by Hank Davis
“Yes, I’ve just been so worried.” But they both knew that’s why she hadn’t gotten much sleep. “Have you any news?”
Sullivan shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, lady.”
Emily stopped. “Why . . . Whatever do you mean?”
“You can drop the act. I know I’m not the one that did all the killing last night. So how long have you known Horowitz? Must have been long enough that he wasn’t scared to turn his back on you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sent me to Horowitz. He sent me to Bones, who was such a rabid dog that you figured there was no way he’d be taken alive for questioning. Horowitz wanted him gone and Bones was as good a scapegoat as you’d ever find. Then you shot Horowitz because the only way two people can keep a secret is if one of them’s dead.”
The shocked expression that briefly crossed her lovely face said that he’d gotten close enough. She tried to play indignant. “How dare you accuse me!” She pointed at the door. “Get out!”
Sullivan stayed planted on the couch. “Why the pig blood?”
“How—” She caught herself too late. Emily’s arm fell. “If you knew Arthur, you’d know that the pig was appropriate. Well, I do say . . . You are smarter than you look.”
“Just a bit,” Sullivan said. “I’m assuming you had Horowitz stage the crime scene. You don’t strike me as the type that likes getting your own hands dirty.”
Resigned, she walked around behind the ornate desk and flopped into Arthur’s wide rolling chair. “Not usually . . . The authorities had to declare that Arthur was dead before I could collect his insurance. I wanted to be elsewhere at the time for an alibi.”
Sullivan looked over at the giant painting of Arthur Fordyce hanging over the fireplace. “So, where’s your husband?”
She shrugged. “Argentina, I think. He’s run off again with one of his many mistresses. Again. The man’s seventy-five with the libido of an eighteen-year-old sailor. He does this all the time. He’ll be gone for weeks, sometimes months, before he crawls back, begging forgiveness.”
It was actually more surprising that he was alive than that he was a philanderer. “But why make it look like he was dead if he’s coming back?”
“Timing, Mr. Sullivan, timing. I had to be ready to act as soon as he ran off again. Arthur is declared legally dead. I get the insurance money, which is significant—let me tell you—I clean out the accounts and I leave the country. The jerk comes home to find out he’s dead and broke. Serves him right.”
“If you hated him so much, why didn’t you just leave him?”
“I married that old fool for his money. I just didn’t realize how awful long a Healer can stick around.” She rolled her eyes. “I divorce him, I get nothing. It’s hard to poison a Healer slow enough to make it look natural. They just keep making themselves better. Believe me, I thought about just shooting him in the night and blaming it on robbers. The kidnapping was Abe’s idea.”
“How’d you know Horowitz?”
Emily was looking around the desktop for something, suddenly she swept aside a book to reveal a small revolver hidden beneath. “Ah ha!” she shouted as she reached for it. She’d shoot him, say it was self defense or something . . . but Sullivan’s Power had recovered from last night’s escapade. He slammed multiple gravities down on the little gun. Emily tugged on it, grunting and pulling, but she couldn’t budge it. “Damn you, Heavy!”
“Unless you’re secretly a Brute, you’re not going to lift that piece . . .” He took out a smoke and struck a match. “So how’d you know Horowitz?”
Red faced, she gave up. “I was a dancer in one of his joints. That’s how I met Arthur . . . Arthur met lots of girls through Abe. I was just the first one sharp enough to catch him. Ugh . . . I can’t believe I’m admitting that.”
“I can see why. You do put on a great show.”
“Five years later, the old bastard was still kicking so we hatched this little plot . . . Timing was perfect, Arthur left again, and there was a crew that Abe wanted gone anyway to blame. Plus they were too stupid to get taken alive, and even if they denied it nobody would believe a filthy Shard. Should have been perfect.”
“Arthur didn’t recommend me at all. Horowitz did.”
“Sure, you and Arthur were in the same unit, but he didn’t know you from Adam. Abe couldn’t tip the cops off without implicating himself. He said you had a killer’s rep and you were motivated to keep the G-men off your back. Two birds, one stone, he said.” She gave the revolver one last pensive tug. “So what now?”
