by Mike Resnick
“Suit yourself,” said Mallory.
“Of course,” continued the little vampire, “if something attacks, I'd be facing it alone, wouldn't I?”
“Why would anything attack you? You belong here, in a manner of speaking.”
“I most certainly do not,” said McGuire, his gaze darting from one shadow to another. “I belong in my room, under my covers, reading a good book.”
“I'll be happy to give you one if we survive the next two hours,” offered Nathan. “Real cerebral stuff, with an exquisite felicity of expression, a certain je ne c'est quois, and a lot of guns and broads.”
“Lots of dead things,” said Felina, staring into the darkness at something only she could see.
“Maybe I'll come inside with you,” said McGuire. “After all, I did volunteer to protect you.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” said Mallory, opening the door.
“Welcome to the Hills of Home,” said a cheerful white-haired man. “Are you the bereaved or the newly deceased?” He stared at McGuire. “Or a little of both?”
“I'm just here to ask a few questions,” said Mallory.
“Wonderful!” said the man. “I love quizzes! While we're taking it, I can offer you a beautiful velvet-lined coffin, or perhaps a knish and some chopped liver, depending on your needs?” He studied Felina. “Or maybe some lox?”
“Let's start with the questions,” said Mallory.
“Ready,” said the man. “Gypsy Rose Lee, an hour and thirteen minutes, and Butte, Montana, in September of 1926.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Mallory, confused.
“My first three answers, of course,” said the man. “Now let's see if the quality of your questions is up to the quality of my answers.”
“Why don't you let me ask my questions first, and then try to answer them?” suggested Mallory.
“But that's so commonplace,” protested the man. “By the way, we haven't been introduced.” He extended his hand. “My name is Hermes.”
“Mallory.”
“No, Hermes.”
“I meant that I'm Mallory.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Hermes. “You sure I can't interest you in some cheese blintzes, covered with sour cream and topped off with cinnamon sugar? Or maybe a funeral in any of the seventy-four most popular religions, with two hundred guaranteed mourners, at least three of which will have hysterics and have to be sedated?”
“Blintzes!” said Felina.
“You don't even know what a blintz is,” said Mallory.
“If it's smaller than me, who cares?” said Felina. She smiled. “It doesn't even have to be dead. Yet.”
“Later,” said Mallory, as the cat-girl turned her back on him and began assiduously licking a forearm.
“So, Mr. Mallory,” said Hermes, “can I get you something from the deli, or are we going to play more guessing games?”
“Let's try a question,” said Mallory. “How many vampires leave their coffins here?”
“None,” replied Hermes. “Sooner or later they all take them away.”
“Let me rephrase that: How many vampires currently have their coffins here?”
The old man scratched his head. “Maybe thirty, maybe thirty-five. Can't be more than forty, and that's a fact.”
“Why not?”
“Only got forty private mausoleums. Wouldn't do for a vampire to bury his coffin in the ground. He'd have to dig it up every time he wanted to catch forty winks.”
“What's a wink?” asked Felina, turning to face him. “Are they good to eat?”
“Next question,” said Mallory.
“You didn't answer your ladyfriend's question,” noted Hermes.
“She's not my ladyfriend, and I'm asking the questions, not answering them,” said Mallory. “Next question: Do any of the mausoleums have a coffin from Transylvania?”
“Is that anywhere near Pennsylvania?” asked the old man.
“Let's try another,” said Mallory. “The particular vampire I'm after has been in Manhattan for less than a week. How many coffins have you taken in during the past six or seven days?”
“Maybe fifteen or so,” said Hermes. “They travel a lot, vampires. Always seeking fresh blood, so to speak.”
“Have you got a list of those fifteen most recent arrivals?” asked Mallory.
“Sure have.”
“Can I see it?”
“No reason why not,” said Hermes. “I'm always open to negotiation.”
“How much?”
“I can't take a bribe to reveal confidential information,” said the old man. “That's against the law.”
