The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “I’m Dr. Lang,” Escott told him. “Dr. Reade asked me to look in on the patient for him.”

  “Ain’t it kinda late?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said wearily, “and this is hopefully my last call for the night.”

  “I’ll have to see your pass.”

  “Show him my pass,” he said to me.

  I got the man’s full attention and flipped out my old press card. “It’s all in order, officer,” I told him.

  He didn’t even blink. “Okay, you can go in.”

  “Thank you.” Escott did so—all but grinning at the situation—with me right behind him.

  It was a private room, furnished in cold steel and white enamel, with one small light glowing in a corner opposite the single high bed. The slumbering occupant was obscured by rumpled sheets and a mass of bandaging around the top of his head. His breathing was slow and deep, our entrance hadn’t roused him.

  Escott hung back by the door, ready to deal with the cop in case he walked in.

  “I don’t want to do this,” I whispered.

  He understood but shook his head, his humor gone. “But you have to do something. So far they’re blaming the head wound for his story, but you can’t let him continue to talk, especially if some of the more irresponsible papers get hold of it. You dare not take that chance.”

  “Yeah.” Damn.

  He was right. We’d been all over it before and couldn’t think of any other alternatives. Indirectly, this would help protect Bobbi and Escott as well as myself, so that should have made it easier, but I’d still have to be very careful.

  I cat-footed to the bedside and looked down at the sleeping boy. He was Matheus Webber, chubby young friend to the late James Braxton, and he’d come very close to death himself that night at the radio station. Both had been hunting for me with the mistaken idea that I was a menace to society. They’d assumed my normally friendly disposition to be false and had set out to kill me with the best of intentions and a lot of misplaced zeal. Their knowledge of my true nature and needs was limited, and they’d placed a superstitious reliance on crosses and silver bullets to control and destroy me. They’d been annoying, but nothing I couldn’t handle until Braxton got in the way of another, much more effective killer.

  Matheus was now telling the story of their hunt for the vampire to anyone who’d listen, but so far his parents, the medical staff, and the cops thought he was crazy from the concussion he’d suffered. But if he kept talking, someone else just might begin to believe the story in the same way as Blair. Once he’d seen a hint of the truth of things, it had all fallen into place for him, necessitating my direct influence on his mind. There were too many mirrors in the world for me to take any more risks.

  I folded back the sheet and blanket to get a better look at the kid. What I saw would have decided me if I hadn’t already made up my mind. Escott craned his neck for a look to see what made me stop and frown. He frowned as well, but refrained from giving me an “I told you so” look. The patient wore a big silver cross around his neck with a couple of bulbs of whole garlic threaded together on a string. He had at least gotten someone to humor him. It was a step in the wrong direction as far as I was concerned.

  The boy’s eyes opened slightly. He didn’t know me at first, mumbled a sleepy question, and rolled onto his back. I put a hand on his shoulder and said his name. He shot fully awake—but never got the chance to scream.

  Escott was driving; his big Nash was one of the central pleasures of his life. For the first time in several harrowing nights he seemed relaxed enough to look content. His eyes were filmed over and far away, as though he were listening to music, but as always, his brain was clicking.

  “You look like you’ve consumed a sour apple,” he observed. “Was it really so bad?”

  “What solves a problem for me could make one for Matheus.”

  “In what way?”

  “You know what I mean. I’m off the hook now, but what if he comes out with psychological measles later because of my monkeying around?”

  “You’ve read Freud, then?”

  “Never had the time so I don’t know about that. I do know I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing.... It could be bad for the kid.”

  Just like Blair, Matheus’s face had gone blank. It was easy, so damned easy. I could put anything into his mind I wanted; twist it up like an old rag for the garbage and leave it for other people to clean away. It happened before: by accident with my murderer and on purpose with Braxton’s murderer. Both men were insane and not likely to recover. Matheus didn’t deserve that.

  “I don’t think you’ve done him harm,” he continued. “You suppressed no memories.”

  Which would have been too noticeable by everyone. If the kid woke up with no recollection about his trip to Chicago with Braxton, someone might get too curious. People tended to prefer the answers they already had to dealing with new questions, so I played on that.

  Instead, he’d wake up and realize that Braxton had been a crazy old man using and misleading an impressionable kid. There’d be some unavoidable embarrassment for Matheus, but he was in the real world now, safe from the paranoid nightmares of a crackpot.

  Go to sleep, kid. You’ll feel a lot better about things in the morning.

  “He’ll soon put it all behind him once he’s home,” Escott added.

  After all, there are no such things as vampires.

  He hauled the wheel around and swung us close to the curb. “Our train leaves in two hours; I’d like to be there early to make sure your trunk is properly seen to.”

  “Hour and a half from now?”

  He glanced at his watch to get the exact time. “I’ll be back by then.”

  I almost asked him where he was going, but it was unnecessary. He was planning to simply drive. His eyes were already darting around the dark and nearly empty streets with anticipation.

  “Please say hello to Miss Smythe for me.”

  “Sure.”

