by Mike Resnick
“You should be,” said Mallory, still staring at the wall to his left. On it were the mounted heads of a gorgon, a chimera, a banshee, a unicorn, a dragon, and half a dozen other beasts he couldn't identify. Below them was a gun rack filled with high-powered rifles of varying makes and calibers. “You ought to will these to the museum.”
“I already have.” She paused. “The only thing missing is the Yeti. I spent two years hunting for him in the Himalayas. I came across his tracks a few times, but never actually saw him. The weapons are all retired, of course—keepsakes of a more exciting life. An excitement I thought was gone forever, before I met you.”
“Hi, Winnifred,” said a voice. “Welcome back.”
Mallory jumped back and studied the wall, trying to determine which head had spoken.
“Who said that?” he demanded.
“I did,” replied the voice, and suddenly a glowing bird that constantly changed colors flew past all the doily-covered chairs and couches to perch on Winnifred's shoulder.
“This is Dulcet, my songbird,” said Winnifred.
“Don't ever let Felina see her.”
Winnifred smiled. “Why do you think I keep her here instead of at the office?”
“I don't believe I've ever seen anything like her,” said Mallory, fascinated by the bird's changing colors.
“She's imported from Italy,” explained Winnifred. “Sing something for my partner, Dulcet.”
The bird burst into a lilting aria from Madame Butterfly.
“Isn't it beautiful?” said Winnifred.
“Very nice,” answered Mallory. “A little highbrow for my taste.”
Dulcet immediately began singing “That's Amore.”
“That's enough for now, thank you,” said Winnifred, and the bird fell silent.
“What's this?” asked Mallory, looking at a small glass case that contained a silken veil and a crushed rose.
“It's from a very long time ago,” she said uncomfortably, and immediately turned her attention elsewhere. “Oh! I forgot to set food out!”
“How the hell many beggars get past your doorman and make it to the seventh floor?” asked Mallory, following her past shelves filled to overflowing with romance novels, DVDs of love stories, and CDs of every sentimental love song Mallory had ever heard plus a few hundred he had thankfully missed.
“Not for beggars,” she said, scurrying to the kitchen and pulling some items out of the refrigerator. “Well,” she amended, “not for the kind you mean, anyway.” She walked to a window, opened it long enough to place the foodstuffs on a broad ledge, and closed it again. “It's for the harpies. They get so hungry this time of year. And there's a darling miniature pegasus that just began showing up two weeks ago.”
Mallory frowned. “That's kind of contradictory, isn't it?”
“I don't follow you, John Justin.”
He gestured first to the heads and then to the little pegasus that was just dropping down to the window ledge. “Do you kill them or nurture them?”
“Every creature on the wall was intent on ripping me to shreds,” she answered. “Even so, I gave each of them a sporting chance. But these poor little babies”—she gestured to a trio of approaching harpies—“just want a little food and a safe place to eat it.”
She suddenly reached out a hand and steadied herself against the wall.
“Damn!” said Mallory. “I've never been here before, and it was so interesting I almost forgot why we came. Where's your nephew?”
“He's sleeping.”
Mallory looked out the window. “Twilight,” he announced. “He should be waking up.”
And as if on cue, a slender young man, a few inches shorter than Mallory, with unkempt wavy brown hair, suddenly opened a bedroom door and walked out into the living room, clad in pajamas, a bathrobe, and slippers.
“I heard voices,” he said, blinking his eyes as if trying to focus them.
“Rupert, this is my partner, John Justin Mallory,” said Winnifred. “John Justin, this is my nephew, Rupert Newton.”
“Just don't call me Fig,” said Rupert. “I hate it when they call me that.”
“Is there anything else I should call you?” asked Mallory, stepping closer to him.
“Like what?” asked the young man, puzzled.
“Oh, I don't know,” said the detective with a shrug. “Vlad, maybe. Or Nosferatu.”
Rupert jumped back as if he'd been stung. “How did you know?”
