by S. E. Chase
“Why me? Why not Bryan Monda? He’s Curator of European Art. This sounds like his territory.” She had enough to do without being co-opted into Monda’s realm.
“My dear, you are engaging, personable and professional.” Thompson said. “This donor, while brilliant, is reclusive. Bryan does fine curatorial work, excellent work, but he is not good with people. I want to cultivate a connection with the chemist, which means someone who can converse. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
She pursed her lips, exasperated at being forced again to compensate for Monda’s deficiencies. But Thompson was right on one count—sending a monosyllabic recluse to meet another one was a bad idea. Monda couldn’t communicate in the outside world. He stumbled over words, never made eye contact, and had no ability to relate to the public.
“Kaitlyn, this is an opportunity. Embrace a new experience. Here’s the list of items.” He read from a memo. “Realgar, verdigris, orpiment, litharge, and . . . ” he paused for dramatic effect, “mummy.”
She stared.
Great. This weird man’s been jonesing to get his hands on mummy since he arrived.
She’d heard him talk about it many times, even during one painful staff meeting. She didn’t understand his obsessive fascination. It was creepy and sad.
As a pigment, mummy was the unfortunate result of human superstition, greed, and fashion. In the Middle Ages, mummified remains were believed to hold medicinal qualities; in truth it was the bitumen used to preserve them rather than the bodies themselves that was the effective agent. Alchemists ground up mummies for medicinal purposes, touted them as a cure for everything. In the late 1700s, as belief in healing properties declined, Europeans became enamored of all things Egyptian following Napoleon’s travels to the land. What resulted was Caput Mortuum, or mummy brown, a deep brown pigment made from ground up mummies. It was used for the next three centuries before finally dying out, no pun intended, for good around the early 1960s.
“Dr. Thompson.” She rose from the chair and sinking cushions. “Hope you’ve arranged for sealed metal storage. If I recall my chemistry, these pigments are toxic.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I told Bryan to order the equipment.”
“When do I fetch the bottles?” She resented Thompson dictating her schedule, but if the day was free, she wasn’t going to argue. Needed to save confrontation for larger matters. There were plenty of those.
“Next Wednesday.” He smiled with the aura of a benevolent dictator. “I’ll give you directions and contact information. Told him you’d be in touch.”
“I’ll confirm and make sure Monda orders the cabinets. I don’t want the material in collections storage unsecured.” Her registrar, who tended to instability, would freak out if poisonous chemicals weren’t locked away. She didn’t need more staff crying episodes.
“Excellent, Kaitlyn. I appreciate it.” Thompson stood and angled closer. He rubbed his cufflink. “Kaitlyn, let’s not be formal. We’re colleagues, confidantes, fellow cultural travelers working to move the museum forward.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You can call me Ellery.”
She backed away. “I prefer Dr. Thompson.”
CHAPTER 7
2011 Mid October
Ellery Scott Thompson, PhD, descended the stairs, shined his cufflinks and scanned the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Blood-shot eyes, papery skin dotted with liver spots. A tired old man was reflected in the glass.
“Alas, nothing I can do about you today,” he said. He grabbed his briefcase and headed out. Since meeting Donnie Itsos, things were back on track.
His trajectory began years ago in London when he was a young savant passionate for ancient history. His parents, classical academicians, fostered his interest and gave their son the advantage of illustrious wealth. He devoured ancient texts. By eight, little Ellie could recite the Iliad and Odyssey by heart. He was taken by the Egyptian Book of the Dead and the ancient spells of the Demotic Magical Papyrus, wandering the family estate chanting, “Arouse them for me, the spirits, the dead,” to his parents’ delight. At sixteen, he finished undergraduate study at Oxford University and moved abroad, relishing the chance to travel and explore the darker realms of the human spirit.
Greece was first. He pursued his master’s degree at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, where he cultivated a love of wine and mythology. His class work was rich and varied—ethnology and cultural anthropology, archaeology, medical chemistry, organic chemistry. Never one to slack off, in summer he studied at the University of Crete. The decision proved fortuitous.