Mallory frowned. “What do you want, then?”
“Your cat-girl sounded pretty hungry. How'd you like to buy her two pounds of gefilte fish?”
“Deal,” said Mallory. “We'll pick it up on our way out of here.”
“Give me a minute to make up the list,” said Hermes, pulling out a thick ledger, a sheet of paper, and a quill pen.
“I want my gifted fish now,” said Felina.
“They're your payment for helping me,” said Mallory. “First you work, then you eat.”
“How soon?” she demanded.
“Very soon.”
“Good. I've never had a gifted fish before. Maybe we can have a nice educational chat before I kill it.”
“Here you are,” said Hermes, handing a sheet of paper to Mallory.
“I don't understand,” said Mallory, reading the paper. “These aren't numbers.”
“The mausoleums aren't numbered. Each one has a classical or mythical name. These are the names of the ones that have the recent arrivals.”
“And where are they?”
“Out back,” said Hermes, pointing. “You can't miss them. Or maybe you can.” He handed Mallory a flashlight. “Here. You'd better take this.”
“Thanks.”
Mallory led his companions out to the rows of stone mausoleums. As he came to one that's name matched a name on the paper, he opened the door and called Felina over.
“We're looking for the same person who was at the dialysis center in the Village,” he told her. “Take a whiff and tell me if this is where he lives.”
“He doesn't live at all,” said Felina.
“Where he stays,” amended the detective.
They went through the first dozen mausoleums with no luck. Then they came to the one marked Styx. As soon as Mallory cracked the door open Felina's entire posture changed.
“This is it, isn't it?” asked Mallory.
She nodded.
“Is he here now?”
“No.”
“Let's hope you're right,” said Mallory, entering the small structure, followed by Felina, Nathan, and McGuire.
There was a hardwood coffin lying on the floor. It had numerous words carved on it, in a language Mallory couldn't read.
“Let's open it up,” he said.
“What if Vlad's in it and we wake him up?” asked McGuire nervously.
“He's not,” answered Mallory. “Felina would know if he was here.”
“What if she's wrong?”
“I don't know about you,” said Mallory, unlatching the top of the coffin, “but I'll be very unhappy about it. Come on, Nathan—give me a hand.”
The detective and the dragon opened the coffin and looked in. The bottom was covered by perhaps an inch of dirt. Mallory reached down and picked up a handful.
“Pure Transylvanian soil,” he said, letting it slide out through his fingers.
“Okay, we found his coffin,” said Nathan. “He's due back sometime in the next hour and a half, so now what do we do?”
“Now we get to work,” said Mallory. “Nathan, there's got to be a caretaker's cabin around here, and there has to be some grave-digging equipment. See if you can scare up a shovel or two. If not, I suppose even a dustpan will do.”
“Right,” said the dragon.
“Bats,” continued Mallory, “stay here
and if Vlad shows up, give a holler.”
“I'll give a scream you wouldn't believe,” answered McGuire. “Right before I take off like a Bats out of hell.”
“Felina,” said Mallory as he left the mausoleum and headed back to the main building, “you come with me.”
When Mallory arrived, Hermes was waiting for him.
“Got my flashlight?” asked the old man.
“I'll need it a little longer,” replied Mallory. He pulled some cash out of his pocket and handed it to Hermes. “For the gefilte fish. She earned it. And toss in some lox, too.”
“It's a pleasure doing…whatever it is we're doing, with you, young man,” said Hermes.
“I need two more favors,” said Mallory. “First, have you got a couple of buckets, or if not, some sturdy garbage bags?”
“Got both,” said the old man. “Take your choice.”
“Thanks. And can I borrow a phone for a couple of local calls?”
“Sure.”
He led the detective to a telephone. Mallory dialed his office. Winnifred wasn't there yet, but he left her a message telling her what he wanted her to do. He made one more call, and then, while Felina happily stuffed her face with gefilte fish, he found two empty buckets in the deli's kitchen and went back to the mausoleum.
