“This is insane!” Her shout was muffled by both her scarf and the dusty dry wind that smelled of unshed snow.
Max stared about the frozen hell they’d suddenly found themselves in. There before him and embedded in the side of a rocky hill were the gray stone sides and lintel of the gateway. Wiping frozen tears from his cheeks, he pointed to the top of the small hill. “We should go up there. It will give us the best view.”
“No! Not on your sookin syn life!” Shy shouted, and again, the translation rune failed to convert what she’d said to English, piquing his interest in what word could be so vile as to defy translation.
“Fine, you stay here, but watch out for the polar bears.”
“The what?”
“Polar bears!” he shouted back. “They come out at this time of year, looking for fat seals and unwary humans. To the polar bears, this is a comfortable autumn day.”
“You never told me about polar bears,” she growled, suddenly standing at his side.
Turning slightly away so that she wouldn’t see his smile, he replied, “This is the least of our worries. I told you this was a dangerous world.” He could feel her eyes burning into his back as he struggled up the hill.
The woods and low hills of Akimisli Island spread out around him in all directions. To the west southwest, across a large band of water, lay a dark smudge on the horizon. Ontario. At one time, the waters of Hudson Bay had frozen over in the winter, giving the island an easy access to the land, but with global warming and the increasing winds, the water stayed ice free all year but was still frigid enough to prevent access except via boat.
“H-H-H-Have y-y-you seen all y-y-you wanted?” Shy asked, her teeth chattering.
“Yup. I think I’ll build a summer cottage here, in point of fact.”
Shyilia took a step backward. “You are certifiably insane; do you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” he muttered darkly. “I’ve seen all I need to see, and we can move on now.” Turning, he retucked her scarf. “We’re going to a nice hotel in a place called Buffalo, New York. I’ve been there before, so I should be able to travel to a secluded spot.”
Shy glanced at her scarf. “Will it be this cold?”
Max chuckled. “Almost. It is winter, after all. We’ll spend a few days at the hotel as we consider our next move.”
“Is this hotel like an inn?”
Max raised his hand, his index finger outstretched to begin drawing the runespell. “Much higher standard of living.” He was grinning in anticipation as the traveling gateway opened.
A huge ice sculpture of a swan in flight decorated the small outdoor garden space, and Max’s boots crunched in fresh snow. He stepped aside as Shy exited to stand beside him. The gateway flickered and vanished, and the elfin woman looked around in wonder.
“This is beautiful!” she whispered, touching the sculpture with a bare finger. She jerked it back hurriedly. “That’s ice, but how?”
Taking her elbow, he guided her toward a glowing doorway that slid aside as they approached.
“It has to be magic,” she whispered, awestruck.
After shaking the snow from his boots and jacket in the foyer, Max headed for the front desk as he spoke over his shoulder to Shy. “A wise man in this land once said that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Perhaps someday in the future, we will discover that the magic of Aeyaqar is simply very high technology.”
Shy looked disappointed. “I think I would prefer to believe in magic.”
Max stopped, frowning. “I think that I would, too, but we may not have the option, my dear.” They continued on to the front desk, where Max slapped down his edited credit card with a casual motion, although he was sweating inside. It was the first time he’d tried his fake VISA in a modern city. Bursa didn’t count. He smiled at the young man at the counter. “My father stayed here several times, and perhaps you met him; Maximilian Smith. About my height and build with silver hair.”
The man looked at him for a moment, frowning, then smiled in recognition. “Ahh, yes, I remember. Pleasant gentleman who walked with a cane, I believe. You look remarkably similar. He preferred the two-bedroom suite on the penthouse floor. Would you like the same?”
“That would be perfect,” Max replied, putting his credit card back in his wallet. Viorela had assured him that all charges he made would be paid, but then the bill would vanish into that well-known computing black hole.
“If I may ask,” the young man continued, passing Max a golden keycard, “is your father well?”
Max laughed, enjoying the strange conversation. “Quite well. The last I heard, he was in Romania with his wife.”
“Romania?” The man gasped. “Remarkable. Now, is there anything else I can do?”
Max looked down at his clothing and winced. “We have been on the road for some time, through strange and often dangerous lands, and our luggage is probably in some distant country by now.” He laughed dryly. “All we have, literally, is the clothes on our backs. We’ll need toiletries and clothes.”
Reaching beneath the counter, the receptionist withdrew two prepared kits. “Two kits, sir. One for you, and one for the lady.” He smiled. “In the mall across the street are a Macy’s and a brand-new L.L. Bean store.”
“Perfect,” Max replied, smiling. “We will be here for at least four days.”
“Very good, sir.” The young man turned away as Max guided Shy to the elevator. “If you liked the automatic door,” he said in a low voice, “you’re going to love this.”
She only screamed once as the elevator surged upward.
Chapter 7
FALSE MAGIC AND TRUE MAGIC
Azzaam el-Ammar, owner of Ye Olde Gun Shoppe, was one of the darkest Iraqi men Max had ever met. Located in the industrialized north side of Buffalo, the squat building was twenty-five meters square by ten high—unobtrusive and nondescript. However, the steel-reinforced cement walls had no windows and no access at all to the outside world, save the one single-width front door. At night, a three-inch-thick hardened steel plate would slide out of the wall on remote command to seal the building until the next morning. In addition to hunting rifles and personal-protection handguns, Azzaam el-Ammar sold special weapons to very special clients.