  The door shut, he shifted gears, and glided off. I crossed the walk to the hotel entrance and went in. Phil Patterson was at his usual spot, leaning against the pillar near the front desk. His crony, the night clerk, was making typewriter noises in the office and for the moment the lobby was dead. Phil nodded a neutral greeting in my direction.

  “ ’Lo, Fleming. Straighten things with the cops?”

  “Yeah, we got everything all worked out.”

  “Blair tough on you?”

  “Couldn’t say, I don’t know how tough he can get. We didn’t have any problems.”

  He nodded, but there were a lot of thoughts and questions behind it. “Too bad about that little guy, Braxton. They ever figure why he got bumped off?”

  “The killer’s going to the nuthouse soon, maybe the head quacks can figure it out. Till then . . .” I shrugged.

  “Guess we’ll never know,” he agreed, watching me hard.

  “Yeah, too bad.” My voice was a little tight and forced. He noticed, but let it pass. I owed him a favor, a big one for getting the muzzle of a gun pointed elsewhere besides my chest when it went off. I’d have survived the experience, but explaining why to a room full of people would not have been easy. Phil decided not to call in the favor just yet.

  The kid in the elevator knew to take me to four without being told and hardly looked up from his magazine. He was deep into Walter’s 110th Shadow novel, Jibaro Death. I’d have to remember to pick up a copy of my own to read on the train.

  . . . the power to cloud men’s minds . . .

  I smiled and shook the thought out fast. That gimmick was strictly for the radio show and certain supernatural creatures of the night—not the book character. The main difference between me and the Lamont Cranston on the air was that he had fewer scruples about using his talent.

  Bobbi’s door was locked and no one answered my tap. The hall was clear so I vanished and slipped right through, which was a bad move. Marza Chevreaux stepped into sight from the kitchen just as I s
olidified. She was fiddling with the clasp of her necklace and walked like a movie holdup victim, elbows pointed up and head tilted down. She was a fraction too late to actually see my indiscretion, but nearly jumped out of her garters when she looked up and saw me standing in the entry way.

  “Hello, Marza, I knocked—”

  “I heard, but I was busy.” She gave me a long, unpleasant stare, the kind usually reserved for roaches when they go spinning down the toilet. “That door was locked,” she stated.

  I glanced back and tried my best smile of baby innocence on her. “I had no trouble getting in.”

  She swiveled her head toward the closed door of Bobbi’s bedroom and back to me again. “No, I suppose you didn’t,” she said in a nasty tone, and went to a table to dig through her handbag. She stuck a thin brown cigar in her mouth and fired a match.

  For five seconds I thought unkind thoughts, but didn’t voice them. That sort of indulgence is always wasted on people like Marza. “What put the bug up your butt tonight?”

  Just like a dragon, she pushed blue smoke from her nose and snapped the match out as though it were a whip. “It’s what you are.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “A two-timing bastard who beds one girl while chasing after another,” she said casually.

  That was a relief. At least she wouldn’t be coming after me with a hammer and stake. “You can hardly call it two-timing, since I haven’t seen the other girl in five years.”

  “So you’ve told Bobbi.”

  “So I’m telling you. It’s the truth.”

  “She believes you, I don’t.”

  “Is that all that’s bothering you?”

  “You’re leaving town to look for this other one. What happens to Bobbi when you find her?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “It is if Bobbi gets hurt.”

  “I don’t plan to hurt her.”

  “Like you didn’t plan for that goon to kidnap her?”

  “Did Bobbi explain to you that Escott and I are doing this to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

  “And do the cops know you’re leaving town?” she asked sweetly.

  “The less they know, the better it is for Bobbi.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my mouth shut for her sake—”

  “That’ll be nice.”

  “—but the best thing you can do for her is to go and stay gone. We don’t know who you are. You hang around with Slick’s old mob, you’ve got money but no job, the cops want you for murder—”

  “I cleared that up tonight.”

  “You got Gordy to pay someone off, you mean.”

  “Lady, you’re crazy. And I wouldn’t be so hard on Gordy; if it weren’t for him, we’d never have found the goon—”

  She knew she was losing and grabbed up her bag, unlocked the door, and walked out, not bothering to slam it. I shut it, very carefully and very quietly. The woman was enough to make a preacher cuss, and at the moment I was feeling anything but Godly minded.

  “Marza? Is that Jack?” Bobbi’s voice floated out from her bedroom and had an instant brightening effect on me. I forgot all about Marza as Bobbi came out and rushed over to hug me.

  “You doin’ okay?” I asked the top of her head. Her silky platinum hair had been crudely chopped off by the goon, but she’d been to the beauty parlor for repairs and it looked fine now.

  “God, I thought you’d never get here,” she mumbled into my chest.

  “We had a busy night.”

  “What kept you so long?” she demanded, pretending to sound nettled. “Was it the cops or that Webber kid?”

  “Both, but neither should be any trouble now. How about telling me why Marza’s in such a cheerful mood? She looked like a snake bit her, only the snake died.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Once she saw me, she couldn’t get out fast enough. Have I sprouted horns or something?”

  “No, but it is because of you.”

  “So I figured. What’s the problem?”

