by Ryk E. Spoor
“What’s this?” I opened the box. On a slender silver chain was a crystal-headed hammer, handle wrapped in miniature leather thongs, the head an angle-faced box. “It’s gorgeous, Syl! Thank you!”
“I remembered how much you like the Norse pantheon—you even named your car after Thor’s hammer—and if you look real closely on the hammer head, you’ll see Mjölnir engraved there in Nordic runes.”
I squinted closely at it, and I could just make out the spiderweb-thin runic lines. “It’s really beautiful, Sylvie. But why now?”
“I was actually saving it for your birthday next month, but with this vampire thing going on, I decided it was best I give it to you now.” She saw my puzzlement. “It’s not just a piece of jewelry, Jason. I made it especially to be a focus, a protection against evil, for you.”
“But you know I don’t really believe in that stuff.”
She gave a lopsided smile. “Jason Wood, how in the world can you believe in vampires and sneer at crystals and spirits?”
“Touché.” I slipped the chain over my neck. It felt cool against my skin. The three-inch-long hammer made a slight bulge below my collar. “This could look a little strange. I don’t wear jewelry often. I think I’ll put it on the wall. Or on Mjölnir’s rearview mirror.”
“No, Jason.” Sylvie had her “feeling” face on again. “Wear it. Even if you don’t believe, it will make me feel better if you keep it on you.”
I wasn’t about to test her accuracy now. I was about eighty-five percent convinced we were dealing with some kind of creature that might as well be called a vampire, and one-hundred percent convinced that Syl had some way of knowing things she shouldn’t. “Okay.”
“Now what else has your machine come up with?”
“Nothing good. The problem is that there are so many versions of the vampire legend in myth and fiction that the best I can do is estimate probabilities. Problem with that is that even a low-probability thing could turn out to be real.” I picked up a printout. “But I can’t prepare for everything. So I’ve constructed a ‘theoretical vampire’ using all the probabilities that showed a greater than eighty-percent likelihood.” I started reading. “Strength, somewhere between five and twenty times normal human, with a heavy bias towards the high end of that range; he—or she, let’s be equal-opportunity with our monsters—can probably tip over a minivan like I can a loaded shopping cart and leap small garages in a single bound. Invulnerable to ordinary weapons. What can hurt it is a nice question; only one thing cleared the probability threshold—fire—with a bunch more clustered at between twenty-five and thirty percent: the movie standbys of sunlight and a wooden stake, running water, holy symbols or weapons as a general class, some sort of symbolic material like rice or salt, and so on. Does not show up on mirrors; after that photo I think we can take that as proven.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t show on film?”
“The legend started long before there was film. Stands to reason the mirror business had something behind it. Okay, where was I? Shapeshifting. This might have started as a blending of the werewolf and vampire legends, but most are pretty emphatic that vampires can either change shape or make you think they look different than they are. Plus what I saw the other night pretty much convinces me our target can either go invisible or turn into mist. Changes those bitten into others of its kind; that’s how they reproduce.”
Sylvie shook her head. “No, Jason, that’s silly. If a vampire bite made more vampires, we’d be up to our earlobes in bloodsuckers in nothing flat.”
“So I simplified it. Some kind of additional condition has to be met—maybe exchanging blood, maybe some kind of a ritual. As an aside, if that happens, there is a fair chance that the new vampire is controlled by the old one. And speaking of age, the legends also tend to emphasize that the older the suckers get the tougher they are.”
“Anything else?”
“Yep. They tend to be inactive in the daytime, and may have psychokinetic abilities. One other interesting note: many legends state that a vampire, or similar spirits, cannot enter a personal dwelling—house, apartment, whatever—without the permission of a legitimate resident therein. However, once given, the permission is damned hard to revoke. Some of the legends have the idea that there is a particular location the vampire must return to, or carry with them, that old ‘home earth’ requirement.” I put the printout down. “That’s about it. Lower down on the list you get some really odd stuff.”