“I'm a trained detective,” said Mallory dryly. “Besides, your aunt is pale as a ghost and keeps trying to fall down.”
“I'm sorry, Aunt Winnifred,” said Rupert. “I didn't mean to.”
“Then you are a vampire?” she said, surprised.
“Not yet, I suspect,” said Mallory, studying the young man. “But he knows a vampire, don't you, Rupert?” He pointed to Rupert's neck. “You see? Just like yours, though he's obviously had it a lot longer.”
“A week,” confirmed Rupert miserably.
“How'd it happen?” asked Mallory. “Did you go out with a girl who had a reputation for giving dynamite hickeys?”
“You're making fun of me!” protested Rupert.
“Kid, there's nothing funny about being one of the undead,” said Mallory. “I'd say I want to help you, but I don't know how. My first job is to protect your aunt.”
“I don't want to hurt her!”
“I believe you,” said Mallory. “But there are still a few rays of sunlight in the sky. How will you feel about it two hours from now?”
“I'd never harm Aunt Winnifred!”
“How do you think I knew what to look for?” demanded Mallory. “Winnifred, turn your head.” She did so, and he pointed to the two holes on the side of her neck. “Do you even remember doing that?”
Rupert stared at his aunt, wide-eyed. “No,” he said. Then, “I thought it was a dream.”
“Okay,” said Mallory, “so once the urge or the hunger or whatever you want to call it hits, you don't know what you're doing, and after you've done it you don't remember it.” He turned to Winnifred. “Like I said, he can't stay anywhere near you.”
Winnifred seemed about to object, then changed her mind and remained silent.
“You don't want to harm your aunt,” said Mallory. “I don't want her harmed. Will you let me relocate you to a hotel until I can find someone who can help you?”
Rupert nodded his agreement. “How will you keep me there? In my dream, I got stronger at night.”
“We'll see to it that you don't have any reason to leave,” said Mallory.
“How?”
“The Goblins are playing the Gremlins at the Garden tonight, and it's on TV,” said Mallory. “If I leave you sitting in front of the television set with a bottle of plasma and a straw, can you think of any reason why you won't stay there?”
Rupert started salivating slightly at the mention of plasma. “No,” he said, wiping his mouth off with the sleeve of his robe, and Mallory could see that his canines were a little longer than average. “No, I can't.”
“Where will you get the plasma, John Justin?” asked Winnifred.
“The local blood bank.”
Rupert started drooling again, and his left eyelid began twitching.
“I won't be a party to theft,” said Winnifred firmly.
“I'm not stealing anything,” said Mallory. “I plan to buy it with the twenty I was going to put on Flyaway.”
“They'll never sell it to a private citizen.”
“Yes, they will.”
“What makes you think so.”
“Because I'll have Rupert with me,” answered Mallory, gesturing to the salivating, twitching young man. “And I'll explain that they can either sell it to me now or they can hope Rupert doesn't remember where they are an hour or two from now when it's totally dark out.” The detective smiled. “He may not be as potent as your .550 Nitro Express, but there are certain advantages to having an embryonic vampire in your arsenal.”
“I really don't get any stronger at night,” said Rupert as he and Mallory walked down Second Avenue.
Mallory paused as a yellow elephant, with a driver and two passengers in its howdah, came down the middle of the street. “I'll never get used to what passes for cabs here,” he muttered.
“Here?” repeated Rupert curiously. “Where are you from, Mr. Mallory?”
“I have the strangest urge to say that I'm not in Kansas anymore,” replied Mallory. He shrugged. “Oh, well. Could be worse. Could be Checker cabs.”
“Getting back to the blood bank, Mr. Mallory…”
“Yeah?”
“Like I said, I really don't get stronger at night.”
“Okay, you know it, and now I know it. Let's keep it our secret, and if they don't know it, maybe we'll get what we need.”
“I feel just terrible about this.”