He stumbled upon an old cafe overlooking the Mediterranean, spending hours in the company of wizened natives who understood him and shared his passions. They took him under their wing, shared their wine. Late into the evenings they told of beings that haunted Grecian nights. Aside from ballyhooed gods and goddesses, Greece’s rich history held a wealth of folklore related to Thompson’s fascination—the undead. Some called them vampires, a name that connoted evil parasitic beings, but such imagery was inelegant. Eternal life granted the ability to see history as it happened through vast swaths of time. Blood sucking was part of the deal.
His companions opened his eyes to species like the unpleasant burculacas, known for gluttony in its blood-drinking habits. Closer to home, they told of Cretan vampires, including the stylish catacano with mouth of striking white teeth. Swift and strong, arrogant and intelligent, it instilled trust in human prey and turned victims into its kind by spitting regurgitated blood on them. Thompson loved the stories but began to consider them more than tales. He searched for clues to discover real beings.
He pursued a doctorate in Bulgaria, at Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski but spent nights in personal research. He considered himself a doctor of ethnology and history and promoted himself as one, but he’d never finished his doctorate, leaving before his final dissertation defense. He fled after meeting an actual vampire, an adult platnik, during his midnight rambles. It began unlife as a vampiric nymph and became a full solid-form vampire, able to pass as human, after a forty-day adolescence in which it fed on the rich, sweet blood of children. It refrained from killing him when his passion for its kind became obvious. They spoke for hours, began an affair. The creature enchanted him. It showed him how it killed and how it transformed. Opened his eyes to understanding the Hindu concept of Amrit, which it had learned from its creator. Fascinated him with its bond to the water. Water. Nectar. Elixir.
When he decapitated it to collect its blood, he felt gratitude for the doors it had opened. He kept its skull as a memento.
*
Michael swore and flexed cramping fingers. An abominable typist, he stabbed his computer keyboard with jarring strokes. He was tired but agitated and hung over. At three in the morning his mental wheels whirled, unable to slow down. Sleep was overrated anyway.
Digging for information was more productive than lying awake. He didn’t want to disturb Kait asleep beside him. He hated staring at the ceiling because intuition wouldn’t let him rest. Tried to sleep. Counted sheep, counted lizards, then the number of drunken fools he'd seen at the gala. Nothing worked. So he crept downstairs and fired up his laptop, hoping to uncover details about her unpleasant boss.
He replayed meeting Thompson. Couldn’t shake his instinct—the man was suspicious. It wasn’t his arrogance as much as demeanor. Something was off, unstable. It sparked warnings. Other than vague mention of working in Europe, Kait and other staffers knew little about him. None of them had been on the hiring committee. “Cultural norms and superstitions” is how Thompson described his specialty.
What does that mean?
Was it connected to the strange conversation two weeks earlier with Laina? Was Seward City suddenly the epicenter for weird?
He searched for Thompson’s name in museum and gallery websites, academic programs, and scholarly journal databases. Scrawled ideas on a pad of paper and did additional research on cultural heritage sites and ethnolo
gy collections. Struggled to focus. He yawned, rubbed his eyes. Loki came into the den and poked him, cold wet nose touching his face. He smiled, scratched the scruff of his neck.
The dog reclined, head along his thigh. Soon Loki fell back to sleep.
He plowed through documents, scanning staff lists and reviewing author attributions. His eyes ached. He found little relevant information, save one esoteric article on stone effigies and a brief mention of a job in the Baltic region. Didn’t make sense—the Willard Museum hired Thompson based on experience. He had to have worked in a high-level professional capacity somewhere, right? His history was a blank slate, not connected to any museum in the two years preceding his arrival.
Maybe electronic carpet-bombing would be more effective. He barraged museums and universities throughout Europe with email, asking curatorial and administrative staff if they remembered Thompson. Every address he found, he fired off a request. If one or two people responded, it might lead him in the right direction. He rotated his neck, trying to get a kink out of it. Fatigue crept into his system.