“I decide what do with you.”
Emily was thinking hard and that was dangerous. “Abe got greedy, but once the insurance comes in, I’ve still got his share.” She rose from the seat and walked over to Sullivan while untying the sash on her robe. Stopping in front of him, she let the silk hang open, revealing that she wasn’t wearing much of anything underneath. “Poor little me . . . Defenseless against a big strong man like you. Oh, have mercy, Mr. Sullivan . . . I can make it worth your time.”
“I bet you could . . .” Sullivan blew out a cloud of smoke as he examined the dancer’s body. Emily waited, smirking. This was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. He stood up, gently took the edges of her robe in hand, appeared to think about it for just a second, and then covered her back up before stepping away. “But that would’ve been more tempting if you’d tried to seduce me before you tried to shoot me.”
“You no-good—“
Sullivan looked toward the ceiling. “Mae! It’s time to go.” There was a sudden blast of wind as something stirred in the room. Emily’s hair whipped wildly and she had to struggle to keep her robe shut. The fireplace popped and sparked as something flew up the chimney and disappeared.
“What was that?”
“That’s Mae, a disembodied spirit. I brought her with me. Sweet girl, considering what she looks like. I had her record our talk and she’ll be able to show it to anybody with a Finder.”
“But . . . No judge will allow that. No jury is going to take the word of a demon, you idiot. You’ve got nothing. I’ll deny this whole thing. You’re a felon and a stupid Heavy. I’m somebody now. Nobody will believe the likes of you!”
“I’m not going to show it to the law, girl. I sent her to the Purple gang . . .” Those two words hung in the air like the smoke from his cigarette. “I’m sure they’re mighty anxious to know who murdered their admiral.”
“No . . .” Emily sank to her knees. “Oh no.”
“I’ll be keeping your advance because I did solve the case.” Sullivan paused briefly on his way out the door. “And if I were you, I’d start running. Considering those Purple boys, you’re gonna want a head start.”
Outside, he could still hear the screams of frustration and the breaking of furniture but the sounds faded as he walked down the steps to his automobile. He needed to get some sleep, but first he owed Bernie some tin foil.
The snow had really cleaned the air. There were kids running in the road, pulling each other on the sleds they’d just found under the tree. The people next door had built a snowman. It was a beautiful morning. Sure, he’d been tricked, lied to, stabbed, and had killed several men, but they’d had it coming, and he’d knocked two more off of J. Edgar Hoover’s to-do list. So all in all, not too shabby . . .
As far as Christmases went, he’d had worse.
* * *
INTRODUCTION
THE VAMPIRES WHO
SAVED CHRISTMAS
AND
VISIONS OF
SUGAR PLUMS . . .
Two stories by the same author? But they’re very short . . . and very funny.
What’s a vampire to do at Christmas, with all the good cheer among the living, spoiling the taste of A and B positive? Still, even vampires have family values, and this undead family gets an unexpected windfall, making things merry and bright . . . red.
Another supernatural being thought he had lucked o
ut and wouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone. He was half right . . .
S. N. Dyer turned out an amazing number of hysterically funny sf and fantasy stories in the 1970s and 1980s under more than one name. The author now pursues a medical career, and fiction’s loss is medicine’s gain, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who hopes Dyer will someday return to writing her strikingly individual twisted tales.
* * *
THE VAMPIRES WHO
SAVED CHRISTMAS
By S. N. Dyer
“I think,” said Vlad, “that there is nothing lonelier than to be a vampire on Christmas Eve.”
We all nodded agreement, and not just because he was the Master.
“Everything so festive and bright, holy symbols everywhere. Everyone home with their families, full to revulsion with Christmas cheer.” He shuddered.
“Yeah,” said Larry. “Even the drunks are in shelters, drinking in the holiday spirit. You just can’t get a meal anywhere.”