As Max and Shyilia walked in, he glanced up from a computer screen and frowned. Three meters into the store, Max stopped, and with his hands at his side, palms turned forward, he deliberately turned three hundred sixty degrees so that the hidden cameras and metal detectors could get a good scan. Completing the turn, Max took a slow step to the glass display case, which he ignored, raising his eyes to the single rifle mounted in a place of honor, high on the wall in an unbreakable glass case. The .700 Nitro Express double rifle by Holland and Holland ran just north of two hundred sixty thousand US dollars and was one of the largest bore civilian rifles on the market. Still staring, he sighed.
“That looks a little small,” Max muttered, still looking at the gun. “Do you have anything larger?” It was a pass phrase he and the gun dealer had been using for the past seventeen years, although seldom in the past ten.
He turned to see Azzaam staring at him with an open mouth. “Hello, my friend,” Max said genially. “You are looking well. How are Yaasmeena and the children? You had… what? Six at last count?”
“Seven now,” the man got out in a whisper, his dark face gone pale, “and all are well, although Yaasmeena is getting somewhat tired.” His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You are supposed to be dead, Maximilian, but instead, I see you standing in my shop, looking… forty years younger.” His eyes brushed fleetingly over Shyilia then snapped back as he took a long, studied look. “I see a very long story in this, my not-so-old friend, but tell me first why you are here.”
It was Max’
s turn to swallow. “I’m putting a team together, Azzaam, and I’m looking for four or five good players. I will also need some rather specialized supplies.” His head was pounding, and he stopped to rub his temple. “I need a team that are open minded, Azzaam, because we will be going where no team has ever gone, fighting things no team has ever fought. Wimps and cowards need not apply.”
The Arabic man leaned back in the chair, his teeth gleaming whitely as he grinned. “You are indeed lucky today, my friend. The new American president—” He paused to spit on the cement floor. “Cut funding for the teams. As of last month, all of your old team are currently unemployed.”
Suspicious, Max frowned. “And you know this how?”
Azzaam’s grin widened. “Why, Xia herself told me three days ago, when she was in here. I believe she misses both you and the action, my friend.”
Max let out the breath he’d been holding. He pulled out a piece of Hilton stationery with a long list of equipment, slid the paper to Azzaam, then slowly removed the leather pouch Oewaelle had given him.
The Arabic man coughed as he studied the list. “This will be very expensive, Maximilian. What foreign country did you rob to…”
Max set an emerald the size of his thumbnail on the counter.
“I’m not much of a gem expert, Azzaam, but this should be worth at least three million. Buy the equipment and whatever you think I might have forgotten for a moderate campaign in an isolated land.”
“Will food be available?” he asked.
Max scowled. “Perhaps, but we can’t count on it.”
Azzaam nodded. “Water?”
“Water is pure and plentiful.”
Jotting notes on a digital pad, the man nodded gravely. “And when would you like to depart?”
Max thought for a moment. “Five days from now is preferable, but no more than a week.”
“Transportation? Will I have to arrange tickets and passports like I did last time?”
Max grinned. “This location is remote enough. We will meet, and I will transport from here. If they need them, their American passports should suffice. I’d ask that you please return my rental car, as Shyilia and I will be traveling with the team.”
“I have a helipad on the roof of the building for deliveries. You can use that, if you wish.”
Max smiled. “I have another method of transportation in mind, but thanks for the offer.”
Azzaam nodded, rubbing his chin as he stared at Shy. “Shyilia. Is that perhaps an Asian name?” he asked politely. “Tibetan, maybe?”
Shy gave him a wide smile, full of sharp white teeth. “It is an elfin name,” she stated quite clearly.
The Iraqi man gulped. “The pay for the team?” he asked, moving right along.
Max pulled a ruby the size of the emerald out of his bag and slowly handed it to the dark-skinned man. “Liquidate this and put the proceeds in a bank. Each team member will get an equal share. Should a member fall, his family will get his share, so be sure to get a current NOK list.”
Azzaam made the gems disappear. “My cut?”
Max grinned. “Figure a minimum of a million—or whatever is left from the purchase of the weapons—but don’t shortchange us. Our lives will depend on it. If you need more, let me know.” Max’s smile faded “If we survive this adventure, you can be sure that there will be other purchases in the future.”
Azzaam barked a great braying laugh as he stood, the metal of his prosthetic leg glittering in the bright halogen lights. “Strange locations with beautiful women and a dangerous assignment. I almost wish I could come with you.” His deep voice was wistful.
Max glanced at the glittering leg. “Perhaps one day, we might be able to do something about that,” he said, indicating the leg.
“Pfaugh!” The Arabic man spat again. “The American doctors said this metal leg is the best they could offer.”