  “She blames you for what happened to me.”

  “And not unreasonably. What’d you tell her?”

  “Only what you said to say, that your old girlfriend’s sister wanted something from you and had used me to get it.”

  “She want to know what it was?”

  “Of course, but I said I didn’t know and you weren’t talking. It’s hard on her, not getting the truth.”

  “I think it’d be a lot harder on us both if she did.”

  “Maybe she’d prefer knowing what you are to thinking you’re in the mobs.”

  “Uh-uh. She’s not as understanding as you. You sure that’s all there is—she just thinks I’m in with Gordy’s bunch?”

  “No, I’ve talked with Madison, he said she was pretty upset that night. There was some kind of scene and you got her drunk.”

  “She was ready to take my face off so I made her drink something to calm down. It was purely in self-defense. I’m just glad Madison came in when he did, she needed a shoulder to cry on and mine wasn’t available for various reasons.”

  “But you saw her like that, all vulnerable.”

  “Nothing wrong there.”

  “She thinks so. She’s usually so in control of herself and now she’s embarrassed because for once she wasn’t.”

  “That’s hardly a good reason to hate my guts.”

  “It is for her.”

  “Then she needs a doctor.”

  “It’s just artistic temperament.”

  “I’d call it something else. What are we talking about her for, anyway? I came to see how you were doing.”

  “It takes my mind off things, Jack,” she said, wilting a little against me. “I never said I didn’t have nightmares.”

  “I wish I could help, baby.”

  “You do.” She wrapped her arms more tightly around me. We ended up on the sofa, hanging on to each other as though it were the end of the world. Some of the feeling leaked out of her eyes, but she took my handkerchief and dabbed it away. “What’d you say?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry that all this happened. Marza was right. If it hadn’t been for me, you—”

  “Jack.” She pushed away to look me in the eye.

  “Yeah?” I wasn’t so sure I could look back.

  “Shut the hell up and give me a kiss.”

  I double-checked. She’d meant it, so I stopped stammering and followed through. She let me know in no uncertain terms that everything was all right between us.

  “Y’know,” she said, coming up for air, “Marza thinks I should stop seeing you.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think she’s an idiot butting in where she don’t belong.”

  Then we picked up on things again, and the flat got very quiet except for Bobbi’s breathing and the whisper of our hands.

  “You staying the night?” she murmured.

  “I want to, but I’ve got that train to catch. Charles is coming by later to pick me up.”

  “You sure he needs you along?”

  “No, but he seems to think so. He says he wants my help, and it is my problem—what are you doing?”

  “You’re smart, you work it out.” She pushed the lapels back until my coat was off, loosened my tie, and undid a few buttons at the neck.

  “You sure you’re up to this? I know you’ve been through the wringer.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  She was wearing her favorite style of lounging pajamas, satin ones with a high Oriental collar. The top opened up with a minimum of fuss and, as usual, she’d neglected to put on underwear. She turned her back to me, slid free, and pulled my hands around to her breasts.

  Her skin was all that a woman’s skin should be, her strong body all any man could wish to know and possess. I knelt behind her, glad in a guilty way that her hair was short enough now for me to comfortably indulge in nibbling the nap
e of her neck. Even before my transformation made it a necessity, neck nibbling had been a favorite foreplay activity, among many others, which I now endeavored to put into pleasurable practice.

  Quite some time later, she tilted her head back, drawing the white skin taut over the big pulsing vein. We both moaned as I softly cut into her.

  2

  THE hollow-eyed image in the dark glass of the train window was a sinister version of Escott’s sharp face. I settled in opposite him. He glanced at me, then contemplated my apparently empty chair reflected between us. Beyond it the last lights of Chicago sped or dawdled past, depending on their distance from the train. We had the smoking car to ourselves and Escott puffed on a final pipe while the porter was busy elsewhere making up his compartment for the night.

  “Something funny?” I asked when the corner of his mouth curled briefly. For him, it was the equivalent of a broad grin.

  He gestured at the window with the pipe stem. “I was only recalling the night I first noticed this about you at the train station and what a shock it had been.”

  “Yeah, what were you doing there, anyway?”

  “At the station? Using the train, of course. I had returned from the completion of some minor out-of-town case. It was quite a shock to look up and see something that wasn’t there.” His eyes traveled to the window again.

  “Most people would have figured they were seeing things and shrugged it off.”

  “Most people see many things, but few ever draw sensible conclusions from them.”

  “And right away you concluded I was a vampire? Not too sensible.”

  “Hardly,” he agreed. “I’ll admit I did initially think your lack of a reflection was from some trick angle of the glass, but eliminated that option after a few moments of observation. The conclusion that you were a vampire was the result of an improbable line of reasoning. Improbable, but obviously not impossible. I’ve read my share of lurid literature.”

  I looked at the empty spot in the glass for a long time, cautiously touching the feeling of eeriness mirrors now inspired in me. After a month in my new life I was still not used to the way they ignored me. It was a constant and irritating reminder of my isolation from the rest of humanity. On those occasions when I was feeling particularly low, it was as if I no longer existed at all.