Paradigms Lost

by Ryk E. Spoor

  “No.”

  They all stared at me. “Why in the world not?”

  “Because I’ve already told Winthrope everything we know, so I don’t have a thing to hide from her, and if I shut these off, she could just put in others that I’d never find. Right, Winthrope?” I said, addressing my words to the audio bug I’d removed from the business phone. “Besides, if Gorthaur tries to nail me, he’ll be doing it on prime-time with the NSA watching. That should make the bastard think twice.”

  “Perhaps,” conceded Verne. “But perhaps not. Have you not realized the most important part of your latest adventure?”

  I thought for a moment. “I guess not. What is it?”

  “Our opponent was able to imitate you perfectly. While his powers are vast, they still do have certain limitations. In order to imitate anyone, he must have seen them at close range. That means that you have been close to him in the past few days.”

  That made my skin prickle. “How close?”

  Verne considered. “I would say no more than five feet. Werewolves can assume any form they can visualize, but to pick up on details as explicit as fingerprints would require them to be close enough for their aura to interact with yours.”

  “And the Demon’s death shows he’s aware of your involvement,” Renee added.

  I frowned. “So who . . . no, that question won’t work either. He doesn’t have to be a single person. He could have been a hacker watching the local boards and that’s how he got on to me. Then all he had to do was go out on the street and bump into me. Or he could be a customer.”

  The doorbell rang. I went to the door, looked out the peephole. “Agent Winthrope? Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “I rather thought so,” she said. Her assistant Steve followed her in. “Since you made it clear you want us to hear things, it seemed a waste of comfortable seating to hang around in a van trying to eavesdrop.” She glanced at Renee. “I thought we told you and the entire police department to stay out of this. Oh, never mind. I’ve been known to ignore orders on occasion myself.”

  With two more people in my house, it was too crowded. We all moved next door to Sylvie’s shop, which had a big conference-room-style table in one room. Syl rented the room to various groups, usually psychic types for seances.

  “So all of you people are in on this? What in hell happened to security, Lieutenant Reisman?” Winthrope demanded, her faint smile taking the edge off her question.

  “Wood showed up before you classified the operation, ma’am,” she answered. “And the only way to get him to drop anything is to put him in jail, or shoot him.”

  “Not practical solutions as a general rule, I’ll admit,” she said. “Okay. I know why you’re in on this, Domingo. I’m not sure I believe in it, but I know why. And I see why Jason had to brief Ms. Stake—”

  “Sylvia, or Syl, please,” she broke in. “You understand why.”

  “Hm. Yes.” She shifted in her chair, glancing around at the dark-panelled walls. “The important question is, how many others know about all this?”

  Verne spoke first. “I assure you that I, at least, have told no one else. It would be a generally futile effort, and I need no advice on this subject.”

  Renee gave Winthrope a look. “I’d like to continue a career. If I mentioned this to anyone else, my career’d be inside padded walls.”

  “I’ve consulted with the Wizard—you remember him, don’t you, Jason?—on how to deal with werewolves,” Sylvie said.

  “Really? And what did he say?” Winthrope asked. Her assistant looked uncomfortable; he was probably bored or wondering if he was trapped in a room full of lunatics.

  Syl made a face. “Not much. He said that most spirits can be controlled only if you know their origin, that is, what religious or spiritual discipline they belong to; otherwise you’re limited to whatever their classic weaknesses are.”

  Verne agreed. “It is true. Vampires who believe in the Christian faith can perhaps be turned away by crosses or bound by a daemonic pentacle; but an enlightened nosferatu cares little for such things. There are certain mystical methods which work on all such . . . but even those are of no use against a Great Wolf. Silver, and silver alone, will suffice.”

  “Just what did you tell this Wizard character?”

  “Actually not that much; I didn’t want to get him involved, so I just asked about werewolves.”

  “And you, Mr. Wood?”

  I shrugged. “No one outside of this room knows any of the weird stuff. A couple of the BBS users know I’m poking around in a classified investigation, but no more.”

  Steve smiled suddenly. “Thanks. That’s all we needed to know.”