Another idea came to him and he emailed Einar. Ask Laina about Thompson. She was in Sweden, worked in ethnology. Maybe she’d heard of him. Did she know of work he’d done?
Then he crashed.
Kait found him the next morning sacked out on the sofa, face planted in the cushion, laptop on, crumpled notes littering the floor as if a garbage can had exploded. She shook his shoulder. He stirred, mumbled something but fell back to sleep, so she unleashed the black beast, letting Loki gallop over and lick his face. He waved the dog off with an uncoordinated flailing and hauled himself to a sitting position. Loki jumped up and lolled on the sofa.
“Mmm . . .” He rubbed his eyes and reached over to turn off his laptop. “Shit. What time is it?”
She sat beside him. “What are you doing? You can’t function on so little sleep.”
“Time?” He couldn’t focus. His mind was fogged, hair flattened and tangled.
“It’s 8:15 AM.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m heading out. You’re worrying me. And you’re late for work.”
He wound her hand in his fingers and held it, eyes closed, not awake enough to do anything else. “Wanted to run down ideas before I forgot.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Huh?”
“Did you find helpful information?”
“Ah . . .” He clammed up, not wanting to say he was investigating her boss. No need to alarm her. “Um . . . I’m hoping for responses today.”
She pulled him close. “Michael. You look terrible. Take a shower. Coffee’s on the counter—I’ll see you later. Promise me you won’t work all night tonight.”
“Yeah.” He sank his head on her shoulder. “Maybe monsters won’t kill kids today.”
*
Thompson began his career in Skopje, Macedonia, a city along the upper Vardar River. He weaseled his way into the Museum of Macedonia as an assistant in the Department of Ethnology. There amid the ancient collections of the Eastern world, he met Lidija, twenty years his senior, volunteer, guide and conjurer. They connected immediately, he drawn by her personality and deep laugh and she by his youthful enthusiasm for the dark arts. Lidija, immersed in spells, potions and incantations, became his teacher and muse. She showed him how to use platnik blood and unfortunate victims as a starting point to create immature creatures, allowing them forty days to feed then harvesting their blood for chemistry experiments.
“But . . . dear Ellie, let’s not call them vampires.” Lidija tossed her dark hair with a large hand. “Such vulgar imagery.”
Thompson smiled. He loved her. “What do you suggest?”
“Aim higher. How about revenant? Means ‘to return,’ as in the French verb revenir.” She gave a sly smile. “Has an elegance about it.”
“Revenant,” he said. “Perfect.”
“And of course. French is sophisticated, for a gentleman such as you.”
He recalled that time of his life with delight—Lidija, midnight walks along the Vardar, and promises of eternity. He wanted it and she was his willing helper, working with him, trying to create a substance that granted eternal life. ‘We can succeed,’ she would proclaim, ‘eliminate the inconvenience of dying.’ He wanted to remain in the land of the living without death, or, if necessary, in a state of undeath.
They tested concoctions on murderers and executed prisoners from Bulgaria, easy to obtain within the lax culture of Communist decline. Anesthetizing live subjects, they transfused them with platnic blood, transforming them into young revenants. Thompson avoided individuals rumored to carry disease, which would have been detrimental to his work. The Vardar was the perfect conduit for their creatures as they trolled for prey. When the forty days passed, Thompson and Lidija harvested the blood and he refined his processes, searching for the key to transform the base substance into a drug. He remained in Bulgaria for ten years, Lidija his constant companion.
The unthinkable only reinforced his dream. Lidija met an untimely death in a museum mishap—falling from scaffolding while giving a dramatic reenactment of a tartar warrior stance in the late 1980s. Thompson, devastated, became convinced that immortality was preferable to losing loved ones. As the years flew, he moved from the Baltic to Western Europe and then to the Nordic countries, balancing museum duties with his passion and waiting for the right confluence of elements to align.
