by Brian Lumley
“The others … were a message,” Jake said. “I was letting Luigi Castellano know that it would soon be his turn. Well, now I have another message for him. You can deliver it—you ugly, unnatural bastard!”
“Listen, you fucking stupid British fuck!” Frankie started to curse and rant.
And Jake was listening. But he was also cradling the telephone between his chin and right shoulder, taking up his rifle, aiming it and beginning to apply first pressure to the trigger. And then he cut in on Frankie’s cursing to say. “Hey, thug! Now you fucking listen. You remember when you pissed on her? I felt every splash. I mean, I really felt it: every splash burning on me like acid.”
“Huh!” Frankie grunted, grinned poisonously, and promised: “Well, don’t worry. On you it will be acid!” But:
“You first,” said Jake. And then he squeezed the trigger.
It was in the lotus-bulb light fixture—almost one and a half litres of a colourless, odourless acid. Jake had unscrewed one of the globes, taken the light bulb out, and three-quarters filled the globe before screwing it back in again.
The shot was silenced. Frankie heard a high-pitched spitting sound—like a cat’s sneeze—as the bullet punched a hole in his window. But from directly overhead a secondary splintering of glass was clearly audible in the frozen fraction of time before acid and sculptured shards rained down on him.
Jake heard Frankie’s yelp of shock, astonishment, then his first shrieks as he dropped the phone, staggered away from the wall towards the bed. He was drenched; his clothes were already beginning to smoke, his flesh, too. He capered, danced, started tearing his melting clothes off. But the telephone was melting, too, and Frankie’s cries rapidly hissing into silence.
“Do it!” Jake muttered, relishing the moment and yet horrified by it, wanting to get it over and done with.
And Frankie did it.
On his bedside table, a pitcher of water. Except it wasn’t water any longer but accelerant, and Jake’s second bullet was a tracer designed to flare on impact.
Frankie tossed the accelerant over himself, poured it over his head and shoulders. And Jake again squeezed the trigger.
The tracer hit Frankie’s window and cracked it, sending a pencil jet of searing, sulphurous fire leaping across the room … towards Frankie. And the room at once blossomed into a ball of blistering white fire. In a split second it was an inferno, and at its heart the thug danced a while longer, then crumpled down into himself as the windows shattered and flames billowed outwards …
It was done. But Jake was done, too.
The Italian police caught him as he left the flop. They’d been out in the street watching Frankie, not Jake; keeping covert guard on the thug, as per Castellano’s tip-off. One of them had spotted the flash of Jake’s tracer where it penetrated Frankie’s window, and then he had seen the blued-steel glint of Jake’s rifle protruding into the night.
And that had been that …
Though Jake’s nightmares usually brought him shuddering awake, on this occasion that wasn’t the case. Familiar now with these recurrent reminders of his lapses into inhumanity—reconciled to the fact that they would probably continue until he tracked down and removed their cause, or was himself removed—he was becoming more and more inured to them. And in addition, he was fatigued to the core.
So this time he slept on …
Jake’s fatigue, more mental than physical, also accounted for the fact that his shields were down—as they had been for the duration of his nightmare. And with the more pressing problems of the real world temporarily forgotten, held in abeyance while his dream-self relived the horrific events of the recent past (and while Jake’s conscience tried in vain to accommodate them), he had been completely unaware of his audience.
But the dead vampire Korath had been with him throughout, and he had witnessed everything.
For having been driven out of Jake’s mind by Liz Merrick at such a crucial juncture, as he had been about to enter into it more surely and perhaps permanently (or rather, having left it of his own free will, rather than let her discover his true nature) Korath had been eager to return at his earliest opportunity. Thus he had been “on hand” to leech on Jake’s troubled mind and see for himself the extent of the Necroscope’s obsession: just how far he would go—and indeed how far he had gone—to exact a fitting revenge.