  His teeth glinted sharply as he lunged.

  Winthrope moved faster than anyone I’d ever seen, even Elias Klein. Her hand blurred and came up holding a nine-millimeter automatic. Before she could fire, though, the werewolf’s hand grabbed her arm and pitched her like a horseshoe straight into Verne. “Steve” was no longer human at all, but a shaggy, lupine nightmare with crystal-sharp claws and razor-sharp fangs. If the monster hadn’t been delayed in its attack on Agent Winthrope, we all would have been lost to the momentary paralysis of shock. Chairs crashed to the floor as we all rolled, sprang, or ducked away from the huge, monstrous thing that had appeared in the place of Steve Dellarocca.

  Verne caught Winthrope, set her aside. “You must be a fool, Virigar. Though this mortal was not expecting you, the rest of us are prepared to deal with your sort. And our prior duel seems to have rendered you less than what you were. Against us you stand little chance.”

  It smiled, showing glittering rows of crystal teeth. “Not so. My name is Shirrith. I am honored that you mistake me, even for a moment, for the Great King, yet I am but His servant. And we are not unprepared.” It gave an eerie howl.

  In a shower of glass, two werewolves crashed through the large windows. One sank its claws into Verne’s shoulder, but Verne smashed it aside with a tremendous backhand blow that sent it back through the wall into the night. Verne shoved Winthrope towards me. “Run!” he shouted. His face showed shock and, chillingly, the same fear I’d seen before.

  Shirrith began to come after us, but Verne dove across the room and caught him. The third werewolf almost reached Renee, but she had her gun out and pumped three shots into him. The .357 magnum slugs drove the creature back far enough for her to run out and slam the door between the conference room and the Silver Stake’s main floor. The werewolf tore the door off its hinges and threw it at us. The impact knocked Renee and me down, and sent the ten-millimeter with its silver bullets skittering out of my hand. The creature lashed out, caught Sylvie, and bent its muzzle towards her throat.

  Silver inlay flashed as the toe of her right boot slammed into the werewolf’s groin. Its eyes bulged; a ludicrously tiny whine escaped its lips, and it staggered backward. As it folded in pain, Sylvie grabbed a large silver candlestick from a shelf and clobbered the werewolf over the head; it crumpled to the floor.

  A tremendous crash shook the building as the battle in the conference room escalated. The second werewolf crashed through the broken doorway; it rolled and came up, slashing at Sylvie. She swung the candlestick but it glanced off the thing’s arm; the claws left long trails of crimson across her dress. I had my pistol now; before the creature could lunge again, I put three shots into it. The wolflike face snapped back, glaring at me in astonishment. Then it sagged and fell.

  “Syl! Jesus, are you okay?” I ran to her. Blood was soaking her dress, spreading quickly.

  “I’m fine,” she said weakly. “Help Verne!”

  I hesitated, looking around. Renee had hit her head when the door knocked us over; she was still dazed. Winthrope was backed up against the wall, staring at the two bodies and repeating, “Oh crap . . . oh crap . . .” She cradled her right arm, which hung limply; Shirrith’s grip had crushed it like a paper cup.

  Another crash echoed through the Silver Stake. I heard Verne c
ursing in some Central European tongue. With one more agonized look at Sylvie, I charged back into the conference room.

  I had the gun ready; then I stopped. “Son of a bitch!”

  Verne Domingo looked back at me . . . twice.

  Two Vernes were locked together, straining against each other. They were identical, down to the tears on their clothing.

  The damn thing can even emulate clothing? That really sucks.

  There was no way to tell them apart; even their cursing sounded the same, and each was calling the other “Shirrith.” One was faking . . . but which?

  I could have kicked myself. How stupid can you be? I raised the gun and fired twice.

  The one on the left twitched as the bullet hit; the one on the right screamed and tore itself away from the real Verne Domingo, its disguise fading away.

  There was a clack as the gun jammed, trying to eject the last shell. “You bugger!” I said, as the werewolf dove out the window, a perfect target if I could only have fired.