“Come on,” I said. I was only a year undead and hesitant to speak out in such august company, but on this evening they seemed inclined to be kindly toward youth. “It’s not so easy for mortals either. I was a single Jewish woman without family—for me, Christmas was a complete drag. No stores open, no restaurants or movies. Nothing at all to do . . .”
“Except wander the streets looking for Chinese takeout, and become someone else’s dinner?” Vlad asked teasingly, and pinched my cheek. He’d been lonely that night too.
“You know what I hate the most about Christmas?” asked Mr. Bronze.
We looked at him respectfully, even the Master. Mr. Bronze was, after all, older than all of us together. He could complain authoritatively about the loneliness of a stranger in Athens during the Eleusinian Mysteries, in ancient Baghdad during Ramadan, in Rome at Saturnalia, in China at New Year, in the Cave of the Old Ones at the Feast of the Great Bear . . . He had been an outsider through recorded human history and long before.
We waited expectantly.
“What I hate most,” said Mr. Bronze,” is those darn reruns of It’s a Wonderful Life.”
Vlad passed around chilled AB negative—you just can’t get fresh blood on Christmas—and we waited for Larry to start the videos.
“Oh no!” Larry cried, and cringed. He remembered the old days, when the Master was given to fits of temper. Before the Twentieth Century, with its psychoanalysis, behaviorism, and rebirthing therapy. But mostly, before the Master took to hunting in neighborhoods where most of the blood was enriched with Prozac, with just a soupcon of Xanax.
“What’s wrong?” we asked. We hoped he hadn’t brought vampire movies, a prank which had previously cost him two months locked in his coffin without dinner. The master hated vampire movies—not only for the sheer defamation of character, but because he thought he should be getting residuals. (Though we did all have a sneaking fondness for Love at First Bite.)
“My videos! Look!” Larry hit the on button, and a black and white movie began. Miracle on 34th Street!
“That was supposed to be Fellini’s Satyricon,” Larry wailed. He began to rip open the other boxes. “And this was supposed to be PeeWee’s Big Adventure, and this was—ouch!” He dropped the cassette, fingers sizzling.
“Not The Greatest Story Ever Told?” Lila asked sympathetically. Larry sprinted to the kitchen to run cold water over his hand.
The Master sighed, and leaned back in his chair. We could hear carols drifting up from the apartment below. “Well, on the bright side,” he remarked, “some other loving family has our movies.”
So we did what all vampires eventually wind up doing on Christmas Eve, unless they plan ahead. We set out for Blockbuster Video.
The streets of Christmas Eve were as I remembered them from life: deserted. Store windows still shone brightly, luring you to the impending retail bacchanalia. Luckily there were not many frankly religious displays to make us ill, but the nondenominational splendor of trees and Santas was still enough to inspire queasiness, or at least angst.
A cheery mortal couple rushed by, arms clutching presents. My mouth watered. I was hungry.
“No, young one,” whispered Vlad, a restraining hand upon my arm. “You wouldn’t like the taste.” I’d been told. Next to sheer religious fervor, nothing quite spoils the bouquet as much as hope, merriment, and visions of sugar plums.
We paused before a toy-store window. A lifesize animated Santa waved from a sleigh overflowing with gifts.
“Hmmph,” said Mr. Bronze. “Doesn’t look a bit like him.”
Then we heard the sound of childish voices raised in song. Jingle Bells, luckily. After a month of a steady onslaught of Silent Night, I was ready to go berserk if I heard it again.
The building opposite was well lit and busy, and nauseating odors of turkey, ham, and holiday cheer wafted out every time the door opened.
“They’ve turned it into a shelter for homeless families,” said Mr. Bronze. He liked to keep up with the news. “After dinner, they’re going to give presents to all the children. Not just donated or repaired toys, either . . . They’re all going to get the hottest items.”
We nodded. The media-blitz toys, not so special except in their lurid scarceness. Bermuda Barbie, dressed for Christmas at Club Med. Auctioned for $2000 each in the want ads. And GI Santa . . . Last week, two fathers had beaten each other into intensive care for the last one on the shelves at FAO Schwartz. The little homeless children were to be the recipients of a fortune in trendy toys. And afterward, the shelter workers would offer the homeless parents $20 and steal home with the treasure. But it was the thought that counted.