So that now, suspecting that Jake would react badly to any further intrusion while his nightmare was still fresh in mind—not wanting to be associated with it in parallel, as something to be avoided and detested—Korath waited on the rim of Jake’s subconsciousness and let him drift on awhile.
But when after an hour or so Jake’s mind had settled down, when it wandered into more mundane dreams—but dreams where the continuously evolving formulae of Möbius space-time were always present, like a word on the tip of his tongue, or a solution on the perimeter of his mind, but a word or solution that refused to come—then Korath made his presence known:
Time we talked again, Necroscope.
Jake tossed in his bed, fighting for a moment against the intrusion of Korath’s deadspeak thoughts, but after a while he succumbed to the inevitable. After all, he would have to speak to him eventually, if only to gain access to the Möbius Continuum. But even so Jake’s deadspeak sigh was bitter when he said, “What, you again?”
Of course it’s me again! said the other. We have a way to go and things to do. Our agendas, remember?
“I remember we were arguing, word-gaming, whatever,” Jake answered. “But after that … I remember very little.”
You were tired, Korath told him. You slipped into a dream so vague that it took you from me … I could no longer reason with you while your mind wandered so. And so I left you to it. Nor would I intrude upon you now, for I see that you are still weary. But in a few short hours a new day will be dawning, and time is of the essence.
“How far did we get?” Jake queried. “Did we make any progress at all?”
By the time we were done, I suppose we were more or less in agreement, Korath told him. Our agendas were made specific, and as for mutual cooperation, we agreed upon a time limit—which is to say that when our enemies are no more, we each go our separate ways. Or you go yours while I … go nowhere. As for what we have yet to decide: it’s the question of who goes first.
“Who goes first?”
Which agenda takes precedence.
“Mine, of course,” said Jake. “It must be mine, because I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else until—”
—Until you’ve had your revenge, aye, Korath finished it for him. And then continued: But now that I have witnessed the full range of your passions in that respect, I must agree that your agenda has a certain appeal. A definite … entertainment value? While on the other hand I feel I really should inquire: what use to pursue this Castellano, a mere man, Jake, if while you’re thus engaged you lose your world to the Wamphyri? Which is why I put it to you that my agenda is far and away the more important, the more urgent, the more valid of the two.
But now Jake was suddenly wary. He had picked up on something that Korath had let slip. “What’s that? You’ve witnessed the full range of my passion …?” And before the vampire could erect shields of his own, Jake saw what flashed across his incorporeal mind … and at once remembered his nightmare. “Damn you, Korath! You were there—you were spying on me!”
Because you were disturbed in your sleep! The other’s lie was instinctive, instantaneous. And because you were tormented by your dreams. There was this great anger in you, and madness, and even regret! In all the turmoil I felt myself drawn back to you, Jake, by this link that exists between us, forged from our need for each other. It was as if I heard you crying out, calling to me, and I answered your call. But when I got here—
“If that were true you would have roused me up, brought me out of it,” Jake cut him short. “Instead you let it continue—and you saw what I did to Frankie Reggio … .
I am what I am, Korath answ
ered. I am the sum of all that I once was. And even though I am reduced by that same amount, I remember how I was. And I know my strengths, and my weaknesses. Is it so strange that I desired to know the strength of the one who shall be my … my partner? My strong right hand in a great venture, our mutual revenge against them that wronged us?
“You were seeing how I measured up?” Jake was dubious. “Is that what you’re saying?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I think you were simply spying on me.”
My first thought was to rouse you up, Korath kept right on lying. But when I saw what you were about, then I became caught up in it.
“Caught up? You mean you enjoyed it?”
It fascinated me. I was fascinated by … a concept.
“What concept?”
An eye for an eye, said the other. Aye! And he chuckled in his obscene fashion. Ah, for when you spoke to Frankie and told him how every splash had burned you like acid—why, you were describing his own fate! How splendidly ironic! Then I was convinced of our invincibility; I knew you wouldn’t shrink from whatever has to be done. And yet, having said all that …
As Korath paused Jake sensed an incorporeal frown, a half-formed shrug of indecision. “Well?” he prompted him.