  I cleared the jam, but it was too late. Shirrith was gone.

  Verne gazed out the broken window, then turned away.

  I shoved past Winthrope, who was muttering apologies, ran to Syl. “How’re you doing, Syl?”

  She tried to smile but failed miserably. “Not so good.”

  Blood was pooling on the floor.

  “Verne, call the hospital, quick! Get an ambulance!”

  CHAPTER 27

  Empathy and Electronics

  “Jason, you need your rest. It’s been twenty-seven hours. Go to bed.”

  I was too tired to jump at the sudden voice from a formerly empty space. “Verne, I’ve got work to do. I’m going to find that bastard and silver him like a goddam mirror. I don’t have time to sleep. You heard what Winthrope said.”

  “About her assistant being found dead? Yes.”

  “Then don’t talk to me about sleep. Every hour I sleep could get someone else killed.” I rubbed my throbbing forehead. “Besides, every time I close my eyes, I see Syl getting slashed by that other werewolf.” Fury took over. “That other werewolf, dammit!” I shouted at Verne, feeling my eyes sting. “You said there was only one, the last one, and all of a sudden it’s The Howling III around here!”

  Suddenly, Verne looked tired himself; tired and very, very old. “I know, my friend. It was my arrogance and stupidity that led to that mistake. I should have realized that to exterminate an intelligent race is well-nigh impossible. These are not passenger pigeons or dodos. Virigar survived and must have sought out the few that remained; for the past century, they have increased their numbers, awaiting the time of revenge.”

  My anger evaporated. “Damn. Sorry, Verne. I shouldn’t take it out on you. We all should have realized that where there was one, there might be more.” I wiped my eyes, half-noticing how damp they were. “It’s just that Syl . . . of all of us, Syl should have been the last to get hurt. She saved Renee and me—did you know that?”

  He bowed his head. “I had not known. But I would have expected no less from her.”

  “She did. Then the last one got her. Now . . .”

  “She will make it, Jason. I give you my word on that. Sylvia will not die for my mistakes.” His dark eyes held mine, lent his words conviction.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I have never broken my word yet.”

  “Why didn’t you go after Shirrith when he ran?”

  “Because . . .” He hesitated, staring down at his hands. “Because, I am ashamed to admit, my past centuries of soft existence have made me slow and not as adept in combat as I was in years past. Even the small strikes they managed caused pain to my soul, and with weakness and pain come fear. I must remedy that. Also, it would have done no good. Shirrith would never have led me to Virigar, unless that was his plan . . . in which case, I would be dead.” He sighed, and glanced at the odd tubular object on my workbench. “Since you will not rest, perhaps you can explain what you are doing?”

  “Sure.” I picked up the tube, showing the lens at one end with the eyepiece on the other. “This viewer fits onto this little headband, like this.”

  “I see that, yes. But what function does this device perform?”

  “Well, it . . .” I broke off, thinking for a minute. “How well-versed are you in the sciences?”

  He made a modest gesture. “I am sufficiently educated that I consider myself a well-read layman.”

  “Good enough. Then you know that visible light is just one small part of the electromagnetic spectrum, right?” He nodded. “Well, I’ve thought for a long time about how to find a hiding werewolf. Normal methods can’t work. Their physical imitation seems to be so perfect that they can duplicate the DNA of the subject. But if that were true, then they must be more than merely material beings—you follow me?”

  He thought for a moment, then nodded again. “I believe so. You are saying that if they were purely physical beings, once they assumed a perfect duplicate form, they would then become that person . . . and lose their special powers.”

  “You’ve got it. So if they aren’t just matter, that leaves some additional energy component. A werewolf has to be surrounded, permeated, with a special energy field.” I locked the viewer into the holder, checked the fit. “That’s where this comes in. That field has to radiate somehow, in some wavelength outside the visible.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I see. But what wavelength? And would psychic powers, or mystic ones if you prefer, radiate in such mundane ways?”