“Not to worry,” said Mallory. “I don't remember my pulp literature and B movies all that well, but I'm pretty sure it takes more than one bite to turn you or your aunt into a vampire.” He stared at the young man. “Who the hell nailed you?”
The boy shuddered. “Draconis.”
“Draconis?”
“Aristotle Draconis.”
“He's a vampire?”
“He must be. I woke up just in time to see him leaving my stateroom.”
“Your stateroom?” repeated Mallory. “You didn't fly here from Europe?”
Rupert shook his head. “I'm afraid of heights, so I took the Moribund Manatee.”
“Something doesn't make sense here,” said Mallory. “But I thought vampires couldn't travel across water.”
“I thought so too,” said Rupert. “I guess we were both wrong,” he added ruefully.
“What does this Draconis look like?” asked Mallory.
“Tall,” said Rupert. “Very tall, almost seven feet. And thin, like a skeleton. And he dressed all in black.”
“Clean shaven?”
The young man nodded. “Yes. With dark burning eyes.”
“You want to expand on that?” said Mallory. “In my Manhattan I'd know what it means, but here it could literally mean that his eyes were on fire or shooting off sparks.”
“They looked like they could,” said Rupert with a shudder. “And there's something else.”
“Yeah?”
“I saw him walking around the deck on the first day, and he was so pale I thought he might collapse at any minute. I mean, I know you think Aunt Winnifred was pale, but it was nothing compared to him. He was almost chalk-white.”
“All right,” said Mallory. “Tall, emaciated, and chalk-white. I'll remember it.”
“No,” said Rupert.
Mallory frowned. “But you just said—”
“He was pale the first time I saw him,” said Rupert. “But when he left my stateroom, his coloring was normal. Darker than normal, even.”
“I think we'll operate on the assumption that it wasn't from a tanning parlor,” said Mallory. “Do you know anything else about him?”
“I overheard him saying that he was looking forward to exploring America. I got the impression he'd never been here before.”
“Good.”
“Good?” repeated the boy.
“If he doesn't have a destination in mind, there's every likelihood that he's still in Manhattan. The city's worth a couple of days on anyone's itinerary. That means I might be able to find him.”
“Believe me, you don't want to find him,” said the young man earnestly.
“Why not?”
“He's terrifying,” said Rupert. “What are the odds that he'll come after Aunt Winnifred out of all the people in New York? You'll live a lot longer if you never meet him.”
“And what if he comes after you again?” asked Mallory.
Rupert's eyes went wide with terror. “Why would he?”
“Maybe he likes the way you taste. Maybe he needs to bite you a few more times to turn you into a fellow vampire, or an eternal servant. Maybe he's a gay vampire and he thinks you're pretty. You could fill half a dozen books with what I don't know about vampires. In fact, I think a hell of a lot of romance writers in my Manhattan already have.”
“You really think he might come after me?”
“I'd call it a possibility.”
The young man's hand shot out, grabbing Mallory's sleeve. “Then I take back everything I said. You've got to catch him!”
“The first thing I've got to do is get you off display,” said Mallory as they approached the blood bank. “Then I'll check on Winnifred again to make sure she's okay, and then we'll worry about Aristotle Draconis.”
“But—”
“That's the way it's going to be,” said Mallory, increasing his pace. Rupert watched him for a moment, then realized that he was standing there alone and broke into a run to catch up with the detective.
They reached the blood bank in another minute, and Mallory walked up to the front desk.
“Excuse me,” he said, trying to get a nurse's attention.
“That all depends on what you've done,” replied the nurse.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mallory, confused, “but I'm not quite sure what you're talking about.”
“Excusing you,” answered the nurse. “We can forgive high alcohol contents and poor cholesterol readings, but we cannot accept blood that is infected with measles, mumps, tonsillitis, lumbago, rheumatism, arthritis, tennis elbow, gingivitis, flat feet, acid stomach—”
“Stop,” said Mallory before she could rattle off thirty more disqualifiers. “We're not here to donate blood.”
