“Congresswoman Strong... Building a Strong Community Together,” Sam read, then her eyes dropped to the other items pasted in the window... posters, flyers, smaller versions of the larger sign. A pair of young women, both with a very East Village look and attitude about them, moved past her and went into the campaign office. As the door closed, Sam caught a glimpse of a few other workers inside, most dressed similarly. One, however, was in a shirt and tie, and wasn’t bad looking, either. That would make this a bit easier... Sam took a final sip of her soda, tossing it and the used napkins in her hand into the garbage nearby. She walked toward the windows, making a show of looking at the posters while she was checking to make sure she looked presentable. One final smoothing of her hair, and Sam headed for the door. Getting information now was key, even if she had to flirt a little to get it, and Sam was grateful Vincent hadn’t insisted upon coming along. This would never have worked with him there.
Sam allowed her eyes to adjust a bit to the dark interior before she attempted to move from the doorway. Though the space was lit well enough, it was decidedly dimmer than the reflected sunlight outside. She removed her sunglasses, tucking the bow into her shirt, and took a good look around, her best innocently curious look on display. They had to believe this, so she had to get that balance between informed about issues but not about the candidate... In her experience, people didn’t want to convert you to their side... It required far more work and knowledge than the average campaign worker possessed, so it was far easier to become confrontational and critical of your views than to provide substantive reasons why they were right. They want you to vote for their candidate, though, so if you appear to be “on their side”, but just haven’t chosen your candidate... that they can handle with enthusiasm.
“Well, good afternoon!” Sam smiled pleasantly as Mister Suit-and-Tie approached. There were certainly plenty of other workers who could have hopped up and seen to her, but perhaps there was an unwritten rule that he was to handle things... “My name is Dan, I’m the manager here at Congresswoman Strong’s Sunnyside office. Are you a Strong supporter?”
“Oh, well, um...” Sam looked around, taking in the paperwork on the walls, all connected to a part of the candidate’s platform. “I...”
“Let me guess,” Dan began, an affable smile on his handsome face. “First-time voter?” Sam nodded silently, hoping her smile didn’t look too dopey. Dan nodded. “Of course. We have many people contact us wanting to know more about our candidate. You see, Congresswoman Strong hasn’t spent her time trying to wine and dine and stay on the radar like many other politicians. She’s kept to her district and made some amazing strides in improving the community.”
I’ll bet, Sam thought to herself, as she watched the eager office manager pull papers and pamphlets of information together from the nearest desk, under the frigid glare of the young woman sitting at said desk. He handed the large bundle to Sam.
“These will give you all the information you need about Congresswoman Strong’s platform, and her experience. I’m sure once you read through the materials, you’ll find she is absolutely the right candidate for the job.”
“I’m sure,” Sam said quietly, turning her eyes and attention toward a piece of signage on the wall regarding “community rejuvenation”. The picture was of a neighborhood in Brooklyn, one she recalled visiting as a kid with Ivan. Many Eastern Europeans had moved into that area, especially from Romania, Albania, and Hungary, and it was recognized as a neighborhood for new immigrants from those countries to pass through. There were several regional stores there, and many of the old timers, who, like Ivan, had survived the holocaust and subsequent Communist regime’s persecutions, lived in the apartments above.
That had changed, though, in the past few years... The last time Sam had taken Ivan to the “old neighborhood”, the little stores were gone, replaced by salons, boutiques, and chichi restaurants.
Dan noticed her gaze and smiled big... too big. “This is one of the biggest successes of Congresswoman Stone’s tenure in Brooklyn. See, when she started out as a councilwoman, this neighborhood... well, it was just a cesspool of illegals coming in. Organized crime, child smugglers, it was awful! But she instituted a neighborhood beautification project, and the problem took care of itself. And now...”
“And now?”
“Perfection. I live there myself.” Dan pointed to the windows of an apartment in the poster. “Right there, above the spa.”