  “At some point I’d think they would,” I answered, clipping on a power lead. “If these fields interact with matter, matter will produce certain emissions. As to what wavelength, I’m betting on infrared. In the end, all energy decays to waste heat, you see. But I’ve also added an ultraviolet switch to this viewer, and these two little gadgets cover other areas—magnetic fields and radio waves, respectively.”

  He smiled. “I am impressed, Jason. I had thought you proficient solely with your computers and databases; I had no idea you were adept with technical devices as well.”

  “Any real hacker has to have some skill with a soldering iron and circuitry,” I answered. “But I just happen to like gadgets. The Edmund Scientific catalog is some of my favorite bedtime reading. Heck, most people think I named my car Mjölnir because I’m weird. Actually, I’ve put thousands of dollars into gadgetizing the hell out of it. Mjölnir doesn’t fly and if you drive it into water, it stalls like any other car, but it’s got some optional features that no major manufacturer never thought of installing.” The phone rang; I grabbed it fast.

  “Hello? Doctor Millson?” I said.

  “No.” The voice was deep and resonant in a peculiar way; it sounded like a man in a tin closet. “We met earlier, though you did not realize it at the time. I am Virigar, Mr. Wood.”

  Adrenaline stabbed my chest with icy slivers. “What do you want?”

  “To deliver an ultimatum, Mr. Wood. You know why I am here. I presume that you care for the young lady, Sylvia? If you wish her to survive the night, you will do one of two things: either you kill Verne Domingo for me . . . or you deliver him to me that I might kill him myself. Do this, and my people—who even now walk that hospital’s corridors—shall spare the lady’s life.”

  “You bastard.” I barely recognized my own voice. “If I’d known—”

  “Yes, well, we all have things we’d have done differently ‘if only,’ do we not, Mr. Wood? You are worthy prey; it makes the chase and the kill sweeter. But for Domingo I will let you and your mortal friends live. Bring him, or the ruby ring he wears, to the old warehouse on Lovell Avenue within the next six hours. Any trickery or failure on your part, and the lady shall die . . . painfully.” The line went dead.

  I put the phone down slowly and looked up. Verne looked grimly back at me.

  “I heard it all, my friend,” he said softly.

  CHAPTER 28

  A Nice Evening Drive, with Gunfire
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  “Why the hell not?”

  I gestured at the ornate ruby-and-gold ring. “Why not, Verne? If he’s going to be satisfied with the ring, just give it to him! Then we hit him later.”

  Verne rubbed the ring gently, turning it about his finger and making the ruby send out sparks of crimson. “The reason he would be satisfied with the ring, Jason, is because he knows that I will never remove this ring. Never. I gave my word many, many years ago to one who meant more than life itself to me that I would wear her ring until the final death claimed me.” He looked up; his eyes were black ice, cold and hard. “I value my honor, Jason. Nothing, not even God himself, shall compel me to break my word.”

  “That’s asinine, Verne! We’re talking Sylvie’s life here, and you’re worried about honor! Whoever your lady was, I’m sure she’d understand!”

  “You are probably right,” Verne said, his eyes unchanged. “But I cannot decide on the basis of what might be. She and she alone could release me from my vow, and unless she is born again and regains that which she was, she cannot. I do not expect you to understand; honor is not valued here as it was when I was young.”

  “Where is the honor in letting a friend die?” I hurled the question at him.

  He closed his eyes, drew one of his rare deep breaths. “There is none in that, my friend. I have no intention of letting Sylvia be killed; did I not also give my word that she would not die?” He opened one of my drawers, looked inside.

  “Then you are going to give me the ring,” I said, relieved.

  “No,” he said, taking something out of the drawer and handing it to me. “You will take it from me.”

  I looked down. In my hand was a magazine loaded with wooden bullets for my automatic; a vampire special.

  It took a minute for that to sink in. Then I threw the magazine against the wall so hard it left a dent. “Christ, no! Kill you?”

  “It seems the only way. I would rather die by your hand than his, and only my death will satisfy him; else Sylvia dies.”

  “Look,” I said, glancing back at the pistol magazine, “maybe if . . . well, I could shoot your finger off, I guess.”