Sylvie sat in frowning thought for a few minutes. “So fire is the best bet?”
I waved a hand from side to side. “It’s chancy. How you’re going to set him on fire without getting killed isn’t very clear to me. The problem is that while it’s pretty likely that the vampire is somewhat vulnerable to sunlight—most of them do not walk during the day, and I have to assume there’s a reason for that—the degree of vulnerability is highly variable. If they’re vulnerable at all, any vampire would die if you could stick it out on a Miami beach thirty minutes from shade, but if it’s not just an instant kill, in the first twenty minutes it could do a lot of damage to anyone in the area. Several of the legends emphasize that an old and powerful vampire becomes more and more able to resist their normal vulnerabilities. Besides, I doubt he’d answer an invitation to a beach party.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“See if I can get a handle on him somehow, so he has to come to me. And I think this negative is the key.”
CHAPTER 4
Flirting and Clues
Two hours later, I wasn’t so sure. “Funny, Jason . . . that picture looks the same.”
“Oh, very funny, Syl.” I stared at the screen, willing a faint outline to appear.
“Sorry, Jason. But this is not exactly the most exciting date I’ve ever been on.”
“I’d have thought last night would have been all the excitement you could handle. Besides, we are not dating.”
“Oh? So you kiss your male friends goodnight too?”
“Okay, then I won’t do that anymore.” I pounded another set of instructions into the machine, a little harder than was really wise. Syl always rattles me when she gets on that subject.
“Oh, honestly, Jason! Don’t sulk like that. I didn’t mean to pressure you. It just strikes me funny.”
“What strikes you funny?”
“You, Jason. You can face down an angry policeman, send crooks to jail, run a business, and you’re calmly trying to track down a vampire . . . and you fall apart whenever a woman smiles at you.”
“I do not fall apart!” With dismay I watched the entire background turn a pale lavender. Hurriedly I undid my mistake. “I just . . . don’t want to get involved. I don’t have time. Besides, we are off the subject here.” I ignored her tolerant smile.
“So what are you doing now?”
I turned back to the screen, then shrugged. “Nothing, actually. I’ve tried everything and it’s no use. Either he simply does not show on any wavelengths or else, more likely, this film just has no sensitivity at all in any non-visible spectra. I can’t bring up something that the film doesn’t have on it.” I slumped back, depressed. I really hate losing.
“Well, then, why not work with what has to be there?”
I looked at her. She looked serious, but there were little smile wrinkles around her eyes. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Well, this vampire’s solid, isn’t he? I mean, you don’t shake hands with a ghost.”
“Right. So?”
She pointed to the area in front of Connors. “He’s standing right there somewhere. So his feet must—”
“—be on the ground there . . . and he’ll be leaving footprints! Syl, you are a genius! And I am an idiot!” I selected the area in front of Connors where his invisible opposite should be and started to enlarge it.
A few seconds went by as I searched. Then I smiled and sat back.
On screen, in the gravel of the pathway, were the unmistakable outlines of two shoes.
A sprig of grass was caught underneath one shoe, showing an impossible half-flat, half-arched outline. “Syl, I could kiss you!”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.” She looked pleased, though.
I saved the data and hid the disk away. “For that, I’ll buy you dinner.”
CHAPTER 5
An Invitation You Can’t Refuse
I knew there was no point in calling Elias in the morning; he was still on the night shift. The police removed the yellow tape that day, and I found myself busy with regular customers until six-thirty: two major literature searches for a couple of professors at RPI, a prior-art and patent survey for a local engineering firm, and a few simple source searches for a few well-heeled students who’d rather pay me than spend hours in the library. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing people like that a service, but what the heck, they’ll pay for it one way or another. At seven I locked up and called Elias.