“I know the place.” Sam’s efforts at putting on a smile were starting to fail. This twit was getting on her nerves. “I went there many times as a child, with my grandfather. It used to be a bakery.” Sam let the recollections fill her mind, the memory of the fabulous smells, the gorgeous desserts... “Dobosh Torte, with the caramel all over the top... Serbian nut rolls, Polish Kolaczki, Chrusciki, Czech Bublanina...” Sam sighed, and she could have sworn at least a few of the women in the room sighed, too. A quick glance told her that there were mouths watering, and ears listening to their conversation. For his part, Dan looked annoyed, perhaps because the conversation had drifted away from Strong, or because Sam’s recollection of delicious sweets ruined his brainwashed dehumanization of the former population of the neighborhood.
“So,” Sam gestured to the poster, “is this part of the platform, too? Neighborhood rejuvenation?” She squinted at the poster for a moment, then turned her full attention on Dan. “Dan, was it? Right. Yes, so, um, what about all the people who lived in these apartments? Where did they go?”
Dan’s jaw tightened, and Sam could hear some of the others in the room, who were evidently privy to more in-depth information than others, shifting nervously.
“Well, Miss...?”
“Karolyi.”
“Well, Miss Karolyi,” Dan began. He’d made a point of pronouncing her name in an exaggerated way – CAR-O-LEE – and Sam briefly wondered if the ladies would rat her out if she bitch-slapped him silly. “The residents of those apartments were assisted with relocation to other apartments or were aided in any move beyond that.”
“I see. Okay, thank you.” Sam turned to leave, the wad of campaign-related paperwork in-hand, but she stopped at the door. “Oh, um, I don’t suppose you know any of the other campaign managers and such, do you? See, I learned about Congresswoman Strong from this girl who said she worked for the campaign, and I was hoping to get a hold of her and thank her for tipping me off. Maybe you know her? Her name’s Alice Kremer.”
The silence was deafening. Sam could see several of the campaign workers ducking their heads down, avoiding even the notion that they were involved in the conversation through listening. Dan’s face flushed red, and his jaw tightened even more, to the point that Sam was afraid he might just shatter some teeth before he spoke.
“I’m afraid we don’t. You’ll need to contact the Manhattan Main Campaign Headquarters for information about other campaign workers.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked into the back where presumably the private office was located. Sam hesitated a moment, then left.
The sun had moved since she went inside, and the reflections of the metal and glass of the surrounding buildings was not nearly as blinding as it had been. Sam glanced at the papers in her hand and prepared to throw them out at the next garbage can. She stopped, though. They could be useful, after all.
The subway station where she could catch the 7 train, was up ahead, and Sam hot-footed it along, partly because she was anxious to get home, enjoy a nice shower and a refreshing iced tea. She was also anxious to get on the train because she had a feeling, once again, that she was being followed. On the plus side, it wasn’t a werewolf this time.
As Sam settled into a seat on the train, her mind flashed back to the last ride she’d taken... and the horrible way that night had ended. She whispered a little prayer for John Prutzmann, as her grandmother had taught her to do, and settled in for the ride back. Sadly, she had a feeling John wasn’t the first casualty of this war with Strong and wouldn’t be the
last. Sam looked out over Long Island City, and Astoria beyond, all bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Cleansing ethnic neighborhoods didn’t sound like the kind of thing most New Yorkers, or Americans, for that matter, would tolerate... but, if the right information was disseminated, like the bullshit Dan was spewing... as Ivan used to say, people will believe just about anything if what you tell them is spectacular enough. The Nazis had done it when Ivan was a youth, and eleven million people died, and that was only the ones that were counted, only the ones that were known.
As the last glimpse of the shining city above faded away, and the train descended into the tunnel leading under Manhattan, Sam wondered... How many people were going to die this time? Or worse, how many would beg for death rather than become a monster?