I have only one small concern, said the vampire. The fact that I sensed your regret. You did not like what you had done.
“I should like it?” Jake answered. “But it was inhuman!”
As are the Wamphyri, said Korath. And, from what I’ve seen in your mind, as is this Castellano. So then, why do you regret your actions? Is it some kind of weakness in you?
“No,” Jake denied it, “it’s a strength. I regret what I’ve done because it brings me down to their level—and to yours.”
Hmm! The other mused. You have a low opinion of me. And he pretended to ponder on that for a moment or so until, in a little while: Still, let’s not argue any further. And as a show of good faith—in order to breach this impasse—I shall let you have your way. We’ll go after Luigi Castellano first.
“Good,” said Jake. “But understand, I still won’t have you in my mind. Not as a permanent fixture.”
Not permanent, but merely—
“Not any way,” said Jake. “Nothing more than you have now. Which in any case is too much.”
Hah! said Korath. Is there no give and take with you? Must you always win?
“Winning isn’t the point,” Jake shook his head. “The point is not to lose. Losers end up in subterranean sumps with all of their flesh sloughed off! And me, I’m very much alive. So we do things my way, or not at all. In which case I might try to enlist Harry Keogh’s aid in getting rid of you for good.”
At which Korath gave a snort of frustration, “threw up his hands,” and said, Very well, very well! So what comes next? How will we proceed? Where and when do we begin?
“When I call for you, you come,” Jake answered. “And when I say you’re out, you’re out. Then, when we’ve dealt with Castellano, we’ll rejoin E-Branch and go after the Wamphyri.”
So be it—we are agreed! Korath grunted. But in his dark and secret heart, he knew that the sooner he guided or cajoled the headstrong Jake back towards E-Branch the better. For when he’d said that time was of the essence, he had spoken no truer word; and while the future seemed to offer more than a glimmer of hope—more than just a slim chance that he would discover some form of continued existence, perhaps even a superior form of physical life, in Jake—still he wanted to be sure it was a chance in a world ruled by men, or by him, and not by Vavara, Szwart, and Malinari. Definitely not by Malinari!
And we begin—where? How will you find this Castellano?
“There are people I can speak to.”
People?
“The dead,” said Jake. “They’re not really dead—or they are—but they’re not finished. Their minds go on.”
As I myself am witness, aye.
“So who would know more about Castellano than his victims?” Jake went on. “Or if not his victims as such, the ones who are dead because of him—which is more or less the same thing. I think I’ll start with them.”
But isn’t that one of your problems? said Korath. That the dead won’t speak to you?
“Because of you, yes,” Jake offered a deadspeak nod. “But those who are bent on revenge, as I am bent on revenge, they’ll speak to me. I’m the only one who can give them what they want. And I know that there’s at least one among them who … who … well, I know that she will speak to me.”
You’ll go to her first, your dead lover?
“Last,” Jake shook his head. “When I’m better acquainted with what I’m doing, the how of it, and when I’m able to—I don’t know—find some courage I suppose. For after all, I let her down … Then I’ll speak to Natasha. But before that there are others. In life they were scum: vicious murderers and drug-running rapist bastards. And in death? What have they got now? We can be sure the teeming dead won’t have anything to do with them—just as they won’t have anything to do with you! These people were Castellano’s followers, his gang, but from what I saw of them they feared him. Now that they’ve nothing left to lose, I’m their one last chance to wreak some kind of revenge, their one opportunity to catch up. Paybacks are hell, Korath.”
Oh, indeed they are! Korath answered. While hidden in his secret heart, he promised: And believe me, Jake Cutter, yours shall be the worst of all possible hells—you obstinate fool! But to Jake he only said:
So then, I’m ready. And I know that I shall enjoy working with you. Let it begin. But:
“After I’ve slept my fill,” Jake answered. “I’ve got a lot of sleep to catch up on, Korath—and again that’s mainly down to you. So now be on your way. But be warned: if I sense even the slightest tremor in the deadspeak aether—”
—Very well! I understand. I shall wait on your call.