“We don't buy it on holidays,” she said severely.
“You misunderstand. We're here to buy some blood, or at least some plasma, for the young man.”
“What type?”
“It doesn't make any difference.”
“We have to know before we can inject it,” insisted the nurse.
“He's not going to inject it,” said Mallory. “He's going to drink it.”
The nurse stared at the pale young man. “Ah, yes,” she said. “I can see now: the pale skin, the dilated pupils, the hint of enlarged canines, and of course there's no hair on the back of his hands.”
“Should there be?”
“Only if he'd been bitten by a werewolf,” said the nurse, “in which case you'd be better advised to go to a butcher shop than a blood bank.”
“Now that that's settled, how much for, oh, I don't know, half a gallon of blood?”
“That's out of the question,” said the nurse. “We can't spare that much.”
“We're willing to pay…now,” said Mallory meaningfully. “I can't speak for later, when he's desperate.”
She stared at Rupert, who was starting to drool again. “He looks pretty desperate right now.”
“I don't know if I can control him,” said Mallory.
She pulled a cross and a string of garlic out from a hidden drawer under the counter. “Not to worry,” she assured the detective. “We can control him.”
Rupert held his hands up before his face. “Take it away!” he yelled.
She put the garlic and cross back into the drawer. “You were saying?” she asked with a pleasant smile.
“Nothing,” said Mallory. “Come on, kid—we'll have to find it somewhere else.”
“Just a minute,” said the nurse.
“Yes?”
“It really wouldn't do to have your young friend attacking strangers on the street. He might pick on the wrong one and get seriously hurt.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “It's not generally known, but most of the grocery stores sell blood this one night of the year, since there are so many creatures out celebrating. It's not legal, but the police tend to look the other way.”
“Thank you,” said Mallory.
“You didn't hear it from me.”
“My lips are sealed. Come on, Rupert.”
He left the blood bank, accompanied by the young man, who took a
deep breath of the evening air and let out a heavy sigh. “Ah! That's better!” He turned to Mallory. “I've been allergic to garlic all my life.”
“Then it wasn't because you're turning into a vampire?”
“I never could stand the stuff. Makes my eyes water.”
“All right,” said the detective. “I think I'm going to put you up at my apartment. Why waste the money on a hotel? If Draconis is looking for you, he's no more likely to look in my apartment than in a hotel room. There's no way he can know you're connected to Winnifred, and even if he were to find out, he still wouldn't know that she's my partner.” He paused. “There's a market right around the corner from my place. We'll get the blood there. And once you're ensconced in my apartment, I'll get together with Winnifred and dope out our next step.”
“I'm very grateful, Mr. Mallory,” said Rupert. “I've always hated vampires. Now it looks like I might become one.”
“That's something else we've got to do—see how to reverse the damned thing and turn you back into a normal young man. Your aunt is a lot better at research than I am. I think I'll have her do that while I'm trying to locate Draconis.”
“Pssst!”
Mallory stopped and saw a green-skinned goblin gesturing to him from between two apartment buildings. “Hey, Mister—pretty goblin girls!”
“The name's Mister Mallory,” said the detective in bored tones. “Mister Pretty Goblin Girls lives on the next block.”
“A humorist,” muttered the goblin. He turned to Rupert. “Pretty goblin girls, dirt cheap.”
“Not interested,” said Rupert.
“Well, then, exceptionally ugly goblin girls, wildly expensive, if that's to your taste.”
“No, thanks.”
“Goblin boys, perhaps?” said the goblin.
“Go away,” said Mallory.
“Goblin octogenarians?”
Mallory and Rupert increased their pace.
“Blind deaf mute goblin quadruple amputees?”
“You really have one?” asked Mallory.
“Sure,” said the goblin. He pulled a hatchet and a sledgehammer out of his overcoat. “Give me five minutes.”
“Forget it,” said Mallory. “I was just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” said the goblin. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “How about a dead cat?”