13
EMPIRE DINER
Vincent exhaled the final puff of his cigarette and tossed the butt over the wall behind him. The diner was unusual, in that it had an outdoor seating area, and, on an afternoon like this, it was the most pleasant place to be sitting and enjoying an iced tea. An iced tea, and a good think. Even with the bustle of 10th Avenue traffic, Vincent’s thoughts were clear and ordered. He’d always been a logical person, even under the most extreme pressure... Probably why he’d managed to evade detection and accomplish as much as he had over the past ten years.
His logic was frustrated, though. The incident with the German tourist nagged at him, an itch he couldn’t scratch, and, in some ways, was afraid to. Part of him wanted to know who the man was, how he knew who Vincent was, and why he was carrying around a syringe full of quicksilver. It’s not like mercury was a treatment for any old age-related illness or anything.
Vincent sighed, and took another sip of the sweetened tea in front of him. On the other hand, the answers to those questions might at best be unpleasant, and at worst very dangerous. The door of the diner opened, and a professional-looking couple exited carrying take-away containers. They didn’t leave, though, choosing a table on the opposite side of the outdoor space. The man put the umbrella up, angling it to shade the table from the heat of the afternoon sun, then joined the woman in opening the containers, and eating.
“I’m surprised to see you here, boy-o.” The voice initially startled Vincent, but he contained his reaction, and only let a small smile creep out as he turned toward the voice. The plump waitress looked just as motherly today as she had with the hairnet and apron the other day. She smiled affably and gestured to a seat at his table. “May I?”
“Of course,” Vincent said, moving to stand, but she waved him off, plopping quickly on the chair nearest him.
“No fuss now. I have a feeling you’re here because of the other day. No worries about that, dearie. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen over the years, you learn to keep your own counsel, if you get me drift, Vincent?”
Vincent frowned. “How did you know—“
“Your name? I heard it shortly before you left the other day. The tall man with you said it.” She smiled and offered her hand. “Matilda is mine.”
Vincent shook her hand. Her hand was unusually warm, likely a touch of high blood pressure, and her skin was rough in spots. It was a strong hand, though, that knew what hard work was, like his own mother’s hand.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Who?”
“Your mum?” Vincent knew he must be frowning, because Matilda instantly looked apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to open a wound that you’re trying to close.”
“No, it’s not...that.” Vincent smiled, and fiddled in his pocket, his fingers searching for his lighter. “You remind me of her a bit.”
Matilda nodded. “I thought as much. But you didn’t come back here to chat with me. You’re here for another reason.”
Vincent finally felt his lighter, and quickly set about lighting a cigarette. He could feel the relaxation spread as he inhaled, the smoke carrying the calming nicotine into his system. He blew out a puff of smoke, being careful to turn so it wouldn’t blow in Matilda’s face. She shook her head, smiling ruefully.
“You know, you’re not supposed to smoke here.”
“You gonna report me, darlin’?” Vincent asked, giving her a cheeky wink.
“No.” Matilda shook her head. “What did you come back for?”
“The old German that was here the other day... Any chance he or his family might have paid with a credit card?”
Matilda looked at him intently for what felt like ages... then, she slowly smiled.
“WHO?” VINCENT HELD his mobile phone back from his ear. He was pretty sure Ronne hadn’t intended to shout in his ear... pretty sure...
“The name is Cassius Wagner... W-A-G-N-E-R. Matilda wasn’t sure where exactly they—”
“Who’s Matilda?” Ronne interjected, and judging by the tone of the voice on the other end of the line, Vincent was leaning toward that earlier shout being deliberate after all.
“Ma-til-da. The waitress at the diner?” Vincent sighed. “Anyway, she wasn’t sure exactly where they were from, but she heard them mention Berlin and Cologne, so I suppose you can start from there.”
“And do what?”
Vincent sighed, more pronounced this time. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, for fuck’s sake! “Francis, I need you to run this bloke’s name. Try to find out who he is.”