He protested at first, but eventually gave me what I asked for: Verne Domingo’s phone number, which was of course unlisted. As I hung up, it occurred to me that Elias had actually not fought very hard. According to regulations, it was illegal for him to hand out that information, so he had to have wanted me to get it. I remembered him looking at the books yesterday. Maybe he just didn’t want to get directly caught in the weird.
I punched in the number. After a few rings, it was answered. Yes, Mr. Domingo was in. No, he could not come to the phone. No, there would be no exceptions. Would I care to leave a message?
“Yes. Tell Mr. Domingo that I have a photograph that he is not in.”
The dignified voice on the other end was puzzled. “Excuse me? Don’t you mean one that he is in?”
“I mean exactly what I say. Tell him that I have a picture that he is not in. I will call back in one half-hour.” I hung up.
I booted up a secure VOIP (Voice Over Internet Protocol) package I’d found and heavily customized, tied my phone into that. Someone trying a traceback on the call would find it going to various service providers, since I’d hacked together an effective anonymizer for VOIP work. The package also included some signal analysis packages for the incoming signal; if they were using conventional phone lines, I’d be able to tell how many lines were in use.
Precisely thirty minutes later, I called back. A different voice, with a faint accent I couldn’t place, answered. “Verne Domingo speaking.”
“Ah. You got my message.”
“I did indeed. A most peculiar message. I must confess that my curiosity is piqued. What, exactly, does it mean?”
I felt a faint tinge of uncertainty. Could I be wrong? I dismissed it, though. The photo was unmistakable evidence. He was playing it cool. I looked at an indicator; there were more than two people on this line. “Are you sure you want me to talk about it with all those others listening?”
There was a fractional pause, then a chuckle. It was a warm, rich sound. “Very good, young man. I suppose there is no harm in talking to you privately. The rest of you, off the line.”
The indicator showed four connections dropping off. Quite a staff he has; unless he called in the cops, but I really doubt that. “All right, young man . . . what should I call you?”
“Call me . . . um, John Van Helsing.”
That got a pause. “Most . . . intriguing. Go on. Tell me about this picture.”
“I have a photograph that could place you in a very difficult position. A photo of you involved in a felony.”
“You said that I was not in the photo.”
“Indeed. Your accomplice is, but even though you should undoubtedly be in the photograph, there is no trace of your image.”
He chuckled again. “Obviously the photographer made a mistake.”
“Not in this case, Mr. Domingo. You see, even though you do not appear, your physical presence left definite traces, which modern technology could define and discover. I think that you would find life even more difficult if this photo were publicized than if you simply went to jail.”
I heard no humor in his voice now. “I despise clichés, Mr. . . . Van Helsing. But to put it bluntly, you are playing a very dangerous game. Vastly more dangerous, in fact, than you may think, and I will credit you with the intelligence to have already realized considerable danger lay in making this call. You sound like a young and, it would seem, impulsive person. Take my advice and stop now. I am impressed by your initiative and resources . . . not the least of which is your ability to nullify my tracer. But if you do not stop this now, I will have no choice but to . . . convince you to stop. And no matter the result of that attempt, you will remain in more danger than you can imagine.”
That response confirmed everything. If he hadn’t been a vampire, he would have dismissed me as a nut. “Sorry, Mr. Domingo. It can’t be dropped. This is a matter of life and death. Several deaths. I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up the phone immediately.
Now I had to figure out what to do. I’d verified my guess. Domingo was the vampire, no doubt about it. Now what? I couldn’t just march up to him some night and hammer a stake through his heart. Never mind the technical difficulties like bodyguards and the fact that he’d probably be less than cooperative; I’d probably be arrested for Murder One and put away. But aside from just killing him, what other choices were there? Lieutenant Reisman would believe me, and maybe Elias Klein if I pushed him. But try getting a warrant for a murderer with no witnesses except a photo that doesn’t show him and some wild-eyed guesses.
I decided to sleep on it. Sometimes the subconscious works out solutions once you stop consciously worrying at it. I had dinner, watched Predator on cable, and finished reading Phantoms before I turned in.
