misunderstood (and also how wonderful, caring, and special) he was, punctuated by sneezes and sniffles, while Nelli lay nearby, occasionally wheezing. Max and I ignored Daemon and waited for Thack to finish his call. He stood with his back turned to everyone and was talking in a low voice.

  When he was done, he turned to face us, started to speak, then gave Daemon a doubtful stare.

  The actor broke the expectant silence. “I need to go out somewhere. I feel suffocated here.”

  “That’s because you apparently can’t breathe,” Thack noted, eyeing Daemon’s red-rimmed eyes and runny nose.

  “Hey, we should all go out together!” Daemon exclaimed. “Wanna go out somewhere?”

  Seeing a chance to get rid of him, I said, “Good idea. Go get ready.”

  “I’ll tell Victor to have the brought car round.” He paused, evidently realizing that hadn’t come out quite right. “To have the round car br . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it.” I hauled him out of his chair and steered him toward to the door. “Go do that.”

  As soon as he was gone, I turned back to Thack. “Well?”

  “My uncle will call Vilnius right away. It’s some ungodly hour early tomorrow morning there, I guess. But there’s an emergency number that’s answered around the clock, for obvious reasons. He’ll get back to me later, after he talks to them.” Thack continued, “Uncle Peter agrees it sounds like there should be a vampire hunter on the scene. He says that an exsanguination murder is bad enough, but now that it’s tabloid fodder—well, the council will be shitting kittens.”