“He’s German... how am I supposed to run a foreign national’s name through our computer system, and get anything but trouble? You know how carefully everyone’s watching immigration shit now, not to mention how close they’re watching ME now. I can’t even take a piss without someone from the Rat Squad popping out of a stall.”
There was a clink in the background, followed by a thud, and a litany of curses from Ronne. Must have spilled something, Vincent thought, and his suspicions were confirmed when Ronne spoke again.
“Hang on a minute, I need to clean this up.” Vincent heard the phone when it hit a surface and concluded Ronne must have tossed it down while he mopped up the coffee or whatever he had spilled. It must have been minor, because Ronne was back on the line quickly, and oddly enough sounded much calmer than he had before.
“Okay, what was his name? I’m writing it down.”
“Cassius Wagner, Berlin or Cologne. And thank you, Francis.”
“Frank. Can you please call me Frank?”
Vincent fought the urge to laugh as he replied, “I don’t know, but I’ll give it a try.”
“Thank you. Oh, Vincent?” Vincent heard a door close in the background before Ronne spoke again, his voice quite soft this time. “There’s some...activity... on the Underland board. Something stirring... Comments that are very targeted about the ‘Wolfborn’... some of them obviously were supporters reacting hotly.”
“Alright. As soon as I get back to the apartment, we’ll look. Who are we looking for?”
“Question Mark.”
Vincent frowned. “Wait, you don’t know who we’re looking for?”
“No, his handle is Question Mark.”
“Got it. Thanks, Frank.” Vincent hung up before Ronne could reply and jogged for the nearest subway station entrance. Perhaps this Underland board would be a source of information about Cassius Wagner as well.
14
THE TONE ARM CAREFULLY lowered into place, the needle delicately alighting on the LP spinning on the turntable. Seconds later, the soft jazz trumpet of Chet Baker filled the apartment. Sam smiled wistfully as she relaxed into the sofa and surveyed the snacks and drinks on the coffee table in front of her. Fruit, cheese, crackers, and a bottle of Malbec, all with her name on it... Well, at least until Vincent got back from wherever he was.
Sam’s trip home from the cemetery had been uneventful, changing trains smoothly and getting back well before rush hour. The encounter at the campaign office bothered her, though. People cleared out of their neighborhood bothered her. People disappearing bothered her. Sam sighed, picked up the wine bottle and poured a generous portion into the glas
s on the table. The wine would relax her a bit, calm her slightly rattled nerves. She took a small sip, savoring the taste in her mouth before she swallowed, and almost immediately feeling that little warm buzz run up her spine. Yes, this was going to help.
Sam pulled the edge of one end of the coffee table toward the sofa, bringing her wine glass, and the food, within arm’s reach. She popped a cracker in her mouth, and settled back on to the sofa, “the Book” in-hand.
“The Book” was Ivan’s or had been once. He made it, filling it with decades of research, experiences, and observation as he coped with the virus that had been given to him. Sam had spent some time with the book, off and on, since Ivan’s death, and, during the time in the cabin, she had begun reading it thoroughly. Some parts were written in Romani, some in Russian and Latin, but between her own basic knowledge of the languages, and a translating app on her phone, she was able to get the gist of everything there.
Here in these pages were descriptions of the experiments performed in Auschwitz-Birkenau, and the conversations Ivan had with the Angel of Death himself... Josef Mengele, the man behind the project that created the Lycanthropic Virus and sought to use it to create the ultimate weapons of war... werewolves.
The experiments were a disaster, though, with most of the specimens dying agonizing deaths, their bodies broken and often partially changed. Men, women, even children, were subjected to the torture with the same results... Until Ivan Karolyi came along, that is. His unique DNA lineage enabled him to not only survive the initial infection, but to support the virus, incorporating it into the DNA sequence itself... and passing this uniqueness down through the generations to Sam.
The Bloodline Series Box Set Page 52