The off-tune chirpy voices began mangling Good King Wenceslas.
“Oh, can we peek at them?” Lila pleaded. “Please, Master, they sound adorable.”
Vlad smiled, and shrugged. “Sure.” We hurried across the street eagerly. Vampires are like that, sentimental. Human children strike us as, well, just so cute. You know, like 4H future farmers and their lambs and calves.
We stared in the window, making ourselves insubstantial so no one would try to drag us inside to feed or bless us. That happened once to Vlad’s vampiric son Arnie, and the Master still told the story as a cautionary tale to baby vampires.
It would have been a heartwarming sight were we not, of course, coldblooded. There were the unkempt starving parents and children, staring hopefully at the food, and the tree, and the Santas.
“Hey,” hissed Rhonda. She didn’t talk much, but she was an excellent huntress, trained before death by seeking bargains at Bloomies. “Do you smell it?”
We did. Fresh blood, on the hoof. Avaricious evil blood, devoid of holiday cheer.
Rhonda beckoned, and we followed, Mr. Bronze and the Master taking the rear with the caution of centuries. We trailed along the side of the building and found a door propped open. Inside was a room full of expensive toys, and several masked men stuffing them into sacks. Bizarro Santa Clauses, taking presents from the good little children.
We looked at the Master and he smiled indulgently. “Go ahead, my children.”
So we fell upon the thieves, grabbing them before they could make a sound. We abandoned the bags of loot to be found by the shelter Santas, who would conclude that the thieves had been overcome, not by superhumanly strong vampires, but by Christmas spirit.
And we took the thieves home and had a wonderful feast, drinking way too much until there was nothing left except empty husks to be stuffed into trash bags and dumped later. Afterward we sat gorged before a blazing fire and reminisced about previous feasts.
Then Vlad looked at me and said, “It’s almost sunrise, time for all young vampires to go to bed.” And I curled up snugly and thought that nothing was quite so pleasing as a holiday meal with your family, when I heard a sudden clatter on the roof and sprang up so quickly that I hit my head on the lid of my coffin, before I realized that it was only Larry and Mr. Bronze, flying the trash to Jersey.
* * *
; AND VISIONS OF
SUGAR PLUMS . . .
By S. N. Dyer
Special sale—we’re overstocked! Rings of power, rings of gas, fairy rings, rings of bright water, rings of the Nibelung! And one ring to bind them—You can’t do anything without this one!
“Let me slip into something more comfortable,” she whispered, kissing him lightly on his left cheek, and swept away.
Brice leaned back into the fur-covered couch, and grinned. He couldn’t believe his luck. Just an hour ago he’d been tipping back boilermakers at The Phenomenon, contemplating a lonely night of maybe watching Miracle on 34th Street, or the latest version of A Christmas Carol. Then he’d seen her.
“Hiya babe, buy ya a drink?” he’d asked.
She’d bared her teeth as if to snarl, then transformed the expression into a smile. “Do you know you’re a hereditary werewolf?” she had asked him.
“Huh?”
“Your eyebrows. They meet over your nose. And your hands . . .”
“Werewolf, yeah,” he’d replied. “And baby, you make me wanna howl!”
Dine with gods and heroes. Buy a supper for two in Valhalla. Enjoy gourmet barbecued pork and heavenly mead in an atmosphere that is literally Out Of This World.
“Hey, Magda! Great wine!” he yelled, refilling the cut crystal glass. There was a slight bitter aftertaste, but the overall effect was one of warm euphoria. The black cat lazing by the fire stared at him impassively.
Her voice came from behind the door. “What?”
“Love the wine.” It gleamed deep purple in the firelight.
“It’s Amontillado. Don’t drink too much. You’ll get wall-eyed.”
“Not me, I can hold it.” He poured another glass, putting back the decanter. It had been resting on a gaudy catalog.