“Is Nathan back yet?” he asked McGuire, who was guarding the door.
“Yes,” said the little vampire. “He's inside.”
“Good. Come in with me and make yourself useful.”
They entered the mausoleum.
“What did you find, Nathan?” asked Mallory.
“A shovel and a dustpan,” answered the dragon. “I hope you're not going to suggest that we dig a grave and bury the coffin.”
“Nothing that complicated,” said Mallory. He placed the buckets on the floor next to the coffin. “I want the two of you to scoop all the dirt out of the coffin and put it in here.”
“Then what?”
“Then I'll tell you what to do next.”
“I hope you know what you're doing,” said McGuire, grabbing the dustpan and beginning to scoop the soil out of the coffin. “That makes two of us,” said Mallory.
It took the dragon and the vampire about five minutes to complete the job.
“Now what?”
Mallory pulled two business cards out of his wallet. On the back of the first he scribbled an address.
“Now you take the buckets here,” he said, handing the card to Nathan. “Someone will be waiting for you and will tell you what to do with them.”
“What about Felina?”
“If she hasn't made herself sick already, she can come back to the office with me. Otherwise she can spend the night here.” “You're going back to your office?” said Nathan.
“Yeah,” said Mallory. “Your story needs an ending, doesn't it? And I might as well play out the final chapter where the whole thing began.”
“All alone?” said the dragon with a puzzled frown.
“I won't be alone,” said Mallory, and with that, he leaned over and laid the other business card face up on the floor of the coffin.
It took Mallory fifteen minutes to get back to his office. Felina had gorged herself on the fish, and he left her at the Hills of Home.
The first thing he did was check the answering machine. His message to Winnifred had been erased, so at least he knew she received it. He looked around for some sign that she'd done what he asked, and finally he found it: a small “Paid” receipt placed carefully beneath his Racing Form.
“Hey, Periwinkle,” he said, “are you awake?”
“I am now,” grumbled his magic mirror.
“I've been up all night. Show me something that'll keep me alert.”
“With or without pasties and g-strings?” asked Periwinkle.
“Spare me your sarcasm,” said Mallory. “I need something fast-paced and exciting.”
“To which I repeat: With or without pasties and g-strings?”
“I have a feeling that Wings O'Bannon has spoiled that particular form of entertainment for me, at least for a few days. How about a nice cheerful musical?”
“Perhaps Pygmalion?” suggested Periwinkle.
“You mean My Fair Lady.”
“I mean Pygmalion, the musical that Rodgers and Hammerstein were commissioned to write. Lerner and Loewe wrote My Fair Lady only after Rodgers and Hammerstein abandoned the project.”
“Yeah, I suppose that could be interesting.”
“You don't seem wildly enthused,” noted the mirror.
“I'm just killing time.”
“Until what?”
“You'll see soon enough,” said Mallory.
“If you need to get your adrenaline flowing, I could show you a particular 1949 Roller Derby in which Tuffy Bresheen put three girls from the opposing team into the hospital.”
“That's before I was born,” complained Mallory. “Why do you always insist on showing me Tuffy Bresheen?”
“She was my ideal,” answered Periwinkle. “One hundred sixty pounds of muscle and savagery. Give me fifty like her and I could conquer the world.”
“I got a feeling I could use all fifty of them before sunrise,” said Mallory. He lit a cigarette.
“I thought you were trying to give those up,” said the mirror.
“Tomorrow. Right after I start my diet.”
“Yes, of course. And now, since you seem unable to decide upon an entertainment, I'm going back to sleep.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” said Mallory. “I'm sorry I disturbed you.”
Periwinkle made no reply, and Mallory assumed the mirror was already asleep. He checked his watch. It was 6:27.