CHAPTER 8
2011 Early November
He shifted hunting grounds north into the upstate wilderness. Compulsion and desire to keep the cops off balance urged him forward. With falling temperatures and approaching winter, he had to feed before heavy snows and howling winds hindered travel. He followed the river’s west branch at the divide, staying close to shore, out of sight thanks to heavy scrub. Smelled change, saw it in the last fall leaves remaining on trees. He extended his claws, sharpening them on a rock, enjoying the sensation.
He responded to his creator’s needs by charting a path, leaving markers, talismans substantial but unnoticeable unless someone knew what to look for in the sand, muck and brush. He smiled, licked his lips and cocked his head to pick up sounds and smells of people in the landscape.
On this evening, warm for early November, he heard laughter. Headed in the direction of the sound.
*
Two children scampered along the shore, yellow rubber boots squishing in the water. They laughed, skipping stones, trying to outdo each other. Early fall twilight cast a pink glow as the river rounded the bend and meandered between two large hills. A golden retriever stood next to them, ears up and tail like a flag, barking when another stone hit the water and skimmed the surface once, twice, thrice before sinking.
“Rocky, it’s a skipping stone!” A boy tossed a stone and gave the dog an affectionate pat.
“Look, Matty, he wants to go after it.” The girl threw another stone and giggled. The dog barked, tail wagging. “Rocky, go. Fetch the rock!” She clapped her hands.
“He doesn’t want a rock.” Matty was annoyed at his sister hogging the dog’s attention. “He knows it’s a rock.”
“He does too wanna fetch it.” She stomped her boot in the water. “Rocky will fetch anything.”
Rocky splashed back and forth, not giving a damn about stones. He enjoyed the attention the children were giving him.
“Let’s get a stick,” Matty said. “He likes those better . . . ”
The girl ran along the shore, scanning the ground. She zigzagged near the water’s edge. “Ah HAH!” She found a stick and tossed it. Rocky watched, all twitching attention, muscles ready to spring. Splash! The stick hit the water. The dog leapt after it.
“Matty, Laura, don’t wander far. Dinner’s almost ready. ” Their mother pulled ham sandwiches, bag of chips and thermos of hot chocolate from her checked picnic bag. She set the food on a plate on a blanket near the fire pit, less than 400 yards from the water. She waved and motioned for them to get ready to eat.
&
nbsp; The boy laughed and ran after the dog. “Go Rocky. Fetch the stick!”
Rocky emerged. He shook himself, droplets flying. Trotted to the girl, dropped it and barked as if to say, ‘come on, hit me again. Toss that sucker!’
“I’ll find a bigger stick . . .” Matty took off down the bank, climbing over logs and running along the shore. He and his sister competed even if it involved something simple like a stick to toss to Rocky.
“Tomorrow, Matty,” his mother called.
“Matty. Mom says time for dinner!”
A flash of light, a scream and the dog’s crazed barking.
Snarling and growls.
His mother tore to the water, but Matty was gone. Rocky stood over Laura. She cowered. The dog shook, head down, tail down, ears back. He had blood on his muzzle, and growled when the girl’s mother approached. Then, realizing who it was, the dog dropped his defensive stance, stepped toward her and whimpered. She grabbed the girl, yanked her phone out and called 911.
*
Einar ducked low branches and trudged through the muck, Michael behind him. Every step brought doubt. What if Cresson was right? What if they couldn't solve it?
Dead cattails and sedges flicked their coat sleeves. Wind whispered through dried reeds, rustling the remaining leaves. They followed the responding officer to the bank, illuminated with construction lights, generators droning. The uniform pointed to the river bend, cordoned off with police tape.
Marta bent over remains strewn in a bloody path. Her tech crouched at the other end, face ashen. Flesh and guts were everywhere. She saw the detectives, stopped and removed her gloves. Stood as Einar and Michael approached. “Let’s catch this bastard,” she said. “Another child ripped apart. More blood on the ground than last time.”
“It was interrupted,” Einar said.
Marta nodded. “Who does this to children?”
Michael stared.
“Someone or something evil.” Einar wished for a better answer. It prompted a knot in his gut. He’d never seen someone torn apart with such fury.
Beside him, Michael stood frozen.