I woke up suddenly. I glanced at the clock; it was three-thirty. What had awakened me?
Then I heard it again. A creak of floorboards. Right outside my bedroom door.
I started to ease over towards the nightstand; I keep my gun in that drawer at night.
The bedsprings creaked.
The door slammed open, and three black figures charged in. I lunged for the nightstand, got the drawer halfway open, but one of them smacked my wrist with the butt of a small submachine gun. “Hold it there, asshole. Move and you are history.”
I used to think Uzis looked silly on television, like a gun that lost its butt and stock. There was nothing funny about the ugly black snout with the nine-millimeter hole ready to make a matching hole in my head. My voice was hoarse and my heart hammered against my ribs. “Okay! Okay, I am not moving! What do you want?”
“It’s not what we want,” one said, his voice neither angry nor gloating, but simply factual. “Mr. Domingo wants to talk to you. Now.”
After a nasty but impersonal frisking, I was dragged out to a large car. My captors made it clear I was to sit down and shut up. The ride was fast and silent. We pulled up in front of a very large house, fenced and guarded; I recognized the location as we approached. I’d actually driven by here a few times, but never realized there was anything like this on the other end of the gated drive.
The three hustled me out and into the hallway. “Ah, very good, Camillus,” said a gentleman with a perfect English accent, dressed in the impeccable formalwear of a Hollywood butler. “I’ll take the young man from here.”
The one addressed as Camillus looked narrowly at me. “Don’t give Morgan here—or anyone else—any trouble, Mr. Wood. If you do, I’ll be back with a pair of tinsnips and you won’t ever need to worry about having kids. Got it?” I didn’t doubt he meant it.
“Please, Camillus, this gentleman is not one of our . . . more obstreperous visitors. I am sure he does not need such crude threats.” Morgan bowed to me. “If you would come this way, Mr. Wood?”
Morgan led me into a library that looked like Alistair Cooke should be sitting in it for the next episode of Masterpiece Theatre. I sat down in one of the chairs to wait. I’m glad it was a cool night; if it had been hot I might have been sleeping in little or nothing, and my capto
rs had shown no inclination to let me change clothes. As it was, a red-and-blue running suit looked pretty silly.
Of course, I supposed that what I looked like was the least of my problems. But if I didn’t think about inane topics like this, I’d probably be screaming.
I hadn’t heard the door open again, but a voice suddenly spoke to me. “Good evening, Mr. Wood. Welcome to my home.”
I guess I was jumpier than I thought. I leapt out of the chair and whirled. “Jesus!” He smiled slightly as I did a double-take. “Son of a . . . you even look like a vampire!”
He did, too. Not the walking-corpse kind; he looked like a taller Frank Langella. “Fortunate casting on their part, I assure you.” He smiled again, and this time I noticed pointed teeth. Two fangs. It suddenly felt very cold. “Sit down, please.” He rang a bell; the door opened almost instantly, framing the silver-haired butler who’d guided me upstairs. “Morgan, bring a suit of clothes for my guest here.” He rattled off my measurements in a lightning-fast stream. “And send up some hors d’oeuvres; I have yet to meet a young bachelor who isn’t hungry at all hours.”
What in hell is going on? I expect to be taken out back and shot. Now he’s treating me like a visiting dignitary? This is very weird. “How in the world did you find me?” I asked once the butler left.
He shook his head, looking amused. “Mr. Wood, you are indeed a very clever man. But you are, I am afraid, not an expert in espionage or covert operations. Certainly you left no direct clues, but consider! From my conversation with you, I knew the following: you were a young man—your voice, manner on the phone, and approach left me with little doubt on that score; you were in possession of a photo which, from your description, could only have been obtained from a covert surveillance camera; you were certainly not the police; you had considered possibilities that most people would dismiss offhand; you had either access to someone with the ability to, or you yourself actually possessed the ability to, process the images on that film and from them discover the evidence you and I discussed recently.