Max turned toward the door. “The doctors all said I’d need a cane for the rest of my life, which they universally agreed was no more than ten years. Now I’m making plans for next century.” Grinning at Azzaam’s shocked look, he opened the door for Shy. “We’ll be back in two days to see how things are coming.”
With a straight face, Azzaam gave Max a deep bow. “As-Salaam-Alaikum, my friend.”
Max returned the bow, just as solemnly. “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, Azzaam, and may God be with you also.”
Rather than returning to the car right away, Max took a leisurely walk around the property. Bordered on the right side by the rusted steel walls of a heavy recycling plant and on the left by scrap cars piled head high, the back was open to a distant line of straggly trees. Junk and debris littered the yard, stretching as far away as he could see. Eight meters from the back of the building, a heavy steel hatch was built into a thick cement casing. Max saw no lock, but a small glass plate built into the concrete frame spoke of a card reader. This is Azzaam’s new back door. The thought came to him like a thunderclap. Glancing at the small smoked globe sitting just over the card reader, Max waved cheerfully and headed for the car.
“What was that all about?” Shy asked, looking at the desolate landscape warily.
“Azzaam was watching us the whole time through that small glass dome. I moved openly to let him know my motives were pure.”
“Are they?”
Max frowned. “Are they what?”
“Pure?”
Max opened the car door. “Of course not, but it’s not directed at Azzaam. He’ll probably make out very well on this.”
He backed the car out of the parking lot then stopped a kilometer later to stare at the red-and-white sign stuck into a dirty brown snowdrift at the side of the road.
Wrigley and Wambach
The Greatest Demonstration of True Magic on Earth!
Three Nights Only
According to the sign and the directions, this was the last night of the show, and when he punched the street address into the rental car’s GPS, he was surprised to see that the show was within easy walking distance of the Hilton—“easy” being within four kilometers. Attending a soothing magic show might be just what the doctor ordered, at the moment, to calm his frazzled nerves.
Max thought the building might have once been a Knights of Columbus hall. In its most recent incarnation, the space was rented out for parties and third-rate magic shows. The air smelled of beer and old cigarettes, and sitting next to him, Shyilia wrinkled her nose, a look of mild disgust on her fine-boned face. Leaning back in his metal folding chair, Max studied the crowd as they paid their five dollars at the door and filtered in. A dozen or so attendees were obviously college students, while several other participants were drunk. A few, like Shy and Max, were just casual passersby. However, one figure dressed in a dark robe pulled far over his face and sitting in the shadows was something else entirely. He stared at the stage with an intent, unearthly concentration, and Max felt a chill run up his spine as he recalled what Viorela had told him about rogue vampires enslaving victims just for fun. He remembered that she had also told him that justice meted out to the vampire in question was swift… and always terminal. It had really been such a nice day… so far.
The lights dimmed, and an older couple in worn performers’ costumes of red-and-black silk took the stage, bowing profusely and introducing themselves as Wrigley and Wambach. Their high cheekbones spoke of Slavic and perhaps Gypsy ancestry. A pretty young woman in her late twenties, with dark hair and eyes and wearing too much makeup, stepped in as their assistant. Obviously the daughter of Wambach, the girl smiled at the men in the audience, flounced her short skirt, exposing acres of well-muscled shapely thigh, and generally held the crowd’s attention while her parents performed with little or no scrutiny from the crowd. The person in the dark robe leaned forward until he—Max assumed it was a man—was literally balancing on the
edge of his seat.
Wrigley waved his hands and pulled colored cloth from his nose, to the hoots from the college students and other sad examples of prolific prestidigitation, as he called them in his heavily accented voice. Finally, there was a recorded drum roll, and he announced in a sonorous rumble that for a grand finale, he would lift the cannonball sitting on a wooden table before him into the air with his mind alone. At the edge of the stage, just out of the spotlight, the young woman had a pained expression on her face and was not so subtly shaking her head, trying to warn her father, but he was having none of it. He shouted, “Rise!”
Max bit his tongue and made a subtle gesture well out of sight of the jeering audience. The table groaned, and the ten-kilogram pitted iron cannonball rose slowly into the air. One woman in the audience gasped, and the sound seemed large in the suddenly silent room. The eyes of Wrigley, Wambach, and their daughter nearly bugged from their heads, but Wrigley recovered quickly, waving his hand to one side. Max twitched a finger, and the cannonball drifted obediently. Beside him, he could feel Shyilia shaking with laughter. She, he knew, was as capable of lifting the cannonball as he. On the other side of the room, the hooded man fell out of his folding chair with a crash. Wrigley, pale and sweating profusely, waved the cannonball back. Relief showed on his face as the iron ball complied, hovering obediently a meter and a half above the table. Biting his lip, Wrigley made a gesture, slowly lowering the cannonball to the table. Grinning, Max cut his control of the ball completely. With a bang, the cannonball smashed the table to flinders, burying half its diameter in the floor below. There was dead silence for several long moments before pandemonium broke out with wild cheers and applause. Max saw two reporters frantically watching replays of the act on their cell phones, trying to figure out how the trick was done. Good luck with that.
Destiny of the Vampire (Adventures of the Vampire Book 1) Page 9