“And you’ll hear it,” Jake told him. “Because frankly I’m wasting my time with Trask and E-Branch. I don’t think they’ll ever understand what’s eating at me—they can’t because they didn’t experience it. I was so lost, so helpless—but now I’m not. Now it’s my turn. So don’t worry about a thing, I will be calling for you. Tomorrow, just as soon as I’m awake.”
But tomorrow is another day, said Korath. Day, as opposed to night, awake as opposed to dreaming. Can you be sure you’ll remember, Jake, when you’re awake?
“I think so,” Jake answered. “You see, I seem to be getting better at this. I mean all of this, and all of the time.”
It was true, and the vampire wasn’t sure he liked it. Tomorrow, then, said Korath thoughtfully. So be it. And sleep well, Jake Cutter.
And Jake felt the creature depart, slithering away into the darkness of his dreaming …
9
VAVARA AND MALINARI
In London, Ben Trask and Millicent Cleary dined out. While in a taverna on Skala Astris’s ocean-facing promenade, on Krassos:
Malinari sipped from a delicate flute of chilled, dark red Mavro Daphne, and inquired of his companion, “How are you finding the Greek food, my dear?”
Vavara looked at him, at his sardonic smile, which came as close as possible to an entirely human smile, however dark, and tried not to grimace. She knew that the question was Malinari’s grotesque idea of a joke—his attempt to lighten her mood and perhaps bring her out of herself, which was the reason they had ventured out from the monastery tonight in the first place, because of her depression and bad humour—but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that fact. For after all, Malinari was the principal source of her displeasure.
So instead of throwing back her head, laughing, and assuming the convivial mode he had doubtless hoped for, Vavara repaid him in equally sardonic coin, by glancing at him through half-shuttered eyes, and answering:
“When first I came here, before the simpering, pious fools in the monastery took me ‘into their care,’ as it were, I found the local food edible—well, barely so, but
at least it stayed down. Since that was all there was, however, and not wanting to place myself in jeopardy by—shall we say, foraging?—plainly it had to suffice. My larder in Mazemanse was far better provisioned, of course, with wild honey, wolf hearts, Szgany livers, and all manner of sweetmeats. And as for the ‘fare’ on Sunside: even under duress from that creature Nathan and his friends the Lidescis, that was infinitely superior! Alas that Mazemanse was five hundred years ago, and that more recently I allowed you to talk me into coming here. As for my current tastes: this Greek roughage isn’t so very different from the Szgany fodder that we once knew, I suppose. It sustains one for a while, but scarcely satisfies a more … what, sophisticated palate? The one thing I will say for it: it is better far than the frozen, desiccated flesh of dead thralls on which we subsisted during our Icelands ordeal.”
She paused, glanced scathingly at the slender glass in his long-fingered hand, and went on: “As for the red wine—”
“Ah!” came a drunken cry from a table on the other side of the dining area, where a handful of German tourists were throwing back their wines, beers, ouzo chasers, and vinegary retsina as fast as they could pour it. “Ah! But this is the life, nicht wahr!?”
The speaker—he spoke half in English, for the benefit of the English tourists—was bald, fat, and red in the face. But as he spoke, stood up, and raised his glass, he toppled over backwards and went down with a crash, much to the entertainment of his companions. But not to Vavara’s, who continued where she had been interrupted:
“—As for the wine: I disagree with that idiot entirely.”
And now she smiled, albeit sneeringly, scornfully. “Hah!—this is the life, indeed! Well for him, perhaps, but not for me. For no matter how deep or red the wine, it simply isn’t the life!”
“Ah, no,” he agreed. “For only the blood is the life!” And then, twirling his glass so that it sparkled, he added, “But it does help to throw a pleasant light on gloomy things. Maybe you should try a little?”