He walked over to Winnifred's desk, picked up a book, and thumbed through the pages. It concerned the coming of age of a young woman in nineteenth-century London. Mallory was sure it was a fine book, filled with historical accuracy and brilliant insights, but somehow he had a feeling he'd be more comfortable with a Wings O'Bannon adventure.
He went back to his desk and checked the time again: 6:41. He looked out the window. The sun would be up in less than an hour.
He picked up a magazine, thumbed through it, studied the center spread with a practiced eye, admitted to himself that he didn't really buy it for the articles, and replaced it in a desk drawer.
Suddenly he heard wings flapping in the next room. He didn't have to look to know what it was. He had left the window open about a foot, big enough for a large bat to get through. Then he heard something that was far too large and too heavy to fit through the window land on the floor.
Mallory swiveled his chair so that he was facing the room in question. A moment later a man of moderate build, clad all in black, entered the room.
There was something strange, something dead, about his eyes. His skin was gray and wizened, his hair black with gray streaks on the side, his nose thin and aquiline, his lips also thin, his mouth broad, his teeth—even his large canines—yellow with age and lack of care. He stood and walked as if each movement caused him discomfort if not pain, yet he exuded an air of power.
“I have come for that which is mine,” he said in a voice that seemed too strong for his body.
“You have come because I sent for you,” replied Mallory.
“And why have you sent for me? I have never seen you before. Your name was unknown to me prior to this morning.”
“Yeah, well, your name is not unknown to me. One of them, anyway. Welcome to my humble office, Vlad Dracule.”
“So you know,” remarked the vampire. Then he shrugged. “It makes no difference. It is a piece of knowledge that will die with you.”
Mallory looked out a window. “The sun's coming up in about forty-five minutes. I know where I'm sleeping.” He turned back to the vampire. “Do you know where you're taking your next nap?”
“So that is what this is about,” said Vlad. “What do you want for the return of my soil?”
“It's not for sale.”
Vla
d Dracule frowned. “Explain yourself.”
Mallory stood stock-still for a moment. Then he heard the sound he had been waiting for from the next room, and he turned his attention back to the vampire.
“I don't want your money,” said Mallory. “You are an evil, unclean thing who killed the wrong person—the young man you first bit on the Moribund Manatee.”
“I think we must come to an understanding, John Justin Mallory,” said the vampire. “I am very old, older than I think you can imagine. I was here before Prague and Budapest, before Rome, even before Troy. Look at me, Mr. Mallory. My skin is like parchment, my bones frail. I am tired of living, yet the life force remains strong within me. For many decades now I have wished I could die, just lay down the burden of my years and my millennia and cease to exist, but that was not to be. I am what I am, and I am here for the remainder of Time, for better or for worse.”
Even as he spoke the years seemed to melt off Vlad Dracule's body, and when he was finished, he faced Mallory, awesome and frightening in his newfound vitality and strength.
“Do you do card tricks too?” asked Mallory, trying to sound much less impressed and frightened than he felt.
The vampire half hissed, half roared his rage. “You know what I've come for! I cannot be killed. Now give me that which you have stolen or suffer the consequences!”
“Keep your threats to yourself,” said Mallory with more confidence than he felt. “That is, if you want to know where your soil is.” Mallory studied him. “And you do want to know, don't you? I don't know why a night's sleep is so valuable to you—I haven't had one, and I'm still going strong—but it's obvious that you need it.”
Vlad made an almost physical effort to control his rising anger.
“You are meddling in things that you know nothing about, areas that can be of no concern to you,” he said. “Give me the soil this minute and I may let you live.”
“You're in no bargaining position,” Mallory pointed out. “I have something you want. You have nothing that is of any interest to me.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to return to Transylvania and never come back here.”
Vlad Dracule drew himself up to his full height, which seemed considerably taller than only a moment earlier. “I come and go where I please.”
“Save it for people who don't have any bargaining chips,” said Mallory. “I've got your soil, and if you didn't need it back, you wouldn't be here. Let me know when you're through making empty threats and are willing to talk business.”
